Deep philosophical speculations over, and we all suspected we’d merely been talking alcohol-fuelled bollocks, we hauled up the boat’s anchor and headed back to the shore.
‘Hey,’ said Boy, ‘I can see a message light flashing in your shirt pocket. You’ve got more incoming email.’
‘I’ll check it later,’ I said, ‘bound to be more spam.’
It was nearly all spam but there was one real message. It was from Amanda Brierley . . .
Lex - this end-of-the-world thing is right up your street. Write me 5000 words and the front page is yours.
Shit, what’s the point. Even if you’re still alive, how are you going to file the copy and how the fuck am I going to publish it.
It’s too late for us now isn’t it? I made some fucking stupid decisions in my career and one of the very worst I made was over you. Shit, shit, fucking shit.
Ciao, Mxxx
Now Amanda Brierley and I go way back. We’d been staff reporters together on Time Out in London, shortly after leaving university. For a time we were lovers, we were an item. But Amanda burned with ambition and before long she was heading off into the higher planes of publishing and management, whereas I’d been content to stay as a writer and journalist.
In the years that followed we retained our professional connection and friendship and I was never short of commissions from Amanda. I lost track of the relationships and marriages Amanda fell into and back out of again, as she climbed her way up the greasy pole of the publishing world and it never occurred to me our time together was anything but a passing, youthful fling. But there it was: the signature at the bottom of her message. ‘M’ for Mandy. The diminutive she only ever used on intimate occasions and certainly never in business communications. That evening I composed a reply:
Have inside story on the Plague. Am staying at Bill Gates’s pad on Cap Ferrat. I have writing paper. I have a gold-plated typewriter. I have enough wine to float on oil tanker. All I need is an auburn-headed publisher to get the party started.
Ciao, Lexxx
PS meet you at the café on the beach, below the steps of Villefranche station. You know the place, we were here once before but that was a long, long time ago.
Then I pressed the email
Spring turned to summer. Summer turned to autumn. Several times I remembered Solange’s comment that she missed the rumble of trains rolling into Villefranche station. That summer no trains had arrived or departed.
One day, it was mid-September and nobody was going back to school, I was sitting on the quayside, playing chess with another of the regulars at La Civette when Mike the record-producer guy walked by.
‘I see you’ve moved on from the movies of George Miller to the movies of Ingmar Bergman now?’ he called out.
‘What do mean?’ I replied.
‘You two look like the Knight and Death playing their game of chess in The Seventh Seal.’
I was thinking of a pithy reply when Philippe, the gendarme, suddenly called out from terrace of the railway station. ‘Quickly, up here, there’s a train coming!’
Myself, Edouard and Olivier - the latter clutching, I was disconcerted to see, two of the meanest looking meat-cleavers I had ever seen in my life - plus several more regulars from the beach area, including my erstwhile chess partner, rushed up the steep flight of the steps to the station. There, Philippe was handing out pistols, submachine guns and carbines from a cache he had stored in one of the old station buildings.
‘What are these for?’ I asked, as Philippe loaded-up a military combat-style pump-action shotgun.
‘There is something coming down the line from the direction of Monte Carlo,’ he replied. ‘There have been reports of criminal gangs attacking communities of survivors. We can’t be too careful,’
By now Edouard had crossed the tracks to gain a clearer view of the mouth of the tunnel where the rail track came out. ‘Can you see anything?’ someone shouted.
‘Only Death riding a pale horse,’ replied Edouard with a grin. From the look on his face, Philippe was not amused.
The tracks began to vibrate and creak and then we heard the sound of the train’s whistle and a distinct chuff-chuff-chuff-chuffing sound.
‘It can’t be a steam engine?’ somebody said, but as the sound grew closer, it was unmistakable. Then, in a swirl of steam and smoke, a small steam engine pulling a couple of battered carriages and a wagon loaded with timber emerged from the gloom of the tunnel.
‘It looks like a vintage engine someone pinched from a railway museum,’ I said. ‘A saddle-tank goods train, originally from a colliery or a steelworks, 1920’s vintage, I’d say.’
‘Goodness Lex, I’d have never had you down for being a trainspotter,’ I turned to where the voice had come from and saw that Boy Zabreski had now joined us. I smiled and gave him a friendly wave with the middle finger of my right hand. He just laughed.
The train slowed as it approached the station, eventually pulling to a halt halfway along the platform. From the footplate, a soot-stained face peered out from the cab and asked, in his politest French, but with a distinct German accent, ‘I don’t suppose you have any coal, but we could do with some water?’
‘Water we can do, but you are about 50 years too late for coal,’ said Philippe.
