by Sam Kates
Levente laughed and released her hand.
“Cold, igen?”
“Yes.” Despite the shock at how icy the water felt—her legs were already turning numb—Aletta was so relieved to be out of the boat that she returned the man’s grin.
He glanced back up and she followed his gaze. A lined face looked down at them. Levente held up his hand. Before the Italian could grasp it, Aletta had a thought.
“One moment.” She called to the other woman. “Water! Get water! Er… acqua!”
The woman frowned, then nodded.
She disappeared, only to reappear within moments holding the plastic packaging containing the remaining three bottles of water. She leaned forward and handed the bottles to Aletta, who took them in her left hand and held out her right to help the woman down.
Leaning precariously over the side of the boat, the Italian grabbed both Aletta’s and Levente’s proffered hands, but instead of lifting her legs over, she continued to slide forward so that she exited the boat head first.
A large wave hit Aletta, splashing up her stomach, and she took an involuntary step back on soft, shifting shingle. The Italian woman kept coming, gaining momentum as her legs slipped over the gunwale.
“Szar!” exclaimed Levente as he struggled to keep his feet.
The next moment, Aletta found herself on her back in icy water, a rather plump Italian woman on top of her. Another wave broke, this time over Aletta’s head. Her world turned green, filled with the muffled, bubbling sounds of rushing water.
The weight lifted from her and she struggled to her feet, receiving another faceful in the process. She spluttered and spat, grimacing at the briny taste in her mouth.
The sound of hearty laughter made her glance at Levente, who clearly found the sight of her greatly amusing. The Italian woman stood next to him. She was short and the sea came up to her waist, yet her chest and shoulders looked to be dry. Using Aletta as a landing mat had apparently saved her from a ducking.
“Mi dispiace,” said the woman and bowed her head gravely.
“It’s okay,” said Aletta and found that she meant it. Despite being soaked to the skin, it felt so good to be out of that wretched boat that nothing could dampen her spirits. “But let us go. I’m cold.”
She turned and started wading to shore. The waves tried to knock her to her knees, but she swayed with them and was able to avoid going back under. As she stepped beyond the last wave, she stooped and picked up the bottles of water, still in their packaging, which had ridden the waves ashore. She could hear the Hungarian, still chortling, and the Italian woman splashing behind her.
The Pole and the Croatian had walked along the narrow strip of shingle to the left, but were returning, shaking their heads.
“No good,” said the Pole. He pointed behind him. “Dover that way, but no good. Cliffs too high. Sea too fast.”
Aletta shivered. The sun felt warm on her head but it would take hours to dry her sodden clothes. She needed fresh ones.
She looked to the right. A high, rocky promontory blocked the view so that she could not tell what was immediately beyond it. Farther away, a white line suggested that the cliffs continued to provide a distant barrier to them reaching dry land.
“We need to get past that,” she said, pointing to the promontory, “and hope there are no cliffs the other side. We must be quick.”
The waves were already breaking at the foot of the outcrop. The thin stretch of shingle that led to it was growing thinner by the minute.
“Come, then,” said the Pole.
He strode in that direction, the Croatian close on his heels. The Italian woman let loose a stream of what sounded from the tone like invective, but fell into step behind Aletta. Levente brought up the rear.
The sea was lapping at their feet by the time they reached the base of the promontory. When it shifted under the weight of inrushing water, the shingle crackled like breakfast cereal. The waves striking the foot of the outcrop boomed as they hit with increasing force.
The Pole stopped. Spray soaked him as he regarded the foaming rocks.
“Water too strong,” he said solemnly. He nodded out to sea. “We must go there. Make a… a rope, with our hands.”
“A rope?” said Aletta. “Ah. A chain.”
He nodded. “Yes. A chain.” He held out his left hand to Aletta. She took it in her right. “You next,” he said, looking at the Croatian. “Then you.” He nodded at the Italian woman, who muttered something under her breath. He turned to Levente. “You last.”
