by Seth Rain
‘You’ve spoken to the AI?’
Scott nodded.
George leaned forward in his chair. ‘So I don’t have a date?’
Scott shook his head.
‘So I could die sooner?’
‘Or later,’ Scott said, frowning.
George shook his head.
Scott continued. ‘But Mathew is determined to make sure everyone dies.’
‘And is sent to Heaven?’ George asked.
‘That’s what he says.’ Scott placed a hand on Eve, sleeping beside him. ‘He won’t rest until everyone’s dead.’
‘So we have to hide,’ George said. ‘We run and hide.’
‘It’s not that simple.’ Scott held up his hand. ‘He’s tracking me. Via the ink in my tattoo.’
George sighed heavily.
‘That’s why I need your help.’
George waited a short while. ‘How?’
‘I need to go after him. End this once and for all. Without Mathew, humanity can recover and we can start again. There are people in Birmingham. I’ve heard them transmitting over the radio. They could help us.’
‘How many?’
Scott considered exaggerating the numbers.
‘The message said over twenty.’
George scoffed.
‘But there could be more around the world,’ Scott said. ‘We need to stop Mathew and the Watchers if we’re to stand a chance.’
‘How many?’ George asked. ‘How many around the world?’
‘Around twenty-thousand.’
George slumped back into his chair. ‘There’s no way you’ll find them.’
Scott bowed his head. Maybe it was impossible.
‘So what do you want from me?’ George asked, giving in.
‘I need you to look after Eve.’
George stood and turned as if about to leave the room. ‘Look after her?’
‘Only for a short time. I’ll be back.’
‘And what if you don’t come back?’
‘What else can I do? I can’t wait for Mathew to find me, to find her.’
George closed his eyes and rested his hands on his hips. ‘I came here to be alone, to live out the rest of my days in peace and quiet.’
For the first time, Scott saw annoyance in George’s demeanour. He stood, his fists clenched. ‘This is more important than that. Don’t you see? You could have many more days now.’
‘So you say.’
‘Don’t you believe me?’ Scott snapped.
‘I don’t know you. I don’t know what to think.’
Scott waited. ‘George, I swear to you, everything I’ve said is true.’
Eve sighed in her sleep and kicked out before settling again.
George nodded. ‘So how are you meant to get to him before he gets to you? He can track you – he knows where you are. He’ll come here. It’ll only take one of them to turn up here, when we’re asleep, and do us all in.’
‘I have an idea.’
George’s eyes narrowed.
Scott cupped his left hand in his right. ‘You were a GP?’
George, still with his arms folded, his eyes narrowed, nodded.
‘How much surgical training did you have?’
George blinked several times. ‘You can’t be serious?’
‘There’s no way of removing the ink. Even the smallest trace left will be enough for the tracker to work. Losing my hand is a small sacrifice.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Tell me another way and we’ll do that. Believe me, I don’t want to do this.’
Scott flexed his fingers and then slowly, rolled them towards the palm of his hand until it formed a fist.
Forty-Nine
‘Penzance Hospital,’ George said, pointing to a sign illuminated by the headlights.
Scott pulled up on an empty car park in front of a small building. ‘Will we find everything we need here?’
George leaned forward to look at the building through the windscreen. ‘There should be. Small hospitals like this needed surgical-machines to assist operations.’
They got out of the 4x4. Scott took out the carrier, Eve asleep inside. Already, the penicillin was taking effect. The sallowness of her skin was fading, replaced by a rosiness in her cheeks.
The automatic doors at the front of the hospital no longer worked. George slid the doors far enough open with his hands for them to edge through.
Scott passed Eve to George and then slid inside. George flashed his torch around the building.
‘Quickly,’ George said, handing Eve’s carrier over. ‘We can’t stay here long. There are all sorts of infections and viruses. This way.’
Scott stepped over bodies: nurses, doctors, patients. He was thankful it was dark and he couldn’t see further than a few feet. There was no closing the hospital, even on the day of the Rapture.
George emerged from a room holding three masks.
‘Put this on,’ he said. ‘And one over Eve’s face too.’
Scott placed the mask over Eve’s face as best he could, then strapped the other over his own. Immediately, he lost some of his sense of smell – a relief. He followed George through the corridors to a set of double doors.
George glanced back. ‘Through here.’
Inside, the room was dark.
George’s torch stopped on a small cupboard on the wall.
‘It’ll be connected to the solar panels on the roof.’ George reached up and opened a metal panel and looked around. ‘These systems needed to be independent of the grid so they could be used in the event of grid failure. There has to be a way of turning it on.’
He flicked a switch and the lights flickered into life. The room was empty except for the three of them, a large mechanical bed and the surgical-machine, covered in polythene. George dragged it off.
Scott walked over to the bed, beside which was a chair and computer terminal. ‘Will it work?’ He touched the metal arm.
‘Don’t see why not.’
George pressed a button on the computer keyboard, and the monitor flashed on.
‘I had a certain amount of training with these things,’ George said. ‘But all this came in after I’d been a GP for quite some time.’
