ZONE 12 (Relative Industries Series) Read online

  ZONE 12

  Joanna Beaumont

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Also by Joanna Beaumont

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “Beth! Come here. You need to see this.”

  Beth leaned closer to the dressing table mirror and checked her forehead for wrinkles.

  On Monday she’d start work at Relative Industries, and by Friday she’d be five years older.

  Five years older in five days.

  She faked a smile and examined her laugh lines. Then she grabbed the tube of anti-wrinkle cream, squeezed out an inch and dabbed white blobs around her blue-grey eyes. It was Saturday. She massaged the cream in. It was too late to fret now.

  Jason called from the sitting room again. “Come here! Watch the news.”

  Beth groaned. What was so important? She pushed herself up from the dressing table, yanked the belt of her red-velour robe tighter and strode out of the bedroom.

  The sight of the garish yellow paint in the living room made her shudder. A compromise gone way too far, she now admitted. Jason wore his England rugby jersey. His tall stocky frame teetered on the edge of the sofa. She noticed the coffee cup in his hand and wondered if he’d made her one.

  “Isn’t that the company that sponsors your Ph.D?” he asked, nodding at the sixty inch TV mounted on the wall.

  Beth sat by his side. An acrid chemical taste settled in the back of her throat. He’d overdone it with the cologne again, preparing for the after-rugby party no doubt.

  “When are you going out?” She shook a hand through her damp hair; it was already drying curly.

  “Ten minutes. Watch this.” Jason played the broadcast, and a news reporter continued his commentary.

  What started out as a peaceful demonstration outside the gates of Relative Industries this morning ended in several arrests after protestors threw fire bombs.

  Beth turned the volume up. The demonstration had turned into a riot. Was it ever peaceful?

  Police with riot helmets and shields rushed from black vans. They formed a defensive line and edged towards the mob of protestors. Rubber bullets and smoke bombs were shot into the crowd while air missiles stuffed with flaming rags skated across the sky back towards the police line. Demonstrators covered their faces and trampled over abandoned signs of protest to escape the smoke. But away from the smoky haze others continued to provoke the police with angry taunts and more missiles.

  The image cut to military guards patrolling behind a razor wire topped fence, machine guns strapped across their bodies.

  Beth’s eyes were transfixed on the screen.

  Jason paused the TV. “Well, is it?”

  She forced a neutral expression. “Yes, it is. What do they say? You can’t please all the people all the time.”

  “Bloody hell! It’s a military facility. The guards have machine guns. What are they demonstrating about?”

  “It’s partly government owned, but certain companies rent space inside. I’m not sure those riot scenes were filmed outside Relative Industries. They could’ve been filmed anywhere.”

  “How do you know? You’ve never been to RI, have you?”

  “Well, no, not yet. It’s only been operational for three months on that site.”

  “So, what are you saying? It’s fake news. I bet you’ve got the company logo tattooed on you somewhere or running through you like a stick of rock.”

  “If they are demonstrating outside RI, it’s because of something they don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  She lowered her voice. “It might be about the children born inside.”

  Jason raised his eyebrows.

  “If a woman gets pregnant while she’s working inside RI, she can choose to give birth to her child in there. So a child born inside can reach eighteen in what seems like just under three weeks. It is odd. Tell your mum on the outside you’ve given birth and then a few weeks later the kid is eighteen. The protestors might think it’s an abuse of a child’s human rights.

  “They don’t realise the child lived eighteen years inside. There’s nurseries, schools, hospitals, basically everything that’s available outside is available inside. It’s probably better than outside: small class sizes, no hospital appointment waiting lists.”

  She rewound the news and played it again. “The protestors look young. The ones who haven’t bothered to cover their faces, that is. They might actually be the kids born inside who’ve just got out and realised there’s a big bad world out there. They might be trying to break back in!”

  “This keeps getting better. Are you still going in after seeing that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  “I have to go. Climate change is getting worse. But we could make real progress in RI in months.”

  “You haven’t got months in there. How old would you be if you stayed inside for a month?”

  “I’ll be away five days, not a month. It’s only a three-hour drive away. If you miss me, you can come and see me, but you won’t even notice I’ve gone.”

  “I thought you’d change your mind about going in. What if there’s no way to control the climate? What if there’s no Disney ending?”

  “I want to try. How will I tell the grandkids that bed-time story? Once upon a time Earth wasn’t a greenhouse. For a very long time all the people in the land had hoped-their-very-hardest it would go away while they continued to pump out shit loads of C02.”

  “You might never have a child!”

  “Why shouldn’t I? I tested negative for the virus. Why would you say that?”

