by Sam Kates
“Be careful,” said Ceri. She leaned forward and placed a kiss on the boy’s cheek.
“Yeah,” echoed Tom, “be careful.” Since Joe didn’t have a free hand to shake, Tom clapped him on the back.
“Ah, careful’s my middle name,” said Joe. “Hope you find the youngsters. Say hello to Bri for me. That’s one special girl. Keep her out of harm’s way.”
“Right then,” said Tom once Joe had left. “Let’s go swap the Nissan for something a bit more upmarket.”
An hour later, in a showroom on the outskirts of Newport, the engine of the brand new Peugeot 508 GT Saloon roared to life and Tom disconnected the jump leads from the Nissan’s battery. With an air pump already deployed on the tyres and the new car’s tank brimming with petrol from the five-litre containers they had filled by syphoning on the way, they were ready to go. They would stop for food and water on the road to top-up what they had brought with them.
Tom switched off the Nissan’s engine and tapped the car fondly on the bonnet. “You’ve done us well,” he said. He smiled at Ceri who was sitting behind the wheel of the Peugeot looking as though she couldn’t wait to get the car onto open road.
He walked over and slid into the passenger seat. A damp nose nuzzled his neck. He turned and stroked Dusty’s head. The dog looked quite happy in his basket on the back seat.
“You ready?” said Ceri. “We’ll need to keep going for a few hours to charge the battery up before we think about stopping.”
“Aye,” said Tom. “Let’s go find those kids.”
* * * * * * *
As the white Range Rover ate up the miles, Bri grew accustomed to the clutch and gearbox, and the journey became smoother. She didn’t have a complete feel for the vehicle’s dimensions and had come perilously close to scraping the passenger side when passing stationary vehicles.
“Sorry,” she remarked, yanking the steering wheel sharply to the right when Will drew in a hissing breath as the latest potential obstruction loomed large. She let out a nervous giggle. “My dad always said that women don’t have good spatial awareness.”
That got her thinking about her parents and brother, and the next few miles passed in silence. When Will gasped again, Bri jerked at the wheel, but the road was clear.
“What’s up?” she demanded. “I wasn’t in danger of hitting anything.”
She glanced to her left. Will was craning around in his seat to look back the way they had come.
“Well?” Bri said. “What you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
Will turned to face the front again. Next time Bri glanced at him, he was looking down at his lap where his fingers twined and untwined.
“Right, buster!” Bri stepped hard on the brake, forgot to dip the clutch and brought the car to a jerking, stalling stop. “Shit!” she muttered.
She pressed the button that started the vehicle, her heart in mouth in case the battery had not yet charged sufficiently to start. To her relief, the engine coughed back to life, but promptly stalled again. She had left the engine in gear and, once more, had not depressed the clutch.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Uttering a silent prayer to the god of naïve girl drivers, Bri made sure the gearbox was in neutral before pressing the starter. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you…” She turned to Will and grinned. “Phew! Thought I might not be able to get us started again. Anyway, matey, the reason why I stopped in the first bloody place: I know something’s up. Tell me.”
Will continued to stare at his lap.
“I’m waiting,” said Bri in what she hoped was her sternest school ma’am voice. She fancied she did a passable impression of Miss Jennings, her school I.T. teacher, who could freeze a class into silence merely by clearing her throat.
Will sighed. “The Giant,” he said.
“Huh?”
“The Giant.” He pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. “Back there. I saw the Giant.”
“Giant? Giant? Like, seriously dude, what are you talking about?” Bri stared at the boy, wondering if he was losing his mind. It wouldn’t be that surprising if he was. Maybe they all were, a little.
Will sighed again. “The Giant who came and talked to me. At the crazy golf.”
“Crazy golf? You mean, back in Wales?”
Will nodded.
Bri had heard of somebody’s blood running cold, but had always imagined it to be writers’ hyperbole. Now she knew differently. As she realised what—or, more accurately, who—Will was referring to, it felt as if the contents of her veins and arteries had been replaced with water fresh from a mountain spring. She shivered involuntarily and hugged herself.
