by Andrew Tudor
Irene nodded. “Yes, I remember. But you said that you didn’t get on with them at all well. They disapproved of you taking off to become a journalist and even more so after you broke the Zeno stories.”
“That was just my dad really – he’s very reactionary. But I’ve kept in touch with my brother, as far as I could anyway. We used to be very close. He pretty much runs the farm now. That might be somewhere to go and it’s a lot nearer than Scotland.”
“True enough, but it’s still a long way to walk. It’s a shame there are no shuttles any more.” Irene stared miserably out the window into the back garden until, suddenly, her face lit up.
“I’ve got it!” she exclaimed, and leaping to her feet she retrieved a bunch of keys from a kitchen drawer and headed for the back door. “Come with me.”
Puzzled, Julie followed her down the garden where she unlocked the side door to the garage. Julie had never been in there and was surprised to see an ancient car standing on bricks. “We couldn’t use that,” she said, pointing at the vehicle.
“No, no, of course not. It hasn’t run for years. It was Robin’s pet restoration project. No, look here,” she said, pointing at the wall behind them. There, mounted on hooks, were two touring bicycles, one red and one blue.
“The blue one’s mine. The red one was Robin’s. We did a lot of touring and camping with them until he got too ill.” Irene paused at the memory. “Good times,” she said, adding “we’d just need to lower the saddle a bit and that one would be fine for you. You can ride a bike can’t you?”
“Yes, of course I can,” Julie said, taking a closer look at the bikes. “They’re good ones, aren’t they?”
“Yes they are. Cost a fortune back then. And look here.” Irene almost ran to a steel cupboard at the back of the garage, unlocked it and flung open the door. It was full of gear – panniers, helmets, toolkits, a tent, and a whole array of bicycle spare parts. “We can ride and camp,” Irene said triumphantly. “That’s how we’ll do it.”
She reached into the cupboard, pulled out a file of documents, then started thumbing through them. “Look,” she said, thrusting one towards Julie. “This is a map of cycle route 57 – it goes to Cheltenham and then on to Malvern. It’s about 130 miles. We can do that in a matter of days, unfit though we are.”
Julie felt herself being drawn into Irene’s infectious excitement. “Yes, I suppose we could,” she said, trying hard to maintain a more sober tone. “But we’ll still have to find a way past the Homeland borders. They must be guarded.”
For a moment Irene looked crestfallen. “True,” she said. Then, cheering up a little, “We’ll need to do a bit of training during next week so we’ll cycle out in that direction every day and see how it looks.”
Julie smiled at Irene’s refusal to be cowed and, wrapping her arms around the older woman, murmured in her ear, “You’re right. We can do this, I know we can. We can get away.”
Fayetteville, which sits close to the Ozarks in northwest Arkansas, had a reputation as a cultured city, largely because of the long-standing presence of the University of Arkansas and its many thousands of students. In recent months, however, it had been hit hard by successive waves of infection. The seeds of fear that this engendered had fallen onto fertile fundamentalist soil and given rise to an apocalyptic and deeply anti-science religious movement. On this particular day its Soldiers of God, as they liked to call themselves, surrounded the University’s Department of Biomedical Engineering eager to take revenge on the sinners within. They burst into the building and swept through its laboratories and offices, dragging their occupants outside where they were paraded before the mob. Egged on by their evangelical leaders, the Soldiers tossed their captives one by one into the hysterical crowd where they simply disappeared, as if devoured by an inhuman creature that now roared its hatred into the blue Arkansas sky.
