Oliver trails behind me as I head out onto the road. A short distance away, the pitch-black motorway stands silent and deathly still so long after the National Afterdark curfew kicks in at eleven. A small torch makes it less difficult to see what I’m doing as I pop open the side storage compartment behind the wheel and drag a large canvas bag out from inside.
“All right, Oliver, you’ve done this a couple times with me before. Get the number plates changed over, use the newest set, and then get going on the decals.”
We’ve got a system down when it comes to ensuring a simple description of my van won't be traced back to, well, my van. Some fixtures can be reused, others are better off destroyed to erase evidence. I have a feeling this will be one of those occasions.
If our lives were one of those outlawed movies, this would be the perfect moment for a montage. It would make it look badass, too. A mean double-kick intro while I’m changing out Duncan’s Yosemite Sam mud flaps for plain ones. Crunchy guitar riffs would play as I remove the old silver hubcaps and screw on replacements in matte black. And maybe a sad violin for the moment when I lay my pièce de résistance, a KINGfm magnet on one side of the back bumper. Poor baby girl, I promise I’ll remove it as soon as it’s safe.
Sometimes I get silly when I need to distract myself. But we are so far from where we were three hours ago, and this move is such a drastic one, that maybe a little bit of silly is what my brain needs right now.
Oliver hovers around me as I take in the transformation. It’s subtle, but enough. He’s done a grand job with the decals and now, not only are the back-door stickers different, but a pair of camouflage-print stripes run the entire length of the body. “You lined that up marvelously,” I state aloud, deciding such a straight and level eye deserves a compliment. Coupled with the extra touches and, most importantly—new number plates, it may as well be a whole other vehicle.
“All right. Fit then? You need a piss before we get on the road?”
Oliver pulls a face. “I’m fine. I’m a big boy.”
With the items to dispose of bagged and brought onboard with us, we check on the boys in the back. We’ve only been gone about five or six minutes but, to my sincere surprise, Alfie is unconscious on the sofa, his good arm clutching a pillow beneath his head. Duncan appears to be finishing off with his second wound dressing, and I meet his eyes with a panicked mouthing of the words, he okay?
Duncan grins and nods. “Kipping,” he grunts, and draws away from the smaller Anomaly. I motion with one hand and the three of us relocate to the front of the vehicle, drawing a single curtain across in our wake.
“He wore himself down, long night. Probably best he sleeps it off.” Duncan leans on the back of the passenger seat as Oliver resettles himself in it. “So, what’s the plan, lassie?”
“South,” I answer without hesitation, “avoiding the general London area. North brings us to the Roman Wall, and the security presence up there is ridiculous. Maybe we can find some sort of sleepy rural town and wait until the worst of this blows over. Figure out where to go from there.”
“I’ve been trying to contact Captain Copeland all night,” says Oliver. My heart drops.
“No luck?”
“Should I keep calling?”
This time, I pause before answering. “No. For now, let’s leave it be. We’ll try him a couple more times tonight, together. Let’s focus on preserving what we have.”
A thick, heavy awareness descends upon the three of us, like fog or smoke. We all sense it, the finality in my tone of voice. But before, I neglected to act, and now people I once loved are dead. I’ll be damned if the three men this tragedy spared will meet the same fate due to my own self-doubt. I won’t hesitate again.
“So, we’re going south,” I affirm, and I drop into my own chair. “I’ll do the first shift. Dee, can you just…” I wave my hand in the general direction of the curtain that separates us from our fiery fourth member. He understands and chuckles, vacating the space between myself and Oliver as I twist the key in the ignition and my copilot boots up his map again.
I can’t let myself be emotional about this. If they’re still looking to me to lead them, if they still want me to lead them, then I’ll do that. At least until I get them clear of danger.
As their lieutenant—more so, as their friend—I owe them that much.
8 Penny's Old New Home
It’s morning when Alfie finally rouses, a bit before nine, and we’re stationed in a Jolly Chef car park just outside of Southampton. Other than one period around Swindon where Duncan insisted on relieving me so that I could close my eyes for an hour, I’ve handled the driving.
