by Sam Kates
Weak and thirsty and filthy though she was, Colleen knew she could not stay in the flat. She paused long enough to pack a bag with clean clothes, a towel, a few toiletries and her toothbrush. In the kitchen, she downed a bottle of water, then promptly brought it back up as the image of Sinead lying in their bed flashed into her mind. She left the flat, pulling the door locked behind her, before attempting to drink another. By sipping, not swigging, she kept the contents of the next bottle down.
Barefooted, still dressed in a stained and stinking nightdress, Colleen tried the doors of adjoining flats until she found one unlocked. Nobody answered her tentative call. The hallway of the flat was dim and shadowy. She flicked a light switch but nothing happened. She opened a door that led into a bedroom. The waft of foetid air made her take a step back, coughing. The room beyond was cast in deep darkness and silence. She hurriedly closed the door.
In the kitchen, a cupboard yielded an unopened six pack of lemonade cans and a slab of cooking chocolate. The chocolate was bitter, but she devoured it anyway. As she sipped the lemonade, the image of Sinead began to intrude and she was nearly sick again. With a huge effort of will, she thrust the image away but, in the process, her mind loosened a little more.
Another door led into a bathroom where she found a bath partly-filled with cold, but clean, water. Nothing came from the taps when she tried them. The toilet flush didn’t work.
Colleen stripped off the nightdress and threw it into a corner. Gasping at the cold, she stepped into the water and slowly lowered herself in. Fifteen minutes later, clean and clothed, still shivering, she left. With only the briefest glance at the door of her and Sinead’s flat, she walked out of the building.
She had no idea what day it was or the time of day, other than it wasn’t night-time. Grey clouds filled the sky, giving the city the pall of a black and white photograph. Other than the occasional rustling of litter disturbed by breeze, nothing moved. She made her way through streets that normally thrummed to the bustle of people and traffic, but that were now still.
A body that hadn’t been fed and legs that hadn’t been exercised in days meant she couldn’t go far. The Burlington Hotel was at the limit of her endurance and she struggled to force her way through the revolving door.
The lounge and reception area, the bar, all were empty. Her voice when she called out sounded lost and forlorn. Nothing, not even an echo, replied. She didn’t call out again.
Dumping her bag at the foot of the stairs that led up to the guest bedrooms, she walked through the dining room and into the hotel kitchens, all chrome and stainless steel. Most of the fresh and frozen meat and produce had spoiled, but the smell was tame compared to that of rotting corpses and barely made her wrinkle her nose. A little exploration of the kitchens provided her with a loaf of soda bread that was edible when stripped of the stale outer layer of crust, a chunk of bright yellow, sweating cheese, a serviceable side of ham, a pat of butter that had not yet turned rancid and a catering-sized jar of mixed pickles. She sat at a gleaming work surface and ate her fill.
The wine storage area was locked. She would probably be able to unearth the key in due course. She had found sufficient bottles of mineral water and cartons of fruit juices in one of the walk-in pantries to last her weeks; enough canned, jarred and dried food to march an army to Belfast.
Clutching a jar of Russian caviar and a box of crackers under one arm, she retrieved her bag and trudged upstairs. In the first room she found unlocked that didn’t emit a stench, she lay on the bed and fell into a fitful sleep.
It had fallen dark outside when she awoke screaming and thrashing, imagining that she was trying to get away from the dead form of Sinead, sweet Sinead, who had become a monster that stalked her dreams.
Weak and fatigued, Colleen stumbled downstairs. The bar at The Burlington was long and oval, like a Cuban cigar, and occupied the centre of the room with seating areas and dance floors around it. She fumbled at a bottle hanging upside down in a clamp, attached to an optic. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the freestanding bottles, in rows on glass shelves. Grabbing a full bottle of Bushmills and a tumbler, she settled into a sofa in a dark corner of the bar.
An hour or so later, numbed by whiskey, she fell into sleep once more. If she dreamed about Sinead this time, she could not remember when she awoke, bleary-eyed and thick-headed, in dawn’s pale light.
