‘Mrs. Banber!’ Arthur coughed, tugging at the elbow of a passing fireman, since he couldn’t even see the face of the one whose shoulder he was across. His momentary loss of the Key had let smoke get in his lungs. He could feel it being cleared out, but obviously the Key could only do so much in a short time. ‘She’s at the front desk!’

The second fireman stopped.

‘What?’ he bellowed, his voice indistinct through the mask.

‘Librarian!’ shouted Arthur. ‘At the front desk.’

‘We’ve got her out already!’ responded the fireman. ‘Was there anyone else inside?’

‘No,’ said Arthur. He was sure no one else had been there. Unless they’d been hiding in the shelves, like he’d hidden from Noon. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’ll be okay!’ shouted the fireman, then he was gone, into the smoke and the glow.

Arthur’s fireman carried him down the stairs, along the alley, which was now full of firemen, hoses, and other gear, and out around the side of the library to the front of the school. There were even more firemen there, with four fire engines in the street, three ambulances, six police cars – and parked behind them, a whole row of odd-looking buses. It took Arthur a second to realise that the buses had no windows and no markings.

The fireman took Arthur to an area in the parking lot where there were stretchers ready, lowered him onto one, clapped him on the shoulder, and smiled. Arthur smiled back and realised that the face he was looking at was a woman’s. Then she was gone, back to the fire.

The other stretchers were empty. Arthur guessed that they had already taken Mrs. Banber off to the hospital.

Arthur lay on his back on the stretcher. He felt dazed and suddenly very tired. Everything had happened so quickly. He kept a tight hold on the Key, but pushed it up against his leg so it couldn’t be seen.

There were three helicopters hanging in the blue sky almost directly above him. He expected them to be television news choppers, but they weren’t . . .

Arthur sat up. One helicopter was dark green and had ARMY on its belly. The other two helicopters were bright orange and they had large black Qs on their sides and bellies.

Q for quarantine.

Arthur looked around and saw paramedics coming towards him, carrying their first-aid gear, marked with bright red crosses. That was normal. But they were wearing full biohazard suits, with breathing apparatus similar to the fire brigade’s. That wasn’t normal at all.

Arthur felt the fear that was always with him become something else. Now it was a reality, not just a gnawing emotion that he could keep a lid on.

He saw police in their blue biohazard gear, and soldiers as well, in camouflage biosuits. The soldiers were setting up all kinds of equipment, including portable decontamination showers. The police were laying out quarantine tape around the school and directing what had to be the last class to come out of the school on to those windowless buses. All the kids were silent and downcast, without any of the usual carrying on and talking that would accompany an escape from the usual school routine.

Arthur recognised everything that was happening. He’d been too young to see it before in real life, but he’d watched lots of documentaries. He’d read books and looked at pictures. Emily had talked to him about it a lot when he was younger, helping him to understand what had happened to his birth parents and to the world.

This was biocontainment and quarantine. The school was being sealed off and everyone in it was being taken away to a secure hospital. That meant that the Federal Biocontrol Authority had declared an outbreak and had formally assumed control over the situation. They must think the virus had originated in the school, or that the school was a major source of carriers.

It also meant that some people must have already died from the unknown virus. Arthur thought of Leaf’s email, and of Ed. If Leaf was right and the dog-faces . . . the Fetchers had brought the virus . . .

Arthur shut his eyes, remembering what he’d read in the Atlas about the Fetchers.

Less inimical to mortal life than most creatures of Nothing . . .

Inimical meant harmful, and less inimical only meant they weren’t as bad as some other dangers. Like a small earthquake was better than a really big one. Though not if you were right in it. The Fetchers probably had brought some terrible disease. A disease that his mum would be working on, trying to find a vaccine or a cure. But she wouldn’t have a hope if it really was from somewhere else, from some otherworldly source.

Maybe whatever it was could get through all the protective measures and containment in Emily’s lab. Arthur might lose her, lose the only real mother he’d known. Then Bob would get it for sure as well, then his brothers and sisters . . .

