by Sam Kates
Milandra smiled up at him. “And with luck I’ll have some answers, though I’m as yet uncertain of the questions.”
They turned their backs to the afternoon sun and walked side by side up the hill.
Chapter Three
Carrying a bottle of red wine and two glasses, Tom Evans stepped from behind the bar. He was about to take a seat at a table looking out into the hotel foyer when Ceri Lewis, approaching from the stairwell that led to the guest rooms, shook her head curtly.
“Nope,” she said as she walked past him. “We just buried a child and it’s April. I’m not in the mood to stare at a Christmas tree.”
Tom glanced at the tree. A shower of pine needles carpeted the floor around its base. The branches, brown and forlorn, sagged beneath their load of baubles. With a shrug, Tom followed Ceri further into the bar’s large seating area to two leather sofas facing each other across a low table.
He eased himself into the sofa opposite Ceri and held out the bottle.
“Chilean Merlot,” he said. “Will this do you?”
“It contains alcohol, doesn’t it?” She didn’t smile.
Tom unscrewed the bottle top and glugged wine into the glasses. He sat back and sipped at the inky liquid, allowing his gaze to wander through the bar’s plate glass windows.
A patio area gave way to a tree-cloaked hill. Among the trees, a rope assault course wound its way between the trunks and boughs. Tom knew the ropes were there but could no longer see them. Unlike the dead Christmas tree in the foyer, the trees outside were bursting with vitality. Fresh shades of green rippled and swayed in the spring breeze. Sap-laden leaves hid the ropes and tyres from view. Sunlight lent the scene a simple beauty that made Tom want to rub at his eyes.
From behind him he became aware of the clink of glasses, bustle of movement and muted conversation as people filled the bar. The need to be amongst company had been anticipated: the hotel’s extensive cellars had been raided to fully restock the bar with wines, spirits and bottled beer.
Tom strained to catch snatches of conversation from the huddled groups nearest him. He could make out French; from another group a language that sounded strange and harsh to his untrained ears—a Scandinavian language, maybe.
Europe was supposed to be one large community, he mused. A common people separated by an uncommon number of differing languages and dialects.
No American accents; not here. All hotel rooms had long been taken by the time of the first arrivals from the States, so newcomers had been directed to nearby towns and villages where Europeans were clearing properties for occupation. There had been no reports of animosity from any one group towards another. Spaniards, Italians, Norwegians, Germans, Portuguese and Dutch would need to get along with each other and the Americans. Reviving old enmities would be the ultimate exercise in pointlessness, even with man’s record of futile struggles. Maybe the Cleansing had perversely achieved something good: the reconciliation of man with his basest nature. Now, at the end of all things.
Tom shifted in his seat as he became aware that Ceri was staring at him. She had lit a cigarette and tendrils of smoke curled from her nostrils.
“What?”
“We’re running out of time.” Her voice had lost its earlier edge. She sounded tired. Defeated.
“I know.” He leaned forward and refilled their glasses. “I feel like we should be doing something, but after Stonehenge…”
Ceri took a slurp of wine and a deep drag on her cigarette. “I’ve overheard some of the newbies talking. Those I can understand, anyway. They don’t know what’s happening, why they’ve been called here, but some of them are spoiling for a fight. They remind me of you before we went to Stonehenge.”
“And much use I was when it came down to it.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe if they want to fight, they should.”
“We can hardly stop them, but I think it would be a mistake.” She favoured Tom with a keen look. “You felt them, too.”
“Who? What?”
“When we followed Bri into the stone circle. That group of people, or whatever they are. All they did was stare at me and I couldn’t move. I could feel them scratching around inside my head like cockroaches.” Ceri shuddered.
Tom took a mouthful of wine and savoured the tingling sensation in the back of his throat. Ceri was still regarding him expectantly.
“I felt them.” He didn’t say it, but the invasion of his mind had been frighteningly rapid and almost complete.
“Surely now you have to accept that they’re not performing some accomplished mind trick. They possess power. Real power.”
Tom nodded. “When I loosed both barrels of the shotgun, I was only moments away from being frozen solid like you.”
“And don’t forget we had some protection from Peter and Diane. Yet four or five of them acting together were able to get past that protection, no bother. Imagine what five thousand of them together can do. And when the rest of them arrive? Seventy thousand added to those already here. They’ll make us turn on each other. Or walk into the sea.”
“But they can do that whether we fight or not. Maybe people have the right to choose how they die.”
Ceri sighed. She drained her glass. While Tom refilled it, she lit another cigarette.
Tom leaned back, his glass also full. The bottle was empty.
“I’ve never told you,” he said, “but you were awesome that morning at Stonehenge. Awesome and scary. I was very glad to be on your side.”
Ceri snorted, but her expression turned serious almost immediately. “That’s another thing, Tom. Forget about their psychic powers for one moment. They also know how to handle guns.” She glanced around at the knots of people in the bar. Tom didn’t need to follow her gaze to know that they consisted of people of both sexes and all ages from young teens to late sixties. “Unless most of the newbies are masking their military know-how behind veneers of old men and girls, we possess neither the physical prowess nor gun knowledge to stand the slightest chance in a war.”
