by Andrew Tudor
Fearing the worst, Duncan grabbed his shotgun and the automatic rifle that Douglas had left with him, carrying them upstairs to a window overlooking the drive. He opened the window and, taking care not to lean out too far, looked to left and right. There was a group of five armed men working their way along the road, one or two breaking off at each house to check it out. Some way down the road he could see what looked like a body lying in a front garden; perhaps that was the source of the gunfire. He pulled back inside the room’s shadow hoping to make himself invisible to the Reivers out on the road. When they reached his front gate, two men turned up the drive towards him. Duncan thought for a moment, then with a muttered “What the hell” lifted the rifle to his shoulder. He fired a burst and both men fell to the ground. The three remaining in the road dived for cover behind the hedgerow and followed up with a fusillade of erratic shots that smashed into the glass of the windows and thudded against the front of the house. Then there was silence.
Duncan, who was crouching to one side of the window, snatched a glance outside. Immediately there was a shot and one edge of the window frame splintered. He was pinned down. Maybe he could wait them out, he thought. But then again, maybe not. There were three of them and they could surely outflank him. Perhaps if he made it downstairs he could simply ambush them when they broke in. But first, while he had his high vantage point he should try to lower the odds. What did he have to lose anyway? A few months more and a growing tumour? Taking the decision, he stood up in the window and fired repeatedly along the hedgerow. A scream suggested that at least one of his bullets had found its target, but then fire was returned and he was thrown backwards to the floor by what felt like a hammer blow to his chest. When he recovered from the initial shock he looked down to see blood spreading across his shirt. I must get downstairs, he told himself, be ready for them.
He made slow progress crawling down the stairs, slumping at last onto the hallway floor and still bleeding heavily from the wound in his chest. He could barely sit up. Leaning against the wall he did his best to think clearly in spite of an overpowering desire to close his eyes and sleep. Were they still out there? He tried to remember how many sources of gunfire there had been and how many of the Reivers he was certain he had hit, but numbers were increasingly slippery in his semi-conscious state. He still had the rifle, he realised, clutched in his right hand, its barrel lying across his legs. If he could raise it a little he could cover the front door from here. He tried to draw up his legs and the gun barrel with them, but the effort was too much and he sagged even further against the wall. Perhaps he just needed to rest a little before trying again.
When the quiet had extended from seconds into minutes Pike emerged from his hiding place and came in search of Duncan. Confronted with the supine figure he sniffed at the growing bloodstain and then at his master’s mouth and nose. As he always did in the morning when he felt it was time to get up, he nuzzled Duncan in the neck and licked his face. Duncan stirred.
“Pike,” he murmured. “Hello boy. It’s not time to get up yet is it? I’m still sleepy.” And he closed his eyes.
The two frozen figures resembled one of those old-fashioned, moralistic tableaux beloved of the Victorians: the man asleep and the dog standing by, the whole thing graced with a title like ‘Man’s Best Friend’ or ‘His Master’s Guardian’. And so they remained until, suddenly, the dog’s ears pricked up, he rose to his feet and began first to growl and then to bark. With a crash the front door flew open to reveal the figure of a man, one arm hanging limply at his side and the other pointing a pistol into the hallway. Pike barked even louder and more ferociously at the intruder who, with a shouted “Fucking dog,” took aim at him. The sound of a shot bounced around the enclosed space as if seeking and failing to find a way out until, at last, its reverberations died away.
The Reiver staggered, the gun falling from his hand as he fell backwards out of the door. Duncan, still levelling the rifle resting across his raised legs, slipped to the floor, no longer able to prop himself against the wall. Once more he closed his eyes. In the returning silence the dog resumed his position by Duncan’s head and lay down next to him, his nose close to the man’s cheek. Feeling Pike’s proximity, Duncan turned his head to look into the animal’s eyes, a fixed stare which the dog returned.
“Good boy Pike, good boy,” he murmured, trying vainly to lift a hand to scratch the dog’s ears. “Pike, listen, you must find Alison. Go Pike. Look for Ali. Find Alison. Go. Go.” His voice faded to nothing and his head rolled to one side, eyes closing. Time went by and Duncan showed no signs of life but still the dog sat by his side, moving only once to return with a battered grey toy rabbit, its stuffing long since extracted, which he laid carefully by the now cooling body. But the familiar toy could produce no response, no repetition of the games that they had so often played together. At last Pike stood up, nuzzled Duncan’s face a final time and set off through the open door, his nose close to the ground. He headed down the drive that led from the house, past the bodies and out onto the main route through the glen where, with a single look back at his home of many years, he turned to the right, as Ali had a day earlier, and loped purposefully towards the mountains.
