by Nick Jones
As he spoke, his eyes wandered the building. An old woman appeared to be knitting; there was a middle-aged couple who hung on his every word and a family that just looked at their feet, solid as the statues that framed the edges of the building.
He paused, noticing for the first time a man at the very back of the nave, concealed in the shadow of one of the church’s supporting pillars. He looked familiar. Paul was instantly alert. He finished the sermon quickly, but when he looked again the man was gone.
Thirty minutes later, Paul said goodnight to the last of his parishioners and locked the main doors. He spoke without turning around, ‘Would you like to sit down?’
‘Is it safe here?’ Nathan asked.
Paul turned and faced him. ‘I’m pleased you came. Yes, it’s safe enough. I have the place swept every week. They don’t tend to bother us. We can go to my chambers.’
‘No,’ Nathan said. ‘We can talk here.’
Paul nodded. ‘At the front then, where it’s a little warmer.’
Nathan followed him down the aisle, past rows of wooden pews. Candles burned, sending thin shadows dancing across old words etched in stone. They were alone. Paul switched on a heater and then sat on carpeted steps next to the altar.
Nathan sat on the front row. ‘When you came to me,’ he said, ‘you warned me. Why did you do that?’
‘Because I’m looking for people like you.’
‘Like me?’
‘Yes, people who are searching, who want to fight.’
‘What kind of priest are you?’
‘What kind of schoolteacher are you?’
Nathan frowned and looked over his shoulder. ‘How do you know so much about me?’
The priest didn’t reply immediately. He sucked in a breath and said, ‘How do I know I can trust you, Nathan?’
‘What?’
‘This works both ways, you know. Yes, I found you, I’ve done my homework but finding people like you is hard, it’s dangerous.’
‘I didn’t ask to be found.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Paul conceded. ‘But the fact still remains. If we are going to start this, then I need to know I can trust you.’
‘I’m not asking to start anything.’
‘Then why are you here?’ Paul’s eyes glistened in the amber glow of the candles, his hair hung loosely on his shoulders. ‘Why search me out?’
‘Well, you seem to know a lot about me and yet I don’t know anything about you.’ Nathan folded his arms. ‘How about we start with how you know my name and how you found me?’
Paul smiled. ‘It was a chain of events. You did a job for a friend of mine, Ricky Valdair. Only a small thing, helped him out with his third wife’s ID issue.’
Nathan remembered Valdair, a fat, unpleasant man with a liking for Russian girls. After working in the kitchen of one his restaurants he’d helped him out, illegally of course, but it had paid well.
Paul continued. ‘I have a small network, but they’re loyal and well connected. You were asking questions and that brought you to my attention. After that I did some digging. I know you swapped out in Brazil a few years back, and that you’ve been on the run ever since.’
Nathan felt his heart pounding. Bendiksen knew way too much.
‘But what do you want from me?’
Paul walked over and knelt slowly beside him. ‘Listen to me carefully. I believe we can help each other. Hibernation is a lie, they are pumping crap into us, we are being lied to, you know we are.’
Nathan was shocked but also, in a strange way, relieved. For so long he had been alone; alone in his knowledge, alone in the world. Bendiksen spoke of the Hibernation conspiracy openly and with a clarity born of pain. Still, Nathan didn’t feel right letting his guard down. ‘I have no idea what this has got to do with me.’
‘I’ve lost people too,’ Paul said. ‘Friends, good people. I promised all of them I wouldn’t give up, and I intend to honour that.’
Nathan stared at him. Deep behind Paul’s eyes there was a glow, active and powerful. He recognised it because it was similar to how he had felt once.
‘What happened to them?’ Nathan asked.
‘They kill people who get close,’ Paul said, his voice cold and flat. ‘Just like they killed your wife.’
Nathan recoiled and an anger that had been concealed by his need for answers suddenly rose up and took control.
