ARIA

by Geoff Nelder

  “Right, here goes for the motorway services,” Teresa said. “I’ll remind Gustav and Laurette to put in their nose filters.”

  “I still think we should wear our full protection gear but for the attention it would get.”

  A swiped card let them in and the scanned goods debited prices from their bank account as they left. They refuelled, toileted, and shopped without approaching within five metres of anyone.

  Derek O’Conner received pulled faces from the others as he piled boxes of cigarettes and whiskey into his trolley. Laurette and Gustav grimaced at the awful selection of cheeses and chocolates on the shelves. Teresa made sure the women had enough toiletries, and Ryder added concentrated fruit juices, biscuits, black beers, torches, batteries, music memory cards, and extra first aid stuff.

  “That came to over four hundred pounds,” Teresa said.

  “And mine,” Laurette replied, “but I bet Ryder and Derek’s even more.”

  Derek avoided a response.

  “All essentials for body and soul,” Ryder said. “Now let’s get going before anybody thinks we’re good for a hijack.”

  Keeping to legal speed limits, Ryder followed the old M42 across the border into Wales then Thomas Telford’s route along the A5.

  “This could be fun if it wasn’t so serious,” Derek said.

  “Speaking of serious, Derek,” Ryder said, taking care to stay several seconds behind a meandering Volvo estate packed with whooping teenagers. “You are on a touchy-feely level with our PM, Brendon Stone, aren’t you? We’ve been trying to get to him to stop Atlantic flights, which I believe has happened, but what else?”

  Derek finished a chocolate bar. “I know the government have had top level meetings, including a full cabinet meeting two nights ago. But though I coordinate much of the national Internet TV news coverage relating to Downing Street, I can’t find out anything that happened in the last two days. The absence of releases becomes news in itself but worrying nonetheless. I know that four days ago, one of the top M15 security policy makers happened to be in Washington.”

  Teresa and Ryder “ahhed” together.

  She said, “Just as well you do most of your conferences online, Derek. It has slowed down the spread of ARIA just a little.”

  The mini-convoy motored through the spooky deep shadows of wooded limestone gorges, meeting little traffic until turning north on the A470 leading to Conwy on the North Wales coast. With mountains climbing up to their right and a valley falling away to their left, Ryder worried it made a perfect ambush opportunity. He looked to voice his fears, but both his passengers snoozed as if they’d come for a rest. He wondered if he’d packed his walking boots. Then he hoped he’d remembered his prismatic compass in case the batteries ran out on his watch-GPS and he’d bought the wrong sort at the supermarket. Had they brought the large-scale maps and had Teresa transferred enough funds to their instant-access current account? Would that matter in another week or so?

  His eyes cried out for sleep too. He should have agreed to his passengers’ offers to share the driving. He knew he shouldn’t have been so arrogant as to assume only he would be cunning enough to drive without attracting attention. He’d been trained in the US by the FBI while on a documentary assignment and now trusted no one else to drive.

  White and amber lights beckoned him from the coastal tourist town of Conwy. Even from five miles, he could see the castle ramparts and the suspension bridge, lit up as if a normal holiday weekend was about to begin. It was possible no ARIA-infected person had sat in one of the quaint cafés or pulled up a deckchair on nearby Llandudno’s beach. Getting closer, he could see the silhouette of Great Orme, an outlying hill where, 2,000 years ago, the Romans took over ancient copper mines. What would they have thought of ARIA? Would it have made much difference to them? ’Course it would. Imagine Proximus Septimus, or whoever, waking up not knowing the beauty next to him was his new wife, swapped for rights to graze cattle in a luscious meadow. Or a legion setting off on a three-day march then forgetting what their mission entailed when they arrived and their route back to base camp. Bummer.

  He turned left onto the coastal dual carriageway. Accompanied by the occasional Irish articulated lorry travelling empty back to the ferry at Holyhead, he had a short drive to Penmaenmawr where he had orders to wake Teresa for detailed navigation.

