Sovereigns of the Collapse Book 2

by Malcolm J Wardlaw

  Alternatively, he was fooling himself and this was actually a like structure built on the soil of Holland or Friesland. He rejected this thinking. His recollection of the voyage from Chatham on the Thames Estuary was firmly of a day before the wind and another day tacking back against it. Perhaps it was a shift of wind rather than of the barge’s course? Lawrence doubted that. Even if wind shifts quickly, the run of the sea does not.

  This was the Norwich to Nottingham drain. If it was not, he was going to die believing it was.

  Clear in his mind’s eye was that most of these bridges featured refuge towers to which travellers could retreat should a storm surge or heavy rain flood the area. With this in mind, he scoured the darkness overhead. He could faintly make out that the tower from which the cables were suspended on his side supported a cabin about the size of a garage. The cigarette he had seen must have been tossed from that refuge tower. The critical point was, the refuge towers were identified by large white numbers visible for miles across the landscape to assist navigation. He struggled to distinguish any identifier in this case, until the moonlight brightened and he saw the number plainly: 14. That clinched it! A high number—as he recalled, they ran up to 19. It put him towards the east end of The Wash.

  Lawrence experienced an intoxicating infusion of excitement. He could now locate his exact position on an up-to-date map. That meant he could expose the Value System despite the loss of Pezzini—if he could get out of this marsh, a point that returned his concentration to the occupants of the refuge tower.

  No one travelled this route in winter. Even in summer trying to move vehicles of any weight along the old way plagued as it was with subsidence, washouts, tedious fords and crossings was hard, slow work. At this time of year there should have been no one within ten miles. Undoubtedly The Captain had posted a team up in that refuge tower to survey the drain and the estuary—the motor launch they had heard earlier must have been bringing a relief shift up. It required little insight to guess that value who stole a section of pier would ride inland on the tide. Probably the team had night glasses—they would not linger out here overnight without good reason. So why had they not seen two fugitive value wandering about on the open mud?

  Lawrence had some experience with night vision. He had used infra-red searchlights to ambush bandits as they returned to their dens after a raid. He had also used passive night-intensifier type goggles. All such equipment was fickle, heirloom stuff passed down since the Glorious Resolution, less and less of it remaining serviceable as the decades passed. The pattern of failure typified Public Era heirlooms; the most impressive, highest-tech equipment failed first, the simple, robust pieces kept performing, after a fashion at least, for generations. That was what was left now. Lawrence guessed the bonfire had blinded the equipment. He could not rely on that kind of luck again.

  Within an integument of flesh that was slowly dying of cold, Lawrence’s mind ranged over the total realm of the possible with a clarity and efficiency that comes to those thinking for their life. The nearest habitation was probably Wisbech. The Captain would no doubt post a small troop there. The inhabitants were simple hunters who would offer hospitality to those who put some metal about. He could not go there, nor could he stay here under the bridge to be found at dawn. The only option was to head west on the public drain, as he knew nothing of the land to the east.

  His first attempt to climb the mud bank failed. He slid back waist deep into water. Using his knife as a piton, he stabbed his way up inch by inch until the ground curved over into long grass and bushes, where he lay a while until he had enough strength to move. Keeping to all fours amongst the bushes, he worked his way around the end of the bridge to the open drain, where he crouched and inspected both ways. To the east, he could see down the length of the bridge, lit wanly in the pulsing light of the bonfire. To the west lay the grim prospect of miles of dark marsh. He decided to keep crawling in the long grass and bushes beside the drain to reduce the chance of being seen in night glasses. To the right, the bonfire tore this way and that in the wind, warm gusts sweeping him with bitter smoke and a somewhat roast pork smell. No savages danced around it now—they must be out in the darkness. He froze and listened, then moved on, easing slowly forward, yard upon yard, now and again cutting sideways to check he was not drifting away from the drain. The refuge tower shrank into the distance and became vague as the bonfire died down, which of course also meant night glasses would gradually become more effective.

