Authors: Craig Saunders
The
chopper was quieter than the outside world, but not by much. Wake prepared the
helicopter, checking everything like he had three times a day for the last
week. Each of them wore dry suits, though George and Francis were far smaller
than the men on the rig. Their suits were bunched in the arms and legs, their
heads and hands the only parts not covered by the suit. Because of the cold,
though, they wore gloves, but their faces they left bare so that they could
see, move, and don the headphones needed to communicate when the chopper's
engines started.
'Are
we wrong? John? To leave them behind?'
'We're
all dying, Francis. We're carrying one too many as it is. I'd stay, but I can't
teach you or Edgar to fly without getting in the air. No, Fran. The right
thing. The only thing. They know that, too. They know, they agreed, they
accepted it. So should you.'
She
remembered this.
Wake
reached back and she took his hand for a second, and then he turned back to his
gauges and dials, checking levels, checking functions.
'Jackets
on. Belts on. Strap in. Be ready.'
They
sat, sombre, with their headphones on so that they could talk if they wanted.
They did not. Even George did not reach out a hand to touch. His eyes were closed.
All
they had to do was stay out of the sea and head west.
Such
a simple thing. Such a hard thing.
The
rotors ready, steady and fast and unbelievable loud inside the chopper, John flicked
a hand and the man waiting outside.
Bors
raised his own hand, then he pulled a length of cable attached to two heavy
rivets that held the chopper's tin shelter down.
The
shelter blew away. They didn't see Bors.
Maybe
he made it
, thought Francis.
She
hoped he did, but the chopper bucked then and rose into the storm and fear
swallowed most of all their thoughts.
'Pray
if you've got to. Maybe pray if you don't want to, either. Nothing else doing,'
said their pilot.
Francis
and Edgar nodded. Francis wondered if her face was pale as Edgar's.
Probably.
Only
George seemed calm. Francis considered reaching for him, to comfort him. But
she thought the gesture would be more selfish than selfless. After all, it was
her who needed comfort. She reached, instead, to her right, and Edgar's hand
was there for her. They gritted their teeth. Francis prayed, even though God
probably thought nothing of her and that was fine - the feeling was mutual.
*
Ice
began to build up on the rotor tail - probably elsewhere, too. It made the
chopper heavier and harder to handle. No one in their right mind would fly a
chopper like this in weather this bad.
Wake
wasn't in his right mind. He was desperate, without hope, and when people get
to that point, they'll do anything or nothing, just for something to change. This,
though...this was worth doing.
Flying
to certain death at the end of the world, just to get a boy back to his mother?
Nothing more. There would be no reward. No money, no women, no crate of
alcohol. Not even to save the world. Just a gesture. Something nice.
And
that was fucking awesome.
The
thought made him smile, a smile that stayed until they started to lose altitude.
He said nothing, but they headed toward the snapping surface of the North Sea.
It became a battle Wake couldn't win. The chopper fought him harder than he'd ever
known. As a pilot, he was skilled enough to handle bad conditions, but few were
mad enough except perhaps army pilots and sea rescue to fly in really heavy
weather. This wasn't just heavy weather; ash, snow, sleet, wind - everything
the sky had, forcing them toward the water.
The
helicopter bounced in the air, listed, righted. George, in the back seat,
puked. Edgar's face turned green.
The
gauges gave in shortly after.
At
that point, the pilot was 100% there was no chance of landing unscathed.
Before, he'd only been 99% sure.
Below,
the sea was a grey and white quilt, ruffling and the sky ash-grey and off-white
snow. Frosting on the windows was patterned, and in places crystalline. The
rotors swirled, then smoked spewed somewhere above, a loud cough, rather than a
bang.
Wake
pulled the pistol from beneath the seat, turned, and fired two shots, one each
side. Edgar, Francis and George jumped, panic on their faces.
'No
choice. Kick the windows out!'
The
rotor slowed and the chopper just a coffin in the sky. It span as it fell. The
ice slowed the rotors, the ash killed the engines. A horrible sensation like
plunging in a roller coaster for an instant, only. Francis and Edgar grasped
onto their harnesses.
The
force of the crash smashed through the shocks under Wake's seat, and he felt
his legs...
go
. The glass by his feet, where he would look down to see
the landscape, had shattered like they'd hit rock rather than water. His legs
were intact, but distant.
