by Sam Kates
“I’m fine,” Ceri said. “I wasn’t earlier. Seeing that couple dead in their bed. Reading that poor woman’s note. Imagining the children rotting in the other room. . . .” She shuddered. “You were right to stop me going in there. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“Thousands. . . . millions of families must have gone through something similar.” Ceri jerked her head in the direction of the hotel. “Seeing them brought it home to me that I’d have probably done exactly the same thing as that mother. If Paul and Rhys had been lying dead at home, instead of in a hospital mortuary, and I had survived, I’d probably have topped myself, too.” She paused as if debating whether to continue; then sighed. “I had decided to kill myself anyway. I had made up my mind to do it the day that you and Peter knocked at my door.”
“I know. When Peter protected us from the Commune and later, when he showed us the ship leaving that distant planet and the dinosaurs dying and all the rest of it, he caught a glimpse of what you’d been planning.”
“And he told you?”
“Yes.” Ceri’s face clouded with anger and Tom hurriedly continued. “He was concerned about you, Ceri. We both were.”
“I feel as if I’ve been spied on,” said Ceri, an edge to her tone. She breathed out deeply and her expression softened. “Still, I suppose he has looked out for us. If he hadn’t protected us, we’d have ended up like that poor sod we found trying to walk to London through the snow wearing daps.”
“Yes,” said Tom, remembering the manic determination in the man’s blood-drenched face and his irrational anger when Tom suggested he accompany them instead. “It’s why I’m so keen on us being armed. I don’t want to end up like that bloke.” Ceri opened her mouth to say something and he hurried on. “I know having guns won’t protect us from another Commune when the rest of their crowd gets here. And I know I’m not Rambo, but maybe, just maybe, we can try to do something to stop them. Fight back in some way.” He sighed. “I don’t know how yet, but there has to be a way.”
They lapsed into silence. Waves ran up the beach, but they no longer reached the pebbles. The tide must have turned, thought Tom.
“Come on,” he said, starting to rise. “Diane and Peter were about to start cooking lunch when I came to find you. They must have eaten by now. Let’s eat, then I’ll whoop your arse at shooting.”
He held out his hand and helped Ceri to her feet. Dusty leapt up and shook himself. The three of them headed up the lawn to the hotel.
* * * * *
Jason Grant, George Wallace and Lavinia Cram turned up in Milandra’s hotel suite at the appointed time of eight o’clock in the evening.
Milandra put aside the book she had been browsing that she had come across in the hotel lounge—Ancient Pubs of Britain—and raised her eyebrows. “The Chosen?”
Lavinia answered. “I sent a message to remind her. She replied to say that she’s gone with a team to South Ruislip. There’s a shitstorm of rats emerging from the Underground tunnels and she’s helping to clear them up. She sends her apologies.”
Milandra thought for a moment. She had a shrewd idea how this meeting was going to go. Not having Simone present, with her ability to see more during a Commune than Milandra had given her credit for, might work in her favour. Although she hadn’t yet fully decided on what she would do, the Chosen’s absence left all options open.
She shrugged. “Sounds like Simone is usefully engaged elsewhere. We’ll have to continue without her.” She turned to Grant. “Jason, if I know you, you’ve thought of little else but this human girl since we met lunchtime. You happy to chair this discussion?”
Grant smiled. “Sure.” He glanced around the small gathering and sat forward, forearms resting on thighs. “Okay. This is what we have. A human girl. Between the age of fourteen and sixteen. She can keep a combined team of three out of her own psyche.” He raised his eyebrows and received three nods. “So far, pretty straightforward. An adolescent mind with the strength to keep out three of ours. Unusual but not unheard of. Let’s move into unheard-of territory. This girl also appears to possess the ability to keep us out of another human’s psyche. Not only that, but to remove us from a psyche a three-strong team has already penetrated and block that team from re-entering.” Again he raised his eyebrows and again received three nods.
