by Sam Kates
The door next to Ceri had buckled and was a little difficult to open since its close encounter with a drystone wall in Herefordshire. Nevertheless, she was out of the vehicle and running down the lawn before Tom. He set off after her.
“Wait for me!” he called, but she ignored him.
Tom crossed the lawn and started up the bank of pebbles, treading cautiously to avoid turning his ankle. Ceri was already disappearing over the lip.
He stopped moving when he heard the gunshot. Fear rooted him to the spot. The sound of the second shot reanimated him. He whirled around.
“Keep the kids back!” he yelled at Peter who was out of the car. “And Dusty!”
Forgetting to be cautious, Tom turned and ran up the bank, pebbles shifting and cracking beneath his feet. He gained the summit and gazed down at the beach.
The cream-suited man had almost reached the dinghy and had turned to face back up the beach. Slightly behind and to either side of him, the three darkly-clad men formed a rough semi-circle in front of the dinghy. All three of them held to their shoulders black rifles that looked mean and businesslike. One of the rifles was pointing directly at Tom. He gulped and tore his gaze away to where the other two rifles were trained.
Ceri was crouched at the foot of the pebble bank, chin to chest, arms clasped around head.
“Are you all right?” Tom shouted. “Ceri! Have you been hit?”
She didn’t respond.
“Stay where you are!” came a stern voice from the beach.
Tom glanced at the men. The one pointing his gun at Tom took his left hand off the barrel and held it out, palm flat, in a ‘Halt!’ gesture.
“Stay where you are!” the man called again.
Tom held out his own hands in what he hoped was a placatory manner.
“Please,” he said. Unsure whether they had heard him over the hiss of the waves—the men were around a hundred yards away—he spoke louder. “Please! I’m just going to check that my friend is all right.” He pointed at Ceri, who still hadn’t moved. “I won’t come any closer than that, okay? Neither of us will.”
Taking a deep breath, he edged forward. The man who had called to him replaced his left hand on the barrel of the rifle. One of the other men raised his rifle from Ceri to train it on Tom.
He tensed, wondering what it felt like to be shot. He had read somewhere that you didn’t hear the shot that killed you. Maybe he would die in blissful unawareness of having been hit.
He continued to edge towards Ceri and concentrated all his attention on her. Staring at the rifles wouldn’t deflect the bullets or make them do less damage.
The pebble bank was gently sloping on the sea side that made it easier to move down without lurching into an ankle-twisting slide. He slowly but steadily closed the gap.
“Ceri,” he said, as much to calm himself as her. “I’m coming to you. Don’t be startled or make any sudden movements. And don’t move any further forward, whatever you do. Just keep still, as you are. I’m nearly there.”
Tom reached Ceri and deliberately lowered himself to the pebbles beside her. His legs had started to shake. Gently, he placed an arm around her shoulders and hugged her to him. She was trembling.
“Are you all right?” he said in a low voice. “Have you been hit?”
Ceri lowered her arms and raised a pale face to his.
“They shot at me, Tom. Why did they shoot at me?”
“I don’t know. Were you hit?”
She shook her head and Tom let out a long sigh.
“Thank God. They must have been warning shots. I get the impression that if these men want to shoot you, they don’t miss.”
Ceri looked away, down the beach where three rifles were now trained on them both. The person in the environment suit had turned and seemed to be engaged in a conversation with the
rifle-toting men.
“That’s what they are, aren’t they, Tom? Men? Like us. Not like Peter and Diane.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Then why did they shoot at me? I only wanted to talk to them.”
“I don’t know. But maybe we’re about to find out.”
The suited figure had started to walk up the beach towards them. The three men fanned out behind, their guns still pointing at Tom and Ceri. When they had halved the distance between them to about fifty yards, they stopped. Two of the men fell into a crouch, rifles aimed unwaveringly at Tom and Ceri. The third man remained standing, rifle pointing towards the pebble bank, sweeping slowly back and forth as though expecting attackers to appear over the ridge like Red Indians in a cowboy film.
