by Sam Kates
“Had they been ashore?” asked Ceri. “When they were recalled at the outbreak. Did the crews come ashore?”
“Some may have. The senior officers, at least, to receive briefings. Fresh stores would have been taken aboard.”
“Whoever came ashore became infected,” said Ceri. “Then carried the virus aboard with them.”
“Not possible,” said Irving. “This was within a few days of the first outbreak. No virus could spread that quickly and be so contagious.”
The woman snorted and spread her arms once more. “Again, take a look around. The proof that what you just said is bullshit is everywhere. In the abandoned cars, the empty towns and cities, the silent schoolyards.”
“Have any of your crew been ill?” asked Tom.
“No. At least, none of those who remain.”
“Remain?”
“Yes. It’s why we only have one inflatable left.” Irving sighed; this part was even more difficult to relate to two civilians. “Despite the lack of orders from Admiralty, we listened to what was happening around the world. When it became apparent that a deadly pandemic was sweeping the globe, that nowhere was safe, there was almost a mutiny. Men wanted to be with their loved ones. Commander Johnstone—”
“Thought your commander’s name is Napier,” Ceri interrupted.
“Commander Napier was then Lieutenant Napier. I was Warrant Officer Irving. Not eligible for non-commissioned ranks, thus Acting, see.”
“So,” prompted Tom, “Commander Johnstone. . . . ?”
“He was the reason there was no mutiny. Commander Johnstone had recently become a grandfather for the first time. He was as anxious as anyone to return to his family. He ordered us to surface and we made for Clyde. We did not get too close to shore—it already looked deserted, but we weren’t about to risk infection for those who were staying—and anyone who wanted to leave was given permission to disembark. Around half the crew left in inflatables.”
“But not you?” said Ceri.
“I had lost touch with my family many years ago. No wife or kids.” He sighed. “We had enough men to continue to be operational. We’ve been submerged nearly ever since. Worked our way down the coast of Europe, looking for signs of survivors. Groups of survivors. We’ve seen the occasional individual fishing or building fires on the beach, but only on the continental mainland. We came back up the west coast of Britain, past Cornwall, Wales, Lancashire and Cumbria—the Argute was constructed in Barrow-in-Furness, you know—and around Scotland. The weird thing is that we haven’t seen so much as a single person in Britain until we found you.”
“That’s not weird,” said Ceri. “We told you why. Everyone was called to London. If you’d gone there, you’d have seen thousands of people.”
“E.T. and his chums, too, no doubt.”
The woman coloured, but stared defiantly back at him. Irving found himself warming to her; she showed spunk. Pity she and the man were so deluded.
“How did you find us?” she asked, clearly choosing not to pursue the nonsense about aliens.
“We heard the sound of gunfire.”
“That was us learning how to use shotguns,” said Tom.
“We came as close as we could in the heavy swell and listened. We heard a vehicle drive away last night. When the sea calmed this morning and we couldn’t see or hear any sign of life, we decided to take the risk of coming ashore. I was investigating the building when we heard you coming back and, well, the rest you know.”
“The water,” said Tom.
“Beg your pardon?”
“That’s why you didn’t receive the message. You must have been submerged in deep water when the Commune was held. I wonder. . . . what about other countries? They have submarines too, don’t they?”
“Only a handful of countries have subs like the Argute. Nuclear-powered subs. Traditional subs can’t stay submerged for long. We can stay under for months on end.”
“So what’s happened to the other countries’ nuclear subs? Are there any still about?”
“Most were in port when the Millennium Bug began. Nuclear-powered subs are incredibly expensive to operate. In days of downturning economies, they are employed frugally. Those that were out conducting sea trials or on ops were recalled by their governments when the nuclear shit looked about to hit the fan. Just before the crisis, we were in contact with one American sub, USS Vermont, but last we heard she was heading back to port in South Georgia for refitting. The only other sub we’ve been in contact with since is a Russian craft.” Irving shrugged. “That was two weeks ago. They were operating on a skeleton crew, like us, but it sounds as though the situation has, er, got to them. They were heading home to stock up on more vodka.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Ceri. “They’ve got the right idea.”
