The Reckoning (Earth Haven Book 3)

by Sam Kates

  Simone laughed. “Stupid drones.”

  “Tess isn’t expecting the humans to give up just yet. She has a few more tricks up her sleeve.”

  Milandra sat forward. “Unless anyone has any further questions of Jason? No? Then it’s my turn. Make yourselves comfortable while I tell you a story…”

  * * * * * * *

  From the journal of Elliott King:

  We stayed in the hospital for the rest of that day and overnight, licking our wounds. Barely anyone had escaped being bitten or scratched, although most injuries were superficial. The medical base was summarily transferred from Slough to Hillingdon. Sarah and the nurses had gathered supplies of antiseptics and antibiotics, which they brought with them, and were kept busy all afternoon. It wasn’t until early evening that Frank was able to take Sarah to one side to explain about Nan. She and Nan had hit it off from the outset; that was one conversation I was glad not to witness.

  The following morning, we set out south again, but this time in a convoy of vehicles. It wasn’t glaringly obvious, maybe because we were still a disorganized bunch, little more than a rabble, but I think maybe our numbers had shrunk overnight. Who can blame anyone for slipping away under cover of darkness? I’d have probably done the same if I wasn’t among the only friends I have left.

  They sent dogs after us that day. Wild-eyed, panting, salivating, they came at us in wave after wave. Vehicles sustained deep dents and cracked windows from the ferocity of the assaults—the animals showed scant concern for their own safety—but held firm. We grew accustomed to the snarling thuds as we drove through the residential district we had strolled through yesterday. One or two people threw open high windows and took ineffective pot shots until word came round to conserve ammo for when we might really need it.

  We only lost one person that morning. When her minibus slowed at an intersection, she threw open the door and stepped off unarmed. She stumbled and almost fell, but regained her balance. In her early thirties, at a guess, she wore an expression of exaltation as she glanced around, looking for dogs. She didn’t have to look far. They were approaching her, fast. I watched in horrified fascination as she held out her arms toward the frenzied creatures as though imparting blessings. Only at the last, as they fell upon her, did her expression change. It stayed with me, that alteration in her eyes like a switch had been thrown, as whatever fever possessed her fled in the face of chomping, slavering reality.

  I had intended to ask someone who was on the bus with her what she had been like in the moments before deciding to step out, whether she had given any clues to what had prompted her to surrender her life to blind, bestial hunger, but I never did. The chaos that came later drove all such thoughts from my mind.

  Other than that incident and the cosmetic damage to our vehicles, we advanced without hindrance beyond the residential area to a district of light industry. There they awaited us.

  That is where we learned that they were capable of more than setting vermin and feral beasts on us.

  So much more.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Once he had overcome his dislike of being a passenger, Tom relaxed and enjoyed the journey across the centre of England. He gazed out at the passing countryside, seeing it in a detail that wasn’t possible from behind the steering wheel. Everywhere looked greener, bushier, more verdant, even the roads and pavements, as nature began to undo man’s works.

  They were content to travel in silence; a companionable rather than an awkward silence. They broke it only to remark upon how flat and featureless the scenery had become. Accustomed as they both were to the hills and valleys of their homeland, the Fens seemed an alien landscape, stretching flat and unbroken for miles in every direction as far as their gazes could reach.

  They reached Lincoln late morning. Ceri parked by the cathedral, reputed to have been in ancient times the tallest structure in the world. They snacked in its grounds, while Dusty attended to canine business and investigated interesting scents.

  “Where now?” asked Ceri, when they were ready to go.

  “Coastal road,” said Tom. “Howard told me that when he’d checked on his family and dealt with any remains—he’s not a stupid man; he’s expecting to find corpses—they’ll probably make for the coast. Skegness is the nearest seaside resort.”

  An hour or so later, Ceri drove along the seafront in Skegness. She proceeded cautiously, swerving to avoid the occasional dog and, more disconcerting, sheep that wandered into the road.

  “How on earth are we going to find them?” she said. “We don’t even know they’re here.”

