The Beacon (Earth Haven Book 2)

by Sam Kates

  Howard reached out and gripped her hand. He squeezed it briefly. Colleen did not want to cry so set her jaw to hold the tears back. It was a trick she had mastered many years back and it did not let her down now.

  “So,” said Howard, “how would you like to sail to Britain with me?”

  “Why cross the Irish Sea to look for survivors? There will be some here in Ireland.”

  “Undoubtedly. But Britain’s much bigger and was more densely populated. There are likely to be many more survivors there.”

  “I can see you may be right. But why didn’t you go sooner? Before you heard the voice?”

  “My yacht. I’ve managed it on my own around the coastline, but it will take at least two to handle it across the Irish Sea.”

  Colleen grunted. “I’m no sailor.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You just need to be able to pull and tie off ropes. Obey simple instructions. With two of us, and a fair wind, we’d make it across.”

  “I don’t know. I’m an Irish girl through and through. Lived all my life on this island. Now at the end of life, do I want to be leaving my homeland? Howard, I’m sorry. I’m not sure that I do.”

  “At least think about it, please? You see, there’s something else nagging at me. Something I can’t quite get a handle on. You don’t feel it yet, but maybe you will. A weird sensation has been growing in me of late. Since the urge to burn bodies has started to fade, it’s been replaced with another. Perhaps one that will grow to be even more compelling.” He paused.

  “Nope,” said Colleen. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Let’s wait and see if you start to sense it as well. If so, you too are going to feel that we need to go to Britain.”

  * * * * *

  If it is possible to express disdain from behind a full-head mask, Acting Lieutenant Commander James Irving was making a good job of it.

  “Aliens?” he said, his tone even flatter than the mask normally made it sound. “Mind-controlling aliens who have lived amongst us for thousands of years, but who suddenly decide to spread a deadly virus—one that they’ve created themselves, no less—in order to get rid of us pesky humans. That’s what you’re asking me to believe?”

  Tom sighed. “I know how it sounds. I still have trouble believing it myself.”

  “Tom!” exclaimed Ceri. “How can you say that after all we’ve been through?” She turned to Irving. “Yes, it sounds completely bonkers. It also happens to be true, but there’s probably nothing we can say that will convince you. Peter might be able to, though. He could show you.”

  “Peter, who’s one of these aliens, though you can’t tell by looking at him?”

  “Yes.” Ceri could feel her frustration mounting. “You link hands and he’ll play pictures in your mind. . . .” Ceri tailed off; she didn’t need to see Irving’s features to know what expression he was making. “Okay. If you can’t believe our story, how do you explain what’s happened?”

  “Well, this isn’t official naval policy, you understand. . . .”

  “There is no official naval policy,” said Ceri. “Not any more. There’s no official anything.”

  “As you say, madam. Our best guess is that the virus lay dormant within a fragment of meteor that impacted on Earth. Something happened to release it into the atmosphere; maybe a seismic event.”

  “Well, Acting whatever-you-are Irving, that’s no less bonkers than our story.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Tom, a thoughtful look on his face. “You must have felt the effects of the Commune. You weren’t on mainland Britain when the Commune was held, but Diane said that a message was sent worldwide, to every survivor on the planet. Something about staying put and not trying to find other survivors.” He looked questioningly at Irving.

  “Sir, I’m sorry but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “So where have you been?” asked Ceri. “How have you survived?”

  “I’m afraid that’s classified, madam.”

  Ceri half-rose to her feet. Immediately the two soldiers behind Irving, who had relaxed their stances somewhat as the conversation wore on, came to alert. Once more, Ceri was looking at two guns pointing in her direction. She sank back to the pebbles, although her irritation had not abated.

  “Classified?” She almost shrieked the word, so strong was her indignation. “Just listen to yourself. And look around.” She threw her arms wide, almost clonking Tom in the face. “There’s nobody left. No government. No military. No civilians. Who, in all that’s mighty, are you keeping it classified from?”

