by S. T. Boston
“Yes, you know them?” Maya questioned.
“Once, like I knew Buer and – him, Asmodeous. Many lifetimes ago. They are truly both here on Earth?” Oriyanna's concern for Sam's welfare grew. The two Elders, like Buer, were big, much bigger than he was and together they would prove very difficult to defeat, even with the Gift.
“Yes, and they are the ones he sent to get Sam. As I told Adam, his intention was to take you all alive, he wanted you to witness the end of days. After that,” her eyes fell to the floor. “After that I don't know what he planned to do with you.”
“I'm guessing he didn't intend on taking us out for a steak dinner,” Adam laughed nervously. The joke fell flat on the room.
Maya told them everything she'd revealed to Adam in the car on the way to the cottage. Having already heard the story, Adam watched Oriyanna. She sat silently, a grave expression on her face as she digested every detail.
“We suspected he was in South America,” she said when Maya finished. “So it's Peru, then?”
“Yes, in the Nazca region.”
“And he still has Earth-Breeds infiltrated into locations of importance?”
“No, he doesn't need them,” Maya replied. “He has the ones of use to him in Peru; even I do not know how many of us there are left. From what I understand, the numbers are lower than you might think. The events before the Reaper, along with the assassinations carried out by Sam hit them hard. I do know that those who didn't win a place on Arkus 2 are going to be left to burn with the rest of the world when those weapons launch. He has lost Sheol, his people, and with it, any hope of taking this planet as it would have been after the virus. He doesn't care about that anymore, this is the end game,” said Maya solemnly.
“I feared that something like this was in play,” Oriyanna said, a thoughtful look on her face. “We don't have a whole lot of time until those systems come online. The question now, is just what can we do about it.”
“I think we all need to get some sleep first,” Adam suggested after a lengthy silence. “In the morning, we'll figure out what we're going to do.” He glanced at his watch; it was almost two thirty in the morning, and they'd been listening to Maya talk for over an hour. His eyes ached, and it seemed as if someone had sprinkled gravel into them.
“I think that would be best,” Oriyanna agreed. “I would like to speak to you first, Adam; you need to know why I am here.” She stood and beckoned him through to the kitchen, leaving Lucie and Maya in the lounge.
Lucie collected up the small footstool and placed it in front of the chair. Stretching her legs out she tried to get comfortable and closed her eyes. She could hear Oriyanna's voice, low and exotic, coming from the kitchen, knew she was running through their escape from London and the brush with death in the tunnel. Just as the first waves of sleep crept up on her they came back into the room. “Is everything okay?” she asked, half opening her eyes.
“Yes,” Adam replied. “Oriyanna brought me up to speed. What she's done, was done for a reason.”
“As long as you're happy, I'm happy,” Lucie said in a sleepy voice.
Adam took another two logs from the wicker basket and carefully placed them into the flames. With luck, the oak logs would last the few hours until first light. Immediately the flames began to lick at the dry wood with a multitude of hungry red and orange tongues. On the other side of the room, he picked up two largish floral cushions which matched the dated furniture. Thankfully, the fire had warmed the musty fabric enough for it to lose the damp stickiness. He placed them on the floor by Oriyanna, who set them up like pillows and tried to make herself comfortable, like a cat in front of the fire. She removed a gun from her waistband and placed it on the floor by her side and beckoned for Adam to join her. “Tomorrow, I promise you we will figure out what happened to Sam,” Adam said to Lucie, settling onto the floor next to Oriyanna. Maya, it seemed, was already sleeping, her breathing deep and relaxed.
“He should be here, with us,” came Lucie's sleepy response. “I miss him so much, Adam.”
“I know. We'll find him, I promise.”
Adam just hoped it was a promise he could keep. Stretching out on the floor his tired bones relaxed and he let his head sink into the soft cushion as he enjoyed the fire's warmth. Oriyanna laid next him, and after he closed his eyes he felt her turn and cuddle up next to him, her body fitting perfectly against his. Instantly, he felt better, but worry for Sam kept niggling away in his mind, threatening to rob him of the much-needed sleep he craved. As the fire crackled away he finally felt sleep creeping over his body, and he welcomed it gladly.
