Jack and the other followed. Back into the darkness.
And when they stepped onto the platform, Jack saw the first of the giant scorpions.
There were no terrorists. There is no help. London is dying, and we're all dying with it.
—Radio ham communication out of London
(first and last transmission),
11:44 a.m. GMT, July 29, 2019
He could see why the unwary would choose to go no further.
The scorpions were as fat as Jack's head, their legs as long as his arms, and there were too many to count. Some were bright yellow, stings dripping tears of poison that sizzled small holes in the floor tiles. Others were black, with red markings on their backs and spikes along their legs on which rotten meat festered. They hissed and spat at each other, crawled up the shattered tile walls, balanced along the dulled rails where trains used to run, dropped from the ceiling, and a group of them further along the platform worried at a pile of fresh bodies, ripping flesh, and breaking bones.
They're not real, Jack thought. Rosemary walked into a scorpion and it disappeared around her feet, melting away into a breath of mist and shadow. Living in my mind, that's all. They're not here. They're not real. He closed his eyes and opened them again, and the scorpions were multiplying and growing larger.
“I can't!” Emily said. “The snakes. The snakes!”
“I see scorpions,” Jack said. He held his sister's hand, and the sweat on her palm added to his own.
“Chickens,” Sparky said.
“Chickens?” Jack laughed nervously.
“Ten feet tall,” the boy said defensively. “Beaks are covered in blood, and—”
“You are truly weird.”
“They're not here,” Rosemary said, her voice cool and flat. “None of this is here.”
“What do you see?” Jack asked, but the woman did not respond. Since their meeting with the Nomad she had been distant, and he vowed to ask her why. But right now, his mind was focussed on his mother. She was down here in the dark, his dear, lovely mum, and soon they would be together again.
Emily looked at him and smiled. “Not real snakes,” she said.
“Not real scorpions,” Jack said.
“I see moths as big as seagulls,” Jenna said.
“My chickens will take your moths any day,” Sparky said, and they all laughed. The edgy banter continued as they made their way along the platform, helping each other walk past and through their own unique fears. Jack's attention turned inward, and he tried to sense whether the twins Rosemary had mentioned were touching him inside to plant these fears, or causing him to project them himself. If he closed his eyes he could still hear the scorpions, though he had yet to feel their cool, sharp touch. He could understand how the twins were such an effective defence: what he saw was terrifying, even though he understood it was not real. To anyone unsuspecting, seeing a Tube platform crawling, squirming, or sliming with their own personal fears would be unbearable.
They walked to the end of the platform, and Rosemary shone her torch into the tunnel. There was a ledge leading in there, just wide enough to shuffle along sideways, and the others followed her as she started edging her way inside.
Something squealed, and Jenna let out a sharp scream.
“The rats are real,” Rosemary said.
“Thanks.”
The wall at their backs ended suddenly, and by the time they were all through Rosemary was a dozen feet ahead of them, talking quietly to someone sitting in an armchair. The furniture was so incongruous that Jack wondered if he was still seeing things. But the girl was still in the chair, a boy sitting beside her on a camp bed, and he knew they were almost there.
“The twins,” Jenna whispered. “What power! It's scary, isn't it?”
“It's wonderful,” Emily said.