The Reckoning (Earth Haven Book 3)

by Sam Kates

  Zach nodded.

  “I agree with you,” continued Elliott, “that whatever we’re headed toward is not likely to be good. Yet instead of altering course and making for the Mediterranean, go and hide out on a Greek island or in an Egyptian pyramid, we’re continuing on to what we’re both agreed is most likely danger.”

  “There was something in that voice that makes me want to go anyway.”

  “Again we are in accord. Whatever this danger may be, I feel it is my duty to face it. Maybe there is something I can do to help.” Elliott took a final slug of coffee to drain his mug. He smacked his lips. “That’s better. I have been thinking about what the message might mean and have come to no firm conclusions. You?”

  Zach drained his own mug before answering. “I’ve got no friends. No family. Kept myself away from most everyone for forty years. But now that mankind is greatly diminished, I find that I’m ready to be part of it again.”

  “Well, there’s certainly a lot more room now to stretch and not touch anyone.”

  “I don’t mean that I’m glad most folk died. I’d prefer that they lived and I could stay in my cabin in the woods. But–” he shrugged “–it’s happened.”

  “Do you have any theories as to how it happened? A mutated strain of swine or bird flu, perhaps?”

  An image popped into Zach’s head, as clear as if he was still standing beside his pick-up in front of the hardware store that cold December morning. “I saw something,” he said slowly. “Around the time of the outbreak. A woman. She was dipping her hand into her purse and touching things.”

  “Touching things?”

  “Door handles, handrails, keys on an ATM machine. I followed her into a store. She was picking things up or running her fingers along them. Then she touched my cheek.” Zach raised his hand to his face; he could still recall the warm stroke of her fingers. “The next day, I began coughing.”

  “Do you think she was spreading something? The Millennium Bug?”

  “Dunno. But that’s what I saw.”

  Elliott stared at Zach for a long moment before turning to the control panel and checking the instrument readings. Zach gazed out of the window at the endless expanse of ocean. The sun had appeared and turned the water the deep blue of unwashed denim.

  “Another thing that interests me,” said Elliott, turning back to face Zach, “is the voice itself. Or its source.”

  “Like a radio signal, only our brains acted like the receiver.”

  Again Elliott regarded him with appreciation. “That’s a good analogy. You realise what you just described, don’t you?”

  “Telepathy.”

  “Nan, Sarah and Frank are more persuaded by the idea that it was God’s voice they heard. I’ve not tried to argue otherwise. If that’s what helps them deal with it. Besides, who am I to gainsay them? It might have been God for all I know.”

  It was Zach’s turn to look closely at Elliott. “But you don’t really think that.”

  “Nope.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “So here’s the rub. Whose voice was it, then?”

  “Aliens?” Zach wasn’t being entirely serious, but the smile he had ready died on his lips when Elliott nodded gravely.

  “Thank goodness I’m not the only one who’s going crazy.”

  Chapter Seven

  The first few gulps of coffee hit Tom’s stomach and spread caffeine outwards, startling his nerve-endings into tingling awareness.

  He blinked. “Bloody hell! This stuff could strip paint.”

  Diane came as close as she ever did to grinning. “I did warn you. I like it strong.”

  Tom glanced at Ceri. She was grinning, enjoying watching him suffer.

  “How do you do it?” he asked. “We must have put away three bottles of red between us last night, yet you’re sitting here, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, tucking into tinned tomatoes and—what are they? Frankfurters?—like someone who didn’t touch a drop the night before.” He groaned. “I like red wine, but it doesn’t like me.”

  Ceri bit into a bright pink sausage. “You should get some food inside you. Make you feel better.”

  “I’ll stick to coffee, thanks.”

  Tom felt something bump the outside of his thigh and glanced down. Dusty was nuzzling his leg, politely reminding him that he’d finished his breakfast and needed to step outside to attend to doggy business.

  “Okay, boy. In a minute.” He ruffled the dog’s ears.

  “I’ll take him out,” said Bri. “I could do with some fresh air. I’ll catch up with Colleen and help her find Will.”

