by S. T. Boston
Stuffing the empty syringes into his pack Sam headed out of the room and swiftly down the lavish stairs. Laurett's final words rang through his head, turning over and over like a pair of trainers thumping around a washing machine drum. He is here, he has plans and he is coming for you! And Enola. What the fuck was all that about? He didn't like it, not one bit.
In the kitchen he threw his bag out of the missing panel in the door and hastily followed it through. Not bothering to carry out a repair he hurried to the fence. Sam was always keen to flee the scene of an execution, but on this occasion the desire was greater than ever. He felt as if he were running from some invisible pursuer, that just when he reached safety they would charge out of the night and grab him. He knew one thing, he wanted to get as far away from the Laurett Chateau as possible. He was even looking forward to the five minute ride in the freezing cold launch, every inch he put between himself and the French coast was a good inch. Thinking of the warm coffee (with a hit of something a little stronger in it for good measure), that he would make once back on the cruiser and the phone call to Lucie, Sam finally felt his feet on the loose shingle beach. He almost slid down the bank to the shore line, stones avalanching around his feet. In an instant he froze, the small tender was gone. Frantically his eyes scanned left and right, he'd secured it right there, in front of the Chateau. “Where the fuck are you?” Sam questioned, his whispered words igniting the cold night air with vapour.
A dazzlingly bright spotlight suddenly forced back the night, lighting the beach up like a stage. “Monsieur, restezoùvousêtes et placezvos mains survotre tête.”
Sam whirled round trying to focus on where the amplified words were coming from, his mind racing, “ENGLISH,” he shouted, his heart pounding in his chest and through his ears. 'I'M ENGLISH!'
“Monsieur, remain where you are and place your hands on your head,” the voice answered in a heavy French accent. “POLICE,” the man added as if he'd forgotten to include that important piece of information.
“Shit,” cursed Sam, blood rushing through his veins at a thousand miles an hour. He heard unseen footsteps crashing on the stones, heading his way. The bright light made it impossible to see where they were coming from. Deciding that some course of action was better than none Sam dropped his hands and ran, he was too late. As he took flight he felt a heavy hand grab the back of his jacket, almost lifting him off his feet. A fist connected with his kidneys, causing his legs to give way. Sam went down hard, face first into the cold hard shingle; he tasted blood on his lips, mixed with salt. Struggling to focus and ignore the foul eggy smell of the air-dried seaweed he saw a shiny pair of black shoes come to a crunching stop before his eyes. Hands were now pulling him to his feet, way before his legs were ready to take his weight.
“Monsieur,” the man with the very clean shoes began. “You are under arrest on suspicion of burglary.”
“Burglary?” Sam croaked sounding slightly confused and trying to focus on the guy's face. A mere arrest for burglary would have been fine with him at that point in time, hell he'd of pleaded to it right then and there if the deal were offered. However, Sam knew that the pending burglary charge would soon change, once they looked inside.
Chapter 2
In a layby on Chemin des Terrois, on the outskirts of Le Havre, France, stood a hulk of a man in a long dark overcoat. His black hair was thick and slicked back against his skull, making it almost invisible in the darkness. Shivering in the unusually chilly September air his flat grey eyes watched with fury as blue lights flashed crazily off the Laurett Chateau, as if there were some manic party going on at the end of the road, however this was no party. A second male, who looked almost identical to the first alighted the X5 BMW, stood by his brother and said, “I can't get used to how clean the air smells here.” To any other person his accent would have sounded like an exotic mixture of several of the planet's regional dialects. He turned to his brother and asked, “Do we have a problem?”
“Yes,” the first male replied, looking down at his black shoes and studying them with interest. “It would appear we were too late.” His voice was virtually indistinguishable from that of his brother. “It would seem that Mathis Laurett is already dead.”
“Nothing but a casualty of a war that we are on the brink of winning, it matters not,” the second male commented in an emotionless tone. “And Becker?”
“Likely in custody, this will delay our plan somewhat, and time is very short.” The first male shrugged his shoulders into his coat and popped the collar.
“A minor problem that we can overcome, bother,” replied the second male as he sat himself back into the 4x4.
“You're right.”
“About what?”
“The air here is very clean, it's the cold I just can't get used to!” The first male started the engine and crept the vehicle forward, he watched the blue lights fade into the night through the rear view mirror. With a sly smile that showed his dazzling white teeth, slowly he began to form a plan, a plan that would have Samuel Becker in his hands before first light.
Chapter 3
“Do you not find it all a little bit morbid?” came the first question from a slightly nerdy, spectacle wearing student in the second row, whose hair looked like it hadn't seen a comb in a few days.
“How can the truth be morbid?” Adam retaliated, clutching the lectern tightly with both hands and struggling to see the question poser in the bright stage lights, which were focused mercilessly on him, highlighting the nervous sheen of sweat that covered his forehead. He could feel that the white cotton of his polo shirt was damp with sweat where the fabric ran down his back. Despite only having showered a few hours ago, and having pulled on his freshly laundered shirt, complimented by his most expensive pair of smart-casual black chinos, he felt dirty and far too hot.
