“Come on in. The kettle's on.”
There were so many questions to ask Breezer—about his plans, how he was calling the Irregulars here, why Fleeter was with him, whether he and Reaper were still in contact. But instead Jack opened their conversation with the bombshell.
“We know how long it is until Big Bindy blows.”
Breezer seemed shocked to see them. He blinked as if he had dust in his eye, frowned, turned and walked back through the doors, leaving Jack and the others out on the staircase. They'd come up a dozen floors and were breathing hard. Sparky was almost carrying Rhali.
“Still a grumpy bastard,” Sparky said.
“Shall we jump off the roof again?” Jenna quipped.
Jack shoved the closing door and marched through. The open plan office area beyond was bustling with two dozen people, and the smell of cooking food wafted through the air. Dividing screens were still ranked a few feet in from the windows, and the people kept to the central area, careful not to cast shadows that might be seen from outside.
“Breezer!” Jack shouted. Heads turned, and a couple of people told him to Shhhh! Jack laughed. “It's not a bloody library!” he said. “He hasn't called you all here to sit down quietly to read. You're all going to die!”
“Er, Jack,” Jenna said from behind him. Jack raised a hand without looking back. He wasn't sure where the sudden anger had come from, but it felt good to let it flow. Breezer was not the appropriate target—Miller and Reaper were far more suited for that. But right now, he was all there was.
“Jack, don't,” Rhali whispered behind him.
“Breezer!” Jack shouted again. The man paused by the dried skeleton of a huge, dead potted plant and turned around. He looked haunted.
“There's nothing we can do,” Breezer said. “Clinton died this morning. Remember Clinton?” Jack did. The black man sat in a shopping trolley, snatching truths from the air like flies, affected by the same sickness that was taking root in many of London's survivors. Even Nomad had displayed signs, though she'd denied it.
“It doesn't matter,” Jack said. He breathed deeply, trying to make sense of his outburst. Fear contributed, he was sure, and fury at what had happened here, what London had become. Anger, too, at the monster his father had turned into. “We'll get out of London, and out there we'll find a cure.”
“It does matter,” Breezer said. “He was my friend. Every death matters. And at a time like this…when so many have died…every death matters even more.”
Jack felt himself filling up. Tears burned behind his eyes. He nodded, said nothing.
“We've brought as many here as we can,” Breezer continued. “Passed the word however we could. Word of mouth, pre-arranged signs. We've even got a woman who can talk with pigeons, use them as messengers. But…two groups have already been caught by the Choppers. Three people hanged from Blackfriar's bridge. Two more machine-gunned in Waterloo. I'm doing the best…” He gasped, swallowed deeply. “The best I can. And we're going to make a run for it.”
“Not yet,” Jack said. “Anyone crossing the Exclusion Zone will be slaughtered. Is that the end you want for all these people?” Jack looked around at everyone watching the conversation and wondered what they could all do. It was a room of wonders, but he felt only sadness. He could see several who were obviously in the final throes of the sickness. “Is that what you all want?”
No one answered.
“So how long do we have?” Breezer asked.
“Midnight.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Would it matter?” Jack asked.