  The signpost said “Aber Falls” but an overgrown elderberry prevented anyone reading it. Ryder took satisfaction at the covert entrance, even though a scattering of homes meant less-than-perfect isolation. The lane wound its way through hills and past a couple of sheep farms until a gate barred the way.

  “Excellent,” he said to Teresa as she jumped out. But qualified that with a “Not so good” when he saw that all she did was lift a rope to open the gate. “We’ll need to add more obstacles than that.”

  “Unless you intend to install a three-metre electric fence around the whole valley and the mountain behind the centre, the determined intruder will get in.”

  “Certainly, but let’s cut down the odds by having a solid padlock on this and a second gate around the bend.”

  “We’ll do a reconnaissance with Brian and Bronwyn in daylight. They have local knowledge—hey, watch out, Ryder. The track meanders with a drop to the stream on the right. Go slow. It’s only another mile or so.”

  “I assume Brian and Bronwyn have been briefed?”

  “They’ve been getting our bunks ready as well as extra provisions.”

  “I mean about ARIA.”

  “They didn’t believe me. Especially Brian, but Bronwyn thought some of the TV presenters had acted oddly, especially on the satellite programmes from the States. And yes, they’ve been diligent when they’ve gone shopping. Luckily, although they’re Welsh, they’re not originally from round here, so we don’t have to take in two hundred family members.”

  Ryder fretted as he drove. “How about locals or tourists in the valley?”

  “No one in the past week. Occasionally at weekends, the odd fisherman will drive up this lane to the small lake a quarter mile from the centre, but if we block the lane, I’m sure they’d look elsewhere for somewhere easier.”

  The transit rocked sideways as Ryder struggled to steer it in pitch blackness over the rubble making up the uneven track. The two pale yellow headlights did more to put rabbits into a catatonic state than illuminate the way ahead.

  “Where the bloody hell is it, Teresa? I wish they’d switch on an outside light.”

  “You told them not to.”

  “Oh, yes. Wartime blackout rules. Ah, I see it. That must be Brian in the doorway with a torch. Must have heard the van.”

  “I expect Laurette phoned him when we reached the gate.”

  “You are all old friends here, aren’t you, except Derek and me?”

  “We’ve known each other for five years. Not sure I know you at all.” She gave him a dig in the ribs.

  Saturday 25 April 2015:

  Anafon Centre.

  Before breakfast, Ryder walked out of the door and strolled around the centre, long, cool grass tugged at his ankles. Swirls of grey mist trailed around the hills, allowing the morning sun to take its time burning it away. At a hundred metres, he turned to take in the centre. It lay beside a small stream trickling from a nearby lake. The steep, rocky Llwytmor mountain on the south side belied the northern, gentle, green-vegetated slope. He appreciated the way the centre blended into the environment. It might be modern brick and pastel shades inside but was constructed of local slate and gritstone outside. One floor but as large as a school in area, half hidden behind large grey boulders.

  Still loaded with morning dew diamonds, the shrubs and scattered boulders wore aprons of bright green bilberry, ferns, and grasses. He warmed in appreciation of the isolation and tranquillity. Turning again, he followed a track to the lake in the basin of the vertical mountain walls. In the still water, fish gulping at flies disrupted the reflection of an old jetty.

  Studying the i
dyllic scene, Ryder shook his head to think not as a media man, weighing up a tourist twenty-minute shoot, but as if he intended to raid the place. Why would anyone want to break into the field centre? It wouldn’t be long before significant sections of local and national services would fail. Computer-led financial services would take longer to break down than labour-intensive industries such as health, transport, food, and security. People might have months of money left in their bank accounts, but shops would shut for lack of staff. Looting would follow. When the shelves were empty, where would people get their food? Other people’s homes and buildings with refectories. The dwindling police force and army, assuming martial law would be declared, might patrol cities, but desperate people would try for more isolated dwellings. Rather like they were doing. In a crisis, houses lose their emotional attachment with generations of families and become mere shelters or places where the starving might find a food cache. Everything becomes justified.

  He shivered from the early-morning chill and from the creepy scenario he kept painting in his head.