The machine whirred into life. Its long mechanical arms, a combination of shiny metal and black carbon, manoeuvred slowly, twisting and turning at different joints and sockets.
‘It’ll need some assistance,’ George said.
‘Assistance?’ Scott asked, stroking his chin.
‘It’s an older model.’ George typed on the keyboard. ‘But it really is an extraordinary piece of machinery.’
Scott placed Eve on the floor and tucked the blanket around her.
‘How do we do this?’ Scott asked.
‘Take off your top.’ George pointed to a sink. ‘Wash your arm, all of it, with soap and water. Thoroughly.’
Scott walked to the sink and lifted his top over his head. He acknowledged how he used both arms and hands to do it. He ran the tap and heard the machinery behind the wall heating the water. The soap smelled of antiseptic. Soon he’d covered his arm in a slippery white foam that he rinsed away with cold water.
‘Don’t dry it with anything,’ George said. ‘Come and lie down.’
Scott hesitated. ‘What about anaesthetic?’
‘We’ll use the hood. The recovery time will be significantly less.’
George held the hood, which had wires sprouting out of the top, and connected it to the computer. ‘It intercepts the transmission of pain signals and stops them reaching the brain. You won’t feel a thing.’
Scott’s brow furrowed.
George waited as Scott climbed onto the bed.
‘We can go to the hospital in Exeter, if you like,’ George said. ‘It’s a bigger hospital and will have more up-to-date technology. The machines they have there will control the anaesthetic and operation.’
Scott shook his head. ‘No, we don’t have time. And we don’t even
know if that one will be in working order.’
George placed the hood on Scott’s head, then turned to the computer and began typing. The arm whirred and bleeped, the servos and pivots inside it coming to life. The hand at the end of the mechanical arm was not like a human hand: it only had four fingers that bent and swivelled in strange places. As George familiarised himself with the computer terminal, the hand gained more and more character, as though becoming an extension of George himself.
Scott lifted his arm as George moved a platform into place, so that Scott could rest his arm on it.
‘The program I’ve found is mostly autonomous. Are you sure about this?’ George asked.
Again Scott nodded.
‘At the wrist?’
Scott nodded.
The room was cool, the air filtered and cleaned by a system he could hear working in the ceiling and walls.
He listened to George tap the keys and felt one side of his body go cold, then numb.
‘Move your arm,’ George said.
Scott thought about lifting his arm but nothing happened. He lifted his other arm and turned his hand.
‘Good,’ George said. ‘The hood’s working.’
Scott stared at his tattooed hand and willed his fingers to move. Nothing. ‘Hurry,’ he said. ‘Before I change my mind.’
Again, he listened to George tapping at the computer keys. George pulled a sheet down from above so Scott couldn’t see what was being done to his arm. Now and then he felt a tug, a pull, a push, but no pain. Then came the whirring sound of a metal blade spinning…
Fifty
Scott woke, confused.
‘Relax,’ a voice said. It was George.
Scott rubbed his eye, then realised that things weren’t as they should be.
‘Wait,’ George said. ‘Relax, it’s okay.’
It all came back to him. He pushed his head back into the bed. ‘I can feel it. I can still feel it.’
The end of his arm was bandaged and packed tightly, giving the illusion that his hand was still there.
‘It’ll take time. You will feel phantom pains, like electric shocks shooting through your arm. There are drugs to help with this.’
‘We don’t have time.’ Scott stared at George, glancing now and again at his arm. ‘Where’s Eve?’
‘She’s sleeping. I fed and changed her. She’s on the mend. She’s a resilient little thing.’
Scott nodded and again closed his eyes. ‘It’s going to really hurt, isn’t it?’
‘It will hurt as it mends, but we have all the painkillers we need.’
Scott sat up.
‘Wait,’ George said. ‘You can’t go anywhere just yet. You’ll need some time to heal and recuperate.’
‘There’s no time,’ Scott said. ‘They’ll find her. My tattoo will bring them straight here.’
‘Give it until morning at least.’
Scott shook his head and sat up in bed, his arm held close to his chest.
‘Don’t,’ George said, ‘you’ll hurt yourself. Then what will happen to Eve?’
Scott waited, his head spinning, cold waves of nausea moving up his spine and across his shoulders.
‘Where is it?’ Scott asked, shivering.
‘Where’s what?’ George gave himself away and glanced at a towel covering something on a silver table. ‘You don’t have to,’ he said.
‘I want to.’
George walked across the theatre and peeled back the towel. He’d covered the end in gauze, just like that covering Scott’s arm. Already, Scott felt separate from his hand. Seeing a part of himself, detached, made him lightheaded, and he turned away.
‘You did the only thing you could,’ George said.
Scott stared at the hand, recalling the shape of the numbers and the pain as it was tattooed into his skin. He nodded.
Fifty-One
Mathew waited for the Watchers to open the sliding doors.
‘Do we still have a signal?’ Mathew asked.
‘Yeah, a strong one,’ the Watcher said, pointing. ‘It’s coming from inside.’
Mathew looked the way the Watcher pointed. ‘Move quietly,’ he whispered.
