Extinct (Extracted Trilogy Book 3)

by RR Haywood

  Maggie Sanderson used a time machine to simultaneously appear in dozens of government war rooms at the same second with a truly American show of absolute power designed to bring total shock and awe.

  She certainly brought about world peace as not one single nation has fired a shot at another in the guise of war. Instead they have murdered, poisoned, drowned and gone back to covert methods of secret messages written with invisible ink on edible paper while riots raged in nearly every city as the masses rose up in emulation of the heroes that held guns to the heads of their oppressors.

  Mother sips from the long-stemmed glass of champagne. Her eyes now more hooded and the bags deeper and darker. The lines on her face more pronounced. ‘World peace,’ she snorts bitterly.

  ‘Indeed,’ the man at her side says.

  She looks at him, hating him, detesting every ounce of his creation and existence. Then she smiles warmly. ‘So,’ she asks, taking another sip. ‘How does it feel?’

  ‘Feel?’ he asks politely.

  ‘To be Father. How does it feel?’

  ‘Oh, I won’t be Father,’ he says, turning back to the window. ‘It’s been agreed that such terminology is too closely associated with the, er . . . well, with the bad old days.’

  She glares at the side of his head. ‘That’s a good idea,’ she says amiably. You smug cunt, she thinks.

  ‘Yes,’ he says deeply, rocking on his heels in a way that makes her want to slam his face into the window. ‘Plenty to be getting on with,’ he adds, hoping she’ll take the hint.

  There certainly will be, she thinks, draining the glass and watching the heavily armed paramilitary police unit arrive to batter the people away from the holographic projection, using boots to stamp the plastic cube to bits, making Tango Two flicker for a second before blinking out in a way Mother wishes was true and real.

  ‘Well, it’s not my concern anymore, is it?’ Mother says, turning from habit to stalk back towards her desk, then remembering it’s not her desk anymore. It’s his. Roger Downtree. The new head of the British Secret Service. And Mother knows that not one single person within the organisation will be sad to see her go. They’ll have a party. They’ll celebrate and rejoice that the witch is gone.

  ‘Anyway,’ Roger says brightly, turning away from the window to hold his hand out. ‘On behalf of His Majesty’s government, may I thank you for your service?’

  She shakes his hand and waits expectantly. Staring at him. He falters. Unsure of what she is waiting for.

  ‘Well, go on then,’ she prompts.

  ‘What?’ he asks, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘Thank me for my service.’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘You said May I thank you for your service. You never said thank you.’

  ‘Right. I see. Er, okay then. Thank you for your service.’

  ‘You’re most welcome,’ she replies icily, holding his hand until the moment becomes uncomfortable, reading the point when he is about to ask for his hand back and ever-so-politely suggest she should leave.

  ‘Cunt,’ she hisses sharply, making him flinch and pull his hand free as an urgent knocking comes from the door being pushed open by a harried-looking woman blanching at the sight of Mother.

  ‘Mr Downtree, sir . . . there’s, er . . .’ The woman hesitates. Her gaze flicking from Roger to Mother. ‘We have an urgent situation developing, sir . . .’

  ‘I’ll see myself out,’ Mother says, striding past the woman and out of the building for the very last time to be driven through the sullen streets of London for her final debrief with the PM, passing soldiers standing sentry on street corners with drones whirring near silently to keep the masses under scrutiny, and three more times she sees the glowing holographic image of Emily Rose shining in the air.

  A symbol of freedom that the massed public took to their hearts. A lone female armed with an assault rifle making a stand against gunships and armies. A taunting reminder that not only did Mother fail to stop Maggie Sanderson securing the device, but that she also failed to stop that very image being hacked and released from what should have been a secure satellite feed.

  At Downing Street, she walks alone past the soldiers stationed every few metres and looks up the road to the tank sitting massive outside the gates.

  A glance to the side of the street where the press pack once dominated. Now banned since the terrorist attack in which Safa Patel apparently died protecting the then PM.

