The Anomaly (Scarrett & Kramer Book 2)

by Neil Carstairs

  “Sounds like a plan, boss man.” Kramer lobbed the bins back to him.

  “That’s cos I’m the brains of the operation,” Geordie said.

  Ben listened to the banter with half-an-ear, his eyes on Emily as she seemed to be holding a silent conversation with her ‘angels’. At least it gave Ben the confidence they were in the right place. He edged over and sat beside her.

  “Can your angels tell if we’re being followed?” he asked.

  “I think so,” Emily said. “They come close to me if there is a threat nearby.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Over by Jo.”

  About fifteen yards away. Good.

  “Can you let us know if that changes?”

  “Yes.”

  Kramer came over. “Are you ready? It looks like we have to cross that road but if we wait until there’s no traffic in sight, we should be okay.”

  “And stick close to the hedgerows,” Geordie added. “No gallivanting off into the field like a newborn lamb. We need to stay as undercover as possible.”

  Geordie led the way again. Ben no longer felt tired, the aches in his back and legs seemed to have vanished the moment he realised they were back in their world. The group made its way along the field boundary, where the ground wasn’t ploughed. It made walking a little easier. They reached the junction of the hedge. The corner of the hedge that faced them bordered the road and Geordie took a few minutes to find a spot where the growth was less dense, and he could cut them a hole to crawl through. They came out into about two inches of stinking water of a drainage ditch. Ben did his best to scramble over it and lay in thick grass and nettles on the bank of the ditch. Congrave lay next to him, and the petals that grew on Congrave seemed to darken to match the colour of the roadside verge.

  The Brits seemed to like two-lane roads like this in rural areas. The grey asphalt surface had no road markings or reflective studs, and Ben wondered how folks could even contemplate driving at some of the speeds he’d witnessed in his time in the UK on country roads. He ducked his head as a white van blew passed. The grass flowed like waves around Ben’s head.

  Geordie said, “Go.”

  Kramer grabbed Emily and carried her across to the far side. Ben slid into another drain, this one thankfully dry. Another car approached as they huddled into cover and as soon as that one went by two more came in the opposite direction. Ben waited as Geordie crawled to a gap in the vegetation.

  “We can get through here,” he said.

  Ben let Kramer lead with Emily. The girl got through without a problem, Kramer struggled a bit as branches snagged at her clothing. Having seen Kramer’s problems, Ben pushed his Bergen through first and made it with only minor thorn scratches to the back of his neck. Congrave came through without a problem, his leaves and stems wrapping tight around his body to avoid catching on the hedgerow. Once Geordie joined them, they looked across towards the big house.

  “You know,” Geordie said, “that place looks familiar.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Kramer said as she picked pieces of the hedge from her hair. “You grew up in a place just like it, and in reality you are the long lost son of some landed gentry.”

  “Not quite. I come from a three-bed-terrace in Newcastle.” He studied the building before shaking his head. “Don’t know, maybe I watch too much television, and it reminds me of Emmerdale or the like.”

  “Let me look,” Congrave said. He took the binoculars from Geordie.

  They waited in silence. A dragonfly flew passed. Ben pulled a long stem of grass up and began to shred it with his fingernails.

  “So do we go closer?” Ben asked.

  “Wait,” Congrave said. He lowered the binoculars and said, “I know the building.”

  “You do?” Ben asked in surprise.

  “Of course I do. I’ve been there.”

  Ben looked at the building. It did look pretty nice. A manor house that he guessed the Brits would class into some period of history based on a long-dead monarch.

  “So what is it?” Kramer asked.

  “That’s Chequers,” Congrave said and sat down with a sigh.

  The Americans looked at each other in bemusement. “And what’s Chequers?” Ben asked.

  “The country residence of our Prime Ministers. It was given to the nation in the early part of the twentieth century for them to use.” Congrave flicked a fly away from his face. He turned to Emily and said, “Does the path lead to it?”

  “Yes,” the girl said. “And the red glow is getting stronger.”

