The Reckoning (Earth Haven Book 3)

by Sam Kates

  The sound level increased as noises of battle intruded through the gap left by the shattered dome. Sivatra’s feet crunched on broken glass as she strode to the centre of the hall where her enemy awaited.

  Milandra recognised him as the man who had faced her across the great table in the earlier memory. He wore a white cloak, soiled by the dust that fell with every explosion.

  Sivatra stopped before him.

  He did not open his mouth to speak—speech would be difficult amidst the racket of war—but Milandra sensed that he was communicating with Sivatra, and she with him, through her mind.

  Except at the end. Clearly, slowly enough that Milandra could gain the sense of what he said, the man uttered aloud his last words.

  “Să naparsudu’ndan ul săr nanturian.”

  We cannot escape our nature.

  Sivatra stepped smartly backwards. Without taking his eyes from her, the man reached beneath his cloak and extracted a dark object. He twisted it and clutched it to his chest. A bitter grimace touched his lips before he vanished in a spray of blood, flesh and shattered bone as the device detonated.

  Turning on her heel, Sivatra nodded at her companions who had lined up behind her. While fresh explosions shook the building—the bombardment was growing nearer—they made their way from the Great Hall and down the hallway where the man who had met them awaited them at the entrance.

  Together, the five of them ran outside to join the battle...

  The memory faded and Milandra opened her eyes. There was one memory remaining of the secluded batch she had found. The picture was almost complete. She already had a good idea what that picture would show; she wished with all her heart that she was wrong, that at the last moment the image revealed would be not what she was now expecting.

  She paused only long enough to eat some food to restore a little energy before plunging back to the depths of the collective memory and into that last hidden one.

  She was sitting in a high-backed chair in an underground chamber. Rocky walls glowed red in light reflected from outside by glass tubes and mirrors. A woman stood over her, clutching a needle-tipped vial filled with a light blue liquid.

  The woman gazed intently at her. Although she could not catch glimpse in the mirrors of a reflection of the body she inhabited, Milandra by now could recognise Sivatra from the feel of her psyche.

  Sivatra nodded and drew in a deep breath. Held it.

  For all her courage and ferocity in battle, Milandra sensed that Sivatra did not like injections. The needle attached to the vial drew closer and Sivatra closed her eyes.

  The scene winked out…

  To be replaced almost immediately by a new one.

  This time, she stood on a raised dais in a much larger subterranean chamber that stretched into a shadowy distance. The chamber was packed with people. Thousand upon thousand stood before her. Watching her.

  She took a step forward to the edge of the dais and raised her arms. The low hubbub of whispered conversation died.

  In the silence, Sivatra spoke two words.

  “N’acnipnara jan.”

  Accept me.

  The crowd stood perfectly still and hushed. Each face was raised to gaze at Sivatra with expressions bordering on adoration. Any remaining doubts were subsumed into their welcome.

  Sivatra reached…

  Milandra let out her breath in a deep sigh and opened her eyes. She nearly knew the whole story.

  The final pieces of the jigsaw must be hidden elsewhere in the collective memory, ensuring that only a dedicated hunter would find them. Milandra mentally rolled up her sleeves and prepared to search deeper.

  * * * * * * *

  Zach watched the man tape the notice to the lamp-post. He stepped forward to read it over his shoulder.

  General Meeting

  Celtic Manor Resort Hotel

  Tomorrow @ 12:00 noon

  All welcome

  (The meeting will be conducted in English. No weapons to be carried, open or concealed. Thank you.)

  “What’s that about?” he asked.

  The man shrugged. “No idea, mate. I’m just helping out by putting these up in Caerleon. Others are putting them up in Newport and the surrounding areas. I don’t think they know what it’s all about, either.”

  Zach looked closely at the man. He was around forty, thick of girth but thin of hair.

  “You’re a Brit?”