  “Thanks,” said Tom. He looked at Howard. “But I don’t think Colleen is too keen on Dusty.”

  “Dogs in general.” Howard nodded at Dusty. “She’s a lot better around that soft thing now, but probably best not to push it.”

  “You go on,” said Tom to Bri. “I’ll bring Dusty out shortly.”

  “Okay,” said Bri.

  Tom watched her go. She still looked washed-out, like an over-thinned watercolour, but her stride was firm as her strength started to return.

  “So, Tom,” said Peter. “The meeting’s going ahead tomorrow?”

  Tom waved his hand to indicate the restaurant area. It was filled with people eating and chatting.

  “They keep asking about what’s happened. About the Millennium Bug and the voice that brought them here. If we don’t tell them what we know soon, there’ll be a riot.”

  “Hmm,” said Peter. “When you tell them what you know, there may be a riot.”

  “Well, they have the right to know. Then they can make an informed decision what to do next.”

  Howard cleared his throat. “Will you lead them, Tom, no matter what they decide?”

  Tom laughed. “Me? Lead them? Absolutely not. I’m only agreeing to lead this meeting because Ceri won’t.”

  Ceri smiled. “You’re the teacher, Tom. Used to projecting your voice.”

  “You may not need to,” said Peter. “There’s a Belgian guy who arrived a few weeks ago. His English is poor, but I have enough French to get by. Turns out he’s an electrician. He’s been playing with the hotel’s PA system. Rigged it up to work off the same circuit that the generators are feeding.”

  “We can hold the meeting in the foyer, then.” Tom took another gulp of coffee and shuddered. “I was anticipating having to pack as many as we could into that conference room downstairs. It’s huge, but would probably only hold two thousand, two and a half tops.” He glanced from the restaurant area out to the main foyer. “Here, people can use the bar, restaurants, reception and shopping areas. They can go up to the higher floors and fill the corridors in front of the balconies that overlook reception. Everyone who wants to come should fit in somewhere and be able to hear what I’m saying, even if not all of them will understand it.”

  Ceri grunted. “I think every group has at least one person who understands English. You’ll just need to allow frequent pauses for them to translate to their friends.”

  “Peter, maybe you can stand up with me and say some of it in French or Spanish or whatever.”

  Tom didn’t miss Peter’s glance away, but before he could say anything Bri appeared on the run.

  “Hey, slow down,” said Howard. “You’re not strong enough to–”

  “Come quick!” Bri just about retained enough breath to get the words out. “It’s Colleen…”

  Howard was already on his feet and running for the door. Tom followed him, Dusty by his side. People turned to stare as he brushed past them.

  Tom made it outside and paused. He heard a cry from the hill in front of the hotel.

  “Help!”

  He couldn’t tell if it was Colleen, but it was definitely a female voice.

  He took off after Howard, who had already reached the narrow road that led up the hill. Dusty ran alongside him; he would not go off on his own without Tom’s say-so and Tom wanted to see what was happening before letting him go.

  H
oward was fit, but Tom had almost thirty years on him and overtook him halfway up the hill. By the time he reached the top, Tom’s thighs and calves were burning.

  Colleen was standing on the road, but her bearing was tense as though ready to run at any moment. She turned to Tom as he ran up.

  “Thank God…” she muttered.

  A man slouched against a wooden fence, next to a closed gate. A big man with lank hair that fell across his eyes. Thick lips curved up in a sardonic smile. The man’s hands were thrust into the pockets of his leather jacket.

  On the other side of the fence, behind the man, stood Will, an uncertain expression on his face. When he noticed Tom and Dusty, he started towards the gate.

  “No, Will!” shouted Colleen. Her voice was shrill, filled with panic.

  Will stopped in confusion. He looked small and utterly frail next to the slouching giant and with his left arm bandaged to his chest.

  “What’s going on, Col?” asked Tom.

  At that moment, a wheezing Howard reached them.

  “Aw, shit…” Tom heard him mutter.

  “Col?” said Tom.

  She pointed briefly, almost contemptuously, at the stranger.

