The Reckoning (Earth Haven Book 3) Page 2

By then she resembled a punch-drunk boxer, almost out on her feet. Over the previous twenty-four hours, she had cycled in excess of one hundred and fifty miles, tramped across freezing fields, and had a gap in her memory unexpectedly restored only to find that she would have preferred it to remain buried; she had been shot at and witnessed her best friend take the bullet intended for her. All on a couple of hours’ snatched sleep on a concrete floor.

  Tom had insisted she lie down in a corner and close her eyes. Her last memory of that morning was the chug-chug-chug of the generator spluttering to life.

  She’d awoken lying on a hospital bed, a drip protruding from her arm. Pale winter sunlight struggled to dispel the sense of mustiness about the room. Ceri was propped into a chair by the side of the bed, snoring softly. Bri tried to turn towards her and the needle tugged at her arm.

  “Oww!”

  Ceri’s eyes opened. “Wait, Bri! Let me fetch Diane.”

  She returned moments later, followed closely by a mousy-blond woman. Diane Heidler looked pale and drawn, but managed to summon a smile from somewhere.

  Bri was in no mood to return it. “Is Will all right?”

  Diane glanced away and busied herself removing the needle from Bri’s arm.

  “It’s just saline,” she said in her American drawl. “To hydrate you while you slept. Despite the lack of refrigeration, it hadn’t spoiled.”

  Bri hissed at the stinging sensation as the needle withdrew. She stared at Ceri, who suddenly seemed to find the pattern of the tiled floor fascinating.

  “Ceri?” Bri spoke softly, though she wanted to scream at the top of her voice. “Will. Tell me. Is… is he… dead?”

  Bri’s thoughts were pulled back to the present and the fifteenth green as a man stepped forward. She couldn’t remember his name. Jacques or Jean or something beginning with J. Something French.

  He nodded at the two men holding the sheet bundle and they lowered it into the hole. It swayed as it descended and Bri could make out a shape poking through the cloth. A bony elbow or knee. She swallowed, wanting to turn away but unable to. When the bundle had disappeared into the hole and come to rest, the men dropped the ends of the ropes in after it and stepped back.

  Bri took a deep gulp. She felt a hand tug at hers and clutched it gratefully. Now she could tear her horrified gaze away and glance at the person standing beside her.

  Will looked painfully pale and thin, all anaemia and angles. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged, arm strapped across his chest in a tight sling that allowed no movement.

  Bri bent towards him and whispered, “That could have been you they’re chucking mud onto. Never save my life again. My heart couldn’t stand it.” She bent further and planted a kiss on his temple. As she straightened, her own temple twinged beneath the bandage, but it faded as quickly as it started, no comparison to the headaches that she had been experiencing a couple of months ago.

  Will gave her a strained smile then turned to listen to Jean or Jacques, who mumbled something in French before raising his voice. His English wasn’t quite fluent, and was strongly accented; nevertheless, each word was heard clearly by the small congregation.

  “Her name was Vanessa. She was ten. I found her in Calais. Living among corpses. Living…” he cleared his throat “…off corpses. She was sick when I found her. Already dying. I did not bring her with me so that she could be made well. Rather that she would not die alone. If we have nothing else to offer then we can offer this: companionship during our last hours. I fear to expect anything more. I fear that hope has abandoned us.”

  He bowed his head. The two men who had lowered the body into the hole stepped forward and began to shovel in earth. Another voice spoke.

  “As long as we still breathe we have hope.” It was Joe, the boy who had joined them on the night that the Beacon had been activated. Nearly all trace of the effects of the electrical treatment to which he had been subjected had gone. Now and then he would pause and his face go blank as he searched for an elusive word, or he would frown in consternation as he tried to remember something from his past, but such incidents were growing rarer. “More and more people are coming every day. Within the last hour another group has come from Ireland. People have been arriving from America. Some of them have brought guns. We can fight. There is our hope.”

