9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (17 page)

“There’s no desperate hurry,” she said, “although we can’t delay here too long. We
need to hold the Commune before the survivors get their act together. Once they start
grouping, controlling them will become problematic.”

The Captain, a veteran of over seven hundred international flights on 747s and many
more on their predecessors, nodded. “Understood. A window is likely to open within
the next few hours. Everyone needs to be ready to board at a moment’s notice. Has
everybody arrived?”

“Just a few more to come. The ones who’ve had the furthest to travel. But they aren’t
far away.”

“Okay. Let me know when they’re here. I’ll be in the control tower. And Milandra. . . .”
He paused as if choosing his words carefully. “What we’ve had to do . . . it
was
essential, wasn’t it? It’s just that I kind of grew fond of some of them. . . .”
He tailed off, looking at her anxiously. She didn’t need to probe to sense his need
for reassurance.

She placed a hand on his forearm and squeezed. “You weren’t the only one,” she said.
“But, yes, it was essential. If there’d been some other way. . . .” She shook her
head. “There wasn’t.”

“I know. Guess I just needed to hear you say it. Okay. . . .” He was brisk and businesslike
again. “Call me in the CT then, when they get here.”

Milandra removed her hand from his arm. “Will do.”

She was just turning away when she received from Grant:
Main entrance. I think you should see this

As Milandra neared the entrance, she heard a commotion. Raised voices and laughter.
A small crowd had gathered in front of the doors. Milandra saw Grant standing to one
side, watching her approach.

Simone Furlong stood at the front of the knot of people, clapping her hands with glee,
her gaze fixed on a young woman. The woman—more a girl, probably still in her teens—crawled
on the dirty tiled floor on her hands and knees. Now and again, she lifted her head
and howled like a wolf. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Milandra probed. The girl was under the power of Simone and half a dozen or so others
in the crowd behind her. With the girl’s mind wide open, it took Milandra only a moment
to see the girl’s anguish at watching her family die; her own descent into blackness
and emergence again into the light; her spotting of one of Milandra’s people and following
them to the airport; her dashed hopes of finding comfort and companionship and safety
. . .

As Milandra started to step forward, the girl stopped crawling and knelt. Mouth twisting
in a grimace of humiliation, she pulled her jumper over her head. She was braless
and her small breasts glinted in the fluorescent lighting as tears spilled down them.

“Is this what we’ve come to?” said Milandra in a loud voice. “Are we now animals?”

Without releasing the girl, Simone glanced at Milandra. “No,” she said, nodding towards
the girl. “
They
are the animals and we once more have dominion over them.”

A murmur of assent rose from the small crowd behind the Chosen. Milandra gazed at
each of them in turn. One or two cast their eyes down and withdrew their minds from
Simone’s, but most glared defiantly back. Simone retained sufficient psychic support
to make the girl do whatever she wanted.

Simone was looking again at the girl, making her tweak her nipples until they started
to bleed.

“You don’t need to do this, Simone,” Milandra said quietly.

The Chosen shrugged. “Now. Later. Makes no difference.”

Milandra glanced at Grant. He was still watching her, his expression grim but calculating.
He hadn’t needed to call her over.

He’s trying to teach me a lesson
she thought.
Maybe he’s right. . . .

She walked over to him and stood by his side. They didn’t speak. Milandra watched
as Simone made the girl strip naked. She watched as she made the girl climb onto a
check-in counter and balance there, tying one arm of her jumper securely around an
overhead stanchion. She watched as Simone made the girl tie the other arm of the jumper
around her neck.

As the girl took a step backwards off the counter, Milandra looked away.

* * * * *

Peter’s circle of exploration of the area surrounding his cottage had grown wider
and wider as he found no sight or sound of any living person. He stopped at each small
settlement and sounded his horn in the main street. The only reactions to the sound
were raucous cries of crows and seagulls, complaining loudly at being disturbed in
their feasting on corpses, and the distant barking of dogs, though Peter only saw
one: a mangy, half-starved creature that slunk away at the sight of the Range Rover.

With every rain-slicked gradient or ice-frosted bend Peter safely negotiated, he was
thankful for the sure handling of the vehicle and took great delight in manoeuvring
it through narrow country lanes, even if his travels had so far yielded no results.

