Contagion (Toxic City) by Tim Lebbon Page B

constantly, as if he were chewing cud.
    “Oh, my God,” Rhali whispered.
    Miller chuckled. “Like what you see?” He moved more clothing aside.
    Reaper had taken more from each of his legs, removing the left all the way up to the groin. His left arm was twisted and broken, thumb and three fingers removed so that only the middle finger remained. Perhaps Reaper had thought it an amusing gesture, though Jack doubted he had any humour left in him at all. Miller's shoulders were bruised and lacerated. There was nothing visible that was untouched, and no telling what horrors the bloodied, fouled clothing still hid. He stank. It was pitiful and sickening, but Jack looked deep for any shred of sympathy.
    “No,” Rhali said. “No, I don't like it. But you deserve it. Every cut and stab and gouge you've made on another innocent has been visited upon you. I could never hurt you, Miller, much as I want to. I kept my humanity, even through everything you did to me. The starvation, the deprivation. The humiliation . So I could never avenge myself on you. But I see you now…” She went close to him, too close for Jack's comfort, but Miller merely winced back into his chair. “And I hope it hurts.” Then Rhali turned her back on Miller forever and glanced sadly at Jack as she walked away.
    “Okay,” Jack said. He nodded at the ruined shell of the vivisection suite. “I think in there would be an appropriate place to talk.”
    “You're going to torture me?” Miller drawled, totally unconcerned.
    “No,” Jack said. “No, probably not.”
    There were still bodies inside. They might have died when Jack and Fleeter first pushed them over—when flipped, gentle movements would translate as incredibly fast, violent actions in the real world. But he thought it likely the Superiors had returned to finish the job. Jack averted his eyes, but the stench of rot was cloying.
    He wheeled Miller into the vivisection room. The metal table was stained with dried blood, and more blood was puddled where buckets had been kicked away from the drainage points. Walls were deformed, the ceiling crushed down, tools of torture scattered across the floor. Jack thought perhaps Miller had spent some time on this table at Reaper's hand.
    Breezer came with him and stood with arms folded across his chest. He could not hide his disgust at the man in the wheelchair, and it was not only at his appearance. Jack had not asked Breezer how many Irregulars he'd known who had been taken by the Choppers, but it was a fair bet that parts of some of them resided in sample jars in the next room.
    “So all this torture and pain and death, and what did you find out?” Breezer asked. “Was it worth it? Has any of this been worth anything?”
    “I'm too tired to talk about it,” Miller said. “We're so close to the end that none of it matters anymore. Big Bindy will blow in…” He turned his mutilated left arm, pretended to look at a watch that was not there, giggled. “Hours. Or minutes. Or…” He tilted his head, his exposed eye watering constantly.
    “In about ten hours,” Jack said. “And the bomb's in the Imperial War Museum.”
    Miller's one good eye swivelled and settled on Jack. Then he shrugged. “It doesn't matter.”
    “You're probably right. But what does matter is helping anyone left alive in London. You can do that.”
    “Me? You see what's left of me, boy? I'm barely human anymore.”
    “You haven't been human for a long time,” Breezer said.
    “I'm a scientist, and—”
    “You're a murderer!” Breezer stepped forward, and Jack was surprised to see Miller jerk back in his chair. Filled with bravado, still he was in pain, and scared. Good. That might make what came next much easier.
    “I'll only ask once,” Jack said. “We need you to provide a safe route out of London. We know if we just storm the Exclusion Zone it'll be a massacre. We'll be cut down, bombed, slaughtered. But you can call them off. You can tell the Choppers to stand