The Faceless

by Simon Bestwick

  IN THE HOSPITAL block, they found an army medic, a haggard-looking corporal with a missing front tooth and a thick moustache.

  “Griffiths, Mary...” He went down his list. “Yeah. She’s here.”

  “How is she?” asked Anna.

  “Not brilliant, to be honest. Gonna be touch and go, but we’ve done everything we can. You her aunty?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s been asking for you.”

  Anna half-smiled, then covered her mouth, face crumpling. Vera put an arm round her. The corporal glanced at Stakowski, opened his mouth, closed it. From outside came shouted orders, the sound of movement. Shuffling footsteps, groans, coughs; they were getting the civilians up and about.

  “What time you moving out?” Stakowski asked.

  “The next hour.”

  “Bad?” asked Stakowski.

  “What do you think?” The corporal lit a cigarette, glanced round. “Only just got the word – our comms have been banjaxed. The mist’s streaming south, practically in a straight line. Looks like it’s being directed, somehow.”

  “Directed where?”

  “On the current trajectory? London. We got a satellite picture half an hour ago. It’s hit Manchester already, early this morning. The whole city’s gone.”

  “Oh god.” Anna whispered.

  “It’s travelling at nearly 60mph. At the current rate, it’ll hit London this afternoon, early evening.” He shrugged. “Makes military sense, I suppose. Take out the capital, plus it’ll split the country in half. We’re moving south. Try and intercept.”

  “And what then?”

  “Hold it off as long as we can. The grey funnel line are commandeering anything that floats and shifting people offshore. Islands off the coast, neighbouring countries. Norway, Sweden, Finland are pitching in – Denmark, Holland, Belgium, Germany, even the Frogs.”

  “Grey funnel line?” Vera looked dazed.

  “Navy,” said Stakowski.

  The corporal raised an eyebrow. “Where did you serve?”

  “Omagh.”

  The corporal nodded. “Lived in Northern Ireland for a bit. My dad was stationed there. Anyway, the plan’s to get you civvies to an evacuation point on the coast, probably Scarborough or Filey. There’ll be a skeleton force acting as escorts. Me, I’m heading south. We can’t take any patients with us, so they’ll be moved out with the rest of you. Some of them aren’t going to make it, state they’re in, but there’s not much else we can do.” He saw Anna’s face. “Keep your kid warm, fresh air if you can get it. Other than that, pray. Hard.”

  Anna covered her mouth.

  Stakowski coughed. “There’s another patient came in with us.”

  “I’ll have a shufti. What name was it?”

  “Renwick. Joan Renwick.”

  The corporal ran his finger down the list, then stopped. Stakowski bit his lip, clenched and unclenched impotent fists.

  “Shit.” The corporal looked up. “I’m sorry.”

  “When?”

  “Oh-seven-thirty-five. Never regained consciousness. Best guess is a brain aneurysm. Nothing we could do.”

  Stakowski nodded. His body was a huge, leaden suit of armour that he was trapped inside; a tiny, wearied speck expending its finite energy in flexing its limbs. “I’ll take you to the little one,” the corporal told Anna and Vera. “Will you be OK?”

  It took Stakowski a moment to realise the corporal meant him. He turned away. The window facing him was vast and swam with winter light. He stepped towards it, swayed, leant against the wall. A hand on his shoulder; Anna. He shrugged her off. He couldn’t bear anyone’s comfort, not now.

  “Come on,” the corporal said again.

  That was it, then; all over. Their footsteps clicked, faded, became silence. Stakowski went to the window. Below was the haulage yard. In it, stacked in piles, were dozens of bodies. Outside the surrounding wall, thick black smoke billowed up. He was glad the window was tightly sealed; he knew what it’d smell like.

  ENGINES GRUMBLED; REFUGEES stumbled out into the street. A truck rolled past. Stakowski glimped white, drained faces staring out from the back.

  He saw his reflection in a cracked window; he looked even older than before. Gaunt. He touched the whitish stubble on his cheeks. Did his hand shake? Didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered.

