by Frank Tayell
“Why are you here?” Saleema asked. “We’re not going back.”
“You left with something that belongs to our employer,” Mr Emmitt said. “I’m here to retrieve it.”
“We didn’t take anything,” Hassan said.
“If it wasn’t for us,” Mr Emmitt said, “you would be dead. You would both have died during the nuclear holocaust. Instead, you are alive. You had a child. Oh, yes, you took something. You signed a contract, one that promised our employer everything you produced during the time of your service. Everything. Including her. Breach of contract is a serious matter.”
“Contracts? You can’t be serious,” Hassan said. “Look around you. Look at this place. What contract is worth anything?”
“No,” Mr Emmitt said. “You look around. Look down there. Refugee camps and clinics, trains and farms. The world is returning to where it was. Slowly, perhaps, but it is returning. In ten years, we’ll have restored everything that was lost. When your daughter has children of her own, they will have computers and networks and she shall control them. Her grandchildren will control the world. The Blackout was a blip, a delay that will become a footnote in history.”
“You’re deluded,” Hassan said.
Mr Emmitt shrugged. “We can discuss this on our journey.”
“We’re not going back with you,” Saleema said. “And you can’t make us. There are soldiers down there. You’re right, there is a government. We’ll tell them everything about you.”
“And will you tell them about your own part in the end of the world?” Mr Emmitt asked.
“We didn’t know,” Hassan said.
“Yes,” Saleema said. “Yes, we will tell them. We’ll tell them everything. Whatever they do to us, Sameen will be safe.”
Mr Emmitt sighed. “Why do people have to make everything so complicated?” He reached into his inside pocket and took out a small black case. He opened it, and extracted an injector-pen. He held it to his own neck, and pressed the plunger. He winced. “A choice, then,” he said as he put the pen back into the case and took out a small glass vial. He dropped it to the ground and crushed it beneath his boot.
“What was that?” Hassan asked.
“It’s remarkable how some people used to make a living,” Mr Emmitt said. “You two spent your lives developing code. I spent mine fixing problems, but there are some who toiled away refining the worst viruses known to mankind. What’s remarkable is how many of those viruses survived the Blackout. Take that one, for example. It can survive in temperatures from fifty degrees below to a hundred above boiling. It will remain viable in the air for up to three hours, after which it will die unless it’s found a nice set of lungs in which to make its home.” He glanced at the young girl hugging her father’s leg. “I’ll spare you the details. Suffice to say, it won’t be pleasant.” He put the case back into his pocket. Licked his finger, then held it up, testing the wind. “Ah, I think it might well spread to the camp. That’s a pity. Still, there are plenty of refugees in Britain. I don’t think they’ll miss a few thousand more. They certainly won’t miss you two. As you might have gathered, I have the antidote. You have about twenty-four hours in which it will be effective.” He glanced down again at Sameen. “She is coming back with me. I’ll leave you two to choose for yourself. There is a pub two miles up the road behind you. It’s called the Five Bells. I will be there tonight. Tomorrow morning, I shall leave. Make your choice.” He gave another evil smile, and walked away.
Hassan and Saleema stayed motionless until he had disappeared beyond the embankment.
“What do we do?” Hassan asked.
“He was lying,” Saleema said. “Of course he was lying. There aren’t any chemical-weapon stores left in the world, and they certainly didn’t have any in the compound. No, he just wants to get us away from the soldiers down there.”
“Then what do we do? Tell them?”
“No. Take Sameen,” she said. “Meet me on the railway tracks, at that spot beyond the platform where there’s that big tree. The one we saw two days ago, remember? I’ll be there soon.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get supplies for our trip,” she said. “That’s right, dear, we’re going on a trip. A long trip. You’re right, Hassan, Britain wasn’t far enough away. Go. Quick now, I’ll be there in an under an hour.”
