by Nick Jones
Nathan looked around nervously. It was early evening and the London street was quiet, a murky half-light rendering them almost invisible even to the commuters on the overpass. Good. He ran and crouched next to the reporter, checking for a pulse, relieved to feel it banging against his fingers. He hadn’t overcooked the dose after all.
‘Please don’t kill me,’ Anderson pleaded, slipping in and out of consciousness.
Nathan had no such intention but wasn’t going to share that particular piece of information.
He dragged Anderson towards a row of nearby garages knowing that the next scene, in this play of his, was going to be tough. For both of them.
When Anderson awoke he was siting, hands bound, eyes covered and mouth taped. The air was damp and smelt stale, like wet sheets left way too long. Nathan checked the blindfold before pulling the tape from his mouth. Anderson sucked the air hungrily and then coughed, his face contorting in pain. He’d lost a tooth when he fell.
‘Are you going to scream again?’ Nathan asked. ‘Because if you are, I’ll go outside and wait.’
‘Who are you?’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘Are you going to kill me?’ Anderson’s voice cracked a little.
‘That depends.’
‘I’ll do whatever you want…’
‘Katherine O’Brien. Tell me about the night you met her.’
‘Her?’ Anderson’s face squashed in confusion at the name. His head twitched like a bird, trying to locate Nathan in the room. ‘I did exactly as I was told.’
‘Told by whom?’ Nathan shouted.
Anderson seemed confused. ‘You – you aren’t with them?’
‘I’m worse,’ Nathan whispered, desperately clinging to his tough-guy routine. ‘Tell me what you talked about.’
‘They’ll kill me…’ Anderson paused, twisting his hands against the tape binding his wrists, and then hissed, ‘You as well.’
Nathan wondered if he should have played along, said he was with them. But it was too late for that now.
‘Please.’ Anderson’s head flicked around the room. ‘I don’t know anything.’ There was a subtle change in him. He didn’t seem as scared.
That wasn’t good.
Nathan stepped closer. ‘You offered to meet her, you had information. What did you tell her? Where did she go next?’
Anderson took a deep breath, fishing for something, an idea, maybe.
‘Okay. I remember her,’ he admitted. ‘She contacted me because of an article I wrote a few years back.’
‘Go on.’
‘She wanted to talk about it. There were rumours. Some conspiracy shit about Hibernation. She connected some dots, same names kept popping up. I didn’t buy it.’
‘Then what?’
‘We met, we talked, she left. That was it.’
It was clear, just from the speed of delivery, that Anderson’s story was well rehearsed. The bare minimum, not necessarily lies but nothing new. Nathan suspected it might actually be true, but time was running out. Suspecting wasn’t good enough. For all he knew, Anderson could be under surveillance, the police already on their way. And of course, Nathan could have easily been spotted dragging him in here. He needed results, and he needed them quickly.
‘What did they tell you to do?’ Nathan shouted, closing in.
‘Please. I can’t.’
What are you waiting for?
Nathan took a deep breath, closed his eyes and struck Anderson, a backhand right across his face. Anderson turned back, a little too quickly, and Nathan realised with horror that he hadn’t hit him hard enough. He would have to do it again, except this time, he had to mean it. Awkwardly he raised his hand, jaw clenched, determined that this time he wouldn’t hold back.
Go on, you fucking pussy. Do it!
He hit him again, whipping Anderson’s head to the side. The reporter let out a cry and began panting, his face contorted in pain. Nathan hadn’t hit anyone before, not like that anyway, not in anger. The feeling of muscle and teeth compressing made him feel sick. It was strange, though, he could also feel adrenalin pulsing through him. His body donor was athletic and strong, something he had noticed immediately after the operation. In fact, everything was different, all of it new. His body felt charged with energy, an intoxicating reminder that this newly acquired physique came with a fresh set of rules.
Anderson spat blood. ‘What the hell did you do that for? Jesus, you don’t need to do this.’
Nathan took his mind back to the night Katherine was murdered. She had called him just before meeting Matt Anderson. Two hours later, the woman he loved, the one he’d chosen to spend his life with, was stabbed through the heart.