  “He tried to rape me in Dublin. Dermot Ward; also known as Clint.”

  The man straightened. A low growl began in Dusty’s throat. Tom reached down and stroked him briefly on the head. Dusty stopped growling, but he remained tense, ready to spring to Tom’s defence if needed.

  “Yes, my name’s Dermot,” said the man in a soft Irish accent. His smile grew wider. He possessed extraordinarily fleshy lips. “Yes, I do sometimes go by the nickname Clint.” He shrugged. “A man can’t help the nickname his friends give him. If the shoe fits…”

  “And the rape?”

  Dermot took his hands from his pockets and spread them disarmingly. They were big hands; club-like.

  “Rape’s a strong word. Easy to allege. Hard to disprove.”

  “I saw you,” said Howard. He was regarding Dermot with undisguised distaste.

  “What did you see, old man, while you were skulking away in the shadows? Me and the beaut there was just getting friendly.”

  Colleen snorted.

  More heavy breathing could be heard as Ceri arrived. She took one look at the scene and moved towards the fenced enclosure.

  “Ceri, wait!”

  Tom tried to grab her arm as she went past, but she brushed his hand away. Ignoring the hulking Irishman, she strode to the gate. Holding it open, she beckoned to Will, who hurried forward. She hooked her arm around Will’s neck, avoiding his injured shoulder, and led him back to the others. She shot Tom a glance of reproach.

  “Colleen,” said Tom. “Has he done anything to you now? Or to Will?”

  She shook her head. “He was by the fence talking to Will when I arrived. He hasn’t moved from there.”

  “Why were you calling for help?”

  “Oh, I was shocked to see him. I panicked. He didn’t do anything. Not yet.”

  “So we’re all friends here?” Dermot took a step forward and the growl came again from Dusty’s throat. He glanced at the dog and Tom saw the black look that momentarily clouded the big man’s features. It was a look that told Tom that Dusty had made an enemy.

  “Stay back, please,” he said. “From what I’ve heard about you from Colleen and Howard, friends is something we’re never likely to be.”

  Dermot’s fleshy features broke into an open scowl. He reached behind him. Tom felt his hands curl into fists and his stomach turned over; he could not remember the last time he had been involved in a fistfight—when he wore short trousers and had scabbed knees, most probably. Then Dermot seemed to change his mind for he brought his hand back again, empty, and thrust it into his jacket pocket. His gaze was directed at Tom.

  “Trust me,” Dermot said in his soft voice, “you’d prefer to be my friend than my enemy.”

  Tom stared back for a moment, not out of bravado but because the man possessed an intensity from which it was difficult to tear away. He felt like a rabbit encountering a snake.

  Dermot’s scowl disappeared. The faintly sardonic smile returned.

  Tom’s hands relaxed and his stomach settled. He held the man’s gaze for a moment longer, trying (but, he suspected, hopelessly failing) to warn him off.

  “Come on, guys,” he said, turning away. “Let’s get back. Bri will be worried about Will.”

  She was waiting at the foot of the hill with Peter and Diane, looking pale and anxious. As they approached the bottom, she darted forward.

  “Is everything all right? Will, are you okay?”

  Shrugging off Ceri’s arm, Will trotted to meet her. “I’m fine, Bri. I was pretending to play crazy golf and talking to a giant.”

  Tom met Ceri’s gaze. It looked as troubled as Tom felt.

  * * * * * * *

  The last of the spoiled bedding and mattresses had been lugged to the cliff edge by the remaining drones and tossed over, flapping to the sand and rocks below. From there, they were piled onto the pyre, kept smouldering with mounds of seaweed.

  George Wallace roamed the hotel, checking every room for contaminated materials that might have been overlooked. He found none. Before leaving each room, he closed the open windows. All traces of the smell of stale decomposition had been scoured clean by the spring breezes. It would be good to be able to sit without draughts howling down the stairs and through cracks in the doors. He had hardly removed his thick winter coat since they arrived at this hotel; had barely been warm in all the time they had been on this goddamned island.