He sighed. “It gets worse. While the team is inside the other human’s mind, they see evidence that the damage caused by the electrical treatment has been largely reversed. Healed. In the absence of any other candidate, I think we have to assume that the girl is also responsible for that. Anyone disagree?”
Three heads shook in response.
“Okay. The first question we have to try to answer is this: how did this girl acquire these abilities?” Grant sat back in the chair. “Anyone want to shoot?”
Wallace was the first to clear his throat. “The traitor, Ronstadt? Maybe he’s been in contact with the girl.”
Grant shook his head curtly. “Unlikely. Ronstadt is probably in continental Europe by now. The girl’s here in London. Too far apart.”
“We have another traitor, then,” said Wallace.
“There’s no evidence of that. And even if there was, it doesn’t overcome a fundamental obstacle. Let’s imagine there was a human sat here now before us.” He nodded to Simone’s empty chair. “Could we, all four of us, impart the abilities this girl has?”
Wallace opened his mouth, then closed it. It was his turn to give a curt shake of the head.
“Precisely,” said Grant. “None of us would know how to impart such abilities to a human, or even if it’s possible to do. If anyone would know, it would be the Keeper.” He glanced at Milandra.
“To the best of the combined knowledge that I hold on behalf of our people,” she said, “the question has never even arisen. If such a thing is possible, none who has gone before us was aware of it.”
“Any other theories?” asked Grant.
“Trauma,” said Lavinia.
“Go on,” said Grant.
“Well, maybe some traumatic event—like maybe seeing her parents die—has changed her brain in some way. Maybe.”
“That’s a lot of maybes,” scoffed Wallace.
Grant ignored him. “Actually,” he said, “that’s kind of along the lines I’ve been thinking. The Cleansing was naturally traumatic to those who survived. I guess it’s possible that a young human girl—they can become quite hysterical at the best of times—was sufficiently devastated by the loss of loved ones for it to have wrought changes in her brain patterns or its chemical composition.” He shrugged. “I’m no expert on human physiology. Perhaps it’s similar to when someone demonstrates superhuman strength at a time of extreme stress. Like when a mother lifts a car that’s crushing her child.”
“That sort of shit is temporary, isn’t it?” said Wallace. “The girl must have these abilities permanently. I mean, she obviously hasn’t been treated so she must have been able to avoid the calling of the Commune.”
“True,” said Grant. “Either that or she suffered the trauma after being called, but before she could be treated. There have also been cases—documented cases—of humans awaking from comatose states after suffering serious injuries and finding that they have developed psychic abilities. The power to read others’ minds or to influence others’ actions. Similar to our own abilities.”
“‘Documented’ cases?” said Milandra. “Has someone been to a library this afternoon?” She smiled to show Grant that she was gently teasing.
He smiled back. “There’s a library just a mile or so north of here in West Drayton. Probably not far from where the girl was spotted. Useful things, libraries. We ought to add them to our list of human artefacts worth preserving.”
“I think you and Lavinia are probably right that the girl acquired her abilities through some sort of trauma,” said Milandra. She did not voice them, but her thoughts kept turning to the cut and lump that she had noticed on the girl’s temple when vie
wing Luke’s memory.
Wallace grunted his assent.
“Okay,” said Grant. “Moving on to what I think is the next key question. Given that the girl has apparently healed the boy of the effects of our electrical treatment, does this mean that she can heal any drone in the same manner?”
“Probably,” said Wallace.
“Um, how can we even guess at that?” said Lavinia.
“I have a theory,” said Grant. “It’s brief. Luke said the boy was aged around twelve or younger. Probably, then, prepubescent. Human boys often mature a lot later than their female counterparts.”
“Yeah,” said Wallace. “So?”
“Well, the boy’s brain is probably still growing and developing, undergoing changes brought on by adolescence and puberty. Maybe the effects of the electrical treatment would have been reversed anyway, at least to some extent, through those natural changes. Maybe all the girl did was hurry them along.”
“More maybes,” said Wallace.