“Okay,” she said slowly; she felt that if she didn’t enunciate deliberately, she would start to gabble and spook Will, too. “You’re talking about that big Irish guy. The one who Colleen said tried to rape her. Where did you see him? What was he doing?”
“Like I said, I saw him back there.” Again Will indicated the direction from which they’d come with his thumb.
Bri turned and craned her neck so she could peer out of the rear window. She half expected to see a gigantic man striding towards them, red in the face with exertion—or anger—and was relieved to see the road behind them empty.
She looked back at Will. He was gazing at her with no hint of artifice in his open features.
“What was he doing?” she asked.
Will shrugged. “Dunno. He was sort of crouching down behind one of those crappy motorbikes. Like he was hiding or something.” The last word sounded like ‘sumfing’ as Will’s cockney roots became apparent.
“Crappy motorbike? What, like a scooter?”
“Yeah. A scooter.”
Bri thought for a moment. If it was the Irishman from whom Colleen had fled—and she had no reason to doubt Will—what was he doing out here if not…?
“He’s going after Colleen and Howard,” she murmured.
Will nodded.
“You didn’t really want to say you saw him because you know we’ll have to go back and warn them and you don’t want to go back. Yeah?”
Again the boy nodded.
“I don’t want to go back either.” Bri sighed. “But we have to.”
Will nodded for a third time.
“You can still speak, yeah?”
This time the nod was accompanied by a grin that faded almost immediately.
Bri shifted the gearstick into first. The road was wide and empty, but it still took her seven attempts to turn so that the car faced in the opposite direction. She picked up speed and they headed back to Skegness.
* * * * * * *
The message arrived while Tess Granville was ten miles to the east, and slightly north, of Hillingdon Hospital, inspecting the approaches to Wembley Stadium.
Tess? It’s Baker. I was at the hospital in Hillingdon.
One moment… Tess motioned to the man guiding her around the empty streets and walkways. “Something’s happening. We may need to cut this short. Give me a few minutes.” She stepped to one side. Baker… you were at the hospital?
Yeah. An armed force of humans came. Estimate at least fifteen hundred strong. Difficult to be more accurate since I didn’t see them out of their vehicles.
You didn’t engage them?
I was instructed not to. Besides, there were only four of us. We’d have stood no chance.
No. And, good. I don’t want them to be challenged. Not just yet.
Lull them into a false sense of security? I like it.
Where are you now?
West Drayton. We let them see that we went south.
Excellent. Pass the word: no one is to go north; no one is to challenge or engage with them. I’m on my way back. D’you know the library in Drayton?
No, but I’ll find it.
You and the rest of your team from the hospital meet me there. Root out some maps of the area while you’re waiting for me. Oh, and some food. Think we’ll need it.
Okay. What shall I tell them?
Tell them that they are going to be part of the War Council.
Anything else?
There should be teams nearby looking for rats or feral dogs. Contact them and give them these instructions…
A few minutes later, Tess was on the road, heading for West Drayton, making sure she gave Hillingdon a wide berth. Baker, a dour man with a South African accent, was waiting for her at the library. He wasted no time in small talk.
“We’ve made contact with seven teams. Each of them knows where there are large concentrations to be found. Most of them are underground out of harm’s way so have been left alone.”
Tess smiled. “Sounds perfect. Let’s send these drones a welcoming party, shall we?”
* * * * * * *
A dog with matted fur and slavering jaws followed them back to the hotel. Colleen turned around frequently and brandished the golf club with both hands, as though it were a claymore. Each time, the dog slunk back a few yards, its sly gaze never meeting hers.
Apart from remarking that he was glad it was just the one dog, Howard seemed unconcerned. No, more than a lack of concern: he was preoccupied, distracted.
“You okay?” Colleen asked when they were once more settled on stools in the hotel bar. “They’ll be all right, you know. That Bri’s got her head screwed on straight. And Will worships her. He’ll do whatever she says.”
