9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev

by Unknown

  Tom carried their cleared plates to the kitchen. Dusty had cleared both his bowls and lay in his basket, showing no interest in joining the men. Tom returned to the living room, carrying two bottles of lager he’d purloined from a neighbour who no longer had any use for them.

  “Fridge doesn’t work, but they’re still nice and cold,” he remarked, handing Peter a bottle.

  “Thanks,” said Peter. He tipped the bottle towards Tom’s. “Cheers!”

  They clinked bottles and both took a sip.

  “Ah,” murmured Tom. “That hits the spot. I haven’t felt like one of these until now. So, Peter, tell me a little of yourself. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  “Not at all, though there’s not much to tell. I used to be in the merchant navy. Fell in love with a Welsh girl and settled in Cardiff. Left the city when she died. Moved about a bit, now live alone in a cottage in a small village. What about you, Tom?”

  “Even less to tell. I teach . . . I used to teach, in the primary school here in the village. Single. There was a girl, but. . . .” He shrugged.

  “Virus?”

  “Yep. Is that how your wife died?”

  “No. Megan went seventeen years ago.” Peter hesitated, as though choosing his next words carefully. “Natural causes.”

  “She must have been very young.”

  “No. Not really.” Peter shifted a little in the armchair.

  Tom said nothing, though it was clear that Peter was holding something back.

  “So, Tom, do you have any plans? Any ideas about what to do now?”

  “Like I said, I haven’t given much thought to anything. Making plans beyond surviving each day seemed a little pointless.”

  “What about planning not to survive?” Peter said quietly, looking at the boxes and bottles of pills that Tom had piled on the telephone table next to the settee.

  Tom felt himself colour, but didn’t drop his gaze from Peter’s. “Yes, I’ve certainly thought about that. Less so since finding Dusty. Perhaps less so again since meeting you. But, it’s still an option.”

  “That’s your prerogative. However, I’d like you to give some thought to coming with me. Help me find more survivors.”

  “What then? Supposing we do find more. What then?”

  “One step at a time. They are out there, Tom. The trick will be finding them.”

  “But, Peter, you said you were going to head north? Why north? Why not go south where it’s warmer?”

  “Well, the largest part of this island lies to the north. I intend going north first. Maybe later, when we’ve found everyone who wants to be found, we can head for warmer climes.”

  Tom thought for a moment. Peter’s explanation seemed to make sense, yet. . . .

  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said. It was a statement, not an accusation.

  It was Peter’s turn to look thoughtful. He tipped back the bottle of beer, draining it, and let out a belch.

  “Oops. Beg your pardon.” He grinned, but it quickly faded. “Tom, the truth is that there’s a great deal I’m not telling you. I will, but you’ll have to be patient. I’m not even sure where to start.” He let out his breath slowly. “I guess I could show you something. Fetch Dusty and I will.”

  Tom frowned, but stood and walked to the kitchen. The dog was still in his basket, lying with his head on his paws. His dark eyes watched Tom, but he didn’t wag his tail. Tom lowered himself onto his heels and scratched the dog behind his ears.

  “Dusty, come with me, boy.” He stood and tapped his thigh.

  Dusty looked at him and, for a moment, Tom thought that he’d have to pick him up and carry him into the living room. Then the dog stood, shook himself and trotted to Tom’s side.

  “Good boy.”

  Tom walked back into the living room, Dusty following, and stopped in front of Peter. Dusty sat and regarded Peter quietly.

  “Tom, if you could sit down. And, please, there’s no need to look so worried. Dusty will come to no harm.”

  Tom sat down on the edge of the seat of an armchair and watched.

  Peter looked intently at Dusty for a moment. He held his right hand out in front of him, index finger extended. The finger made a quick downward movement and Dusty lay down. The finger made a circular motion and Dusty flipped onto his back. Then Peter moved his hand, his finger again describing a circular motion as though drawing a circle in the air. Tom gasped as Dusty mimicked the movement, describing his own circle, scrabbling with his paws at the carpet as he pulled himself round, his nose almost touching his tail.

