The Silent Neighbours

by S. T. Boston

  Stuffing the empty syringes into his pack, Sam headed out of the room and ran swiftly down the lavish stairway. Laurett's final words rang through his head remorselessly. He is here, he has plans and he is coming for you! And Enola. What the fuck was all that about? He didn't like it, not one bit.

  In the kitchen, he threw his bag out through the missing door panel and hastily followed. Not bothering to carry out any repairs to hide the evidence of his visit, he hurried to the fence. Sam was always keen to flee the scene of an execution, but on this occasion, the desire was greater than ever before. It seemed as if he were running from some invisible pursuer, someone who would charge out of the night and grab him just when he reached safety. He knew one thing – he wanted to get as far away from the Laurett Chateau as possible. He was even looking forward to the five-minute ride in the freezing cold launch, certain every inch he put between himself and the French coast was a good inch. Thinking of the warm coffee he would make once back on the cruiser – with a hit of something a little stronger in it for good measure – and the phone call he would make to Lucie, Sam was relieved when his feet touched the loose shingle of the beach. He almost slid down the bank to the shoreline, stones avalanching around his feet. In the next instant he froze – the small tender was gone. Frantically he scanned left and right, certain he'd secured it right here, in front of the chateau. “Where the fuck are you?” Sam questioned, his whispered words igniting the cold night air with vapour.

  A dazzling spotlight forced back the night abruptly, lighting the beach up like a stage. “Monsieur, restezoùvousêtes et placezvos mains survotre tête!” Someone called.

  Sam whirled around, trying to focus on where the amplified words were coming from, his mind racing, “English!” he shouted, his heart pounding in his chest and echoing through his ears. “I'm English!”

  “Monsieur, remain where you are and place your hands on your head,” the voice responded in a heavy French accent. “Police,” the man added, as if he'd forgotten to include that important piece of information.

  “Shit,” Sam cursed, adrenalin rushing through his veins. He heard footsteps crashing across the stones, heading his way. The bright light made it impossible to see what direction they were coming from. Deciding that any course of action was better than none, Sam dropped his hands and ran, but he was too late. As he took flight, a heavy hand grabbed the back of his jacket, almost lifting him off his feet. A fist connected with his kidneys, and his legs gave way. Sam went down hard, face first onto the cold hard shingle; he tasted blood on his lips, mixed with salt. Struggling to focus and ignore the foul smell of the air-dried seaweed, he saw a shiny pair of black shoes crunch to a stop before his eyes. Hands yanked him up onto his feet, way before his legs were ready to take his weight.

  “Monsieur,” the man with the very clean shoes began. “You are under arrest, on suspicion of burglary.”

  “Burglary?” Sam croaked trying to focus on the guy's face. A mere arrest for burglary would have been fine with him at this point in time – hell, he'd have pleaded to it right then and there if the deal were offered. However, Sam knew that the pending burglary charge would soon change – once they looked inside the chateau.

  Chapter 2

  In a layby on Chemin des Terrois, on the outskirts of Le Havre, France, a hulk of a man stood wearing a long dark overcoat. His black hair was thick and slicked back against his skull, making it almost invisible in the darkness. Shivering in the unusually chilly September air, his flat grey eyes watched in fury as blue lights flashed crazily off the Laurett Chateau, as if there were some manic party going on at the end of the road. This was no party, however. A second male, who appeared almost identical to the first alighted from the X5 BMW, stood by his brother and spoke. “I can't get used to how clean the air smells here.” To any other person, his accent would have sounded like an exotic mixture of several regional dialects. “Do we have a problem?”

  “Yes,” the first male replied. “It would appear we were too late.” His voice was virtually indistinguishable from that of his brother. “It would seem that Mathis Laurett is already dead.”

  “Nothing but a casualty of a war that we are on the brink of winning; it matters not,” the second male commented in an emotionless tone. “And Becker?”

  “Likely in custody. This will delay our plan somewhat, and time is very short.” The first male shrugged his shoulders into his coat and popped the collar.

  “A minor problem that we can overcome, brother,” replied the second male, as he sat himself back into the 4x4.

  “You're right.”

  “About what?”

  “The air here is very clean, it's the cold I just can't get used to!” The first male started the engine and crept the vehicle forward, watching the blue lights fade into the night through the rear-view mirror. With a sly smile that revealed his dazzling white teeth, he slowly began to form a plan – a plan that would have Samuel Becker in his hands before first light.

  Chapter 3

  “Do you not find it all a little bit morbid?” The first question came from a slightly nerdy, spectacle-wearing student in the second row, whose hair looked like it hadn't seen a comb in a few days.

  “How can the truth be morbid?” Adam retaliated, clutching the lectern tightly with both hands. He could just about see the question poser under the glare of the bright stage lights, which were focused mercilessly on him, highlighting the nervous sheen of sweat covering his forehead. His white cotton polo shirt was damp with sweat where the fabric ran down his back. Despite only having showered a few hours ago, he felt dirty and far too hot.

  “But it isn't the truth, is it?” the young man fired back insistently.