It’s not that I don't trust him. I just feel more serene if I’m the one behind the wheel, especially when we’re driving through the night. Between 2000 and 0500 hours, it’s illegal to move between the borders of established hamlets, towns, and cities within the country, and from 2300 hours onward, that law extends to a city-wide basis. Sticking to rural back roads and driving slowly with the lights off can turn a five-hour drive into an eight-hour one, but we've crossed the span of the country and are now safely on the south coast.
Home sweet home. Once.
“What’s for breckers?” Alfie asks, scratching the back of his neck with the hand of his good arm. I’m grateful to see, more for Oliver’s sake than anyone else’s, that he took the hint and donned the tee-shirt and boxer shorts I left out next to him on the settee before joining us.
Oliver himself barely reacts to the arrival of our fourth. He’s been curled up into a ball in his seat for most of the night, occasionally stirring to check his phone or sip from the takeaway cup in his door. He initially insisted on staying awake, but as the sun started to crest and spill color across the sky, I watched from the corner of my gaze as his eyelids grew heavy and his body sank deeper into his seat.
His snore is my favorite snore, especially when you couple it with the sight of his mousy-brown hair falling all over his face, which is usually taut and pinched with stress but is now finally at peace. It makes me enjoy being next to him when he’s asleep perhaps a little too much.
“That’s your first question?” I can’t help but laugh at him.
Alfie stares back at me, blankly. “All right, all right. What time is it, are we still alive, and what are you feeding me?”
Oh, Alfie. He is so pretty, but so simple. It’s sweet. “Jolly Chef. You know me, only the best for my boys.” I grin to emphasize my sarcasm, but I happen to know Alfie is a big fan of this greasy roadside chain. “Duncan’s getting the grub and taking a piss. It’s probably safe enough here if you need to go.”
Alfie’s stretching out his leg muscles, one at a time. “Nah, I’m good, mate. Already went.”
“What? Where!?”
“Relax, I’m not about to take a jimmy on your floor, or anything. I found a cup.”
I’m helpless to control the expression of sheer revulsion my face twists into. “Right. When Duncan gets back, we’re laying down some road trip rules.”
As if on cue, I spy him crossing the car park toward us with a paper takeaway bag in one hand and a tray of drinks in the other—two drinks, both extra-large, to complete the two meals, which we’ll all share. If anything is ever traced back to the CCTV in that restaurant, I want whoever is tailing us to think there are only two Anomalies in this van. There’s never anything wrong with getting one up on your opponent.
Duncan enters the van as Alfie’s finishing up his stretches. The familiar noise of the door opening and closing seems to jerk Oliver awake, and he rolls his head around and squints into the light to see what’s going on.
“Mm, I smell food.”
“You and that nose of yours, wee’yin,” laughs Duncan as he offers the bag to Oliver, who accepts it without any hesitation and peeks inside. Oliver was probably the only person in the entire brigade who could out-smell Duncan. In fact, he could out-smell, out-hear, and out-spy Duncan at any given opportunity with those supern
atural senses of his, which always made me dream about how effective a weapon he’d be in the field.
But Oliver’s never been interested in field work. Not just because he’s a notorious homebody, because the idea of being active with those of us who risk our lives running raids terrifies him.
Alfie growls suddenly from behind Duncan, and the Scotsman turns to investigate. “Arm giving you jip, laddie?”
“Yeah, it’s just being a bitch.” Alfie visibly grits his teeth and tries to flex it, but Duncan’s hand snaps out at lightning-speed and catches him by the elbow. I’m pleasantly surprised at how gentle he is. “Hey—!”
“We need to get this into a sling, laddie, before you do it anymore damage.”
“What is your obsession with touching me?”
Duncan scowls and releases the smaller man’s arm. “I’ll find something you can use for now. Shut up and eat your fecking ‘tatoes.”
