by Sam Kates
“Okay,” said Tom. “Stay and we’ll protect you.”
Colleen gave him a sad smile. “That’s sweet of you to offer, but it won’t work. Didn’t I say he was sly? He’ll bide his time. You can’t watch me every minute. Nor would I want you to. You’ve that meeting to think about and I’ve a feeling there’ll be a lot going on after that. And aren’t we heading for…” again she hesitated and mouthed the word so Will couldn’t see “… oblivion? Who’s going to give a damn about an attempted rape accusation in this climate? Or care whether he succeeds next time? And there will be a next time.” She glanced again at Howard. “We were only with him a short while but we are both agreed: he’s the type to hold a grudge and not rest until he’s repaid it.”
Howard nodded. “He’s a fantasist and, I suspect, a sociopath who was adept at hiding his true nature in the pre-viral world. Now–” Howard shrugged “–now he doesn’t feel any need to remain in disguise.”
Ceri cleared her throat. “I don’t want you to go; I understand why you feel you must. But where will you go?”
“Well,” said Howard, “I had family just outside Lincoln. I’d like to go there to confirm… you know.”
Ceri nodded. “And then?”
Howard shrugged.
“I’ve never been to Britain,” said Colleen. “I’d like, maybe, to see a little of it before… before whatever is going to happen happens.”
For a moment there was silence. Then Tom asked, “Has anyone seen Peter?”
“Not seen him or Diane since breakfast,” said Ceri.
Tom frowned. “He’s been a little quiet these past few days.”
“He’s sad,” said Bri. “So’s Diane.”
Tom turned to her. “How do you know?”
“I can sort of sense it,” said Bri.
“They think the spacemen will kill us,” added Will. He said it matter-of-factly and Colleen, not for the first time, felt a surge of affection for this pale boy.
She nudged Howard with her elbow. He cleared his throat.
“There is one question to decide,” he said. Colleen followed his gaze. So, too, did Tom and Ceri. Bri and Will looked back at them, Bri’s eyes widening slightly. “Who is coming with us?”
“Hold on,” said Bri. “There might be another way.”
* * * * * * *
As they approached the long driveway that led to the hotel, Levente stopped the car and insisted that they swap places. Aletta did not demur; it made sense. The Hungarian’s driving skills were perfectly adequate, but with her rallying experience, she would be better at extracting them from a tight corner quickly.
She adjusted the driver’s seat to accommodate her longer legs and gunned the engine. Nothing like the roar of a souped-up rally car engine, but it would have to do.
Levente took the passenger seat, grimly clutching one of the assault rifles. He lowered the window and rested his arms on the sill with the rifle barrel poking outside. That was another thing: if it came down to shooting someone, Aletta thought Levente less likely to hesitate than she.
“Okay?” she said.
“Okay.”
Aletta pulled the car forward and proceeded cautiously up the drive. Before the hotel came into sight, she stopped. A man was walking down the hill towards them. Levente gripped the gun tighter. He spoke to her in a low, urgent voice from the side of his mouth.
“If you feel anything…” He broke off to tap at his forehead before replacing his hand on the rifle grip. “Up here. Anything. Get us away.”
Aletta didn’t need to be told. She placed the gear shift in reverse and held the car on the footbrake, clutch depressed, ready to spring backwards at the first sign of anything untoward.
The man—rough-shaven, somewhere in his forties—continued down the driveway. He drew closer to Levente’s open window and slowed his pace as he noticed the rifle. Before drawing level, he held out his hands palms down to show them he wasn’t carrying anything. He stopped a few feet from the car and leaned forward to bring his face to their level.
“Er, hello,” he said.
Levente nodded. He did not raise the barrel to point the rifle directly at the man, but his state of readiness to use the weapon was obvious to all.
Without releasing her grip on the steering wheel, Aletta leaned to her left a little so she could see the man’s face. He looked back at her warily.
“Hello,” she said. “My name is Aletta. This is Levente.”
