Piracy: The Leah Chronicles (After it Happened Book 8)

by Devon C. Ford

  The Leah Chronicles

  Book Two

  Piracy

  Devon C Ford

  Copyright © Devon C Ford 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission from the publisher.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No affiliation is implied or intended to any organisation or recognisable body mentioned within.

  Published by Vulpine Press in the United Kingdom in 2019

  Cover by Claire Wood

  ISBN: 978-1-912701-63-6

  www.vulpine-press.com

  Dedicated to the memory of Leah Anne Johnstone.

  Born 5th March 1994

  Died 7th May 2011

  May this Leah have been a shadow of the woman you could have become.

  The After it Happened series:

  Survival

  Humanity

  Society

  Hope

  Sanctuary

  Rebellion

  Set in the UK in the immediate aftermath of a mysterious illness which swept the country and left millions dead, the series follows the trials facing a reluctant hero, Dan, and the group that forms around him.

  Piracy

  Prologue

  “Three hundred metres,” Dan said in a low voice, “reckon you can make that?”

  I didn’t answer. The air was still and flat and the sea was only rolling slightly, but that undulating movement of the waves was enough to only give me two chances to fire with each swell.

  He lay beside me, his own eye up close to the scope of the rifle which had little hope of matching the killing power of my own at that distance. In these conditions on dry land I was confident that I could put the bullet in the right place, but the risk of the shot falling or drifting in the air between our boat and theirs posed too much of a risk; I couldn’t be responsible for killing our own people.

  “We need to be closer,” I said before raising my voice, “Mateo?”

  “Si?” came the response in Spanish from the captain of the fishing boat. He understood far more English than he spoke, and his French wasn’t strong enough for us both to communicate that way.

  “Take us closer. Another hundred metres.”

  The boat’s engine chugged faster as the revs were increased and the prow I lay flat on raised slightly, removing the lower hull of the other vessel from my sight.

  “Not too close,” Mitch warned from his spot on the stern, “not within weapon range.”

  I doubted Mateo knew what he meant, or even the range of the weapons Mitch was talking about; we were already within weapons range of our own guns, but he wouldn’t take us any further than he thought was safe. He was reluctant enough to get as close as we were after the distant rattle of automatic gunfire had caused him to reverse course until I had calmed him.

  He was a big man, strong and with muscles that reminded me of the tough sailor he was, but he had never liked violence. Perhaps because he had a talent for it. His brother was the opposite, becoming a soldier leading the men and women of a militia in another settlement, but Mateo disliked the gunfire on a cellular level.

  “I count four,” I said, before correcting myself. “Mateo? Are any of our sailors on that boat black guys?”

  “We have only one man with the dark skin who fish,” he answered, “he no on this boat.”

  Four then, I thought, at least four I can see.

  “Circle us around them,” I said, indicating a swirling movement with my left hand which I took away from my rifle briefly, “but keep your distance.”

  He turned the boat again, chugging it slowly over the open sea before backing it off again.

  “Boat,” I told Dan as soon as it came into sight. “Mateo, stop.”

  The engine note died.

  “Can’t see it properly,” Dan muttered from beside me.

  “Small. It’s got two of those engines that hang off the back.”

  “Outboard motors,” Mitch responded pointlessly before saying something more useful but concerning, “means there’s a bigger boat out there because that one won’t have made it far on its own.”

  That gave me pause, and I asked for the others to keep a watch on the horizon with binoculars.

  “I see it,” a voice said from behind me in accented English, spoken for our benefit most likely, “to the right. Is very far away.”

  I moved the barrel of my rifle an inch at a time to the right as I scanned the faint line where clear sky met the clear water at an almost undetectable threshold. I saw it, faint but huge with only the top part of its bulk visible. I knew curvature of the earth from studying how to kill things at distance, but the term hull down came to me from nowhere. I swung the barrel back to our other boat, stationary and riding the small swell like it was a goat tied to a post in order to attract a predator.

  Lured or not, we had to go and get our people.

  “I’ve got a shot,” I said softly.

  “Describe him,” Dan instructed, wanting to be able to make out my target when he only had half the magnification before his own eye.

  “Stood near the back,” I said as I concentrated, “holding a long.”

  Shorts and longs, how Mitch had taught me to quickly differentiate between the weapons people held.

  “Any more detail?”

  I paid closer attention to the shape of the weapon.

  “No stock… curved mag… AK I think.”

  Dan made a noise which meant nothing; an acknowledgment that I had spoken and conveying opinion on the words.

  “The foreskin of Africa,” he grumbled without explaining. “Can you see the others?”

  “One in the boat… three on deck… standby,” I said slowly, “another one coming from below. Five in total now. Five hostiles.”

  Dan said nothing for a time.

  “You’re sure of the shot?” he asked me, not questioning my ability, merely checking.