  Irving said nothing for a few moments. Then: “Please wait here. I’ll seek orders. Commander Napier will be expecting me to report back by now in any event.”

  He turned, nodded at his colleagues and walked back towards the dinghy.

  Ceri and Tom watched him go. They didn’t speak; for now, there was nothing left to say.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When in Wick looking for tools, Peter had picked up a pair of binoculars and slipped them into his pocket. Travel binoculars, not much bigger than opera glasses. He used them to track the creamy-suited man’s progress back down the sand.

  “What’s happening now?” asked Diane.

  “He’s taken his mask off. Not sure why . . . oh, he’s talking to someone on a walkie-talkie. Hold on a moment. . . .” Peter raised the glasses and focused on the submarine. “Yep. He’s talking to a man on the tower of the sub. These binoculars aren’t powerful enough to make out much, but I’m guessing he’s the Commander.”

  He brought the focus back to where Tom and Ceri sat at the foot of the pebble slope. From his vantage point of a top-floor bedroom at the front of the hotel, Peter was high enough to see over the lip of the storm beach.

  An armed man was still positioned on top of the pebbles, affording him a clear view of the hotel entrance. The other two men remained on the sand, covering Tom and Ceri with their rifles.

  Peter felt a surge of helplessness. He wanted to be out there talking to the submariners himself, not stuck in here babysitting. He glanced at the holdall that he had retrieved from his bedroom and brought here in case he was able to go outside and join in. If so and it was going the way he was afraid of, he wanted to have the holdall, and what it contained, close to hand.

  He felt a tug at his jumper and looked down.

  “Please, Peter,” said Will. “Can I have a go?”

  Peter smiled at the boy. “Of course. Here, let’s push the lenses a little closer together so you can see properly.” He showed the boy how to turn the focusing dial to gain a clearer view. “There you go. You should be able to see the submarine a lot better now.”

  Peter turned back to the room. Diane was sitting on a chair in a corner. As usual, she was expressionless and hadn’t spoken much except to ask for the occasional update.

  The girl lay on the bed. She looked pale and drawn. Peter approached the bed and sat down.

  “How are you feeling, Bri?” he asked. “That’s still a nasty-looking cut on your forehead.”

  “I’m okay,” she said. She tried a smile, but it looked forced. “My head does hurt a lot, but I have painkillers.”

  “We’re sorry we’ve brought you back to this.” Peter nodded to the window. “We had no idea that submarine would be there.”

  “I know.” This time Bri’s smile was more successful. “Will the men from the submarine stay?”

  “Doubt it. Except for the one in the enviro-suit, they’re keeping well back from Tom and Ceri, and it’s clear they don’t want any of us to go out there. I think they’re afraid we might be contagious.”

  “With the Millennium Bug? Maybe they’re right. Both me and Will caught it.”

  Peter shook his head. “The virus dies with the host. In your case, and Will’s, Tom’s and Ceri’s, the contagious period had ended by the time you woke up feeling better. So, no, they can’t catch the Millennium Bug from you.”

  Bri frowned. “How do you know that?
I watched the President of the United States speak on telly. He said we didn’t know enough about the virus. That’s why everyone died.”

  “Ah. There are some things we’ll need to explain to you. Better wait for Tom and Ceri to be here, too.”

  “Does it have to do with those people in London, the ones who chased me and Will?”

  “Yes.”

  “They did something bad to Will. When I first met him, it was like he was brain-damaged or something.”

  “But you fixed him?”

  “Yes.” Bri’s eyes widened. “How did you know? Don’t tell me, you’ll explain later.”

  Peter couldn’t help but smile. “All will be explained. And there are some things you’ll need to explain to us. Like how you fixed Will.”

  “I’ll try. . . . but I’m not sure I know how.”

  “Just do your best. No one can ask for more. I’ll have a favour to ask you, too. I need to try to see what’s causing your headaches. I don’t know whether I’ll be able to do anything to help like you did for Will, but it’s worth a look.”