  Peter stopped and so did Dusty. The finger flicked upwards and Dusty sat on his haunches. It flicked upwards again and Dusty stood. It beckoned him forward and Peter patted him on the head.

  “Good dog. That’s enough.”

  Dusty turned and trotted over to Tom. He nuzzled at Tom’s hands before lying down at his feet.

  Tom looked at Peter.

  “What just happened?” he said.

  “Well, the finger was for your benefit. It would have worked without it.”

  “You were controlling him? Are you a dog trainer or something?”

  Peter smiled, but it seemed to Tom a sad smile. “No. I’ve never even owned a dog. Megan was more of a cat person.”

  “Then how. . . . ?”

  Peter tapped the side of his forehead. “Power of the mind, Tom. I can control most animals.”

  “Could you hurt Dusty if you wanted to?”

  “Yes. I could make him run into a wall. Or step into fire. And he knows it, which is why he’s a little wary of me. Yet he can also sense that I mean him, and you, no harm.”

  “Huh! If I hadn’t just seen it with my own eyes. . . .”

  “Quite. If I had told you rather than shown you, you wouldn’t believe me. There are other things I will need to show you. Some you will need to take on trust. But not now.”

  “When?”

  “One step at a time, Tom. One step at a time.”

  * * * * *

  From all over the world they came. Almost five thousand people converging on London by plane and boat and car.

  Ferries set sail from Le Havre and Calais in France, Ostend in Belgium, Esbjerg in Denmark and Dublin in Ireland. Coach- and carloads headed for Heathrow by road from ferry ports in the north and south of England, in Scotland and in the north and west of Wales.

  Planes landed from all points of the compass. Planes of all shapes and sizes, though none so large as the 747 that flew in from New York.

  The last aircraft to touch down was an Airbus that had flown in from Australia, via Hong Kong.

  Bishop was glad to arrive, not because he was tired from piloting the plane all those thousands of kilometres, but because he would be able to get away from his co-pilot’s inane and constant cheeriness.

  Tess Granville had wittered away for the entire journey, or so it felt to Bishop. And he was a captive audience. On more than one occasion, he’d handed over the controls so that he could escape to the bathroom, even if he didn’t need to go, just so he could have a break from the incessant chatter. It was either that or throttle the woman, but he was very careful to conceal his feelings. He didn’t think that she would try to probe him without his consent. Unless you were Milandra, to do so was considered extremely bad form and this woman appeared far too conformist to commit such a faux pas, but it wouldn’t hurt to be guarded from here on in.

  Tess was a sociable person, she told Bishop about fifty times, and missed living amongst her own kind.

  “Oh, you know, humans are all well and good—better than being completely alone—but they are so individualistic, don’t you think?”

  Bishop grunted non-committally, which Tess seemed to take as a sign to continue.

  “Despite all their talk of community spirit and altruism, and their crowding together in cities, they’re really just a bunch of individuals only interested in bettering their own situations. Yeah, okay, sometimes the greater good is improv
ed at the same time, but the bottom line is that they are self-serving. Do you agree?”

  Bishop grunted again. He had quickly learned that this was all he needed to do. Thank heavens for small mercies.

  “And what is it with humans and religion. . . .”

  Bishop had tuned out. So long as he remained alert to when he should insert a grunt, he could stop listening to what she was actually saying. Besides, she would be surprised, nay shocked, if he revealed his true feelings to her.

  Many, many years of living in their midst, away from his own kind, had changed Bishop. He had come round to thinking that humans had got it right; that it was all about striving to improve your own lot in life and bollocks to the rest. So returning to become part of the whole once more did not fill Bishop with the same delight that infused his co-pilot.