  “Yes.”

  “Mateo? Wait for the shot, then take us in fast,” he said, turning away from his firing position and groaning as he got to his feet.

  “In your own time, kid,” he said.

  “Relax, Granddad,” I said as I slipped my finger onto the trigger without taking the pressure out of it, “you just get ready.”

  Breathe.

  Hold.

  Relax.

  Breathe.

  Hold.

  Squeeze.

  Maternal Instincts

  I didn’t quite know how to say it, especially when I wasn’t sure, but it was the first and last thing on my mind that day.

  I was late. Not for the start of the supply run but, you know, late.

  I’d been living with Lucien for just over a year, and that was after he had flitted around me like a moth around a candle for months beforehand. Dan wanted to send him off to the farm or to Andorra or The Orchards. I declined his request, relenting enough to allow him to be sent as escort on as many of the summer supply runs as possible, if only to create a little distance.

  He never returned to his post in the watchtower, and that was because I came up with reasons to keep him from climbing the cliff path and not being around me anymore.

  Eventually I relented, spending a lot of my downtime with him until everyone around us stopped smiling every time we
were seen together. When the novelty wore off I realised it was what I wanted, and he had stayed in my room every night since then. I guessed it was our room after that, despite Nemesis grumbling and moving into the room beside the bedchamber at the unwelcome interruption to our girl time. It didn’t stop her climbing on the bed first, on his side, and refusing to move until I pretty much had to drag her away.

  He didn’t have much, but his bags got unpacked and he moved in with me. I had just turned twenty years old, although my life was very different to that of anyone staring down the barrel of the big two-one. As Dan always said, It’s not the age of the car, but the mileage you need to consider.

  I was still sure to give Lucien plenty of jobs that took him away from me, because I still needed some time to myself, but I always looked forward to his return.

  That morning I was going towards the nearest city, Perpignan, with Dan, Neil, Mitch, Adam and a half-dozen others, and Lucien was staying behind to take charge of Sanctuary in our absence. We were using some of our precious diesel to clear the last of the supplies from one of the huge hypermarkets found on the outskirts. These places needed a lot of hands to get done properly, because there was fuel to pump and a lot of heavy stuff to carry. I usually used young female prerogative and claimed overwatch during these things, preferring to watch the heavy lifting rather than taking more of an active part.

  I couldn’t face speaking to Marie about my worries, nor could I go to Kate in our medical centre because I knew she would forbid me from leaving the safety of the walls, and would probably tell Dan just to make sure I complied. I couldn’t deal with that, and I couldn’t deal with the hassle of people knowing.

  It’s not like I even know for sure, I lectured myself, it’s probably a false alarm anyway.

  I kitted up, fed and exercised my dog, ran over everything with Lucien for the fifth time to be sure he knew what to do in the tiny off-chance that something happened in the whole day that Dan and I weren’t around to stop it. He assured me that he had everything under control and tried to tell me to relax.

  “Never,” I told him sternly, “in the history of women, has one ever calmed down when they were told to. Try to remember that.”

  He smiled at me, one corner of his mouth just screaming amusement at my expense but not pushing his luck so far as to actually piss me off. I hated it when he did that. And I loved it.

  I shot him a warning look, only half serious, and turned to the big stone pot filled with sand from the beach. I pulled the charging handle on my M4, my worn camouflage-painted weapon that I felt oddly superstitious about even though there were arguably better guns available, and pointed the barrel towards the sand trap in case any errant bullet decided to pop from the suppressed muzzle.

  Safety first and all that.

  I turned to leave but he called me back with a “Hey,” before wrapping me up in a big hug and kissing my hair.

  “I’ll be back tonight,” I told him, hoping that he mistook my pensive mood for the distant supply run and not for what it was truly about, “just don’t bugger anything up while I’m gone, okay?”

  He muttered something playfully sarcastic in French which I ignored, mostly because I didn’t understand it. The language was hard enough to learn without all the little idioms he came out with; like an East-Londoner and a native of the Yorkshire Dales having a conversation in what was technically the same language but neither could understand a bloody thing the other said.

  I left him, pushing down the pang of wanting to stay, and walked past Marie’s room where I peeked in and saw my younger brother playing on the woollen rug. It was still chilly outside that early in spring, but Marie still encouraged the younger ones to be outside as much as possible. She wasn’t one for coddling them and encouraging comfort until they had learned to endure a little hardship first to toughen them. He was nearly seven years old then and had never quite been as robust as the other kids. Marie was great with him, which I knew she would be, and surviving the ordeal to get here and cross thousands of miles of post-apocalyptic Europe in shitty conditions to have him safely probably meant that seeing her son, even now when he was a walking, talking person, made it all the more miraculous that he survived.

