Reaper

by Jon Grahame

  ‘Kris Kristofferson. How could I forget? I had a thing for him once. Sadly, it wasn’t reciprocated.’

  She moved back to Ollie who remained sprawled on the bed, watching the following cars out of the back window. They had formed a loose alliance but that did not yet extend to allowing the other children to all travel in the van. Reaper didn’t blame them.

  They had been aware of heavy clouds over to the northwest for some time, but when they crested a hill they saw the flames that tinged the clouds red.

  ‘What’s that?’ Sandra said.

  ‘That’s Leeds burning,’ said Reaper.

  They carried on, passing the occasional car heading south on the other carriageway. They didn’t slow, but raised a hand in passing. The turn onto the M621 that led to the city of Leeds came and went, and they stayed on the M1, which veered east around the suburbs.

  They left the smoke behind them. A Porsche went past them at well over 100 miles an hour but did not slow or threaten and was soon out of sight. They were in open country, which made Reaper feel better. The road linked up with the A1(M) and, a few miles further on, Reaper slowed to leave the motorway on the A64 to York.

  As he negotiated the roundabouts, he checked in the mirrors to make sure the convoy was still intact, then increased speed to 50 along the straight road across the plain of York. They were maybe an hour or an hour and a half from their destination and he now began to feel nervous in case it was not as he remembered, or in case someone else had taken possession of it. What the hell? Nothing could be guaranteed and they were lucky enough that a dozen disparate souls had joined together with the intention of making the best of whatever lay ahead. There would be safety in numbers – at least at first.

  Hopefully, they would be able to expand and maybe become modestly successful. That would bring other problems. Success and stability would make them a target for the wild groups that would continue to roam and raid and establish fiefdoms. Reaper had no illusions about the future. Others might think differently, but he believed a medieval war was about to descend upon them. Their party offered a variety of skills, not all of them useful: the bearded Nick Waite was a vicar; lugubrious Gavin Price a motor mechanic; Judith, the tall elegant lady with grey hair, was a retired vet; Rachel, the blonde in her mid-twenties, had owned a dress shop. The chunky bloke from the Transits was Pete Mack, a long distance lorry driver. His party included Ashley, a joiner in his early thirties. The Labrador, Lucky, was his. The women were Jane, mid forties and a district nurse, Ruth, early thirties, who had worked in a bank and red-headed Kate, late thirties, who had been a bar manager. The child, Emma, was seven and unrelated to any of them, another orphan of the storm.

  A district nurse was good news, although Reaper would have preferred a doctor, a vet was also a bonus along with a motor mechanic. Pete would no doubt have practical knowledge and Ashley’s skills as a carpenter would be invaluable. Better a carpenter than a philosopher or a graduate in media studies. Jean, meanwhile, seemed to have commandeered cooking duties. Altogether, it was not a bad mix – except for a vicar. What the hell use was a cleric when half the remaining world seemed intent on rape and murder and the other half was just trying to get by?

  Pete was divorced and had teamed up with Ruth more than a week before. They had not known each other previously but now seemed to have a comfortable relationship. They had holed up in a house they had broken into and spotted the child, Emma, while out looking for food. Emma had lived with her mother and stayed in the house with her mother’s body for five days before venturing out for help. Fortunately, she had found Pete and Ruth. They had met Ashley while choosing a Transit on a car dealer’s lot. He was doing the same thing, looking for transport. Ashley had met Jane and Kate at his local pub, The White Swan.

  ‘The pub was more like a social club,’ Ashley said.

  ‘A really good pub. Good beer, good company. A real cross section of people would get in there after work.

  When the shit happened, I went there looking for friends.’

  When the shit happened, he lost a wife and son, a grief he seemed to keep in a separate and very private compartment. Jane had also been a regular at the pub and had gone there for the same reason – looking for friends she could rely on after losing her husband.

  Kate was the manager and had lived alone above the premises. She was divorced and her grown-up daughter had lived in Australia – until the virus took her.

