by Glenn Cooper
Ben took a letter from his breast pocket and handed it over. “This is for you,” he said. As the doctor was ripping it open, Ben continued, “This is jointly signed by the home secretary and the secretary of state for health. It lays out what I just said with considerably more legalese. If this matter were not so urgent I would have been more pleasant. I am not, by nature, an abrasive person. But I’m afraid this is what must happen.”
The surgeon sat behind his desk to finish reading the letter. When he was done he looked up and asked, “Who the hell is he anyway?”
“He is a very great threat to this country, that’s who he is.”
“He’s where?” John asked, arching his eyebrows.
“Four floors below us in the recovery room,” Ben said with a deliberate deadpan. “I had him taken to this hospital so I could kill two birds with one stone.”
“Very funny.”
“He’ll be moved very shortly to a room on the sixth floor. When he’s able to talk I’d like you to assist in his interrogation.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
“Other than his aroma, no. He’s thin, not much flesh on his bones at all, bad teeth, patchy hair, bad skin. All signs of malnutrition I’m told. He’s young, not much more than a teenager. Beyond that, he knew how to handle a knife. That’s it.”
“Most of them are like that, the ones who live outside the palaces. It’s a very harsh environment. They get pretty beat-up looking.”
“Probably not much different to your average peasant in the middle ages.”
“Except that some of them have been at it for hundreds of years. So he’s the first one captured.”
Ben nodded. “That’s right. He was hiding right there under our noses in one of the vacated houses on the estate. We’ve had all the houses searched yet again but it looks like the rest of them have slipped the noose. If Brandon Woodbourne’s behavior is instructive then the rest of them could be holding hostages in homes or in abandoned buildings anywhere within an indeterminate radius.”
John held his tender flank in anticipation of coughing. “If they carjacked someone or if they’re modern enough to know how to drive they could be anywhere in England by now.”
“Have you seen the way the media is handling the story?”
“I’ve watched a little TV, yeah.”
“Then you’ll know that some cracks have begun to appear in our story of a terror cell and bioterror hazard on the estate. Despite our information blackout and no-fly zone above the estate, journos have been using Google street view and tax rolls to place names and faces with every quarantined house and they’ve gleefully broadcast the details. Every single family has been there for a good while and there haven’t been any renters. They’ve tracked down several evacuees whom we’ve put up in hotels who’ve said there was nothing suspicious in the neighborhood until approximately 10 a.m. when a number of dirty and smelly men and women began running through the estate, threatening them, forcing their way into homes, and stealing whatever they could get their hands on. That was, of course, before the local police arrived and well before tactical units came onto the estate. So how that squares with a raid on a terror cell is very much in question.”
“You’ve made your bed,” John said. “You’ve got to stick with the story. What’s the latest on figuring out how many are missing?”
“We’re increasingly sure there are eight unaccounted for. There was a medical doctor and his domestic partner, an architect. Next door to them were four builders who were doing a renovation project along with a female council employee performing an electrical inspection. Then there was a stay-at-home mum in a third house next door to that.”
“Which means eight Hellers if the one-for-one rule is still in effect.”
“That’s our working assumption. With one in custody that leaves seven unaccounted for.”
“Seven extremely dangerous people,” John said grimly.
“I assure you, I won’t rest until they are all apprehended,” Ben said.
John gave Ben a look that intended to say, I know you’ll do your best. Then he sighed and said, “I don’t know who I’m more afraid for, the people who cross paths with the Hellers here or the twelve poor souls from Dartford and South Ockendon who woke up this morning to another day in Hell.”
6
There were eight of them dispersed in three groups in the middle of a featureless, grassy meadow. In the first group were two men, both about forty. Twenty yards away were four more men, ranging in age from twenty to sixty with a woman in her fifties. A further twenty yards away from those five was a lone woman in her thirties.
It was a gray, windy day and the tall grasses made waves of green and yellow. A dense wood was off in the distance several hundred yards away. A single hawk on the prowl circled high above. No one spoke but all of them, except one, behaved almost identically. With blank, open-mouthed expressions they pirouetted, tamping down circles of grass as they looked for the houses and roads that had been there only a moment earlier. The one outlier was the oldest man in the middle group who, with a terrible cry, crumpled to the grass.
One of the two men in the first group asked his companion, “Martin, what’s happening, what in God’s name is happening?”
“I’ve absolutely no idea, Tony.”
Martin was tall and handsome with an erect posture that came from years of practicing his hobby of ballroom dancing. Tony was shorter, more muscular, and far more volatile.
Tony began to hyperventilate. “Are we dead?”
To Martin, the idea wasn’t as ludicrous as it sounded so he did what any man of science might do. He checked his pulse at the neck. It was faster than usual but it was very much there. “Of course we’re not dead. Take it easy, you’ll make yourself ill.”
Tony bent down, hands on knees, to counter a mounting faintness. It was then he realized his Lycra cycling shorts were gone and his underpants were precariously loose.
“What happened to my shorts?” he whispered.