She giggled. It made her head hurt more, but she didn’t care. She had discovered a way to get through the nights.
* * * * *
A band of low pressure hovered over the North Sea, bringing strong winds and rain lashing onto the northeastern tip of Scotland and prompting Tom to dub Peter ‘The Weatherman’ for so accurately predicting the storms.
Since there was a ready supply of food and each of them enjoyed walking around the bay in between the downpours, watching the waves come crashing up the beach, they decided to remain in the hotel for a few more days. Even Ceri had seemed happy to agree, although Peter noticed that she picked up her stride and looked studiously in the other direction whenever she passed the sealed door behind which the Watson family had met its end.
Peter supervised a couple more practice sessions for Tom and Ceri to hone their shooting techniques. He had not been able to get the pigeon trap working so improvised by standing behind the shooter and throwing the clays into the air. They also shot at ornaments and vases Peter purloined from empty guest bedrooms. Tom had improved his aim at these static targets, but missed most of the clays. Ceri, on the other hand, impressed Peter. She possessed a good eye and steady hand. Still, he reminded himself, it didn’t mean she would be any good in a hunting or combat situation; it was one thing to shoot a lump of clay out of the air, quite another to press the trigger when sighting on a warm, breathing creature. That took the ability to detach oneself from the impulse to empathise with the victim.
When not engaged in target practice or in another unexpected activity of which the others were not yet aware, Peter found himself in reflective mood during those stormy days. Often he would retire to his bedroom on the pretext of reading a book, instead to lie on his bed, gazing at the photo of Megan contained in the heart-shaped locket that had once adorned her neck but that now hung around his own. His gaze usually strayed to the other side of the locket and its treasure of one golden lock. How he yearned to remove the protective glass cover and stroke her hair once more. But he dared not. The lock of hair was precious beyond measure; his last remaining physical piece of her. He would not risk destroying it for the sake of a moment’s ecstasy.
Sometimes he cursed himself for a fool, for allowing himself to have become involved with a human, knowing that it could only end in death for her and heartache for him, yet neither did he regret one moment he had spent in her company. It had cost him his sense of oneness with the rest of his kind, had imbued him with alien passions and emotions, but to experience such overwhelming trust, companionship and loyalty to just one other had made it all worthwhile. Love, they called it. Such a small word for such an all-embracing sensation.
He reflected, too, upon his decision not to take part in the Cleansing. The silvery canister that resembled a thermos flask nestled, unopened, in a zip-up holdall under his bed. He harboured no regrets, except that he wished he could have found a few more survivors to save from the calling of the Commune.
Peter had grown fond of Tom and Ceri. It made it harder to try to persuade them to accompany him to mainland Europe, yet try again he must. He waited until the evening of the second full day of the storm, their third evening at the hotel.
Stomachs full, the four of them retired to the cosy lounge, warmed by oil-fired heaters and illuminated by candles and paraffin lamps of which the hotel had an abundant supply. Ceri and Tom had raided the well-stocked wine cellar and sipped vintage burgundy. Peter took occasional swigs from a bottle of beer; he enjoyed the taste, but not the debilitating effect that alcohol had upon him so rarely drank more than two. Diane seem
ed content with orange juice.
“The wind should drop tonight,” Peter remarked. “And the rain will clear. I expect a fine, dry day tomorrow.”
“How can you know these things?” asked Tom. “Is this one of your, ahem, special abilities?”
Peter smiled. “I spent many years at sea. Clippers, dhows, schooners. . . . you name it, I’ve probably sailed in it. Indian Ocean, South China Sea, Coral Sea. . . . you name it, I’ve probably sailed on it. Explorer, spice trader, tea trader, rubber trader, a brief though memorable stint at piracy, and then many years in the British merchant navy. Every sailor, even those with much less experience than me, gets a feel for the weather. It becomes instinctive. We don’t need barometers to tell us when the pressure is changing. And it’s changing now. It won’t surprise me if we experience a week of settled weather.”