  A howling from behind dropped him flat. It came from the direction of the bridge, a high-pitched war-cry reminiscent of Indians in old Western movies from the Public Era. Straightening his arms to get a better view, he could see figures jumping around on the bridge, apparently in some kind of dance. It was impossible to guess the numbers due to the weak light of the fire and the splintering effect of the shadows of the bridge railings. It was like a nightmare—were they throwing something in the air? Had they caught Pezzini? He shuddered, turning away and crawling on in mechanical deliberation, murmuring instructions to move his hand, his knee, the next hand, all to neutralise his mind.

  He finally abandoned the excruciatingly laborious crawling after the drain cleared a slight rise and the bridge sank from view, then having to massage and knead his knees to bring them back to life before he could manage even a hobble. The drain was rough gravel, which forced him to keep to the verge for silence, although it did provide half a dozen egg-sized stones. These would make fine shots for the sling.

  He was certain he heard a stone rattle. Lurking under the wind there seemed to be whispers… He sped up, the road got muddier, until he had to slow down to avoid his feet splatting. The land rose and the surface dried out to became loose gravel again, pushing him to the edge for quietness.

  The moon came out again. He crouched, screwing up his eyes to stare behind. He was certain he could see figures flitting about, dashing across the road. Or was it tired eyes? Could The Captain have set up a road block on the drain? Perhaps they were waiting for him up ahead, watching his green profile approach in their night goggles. He lost track of time after clouds claimed the moon again and he stumbled in deep night across plains of eternity, until the plain jacked up under his feet and he collapsed flat, panting and limp. It was only after some minutes of crawling about like a lost rat that he grasped he was on a dome of scrubby grass. A little further exploration revealed he had arrived at a circular junction of a type popular in the Public Era. It meant another major road must once have connected with the Norwich to Nottingham route. Almost certainly this connecting drain ran south to Wisbech as there had never been any other big town south of The Wash in the Public Era. In the gloom of his tired mind he fixed on the idea this branch drain had to be safer than staying on the main drain to Nottingham.

  He must not stop again. If he did, he would lie down and die. His very body craved death, pulling at him all the time to fall and rest, just for a few moments, anything to relieve the aching labour of his thighs. The drain became muddy, the mud deepened until his legs sank in up to the knee and he fell again. Frigid water crept through his overalls. He rolled on his side and eventually, by twisting and clawing at the tussocks, managed to extract himself to firmer ground. The drain obviously dropped into a bog. These places were sumps of black mud that could swallow a half-track—a man had no chance. There was nothing for it but to retreat to drier ground and wait. Exhaustion quelled even the terrors of the marsh people. He fell asleep without even knowing it.

  *

  Lawrence jolted awake, squinting about dazedly. Everything was milky. Gradually, he emerged from torpor enough to realise that mist hung over the marsh. Just visible through the mist was a strip of bushes, which clarified into a thin wood growing along a whale-backed rise of the land. He crawled across and lay in its cover behind a rotting log.

  For the first time, the loss of Pezzini weighed on him. Was it guilt at having led the spay to his death? Or despair at losing his principal witness?
Lawrence had no idea. Tears flowed off his nose and settled into the earth. It felt so peculiar to anguish over a death. Perversely, it felt so good. It felt like life, not subsistence death in the Value System.

  Why did he not die too? Quite simply, he was lucky. Warmth from thousands of miles to the south wafted across the fens and blew away the mist until the sky was clear blue all the way across. When Lawrence awoke again, the sunshine blinded him. It was almost hot. His overalls steamed, the caked mud dried and fell off. After half an hour of clenched teeth, his feet thawed out. He warmed them inside his hands for a while before putting his boots back on to start foraging. The little wood proved a decent larder, even in this dead season. A patch of ground elder, rotting logs rich with oyster mushrooms, more dandelion and chickweed. The wild fare stimulated his guts, prompting him to roam away from the drain to find a discreet place. The thought of the marsh people pouncing while he had his overalls around his ankles pushed him to a fussy search finally answered by a copse of willow. He buried it and pushed a log over the place. From puddles he lapped up water, doing his best not to suck down mud and grubs. This wealth of wild food in such a barren place satisfied him that people never came here. The only signs of life were the remains of a pigeon and some owl pellets. Apparently, he was beyond the territory of the marsh people.