‘I guessed as much,’ said the engine driver. ‘When we raided the museum, it was a toss-up between this and a diesel engine. We thought it would be easier to forage fuel for this, than for the diesel. Oh, and we have a passenger we picked up in Vienna, who specifically asked to be taken to Villefranche.’
We all looked back up the platform to where a woman had just stepped down from one of the carriages. She was a blonde in a cheap leather blouson jacket and tight stonewashed denim jeans, carrying her belongings in two checked-plastic carrier bags. Her face was familiar. I’d seen her picture somewhere before. We’d all seen her face before.
‘Hello! How are you?’ she said. ‘Mine name is Tasha and I am looking to meet Olivier. He is owner of big restaurant here, yes? He invite me to visit but it takes me longer than I plan to make the journey here from Smolensk.’ And then she smiled and it was like Solange had said all those months ago - she did look nice.
Three weeks later, it was about seven in the evening just as the sun was going down, a motorbike with UK plates slowly edged its way along the promenade and pulled up outside the café. Its leather-clad rider dismounted and removed her helmet. As she did so, she did that shaking the head thing women do, so their hair tumbles down free. It was Amanda Brierley.
She smiled. ‘Ciao, Lex,’ she said.
‘You found us?’ I said, conscious I was stating the obvious.
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘The GPS satnav network still works. Nobody had time to switch that off. Besides, do you really think I could have ever forgotten the time we spent here together?’
Considering the world had almost come to an end, I was amazed to see how chilled and relaxed Amanda seemed. She was also wearing her hair a little longer and blonder than the last time I saw her. It suited her.
Amanda walked over to me, put her hands behind my neck, pulled me down towards her and kissed me on the lips. It was a full-bodied long and sensual kiss. I could hear Olivier and the girls, Monique, Solange, Brigitte and of course now Tasha, cheering and clapping in the background.
It was a kiss that took me completely by surprise. Since we’d stopped being an item all those years ago, Amanda’s attitude towards me, while never less than friendly, had always been strictly professional, with us never exchanging anything more intimate than the most cursory of air-kisses when we met.
I felt her body melt towards mine but then, in an instant, Mandy was gone and Amanda was back again. ‘That looks good,’ she said, noticing the bottle of wine on my table. She poured herself a generous glass and took a long drink.
‘That hit the spot. I’ve syphoned off so much fuel out of abandoned cars on my way down here, that my mouth tastes like th
e bottom of the inspection pit in a back-street garage in Peckham. I haven’t dared light a cigarette for the last 600 miles in case all the petrol fumes I’ve inhaled spontaneously ignite.
‘So,’ she paused to take another glug. ‘It’s like this. We kept getting these power surges in London. Someone said it was the nuclear power stations serving the electricity grid tripping in and out of action. When the power was on we’d have lights and phones. And all the office systems, including my favourite, the espresso machine would come back online. Even the traffic lights out in the streets were operating. Mind you, that was pretty pointless as there was no traffic left to regulate.
‘Anyway, about ten days ago we had another power surge and I see in my email inbox that you’d replied to my message. There was just me in the office that day. Who am I kidding, there had just been me in the office for the past fortnight. Everyone else was either dead or had loved ones they wanted to be with. And I thought, what the fuck, what have I to lose?
‘Then I looked up your location - Google Maps was back online that day - and do you know what I saw? The town next door: it’s Beaulieu-sur-Mer. That was an inspiration to me.
‘That’s where Gordon Bennett used to stay. He was the publisher of the New York Herald way back. The guy who funded Stanley’s trek across Africa to find Doctor Livingstone. The guy who had to leave America in a hurry because he scandalised New York society by turning up drunk at a party, hosted by his fiancée’s family, and pissing in the fireplace. Or it may have been the grand piano - you’d have thought they would have remembered which it was!
‘So, Gordon Bennett holes up in this hotel in Beaulieu and proceeds to run the Paris edition of the Herald from there. Not only that but it proves to be such a success that it becomes the forerunner of the International Herald Tribune. Stay with me Lex, this stuff is meat and drink to me.
‘And I get to thinking: if Gordon Bennett could pull that off 150 years ago with only the limited resources he had at his disposal, what could Lex and I do today? You have your golden typewriter and I’ve. . . Well, I’m me. I’m little Miss Irrepressible Publishing Maven.
‘Seriously, there are clusters of survivors all over the place. They need news. They need information. They need hope. We are the people who can deliver that.”
Amanda paused, poured herself more wine and took another slug. A slug that ended in a spluttering, choking cough. I could feel everyone in the room freeze. All eyes were on her. Was this just a passing choke or a prelude to something more terminal?