Broke
my spine,
he thought. He wasn't getting out, and if he did they'd die
trying to save him and his dead weight in rough waters would drag them all down.
He
didn't give them the option.
George.
The kids was the reason.
Doesn't
matter if I die. I got to fly.
'Wake...'
Francis didn't finish.
Would've
liked that fuck, I think.
He turned so she couldn't see his eyes and put a
bullet into his head.
*
The
dry suit Francis wore behaved like a balloon when the window smashed and the
water rushed in. She didn't know if she was up or down, but somehow the door opened
under her panicked grip. George was tied to her, but strapped in. Beneath the
water, shocked, she fumbled wildly and blindly to release him.
There
wasn't time to fight for Edgar. Edgar knew the same as she did. George was all
that mattered.
George
came free and the two of them tumbled inside the sinking helicopter, unable to
figure how to get through the opening. The cold water hit like a hammer. Their
dry suits pushed them upward, buoyant, but at the mercy of the gushing,
pounding water.
The
sea turned them, and they were out, up, toward the unreliable surface. A
breath, snatched, then back under a wave and water in her lungs.
Fuck
the shore
, she thought, somewhere deep where nature takes over.
Get air.
Air...
The
feeling and strength in her limbs was gone. Her organs taking all her heat and
energy. Her grip on George began to slip, and his from hers, too.
They
were tethered.
But
if the tether broke?
Once more, she
found air and gulped it in. Puke tried to rise, but she swallowed it. She
couldn't see George, or feel him pulling at the tether between them.
Somewhere,
just a glimpse, she thought she saw fire. A wave pulled her under, and under
the water George's hand was right there. She snatched it, and that touch gave
her hope. One handed and burdened with her other arm beneath George's armpit,
she lashed out against the water.
People
die in cold water. The people who live are those who don't give in.
Everything
was confusing and muddled, but just yards from the shallows the only battle
left was with herself.
It
was a fight Francis always won.
Always.
Her
body shook badly, and her vision wavered, but she fixed that distant flame in
her mind, closed her eyes against the bitter sting and pulled.
Fire
.
Was
it him? Did the man with fire in his eyes wait for them on the shore?
Hope,
not fear, made her fight harder, still.
*
A
red and black lump came to shore first, pushed and pulled by the sea. Eleanor
ran from the fire, into the sea. Each wave pummelled and fought her and pulled
the shape - a man, for sure - out of reach. Then he bumped her hard in the legs
and she hit the water, the shock nearly stopping her heart once again. She
stumbled in the waves, gripped him by the hair, then dragged the man through
the frozen sludge at the shoreline, through the spray and the salt, and heaved him
from the sea, half in, half on icy sand. His face and lips both were blue.
She
could do nothing, though - George was everything.
George!
she called out along the path in her mind, but there was nothing there.
He
can't be...
Eleanor
waded into the surf again.
Was
that a hint of colour?
She
didn't pause, or wonder longer than that. If she was wrong, her son was dead
anyway, and what did she have to live for other than him? That road she'd followed
so long lead to George and if he wasn't there her mind would break.
The
weather and the sea tried to stop her. The shape she sought became no clearer,
but it was red like the man on the shore. She struck out harder until she was
swimming, not wading. Through the blinding snow and spray, she caught sight of
the shape again.
Two,
she thought,
not one.
Only
one swam, though. The red-swimmer, blinded by the sea, hit Eleanor with a
flailing hand. Eleanor found a small hand in hers and it gave her the strength
she needed.
George.
On
one side, Eleanor, on the other, a woman, and between them was George. Eleanor's
knee struck the sand, a moment later, her toes. With their hands under George's
arms, and one each side, they dragged him toward the fire on the beach.
*
XXI.
Fire on the Beach
They
were all long past shivering. In the light of the fire, Francis, George and
Eleanor spat out the sea, or let it run streaming onto the sand from guts or
lungs. Panting, blue in their hands and faces and feet.
Edgar
didn't stir.
In
the time it took for Eleanor and Francis to drag George from the sea, Edgar lay
in the freezing wind, his lower half lapped by icy water. He ceased to breath. His
heart slowed and then stopped.
Eleanor
got her son to the fire first. Francis next, thinking the older man had not
been in the water as long. Thinking his chest was still rising and falling as
she pulled Francis past him. But his chest wasn't rising. It was the tide,
pushing the air in his dry suit up, then retreating so his dry suit would fall
back again.