  He took her hand and looked at her for a moment. He must have known his thoughtless comment had stung. She was unaffected by the GAV virus. She was one of the lucky women still able to have children, and she had to care about climate change for their sake. But she didn’t want to argue when she was leaving for a five-year stint in RI on Monday. She took a breath and smiled at him.

  “Aren’t you worried I won’t want you when you’re old and haggard?”

  Unbelievable. She stared at him. What an asshole. In some distinct place in time had she loved him and now she couldn’t remember? Or had the ticking of her biological clock rose-tinted her eyeballs?

  “I’ll be five years older—thirty. The ageing process will be slower in there. It’s shielded from the sun. I won’t look five years older. Anyway, it’ll be more like I won’t want you anymore when I come out.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means a lot can happen in five years.”

  His face reddened. He stared hard at the wall in front of him. “What, you might meet a man in there and have a kid? That is what you mean, isn’t it?”

  She stood up. “I need to dry my hair.”

  “You go and save us from climate change, but don’t expect me to want you when you look like an old prune.”

  He jerked up and tugged his rugby shirt straight. He strode towards the door, slinging his sports bag over his shoulder.

  “I’m leaving on Monday. Back on Friday. You won’t notice I’ve gone,” she said.

  He flung the door open and looked over his shoulder at her. “I made you a croissant and coffee. It’s on the table.”

  Walk away then. It didn’t matter to him. He wouldn’t have to dwell on their argument for five years.

  “Wear your headband! I might not want you when you’ve got mashed up ears.” And good luck finding another woman who tested negative.

  “You’d better start packing.” He slammed the door, sending a vibration through her and the flat.

  Chapter Two

  Howard Henderson slotted the last tray of human-brain tissue samples into a shelf. He rubbed his cold hands together then lifted the vibrating phone from his lab-coat pocket. The image of Cait holding their young son, Benjie, flashed along with the time, 1:30 p.m. Damn, he should’ve been home hours ago.

  Cait was furious when the university called him in. It’s Saturday, she’d complained, hands on hips; we’ve got plans.

  With his phone vibrating in one hand, he pulled the cold-storage door shut with the other.

  Striding across the lab, he answered the call, and expecting her wrath, rattled off a list of excuses before Cait had the chance to speak. “Hey, I’m setting off for home now. I’ve fixed the alarm. It was the cold-storage room in biochem lab three. Someone hadn’t shut the door properly, and it was a mess in there so—”

  “Howard.”

  Her tone stopped him still. “What is it?”

  “I’m taking Benjie to the hospital. I’m really worried. There’s something
wrong with him. He’s been walking straight into walls, and now he’s struggling to hold his spoon.”

  “What?”

  “I’m taking Benjie to Bart’s Hospital.”

  Her words were like a slap across his face. “Bart’s… why?” Bart’s was thirty miles away, too far for an emergency.

  “If you’re worried about the cost, don’t. The medical insurance will pay for it. I’ve called them to say we’re going in.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Dazed, he watched the call end and the background image of his family return.

  He burst into life, and on the way to his office he snapped off the blue vinyl gloves he wore. He tried to unbutton his lab coat, but his cold fingers flailed, and after tugging at the fastened buttons he gave up and left his white coat on. Inside his office he yanked his tweed blazer from the back of the chair, sending it into a spin.

  He shut the office door, fumbled for the key in his jacket pocket and locked it. He pushed down on the handle. Locked. Pushed down again. Still locked. He cursed himself—just leave, God damn it.

  Deciding the elevator was too risky after being stuck inside it last time, he took the stairs to the ground floor.

  Howard rushed by the security guard in navy-blue uniform on the front desk.

  The guard rose. “Did you sort out the alarm, Professor Henderson?”

  Howard wasn’t stopping. He glanced back, raised his hand. “Yes. No problem.”

  Sprinting across the car park, he pulled the key fob from his inside jacket pocket and unlocked his car.

  The brief glimpse of Benjie’s car seat when he threw his briefcase and jacket on the back seat reminded him of the journey to Bart’s hospital after Cait started in labour. He had rushed to the hospital then too. Only he’d arrived too late for the birth after the damn elevator broke down and trapped him inside.

  Benjie’s deterioration was rapid. He’d left him slobbering on his play building-blocks a few hours ago. But he was two years old, and had only begun to walk a month ago. He’d been late passing other milestones too. God, no, what if he was ill?

  He pressed the start button. The engine rumbled, and the radio blasted on.

  A female voice startled him with a dispassionate delivery of the news headlines.

  Several arrests took place outside Relative Industries today after a demonstration turned violent…

  He hit the off button on the radio, yanked the seatbelt across his chest and continued towards the exit.