  “Oi!”

  Startled, he crouched and looked around.

  “I’m not cooking breakfast for you to have it go cold.”

  Feeling as sheepish as their four-legged neighbours, he tramped towards a short woman with spiky red hair and brandishing a frying pan.

  “You must be Bronwyn. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Cut the crap and sit down. You’re late for a meeting.”

  He rushed to the common room that doubled as a refectory. Tables had been pushed together at which the others breakfasted and chatted.

  “There are toilets here, Ryder,” said Teresa. “You don’t need to fertilise North Wales.”

  Ryder joined in the group derision.

  Teresa added, “We thought it critical to assess our situation.”

  “Weapons?” Ryder kicked off.

  Derek laughed, then said, “Yes, let’s not start with introductions and niceties.”

  “That’s my job,” Brian said, with a soft Welsh lilt in his voice. “Just to clarify for those unaware of our situation here, I’ll give my usual spiel.

  “Welcome to Anafon Field Study Centre. One of four run by the Biological Studies Department of London University. My name is Brian Wagstaff. I am the manager of this centre. My wife, Bronwyn, has shouted at all of you already. She does the jobs I don’t know how to do, along with the catering. Teresa is a bio lecturer and one of the main reasons for our existence. Ryder is her bit of fluff—sorry, I only do jokes in bad taste. As far as I know, Ryder is an expert on making docs on space-related stuff and Derek is his boss. A dab hand at communications and computers, I hear, so I hope you can take charge of that lot, Derek? Good. Our beautiful French lass is Laurette who is in charge of the techies at the uni, including our Kraut, no offence meant, friend, Gustav. Will that do?”

  “Have we any firearms?” Ryder said. “Or are we going to have a role-playing game now?”

  Gustav looked worried and speaking in a Bavarian accent asked, “Why would it be necessary to have guns, Ryder?”

  Laurette turned on him. “How can you be so stupid? We are here to keep those morons away from us. They’ll be coming when they run out of food.”

  “Yes,” Ryder said. “And to shoot the rabbits, sheep, and ponies.”

  Audible gasps escaped from his listeners.

  “We have to assume all mammals may carry the ARIA virus,” Ryder said. “It’s them or us, which do you want?”

  Ryder saw the shock on their faces.

  Brian said, “I agree with your suggestions, Ryder, that we should keep this place as inconspicuous as possible. You know, blackout at night, trips to town as few as possible—”

  “None at all,” interrupted Ryder. “It just takes one of us to catch it in a shop and we’ve all got it.”

  Teresa said, “Is there anything we absolutely would need to go into Conwy for? Isn’t the storeroom here fully stocked?”

  Bronwyn sat upright to assert her quartermaster status in her strong Welsh accent. “It depends on what you call needs. We have enough basic foods to sustain seven people for at least a year, maybe more. You know: flour, pulses, dried foods of all descriptions, three walk-in freezers chocka; then we have a storeroom laden with tinned and bottled preserves and so on. But fresh fruit and vegetables, fresh meat, fish and other short-life foods?”

  “We’ll have to get along without fresh produce except what we can glean from the valley here,” Ryder said.

  Brian laughed. “The fish in the lake are not the tasty sort, the sheep are there until you shoot them, but some farmer might decide to investigate if his flock started disappearing. Anyone for wild horsemeat? There’s plenty of frozen meat and vegetarian alternatives. In fact, the veggie proteins such as the soya, Quorn, and tofu proteins will last years.”

  “Brian,” asked Derek. “Is this place usually as well stocked as a ship on a world cruise?”

  “We often stock up when expecting field trips. This valley is awash with brightly coloured tents when the first-year biology trips descend on us, aren’t they, Teresa? Then we usually get summer bookings from London schools—”

  “Hey, there aren’t any booked in for the foreseeable future, are there?” Ryder asked.

  “No. There were a few pencilled in and we cancelled. What I’m saying is that we are equipped for mass catering, and because of our remoteness, storage was built in as a priority. But as for your persistent firearm question, the answer is no.”

  “Thank God,” Gustav said.