“What weapons do you have on board?” asked Tom.
Irving considered refusing to answer. He didn’t much like the look in the man’s eye as he asked the question. Then he remembered his own argument for disclosure to Commander Napier: what harm can it do to tell them everything they want to know? They’re merely six people and a dog; it’s not as if they can do anything with the knowledge.
“Tomahawk cruise missiles,” he said.
“Nuclear warheads?”
Irving shook his head. “We’re Astute Class. Only Vanguard Class carry ballistic missiles.”
“These Tomahawk missiles. . . . from how far away can they hit a target?”
“Assuming all satellites are still operational, they’re accurate to within a few metres for up to two thousand kilometres.”
Tom gave a low whistle. “So dropping a couple of missiles on, say, Stonehenge from here would be a breeze?”
“In theory, yes.”
“That’s where they’re making some sort of beacon, to guide the rest of their civilisation to Earth. . . . Um, what do you mean ‘in theory’?”
“I mean that it’s not going to happen in practice.” Irving held up a hand to forestall Tom’s further words. “I have told you all I can. Now my men and I must return to the Argute. Commander Napier wants to head out into the Atlantic this evening. We’re going to Kings Bay in southern Georgia to ascertain whether the United States Navy is still in existence.”
“No!” said Tom. “Please. If you blow up Stonehenge, it might give us some chance—”
“Enough!” Irving felt that if he heard any more, the craziness might start to wear off on him. “I understand that you’ve been through a hard time and trauma can affect people in many strange ways, but if you think that we’re going to waste missiles blowing up one of our nation’s most ancient monuments to fit in with some harebrained conspiracy theory, then think again.”
“But—”
Tom rose to his feet and Irving took a pace backwards, hearing the smooth ratcheting sound of a round being chambered behind him, but Ceri grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him back down.
“Tom! Leave it!” she hissed. “There’s no way we’re going to make them believe us. He’s right. It does sound completely crazy. The only way he’d understand is by letting Peter show him, but that’s not going to happen while they’re afraid of catching something.” She sighed and turned back to Irving. “Go on, go. Go to America. I hope you find what you’re looking for. Either way, come back to Britain when you’re done, okay? Make sure you’re back by May at the latest. It might still not be too late to prove you’re not a complete arsehole.”
As Irving walked back to the inflatable, his three men fanned out beside him, he removed the suit helmet and glanced back. The couple had not moved from the base of the pebble bank. They watched him walk away, their arms around each other. The woman was sobbing.
* * * * *
The compulsion that Howard spoke about, of needing to go to Britain, did not materialise in Colleen. On the contrary, she had never left the shores of the Emerald Isle and the thought of doing so now terrified her. There would be no coastguard or shipping to call upon if they hit trouble. Ev
en if they made it safely to Britain, then what? Any survivors they encountered would likely be scared and suspicious, just like she had been when meeting Howard.
Colleen had not always been afraid. There had been a time when she had looked the world in the eye, daring it to cow her. With Sinead at her side, she’d felt ready to face anything that life might throw at them. She’d have paddled to Britain in a rowing boat with Sinead, and strode through England’s green and pleasant land with chin jutting and fists clenched.
That was then. Life had at last beaten her down. Rather, death had.
In the weeks since she had fled their flat in Rathmines, the dream image of Sinead as a grasping monster had receded. Colleen suspected that she might now during her sleep be able to remember Sinead as the loving, laughing girl she had been even without whiskey to drive away the terrors. But that was just one reason to stop drinking. There were a million and one other reasons to carry on.
Although once or twice she caught Howard looking at her with concern—his doctor’s face, she thought—he was quick to alter his expression and did not once voice his disapproval at her drinking herself semi-comatose each night.
