Blood Line: What if your family was the last left alive? (The Blood Line Trilogy Book 1)

by Michael Green

  ‘His name was Tom and he ponged,’ Nicole added.

  ‘But he only stayed one night and now he’s gone,’ Zach continued. ‘And he stole some of our stuff.’

  They were outside the house before Mark had a chance to ask any more questions. As the families spilled from the car, Jane came to greet them. Though there were hugs all round, Jane seemed to be hanging back.

  ‘I hear you’ve had a visitor,’ Mark said. Jane nodded. He looked at her hard. She was tense. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Jane had been determined to say nothing of her ordeal, but now she couldn’t control her emotions and she burst into tears.

  They led her into the house. Steven seemed to guess she was reluctant to talk in front of the children. He gave the guinea pigs to Nicole and the children scampered off to play with them on the back patio.

  Finally Jane was ready to talk. They listened in stunned silence as she told them what had happened.

  Christopher was in bad shape and as soon as she’d finished, Jane excused herself and hurried off to make him up a bed. She’d only told them the barest details; she had no wish to relive the nightmare. They were all having trouble coming to grips with what had happened. Mark blamed himself bitterly for having left her alone.

  It had been a long and emotional day. By the time they’d rearranged the houses, made up beds for everyone and had dinner, they were exhausted. Nevertheless, they all had trouble getting to sleep.

  ‘Steven’s gone and he’s taken a gun,’ the voice in Mark’s dream was saying. But it wasn’t a dream; Jane was standing beside his bed. It was already light. ‘He’s taken Raconteur,’ she continued.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mark said, still half-asleep.

  ‘But I am worried,’ she said, close to tears. ‘I’m sure he’s gone after The White Witch.’

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ Mark said as he dragged himself up onto the pillows.

  ‘You’ve no idea how vicious that pig was.’

  ‘Steven can take care of himself,’ Mark insisted, trying hard not to show how deeply he was concerned.

  20

  Steven had been unable to sleep at all. He’d never experienced anything like this. He felt as if the violation of his sister had been a violation of himself.

  At four in the morning he crept down the stairs, grabbed his rifle and a few rations from the larder before making his way silently down the gangway to Raconteur. He realised his father and sister would try to stop him if they knew of his intentions and, determined they would not, he slipped Raconteur’s lines and pushed her out into the canal. She drifted silently down the waterway on the ebb tide. She was well into the marina before he turned the key and her engine burst to life.

  He knew he was looking for a ketch called The White Witch, and Jane had said that the sailor had been heading for Auckland when he had seen the smoke from her fire. Steven hoisted sail and set course south towards the city. The breeze picked up and he soon found Raconteur straining forward, as if she too was keen to find Jane’s assailant.

  Reaching North Head he turned west into the inner harbour. The adrenalin surged through his veins when he saw a sail off Torpedo Bay. He loaded his rifle and tacked towards the moored vessel. But as he grew closer he realised the vessel was simply an anchored yacht. Its tattered furling headsail had broken loose and was flogging in the breeze.

  He sailed through the moored yachts looking for the ketch, but the vessel was nowhere to be seen. Then he tacked across to the south side of the harbour and sailed past the wharves. Again there was no sign of life. It was nearly lunchtime when he reached Westhaven Marina. He secured Raconteur in an empty berth and, carrying his rifle with him, walked the pontoons searching for The White Witch.

  By the end of the following day Steven had searched the remaining anchorages and marinas close to Auckland. He could feel his anger intensifying. The Hauraki Gulf was a vast network of islands, coves and beaches; The White Witch could be anywhere. Worse still, she could even have left the gulf altogether.

  On the fourth day Steven sailed into Islington Bay, rowed ashore and walked to the summit of Rangitoto Island armed with Raconteur’s most powerful binoculars. From this vantage point he commanded an uninterrupted view of the gulf. He spent the day fruitlessly searching the horizon. Despite the cold and the lack of food and water, he spent the night on the summit.