  ‘Mother,’ Colin Brough says in formal greeting, ushering her in through the main door. An aide to the PM and so full of his own self-importance it makes her want to claw his eyes out, but her attention focusses on the hub of noise and the sight of aides and advisors rushing from room to room clutching tablets and holding rushed conversations. Something is happening. Something big.

  ‘Through here, please. We’ll try not to keep you waiting too long . . . but the PM is somewhat busy right now . . .’

  A look of horror shows on Mother’s face as she walks into the waiting room to sit in humiliated isolated silence. She is Mother. She practically ran this country and has never even seen the inside of a waiting room in Downing Street before, but now sits like a toxic pariah in true isolation until the door opens and the same aide rushes in, his manner worried, his whole being now very preoccupied.

  ‘Colin? Where’s the PM?’ she asks, standing up to glare through those hooded eyes that once made men quake in their shoes.

  ‘My apologies,’ Colin blurts. ‘The PM is, er . . . dealing with something, but she has asked me to pass both her highest regard and her personal gratitude for your service . . .’

  The reaction shows on Mother’s face that floods with deep offence at the insult, and she storms to the front door through the clamouring chaos and out into the silent street, suddenly filling with more soldiers, to be taken home on the last journey she will probably ever make in an armoured government vehicle.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she demands of the driver and guard in the front of the Range Rover as the vehicle speeds through the London streets to her private residence. They don’t answer but then they don’t have to now. She’s not Mother anymore.

  They pull up outside her private Georgian residence and she waits for the driver or the second guard to get out and open the door.

  ‘When you’re ready, love,’ the front-seat passenger says rudely, turning to motion for her to go.

  She goes to fire back, to wither his crass insubordination with a diatribe of abuse, but she is not Mother now. She is nothing and so for the first time in years she opens her own door and gets out to stand and watch as the Range Rover speeds away.

  She walks briskly to unlock her front door, then stops at the alarm panel set on the inside wall, lowering her head for the biometric scanner to read her iris while her thumb presses on a small panel. ‘I am home,’ she says quietly for the benefit of the voice-recognition system.

  ‘System deactivated,’ a soft automated voice announces inside while she turns to absorb the ambience of her cold and empty house that will never be a home, and again she pauses, her eyes narrowing, then flickering to the grandfather clock off to her right.

  She strides forward a few steps and stops facing the open door to the downstairs toilet, staring in at the white-tiled room in silence.

  Seconds pass. A minute. A flicker of irritation, then both things she was expecting happen at the same time. The bathroom fills with a green glow as the tablet in her pocket vibrates with an incoming call.

  She pulls it free, holding it in her hand while taking in the way the white tiles reflect the green shimmering iridescent doorway of light. A figure comes through, marked with blood spatters and holding a pistol. Mother lifts a hand, indicating to wait.

  ‘WHAT?’ the figure shouts before pulling out ear gels that give off the tinny sound of loud rock music. ‘I was listening to music . . . What did you say?’

  ‘Wait,’ Mother says, showing the tablet vibrating. ‘Is it all ready?’


  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ the person replies. ‘Are you answering that?’

  ‘I am indeed,’ Mother whispers, swiping the screen to activate the call.

  ‘Mother?’ an urgent voice says through the secure connection, one she instantly recognises.

  ‘PM,’ Mother says.

  ‘Please,’ Veronica Smedley says, the British Prime Minister and the person that deflected the full responsibility from the government to the shoulders of Mother when it all went so horribly wrong. ‘Mother, please tell me you have nothing to do with this . . .’

  ‘With what?’ Mother asks while the waiting figure taps a foot and hums patiently.

  ‘Mother, I am asking you now. Are you behind this?’ the PM asks, her voice hardening.

  ‘Behind what? You sacked me, remember . . . How do I know what’s going on? I’m the toxic fucking pariah that has been humiliated the world over and hung out to FUCKING DRY . . .’ Mother screams the last two words, her face twisting with rage.

  ‘Oh dear god,’ the PM whispers. ‘Please . . . please don’t do this . . .’

  ‘Tell me,’ Mother hisses. ‘Did you honestly think I wouldn’t find out? Did you really honestly think I wouldn’t know?’

  ‘Mother, please . . .’

