The Codex File (2012)

by Miles Etherton

  Resuming their progress Michael was struck by how he’d changed. A few weeks ago, when he was still convalescing in the care home, he knew he wouldn’t have survived in this environment. He wouldn’t have had the guts or the confidence to plot an escape across country. Nevermind contemplate what they were planning for when they met up with Digger again.

  Assuming we ever make it back to SemComNet again. How many soldiers and police are in the area looking for us?

  He let the thought slide away as they reached the small bank of trees, disappearing amongst them.

  The farmhouse could just be seen through the trees as they made their way carefully to the other end of the wood. Crouching down just before they reached the edge of the small wood the two men scanned the ground surrounding the quiet farmhouse.

  There were no vehicles to be seen. No obvious sign of life anywhere. All of the windows of the farmhouse were shut. And there was no sign of lights or movement inside. To the right of the farmhouse three outbuildings, a milking station and a couple of grain silos, were also deserted. Seemingly locked up.

  “Looks deserted to me,” Brown finally said after five minutes of silent observation.

  “Yeah, I reckon so. Let’s head round the back and see if we can find a way in.”

  “What do you want to break in for?”

  “Firstly, I want to know exactly what UKCitizensNet is reporting and why there are troops on the streets looking for us. Secondly, I don’t know about you, but I’m bloody starving and we’ve got no food.”

  As the two men stole out from where they were concealed Brown followed as Michael darted across the yard between the farmhouse and the outbuildings and round the back of the house. Turning the corner Michael looked out onto the large back garden which was less than immaculately kept, needing its grass cut at the very least.

  To his left the large double kitchen window was closed. The backdoor was a little further on. Slowly, Michael moved round and peered through the kitchen window. In the middle of the room was a large wooden table with one chair sitting at it. To the right was a large dresser, crammed full of books and folders. At the back of the kitchen was an impressive green Aga, dominating the room. Michael half-smiled at the stereotypical farmhouse kitchen. There was only one thing missing. And that, thankfully, was the farmer.

  In the right hand corner was a doorway leading into house. Michael watched carefully for a full two minutes. There was no sign of movement. Moving past the window he placed his hand on the back door and turned the handle. It was locked. As his elbow smashed one of the glass panes on the kitchen door he reached through, turning the key in the keyhole on the inside, hoping the house wasn’t rigged with an alarm.

  As the kitchen door creaked open and the two men stepped inside they were met by silence throughout the house. Brown heaved a sigh of relief, dumping the rucksack onto the kitchen table before slumping into the chair.

  Passing him, Michael walked through the kitchen and into a dining room. Even more papers and files were sprawled across the table. He glanced down at a selection of sheets that caught his eye. There were numerous letters from a mortgage company and a bank demanding various payments. One letter threatened repossession of the farmhouse if the debts weren’t settled. Clearly the farm wasn’t doing well.

  To his right he could see a shotgun propped up against the wall.

  Is that to stop the bailiffs getting in, or for the farmer to end it all if he doesn’t turn a profit this harvest?

  As he exited the dining room he found himself in what appeared to be the main living area. In the centre of the room against a long wall was a television. As he’d been hoping, an eCitTV touch-screen console was in the seat of the armchair.

  As the television flickered into life Michael scowled as the familiar red, white and blue UKCitizensNet logo appeared on the screen. Sliding his finger over the ‘Web’ icon the screen melted into the interactive area. Quickly clicking on the ‘News’ link he waited expectantly.

  What are the lying bastards saying about me now? Can it get any worse than being branded a cyber terrorist?

  Michael read the latest headline on UKCitizensNet and was thankful he was sitting down, as he feared he would have fallen down. His face was again on the screen next to the offending headline. ‘Children’s bodies discovered at house of cyber terrorist’.

  His hand was shaking as tapped the story to read the full grisly facts. He began to weep as he read the terrible report that showed a picture of his back garden shrouded in police forensic tents.

  “Police are reporting that they have discovered the bodies of at least eight children in the back garden of wanted cyber terrorist, Michael Robertson. The police were tipped off to this grisly discovery by a neighbour who reported he had regularly seen children coming to the house, even after the death of Michael Robertson’s own daughter two years ago.

  Police had originally obtained a warrant to search the house following investigations which identified Michael Robertson as a potential cyber terrorist thought to have been involved in the recent death of SemComNet President, Sir Donald Allison.

  The macabre discoveries were made in the back garden of Robertson’s house in Hersham, Surrey, where forensic detectives are still collecting evidence they hope will identify the children and help their investigation.

  Police have also not ruled out the possibility that Michael Robertson may have been involved in the murder of his own daughter two years ago. Initially, anti-net campaigner Davey Wilkes, was charged with the killing, although police have never been able to apprehend Wilkes.

  Chief Superintendent Miles Robson, who is overseeing this investigation, said the case would be reopened and examined in the light of these recent discoveries.”

  For a few long seconds Michael felt faint as waves of nausea spread through him. He could read the words in front of him, but he couldn’t reconcile what they were saying. As the nausea subsided it was replaced by anger as his muscles tensed and his colour returned.