It was the appearance of the man calling himself Clint that made Colleen curb her drinking. She did not want to lose control of her faculties with him around.
Howard had decided to return to his surgery to collect his doctor’s bag and as many medical supplies as he could carry.
“I meant to bring my case when I first returned,” he explained, “but didn’t have room to carry it with all the food I brought back.”
“Sorry,” said Colleen. “I should have come with you.”
“Nonsense.” Howard gave her one of his reassuring smiles. He must have been popular with his patients, Colleen thought, if his bedside manner was as disarming. “And you needn’t come with me this time if you’d prefer to remain this side of the river.”
“I would prefer that. I’ll wait for you this side of O’Connell Bridge. Where you first saw me.”
Howard had been gone about an hour, time Colleen had spent gazing down into the Liffey. It might have been her imagination, but she fancied that the water below, normally brown and greasy, already looked to be running purer without man depositing filth into it. Occasionally she glanced about, golf club at the ready in case any rats or dogs were taking an interest in her.
A light drizzle began to fall from a sky the colour of porridge. Colleen didn’t mind; her hair could do with a rinse.
She heard him before she could see him. Click-clop. . . . click-clop. . . .
A man appeared at the far side of the bridge, walking up the centre of O’Connell Street. It wasn’t Howard.
Whether her self-preservation instincts were dulled after a few days in Howard’s company or the whiskey had made her soft in the head, she didn’t think to duck out of sight until it was too late.
The man had started to cross the bridge, but came to a halt when he noticed her. At the same time that he stopped, so did the clicking noise. He resumed walking: click-clop. . . . click-clop. . . .
Jeans tucked into knee-high, brown leather cowboy boots. The toes of each boot clicked on the road a moment before the heel clopped. A dark leather jacket zipped tightly against the rain; it strained a little against the girth it had to contain. A wide-brimmed Stetson, as though he were in Texas not Dublin. A black holster on one hip. Jeans, boots and jacket looked new and stiff. Unworn and uncomfortable.
She stayed still as he approached, but gripped the club a little tighter. He drew close enough for her to make out his face beneath the brim of the Stetson. Pasty jowls, eyes dark and narrow like fissures in stone; they stared at her, sizing her up. His lips were full, too full as though over-Botoxed, and orange-stained from the unlit cheroot that dangled from one corner.
“That’s far enough,” Colleen said when he was about ten yards away. She did not raise the club; her glance kept returning to the black holster at his hip. It had a flap that concealed whatever lay within. Her tongue darted out to lick nervously at her lips.
One corner of the man’s mouth turned up in a smirk and he took two more paces before coming to a stop.
He extracted one hand from his jacket pocket and raised it to his mouth to remove the cigar. Like the rest of him, his hands looked big.
“So,” he said, “I’m not the Omega Man, after all.” His accent was soft and Irish; a local man.
“I’m not alone,” said Colleen.
He moved his head to look about, exaggerating the movement for her benefit. “Your friends must all be hiding.” He smirked again and his gaze moved to the golf club. “Going to play a round?”
Maybe it was adrenaline brought on by apprehension, but Colleen felt a surge of the old indomitable spirit return. She hefted the club.
“This?” she said. “No, this isn’t for playing with. It’s to keep vermin away.” She felt her jaw jut out in her once-familiar gesture of defiance.
Although Colleen wouldn’t have thought it possible, the man’s eyes narrowed further. His smirk disappeared.
Colleen was fed up of being afraid. Afraid of solitude, of unfamiliar places, of sleeping, of Sinead’s memory. Now this stranger had come and made her feel afraid again. She’d had enough.
“What’s with the Stetson and boots?” she said. “Playing at cowboys? That a six-shooter you’re packing on your hip?”
The man replaced the cheroot between his lips. When he spoke, they moved around it.
“That’s quite a mouth you have,” he said. “I’m sure you can be friendlier than this. A lot friendlier.”