  They bypassed York and carried on towards Scarborough and the East Coast. They drove past the sign that pointed towards the stately home of Castle Howard, past the Second World War museum with its POW huts and a Spitfire displayed on its wing tip.

  Near the market town of Malton they could see the framework of the pleasure rides at the holiday village of Flamingo Park on the skyline. A few miles further on, Reaper slowed, turned off the main road and drove into the lush and rolling countryside of North Yorkshire. The lanes were narrow and he went slowly.

  Sandra lifted the carbine into her lap, probably as anxious as he was that they were in confining byways.

  At least the height of the vehicle gave them good observation. They drove past the occasional cottage and tracks that led to farms and the land seemed peaceful.

  Eventually, they were driving alongside a tall brick wall.

  ‘This is it,’ he said.

  The memories returned of when he had last been here, when times were normal, when Emily had been alive. Long sunshine days and smiles and love. You never remembered the tears or tantrums that a twelve-year-old could engage in, just the smiles and laughter.

  He realised it had been six years ago and he wondered if the place had changed that much. It couldn’t have done. They had kept sending him brochures well after they had stopped being a family. Long after Emily had gone.

  A big double gate was ahead. It was closed. Reaper stopped the motor home and jumped down. A sign at the side of the gate said: The Haven. The gate was secured by a padlocked length of chain. The convoy had stopped and Nick Waite and Gavin Price got out of their cars.

  ‘Is this it?’ asked the clergyman.

  ‘This is it.’

  Reaper shook the chain.

  Pete approached and saw the problem.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some cutters.’

  The three of them waited without speaking, all wondering what lay behind the gate and the high wall.

  Pete returned with heavy-duty bolt cutters and severed the chain.

  ‘I’ll put it back when we’re through,’ he said.

  They pushed open the gates and Reaper led the convoy into the grounds. The road was not much wider than the motor home and, periodically, there were lay-bys so that traffic coming in the opposite directions could pass. They drove to the top of a hill and he stopped just on the other side. On the lower slopes of a gentle descent was the purpose-built village of twenty cottages.

  The road ran between the cottages to a crossroads at the bottom that was marked by a six foot stone cross on a plinth, erected as an echo to the past; a pretend artefact to give the pretend village an aura of reality and historical substance. The last building at the bottom of the hill had a pub sign outside: The Farmer’s Boy. It was not a real pub, as this was not a real village, but a social centre for the holidaymakers who stayed here. On the opposite side of the crossroads was the original manor house. From the crest of the hill, they could see farm buildings and stables at its rear. To the right of the manor house was a large barn. Reaper remembered the village as claustrophobic.

  Now it promised to be a safe Haven. He pushed the other memories from his mind.

  ‘It looks great!’ said Sandra, a touch of wonder in her voice.

  ‘Look.’

  A JCB was working in a field on the other side of the barn. It stopped. The man in it stood up and pointed at their arrival. A man standing by the side of the machine, turned and stared. People were already here, but who were they? And would they object to an influx of immigrants?
Reaper drove down the hill and parked in the square between the cottages and the manor house. The other vehicles lined up alongside. Everyone got out, glad to have completed the journey.

  Reaper motioned Sandra to follow him. He said to Nick Waite and the others, ‘We’ll go and see the residents.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’ suggested Waite. ‘A peaceful emissary?’

  ‘No,’ said Reaper. Why should he be polite to vicars?

  He and Sandra went past the front of the house to the right where they had seen the JCB. They turned the corner and saw two men walking towards them through a herb garden. The men stopped when they saw the guns he and Sandra carried. Reaper let his carbine swing beneath his arm and raised both hands to reassure them. One of the residents was a young man in jeans and riding boots and a blue button-down shirt open at the neck. Probably mid-twenties. Good looking. Reaper smiled inwardly at how he immediately assessed potential members of the group that was growing around him. He wondered whether this one might appeal to Sandra. With him was a chap who could have been anything between mid-fifties to mid-seventies, a face and body worn by working the earth.