The man nodded. “I am Pascal. Excuse, please. My English is not perfect.”
“Francais?”
The man nodded again.
“I am from Sweden. Levente is from Hungary.”
“Please,” said Pascal. “The gun. Not necessary.”
Aletta glanced at Levente. He continued to grip the rifle as though to release it would be to let go of his sanity. “I feel nothing,” she said to him in a low tone. He shook his head, the briefest motion. She looked back at the Frenchman. “You must excuse us. We were in London. We met people, bad people. Our travelling companions… they killed one. Captured the others.”
Pascal’s eyes grew rounder at the mention of London. “Mon Dieu. Did you not see the signs?”
Aletta shook her head. “Not until it was too late. The bad people—who are they?”
“I do not know. A big meeting. Soon. To explain.”
“Are there bad people here?”
“Non. Normal people here. Sad people. They come from Francais, Belgique, all over. America, too.”
Levente addressed the Frenchman for the first time. “America?”
“Oui.” He pointed up the hill in the direction from which he’d come. “Hotel there. Lots of people. Food. Drink. No rooms, all full.” He waved one arm more vaguely. “But lots of empty houses.” He looked again at the rifle. “No gun in hotel.”
Aletta felt herself relax, just a little. She smiled at the Frenchman. He returned it, a touch uncertainly.
“Merci, monsieur,” she said.
Pascal straightened and continued on his way down the hill. Only then did Levente relax his grip on the rifle. He turned to her and let out his breath in a sour sigh.
“It seems okay,” said Aletta.
The Hungarian nodded. “But still we be careful.”
She shifted the car into first and got it moving up the hill. For the first time since they had fled London, she felt that things really might be okay. For now, at least.
Chapter Eight
Rainwater was collected in tubs and butts, and streams ran through the grounds of the Celtic Manor. Although nobody had attempted to lay down formal rules that said people must use water for flushing toilets and personal hygiene, it was understood that those staying at the hotel would avail themselves of these basic amenities to make life more pleasant for everyone.
Bri wrinkled her nose. Judging from the odours drifting from some of the rooms and from some people she passed on the stairs, not everyone was bothering to fetch water or utilise the deodorants and other toiletries freely obtainable in the hotel shops and storerooms.
She trod the hotel corridor with a heavy heart. She sensed that the period of calm they had enjoyed since arriving here, of feeling if not safe then at least civilised, was drawing to an abrupt end. Uncertainty and fear were striving to re-establish themselves as the norm.
The last thing Bri wanted now was for their small group to split apart. For this reason, she had come up with an idea that she believed might work.
“We could ask Peter and Diane to implant a compulsion into this Dermot’s mind that he needs to leave here and go far away, never to return,” she suggested.
“Even better, to go and jump off a cliff,” said Ceri.
“That probably won’t work,” said Tom. “I don’t think only two of them acting together would be strong enough to get him to do something that’s completely contrary to his best interests. Making him leave, however, that has to be worth a try.”
Everyone had agreed that it was, inde
ed, worth trying if Peter and Diane were willing. If not, or if it was attempted and didn’t work, they were also all in accord that Bri and Will should accompany Colleen and Howard to Lincoln.
Ceri had at first railed, but backed down when it was pointed out that it might be better that the patients stick with their doctor, and that the hotel might not be the calmest place for rest and recuperation in the coming days.
To their credit, and so avoiding Bri demonstrating her stubborn streak—it had begun to resurface as her strength returned—the adults did not try to insist that she and Will go, but left the final decision to them. Bri had taken Will into the adjoining room. In answer to her question, the boy shrugged.
“I want to go wherever you go, Bri,” he said.
“Oh, great. In other words, I have to decide on my own.” She thought for a few moments. “Okay. I can see the sense in us going with Howard. He is a doctor and saved both of our lives. We’re a lot better, but we’re still weak and our wounds haven’t yet healed. Especially yours, Will. It would be a good idea to be with him when our bandages come off. And there’s still the risk of infection. Howard knows what we need to take to guard against it and what antibiotics we’d need if we did get infected.” She blew out heavily between pursed lips. “Oh, shit, I think we’ll have to go, but I’m really not sure.”
