by Tim Lebbon
She skirted hills instead of passing over them. A herd of baying cows appeared and she sheared through them, shaking off the mess of blood and viscera as she went. A road stood across her path, the tarmac bubbling and blistering into black pustules as her shadow flitted by.
She was finding it more difficult to remember how they had been, because the emotions necessary to do so were slipping through her grasp. She could recall locations, conversations, but not what they meant. She was at a disadvantage, because years ago she had chosen to eschew the feelings and ideas that had made her who she was. By shunning her former self, she had effectively denied full access to her past. She was feeling a little of what Blane was experiencing; but only a little.
She liked to think she did not care but if that was the case, why had she transmuted into what she was? Why take on a form of vengeance if there was nothing to avenge?
She knew why. She would take him with her. It was not fair that he could forget it all.
She would take him with her.
“Bastards’ve been like it all day. They was all right this morning, y’know? Milked them, shoved them back into the field. They just stayed there, stood watching me. The dog, Boris, he wouldn’t come out of the house. Then he did a runner. Bloody thing. Haven’t seen him since.
“You get a feeling, y’know? Been with them all my life, and I know when there’s something wrong. Rang the vet, there was no answer. Phoned Peter, who helps me most days, to see why he wasn’t here. No answer. Rang the milk board, to see why they hadn’t turned up for the morning’s takings. No answer. All dead, you say?”
The old farmer sat furiously puffing his pipe, clouds of smoke billowing out and obscuring the already weak kitchen light. His lips worked on the stem like those of a goldfish.
“Lucky I shot that one. She had a calf last year, I sold it for six hundred. Lucky I shot her. Otherwise, you’d be dead as well.” He roared laughter but it was a hollow sound, with no emotion to back it up. “Crushed you senseless, that one would have. I expect she’s licking her wounds somewhere, now.”
“It’s not only your animals, like I explained,” Blane said. “We were attacked by birds.”
“Birds?”
Blane nodded. “All sorts. They flocked and attacked. Then they just died.”
The farmer nodded wisely. “I’ll be out to shoot the chickens, then.” He stood and picked up his shotgun, but Blane restrained him with a gentle hand on his arm. “Sit down, Gerald. Take it easy. There’s no way in for them, and if there’s anything to be done it’s best to do it in the daylight.”
The farmer shrugged and nodded. The others sat around the huge oak table picking at the bread, ham and cheese he had laid out for them. Paul and Mary swigged at the bottles of dubiously cloudy scrumpy he’d hauled from the cool pantry. “Right. I’ll be settling down for the night, then. You all make yourselves at home. Nice to have visitors.” He stood and walked wearily to the curved staircase in the corner of the room. At first Blane went to stop him, but then he followed him up the stairs, deciding it may be easier to talk to him on his own. Tell him why he couldn’t sleep.
“Crazy as a fucking loon,” Mary said, none too quietly.
“He saved our skin,” Peer hissed.
“Don’t you mean saved our bacon?” Mary, pleased with her burst of humour, rolled up a chunk of cheese in a slice of ham and stuffed it into her mouth. Spike sat below the table, snapping crumbs from the air as they fell.
They sat silently for a while, listening to the murmur of voices from upstairs as Blane spoke gently to Gerald. Mary’s expression was unreadable. Paul took another swig of rough cider, gritting his teeth.
“Maybe you shouldn’t drink much more of that,” Holly said, nodding at the green-tinged liquid.
“Why?”
“It might make you fall asleep.”
Paul’s expression dropped.
Mary laughed out loud, shaking her head and leaning across the table to grab Paul’s half-finished bottle.
“I suppose we’re under siege,” Peer said. She had been quiet up until now, sitting with her legs curled up on a chair by the fire. A plate balanced on her knees, still laden with food. She stared into the flames, trying to piece together all the impossibilities which had manifested themselves over the last eighteen hours.
“Come morning we’ll be all right,” Paul said. “The old man’s got two more shotguns, he says. If the worst comes to the worst-”
“Understatement,” Holly cut in quietly.