He stepped out in larger villages and explored a little on foot. The only living things
he encountered were scavenging birds and rats and, more rarely, unseasonal flies.
In one house he peeked into, seven or eight cats peered balefully back at him before
resuming their chewing on the body of a man. Peter left them to it.

He quickly grew accustomed to the smell of putrescence; it wasn’t as though he had
never encountered such odours before. For weeks in the trenches of Belgium, he had
lived amidst mud and ordure and decomposing flesh. These smells took him back to that
time as if it had happened only last year; in a way, to Peter’s sense of time, it
had.

As the days wore on and he failed to glimpse another living person, Peter began to
feel like Tom Evans had started to feel: as if he were the only person alive. Unlike
Tom Evans, Peter knew this not to be the case, but he still found it difficult to
shake the sensation.

Then Peter’s journeying brought him to a town. It had snowed a little overnight, but
it would have to come down considerably heavier for it to affect the handling of the
Range Rover, and then he had the four-wheel-drive to utilise if necessary. He drove
slowly around the snow-sprinkled streets, the driver’s window wound down, listening
for sounds of life.

Silence.

He headed out of town on the opposite side to which he’d entered and almost missed
them. The snow itself was so faint on the road that tracks made by another vehicle
were almost invisible, but his eyes must have taken in the double parallel strips
of black tarmac showing through the light dusting for, twenty or so yards further
on, it registered in his mind.

Peter pressed hard on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a smooth halt. Not certain
if he had imagined it, he reversed until, sure enough, he could make out tracks on
the road. Assuming the vehicle that had made the tracks had been travelling in the
direction that traffic would normally have been heading on this side of the road—not
a failsafe assumption, he knew—he turned the Range Rover and followed the tracks.

They weren’t easy to see, even now he knew they were there, and he was forced to go
slowly not to lose sight of them. So intent was he on keeping his gaze fixed on the
dark twin strips that he didn’t notice the vehicles blocking the road until he was
almost on them. Once more, he brought the Range Rover to an abrupt halt.

An army truck was parked side on, blocking the road in both directions. A long, light-blue
car was parked near it. Something moved in the passenger window . . . a dog? Peter
had no time to consider this any further. All of his attention was suddenly fixed
on the muzzle of the gun pointing at his face.

The driver’s window was still wound down and so Peter had an uninterrupted view of
the weapon and the man who wielded it. A young man, tall, with sandy, curly hair starting
to recede at the temples. He was dressed against the cold in a thick ski jacket. If
he had been wearing gloves, they had been removed the better to handle the weapon.
The index finger of the man’s right hand was curled around the trigger.

“Switch off the engine,” said the young man.

Peter did as he was told. In the silence, he could hear the man’s heavy breathing.

“I mean you no harm,” said Peter. “You’re the first person I’ve seen in days. Weeks.”

The man watched him closely. Peter considered for just a moment probing to ascertain
the man’s intentions, but thought better of it. Not while a gun was being held in
his face. Peter waited.

“Who are you?” said the man.

“My name’s Peter. Peter Ronstadt.”

“Okay,” said the man. “So where’ve you come from?”

“Not far. A small village a few miles north of Cardiff. I’ve been looking for survivors.
You’re the first—”

“Survivors? You mean, there are survivors?”

“Well, like I said, you’re the first I’ve found, but there will be others.”

“How do you know? How do you know that we’re not the only ones left?” The words came
out in a mingled rush of hope and fear, as though the man wanted to hear affirmation
but wouldn’t believe it.

“It stands to reason,” said Peter. “If
we
are still alive, there are bound to be others.”

“Others. . . .” It came out in almost a whisper. The gun wavered from side to side
as though the man had forgotten about it.

Peter hadn’t. “Look, I meant what I said about not meaning you any harm. Why would
I want to hurt you? I’m really pleased to see you. What’s your name?”

“My name? Uh, Tom.”

“Well, Tom, I’m very happy to meet you. I’d be even happier if you’d lower your weapon.”

Tom blinked and looked down at the gun. He grunted. “I grabbed this from a dead soldier
when I heard you coming.” For the first time, he smiled. It was a wan smile, little
more than a grimace, but it made his face light up like a child’s. “I’m not sure how
to use this. Don’t even know if it’s loaded.” He lowered the muzzle until it pointed
at the ground.