  “What does that mean?” Ben asked.

  “Danger,” Congrave said.

  “Great.” Ben sat down and pulled out his water bottle. As he drank from it, he saw Kramer staring at him and tapping her foot. “What?”

  “We need to move.”

  Ben pointed towards Chequers. “What kind of security does that place have? Armed police? Troops? Heat sensors and motion sensors? CCTV and listening devices? There’s probably drones above us right now monitoring this conversation. We stay here, and they’ll come to us. At least then we’ll appear less of a threat instead of us walking up carrying assault rifles and grenades.”

  “I’ll go,” Congrave said. He pushed himself up. “I’m perfectly camouflaged if you hadn’t noticed. These plants seem to be able to change the colour of their leaves to match their surroundings. I can get closer than any of you.”

  “And do what?” Kramer asked. “Stand against a wall and pretend to be ivy?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Geordie cut into the conversation. “We walk up like we were going to. The cops on duty here won’t shoot anything without proper authorisation. People have got into Buckingham Palace before now and not got their heads blown off.”

  “Yeah, but they weren’t carrying this kind of hardware,” Ben said, waving his rifle at Geordie.

  “So we do what you said. Dump the long guns.”

  Ben shook his head. “Fine. Let’s do it. Shove them under this hedge and walk to our deaths.”

  “Scarrett,” Kramer said, “you can be a jerk some days, you know that?”

  “I just don’t want to get shot full of holes. And I don’t want Emily to get shot full of holes, either.”

  “Will you two can it?” Geordie shouted. “The longer we stand around arguing, the more chance our triffid friend here has of putting down roots.”

  Kramer sighed. “You can be so subtle,” she said to Geordie, her voice cold.

  “Got you to shut up, though, didn’t it?”

  Kramer’s eyes narrowed in a way that Ben recognised. He stepped up to Kramer and gave her a nudge. “How about we hide the rifles here. We walk on over like we’re out for a stroll in the English countryside and see how it goes?”

  Without taking her eyes off Geordie, Kramer said, “Fine.”

  Ben took Kramer’s rifle from her and pushed it under the hedge with his. Geordie’s followed. They debated the spare magazines, and in the end, those went under as well. Plus some of the grenades they’d taken from Tiny after he died.

  Looking a little more like a group of ramblers out for a walk, Kramer took the lead with Emily. She’d argued that the police would see a woman and child as less threatening than a scarred face like Geordie, a walking plant like Congrave or an idiot like Scarrett. None of them had the strength to disagree with her.

  ***

  He’s here.

  Moira walked to the window of her bedroom and pulled back the lace curtains to look out over rolling countryside.

  Somehow, they freed him.

  She could sense her sacrifice. The beat of Congrave’s heart merged with the pulse in her head. The dull ache had started as soon as the knives cut through the stems of the trees that had bound him to the earth. And he would have the others with him. Which meant the twins had failed her. Stupid girls. I should never have left them alone.

  Moira reached out to the land, finding the places where one world touched another. In those spots, the fabri
c of space became so thin it only needed a touch to break through the barriers. She did it twice. Opened this world to another and let through the hunger.

  With a smile, Moira let the curtain fall back into place. A knock at the door took her attention from the horde of beasts that stalked the nearest fields. A pity, she might not get to witness his death after all. All it meant was she would need another sacrifice to plant in the forest. She opened the door and smiled. Richard Stanton puffed his chest out as he basked in the glow of Moira’s welcome.

  “You’re looking good this morning, Moira,” Stanton said, his eyes on the slopes of her breasts.

  “Oh?” she arched one eyebrow. “Does that mean I wasn’t looking good at dinner last night.”

  His smile wavered a fraction before returning. “Now you know what I mean. Last night you looked good. This morning you look especially good.”

  “I think you should keep your voice down.” Moira leant close to him. “We wouldn’t want your wife to hear you say that, would we?”