With one Watcher ahead of him, shining his torch, and another following, Mathew walked along the corridor, taking his time to check inside each room. The Watcher ahead slowed and pointed to a room at the end of the corridor.
Mathew nodded for him to continue.
Another Watcher, following Mathew, walked backwards, checking behind them with his torch.
Mathew caught up with the Watcher ahead and signalled for him to wait while Mathew took his torch and the lead. The doors at the end of the corridor had two round windows inside them and Mathew looked through each one. He saw no sign of movement. Mathew turned to the Watcher with the tracking device. The Watcher shrugged and pointed at the door. Mathew opened it. On the bed was a body beneath a white sheet. The two Watchers followed him into the theatre and glanced around the room, searching for Scott. The Watcher held up the tracker to Mathew and shrugged again, pointing to the body beneath the sheet.
On the bed there was a hand, peeking out beneath the white sheet.
It was Scott – his tattoo.
Checking there was no one else in the room except himself and the Watchers, Mathew took the white sheet and pulled it back.
He stared, not moving.
Scott’s hand was laid out in a way that meant it was giving Mathew the middle finger.
One of the Watchers took a step backwards. ‘What in God’s name…’
‘It’s only his hand,’ the other Watcher said. Under the sheet Mathew found pillows lined up to look like a body.
Mathew took the tracker from the Watcher and threw it against the wall. It smashed and fell to the floor in pieces.
Fifty-Two
Scott walked across the snow-covered fields. On the other side of Lake Buttermere was Hassness House. He’d waited some time before going there, knowing all the time that, because of Rebecca, he would have to go there. He and Rebecca had been so close: ready to catch the train north, to start again in a new place, in the Lake District. It felt cruel, being so close. He exhaled into his coat, then fastened it so only his eyes were open to the elements. Inside the house he imagined there was a fire, already lit, warming a small room. The truth was much bleaker; inside, he’d find more dead bodies. That was certain. Everywhere he’d been he’d found dead bodies, most of them lying naked in their beds, as instructed. The snow on the ground undulated like sand dunes, rising and falling.
Even though it was hidden beneath the snow, he judged where the lake was. He stayed close to the side of the hill, to be sure, where the snow was deeper. He spent much of his time on all fours, crawling across and through the snow. His hands, feet and face stung with the cold, and for a moment he considered his decision to find Hassness House at this time of year. But he couldn’t stay where he’d been any longer. Something had to change. He’d said goodbye to Juliet seven months earlier. Although he’d not craved another person’s company, he struggled with boredom, with repeating the same things, day in and day out.
The rucksack he carried, filled with water and tins of food, was much heavier now, and the thought crossed his mind that he could leave it where it was and come back for it the next day. But he continued anyway, not looking up at the house, with some childish notion that the less attention he paid it, the more surprised he’d be to finally see it, close enough to touch.
The howling of wolves somewhere to the east made him stop. The programme to return them to the UK, set in motion a year before the AI released the first dates, couldn’t have come at a worse time.
He quickened, moving from the deepest snow to a more protected part of the hillside, where he found it easier going. For a moment the house was out of view, but when he turned a corner it was upon him again. He slowed to walking pace. Even though he’d not seen another person for six months, he looked around to check he was alone.
Hass
ness House was an old building, white with square windows. He recalled seeing it in photographs and choosing it as somewhere to stay with Rebecca nearly four years earlier. They had never reached it. Now that he was there, alone, he felt as if he was completing something unfinished. His gloved hand reached for the door, expecting it to be locked. But the handle turned and the door swung open. Already, the difference in temperature was noticeable; he shut the door and walked into the hallway, his footsteps echoing.
He listened to his own breath and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, something he was used to doing. Lifting the rucksack from his shoulders, he placed it on the floor and stamped his feet. He walked through the hallway to the first room on his right. It was empty, tidy, immaculate, a fire laid in the fireplace. With shaking hands, he opened the box of matches lying on the mantelpiece, fumbled one out and scratched it against the side of the box. The match snapped and fell among the timber in the fireplace. He tried another, and this time lit a bundle of paper at the base of the fire. Within a minute, the fire took hold and the familiar smell of burning filled the room.
He took water from his bag. It was frozen, so he placed the bottle beside the fire. He did the same with a tin of soup. He took off his wet clothes and laid them close to the fire to dry. Across the settees in the room were blankets; he wrapped a couple around himself. He held his hands out to the fire and felt the sting of blood rushing into his fingertips.
When he was warm enough to move from the fire, he found a small oak bookcase in one corner of the room. Not being able to read the spines in the dark, he took a handful and returned to the fire. He leafed through the books, their covers illuminated by flames. A collection of Charles Dickens novels. He’d not read Dickens since school, when Mrs Jenkins made the class read Great Expectations. The final book in the pile was A Christmas Carol. A grim smile curled his lips. It was Christmas Eve. He opened the book and read by the light of the fire.
Fifty-Three
Scott was woken by a shooting pain firing through his arm. He used the car seat in front to pull himself up to sitting.