  The tiny spark within him was still working his limbs, but it was growing ever more feeble. Anna, Vera and Mary would get a ride to the coast, a chance of survival. He didn’t give much for the kid’s chances, but he’d keep his fingers crossed for her.

  And him; what of him?

  He still had his Glock; a minute alone was all he’d need. Then he saw the corporal outside the hospital building, puffing on his cigarette. No, there was another way. He took a deep breath, made his choice and walked towards the hospital.

  THE TESTAMENT OF PRIVATE OWEN SHORE CONCLUDED and the rain beats down foul stagnant trench water laps around my groin i grip my rifle tighter with sodden gloves shivering with cold staring across the pulverised landscape of mud ponded with great drowning shellholes full of fouler water still and i stand here i stand alone with the comrades bodies scattered round and the germans starting to advance and someone finds me says theres a way out an exit from this nightmare if you dare take it if you will fight one last time a new front a new enemy we can break out and all shall be well all shall be well all manner of things shall be well and the rain beats down foul stagnant trench water laps around my groin i grip my rifle tighter with sodden gloves shivering with cold staring across the pulverised landscape of mud ponded with great drowning shellholes full of fouler water still and i stand here i stand alone with the comrades bodies scattered round and the germans starting to advance and i turn to him and what can i say but yes

  “MIKE?”

  Stakowski blinked and turned. “Been looking for me, lass?”

  Anna nodded. “You in the army now?”

  He glanced down at his hastily slung-together uniform, the rifle in his hands. “They took me back, you might say. Not much else I’m good for, with her gone.”

  The hazel eyes glistened. “I’m so sorry.”

  He waved it aside. “Nowt to be sorry for, lass. Did all you could. Be a damn sight worse else. Lot of folk who’d not’ve made it, if it weren’t for you.”

  “But there’s so many who didn’t.”

  “Well, that’s not your fault, is it?”

  She looked down. “No,” she said at last. “No.”

  “Aunty,” whispered Mary, holding out a pale hand. Anna took it.

  “Anna,” said Vera, “we’ve got to–”

  “Yes.” She kissed his cheek. “Goodbye, Mike.”

  Stakowski blinked. For a moment, he saw Renwick there. “Take care, lass.”

  Anna looked away.“Good luck,” said Vera.

  “You too.”

  “Anna–”

  A voice shouted orders; Stakowski put his helmet on. “Gotta go,” he said.

  He ran to the waiting truck, climbed aboard. Someone passed him the camouflage paint. When he’d applied it he lit a cigarette. They’d issued him with a respirator; that would help, for a time.

  The truck pulled out.

  Better this way. Nowt else left. He patted the rifle. What he’d seen of the afterlife wasn’t promising, but with a bit of luck he’d see Renwick again. Might get complicated if Laney turned up too, though.

  Stakowski smiled. It faded fast. He finished his cigarette, flicked it out over the tailgate; it bobbed in the slipstream and fell away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  THE MILES UNFOLDED; the mist, at least for now, receded.Anna sat in the back of a truck full of casualties, Mary huddled against her in a blanket, pale face sheened with sweat, coughing. Mary had refused to let Anna’s hand go, croaking Aunty over and over again, and the soldiers had let her ride with the child.

  The truck bounced and jolted over the frozen roads. Too fast for weather like this, but there w
as no choice. Flurries of snow whipped past; the winter landscape went by. Empty houses, Christmas decorations still hung in their windows. Cars abandoned by the roadside, doors ajar. A discarded suitcase in the middle of a road. A small, huddled body on the pavement. Above, ravens wheeled, tiny black arrowheads, against the bleached and empty sky.

  Mary coughed; there was blood. Anna wiped her lips. The White Song. No. She might die anyway and any chance to stop this would be lost.Mary gripped Anna’s hand so tightly it hurt. But this pain was sweet. Anna squeezed gently back. No-one will harm you.

  They reached Scarborough in the early afternoon. There were tailbacks on the roads outside the town. They were waved in once the previous batch of refugees had been ferried away. The streets were empty; the town’s population had already been evacuated. Houses stood open to provide billets for the refugees.

  Mary was gently taken from her arms, carried to a seafront cafÉ serving as a makeshift clinic.

