by Sam Kates
“And you saved me from the dogs.” He looked at her with something approaching awe.
“Yeah, well. . . .” She was suddenly self-conscious under the weight of his regard. “Forget it.” She let go of his hands. “I’m incredibly hungry again. There are plenty more tins in the kitchen. We won’t be able to carry them all when we go, so we might as well eat as much as we can now. Then I think we should split this joint.”
“Where are we going to go?”
“I don’t know, but I really feel we need to get away from London. Have you ever been to Cornwall?”
The boy shook his head.
“Then it’s about time you did.”
* * * * *
Had Old Ben been nicknamed Grizzled Ben or Ornery Ben or Gummy Ben, they would have been just as apt epithets as ‘Old’.
After a few false turns, Zach found the rough track that led to the ramshackle log cabin and pulled the pick-up to a halt in the narrow space before it. The fence and gate had not yet been erected; they would be added later, a couple of Zach’s personal touches. All that marked out the plot was a thin strand of wire strung between stakes hammered into the ground. The wire twisted between trees that crowded the plot like jostling children.
As Zach stepped out of the truck, the door to the cabin creaked open and an old man emerged. He stooped slightly and walked with a limp. The barrel of the shotgun cradled under his arm was broken, but ready to be snapped into position, poised to fire in one motion.
Zach waited by the side of his truck. When the old man had approached within five yards, he stopped.
He nodded at Zach. “Help ya?”
“You called Old Ben?”
“That depends.” The old man leant to one side, hawked and spat a brown string of spittle. He moved his tongue and Zach saw a wad of something pass in front of what remained of his teeth. Chewing baccy. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Zach Trent.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Ain’t never heard of you.”
Zach shrugged. “No reason why you should have. I hear you’re looking to sell up.”
“Oh, you do, do ya?” His eyes narrowed further. “Don’t look as tho’ you amount to a hill of beans.”
“Nope. But if your price is fair, I can meet it.”
The old man continued to regard Zach, who gazed steadily back.
At last, Old Ben seemed to come to a decision. He grunted. “Best come in, s’pose. Mind, I don’t hold with no dickering. The price is the price. Take it or get the hell off of my land.”
A couple of hours later, Zach placed a call to Lansing from a motel.
“Mr Benton? It’s Zacharias Trent.”
“Zach! To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Um, do you handle property transactions? Land purchases?”
“Sure do. You settling down?”
“I guess so.” Zach discovered that the idea of living in just one place, a notion that he would have scoffed at through a bourbon haze a few years ago, suddenly held huge appeal. “Yep, that’s precisely what I’m doing. Settling down.”
* * * * *
The bulldozers’ engines clattered to life, shattering the dawn silence. Birds in nearby trees, no longer accustomed to the sound of heavy machinery, took to the air in alarm. With a clunk and a roar, the engine of the flatbed truck started and added its bass notes to the mechanical cacophony.
“They’re loud,” Milandra said, raising her voice.
“What?” said Grant, cupping his ear.
“I said. . . . oh, never mind.”
She and Jason Grant stood and watched as the two yellow bulldozers lurched into motion, their caterpillar tracks easily gripping the surface of the car park through its thin covering of frost. One took the lead and they proceeded from the car park in single file, at a little above walking pace. The flatbed truck with its weighty cargo of a crane and sloshing twenty-gallon drums of diesel lumbered behind them, the low speed suiting it. Milandra waved to the drivers as they went past and they returned her wave with grins.
The ’dozers and truck turned to the west, making for the M25, the motorway that described a rough circle around Greater London. They would follow that south until it intersected the M3. That motorway would take them southwest to beyond Basingstoke where they would turn off and strike across country on A roads for Andover and Salisbury. Every abandoned vehicle they encountered on the left-hand lanes of each road was to be shunted aside by the bulldozers, ensuring an unimpeded passage for the buses and coaches that would be following in five days.
Rodney Wilson, his complexion more ruddy than normal in the cold morning air, joined them as the vehicles began to fade from earshot.