Chapter 18
“Wiltshire,” croaked Ackhart. Another wave of nauseating pain erupted from his punctured stomach and broke over his body, leaving a sheen of sweat on his brow.
Sam turned to him, his face deeply lined with confusion. “I'm sorry?” he asked, taking his attention from the ominous darkness of the English Channel, which lay six thousand feet below. Off to his left he'd noticed a single ship, its light acting like a beacon, a single star in an otherwise black abyss.
“Wh— When I was examining your phone,” there was no hiding the pain in Ackhart's voice, it spewed forth with every word, “there was a single unread message. I do not remember who sent it, but it just said 'Wiltshire'. I…” he paused as another wave of pain-filled nausea hammered his body. “I don't know – if – it helps.” He removed his hands from the controls and clutched at the sticky red stain on the front of his shirt. He'd lost too much blood now, could feel it trickling down his gut and into his trousers. It had flooded his lap and he knew he was sitting in a warm, concealed puddle of the stuff. Ackhart wasn't afraid to die, he just wanted the pain to end. If he hadn't been in the plane, and the only qualified pilot on board, he would have ended it himself by now.
“I don't know,” said Sam thoughtfully, the county's name tumbling over in his head. Then the penny dropped. “Adam!” he said, “It had to be from Adam. Wiltshire.” The name sounded good on his lips. He finally knew where to go, and more importantly, that Adam was safe. Or had been, when the text was sent. It meant things were happening at home, too. Adam had reason to flee to the small cottage near Pewsey. He hoped to god Lucie was safe – she had to be, or there would have been more in the text, wouldn't there?
Sam brushed his worse fears aside and tried to recall the last boozy weekend he'd spent at the quaint little place, his train of thought broken when Ackhart growled in pain. His face was already a death mask, pallid and drawn. Sam was sure if he glanced into the back of the small corporate twin prop, he'd see the Grim Reaper, scythe in hand, waiting for his next customer. Sweat drenched Ackhart's brow and matted his greying hair to his head.
“You're going to… need… to land… th— this plane,” Ackhart stammered.
“Just get us as close as you can,” said Sam, “I'll do the rest, I've survived one plane crash.” Ackhart gave him a confused look. “Another story for another time,” Sam concluded, knowing he'd never get the chance to tell it. “Just run through what I need to do, as simply as you can.”
Sam listened intently as Ackhart ran through the most basic of ways to get the small twin prop on the ground without killing himself in the process. “You're going… to… want to land on grass… or soft Earth. Shallow… water is also good.” Sam nodded, his attention fully focused on the dying man. “At about t— two hundred meters… put the gear down, but bring it… up… before you land.”
“Bring the gear back up?” Sam questioned. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“Monsieur, please,” Ackhart's brow creased, deeper still as he fought to hold on to consciousness long enough to get the job done. “You are… not a pilot, use the gear to help lose speed, it… creates drag. Not before two… hundred meters, or it will destabilise the plane. You stand… a… much better chance of landing… if you go belly down.”
Sam understood where Ackhart was coming from; he had zero chance of landing the plane on a conventional runway. A gear down, off
-balance touchdown could see him flip the plane and career off the tarmac. He knew where Adam was and he had a bloody good idea where he was going to land— well, crash the plane. Finding the location he had in mind from the air and over a darkened landscape would be another matter.
Ackhart took his bloodied hands off the yoke and let Sam experiment with gaining and losing altitude, as well as scrubbing off speed. “Piece of cake,” Sam said, his voice caked with nervous uncertainty. “I can do this.” Sam wasn't quite sure who he was trying to convince, it wasn't as Ackhart could just spin around and ask the Reaper to hold off for an hour or two; his scythe pressing firmly into the inspector's back and the deadly blow was about to be struck.