  Time. Not a concept that he and his kind viewed in the same way as humans. Drones, he corrected himself. Then hesitated.

  When their frontal lobes hadn’t been fried by volts of electrical current, humans were capable of producing stunning artistic works and other wonders. Wallace had often sat mesmerised in front of a movie or marvelled at the depth of imagination and skill portrayed in a gallery exhibition. His admiration of human art might yet lead him to travelling Europe—and, maybe, beyond—scouring the galleries of London, Paris, Florence, Rome, Milan, collecting his favourite pieces (he would need a truck, a large truck) with which to surround himself in his new home when he eventually found a place to settle.

  There were other matters to deal with first. The Great Coming. Then the Commune. Every intellect, those already here on Earth Haven and those now travelling through the middle reaches of Sol’s system, would join as one to eradicate the surviving humans.

  An image intruded on his thoughts.

  The boy stepping into his line of sight just as his finger tightened on the trigger to the point of no return.

  Wallace pushed the image away.

  After the Commune had taken place, he would have to deal with the traitor, and that might prove no easy task. As Milandra had noted, Ronstadt had an entire planet in which to hide out.

  The small, pale body crumpling to the ground.

  He shook his head, fiercely, like someone trying to dislodge a swarm of bees from his face. The scene at the Beacon where he’d inadvertently shot the human—a boy no bigger than a grizzly cub—kept popping unbidden into his mind with increasing frequency. Especially during the nights as he sat alone in long contemplation.

  Before becoming one of the Keeper’s Deputies, George Wallace had been an adventurer, travelling the world in search of excitement and objects of beauty, to participate in the former and appreciate the latter. It was this more aesthetic pleasure that he kept hidden. The other Deputies would never have suspected that behind the rough-and-ready exterior lay a connoisseur of art.

  Of human art.

  The Chosen, in particular, would scoff at him. Wallace considered for a moment and found that he no longer much cared what the Chosen, or anyone else for that matter, thought about him. If he was displaying remarkably human qualities of individuality, he no longer cared about that, either.

  He completed his tour of the hotel and closed the w
indow in the last guest room. The drones’ work was done. Simone and Lavinia could do what they wanted with them now.

  Since the remaining fifteen drones were no longer capable of experiencing free will or acting upon it, Wallace felt not a twinge of regret at the untimely end to which they would now undoubtedly come.

  He wished he still felt the same way about humanity as a whole, but was not yet willing to face the possibility that his feelings on that score might be turning in a different direction. An unexpected and dangerous direction.

  * * * * * * *

  “I have to leave,” said Colleen. “I have no choice.”

  She looked round at the faces assembled in the family suite: Howard, Tom, Ceri, Bri and Will. Dusty was also there, lying with head resting on paws like a canine sphinx. Colleen was growing used to his presence, though would never feel truly comfortable around him. It wasn’t that she had a phobia of dogs—not quite a phobia. More a deep-seated fear driven by witnessing a childhood friend bitten, accidentally, on the arm when trying to separate two fighting dogs. After a few stitches and a tetanus shot, her friend had been fine, barely a mark to show for the incident months later, but it had left a deeper psychological scar on Colleen.

  Howard nodded. “I’m going with you.”

  “There’s always a choice,” said Ceri. “Accuse him. Let him answer for what he did.”

  “To what end?” asked Colleen. “Believe me, Ceri, I’ve thought about what would happen if Dermot showed up here. I could accuse him of attempted rape, to be sure, but it comes down to his word against mine.” She glanced at Howard and laid a hand on his arm. “He was right what he said earlier. You didn’t see anything. At least, not enough. And he’s sly. He’ll come up with some feasible excuse for grabbing me in the dark.” She sighed. “Even if people did believe me, what then? We have no police, no courts, no punishments or deterrents. We can’t lock him up. What are we going to do…” she glanced at Will before turning her face away from him and mouthing the next words “… kill him?” She shook her head firmly. “I’m sure there are people here who would be willing to lynch him on my word, even if only to guard against any potential threat he poses. But, for all that he’s a nasty piece of work, I don’t want that on my conscience.”