  “Not now, Joe,” said Tom. “Save it for the meeting. That will be the time to discuss such matters. Not here.”

  Joe opened his mouth, then closed it again. He turned and walked back down the hill to the hotel. Others in the small gathering followed him.

  Bri watched the two men fill the grave. They patted down the mound with the shovels and stepped back. The remaining people glanced at each other and, wordlessly, began to drift away.

  * * * * * * *

  In December, of the seven billion people worldwide sent into a coma by the Millennium Bug, a mere 1.42 million of them awoke. By late January, when a message went out to Western Europe and the east coast of North America, around 550,000 of these survivors had already perished. Some through malnutrition or diseases caught from rotting corpses, others through fatal encounters with local fauna. Many more succumbed to guilt that they had survived when everyone else they knew and loved hadn’t; they welcomed the black pit that yawned to greet them as the rope tightened, the water rose over their heads or lifeblood gouted from sliced veins.

  The message sent by Milandra, assisted by Jason Grant, Peter Ronstadt and Diane Heidler, on the morning that the Beacon had been activated was not in truth economical. It could have reached most of Europe, almost as far as Asia, and maybe half of Africa if they had ignored North America, but the energy required to cross the Atlantic and still retain sufficient strength to deliver a persuasive message meant that they could not reach as many closer countries as otherwise would have been possible.

  “We could have covered far more land,” Diane remarked to Peter a few days after the message had been sent, while they waited at Salisbury Hospital to see whether Will would pull through.

  “True. But Tom and Ceri—Ceri in particular—were keen on reaching the United States.” He shrugged. “Due to the common language, I suppose.”

  “More people should have been reached. More help could have come.”

  “But this is not our concern. Humanity must make its own case for survival. And strength of numbers will not help. As it is, I fear that too many of them will want to fight our people. Like Tom did when we went in search of guns.”

  “Hmm. I think his experiences at the Beacon have cured him of that notion.”

  “Maybe. But many others will think that aggression is their best hope.” Peter shook his head. “Only certain ruin lies down that path.”

  Around seven percent of the remaining survivors received the message. A small number of those were indifferent, too caught up in their own worries to care about wider concerns, and they ignored it. Some were too ill or weak or debilitated to even attempt to journey to the U.K. Others were willing, but lacked the means of travelling across water, or the wherewithal to improvise, or the knowledge to utilise the means at their disposal.

  Its island status had served Britain well in times gone by, had kept Hitler and other would-be invaders at bay, but with navigational systems that relied on electricity defunct, and knowledge like how to use a sextant that had been dying out anyway in the technological age now extinct, the seas surrounding the U.K. presented an almost impenetrable barrier.

  Nevertheless, many made the attempt. Hundreds died as a result of encounters with wildlife that, without man’s subduing influence, had grown aggressive; or as a result of attempting to traverse inhospitable terrain without suitable equipment and support. Thousands perished in February gales and March squalls that whipped the seas into heaving, tumultuous terrorscapes.

  The few aeroplane pilots who still lived and attempted the journey by air failed when their engines let them down or they discovered too late that their limited flying experience did not give them the ab
ility to pilot a craft through storm-ridden skies across the Atlantic Ocean. One Lear jet, piloted by a former U.S. naval pilot from Petersburg, Virginia, took off from the States with sufficient fuel to reach the U.K., provided there were no strong headwinds to contend with. The plane, with its pilot and eight passengers, almost made it. Arriving within sight of the U.K. after dark, thick cloud masking the streetlights that now illuminated parts of West London, the pilot circled a few times, desperately trying to get a handle on his location, before the engines spluttered to a halt and the plane came down in the Irish Sea.

  Still, men and women can demonstrate extraordinary determination and invention when they need to. By the time March turned to April, almost six thousand people had gained the shores of the British Isles. The majority had travelled the shorter distances from mainland Europe, most traversing the English Channel, though some intrepid travellers hiked the length of the Channel Tunnel, battling past pockets of bad air. A boatload of six people arrived from Iceland, the most northerly point the message had reached. But some, perhaps almost a thousand all told, showing the greatest determination and invention, arrived from Canada and the United States.