I’m smirking at the exchange behind me, but my attention is on my phone. Oliver ensured it was fully secure as we started our trek last night so that I can use it without concern, and we’re channeling everything through his own ‘Net connection via Oxford's scrambling satellite. It’s a blessing to have; it allows us access to the FreeNet (the ‘InterNet’, as I believe it’s called by those outside our country who use it daily) which exists beyond the barriers set up by the Sovereignty and KING Entertainment, who control everything the British public has access to.
I’m searching for potential anchor locations, at least for the next few days. Reports of explosions, fires, and gunshots in Manchester have already hit the online news stands, and if the media swell on this one is enormous, we’re going to want somewhere we can wait it out.
“What about Bognor Regis?” I ask Oliver, as if the conversation we were having before he fell asleep actually only halted a few minutes ago.
Oliver wrinkles his nose. “Really?” He passes Alfie a styrofoam container of salty sauté potatoes without looking behind him. “Why would you want to live in a place called Bognor?”
“We’re not ‘living’ there,” I remind him, even though that’s beside the point. Even if I weren’t a local to these parts at one time of my life, the name doesn’t exactly paint the town in the best light, regardless of what Shakespeare thought about roses. “We just want a haystack to park this needle in for a short while.”
“Bognor’s a shithole,” chimes in Alfie, with a mouthful of food. “Next.”
“Brighton’s the Anomaly hotspot,” Oliver points out. He offers me the second portion of potatoes, which I gratefully accept. “But with what happened to B.L.A.Z.E., that might be the first place Branch 9 starts putting out feelers.”
I nod. “Yeah. Too obvious, and too big.”
“Like my dick,” says Alfie from behind us. We both ignore him; we’re used to him acting like a prick.
“What about west, Dorset or Devon way?” suggests Oliver.
I purse my lips. “Hmm, maybe. KING Entertainment have as tight a stronghold on Devon as they do London, so that might not be the best spot. Imagine the weather, though.” I grin. “What about the opposite? We could head for Hastings. We’d definitely want to stop before we got too close to Dover, though.”
“The castle?”
“Yeah. Far too large a Sovereignty presence.”
“That could work.”
“I’m worried about pinning us one side of London, though,” I shake my head. There’s nothing worse than wanting to be proactive and decisive, but being unable to act and make a decision. Especially because I have the perfect location at the back of my mind already, but part of me is still holding back. I bite the inside of my cheek. I’ve already deduced the answer. Am I worried about making a judgment call, and having it be the wrong one again? Why am I suddenly losing my nerve?
“We need to think of somewhere we won't stand out,” I continue, hoping one of them brings up a solid solution so that I don’t have to make the call I know I have to make. “Somewhere we can just blend in with the van and nobody will ask any questions. Like hiding in plain sight.”
Faces stare back at me, blankly. I don’t have a choice. Finally, I leap off the proverbial ledge and say it. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“There is a massive caravan site down south, which is a really decent possibility.”
His attention now entirely removed from the food he had been so interested in before, Oliver becomes entrenched in his phone again, and within seconds he has the answer. “Down by Selsey Bill, right? Apparently it’s the largest in Europe. Well, unless someone’s built a bigger once since Britain all but cut itself off from the rest of the world after Brexit. That’s not really the sort of thing I go digging around for when I’m on the FreeNet.”
He hands me his mobile. “Four square miles, full amenities, and it’s next to a fishing village by the sea. Southern Fringe area. This the one?”
I scroll through what he’s showing me as Duncan comes back, presumably with something Alfie can use as a sling for his wounded arm.
“Yes,” I answer with a nod. Memories come flooding back to me, snapshot images and recollections of various locations around the site that match those on the screen. I silently steel my nerves against them; now is most definitely not the time.
“And it being located in the Southern Fringe is obviously a bonus,” I add. While it may be smaller in size than both the Northern and Welsh Fringes, it’s still an area under a much laxer Sovereign grip. Nothing but working-class folk, country bumpkins, and those who want to live a calm, quiet, inconspicuous life. Perfect for a brigade of Anomalies looking to outrun the law.