  “Yeah. From Oxford, but lived in the Dordogne for the last four years. A cottage deep in the French countryside.” A shadow passed across his face. “Didn’t protect us from the fucking virus. I’m the only one who survived.”

  Zach wasn’t any good with platitudes. He didn’t offer any. Instead, he said, “You’re the first Brit I’ve seen since coming to Britain. Plenty of Spanish, Danes, Germans, Americans, even a couple of Canadians, but no Brits. You seen any others?”

  The man’s face creased in thought. “Now you mention it… The couple who asked me to put up these notices are British. Welsh, I think. A couple of English kids, too. And there may be another Brit with them, an older bloke.” He nodded at the notice. “They’re at the hotel. Think they were the first ones here. But other than them, nope, I can’t think of any other British people I’ve seen.” He frowned. “Odd.”

  “Hmm. These Brits at the hotel, they’re the ones calling this meeting?”

  “I think so. Maybe they know what’s been going on. The virus, the voices and what-have-you.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “Well, I have more notices to put up. See you at the meeting.”

  “Sure.”

  Zach watched the man walk away. He remained standing, deep in thought, oblivious to the comings and goings around him as people walked up to read the notice.

  “Hey, Zach!”

  He turned. Amy, Sarah and Frank were walking towards him. The man had his arm around Sarah’s waist, which had expanded as her bump grew. Sarah’s outside arm was linked through Amy’s. The pair had not started off well—girl stuff, Zach reckoned, whatever that was—but had become good friends during the latter stages of the transatlantic voyage as they shared the misery of frequent bouts of sickness.

  Amy’s eyes shone in the spring sunlight; her thick hair glowed chestnut. As well as shedding more than a few pounds, she had lost the short-treaded gait with which she used to carry her bulk around. To Zach’s untrained eye, she looked like a confident, sexy young woman.

  It wasn’t only fat she had lost. Whatever emotional baggage she had been carrying, loaded onto her by a bitter and prejudiced mother, appeared to have been shed. In between her bouts of seasickness as they crossed the Atlantic, Zach had noticed the change in her, brought about he believed by the close confinement with their new companions. She had passed from awkward, hesitant introvert, through days of soul-searching self-awareness and from there to this new Amy. Not for the first time, he felt glad that he hadn’t left her behind in Maine.

  Behind the youngsters, ambling at a more sedate pace befitting their advanced ages, came Elliott and Nan.

  “What’s that?” asked Sarah, squinting at the notice behind Zach.

  “A meeting,” said Zach. “Tomorrow at the Celtic Manor. The place we went when we first arrived.”

  “And where America regained the Ryder Cup,” said Frank, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  “Huh?” said Zach. “Didn’t Europe whup our asses last time the Cup was played? I’m sure I listened to it on the radio.”

  “No, sir, that was the last but one time it was played,” said Frank, the smile breaking out fully.

  “He’s right, Zach,” said Amy, her smile even broader than Frank’s. “I caddied.”

  “Me, too,” said Sarah with a giggle. “At least, I drove the golf buggy.”

  Frank nodded and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Lucky we got that gennie working to charge the buggies up. Or you’d have been watching from the clubhouse. You have to take it easy, missy.”

  “
Er, anyone care to tell me what the heck you’re talking about?” Zach felt amused and bemused at how much he had grown to like these people who stood before him.

  “Well, sir,” said Frank, “it was like this. Being so close to a Ryder Cup course and with so many Europeans here, I thought it was high time we got our revenge. So I found another American who was game–”

  “You also discounted anyone who didn’t play off at least a fourteen handicap,” interrupted Elliott with a grin.

  “Why, sure. I didn’t want to lose this time. I mean, it could be the last.” His jollity faded briefly, but he quickly resumed his tale. “Then it was merely a case of finding a couple of willing Europeans and some clubs.” He shrugged. “The fairways are like meadows, the greens like shag pile rugs, but I’m pleased to report that the good ole’ U.S. of A. adapted better to the conditions and prevailed by more than six points.”

