by Sam Kates
“None. We possess neither maternal nor paternal instincts. Once the foetus has been expelled, the host female has nothing further to do with it. The sperm provider will not be aware that expulsion has taken place.”
Ceri shook her head slowly. “I can’t imagine what that must be like. What about later, when the newborn has emerged as a grown-up. Won’t they know who their parents are?”
“No. And the parents won’t know which newborn they sired. Usually we determine that a certain number of newborns are needed to replace gaps in the population. When that number of foetuses has been produced, they are taken to the nurseries—that is merely what we call places of safety, normally places that receive plenty of sunshine, where the newborns can develop without interference—and nurtured together. There will be nothing to mark an individual as having come from a particular female or having been sired by a particular male. The parents won’t even know which gender they produced.”
Ceri was aware that her jaw was agape and closed it. “That’s awful. Doesn’t anyone ever try to find out which child is theirs? Or who their parents are?”
Diane shook her head. “Why would we? Humans are selfish, thinking only of themselves.” Ceri stiffened and Diane raised a hand in a placatory gesture. “It is not your fault; it is how we created you. We, on the other hand, are not limited to the space within our heads. We are each part of a greater whole and we all work towards the betterment of the whole, not the individual.”
“Do you have life partners, others to whom you are attracted and want to spend the rest of your lives with?”
“Physical or sexual attraction has no meaning to us. We are attracted to others based on the nature of their intellect, but it is rare for us to want to live together in the sense that you mean.”
“What a sad and lonely existence it must be.”
Diane shifted a little in her seat. “It has been difficult living apart from my kind for so long, but it was out of necessity.” She sighed. “We are each part of the whole and work for the greater good.”
“Yeah. So you said. I have to ask: how was putting a stop to Bishop for the greater good?”
There was only the slightest pause before Diane replied. “Bishop had become ambitious, greedy, selfish. He hated humans but had become akin to them.” If Diane noticed Ceri stiffen again, this time she ignored it. “We are better off without him.”
Ceri’s hackles had been rising for the last few minutes. She did not try to keep the contempt from her tone. “The irony is, Diane, that you speak of high ideals, of working for the greater good, all high and mighty, so fucking altruistic. Yet you can kill seven billion humans, people you have lived amongst for thousands of years, without batting an eyelid. That takes a special kind of ambition. An ugly kind of greed. One that we humans, who you regard as so beneath you, would not be capable of.”
Turning to the window, Ceri raised the pillow from her lap and sank her head into it. She closed her eyes and allowed the rhythm of the road to carry her away.
Chapter Thirteen
He was no longer alone. The other person was yet to reveal himself, but he was there, watching. At least now he knew that his fanciful notion of being the sole survivor of the Millennium Bug was just that: fanciful.
Zach went about his business, which largely consisted of stockpiling canned and dried foodstuffs, and bottles of water, in the back of his pick-up. He made mental note of every item and its position. So far, nothing had been moved. The cab of the truck containing the rifles and shotguns he kept locked. His jacket he kept open, despite the cold, for ready access to the Beretta nestling in his inside pocket.
The good folk of this township had been fond of reading, judging by the wealth of books Zach found in bookcases in hallways and studies and living rooms. There would probably be more in the bedrooms, but he avoided them. It was where the bodies tended to be. Soon, he had acquired a sizable store of reading materials that would keep him occupied during stops on his journey south. Heck, he had enough books to keep him occupied to the southernmost tip of South America if he had a notion to go that far.
The other person was not adept at covert surveillance. Zach caught numerous glimpses of movement from the corner of his eye or reflections in shop windows as the other darted out of sight.
A gallon of cooking oil also sat in the back of the pick-up. Zach used a little to grease an iron skillet and began to fry slices from a can of corned beef over a driftwood fire on the beach. He sat looking out at the ocean, his back to town. The other person was trying to make no noise, but Zach could hear the soft scrunching of sand as he approached. The sound was louder on alternate steps as though one leg was being favoured. He waited until the other person was within two yards before turning, pistol in hand.
The other person wasn’t a he. Zach wasn’t good at accurately estimating people’s age, especially women’s; he put her at around thirty, but knew he could be way off the mark. Her hair was dark, thick and matted. It hung around her face in tangled folds, like a moth-eaten curtain. In her hands she clutched a short lump of wood.
Zach raised his eyebrows. “You fixin’ to whack me with that?”
The woman glanced down. “No!” She dropped the wood to the sand with a dull thud. “It’s for your fire.”
“You armed?”
The woman shook her head. “Dunno how to use a gun.”
“Got a blade?”
Again she shook her head. She kept looking at the pistol with wide eyes, in as much as Zach could see of them through her hair.
“Mind if I frisk you? No offence, miss, but you’re the first living person I’ve seen since this world went to hell in a hand cart.”
Her eyes opened wider. “You’re not. . . . not a perv are you, mister?” It came out in not much more than a whisper. Zach had to strain to hear above the lap of waves, crackle of flames and sizzle of frying meat.
“Nope,” he said. “If you don’t want me to frisk you, that’s your prerogative. I won’t force you. But you’ll need to turn around and walk away. Hurry up and decide. My beef’s burning.”
