by Sam Kates
She blinked and took the glass that Tom handed to her. He resumed his place in the armchair next to hers, clutching a glass of amber liquid.
Ceri took a sip of her drink.
“Hmm,” she murmured. “That’s found the spot. Thanks.”
The spirit’s warmth hit her stomach and spread, finishing the job started by the fire. She leaned back in the chair, taking small sips from the glass and deep drags on the cigarette.
It took her a moment to realise that Tom had spoken.
“Sorry?” she said. “I was miles away.”
“I said, what are we going to do about her?” Tom nodded towards the oak staircase that led from the lounge to the hotel’s guest rooms.
“Do? I’m not sure that we’re going to do anything, are we?”
“We can’t just. . . .” Tom sat forward. “Ceri, she tried to kill us.”
“Not according to Peter. He says she saved our lives.”
“I know that’s what he says. But she set out to kill us. With that bloke. . . .”
“Bishop.”
“Whatever. I don’t see how we can trust her. And Dusty won’t go near her.”
Ceri glanced at the black dog stretched out on a rug alongside the hearth. He was fast asleep, his paws twitching.
“Dusty won’t go near Peter, either,” she said. “But you trust him, don’t you?”
Tom shrugged.
“Mind you,” Ceri continued, “it might help if she would start speaking. Other than thanking us every time we feed her, I’ve not heard her utter a word.”
“Me neither.” Tom drained his glass. “’Nother?”
“Why the heck not.”
Chapter Two
His limp grew more pronounced. His breath came hot and harsh, scratching his throat. His chest heaved with exertion. Eyes darting from side to side, he moved in a stumbling trot, looking for somewhere to hide. To be safe.
Clarity had pierced the haze enshrouding his thoughts sufficiently for him to know that if he stayed in the open he would die, but not enough to show him that all he needed to do was to hole up in one of the terraced houses he was passing.
A bark sounded from somewhere behind him. Another answered. Then a howl that made him increase his pace, despite the pain in his calf.
He stumbled to the end of the street and stopped, leaning against a car, trying to catch his breath. Another bark made him glance back the way he had come. Droplets of blood in a crimson trail led away from him. The right cuff of his trousers felt heavy and damp. At the end of the street, maybe a hundred yards away, a dog appeared. It stood and stared at him. Not the same one that had attacked him earlier. This was much bigger. A wolf?
Alsatian. The word popped into his mind unbidden. He didn’t wonder what it meant, merely accepted that this was what pursued him.
Another dog appeared, black and sleek. Then another: an old friend, wiry-haired and mean.
As the two dogs drew abreast with it, the Alsatian set off in an easy lope towards him, the others close behind. They must have sensed that they didn’t need to hurry now; he was almost spent.
He pulled himself upright and lurched across the road towards the row of houses that ran at a right angle to the street from which he’d emerged. He almost tripped on the kerb at the other side, but managed to correct himself in time. A hot flare went off in his calf and he felt fresh warmth trickle to his foot.
The notion of entering a house and closing the door had still not occurred to him. It was the mere fact that he was running towards the house that made him continue on through the open garden gate and up the concrete path to the front door.
Instinct made him grab the worn brass knob and twist it. Nothing happened.
He glanced back. The dogs had almost reached the junction; would do so in a few more easy strides.
He half-turned and stumbled along the front of the house. A waist-high hedge separated the property from next door. He pushed through it, tearing his trousers some more, wincing at the fresh pain in his calf.
The steam-train sound of the dogs’ panting reached his ears as he fumbled at the door of the next property. That, too, was locked.
Now he could hear the tread of the dogs’ paws on the pavement, the soft thuds of their pads, the clickety-clack of their nails on concrete.
The next property along was separated by a low wall that he almost fell over in his shambling haste. Insight came to him, clear as mountain air: if the third door was locked, he was a goner.
He shuffled past the window to the front door. His hands were now slick with sweat and slipped off the door knob. He tried again and it turned, but the door didn’t budge.