  Still, he needed to play the game, show willing and all that. Then, first chance he got, when the Great Coming had succeeded—or failed; Bishop found that he didn’t much care either way—he would leave. Return to Oz and pick up the reins of his old life. Live in isolated splendour until the country became populated once more. Then live like a king on the pickings he would garner from an abandoned continent.

  Bishop taxied the Airbus to the main terminal building where a groundcrew with steps awaited. He grabbed his two suitcases—one had grown much heavier with the weight of gold and other items he had collected in Melbourne—and was forced to put one down again as Tess held out her hand to shake his.

  “Thank you, Troy,” she said, “for a safe journey and for being a good listener.”

  “No worries,” he replied, and shook her hand, resisting the temptation to squeeze until she squealed.

  “For the good of the whole,” said Tess, releasing his hand and raising her own, fist clenched.

  “Yeah, sure.” He picked up the suitcase again.

  “London awaits. Our family awaits. Can you feel the excitement, Troy?”

  “Er, yeah.”

  “We should join them. No doubt I’ll see you around.”

  “Yeah.” Not if I see you first he thought.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Armed with a sharp carving knife from Tom’s kitchen, Peter left the house and visited the gardens of the neighbouring properties. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. Rooting around in a small shed, he uncovered a coiled garden hosepipe. He cut two lengths each of around five-feet from the pipe. He also picked up a couple of sturdy screwdrivers before returning to Tom’s house.

  Tom raised his eyebrows in enquiry when he saw what Peter was carrying.

  “Refuelling kits,” said Peter. He held up the screwdrivers. “For prising open the covers over the fuel caps. It’ll be much quicker than hunting around for keys.” He held up the lengths of coiled green tubing. “For syphoning petrol. Diesel in my case. I already have a supply of diesel back at the cottage, but it won’t hurt to top up the tank as we go along.” He noticed the other man’s doubtful expression. “Have you never syphoned petrol before?”

  Tom shook his head. “Though I understand the principle. I’ve only ever done it with water. I show– used to show, my kids how to do it in school.”

  “There you are. It’ll be exactly the same, except you’ll want to spit out whatever gets into your mouth straight away. You might throw up the first time, but you’ll soon get used to it. I noticed a diesel Volvo parked just down the road. When we leave, I’ll top up my tank. Then you can fill yours. There are plenty of petrol cars around here. Only go for the older models, mind. Most modern cars are fitted with anti-syphoning valves.”

  “You’re very organised, Peter. It’s almost as if. . . .”

  “As if I knew this was going to happen?”

  “Yes.” Tom had grown very still.

  Peter sighed. “I knew. But I didn’t take any part in it.”

  “Take any part . . . What are you talking about?”

  Peter looked at him. Tom’s mouth had formed a ring of surprise. He seemed to realise that his mouth was agape and closed it with an almost audible snap.

  “Tom, there’s something I can show you when we reach my cottage. I’ll tell you everything, but you need to hear little bits at a time. You’re going to find it very hard to believe.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Are you saying that this virus, this plague, was deliberate?”

  Peter nodded.

  Tom sagged back against the kitchen counter as though he’d been punched in the stomach. Colour had drained from his face.

  “Tom, I won’t say any more now. Wait until tomorrow.”

  Tom nodded, but didn’t look up.

  “Okay,” said Peter. “I’m going to bed. Shall we set out at first light?”

  Tom nodded again. Still he didn’t look up.

  Peter climbed the stairs to the spare bedroom with a heavy heart.

  * * * * *

  The people who had been based in the U.K. had been busy. Those already in London had begun the preparations. When others from around the U.K had started arriving, they pitched in.

  Two hotels to the north of the airport had been cleared of bodies. Soiled linen and mattresses had been replaced. Clearance had begun on the residential properties in the area. On nearby playing fields, pyres had been lit and rotting bodies cremated. The fields were far enough away that the acrid smell of smoke did not reach the cleared areas.