The figure in the environment suit continued on, coming to a halt around ten yards away, not interfering with the crouching men’s line of sight. The sun, weak as it was, hung over Tom’s shoulder and reflected off the visor of the suit’s mask so he was unable to make out the occupant’s features.
“I am Acting Lieutenant Commander James Irving of Her Majesty’s Submarine Argute,” came a tinny, yet authoritative, voice from behind the mask. “Please identify yourselves.”
“Um, my name’s Tom Evans. And this is Ceri . . . Ceri, er. . . .”
“Ceri Lewis.” Her voice sounded a little stronger as if she had recovered her poise. “Why did you shoot at me?”
“Please identify any weapons you are carrying,” said Irving as though Ceri hadn’t spoken. “Do not move your hands towards them.”
“We don’t have any weapons,” said Tom. “At least not on us.”
“Please stand, sir,” said Irving. “Slowly, keeping your hands in full view at all times.”
“What is this?” said Tom. “Why are you treating us like terrorists?”
“Sir. Please stand.”
“I want to know—”
“Sir!”
Tom bit down on his lip to stop himself from arguing. Irving’s faceless visage was unnerving; the steadily trained rifles added to the feeling of helplessness that was threatening to overwhelm him. Another thought passed through his whirling mind: Peter or Diane could appear over the pebble banking at any moment. Tom needed to defuse the tension before there was any more shooting.
On legs that still shook, he rose to his feet.
“Lift your jumper.”
Before Tom could obey, a voice came from behind him.
“Tom? Ceri? Are you okay? What’s happening?”
Tom addressed Irving. “Let me call to him. Tell him to keep back.”
“How many are there?” said Irving.
“Four. Two adults, two children. Though the girl’s sixteen, not really a child—”
“Tom!” Peter’s voice sounded closer.
“Please.”
Irving nodded. He looked back and motioned to one of the crouched men. The man stood and began to circle to his right, maintaining the fifty-yard distance from Tom and Ceri.
“Peter!” Tom called. “Don’t come any closer. Get Diane and the children and go into the hotel.” The armed man had started moving towards the pebbles. Tom had a clear vision of Dusty bounding excitedly up to the man and receiving a bullet to the head. “And, Peter, leave Dusty in the car. Make sure the doors are closed so he can’t get out.”
“Dusty?” said Irving.
“He’s a dog,” said Tom.
“Tom?” came Peter’s voice. “Is Ceri all right?”
“Yes. She’s fine. We’re both fine. All four of you go into the hotel. Do it now, Peter, okay?”
“Okay.” Peter sounded uncertain.
For a few moments nothing, then came the clunks of car doors closing. Tom thought he also heard a muffled bark and hoped that Peter had done what he’d asked.
Irving looked to his right. The armed man had made it to the top of the bank of pebbles and was peering over the ridge, rifle poised. Tom also watched him, holding his breath. He let it out in a deep sigh when the man lifted his left hand, thumb pointing upwards.
“Mr Evans.” Tom looked back at Irving. “As I was saying, please lift
your jumper.”
Tom did as he asked. The weather might have calmed, but the air remained cold and he gasped as he felt the skin on his torso pimpling. Both his and Ceri’s jackets were next to Dusty in the back of the Range Rover.
“Please turn around. Slowly,” said Irving.
Again Tom obeyed.
“Now,” said Irving, when Tom was once more facing him, “pat down your trousers.”
Tom lowered his shirt and jumper. He bent and smoothed down his jeans, showing Irving that there was nothing bulky concealed within.
“Thank you. Please sit as you were.”
Tom lowered himself to the pebbles beside Ceri. She had watched him obey Irving’s commands, bewilderment etched into her features.
“Now, Miss Lewis—” began Irving.
“It’s Mrs Lewis,” said Ceri.
“Mrs Lewis. Please stand and do the same.”
Ceri hesitated and, for a moment, Tom thought she was going to tell Irving where to go. But then she stood, bewilderment replaced by a look of grim determination, and repeated the actions that he had just performed. When she resumed her seat next to him, she was shivering, but this time Tom thought it was from cold, not shock.