“Your dad take you there on holiday as a kid?” Alfie asks, trying to ignore Duncan’s reluctant offering of help.
“Once, but we spent a few weeks there after going on the run. They’re trustworthy, from what I remember. Good people.” I pass him his phone, and glance back at Duncan. He’s still trying to assist the fussy hothead with his new sling. “What do you reckon, lads? Seaside town in the Southern Fringe with an enormous caravan site?”
“Seriously, why the fuck are you so obsessed with the poxy seaside?” grumbles Alfie, before suddenly redirecting his rage toward Duncan. “Ow—fuck me, son! Easy! Didn’t I have a bullet in there last night?”
“Aye. And if you don’t shut your face and stop whining, laddie, I’m going to shove it right back in.” Duncan refocuses on us. “Pure dead brilliant. Anywhere in the Fringe the two of you tacticians deduce we’d be better off, I trust you.”
“Oi, hang about, that bloke's got a Pompey shirt on… where the fuck are we, anyway?”
Oliver and I both crane our necks to finally properly acknowledge Alfie. He’s perched up on the kitchenette counter, leaning as far forward as possible to see out the windscreen. I smile sadly; I had wondered when that question would finally come up.
“Hampshire,” I tell my childhood friend, almost apologetically. “Welcome home, mate. It’s been a while.”
9 Oliver’s Admission
Penny surmises that Duncan’s fake alias and identification is the safest bet to put down on file if asked once we finally reach the Sun Treasure Caravan Park registration office in Selsey Bill about an hour and a half later. It’s less likely to be related to recent events up north than mine or Alfie’s, considering we’re the two Branch 9 may have seen as we fled Pigeon Street, and Penny’s been captured on enough facial recognition surveillance equipment that we don't risk it with her BitID anymore, even with the scramble I put on it.
I’ve been scrambling Bits for members of B.L.A.Z.E. since I was brought onboard. Considering they’re our only form of ID and payment in this country, keeping us all firmly in line, tweaking the encrypted information they hold and transmit when scanned to say something other than our legal identities is a first priority whenever new members join the brigade. But if we want to sleep soundly at night, I’m not one-hundred percent confident giving my word that the work I’ve done is secure if they cross-refer
ence something and find us, especially if they throw their big guns at us. I don’t have that much faith in my work…
Fifteen minutes later, we’re all signed in under the neutral name of David Evans and pulling into our assigned pitch: a hardstanding gravel patch with outdoor plug sockets and a small grassy area off to the side. The price was shockingly low for the amenities the caravan and camping park offers, but apparently, since most holidaymakers began going down to Dorset, Devon, and Cornwall for their family ventures, this park has really been feeling the brunt of the country's economic downturn. Most of its customers these days are month-to-month residential renters, or squatters that have to be dealt with.
Awful for them, wonderful for us, and Penny managed to swing it that our payment isn’t due until we leave the site. Something that struck me as strange, but again, a bit of luck isn’t hurting anybody. The opposite, in fact. Though it does make me wonder what sort of pull Penny has here, or at least her father, to receive that sort of a welcome wagon.
It takes us all a couple more hours to properly hook-up, lockdown, and secure our temporary new home. Only about a third of that is spent telling Alfie to be careful with that bloody arm of his. Our pitch is right across from the toilets and showers, not hemmed in at all from the road out. A quick glance across the camp map while Penny and Duncan are getting an awning set up shows a small convenience shop in one direction and a play park, dog-walking space, and multi-use games area in the other.
“I have to admit,” I say to Penny, once the two of us are finally left in peace, “at least just between us: if we weren’t dealing with, you know, everything we’re dealing with, this would feel like a real holiday, wouldn’t it?”
She chuckles back at me. I love that sound; it’s both bubbly and beautiful at the same time, which is Penny to a T, really. “I wouldn’t know, honestly. It’s been so long since I had a real holiday.”
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