by Jon Grahame
Also by Jon Grahame:
Reaper
Myrmidon
Rotterdam House
116 Quayside
Newcastle upon Tyne
NE1 3DY
www.myrmidonbooks.com
Published by Myrmidon 2014
Copyright © Jon Grahame 2014
Jon Grahame has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the
British Library.
ISBN 978-1-905802-84-5
Set in 11.75/15.5 Sabon by Reality Premedia Services, Pvt. Ltd.
Printed and bound in the UK by
CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
This is for Antonietta Maria Colaluca.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Coming Soon
Daily Telegraph, February 5, 2010
China’s reckless use of antibiotics in the health system and agricultural production is unleashing an explosion of drug resistant superbugs that endanger global health, according to leading scientists.
Chinese doctors routinely hand out multiple doses of antibiotics for simple maladies, like sore throats, and the country’s farmers’ excessive dependence on the drugs has tainted the food chain.
Studies in China show a ‘frightening’ increase in antibiotic-resistant bacteria such as staphylococcus aureus bacteria, also know as MRSA. There are warnings that new strains of antibiotic-resistant bugs will spread quickly through international air travel and international food sourcing.
‘We have a lot of data from Chinese hospitals and it shows a very frightening picture of high-level antibiotic resistance,’ said Dr Andreas Heddini of the Swedish Institute for Infectious Disease Control. ‘Doctors are daily finding there is nothing they can do; even third and fourth-line antibiotics are not working.
‘There is a real risk that globally we will return to a pre-antibiotic era of medicine, where we face a situation where a number of medical treatment options would no longer be there. What happens in China matters for the rest of the world.’
Associated Press, February 10, 2013
An outbreak of SARS (Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome) has been reported in Guangdong Province, China. It was discovered by Canada’s Global Public Health Intelligence Network (GPHIN), an electronic warning system that monitors and analyses internet media traffic, and is part of the World Health Organisation’s (WHO) Global Outbreak and Alert Response Network (GOARN). The disease comes on top of the problems caused by the violent earthquake that devastated the region two months ago. Members of worldwide aid agencies are still working in the area.
Guangdong Province previously suffered a SARS epidemic in 2002, although the Chinese Government did not inform WHO until four months later. It spread to 37 countries and there were 8,096 known infected cases and 774 fatalities. SARS is a viral disease that can initially be caught from palm civets, raccoon dogs, ferret badgers, domestic cats and bats. Initial symptoms are flu-like and may include lethargy, fever, coughs, sore throats and shortness of breath.
Les Knight, founder of the Voluntary Human
Extinction Movement
(As quoted in The World Without Us
by Alan Weisman, Virgin Books)
‘No virus can ever get all six billion of us. A 99.99 per cent die-off would still leave 650,000 naturally immune survivors. Epidemics actually strengthen a species. In 50,000 years, we could easily be right back where we are now.’
The Rt Hon Geoffrey Smith,
spokesperson for HM Government, UK
By now, you will all be aware of the terrible affects of the SARS pandemic. It is estimated that fifty percent of the population has already died of this dreadful virus and we fear that many more will succumb. Hospitals are full and medical staff have fallen victim at the same rate as the civilian population. All known medicines have failed to stop the devastating effects of what scientists have described as a virus aberration. No one could have foreseen this modern plague, and no one, it seems, can save us from it, not just here in Britain, but all around the world. We don’t know when this pandemic will end. But we do know there are some who have a natural immunity. This small percentage is our only hope for the survival of the human race. All I can do is urge you all to make your peace with your god and remain in the safety of your homes as we truly face the apocalypse. God bless. And good luck.
Chapter 1
CLEETHORPES, ON THE EAST COAST, WAS FIRST SETTLED by Danish Vikings in the eighth century. They arrived with a reputation for violent conquest but they stayed and made their homes. It was the latest occupiers who were there simply for the rape and pillage.
Reaper and Sandra arrived in the early evening, travelling through the Lincolnshire Wolds and heading towards the town along a road that arrowed out of the countryside towards the sea. They had seen no sign of life since Caistor, once a small comfortable Georgian town a few miles back. A door had closed silently in the market place as they drove through. They had felt that their progress was being watched and imagined the relief when they passed. Living so close to the evil on the coast, survivors would be wary of any intrusion into what life they held onto.
Reaper reversed the Astra into the drive of a semi-detached house on the fringes of suburbia. The sun was low, the sky blushing red. It promised good weather tomorrow.