  In every direction spread a furry ocean of brown grass, brown reeds, bare trees and pools of black bog. A moving man could be seen for a long way on such a landscape. The drain he had followed in the night cut down straight from the north with all the old confidence of the Public Era and dived into mud. It emerged onto higher ground about a quarter mile away. There were no tyre tracks.

  What to do now?

  Peterborough was the only hope. He was going to have to cross twenty miles of marsh, fen and black mud, without a compass, or map, or any landmarks, in order to reach Peterborough and its General Wardian garrison. He knew it could not be done, least of all in winter. The attempt did have one merit though: it was a death worth dying.

  The strip of woodland provided him raw materials to make a pair of mud shoes by tearing off branches from the birch trees and using reeds for binding. The result was rather like a pair of snow shoes. He then made the empty leather sleeve into a sling. He was surprised by what a good one it made. By slicing the sleeve into thin strips and plaiting them, he formed a sling longer than his own arm. The elbow formed a natural cup for the stone. After a few tries the snapping technique came back. One shot would smash a man’s head or break his ribs.

  As Lawrence was wrapping the sling up, he at first thought the faint pulsing was inside his own ears. He tipped his head this way and that. A truck? It seemed too steady for a truck. This was a slow, thrumming beat. An aircraft? It was getting closer, louder. He dropped flat a few seconds before a flying boat roared directly overhead from behind the trees. It had a slim fuselage and two engines in a push-me pull-me pod above the centre of the wings. When it banked into a sharp turn, he physically groaned with dread and ground his face into the mud. How could they have seen him? But it did not circle. It flew off south-west at only a couple of hundred feet.

  So, The Captain had an aircraft. Up in this useless wilderness, the usual Naclaski rules did not apply—the inhabitants of this landscape did not operate 155mm Naclaski batteries. It meant The Captain could search from the air. Lawrence stared out over the wide open grass and bog he had to cross. The Value System overalls were about the same shade of brown as the dead grass and they were smeared with mud anyway. By lying face down and dead still, it was unlikely his minuscule form would be spotted—there is a hell of a lot of land visible even from a low-flying aircraft. It was more likely The Captain or a henchman was using the flying boat to travel rather than to search. There was probably a suitable stretch of water on which it could land at Wisbech. There certainly was at Peterborough—it was probably not coincidence that the flying boat was receding in that direction. Lawrence watched it shrink from view below the horizon, haunted by the sense of a vast net being pulled over his plans.

  Peterborough was not like Wisbech; it was a big town. There were a lot of places to hide, especially for one who had spent two years based there. It was a fair bet some old-timers would remember him, he could think of a few who would help him—if he could get there.

  He fastened on the mud shoes and set off over the bog, with a gait like a cross-country skier in soft snow.

  *

  In these last few hours of daylight, Lawrence made fine progress. From his mind’s eye recollection, the direction to Peterborough lay about forty-five degrees to the right of this old drain to Wisbech, pretty much due south-west into the prevailing wind. He aimed at a copse of trees and some ruins on the horizon, while the sun gradually faded to ruby and sank from sight under a translucent blue afterglow. The copse and ruins lay on the far side of boggy ground, across which he splatted and wobbled on his mud shoes with the night descending around him. He could still make out the bare trees against the starlit sky. The wind was rising. It had a bitter edge to it.