The Hungarian shrugged, but took hold of the Italian woman’s left hand with his right. Despite her struggle with English, she seemed to understand the plan and did not object when her other hand was grasped by the Croatian. He also took hold of Aletta’s left hand.
The Pole led them back into the water. Although Aletta’s clothing was already soaked through, she gasped again at the cold. Waves were coming in at a lick and dashed against her legs. If she hadn’t such a tight grip on the men’s hands, she would have been knocked over.
When the water was to his waist, the Pole turned to face the shore and began to crab sideways. Aletta followed, presenting her back to the force of the waves. Once or twice they lifted her off her feet, but she rode the swell and maintained her death-like grip on the hands, helping her to keep her balance. In this way, the five people moved slowly but steadily past the promontory.
The shoreline immediately the other side came into view. Aletta could see white cliffs rising sharply away far to the right, but in front of them the outcrop shrank inland to tree-lined slopes. Only a hundred yards or so away, sunlight glinted off the windows of a building standing a short walk beyond a sandy stretch of beach. Aletta breathed a sigh of relief.
The force of the waves subsided as they cleared the outcrop and the going became easier. The Pole stopped moving sideways and headed for the shore. When the water came up to his knees, he let go of Aletta’s hand. Aletta did the same with the Croatian’s hand and stumbled ashore unaided. She waited until she was clear of the reach of waves before sinking to her knees in the sand.
A sleepless night punctuated by bouts of sickness, two icy soakings and struggling through a racing tide had left her feeling exhausted. She wasn’t the only one. The Italian woman collapsed to the sand next to her with a long sigh.
“Ah, dry land good, igen?” Levente smiled down at her.
Aletta nodded. Despite the warmth of the sun on her head and the sand beneath her, her teeth were chattering uncontrollably.
“Come,” said Levente. He pointed up the beach where the Pole and the Croatian were making for the building. He strode away after them.
Aletta dragged herself to her feet. The Italian woman made no move to follow suit. She knelt in the sand, head bowed to her chest, uttering low moans. The woollen skirt that she wore hung sodden and heavy in the sand about her.
“Let’s go,” said Aletta, holding out a hand. The Italian continued to look down and moan. Aletta pushed her gently on the shoulder. “Come on. We need to find dry clothes. And food. Er, cibo?”
The woman glanced up. “Cibo? Si!” She grasped Aletta’s hand.
With the last of her strength, Aletta hauled the older woman to her feet. Still clutching hands, they stumbled across the sand in the men’s wake.
The building, a two-storey construction with a flat roof, turned out to be a tavern. The Coastguard had been abandoned by its owners and securely locked. The men picked up a wooden bench. With a roar of encouragement from Levente, they used it to ram through a ground floor window that gave into a bar. The interior was blessedly free of the stink of stale corruption. Aletta barely noticed the musty smell of non-habitation.
In the living quarters they found a motley collection of clothes about which it could be said they were dry if not well-fitting. They abandoned their sopping clothes; the new ones would do until they reached Dover.
Wrapping herself in dry garments helped Aletta begin to warm up. A few t
ots of brandy from the well-stocked bar completed the job. They also found enough unspoiled food in the pub kitchen to fill their stomachs, no easy task given that their stomachs were so empty.
The question of transport was easily and unexpectedly solved. In a car park next to The Coastguard they found four cars with their keys still in the ignition. Scattered around the cars or blown into nearby trees by the wind were various items of clothing. Of the clothing’s or vehicles’ former owners there was no sign.
“They took a last walk,” said Levente, nodding out to sea.
Aletta swallowed. She scanned the shoreline—the tide was completely in now—and could see no hump in the sand that might be a washed-up corpse, but his words rang true. On her journey south along the Baltic coast, she had spied a number of pathetic bundles of clothing left at the water’s edge. The first one had a note on top wrapped in a plastic bag and weighted down with a stone. She picked it up and read it. Later, when she had stopped shaking, she replaced it and hadn’t the stomach to approach any other bundles that she came across.