  “Are you a doctor, Peter?”

  “No. But maybe I can do something.” He glanced across at Diane who was watching them. “Or maybe Diane can. Or perhaps both of us.” Diane shrugged and looked away.

  Bri opened her mouth to say more, when an excited shout came from Will.

  “The man in the suit! He’s coming back!”

  * * * * *

  The bed Zach had found was firm where it needed to be and soft where it didn’t. He slept soundly, lulled by the distant lapping of the ocean.

  He awoke to the raucous cries of gulls and wondered for a moment where he was.

  A full, burning bladder drove him out of bed. He had secured the door by placing the back of a chair underneath the handle. It wouldn’t have kept out a determined intruder, but Zach would have received warning enough to grab the pistol from the bedside table. He didn’t think the woman, Amy, had sufficient wit to try anything, but he hadn’t survived for forty years alone in the wilds without exercising caution.

  A large vase containing the stalks of long-dead flowers and an inch of stagnant water served as a chamber pot. Zach sighed deeply as he emptied his bladder.

  He opened the drapes and looked out at a sunlit Atlantic Ocean. Waves rushed in to break on rocks in front of a small lighthouse. Foam whipped into the air. Gulls soared. It looked a fine but fresh day. Mid to late morning, judging by the height of the sun.

  There was no sign of Amy downstairs. Zach grunted. Must have moved on in the night, he thought. A tiny twinge tugged at him. He pushed it away before he could acknowledge that it might be regret.

  He breakfasted on cold beans straight from the can, washed down with pineapple juice left over from supper.

  A creature of habit when it came to bodily functions, there was one last thing Zach needed to do before he set out. That accomplished—there had even been enough water in the cistern to flush his doings away—he headed outside.

  The stiff breeze was strong enough to qualify as wind. It caught his jacket, blowing it out behind him like a cape as he walked. If he didn’t keep his grey hair tied back in a pony tail, it would be swirling around his head like a gorgon’s serpents.

  He strolled to where he’d left the pick-up, enjoying the air and sun on his face. He carried two bags of cans of food and bottled water he’d found in the house. Arriving at his pick-up, he walked around to the back to deposit the new acquisitions to his stock.

  Zach came to a dead stop. Eyes narrowing, he stepped back and lowered the bags to the asphalt. He tugged his jacket closer and did it up so that it wouldn’t snag or impede him if he needed to move quickly. He extracted the pistol before zipping the jacket over his chest.

  Treading lightly on the balls of his feet, Zach moved back to the truck. Holding the pistol ready, he peered into the flatbed.

  Half of the truck behind the cab was covered in a blue tarpaulin. Beneath it he stored items that he wanted to keep dry. Things like blankets, sacks of grain and dried food in cardboard packaging. Wooden toggles secured the tarp to the truck bed. At one corner, four of the toggles were unfastened. Enough to allow a person to crawl underneath.

  Training the pistol on the tarp with his right hand, he reached out with his left and undid the three toggles that still secured one side of the material to the bed. He flipped back the sheet and took half a step back.

  A face looked up at him, blinking in the sunlight.

  Zach sighed and lowered the pistol.

  “Amy. What are you doing?”

  She sat up, shielding her eyes with a hand. There was something different about her.

  “Must have fallen asleep,” she mumbled.

  “Get out of my truck.”

  “I’m cold.” She clutched her arms about her torso and shivered.

  “Out.”

  Zach watched her scramble unsteadily to her feet. She placed her hands on the truck’s side and looked at him.

  “Help me?”

  Breathing a deep sigh, Zach unzipped the top half of his jacket and stowed the pistol. He stepped forward and held out a hand. Amy gripped it and used it to slow her fall. She drew in breath in a sharp hiss as her injured leg made contact with the ground and took an involuntary stumble forward against Zach.

  He shoved her away, though not roughly. She had only been against him for a few moments, but they had been long enough to tell him. . . .

  “You smell better,” he said.