Peter opened the car door and got out, moving slowly and deliberately. Tom watched
him and took half a pace back, but he didn’t raise the gun. Peter stood and held out
his right hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Tom stepped forward and gripped it. They
shook.

As they released hands, Peter grinned. Tom returned it and a tear slid down his cheek.
He swiped it away.

“Look at me,” he said. “Blubbing like a baby. I thought I was the only one left. . . .”
He shook himself. “Let me get rid of this”—he motioned at the gun—“before I shoot
myself in the foot. Then you must come and meet Dusty.”

“Your dog?”

Tom nodded. He stepped to the side of the road and lowered the gun carefully to the
ground, leaving it propped against the kerb. Then, side by side, the two men walked
to the blue car.

Chapter Fourteen

T
he man sitting next to Diane during the flight tried to engage her in conversation
until he took the hint from her monosyllabic replies and left her to her thoughts.

Those thoughts were a jumbled morass that Diane tried to pick her way through as the
747 headed out over the Atlantic Ocean. Though Diane had never felt any great love
towards the human race, she had never felt any particular animosity either and her
indifference to what she had done puzzled her. In the years leading up to the moment
that she had opened the canister and infected that child in the park, she had often
dreaded what she would have to do, anticipating that it would sicken her. She had
sometimes worried that she may not be able to go through with it.

In the event, it proved to come as easily to her as putting on lipstick. As she had
wandered the streets of L.A., smearing the powder as she went, she had even started
to enjoy herself, especially as she worked her way through Beverly Hills. The idea
of infecting what she thought of as The Plastic People gave her the kind of excited
jolt that she rarely experienced.

The excitement had not lasted long. It had soon been replaced by the familiar emptiness
that she had come to accept as her normal state of being.

Diane had long lived a solitary existence, preferring her own company. She had wondered
what it would be like to be once more amongst her own kind; whether that would stir
up more sociable longings within her. The answer turned out to be negative. Here she
was, surrounded by almost five hundred of her people, and still she yearned for solitude.
Not even the promise of being part of a much greater whole if the Great Coming was
successful filled her with particular anticipation.

She knew that she would have to play her part, the dutiful servant as she thought
of it, though no doubt Milandra would never agree with that assessment. Yes, she would
play her part and after the Great Coming she would be free to go wherever she wanted
and be alone. And there would be a world of choice. Unlike before, she wouldn’t be
forced to inhabit a certain place. She could head somewhere warm; find a tropical
island, somewhere with coconuts; she would live off them and fish.

Her happier contemplation was interrupted by the sound of Milandra’s voice coming
over the aircraft intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Milandra, sounding tinny. “Your Captain informs me that
we are almost midway across the Atlantic. Radio communications are still operational
and Heathrow is ready for our arrival. Some snow has fallen on the U.K. in the last
few days, but the runways are clear and the conditions are perfect for a safe landing.
So if any you are not too keen on flying—and I sense that to be the case—then have
no fears. We are in good hands.

“Now, as you all know our operation to, er, cleanse the Earth has gone well. The virus
developed in Nevada by our small team has proved to be as effective as we could have
hoped. Dr Samuels, take a bow.”

A few rows in front of Diane, a small man stood and gave a short bow to the sound
of cheers. A round of spontaneous applause broke out. Diane did not join in, drawing
a glower from the man in the seat next to her. She ignored him.

Milandra’s voice came again over the intercom. “Some of you may have found what we
did distasteful. Some of you may have grown fond of humans. I confess that I held
a certain fondness for them myself. But we cannot afford to feel sympathy for them.
We were ruthless in carrying out the cleansing. We must maintain that ruthlessness
in our coming dealings with the survivors.

“Greater London had a population of just over eight million people. The estimated
survival rate is 0.02 per cent. If that is spread evenly, around one thousand, six
hundred people will have survived in the greater metropolis of London. Many of those
may have already left the city, but there will undoubtedly still be survivors there.
Our presence may flush them out. If you encounter any survivors in London,
do not
eliminate them. There is a great deal to be done and we need to put them to work.

“As I speak, almost five thousand of our people are making for the U.K. When all are
gathered, we shall hold a Commune. We will call out to all surviving humans in Britain
and draw them to us. While they are splintered and afraid, they will be unable to
resist.