She
didn't know. It probably wouldn't have made any difference. By the time she
dragged Edgar to the fire and laid him down under her rude shelter by the huge
fire, he was dead.
*
Francis'
battered consciousness returned, and she
burned
. Agony engulfed her
entire body and her arms curled in, her legs curled up. All she saw was a tower
of flame.
Thinking
she was burning alive, she tried to roll, to scream, but all that came out was
a stream of sea-puke. Convulsions wracked her muscles, spasms cracked her
spine. Vomit poured from her, over and over. The fire was huge. There were
sparks in there, blackened char and its heat was a furnace against her skin.
She was naked...embers flew up, together with snow. Someone pulled a blanket
over her, and that too burned her skin. Her head throbbed and pounded, her guts
roiled. She looked for whoever had placed the heavy blanket over her, but she
was blinded by the fire. Fire was all she could see, the only colour orange.
She
passed out again.
*
The
next time Francis' eyes opened, the pain had lessened, except for her hands, which
were like claws beneath a thick blanket. There was no snow, no embers, though a
fire burned. This time the fire was within a stove.
Inside.
Somewhere.
She
could hardly move and found that she didn't want to.
'You're
awake,' said a woman watching over her. The owner of the voice sounded sleepy.
Francis heard shuffling, down by her feet.
I'm
on a mattress...low down. Someone's front room.
Francis'
had trouble focusing on the woman who knelt by her face.
'Thought
we'd lose you. You're safe. Drink this. Vodka. Might warm you up. Either way,
there's not much else.'
The
woman's hair was sparse, thin, and dirty.
Like
mine,
Francis thought.
Who
could have a shower, now?
Shampoo, soap...things she could barely remember.
Unfrozen water, let alone warm water, would be a push.
The
woman tipped a small amount of vodka between Francis' lips, one hand behind her
neck to help her lean forward. Francis' didn't complain. She couldn't. She was
too damn weak to do much of anything at all, and opening her eyes and taking
the small drink drained her.
The
alcohol burned her mouth and her throat. It sank lower very slowly, but she
relished the feeling. Her skin felt as though it was burned black, but inside,
in her guts and her lungs, there was nothing but cold.
'Thank
you,' she managed. For a second, her eyes drifted closed. She felt sleep
slamming her down, but she fought it and opened her eyes again. The woman was
still there, looking down at her.
'How
did you know? You pulled us out...built the fire?'
'George,'
said the woman, simply enough, but Francis, even tired, felt the pride in the
woman's voice.
'You're
George's mother.'
The
woman nodded. Francis managed a small nod of her own as she drifted down, down
below the waves again. But this time, the waves were warmer.
'Good
kid,' she muttered, and floated away.
*
She
opened her eyes again to find that weak daylight of the apocalypse framing
Edgar's hunched form by the window. She tried to move, and found that she
wasn't as sore as she thought. She was naked, but that didn't matter. She and
Edgar had been through enough together. Fuck, she'd shot his wife in the face.
If that didn't make them friends, nothing would.
She
grinned at the thought, but wrapped her blanket around her shoulders as she
rose from the dented mattress by the stove and walked toward him. No sense in
giving the old man a hard on she didn't plan on using.
'Hey,'
she said.
'Hey,'
he said. He smiled as she stood beside him at the window. They didn't need to
say much else for a minute.
Outside,
in the meagre light, they stared at what remained of England. They'd wound up
in a seaside town. She didn't know which one. To her, they'd always looked much
the same. Maybe a pier, fish and chip shops, arcades, ice cream on sale at low
counters in the summer. Not much for sale right now.
Everything
was white, and there was a subtle fog hanging in the air, too, probably wind
picking up ice crystals and snow. She could hear the wind howl around the
buildings below. They seemed to be two or maybe three stories higher than most
of the small town. Perhaps in a flat, or an expensive house. The kind rich
people who lived in London bought and rented to less wealthy holiday makers.
Not
costing us anything now,
she thought.
Shame the view's a bit shit.
There
wasn't much to look at. A car had gone half into one of the shop fronts, but
that seemed to be it. Mostly, it was just a wasteland. Desolate and dry, a
frozen desert now, like the poles, maybe. Water everywhere, but to eat that
snow would be to die. Poison, radiation, ash, and cold enough to freeze a
person from the inside out.