  Old cord trousers, old work boots, old shirt and a waistcoat, and an old hat upon his head.

  ‘I’m sorry if we startled you,’ Reaper said.

  The two men stared back warily. ‘This is private property,’ the young man said.

  ‘Unfortunately, not anymore,’ Reaper said, gently.

  ‘I’m not sure what that expression means anymore.

  The people we have with us are ordinary folk. They are just looking for somewhere to live. The cities and towns are no longer safe. These are decent people.

  Men, women and children.’ He took a deep breath.

  ‘These guns?’ he said. ‘We needed them. Otherwise we would have been killed.’ He offered his hand to the young man. ‘My name’s Reaper.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, the man took it. ‘Jamie Hinchliffe,’ he said. ‘This is Bob.’

  Sandra introduced herself and Reaper noticed the interest in Jamie Hinchliffe’s eyes as they shook hands.

  Jamie said, ‘I’m estate manager. Was estate manager.

  Bob farms Inglewood. It’s next to the estate. We’ve been burying our dead.’

  ‘The JCB?’ Reaper said.

  ‘Yes. We had families in two of the cottages. They had hoped to escape the virus. Unfortunately they didn’t. All the staff here and at the farm died, too. I’m the only one left. I thought it both decent and sensible to bury the others. Bob and I were doing it together.’

  ‘Did you finish?’

  ‘Almost. Another level of earth to put back.’

  ‘We have a vicar with us. Maybe he could say a few words?’

  Bob said, ‘It would be grand if he could. I’ve got friends down there. Arnie and Mary were big church-goers. They’d appreciate it.’

  Reaper nodded.

  ‘Will you object to us staying?’

  ‘I’d be rather foolish if I did, wouldn’t I,’ said Jamie, with a smile. ‘No, I think it would be a splendid idea.’

  ‘I’ll get the vicar while you finish.’

  He walked back to the front of the building, Sandra slow to follow. He supposed she would have preferred to stay and get to know Jamie Hinchliffe better. There was going to be another headache, when the group started pairing off, as he knew they would. The others were waiting patiently, although Pete Mack appeared from The Farmer’s Boy. He held up his hands to show they were empty.

  ‘Just checking,’ he said. ‘It’s well stocked.’

  Reaper said, ‘We’re welcome here. The sole survivor is called Jamie Hinchliffe, he’s the estate manager. With him is a local farmer. What we saw, when we came over the hill? They were burying the dead.’ He looked at Nick Waite. ‘I told them we had a vicar. They would be grateful if you would say a few words.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Nick, moving towards the Volvo.

  ‘Excuse me a moment.’

  ‘As we’re taking over this place,’ Reaper said, ‘maybe we could go along. Say goodbye to the past. Maybe those who know a prayer could say one.’ He glanced at Sandra and they turned and went back towards the side of the house. Everyone else followed, a straddle of mourners, Nick bringing up the rear, now wearing a dog collar and carrying a prayer book.

  It was an unusual funeral service. The grave was twelve feet wide. The group stood respectfully along one side, Jamie and Bob the farmer, his hat held in his hands, at one end, with the Reverend Nick Waite.

  Reaper and Sandra stood at the other end. Jean Megson and Judith, the vet, had coerced Ashley into cutting them a branch from a nearby hawthorn tree that was heavy with blossom. This they now lay upon the turned earth.

  Nick began a short service: ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die . . .’

  After the ritual words, he said, ‘We come as strangers, but we come in peace and we mourn your passing, as we mourn the passing of our own loved ones and the world we knew. We shall try to live in peace and make sense of the challenge that God has set us. And we shall tend your grave because it represents the grave that so many will never receive.’

  They all dipped their heads in silent contemplation.

  Nick looked at Jamie and Bob, asking without words whether they wanted to add anything, but they shook their heads. He looked around and said, ‘It would be nice to sing a hymn? Does anyone have a favourite?