  Is there no depth to which SemComNet won’t go to destroy me? Haven’t you taken enough from me by killing Colette and Clare?

  Holding his head in hands he didn’t hear the sound of the Land Rover pulling up in the drive outside the house. Or the dull thud of footsteps approaching the front door.

  As the key turned in the lock Michael jumped up from the armchair in time to catch sight of a smartly dressed man, wearing an Italian suit, coming through the front door. He felt his pulse quicken, his heart pound. Vincent Trevellion strode into the lounge. Reeking of contempt. Holding everything that had been taken from him.

  Michael looked into his narrow, emotionless eyes, heard him say something, although he couldn’t make out the words. Turning quickly he darted into the dining room, grabbing the shotgun he knew was propped up against the wall. Nevermind what the farmer had in mind for the gun. It had a new purpose now.

  With the extra confidence a loaded shotgun gave him Michael strode purposefully back towards the main living area. Trevellion was standing in the doorway now. Shouting something in his direction. Waving his arms around.

  He couldn’t hear the words. His mind was awash with images of Colette and Clare. Happy images of the time they’d all spent together as a family. Images of precious moments he’d spent with his daughter when he took her to her ballet classes. Images of intimate moments he’d savoured with Colette. And bloody images of Colette lying tied to the same bed with that obscenity carved into her chest and scrawled onto the wall.

  As Trevellion raised his palm to Michael he pulled the trigger. The force of the explosion pushed him backwards, the butt of the shotgun thudding into his upper arm. The bullet tore a hole in Trevellion’s suit just below the sternum, sending him hurtling backwards, although he somehow remained standing.

  Still there were words coming from his mouth, his palm still raised at Michael in some sort of defiant gesture.

  The second bullet smashed into Trevellion’s side sending him crashing backward
s into the large wooden fireplace. Blood splattered in an arc up the wall next to where he stood.

  The third bullet blew a hole through Trevellion’s heart, spinning his body round before he fell, face-up onto the floor. A pool of blood rapidly stained the paneled wood floor as Michael stood, trance-like, over his nemesis’ lifeless body.

  “What the fuck have you done?” Brown said from behind him, rushing into the room from the kitchen.

  The familiar sound of Brown’s voice broke Michael’s thoughts and he turned round in a daze, as if he’d just woken from a dream.

  “I’ve killed…,” the words wouldn’t come as he felt his breathing tighten. “I’ve killed Trevellion. He came here looking for me. But I killed him.”

  Brown looked at the lifeless, bloodied body of the middle-aged farmer who lay in the spreading pool of blood at Michael’s feet.

  “You’ve shot the farmer you fucking idiot. Don’t you think we’re in enough shit as it is? Why couldn’t you have just tied him up until we’d got what we needed from this place?”

  A look of bewilderment spread across Michael’s face as he turned back to look at the body before him. The farmer, who looked in his early 50s, was dressed in a pair of heavy walking boots, grubby jeans and a green Barbour jacket which was soaked in his own blood.

  “But it was Trevellion. I saw him come through the door. I reached for the gun and…I swear it was Trevellion I saw.”

  Brown closed his eyes for a moment, running his fingers through his hair, exhaling loudly. Looking up he caught sight of Michael’s picture on the blood spattered television screen behind and read the headline.

  ‘Children’s bodies discovered at house of cyber terrorist’.

  “Oh no,” he said finally, walking past where Michael was still standing in disbelief.

  He sank into the large sofa next to the armchair.

  “Didn’t I tell you when we first met what these people are capable of? What lengths they’ll go to in order to protect their interests?”

  “But it was him, I tell you,” Michael protested as he continued to stare disbelievingly at the body of the farmer.

  “Listen my friend, you’re under enormous emotional stress. SemComNet, and probably Trevellion, know exactly which buttons to push with you. The more they push you, the more you’re likely to do something that exposes you and which gets us both caught.”

  “You mean like shooting some poor guy who I thought was Trevellion?”

  Brown looked at the floor but his expression spoke volumes. In the distance both men heard the distinctive noise of a helicopter flying over. Rushing to the window they watched as an army Chinook helicopter flew over the farm heading north.

  “That’s probably supporting the searches in Odiham,” Brown said nervously as the helicopter disappeared from sight.

  “We’ve got to get out of here then,” Michael replied, casting another look at the dead farmer.

  He was going to keep the shotgun with him. It would certainly be useful for when they returned to SemComNet. It was also added insurance against whatever Brown and the three other men had really been up to. He wasn’t going to let his guard down. And now Brown knew he wasn’t afraid to use the weapon.

  “Not yet,” Brown said, exiting from UKCitizensNet, turning off the television. “We don’t need them seeing what was being read on screen when they discover his body. There must also be a computer in this house. I need access to our secure email. And I don’t mean through that bit of censored shit.”

  He gestured in the direction of the eCitTV set.

  “I haven’t spotted one down here. Let’s look upstairs.”