Ackhart offered up a grimacing smile that was creased with pain, his body convulsed and he went into a coughing fit, a fine spray of blood painting the hand covering his mouth and the instrument panel in front. Helplessly, he pawed at his ruined gut, as if his hands could magically heal the life-sucking wound. Sam wanted to turn away, but his morbid curiosity held him firm. Finally, the coughing subsided, and Ackhart swayed woozily from side to side before slumping forward against his harness. Reaching over, Sam pushed two fingers into the crease of his neck, searching for his carotid pulse. His skin was cool to the touch, the sheen of sweat making Sam's fingers slip across Ackhart's pallid flesh. Much to his surprise, he found a weak pulse; his heart was still working inanely, and pumping what little blood he had left around his body. Sam breathed a shaky sigh of relief through his teeth, making a whistling sound. Taking his fingers away and wiping them on his dirty cargo trousers he hoped, for the inspector's sake, that he wouldn't regain consciousness.
Turning his attention from the dying man he surveyed the array of dials and switches, most of which he could ignore for his haphazard landing. Suddenly, the dark cabin seemed like the loneliest place on Earth. He might as well have been on his own, orbiting the planet in a tin can. With unsteady hands he gripped the yoke and wiggled it left to right. The aircraft responded immediately, its port and starboard wing tips mimicking his movement. “Good, good,” he reassured himself. Checking the altimeter, he noticed he'd dropped a couple of hundred feet while his attention had been on Ackhart. He didn't bother to rectify the slight change, it would be tough enough getting the plane down to terra firma as it was, and the shattered windscreen had prevented them from climbing too high in the first place.
Leaning forward, he surveyed the black expanse laying like an endless darkened lake before him. Navigating the craft to Wiltshire in the dark and with the country in blackout mode, would be a virtually impossible task – no points of reference, no landmarks and no roads to follow. Like a slow incoming tide, the magnitude of what he needed to do dawned on him. Chewing some skin on the inside of his bottom lip, as he always done in tense situations, Sam ran through his options. The plane was heading due north and that was fine, he would undoubtedly pass over the British coast very soon – it was setting the plane on the right north westerly heading that would be the issue. With the gentle thrum of the twin turbo props as a soothing soundtrack, Sam had a eureka moment. It all depended, once again, on Inspector Ackhart, but thankfully, he didn't need to be alive for it to work.
Leaving one hand on the yoke, Sam reached across and patted Ackhart's trousers pocket. When he'd first met Ackhart, those dark grey trousers had been well pressed and freshly laundered; now they wore a variety of battle scars from the night's events. The first pocket was useless, just the outline of a wallet made itself known under Sam's hand. Leaning further left and running his hand over the other pocket, he found his quarry. Ackhart had a phone. With more than a little difficulty, Sam teased the device from its blood-soaked home. He tried not to think about how the red liquid had congealed and darkened the sodden material, like molasses left out too long on a cold day.
Praying the device was one; not wrecked from the blood, and two; modern enough to carry out the task in hand and three; charged enough to last the trip, Sam wiped the screen clean against his trousers. The Samsung Galaxy was a few years old, with a badly-cracked screen. Blood had found its way into the microscopic cracks, and when the screen came to life it seemed as if a network of tiny red veins had been sown into the glass. Sam immediately checked the battery level, it was green and sat somewhere between half and three quarters full. Not ideal, but it would have to do.
Using his spare hand, the other keeping the plane steady, Sam flicked though the menu. Naturally post-curfew and lights out there was no coverage, but he didn't need it. Like most people who had phones in the old world, and those fortunate enough to have one in this new, broken version of society, Ackhart had a GPS mapping application which was easily accessible from the front screen. Hitting the application tab, Sam was greeted by a request that read, activer le GPS. The last time Sam had anything to do with the French language had been back in school, but he could figure out the device was asking if he wanted to activate the GPS. He pressed the part of the screen that said Oui and hoped.