She paused in case Will had anything useful to add. He said nothing, just gazed at her trustingly. He would go along, she knew, with whatever she decided. Sometimes, she hated that he held such faith in her. So far all this had got him was shot.
In the end, she had agreed that if Colleen and Howard needed to leave, they would accompany them upon one condition: that she and Will be either returned to the Celtic Manor or not obstructed from making their own way back at any time they wished.
Colleen didn’t hesitate in agreeing; Howard a little more reluctantly and only after Bri assured him they would heed any medical advice he gave them.
She was now seeking out Peter and Diane to ask them to accompany her to where the others awaited so that her idea could be put to them. It was Diane’s room she came to first. After receiving no response to her knock, she tried the door. It was unlocked and she went in.
The bed was neatly made and there was no sign of any personal belongings. That did not strike Bri as strange; she hadn’t noticed that Diane had any personal belongings.
She went back into the corridor and walked on to Peter’s room. She hoped she would find him alone since there was something else that she wanted to mention to him.
Back in Salisbury, when Howard had eventually been persuaded by Peter and Diane to operate on Bri, the question of anaesthesia had arisen. It was vital that Bri lie absolutely still during the procedure, yet neither Howard nor Diane had sufficient knowledge of anaesthetics to risk placing her under. Peter had come up with the solution, one that had worked perfectly.
Bri lay on her back on the operating table, her forehead shaved and doused in iodine that made her skin tingle. Peter sat next to her and gripped her hand.
“You must reach out,” he said, staring into her eyes, “and enter my mind. I’ll let you in and you must submit to my will so that when what’s happening to your body makes you want to return to it, I should be able to hang onto you. It’s essential that you submit your will to mine. I sense that you’re otherwise too strong for me to hold, even with that blood clot pressing against your brain. Now, come to me…”
As she had done when helping Will’s and Joe’s minds repair themselves, Bri let her intellect slip free and flow into Peter’s head. If she’d retained use of her mouth, she would have gasped at the vast canvas of colour that she met, from a swirling kaleidoscope of primary colours to swathes of vibrant greens and pulsing purples. She allowed herself to sink deeper, to let the colours wash over her. When the tug came, trying to yank her mind back to where it belonged, Peter’s psyche held hers tightly. Whilst in its clutches, Bri had been helpless not to see things Peter might have preferred to keep private.
Later, when she had returned to her own body, the blood clot removed from beneath her forehead, she had fallen into a deep, sedative-induced sleep. Since then, she had never been alone with Peter to ask him about what she’d seen deep within his innermost thoughts.
Now. I’ll ask him now.
She knocked and tried the door in the same motion. It opened and she walked in to a room in similar condition to Diane’s: bed made, no mess, no sign of personal belongings. Frowning, Bri walked to the other side of the bed. On the bedside table she noticed the envelope.
Sealed, three words neatly printed on the front: Tom and Ceri.
Minutes later in the family suite, she handed the envelope to Tom. He opened it, removed the single sheet of paper and read aloud the words printed on it.
My dear friends
By the time you read this, Diane and I will have left the Celtic Manor and South Wales. I am sorry to have departed without saying goodbye, but you’d have tried to persuade us to stay and, I confess, I would have been tempted. But there is much to risk by us staying; little to gain.
Over the past weeks, I have been chatting to people and listening to their speculation. Remember, I can speak many European languages. And I have heard similar attitudes prevailing among the Americans.
People are looking for answers. When they find them, they will want to strike back in any way they can to cover their hurt, avenge their dead loved ones, prolong their survival… or merely to do something but sit around waiting for more calamity to befall them.
Diane and I would present easy and obvious targets. Even those who don’t believe the story Tom must tell them will not balk when the mob turns against us. And turn it shall. We will be seen to represent your enemy and will be torn apart.