Paul held out his hands defensively. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –’
Nathan was breathing quickly, his mouth pulled back in a snarl. ‘If you know something, if you know who killed her, then you tell me,’ he boomed. ‘You tell me!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Paul replied. His voice was calm but his eyes were wild and bright with fear. ‘I don’t know who killed your wife any more than I know who killed my people, but they are among thousands who have been murdered and tortured.’ He stepped close again, within striking distance. ‘But your wife wasn’t killed by one person, don’t you see? It’s all the same thing. You and I want the same thing.’
Nathan shook his head at the irony. ‘A priest who wants revenge?’
‘Don’t be fooled by all of this,’ Paul scowled. ‘I’m no priest and I’m not out for revenge. I want the truth, Nathan, and I don’t give a fuck about the consequences.’
His curse seemed to hang heavy in the sterile atmosphere of the church.
‘And you’re planning to do all this alone.’
‘Not alone.’ Paul lifted his head in defiance. ‘We have numbers and we’re growing.’
‘You still haven’t said what you want from me.’
Paul placed his hand carefully on Nathan’s shoulder. ‘I want you to join us. I want you to help us.’
‘And why would I do that?’
‘Because things are getting worse.’ Paul’s voice became a whisper. ‘Time is running out Nathan, for all of us.’
Chapter 23
The streets were filled with people. Alex pushed through them, trying to make ground. Above him, vehicles filled with commuters desperate to get home streamed by, their metallic bodies oily and wet. It had been raining for hours and a dull greyness – the last of the day – had been steadily eating away at the light, adding to his uneasiness. Pascale wasn’t coming back, she wasn’t just late, she was missing. The thought sent chills through him, more than the icy rain could manage.
After an hour, which felt like ten to Alex, he reached a turning and recognised the street.
Pascale lost her mother and sister to the Superflu. France had been hit hard, and when the borders tightened up, the French gave up their share of lives. The memorial, a three-sided triangular construction designed to signify the endless nature of existence, had been built in 2066, exactly three years after the last officially recorded death. In Alex’s mind it stood as a reminder for everything that was wrong with that period and the decade before, the darkest in living memory.
Water appeared to magically descend the pyramid’s smooth edges, which tapered from a sharp point to a solid base a hundred feet wide. On closer inspection, its surface wasn’t truly smooth but made of tiny bricks, each one etched with thousands of names, victims of a pandemic that had killed more than any previously. Nearly a billion people were lost, but that was only the unofficial figure. Alex wondered how big the memorial would need to be to include the souls that didn’t make the list.
As he approached, the 300-foot-tall structure appeared to rise, cutting a floodlit shadow across the well-maintained gardens. He scanned the faces gathered around plaques that were dotted every ten feet or so. To the sides were sheltered areas of contemplation.
Pascale was sat staring at the monument and when she saw him her face pulled down as if melting. Her eyes filled with tears. Alex ran to her and they embraced. ‘Please don’t do that to me again,’ he whispered, tenderly but firmly.
She pulled back as if she might argue but then nodded and hugged him again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I started walking, I didn’t know where I was going an
d then I arrived here. I must have needed to come, I just didn’t –’
‘It’s okay. Listen. You’re alright and that’s all that matters.’
She stared at him, sniffed and then wiped away her tears. She was pale, her face a little drawn, but still she looked beautiful. Her hair, normally light and bouncy, had been pressed flat by the rain and her nose was red from the cold and the crying. None of that could diminish her inherent and undeniable beauty. Alex would have married her three times over in that moment – three lifetimes wouldn’t be enough – but her expression was searching.
‘What is it?’ Alex asked.
‘We’re not all that matters.’ Her voice was uncharacteristically sour. She walked from the shelter and into the night air.
Alex followed, taking her hand, not speaking. The rain had finally stopped and a full moon pushed through a heavy layer of dark clouds. They walked slowly around the perimeter wall of the memorial in silence until eventually she tugged his hand, stopping him. Although it was impossible to see the names from this distance and in this light, Alex knew why she had stopped. Somewhere in the moonlit slab of shiny bricks were the names of her mother and sister, etched into stone as they were etched into her heart.