Saleema jogged away before Hassan could ask any more questions. They would only be a variation on where they were going and how they would get there, and she didn’t have an answer. Maybe they could find a way onto a ship heading for America, or maybe they’d disappear into the English wasteland. For now, they had to get away from Mr Emmitt. He’d been correct in that Britain had been their only logical destination, but now they were here, would he really be able to find them again? She turned her mind away from that question, because the answer was too depressing. Instead, she focused on their immediate needs. Water was easy, and available to all at the pump-house by the old customs shed. Food was more difficult as it was stored inside what had been a small restaurant for lorry drivers. When she saw Martin Lowell was guarding the food-store, she realised it wouldn’t be that difficult at all. The young man couldn’t be more than a day over eighteen and was probably at least a year younger. Chronically embarrassed and far too trusting, that he was on guard duty spoke to how overstretched the staff in the refugee camp were. She coughed as she approached, then smiled as he looked at her.
“Hello, Martin. There’s a problem in the clinic,” she said. “We’ve a baby who won’t take his mother’s breast. We need to get some nutrients into him. Since there isn’t any formula, we’re going to try a powdered potato soup. We need a few boxes.”
“Oh, right, of course,” the young man said, stepping aside.
“Thanks,” she said, went in, and grabbed a few of the boxes from the shelf. They were new-made cardboard, completely absent of logo or design. That they contained powdered potato was inked on the packet with a smudgy stamp.
“Thanks,” she said, giving him another smile as she walked out.
The boxes weren’t much, and Sameen wouldn’t like it, but the potatoes were fortified with all of the nutrients a person needed. It would be enough to see them through the next two days. That should be all they needed. A plan was forming, a way for them to get away and be rid of Mr Emmitt forever.
She took a breath, but it caught in the back of her throat. She coughed, and found it hard to stop. She wasn’t the only one walking with a hand raised to her mouth, coughing, spluttering. That wasn’t Mr Emmitt, she told herself. Many of the refugees arrived sick. That was why she and her family had to sleep in a tent. The warmer, drier buildings were given over to those who were ill.
Her foot hit a guy-rope, and she stumbled. Focus, she told herself as she coughed again. She had to focus. Get to the railway. Get away from the Channel Tunnel.
She stumbled again, but then was beyond the tents. The air seemed fresher, the sky brighter as she hurried towards the railway line.
Hassan and Sameen were waiting. There was no sign of anyone else.
“I got powdered—” She coughed. “Powdered potato. Let’s go.”
“Are you all right?” Hassan asked.
“I’m fine,” Saleema said.
“Have you considered that Mr Emmitt might expect us to run?” Hassan asked.
“I have,” Saleema said. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t. Too much introspection can only lead to inaction.” That was something her father had often said. She coughed.
“Maybe we should go back,” Hassan said. “Get you to the doctors.”
“Hassan, be sensible,” she said. “He wants Sameen, doesn’t he? Even if he found a deadly virus, he wouldn’t unleash it because that would hurt her, aside that it would kill thousands of others.” Even as she said it, a seed of doubt began to grow. Mr Emmitt was a sadist and a murderer. She had seen him kill twice in the compound, and was sure he’d done far worse out in the wilderness.
“You’re right, of course you are,” Hassan said. “Where now? There won’t be a train until tomorrow.”
“Not from Folkestone,” she said. “They have a naval base in Dover, which they supply by train. We just have to follow these tracks until it joins the railway line from Dover.”
“And then, what? We jump—” He coughed. “It’s nothing. I swallowed a fly, that’s all. So we just jump onto the train?”
“They’re steam trains, so they have to stop for water,” Saleema said. “That’s where we board. We follow the tracks until we get to a watering-stop. We wait for a train, and then we sneak aboard. We’ll go to Twynham first, but then we’ll get a boat to America. We’ll disappear into the wide plains. We’ll build a cabin somewhere among the sage.” She stumbled.
“We should go back,” Hassan said. He coughed.
“No, let’s stop. Just for a minute,” Saleema said. “Just a few minutes so I can catch my breath. Not here, somewhere quiet in case he’s followed us. Over there, that bridge.”
It was an old stone bridge, fallen into disrepair and disuse long before the Blackout. Saleema leaned against the crumbling balustrade, sucking in air. It was so hard to breathe, so hard to focus. She leaned forward. The ancient stone gave, and before she could catch herself, she slipped and skidded down the embankment and into the dry riverbed.