4
Hart walked a circuit of the Whipsnade grounds on a daily basis. In part that was to check on the security precautions that he had put in place, including a company of armed guards that he had recruited from the restless young men and women of the collective. He knew very well how bored they could get patrolling the perimeter so he hoped that his periodic presence would do something towards focusing their attention and sustaining their morale. But more important was the fact that he took an unexpected pleasure in wandering past the enclosures that had once served as homes for such a rich variety of animals. Hart had been taken to Whipsnade Zoo as a child and nurtured remarkably clear memories of the creatures that he had encountered there for the very first time. In his mind’s eye he could see them still: in this section, the pair of tigers; over there the giraffes; down here the rhinos. He had always intended to bring Rosemary to Whipsnade in the hope of engendering in her the same wonder that had entranced him. But somehow he was always too busy, there was too much work to be done, so they had never managed the outing. And now it was too late.
Always quick to suppress such unwelcome reflections, on this day Hart was instead contemplating the fate of the once resident animals. Jerry Rowlands had told him that none of the more exotic beasts had remained when his group had forcibly taken over the site. As far as he knew they had either been removed to London Zoo quite early in the crisis, or else, as the capacity to feed them had declined, they had been killed. Some remained of course, notably those herbivores that could more or less look after themselves and would be a continuing source of sustenance for the human residents. There were still quite large numbers of fallow deer who contested the grazing with the sheep and cattle that the ERA community had seized from the surrounding farmland. There also remained a small group of yaks, often sought out by Hart who was fascinated by their extraordinary appearance, and there were large numbers of wallabies still bouncing around the parkland exhibiting little or no fear of the humans with whom they shared their home. Hart had not yet brought himself to sample their meat but was told that it was both succulent and high in protein.
Just then a wallaby unconcernedly crossed his path, such a captivating creature that he hoped never to be sufficiently desperate to resort to one for food. Today all he desired from the animal population was distraction and entertainment. The whole depressing morning had been taken up with one of the regular Collective Councils, enterprises meant to ensure everyone’s active involvement in the group’s business but more often than not characterised by fruitless squabbles among the different political persuasions. Today’s meeting had been such an occasion, with the two main factions sniping at one another throughout. In private conversation with Hart, Rowlands had labelled these cliques with their own variations on the ERA’s acronym. One group – the English Republican Army in Rowlands’ designation – were committed to overthrowing the Homeland government and its monarch by guerrilla warfare, modelling themselves on a highly romanticised vision of the IRA’s activities in the previous century. The other faction – the Existentially Radical Arseholes to Rowlands – seemed to believe that they had only to march out into the world and the oppressed peoples would immediately rally to their revolutionary summons. Fortunately neither of these views prevailed, but their mutual antagonism made all but impossible any semblance of rational discussion and coherent decision-making.
The net result was that most important decisions were taken by ‘The Chief’ as Rowlands had come to be known, to whom Hart was now effectively principal adviser and second in command. It was not a position that he had sought, nor particularly wanted, but his effectiveness in creating a security team, as well as his aloofness from the factional infighting, had made him indispensable to his former Oxford contemporary. So it was that, having almost completed his full circuit, it was to Rowlands’ quarters that he was now headed for their daily meeting when he was stopped by a voice calling out from behind him.
“Jonathan. Jonathan Hart. Hang on!”
Turning round he saw a young woman jogging along the path towards him. This wa
s Jennifer Connolly, one of three people whom Hart had singled out as having the skills necessary for special intelligence duties beyond the Whipsnade boundaries. Her task had been to infiltrate the Peculiar People and report back regularly on the Essex sect’s intentions and activities, something which she had thus far managed very effectively. But she was not due to report for at least another two weeks so her presence did not bode well.
“Hello Jenny,” he said when she had caught up with him. “I wasn’t expecting you. What’s happened?”
“They’ve been on the move,” she panted, struggling to recover her breath, “and they may come this way.”
This was a possibility that Hart had feared for some time. The PeePees, as they were now widely known to non-adherents, had an evangelical propensity to spread their word and to do so at the metaphorical and sometimes literal point of a gun. Sooner or later it had been inevitable that they would seek to expand out of their present territory in East Anglia, making Whipsnade a possible obstruction along the way.