  “You concentrate on the road and I’ll keep watch for the hotel minibus they came in. I won’t be able to miss that.” Assuming they haven’t ditched it for something else Tom thought.

  He was beginning to wonder where else Howard and Colleen might have gone, and how they would even begin to go about locating them, when he saw it.

  “There! Up ahead on the left. The minibus.” He let out a long sigh of relief. “See it? Next to that white Range Rover.”

  As they drew closer, they approached a scooter standing by the kerbside. Tom stared at it, turning his head as they passed. A sense of foreboding seeped into him like treacle, dark and insistent. Why the sight of a scooter should spark such a sensation he had no idea, but did not dismiss it out of hand as fanciful. The level-headed Tom was slowly being replaced by a more credulous version.

  Ceri brought the Peugeot to a halt next to the minibus and killed the engine. She craned her neck to see what buildings were nearby and pointed to the closest one.

  “That looks like a hotel,” she said.

  Tom climbed out of the car, letting Dusty out behind him, and walked over to the minibus. He peered through the windows but there was nothing of note to see. More interesting was the Range Rover; it was parked at an angle as though left there in a rush or by an inexperienced driver. The passenger door stood open.

  There was nothing that Tom could point to and say it was the source of his sense of dread, but still the feeling grew. He could taste it, a metallic flavour, a little like blood.

  Dusty ran to the Range Rover and began sniffing around it, tail wagging. He jumped through the open door onto the passenger seat and looked back at Tom.

  Wuff?

  “What can you smell, boy?”

  Tom walked over. Ceri joined him.

  “Isn’t that…? Yes. Tom, their Harrods bags are on the back seat.” She looked at him, a quizzical expression on her face that turned to alarm. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Tom. “Something. I feel I’m in a dream that’s about to turn into a nightmare. I just don’t know how yet.”

  Ceri looked up at the hotel. “They must be in there. Let’s go find them.”

  “Bring a weapon.”

  “You’re scaring me. What do you think we’re going to find in there?”

  He shrugged. “I’m probably being stupid, but humour me, okay?”

  Ceri ducked into the Peugeot, re-emerging with her assault rifle. Tom watched her raise the weapon, sight down the scope and ensure the cross bolt safety mechanism was disengaged. She removed the magazine and checked it had a full complement of thirty rounds before slotting it back into place. Keeping her fingers outside the trigger guard and the barrel pointing to the ground, she stepped to his side and nodded.

  “Ready. I hope this isn’t necessary.”

  “So do I. Dusty? Here, boy.”

  The dog trotted obediently over. Tom lowered his hand to pet the dog’s head and to let him know that he was to stay by Tom’s side.

  He walked up the short flight of steps and tried the hotel door. It opened easily. He swung it wide and stepped inside, holding it open for Ceri to follow. He began to address her in a low voice. “Where do you think–”

  The gunshot came from down a short corridor that led off the reception area. It was followed by a scream.

  Tom froze, wanting to run towards the noise, afraid to. Not
for the first time, his legs refused to co-operate and his knees locked like an elephant’s, rooting him to the spot.

  Like she had at Stonehenge when noticing Will inside the circle of bluestones, Ceri took the initiative. She pushed past Tom, bringing the rifle to bear as she ran down the corridor. Dusty growled, straining to take off after her.

  After what seemed like minutes, but could only have been seconds, Tom made his traitorous legs move. Ceri had already reached a door at the end of the corridor and was pushing it open.

  Dusty reached the doorway before him and bounded through it.

  “Wait, boy!” Tom called, afraid of what danger might lie on the other side of the door.

  He raced through and skidded to a halt, almost colliding with Dusty who had stopped at his command. It took Tom a few moments to comprehend what he was seeing.

  The room consisted of stools arrayed before a wooden counter and a small seating area. On the floor in front of the stools lay a motionless figure over which two female forms huddled. One was a girl with tear-streaked cheeks: Bri. Opposite the bar, Will cowered in a sofa, his gaze transfixed by the gigantic figure standing at the end of the bar. Over the figure’s shoulder protruded the barrel of a rifle; in both hands it clutched a pistol, aiming to Tom’s left, where Ceri stood.