Martin had fared better. His khakis were in place although his zipper was not, and his oxford shirt was buttonless. An insect lighted on his ear and when he brushed it away he noticed his ear stud was gone.
“Our missing house and missing neighborhood are more of an issue than your missing shorts,” he said. “Come on, let’s speak to the others.”
The second group stood their ground as Tony and Martin approached. The biggest man, with bib overalls, half-falling down over an enormous gut pointed at them and shouted, “Here, you two, don’t come no closer!”
“Why not?” Martin called back.
“’Cause we don’t know who you are or what your intentions may be.”
“I’m Martin Hardcastle from number fourteen and this is Tony Krause. Our intentions are to find out what just happened to us.”
“You’re from number fourteen?” the man asked.
“I can’t actually point to the house as confirmation but that’s where we’re from.”
“We was working on number sixteen,” the man said.
“Ah, the builders. We’ve been hearing your racket for the last week.”
“Come on then,” the man said, waving them forward. “I’m Jack. It’s my renovations company. These are my lads and that’s my dad,” he said, pointing to the older man on the ground, wincing in pain.
The sturdy, middle-aged woman blinked rapidly, as if she was the only one who thought proper introductions seemed absurd under the circumstances, but she capitulated. “I’m Alice Hart. I’m from the council, the electricals inspector.”
“How do they look?” Martin asked.
“How does what look?”
“The electricals.” When no one saw the humor, he apologized and they hurriedly queried one another as to what was going on.
“There’s got to be a rational explanation,” Tony said.
“Aliens,” Jack’s youngest son said. “Alien abduction. There’s all sorts of stuff like that on YouTube.�
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The stray woman slowly approached.
“Isn’t that Tracy from number eighteen?” Tony asked.
The woman had dark hair and a paper-white complexion. She was barefoot and clutched a terry-cloth robe to her throat to cover her nakedness. When she got within a few yards she stopped. They saw she was crying.
“Now, now, love, I’m Alice. Come over. We’re all friends here. We’re just trying to figure out what’s happened to us.”
“Hello, Tracy,” Martin said. “It’s Dr. Hardcastle from number fourteen. It’ll be all right. There’s got to be an explanation.”
“What kind of doctor are you?” Jack asked.
“Medical doctor.”
“Can you see what’s ailing my dad?”
He kneeled beside the man and asked what the problem was.
“My hip,” the man groaned.
“I see. Is the discomfort sudden?”
“Yes it’s sudden,” he said intemperately. “It’s been right as rain ever since my surgery.”
“I see. Surgery for what?”
“To replace my hip, of course. Two years back.”
“May I?” Martin asked, laying him down on his back and palpating the right side of his pelvis, then the left. “What kind of hip joint did they use?”
“Titanium.”
Martin sat him back up, stood and muttered to himself.
“What is it then?” Jack asked.
“His artificial hip isn’t there.”
“What do you mean, not there?” Jack’s older boy asked.
“Not there, like all of our zippers not being there. Like our buttons not being there. Like my ear stud and wristwatch not being there.”
The older man wasn’t done with his complaints. “All my bridgework’s gone,” he said pointing to the gaps in his teeth.
“I’ve got holes in my teeth as well,” Jack said. “And my watch is missing too.”
“The one mum gave you?” his younger son asked, suddenly patting his back pocket. “Hey, my wallet’s gone.”
“I’ve got mine,” Martin said, checking. He pulled out the leather wallet that was otherwise empty, the credit cards and money gone. “What was yours made of?”
“Nylon I suppose,” the other man said.
Tony began to hyperventilate again. “This is too weird. It’s too much.”
“Where are my children?” Tracy said numbly.
“Were they in the house?” Alice asked.
“No, they were at school.”
“Well, that’s a good thing. I’m sure they’re safe at school then.”
“What if I never see them again?” she said.
“You mustn’t talk like that,” Alice countered. “We’ll work this out and get back to where we’re supposed to be.”
“Maybe we’re being punked,” Jack’s youngest said. “Like for a TV show or a film.”
His brother rolled his eyes. “I thought you were just proposing abduction by aliens.”
“You can’t fault me for laying out all the possibilities. No one else is coming up with anything better, are they?”
“Well it’s a stupid idea. Even David Copperfield can’t make a whole housing estate vanish.”
“Could we have been drugged?” Tony asked in between rapid breaths.
“You mean something that would give a collective hallucination?” Martin asked. “There’s no such drug I’m aware of.”
“Maybe it’s something the army’s working on. Some secret shit they’re testing on us,” Jack’s youngest said.
Martin nodded at the young man. “You seem to have the most active imagination among us. Keep the ideas coming. What’s your name?”
“Charlie.”
His older brother volunteered his name too. “I’m Eddie.”
Martin shook their hands. “This hyperventilating man is Tony. That only leaves our patient.”
“Jack Senior,” the man on the ground croaked.
“Well,” Martin said. “I doubt we’ll get answers standing in the middle of this field. Perhaps we should split into two lots. One to stay with Jack Senior and the other to try to find help.”
Jack bunched and rolled his overalls until they were tight enough to stay up on around his waist. “I reckon we ought to stay together.”