  The ancient computer with its deep-backed monitor was in the second bedroom. And like most of the rest of the house was full of files and folders. The farmer didn’t seem to have thrown away any piece of paper he’d ever received Brown thought as the screen flickered into life.

  Michael watched as Brown opened up a DOS window and hastily typed a set of commands. A few moments later a window opened on the screen. Michael watched as Brown accessed an email inbox.

  “Don’t blame me if none of them replied,” Brown began. “In their situation, I wouldn’t.”

  Eventually the inbox loaded its content, revealing one solitary message. The sender’s name was marked as Ephesus, the email address ephesus@rig.uk .

  As Brown opened the solitary message Michael noticed the recipient’s email address: horsemen@rig.uk.

  “We’re known as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse in R.I.G circles,” Brown said proudly as the message popped up on screen.

  Michael took a step back as Colette’s prophetic words came rushing back to him.

  “After this I saw four angels standing at the four corners of the earth, holding back the four winds of the earth so no wind could blow on the earth, on the sea, or on any tree. Then I saw another angel ascending from the east, who had the seal of the living God. He shouted out with a loud voice to the four angels who had been given permission to damage the earth and the sea.”

  If there’d been any doubt before when Jones had implicated himself that the four men were pursuing their own agenda and somehow using Michael, then this proved it beyond all doubt. Colette had cryptically warned him about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and this was why.

  If only she’d revealed what their true plan was. Are they working for SemComNet or just trying to save their own skins by using me and the knowledge I obtained from Colette’s work? Whatever the reason, the shotgun wasn’t going to leave his side. Nothing was going to distract him from his mission.

  Brown looked up from the computer and into Michael’s stern expression.

  “Well that sort’s out where we’re heading. I just hope we can get there before they find us.”

  Michael nodded, turning his attention to the message on the screen.

  “Thanks for contact. The sample of what you sent is intriguing. Keen to see more and help in anyway we can. UKCitizensNet has you all over their pages. This is more important than all of us. Meet outside Students’ Union bar, main campus, South Downs University, 7.30pm tomorrow night. Mass of students will keep you concealed. Be careful. Ephesus.”

  Michael looked at Brown who began to shut the computer down.

  “Can they help us? Is it safe?”

  “I don’t know on either account. But if there’s a chance they can help us complete the app then we’ve got to risk it.”

  Michael nodded, gripping the gun he was holding under his arm a little tighter.

  “Let’s get some food, and anything else useful. Then let’s get going before those soldiers or helicopter take an interest in this farm.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  The main campus at South Downs University was teeming with students as the muddy Land Rover turned onto the access road before slipping into the Pay and Display car park nearby. It was the second vehicle Michael had stolen in almost as many days.

  As they parked, Michael and Brown watched the steady stream of students heading towards the Students’ Union at the other end of the campus. At least it wouldn’t be difficult to find.

  For the first time in a while they’d been lucky when they’d the left the farm and the scene of the dead farmer. The army roadblocks hadn’t reached as far as the farm yet. And after a negotiating the maze of country lanes they’d found themselves on the outskirts of Alton and a relatively short journey down to the South Downs University campus.

  But before making the trip to the university the two men needed to lay low. Brown had directed Michael to an isolated country park in nearby Winchester where they’d parked up and got some much needed sleep overnight. Their only distraction had been some drunken teenage boys banging on their windows just after midnight before running off into the darkness. The rest of the journey had, thankfully, been fairly uneventful.

  Exiting the Land Rover Michael caught sight of their reflections in one of the windows. He knew they looked absurd, both wearing baseball caps and
sporting several days’ stubble. He’d found a pair of sunglasses in the Land Rover and was wearing these also. A little ridicule from some raucous students would be worth it if they kept their identities concealed.

  Merging into the stream of students heading for a noisy, drunken Friday night in the Union bar, Michael began to survey his surroundings. The campus was a combination of established red-bricked and concrete buildings built in the 1960s and 70s, and modern glassed-fronted buildings gleaming like mirrors in their midst.

  Taking their lead from the mass of students, the two men crossed the wide road that bisected the campus and past an imposing tinted glass structure. A similar looking building was opposite, creating the impression of large glass corridor, leading into the heart of the campus. Crossing a landscaped patch of grass they passed a tangled mass of distressed metal, one of the campus’s many architectural statements, before reaching the Students’ Union.

  The crowds of students were queued back for almost 200 hundred yards as they waited patiently to get in to the Union bar. The sound of music reverberating inside the building filled the air, mixing with the hum of excited students.

  “Oi grandad, the bingo hall’s in that direction,” a male voice bellowed in their direction as the two men stood uncomfortably near the end of the queue.

  Howls of laughter rippled up the line. The student who’d cracked the joke took another drag on his cigarette, slapping a high five with one of his friends.

  Michael ignored the laughter, turning to survey the campus and the plethora of red-bricked buildings dominating his view.

  “How do we know who we’re looking for?” he finally asked.

  Brown shrugged, rolling his eyes.

  “Well, I’m guessing the contact’s not going to be a student. This lot are far too young to be involved with R.I.G.”