by Rob Lopez
The man, one knee down, gripped the club and held it. Josh tried to wrestle it free, but his puny arms were no match for the man’s strength. One wrench, and the club was torn from his grip. He dodged to one side, narrowly avoiding the blade, then took his chance to run.
The man, running at a limp, chased after him, but Josh outpaced him, his legs pounding like pistons.
“Come here you little swine,” screamed the man.
Josh ran like the wind.
*
Grandma, with Lizzy in tow, had made it as far as the Henderson’s house. She’d heard the scream, a distant echo, and feared the worst. Minutes later she saw Josh sprinting up the street towards her like a boy possessed. Throwing himself into her arms, he sobbed. “She’s dead Grandma. She’s dead.”
Grandma consoled him, not having the faintest idea who he was talking about. Down the street, there was no further movement. Releasing Josh, she pulled the revolver out, conscious of her poor eyesight as she scanned the deepening shadows.
“Back to the house, now,” she said. “I don’t think it’s safe out here anymore.”
*
Lauren lay flat on the ground among the ferns, peering out from the trees. They’d lost a lot of time trying to cut through the woods. It was no place for a stroller, and frequent detours were necessary to avoid the fenced private estates. Guard dogs barked at the noise they made, and at one point someone fired a warning shot. It was nowhere near Lauren and April’s location, but clearly, people were nervous. Reaching a road finally, they headed south on what appeared to be a clear route to the bridge across Bull Run. The sound of a truck engine as dusk approached sent them back into the trees.
The pickup that appeared shone no lights, and was traveling slow and quiet. There were two people in the cab, and a third standing on the bed with a hunting rifle slung across his back. He was barely a silhouette, but Lauren thought he bore a striking resemblance to the figure who’d called out to her, back at the Chain Bridge. It was impossible to be sure, but it was obvious they weren’t refugees. Lauren initially thought they might be running a patrol for a settlement, but their stealthy progress, with the engine revs kept low, indicated they were more likely on the hunt for something. Or someone.
Lauren watched them disappear around the corner, heading south. The engine idle ceased abruptly, and Lauren’s heart sank. It could be that the trees masked the sound, but she was certain the engine had been switched off, and she knew why.
The bridge was being held against them as the marauders set up an ambush at another choke point.
Lauren let out an exasperated sigh. There was no other crossing for miles in either direction, and she felt weary and frustrated. Soon, it seemed, it would be impossible to travel anywhere without meeting an obstruction. Or trouble.
34
Under the Cessna’s port wing lay the green patchwork fields and moorland of Scotland. Under the right wing, off a craggy coastline, the North Sea and white capped waves. An offshore wind blew hard, and Kowalski had to keep his foot on the rudder to crab the plane sideways and keep it over the coastal cliffs.
They’d followed the coastline of Britain since crossing the Channel, and it meant they no longer had to follow the compass. When visibility was poor, Kowalski dropped his altitude. He didn’t want to risk flying in cloud in case they drifted out over the sea, and until they reached northern England, there were no hills to worry about. Seaside towns huddled miserably in the rain, holiday trailer parks looking forlorn and unwelcoming, and the piers and amusement parks lay deserted. Once they hit Scotland, the wind blew the cloud cover away and the Cessna rose over the majestic peak of Edinburgh Castle, the mighty fortress standing guard over a gloomy and still metropolis, the evening shadows creeping into the streets. From there onward Scotland grew more mountainous and less populated until, in the final stages of the journey to Wick, they saw only tiny towns and villages.
Wick itself was a small fishing port that barely warranted a second glance. Etched out on the landscape next to it, however, were the runways of a small airport. Kowalski touched down and taxied to the end of the runway.
“I don’t see why we need this,” said Rick. “We can land somewhere more remote and attract less attention.”
Kowalski turned the engine off. “We need this,” he said. “Wick is one of the essential stops on the northern ferry route. They’ve got a lot of experience handling light aircraft to and from the States. I need the exact bearings and distances to Iceland and Greenland. Without them, I’m not sure I care to venture over the North Atlantic. Iceland’s a small target and we can’t afford to miss it.”