Pascale turned to him and he saw defiance in her eyes.
‘Tell me,’ Alex said gently. ‘What is it?’
She looked up at the moon and then back at the memorial. ‘When I met you, I thought we would be safe. I thought we could make a life here, that we would be okay.’
‘We are safe,’ Alex replied, still cautious. ‘We will be okay.’
She looked at him, and for a brief moment he was convinced she was going to run, just turn and run and never look back.
‘Pascale, tell me what’s wrong.’
She raised her eyebrows and fought back tears and her right hand moved down, settling on her belly above her belt. She raised her head again and managed a defiant, trembling smile.
Alex raced to compute the information. How long had they been out of Hibernation? A month, maybe? It was possible, he supposed, just. He felt his stomach sink and the world seemed to swim for a second, as if he were staring at her through the cascade of water pouring over the memorial behind them.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked carefully, knowing that moments like this stay with a woman.
Pascale nodded. She was pregnant without a permit, hadn’t taken her sterility meds, and nature had done the rest.
Alex felt a rush of fear punch him deep in the stomach. Permits were becoming increasingly difficult to attain, but it was too late for that anyway. Once the Government found out – and they would within weeks – they would terminate the baby and Pascale would be under the microscope. Hibernator not towing the line, they would say, showing signs of rebellion.
With each passing second Alex could feel the weight of her stare. There was nothing else to do. He took her into his arms and hugged her tightly and promised her the world, promised her they would be okay.
He was going to be a father. He was going to have a baby with the kindest, toughest, most beautiful woman he had ever met and no one was going to stop them.
Chapter 24
Jameson was furious. The anger boiling up from within may have been born in the past, but it was far from forgotten. If anything it felt stronger, like it had matured with age and then cracked open under its own pressure.
He had so badly wanted to believe, so desperately wanted to go along with the elaborate hoax.
‘When did you find this?’ Jameson asked, his voice hoarse.
Dominic Pierce stood opposite him, arms folded, a knowing sneer etched into his leathery face. ‘This morning,’ he said. ‘One of our contacts with the agency finally came good.’ He rubbed his face, a scratchy sound like sandpaper. ‘Been paying the little mole for years, about time he came good.’
‘And you’re absolutely sure?’ Jameson asked.
Pierce smiled, until it looked as though his lips might split. ‘Abso-fucking-lutely.’
Jameson slumped back in his chair and pushed air loudly from his nostrils. That morning, the informant – a mid-level paper-pusher within the agency – had shared a top-secret document, one that detailed a covert assassination order. The target was David Jameson. The operative was Zido Zitagi, and her objective was to gain Jameson’s trust and get close enough to kill him.
‘Bastard,’ Jameson whispered.
His mind drifted back over the years. Victor Reyland had worked his way up the ranks and become an ally, had helped Jameson build Hibernation, made all that followed possible. Now the world had twisted around and the balance of power was with Reyland.
Jameson stared up at Pierce. The man was over six feet tall, built like a machine, and was never, ever wrong. In all his years of employment he had never made a bad call. Usually Jameson would consider that a considerable advantage, but today it just pissed him off.
‘God damn it!’ Jameson banged his fists on the desk. The desk was solid oak; nothing moved and the shock cut through him, buzzing his bones.
‘She sat right next to me,’ Jameson whispered to himself. ‘Why didn’t she do it then?’
Pierce frowned, but the deep lines on his face didn’t move. ‘Maybe they are hoping to find out more before they…’ His mouth dropped, and he ticked his head side to side. ‘Well, you know.’
Jameson knew all too well. There had been numerous foiled attempts on his life, suspected kidnappings, bribes and threats. This was different, though; this was Reyland. This was an inside job, people he once trusted.
Pierce unbuttoned his jacket and twisted his head, stretching the skin on his neck. ‘I suggest we tail her, find her weakness and then take her out.’