The cars’ batteries were dead, but the group possessed enough manpower to get two of them rolling and bump start them.
Within three hours of the boat beaching, they were driving into a silent and deserted Dover on a sunny spring lunchtime. There they paused to change into brand new, well-fitting outfits.
Before climbing back into the car, the Pole pointed towards the sea. “There is the port,” he said. He pointed inland. “That way is London.”
“That is where we are going?” asked Aletta.
“Of course,” he answered. “Where else?”
Had they driven to the port, they might have noticed a roughly printed poster affixed to the port entrance. Despite being protected by a plastic wallet, damp had found its way onto the paper, causing the ink to run. Nevertheless, the printing remained legible. It read:
To anyone arriving from the continent: avoid London! Follow the M4 motorway west. AVOID LONDON!
* * * * * * *
Milandra stepped outside for the first time in weeks. A fresh breeze whipping off the Atlantic made her gasp. Spring sunlight warmed her head. She could sense her cells greedily lap it up like weaning kittens. It had been more than five months since she had felt the Florida sun on her shoulders; the Cornish sun wasn’t as warm, nor as energising, but welcome nonetheless.
She turned her face towards it and sighed.
Weeks she had spent shut away indoors, trawling the mammoth vault of her people’s memories, only emerging long enough to eat. Day upon day of fruitless hunting had not daunted her. She knew with a certainty that she could not explain that what she was seeking was there to be found. Hidden away, disguised, not meant to be discovered, although she did not know why.
She could do with a few hours in sunlight to recharge her batteries. A walk to exercise her underused muscles would also do her good.
Milandra strolled down the hill towards the sea. Jason Grant found her a few hours later, sitting on a stone bench watching the grey waves roll in, listening to the gulls wheel and cry. The sun had gone behind scudding clouds, but she could still feel its heat; her cells had opened up like spring buds, maximising their exposure to the invigorating rays.
Grant was capable of stepping lightly, but he made no effort to mask his approach. She turned her head and smiled up at him.
“Here you are,” he said. “I saw the door to the cottage was open. When I couldn’t find you inside, I guessed I’d find you watching the ocean. Been enjoying the sunlight?”
“Mm. It’s warmed up around here since I locked myself away.”
“You’ve been in there for near a month. And, yep, the weather’s improved, though still not exactly Florida. Now, if only the darned rain would stay away…”
They lapsed into a few moments’ silence. Milandra turned her head to watch the waves. The sun came back out, performing the alchemist’s trick of turning leaden sea to molten gold.
Milandra could sense the curiosity in her right-hand man. Hardly surprising. She had shut herself away with orders not to be disturbed and had given Grant only the tersest hint why.
“Come, Jason, sit by me.” Milandra patted the bench next to her and waited until he had settled himself. “Where are the other Deputies?”
“They’ve gone on ahead as planned. They’ve taken the drones to clear the hotel of any, er, undesirable materials.”
“Were they curious about what I was up to?”
“Simone in particular was suspicious. She thought I was in on it, but I let her probe—just a little—and she could see I was as clueless as them.”
“You let her probe you? Risky.”
“Not really. I know how to lock away memories so that no one, not even the Chosen, will see.” He grunted. “Lavinia didn’t say much, as usual. Wallace bellyached as he does, though not as much as I was expecting him to. He’s been in a strange mood since we activated the Beacon.”
“Is Simone still calling him Raccoon?”
“Yep. So is Lavinia. His black eyes had healed by the time you placed yourself in isolation, but the nickname seems to have stuck. Again strangely, it doesn’t seem to irritate him as much as you’d expect.”
Milandra was silent for a moment. Then she said quietly, “The boy survived.”
“He did?”