They stepped out of the plane onto a landscape that seemed almost as flat as Holland, apart from the dark hills on the horizon. A cold wind blew across the gray runway. Nearby stood a cluster of World War Two era buildings, silent sentinels with broken windows and grass growing on their flat roofs. In the distance were two large, discolored hangers, piles of scrap metal leaning up against their walls like drifted rusty snow. A squat air control tower sat atop a more modern industrial building. Out over the sea cliffs, gulls screamed their indifference to mankind’s current predicament.
“You stay with the plane,” said Rick to Scott. “Anybody gets too close, discourage them.”
Scott shivered in the breeze. “Unless they’ve got whiskey. For that, I can get very friendly right now.”
“Stay antisocial until we’ve checked the place out.”
Rick and Kowalski walked across the concrete pan. Rick felt like he was in a black and white movie, and fully expected someone in an antique car to drive up and tell them to scramble to meet the hun at fifteen thousand feet. Or offer them tea. The stroll through an alternate timeline ended when they reached a smart terminal building with colorful advertisements on the windows for the Pulteney Distillery, which appeared to be in the town. Rick was glad he’d left Scott with the plane.
“Can I help you fellas?” called a voice.
A bearded gentleman with a coat and wellington boots walked out from behind the terminal.
“Actually, you can,” said Kowalski. “We need directions to Iceland.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows rose a fraction. “Are you asking about the supermarket, or the island?”
“The island.”
“You’re focking mad,” said the man, glancing at Rick’s rifle. “Where have you boys come from?”
“Syria,” said Rick.
The eyebrows rose a little higher. “You’re yanks, I see.”
“Yes sir.”
“And you want to be getting to Iceland now,” said the man, like it was a concept that, although absurd, might have its merits.
“Exactly.”
The man frowned, dispensing with any idea of optimism. “Totally mad. No radios, no GPS, no beacons. And the weather’s turning bad. That your plane? You won’t have a lot of reserve fuel if you drift off course and have to conduct a grid search.”
“You know your stuff,” said Kowalski. “I assume you work here.”
“I maintain the grounds, that’s all. I don’t need to be a genius to see you’re taking an unnecessary risk.”
“We’re trying to get home,” said Rick.
The man focused on him for a moment, then grunted. “Understandable, I suppose. Anyway, I failed to introduce myself. I’m Stuart.”
“I’m Rick. This here’s Kowalski, and the loon by the plane is Scott.”
Stuart looked across to the Cessna. “We’d better get that into a hanger. I assume you’re not planning to fly tonight, and the whole town heard you coming in, so there’ll be some interest. I imagine every man and his dog will be here soon.”
*
Rick expected a mob. Instead they received a growing group of curious well-wishers. The first visitor to the airport office was a smiling chairman from the town committee.
“An invasion, is it?” he said upon seeing the guns, shaking Rick and Scott by the hand.
He didn’t have
a dog, but he had brought his young daughter with him. She hovered shyly behind his legs, peering out at the strangers.
“Must seem that way,” said Rick as he wondered what the girl was thinking. No doubt, rumors would soon be flying among the other children.
“Don’t worry,” said the chairman, amiably. “Stuart can lock them in the office for you. We have some vacant rooms at the hotel waiting. We’ll walk you down.”
“You sure?” said Rick. “We don’t want to be a burden to you. I’m sure you’ve got your own problems to deal with.”
The chairman waved away his concerns. “I run the hotel, and we haven’t had visitors for a while. I’m curious to hear news from the outside world, and I daresay others are too. Stuart says you flew in from Syria.”
“Yeah, more or less.”
“We have a chap in the town whose grandson is in Syria. Special forces, I believe. Rather like yourself. He may be keen to talk to you. He has been a tad concerned.”
“Not sure I’ve got much in the way of good news for him,” said Rick. “I started out with a squad of six. Now it’s Scott and me, with Kowalski in tow.”