A low moan came from his scraped throat and he slid down the door to his knees. As the growls sounded behind him, he brought his arms over his head and fell to his side in the foetal position.
The growls turned to snarls. Grew louder and triumphant. . . .
* * * * *
Milandra and the group of four that she liked to call her ‘Deputies’ met in her hotel suite. As customary, Milandra occupied an armchair at the head of a horseshoe, the Deputies occupying armchairs placed to complete the formation.
“Okay,” said Milandra, sitting forward. “Let’s talk numbers.”
She looked at Grant. Before he had chance to say anything, Simone Furlong spoke.
“Bishop,” she said in a flat tone. “We want to know what happened.”
Milandra raised her eyebrows at Grant who shrugged. She looked at each of the other Deputies in turn.
Simone, also known as the Chosen, returned her gaze, as did George Wallace. Only Lavinia Cram did not hold eye contact. Lavinia glanced down at her lap, seeming to suddenly find something interesting about her hands.
“What makes you think something’s happened?” asked Milandra.
“Oh, come on!” said Wallace. “We’re not stupid. It’s been weeks since Bishop and Heidler went after the traitor. . . .” He almost spat the last word. “And since then? Nada. What ain’t you telling us?” He glared in turn at Milandra and Grant.
Before Milandra could reply, Simone once more was quicker.
“We looked, but we couldn’t find him,” she trilled in the little girl voice she often used. Milandra was beginning to suspect it was a ruse to make others believe Simone was not playing with a full deck.
“You looked? All three of you?”
This time even Lavinia held her gaze.
“Yes,” said Wallace. “We looked. And Bishop ain’t there. He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Milandra glanced again at Grant, who nodded slowly. She sighed.
“Okay,” she said. “Yes, Bishop is dead.”
“Heidler’s alive, though,” said Simone. Her eyes had narrowed and the little girl pitch had gone from her voice. “We found her, but she was vague . . . shadowy.”
“It was like she was dreaming,” said Lavinia. “Not good dreams.”
“Injured,” said Wallace. “That must be why she’s like that. She’s injured. Bad.”
“I don’t know,” said Milandra. “I—we. . . .” She inclined her head towards Grant. “We haven’t searched for her and she hasn’t contacted us. But what you say makes sense. If she was badly injured, her thoughts probably would appear shadowy.”
“So,” said Wallace.
Milandra raised her eyebrows.
“So,” he repeated. “Who are we going to send after the traitor?”
Milandra shook her head. “We’ve lost two people already going after Ronstadt. Okay, Heidler might not be dead, but we seem to have lost her all the same. I don’t want to risk anyone else. We’ve more important matters to deal with.”
“But we can’t let that fucking traitor just walk away.” Wallace’s face was reddening.
Lavinia grunted in agreement. Simone gazed at the wall above Grant’s head as though she had lost interest in the conversation.
“Milandra’s right,” said Grant. “I know there’s over four and a half thousand
of us, but we can’t afford to lose any more. Besides, Ronstadt may be halfway to the continent by now.”
“Good riddance!” said Wallace. “Okay. I know the Great Coming is important and all, so the traitor will have to wait. But when it’s over, I’m going after him.”
“If that’s what you must do,” said Milandra. “I won’t try to stop you. He has an entire planet to hide out in, but it’s your choice. However, I don’t want any of you trying to look for him, or the drones that are with him, or Heidler, until after the Great Coming. I don’t think for one moment that Peter Ronstadt is a traitor or that he intends to try to interfere with the coming. . . .” She ignored Wallace’s abrupt coughing fit. “I don’t think there’s anything he could do to interfere even if he wanted to, but neither do I want to alert him to our plans. And if any of you find him and probe him, you can bet he’ll probe you back. Have I made myself clear?”
Wallace and Lavinia nodded.
“Simone?”
The Chosen jumped a little as if startled. “Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. Whatever.”