After what seemed like an age, the map loaded and pinpointed him at a location somewhere in the suburbs of Le Havre. Sam guessed it was Ackhart's home address, and the last place he'd used the application. Unfazed, he waited for the small device to locate enough satellites to reveal his current location. Another painful minute passed as the Samsung clunked its way to life, the phone slow and out of date. Finally, the map sped by and much to Sam's relief the arrow blinked into view, about ten miles off the coast of the Isle of Wight. In the old world Sam had always cursed car drivers chatting on their phones and for some reason, he felt a pang of guilt at not having his full attention on the path ahead, as if a momentary lapse of concentration would see him crash into some unseen object at over five thousand feet.
Flicking his eyes from the phone to the altimeter and back to the windscreen, he located the search function and typed in Pewsey, England. The Samsung thought about the request before a small pin appeared over the tiny village. Finding his landing site was one issue he didn't have to worry about any longer, the only issue now was the very minor one of landing, which he would worry about when the time came. One thing at a time, Sam, he reminded himself. One thing at a time.
Sam propped the Galaxy up in a natural right angle behind what he was calling the power handle, the control Ackhart had shown him for adjusting airspeed. The small arrow that represented his King Air crept slowly over the channel until it broached land and began to crawl over the small island below. Sam gazed out of the window at the black expanse, here and there, small pinpricks of light showed from the ground, places which had their own generators. It amazed him that anyone could afford to run such an item with fuel prices as they were, and it would only worsen, thanks to the Russians.
The King Air flew over the Isle of Wight, just west of Cowes and powered across the Solent, the small stretch of water separating the island from the mainland. As he once again flew over land, he adjusted the plane's course very slightly, pointing it toward Salisbury.
As the New Forest slipped by unseen below him he started to descend. Pushing the yoke toward the clocks and dials, his stomach pitched slightly as the twin prop lost altitude. He watched the dial spin around; five thousand, four thousand. As he descended he noticed the airspeed creeping up. Just as Ackhart had shown him, he compensated by scrubbing the power back. The engines responded and their smooth hum dropped in tone. As the plane passed three thousand feet, somewhere just north of Salisbury, Sam steadied his descent out as best he could. Heart hammering in his chest, and with the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, he scanned the instrument panel, trying to remember where the adjusters were for the flaps which would apply the air brake. Calming himself with deep breaths, he found it and at two thousand feet, engaged it. A small, mechanical whine met his ears and casting an eye out to each wing he saw the small strips of metal rise from the top of the wings. The effect on the airspeed was instantaneous, the dial slowly creeping down.
A variety of strange village names sw
ept by on the phone's map, he was getting close to Pewsey and even recognised some of the names – Manningford Bruce being one he often found amusing.
At eight hundred feet Sam flew over the village he'd been aiming for. He'd engaged and disengaged the air brake several times, trying to get a speed which felt right, but in truth he had no idea and imagined any instructor would be hiding his face in his hands, or more likely, crying with fear of his impending death.
As he swept north of the small Wiltshire village, the first tendrils of light crept into the sky as night began to lose its battle with the dawn. The early autumn sun, although still hidden over the eastern horizon, offered a better view of the ground below.
Sam surveyed the view below, casting a glance at the altimeter. Five hundred feet. A sudden blaring alarm made him recoil in shock, searching frantically for the source and found that the landing gear alarm had kicked in to life. Evidently the King Air knew he was below a certain height and thought it was time for the wheels to go down. Sam silently thanked the small plane, because he'd forgotten Ackhart's instructions. He hit the control and felt the wheels locking into position. The yoke immediately reflected the extra drag and began to vibrate gently in his hands. His attention flitting between far more tasks than he felt comfortable with, Sam located the small ribbon of tarmac which threaded its way through the Vale of Pewsey and into Alton Barnes. Banking the plane slightly to the left, he dipped below the hills which lined the ploughed fields. Two hundred feet. Sam knocked the power all the way back; he had no idea if he was right or wrong and a mistake now might cost him his life, Gift or no Gift. The propellers died and began to spin down, and he re-engaged the air brake, cursing himself for not doing it sooner. As he slipped below a hundred feet, he took the gear up, and the alarm immediately scolded him for doing such a ridiculous thing. Nonetheless, the plane complied and Sam heard the wheels clunk back into place, beneath the wings.