“Ah,” said the chairman. “Perhaps not a good idea to say too much, then. Still, on behalf of the town, I’d like to welcome you to our community and hope we can make your stay comfortable.”
“Do you have a bar in this hotel?” said Scott.
The chairman laughed. “We do, but everything is strictly rationed. I hope you understand, service is not up to our usual standards, but we’ll see what we can rustle up.”
Rick removed the magazine from his rifle and cleared the breech. For good measure, he stripped down the rifle and removed the bolt carrier, putting it in his pocket. He decided to keep hold of his pistol, tucking it away in his body armor. He’d seen The Wicker Man, and preferred to stay cautious.
Kowalski stayed behind with Stuart, both poring over a chart spread out on the table. It turned out that Stuart had a pilot’s license too, so they had a lot in common, and much to discuss. Rick and Scott followed the chairman and his daughter into the town.
It was like returning from a moon landing. News had traveled fast and people came out of their houses to shake their hands. Children accumulated, giggling and gossiping at the sight of the two grizzled looking veterans. The chairman seemed to grow a couple of inches taller as he proudly paraded his new guests before the town.
With so many happy people about, Rick had to wonder how they were coping without power and supplies, and the chairman explained that, with farms surrounding the town, and a fishing community in it, they were not actually short of food. Being so isolated, they weren’t inundated with refugees from the cities either. In coordination with the police, they’d implemented a strict rationing scheme, using the voting register to make sure everyone got a fair share. Access to clean drinking water, on the other hand, was more of a problem, as were medical supplies. The chairman seemed confident that power and transport links would one day be restored, but in the meantime, the town had adapted to the situation.
“Not everybody is happy, of course,” said the chairman, “and we do have an antisocial element in the town. Fortunately, we have a large police station that serves the county situated right here in the town, with many officers living nearby. Without their cars, they have to return to beat policing, which is something we’ve been asking for, for years. We’ve also raised a temporary volunteer constabulary to assist with patrolling the streets and maintaining the nightly curfew, so I think it’s fair to say that people feel safer than they ever have.”
Rick wondered whether the Brits were too polite to say the words 'Martial Law’, or whether they were simply more sanguine about it. The people who came out to greet them certainly looked happy enough, and it occurred to Rick that they perhaps saw the arrival of the Cessna as the first sign of normality returning, or a sign at least that the outside world hadn’t forgotten them. Maybe they hoped the next plane to arrive would be bigger and laden with supplies.
The bar and lounge in the hotel was the kind of place Rick had only ever seen in pictures, with oak beams, wide armed chairs and a log fire. The Scots didn’t consider it cold enough to need a fire yet, so Rick and Scott were donated wool sweaters. A small glass of warm ale was followed by a plate of freshly caught crabs. By the light of candles, the two operators were interrogated by what seemed half the town that was crammed into the bar, and Rick felt increasingly drowsy as the long day caught up with him. When he was finally allowed to retire for the night, he pressed down on the soft mattress in his room with something akin to awe. He didn’t think he’d have any problem sleeping.
He was wrong. Relaxing for the first time in a week, he woke as the nightmares jerked him around, the images of battle, Leroy’s dead face and the sight of a dark mist swallowing up his laughing children plaguing his thoughts. Snapping upright on the bed, he leaned forward, gasping for breath. A cold touch of dread gripped him. In the claustrophobic silence of the room, all he could think of was that, no matter what he did, he was too late. His family was in danger and he’d failed them. Wrapping himself in the blankets, he stared out of the window, willing the night to end.
*
At dawn the Cessna was rolled out of the hanger and Stuart helped them refuel. “I’ve topped up the oil,” he told Kowalski. “You want to be careful. That engine’s not so tight.”
As the engine was started, a small crowd gathered to watch them go. Everybody in the town seemed to have a stake in the plane’s success, and a small girl with a handful of daisies ran forward to present them to Rick.
“Damn, I’m going to miss this place,” said Scott.