“Oh bugger,” Hart murmured to himself. Then, to Jenny, “I’m just on my way to see the Chief anyway. Best you come with me and give the details to both of us.”
Jenny’s account was not such as to offer Hart and Rowlands any comfort. She had managed to insinuate herself into one of the PeePees’ more activist groupings, well looked upon by the leadership and, therefore, frequently favoured by the presence of the demagogue who had founded the sect – a charismatic figure sufficiently narcissistic to have unselfconsciously named himself ‘The Chosen One’ or, sometimes, ‘The Prophet’. Jenny’s view was that he was clinically insane but to his followers he was seen as their and the world’s only hope of salvation. In recent weeks he had been preaching in ever wilder terms, insisting that the time had come for his people to rise up against the sinners and, through sanctified violence, recapture the world for the faithful, so ensuring their entry to paradise on the coming day of judgment.
A large body of supporters, Jenny among them, had been prevailed upon to march south towards the Homeland’s northern border which roughly followed the route of the old London orbital motorway. This they had crossed, overcoming limited resistance from the border guards, but then, close to the small town of Loughton, they had been confronted by a much larger force. A chaotic pitched battle ensued in which the PeePees had been outmanoeuvred and outgunned by the Homeland’s military, whereupon they had retreated in some disorder. To Jenny’s astonishment this bloody setback had not diminished the evangelical fervour of The Chosen One or his followers. They had, rather, seen it as a test of their faith, one to which they must respond with further expeditions. This was their divine mission, or so The Chosen One insisted. But they would not go south again. At Loughton the Lord had revealed to them the error of their ways. Instead they would go west, drawing ever more converts into their fold until they were such a multitude that the disciples of Satan in the Homeland would be overcome.
Jenny’s account was followed by a lengthy silence. Then, at last, Rowlands exhaled heavily. “Well,” he said, “I suppose we always knew this might happen sooner or later. Do you have any idea what route they’re likely to take when they do decide to come this way?”
“No, nothing official,” Jenny replied. “These decisions aren’t discussed publicly. They get announced in the course of the Prophet’s sermonising.” She managed a wry smile. “Ex Cathedra, you might say.”
“Any rumours even?” Hart asked.
“Gossip maybe,” she replied. “Rumours would be a strong word for it, but there is a common belief that Luton would be a useful outpost to have. People seem to think that there is already some support for the PeePees there.”
Hart nodded. “Yes, I think that might be true. Back when the Peculiar People were just getting going and I still had access to intelligence sources, it was reported that there were groups in Luton who were amenable to their message.”
“That’s what, about ten miles to the north-east?” Rowlands asked. “I suppose they might bypass us if they did go there. Jenny, have you ever heard any gossip about us?”
“No, neither Whipsnade nor ERA have ever been mentioned in my hearing. I think they probably don’t even know that we’re here.”
Hart shook his head. “Once they’re in this area they’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “We’ll need warning of when they’re on the move, whatever the route. Are you able to go back, Jenny? Say no if you think it’s too dangerous.”
“I don’t think they suspect me of anything. They’ve no reason to. When I come here they think I’m visiting my sick mother. I don’t see why I shouldn’t go back.”
“OK.” Hart thought for a minute. “If you return to Essex tomorrow and keep your eyes and ears open, you can let us know when a move is imminent. In fact, as soon as anything seems remotely certain you should make yourself scarce and get back here as quickly as you can.”
“Yes, it would be great if you could do that, Jenny,” Rowlands added. “You’ve done magnificent work already. Thank you. Now you go and get some food, see your friends, have a peaceful night and go back in the morning.”
Jenny, looking part embarrassed and part pleased at the compliment, got up and smiled a goodbye to both men.
“What do you think, Jonny?” Rowlands asked as soon as she was gone.