  Among them were a man named Zach and a woman named Amy.

  Chapter Two

  Zacharias Abraham Trent did not consider himself to be a lucky man. Yes, he had survived three tours of Vietnam, but they had cost him his only friends along with a large chunk of sanity. True, he had unexpectedly come into a vast sum of money that allowed him to avoid the early grave he was fast drinking himself into, but he had become an orphan in the process. And he had survived the Millennium Bug, but it had left him hearing incorporeal voices and wondering whether forty years of solitude had really healed the hurts inflicted in Asian jungles.

  The first voice had been forceful, instructing him not to wander far. It had been compelling enough that Zach had obeyed it without question and had taken weeks for its effects to wear off.

  The second voice was nowhere near as persuasive as the first, suggestive rather than imperative. It nevertheless possessed an attractive quality that made him want to do as it said. The main difference this time was that Zach was not alone. His companion also heard the voice, tempering (though not removing entirely) Zach’s suspicion that he might be crazy.

  When Zach, after hearing the voice, told Amy he was heading for a harbour or marina where he might find a vessel capable of transporting him across the Atlantic Ocean, she grinned. As usual, it shaved years off her appearance and made Zach half-regret turning down her offer to be his bed mate.

  “I’m coming, too,” she said. “You didn’t leave me behind in Portland and you ain’t leaving me behind now.”

  Zach regarded her steadily. “This won’t be no jaunt down the coast to Connecticut. This’ll be a couple of thousand miles of ocean with storms and currents and icebergs most prob’ly.”

  “Icebergs? Like sunk The Titanic?” Amy chewed her top lip, then stuck out her chin. “I’m still coming.”

  Zach hesitated, unsure whether to say it, but decided to jump in. “Good. I’ve kind of got used to having you around.”

  Amy’s grin turned wider. Since hooking up with Zach, she had shed a few pounds and her skin had become clearer, more in keeping with her youth. She bathed regularly in the ocean, despite the sometimes freezing temperatures, and changed clothes frequently. There was a ready supply of new clothes in every town through which they passed. Her diligence at keeping herself clean prompted Zach to bathe and change his own clothes a little more often than he might have otherwise.

  Zach found himself experiencing an unusual sensation: pleasure, brought on by making another smile. He quite liked it. Maybe he was getting better at this social intercourse.

  The second voice had come to them while they slept in a seafront town in Connecticut. The town contained a small marina, but mainly for skiffs and fishing boats designed for coastal waters. One or two larger yachts might have been capable of crossing the ocean, Zach thought, but he dismissed any notion of attempting such a voyage under sail. Even had he possessed the necessary knowledge and experience, which he didn’t, he would need someone more than Amy to help crew the vessel. Moreover, Zach had read that sailing the Atlantic from the U.S. to Britain was a lot tougher, due to trade winds and currents, than coming the other way. And there were certain times of year when conditions were more favourable to attempt a crossing, but he had no recollection of when they might be.

  No. Zach believed the two of them might stand a chance in a motorised cruiser designed to handle the rigours of an ocean, although he would still need to rely on Amy to maintain course and keep a look out for trouble of the storm or berg kind while he slept or took care of the engines. Much as he was growing used to and had—dare he admit to himself—started to enjoy her company, Zach had no confidence that she would prove to be anything more than a passenger on a transatlantic crossing.

  In the days immediately after hearing the voice, Zach drove south, following coastal roads. He drove with his window down despite the chilly air, his ears alert for the sound of engines and his eyes turned seawards as often as he dared.

  The sky darkened as they entered the state of New York and snowflakes like lace doilies began to float serenely from the sky. The wind picked up and that was that for serenity. They holed up in a house in Larchmont and waited out the blizzard. Three weeks later, when the thaw had begun, they left. Snow still lay thick on the ground, but the sky had shed its load. Zach had plenty of experience with snow; he knew when the clouds had no more to give. His pick-up managed what snow remained without problem, although the going was slow.