  For fuck's sake, thought Adam. What is this a trade-off of one question for another? He smiled falsely and tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. “If you go around your whole life with your eyes closed, you will never see anything,” Adam replied, trying to stay calm and sound professional.

  “Your book, Watchers,” began the student, waving a copy in the air as if to highlight the fact. “Whilst there is no doubt that it's a very clever story based around the tragic events that happened almost two and a half years ago, a story is all that it is – fiction!” Despite the impediment of the stage lighting, Adam could see him glancing around the half-filled conference room triumphantly, searching for someone to back him up.

  Adam had known he was in for a rough time at his first book launch talk; however, Mike Warren, his publicist, had insisted he get out there and, Promote, promote, promote! He could still hear his annoying and slightly high-pitched cockney accent, the words ringing round his head like a bell. “This book could have legs, I don't care if any of that shit is true, this is going to be controversial, and you know what controversy makes, Adam? Money, a fuck load of money, and if there is one thing we all need right now it's money!”

  Six months after returning home, Adam had finally finished writing his account of the nightmare that he and Sam had gotten tangled up in. The world they'd returned to, however, was a very different one than they'd known. With one seventh of the population dead from The Reaper Virus (so nicknamed due to the aggressive and unforgiving way it had swept through whole nations, killing millions, like a deadly scythe), and the entire planet without electricity, society was hinging on outright anarchy. The first year was the toughest by far. While the British Government, which was nearing collapse itself, did their best to get the power back, trouble had brewed in the streets. Food rationing had been resurrected for the first time since the Second World War, a situation a wasteful modern society didn't take kindly to. The army were drafted in to help maintain order and in many places, martial law had been invoked. The past few months had started to see the military-governed areas being handed back over to local law enforcement. It was a slow process and the army still had primary control in a few of the rougher areas of the country, but a full handover was only months away. With one in seven dead, even more in urban areas, t
he British Government had held a recruitment drive, looking to replace the police officers lost to the virus.

  Reports were saying that around eighty percent of the globe now had power, albeit on a limited basis for many people. Oil-run power stations struggled to operate for more than a few hours a day, which didn't help matters. Six months ago, the terrestrial and mobile phone networks had started to reappear. Those who were lucky enough to have such luxuries were paying a heavy price for them. In fact, any electrical consumer was paying top dollar for the privilege. Someone had to cover the cost of the vast amounts of work involved to get the pulse of the planet pumping once again. In those first few months of relative normality, as the countries of the world raced to restore the electrical grids, it became clear that new tensions were rising between the East and West. While companies and contractors worked tirelessly to repair the damaged power networks, and smiling politicians gave empty promises that things would soon be back to normal, oil prices began to rocket. Russia controlled the Siberian fields – which before the Reaper had provided around eighty percent of the planet's dwindling oil supplies – and began to put a stranglehold on the precious commodity. Despite what front a government uses to justify war; at the end of the day, oil is always a good reason. While no one had yet fired a shot in anger, there was a new and deadly race developing. The race to repair and prepare the nuclear weapons which had been rendered un-launchable by the EMP. News reports were informing the public that over the next few days, those defence systems would be back online and it was highly likely the planet would find itself locked into a second Cold War. Oriyanna's hopeful prediction, that the global tragedy would help to unite humanity on Earth once and for all, had been drastically wrong. The EU had all but broken down in the wake of the disaster. Although Britain still held on to the euro, many were calling for the beloved pound to be brought back into circulation. With every nation on Earth facing economic ruin and food shortages, it had turned into a case of every man for himself. Small amounts of mutual aid had been seen between the USA and Europe, but it was rare and on a minimal, 'you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours' basis.

  With the reintroduction of the phone system, the internet had finally made a re-appearance, albeit on a very limited basis and with download speeds that hadn't been seen since the demise of dialup. With the web starting to grow once again, Adam saw his chance. He released Watchers into the public domain as an online publication. Within certain circles the book went viral –as viral as it could get on an internet service which was a shadow of its former self. Unfortunately for Adam, the readers who believed his account were the kind of people the rest of society didn't take too seriously, the kind who walk around with tin foil on their heads to stop aliens reading their minds. The clear majority of readers saw it as no more than a fictional story, one that cleverly used the most tragic event in human history as its plot line. It was fair to say the book was controversial; this of course led to Adam getting offered a deal from a newly-formed publishing company, who promised to get three thousand physical copies of his book into circulation, with more to follow if it took off. To try and fend off some of the criticism and flak the book was attracting, Adam agreed to split the profits from his sales between the many charities who tried to help the less developed parts of the world, the areas that were still suffering and didn't have the luxury of food, let alone power. For some of these countries, the end of The Reaper was only the start of the suffering. Following the rains that had cleansed Earth of the rabid alien virus, Earth-born ones took hold. Ebola swept through parts of Africa, on a scale not seen since the 2014-2016 outbreak. With aid virtually non-existent in those early days, and many of the doctors as dead as the patients they'd so desperately tried to help, Ebola ran wild, decimating already ravaged communities. It was like an aftershock to the worst humanitarian disaster since the Black Death.

  He pulled his attention back to the young man in the audience. “And you prefer to believe the odd, disjointed accounts given by the governments of the world, do you?” Adam asked, hoping that no one else would join the attack.