“Mornin’,” he greeted them cheerfully. He nodded towards the double-decker buses. “The drivers’ll be taking their first practical lessons today. They’ll start to get a feel for ’ow those beauties ’andle.”
“They’ve received their, er, theoretical training?” asked Grant.
Wilson nodded. “They know everything I do about driving a Red Lady. Give me five days to put ’em through their paces and they’ll be able to drive ’em as well as I can.” Milandra could almost see his chest swell with pride. “And that’s bleedin’ well, begging’ your pardon an’ all, miss.”
Milandra smiled. “What about those trucks with the chutes?”
“The gritters? Got two volunteers lined up. We’ll get them started the day before they’re due to go. Much easier to learn ’ow to drive a gritter compared to a Lady. The ’ardest part is learning the controls for the salt, and that’s about as ’ard as a nun’s tit. Oops, beggin’ your pardon again.”
“And those one-deck buses . . .” said Milandra. “What do y’all call them?”
“Coaches, miss. We’ve got a dozen drivers who already ’ave experience driving them. The other eight will start getting a feel for it tomorrow. Again, they’re a lot easier to learn than the Ladies.”
“Excellent,” said Milandra. “Well, Rod, you certainly seem to have everything under control here. Good man.”
“Thank you, Miss Milandra.”
“Tell me, Rod, what will you do later? After the Great Coming?”
The man’s face crinkled as he thought. “Don’t rightly know. I haven’t been off this island for almost four centuries. Lived most of that time in London. Saw the Great Fire. Helped to rebuild St Paul’s. Saw revolt and wars. Fought in a couple. Watched people die of the plagues—the sweating fevers and the Black Death. Saw people blown to bits by Hitler’s bombs. Seen the city double and triple in size. It used to be a right cesspit. But I love it. Or used to. . . .”
“Not now?”
“No. . . .” Wilson shifted from foot to foot as though wanting to say something but uncertain how it would be received.
“It’s okay,” said Milandra. She probed gently. You can tell me she sent.
“It’s the people,” said Wilson. “They made the city what it was. Without them—” he shrugged “— it’s just a lot of buildings.”
“So you’re not going to stay. . . . later?”
He shook his head. “Got me a fancy for warmer climes. Somewhere I can feel the sun on my back all year round. Egypt, maybe. See how the Great Pyramid is holding up. I was involved in building that, you know.”
“Ramps and rollers?” asked Grant.
“Pulleys and counterweights.”
“Ah.” Grant nodded. “It must have been quite a sight when it was new. I only saw it after it had fallen into decay.”
“Oh, yes, Jason,” said Wilson, the glint of fond memory in his eyes. “When the sun caught the marble cladding, it sparkled like jewels. Could be seen for miles. The architecture on Earth Home never did that. Sun too weak, I s’pose.” He shook himself. “Anyway. Can’t stand round nattering all morning. The drivers will be here any mo’. Maybe see you later.”
Milandra watched him walk towards the row of red buses, feeling as melancholic as Wilson had sounded as he recount
ed his memories.
* * * * *
In marked contrast to the dry, cold weather that held sway in the south of the British Isles, the north was buffeted by strong winds and rain that swept in from the North Sea. The main hotel door rattled in its hinges and rain dashed against the windows like hurled gravel.
Ceri and Tom sat on stools by the bar, shooting uncertain glances at each other. Peter sat next to them, tucking into a plate of fried meat and beans. Diane Heidler stood the other side of the bar, cooking more food.
When Ceri had come downstairs after a deep, alcohol-fuelled sleep, Tom was already down, sitting next to Peter at the bar. Diane had been cooking Peter’s food and was now preparing theirs.
Apart from Peter wishing her good morning and informing her that breakfast would not be long—“Diane’s a dab hand with that frying pan”—nobody had spoken.
She watched Diane divide the meat and beans between two plates, and wordlessly slide them across the bar to her and Tom. Ceri cleared her throat.
“Er, thank you,” she said.