  By lunchtime the following day his thirst was becoming acute. He lifted his binoculars one last time and slowly scanned the horizon. When he completed the three hundred and sixty degree search, his heart began to race. Far off in the distance, emerging from Woody Bay on Rakino Island, he glimpsed a sail. Despite his thirst he stayed on the summit for three more hours, tracking his prey. Only when he was certain he knew where The White Witch was heading did he leave.

  By the time he was back on board Raconteur and had raised the anchor it was growing dark. He’d sailed to Fitzroy Harbour on Great Barrier Island, which is where he guessed The White Witch was headed, several times before. However, he’d never attempted the forty nautical mile crossing at night. He knew it would be safer to wait until morning, but he had no way of knowing what Tom’s intentions were. If he were simply stopping off at Great Barrier Island overnight before continuing out into the ocean, Steven would never catch up with The White Witch.

  It was deep into the night by the time he had picked his way through the Motuihe Channel. Fearful of the treacherous D’Urville Rocks, he held close to Waiheke Island. Only when he picked out the distinctive form of Gannet Rock ahead did he swing northwest and begin the long slog across open water.

  He spent an anxious night, peering nervously through his binoculars, aware of other dangers like the Pigeon Rocks. In the early hours of the morning he hove to and wallowed uncomfortably in the swells until the first rays of light picked out the peaks of Great Barrier Island. Then he crept closer inshore, towards Man of War Passage leading into Port Fitzroy.

  Normally he wouldn’t have attempted to sail through the narrow passage, but he was reluctant to start Raconteur’s engine in case Tom heard it and tried to escape. If it came to a race, The White Witch might win. With the wind astern, he drifted through, playing the tricky winds as they bounced haphazardly off the canyon-like sides of the passage.

  As soon as he cleared the passage he saw his quarry, and again the adrenalin surged through his body. The White Witch was anchored off Smokehouse Bay. There were no signs of life aboard. Steven tacked out into the harbour and quietly lowered the mainsail before heading back towards The White Witch under foresail. Judging his run to perfection, he furled the headsail at the last moment and ghosted in towards his quarry.

  Raconteur came to a halt less than a metre from The White Witch. There was the barest movement as Steven stepped from his vessel onto the deck of Tom’s yacht. Silently he secured a line to Raconteur and pushed her astern. Then, with rifle in hand, he moved cautiously towards the open hatch.

  He smelt Tom before he saw him; the rancid smell wafted up through the open hatch. He crept silently down the companionway. Then, with his finger on the rifle’s trigger, he pushed over a stack of dirty dishes piled high on the galley bench. As they clattered to the floor he already had the gun trained between Tom’s closed eyes.

  To his disappointment the figure didn’t leap off the bunk to attack him. Instead, frightened eyes stared up from a gaunt, pale face. The wound where Misty had bit Tom had festered and his arm was swollen. His other symptoms — the laboured breathing and coughing — were symptomatic of Super-SARS. He was lying in his own excrement.

  Slowly, Tom propped himself up onto his elbow. ‘Help me,’ he pleaded weakly.

  ‘You raped my sister, and now you want me to help you?’ Steven heard himself saying through clenched teeth.

  He saw his sister’s framed portrait on the shelf above the bunk. Behind the portrait was a collage of pornographic photographs. The sight enraged him further.

  ‘You know how it is — you’re a man yourself. It wasn’
t my fault, she was gagging for it.’

  It wasn’t until he saw the mangled flesh and bone that had been Tom’s kneecap that Steven realised he had shot him.

  Tom screamed with pain.

  Steven heard the gun go off again and saw the other kneecap shatter and blood and flesh splatter onto the bulkhead behind the bunk. Rage had taken control, but now his rifle was empty. With icy calm he found himself staring down, observing the scene as if he were a bystander, looking without feeling at what he’d done.

  Steven was both judge and jury — was he executioner, too? He looked at the pathetic figure and, still in a trance-like state, debated with himself what to do next. He should finish Tom off with another bullet, but that would be too good for him. It would put the man out of his misery, but he had to suffer as Jane had suffered.