  The stock of the assault rifle was jammed tight into her right shoulder, the scope up to her eye. Her right index finger curled around the trigger. The short barrel pointed unwaveringly at the head of the giant.

  Tom recognised the figure as the Irishman he had met in the Celtic Manor a few short days back; the one from whom Colleen and Howard had fled. Dermot something. What was he doing here?

  “Tom!” Bri called to him in a voice shrill with disbelief and grief. “He shot Howard.”

  Tom’s mind whirled, trying to make sense of the information bombarding it. So far, it wasn’t doing a good job; he was little more than an observer to this drama.

  The other female looked up. Colleen’s face was as pale as chalk dust, her expression as dark as soot. She began to rise to her feet.

  “Not only shot him,” she said in a toneless voice. “Killed him.”

  She gained her feet and stepped towards Dermot. She must have been within his field of vision, but he didn’t move his gaze from Ceri. As Colleen drew nearer, her hands twisted into claws. Before she could sink her fingernails like talons into the man’s face, his left hand released his grip on the pistol and his right hand darted out as fast as a striking snake. Then he was gripping the pistol two-handed again, still pointing it at Ceri. It had happened so quickly that Tom would have missed it had he blinked.

  Colleen gave a startled cry and stumbled, blood spurting from her mouth. Her hindmost foot hit the body lying on the floor, her other tangled with Bri, and she fell backwards with a thump.

  The steady growl coming from Dusty changed pitch, growing higher and more strained, like an engine dropping gear to take a tight bend.

  Without shifting his attention from Ceri, Dermot muttered, “Keep that fucking dog away from me or it’ll end up like the doc.”

  Tom lowered his hand to Dusty’s scruff and gripped it tightly; the dog was quivering as though standing belly-deep in snow.

  “Drop the pistol.” Ceri spoke for the first time since entering the bar. Her voice was without inflection yet conveyed a deadly intent. “Drop it now or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”

  Dermot’s thick lips twisted in a sneer. “Pull that trigger and the boy gets it.” He swung the pistol away from Ceri and pointed it at Will.

  Later, Tom would wonder how things might have played out differently if the Irishman hadn’t threatened Will. He could imagine at least one scenario in which it would have been possible for Dermot to walk away with his life. But turning his gun on Will was a mistake. A fatal one.

  “Nooooo!” Bri sprang from the floor and flew at Dermot. He had already demonstrated his deadly speed when striking Colleen, but on this occasion Bri was quicker. Head lowered, she ducked under the pistol and his outstretched arms, and hit him in the solar plexus.

  The air left Dermot’s lungs in a whoosh!, he grimaced in pain and staggered back against the wall. His hands flailed, his finger tugging involuntarily on the trigger of the Glock.

  Tom felt something zing past his face and a cold puff of air on his cheek. Two loud reports sounded almost simultaneously and then the world fell silent. But these things he only noticed on the periphery. His main focus was on Dermot.

  The man’s left eye had exploded like an overripe grape. A trickle of blood appeared on what remained of his lower eyelid and began to run down his cheek. The expression in his remaining eye was one of deep puzzlement. In slow motion he slid down the wall until he was sitting, legs splayed out like felled saplings. A hole had been blown into the wall behind where he’d been standing; a hole surrounded by ivory, grey and black globules. A scarlet trail, like a giant slug’s, led down the wall to where his head had come to rest.

  Tom glanced to his left. A wisp of smoke curled from the barrel of Ceri’s rifle. She still held it to her shoulder, lips compressed into a thin, white line. Beyond her, Will looked paler and smaller than ever. Colleen lay with her legs across the body—Howard’s body, Tom now understood—over which she’d tripped, hands clutched to her mouth. Bri crouched on the floor in front of the bar where she’d ended up after her headlong rush at Dermot. She shook herself as though to clear her head, stood and ran to Will. They clutched at each other like drowning men.