“Mama!” Sameen called, running after her.
Before Saleema could rejoice that their daughter had finally spoken, her breath caught, and she began hacking, coughing. She was unable to stop, even when Sameen slipped on the moss-covered stones and tumbled down the muddy incline. Hassan was hot on her heels, skidding after her, picking their daughter up seconds after she landed in a heap.
“Are you… are you okay?” Saleema managed to wheeze.
Sameen said nothing. Hassan carefully put her down, then sat on the dry leaves. They wouldn’t stay dry for long. A raindrop fell on the back of Saleema’s neck. Then another. A soft patter of large drops fell from a grey sky that promised there were far more to come.
“We… we have to… to go back,” Saleema said. “To the pub. The… The Five Bells.”
“No,” Hassan said. “No, we… we…” But his words were lost in a hacking cough.
“We do,” Saleema said. Her knees and elbows screamed in agony as she pushed herself to her feet. “Come on, Sameen.”
Their daughter stood and took her mother’s hand.
“This way,” Saleema said, and led her daughter along the dry riverbed, back towards the Channel Tunnel. Hassan pulled himself up, and followed.
“He really… he really did it,” Hassan said. “He poisoned us.”
“He poisoned the entire camp,” Saleema said. “Just to… just to get us back.”
“Why?” Hassan said.
Saleema looked at her daughter, then back at Hassan. She thought she knew the answer, but she would never say it, not to him. Her foot hit a root, she tripped, fell.
Hassan reached down, but there was barely any strength to his grip. She managed to get back to her feet.
“The rain’s getting heavier. We should stop,” Saleema said. “Rest. For a few minutes.”
“I don’t think we have time,” Hassan said.
“We do. He said we had until tomorrow morning,” Saleema said. Ahead was a delivery truck. From the gouges in the side of the embankment, someone hadn’t realised the riverbed was there until it was too late. From the moss growing on the tyres, it had been there for years. The rain grew harder, pounding on the metal, echoing loudly in her skull. She thought it was the rain. Saleema pushed herself past the truck. The cold metal against her skin was like ice and then fire. She reached the cab, the door was open, but only a few inches.
“Here,” she said. “We’ll rest here for a few minutes. Just until the rain stops.”
“A few minutes,” Hassan said. “No longer.”
The three of them climbed inside. The rain pounded on the fractured windscreen, but the cab was dry. Sameen began to cry.
“Hush,” Saleema said. “Hush. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
“She… she dropped her bear,” Hassan said. “It’s… it’s outside.”
“Here, look at this,” Saleema said. She pulled the leather-bound photo-album out of her bag. It was small, but she had few pictures of her life before the Blackout. There weren’t many taken since, but there was one, taken just before they fled the compound. It was just the three of them, mother, father, and daughter, standing between two artificial plants. Looking at the picture had seemed to comfort their daughter during their long trek to Britain. Saleema held the photo-album out, but it fell from her fingers to land in the footwell.
Sameen cried, and that cry turned to a cough.
“I’ll… I’ll get her bear,” Hassan said. But he didn’t move
Chapter 1 - Hot Pursuit
5th November 2039, Edinburgh
Captain Henry Mitchell ducked just before the metal box flew over his head. The box hit the row of rusting shelves and, as Mitchell reached out to grab Pollock’s arm, the shelves collapsed. The detective leaped back, and the murderer ran towards the rear of the ruined supermarket.
“Why do they always run?” Mitchell muttered, as Pollock pushed his way through the rotting rubber doors that led to the supermarket’s storeroom.
Mitchell took out his flashlight, turned it on, and scanned the ground for his truncheon. His wasn’t one of the standard-issue torches with their fragile filament bulbs, but an old-world LED light, barely larger than his palm but with a beam that could stretch for a hundred yards. It was excellent as a light, but useless as a cudgel, and Mitchell was determined not to use his sidearm. He wanted Pollock alive.
The truncheon lay on top of a decayed sign where only the words Must End Soon hadn’t yet been consumed by iridescent black mould. Mitchell grabbed his nightstick, clambered over the fallen shelves, and headed after Pollock. As he reached the broken door, he heard a rattle of chains from deep inside the stockroom.