  It was slow, dirty work and those doing it longed for the Commune so that the drones could take it over. Four surviving humans had already been found and put to work. After they had visited the medical station. A temporary station had been set up in one of the hotel lobbies. It wasn’t much: a couple of hospital gurneys with leather straps and an electro-therapy machine that had been hooked up to a series of car batteries. Not much, but enough.

  The four drones went about their work with slack-jawed efficiency, never questioning or complaining. If they needed to use the toilet or eat, they did so, quietly and quickly, before returning to the task in hand. They didn’t care what they ate, though seemed to be able to distinguish between what was and wasn’t edible. Someone had tried feeding one of them grass. The young woman had put a handful into her mouth and chewed briefly, before opening her mouth and allowing the congealed mass to fall out, staining her already filthy blouse with a green blotch.

  A fleet of vehicles had been obtained and fuelled and made available at the airport concourse for ferrying people from the airport.

  As more people arrived and more houses were cleared, more survivors were found and soon the number of working drones had increased to sixteen. A dozen were given the task of picking up decomposing corpses, wrapping them in sheets to contain the ooze and placing them in the back of transit vans or ambulances. Sopping, stinking mattresses and bedding and the occasional ruined armchair or settee or carpet were also loaded into vans for burning. The vehicles were driven to the playing fields where the remaining four drones unloaded them and built pyres. Depots and warehouses had been raided for supplies of lighter fluid that the drones used to douse the corpses before setting them alight. It rained frequently, interspersed with the occasional flurry of snow or hail, and the bodies burned much easier with the lighter fluid.

  Thick black smoke billowed above the playing fields before being dispersed in the fresh winter winds. Those driving the vans and ambulances wore damp cloths over their noses and mouths to lessen the stench of the insides of the vehicles and the air at the playing fields. But still it was a job that nobody wanted to do for long and the drivers were rotated frequently.

  Diane Heidler had found a small flat that had not contained a corpse and installed herself there. She returned to it each evening, weary and filthy, pausing at the entrance to strip off her clothes and deposit them for collection and burning, then sluicing her body from head to toe with a bucket filled from a barrel of rainwater. Teeth chattering, she would wrap herself in a towel and climb the stairs to the flat where she would outfit herself in a brand new set of clothes
taken from a nearby shop.

  Once or twice, she had been lucky to avoid driving duty and had instead joined others in collecting tinned food and bottled water from supermarkets and warehouses, stockpiling it in the hotel kitchens where anyone could go and take what they needed. On those days, she had been able to avoid the shivering sluicing down and had worn the same set of clothes the next day.

  She was always glad to shut and lock the door to the flat behind her.

  Troy Bishop had been annoyed to find that the best suites in the hotels had already been taken. He was reduced to scouring the area until he found a deserted apartment that wasn’t quite in keeping with the standards he was used to enjoying, but would do for now. He, too, was forced to take part in the clean-up operation, as to refuse would have betrayed his true feelings. He was, however, more fortunate than Diane in being among the last to arrive so he only had to endure a couple of days of getting his hands dirty.

  With everyone now in London, the Commune could take place.

  * * * * *

  Unlike Dusty, who showed no ill-effects of the tricks he had performed at Peter’s bidding, Tom did not sleep well. He wondered how Peter had made Dusty behave as he had. Tom had no idea whether the animal had ever been formally trained, but even if he had, Peter had no way of knowing. Then the answer occurred to him: hypnotism. Peter had stared intently at Dusty while he controlled him, and he’d made some remark about the power of the mind. Yep, that must be it—hypnotism.

  What disturbed Tom’s sleep more was the man’s assertion that the Millennium Bug had been caused deliberately. Tom did not, could not, believe that in which case the man must be lying. Yet, Tom didn’t gain the impression that he was. Insanity, then. The man must be deluded, believing that virtually the entire world’s population had been wiped out in little more than a week by an illness that had been spread on purpose. Yet, again, he did not appear to be crazy. If anything in the short space of time that Tom had known him, Peter presented as one of the most calm, rational men Tom had ever met.