Tom considered for a moment. “Might be some with military experience, though they’ll be in the minority. But, seriously, will it make much difference? Take Joe. He’s itching to fight after what they did to him, yet he’s never fired a gun in his life. Everyone here will have lost loved ones to the Millennium Bug. They’ll want to make a gesture of defiance, no matter how futile.” An image passed across his mind: forcing his mother’s knees to bend so her body would fit into the impromptu grave. He blinked the image away. “Can’t say I blame them.”
Ceri gave a resigned sigh. “Well, we ought to make them aware at the meeting what they’re up against. If they still decide to fight, at least it will be an informed decision.” She regarded the last few drops of wine left in her glass. “Let’s open another bottle.”
* * * * * * *
Amy reacted slower than Zach. He had stood, removed his jacket and was waving it at the boat like a black flag by the time she rose to her feet. She felt mildly foolish, but joined in by waving her arms half-heartedly. Her clothes, however, remained firmly in place; it was too darned cold to remove them.
At first, there was no indication that the boat’s occupants had spotted them. Then the rumble of its engine changed pitch and the front end turned towards shore. Amy dropped her arms to her side; they were starting to ache.
“No good,” muttered Zach.
“Huh?”
He pointed impatiently with one arm while he used the other to shrug his jacket back on. “Too shallow and rocky. They won’t be able to get close enough to do more than holler.”
Amy looked to where the narrow waves lapped at the land. The gently sloping foreshore was a mix of sand, mud and rocks, the latter predominating and continuing into the water. They poked above the surface like the barnacled back fins of a leviathan.
Zach gestured to the boat, waving his hands in front of his chest and shaking his head in an exaggerated manner.
The people on the boat must have underst
ood what he meant, or had already reached the same conclusion themselves, for the boat turned parallel to shore and slowed. A man appeared near the top deck—he was too far away for Amy to make him out clearly, though she thought he looked quite old.
The man pointed towards the headland from behind which the boat had appeared. He moved his right hand repeatedly in a chopping motion. Amy glanced at her companion, unsure what the man was trying to tell them. Zach seemed to understand. He nodded his head vigorously and gave the thumbs up.
The man raised both his hands in the same signal and disappeared back into the boat. The engine grumbled deeper and the boat began to turn back the way it had come.
Zach frowned. “That engine sounds a little rough.”
“It does?” It sounded to Amy like the noise any engine would make.
“Come on,” said Zach. “Back to the pick-up.”
Amy started towards the remains of their lunch, meaning to clear up.
“Leave it for the gulls,” growled Zach. “We need to get to the other side of that headland and quick. Don’t want them to think we’re not keen. Could be our passage across the ocean. We ain’t flush with choices.”
This was quite a speech by his standards. Amy was about to comment, but he was striding towards his truck.
With a shrug, she followed.
Zach gunned the powerful engine and set off towards the headland.
“Try not to lose sight of her,” he muttered.
The white boat was already hidden from view by a row of worn and weathered fisherman’s shacks. By the time the sea came back into sight, the boat had disappeared.
“It’s gone,” Amy said. “They must’ve already drove round that corner.”
Zach glanced to his left. “Yep. They’ve sailed or cruised—not ‘drove’—past the headland.”
“Whatever.”
Amy didn’t much care about the correct terminology. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told Zach that she had no interest in boats. The thought of being on one, crossing an entire ocean, did not fill her with glee. Yet the idea of stepping onto another country gave her a sensation that had largely been missing from her life: anticipation. She had already travelled as far as she had ever been from home. If they were able to hitch a ride on the white boat, soon she would be walking in a new land, one that of course she had heard about but never dreamed she would actually visit. And there was something else, something that made her stomach flutter in a not unpleasant way.
“How many… um.” She cleared her throat. “How many people d’you reckon are on that thing?”
“It’s a beaut. Prob’ly has berths for eight passengers plus crew. Course, the passengers will be the crew. Why?”
“Just wond’ring.”
She stared straight ahead, but thought she glimpsed from the corner of her eye Zach glance her way.
“Could be men on there,” he said. “Young men.”
Amy felt her colour rise, but also a spark of defiance. Why the heck shouldn’t she want there to be young men on that tub?
“I hope so,” she said. “No offence.”
Zach grunted.
“There’s something I don’t get,” said Amy. “How d’you know they’re fixin’ on going to England?”
“Same reason we want to go there.”
“That voice?”
“I reckon.”
“But where did it come from? Whose was it?”
Zach shrugged. “It’ll take someone a good deal smarter than me to answer that.”
Amy shivered. She didn’t like to think much about the voices. The first time she heard one inside her head, she’d assumed she must be crazy. The second time, her taciturn companion had also heard it. Maybe they were both crazy.
“Okay. Let’s say they are going, how will we get them to take us?”
“Ask ’em, I guess,” said Zach. “But I ain’t got no airs or social graces.”
“Me, neither.” It’s why you agreed to me coming with you. She didn’t voice the thought; some things were understood without being spoken.
“Been on my own a long time. Through choice.”