  A ringing started in Tom’s ears as his hearing began to return. Realising he was still half-stooped, clutching Dusty’s scruff, he dropped into a full crouch and threw his arms around the dog’s neck; Dusty planted a wet snuffle on Tom’s cheek to show him he was all right. Faint sounds began to make themselves heard above the ringing: Colleen’s moans, Bri’s sobbing, Will’s murmurs.

  Tom turned to Ceri. He placed his hands on the rifle and tugged. For a moment or two she clung on grimly, before letting go. Tom placed the rifle on the floor, standing it against the wall, and took Ceri in his arms.

  It was like hugging a tree. Tom held her at arms’ length and stared into her eyes. She stared back, unseeing. He glanced at the bar. An open bottle of whisky stood on the wooden surface. In three short strides, Tom crossed to the bar and grabbed the bottle; he also picked up the bottle top before returning to Ceri. He poured a measure of whisky into the top and brought it to Ceri’s lips. Using the edge of the bottle top to force down her lower lip, he tipped the whisky into her mouth and took half a step back.

  With a splutter and a grimace, life returned to Ceri’s features. She gasped and her gaze darted around the room, coming to rest on the slumped figure of Dermot. She gasped again, louder; Tom could hear it clearly—the ringing had faded to background noise.

  “Cer? Are you okay?”

  With what seemed like a massive effort of will, Ceri tore her gaze away from Dermot.

  “I killed him.”

  Her face crumpled and Tom stepped forward to take her once more in his arms. This time she hugged him fiercely back and he held her while she sobbed hot tears against his shoulder.

  * * * * * * *

  Milandra settled into the armchair, making it groan. She needed to be comfortable; she could be sitting here for a while. She cleared her throat and all eyes turned to watch her.

  “Before you emerged from the placenta,” she said, looking from one to another of her audience in turn, “the Keeper of that time imparted to you certain knowledge: of our language, our culture, our history. It is about that last that I need to speak to you. Our history.

  “We all know the official tale. Our arrival at Earth Home to find a deserted planet that we made our own. After many, many millennia, our sun, expanding towards dwarf state, devastated the surface, forcing us to dwell below ground. The fruitless search for the secret of faster-than-light travel to be able to escape our solar system to find a new planet to colonise. How we discovered artefacts l
eft behind by an ancient species that inhabited Earth Home before us. The millennia that passed while we struggled to break the ancients’ code; the joy when it was cracked at last and revealed the secret we had long been seeking. Even better, blueprints for a faster-than-light craft and directions to a planet many light years distant that would support our life forms.”

  She took a deep breath and a sip of water. Nobody spoke. They all, even the Chosen, watched her with varying degrees of curiosity.

  “Worryingly,” she continued, “the decoded black tablets of the ancients spoke of another species, a savage, warlike species that hunted them. This explained another mystery: why the ancients felt the need to travel to the other side of the galaxy sixty-six million years ago, with the great use of resources and all the risks that entailed, at a time when Earth Home’s sun would not have been a threat to the planet’s surface. In fact, Earth Home then would have been a lush, verdant planet, much like Earth Haven is today. So the ancients left Earth Home, not in a premature attempt at escaping a dying sun, but to flee a violent enemy. This raises another question, one that we have never been able to satisfactorily answer.”

  Milandra glanced around, eyebrows raised.

  “What happened to the warlike species?” supplied Jason Grant.

  “Precisely. In all our long years on Earth Home, we saw neither sight nor sound of that other species. And, believe me, we kept careful watch, and more. There are whole sections of memories in the collective banks devoted to the search for them: where they come from, where are they now, what is their level of technology, what threat do they pose to us? But we have uncovered not one scrap of evidence, other than the ancients’ tablets, that lead us to believe that the other species actually exists.”

  Milandra took another sip of water. “Okay. That summarises what we learned before tearing off the birth shroud. Are we all agreed?”

  She waited until she had received seven nods.

  “Good.” Another deep breath. “What I need to tell you today is that a great deal of that history is fabrication. Invention. To put it another way, it’s complete and utter bullshit.”