  “Course,” added Nan, “it helped that the European team consisted of an Italian and a Norwegian who barely knew one end of a club from the other.”

  Zach could not help but chuckle. He had not laughed much in more than forty years. It felt good.

  Elliott stepped up to the notice. When he turned back to face them, the humour had gone from his eyes.

  “This meeting,” he said, looking at Zach, “what’s it about?”

  “I think,” Zach replied, “that tomorrow we’ll get the answers to our questions.”

  Chapter Nine

  It rained heavily throughout the night, but by late morning the sun had dried the grass banking in front of the hotel sufficiently that people were able to sit on it and enjoy the warmth. The breeze still contained a nip, a reminder that it was April and this was Wales, not the Algarve.

  The open-plan bar and restaurant areas leading off the main foyer had standing room only and not a great deal of that remained. The balconies overlooking reception on the first few floors were crowded with people. The foyer had been cleared of forlorn Christmas decorations and was now filled with people. The warm, dry weather had allowed them to open the plate glass windows on their hinges and swing them back like vast doors so that people could come and go easily, and stand outside and still be able to hear when the meeting was underway.

  Ceri stepped out to smoke a last cigarette before it started. Most of the chatter she could hear from the groups of people who had settled in the sun was conducted in foreign languages. She guessed that those whose English was good were inside and would report to their non-English-speaking friends later. It meant that the crush they had feared might occur if everybody tried to crowd into the hotel all at once did not materialise.

  The sun lifted Ceri’s spirits. They needed it. The previous afternoon, she and Tom had helped Howard to push one of the hotel’s minibuses out of the basement car park and bump start it on the hill outside. With the engine running, they pumped air into the sagging tyres with an electric pump that ran from the vehicle’s cigarette lighter socket. Tom handed over a syphoning kit consisting of a length of plastic tubing and a screwdriver.

  “Rustled this up for you,” he said. “Was going to give you mine, but I’ve a feeling I’m going to need it yet.”

  They joined Howard, Colleen, Bri and Will on the minibus as Howard drove it away from the hotel. A mile or so outside the hotel grounds, satisfied that nobody had noticed them leaving or was attempting to follow, Howard brought the vehicle to a halt. After hugs all round and one or two tears, Tom and Ceri jumped out and stood waving until the bus was out of sight, heading east towards England. The walk back to the hotel had been with leaden steps and heavy hearts.

  Ceri flicked the cigarette stub away and went inside. She weaved between knots of people to reach the concierge desk behind which a pale-looking Tom stood, peering uncertainly at the assembled crowd. Dusty lay on the floor, partly under the desk. He thumped his tail as she stepped behind the desk to join them.

  Tom offered her a tentative smile.

  “Ready?” she asked, squeezing his arm by way of encouragement.

  “As I’ll ever be.” He craned his head as if looking for somebody.

  “What’s up?”

  “Just wondering where Joe is. He could tell them about what they get up to at Hillingdon Hospital.”

  Ceri shook her head. “Not seen him.”

  “Ah, well. It was a thought.” He took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”

  Tom turned and stepped up onto the wide wooden block that had been brought in from one of the conference rooms to act as an impromptu stage. Ceri handed him one of the cordless microphones; there were two others ready to be handed around for the inevitable questions.

  Ceri stood before the PA system and switched it on. She raised her thumb to Tom.

  “Um, hello,” said Tom into the microphone. Ceri had spent a large part of the morning testing the volume and she was satisfied that his voice would be audible without being deafening. “I hope you can all hear me.”

  The hotel fell silent apart from the shuffling of feet and occasional cough as every head turned to face the concierge desk. Ceri immediately felt her face flush. She looked up at Tom and savoured the relief that it was he who stood up there facing them and not she.

