by Stewart Ross
First published in 2013 by Curious Fox, an imprint of Capstone Global Library Limited, 7 Pilgrim Street, London, EC4V 6LB – Registered company number: 6695582
www.curious-fox.com
Copyright © 2013 Stewart Ross
The author’s moral rights are hereby asserted
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978 1 78202 018 9
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.
Cover images:
Shutterstock – © Matthew Strauss; © robodread
istockphoto – © coloroftime
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means (including photocopying or storing it in any medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or incidentally to some other use of this publication) without the written permission of the copyright owner.
This book is gratefully dedicated to Eloise, Laura, Lucy, Luke, Meg, Molly, Paul, Seamus and the host of others who helped guide the Mission.
The Long Dead: 2106
Later, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he noticed a sheet of paper lying on the desk. It was dry and crackled in his fingers when he brought it nearer the light. As he slowly deciphered the faded handwriting, his eyes widened in surprise. It was a letter, a message from the Long Dead.
Greetings –
I imagine you’re reading this, whoever you are, because you want to know what this place is all about. I’ll try and explain as briefly as I can – I haven’t got much time left.
Back in May 2017, an epidemic of what we called the Mini-flu struck the world. Everyone got it but, as the slight symptoms lasted only a few hours, no one took much notice. They should have. The disease was mutating the mechanism in our DNA that controls ageing. The delayed effect kicked in from August 2018.
Before this we had aged slowly, many of us living to 70, 80 or even 100. Not any more. Nowadays everyone suddenly grows old and dies during their 19th year. The speed of change is terrifying – 3-4 weeks at most. We call it the “Death Month”.
Adults over 19 went first, billions of them. Services collapsed, power failed, plagues swept the planet, rotting bodies piled in the streets. In a few short months, science, literature and knowledge – thousands of years of human civilization – disintegrated. Fortunately or not, we were saved from full-scale warfare because governments ordered the destruction of all domestic and military weaponry immediately they saw what was going on.
Less than a year has passed since it all began – and it’s mayhem out there. Law and order have broken down and gangs of desperate teenagers terrorise the streets and countryside. I can understand how they feel. They know their 18th birthday is their last: at some point during the next 365 days they’ll wake up to find their skin a little tighter and flecks of grey in their hair. They’ll be in their Death Month, with just days to live. There are many suicides.
I’m one of the last old-style adults. As my Death Month started about three weeks ago, I reckon I’ve got only a few hours to go. By the end of July, there won’t be a single one of us left.
I guess you understand something of what I’m talking about. Your DNA – if you understand what that is – must be the same as ours. That means you and the people you live with are all 18 or younger. I can’t imagine your world, though it must somehow have evolved out of ours – the one you can probably see in ruins all about you.
So, what’s this strange depository you’ve managed to get into? Racing against time, a group of us have tried to secure a tolerable future for our kids. We’ve set up camps for them to manage on their own when we’re gone. Maybe you’re from one of these? I hope so.
We’ve also built this place, a secure vault containing all the human knowledge and wisdom we could gather. It’s for you, young stranger – as long as you’re able to access it. We’ve included the data of the Salvation Project, a medical programme aimed at reversing the DNA-altering symptoms of the Mini-flu. The scientists died before their work was finished. I don’t know how close they came to success.
I trust you’ll be able to use what you find here. It may allow you to pick up the pieces and carry on where we left off. Try and make a better fist of it than we did! With that wish in mind, I’ve named this vault after an ancient word for salvation: Soterion, the only place of hope in a world looking so desolate that it breaks my dying heart.
Dr Rebekkah Askar - 10 July 2019
1: A Refugee
As the first cold light of dawn fingered through the forest, she rose from the ground and ran. Silently at first, afraid of waking the guards, then recklessly, her dark hair streaming behind her like an ancient warrior of legend.
Thorns tore her flimsy clothing and clawed at her bare legs. Soon she was panting heavily, mouth open, gasping in the damp morning air. Still she ran, desperately and blindly towards the rising sun.
On the edge of a glade, she paused for breath. Dogs. Had they discovered her absence and unleashed the hounds? If they had, she was doomed. They would hunt her down like a beast and circle her, laughing as they watched their animals tear her to pieces. Worse, if they managed to pull the hounds off before she died, they would drag her back as a trophy for him.
To the Zeds, “mercy” was an obscenity.
Chest heaving, she raised her head and listened. Nothing. Just birdsong and the busy hum of early insects. No, wait. Far away, deep within the thickness of the forest, she heard the first unmistakable howl. They were on to her.
There was no hiding. Wherever she went, the keen noses of the hounds would seek her out. Her only option was to keep running. Terror gave her new strength, and before long the trees had thinned to a stony incline of tired scrub. Partly on all-fours like a wild animal, she scrambled to the top and looked down.
It was a dream that unfolded below her, a miracle. On the floor of a green valley watered by a wide river, a small community clustered around what remained of a Long Dead farmhouse. Beside it stood several stone buildings and a scattering of rough wooden huts. Smoke from a dozen fires curled lazily into the clear air. Nearer to her, reached by a wooden bridge, stretched broad fields protected by spiked barricades and watchtowers.