  ‘It’s in front of me right now, Veronica, and what a nice shade of green it is. Who chose the colour? Was it you?’

  ‘Full re-instatement. Full control,’ the PM says quickly. ‘I will make a public apology and exonerate you of all wrong-doing. You can have the project . . .’

  ‘What project?’ Mother asks, switching to an innocent tone while the figure holding the gun in the bathroom looks at the blood spatters and tuts mildly. ‘Do you mean the secret time machine you’ve built, Veronica? That project? The one I now have control over? That one? The one I am going to use to hunt down and kill that cunt Maggie Sanderson? That one? I’m going now, but, please, try not to worry, I won’t do anything stupid . . . Sleep well, PM, because it won’t just be Maggie standing over you in the dark . . .’

  ‘MOTHER!’

  She cuts the call off with a simple swipe of her thumb and exhales long and slow with a blast of air rushing through her nose.

  ‘Feel better?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Mother replies. She turns, marches to a cupboard and pulls out the bag she packed earlier, then heads into the bathroom to stare quietly for a second.

  ‘Go through,’ the figure says.

  Mother walks through the solid green light, stepping from her bathroom in London to a brightly lit room with freshly painted concrete walls and a floor littered with dead bodies lying in pools of blood.

  Small anterooms lead off it and a set of double doors give way to a wide corridor as brightly lit as the room she is in.

  Movement behind her as the other person steps through and walks to a fixed stand to operate a screen that shuts the portal off.

  ‘Where are we?’ Mother asks.

  ‘About fifty million years in the past. Do you want the precise date and location?’

  ‘No,’ Mother replies, looking at the bodies.

  ‘That’s Gunjeep,’ the person says, pointing at the corpse of a big bearded Indian man in a white lab coat. ‘Or rather it was . . . They’re all dead anyway.’

  ‘Good,’ Mother says. ‘Where’s the canteen? I want a coffee.’

  ‘Up the corridor. I’ll show you . . .’

  ‘No need. Get this cleaned up. We’ve got a lot of work to do . . .’

  ‘Yes, Mother . . .’

  Four

  Monday evening, Bertie’s Island

  How such a big man can move so silently speaks volumes to his training and experience. Miri still hears him coming, but then she is also highly trained and experienced.

  ‘Sergeant,’ she says without looking round.

  Harry’s lips twitch in a fleeting smile as he comes to a stop next to Miri and stares out at the inky black sea. Warm and humid and the stars overhead shine bright and glorious. Night-time in the Cretaceous period is good, but Harry can’t remember anywhere matching this now. Northern Africa maybe.

  There was no choice but to spend the night on Bertie’s island away from the stinking bunker. Malcolm and Konrad were brought up to speed within an hour, but then Miri has that ability to make grown men listen and take in what she is saying.

  ‘Help you?’ Miri asks.

  ‘Wanted to ask for a pass, ma’am.’

  ‘A pass?’

  ‘Aye, ma’am.’

  She thinks for a minute, processing the different military terminology and what it could mean. ‘Do you want leave, Harry?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why?’

  A barely noticeable shift in his position as he stands at ease with his hands behind his back, and although he stays impassive that lack of reaction speaks volumes. ‘Killed a lot of men, ma’am. Mission was difficult. Be good to get drunk . . . and . . . well . . . Not been home in a long time, ma’am.’

  She frowns in thought while looking up at him. Harry is the least demanding of all of them. The most dependable too. Unflappable. Fearless and selfless to a fault and that’s the problem with honourable men: they’ll do the bad thing, all right, but they’ll suffer for it afterwards. Not on the surface, but deep inside. A niggle that can turn into a nag and eventually leads to a noose or the barrel of a gun.

  In the blink of an eye she brings knowledge of his life to the forefront of her mind. Harry was engaged to marry Edith. He is an Alpha-type male. Fit and healthy. He has been confined to the bunker for months. Safa and Emily are both very attractive women and although Harry has more honour in his little finger than most men have in their entire bodies he still has the same needs and desires as everyone else.