  Five minutes later, Steven pushed Raconteur clear of The White Witch and unfurled her foresail. As she ghosted away he could already feel the heat from The White Witch and smell the smoke. He could hear the crackling of the flames and Tom’s cries.

  He didn’t look back.

  ‘Uncle Steven’s coming!’ Nicole called. She headed the tribe — Zach, Zoë, Holly and Gina — through the patio doors into the house to repeat her message before turning and racing breathlessly down the gangway towards Raconteur’s berth. Mark, Jane, Katie and Sarah hurried after the children.

  ‘There you are — I told you he’d be all right,’ Mark said to his daughter as they stood on the pontoon watching the yacht approach. But Jane could hear the relief in her father’s voice.

  ‘Did you find him?’ Mark asked, once Raconteur’s lines were secure. Steven nodded and he handed his sister a small package. Inside she found her portrait; despite the tears, she felt a sense of relief.

  ‘He won’t trouble you again,’ her brother said.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked. The steely tone of his voice made her tremble.

  ‘Your cat, that’s what happened,’ he said light-heartedly, pointing at Misty who had wandered down the gangway, intent on joining the rest of the welcoming party. ‘When Misty clawed the brute he got blood poisoning. Your cat’s a killer. Now, what have you got to eat? I’m starving.’

  Mark raised an eyebrow. He guessed that his son’s flippancy concealed a more complicated story. He also knew his son well enough to know he would only hear the truth if and when Steven decided the time was right.

  21

  One evening, a week after Steven returned from hunting down The White Witch, Jane looked up from her reading and asked, ‘Uncle Christopher, what’s your skin like?’

  They were gathered around the fire in the centre house. Spending the evening together had become part of their routine. Even Christopher made the effort to get out of bed. His illness had shown no improvement with the move to Auckland. He continued to be weak and lethargic, his neck was swollen and, no matter what he did, he always felt cold.

  ‘Didn’t you know? He’s got sensitive skin,’ Steven quipped.

  ‘No, seriously, what’s your skin like?’ insisted Jane.

  ‘Well, now you mention it, it’s very dry.’

  ‘I think’, Jane said with something like her old enthusiasm, ‘you might be suffering from an under-active thyroid.’

  Ever since her uncle had arrived, Jane had been searching through her medical books, hoping to find something that might indicate what was wrong with him. Now everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her. ‘Listen,’ she continued, reading from the book. ‘Under-active thyroid: symptoms may include lethargy, feeling the cold, swollen neck and dry skin.’

  ‘Dad, those are definitely your symptoms,’ Katie said, jumping to her feet. ‘It could be what you’re suffering from.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Christopher said solemnly. ‘Is there a cure?’

  ‘Yes! Thyroxine tablets,’ said Jane, closing the book.

  Steven was already heading for the door. ‘Let’s check the warehouse.’

  They filed along to the warehouse. They had gathered a small amount of drugs during their scavenging. Often they didn’t know what the drugs were for; they had simply catalogued and stored them, hoping that one day they would come in handy. Jane’s records revealed that they had no Thyroxine tablets.

  ‘We’ll go to Whangaparaoa and search the pharmacy first thing tomorrow.’ Jane was disappointed but not ready to give up yet.

  ‘I only hope’, Mark said to her after the rest of the family had retired to bed, ‘that your diagnosis is right. It’s going to be a huge disappointment for Sarah and Katie, not to mention Christopher, if you’re wrong.’

  Jane nodded. ‘Or if we can’t find any tablets.’

  The pharmacy shelves were empty. In desperation, they began to search systematically through the houses on the peninsula. On the fourth day, Sarah emerged from a small cottage in Stanmore Bay triumphantly holding up a bottle containing several weeks’ supply of the precious tablets.

  Within another four days they knew Jane had solved the problem. On the fourth morning Christopher joined the family for breakfast. By the end of the week he was almost back to his old self.

  A mutual attraction was developing between Steven and Katie. They were both good looking — Steven blond and well muscled, Katie tall and elegant, her dark hair swirling about her shoulders as she moved.

