Torchwood: Exodus Code

toppled towards the garage, and Jack threw himself out of its way, his momentum carrying him on into the road. Except there was no road any more – the tarmac was fracturing beneath him.
    Jack scrabbled to find his footing, but the ground shook around him, ancient pipes and cable snaking and jumping as the earth buckled. Above him, the little row of lock-ups was collapsing, their walls bulging and splitting as the water mains burst through them. Jack fought his way onto a patch of road, and clung to it, a tiny island in a gushing torrent of water . He looked up, trying to see a way to get to the SUV before it was too late, but all he could see was the ground yawning further open, a vast, muddy canyon gulping down cars, wheelie bins and benches, bobbing around in a mundane flotilla. He could hear the cries of other people, could see them running as the crevice zigzagged further up the street.
    Then, with a sudden rollercoaster jolt, Jack’s little island slipped forward, tipping him into the churning morass, the blocks of concrete landing on his back, pinning him to the bottom.
    Blood pounding in his ears, he tried pushing the blocks off him, but the weight was too much. Choking and flailing, Jack began to drown.
    Then a great boom travelled through the water, and the surging pool around Jack became a sudden rushing current, dragging and tugging at his clothes. The ground had split still further, pulling the plug out of the basin and sucking the water, cars, stonework and flotsam down deep into the ground.
    Jack was suddenly grateful for the masonry holding him in place. It was the only thing keeping him from being carried away. As the last of the water vanished, the blocks on top of him started to shift, and Jack pulled himself coughing to his feet. All around him was mud, sobbing and devastation. Jack was standing on the lip of a great chasm. Echoing up from it was the gurgle of water and the absurd echo of dozens of car alarms.
    He tried to get his bearings and groaned. The street was a ruin. Houses crumpled like they were made of Lego. The lock-ups had gone. And there was no sign of the car.
    The SUV had gone, taking with it whatever Gwen had wanted him to find.

37
    MARY COOPER WAS putting on a brave show, handing out strong tea and coffee in plastic cups, pretending that helping serve refreshments to those cleaning up the streets was distracting her from worrying about Gwen locked up in that horrible psychiatric ward.
    Her husband’s fate had left Mary wary of the authorities and the hospitals. She was simultaneously terrified of having her daughter in a hospital and anxious that she wasn’t getting the care she needed. The ward was noisy and sterile, cold and unwelcoming. All Gwen really needed was rest, a chance to recover from everything that she’d been through, flying back and forth across the Atlantic, trying to save her dad and anyone else that she could, and all so soon after the birth of a baby. It wasn’t surprising that Gwen’s mind had cracked; any normal woman’s would have, and way before now.
    ‘Thanks for doing all this, Mary,’ said one of the area’s local councillors. ‘No matter what anyone thinks, there’s still nothing like a good strong cuppa to make the job go smoothly.’
    Especially, thought Mary, when all you’ve done all morning is parade up and down the streets giving orders, you useless twit.
    ‘Biscuit?’ she said to him.
    ‘Don’t mind if I do.’
    *
    The havoc was not confined to the streets. Out in the middle of the channel, a vast black geyser was shooting steam into the air, creating a grey mist around it that was keeping the coastguard at a careful distance. When the tremor had struck last night, the geyser had burst through the water’s surface. Now the sky above was filled with helicopters and the surrounding beaches and cliffs lined with tourists watching the towering fountain.
    The wave the geyser had created had hit the corner of the southern coast of Wales like a freight train, water slamming into the cliffs with enough force to crumble a hefty chunk of coastline, littering the shore with debris and stabbing the sand with trees hurled from the cliffs during the quakes.
    The Marina was swarming with men and women dressed in yellow emergency vests, gripping black bin bags in gloved hands like an army of giant bees. A squad of local firefighters was tagging the bigger pieces of debris that were safe to have local lads on three wheelers haul to a central