She bled to death.
Alone.
Her face flashed into his vision and suddenly he could feel her, the pain immediate, a vacuum of loss crushing him like a can. His grief would often come like this, silently approaching and then consuming him whole. Nathan looked at Anderson, brightly lit from above like a macabre window display.
‘You know what happened, you fucker,’ he screamed. ‘You sent her to her death.’
Anger descended in an all-consuming wave. Nathan found his hands around Anderson’s neck, lifting him up off the chair, squeezing the life from him.
‘Histeridae,’ he screamed. ‘What does it mean?’
Anderson could do nothing, any possible answers trapped inside lungs that were banging for air.
‘Is it a code word?’
‘I don’t know,’ Anderson hissed, beads of foam flying from his mouth.
Nathan had prepared himself mentally but lost track of time, his grief finally discovering a welcome and gruesome outlet. Something slapped him out of it, though. He wasn’t sure, but it could have been Katherine calling his name.
Nathan. No.
Her voice again.
Don’t kill him.
His hands shot open, sending the chair rocking backwards. For a moment it looked as though it might fall. But it tipped back, sending a globule of bloody spit from Anderson’s mouth. He coughed, gasping for air. Nathan knew that just a few more seconds would have killed him. He resumed pacing, babbling to himself, cursing his lack of control.
Then Anderson began to talk.
‘After she contacted me’ – he coughed and swallowed, blood dripping from his nose – ‘I got another call.’
‘Who called you?’ Nathan whispered, not looking at him.
‘I never met them, I swear.’
‘What did they say?’
‘They told me to meet her and, if she asked about Logan, to give her an address.’ He was crying now. ‘I didn’t know they would kill her. I swear it.’
‘Who’s Logan?’
‘Some bad shit happened, I guess. They didn’t want –’
‘Who is Logan?’ Nathan moved closer.
‘Jacob Logan. She asked about him, so I gave her the address. You know, the one where she…’ He trailed off.
The one where she was murdered. Yeah, I got that part.
Nathan had checked his wife’s notes a thousand times. None of them mentioned a Logan.
‘Is he alive?’ Nathan asked. ‘Is Jacob Logan alive?’
‘I don’t know, I swear it.’ He sniffed, sucking in three sharp breaths. ‘Please, don’t kill me.’
Nathan believed him; it felt right. This was how it happened. He pulled a syringe from his pocket and pushed it into Anderson’s neck.
‘What the hell was that?’ Anderson screamed, before slipping out of consciousness.
In about two hours he would wake and have no memory of their encounter. Nathan cut the tape from Anderson’s wrists and let out a long sigh. He had nearly killed him – that wasn’t good – but he had gotten results. He had a name, one that set alarm bells ringing higher up the food chain.
Jacob Logan.
Chapter 22
Jen spent the afternoon exploring Brook Mill Farm, deciding to focus on happier times. She recalled hard
but fulfilling days feeding the chickens and sheep, her mother pulling handfuls of irregularly shaped vegetables from the rich soil. At the end of those days Jen would always check the battery cells and ensure the animals were secure. The Logans had always been self-sufficient, even before rationing.
Now, most of the farm was run down, but she found an old solar generator and attached it to the maintenance droid – once charged, she could programme the droid to guard the perimeter. The old church appeared at least partially maintained, which meant it would likely be locked. Jen found a shovel and some bolt cutters in the workshop and ended up in the barn, which had stood the test of time well. In her mind’s eye she could see her mother driving the tractor out, her father entertaining friends and sharing the delights of home brewing.
It was dusk. Jen ate a functional, rehydrated meal and waited. Anyone watching would have seen her eyes shimmer faint purple as her active contact lenses adjusted to the half-light. Basic shapes and outlines; not full night-vision, but good enough to navigate the roads and better than a flashlight drawing attention.
The church was a short walk from the house. Just after nine, she set off. Apart from the odd solitary light dotted amongst the large houses, the village itself seemed almost deserted. She needed to be careful, though. Her tracker may have been off since the first motorway checkpoint, but they could find her if they wanted to. She just hoped they weren’t as fast as Callaghan suspected.