Paul continued: “Well, we’ll shoot our way our. Shoot the cattle from the upstairs windows, wait until they’re all dead or gone. The chickens we’ll just have to use knives on, if they trouble us getting to the cars.”
“Ever fired a shotgun?” Holly asked. Paul shook his head. “Any idea how many shots it would take to kill an enraged cow?” she continued. Again, his head shook.
“I’ve killed a cow,” Mary said. “Whipped it to death with a chain with spikes on. At least, watched it done.” She munched contentedly on another sandwich, dropping crusts and chunks of ham for Spike. The others glanced at her, but ignored her statement.
“I didn’t really mean that, anyway,” Peer said from by the fire. “I mean everywhere, we’re under siege wherever we go. Once we’re in the cars, that’s it. Everywhere else is out of bounds.”
“I really did,” Mary said.
“It just can’t be all that bad,” Paul cried despairing. “The birds must have been a freak. Something from the river, maybe. Chemicals.”
Peer gazed into the fire, silence her telling answer.
“I think we’re all going to die,” Mary said, staring at Peer’s back as she spoke.
“Just shut up, will you?” Holly burst out. “You’re too fucking spooky for your own good. What’s happened to you today, huh? You don’t seem so cut up about your dead folk now.”
Mary merely shrugged, smiling slightly, chewing on a sandwich.
Paul squeezed Holly’s leg under the table, told her by touch not to pursue it. Waste of time. Waste of effort.
“Everything’s changed,” Peer said, apparently ignoring the exchange from behind her. “Can’t you feel it? Can’t you sense the difference in the air? On the drive here today, from the services, the fields had altered. The trees looked menacing, instead of pretty. The hedges … it looked as though they’d spread, been out of control for a couple of years. Insects were bounding off our windscreen like it was mid-summer, not spring. And most of them didn’t splat. Didn’t you see?” She unfurled her legs and reached forward, grabbing the poker. As she continued she moved the end of the poker within the flames, shifting burning logs to see the glowing caves beneath, imagining being in there, melting. “Nature’s taken another step,” she said. “No particular direction. Just another step.”
Mary had stopped smiling now and was paying attention. Spike nuzzled at her hand but she slapped him on the snout. He wandered away to a cool corner of the room and curled into a ball.
Peer sat back abruptly as a shower of sparks spat from the fire. “Nature’s changed, moved on or back, and humankind’s too wrapped up in its own world to notice. So, we’ve just got left behind.” She turned to look at the others and saw that she was the subject of their rapt attention. She grimaced, a little embarrassed. Paul and Holly sat close together, eyes wide, her fears mirrored in their eyes as they considered what she’d said. Mary stared at her as if she was looking at someone else, seeing a different face.
“I’m feeling more and more that we’re invaders,” Peer said. “Ever since I’ve come out of Newport, things have felt more and more askew. They’ve even looked different, I think, but it’s hard to say how. It’s like I’m seeing things for the first time in years; I’ve seen it all before, but now it’s viewed from an aspect I can’t explain. Or … if you’ve seen a place in magazines, photos, or on TV? Then you go there? It feels like that. I recognise everything, but everything is so changed. Some of it’s obvious, like the bi
rds and animals attacking. Horrible. But everything now seems so unwelcoming, like we’re invaders seeing things we shouldn’t see. I’ve felt strange for a while, now … like I’m one step removed. Maybe now I know why.” Peer ran a hand through her hair, flinging it across her shoulder. She rubbed absently at the dozen scratches and cuts on her face from the bird attack. The fire crackled in agreement with everything she was saying. “Those birds today …” She did not finish but it seemed a complete statement anyway, an expression of disbelief beyond words.
“She said you’d be like this,” Mary said.
“Who said what?” Paul asked.
Mary shrugged. “Spike. Ham.” The dog sauntered across, tail low, expecting another slap.
“Who said what?” Paul repeated.