Her glance darted to the skillet and her tongue came out to lick her lips.
“Okay,” she said.
Zach replaced the pistol in his jacket pocket and rose to his feet, never dropping his gaze from the woman. He patted her down. She was clean only in the sense that she wasn’t carrying a concealed weapon. Otherwise. . . .
“You smell near as bad as the corpses in those houses,” he remarked.
The woman flushed. “Don’t know if it’s escaped your attention, mister, but there ain’t no running water.”
Zach raised his hand briefly towards the sea. “There’s the ocean.”
He turned back to the fire and tended to the skillet. After a few moments, the woman stepped up to the fire. She had retrieved the lump of wood. She looked down at him enquiringly and he nodded. She bent forward and dropped the wood onto the fire, raising a cloud of sparks. Zach hurriedly pulled the skillet away to avoid getting ash on the meat.
“Oops,” said the woman. “Sorry.” She stood watching Zach eat the slice of fried meat. “Can I sit down, mister?”
Zach grunted. “Only mind to sit downwind.”
She lowered herself to the sand on the other side of the fire. She winced as she did so.
“You hurt?” said Zach around a mouthful of meat.
She nodded. “I live in Portland, in the north of the city. Done something to my knee walking here.”
The woman looked as though she wasn’t accustomed to exercise, Zach thought. When he’d frisked her, she had felt flabby.
“Prob’ly a shock to the system,” he said, “all that walking. You could shed a few pounds.”
The woman’s face contorted and tears began to run down her cheeks, cutting paths through engrained dirt.
Zach cut another slice of meat and placed it on the skillet. He busied himself frying it. When it was ready, he glanced at her. She was looking down at her lap, shoulder
s convulsing as she sobbed quietly. He sat back to enjoy the meat. When he looked at her again, she had stopped crying and was regarding him sullenly.
“You got a mean tongue, mister,” she said.
“And you’ve been eyeing my lunch since you got here.” He waved a hand towards the town. “There’s plenty of food just lying around. No need to go hungry. What you been living off?”
She shrugged. “Potato chips. Twinkies. Candy.”
“Them’s snacks,” said Zach. “Know what I had for dinner last night? Lobster.” He nodded towards the cove. “See the buoys just beyond the water’s edge? I dragged ’em in last night. Four more prime New England lobsters just waiting to go into my pot.”
The woman looked back at her lap, fingers twisting and untwisting. She muttered something.
“What’s that?” said Zach.
“I said I don’t know how to cook.” She glared at him, chin jutting and bottom lip quivering.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Twenty-four and you can’t cook?”
“My momma did all that.”
“And she never taught you?”
The woman shook her head.
Zach sighed. He cut another slice of corned beef and placed it in the skillet.
“You want this one?” he said.
* * * * *
His eyes flickered open and for a moment he had no idea where he was. A faint grey light was coming in from somewhere behind him. Not much, but enough for him to see the girl sleeping a few inches away on a wooden bench.
A pub. An old, scary pub. That’s where they were.
Will shivered. The fire had died. He reached to the floor for his clothes. At some point in the night, he had donned his tee-shirt. Now he yanked his Harrods hoodie on and stretched for his jeans.
He froze at the sound.
For a moment, only his eyes continued to work. They swivelled towards Bri. Her eyes were open now. Wide and uncomprehending.
The sound came again. A scraping sound, over as soon as it started.
Will could only think of one thing that might be making such a sound and his bladder almost let go. He reached towards his groin, breaking the momentary paralysis, and clutched at himself.
“Will?” said Bri. “What was that?”
Before he could answer, the sound came again, only now it was a noise, a long, harsh, scraping noise of metal on stone.
“The table, Bri!” Will’s voice came out in little more than a squeak. “They’re moving the table.”
He shrank back against the bench, pinching himself to stop urine splashing out in a warm gush.
“Huh?” said Bri. “That’s not possible. . . .”
“They weren’t all dead, Bri. Or maybe they were.”
Will moaned. He glanced fearfully at the door. The room had lightened, or his vision had acclimatised, enough for him to see the iron latch lifting.
“No, Bri! They’re coming! Oh bloody hell, they’re coming. . . .”
He threw himself onto his side and buried his face into the musty old cushion that covered the bench. He was still clenching himself tightly; a detached part of his mind told him he might as well let go, that peeing himself was the least of his problems.
Will did not let go. Even if he was about to die at the pale hands of the dead men from the cave bar, he was not going to shame himself in front of Bri.
A creak came from behind him and he heard Bri gasp.
Then a deep voice: “Hello. Is your name Brianne?”
“Peter?” Bri’s voice sounded small.
“Yes. I’m Peter.”
Will let his breath escape in a hot sigh and sat upright. Even greater than his relief at not being eaten by dead men, he found that he could let go of himself without spurting like an untended hosepipe.
A man stood in the open doorway. An old man, thought Will. Ancient.
The man stepped forward and three other people shuffled in behind him. Another man; younger than the first, but still quite old. Two women; one had a lined face and twinkling eyes; the other stood to one side as though feeling awkward.
The ancient man spoke.