His gaze moved down her body and Colleen felt her skin crawl as though a bucket of woodlice had been tipped down her neck. Involuntarily, she took half a step back.
The man smiled. His lips were too thick, out of proportion with the rest of his features. They turned his smile into the grin of a clown with teeth filed to points. Colleen had to stop herself taking another backward pace.
“Would you like to see my pistol?” The man’s tone dripped with innuendo and he chortled as though pleased with his wit.
Colleen did not reply. The fight-or-flight instinct was raging within her, flight winning hands down, and it was taking all her willpower not to run.
He reached to his side and undid the flap on the holster. He withdrew a pistol. Colleen knew nothing about guns, but had seen pistols like this on television. Usually in war films.
“That’s a. . . .”
“A Luger,” he finished for her. He held the gun against his cheek and sighed. “So cold. So symbolic.”
“Hmm. A nazi-cowboy fetish,” said Colleen. She had tamed the impulse to run. The man no longer scared her. In fact, she was starting to find him vaguely ridiculous. With a sudden certainty, she knew. . . . “It’s not real. That gun’s fake.”
The man’s pasty cheeks flushed with colour. He pointed the pistol at Colleen’s face and her certainty of the moment before evaporated as she stared down the barrel. She felt a need to empty her bladder. He pulled the trigger.
Click
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s imitation. I’ve tried to find a real one, but no luck yet.” He reholstered the gun and reached behind him. “This, however, is very real.”
He brought his hand forward. Something metallic glinted. There was another click and a blade appeared. Wickedly long and pointed, stained a blackening red. He turned it this way and that for Colleen’s inspection.
She stared at the blade. The black-red started to run as drizzle soaked into it.
“Tsk, tsk,” said the man. “Forgot to clean it after my last kill. Naughty Clint.”
“Clint?” Colleen couldn’t help herself. She snorted.
The man’s face coloured again and he scowled. Still holding the knife out, he took a step towards her.
Colleen didn’t react. She was no longer even looking at the man, but beyond him.
She waved. Howard’s hands were too full to wave back.
&n
bsp; Chapter Sixteen
The sun rose over London into a clear sky. It shone onto a thick hoar frost, making road surfaces glitter as though truly paved with gold. Without industry and traffic and people to generate heat, the frost had taken a firm hold. Spider webs hanging between railings looked as if they had been spun from sugar, not silk. Grass, shrubs and twigs appeared to be coated with icing.
Walking from the hotel to the car park in the early morning light was no easy task. Milandra clung to Jason Grant’s arm. The last thing she needed was to lay herself up with a broken ankle.
“These sidewalks are treacherous,” she commented. “The roads look just as bad so it was as well you had the foresight to send out those salt trucks yesterday.” She gripped Grant’s arm tighter. “Go, you.”
“This is kind of fun,” said Simone Furlong. She bounded forward and planted her feet on the ice-encrusted paving stones, shooting forward for a few yards in a slide. “Wheee.” She sounded like a teenager.
“Friggin’ cold,” muttered George Wallace, tugging his jacket tighter. “Why couldn’t we have landed somewhere tropical five millennia ago?”
“I quite like it,” said Lavinia Cram. “Makes a change from the Florida humidity.”
“You can keep it,” said Wallace with a scowl. “When this is over, and the traitor is no more, I’m heading for warmer climes and staying there.”
“Still intent on going after Ronstadt, George?” said Milandra.
“Yep. Though I been doing some thinkin’. May not be any need for me to go chasing round Earth Haven hunting him. The Commune can get him to come to me.”
“I doubt that even a Commune of seventy-five thousand can force one of our number to act against his will,” said Milandra. “At least, it’s never been tested.”
“Then about time it was,” said Wallace.
The rumble of engines reached their ears long before they arrived at the car park. Twenty-two red double-decker buses and twenty coaches stood idling, exhaust fumes turning the cold air grey.