“Leave it,” Holly said, “she’s just trying to cause trouble. As though we weren’t in enough shit, we pick up someone out to cause more.”
“I’m not causing shit,” Mary said, but everyone ignored her. So she continued: “Yet.”
Stairs creaked as Blane came down. “Gerald’s upstairs. Sitting in a chair in the bedroom, looking out for anything approaching the house.”
“Anything?” Holly asked.
“Animals. Cows. I told him what we saw today with those cars. There’s always the chance they might try to break down the doors.”
“So what do we do now?” Paul asked.
Blane shrugged. “Well, we need to eat, rest. But stay awake. We should be together, or in pairs. I’ve already told Gerald that I’ll sit with him, though I’ve never fired a gun. We can chat, he obviously knows the district so we can talk about where we go tomorrow, where we can pick up a few essentials.”
“Like?” Paul.
“Guns. Ammunition. Camping stuff. Food. All the usuals.” Blane tried to smile, but it did not work.
“Peer and me will stay down here,” Mary said. “Won’t we, Peer?” Peer glanced across from the fire and nodded, looking quickly back at the flames as if hypnotised.
Holly went to say something, but Paul nudged her again. He helped her up and they went upstairs without saying anything. There was an embarrassed silence in the kitchen until Mary giggled.
“Go fucky-fucky,” she said quietly. Nobody answered her.
“Don’t fall asleep, anyone,” Blane said.
“Don’t worry,” Mary said, “we’ll have a good old chat, won’t we Peer? I’m interested in what you said, about moving on and us being left behind. I’ve felt like that before. I don’t feel like it now. Maybe you can tell me why.”
Blane dumped some food on a plate and followed Holly and Paul upstairs. As he reached the landing a door down the corridor snicked gently shut. He handed the plate in to Gerald, then went back out and walked heavily along the corridor. No time for embarrassment, or coyness.
He tapped on the door. “No sleeping,” he said.
“No. We’ll stay awake,” Paul’s muffled voice said. There was no irony there.
“I’ll give you a knock in a couple of hours, check up on things.”
“Right.”
Gerald was still smoking his pipe. He had turned the bedroom light off so he could see out into the yard, and the smoke gave the air a solid feel. Blane pulled up a chair and sat beside, taking a lump of cheese from the plate.
“You live here alone?” Blane asked.
Gerald grunted and nodded.
Blane could just make him out in the moonlight. “You weren’t asleep last night?”
The farmer shook his head.
“Me neither.”
They sat silently, looking out into the yard at where shadows constantly seemed about to detach themselves from leaning walls and open doors.
Holly sat on the bed. It was an old four-poster; musty, damp and unused. The room had curtains, but they were tattered and torn by a decade of sun and moths. Framed photographs were moulded to the dressing table by dust, colours faded and edges yellowed like vague memories. Prints hung from the picture rail, bland colours blending in perfectly with the dusty room. All in all it had the air of a shrine, left as it was since the day someone had died or vanished years before. Holly suddenly had a partial understanding of what Peer meant about feeling like an invader.
“What is it with Mary?” Holly asked, exasperated. “It’s as though she’s enjoying all this. And that spooky fucking dog … what dog do you know that doesn’t plop down in front of a real fire whenever it gets the chance?”
“I think it’s a bit of an adventure for her,” Paul said. “Tell the truth, I think she’s a bit lacking upstairs.”
“She seems pretty sharp to me. That’s what makes it all the more upsetting.”
Paul glanced around the room, recognising the opportunity to go and comfort Holly but letting the moment pass. “I wouldn’t worry. I’m pretty sure she’s harmless; just a little lost.”
“Harmless?”
Paul sat next to Holly. “She’s a kid. Insecure, misplaced. See how she’s attached herself to Peer? In a strange way, I grant you, but she recognises the strength Peer has and she’s been attracted to it.”
“And you’re no judge of character?” Holly smiled sadly, then sighed. “I can’t believe what’s happened. Do you think we’ll find help tomorrow?”