He was in his middle forties, the girl still in her teens. They wore dark blue tee shirts, combat trousers and Doc Marten boots. Both wore Kevlar stab-and-bullet-proof vests. Reaper had two Glock handguns hanging from his belt, each in Viper drop-leg holsters strapped to his thighs. Sandra had only the one Glock in a similar holster on her right thigh. The guns held 17 rounds each. They both carried Heckler and Koch G36 carbines with twelve-inch barrels, fitted scopes and thirty-round curved magazines. More magazines were in the pockets of their police belts and vests. Both also had ten-inch Bowie knives in sheaths strapped to their lower right leg. Reaper also had three stainless steel throwing knives in a sheath on his left wrist. He had once asked himself how much armament he needed and had come to a swift conclusion: as much as he could bloody well carry.
They each
put on a backpack, slung the carbines around their necks on straps and surveyed the empty road from the cover of a privet hedge. Nothing stirred. No cars, no people, no bicycles, no children playing in the late summer sun. Nothing had stirred down this road it seemed since the end of the world, five months before. Lawns and gardens were overgrown, and in the neat houses beyond the hedges would lie the occupants where the virus had taken them: in bed or sprawled on sofas to watch the news highlights of a dying world before they succumbed in their turn. Bodies that by now would be beyond putrefaction and breaking down slowly into bones and dust.
The two exchanged a glance and set off down the deserted road towards the centre of the seaside town, carbines held ready.
They kept to side streets and paused often to listen. At last they could see the flat line of the ocean between the houses, the reflection of the dying sun glittering upon its surface. Reaper had two locations fixed in his mind. He suspected the enemy occupied a prominent apartment block on the seafront to the south and, possibly, a nightclub or pub a mile or so to the north. That was where he had last encountered them. The sound of bottles clinking together made them freeze in the shadows of an alley. It had come from a small all-purpose store on the opposite corner of the road.
They exchanged hand signals. Sandra crouched and levelled the carbine at the store. Reaper crossed the street silently and paused, his back against the wall alongside the shop door, which he could see was not properly closed. Someone was moving around inside, trying to be quiet and failing. He risked a swift glance. One man. He was putting items into a cloth shopping bag. He risked a second glance but could see no one else. The man seemed unarmed.
Reaper looked back across the street and raised one finger and then held his palm out indicating that Sandra should stay in position. He slipped the strap of the carbine over his head and laid the weapon on the ground. As he rose back to a standing position, he took the Bowie knife from its sheath. The steel reflected the last rays of the dipping sun. A gun might cause someone to dive for cover. A long, wide blade was far more personal and terrifying and silent. They didn’t want an alarm raised.
He moved into the shop quickly, the knife held forward at waist height. The man stopped, turned and his eyes widened in shock and horror. He dropped the cloth bag and the contents clanged on the floor. He raised his hands and said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’
This was no wolf. This was a sheep, doing the best he could to survive by grazing the remaining stock from out-of-the-way food stores.
Reaper put a finger to his lips to tell the man to be silent. He glanced around but there was nobody else. The store had a counter to the right and three cramped aisles. The section that had housed the booze was empty. Any frozen food still in the refrigerators would have been ruined since the electricity died, but there were still tins and packets on the shelves, and cans and bottles of soft drinks.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Reaper said. ‘I want information.’
The man was confused. He still expected to be hurt.
‘What’s your name?’ Reaper said. ‘Your name?’
The man was perhaps forty, slim build, average height, average features. He wore jeans and trainers and a green tee shirt depicting the profile of a man with a Mohican hair cut and the words Diesel: Home of the Brave. The wearer wasn’t very brave. He moistened his lips to lick away the fear and said, ‘Bradley. Paul Bradley.’
‘I’m Reaper.’ The man was nervous but no danger. Reaper sheathed the knife. The man’s eyes watched the blade disappear and he began to breath again but he was still nervous. ‘Where do you live?’
‘What?’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Erm. Nearby.’
‘Do you live alone?’
‘Er, no.’
‘Who do you live with?’
‘I look after someone.’
‘Someone?’
‘A girl. My daughter.’
‘Just the two of you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ He pointed to the bag on the floor. ‘Get your stuff. Let’s go.’
‘Where?’
‘Your place.’
‘Erm …’
‘Come on!’
The man picked up the bag hesitantly. It was obvious Paul Bradley didn’t want to go with him but he didn’t have a choice. Reaper and Sandra needed information and somewhere to stay for at least part of the night. Now they had found a possible informant, they couldn’t let him out of their sight for fear someone else found him and learned of their presence. Near the entrance, Reaper noticed a rack of street maps of the town. He took one.