Milandra leaned back in her chair. It groaned softly under her weight. “So, where were we? Yes, numbers. Grant?”
“Okay,” said Grant. “Drones. Last count, we have a little over seven and a half thousand here in London. We keep losing the odd one to dogs, but only when they wander away from where we can protect them. Despite precautions, disease keeps claiming more. But not so many as to become a problem. What is becoming a problem is the rat population. It seems to have exploded. Either that, or they’re just coming more into the open without humans around to scare them off. Drones are getting bitten by them or eating food contaminated by them. They can’t tell bad food from good.”
Simone tittered.
“Why is that such a problem?” asked Wallace. “It’s not as if we’ll need the drones much longer.”
“True,” said Grant. “But they will continue to be useful right up until the Great Coming. Apart from clearing out corpses, we’ve already started them going round switching off electrical appliances in readiness to turn on the Grid. The healthier they are, the more effective they’ll be. And if the rats continue to multiply at their current rate, they’ll become a nuisance to us.”
“Okay,” said Milandra. “You have a solution.” It was a statement, not a question. Milandra knew Grant well.
He nodded. “Small teams of three. It doesn’t take three to control a bunch of rats, but three can watch each other’s backs. These teams clear the immediate area of vermin, then spread out in a widening circle. Clear as much of the city as they can. Any feral dogs they encounter can be dealt with at the same time.”
“The pied pipers of London,” muttered Milandra.
“How will the rats be disposed of?” asked Wallace.
“Well,” said Grant, “I thought of the teams taking poison with them and getting the rats to swallow it, but that will just create another problem: rotting rat corpses. So maybe they could get the rats to go to the Burning Fields and—”
“Jump into the bonfires!” Simone clapped her hands with glee. “I’m gonna go and watch.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Milandra. “How many teams d’you think will be needed?”
Grant shrugged. “At least a hundred. The more the better.”
“Okay. Let’s say two hundred teams. That’s six hundred people. How many do we have working on the Grid?”
“Around five hundred. Eighty or so engineers in the power plants. The rest supervising the drones switching off appliances. We’re ready to switch the Grid back on, but we want to catch as many appliances as we can so there’s less risk of overloading or house fires.”
“And we have around two thousand scouring the city for food and goods, and supervising the clean-up. That leaves around one and a half thousand of us. How many do we already have transport for?”
“Well,” said Grant, “I thought we’d use the double-deckers for the drones. We can carry almost two thousand, two and a half if we get them to stand.”
“Pack ’em in,” said Simone. “Peas in a pod.”
Milandra thought for a moment. “We won’t need nearly that many. That crane will do the main lifting. We’ll need the drones to dig the pits and to position the stones. Of course, the hundred have to go. I should think that another thousand will be more than ample?”
Grant nodded.
“What do you mean by ‘the hundred’?” asked Lavinia.
“We’ve kept back a hundred drones from working. We’re keeping them well-fed, clean and exercised. Sixty-three of them will be used to power the Beacon. The better the condition they’re in, the more effective it’ll be.”
Lavinia nodded. “Makes sense.”
“So,” said Milandra. “What if we send a thousand drones, plus the one hundred, in the double-deckers, and a thousand of us in the coaches? The remaining drones not involved in clearance can all be put to work switching off appliances. The remaining five hundred of our number can be employed wherever there’s a need: clearance, salvage, appliances, vermin. Anyone have any comments?”
“When do we leave?” asked Wallace.
“In five days.”
“Yay,” said Simone. “If you need me before then, just send for me. I’m gonna watch the rats burn.”
Milandra watched Simone file out with the others. The girl didn’t seem to have appreciated the full import of Bishop’s death or, if she had, she hid it well. For at the moment that Bishop’s life snuffed out, his memories and experiences passed to Milandra as the Keeper. They had flooded into her consciousness like poison—Bishop had tortured and killed humans for fun—and included his memory of the night before he left to go after Ronstadt. The memory of the Chosen calling to see him, to inform him that Milandra had lied about Ronstadt’s location. Milandra had learned something from this memory: that she had underestimated Simone’s abilities. She would not make that mistake again. It also showed her that Simone had personal ambitions of advancement, a trait that did not sit easily in a culture that valued the collective over the individual.