Believe me when I say that I don’t blame people for the way they are feeling. I know that you, Tom and Ceri, have experienced the same emotions. Brianne and Will, Howard and Colleen, too. Pain, dread, loss, bewilderment, despair. Hardly surprising after what you have endured at the hands of my people.
‘My people’—I sometimes feel that I am more human than not. My loyalty to my kind has become overwhelmed by my love for humanity.
We have done all we can to help you directly. There may be other, indirect assistance and we are going to see what we can do to provide it.
I will not say much by way of advice. I fear that any counsel I can offer will be crushed beneath the will of the majority. A raging majority, too blinded by its own agony to listen to reason above the need to smash and kill.
Mankind must make its own choices from here on in, for good or ill. I wish it well.
Megan had a favourite Welsh hymn: Calon Lan. As you probably know, it means ‘Pure Heart’. Be of pure heart, my friends. I suspect it may be necessary to demonstrate it before the end.
Peter.
Tom finished reading and stared down at the sheet of paper. Bri felt tears prickling her eyes and blinked them away. She looked at Ceri, who had grown ashen. Will walked quietly to Bri’s side and she placed an arm around his uninjured shoulder. Colleen and Howard grasped hands.
At last Tom looked around at them, his expression grim.
“This changes nothing,” he said. Bri had never heard him speak with such quiet determination. “You four must still leave for your own safety.” He looked at Ceri. “You and I can handle the meeting.”
Ceri took a deep breath and her features took on some of Tom’s fortitude. She nodded. “Course we can.”
Tears once more welled in Bri’s eyes. This time she was powerless to hold them back.
* * * * * * *
Explosions blew trees to matchwood and buildings to tumbling blocks of stone. The jungles burned, driving winged creatures skywards in a valiant effort to flee the scorching updraughts. Most fell back in flames.
Under the percussive forces unleashed onto it, the ground rippled, toppling towers and monoliths. Land-based creatures fled, their terrified calls adding to the mayhem,
but there was no refuge. Increasingly powerful artillery met with ever-more-violent counter strikes in a desperate bid to gain supremacy.
Milandra flew above the carnage. A glimpse of burnished armour told her that she was in the memory of the same person, the one she believed to be Sivatra. The flying machine the woman travelled in was different from the one she had flown in during an earlier memory. This craft flew like a dragonfly, darting from side to side through the air to avoid the storm of missiles. Sivatra was pressed deep into the body-moulding seat, held tightly in place by secured straps. Three others—another woman and two men—tight-lipped and clad in similar armour, were strapped into seats around her. Nobody spoke. Words would remain unheard beneath the din of the screaming engines and detonations.
The craft arrowed down to land in a familiar clearing. The dome on the nearby structure had gone, leaving a jagged hole. The building itself bore a lopsided look as though part of its foundations had been blown away.
Sivatra and her companions unstrapped themselves and leapt from the craft, which took to the air again before their feet had touched the shaking ground. They landed, rolled and came upright in one fluid motion. Without pausing or breaking stride, they ran for the building. The alloyed flexibility of their armour, and easy familiarity with it, allowed full freedom to sprint and dodge. They ran in zig-zag movements, mirroring those of the flying craft. Graceful athleticism, fleet-footedness and lightness of step allowed them to reach the building without injury from the explosions in the air and the pulses of plasma energy that flew at them from what remained of the jungle to either side of the clearing.
They raced inside the arched entryway and slowed to a walk once in the relative safety of the entrance hallway. A grim-faced man met them, his armour bearing the dents and scorch marks of heavy combat. He pointed to the end of the hallway where two vast wooden doors barred entrance to the Great Hall that lay beyond.
At Sivatra’s gesture, her three companions hurried to the doors and stooped at their base. They stood, nodded and all stepped to the side, pressing themselves to the cool stone of the walls. With a white flash and a deep crump, the doors folded as if made of flimsy cardboard, not tougher-than-teak isuz. Stepping over their smoking remains, Sivatra entered the vast space they had concealed.