Titanic 2020: Cannibal City

8 The Tree

It was a risk. A huge risk. But he couldn't run any further.

Jimmy considered himself to be relatively fit — but so was the minister. He just kept on coming. Not faster — but relentless. Every time Jimmy chanced a look back he was right there, running like a machine at exactly the same pace, his rifle carried in one hand at his side, his wide-brimmed hat shadowing his eyes. There were no more shots.

He's saving them.

Jimmy ducked in and out of the trees, crisscrossed animal paths, ran up hills and down; plunged through undergrowth and leaped across streams; but still the minister was right there. In the end he knew he had to try something radical or his legs would become so weak that he would stumble and twist an ankle and then the minister would be on him.

He had to go up.

Jimmy hurtled through the next thick bank of trees, laboured up a short incline and disappeared briefly over the brow.

Now!

He had perhaps fifteen seconds before the minister would appear. Jimmy threw himself at the closest trees — he was a veteran tree climber from his days in Belfast. These trees had slender trunks with few lower branches, but he was still able to wrap his aching legs around the rough bark. He was drenched in sweat and could hardly catch his breath, but he had no choice but to try and wring the last ounce of strength from his body to shimmy up the tree. He didn't even dare look back to see if the minister had come over the brow yet. He just pulled and pulled until at last his feet started to find proper, weight-bearing branches.

He was about halfway up the pine when he heard the dull thud of the minister's feet on the soft forest floor. Jimmy froze. The minister was coming straight towards the tree he was hiding in. Jimmy knew he wasn't far enough up it yet to be properly hidden. If the minister looked up now, he was a dead man.

The minister passed directly below him — and kept going.

As carefully as he possibly could Jimmy climbed further up the trunk.

The minister stopped twenty metres further on. The trees before him had thinned out, giving him a clear view of the forest ahead. And obviously he could no longer see his prey.

The minister turned and began to retrace his steps.

Jimmy stopped moving. He already knew the danger that lay in the slightest noise in this forest.

The minister drew closer. He was walking slightly stooped with his eyes fixed to the ground. Jimmy tried desperately to slow his breathing as he approached.

Now he was directly below him.

All Jimmy could see was the top of bis black hat and its wide brim. It was like looking down on a dead planet.

The minister moved left, right; then circled the tree.

A bead of sweat rolled off Jimmy's dank brow, down his nose, and sat precariously on its very tip. He felt so weak that his grip on the tree was now quite insecure and he didn't dare try to wipe it away; all he could do was will it to stay where it was.

But, of course, he was Lucky Jimmy Armstrong.

The drop dropped.

In a movie, to eke out the agony, it might have fallen in slow motion.

But this one just fell fast and pinged on to the crown of the minister's hat.

Immediately he looked up.

That's it. I'm dead.

He raised his rifle.

I am absolutely dead.

It didn't even cross his mind to beg for his life. He knew it would be useless. The minister was a cold-hearted killer.

Jimmy just stared down at him and waited.

The minister stared right back — but then he blinked: once, twice, three times; he rubbed at his eyes, then held a hand up to shield them.

He's looking straight at me — but he can't see me because of the sun!

Jimmy turned his head very, very slowly upwards. The sun was low in the sky, but the position of his tree at the foot of the incline was just perfect for catching it. However, it was sinking rapidly and might only give him such blinding cover for a few more minutes.

The minister remained where he was, looking up, gun raised; but now he was ranging it along the tops of other trees which weren't in the full glare. He brought it right back round to Jimmy's tree, looked up again, squinting, then shut his eyes tight and turned away. He lowered the gun and rubbed the knuckles of his left hand into his straining eyes.

When he had recovered sufficiently, the minister again surveyed the surrounding trees. His voice, when it came, was shrill, and every bit as spine-chilling as the first time: 'You can't escape from me, boy!' he screamed. 'I will hunt you down!'

Another bead of sweat swept down Jimmy's nose; he watched it, cross-eyed, for an agonising moment until it shot off the end and continued down on the exact trajectory of its predecessor.

But this time it splashed harmlessly on to the spongy forest floor.