  “We’ll need to acquire some,” Ryder said.

  “How? We don’t have a gun licence.”

  “Actually, we do,” Brian said. “Again, because of our isolation, the university rifle club have weekend practice shoots here. They make a range out in the valley. Come to think of it, there might be a rifle in their locked store. I don’t have a key for it.”

  “Good, let’s see,” Ryder said. “Otherwise a couple of us will go on a raid.”

  “Mes amis, I’m not happy with lethal weapons,” Laurette said, her short black hair glistened from being recently washed.

  “We have to be realistic. All the local farmers will have shotguns and their sons will have air rifles, crossbows, stun-dart projectiles, and more diabolical weapons. I wouldn’t want to go against them with just a butterfly net. Let’s have a look at the rifle club’s lockup, Brian.”

  Brian led the entire group through empty dormitories with their own kitchenettes until, to Ryder’s surprise, sunlight hit him as they marched across a small quadrangle with a pond, seats, and slate-floor patio. Into the next building they passed a couple of lecture rooms and labs until they reached the outside again. Embedded in the mountainside, a small building barred their entry with a hefty padlock. Brian held up a crowbar and grinned at his audience.

  “No telling, mind.”

  “Tell that to the cameras,” Bronwyn said, reminding everyone of the security cameras dotted around.

  “As if anyone’s watching,” muttered Brian as he levered off the padlock. The small store within wouldn’t allow in seven but Brian soon re-emerged. “Three rifles and two competition handguns. Night scopes and plenty of ammo.”

  “I thought possessing handguns was illegal,” Derek said. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  His query triggered a blank look from Brian, who asked, “Should we leave them here with a new padlock?”

  “No,” Ryder said. “Anyone could go over the roof and crowbar in like Brian just did. And if attacked, we’d be foolish not to be able to get at them quickly. We’ll hide them in the kitchen and lounge. Let’s get back, we still have other security issues to sort out.”

  AFTER A COFFEE BREAK, they assembled in the refectory over a large-scale map of the valley. It showed the lane leading the handful of miles to the nearby coastal hamlet and Aber Falls, a waterfall, which in happier days attracted weekend ramblers.

  Brian pointed at a couple of hillside bluffs jutt
ing into the lane. “A gate here would make it difficult for intruders to get their vehicles to us. Mountain on one side and a steep, boggy slope to the stream on the other. We have enough timber and wire fencing for the job. I need a hand though.”

  Ryder watched a spider crawl up the wall. “I’m sure Gustav will help, and me too. But, Brian, do we have enough fencing for a perimeter fence?”

  “Not to surround the centre, say, on the ridge a mile away in three directions. I’d say it was unnecessary. No one is stupid enough to risk breaking their necks coming down the near-vertical mountainside to the centre. We rarely get any visitors, especially from the old Roman road on the eastern ridge.”

  Gustav chipped in, “I’ve walked up there, there is a track all the way to Llanfairfechan but, as Brian says, remote. We could put a couple of hundred metres or so of fencing where people might wander down here, just to put them off and an official no-trespassing notice.”

  “Hey,” Derek said. “Don’t put ‘No Trespass,’ they’ll come over in droves.”

  “Yes, I would,” Laurette said, to laughter. “A notice saying ‘Minefield’ would annoy me but keep me off.”

  “But unbelievable,” Brian said. “How about ‘Active Firing Range?’”

  “I’ll rig up some cameras to keep an eye on the lane and the ridges,” Derek said. “I’ll fit them with movement sensors.”

  “Don’t forget to tell the sheep then,” Bronwyn said, making Derek scratch his head to look for an amended plan.

  Ryder looked up from his notes. “What happens if someone gets through while we are asleep?”

  Derek huffed up. “By the time I set up our alarm sensors and cameras, no one will reach here without us knowing about it.”

  Ryder noted the spider disappearing into a crack. “I’m sure, but then what? Suppose in a month or so, when we can be pretty sure ARIA will be everywhere, a villager wanders over the hill looking for food? We need to shoot them, don’t we?”