  Steven was also very fond of Sarah who, like his own sister, worked hard and tirelessly for the good of the community, mucking in, doing whatever needed to be done, however dirty or monotonous the task. Everyone, including Steven, resented the fact that Katie didn’t always pull her weight.

  Yet despite that resentment he found himself increasingly drawn to her, wanting to hold her, yet feeling himself prevented from doing so by an unseen force. Initially the two cousins just stared at one another surreptitiously as they worked. Then, almost without any awareness of what they were doing, they started sending any child who was working with them away on errands. They would laugh and joke, test the water with suggestive comments and carelessly brush against one another.

  Then, late one morning, after they’d dragged a spare mattress up to the warehouse store, Katie sent Nicole home for an early lunch and Steven knew the invisible force — the taboo of their being cousins — wasn’t going to be strong enough any more.

  Nicole was barely out the door before they found themselves ripping off each other’s clothes. The weeks of pent-up longing had overcome them.

  Yet when it was over, both of them felt a peculiar sense of shame, an unexpected and unwelcome feeling that perturbed them. They dressed in silence and hurried back to join the others for lunch.

  And so it went on: exciting, frightening, secret and confusing. They found themselves contriving situations so they could be alone, being consumed by desire, experiencing happiness and brief intimacy before being overwhelmed by shame, pushed apart again by the unseen force.

  Once Christopher was strong again, he and Mark set off together to Wellington. Mark wanted to fulfil the promise he’d made to take his brother back to visit Wainuiomata. Having identified medical supply firms through old trade directories, in a warehouse in the small town of Levin they found enough Thyroxine tablets to last a lifetime.

  Two days after leaving Auckland, Christopher returned to his old home in Wainuiomata. He spent a long time alone at Elizabeth’s graveside, and Mark realised how he no longer mourned his own wife with such intensity. Had he moved on so much further, caught up in his concerns for survival and for the future? When Christopher had finally said all he had to say to Elizabeth, and promised her that one day they would finally be together in the garden of their family home, the brothers began their journey back to Auckland.

  The next few months were busy at Gulf Harbour. With Christopher fit again, there were now six adults able to work. The weather improved with the arrival of spring, and the farm was extended; horses and ancient ploughs were pressed into service and crops planted.

  As spring gave way to summer, Mark became aware t
hat Jane had grown increasingly quiet and withdrawn. He asked her many times if she was ill, but she always insisted she was fine.

  With the improved weather, the remainder of the family were in good spirits. Mark remained the undisputed leader. He planned for the future and spent his time scavenging the peninsula. He was consumed by a passion to locate, store and preserve anything and everything that would aid their survival. With such a limited population, they were severely restricted as to what they could produce for themselves.

  Christopher and Sarah had taken a lead role in developing the farm, with Zach, Zoë, Holly and even Gina as farmhands. Steven, with his trade background, led the team responsible for maintenance and engineering. Nicole, rather than Zach, became Steven’s willing apprentice; in the new world the old conventions of gender no longer applied. Katie also attached herself to the maintenance team, though Mark suspected her interest was more in Steven than the projects themselves.

  Mark’s suspicions were confirmed in early February.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ Katie announced as the family ate dinner.

  ‘Oh?’ said Christopher, shocked at the news.

  Jane, who had noticed the chemistry between her brother and cousin, wasn’t surprised.

  ‘It’s great news,’ Mark said quickly. Christopher looked at him disapprovingly. ‘We need to increase our numbers,’ Mark explained.

  At these words, Jane burst into tears. Everyone looked at her.

  ‘She’s pregnant too,’ Sarah said.

  Jane continued to sob, eventually nodding her head in confirmation. Steven and Mark glanced at Christopher.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ he said indignantly. ‘I’ve had a vasectomy.’

  ‘It was that bastard,’ Sarah said bitterly, using her usual expletive for the skipper of The White Witch.

  The reason for Jane’s depression became clear to everyone. Over the next few months the family tried their best to lift her spirits, but her melancholy persisted.