“I can shift granddad piggyback,” Charlie said.
“Right,” Martin said, tacitly assuming leadership. “All that’s left is for us to pick a direction. Since I believe we’re facing where the street used to be, that way is east. We’ve got meadowland to the east, west, and south. Forest to the north. Any suggestions?”
No one spoke.
“Hang on a minute,” Martin said. Something had caught his eye and he headed out on his own for several yards before returning to the group and declaring, “The grass is beaten down here. There’s a path leading toward the trees. I think we should head north to the tree line. Perhaps we’ll find help in that direction.”
They began to walk.
The temperature was mild, the air heavy with moisture and before they made it to the trees it began to drizzle which made them determined to seek cover. Upon entering the forest, the dense canopy filtered much of the gentle rain, leaving them in fairly dry semi-darkness. Although Tracy was barefoot the soil was soft and a thick layer of rotting leaves provided further cushion. Charlie off-loaded Jack Senior to the ground and stretched his shoulders.
“Where to?” Tony asked.
Martin told them to wait while he did a quick reconnoiter and disappeared into the thicket. Several anxious minutes passed before he returned and announced he had found a trail.
“At least I think it’s a trail,” he said. “I didn’t make out any footprints but it does seem like it’s seen some traffic.”
Eddie took the next shift carrying his grandfather. They followed Martin to the narrow trail where the leaves did seem stamped into the soil. With the young men sharing the burden of Jack Senior, they carried on for over an hour, all the while second-guessing whether they had done the right thing going into the woods.
“I don’t understand how everything we know has just vanished,” Jack said. “I feel like I’m dreaming.”
“I didn’t feel too brilliant this morning,” Alice said. “I had a bit of a throat and almost called in sick but I knew I had the inspection today so I soldiered on. Worse decision I ever made.”
“Maybe we’re the lucky ones,” Eddie said.
“How do you mean?” Charlie asked.
“Maybe we’re the only ones left in the world. Maybe everyone else is dead and gone and we’re the survivors.”
Tracy began to weep. “My children. Are you saying they’re dead?”
Alice jumped in protectively. “Don’t be talking rubbish. Of course they’re not dead. No one’s dead.”
“Yeah, shut your gob,” Jack said, scolding his son. “Don’t be a prat. Can’t you see the woman is delicate?”
Martin stopped and cupped his ear. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Tony asked.
“Running water.”
A hundred yards on, the trail ended at a shallow stream with flowing, clear water. Martin knelt on the bank and cupped some into his hands. After a taste he declared it perfectly fine and all of them drank. While they rested Martin sloshed through the stream and found the trail continuing on. On his return he prompted a discussion about going forward versus reversing course. No one had the inclination to backtrack but Martin made it known he wanted decisions to be democratic.
“I’ve no desire to be decider-in-chief,” he said.
“I’d rather you than my brother,” Eddie said. “With his ideas about aliens and TV shows he’ll have us barking at the moon. You’re a doctor. You’re educated.”
“Tony’s an architect,” Martin said. “He went to better schools than me.”
“Maybe but he’s not what I’d call rock-solid,” Jack said. “I’ll go with you, doctor.”
“By all means, listen to
Martin,” Tony said with no trace of resentment. “I’ve got no idea what to do. Absolutely none at all. God, I’m dying for a cup of tea.”
“Right,” Martin said, accepting the leadership mantle. “Onward and upward.”
Eddie helped Jack Senior onto Charlie’s back and walking single file, they began to ford the stream.
There was a high-pitched noise, as if a large insect had flitted by.
Then another.
Then one more, but this time the noise ended with a dull thud and a low groan.
Jack Senior let go of his grip around Charlie’s neck and splashed into the stream. The clear water began running red.
“Granddad!” Charlie screamed.
Martin turned to see the old man lying face down, a long arrow buried in his back. The doctor’s survival instincts were stronger than his healing ones.
“Run,” he screamed to the rest of them. “Run for your lives!”
7
The car was far too small for the seven of them but comfort wasn’t high on their list of concerns. The only thing that soothed the men’s jangled nerves was the darkness.
The darkness was their friend. After all, they ruled the night, at least in their world.
The two women took no such solace.
The driver was the least afraid of the men. Operating a car was an experience he never imagined he’d have again, and after twenty miles on the motorway he relaxed enough to begin to enjoy it. The cars of his day had been more basic, but not so different. There was a gas pedal, a brake, a clutch pedal, a shifter. What else did he need? He tried to ignore the bright, confusing digital displays. The petrol tank was reading full, not that any of them knew how far they were going. He had five pilfered twenty-pound notes in his pocket and he found it somewhat comforting and surprising that Elizabeth’s portrait was still on the bills. With a hundred quid he reckoned he could buy enough petrol to take them to John O’Groats plus all the steaks and beer they could eat. Maybe later he’d try and figure out how to make the radio work. He didn’t need to look for a map in the glove box because there was one on the dashboard with a moving circle that he reckoned was their car. What a marvel! What other wondrous things were there to be discovered? And this too: what kind of a car name was Hyundai?