  One we might all know?’

  There was an awkward pause and Kate said, ‘I know Amazing Grace.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything more appropriate,’ said Nick. ‘If you start, I’m sure we’ll join in when we can.’

  Kate coughed, shuffled a little self-consciously, and began to sing, her voice low but growing in strength as she found the pitch and the confidence. As she reached the third line, others were already joining in.

  She sang the next verse alone, a delicate and beautiful soprano, head back, red hair glowing in the light, feeling the words. Almost everyone came in for the chorus and the hymn caressed the countryside on that balmy summer afternoon. Kate sang no more and they remained with heads bowed, each contemplating their own loss and grief, until Bob the farmer said, ‘That was grand, lass.’ He held his hand out to shake Kate’s.

  ‘That was right grand. Arnie and Mary would be fair chuffed.’

  Reaper picked up a handful of soil that had missed the infilling and threw it onto the grave. He hadn’t prayed but he had been moved. Sandra leant against him, one of her arms around his waist, and sniffed back tears. He held her with an arm around her shoulder.

  He looked around as the group moved slowly away from the grave, some still lost in thought, others pointing at the houses, speculating perhaps where they might live, and he realised that what had gone before had only been a prelude. What was to come would be the hard part.

  The manor house had power that ran from a generator. Reaper was of a mind to get them to switch it off to conserve the oil it was using but was already preparing to step back from a role of command. Let someone else make those decisions. When the time came for them to sit in conference, which they would do, informally at first, he would state his case. He had brought them here, now it was up to them to make it work. He would remain as a facilitator and protector.

  He would forage for supplies, perhaps bring in new settlers, scout for enemies and, when necessary, fight them. He would be in charge of their armoury and train others in the use of firearms.

  He had his own plans for helping this settlement survive. One was more weapons, another was more medical help. And where were you likely to find a doctor? In a hospital. He intended to scout Scarborough as soon as possible on both counts. As for recruits to form a defensive corps, Jamie Hinchliffe was an obvious choice, as were Pete Mack and Ashley.

  The house contained guest apartments, staff quarters and e
state offices. A consensus decided that the men and women should be accommodated separately.

  All except Pete and Ruth, the former bank worker with whom he had been travelling. It appeared they had already cemented a relationship with which they were both content. They chose to move into one of the cottages. Emma, the seven-year-old they had been looking after, wanted to go with them. The others agreed to pair off, the men sharing twin rooms, the women, not being so fussy, taking doubles or family rooms, so that the children could stay with them. Jean Megson and four-year-old Ollie had a room together.

  Reaper asked Sandra if she would rather stay in the house.

  ‘You’d be closer to Jamie, that way.’

  She thumped him. ‘I’ll go with you,’ she said.

  He explained his plan to take the motor home back over the hill to gain a defensive view of the road into the estate.

  Jean commandeered the kitchens at the manor house and, aided by Ashley and Rachel, the blonde with the fragile good looks, prepared a roast chicken dinner.

  Jamie opened the wine cellar and served the best vintage they had. As they waited in the dining room for the food to be served, Reaper told the group where he and Sandra would be staying and the reasons why.

  This brought a momentary silence, as if they had forgotten the dangers that existed outside the walls of the estate.

  ‘We’ll do a night patrol,’ he said. ‘Just in case.’

  They seemed suitably reassured and Pete said, ‘Need any help?’

  ‘We will do. But not tonight. Maybe we can talk about it tomorrow?’ He addressed his words directly to Pete.

  ‘Any time.’

  They dined well. One or two of the ladies drank too much, but that was perhaps understandable, and Reaper was pleased that the men drank only moder-ately, as if aware of the changed circumstances of their lives. Afterwards, they had the first informal debate about the future. Reaper took the opportunity to explain his thoughts about his own role.

  ‘Decisions will have to be made,’ he said. ‘Democratic decisions, rules about how we live, what work we do.