“Okay,” said Ceri. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke lazily towards the ceiling. “The weather’s going to be nice. So what?”
“Well,” said Peter, knowing that if he didn’t convince them now he never would, “we may not have a better opportunity to cross the North Sea in safety than in the next few days.”
For a few moments there was silence, broken only by a grunt from Dusty as he changed position on the thick rug he occupied in front of an oil heater.
“I don’t get it,” said Tom. “All of your people, yours and Diane’s, are here in Britain. They’re going to set off a beacon here. The rest of your civilisation is on its way and I assume, because of this beacon, is likely to arrive somewhere near here. If we—me and Ceri—have any chance of doing something to save ourselves, surely it must be here in Britain. Yet, Peter, you seem intent on persuading us to leave. I don’t get it.”
“Tom, if you and Ceri have any chance of doing something to save yourselves, you need help. You need to find more humans. We can find more in Scandinavia and the Netherlands. Belgium, France, Spain. Come back with . . . yes, why not? Come back with a small army.”
“A small army?” Ceri sat upright and stubbed out her cigarette in a saucer. “How long do you think that will take? I don’t speak Swedish or Dutch or Spanish. My French is passable, but not enough to make a Frenchman understand why he needs to accompany us back here. And how spread out will the survivors be?”
“Well,” said Peter, “I can speak a number of European languages, and many of the survivors will have banded together by now. We’ll just have to find each group.”
“Won’t work.” That was Diane. Peter stared at her; she was the last person he expected to raise objections to his plan.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“The survivors won’t have banded together,” said Diane.
“The Commune. . . . ?”
Diane nodded and Peter sighed.
“Um, hello?” said Tom. “Would you like to explain to us what you’re talking about?”
Peter waited to allow Diane to speak, but she was fiddling with a fresh bottle of orange juice and seemed disinclined to say any more.
He turned to Tom and Ceri. “During the Commune, when all the strength of our people, bar mine, joined together and called the survivors of Britain to London, it also made contact with every other survivor in the world.”
“They can do that?” said Ceri. “Spread their minds around the entire planet?” Peter nodded and she whistled. “That’s a powerful trick.”
“Not powerful enough to force those further away into doing something that’s completely contrary to their will.”
“Like committing suicide?” said Tom.
“A Commune five thousand strong, nope,” said Peter. “Seventy-five thousand. . . . You already know the end of that sentence. Instead, the Commune would have planted some suggestion in the survivors’ minds, one that would not go totally against the grain and which they therefore would be strongly persuaded to obey.”
“What sort of suggestion?” asked Ceri.
Peter looked at Diane. “You took part. What message was given to the survivors outside this island?”
“To stay where they are. Not to seek out others. To burn bodies.” She shrugged. “That’s it, but it was probably enough.”
“Ah,” said Peter, “it would have been enough at first, yes, but would not last indefinitely. It’s likely already wearing off.”
Diane nodded.
“Then they will be starting to band together,” said Peter. “We’ll be able to find them.”
“Europe’s a pretty big place,” said Diane. “They’ll be spread out, far apart from each other. It will take them months, probably longer, to find more than one or two other survivors.”
“Peter,” said Ceri, a determined tone in her voice. “Tom and I have already made it clear that we don’t want to leave the U.K. because this is our home and. . . .” She took a deep breath. “If we have to meet our end, we want to do it here. All right, you know lots of languages so if we did sail over to the continent communication won’t be a problem. Besides, most Europeans can speak some English. It’s only us Brits who are monoglots.”
Tom grunted.
“But,” continued Ceri, “and this settles it as far as I’m concerned, we don’t have enough time.”
“I agree,” said Tom.
They both looked steadily at Peter and he could see in their eyes that he had lost this battle. He glanced at Diane.
“They’re right,” she said. “I think you already knew that.”
Yes, he thought, but I had to try. I owe it to Megan.
He allowed his shoulders to sag in resignation.