She had known before Bishop’s death that the Chosen was unpredictable and Milandra needed to keep an eye on her. Simone’s apparent indifference to Milandra learning of her betrayal to Bishop reinforced that knowledge.
* * * * *
Trying to remember what had happened since she entered the house proved fruitless and caused her head to ache, so she stopped trying. Besides, she had more immediate questions to answer; like, where was she now? And why did she feel so cold?
Opening her eyes might be a good start.
She immediately closed them tightly again as a shaft of pain stabbed her forehead. She breathed deeply until it receded, then tried again.
By lifting her eyelids a little at a time and squinting, she managed to create enough of a gap to be able to take in her surroundings. They weren’t very prepossessing.
She was lying on her back on a settee in a rundown living room. The ceiling was stippled and cracked. The single overhead bulb dangled inside a paper shade, like a Chinese lantern. A grubby one. Grey daylight entered through a large window, but had to struggle past a drab net curtain that looked as though it had been there since the ’80s.
Turning her head slowly, wincing at the pain, she looked around the room. Newspapers and magazines were scattered over a threadbare carpet before two sagging, mismatched armchairs. An ancient-looking gas fire was attached to the peeling wall. A chipped mirror hung above the fire.
Moving gingerly, afraid to make the headache worse, she sat up. It was then she understood why she felt cold. The top half of her body was naked. Bra, tee-shirt and hooded top lay in a heap on the floor in front of the settee. Her lower half was still clad in knickers, socks, leggings and trainers. She leaned forward and gasped as fresh, white-hot pain coursed through her head. She paused, bent forward, waiting for it to subside, wondering whether she would pass out. If anything, she welcomed the pain; it stopped her from speculating on why
she had awoken half-naked.
The pain eased and she collected her clothes from the floor. Straightening slowly, she shrugged into her bra and eased the tee-shirt over her head, being careful to avoid the bump. With her hooded top back on, she felt a lot warmer.
Still moving slowly, she rose to her feet. The world tilted.
While she stood still, waiting for it to stop swaying, she looked inward to see if the compulsion that had brought her to London retained its grip. There was no sign of it. No urge, no need, to reach Hillingdon Hospital remained. She had no idea what had caused the compulsion; she didn’t spend any time pondering why it had disappeared.
Unsteadily, tottering as though drunk, she moved to the mirror and gazed at her reflection.
Pasty complexion; racoon eyes; bedraggled hair that had lost its golden sheen. A lump above her right eye the size of half a hardboiled egg extended under her hairline. A scabbed cut ran down the middle of the lump. Dried blood stained her forehead like an inkblot.
From the corner of her eye she saw a figure pass the window and stifled the shriek before it could betray her presence.
Hardly daring to breathe, she turned. The door into the hallway stood open and she only needed to take a few tentative steps towards it to be able to see the main entrance.
The front door comprised of white-painted, yellowing wood with two stained-glass panes set into the upper half. Through the panes, she could make out a dark shape. The faded brass doorknob was turning.
The door remained closed—she recalled the difficulty she’d had opening it—and she let out her breath in a rush. Her tongue felt heavy and wooden; she badly needed a drink.
She jumped as the figure outside slumped against the door. For a moment, she glimpsed features as the face pressed to the stained glass, but then they slid from sight. The figure was male and not very tall. A boy.
She crossed quickly to the door, adrenaline lending her vitality, dulling the ache in her forehead. Using both hands to firmly grasp the doorknob, she twisted it and yanked the door open.
Half on, half off the doorstep, a boy lay slumped on his side, arms wrapped around his head. Approaching him, only a step or two away, were three snarling dogs.