  He headed inland to bypass New York City, figuring there was a high possibility that the roads onto or off the islands were impassable because of stalled vehicles. He had no intention of abandoning his pick-up just yet.

  They made their way through northern New Jersey. Without traffic and industry, and despite the thaw continuing, the snow had hung around and hindered their progress for longer than it would have in the days before the Millennium Bug. But now, as Route 35 almost touched the shore and they could see Staten Island lying to the north, the last of the snow thinned and Zach drove once more on asphalt.

  “Easier going from here on,” he remarked.

  “I guess.”

  The listlessness in Amy’s tone made Zach glance to his right. She was staring out of the window, chewing at a strand of hair. Forty years of solitude had not imbued Zach with tact or social graces.

  “You sick or something?”

  “Nope.” She sighed. “Used to come to Jersey with Momma every August. Her sister lived here.”

  Zach supposed she might be upset, reminded by their location of her mother and aunt, and that maybe he should say something comforting. Damned if he knew anything comforting. Instead: “New Jersey has marinas?”

  “Yep. Aplenty. Momma used to drag me to them. She liked looking at boats.”

  “Big ones? Ocean-going?”

  “Don’t know nothing ’bout boats.”

  “Well, reckon I’ll get off the highway. It’s bending inland a little. We need to hug the shore.”

  “Whatever.”

  Zach left the highway at the next ramp and followed lesser roads, keeping the ocean in sight to his left as much as he could. When they stopped at marinas, Amy got out to stretch her legs but showed not the slightest interest in the yachts and pleasure cruisers moored alongside pontoons or bobbing at anchor. Zach regarded them with a critical eye.

  He was no expert on boats, but had expanded his knowledge greatly thanks to the public library in Bridgeport. The most recent, and doomed-to-be last ever, edition of Voyaging Under Power had joined his meagre list of possessions. He read it by flash- or candlelight each evening before falling asleep. In essence, their needs boiled down to this: a cruiser thirty-six feet in length or longer with a seaworthy displacement hull, a slow-turning diesel engine cruising at around eight knots and a large fuel capacity.

&nbs
p; Nothing fitted the bill at the marinas they visited. Even had a suitable vessel been available, it did not solve the other problem, that of having some sort of crew to help manage a transatlantic passage. If a solution did not present itself, Zach had already resolved that he would make the attempt with only himself and Amy, though he did not relish the prospect.

  That is when Lady Luck smiled upon him.

  They had stopped for a picnic lunch on a beach near a wide creek. To their right, beyond the creek, extended a headland. It was from around the headland that the noise came.

  Zach paused in mid chew.

  “Can you hear that?”

  It wasn’t necessary that Amy replied. She had already turned and was staring out towards the headland, her chestnut hair whipping in the breeze. The noise grew louder and its source came into sight.

  Cutting through the waves as if they didn’t exist came a sleek, white motor cruiser.

  * * * * * * *

  With a grinding scrunch that made the deck shudder, they ran aground. If Aletta hadn’t been clutching the side of the boat, she might have fallen off her perch on the bench. She rose unsteadily to her feet. The Pole had already vaulted the prow and was splashing to shore. The Croatian was following him.

  Levente looked back.

  “Come!” His eyes glittered in the spring sunlight.

  He swung a leg over the gunwale and allowed his other leg to follow. He disappeared from view.

  Aletta hurried forward. As she reached the prow, the Hungarian came back into sight. He was standing thigh-deep in the surf, holding out a hand to help her. The two other men had already reached the narrow strip of shingle that lay between the waves and the foot of the white cliffs.

  “Come!” Levente repeated. He smiled encouragingly.

  Aletta reached out and allowed her hand to be engulfed in his. Using him as an anchor for her weight, she swung her legs over the side. Pushing off with her free hand, she dropped into the sea. It only came up to the top of her thighs, but she gasped.