North Kolkata is the oldest part of West Bengal’s capital city, its overcrowding, poverty, and general state of dilapidation making it an ideal location in which the Zeno virus could spread and mutate. In its midst lies Sonagachi, a warren of streets and alleys that had for years played host to countless brothels and sex workers. As one of the world’s most infamous red-light districts the area had always been a magnet both for men of the city itself and for those visiting from elsewhere. When Zeno arrived, the constant play of physical intimacy in the brothels of Sonagachi served only to further propel the virus far and wide. Forty years earlier, interventions to limit the spread of another virus – HIV – among the sex workers and their customers had been at least partially effective. But Zeno proved to be an altogether more ferocious antagonist, and now the entire area, and a large part of the great city of Kolkata itself, had been transformed into a mausoleum of rotting bodies and rampant disease.
8
Like many a real feudal ruler before him, when times got hard Lord Malvern proved more than willing to grind the faces of the poor. In his case the poor included almost everybody who found themselves under his sway, as faced with growing shortages he and his men sought to extract ever more from their long-suffering victims. The folk of Malvern Edge Farm were no exception to this harsh discipline and, as a result, had suffered a demanding winter. They were constantly hungry, and if that were so for them with a farm to draw upon, who knows what it was like for people in the towns and villages. Or so Irene was thinking as she distributed silage to the cattle. She had always had misgivings about imposing on Brian’s generosity. It was fair enough that he should support his sister, but Irene and Lucy were simply extra mouths to feed, hangers-on in all but name. While they did what they could to help around the farm, it was really not much compensation.
Irene had more than once aired these feelings to Julie who insisted that she was welcome. Still, Irene had noted how often Julie stayed with Conrad and, therefore, ate with his family, which was striking since as Julie freely admitted she did not get on well with Conrad’s parents. Irene assumed that Julie was trying to ease pressure on the farm’s meagre food supplies, as well as simply wanting to spend time with her rediscovered boyfriend. Now, with Malvern’s thugs turning the screw yet further, Irene was sure that she should try to move on. She was still of the view that it would be best to go north to Scotland to find Sarah who, according to the last message that had reached Hart’s CommsTab, had arrived at Duncan’s home in Argyll. But Irene was at a loss to know how that long trip might be managed, although increasingly certain that she would have to somehow make the effort once spring had properly arrived.
These depressing thoughts reminded her that she had not checked the CommsTab for some time so, w
hen her work with the cattle was finished, she retreated to her room and powered up the tablet. To her delight a beep indicated the presence of a video message, though her pleasure was ameliorated somewhat by the discovery that, rather than being from Sarah, it was from Jonathan Hart. She watched the video with growing concern, then sat on her bed staring absently into the distance. When she heard the sound of horses’ hooves followed by the voices of Julie and Conrad, she went out onto the landing and called to them.
“Julie, Conrad. Have you got a moment?”
“Yes, OK,” Julie shouted. “Just coming. What’s up?”
When they arrived Irene set the tablet in front of them and said simply, “Watch this.”
“What is it?” Julie asked, then as the video began and she saw who it was, exclaimed “Good heavens! It’s from Hart.”
“Who’s Hart?” Conrad enquired.
“Just someone we know,” Julie replied.
On the little screen Hart began to speak.
“Hello Irene and Julie. I hope you receive this. The Comms infrastructure still seems to be working so there’s a good chance. The reason I’m messaging you is to give you a warning. It’s about the Peculiar People. You perhaps heard of them while you were still in the Homeland.”
“Who are the Peculiar People?” Conrad interjected.
“Just a crazy apocalyptic sect that’s developed out in Essex,” Julie responded, while Irene added, “He gets on to that next”.
Hart was continuing. “I’m afraid they’ve become a much more serious proposition. I’ve seen their leader addressing a big meeting and I can understand why people find him so charismatic. The PeePees are now highly organised and they have grand ambitions. They’ve turned themselves into an evangelical army and they’re planning to head west from East Anglia and convert the whole of central England. Their actual beliefs appear to me to be utterly confused, but circumstances have become so desperate that many people are willing to become zealots in support of any cause that promises them salvation. I can’t stress too much how dangerous they are. If you’re in their way you’ll either have to hide, undergo forced conversion and join their army, or be tortured and killed.”
Hart paused for a moment, staring at something off camera. When he turned back he looked desolate.
“I’m sorry,” he continued. “That happened to someone I knew. It really is as bad as that. I know you will think you’re a long way from the PeePees over there in Malvern. Don’t believe it. They’ll reach you. They’re intending to start their advance within the next few weeks and they have a massive army of fanatics. My advice is to get out of their way while you can. You could retreat into Wales, I suppose, but I think they’ll keep going until they reach the sea on the Welsh coast. You’d probably be all right down in the West Country south of Bristol, or perhaps up north beyond Derbyshire – if you can safely reach any of those places. But don’t stay where you are. They’ll overrun everything in their path like the proverbial plague of locusts. Sorry to be the bearer of such terrible news. I feel that I owe a lot to both of you so please, please act on this information as soon as you can. Good luck.”
He remained looking into the camera for a few seconds then leaned forward and the video went dead. Julie turned aghast to her two companions.
“Oh shit,” she said, burying her head in her hands.
“But how seriously should we take that?” Conrad asked, looking sceptical. “Who is he? Can he be trusted?”