She gasped in amazement. They were Constants. Quite by chance, she had stumbled upon a community of her own kind. If she could get down the slope and cross the plain to the boundary, she would be among friends, safe.
The barking was louder now, and approaching fast. Spurred on by hope, bounding, sprinting, leaping, sometimes falling and rolling out of control, she careered down the side of the valley in a small avalanche of dust and stones. At the bottom, she glanced up to see the first pursuers silhouetted on the crest above. One of the dogs was already bounding down the slope towards her. To her left, an arrow fell harmlessly into the damp grass.
The spikes and towers of the palisade were plainly visible, perhaps only 800 paces away. But even that was too far – though a strong runner, she couldn’t possibly match the speed of hounds with the scent of a kill in their nostrils. The mission had failed.
At that moment, a bell clanged within the distant community. Hearing it, a thousand bright memories danced in her mind and the hint of a smile momentarily lighted across a face already lined by fear and hardship. She rose to her feet, hope rekindled, and with pumping fists and straining legs, she ran again.
Cyrus was woken by the harsh clanging of the alarm. Attack! At first, he didn’t believe it. The Zeds never made a move this early in the day,
it was not their way. Emir Leiss said it was because they were too lazy or too stupid, or both. Cyrus closed his eyes again – the alarm went hammering on. It was for real.
Across the Constant community of Della Tallis, men and women who had seen more than eleven winters came stumbling out of the huts, wiping their eyes and blinking in the bright early morning light. All were armed, some with long bows, others with weapons fashioned from metal from objects made before the Great Death. Fully awake now, Cyrus stuffed a knife shaped from a car spring into his belt and grabbed the steel-tipped spear handed down to him from his grandfather. When no one lived to see nineteen winters, grandparents were remote, even legendary figures. Apparently his spear was a “niner” – its powerful thrusts had ended no less than nine Zed lives.
Cyrus hurried across the bridge and headed for his sector of the defence palisade. Navid, the same age but rounder in the face, stockier and bearing a long-handled axe with a blade that had once been a wheel, fell in alongside. Together they jogged into position to the right of the central watchtower. Corby, Navid’s huge, mud-coloured mongrel dog, lay on the grass beside them.
The two men peered over the pointed stakes towards where the valley floor rose steeply into the woods. Yes, it was an assault alright, but a strange one. It seemed to be headed by a single figure, with dogs and other runners following behind. Cyrus had fought off several Zed attacks since becoming a Defender six winters ago, but he had never before seen one that began like this. He glanced up at the watchtower from where Taja, the Mudir of the sector, gave her orders.
“What is it, Taja?” he called.
“I’m not sure. There are very few of them. Strange – the person out front looks like a woman. It’s probably some sort of trick.”
“Why the dogs?” Navid glanced down at Corby, whose ears were twitching at the sound of barking. “Thought they only used them for hunting?”
“They do.” Taja paused, staring hard at the scene developing in front of her. “And it looks as if that’s what they’re doing here, hunting…that woman.”
Her voice was level, matter-of-fact. A Mudir of eighteen winters, she was well known throughout the community for her intelligence and ability to stay calm under pressure.
As they watched, the leading figure began waving her arms and shouting. It sounded like a cry for help. Then, out of exhaustion or because the movement caused her to lose her balance, she tripped and fell forward.
The baying hounds, no more than fifty paces behind, closed rapidly. Their quarry struggled to her feet and ran heavily on. Her screams were quite audible now.
“Help! Help me! Constant! Not Zed!”
Cyrus frowned. “She’s one of us, Taja! We must shoot the dogs! For pity’s sake, tell the archers to shoot the dogs!”
“I’m the Mudir, Cyrus, and I will make the decisions. I told you, it might be a trick.”
Cyrus glanced again at the desperate woman. He was convinced that this was no act. The screams, the frantic gestures were too distressingly real. He hurried to the foot of the watchtower and looked up at the impassive Mudir.
“Please, Taja. For me.”
Taja’s face remained inscrutable. After a short pause she said quietly, “For you, Cyrus, yes. Just for you.” Then she turned away, calling sharply, “Archers! Target the dogs, not the woman. Aim! Shoot!”
Two dozen arrows sped towards their target. Six of the eight hounds let out squeals of pain as the missiles sank deep into their taut flesh. Some died outright; the others, mortally wounded, lay panting and whimpering on the bloodstained grass. Seeing the carnage and not wishing to lose any more precious animals, their masters whistled for the two unharmed beasts to follow them and, shouting curses at the jeering Constants, retreated across the meadow into the forest.
Moments later, willing hands hauled the fugitive over the barricade and lowered her, quivering with fatigue and relief, to the ground. As Cyrus and Navid bent to help her, Corby began behaving strangely. Maybe it was the scent she brought with her, but he had been uneasy from the moment the good-looking stranger crossed the palisade. Growling quietly, he now went up to her and stood poised, like a guard, over the prostrate body.
“What’s the matter, Corby?” asked Navid. “Something about her you don’t like?”