“Naturally,” said Grant. “We can only speculate at this stage. My point is this: if she was able to heal the boy only because of his tender years, then she will pose no threat to the other drones. The vast majority of them are adults. Even if she were able to get to them, she won’t be able to heal them.”
“That’s possible, I guess,” said Wallace. “But there’s only one way to find out for certain.”
“I had other questions for us to consider,” said Grant, “but I have no objection to jumping ahead to the last one. . . .” He glanced at Milandra.
“Might as well, now that Straight-to-the-point George has virtually asked it,” said Milandra. She shot Wallace a brief smile to show that she wasn’t being disapproving, not that he would have much cared if she was.
“Okay, then,” said Grant. “What, if anything, are we going to do about this girl?”
“That’s the easy one,” said Wallace. “We go after her.”
He glanced at Lavinia. She nodded. “I see no alternative.”
“When you say ‘go after her’. . . . ?” said Milandra.
“Capture her,” said Wallace. “Examine her. Then we’ll find out the answers to all these questions instead of just pissing in the dark.”
“A small team,” said Lavinia. “Me, Wallace and. . . .”
“Luke,” said Milandra before either of them could suggest Simone as the third member. “He knows what she and the boy look like, don’t forget.”
Wallace shrugged. “Fine by me.”
“You only have three days,” said Grant. “Then we leave for Salisbury and we need you two with us.”
“Three days should be enough,” said Wallace.
“London’s a big city,” said Milandra. “It might take you three days to even pick up a trail.”
“Then we need to pinpoint her position,” said Lavinia. “Like now.”
Milandra kept her expression carefully neutral. The meeting had just reached the point that she had anticipated. She must tread carefully.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m a little weary. . . .”
“Come on, Milandra,” said Wallace. “There’s four of us, she’s not going to be more than a few miles away and we only need to find out her position. It’s not as if we’re going to try to persuade her to stay where she is. From all we’ve talked about tonight, that clearly wouldn’t work.”
“Indeed,” added Grant. “It seems to me that it would merely alert her to the fact that she is being hunted.”
Milandra looked at each of them in turn as though debating whether to agree.
“Okay,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Gather a little closer then.”
* * * * *
Bri lay in the darkness, listening to Will’s steady breathing. He had fallen asleep as soon as they settled down in the narrow space behind the counter of the cycle shop. There would have been more room to make themselves comfortable in the aisles formed between the racks of bikes and the central section stocked with bicycle accessories, but that would have made them visible from the street. The sense of unease that had settled into them that afternoon had not yet fully dissipated.
It had been a long day, they had walked miles and Bri could feel her eyelids grow heavy. She closed them and slipped into the netherworld that precedes deep sleep.
Then snapped her eyes open wide as she sensed the invasion.
Be calm, child.
The voice came from inside her head. Acting instinctively, Bri expelled the invading intellects, leaving in place the protective yellow blanket that would stop them from re-entering. But the voice remained. Fighting down panic, Bri listened.
They have glimpsed your plans. They know you intend going south and then west to Cornwall. They are coming for you.
Leave immediately. Head north. To Nottingham. By the castle, an ancient pub: Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem. I will send someone who can help you. His name is Peter.
You know how to shield your mind to keep them out. Protect the boy too.
Go. Now.
A fresh lance of pain stabbed her forehead. Gritting her teeth against it, Bri leaned across and shook Will.
“Huh?” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.
“Come on,” said Bri. “We’re leaving.”
* * * * *
Ceri and Tom strolled down the lawn to the pebbles, picking their way carefully by the weak light of the torch Tom carried. Dusty loped ahead of them, near invisible in the darkness. As Peter had predicted, the wind had abated to a stiff breeze but the sky remained cloudy, promising more rain tomorrow. They sat on the ridge of pebbles. The splash of waves sounded distant.
“Whoop my arse,” Ceri said musingly. “What precisely did you mean by that, Mr Evans?”
“Okay, okay, Annie Oakley,” said Tom. “My shoulder’s sore.”
“Mine, too.”