“However, as they answer the summons and begin to group together, we must exercise
extreme caution. Until the Great Coming, our numbers are insufficient to control groups
for any length of time. Humans in combined strength are too powerful still for us
to bend completely to our will. Yet there is a way of weakening their intellects,
of overcoming their resistance so that they will be powerless to resist our command.
A medical unit will be established near the airport. A temporary unit to deal with
the first survivors we find. As more come in, a more permanent unit will be established,
probably in a local hospital.”

In front of Diane, a man stood up and began to mime the actions of a shambling zombie
from some cheap-rate horror flick, to much amusement. Diane did not so much as smile,
drawing another glower from the man next to her.

“So,” continued Milandra. “Do not harm any survivors you encounter once we’re on the
ground. You don’t need to try to control them; if you’re alone, you’ll probably find
that you won’t be able to. If any survivors
are
controlled, they are to be sent to the temporary medical unit. From there, they will
be set to work. We will need places to stay. The hotels near Heathrow will do for
now. Bodies will need to be cleared and burned; food and water will have to be collected.
These are the first tasks we shall set the survivors to do.

“We can all remember when we held complete dominion over humanity. We considered them
to be no more than drones, created to do our bidding. We now once more hold sway over
them. We must now again treat them as drones. We are to show them no mercy. Is that
understood? No mercy.”

* * * * *

Milandra’s estimate of the numbers of inhabitants of Greater London who had survived
the Millennium Bug wasn’t too far off the mark. In fact, one thousand, four hundred
and seventy-three people fell ill, but did not slip into a coma, and pulled out of
the illness, feeling weak and hungry but very much alive. Of those, over three hundred
had already fled the city in a doomed effort at outrunning the virus. Another four
hundred had since left, fleeing the stench of putrification. Twenty-seven people had
given in to black despair or guilt and taken their own lives.

That left around seven hundred survivors in the city, most of them still struggling
to come to terms with the fact of having survived and living a hand-to-mouth dazed
sort of existence. Most still had not ventured far from their homes and remained unaware
that they were not the sole survivors. If they had known that there were others, that
they would soon be faced with another threat and that banding together may increase
their chances of surviving again, maybe they would have made more effort at seeking
each other out.

Or maybe not. A torpor had descended over the survivors like a shroud, making them
unable to contemplate life beyond today, hoarding any food they came across automatically,
not with any thought of long-term survival in mind. This was true of most of those
who had survived across the world, not only in London.

* * * * *

The same could not now be said of Tom Evans. For the first time since the death of
his mother, he allowed a faint bloom of hope to settle in his breast. Faint, yes,
but hope nonetheless.

He was back behind the wheel of the Jaguar, driving towards his house. In the rearview
mirror, he could see the Range Rover following.

“Well, Dusty,” he said, stretching out his left hand to ruffle the dog’s ears, “I’m
not the only survivor, after all. There’s a turn-up for the books. Not sure that you’re
very impressed by our new friend, mind.”

The dog’s reaction to Peter had puzzled Tom. Dusty hadn’t wagged his tail, hadn’t
barked a greeting or exhibited the slightest excitement at seeing another person.
In fact, other than flattening his ears, Dusty hadn’t reacted at all, just sat very
still while Peter patted his head. Tom put it down to the animal still being a little
traumatised by his ordeal, though he had not displayed any other ill-effects of nearly
starving to death.

Tom parked the Jaguar in front of his house. The Range Rover pulled in behind and
Tom showed Peter into his home. Dusty ran in ahead of the men, making for his food
bowl. When he found it empty, he gave a small enquiring bark and Tom emptied a can
of food into the bowl. He topped up the water bowl from a saucepan. He was running
short of water that he’d collected from the cold tap, though still had almost half
a bathtub full upstairs and hadn’t touched the water in the hot tank. There was no
cause for concern as he had accumulated plenty of bottles of spring water on his explorations
of neighbours’ houses that he was saving for when the tap water was all gone.

He opened a tin of beans and a can of luncheon meat.

“We’ll have to have them cold, I’m afraid,” he told Peter. “I haven’t yet come across
a camping stove on my travels. That’s something I could have got today in town, but
meeting you drove it clean from my mind.”