The church was exactly as she remembered it, an unfussy stone building with a single, vaulted steeple. The surrounding gardens were wild but cut low in places, the pathway almost clear. Someone had made an effort, even if it was a token, vain attempt to control the relentless growth. Jen noticed some of the graves had been tended, little pots of dead flowers sitting at the headstones suggesting recent activity.
She scanned her surroundings again and listened. In the distance the constant thrum of farm machinery. Close by an owl announced itself, sending a buzz through her back. The moon, shrouded beneath thick clouds, meant her augmentation was struggling for light. She kept low, moving as quietly as she could on the gravel towards the church doors. The chain wrapped through the handles was feeble and, with a squeeze of her cutters, broke easily. Jen grabbed the links, stopping them from rattling to the ground, and paused for a moment before stepping inside.
Her vision adjusted to the grey shapes around her. Pews in good condition lined with dusty half-burnt candles suggested the church was still used, but maybe not often. The smell of wet newspaper and incense brought back early memories of choirs and reluctant Sunday outings.
Jen made her way towards the altar and then turned left to the only separate room in the building. With a push, the arch-shaped door creaked open. Inside, in what appeared to be the vicar’s private chamber, she found what she was looking for: large leather-bound books recording births, deaths and marriages. These would also be recorded on a central database, easily accessed from her office in London, but Jen didn’t want to risk a search. Her father had carefully hidden it, and the last thing she wanted to do was advertise its location by using a standard traceable search.
She pulled a flashlight from her pocket, selected the lowest setting and strapped it to her head. The memory of her father in the graveyard was somewhat indistinct. The details were fuzzy and she didn’t have the time or the gear to start digging up multiple graves. She needed to be sure. Two things she felt she did know. The first was that whatever her father had buried, he had done so in loose soil – a freshly dug burial plot – and the second was the date. That was burned into her memory. It was the last day she had seen her father alive.
She ran her finger along the books, stopped and tugged one from the shelf. Laying it flat on the desk, she opened it in the middle, flicking through the thin pages, scanning the handwritten history before settling on a name. A lady, Mrs Christine Bradley, aged 139, buried on the day her father had left: 15 July 2058.
Jen returned the book, switched off her light and snuck back out, retracing her steps to the main entrance. The moon had broken through the cloud and cast pale blue shadows across the misty graveyard. Jen pushed through long grass, working along the graves, hoping for a clearly marked headstone. She stopped at a stone that felt vaguely familiar and moved the grass aside. Mrs Bradley’s name was chiseled clearly on the stone, which still looked remarkably fresh. She stood and listened for a while, her breath drifting across the churchyard, nerves biting her skin.
With a deep breath she thrust her spade into the earth, relieved to feel the ground was hard but not solid. It took over an hour but eventually, three feet down, she felt the spade hit metal.
The hole was narrow, making it difficult to see, but Jen could make out a shape, something reflecting the moonlight. She knelt and reached in, working her hands around the object, pulling at the sticky mud, trying to define its shape. She grabbed her spade and pushed at the edges, sliding the spade underneath. A box popped from the sodden soil, which burped on its release, a large clump of sticky dark mud still clinging to its base. Jen lifted it out and sat at the graveside, exhausted. She was warm but she knew that would change quickly, the sweat already beginning to cool on her back.
The metal box was shallow and unadorned, as though it might have contained tools and screwdrivers once. She eased the earth away with her thumb and noticed a latch. Resisting the temptation to open the box, she placed it, mud and all, inside her rucksack. She needed to fill the grave first. She was almost done when she heard a sound. She looked up to see a figure approaching.
‘What have you found?’ the figure asked. A male voice, the accent unfamiliar.
Jesus, where did you come from? How could I have been so careless?
The man inched forwards. ‘Can I take a look?’
He looked to be dressed in dark combat fatigues. One thing was for sure: he wasn’t local. Another sound behind her. She spun to see another figure closing in.