  Stanton’s eyes zeroed in on hers. Men were such gullible fools. She stepped back into her room and said, “Do you want to come in while I put on my shoes?”

  Stanton looked down at Moira’s neat calves. She could almost hear him wondering what would the rest of her legs look like. He glanced left and right along the corridor. Moira waited for a moment and then drew him into her room. He came without resistance. As the door closed behind him, Moira turned and walked across the room, making sure she made her hips move to an unheard rhythm. “So,” she said. “Did the Prime Minister make it safely home?”

  “Yes.” Stanton had to clear his throat. He stood in the centre of the room and looked like a lost child, uncertain of which way to turn. “She arrived quite early, I saw her for a working breakfast. She’s resting now but should be able to see you at around ten-thirty. It will only be a short meeting because she needs to catch up on paperwork, but by this afternoon she’ll have more time for all of us.”

  Moira walked over to him. “And what time is it now?” she asked as she held his hand and drew back the cuff of his jacket.

  “Ten to ten,” Stanton said.

  Moira heard the tremor in his voice. “Are you feeling unwell?” she asked, still holding his hand.

  “I can see why Alec liked you,” he said.

  “Alec loved me.” Moira led Stanton to her bed. She touched his chest and he sat on the mattress. With a smile she joined him, thigh to thigh.

  “Moira,” he said, his voice a bare whisper.

  She brushed an unseen hair from his shoulder and let her hand run down his chest.

  Stanton shivered. “Should you... I mean... is this...”

  “Hush.” Her lips brushed his cheek. “You are so like Alec but so different as well.”

  He swallowed. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he said.

  “I know.” She cupped his chin and turned his face to hers. “What would your wife say if she saw us like this?”

  “I’d hate to think,” he said with a shaky smile.

  Moira stood. “Best not let her catch us, then,” she said and walked to the dressing table to retrieve her shoes. As she slipped them on she said, “Shall we?”

  Moira offered Stanton her arm, and he led her from the room. The corridors on the first floor of the manor house were deeply carpeted. Their footsteps made no sound as they rounded two corners before descending an ornate staircase. At the bottom of the stairs, a uniformed maid waited to show them through to the main reception room.

  “The Prime Minister will be with your soon,” she said after offering them coffee and biscuits.

  When the maid left the room, Stanton said, “I will introduce you to the P.M., once that’s done she wants to speak to you alone for a few minutes. Then I will come back in with my wife, and we can look after you until lunch.”

  “That sounds perfect,” Moira said. She hadn’t registered what Stanton had said. Somewhere in the fields surrounding the building, the war was about to start and she wished she could be there to witness it.

  Stanton fussed around her as she stared out of one of the huge picture windows. He seemed to have the idea that she was thinking about his brother and having some kind of episode. She let him hold her hand and stroke it like she was a pet. Beyond the break between two worlds, she sensed the arrival of the twins and the surviving wolves. So few? That made Moira pause and wonder if she’d been too harsh on the children. No.

  She wondered if the Prime Minister would be in the room when her warriors arrived. It wouldn’t matter if she wasn’t. Moira’s guardians were standing close enough that if Stanton had had any sense about him, he would have felt the heat of their breath on his neck. The P.M. would stand no chance, even if one of her bodyguards stayed in the room with them. And that wasn’t going to happen because the Prime Minister wanted a private meeting.

  Perfect.

  ***

  Here!

  Old Davey’s voice almost shouted in McGrath’s head, enough to make him lose concentration as he steered the car around a bend. An oncoming vehicle blasted its horn as McGrath’s car crossed the centre line for a moment. He over-corrected, and in the next second the nearside tyres mounted the verge, and the whole car bounced wildly out of control. McGrath saw the hedgerow leap towards him, the mass of dark vegetation whipped and drummed on glass and metal. His vision became a blur of sap and foliage, and then the car leapt a drainage ditch and exploded out of the far side of the hedgerow.

  McGrath sat, open-mouthed and panting as his brain tried to take in what had happened. He twisted in his seat and looked back at the tunnel he had created through the vegetation.