“Thank you,” said Irving.
It was difficult to be certain behind that suit, but Tom fancied that the man’s bearing had become more relaxed. The same could not be said for his colleagues. They remained tensely watchful, two rifles trained on him and Ceri, the third held ready by the man on the ridge of pebbles.
“Why did you shoot at me?” asked Ceri.
“We were warning you to keep back,” said Irving. “I am sorry if it frightened you, but you were running and appeared excited. You may not have heeded verbal commands.”
“Commands?” Ceri’s tone dripped scorn. “I’m not in your fucking army.”
Again it was difficult to be certain through the suit, but Irving seemed to straighten. “This is not the army, madam. We are in Her Majesty’s navy. Or, at least. . . .” This time Tom was sure that the shoulders within the suit sagged. “. . . . what’s left of it.”
“But why did you want us to keep back?” Tom knew the answer even as he asked the question. “The Millennium Bug. You’re afraid of catching it.”
“Are any members of your party unwell?” asked Irving. “Sniffles, coughs, colds?”
“Ceri and I both caught the virus,” said Tom. “But we recovered. The same happened to Brianne and Will—they’re the two children.”
“And the two other adults?”
“Ah. That’s where it gets a little complicated.”
* * * * *
George Wallace and Lavinia Cram arrived back in London mid afternoon. Luke returned with them, but did not come to the hotel.
“I just don’t understand it,” raged Wallace. “How could two kids, two drones, outwit us? We saw the girl’s plan to head south to the coast and then west. We went to the cycle shop where they was holed up. They had been there all right and hadn’t long left. The scraps still in the food cans hadn’t had time to dry up. We should have caught up with them within minutes.”
Lavinia was more circumspect.
“They must have heard our engines,” she said. “Changed their minds about going to the coast. Then she kept us out when we tried to find her again. That’s one smart cookie.”
Wallace glanced at her sharply. “Sounds almost as if you admire the little bitch.”
Lavinia shrugged.
Seeing that the gesture only made Wallace madder, Milandra stepped in.
“George, it doesn’t make much difference how they escaped,” she said in what she hoped was a soothing tone. “Fact is, they’re gone. Forget about them. Tomorrow we head for the Beacon. I need you to refocus.”
Wallace glowered and muttered something under his breath.
Milandra turned to Grant.
“Jason, where is the Chosen?”
“She’s been out at the Burning Fields.”
“Again.”
“Yep. I’ve told her to make sure she’s back here this evening so we’re all ready to go in the morning.”
“Okay. Good.” She glanced at Lavinia and Wallace. “You must be tired after two days on the road. I’ve made sure there’s plenty of food ready for you. Go eat. Rest. Be strong again.”
“Cool,” said Lavinia. “I am kinda hungry.”
Wallace grunted.
“You too, Jason,” said Milandra. “I want you in top condition tomorrow.”
Grant grinned. “Hey. I’m always in good shape. But, yes, I’ll go feed myself up. See you bright and early, Keeper.”
Milandra waited until she was alone. Then she stepped over to the sun lamp and switched it on. With a series of clicks, the room became bathed in cold, white light. With a sigh of contentment, Milandra drew up a chair and sat in the full glare of the light. She had done the same thing for a couple of hours after communicating with Ronstadt and replenished the energy she had expended far more efficiently than through eating.
She had also utilised the lamp’s regenerating rays after another exercise she had performed. One more arduous than communicating with Ronstadt. It had left her exhausted, but she had been prepared. Two trays of food stood by the side of the chair and she had scoffed them down while soaking up the lamp’s light. The hotel kitchens were stockpiled; if anyone noticed that such a large amount of food had disappeared, no one commented.
An hour in front of the lamp should suffice now. Then she would be ready for the Beacon.
* * * * *
Colleen found herself relaxed and at ease in Howard’s company. She had not appreciated how much she had missed the companionship of another person, seeing another face, hearing another point of view, until she experienced them all anew.