No, thought Paul, but he nodded silently.
“I don’t.” Holly leaned against Paul, resting her head on his shoulder.
He winced as pain flared from his bruises, but managed not to cry out. He liked what was happening; he did not want to discourage it. Although he preferred time alone with nature – following Jenna’s death, close contact felt too much like betrayal – sitting like this comforted him more than he would have thought possible. The pain was still there, both physical and mental, biting in him every time he moved or breathed. But when Holly rested her head on his shoulder, a gesture of pure trust, the shaking ceased. It was as if they were fear-sinks for each other. He knew that tomorrow would bring the terror back again, new and refreshed by the night. And if Peer was right, it would be richer and more varied than today. But for now they had to get through the next few hours without sleeping. They needed time to regroup their senses before the next onslaught. What better way to do it than with company?
He stared through the window at the moonlit landscape. Trees stood silhouetted like soldiers marching up the ridgeline of a distant mountain, angled branches as weapons. No sign of life marred the stillness of the view, other than the occasional mysterious flitting of a bat or a bird caught on the wing by the dark. He knew that the building they were in was subject to a constant bombardment from bats’ sonar, too high pitched to hear. The image, for once, was not a pleasing one. It was a secret of nature, an inaudible language which could be saying anything, plotting a move against the besieged humans.
Paul wondered how many other secrets remained undiscovered; codes beyond human sight or hearing or understanding, constantly passed through nature by those in the know. The thought made him feel very small and unprotected, however many shotguns the old farmer professed to having. There was a whole language out there, spoken by dogs with an extraordinary sense of smell, bats seeing by sound, birds communicating through whistles and chirrups. Whales too, singing through the sea to cousins a hundred or a thousand miles distant. How much secret plotting, stories, mocking of the weakness of mankind could go on without him knowing? Even now, a million creatures could be surrounding the house, preparing an attack by smell alone, plotting the downfall of the few measly humans inside with a glib sniff.
Paul had a healthy respect for the natural world. He thought he knew the reality of things, the fact that life and death were merely incidental events to the living planet, certainties requiring neither moral contemplation nor regret.
But until today, he had never feared nature.
“What are you thinking?” Holly asked, without moving her head from his shoulder.
“I’m wondering how we’re going to stay awake all night,” Paul lied, then realised he had
a point.
Holly was silent for a long time. The only sound in the musty stillness of the room was their breathing. “Want to check my wounds?” she said at last, not looking up.
Paul smiled. He could feel the dampness of tears through his shirt. “I don’t know if this old bed could take it.” For a moment, he was terrified that he had mis-read everything, and he closed his eyes in readiness for the embarrassment.
Holly was silent for a moment. She curved her arms around him and buried her face in his neck, breathing in his smell, breath shuddering past her tears. “There’s always the floor,” she said.
Gerald did not wish to talk, which suited Blane fine. Though he knew he should be planning for the next day, Blane wanted time on his own. To think. To try to discover where his fears were coming from, and whether there were any more hidden away preparing to spring out on him unexpectedly.
His memories consisted purely of his time with nature, though he had always been aware that there was something more, something forgotten. Since things had gone bad, a new suspicion had been worming its way into his thoughts: that these memories were not neglected, but hidden.
There was a Voice. It earned a capital in his mind because it was not his present voice, not really. It spoke in his tongue, it bore his intellect, but it communicated from outside his perceived history. It was like a recording he had made decades ago, reminding himself what it had been like. It was the Voice of someone else. The Voice of his forgotten self.
It was vague. It had manifested that morning, along with the memory of the musical laughter he could not place. She can’t laugh like that any more, the Voice had said. No music left inside now. No sweet tunes, just slow death marches, where voice has no power and song has no strength.
She is not immutable, though she once was. She’s a root gone bad. She’s an idea that has changed itself, when in truth it should not, could not have done so.
Blane gazed out into the moonlight. What dark secrets did it hold?