Mitchell grinned. “I locked the door!” he yelled. “There’s no escape that way. There’s no escape anywhere. Your description has gone to every ship in every harbour. You won’t get out of Britain. Just accept it, Pollock, I caught you. Surrender.” He paused, waiting, listening. After such a long chase, Mitchell doubted the man would give up so easily. He was right.
He heard a sound. A terrifyingly familiar click of a magazine being slotted into place. Mitchell dived sideways just before a cloud of bullets shredded the rotten door. As lead ricocheted off shelves and freezers, Mitchell squirmed across the dirt-strewn floor until he was behind a cracked pillar supporting the partially collapsed ceiling. He clipped the truncheon back onto his belt, turned off his flashlight, and drew his sidearm. It wasn’t a government-issue revolver, but an old world nine-millimetre so familiar it felt like an extension of his hand.
The detective weighed up his options. There were two ways out of the supermarket, but both were from the main part of the store. There was the customer entrance, partially blocked by the rusting remains of an ambulance, or there was the hole in the roof above the frozen-food aisle. It was beneath that hole that Pollock had set his bivouac. From the brief glimpse Mitchell had caught before he was seen, Pollock wasn’t the first to camp in the ruined supermarket. In fact, Mitchell suspected it was the remains of the previous fires that had inspired Pollock to take shelter here.
The smoke from that fire had been visible for two miles. As everyone knew that the monks in Edinburgh Castle offered shelter to all weary travellers, he’d surmised Pollock might have started the fire. Mitchell arrived at the supermarket three hours previously, climbed onto the roof, confirmed he’d found his quarry, then crept around to the rear and secured the exit in the loading dock. That the murderer hadn’t noticed him spoke to how Pollock truly wasn’t cut out for the life of a fugitive. More immediately, it meant the desperate man’s only escape was through Mitchell. He slid the safety off his pistol.
“You surrender,” Pollock replied. “You know what this is?” There was another rat-a-tat and a corresponding thud and ping as bullets ripped through the doors.
“Why don’t you come out here so I can see it better,” Mitchell called back, easing himself lower.
Pollock was stupid, but not that stupid. “It’s an AK-47. Do you know what that is?”
“Of course I do,” Mitchell said. “Did Emmitt give it to you?”
“I didn’t work for him,” Pollock said.
“Who did you work for?” Mitchell replied.
Three weeks ago, after Emmitt’s arrest, Captain Henry Mitchell had scoured through the evidence left in Longfield’s home, Commissioner Wallace’s office, and in Emmitt’s lair in the New Forest. None of them had left anything so useful as an alphabetical list of their co-conspirators, but Mitchell was a detective. A good detective. He’d devoted the last twenty years of his life to mastering the craft. One by one, he’d identified the co-conspirators, their confederates, and the criminals they’d employed as muscle. Arrests had been made, and though not every arrest had led to a confession, enough had. Mitchell had rolled up almost the entire organisation in a matter of five days and six sleepless nights. Almost the entire organisation. Some had run, and Mitchell had given chase. Pollock was one of the last to be caught.
“We’ve arrested everyone else,” Mitchell called. “Give it up, Pollock. There’s no escape. Your only chance—” Bullets sprayed through the decayed door, arcing upwards so that the last three slammed into the ceiling. Dust, grit, and brittle plastic rained down around him. “It’s got a bit of a kick, hasn’t it,” Mitchell said. “Is that the first time you’ve ever fired a Kalashnikov?”
Many of the refugees who arrived in Britain had fought their way through a European wilderness that had become home to bandits, pirates, and worse. Those who made it often arrived armed, though rarely with much ammunition. In an attempt to neutralise the potential danger, the government had produced a hunting rifle of a calibre larger than that old-world weapon. Rounds were only issued to those with hunting or farming licences. Replacement cartridges were heavily taxed. Rather than discouraging firearms, that had only encouraged the black market. Emmitt had supplied his confederates with assault rifles but those had been old-world British Army SA80s that fired the NATO round, a different calibre from the AK-47.