“But it isn't the truth, is it?” the young man fired back insistently.
For fook sake, thought Adam. What is this a trade-off of one question for another? He smiled falsely and tried to swallow but his throat was dry. “If you go around your whole life with your eyes closed, you will never see anything,” Adam replied trying to stay calm and sound professional.
“Your book, Watchers,” began the student, waving a copy in the air as if to highlight the fact. “Whilst there is no doubt that it's a very clever story based around the tragic events that happened almost two and a half years ago, a story is all that it is, fiction!” Despite the stage lighting Adam could see him glancing around the half-filled conference room triumphantly, looking for someone else to back him up.
Adam knew he was in for a rough time at his first book launch talk, however, Mike Warren, his publicist, had insisted he get out there and, Promote, promote, promote! He could still hear his annoying and slightly high pitched cockney accent, the words ringing round his head like a bell. “This book could have legs, I don't care if any of that shit is true, this is going to be controversial, and you know what controversy makes, Adam? Money, a fuck load of money, and if there is one thing we all need right now it's MONEY!”
Six months after returning home Adam had finally finished writing his account of the nightmare that he and Sam had become tangled up in. However the world they'd returned to was a very different one than they knew. With one seventh of the population dead from The Reaper Virus (so nicknamed due to the aggressive and unforgiving way it had swept through whole nations killing millions, like a deadly scythe), and the entire planet without electricity, society was hinging on outright anarchy. The first year was the toughest by far. As the British Government, which in itself was at near collapsing point, done their best to get the power back whilst trouble had brewed in the streets. Food rationing had been brought back for the first time since the Second World War, something that the wasteful modern day society didn't take kindly to. The army were drafted in to help maintain order and in many places Martial Law had been invoked. The past few months had started to see the military governed areas being handed back over to l
ocal law enforcement. It was a slow process and the Army still had primary control in a few of the rougher areas of the country, but a full handover was only months away. With one in seven dead, more in urban areas, the British Government had held a recruitment drive, looking to replace the numbers of officers lost during the virus.
Reports were saying that around eighty percent of the globe now had power, albeit on a limited basis for many people. Oil run power stations struggled to operate for more than a few hours a day, which didn't help matters. Six months ago the terrestrial and mobile phone networks had started to reappear. Those who were lucky enough to have such luxuries were paying a heavy price for them. In fact any electrical consumer was paying top dollar for the privilege. Someone had to cover the cost for vast amounts of work that were involved to get the pulse of the planet pumping once again. In those first few months of relative normality, as the countries of the world raced to restore the electrical grids, it became clear that new tensions were rising between the East and West. Whilst companies and contractors worked tirelessly to repair the damaged power networks, and smiling politicians gave empty promises that things would soon be back to normal, oil prices began to rocket. Russia, who controlled the Siberian fields, which before the reaper had provided around eighty percent of the planet's dwindling oil supplies, began to put a stranglehold on the precious commodity, and despite what any other front a government uses to justify war, at the end of the day, oil is always a good reason. Whilst no one had fired a shot in anger, yet, there was a new and deadly race on. The race to repair and bring back the nuclear weapons which had been rendered un-launchable by the EMP. News reports were informing the public that over the next few days those defence systems would be back online and it was highly likely the planet would find itself locked into a second Cold War. Oriyanna's hopeful prediction that the global tragedy would help to unite humanity on Earth once and for all had been drastically wrong. The EU had all but broken down in the wake of the disaster. Although Britain still held on to the Euro, many were calling for the beloved Pound to be brought back. With every nation on Earth facing economic ruin and food shortages it had turned into a case of every man for himself. Some small amounts of mutual aid had been seen between the USA and Europe, but it was rare and on a minimal, you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours basis.
With the reintroduction of the phone system the internet had finally made a re-appearance, albeit on a very limited basis and with download speeds that hadn't been seen since the demise of dialup. With the web starting to grow once again, Adam saw his chance. He released Watchers out into the public domain as an online publication. Within certain circles the book went viral, well as viral as it could get on an internet service that was a shadow of its former self. Unfortunately for Adam the readers who believed his account were the kind of people the rest of society didn't take too seriously, the kind of people who walk around with tin foil on their heads to stop aliens reading their minds. The vast majority of readers saw it as no more than a fictional story that cleverly used the most tragic event in human history as its plot line. It was fair to say the book was controversial; this of course led to Adam getting offered a deal from a newly formed publishing company who promised to get three thousand tangible copies of his book into circulation, with more to follow if it took off. In order to try and fend off some of the criticism and flak for the book Adam had agreed to split the profits from his sales between the many charities who were trying to help out in the less developed parts of the world, the parts that were still suffering and didn't have the luxury of food, let alone power. For some of these countries the end of The Reaper was only the start of the suffering. Following the rains that had cleansed Earth of the rabid alien virus, Earth-born ones took hold. Ebola swept through parts of Africa, on a scale not seen since the 2014 - 2016 outbreak a good number of years earlier. With aid virtually non-existent in those early days and many of the Doctors as dead as the patients they'd so desperately tried to help it ran wild, decimating already ravaged communities, it was like an aftershock to the worst humanitarian disaster since the Black Death.