‘You okay? Take a breath for me.’

Arthur opened his eyes. Another breathing mask visor, another indistinct face and muffled voice.

‘Yeah, I’m okay,’ he said shakily. Physically at least, he thought, pushing back the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. He took a breath, once again surprised by how easy it was with the Key held in his hand.

‘Did you breathe in any smoke?’

Arthur shook his head.

‘Are you burned anywhere? Do you have any pain?’

‘No, I’m okay,’ said Arthur. ‘Really. I was outside before the fire got going.’

The paramedic rapidly looked into Arthur’s eyes, attached some sort of tiny electronic diagnostic device to his neck, and checked the skin under his tattered shirt.

‘Lift your arm for me. What’s that?’

‘My metalwork project. If I lose it I’ll fail the course.’

‘Whatever,’ said the paramedic. ‘Lift your other arm. Wiggle your fingers. Okay. Lift your feet.’

Arthur complied with the instructions, feeling a bit like a puppet.

‘You’re in much better shape than you should be after coming out of that,’ said the paramedic as he looked at the readout on the device he’d attached. They both glanced back at the burning library. There was a column of smoke hundreds of feet high coming out of it now. ‘Some people are just lucky, I guess.’

‘Though not that lucky,’ amended the paramedic as a police officer lumbered past, unreeling barrier tape that was marked with fluorescent biohazard trefoils. ‘I’m afraid to say that your school has been listed under the Creighton Act as a Potential Biohazard Threat –’

‘A hot spot,’ interrupted Arthur. Saying it made it easier for him to wrestle his fear under control. Made it a real problem, something that he could analyse and react to, rather than just a nagging, amorphous fear. ‘Are we all being taken into quarantine?’

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said the paramedic. ‘Hang on. I have to read you your rights as a quarantined citizen.’

He pulled out a plastic card and squinted at it, holding it close to his faceplate.

‘Okay, here we go. “You are hereby detained under the Creighton Act. You have the right to electronic communication while held in quarantine and you have the right to appeal that quarantine. You may not be held in quarantine for more than 365 days longer than the incubation period of the disease or agent for which you have been quarantined without formal extension by a Federal court. While in quarantine any action that you may undertake that may violate that quarantine or endanger the health of others is a Federal offence for which any penalty up to and including the death penalty may be applied.” Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Arthur slowly. His word seemed to hang in the air, heavy between them. It was one of the most significant things he’d ever said, Arthur realised.

He’d studied the Creighton Act at school. It was a leftover from the flu epidemics that had killed his birth parents. It had almost been repealed several times since then, as there had been no new outbreaks of any consequence, and because it gave the government tremendous powers over quarantined citizens. The last part about the death penalty was particularly controversial, as it had been used to retrospectively justify shooting people who tried to escape quarantine.

Like me, if I try to get away now. But if he didn’t get to the House and find out what was going on, there might never be a cure for the virus the Fetchers had brought with them.

‘What are we being quarantined for?’ Arthur asked as he slid off the stretcher and stood up.

‘We don’t know yet,’ replied the paramedic. He was looking away from Arthur, and his voice was very indistinct through his mask. ‘It starts like a very bad cold, which lasts for a few days. Then the patient goes to sleep.’

‘That doesn’t sound so bad.’

‘We can’t wake them up,’ said the paramedic grimly. ‘Nothing works.’

‘But sleep is good for you . . .’ Arthur started to say. Halfheartedly, trying to convince himself.

‘We can’t make them eat or drink, and they don’t absorb anything intravenously as they should,’ continued the paramedic. ‘No one knows why.’

Arthur stared at the paramedic. Even through the mask, he could see that the man was afraid.

‘All of the cases are connected with this school – I shouldn’t be telling you this,’ said the paramedic. ‘Don’t worry about it. The quarantine will work. We’ll find a cure.’