The minister was gone!

It is difficult to sleep in a tree. One moment you're drifting into peaceful slumber, the next you've fallen ten metres to the ground and you've broken your neck. He did nod off, three or four times. Once he actually let go of the branch and that awful dropping sensation was already ripping through his tummy when he frantically dug his fingernails into the bark and was just about able to hold on. He was desperately tired, but there was no way that he was going to venture down. It was pitch black, he was being devoured by ants; his cheek, where the sliver of wood had sliced into him, was sticky and sore, but he still wasn't going down there. The minister was waiting for him. He worked for God. He could probably see in the dark.

In those precious seconds where he did sleep, he endured odd, weird dreams which came and went in a flash — the minister bearing down on Claire and Jimmy saving her, swooping down out of the sky on angel wings.

For the most part, though, he stared into the darkness. He was hungry and his throat was parched, but he was neither hungry enough nor thirsty enough to take a chance on the minister being out there. He began to wonder what had driven the minister to such murderous acts, and who the man he'd shot was . . . but then he stopped himself. It didn't matter.

Claire's dead. That's all that matters. My friend Claire is dead.

He was certain of it.

Or almost certain of it.

The minister had pursued her, shot at her, then satisfied with his kill, turned his attention to him.

Or...

There was a very small chance that she was still alive. But was that necessarily better, if she was lying wounded somewhere, unable to move, dying a slow, agonising death? They had shared danger before and survived, but this was different. Before they had been able to support each other; each of them was ingenious and brave in their own way — they were a great team. Apart, somehow, they were diminished. And now they would never be together again. All because of a stupid pig. If he hadn't bloody tried to be so bloody smart then they would never have stopped talking, and if they had still been on good terms then that kid from Tucker's Hole would never have been able to rip off Claire's camera, and if. . .

If, if, if, if, if . . .

Ifs were no good to him now. He had to concentrate on one thing.

Surviving.

He slept.

He fell.

Jimmy was lucky that several branches on the way down broke his fall, and that the ground at the foot of the tree happened to be particularly soft. But he still landed with a tremendous whumpf. It was almost five minutes before he could bring himself to try moving. It was light now and a low mist hung upon the ground. Jimmy cautiously pushed himself up to his feet. Remarkably, although every single bone in his body ached, nothing appeared to be broken. He took several tentative steps forward. He didn't feel too bad at all, considering. And the fact that he hadn't yet been shot dead suggested that the minister was no longer a threat — or not at this moment, anyway.

Jimmy had absolutely no idea where he was. But he started walking anyway. He needed to get his bruised legs working so that they wouldn't stiffen up any further. And he couldn't just sit still. Nobody was going to come and rescue him. He was on his own. The best thing he could do, he thought, was to try and find his way back to the path. If he was lucky he'd make it to Tucker's Hole. They had a radio there, they could call the ship. He thought there was a strong possibility that the Titanic would still be there — not because they'd wait for him, but because they'd certainly wait for Claire.

But could he even face going back to the ship? He would have to tell the Stanfords and Captain Smith — and everyone else on board would soon find out — that he had run off and left Claire to her fate. He knew it wasn't as simple as that, but surely that's what people would think.

Perhaps it would be better if he didn't try to find the ship at all, if instead he made a new life for himself in one of the settlements.

He was still thinking about this thirty minutes later while rather forlornly searching for the path, but wasn't paying sufficient attention to where he was walking. The ground suddenly dipped down a steep bank. Jimmy lost his footing and tumbled down, coming to a stop when the bank flattened out with the breath knocked out of him. It was all he needed, with his body already bruised and battered. Jimmy shook himself, got to his knees and looked around him. A broad swathe had clearly been cut through this part of the woods, and as he stood he understood why — just a few metres ahead of him there was a partially overgrown railway track.

Jimmy smiled — something good at last. It had to lead somewhere.

Turn left, turn right?

Jimmy turned to his left. He walked for five metres.

Then he turned back and began to walk to his right.

It felt better, somehow.

The track ahead curved around a bend . . .

That's where he found the President's train.