Tipping Point (Project Renova Book 1)

by Terry Tyler

  Some cars contained bodies.

  "I wonder why," Aria said, after she'd recovered from seeing the remains of one decomposed specimen. "If they were ill, why didn't they stay at home?"

  Travis felt numbed by the landscape around him. "Perhaps the family were trying to get him to a hospital, or anywhere there was medicine." He imagined a family, out of petrol, with a dying father or brother, son or husband on the back seat, and the decision they had to make to leave him where he lay. "Or somewhere dear to them, if several of them were ill."

  Everywhere, they saw the scorched remains of funeral pyres. A strangely sweet, rotten smell hung in the air.

  As they drove into rural Leicestershire via the villages surrounding Narborough (the last thing they wanted to do was cross towns, after what they'd seen in Kettering), they saw a body hanging from a village sign, in the middle of a green.

  Travis was driving at the time; he stopped, and they just looked.

  "It's like the Middle Ages," Aria whispered. "Why would anyone do that?"

  If Travis narrowed his eyes, he could imagine himself back hundreds of years ago. The silence, the creaking village sign; he imagined villagers trudging up to the ancient church to pray for an end to the pestilence.

  They drove on, in silence.

  When they arrived at Lower Ashby, the village was deserted.

  "Scary," said Aria, and huddled close to him.

  The iron gates of Ashby Grange were electronically controlled from the house, so they left the car outside and climbed over the walls, satisfied that the motion sensor alarms would no longer work, either.

  "Don't know how we're going to get out," he said, as they walked up the driveway.

  "We'll take one of your family's cars and drive through them," Aria said.

  Which one, he wondered? Mother's XJS convertible, Dad's Porsche or his brother's beloved Lotus Elan? Xander freaked out if he found so much as a bird dropping on the bonnet. The family 4 x 4 would probably be the best. When the time came.

  Fallen leaves covered the drive, which did not bode well; Travis knew Doug got out the leaf blower on a daily basis, every autumn. The grass verges were long and unkempt, too. He thought it looked rather beautiful.

  Aria was impressed by his family home, and he wished she wasn't, for the splendid house and its magnificent grounds were not his achievement, and neither were they his father's, nor his father's before him. Though his parents and brother assumed themselves superior to most of the human race, their only valid boast was the good fortune of having James Travis as an ancestor. Ironic, really; James was a hardworking, entrepreneurial cloth merchant of mere yeoman stock who, doubtless, would have been considered inferior by his own neighbours, back in the early nineteenth century.

  Travis dreaded seeing them. As he pushed open the front doors, he wondered if they were dead.

  The dank still of the entrance hall led him to believe this might be so.

  They found the rotting remains of his father in his study; he'd been shot in the back of the head.

  The sight and smell of his mashed up brains on his desk blotter was so repellent that Travis was sick in the wastepaper bin, and Aria in a pot containing a dead plant. When they'd recovered, they bundled both into a bin liner, the body into another, and dragged the sorry packages outside.

  His mother's body was in the drawing room, Xander's over the billiard table; both had been executed in a similar fashion. By then, Aria and Travis had covered their faces with his mother's scarves, heavily scented with peppermint essence from the kitchen.

  As they buried his family, Travis couldn't work out if he was numb with shock and horror, or if he simply wasn't that upset. All his adult life he'd carried with him the belief that he loved his family even if he didn't like them, but, as he patted down the earth over the last of the three graves, he wondered if that dislike of everything they stood for, coupled with their dismissal of him, had destroyed the love a long time ago.

  He sat for a while, out in that early autumn sunshine, and thought about it; the conclusion he came to was that it didn't matter. They were gone.

  In the house, evidence of vandalism was everywhere, with messages such as 'Fuck Rich Pigs' sprayed over the walls. Travis was more worried that any of the staff might have suffered the same fate, but they found no more bodies.

  "I should think they stayed at home once the disease took hold," Aria said. "Well, you would, wouldn't you? You wouldn't give a stuff about some lousy job, you'd want to be with those you care about. Only poor suckers like us stayed at stupid bloody work."

  They went from room to room as Travis assessed what was been left. The drinks cabinet had been emptied and the kitchen cabinets ransacked but much still remained; seemed the intruders had been more interested in taking gold and silver, his mother's jewellery.

  "More fool them," said Aria. "That won't do them much good, will it?"

  "I don't know," Travis said. "I daresay gold and gemstones will retain their value, somewhere along the line. And mother owned some pretty impressive rocks."

  "Still rather have a cupboard filled with food. Ooh, you've got an Aga; we're sorted!"

  They slept together that night, after a dinner of tinned red salmon, pasta and a bottled tomato, olive and caper sauce, accompanied by two bottles of Merlot, which they ate on cushions in front of a crackling log fire in the drawing room; the vandals had discovered neither the log store nor the wine cellar.

  Neither 'made moves' on the other; sex happened as though it had been previously agreed upon, or assumed, or as if it had occurred before. Travis was not sure if Aria was as attracted to him as he was to her, or if he was just there, but he didn't mind either way.

  He was very happy, that first evening.

  On the second day, Aria suggested a walk down to the village to see if they could discover more about what had happened while they were underground.