  “Anna, love?” She turned; Vera. “Come here.”

  Vera guided her to a small terraced house they’d been allocated. The electricity was still on; voices seemed to be coming from inside, but it was only the television in the front room that someone had on. Every TV channel showed only a series of test cards, jumping and flickering with interference: EMERGENCY BROADCAST – AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. Shattered, mangled faces superimposed over the picture, their leaden mumbling voices in the static from the speakers. In one corner stood a Christmas tree, lights aglow, almost bowed down with the weight of tinsel and baubles adorning it. The presents were still stacked underneath. Had Vera had time to grab Mary’s presents? What did that matter now? They were worthless now, meaningless. To Mary, to anybody. To her. All I want for Christmas is Mary’s life.

  Anna collapsed beside Vera on the sofa. Vera reached out; Anna clung to her. She wasn’t sure any longer who was giving comfort and who was receiving it. She shook. It was all waiting now, for a boat out. Waiting and hoping the boat reached Scarborough before the dead.

  Vera’s lips brushed hers. A small, agile tongue, warm and moist, darted into her mouth. Anna responded. Fingers slid under her sweater, stroked her breasts through her shirt and bra. Her nipples hardened; warmth gathered in her belly. She reached down and caught Vera’s wrists.

  “I need to see Mary–”

  “Anna...”

  “I want it too, but–”

  “OK.” Vera withdrew from her, faced away.

  How long are you going to put it off for, Anna? How many more chances do you think you’ll get?

  “Vera?”

  “What?”

  “Come here.”

  They kissed again. Vera’s hands back under her sweater, Anna’s fingers unbuttoning Vera’s blouse–

  Someone banged on the door.

  “Shit.”

  “I’ll go.” Anna disengaged herself, stumbled to the door. “Who’s there?”

  “Army.”

  She opened the door. “Sergeant... Itejere?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” The big man studied her. Further down, other soldiers stood at other doorways. “You were with DCI Renwick, weren’t you? ’Fraid I never got your names.”

  “Anna Mason. Vera Latimer.”

  “Nice to meet you both. Just letting you know, ma’am – transport should be arriving in the next couple of hours. Get you offshore ASAP.”

  Two hours. Would that be soon enough? “Thank you. Is there any news?”

  Itejere hesitated. “Nothing good. London’s gone.”

  “Oh god.”

  “They flew the government and the Chiefs of the Defence Staff out to a secure location, or tried to, but that’s gone too. Deputy Chiefs got flown out to Belize for safety, but we can’t reach them. Or they can’t reach us. Either way, we’re on our own. And, apparently, the mists are expanding outwards in all directions now.”

  How did you get your head around something on that scale? London was gone. She shook her head. All she could think of was Stakowski, bits of ill-fitting army kit pulled on over his civilian garb, rifle in his hands, tufts of disarrayed hair poking out.

  How far out would it go? When would it stop? Where? Britain? Europe? The world? And she could have stopped it, could have saved Stakowski, London, how many millions from this–

  “So basically, get your stuff together and be ready to go at a second’s notice.”

  “What about my niece, she’s sick. Caught a dose of the gas...”

  “Best see the medics about that. But get some rest first. You look all in. They’ll be doing everything they can.”

  “Thanks.” She could tell him now, about the White Song. If they didn’t believe her, her conscience was clear; she’d tried, she’d failed. But what if they did? And so she said nothing, and Itejere moved on.

  “You heard the man.” Vera hugged her from behind. “Beddy-byes for you?”

  Oh, just for a moment – just for a moment – could she think of herself? “But not straight to sleep?”

  “Not if you don’t want to.”

  Anna smiled. “Upstairs, then.”

  Up the stairs. The bedroom. Photos on the dressing table. A smiling couple. Children. Where were they now? Mary.

  Vera pushed her down onto the bed, slipped off her shoes. Oh, to forget everything for a moment – Mary, the race against the mist. Just for a moment.

  “There,” Vera said, leant down and kissed Anna on the lips.

  AFTERWARDS SHE CRIED again; Vera held her until it stopped. Then:

  “Mary.”

  Anna half-stood, swayed; Vera caught her arm. “No, you don’t. You need to rest, girl. You’re all in.”