“Mind you,” said Tom, “I agree that we need to try to get more people. Isn’t there a way. . . . you and Diane, can’t you join your minds, or whatever it is you do, and call the European survivors to us?”
“Ooh,” said Ceri as if someone had trod on her toe. “What about America? Can you reach the American survivors?”
“Wow,” said Peter. “Slow down, you two. And, please, lose those expectant expressions because I’m afraid we have to disappoint you.” He glanced at Diane who nodded for him to go on. “I’m sorry, but what you’re suggesting simply isn’t possible. Unlike Milandra and her Deputies, Diane and I are not adept at reaching. Even if our combined psyches were powerful enough to travel to mainland Europe, which is extremely doubtful, the most we’d be able to do is pass a brief message to any survivors who happen to be on the coast. Not a very long stretch of coast, at that. There’s no way we’d have the power to compel them to come here. As for reaching across the Atlantic? Forget it. We’d never make it that far.”
Tom and Ceri, in particular, looked so crestfallen that Peter felt like offering them some crumbs of comfort, however small. But he had none.
“Milandra,” said Diane.
Tom and Ceri both glanced at her quizzically.
“Huh?” said Peter. “What about her?”
“She could help us do it,” said Diane. “Reach Europe and probably the States, too. At least the eastern seaboard.”
“Yes,” agreed Peter, “she probably could. Any Keeper could and she’s a mighty powerful one. But she’s hardly likely to help, is she?”
“We could kidnap her,” said Tom, a fresh look of excitement and hope lighting his face.
Peter shook his head. “Tom, now you can fire a shotgun, it still doesn’t make you Rambo. Look, even if the four of us could walk in and snatch the Keeper from under the noses of her Deputies—which we can’t—there is nothing we can do that would force her to help us. Nothing.” Again, Peter glanced at Diane for back-up.
“No,” she said, “you’re right. There isn’t a way to force her. But we could ask her.”
Again Tom grew excited. “Yes! She’s only in London. The two of you could reach her there. . . . with your minds, I mean.”
Peter frowned. The three of them were looking at him expectantly. He hadn’t planned on coming clean, not yet, but if he didn’t tell them now he would not have any excuse if they later found out.
“Dian
e and I could join forces and try to contact Milandra,” he said. “But there’s no need.” He looked down for just a moment. When he looked back up, Tom and Ceri wore puzzled expressions while Diane frowned. “The truth is,” Peter said, “that two nights ago I was contacted. By Milandra.”
* * * * *
It had been years, many years, since he had looked upon the ocean. Zach stood on the cape, watching gulls and cormorants swoop and squabble, filling his lungs with salty air, listening to bird cries and the swoosh of waves.
Two days it had taken him to reach the coast, during which he had stocked up on food and water, oil and diesel, and greatly expanded his arsenal. He had acquired all the ammunition he was ever likely to need for his hunting rifle from his usual supplier, though he’d had to break in and serve himself as he saw no sign of human life in the town. It was as he made his way due east, in the direction of Augusta, that he came across the army convoy. Six covered trucks, two armoured trucks. Quite why they had stopped at the side of the road, facing away from Augusta, he could not tell.
Some of the soldiers’ corpses had been dragged from the trucks and lay tattered and torn by the side of the road, but he suspected this had occurred after death. On the many corpses that still occupied the trucks he saw no evidence of violence. Indeed, most appeared to have died peacefully, supine on the truck floors or propped against each other on the side benches.
If he had entertained any thoughts that the mutilated corpses had been dragged from the trucks by people, these were firmly banished when he saw the intact supplies and weaponry, for surely only wildlife would not have bothered looting one or two items of hardware.
When he drove away from the convoy and started to head south, the passenger seat and footwell of his pick-up contained, in addition to his hunting rifle, three 5.56 millimetre assault rifles, two 12 gauge pump-action shotguns, and ammunition boxes containing shotgun shells and magazines for the rifles and 9 millimetre Beretta pistol tucked into the inside pocket of his hunting jacket.