  They found empty houses, often with their doors wide open or windows smashed, and the post office and convenience store had been ransacked. Yet the sound of a guitar floated from an upstairs window, and they saw smoke from one chimney.

  "Still people here, then. Let's hit the pub," Aria said. "Bound to be someone there."

  "I don't know if that's a good idea. My family weren't popular." Travis had been down to the White Horse a few times during rare visits home, and the reception had been decidedly frosty on each occasion.

  "Likely won't be the same now. 'Specially not if they think you might have something they want."

  The day was dull and chilly; in the pub, light from candles flickered behind latticed windows. Travis peered in, hands cupped around his eyes.

  "Don't do that," Aria said, "it makes you look dodgy."

  She pushed open the door and strode in, across the flagstones. Travis followed her, trying not to look as though he was scanning the room.

  He needn't have worried. The place was empty apart from five men and one woman lounging on the L shaped corner bench in the window; he didn't recognise any of them, and there was no sign of the landlord.

  The drinkers had taken bottles from behind the bar, and helped themselves at the tables. Coats were strewn across other seats, packets of crisps lay open on tables, and a dog stood at the woman's feet, drinking from an ashtray filled with beer. One of the men dozed, using his coat as a pillow on the arm of the bench, his feet up on a stool. Clearly, they were settled in for the day.

  Travis noticed the shotgun propped up by the side of the bench.

  Aria raised a hand in acknowledgement and smiled at them.

  "Hi there!"

  Nobody spoke for a moment; presently, one man stood up. He picked up the shotgun.

  "Who are you and what d'you want? You been near anyone who's infected?"

  Aria was about to speak, but Travis stepped forward. Couldn't let her do all the talking; he'd look weak. The man with the shotgun reminded him of Bateman.

  He put a hand up. "No, no one. I promise you. We're just hoping to fi
nd out what's happened. We were—er, on holiday in the Scottish Highlands at the beginning of the outbreak."

  Silence.

  "So, do you know where everyone is?"

  The leader of the gang sniffed. "Dead or evacuated, I'd guess. Lotta villages cleared out by the army when the power and water went off. Depending where you live, o' course." He snorted. "Places in the refugee camps di'n't go to anyone from our estate, that's for sure!"

  "Bloody right they never," echoed one of his friends. "We're all that's left."

  "They have refugee camps?"

  "Gotta keep the rich folk clean, warm and fed," grumbled a man behind him, and a couple of others murmured their agreement.

  "D'you know where they were evacuated to?"

  "Huge great camp out t'wards Hinckley. Got showers and hot meals, even a frigging beer tent, I heard." The leader tightened his hold on the gun. "You had the shot?"

  Travis lifted his arm to show his wristband, and pulled Aria's hand up, too.

  Dimly lit though the room was, Travis noticed the group exchange glances.

  "You must be rich folk, too, then." He glanced back at his group. "'Cause it was only the rich bastards what got the shot, weren't it?"

  "Rich? I wish!" Travis thought quickly. "We're teachers. Primary school. All the staff got it early on."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yes."

  "You live here, do you?"

  Travis opened his mouth to answer, and felt Aria squeeze his hand so hard he almost yelped. "No, just passing through. Checking out family."

  "They still alive?"

  "No."

  "Sorry," said the woman.

  "That's life now," said Travis. "Or not, as the case may be."

  "Do you live here?" Aria asked.

  "No, just passing through. Or not, as the case may be." The man with the gun echoed Travis's vowel sounds, to the amusement of his merry band.

  "Well, best of luck," Aria said, "we'd better be off."

  "What's in y'bag?"

  "Nothing much. Just water and some biscuits. And personal stuff."

  "Stay and have a drink," the leader said. "S'free, after all."

  More laughter from the background.

  "No, I—" Travis started, but Aria squeezed his hand again.

  "We don't drink." She forced a laugh, and gestured with her head towards Travis. "He's a reformed alcoholic."

  The leader plonked the butt of his rifle on the floor, and leant his hands on the muzzle. "You're kidding. What does that matter, now? Don't have to worry about going to work with a hangover no more, do you? Or drink driving! And it's free!"

  He could feel Aria about to speak again, and touched her arm to stop her. He had his answer ready. "I won't pretend I'm not tempted, but I don't want to have escaped the virus only to die of cirrhosis of the liver, do I? No doctors to fill me up with morphine, either."

  "True dat," muttered one of the men seated at the table.

  Travis caught that man's eye, and gave him a smile. "We'll be off, then."

  "Y'got a vehicle?" the leader asked. "Didn't hear you drive up. Weird that, seeing as you're just passing through. Only one small bag, too."

  "Left them in the house up the road where we stayed last night. We're on foot. Looking for a car."

  "Gi' you a lift if y'want."

  "No, it's okay," Aria said. "Really. Thanks for the offer but we're okay walking for now. We're on our way to Narborough."

  "Okay. Plenty of vehicles round here. Just don't take the camper in the car park, right?"

  "Right you are. Best of luck." Travis raised his hand in a wave as he opened the door, and Aria followed suit.