Jameson was deep in thought. He walked to the window – his favourite view – and stared out on the world. It was early evening and a bank of fog shaped like an old-fashioned sail was swallowing the bay. Whole buildings were being slowly consumed in its mellow gape. He felt a sinking ball of dread travel from his sternum to the floor. He didn’t want to die before the truth came out, before the world woke up and started to fight back. He didn’t want to die before making amends.
He had believed Hibernation would save the world. He sighed. That was before the lies started piling up like bodies on a battlefield. Reyland had embraced those lies and used Hibernation as a weapon of mass deception. Jameson knew there were certain types of people who shouldn’t gain power; history had proven that.
‘Sir?’ Pierce interrupted, his voice sharp and direct.
Jameson snapped out of his daze, swallowed hard and began to prepare for the next few hours of his life. ‘I’m going to meet her as planned.’
‘You’re what?’
‘Put together a team of your best men.’ Jameson began to pace the room. ‘We need to do this carefully, find out what she knows.’
Pierce finally smiled. It was only just noticeable, but there nonetheless: the secretive smile of a man accustomed to the darker side of the bay.
Chapter 25
Nathan stood and shook his legs, trying to beat the cold creeping up his ankles. He and Paul had talked for nearly an hour, way longer than Nathan had anticipated, but he was struggling. He was desperate to listen but images had begun to appear in his mind, brief but consistent flashes of people he didn’t recognise. He suspected they were echoes of his donor’s life. It wasn’t the first time, and it was worse when he was tired.
‘Are you alright?’ Paul asked.
‘Yeah, just tired, been a tough few weeks.’
Paul nodded.
Nathan sucked cold air into his lungs and the flashing imagery subsided. It would pass eventually and a good night’s sleep would certainly help, but it scared him, chilled him. He rubbed his face; it was easier to keep talking. ‘So, you’re a constant?’ he asked. ‘Never hibernated?’
Paul smiled. ‘The gift of religion just keeps on giving, meaning I can travel across some of the borders and claim it’s in the people’s interest that
I remain constant. I figured if some of the politicians and the army can do it, then why not me?’
For all their talk of ‘everyone in this together,’ there was an elite set of society excluded from Hibernation. It was, of course, the way it had always been. You needed generals, the ones to make the decisions, to oversee the battle. Initially this elite set had been envied for their privileges, their ability to live ‘the old way,’ but over time that perception had shifted. They had to live each year knowing that friends and family were sleeping. In the end it was no longer considered a privilege; in fact, some considered it a curse.
For Paul, to be a constant made sense. It gave him an advantage, gave him freedom. He could traverse the divide and connect with people on either Hibernation cycle. He was smart, Nathan decided, smart and dangerous. He knew Nathan’s true identity and where he had come from, knew he had body swapped and his reasons for doing it. Nathan had feared the Government for so long – a faceless shape snapping at his heels – yet it was a priest who knew the most about him.
‘I was in journalism for a number of years,’ Paul said, idly rubbing his fingers over the rough stone, ‘a photographer.’
‘What kind?’
‘Started out covering news but ended up searching for the harder stuff. I wanted to be in the centre of the storm, where the real stuff was happening. You know?’
‘Yes. I think I do.’
Paul continued, ‘I’ve seen things that would make your blood run cold, but it was the Superflu that changed it for me.’
It wasn’t the first time Nathan had heard it said. For many people, that particular pandemic was the ultimate reality check. Those in charge rallied, but how do you contain an airborne killer when every border in every country is like a never-ending turnstile? Food and water were becoming harder to find. Immigration had gone crazy, warming was increasing, and everyone knew, deep down, that it wasn’t going to stop, it wasn’t going to magically get better. It was a perfect storm.
Nathan remembered it well. He and his wife had lived in Canada at the time, a country that had always been defiantly opposed to zoning and Hibernation and one that vehemently defended its borders. In the end, in the aftermath of the flu, the world had taken notes on Canada’s approach.