“Yes,” said Tom. “Thank you. . . . um. . . .”
He shot Ceri another glance. Neither of them picked up their forks.
Diane raised one eyebrow. “Would you like me to taste it first?”
Ceri felt herself colour. “Don’t be silly.” She picked up her fork and dug it into the beans. With only the slightest hesitation, she brought the fork to her mouth and began to eat. “Mmm, it’s good.”
Diane looked at Tom, who still hadn’t touched his food.
“Can I ask you one more question?” he said.
Diane sighed. “If you must.”
“Now that you’re better, do you intend staying with us?”
The woman didn’t drop her gaze from Tom’s. “If you’re willing for me to stay.” She shrugged. The gesture didn’t seem quite as irritating to Ceri this morning. “After what happened with Bishop, I can’t go back to London.”
Tom seemed to consider her for a long moment. Then he, too, shrugged. “Would you do me a favour, please? Pass the tomato sauce.”
When Ceri and Tom had cleared their plates and sipped at scalding mugs of black tea, Ceri lit a cigarette and sighed.
“That’s better,” she said. “I needed that food to soak up all the vodka I put away last night. You’re not eating, Diane?”
Diane had made tea for them all and had come around the bar to sit next to Peter.
“I ate before you came down,” she said. “Now I’m almost fully recovered, I don’t need much sleep. In a few days, I won’t need to sleep at all.”
She did indeed look to be fully healed of her wounds. All traces of frailty had gone and her face had lost its gauntness.
Ceri glanced at Tom. When both Peter and Diane were looking away, she mouthed to him, “Shall we tell them?”
Tom frowned. “Tell them what?” he mouthed back.
“The guns,” mouthed Ceri.
Tom grimaced. His frown grew deeper in what Ceri had started to recognise as his deep thought expression. Then he shrugged again as if to say, ‘Why not?’
He turned on his stool to face Peter and Diane, and cleared his throat.
“I was thinking,” he began. “There’s a shooting club not far away. It might be a good idea to arm ourselves.”
Diane spoke first. “Who you gonna shoot?”
Tom gave a nervous laugh. “Well, no one I hope,” he said. “Though if more like Bishop come after us, I’d like to be able to shoot back.”
“I don’t think they’ll bother sending anyone else after us,” said Peter. “They’ll have other things on their minds.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Tom. “It’s just that I think I’d feel a little less vulnerable if I have a gun by my side.”
Peter nodded. “Actually, I don’t think that’s a bad idea. I don’t want to carry a gun. . . .” He glanced at Diane, who shook her head emphatically. “Diane and I can defend ourselves against dogs and other local wildlife without firearms.”
“Other local wildlife?” said Ceri.
“Without any people around, who knows how animals like deer, horses and cows might behave. They might take a fancy to trampling over any humans they do encounter. Revenge for centuries of oppression.” Peter shrugged. “You don’t want to be facing a pissed-off stag without any form of defence. Diane and I can protect you if we’re with you, but when we’re not you need something just in case.”
Ceri had started to smile at the thought of being savaged by a sheep, but it quickly faded as she imagined a bull charging at her or a stallion rearing over her, clipping her head with its hooves. She shuddered. “Maybe it is a good idea, after all.” She glanced at Tom. “I wasn’t enthusiastic when you mentioned it. Think I was wrong.”
“Where is this shooting club?” asked Peter.
Tom pulled the leaflet he’d shown Ceri from his pocket and handed it to Peter. “It’s actually a hotel. Used to be a castle by the looks of it. But they do, or did, clay pigeon shooting and target rifle shooting.”
“Doesn’t look far,” said Peter, reading the leaflet. “Maybe fifteen minutes’ drive. Have either of you ever shot a gun before?”
“No,” said Ceri. “Unless you count an air rifle at Porthcawl fairground.”
“I’ve tried clay pigeon shooting,” said Tom. “I wasn’t very good. The bruise on my shoulder from the recoil took a week to go.”