  The last hundred metres of this bog proved tougher than expected. He was sinking in, frigid water rose over the mud shoes. He plugged on, getting angrier and more and more alarmed to find himself wading in water up to his knees and then halfway up his thighs. There had been no open water visible at nightfall. So where had this fucking pond come from? It tasted brackish. Even in here, miles from the coast, the marsh was tidal. Numbness crept up his legs to his knees and started taking his fingers. He was going to lose his feet if he was not out of this trap quick—it was speed that mattered, not staying dry. Screwing himself up into a pitch of energy, he strode forward, ploughing through waist deep water, the mud shoes now dragging at his boots and catching in submerged tussocks and reeds, tripping him straight into it. He pounded at the water to claw forward, twisting the mud shoes to stop them holding him dead. Exhaustion burned in his arms and panic pumped in his chest. He chanted curses and sobbed curses, swearing at the cold and the trees laughing down at him. His flailing arms churned into a bank of reeds and he dragged himself up, sobbing and limp with fright. Christ, he was going to have to be more careful than that. It was awfully easy to die out here.

  When the shock had eased out of him, he once again faced the war against sleep and death. In soaking clothing, he could not survive another night in the open. Already a dangerous ache was growing at the back of his head and his efforts to pull himself were getting sluggish. The cold was literally gumming up the blood in his veins. His only hope was a fire, at which idea he lay on his back laughing at the preposterousness of generating a fire on this sodden land. No, this was the end game, he was going out this time. Strange it did not seem that bad, more like a massive relief to relax on a bed of cotton wool and drift into eternity…

  He clutched Sarah-Kelly to him, her body so soft and warm, her lovely head pressed under his chin, his arms wrapped so tightly around her that she gasped she could not breathe. Her head was cold and pale, with two horns—a deer skull! He threw it away with a cry of revulsion and lay against a fence, listening to the sough of the wind.

  The fence gave way and he fell back, becoming aware of the smell of cold ashes and leather. Without thinking about it, he turned over and pulled himself forward, finding he was sheltered from the wind on a dry wooden floor. Now his mind snapped alert and he sat up, looking around. He was in some kind of hut or bothy. It was the door he had leaned on, not a fence. He kicked it shut and gripped one of the stones in his pocket, ready to bash anyone who came at him. Nothing stirred. He cut off the mud shoes with his knife and explored by dragging himself about, pulling himself up to feel along shelves and walls. There was an iron stove, a pile of chopped wood and kindling, pots, animal traps with vicious steel jaws, a bench and a bed of grass and hessian. It was a hunter’s bothy, abandoned for the winter. If he could find a tinderbox, he could have a fire after all; with a fire he had a chance. The tinderbox was on a shelf above the chopped wood, the f
irst place he looked.

  The stove drew with a soft droning. Its heat woke his sluggish blood and thinned it to filter back into his dead feet and nose and fingers and ears. The pain laid him on his back gasping and whimpering at the agony of the flesh scorched back to life by fresh blood. At the back of his mind he thought of the plume of smoke drifting off down the wind. Acute noses could pick up the scent miles away if some quirk of turbulence carried it down to ground level.

  When he next was aware, he was sprawled half off the bed. A wan light filled the single window. He looked down at himself and saw the overalls were caked in mud. The stove was still warm, but the fire had gone out, so he rekindled it with the rotating drum flint and charcloth and soon had the luxury of heat once more. The smoke was a risk—but so was gangrene caused by frostbite. On balance, he felt the risk was worth taking while it was overcast and misty and the smoke went straight up. The flying boat would not be out today.

  The visibility was only about a hundred yards. Even so, he moved about on all fours, grazing the natural larder, keeping under cover behind stone walls, aware the mist could clear suddenly. The ruins had been a small church with a graveyard and a couple of cottages, now shells, their rafters looted decades ago. Amid the tangle of bushes and wild grass, a few old gravestones still endured, plastered with lichen. The bothy was a lean-to shed against the remains of the church. Its thoughtful builder had included a water butt to collect run-off from the roof. The remains of couple of mice rested on the bottom of it, despite which it tasted fine to Lawrence’s parched palate—there was no other source of fresh water apart from some muddy puddles.