“So?”
“These last few weeks. Picking up with you. Wanting to join up with a bunch of strangers. S’pose you’d say it’s out of character.”
“Okay. And, so?”
Zach stared straight ahead. They were approaching the far side of the headland. The ocean, wilder and whiter here, could be seen in the distance.
“I guess,” he continued, “that my gut instinct is still to be on my ownsome. But something—that voice—is tamping it down.”
“Right. We need to get on this boat and get, er, cruising, before your instincts drown out the voice.”
“Something like that.”
The ocean was closer. Froth-crested waves rode in from hundreds of yards out, breaking on shingle and sucking back with a shloop sound that Amy imagined she could hear above the pick-up’s engine. Away to their left, out beyond the point where the waves began their steady rise, the white boat hove into view.
“There it is,” said Amy, her stomach fluttering as though ten anxious moths had just been released. “Let’s follow ’em to find out where they park–”
“Dock.”
“Okay. Dock. Then we make friends, I guess.”
Zach chuckled. “Yep. It’s what me and you are good at, ain’t we?”
Amy didn’t bother replying.
* * * * * * *
Howard Newton glanced down at his patients.
Will lay on his right side, breathing deeply. It would be quite some time before he would be able to lie on his left side or sleep comfortably without painkillers.
Next to him on the wide bed Bri lay on her back, snoring softly. The wound had stopped weeping a week ago and had nearly closed. Maybe in a few more days, the bandages could be removed to speed up the final stages of the healing process.
Howard breathed a soft sigh. The procedure to remove the blood clot still gave him cause to sit up in the middle of the night, body slick with sweat and heart pounding.
The boy had been bad enough, but Howard hadn’t had time to worry about that. He had simply been presented at Stonehenge with an unconscious, heavily bleeding child and reacted by instinct.
It was Diane who had stepped up when Howard’s instinct and G.P. training had not been sufficient. It was she who showed him how to clamp torn blood vessels and how to pack the wound with sterilised gauze. She it was who, when the generators had been restarted and illuminated the echoing corridors of Salisbury Hospital in a flickering, yellow light, knew where to find the blood, the coagulating and plasma-enhancing drugs, the antibiotics, the drainage tubes and suture kits.
“He’s one lucky kid,” Diane said once they were satisfied they had done all they could for Will. He lay unconscious, attached to drips and tubes, left shoulder heavily bandaged. “The angle of trajectory—slightly downwards, left to right—meant that the slug missed the vital organs, all major blood vessels and the nerve junctions that lie within the shoulder. Luckier still, the slug passed through the muscle and soft tissue to the side of the rib cage and emerged just beneath the extreme edge of the clavicle. No bone slivers to contend with.”
“Thank heavens for that,” said Howard with some feeling.
“The slug must have been full metal jacket since there was no fragmentation inside the body cavity. Judging from the relatively small exit wound, .308 calibre so less internal damage than a higher calibre round would have caused.
“Still, we’re likely to lose him from blood loss or infection. We might have been in time getting the blood and plasma and antibiotics into him. They might still be viable. Although the power has been off for weeks and the hospital’s emergency gennies would only have run for a few days at most, the temperature has been near enough freezing most of the time that they don’t appear to have spoiled.” She shrugged. “Even if blood loss or infection don’t kill him, shock probably will. His only hope is that he�
��s young and strong. Whether strong enough, only time will tell.”
Will’s slight frame had indeed proved hardy enough to withstand the trauma of being shot. After nearly forty-eight hours of deep, coma-like sleep, he awoke and, in a croaky voice, asked for a drink. Bri, who had not left the boy’s side, burst into tears.
Now the soft sound of someone clearing their throat brought Howard out of his reverie. He glanced across to where Colleen O’Mahoney sat, a gentle smile on her lips.
“You should be proud,” she said, low enough not to wake the sleepers.
Howard joined her on the settee beneath the picture window that looked over the South Wales countryside. The green fields and woods were broken by a curving ribbon of grey that had once teemed with continuous activity like lines of beavering ants, but that now lay still: the M4 motorway, which stretched eastwards all the way to London. In the distance could be seen the stanchions and cables of the Severn Crossing, the suspension bridge between Wales and England.
“They were extremely fortunate,” said Howard. “By rights, they should both be lying six feet under the golf course with that poor French girl.”
“They were extremely fortunate they had you.” Colleen’s accent was soft and unmistakably Irish. She lifted her glass and drained the last of the amber liquid it held.
“I wouldn’t have been able to save them on my own,” said Howard. “I’m a G.P., not a surgeon. I vaguely remember practising incisions on cadavers during my hospital rotation, but nothing had prepared me to treat a gunshot wound and operate on a subdural haematoma. Nope. Diane was the one who really saved them. Without her directing me, I’d have messed it up. As it was, it was more luck than judgment.” He uttered a short, humourless laugh.
Colleen gestured towards her empty glass. “Sounds like you could do with one of these.”
“Not yet.” He nodded towards the bed. “I’m confident they’re both past the worst of it, but I don’t want to take the chance on one of them suffering some sort of relapse and me being too sozzled to react.”