The dog responded by sniffing at the woman’s hair. Cyrus, who had cushioned her head on his knee so she could drink from the clay cup he held, pushed the creature away. “Don’t be so daft, Corby!” he snapped, surprised by his own sharpness. “Get him off, Navid! He’s being stupid.”
“No, Cyrus,” said a calm, confident voice above him. “The dog’s quite right. It is we who have been stupid.”
It was Taja. She had come down from the watchtower to interrogate the new arrival. With a slight frown, she knelt and swept back the long dark hair that had fallen across the woman’s handsome face and brow. The onlookers gasped in dismay. Burned black and deep into the clear brown skin of her forehead was the unmistakable tattoo of a Zed.
“See!” barked Taja, springing back to her feet. “First appearances are deceptive, Cyrus. She’s a Zed. Kill her!”
Had the Defenders been as certain as their Mudir, the outsider would have died there and then. But they knew Zeds were tattooed after five winters, and the mark on this woman, who looked as if she had seen at least seventeen, was still quite fresh and raw. Something was not quite right, and for a crucial moment no one moved.
“I repeat,” said Taja, “kill her! Now!”
One of the Defenders slowly raised his heavy sword. Cyrus’ pulse quickened. Yes, the refugee carried the hated tattoo, he told himself, but it was not that simple. She was somehow different, almost special; no Zed was this dignified – and certainly not this attractive. Even if it meant questioning a Mudir’s judgement, he had to do something.
But before he could speak, the woman herself lifted brilliant green eyes towards the sword poised over her and said quietly, “No, please don’t! I am Roxanne, from the Constant community of Yonne. I was captured by the Zeds. They branded me with this tattoo to make me one of their own.”
“Can you prove it?” demanded Taja, signalling to the executioner to lower his sword.
Roxanne pulled herself up until she rested on an elbow. “Yes, I will prove it, and I will explain everything.”
She paused for a moment to drain the cup. “Thank you, Cyrus.” Taking it back, he looked at her directly for the first time. The brilliance of her eyes unnerved him.
Turning quickly back to Taja, she went on, “And thank you for sparing my life. You see, before I was captured, I was on a mission, a mission to change the lives of all Constants for ever.”
For a moment, Taja studied her curiously, carefully, like a cat trying to figure out the intentions of an intruder on its territory. Then, frowning slightly, she shifted her gaze towards Cyrus. Finally, she looked back at the refugee and nodded. Cyrus understood the gesture at once. It spoke of acceptance, not welcome, and granted Roxanne nothing more than a stay of execution.
On Taja’s orders, Roxanne was escorted back to the farm. Here she was kept under close guard in the Prison Hut while Della Tallis’ ruling council, the Majlis, assembled to hear her case.
The meeting was held in what had been the living room of the old farmhouse. The once-comfortable chamber was now little more than a barn. For generations nothing had been replaced or repaired. The glass in the windows was missing or broken, and the only items of furniture were rough wooden benches and a thick-legged pine table. A dirty shadow showed where a Long Dead ancestor had laid a carpet over the broken stone flags of the floor. Overhead, where once an electric light had shone, a bare, cobweb-strewn flex dangled from the cracked ceiling. Only the fireplace, broad and comforting, remained much as it had been in times past, an ash-strewn echo of former wonders.
For all its faded shabbiness, the ch
amber had a special significance for the settlement. It was a tangible link to the Long Dead. Though the rusting and crumbling constructions of those revered ancestors were gradually being repossessed by nature, the council room remained a practical symbol of a civilization the Tallins proudly strove to maintain. Its half-remembered principles and customs, like reaching council decisions by handshow, were what distinguished them from the despicable barbarity of the Zeds.
The Majlis was presided over by Emir Leiss. He was joined by Della Tallis’ twelve Mudirs and by Cyrus and Navid, who were allowed in as witnesses to Roxanne’s capture. Leiss, Taja and several others in the room had seen their last winter and might begin the swift disintegration into death at any moment. In the meantime, they had a duty to perform – and duty was one of those Long Dead concepts that the Constants clung to ferociously.
“Right,” said the Emir, standing squarely before the fireplace, “I’ll begin by asking Taja to explain what has been going on.”
The Mudir of the West Tower outlined the events of earlier that day. She did not, however, mention that it was only after Cyrus’ plea that she had taken the decision to shoot the hunting dogs.
“And I requested a meeting of the Majlis, Emir,” she concluded, “because we have no idea who this woman is. She says she’s one of us, a Constant, yet she carries the mark of a Zed. I believe we must be very, very careful. Even if she was once a Constant, who’s to say she has not turned traitor and tricked her way in here to betray us to the Zeds?”
“And what do you recommend, Taja?” Leiss asked.
Taja turned from the Emir and, glancing quickly at Cyrus, said firmly, “Simple. We must take no risks. If at the end of this meeting there remains any shadow of a doubt in our minds, the Z-marked woman who calls herself Roxanne has to be executed.”
At these words, the room filled with a buzz of whispered conversation. It was typical of Taja to be so forthright, and in nine cases out of ten her judgement, however harsh, proved correct. Nevertheless, Cyrus felt uneasy. There was something other than reasonable caution in Taja’s attitude towards the good-looking stranger. He sensed what it was, too, although he didn’t want to admit it.