“I contacted Ronstadt a couple of weeks ago. The bullet from George’s gun entered high to the left of his chest and exited just below his shoulder blade. Extensive soft tissue damage, but no major organs nicked. He’ll probably never regain full use of his arm, but he’s a lucky kid. As it was, he nearly died through shock and blood loss.”
“The doctor you found saved him?”
“With Diane Heidler’s help. She has experience as a nurse in field hospitals in the last world war.”
“Lucky kid indeed. Wallace would be relieved to know he pulled through, although we can hardly tell him.”
“Not without revealing where our sympathies lie.” Milandra chuckled. “Seems George isn’t such a stony-hearted bastard as he’d have us believe.”
“What about the girl?”
“Heidler, again. Under her direction, the doctor removed a blood clot from behind her skull. It apparently took a lot of persuasion to get him to attempt the procedure.”
“And the girl’s abilities?”
“They seem to remain intact. She helped heal the drone I saw escape at Stonehenge.”
“The one who gave Wallace one of his black eyes?”
“Yes. The damage caused by the electrical treatment had begun to reverse itself. He’s still young and not fully developed physically. She helped the process along and the drone—should probably stop calling him that—is near to normal.”
Grant gave a low whistle.
“What about Rod?” asked Milandra. “Has he taken them to the hotel in the bus?”
“Yep. And his fishing poles. He’s found a new love in his life. Says he’s going to go somewhere warm when all this is over and live off freshly caught fish to the end of his days.”
They lapsed into further silence. The sun rode high in the sky. Milandra sighed with pleasure. She glanced at Grant.
“I suppose you’re curious as to what I’ve been doing shut away on my own for weeks.”
He shrugged. “Figured you’d tell me when you’re good and ready.”
“Do you remember that book you suggested I read about a house whose inner dimensions were greater than its outer? Can’t remember what it was called. House of something.”
“House of Leaves.”
“That’s the one. It freaked me out a little.”
“Me, too. If I recall correctly, I recommended Imajica as well. I wanted you to read them as good examples of how astonishing human imagination can be.” Grant turned his head to look at her, eyebrows raised. “What does it have to do with anything?”
“In House of Leaves, they find a stairwell that they follow down and it seems to have no end. I think t
here were corridors leading off at each landing.”
Grant nodded.
“Well,” continued Milandra, “that’s what our group memory is like. An endless stairwell with an endless number of corridors leading off. Each corridor is jammed full of memories and experiences that have accumulated for over sixty million years. That’s what I’ve been doing for the last month. Searching those endless corridors.”
“Searching. For what?”
“This will sound a little kooky, but I’m not sure what I’m looking for, other than I’ll know when I find it. And I’m close. I’ve found the memory of the ancients leaving Earth Home. Their ship was attacked by eight smaller craft. I think a missile sheared off a propulsion unit that would have been used to slow descent when it arrived at its destination.”
“And without that the ship crashed.” Grant breathed out deeply. “Whose memory was it?”
“Huh!” Milandra gave a start. “D’you know, I hadn’t thought of that. Hmm. There are other memories hidden away where I found that one. Maybe when I view them I’ll discover through whose eyes I am looking.”
She reached out and patted Grant’s knee.
“Thank you, Jason. As always, your fresh way of looking at things has taught me there are other perspectives that I need to consider. We’ll talk some more in a few days.”
Grant nodded. Again Milandra was struck by how unselfish he could be. If he had further questions churning around in his mind—and he did; she knew him too well—then he kept them to himself.
She stood and stretched. “My goodness, that sun has done these old bones a heap of good. Would you do me one last favour and help me take more food to the cottage? There’s not much left and I’ve a feeling I’ll need plenty of hearty meals to help me complete my search.”
“Sure.” Grant stood. He towered a good six inches or more above Milandra. “The neighbouring cottage has been stockpiled so we won’t need to haul it far. When next you’re ready to come out, return here. I won’t be far away and I’ll come.”