“And you prefer to believe the odd, disjointed accounts given by the governments of the world, do you?” asked Adam, hoping that no one else would join in the attack.
“Well, it certainly seems more plausible to me than some elaborate plan by a highly developed human species to wipe us out so they could claim the planet for their own,” smiled the student. “Do you also believe that the world's governments know the truth and are deliberately trying to cover it all up?”
“No,” replied Adam, leaning forward toward the small microphone. It was a good question and the first sensible thing that this speccy, spotty student had asked. “I believe they have no idea about how things really happened. They have looked at the events of those tragic few days and tried to explain them as best they could. I don't think there is any cover up.” Adam let his eyes scan the rest of the audience. Much to his despair he spotted two rather odd looking middle aged men sporting tee-shirts that read in big bold letters 'JESUS WAS AN ARKKADIAN & HE'S COMING BACK!'
“So then,” began the student, obviously not willing to let it go, “you think they believe that a break away section of Al-Qaida were responsible for the virus.”
“I do, yes. But do you?”
“Why should I question it?”
“Because there had been a six month period of peace in the time before The Reaper, because all reports suggested that Al-Qaida had dissolved and was all but at an end,” defended Adam, it almost made his blood boil, how closed minded some people could be. “That virus was indiscriminate, it killed in every corner of the globe, so even some of their men would have died. It makes no sense. Not to mention the veracity of it, I fully believe that a virus that aggressive, able to spread and kill that fast, was beyond anything even the most talented scientist on Earth could develop.”
“Well it wouldn't be the first time that terrorist activities were continued by a breakaway faction during a period of supposed peace. Look at what happened with the IRA and the various break away gangs.” The student was grinning, looking rather pleased with himself. He chose to ignore Adam's rather accurate reasoning.
“A few shootings and car bombings are in a slightly different league than a virus that wiped out close to a billion people,” snapped Adam. “Sure some fanatical break off group claimed responsibility. I have no doubt that's true, but really? They would never have the technology or means to do it, as I said before.”
“Well, we will have to agree to disagree,” the student replied smugly.
“Anyway thanks for your question, shall we let someone else have a say?” Adam scanned the audience again, ignoring one of the two tee-shirt sporting nut jobs who was waving his hand frantically. “Yes, you madam,” he said pointing to a smartly dressed woman two rows from the front. She looked like a reporter; coming from that background he was pretty good at spotting his own.
“So you also dismiss the claim that the EMP was caused by a period of unusual solar activity, even though this HAS been confirmed by NASA?”
“Look,” said Adam, releasing his grip on the pine trimmed lectern and rubbing his clammy hands together. “As it details in the book, the EMP was caused by a major disruption in the Earth's magnetic field, a side effect of turning on The Tabut.”
“You mean The Ark,” she grinned. “Lest we not forget that not only did you save the world but you also managed to find The Ark Of The Covenant. You're a regular little Indiana Jones, aren't you, Mr. Fisher?”
“Okay,” sighed Adam, letting his eyes fall to the floor and away from the burning stage lights, “I knew I would be open to all sorts of criticism for my work. Hell if I read it I probably wouldn't believe it myself, so I don't blame you. It seems pointless that we keep going over the official account of what happened during those few days. I know that a terrorist group claimed responsibility for The Reaper. I know that NASA believe a solar storm caused the EMP. I'm no astro
physicist, for all I know the effect of The Tabut powering up could have all of the right characteristics of a solar flare. But surely you must find it hard to believe that the weeklong storm that followed was a natural freak weather occurrence caused by the EMP, and that after the week long storm that covered the whole globe The Reaper magically disappeared?”
“Harder to believe than what?” questioned the woman, flicking a long strand of auburn hair out of her face. “Than space aliens cured it? No, Mr. Fisher, I don't find the official account hard to believe at all, I'm almost surprised that they didn't tell you to build an Ark and place all the animals inside to protect them from the flood!”
“God on high saved humanity after washing the lands clean,” cried the frenzied voice of a scruffy grey haired elderly man at the back. Adam rolled his eyes, the old guy might be as mad as a hatter but he wasn't too far wrong.
“Look, it's getting late,' replied Adam, squinting at the clock on the back wall of the hotel's conference room, it was just past ten thirty PM. “Thanks for attending, if you'd like a signed copy of the book I will be in the foyer in ten minutes.” The announcement was met with a murmur of dissatisfaction from the ecliptic mixture of people in the relatively small audience before the first few attendees stood up and made their way toward the exit at the back. Although later than he would have liked it was the cheapest time available to hire the room for a few hours and the most his cheap skate publicist was willing to pay for the first promotional talk that he deemed so important. With everything so expensive, price came above convenience. Satisfied that his non-adoring public had got the message Adam stepped away from the lectern and began to pack his notes into a small plastic storage box that contained a few copies of his book. He didn't expect anyone to be waiting in the foyer, eager to purchase a copy. He had no doubt the tee-shirt wearing guys at the back would be waiting, hungry to barrage him with a volley of questions. The type of mad talk that he didn't want to air in front of an already doubting audience.