She poured a generous slug of scotch into her glass. Without much help from Howard, she had finished the only bottle of Irish whiskey the hotel stocked and had moved onto the Scottish stuff. Not quite peaty enough for her palette, it would serve until she could find a supply of Irish. She slid the bottle along the bar to Howard.
“Yeah, they’ll be fine,” said Howard. “I’m not worried about them, not any more.” He glanced at the bottle of whisky, but did not pour from it. He slid off his stool and walked around the bar. When he came back to resume his seat, he clutched a bottle of lemonade.
Colleen sipped her whisky. Scottish or Irish, the numbing sensation as the warmth hit her stomach and spread like questing tendrils through her nervous system was the same, and most welcome. Before the Millennium Bug, she had been an occasional drinker, a social imbiber, happy to swill the hard stuff with the best of them at parties or work functions, content with a cup of tea or coffee or the occasional glass of wine when snuggled up with Sinead on the sofa in their flat.
Sweet Sinead. Sweet, cloying, sloughing Sinead who had shambled through Colleen’s nightmares with grasping talons and gaping maw, trying to call Colleen’s name but only succeeding in uttering a high-pitched mewling due to the swollen, blackened tongue and crumbling teeth.
Whiskey had banished this nightmare version of her lover. Gradually Colleen’s mind, almost torn from its moorings, had tightened, helped in no small part by Howard’s calm assurance. As it did, so her need to drink to keep the dream Sinead at bay diminished.
There were plenty of other reasons to drink in this new world. Staying permanently sozzled prevented Colleen’s waking thoughts from turning dark and introspective; stopped her pondering her limited prospects. Without Sinead by her side to anchor her to the moment, Colleen was apt to worry about the future. In the current climate, such musings may lead to a short step off a tall building.
In one sense, then, though Colleen had told Howard in Dublin that she intended drinking herself to death, it was the fact that she was all but pickled that was presently keeping her alive.
She tipped back her glass and finished her latest tot. Leaning across the bar, she pulled the scotch bottle towards her.
“Not partaking?” she asked Howard.
He shook his head. Sighing, he sat straighter, as though he had come to a decision, and looked at her.
“I need to go back,” he said.
“Back where? Lincoln or Wales or Ireland?”
“Wales. At least, I’ll need to begin there. To find out if they’ve decided to fight; if so, where the battle’s taking place. London somewhere, I suppose, but it’s a huge city.”
“London? You want to fight?”
“Good lord, no. I’m a doctor. People are going to get hurt. I might be able to help.”
Colleen poured herself another liberal shot of scotch. “I suppose, though you said it yourself on more than occasion: you’re no surgeon.”
“No, I’m not. But, like Peter said when he persuaded me to operate on Brianne, I’m the nearest thing they have to one. Mind, I could do with Diane by my side. Her knowledge of surgical procedure is greater than mine.”
“I can’t come with you. You know that.”
“You could come so far. I’ll leave you somewhere safe then pick you up later once I’ve found out what’s happening.”
“If Dermot sees you, he might go for you. Or follow you.”
“I’ll exercise caution.” He turned to face her and took hold of her left hand in both of his. “Look, I know we came to keep you away from that nutcase and I don’t want to do anything that’s going to place you in danger, but I can’t sit here drinking away the rest of my life when there may be people risking their lives for us. I have to help them in the best way I can. Do you see that?”
Colleen breathed out heavily. “You’re a good man, Howard. I–”
She broke off as the door into the bar creaked open. A head peered around.
“Phew!” said Bri. “I thought I could only hear your two voices, but I couldn’t be sure.”
“What are you doing back?” asked Howard, letting go of Colleen’s hand and getting to his feet.
“I, er…” Bri blushed. “This is going to sound silly. He must have imagined it.”
“Who did?” asked Colleen softly. “Imagined what?” A knot had started to twist deep inside her stomach.
“Well,” said Bri, stepping fully into the room, “Will thought he saw that Irish guy. The big one that was talking to him by the crazy golf.”
“Where did he see him?” asked Colleen. Her voice continued in its gentle pitch, belying the turmoil erupting behind the scenes.