‘I don’t want any trouble,’ she shouted, raising her hands. ‘Here, take it.’
She placed the rucksack on the ground and backed away, trying to get both men into view. The first silhouette moved towards it.
She flicked her head torch to full beam, forcing the men to raise their hands, shielding their eyes. Jen skipped forwards and kicked one of them square in the jaw, a good connection, sending his neck snapping backwards. The second figure extended his arm, at the end of it a dark shape glinting in the moonlight. She grabbed his wrist for support and bought her raised leg down hard across his knee, creating a reassuring sound, like a hessian sack splitting at the seams. He let out a high-pitched scream and collapsed to the ground, his gun spinning off into the darkness. Jen pulled her own sidearm and flicked between both targets. The first man was out cold, the other was making too much noise. She wanted to find out who they were, but those screams would alert others. She selected a sedative and darted them both, just to be sure.
Who are they? How did they know I was here?
She had scanned herself and her bike before leaving London and was sure she wasn’t bugged. She knelt and checked the men over quickly. They didn’t appear to be military or police. Mercenaries, maybe. Contractors, paid to track her.
She left the men and ran back to the farm. The droid had already alerted her to multiple new targets within the grounds. She crouched against a perimeter stone wall. Flashlights flicked through the window of her old bedroom. More lights downstairs and a lone figure standing next to her bike.
Damn it.
She needed to create a distraction, something to buy enough time to get her bike. She smiled as a small blue light on the front of the maintenance droid pulsed once, unnoticed by the busy team working methodically through the farm house. Jen activated the intruder alarm setting. A deafening siren made the man nearest to her physically jump before running towards the front door, his gun tracking frantically. Pulsing strobe lights burst from the hallway and Jen saw her chance. She ran to her bike, switched to electric mode and slip
ped quietly away. The sound of the siren and shouting faded.
She rode fast, not looking back, and didn’t stop until she reached a service station near High Wycombe. She had spent the journey convinced that an army of vehicles would close in on her, lights flashing. They would bundle her away, never to be seen again.
The service station was quiet, no cameras nearby. She killed the engine, lifted her helmet and pulled the metal box from her rucksack. Nervously she flicked the small catch open and lifted the lid. Inside, on a bed of smooth velvet, was a glass object, black and perfectly polished and about the size of a bar of soap, a strange red glow swirling in its centre. Jen was drawn to it and wanted to touch it, but decided to wait. She wasn’t safe here.
Unexpectedly and without warning, a word appeared in her mind like an old friend, a name from her past, a name she might have known but had somehow forgotten. She had no idea how she knew, but this object, hidden for decades by her father, had a name.
Histeridae.
It was called a Histeridae, and Jen couldn’t help feeling it was her destiny to find it.
Chapter 23
Nathan stumbled into the shadows of an alleyway, panting, head spinning. He raised his hands and watched his fingers dance and twitch. They were scuffed and bloody, but it wasn’t his blood – it was Matt Anderson’s. He paused for a moment, leaning against the chalky brickwork, the cold darkness and truth of what he’d almost done gripping him.
What is it with this body? Am I more volatile? Does this body enjoy violence?
He had heard that it could happen, your mind influenced by the host body’s previous experiences. Some kind of muscle memory affecting the brain.
A young couple walked past, glancing into the gloom, realising too late that there was a man hunched in the shadows. Nathan turned and looked, his wild eyes feeding their fear. They pretended not to notice and picked up speed.
Nathan’s mind drifted, lost in time, searching desperately for warmth. He tried to remember better times, looks they shared, breakfast in bed, dancing together, tenderness. He felt his hands steady and his heart rate settle and then a welcome change in the world, one he hadn’t felt for a long time. For a few beautiful seconds it was as if his wife stood there with him. He could feel her warmth, the smell of her close to him, a hand on his shoulder telling him he was doing okay. He cried for a while, wracking, painful sobs that threatened but never quite took hold, until eventually her spirit faded and he was alone again. The widower, half the man he had once been, a dark figure in an alleyway.