Amanda coughed one more time and then cleared her throat. ‘Jeezus,’ she said, gesturing towards the beach with her glass. ‘I didn’t know she was here. You have Tina Turner and her family sitting on a French Riviera beach, toasting marshmallows over a driftwood bonfire and you didn’t tell me! We sponsored her farewell tour. And, come to think of it, her subsequent comeback tour. She owes me big time. That’s our cover story for the first edition. Quick, I must go say hello.’
And with that Amanda was out of the café and heading for the beach. As she passed by her bike, she paused to open one of the panniers and pull out a small package. She lobbed it over to me. It was a couple of sets of spare typewriter ribbons.
‘So what do you think, Lex? It will be just like old times.’
What did I think? What did I know? We could both be dead in 24 hours. There again, we might last longer. Maybe months, maybe years? Maybe even grow old together.
‘What do I think?’ I called back, ‘I think we are going to need more typewriter ribbons.
Acknowledgements
The author would like to thank Jane Christian for editing this latest edition of the collection and also the editors of the following magazines where some of the stories in this collection first appeared:
‘Waiting for My Mocha to Cool’ was first published in Paraphilia magazine in July 2009; an earlier version of ‘Already Gone’ was published in Farthing magazine in September 2006; ‘Kastellorizon’ was first published in Paraphilia magazine in September 2009, and ‘Empire State of Mind’ was first published in Paraphilia magazine in September 2010
Special thanks also to Díre McCain and Dave Mitchell on Paraphilia for their kind words and support, as well as to Ian Nettleton at UEA.
WOULD YOU LIKE MORE SFF & H?
Bookmark this site: SciFi-and-Fantasy.land
Sci fi, fantasy, paranormal and horror content, free fiction, regularly updated with news, images, ideas, apparitions, weird stuff and now - NEW - showcasing selected fresh SF&F fiction and poetry - free to readers.
There are paid opportunities for selected submissions - contact Charles Christian for more details:
[email protected]
www.facebook.com/charles.christian
www.twitter.com/ChristianUncut
www.uk.linkedin.com/in/charleschristian
www.plus.google.com
Also by Charles Christian
Fiction
Secret Cargo
Two prickly space travellers, each with their own surprising secret, find they have more in common than they at first thought - and not just their love of early cinema. But the path of true love, and 23rd century technology (much like today’s) does not always run smoothly. Can they trust each other and can they trust their rescuers?
The unlikely pair of 20th century film buffs know every movie ending ever made but where will they be when the credits roll?
www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00G6PBB7Y
www.amazon.com/dp/B00G6PBB7Y
Tomorrow’s Ghosts
Alexis Byter’s job is never dull. After all, he is an expert on the paranormal but a routine visit from the local lady vicar starts a relationship and a sequence of events that takes the modern-day ghost hunter to almost the end of the world.
The past is interchangeable with the present and both might predict the future and avoid disaster if Alexis can read the clues. Its just that the clues involve a sailor from Biblical times washed up on England’s east coast, Punch and Judy puppets and a lascivious ghost. Oh, and a VW Beetle.
The book also includes a new free short story called Rip and Burn which is a horror story for the digital-savvy generation. If you think you know all about the dangers that lurk on the internet, think again. A hyperlink to hell could be just one click away from you.
www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00JZTP55W
www.amazon.com/dp/B00JZTP55W
Non-fiction
Writing Genre Fiction: Creating Imaginary Worlds - The 12 Rules
Do you write genre fiction? Or love reading it? This book reveals the 12 rules that writers of sci fi, fantasy, crime and horror must never break when building believable imaginary worlds for their readers.
Can you spot the writers in love with their ‘trappings’ (showing off their research), ever been let down by an author ‘cheating’ (‘jumping the shark’), are you in danger of losing the (credible) plot? The 12 Rules also covers gadgets vs. characters, plausible villains, unspeakable names, language and more.
If you are writing genre fiction, The 12 Rules keep your readers reading. As a reader, armed with this guide, have some fun spotting any rule transgressions in your next book.
www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00MELTC84
www.amazon.com/dp/B00MELTC84
Before you go dear reader....
I know you are really busy but I need your help. We authors actually do sit alone in our turrets scribbling away but we absolutely love to hear from our readers. I’d like to know what you thought of The Hot Chick collection.
Can I have your feedback in the form of a review? The next page coming up will let you leave a review. If you could spare a few minutes to give me your thoughts I will bear them in mind for my next story and be very grateful you took the time! It really is genuinely appreciated.
ks on Archive.
The Hot Chick & Other Weird Tales Page 13