  “Um, okay,” said Tom and tried to smile. Too forced, more a grimace. “My name is Tom Evans.” He gestured towards Ceri who felt her face grow hotter. “This is my friend, Ceri Lewis. Both of us hail from just down the road. Apart from me and Ceri, there are just two other people we are aware of—two young people wearing bandages who you might have seen with us until yesterday—who lived on mainland Britain, who survived the Millennium Bug and who haven’t been turned into something resembling a shambling zombie from a third rate horror film.”

  He paused and gestured to Ceri. She removed the top from a bottle of water and handed it to him. He sipped it greedily. A low hum of muttered conversation arose.

  “That’s better,” said Tom, passing the bottle back to Ceri with a wink. He held up a hand, palm flat, and bounced it a little in the air; the muttering immediately died away. All signs of Tom’s nerves had disappeared; he looked like someone used to addressing an unruly classroom. “I’m getting ahead of myself. I think the best thing to do is to tell you our tale from the beginning. There will be plenty of time for questions. All I ask is that you let me tell our story to the end before you ask anything. Is that okay with everyone?”

  He received a low murmur in reply.

  “Thank you. The first part of our story will be a familiar one and I can brush over this part. We fell ill with the Millennium Bug. We survived whilst our family and friends didn’t.” Tom took the briefest pause that to Ceri indicated he wasn’t in any way trying to make light of people’s loss, but they were gathered here today for something else and he needed to press on with it. He was rather good at this, she thought.

  “Where our tale might depart from yours,” he continued, “begins when I met my first survivor. His name is Peter and, later, he and I found Ceri.

  “Peter told me that he came from a small village outside Cardiff and that he was driving around looking for survivors. Though I didn’t really notice at the time, he never said that he had fallen ill with the virus and lost loved ones. He did mention the loss of his wife, but she had died many years before and not from the Millennium Bug.

  “A couple of other things about Peter. He showed me something remarkable. I have a dog. Dusty. He’s down there on the floor in front of me, half asleep. Peter had never seen Dusty before, yet he made him lie down, chase his tail and stand up again by doing nothing more than point at him. He also said some things that made me suspect that he knew more about the Millennium Bug than I did. Hell, than anyone did. He admitted as much to me, but would only reveal little bits at a time. It was frustrating.”

  “Where is this Peter?” asked an American voice from somewhere near the front.

  “He’s not here,” said Tom. “He was, but left yesterday.” He looked at the person who’d asked the question. �
�Please, let me get through the story—I’ve barely started—and then you can ask whatever you want once I’ve finished.”

  Tom told them everything. How the Millennium Bug had been systematically disseminated throughout the planet; about the images Peter had shown them of spacecraft and tidal waves; of the pursuit from the Sea King helicopter; how Diane had recovered fully from what had appeared to be mortal injuries; about the Beacon and their failed attempt at preventing its activation. And everything of relevance in between, including the likelihood that soon after arrival of the remainder of the other species another Commune would be held and this time, swollen with power, it would not be persuading people to remain where they were, or suggesting they come to the U.K., but compelling them to slit their writs or step off high buildings.

  The only part that Tom omitted was their encounter with the nuclear submarine, Argute, and the point-blank refusal of Acting Lieutenant Commander Irving to believe their tale of disease-spreading, mind-controlling alien invaders. Tom and Ceri had agreed that their story was depressing enough without burdening everyone with the realisation that their only chance of gaining military assistance had been lost.

  Tom’s speech was punctuated by gasps from the audience. And dark mutterings. And half-choked cries of rage or anguish. When Ceri glanced about as the tale drew to an end, she noticed a few people quietly sobbing.

  “So,” Tom said, “we came here as soon as the children were well enough to travel. Peter and I spent a few weeks driving around the coastline, placing notices warning people not to go near London. Then you all began to arrive.

  “And that is our story. You now know as much as we do.” He licked his lips. “I’ll give you a few minutes to absorb it; I know it’s a lot to take in. Then I’ll do my best to answer your questions.”

  Tom turned off the microphone, jumped down from the platform and grabbed the bottle of water. He sat back and took a long slug.