He had been a G.P., working and living the other side of the Liffey in the Clontarf area of the city. When, in The Quays, he recounted his tale of his wife and children dying in hospital of the Millennium Bug during the first days of the outbreak, Colleen held his sobbing frame and in that moment realised that she had also missed the touch and scent of another human. A warm, breathing one.
She declined his suggestion that she should go to Clontarf with him. He accepted her invitation to stay in Temple Bar.
“I like a drop of the amber stuff myself,” he said with a grin. “What food do you have?”
On learning that she survived on crisps and pork scratchings, he had insisted on returning to his home to fetch as many cans of food as he could carry. Colleen did not offer to accompany him and he did not ask her to. Still reeling from the discovery that she wasn’t the last living human on Earth, she was not yet ready to quit Temple Bar and the sense of security, no matter how superficial, she felt there.
“I circled around the Bar,” he said when he arrived back with a rucksack bulging with cans. “I found a supermarket that hasn’t been looted. The shelves look full.”
Howard also brought a supply of candles with him. Colleen hadn’t bothered looking for any; she could find her way to the whiskey bottles in the dark.
They sat long into the evenings, sipping Bushmills or Jameson’s, telling each other about their lives before the Millennium Bug. His as a partner in a general medical practice; hers as a lecturer in media studies in Trinity College. Although they came from widely differing backgrounds and had moved in social circles that were many miles apart in creeds if not in geography, they found themselves comfortable in each other’s presence. Maybe, Colleen suspected, it helped that Howard had had a daughter roughly her age and so there was no hint of sexual attraction towards her that might result in awkwardness or worse. For her part, she felt purely platonic towards him; for a start, he was the wrong sex.
In his company, her mind that had worked so loose on discovering Sinead lying dead beside her, gradually began to tighten.
“So,” said Howard on the third evening after he had moved in to Temple Bar, “I have a yacht.”
“As indeed you informed me wh
en we first met,” said Colleen. “It’s moored in the marina in Dun Laoghaire, is it not?”
“Aye. And there, I thought, it would have to remain. Ridiculous as it sounds, I was afraid I might be the only survivor. . . . You’re nodding. You thought the same?”
“Yes. I hated the thought.” Colleen glanced down at the glass in her hand. “I had sort of decided to drink myself to death. And then you came along. Now, I still might drink myself to death, but at least I can do it in company.”
Howard smiled, the sort of smile tinged with sadness. “I might join you in that quest,” he said. “But not yet. You see, finding you has moved the goalposts somewhat.”
“How d’you mean?”
He shifted a little as though uncomfortable with what he was about to say. “A few weeks ago, I, er. . . . I heard a voice.”
“‘Stay here. Burn bodies.’ That sort of thing?”
“You heard it too? Thank God! I thought I had gone nuts.”
“Maybe we both have.”
“Maybe. I had considered the possibility of the voice being real. I mean, I heard it inside my head, but what if it came from an external source? Like a radiowave or something.”
Colleen shrugged. “What if it did?”
“Then it would mean that someone must have transmitted the signal or whatever it was. There must be other survivors.” He took a large sip of whiskey. “I didn’t really believe that. Until I met you. You’re proof that there are other survivors.”
“Well, I’m proof that there is one other survivor, though I’d have to agree that it seems likely there will be others, too. We both fell ill; we both pulled through.”
“Precisely. The Millennium Bug wasn’t fatal to us. It’s a near certainty that there will be others throughout the world who also survived it.”
“Hmm.” Colleen drained her glass and stood to fetch a refill. “I must ask,” she said when she had returned with a full glass, “what all this has to do with your yacht?”
“Ah, yes, my yacht. You see, I would dearly like to sail across the Irish Sea to Britain. Take a look to see if we can find other survivors. And, well, I had family in Lincoln. While I’m there, I’d like to be certain. . . .”
“I had family, too,” said Colleen. “In Shannon. They disowned me for moving in with Sinead. Her family did the same. That’s why we came to Dublin.” She looked at Howard and felt her eyes well. “I hope they’re all dead. I don’t need to be certain.”