He opened the shop door, picked up the carbine and motioned for Bradley to come on out. The man did so, reluctance seeping out of every pore. Maybe he was so conditioned to the casual violence of the town that he still expected to become a kebab on Reaper’s knife. His eyes widened again when he saw the diminutive figure of Sandra armed to the teeth.
‘Which way?’ Reaper said.
‘Over there.’
Bradley pointed across the road to a row of red brick terraced houses. Further down the road, the houses became bigger and many had been converted into private hotels, but here they seemed to have been family homes. A curtain twitched upstairs in the house towards which they were heading.
The road was silent and deserted. They crossed quickly; there was no garden and the door faced onto the street. Bradley unlocked it with a shaking hand and Sandra pushed him unceremoniously to one side and went past him, carbine at the ready. Reaper closed the door and waited in the hall.
‘Ground floor clear,’ she said.
‘We live upstairs,’ the man said, his voice quavering.
‘It’s all right,’ Reaper said. ‘We’re not going to hurt you. We’re the good guys.’ He gave Bradley a hard look to let him know that he could also get nasty and added, ‘Are you sure there’s only a girl up there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she armed?’
‘Good God, no!’
‘Call her. Tell her we’re friends.’
Bradley looked at Sandra and back at Reaper. He licked his lips again and then looked up the stairwell.
‘Meg? It’s all right. They’re friends. Meg?’ Nobody answered. ‘They’re friends. You can come out. It’s okay.’
Sandra edged past Reaper. He understood her logic. Seeing a girl might be reassuring. That is, if there was only a girl up there. He let her take the first two steps and then the girl appeared. She looked over the banister and took a half step back at the sight of their guns.
‘It’s all right, Meg. They’re friends,’ said Bradley, and she moved to the top of the stairs and Reaper saw that she was about fourteen. Bradley pushed past and went up to her, put his arms around her, whispered to her, calmed her. ‘They’re friends,’ he said, in a louder voice, for their benefit.
Reaper and Sandra exchanged looks and followed.
Bradley and Meg lived in the back upstairs rooms of the house. The attic had also been converted into a third floor. Meg was slim and shy, dark hair, delicate features and about five feet tall. She wore a gingham dress, which probably made her look younger, ankle socks and trainers. She was nervous but seemed glad to have another girl to talk to. Reaper suspected she wasn’t Bradley’s daughter. If she was, they would be the first family survivors he had encountered. Maybe Bradley had made the claim for the sake of propriety. Maybe he was still worried by what people might think.
In the beginning, Reaper had told other survivors that they met that Sandra was his daughter – not because of what people might think, but because they both felt a bond and he thought that having a father might protect her from the attentions of a changed world. He suspected that this relationship was different.
Reaper took Bradley into the front be
droom for a private talk, but also to get him away from the girl. The man was reluctant to go but had no reason not to.
‘Who runs the town?’ Reaper asked.
‘There were three gangs at the beginning. Now there’s just one. There was a lot of shooting and screams at first. That’s why we stay inside as much as possible. The gangs went looking for people. I think they went out of town, too – looking for people. Looking for women. The shooting died down until the other day. Then it all went off again but we kept our heads down.’
‘Are there others like you? In hiding?’
Bradley nodded. ‘I’ve seen people. When I’ve gone further than the corner shop for supplies. I’ve seen people who aren’t with the gang.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘They were as frightened as me.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not good with violence. But I’ve done my best to look after Meg. To keep her safe.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘She …’ Bradley stopped himself. ‘She’s my daughter. I said.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ Bradley was too nervous, had too much to hide. Reaper said, ‘Look. We come from a good place, it’s called Haven. We’ve built a community there. All sorts of people. Working together. We’ve got other adults who found kids and looked after them. Now they’re families, they have a chance again. You and Meg can come there with us when we leave. You can both have a life again.’
‘She’s …’
‘Where did you find her?’
He sighed and said, ‘I was a teacher. After it happened, I went to the school. So did Meg. She had nobody and things were starting to get wild. The gangs formed. I took her in and kept her safe.’
‘You did the right thing. Don’t worry. In these times, no one judges. Now, the gang … Tell me all you know about them. Where they live, where they drink. How many there are, what weapons they have. Can you do that?’
‘Yes.’ He was still hesitant, unsure. ‘But why?’
‘Because we’re going to kill them.’
Bradley’s look was one of disbelief but the longer he looked into Reaper’s hard eyes, the more he realised that the intention was clear and unequivocal.