  Minutes later he’d disabled autodrive and was speeding out of the car park.

  At the traffic lights, stationary in a short queue, he did not take his eyes from the red stop light. They turned green, but the car in front didn’t move. “Come on. Damn Saturday shoppers!”

  He stopped himself from blasting the horn and banged his hands down on the steering wheel.

  The car set off, and his foot hit the accelerator. Why did she want to take him to Bart’s? Why not the local hospital? He didn’t want to argue about it. The last few weeks they’d argued a lot. After Benjie’s birth, their relationship changed. Moving in together and adjusting to a new baby at the same time was tough. She was distant. He hated to admit it but it felt awkward between them. They’d still been getting to know each other when she found out she was pregnant. He wanted to get past their problems for their son’s sake. He hoped she wasn’t regretting her decision to be with him and have Benjie. She was nine years younger than him. She could want a man her own age.

  His wavering focus returned. He swerved into the exit lane to avoid missing his turnoff on the motorway.

  The road led into the country, and the huge muddy wheels of a farmer’s tractor forced him to slow down.

  He craned his neck to see the road ahead of the tractor. Mud flicked on the windscreen, and he pulled the washer lever. “Damn.” Empty. The rubber on the wipers squeaked across the windscreen, carving a narrow arc for him to see through. He sunk his head into his shoulders and did not dare to overtake the tractor.

  Two slow miles later, in the middle of nowhere, a sign for the hospital appeared on the left-hand side of the car. He turned onto the narrow approach road and pulled into a vast empty car park.

  He got out of his car, and rubbing his sore neck, he strode towards the hospital’s bright lights, down the stairs to the sunken ground floor entrance. The wide glass doors were closed. A receptionist was sitting behind a curved front desk inside. He waved at her. She didn’t respond, so he banged his flat palm on the glass.

  “Open the god damn door!”

  A metal intercom on the wall crackled. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Benjamin Henderson. I’m his father.”

  The glass doors clunked and retracted. He strode towards her. “Benjamin Henderson, please.”

  She tapped onto her control panel, and he tapped his foot.

  The glaring lights triggered a sudden pulsing pain behind his forehead.

  Howard glanced at the man sitting in the waiting area to the left of the reception desk. He looked again. The security guard he’d passed earlier, on the front desk at the university, was reading a magazine. He’d swapped his navy blue uniform for tan chinos and a white polo-shirt.

  “First floor waiting room, Mr. Henderson. The stairs are—” The receptionist pointed behind her.

  Before she’d finished speaking he was sprinting across the polished floor tiles towards the open staircase.

  He strode the steps two at a time, and at the top he pushed open a door into a bright corridor loaded with the stench of antiseptic.

  As he neared the waiting room, his pace slowed. He scraped his hand through his hair, and for a moment he watched Cait sitting on the leather sofa inside. Her back was towards him. She hadn’t taken her teal down jacket off yet. He took a deep breath. When did he stop having any control over his life?

  He pushed the door open, and she turned to him, wiping wet patches beneath her red, swollen eyes. He sat down beside her and stroked away strands of blonde hair stuck to her pale cheeks.

  She scrunched the tissue in her hand and looked at him with wide desperate eyes. “They’ve taken him to the imaging suite for a brain scan.”

  “A brain scan. Why?”

  “They think it might be neurological.” She blinked and welled tears rolled down her cheeks.

  He wiped them away. “I don’t understand. He seemed fine when I left this morning.”

  “After you left, I had to feed him his breakfast. He wouldn’t swallow it, and he kept gazing off, looking distant. He was scared like he knew he was sick. It was so awful.”

  “When will we know?”

  “It should be soon.”

  He took her hand and curled his fingers around it. “I’m sorry things haven’t been great between us recently. We’re okay though, aren’t we?” He searched her eyes for any flicker of encouragement. “I know it’s not the best time to bring up our relationship, but I want us to be strong for Benjie.”

  She responded with an unconvincing half-smile, and he was not set at ease. He considered putting his arm around her, pulling her close. But even now, it didn’t feel right.

  He rose, unbuttoned his white coat and laid it over the back of the sofa.

  He gazed at paintings of countryside settings on the plain walls and scanned the scrolling news headlines referring to the Relative Industries demonstration on the TV.

  At the side of the coffee machine a chaotic mound of multi-coloured drinks capsules required ordering. He ignored them and filled a cup with water from the water fountain.

  He stared out at the sprawling darkness beyond the window, and the strangeness of the doppelgänger security guard sitting in the waiting room entered his mind.

  The noise of the tissue box sliding along the table distracted him. He turned from the window and watched Cait pull a tissue out.

  “Cait? Howard?”