“I think we need to make some contingency plans. Even if they do head for Luton they might well send a reconnaissance party to check us out and we wouldn’t want to have a confrontation with them. We might fight off a small recon group but that would probably bring them all down on us and we wouldn’t stand a chance. We need to find a way of hiding our supplies and dispersing into the countryside until they’ve passed through. Time for some hard decisions, I’m afraid.”
Julie’s legs were aching. Her calf and thigh muscles felt as if they were on fire, and her bottom – well, she thought, it’s so numb that I’m not even sure that it’s there any more. She eased herself further back into the hot bath, closed her eyes and told her body to relax. They had just returned from their third day-long cycling trip, an experience that appeared to have had little or no physical impact on Irene but had left Julie painful and exhausted. Julie’s problem, Irene insisted, lay in her failure to make proper use of the many gears on her bike. Faced with uphill slopes she simply increased the force applied to her pedals rather than changing gear and continuing in the same cadence, an error that unnecessarily stressed her hitherto little-used muscles. She would get it right tomorrow, Julie promised herself. She would have to soon since there was only a little time left before their journey started in earnest.
Over the three days they had reconnoitred various possible escape routes. Major roads to the west were barricaded and constantly manned by armed troops, even though they now carried little or no traffic. The backroads, however, were controlled only by patrols. If they could time it right it would be possible to slip through the notional Homeland border and into the countryside beyond. But they hadn’t been able to agree on the best route or the best time to start their ride. The truth was that neither of them had any basis on which to make a sensible judgement and both were reluctant to impose a decision on the other. Julie sighed and lowered her head into the water. Perhaps she would feel better after washing her hair.
On breaking surface she realised that Irene was knocking on the door.
“Julie, can I come in? I’ve thought of what we might do.”
“Yes, of course,” Julie called. “It’s not locked.”
Looking pleased with herself, Irene perched on the toilet seat.
“Tomorrow you can have a rest from cycling,” she said. “We’ll see if we can waylay Corporal Peter’s patrol. He can give us advice.”
“Really? Can we trust him? He might report us.”
Irene shook her head. “No, I don’t think there’s any chance of that. He’s a good person, I’m certain. Besides,
it was him that warned us about the Recruiters and told us to hide. I’m sure he’ll help us if he can.”
“OK, if you think so.” Julie smiled. “If nothing else my bum and legs will be grateful for the respite.”
“It’s our best chance, Julie. Otherwise we’ll just have to choose a route at random.”
With that, Irene rolled up her sleeves. “Now pass me the shampoo and I’ll wash your hair for you.”
The next day, carrying shopping bags as an excuse for their outing, they wound their way around the area normally covered by Peter’s patrol. By late morning they had found him and, to an accompaniment of gently raucous comments from his troops, Irene privately explained their problem.
“Ignore that lot,” he said, nodding towards the soldiers. “They think I’ve got the hots for Sarah here and they can never resist taking the mickey.” He smiled at Julie who returned the grin and said, “Tell them you have to watch out for my mum – she’s very protective.”
Turning back to Irene he spoke more quietly. “I’ll see what I can find out. I’m off duty on Thursday night and I can get a Curfew Pass easy enough. I’ll tell my mates that I’ve got a date with Sarah and come round to your house. About eight o’clock. That OK?”
“Yes, that’s splendid,” Irene replied. “You must stay for dinner. It won’t be much I’m afraid but we’ll do our best.”
Meanwhile Julie, accompanied by cheers from the patrol, leaned forward and kissed him briefly on the cheek. “That should help with the excuse,” she said, laughing at Peter’s apparent embarrassment.
True to his promise he was at their door by eight on Thursday. “I’ve checked the area you want to go through,” he said, as soon as he was seated. “There are various possible routes but I think one is better than the others.” He handed them a sheet of paper. “I’ve marked it on this map for you. This should get you out close to where you can join the cycle route. Once there, put as much distance as you can between you and the city’s edge. There’ll be nobody enforcing a curfew out in the sticks so you can keep going as long as you like.”