He doesn’t believe it, thought Arthur. He thinks we’re all going to die.

The medic took the diagnostic unit off Arthur’s neck, checked the readout again, and dropped it into a bin nearby that had the barbed trefoil sign of hazardous biological waste. His hand was trembling as he pointed to the buses.

‘Go and report to Sergeant Hu, by the bus there.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Arthur walked slowly over toward the policeman who was with three or four kids by the door of the last bus, thinking furiously. He had to do something. He was the only person who could do anything about this outbreak. But what?

He glanced back at the burning library as he desperately tried to work out a plan. The smoke was still a mighty column, but a wisp of it was curling out to one side, as if it were being pulled like a strand of cotton candy. Then that strand was suddenly twisted and stretched and bent in ways no normal smoke would ever follow.

The smoke was forming letters, Arthur realised. Complete words. He rapidly looked around and noticed no one else was looking in the same direction. Perhaps, as with the Fetchers, only he could see this happening.

The words were compressed and overlapped one another, so it was a bit difficult for Arthur to work out what they said. Then it became clear.

Arthur. Get near the House and I will help you. Will

‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Arthur, and the smoky words broke apart and drifted off like regular smoke once more.

It was much easier said than done. First of all, Arthur had to get out of quarantine without being shot or stunned. Once he was on that bus, it would be almost impossible to escape.

All sorts of possibilities raced through his head. But most of them were imagined scenes of himself running away from the bus, all the policemen and soldiers shouting and chasing him, one of them finally drawing a gun and then a fusillade of shots . . .

There had to be another way. Arthur slowed down so he would have more time to think. He was halfway there, he had less than a minute of freedom. There had to be an answer. Could he use the Key in some way?

He looked down at it, keeping it by his side, and realised he had another problem. The police officer was searching all the kids before they got on, and there was a pile of small knives, mace sprays, and other stuff by his feet. A lot smaller pile than he would have got from Arthur’s old school, and no guns, but still quite a few deadly weapons.

By the police officer’s standards, the Key would not be a metalwork project he needed to keep, but a long, thin, and weird-looking knife. It would be taken away from him for sure, and then . . .

Arthur would have an asthma attack. He had his inhaler, but after his running, fighting, and smoke inhalation, he didn’t think it would do any good at all.

He suddenly realised the Key was the only thing keeping him alive.

‘Hey, kid! Hurry up!’ shouted the policeman.

Eight

THE POLICEMAN’S VOICE was more menacing through his mask, made deeper and buzzy and much less human. The last student had gone on the bus, and now the sergeant’s full attention was on Arthur.

That shout made up Arthur’s mind, and a plan suddenly popped into his head. Without further thought, he put it into action.

‘I’m . . .’ said Arthur. ‘I’m . . .’

He pushed the Key deep into his pocket, the point ripping through the bottom so the metal slid through and touched his leg. Then he let go.

The effect was instantaneous. Though he still had some contact with the Key, his breathing immediately changed. It was as if someone had winded him, reducing the capacity of his lungs by fifty per cent with a single blow.

‘Asthmatic!’ wheezed Arthur, collapsing to the ground ten paces from the sergeant. Despite the protection of his biosuit and Arthur’s explanation, the sergeant’s first reaction was to jump back onto the steps of the bus, as if he were seeing the new virus in immediate action.

Arthur fumbled in his other pocket for his inhaler and brought it to his mouth. He also rolled over so that more of the Key touched his leg. About half of it was through his pocket, the metal cool upon his skin, bringing ease to his lungs. He hoped that the circle on the end of the Key would prevent it from falling out of his trouser leg if he stood up.

‘Medic!’ shouted the policeman. As he shouted, he undid the strap on his holster and his hand went to the butt of his pistol. ‘Medic!’

‘Asthma!’ wheezed Arthur again. He took a couple of puffs, then held the inhaler up so the policeman could see it. Arthur hadn’t counted on the man being so afraid of the virus that he might shoot.