  “Mary.”

  “I’ll go see her. You get some sleep. Come find us when you’re awake.”

  “But – the ships...”

  “I’ll come get you. Rest.”

  Anna tried to argue – she had to see Mary – but she was too exhausted. She couldn’t fight anymore; she closed her eyes.

  THE SIREN WOKE her; a low dull wail, rising and falling. Air raid. No, that was World War Two; it was World War One coming back to bite them. Or were they all coming back now, all the dead?

  She woke. A strange bed in a stranger’s house. The first thing she remembered: Kempforth was gone.

  The next: Mary.

  The siren, wailing.

  Outside, she heard screams, the clatter of feet, soldiers shouting orders.

  Mary.

  She sat up, shivering. Cold. Her glasses were on the bedside table. On a chair by the bed, her jacket and backpack. Her other clothes were scattered on the floor; she pulled them on.

  The hospital–

  Blundering down the stairs. Vera, you lied. You said you’d come–

  Enough of that. She ran through the streets of Scarborough, dodging the crowds, the soldiers. Someone shouted after her but she went on and nobody chased her. Homing in on the cafÉ, praying she remembered the way correctly.

  There it was. She ran towards it. People were already spilling out. And there was one she knew

  “Vera!”

  “Anna.” Vera was crying; her head was bowed, as if in prayer.

  “Where is Mary?”

  “Anna–”

  “Where is she?” She screamed it.

  “Anna, I’m sorry.”

  Anna blinked. “What? What for?” But the dread was gathering, hard and stony in her gut.

  “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “What?”

  “They tried everything.”

  “Wh...” But she could only mean one thing. “No.”

  “I tried closing her eyes,” said Vera, “but they wouldn’t stay shut.”

  The keening noise she heard, could that really be her? Were those her hands, flailing at Vera’s face? “You were supposed to look after her. You were supposed to look after her. You were supposed to watch her and keep her safe you bitch you fucking bitch you killed her you killed her!”

  Vera warding her off. Hands grabb
ing her, lifting her away. Blood on Vera’s face, streaming from a cut cheek. Had she done that? But she had to keep screaming, raging; the minute she stopped it would be real, it’d crash in on her that Mary was dead and–

  Too late. Against death or its knowledge, the fiercest rage was a straw defence. She howled, collapsed in the arms holding her. No fight left in her. She was a wound that could only bleed.

  Howling, weeping, she sank down. Vera stood over her, speaking to someone. “It’s alright, you can leave her alone, we’ll be OK.” Vera tried to hold her; Anna fought, then let her. Vera was talking, but she couldn’t make out the words.

  The siren. Screaming, shouts. Gunfire. An officer’s voice, shouting above the rest. Running footsteps. Hands pulling at her, trying to make her rise. An acrid, swimming-pool smell in the air.

  People running past. Vera shouting, screaming at her now, trying to pull her to her feet. Anna looked up, past Vera, and saw the mist, dirty and yellowish-green, swirling on the hills above the town. Oliver’s Mount and the Castle were already fading to shadows in it, disappearing altogether as the mist rolled forward.

  With London gone, the war was effectively won. All that remained was the mopping-up, and they could do that at leisure now. The war for Britain, anyway. The Great War’s dead are coming back, to dispossess the living, Sir Charles had written, but how much did they actually want? Just Britain, or would the mist roll out further to cover all Europe? Or the world?

  “Anna, come on!” She snapped back suddenly into the here and now – the screaming was sharp and jagged all about her, the gunfire’s chatter and the bullets’ wasp-buzz alive, close and dangerous. Vera pulled at her arm. “Come on, get up!”

  She shook her head.

  “Anna, for fuck sake, I’m not arguing with you. Come on! We’ve got to go!”

  “Leave me–”

  “Anna–”

  Anna threw Vera off. “Leave me!” Vera stumbled back, blinking. Anna went towards the cafÉ. “Just leave me,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Vera backed away, hesitated. A stream of bodies rushed past, and she’d gone – run away perhaps, the old self-preserving instincts resurrecting themselves, or swept along by the fleeing crowd.