“A few miles away. We came back to warn you.”
Colleen darted a look at Howard.
“We have to get out of here.”
All the colour had drained from Howard’s face. He swallowed and nodded at Colleen.
She looked back at Bri. “Where’s Will?”
“I left him in the car. I’ll go and get him. Oh, and guess what—we have a gun.”
“This one?” came an oily voice from the door.
As if she had just bitten into a sloe berry, all the spit left Colleen’s mouth. Standing in the doorway were two people. In front, looking pale and scared, stood Will. Looming over him, holding a pistol in his right hand, stood Dermot Ward, also known as Clint.
Chapter Twelve
As Wallace’s finger tightened around the trigger, Peter was distantly aware of his body tensing in anticipation. Not that tensed muscles would limit the damage from a pistol fired at his face at a range of fewer than six yards. No, his body couldn’t help him now.
It wasn’t considered polite to probe a peer without consent, but courtesy did not figure large in Peter’s current priorities. He probed. And immediately sensed Wallace’s reluctance to kill him.
I loved her Peter sent. Look… He opened his mind, allowing Wallace access to his innermost memories.
Wallace looked and, in so doing, opened a return path to his own memories. As was understood in such circumstances, Peter did not take advantage. Nevertheless, as was also understood, it was impossible for Peter not to catch a glimpse of Wallace’s deepest thoughts and emotions.
Not a word Wallace sent. Or I will pull this fucking trigger.
Peter said nothing. He sensed the other intellect withdraw from his mind. Slowly, Wallace lowered the gun.
“What the fuck?” Lavinia was regarding Wallace in disbelief. “Why don’t you put a bullet in his head?”
“Something passed between them,” trilled Simone Furlong. She clapped her hands
gleefully. “Oh, you boys, keeping secrets from us girls.”
Peter turned to Simone. “No secrets, Chosen.”
“He fell in love with a human,” said Wallace, addressing Simone and Lavinia. “I mean, really in love, the way only they can normally experience. Lived with her for sixty years. Held her in his arms as she died of old age. It changed him. Made it virtually impossible to carry out his part in the Cleansing.” He shrugged. “He didn’t hold back from spreading the dust out of betrayal to us, but out of love for them. I can’t kill him for that.”
“No?” said Simone. “I can.” She motioned to Lavinia who handed over the submachine gun. Simone raised it and once more Peter stared down a black barrel.
“No!” Diane Heidler stepped forward. Peter had almost forgotten she was there. “What are you doing, Simone? We’re not about killing each other. That’s what humans do, remember? They’re supposed to be the mindless drones, not us. We are the higher beings, evolved beyond the state of savagery that humans can never hope to surpass.”
Peter thought about Bri and what he had witnessed when examining her mind. The girl was living proof that what Diane had just said wasn’t true, though now was hardly the time to raise it.
Simone swung the weapon around to point it at Diane, who blanched but stood her ground. Simone wore a grin that was slightly off centre, giving her a manic appearance. Peter wondered if she was playing with a full deck; it wouldn’t be the first time that the greatly extended lifespan enjoyed on Earth Haven had driven one of their number insane.
“Did you spread the dust?” Simone asked Diane. “The pixie dust? The tragic magic pixie dust?” She paused and her grin grew wider. “Of course you did. In a children’s playground, on the slide and swings and merry-go-round.” She tittered again. “Very good. Very inventive. Infect the children and the parents will soon be coughing.”
Diane jutted out her chin. Peter had never seen her look so defiant. “Yes,” she said in a flat tone, “I spread the powder in a playground. Watched a child come along and rub it into his eyes. Watched his mother snort it up her nostrils. I watched and walked away and continued to spread it. From Los Angeles to Las Vegas, I played my part. Do I get a gold star? Or should I regret it?” She shot Peter the briefest of glances. “Yes, I regret it. I won’t kill another human, not with a virus, not with a gun, not with my mind. If that doesn’t fit your philosophy, Simone, then you’d better kill me as well.”