  Out, out, out.

  The tumult of voices burst through his head like a tsunami. For a second, McGrath cringed against the sheer volume as a lance of pain seared down from the top of his skull to the base of his spine.

  Out.

  Old Davey again, commanding him to get out of the car. McGrath’s limbs moved in fits and starts, like the uncontrolled flicks of a puppet. The shock of the crash and the pain from the voices left him a wreck as he clawed for the door handle. He found it, and the strength to release the catch and shove the door open.

  He tried to get out and found his seatbelt cutting into his neck. Fuck. His legs were half out and his body half in. The voices were raging as he found the release button on the belt. Out of the car, he tried to stand and his legs collapsed beneath him. McGrath lay in long, yellowing grass listening to the chirp of a grasshopper and the ticking of the car engine as it cooled. Another vehicle swept by on the road. It didn’t stop. No-one had witnessed his crash, and the gap in the hedge would be invisible unless anyone looked directly through it.

  You need to get up. You need to run. They’re here.

  “Who are?” McGrath wanted to puke. He got to his knees and used the car door to lever himself upright. The world went dark, and McGrath felt himself swaying like a falling tree. The bodywork of the car held him in place until the shadows cleared and he looked out across the field.

  The ground dropped away, and he could see some big manor house standing tall and proud in the middle distance. It could have been a farmhouse, but even in his befuddled state, McGrath recognised proper money when he saw it. Whoever lived there would have tenant farmers to do all the hard work. They’d just take the profits and leave the workers with bugger all income.

  Move. Run, Old Davey snapped.

  “I can’t fucking run,” McGrath muttered in protest but even so he pushed away from the car and began a stumbling jog in the direction of the big house. Halfway down the slope to the next hedge, he stopped to spit a mouthful of bile onto the grass. It scorched his throat, and he hung there, bent double as acidic liquid dribbled from his lips.

  What the fuck am I doing here? McGrath sank to his knees. The clamour in his skull increased again until he was certain the Viking warriors had their weapons free and were trying to smash their way out. The searing pain held him in place. F
rom somewhere, McGrath heard the rising sound of a scream. When his head went back, and the sun blinded his eyes, he realised it was his scream and the bile that had burned his throat was nothing compared to the shredding of his vocal chords.

  The world seemed to stop. McGrath looked down on his body, a twisted, hunch-backed shape cradled by grass. McGrath could see himself shaking as if he was having a seizure. His body flopped like a fish out of water, and McGrath looked down into his own eyes where the pupils were so dilated all he saw was black.

  They came. At first, a smoky breath that erupted from the body’s open mouth. It coalesced between McGrath’s spirit and his flesh. He rose higher, turning to see the cloud spreading out across the field. With this extended view, McGrath saw a dark coloured Range Rover driving out from the manor house. He saw a group of people, adults and one child.

  And he saw the rupture of space as another world imploded into this one. The figures that spilled through weren’t human. Humanoid, yes. Human, no. They carried swords, spears and axes. He saw their red skin shining in the sunlight and from where he floated, their eyes shone yellow like the sun. McGrath sank lower. Below him, a gust of wind blew the smoke apart and in its place stood ranks of Vikings. They waited in silence until another form took shape, rising from the now motionless body on the grass.

  Old Davey. Thin to the point of emaciation, his flesh dripping, he stood before the warriors and lifted his hand. When the hand came down, Old Davey howled. The men surged passed him, racing down the hill. They leapt hummocks of grass and thrashed through patches of blackthorn. As they reached the hedge line and cut their way through, McGrath lost sight of them.

  His spirit sank lower until it felt like his feet were on the ground. Old Davey waited for him. McGrath wished he hadn’t. The old man’s body was as close to corruption as possible without turning to liquid. His fading eyes turned to McGrath.

  Thank you.

  McGrath shrugged. He looked at his body. “Am I dead?”

  Do you want to be?

  McGrath thought about that. “No.”