“Hmm.” Peter handed the leaflet back. “It looks as though there’ll be small-bore rifles, probably .22 calibre, and shotguns at this hotel. I’d recommend you each get shotguns. Accuracy will be slightly less important and shells will be easier to come by.”
“Okay,” said Tom. “Will you come with us, Peter? Be on hand to advise?”
“Of course. Nothing much else to do in this weather. We’ll take the Range Rover. We’ll need to find a hardware shop first to get some bolt cutters and maybe a crowbar or some sort of jimmy. The guns should be securely locked away. You coming for a ride, Diane?”
“Why not? One thing, though. . . .” She glanced at Tom and Ceri. “You do realise that guns won’t do you any good in the long run?”
Tom grunted and Ceri felt her stomach give a small lurch.
“Yes,” she said. “We do realise that.” She smiled sweetly at Diane. “But, please, don’t ever hesitate to remind us that we’ve only got five months left to live.”
Chapter Seven
Although the sun was riding high in a pale, clear sky, the temperature had not risen above freezing. Frost still dusted the pavements and roads, and their breath steamed in the frigid air. Bri tucked her hands into the pockets of the ski jacket, glad of its warmth.
“You okay?” she asked Will.
“Yeah,” he said. “This jacket don’t ’alf stink, but it’s warm. As warm as toast.” His brow crinkled into a frown.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nuffink. It’s just . . . ‘warm as toast.’ It’s what me mum used to say.”
“My mum used to say ‘as snug as a bug in a rug’.” She reached out and squeezed his arm before thrusting her hand back into her jacket pocket.
They were standing on the pavement outside the house where they had spent the night. All Bri could see from here was row upon row of houses. She nodded at the street in front of them.
“The sun rose from behind those houses this morning,” she said, “so that must be east.” She turned around and held out her left arm. “That’s southwest, the direction we need to take. Can you ride a bike?”
“Course I can,” said Will. “I’m not a kid.”
“Then we’ll have to look out for a couple. I don’t fancy walking all the way to Cornwall.” She sighed. “It’ll take too long to look in every house or garage or shed we pass. Most of them’ll be locked anyway. A cycle shop is what we need. Get ourselves some brand new, fancy wheels.”
Will smiled and the last trace of his frown disappeared.
“For now, though,” said Bri, �
�walking it’ll have to be.”
Bri felt, although didn’t voice it, that they would have to walk for quite some way before they found some sort of shopping centre that might have a cycle shop. She had been blinded by driving flakes of snow when she had turned off the main road she had been following into London, and could not recall passing anything other than houses. She assumed that any shops that serviced this residential district lay behind them, to the east. The last direction she wanted to go.
The longer they remained here, on the edge of London, the more uneasy she became. Nothing she could put her finger on precisely, but it had to do with whatever had happened to her after her memories of before ended and with whatever had been done to Will to make him almost catatonic. Not to mention that sense of invasion of her mind in Looe, which had implanted the compulsion to come to London in the first place. On top of all that, her newfound abilities to calm angry dogs and apparently heal brain-damaged young boys gave her the jitters. She tried not to think about them. Doing so would likely only bring back her headache; it lay just below the surface of her consciousness like a circling shark.
They walked side by side, sticking to the pavement from instinct. Bri noted with satisfaction that Will showed no trace of a limp. Judging from the height of the sun, it was around noon and they had at least five daylight hours to put some distance between themselves and London. The cut to Will’s calf did not look as though it would delay them in any way. She didn’t know this area at all, but figured that they would easily find a town or village within ten or twelve miles where they could find somewhere to spend the night. And tomorrow they would find a larger town where they could sort out transport.
A little preoccupied with her thoughts, Bri didn’t notice the rats until Will stopped dead in his tracks and gasped.
“What. . . . ?” she began, but tailed off as she saw what Will was looking at.
They had almost reached the end of the road. About twenty yards ahead it entered another street that ran across it at right angles. From around the corner, on the same side of the pavement that they stood, came a pack of brown rats. Three or four abreast, around thirty strong, the rats ran in close formation as though trained.