gns.theplutopact-第46部分
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At 5。25 p。m。 Tyler and his assistants wheeled their bulky radioactivity…solidifying machines into the pyramid of death which was officially known as Section Eight。 The immediate fate of a nation rested upon their shoulders； but their protective headgear hid their individual expressions。
At 6。30 p。m。 a column of angry； frightened people marched out of the Square in the old town； heading north。 The few remaining soldiers watched from a distance。 At the moment it was little more than a demonstration； with home…made banners and painted slogans held aloft。 Yet； beneath this semi…orderliness fear and anger seethed。 Soon it would e to the boil； and sheer terror would destroy all reason。
Loader was the first to hear the shouts of the advancing columns； possibly because his ears were tuned in anticipation。 He wanted them to e。 Christ； how he wanted that mob to show up！
The inbred killer instinct in Loader dominated his every action。 He recalled the Special Powers Act。 Now a State of Emergency reigned throughout the country。 He could do just anything he wanted in the interests of the security of the reactor。 They would back him up。 That was why he had this job。 Because he was the best there was…totally ruthless； and an obedient servant to authority 。。。 so long as it suited him。
He had even resented the arrival of the army within the Centre…took it as a personal insult。 He didn't need them。 Nobody got into the pound； unless it suited him personally。 Now he had to prove it to them。
He wished he could fry every one of the bastards now headed this way； one at a time。 He'd stop 'em； all right。 He'd stop the riot before the fucking army even knew it had begun。
Nearer。 Louder。 The shouting more frenzied with every passing second。
Now he could see them； even more than he had anticipated。 Five hundred at a rough estimation…with banners and sticks…mostly just yelling abuse。 Terrified； every single one of them； and not even a shotgun amongst them。
Loader remained inside the shelter。 He eased the heavy 。45 autmatic pistol out of its leather holster。 The very feel of it sent the blood coursing through his veins。 It was fully loaded； and there was a spare clip in his left hand。 He eased the safety…catch forward； his narrowed eyes measuring the marchers' progress…the range。 Two hundred yards 。 。 ； one hundred and fifty 。 。 。 one hundred 。 。 。 fifty。
He stepped out into the open； pistol dangling almost casually in his right hand； nostrils flared； lips pressed into a narrow bloodless line； feet slightly apart。 Timing； stance； all perfect。 One against five hundred。 The kind of odds he liked。
Thirty yards。
'Hold it！ Stay where you are！'
It was doubtful whether his voice was heard above the clamour。
Twenty yards； they saw him now and they weren't stopping for anybody！
'Get out of our way； you fucking bastard！'
The very words he wanted to hear。 A half crouch； a blur of movement； his whole body perfectly co…ordinated； the shots so close together that they might have e from a machine…gun。 With every one he picked a target； moving from one to another instinctively。 The speaker from the statue in the Square； went down first。 Two more…ex…workers ； men laid off only the other day； when only a small highly…skilled labour force had been retained on Section Eight。 A woman； stupid bitch。 Four more； yobbos。
There was screaming； chaos…the marchers tripping over each other as they fell back in total disarray。
The brief pause Loader needed。 Again his hands moved fast； efficiently。 The spare clip。 The 。45 aligned。 This time he was going to fire from the hip； show those watching from behind him that all that marksmanship training； two…handed pistol shooting； the left used as a support； was a load of nonsense。 Loader just needed a gun； nothing else。
A single shot rang out； the report heavier this time。 Loader straightened up； swaying uncertainly； the Ml Carbine bullet entering his body between the shoulder…blades； passing out through the chest； and then smashing the skull of one of the fleeing mob…a young girl； no more than fifteen； bowling her over and over until she came to a stop in a bloody heap of pulped flesh and bone。
The 。45 slipped from Loader's fingers as he fell。 He dropped to his knees； slumped forward。 Somehow he managed to roll over on to his back； a mammoth effort。 Numbness rather than pain。 He could not understand it。 He'd beaten them。 They were running； scattering； yelling their curses back as they fled。 And yet 。。。
Loader tried to raise his head； it was impossible。 He could not move。 He did not need to。 He could see it all from where he lay。 A rifle barrel still protruded through the slit hi the box on the upper platform； the barrel smoking。 It was where Barraclough was stationed。
You fucker！ Loader couldn't speak。 He was choking； drowning in his own blood。 And nobody came out to him。
Tyler and his colleagues laboured tirelessly inside Section Eight。 The labourers sweated beneath their heavy protective clothing； in a scene like the bizarre setting for some science…fiction film。
Tyler glanced continually from his watch to the pressure gauge。 Both seemed to stand still。 It was mental torture。 It would be several hours before they knew； one way or the other。 The solidifiers needed a full twelve hours' trial to prove or disprove their worth。 Any impatient attempt to open them up to ascertain their current efficiency might result in a total breakdown； which could not be rectified in time。
All they could do was wait。
Chapter 17
Canverdale's broadcast from Scotland…on radio only…was a bit of a non…event。 By now the British people were resigned to their fate。 The threat of a third world war； horrific in all its aspects； did not cause undue sensation。 By then the holocaust would have exploded with full force。 As for the Russian airliners； supposedly attempting to carry out a rescue operation on the morrow…most of the population would be hiding hi every conceivable place of shelter。 The airports would be deserted。
Canverdale did not mention the current attempts to solidify the escaping radioactivity。 This was no time to raise a nation's hopes； and then possibly dash them a few hours later。
The worst of the rioting had subsided。 No longer did crowds surge through city streets bent on blind destruction。 There was still some fighting； of course； but mostly amongst groups peting for places which might conceivably offer some protection。 All official nuclear shelters were already filled…the living awaiting the end in their mass graves。
London's Undergrounds were crowded。 All trains had ceased to run； and the electric currents had been switched off。 The ventilation shafts had not yet been closed； the authorities would leave that until the very last moment。 To do so now would certainly condemn many to death by suffocation。
And in the valley itself there was an uneasy calm。 Those who had attempted to demonstrate outside the nuclear station had now retreated dejectedly to their homes to await the end。 The sudden burst of gunfire had shocked them into reality again。 Fourteen dead： nine killed by the gunfire； five trampled in the stampede to get away from it all。 Many others injured。
Chief Superintendent Rollason sat at his desk； an ashtray heaped with cigarette ends in front of him； another of his favourite brand smouldering between his lips。 Occasionally he was forced to remove it during a bout of coughing。 He had had that cough for years； lately it had bee much worse。 He wondered why he had never given so much as a passing thought to cancer before； but did so now。 Perhaps because he realised that now millions would probably die from the disease。 Ironic！ He wished somebody would phone him。 Anybody。 It was the quietest night he had known for years。 He wished to God that one of his men would bring in a drunk； just to relieve the monotony。 Every officer was out in the town on some duty or other。 But there were no reports。 Nothing。