Tom reached to his right shoulder and rubbed it reflectively. “It’s the one I hurt in the crash.” He uttered a short laugh. “I was hopeless, wasn’t I?”
“Well, look on the bright side, you can only get better.”
Tom grunted. “I’m not so sure about that. To be perfectly honest, it scared the life out of me just holding one. I was terrified it would go off when I didn’t mean it to. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“It’ll be fine. So long as we follow Peter’s instructions. Never carry them loaded and always have the barrel broken except when you intend to use it.”
“I suppose.” Tom didn’t sound convinced. “Perhaps I’ll improve tomorrow.” He gave a great yawn. “It’s chilly out here and I’m knackered. You must be too. Ready for bed?”
“Yes, I am. But I asked you to come for a walk for a reason. I want to ask a favour and I didn’t want them, her especially, to hear.”
“Okay.”
Ceri took a deep breath. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but would you mind if we shared a room tonight?”
In the darkness, she heard Tom’s sharp intake of breath.
“Really,” she said. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m not ready for that. Don’t know if I ever will be. But the thought of lying on my own in the dark, thinking about that poor family. . . . I’m dreading going to bed. Look, I’m not even asking you to share a bed. Just a bedroom. I can’t be on my own in there.”
“There’s a family room,” said Tom. “It’s got a double bed and two singles.”
“Sounds perfect.” Ceri breathed out heavily. She hadn’t been looking forward to this conversation, but it had proved a lot easier than she’d imagined. “Hey, you don’t snore, do you?”
Tom chuckled. “A little, according to Lisa. . . .” The chuckle faded. “Mind you, Dusty can pump out the snores. And, er, he can be a little, um, windy. . . . I’m not sure that all this tinned meat is agreeing with him.”
Ceri laughed. “Yeah, that’s right, you blame it on the dog. Seriously, though, thank you. Shall we go, then?”
They stood and Tom whistled for Dusty who came lolloping out o
f the darkness. Side by side, they strolled back to the hotel.
* * * * *
Dusty started to follow the humans across the lawn, but stopped as a sound reached his ears. A rushing, bubbling sound, coming from behind them. But faint; the humans hadn’t heard it. He turned to face the bay, ears raised, tail stiff.
He uttered a low, curious whuff as he sensed something different, something unusual, out there in the darkness.
Whatever it was, Dusty instinctively knew that it lay beyond his reach. He stared out to sea for a few moments longer, senses pinging, but unable to see anything untoward.
If he possessed shoulders, he would have shrugged. He about faced and trotted after the humans.
Part 2:
Pilgrim through
This Barren Land
Chapter Eleven
Seagulls and rats had taken over the streets of Dublin. Dogs gathered in small packs, scavenging and hunting together. Colleen O’Mahoney carried a golf club whenever she ventured outside and banged the ground with it to warn off any bird or rodent that came too close. If she saw a pack of dogs, or even one on its own, she’d duck into a building until they had passed.
Her flat—and Sinead’s she had to remind herself; if anything, it had become Sinead’s alone—was situated in the Rathmines area of the city. When the world had gone to hell, she and Sinead had locked themselves away in a doomed attempt to avoid catching whatever it was that was killing people.
Sinead’s eyes, red and running and haunted, had told her more eloquently than any words could have that they had been too late. When Colleen’s limbs became too heavy to hold up unaided and daylight made it feel that her head would explode, she had taken to their bed alongside Sinead and descended into delirium.
She awoke, she didn’t know how much later, to darkness and stench. The darkness was no surprise—they had taped black plastic to the windows to keep out even a chink of light—but the stench. . . . Tentatively, she reached out a hand to the other side of the bed, and withdrew it with a whimper when it encountered something cold and moist.
Sinead must have been dead for days. Her body had bloated and blackened. Fungus spores had started to appear on her face. In places, her skin was beginning to slough away. Colleen saw this in the pale winter’s light that entered the bedroom once she had torn away the plastic from the window. As she stood and gazed at her lover’s corpse, her mind loosened a little.