  I stepped inside, unclipping my carbine and propping it against the doorway before telling Nemesis to stay outside by the gun. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust the dog at all, but I got annoyed when kids tried to mess with her like she was a pet. I imagined it would be like owning a specialist race car and seeing people just wanting to marvel at the colour of it.

  “Hello,” I said to him with a smile which he returned and jumped up to hug me as best he could with all the kit protruding from my vest. He made do by wrapping his arms around my waist and ducking his head to hug my left hip. I gently moved his hand away from the gun on my right thigh, not because he was reaching for it but because it just concerned me with him being so close to it.

  “We’re off,” I told Marie, who smiled politely and nodded her understanding before dropping the smile and returning to the paper she was reading from.

  “What’s up?” I asked, feeling duty-bound to check but fearing the answer would not be a short one.

  “Ask your father,” she said in a tone of voice that sounded almost serrated.

  “Okaaaay,” I said, drawing out the word and backing up one exaggerated step at a time as I tried to untangle myself from my little brother.

  “Actually,” she snapped, “don’t bother. He’ll just ignore you anyway.”

  Here it comes, I thought, wait for it…

  “And while you’re at it,” she said, slamming down the paperwork, “remind him that he doesn’t have to do everything himself. Remind him that he does actually have the power to delegate once in a bloody while.”

  “I will do that,” I said slowly and solemnly, fearing that it came out as a little sarcastic.

  I found him near the gate. He looked tired, but then again he was old. At least old by my standards. On that thought, I guessed he would always be old to me.

  “In the doghouse, are we?” I asked his broad back, which had put back on some of the timber he used to carry. He turned, frowned and pursed his lips as though not sure how to respond, before evidently deciding to tell me.

  “Yes. Most of the time,” he said flatly.

  “What have you done now?”

  “Me?” he responded, his voice full of injury and objection. “Why is it always me who is at fault?”

  “Err, because it usually is?” I told him seriously, as though he didn’t know this fact.

  He huffed, turned back to his kit bag, which was on the lowered tail of the big truck bed, and I counted it down in my head…

  ...Seven, six, five, fou–

  “Well if you must know,” he said in a louder voice as he whipped back around, “it’s not actually my fault this time. She doesn’t want me to go outside the walls. Ever!” He threw his hands up in exasperation as though he didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to go and play.

  For starters, although I didn’t tell him this, referring to Marie as ‘she’ was dangerous enough in itself. “Maybe she has a point?” I offered softly. “You could always delegate the odd mission and stay at home.”

  “Delegate?” he asked, a dark scowl inspecting my face for signs of conspiracy. “Sounds like she got to you too… Brutus.”

  “Maybe,” I said, slipping one arm out of my bag and swinging it around to land it next to his, “but you know women stick together. And don’t call me Brutus.”

  “Women,” Dan scoffed without malice, “I preferred it when you were a kid.”

  “Isn’t that what everyone says about their kids?”

  Dan mused on this for a while before shrugging as though to convey his sentiments of meh.

  We were saved from any further difficult conversation by the ebullient arrival of Neil. His belly arrived just before he did; it wasn’t so much that it was in a different time zone but enough to be noticeable. His glee
at the success of his latest batch of yeasty home-brewed beer still shone on his face, specifically his red nose, and his gut betrayed the amount of complex scientific experiments on said home brew he had been doing over the past year. Belly or not, Neil was still Neil and there were always a gaggle of younger men and women around him eager to learn any of his ingenious tricks.

  Neil’s Life Hacks. That’s what his own encyclopaedia had been dubbed, by him at least, and had become a separate tomb of knowledge aside from Victor’s precisely penned records. No doubt the academic would want to rewrite them at some point, but Neil was insistent that something would get lost in translation and his valuable knowledge would be lost in the nuances of language.

  “Shall we away then?” he asked Mitch in an appalling Scottish accent. Mitch just scowled at him, fully believing that the hour was too early to tolerate Neil being so… so Neil.

  “Aye,” he said deadpan, “let’s away now.”

  As we drove along the bumpy roads, so degraded by the passage of time and the lack of maintenance that some sections were more like gravel tracks than the concrete and tarmac roads they had been before, I mused that we would probably have another scorching hot summer after the brisk spring. There would be a period of thunderstorms soon, sudden and vicious which would drench our world and swell the river running through Sanctuary from the mountains, and I looked forward to those big firework displays and the earth-shaking thunder that followed the bright flashes.

  My head bumped against the passenger window, prompting a loud ‘ow’ from me.

  “Sorry,” Dan said without much meaning, “pothole.”

  “Bloody potholes,” I moaned, “why hasn’t someone been on to the local council to complain?”

  “I wrote a letter last year,” Dan answered seriously as he played along, “and they assured me that they were assessing the situation and promised to get back to me with an update. They never did, you know… I should’ve written to my local Member of Parliament.”