  ‘You cannot go home,’ she says firmly. ‘Our extractions are permanent.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘But yes to a night away and getting drunk. Some’ – she pauses to choose her words carefully – ‘decompression wouldn’t go amiss. We’ll get through tomorrow and reassess.’

  ‘Aye. Thank you.’

  ‘Anytime,’ she says quietly as he nods smartly and walks off back towards the lights glowing outside the shack and the others sitting at the large picnic table.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Emily asks as the big man sits down.

  ‘Aye,’ he says simply.

  ‘Beer?’ Safa asks, passing a bottle down.

  ‘Aye,’ he says just as simply while taking the bottle.

  ‘Aye,’ Emily says, deep, hearty and mimicking a gruff look that makes him smile. She holds his eye for a second and inclines her head with an unspoken question hanging in the air between them. He shakes his head. She frowns lightly. He shrugs minutely and takes a sip of his beer as she reaches over and rubs his arm. ‘Tell me later.’

  ‘Nowt to say.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Ben asks, seeing the interaction between them.

  ‘Nowt,’ Harry says, taking another sip from the bottle.

  ‘We’re sleeping under the stars tonight,’ Emily says, pointing her bottle at Harry, ‘and you’re my pillow.’

  ‘Aye,’ he says, looking away to the flat surface of the sea.

  ‘Awful state,’ Malcolm calls out. The attention on Harry moves to the two workmen walking into the clearing. ‘Bloody awful . . . You haven’t changed the filter in the filtration system and the tanks haven’t been emptied in months, so the outlet valve in the outside wall is actually dripping poo . . .’ He trails off from his mini rant on seeing Emily watching him. ‘I didn’t kiss you.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘What concerns me,’ Konrad says, taking over from Malcolm as he grabs a bottle of beer from the case and twists the top off, ‘is the mould growing in the corners . . .’ He swigs a mouthful, tries to suppress a belch and looks round. ‘The inside of the bunker is effectively a modern environment, right? The filtration system is the barrier between the two worlds, right? Is the mould,’ Konrad asks, holding his bottle up in emphasis
of his question, ‘is it modern fungus growing in a Cretaceous environment or Cretaceous fungus growing in a modern environment?’

  ‘Er . . .’ Ben says.

  ‘Because, either way, with that filtration system knackered we could have altered the state of the entire world as we know it,’ Konrad adds with a nod and a big glug from the bottle. ‘Only takes a spore . . . a seed on a shoe . . . bacteria or . . . or whatever and that’s it. Your T-rex never happens and instead we get something between a goat and a dog as the master race.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s okay,’ Ben says.

  ‘I’m not,’ Konrad says. ‘Wouldn’t be obvious either. Could take generations to have an effect.’

  ‘We’ll add it to the list of shit to worry about,’ Ben says.

  ‘Dead Nazi being chased by Malcolm,’ Safa says. ‘Put that on the list.’

  ‘He wasn’t dead when he was chasing him,’ Emily says. ‘He wasn’t a zombie . . .’

  ‘Semantics,’ Ben says. ‘Anyway, what outlet valve?’ he asks Malcolm.

  ‘Outside, on the back wall. It’s low down, hidden by the long grass that hasn’t been cut . . . We had a hose in the warehouse in Berlin. Coupled it on and stuffed the end down the sewage drains. God knows how we’ll drain it now without a hose.’

  ‘Add buying a hose on the list of shit to worry about,’ Emily says, waggling her bottle of beer at Ben.

  ‘Miri?’ Ben calls out.

  ‘What?’ Miri calls back.

  ‘We need a new hose.’

  ‘And a list of shit to worry about,’ Safa says to a few chuckles.

  ‘We always have a list of shit to worry about,’ Miri’s voice floats back.

  ‘Want a beer, Miri?’ Emily shouts.

  ‘Minute.’

  ‘How’s Ria?’ Emily asks.

  ‘Awful mess,’ Malcolm says sadly.

  ‘Awful, bloody Roland,’ Konrad says. ‘Greedy, selfish sod. We told him. We told him, didn’t we, Malc? We said he’s out of his depth. We said he shouldn’t be doing it.’