“Oh, I think we should take it very seriously,” Irene replied. “Before Zeno he used to be Director of the Domestic Security Division – one of the major intelligence agencies. He knows what he’s talking about and he’s not given to exaggeration.”
“Yes,” Julie added. “Along with Irene he was the main source for all my Zeno stories. If he says it’s going to be bad you can be sure that it really will be.”
Conrad still did not look entirely persuaded, but confronted with the women’s shared conviction he clearly felt that there was not a lot that he could say. Finally he spoke up.
“It’s all very well him saying you should get out of their way, but where? If you go south like he suggested, once past Bristol it would get really difficult. Down in Cornwall the Cornish nationalists expelled all the incomers, and when they fled into Devon and Somerset it caused no end of problems there. If you went north, well, the Midlands are very lawless. I wouldn’t fancy your chances. It would be much tougher than the trip you did to get here.”
Irene nodded. “Yes, I know. If I could find a way I’d go to Scotland, to where my daughter is up in the Highlands. Not much chance of the PeePees or anyone else going that far north. But, as you say, there are many dangers between here and there.”
She lapsed into silence and looked glumly at Julie who was lost in thought.
“Con,” Julie said at last. “I know we were going to stay here tonight but perhaps we should go and warn your parents about this.”
“I don’t think my dad will take much notice. You know what he’s like. He thinks he’s well in with Malvern’s gang and rich enough to buy his way out of anything.”
“Still,” Julie was insistent. “You’re off back to Bristol tomorrow morning so we wouldn’t have much time unless we go over there tonight. Come on, let’s go now.”
Grumbling a little, Conrad hauled himself to his feet and headed for the door, Julie following just behind. As he disappeared she turned round and, with a grin, winked at Irene. “It’ll be OK,” she mouthed silently, and then she was gone.
That night Irene explained the situation to Brian and Jean. Though recognising the seriousness of the PeePees’ threat they remained determined to stay.
“This is all we have,” Brian said. “It’s been my entire life. If we have to pretend to convert then that’s what we’ll do. There’s nowhere for us to go that will be any better than staying here. They surely can’t be worse than the present lot.”
Irene was of the opinion that an army of religious fanatics could be a great deal worse than Malvern’s iron hand, but she kept her thoughts to herself. There was no point falling out with her hosts and, anyway, she had no practical suggestions to make. Things were beginning to look hopeless.
It was almost lunchtime the next day when Julie returned and sought her out.
“What are you looking so happy about?” Irene asked, for Julie was smiling broadly.
“I think I’ve got us a plan,” she said. “Last night I persuaded Con that we should get out of here. It took me half the night but I knew I’d win him over in the end. He’s fed up working for his dad and making these increasingly dangerous runs between here and Bristol. He doesn’t think the trading will last anyway and then his family will have no influence left with Malvern. So he was always going to be persuadable.”
“That’s all very well, Julie, but it doesn’t solve the problem of where we go.”
“Ah, this is the clever bit.” Julie looked pleased with herself. “You remember us talking about The Cormorant?”
“Yes, I remember,” Irene said. “The yacht. Conrad’s sister is living on it.”
“Right. It’s a serious boat, and both Marie and Conrad are experienced at sailing it. Apparently Marie and her husband have had enough of hanging about in the bay down there and would be more than happy to sail off into the sunset. I’ve persuaded Conrad that we should take it to Scotland. Don’t you see, it solves all the problems. We can get away from the PeePee threat, you can find Sarah, Marie just loves sailing, and the boat’s big enough to take them and us and Lucy. It’s a perfect plan.”
Irene looked at her sceptically. “You really think that it’s possible?”
Julie nodded. “Yes, I really do think that it is. Besides, what else can we do? At least this way we’ll have a chance.” Her face was alight with enthusiasm. “And Irene,” she said, now very much the old Julie, “it’ll be an adventur
e.”
Rather to Ali’s surprise, the little band of travellers made good progress on the first day of their long walk. The main challenge was a muddy climb across rough ground which took them over a pass, Lairig Dhoireann at around 600m, and then an even more muddy descent into Glen Kinglass. Having previously dismissed the easier route to the east as too close to the main road, they turned west along a track which followed the river down to Loch Etive. Here they met another track running up from the south which, as they could see from their vantage point concealed among some trees, led to a small group of buildings close by Ardmaddy Bay. After studying them through binoculars Douglas reported that he could detect no movement. Should they approach the main house? His concern was that if it was occupied, and they went as a group, its residents might take them for Reivers and so shoot first and ask questions afterwards. This conundrum was resolved by Shona.
“I know the family who stay there – went to school with one of them. How about me and the boys walk up the track? They’ll recognise us.”
“That’s if the place hasn’t already been raided,” Ali pointed out.
Shona scoffed at the idea. “Och, it’s no likely this far up a road to nowhere,” she said. “Why would the Reivers bother?” And summoning her two boys she walked resolutely towards the buildings.