  He looked closely and could now see what was different. Her hair had been brushed and no longer looked thick with dirt and grease. It gleamed a little in the sun like burnished teak. She, too, had tied it back in a pony-tail, revealing a face that no longer bore streaks of grime.

  “You look younger,” he said.

  She smiled, shaving a few more years off her appearance. The outfit of clean clothes and new boots added to the overall improvement.

  “Heeded your advice,” she said. “Took a dip in the ocean. Golly, it was cold!”

  Despite himself, Zach grinned. He didn’t know anyone still used the expression ‘golly’.

  “It was worth it,” he said.

  He turned away and busied himself unpacking the contents of his bags and resecuring the tarpaulin. When he’d finished, she hadn’t moved from the side of the truck. She was watching him closely, chewing on her bottom lip.

  “Where you headed?” she asked.

  “South. Maybe fetch up in one of the Carolinas. Perhaps as far as Miami.” He shrugged. “I ain’t tied to no schedule.”

  “Take me with you.”

  She didn’t plead with her voice, but with her eyes. Now that her hair didn’t hang in matted strands down her face, Zach could see that her eyes were almost as rich a brown as her hair.

  He turned away and walked to the driver’s door. Taking his keys from his pocket, he unlocked the door and climbed in, pulling it closed behind him. The truck started first time and he rode the throttle, enjoying the powerful roar of the five-litre engine.

  He glanced to his right. She was standing a few paces back, expressionless except for the yearning in her eyes.

  The passenger seat and footwell were strewn with rifles, shotguns and ammunition. Zach moved them into the storage space between the bench seat and the cab wall, concealing them beneath a travel rug he kept there. The floor of the space was raised, enabling him to reach the weapons without having to heave himself over the back of the bench. He placed a shotgun and box of shells on top of the rug; he could reach back for them by only half-turning in his seat.

  He looked again out of the passenger window. She hadn’t moved.

  “Golly!” he muttered.

  Zach leaned across and unlocked the passenger door. He opened it.

  “Get in,” he said. “Before I change my mind.”

  * * * * *

  Acting Lieutenant Commander James Irving of HM Submarine Argute walked up the beach, securing the helmet as he went. It was st
uffy with the helmet on and it had been a relief to remove it to use the walkie-talkie.

  He had reported on what he’d found, and briefly recounted the couple’s strange tale of alien mind control and dissemination of deadly disease. Commander Napier’s assessment had been short and brutal: poppycock. He had been ordered to return to the craft. Reluctantly, and only after Irving had repeated the points that the woman had made, except in a more diplomatic manner, the Commander had agreed to dispense with protocol and allow him to reveal their movements of the past month.

  Irving nodded to his men as he passed them. He continued until he was ten yards from the couple. They had watched him approach every step of the way. The man looked anxious; the woman resigned.

  “Okay,” he said. “Commander Napier has authorised me to disclose anything you want to know. Within reason. So?”

  “Where were you when the Millennium Bug broke out?” asked the woman.

  “Engaged in deep-water training exercises in the Norwegian Sea. The Admiralty recalled us, but we were ordered to remain submerged at depth. We laid up south of the Faroe Islands awaiting further orders.”

  “What were those further orders?”

  “None ever came.”

  “What about the other subs?” asked the man. Tom, Irving remembered. The woman was Ceri. “I take it we had more than one?”

  “Yes. The other craft were also recalled but then deployed in strategic defence when nuclear war was threatened.”

  “Where are these other craft now?”

  Irving shifted his feet in the sand. Despite authority from his C.O., despite the dismantling—nay, obliteration—of the previous world order, it still felt wrong to be discussing sensitive naval matters with mere civilians. Maintaining secrecy had been ingrained in him since he joined the service as a seventeen-year-old rating.

  “Really?” said Ceri. “Still clinging to ‘classified’?”

  “Yeah, all right,” said Irving. “The last report we received was that the crew on every other craft had fallen ill. When all went silent, we tried reaching the others on frequencies that only they would tune into. Nothing.”