Rick said nothing. The night’s darkness was still with him. It was an emotional sendoff, and some of the faces in the crowd seemed to understand the risk they were taking. He felt like Lindburgh on the eve of his transatlantic flight, and realized that, right now, they probably shared the same level of technology when it came to navigation aids. Basically, there were none.
“You’ve got no de-icing on this plane,” shouted Stuart above the roar of the engine as he leaned into the cockpit. “Stay low. You’ll use more fuel, but at higher altitudes you risk getting blown off course and your wings icing up. You cannot, I repeat, cannot miss the island. Everything’s laid out on the chart. If you don’t hit land at the speed and times I’ve given you, then for God’s sake, don’t keep going. Start a search. You will not make it to Greenland in one hop.”
He handed Kowalski a thermos flask. “It’s only hot water, I’m afraid, but you might need it where you’re going.” He also handed over a tiny plastic bottle of amber liquid. “This is the good stuff: whiskey. That’s my ration, so go easy with it. And good luck.”
Taxiing out to the runway, Kowalski lined up the aircraft. Opening the throttle, he trundled down the runway, and Rick looked back.
The crowd was already dispersing, and Stuart was a solitary figure. He wasn’t waving. Hunched against the wind, he looked resigned and mournful.
35
Kowalski didn’t ask Rick to take a turn at the controls this time. Flying low over the waves, eyes darting from the compass to the view ahead, he was silent and grim. The gray cloud base was low, and drizzle reduced visibility.
The atmosphere in the cockpit was tense, and the air reeked of gas fumes from the full canisters in the back. Rick stared at the sea, knowing that if they had to ditch, their life expectancy could be measured in minutes, and the further north they went, the shorter that time would be.
That would probably be a blessing of sorts, because they had no ability to send an SOS, and nobody would be able to respond to it anyway. A quick, numbing death would be the best they could expect.
After three hours, they spotted land off the starboard wing, and Rick thought they’d made their destination, but Kowalski flew on. Checking the charts, he saw they’d passed the Faroe Isles. This far north, and usually dependent on mainland supplies, he wondered how the occupants were farin
g.
He decided it wasn’t wise to dwell on that.
With nothing else to do, Rick contemplated sleep. The sight of the vast ocean chilled him, however. In spite of not being able to make a difference, he felt it was imperative to stay awake.
*
“Grandma, it’s him!” hissed Josh.
Daisy moved as fast as her hip would let her. “Josh, get away from the window.”
The drapes were drawn and the house was under lockdown.
Or as close to lockdown as she could get it. A sideboard had been pushed up against the front door, the kitchen table against the back. They weren’t able, in Daisy’s judgment, to access the outside grill. If they weren’t spotted, then the smoke from the coals would give them away. They therefore hadn’t eaten anything, apart from a spoonful of sugar and the last, stale biscuits in the barrel.
They’d heard, rather than seen, the scavengers in the night, breaking windows to get into some of the houses. Daisy and the children had spent a sleepless night, waiting for the inevitable. For some reason, it didn’t come, and dawn brought an empty street again, but Daisy remained wary about venturing out. The tall trees on the sidewalk shaded the house, making it bearable in the heat, but they were low on water, and the thirst was constant.
Peering out while trying not to disturb the drapes, Daisy saw the man Josh had described, and the sight of him swaying down the street with the knife in his hand made her feel faint. With both thumbs she cocked the revolver and waited.
The man had a wild look about him. At any other time, Daisy would have had him down as a drug addict, desperate for a fix. She supposed the hunger gave him that appearance now, but on the other hand, he could be an addict. Or an alcoholic. It was impossible to tell.
Daisy wasn’t sure if he’d been the one breaking the windows in the night, but he looked quite bewildered, as if he was lost. The appearance of a cat, however, galvanized him into action, and he gave chase, swinging the knife like a sword. The cat got away easily, and the man stopped dead, dejected. Suddenly, he looked toward the house and Daisy froze, certain she’d been spotted, but the man’s eyes wandered onto other houses, perhaps trying to assess the chances of finding food. Or drugs, if that were possible on this street.