  “It certainly seems more plausible than some elaborate plan by a highly-developed human species to wipe us out, so they could claim the planet as their own,” the student smiled. “Do you also believe that the world's governments know the truth and are deliberately trying to cover it up?”

  “No,” Adam replied, leaning toward the small microphone. It was a good question and the first sensible thing that this bespectacled, spotty student had asked. “I believe they have no idea about how things really happened. They've looked at the events of those tragic few days and tried to explain them as best they could. I don't think there's any cover up.” Adam scanned the rest of the audience. Much to his despair, he spotted two rather odd-looking middle aged men, sporting tee-shirts that read in big bold letters 'JESUS WAS AN ARKKADIAN & HE'S COMING BACK!'

  “So then,” the student began, obviously not willing to let his point go, “you think they believe that a breakaway section of Al-Qaeda were responsible for the virus?”

  “I do, yes. But do you?”

  “Why should I question it?”

  “Because there had been a six-month period of peace in the time before The Reaper, because all reports suggested that Al-Qaeda had dissolved and was all but at an end,” Adam defended. It almost made his blood boil, knowing how closed-minded some people could be. “That virus was indiscriminate, it killed in every corner of the globe, some of their own men would have died. It makes no sense. Not to mention the veracity of it – I fully believe that a virus that aggressive, able to spread and kill so swiftly, was beyond anything even the most talented scientist on Earth could develop.”

  “It wouldn't be the first time terrorist activities were continued by a breakaway faction during a period of supposed peace. Look at what happened with the IRA.” The student was grinning, looking rather pleased with himself. He'd obviously chosen to ignore Adam's rather accurate reasoning.

  “A few shootings and car bombings are in a slightly different league to a virus which wiped out close to a billion people,” snapped Adam. “Sure, some fanatical breakaway group claimed responsibility. I have no doubt that's true, but really? They would never have the technology or the means to do it, as I said before.”

  “I guess we'll have to agree to disagree,” the student replied smugly.

  Adam took a deep breath. “Thanks for your question; shall we let someone else have a turn?” Adam scanned the audience again, ignoring one of the tee-shirt sporting nut jobs, who was waving his hand frantically. “Yes, you madam,” he said, pointing to a smartly-dressed woman two rows from the front. She looked like a reporter; coming from that background, he was good at spotting his own.

  “Does that mean you also dismiss the claim that the EMP was caused by a period of unusual solar activity, even though this has been confirmed by NASA?”

  “Look,” Adam said, releasing his grip on the pine-trimmed lectern and rubbing his clammy hands together. “As it details in the book, the EMP was caused by a major disruption in the Earth's magnetic field, a side effect of turning on The Tabut.”

  “You mean The Ark.” She grinned. “Lest we not forget that not only did you save the world, but you also managed to find the Ark of the Covenant. You're a regular little Indiana Jones, aren't you, Mr. Fisher?”

  “Okay,” Adam sighed, letting his eyes fall to the floor and away from the burning stage lights. “I knew I would be open to all sorts of criticism for my work. Hell, if I read it I probably wouldn't believe it myself, so I don't blame you. It seems pointless that we keep going over the official account of what happened during those few days. I know that a terrorist group claimed responsibility for the virus. I know that NASA believe a solar storm caused the EMP. I'm no astrophysicist; for all I know the effect of the Tabut powering up could have all the right characteristics to replicate a solar flare. But surely you find it hard to believe that the weeklong storm which followed was a natural,
freak weather occurrence, caused by the EMP? And that after the storm that covered the entire globe, the Reaper virus magically disappeared?”

  “Harder to believe than what?” questioned the woman, flicking a long strand of auburn hair back from her face. “That space aliens cured the planet with a storm? No, Mr. Fisher, I don't find the official account hard to believe at all. I'm almost surprised that they didn't tell you to build an Ark and place all the animals inside, to protect them from the flood!”

  “God on high saved humanity after washing the lands clean,” cried the frenzied voice of a scruffy, grey-haired elderly man at the back. Adam rolled his eyes. The old guy might be as mad as a hatter, but he wasn't too far wrong.

  “Look, it's getting late,' Adam replied, squinting at the clock. It was just past ten thirty. “Thanks for attending, if you'd like a signed copy of the book, I'll be in the foyer in ten minutes.” The announcement was met with a murmur of dissatisfaction from the eclectic mix of people in the small audience, before the first few attendees stood up and made their way toward the exit. Although later than he would have liked, it was the cheapest time available to hire the room for a few hours and the most his cheapskate publicist was willing to pay for the first promotional talk that he deemed so important. With everything so expensive, price was more important than convenience. Satisfied that his non-adoring public had gotten the message, Adam stepped away from the lectern and began to pack his notes into a small plastic storage box which also contained a few copies of his book. He didn't expect anyone to be waiting in the foyer, eager to purchase a copy. He had no doubt the tee-shirt-wearing guys at the back would be waiting, hungry to barrage him with a volley of questions. The type of mad talk that he didn't want to air in front of an already doubtful audience.

  “I believe you,” came a slightly accented, yet soft female voice from somewhere in the now-empty conference room.