She'd
seen cold before. Places in Russia, frozen houses both inside and out, the
people hunched in furs. Pictures on the television, on the internet. But she'd
never see this cold in person. A certain kind of beauty, yes, but a frightening
beauty to this endless frost.
'Eleanor's
a nice woman. Not what I expected.'
She
nodded. 'Saved us. We'd be dead.'
Edgar
smiled, and looked at Francis. He was hunched, but he still stood above her.
She looked back, then understood.
'She
didn't, did she? We're dead. This...all this...it's just a dream.'
'It's
a dream, yes. But you? She saved you. Looks like I'm done.'
'Edgar?'
He
ignored her for a moment, but held her hand, with a small smile on his face,
staring out at the white expanse before them. The whole country, the world,
perhaps, asleep under the chill white blanket.
His
hand was cold and light.
'We
really fucked it up, didn't we? Everything's dead. No birds, no animals.
Nothing.'
She
didn't want to cry. By the window it was cold. Her eyes would probably freeze.
As
though he knew what she thought, he squeezed her hand a little tighter.
'We
didn't kill it, Francis.
He
did.'
'I
know. But the tools were there, weren't they? We're culpable. Humans. You, me.'
Edgar
smiled, but carried right on staring at the snow.
'For
a while, I really thought I might make it,' said the ghost.
'It
was close though, huh?' said Francis, and laid her head against his cool, cool
shoulder.
'I'll
take it,' he said.
'We
lost, I guess.'
Edgar's
ghost put his hand around Francis' shoulder and pulled her tight. 'Lost? Are
you sure, Francis?'
'You
know me better than I do now?'
'Sure
I do,' he said, and she felt his stubble brush the top of her head. 'Sarah
would have liked you, you know.'
She
nestled against the old man's chest.
Old,
she thought.
Fifty?
Not
that old at all...fifteen years older?
'I
always thought of you as old.'
'I
am, Francis. But you're catching up.'
Ghost
or not, he smelled comforting.
'And,
Francis...you think you don't know how, you think
you've
lost something.
But it's down to you.'
'What
is?'
'To
teach them. What it meant to be human.'
'Edgar,
I don't know how anymore.'
'This,
Francis. Remember.'
'Sadness?'
She
thought, for a moment, about that feeling in her dream, and thought she
understood. Understanding flitted away.
It
was just a dream, after all, wasn't it?
'Now,
Francis Drew Sutton...what are you really going to do?'
'Kill
O'Dell,' she said, and knew it was true. No doubt, no confusion, no fear. What
was there to fear? Death?
'Good
girl,' said Edgar. 'That seems...fair.'
He
kissed the top of her head, like a father might have.
*
Francis
opened her eyes with her dream, vision, or whatever it had been still fresh in
her mind. But happy, too, because Eleanor and George both stood before her. The
room was warm.
This
is as good as it's going to get for a long, long time.
'Come
here,' she told George. He knelt down. They stayed on the mattress on the floor
for a long time, arms around each other. Then she nodded and kissed the boy on
his cheek, holding him back so she could see him better.
'Edgar,'
said Eleanor, tentatively.
'I
know,' said Francis.
'I'm
sorry. He was your friend?'
She
thought about it for a second. 'Maybe. I don't know. Probably as close as it
gets these days? The man who flew us to shore, John. He died too. I don't know
if they were friends.'
George
smiled and kissed her cheek.
Liar,
he said.
'I
liked them,' she admitted. But she didn't want to cry, so she shook her head at
George.
Don't.
She
pretended she didn't care, but she did. Of course she did, and George saw right
through her.
'You've
been delirious for days. Four, I think. You're getting better, though.'
'You
saved me. Thank you. Eleanor?'
Eleanor
nodded. She would have been a good looking woman. Tired, drawn and scarred now,
but she had something in her eyes.
Life,
Francis supposed.
Will.
She
hoped that same look still shone in her eyes, too.
'We...George
thought you died,' said Francis. 'Nice to know he's wrong, sometimes.'
'I
did,' she said.
'Oh,'
said Francis.
Eleanor
laughed, softly. George smiled, standing beside her. She was struck by how
similar they seemed. Both hard worn, but bones, stance, and not just the colour
of their eyes. Something else. Something inside them.
She
drifted again. This time she didn't dream of warmth or dead men. She just slept,
and George watched over her like he would until the day she died.
*