Free Dead Letters Anthology by Conrad Williams Page B

need them? The system is—’
    ‘Don’t say it’s fucking foolproof, Raj, okay?’
    ‘It could only be attacked from multiple locations and we know that level of co-ordination is impossible without the right codes all being inputted at the same time. We never allowed for a mass blackout.’
    Davenport leaned down from the scaffolded press platform and stopped Roy as he passed. ‘We have a team of engineers working on the gates,’ he said. ‘Nobody can get out. The Sheikh just called, asking when power would be restored. He was very upset.’
    ‘You’ll have to physically cut the barriers open.’
    Davenport rarely betrayed any emotion, but now he looked horrified. ‘How would that look?’ he asked. ‘There are cameras filming this everywhere. The press booth has its own portable generator. Everything is going out live.’
    ‘I don’t know, how would it look to have hundreds of people trampled to death in the dark? Look at them! At the moment they’re just confused, but it won’t take much to start a stampede. The power’s not coming back on. Turn off the generator in the press booth. Then get a team down there and do it the old-fashioned way; cut down the service truck barriers with rotary saws, anything that runs on diesel. Those who want to leave the resort area will try to do so in a hurry. If something else panics them, you’ll need to cut down the perimeter fences fast.’
    ‘We cannot do that!’
    ‘We have no choice.’
    ‘But the press—’
    ‘Do what you have to do and mop up afterwards. Firefight the big stuff. There’ll be plenty of time later to worry about what the world thinks.’
    Defeat stained Davenport’s melancholy features. He knew that whatever happened now, his career was finished. Below them, the crowd milled and eddied in the gloom, waiting for instructions that would not come.
    Roy turned and looked back at the darkened hotel, at the crowd of photographers, press agents and journalists who were surging out of the shattered wall and buffeting up against the crowds between the stands. He was filled with the sensation of having missed something obvious.
    It has to be them
, he told himself.
Say these things actually managed to short out the entire place. The timing is as exact as a terrorist attack. It’s like they can think. That’s just fucking ridiculous. How would they move, roll themselves along the walkways like hairballs or tumbleweed?
    He looked around the darkened arena, the manicured emerald grounds dotted with chairs and tables. He began walking toward one of the hotel’s service-entrance doors, where an attractive young woman in a floor-length blue gown was struggling to release the latch.
    ‘Can I help you?’ he asked. Her head lifted and she turned to look at him, stepping into the light. As she opened her mouth he saw one of the beige lava-sponges entirely blocking her breathing passage. She stared and stared, then returned to the door.
    Suddenly it all made sense: they needed the warmth and moisture of human tissue to reactivate themselves. It was how they moved about. In human hosts. They interfered with the electrical impulses of the brain, encouraged people to pick them up and ingest them, the simple and effective technique developed by all parasites.
    Once the young woman had managed to open the serviced door, he followed her inside. She didn’t seem aggressive, just motivated to follow a path. He wasn’t used to climbing stairs, and stopped on Level 5 to catch his breath. His heart was pounding. Below him, the line between calm and panic was quickly eroding. He could hear shouting even from here.
    There were no open areas above the viewing floor. Guards had been placed in the stairwells earlier, but they had all left. The young woman had continued upward without him. He presumed she was going up to the angled concrete outcrop of the observation deck. There were three situated at different heights in the building. The middle one was another seven levels