  As soon as they were outside, she said, "Smile at me, hold my hand, and don't look as if you're hurrying away," she said.

  He slung his arm around her shoulder, instead. "And we want to go towards the Narborough Road until we're out of sight, right?"

  "You got it!"

  As soon as they turned a corner, out of sight of the pub, they stopped and breathed out.

  "Did you see?" Aria said.

  "See what?"

  "The woman's earrings and ring. I noticed the ring when she gave the dog some crisps. They were emeralds; I know the real thing when I see it."

  Travis's legs went weak. "My mother had emeralds."

  "That's what I thought."

  "Oh Jesus." He clutched his stomach. "Oh, Jesus, no."

  Aria put her hand on his shoulder. "Looks like it, I'm afraid. I was hoping you wouldn't notice while we were in there. We had a lucky escape. Come on. Let's put some distance between us and them, eh?"

  It was only when they doubled back, away from the direction in which the group at the pub thought they were going, that they felt anything like safe.

  "Sod the village," Aria said. "Let's get back to your house, and keep our eyes peeled for those arseholes."

  They decided not to go out exploring for a while, in case the group at the White Horse was still around; Travis kept one of his father's shotguns nearby at all times, and propped the others up by doors. They made the place as safe as they could, with heavy furniture as barricades, boarding up the ground floor windows at the front, even though this made it depressingly dark; they spent the daylight hours at the back of the house, leaving only to walk across the fields. After a couple of weeks they began to relax, and returned to the village to replenish their supplies.

  There was no sign of the group who'd (probably) killed his family.

  He didn't know what he'd have done if he did see them; run and hidden, probably.

  If it wasn't for Aria, he wondered if he might have just hunkered down in his house until someone found him. Or not, as the case may be. For there was no one around here to come looking for him. He thought about it, in quiet moments, and created an image of himself as a wild-haired hermit; he rather liked it.

  They learned to live without power and running water. Each day they went down to the stream at the bottom of the Travis land and filled large containers with the day's supply, which they boiled. They read and played games, talked and had sex, cooked, drank their way through much of the wine cellar's stock, and Aria explored the house. During this time Travis fell in love, and the depth of his feelings shocked him. By nature a loner, he'd been interested in few of the (to him) suprising amount of women who'd sought his attention, and he'd never experienced love before. But there was just something about Aria. He liked the way she didn't fuss over her appearance, unlike the pampered little rich girls with whom he'd been brought up. Her self-assurance, her wild, dark curls that she didn't attempt to tame, those all-knowing eyes—and his suspicion that she would dump him if someone more useful came along did not deter his heart. When he spoke tenderly towards her he was lucky if he received an affectionate quip in return. That her attention was not lavishly given made it all the more valuable.

  She kept their conversation practical, light. Once or twice, she mentioned the family to whom she wasn't close. They had this in common, though she preferred to talk about her neurotic mother and philandering father with humorous cynicism; he hoped that, one day, she would reveal a deeply buried pain, so that he might help heal it, but she insisted she cared nothing for them.

  "That part of my life is gone, and it's only the here and now that matters, not the past," she said. "Even yesterday, even this morning, that's the past, over and done with. No point mourning it."

  He wanted to talk about BDC, why Verlander had disappeared, what the data analysis had been about, but she didn't. Once, she said she'd hated that she'd contributed to the snooping, that she'd been lured by the attractions of the job, to the detriment of her principles.

  "I used to retweet articles on Twitter about government surveillance, and then I became a part of it. Why would I want to discuss the time of my life when I did something I'm ashamed of? If you fuck up, you've got to hold up your hands and say, okay, I fucked up, and move on."

  She was honest, clear-headed.

  Thus, when
she began to feel restless, she did not hide it from him.

  "Alright," he said. "We'll go. But let's plan, think about it. It's crazy to leave when winter's coming on. We've got fuel here, a full woodshed, the Aga, comfort. How about we spend the winter here and go in spring? April, or May?"

  She folded her arms and set her mouth in a dissatisfied line. "That's five months away. Travis, I can't spend five whole months in this house with only you for company. I love the house and I quite like you too—" here she smiled, and winked "—but I'll go mental if I don't have any other sort of stimulation."

  At least he knew where he stood, but her words hurt; he was looking forward to the winter, the two of them curled up together. "Well, what do you want to do?"

  "See if we can find some more people. Find out what's going down in the rest of the world."

  "I'm not going to any refugee camp."

  "I don't mean that. I mean, find some other survivors who've set up a community, perhaps."

  "But it might not be safe. Look at that shower in the White Horse."

  "We handled ourselves, didn't we? They're probably miles and miles away now."

  "There'll be others."

  "Yeah. There will. But you can't live life in fear, can you?" She reached out and took his hand. "And you're not a scaredy-cat, are you? You could have stayed with your snobby family, taken a place next to Daddy in the business, and spent your weekends chucking champagne down your neck and zooming around in sports cars, or whatever it is posh twats do, but you didn't. You chose to go your own way."

  He leant his head back against the chair. "I did."

  "So let's get out there. Let's have an adventure. Life's for living."

  She was right. And he was wise enough to know that if he said no, he would wake up one morning and find her gone.