“This is Tom.” He inclined his head towards the younger man who smiled. Will thought he looked kind. “This is Ceri.” He nodded at the woman with twinkling eyes. “And this is Diane.” The awkward-looking woman didn’t smile or acknowledge them.
Something else came through the door, pushing past the ancient man’s legs. Immediately, Will’s need to pee returned and he clutched at himself again. He uttered another low moan.
“This is Dusty,” said the man called Tom, bending down to ruffle the ears of a large, black dog.
The dog noticed Bri and Will, and bounded forwards. Will could not help himself. Although still he managed to retain the urine, he could not keep in the small shriek.
“Please!” said Bri. “Keep the dog away! Will’s terrified of them.”
The man called Tom frowned, but stepped quickly forward and grabbed the dog by the thick fur behind its head. He turned the animal and led it from the room, muttering something to the ancient man as he passed.
“Bri,” Will whispered.
She did not look at him. She seemed transfixed by the sight of the three people standing by the door.
“Bri!” he whispered more urgently. “I have to pee.”
Without taking her eyes from the strangers, she nodded to the bar. “There’s a low sink. Go in there.”
Will slipped off the bench and padded to the bar. The sink was behind it, underneath the stained wooden counter. It was there for the convenience of bar staff, but it did nicely as a convenience for a ten-year-old boy. Will pointed and let go with a deep sigh. The counter of the bar came up to his nose, allowing him to peer over. Bri was regarding the grown-ups gravely. Two of the three remaining adults were looking at her. The twinkly-eyed woman—he couldn’t remember if her name was Ceri or Diane—was watching him, a strange look on her lined face.
Feeling self-conscious, Will bent his knees a little to bring his eyes down below the counter.
As he finished peeing, a thought occurred to him. These grown-ups had come here for Bri; they weren’t interested in him. They might take her away and leave Will here, alone with the dead men.
Will almost ran back to the benches. He tugged on his jeans and trainers; if they tried to make a break for it without him, he would be ready to follow.
The ancient man—Peter—was speaking, addressing Bri.
“ . . . come back with us. You’ll be safe. We’ll be far away from the people who are chasing you.”
Will shifted a little on the bench and watched Bri closely. Surely she wouldn’t agree to leave him behind?
“Who is chasing us?” she asked. She hadn’t looked at Will since the people had appeared. “And why?”
Peter smiled. He didn’t look quite so old when he did that. “We’ll be able to answer most of your questions,” he said. “But when we get back. It’s a long drive.”
“Where are we going?”
“Scotland.”
“We’re staying in a castle,” said the twinkly-eyed woman. Her voice had a lilting quality. She was looking at Will and smiling, though somehow Will thought she looked sad. “There are loads of spare bedrooms. You can each have your own or you can share. Whichever you want. And there’s a fantastic beach just outside the front door. You’ll love it.”
“I’m coming too?” said Will.
Now Bri turned to him. “Of course you’re coming, you doughnut. You didn’t think I’d go without you, did you?”
Will suddenly felt silly and looked down at the floor, his face burning.
“Oh, love!” he heard someone exclaim and the next moment he was enveloped so tightly he gasped. Twinkly-eyes had rushed forward and thrown her arms about him. She smelled smoky. As she pulled away, Will looked up into her face and saw tears flowing down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping at them with her hands. �
�Ignore me.”
“It’s okay. . . .”
“Ceri,” said the woman.
“It’s okay, Ceri. I don’t mind if you have to cry.”
For some reason that Will couldn’t fathom, his words made her cry harder and she backed to the door, her face crinkling, sniffing. He glanced at Bri, wondering if he’d said something wrong, but she smiled at him.
“We’ll let you two get your stuff together,” said Peter. “We’ll be outside.”
After the three grown-ups had filed out—awkward woman, who must be Diane, hadn’t said a word—Bri swung her bare legs off the bench and grabbed Will’s hands.
“Are you happy if we go with them?” she said, staring intently at him. “Peter and Ceri seem really nice. Tom looks nice, too, but I’m not so sure about the other woman.”
Will wrinkled his nose. “Me neither.”
“If you don’t want to go with them, we don’t have to.”
“I want to stay with you, Bri.”
“And if I want to go with them?”
“Then I want to as well.”
She stared at him for a few more moments and then nodded. “Okay then. We’ll go. I need to know what’s been going on. Why I can suddenly control dogs and hear voices. Who those people were that chased us. I think we’ll find out. . . .” She sighed. “Though I don’t think we’ll like what we hear.”
Bri let go of his hands and began to pull on the rest of her clothes. Minutes later, they stepped from the bar to the front door. It stood open. A fresh breeze struck Will’s face, making him gasp.
Beyond the door, Peter stood waiting. He grinned when he saw them.
“How did you get in?” asked Bri. “The door’s not broken and I bolted it.”
“There’s a side door,” said Peter. “It was unlocked.”
Will followed Bri outside, then stopped in his tracks as he noticed the black dog sniffing at the base of the rocky wall that rose beyond the pub. Bri stepped back to his side.
“Will?” she said. “Have you always been afraid of dogs? I mean, were you afraid of them before they chased you a few days ago?”