“No worries,” said Peter. Tom could detect no obvious accent in the man’s voice. “I
have a camping stove and plenty of fuel for it, but I left it in my cottage. I’ll
be going back there to collect my stuff before. . . .”

“Before?”

“Well, I’m thinking of heading north. Look for other survivors.”

“North? Why north? It’s cold enough here.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed it’s cold in here,” said Peter. “Don’t you have any means of getting
warm?”

Tom shook his head. He noticed that Peter had side-stepped his question, but decided
not to pursue it for now. “Modern house. Gas central heating. No fire place. I keep
my coat on to stay warm and Dusty sleeps on my bed. We help keep each other warm in
the nights.”

“You’ll be using a lot of energy to stay warm like that. You’ll go through your food
a lot quicker.”

“Hmm . . . hadn’t thought of that. Haven’t thought of many things, to be honest with
you. Here you are.” He handed Peter a plate of beans and meat. “Let’s go eat in comfort.”

They carried the food through to the living room and spent the next few minutes in
silence. Tom surreptitiously studied Peter as they ate.

Medium height; muscular frame; the skin of his face was lined and tanned, as though
he had spent many years in much warmer climes than those of South Wales; the face
itself had an open aspect, suggesting that its owner would struggle to conceal deception;
dark brown hair, thinning on top; pale blue eyes, like washed-out denim; indeterminate
age though Tom would guess, if pressed, at early fifties.

Tom carried their cleared plates to the kitchen. Dusty had cleared both his bowls
and lay in his basket, showing no interest in joining the men. Tom returned to the
living room, carrying two bottles of lager he’d purloined from a neighbour who no
longer had any use for them.

“Fridge doesn’t work, but they’re still nice and cold,” he remarked, handing Peter
a bottle.

“Thanks,” said Peter. He tipped the bottle towards Tom’s. “Cheers!”

They clinked bottles and both took a sip.

“Ah,” murmured Tom. “That hits the spot. I haven’t felt like one of these until now.
So, Peter, tell me a little of yourself. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Not at all, though there’s not much to tell. I used to be in the merchant navy. Fell
in love with a Welsh girl and settled in Cardiff. Left the city when she died. Moved
about a bit, now live alone in a cottage in a small village. What about you, Tom?”

“Even less to tell. I teach . . . I
used
to teach, in the primary school here in the village. Single. There was a girl, but. . . .”
He shrugged.

“Virus?”

“Yep. Is that how your wife died?”

“No. Megan went seventeen years ago.” Peter hesitated, as though choosing his next
words carefully. “Natural causes.”

“She must have been very young.”

“No. Not really.” Peter shifted a little in the armchair.

Tom said nothing, though it was clear that Peter was holding something back.

“So, Tom, do you have any plans? Any ideas about what to do now?”

“Like I said, I haven’t given much thought to anything. Making plans beyond surviving
each day seemed a little pointless.”

“What about planning
not
to survive?” Peter said quietly, looking at the boxes and bottles of pills that Tom
had piled on the telephone table next to the settee.

Tom felt himself colour, but didn’t drop his gaze from Peter’s. “Yes, I’ve certainly
thought about that. Less so since finding Dusty. Perhaps less so again since meeting
you. But, it’s still an option.”

“That’s your prerogative. However, I’d like you to give some thought to coming with
me. Help me find more survivors.”

“What then? Supposing we do find more. What then?”

“One step at a time. They are out there, Tom. The trick will be finding them.”

“But, Peter, you said you were going to head north? Why north? Why not go south where
it’s warmer?”

“Well, the largest part of this island lies to the north. I intend going north first.
Maybe later, when we’ve found everyone who wants to be found, we can head for warmer
climes.”

Tom thought for a moment. Peter’s explanation seemed to make sense, yet. . . .

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said. It was a statement, not an accusation.

It was Peter’s turn to look thoughtful. He tipped back the bottle of beer, draining
it, and let out a belch.

“Oops. Beg your pardon.” He grinned, but it quickly faded. “Tom, the truth is that
there’s a great deal I’m not telling you. I will, but you’ll have to be patient. I’m
not even sure where to start.” He let out his breath slowly. “I guess I could show
you something. Fetch Dusty and I will.”