The Beacon (Earth Haven Book 2) Page 3

  The door opening made them pause. The lead dog was larger than the others. A police dog she used to call them. Otherwise known as a German shepherd or Alsatian. It looked at her and its black lips pulled back further. Saliva glistened on teeth, emphasising their sharpness.

  She could have slammed the door closed in the dog’s face, but something stopped her. An image bloomed in her mind. Swirling, shifting colours: vivid crimsons and angry purples, muddy-browns and mustard-yellows. She was looking at hunger. Fear and confusion, too, but mainly hunger.

  How she did it she didn’t know, but she let loose a flood of soft whiteness, covering the colours like a cotton sheet, muting and calming them.

  The Alsatian relaxed its stance. Its lips came together and it cocked its head as though puzzled. The two dogs either side of it stopped snarling. The smaller one lay down and placed its muzzle on its paws.

  “Away with you, boys,” she murmured, though she knew she didn’t need to speak at all. “Go and find something else to eat. There’s plenty out there if you look hard enough.”

  The Alsatian uttered a soft whine. The smallest dog stood. Together, the three of them turned and trotted down the garden path, out of the open gate and away.

  She watched them until they were gone from sight. Only then did she stagger and would have fallen if she hadn’t still been clutching the doorknob.

  The movement brought her attention down to the boy. Dressed in filthy rags, a stench rose off him like steam. A small puddle of blood had formed on the doorstep; by the state of his trousers, it was coming from his right leg. He was gazing up at her, something like awe in his expression. Other than that, his face was blank, as though it only had room to express one emotion, one thought, at a time. There was something incomplete about it; something wrong.

  “I suppose you’d better come in,” she said.

  * * * * *

  The main entrance to the hotel swung open and Peter Ronstadt entered in a gust of icy wind. He stamped his feet.

  “Brrr,” he said. “It’s bloody freezing out there! Let me in front of that fire.”

  He crossed the hotel lobby and stood before the hearth, rubbing his hands. Dusty stirred from slumber, opened an eye to peek at Peter, then went back to sleep.

  “Grab yourself a drink and pull up a chair,” Ceri said.

  “Think I will,” said Peter. “It’s lovely and cosy by here.”

  While Peter bustled about, Tom allowed his eyes to close, basking in the fire’s glow. He hadn’t slept well since their flight from the village outside Hereford. He had hurt his shoulder when Peter’s Range Rover smashed into a stone wall and the injury had caused restless nights, waking him every time he turned.

  He swapped his drink to his left hand and raised his right arm above his head, wincing a little. But the pain had greatly diminished. Maybe it was the alcohol, but Tom thought he might enjoy an uninterrupted sleep that night.

  He opened his eyes as Peter pulled up a chair and sat by them, clutching a bottle of lemonade. Tom glanced at Peter’s head. It had sported a lump the size of half a coconut as a result of the collision with the wall. Although groggy at first, Peter had recovered remarkably. Miraculously. Within hours the swelling had receded, leaving a purple bruise on the right side of his temple. A few hours later that, too, had gone, leaving no visible evidence of trauma. The man should have been concussed, nauseous, confused. Instead, he had eaten enough for three men and the injury had healed.

  Like hers. She had been severely injured: broken bones, punctured lung and puncture wounds, cuts, crushed vertebrae. Her internal organs must have been grievously damaged. Not that Tom had any medical training, but he had seen the woman flung from a tree as the helicopter exploded, watched her smash into an adjoining tree and through its branches on a brief but traumatic journey that ended abruptly when she crashed into the frozen ground. He and Ceri had thought she must be dead. Only Peter seemed unsurprised when they reached her and dragged her out of reach of flaming debris that she was still breathing.

  Tom’s reverie was broken by Ceri. She had lit another cigarette and blew the smoke lazily, looking completely relaxed.

  “What you been up to, Peter?” she asked.

  “Been to the marina,” he replied. “Checking out boats.”

  “And?”

  “Mainly small leisure boats. No good for our purposes. But I think I’ve identified two possible candidates. A fishing trawler that looks in good nick and a power launch. I’ll need to check the engines over before we decide.”

  “You a mechanic as well as a sailor?” asked Tom.

  “Not really,” said Peter. “But I’ve worked on enough ships to have grasped the basics of how an engine works. I can tell if an engine looks sound. I can carry out basic repairs and maintenance.”

  “Peter . . .” said Tom. He hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “Er, we’ve been talking. . . .”

  Ceri sat straighter and flicked the butt of her cigarette into the fire. She looked at Peter.

  “I’m not sure that I want to go to the continent,” she said. “I’m not sure that I can go.”

  Peter sighed. “I’ve sensed your uncertainty for days, Ceri,” he said. “Yours too, Tom.”

  Tom nodded. “I’m not certain either, but not for the same reasons as Ceri. Sure, it won’t be much fun crossing the North Sea in winter. It’ll be dangerous, but I trust you enough, Peter, that I don’t think you’ll take unnecessary risks. It’s just that. . . . Britain is my home. If I’m going to live through the last days of mankind, I want to do it here, not in some foreign land.”

  Ceri nodded slowly. “That goes for me, too. In fact, I want to go home. To Wales.”

  Peter looked at them each in turn. He shrugged.

  “We’ll talk about it some more when Diane’s fully recovered,” he said at last. “For now it’s a moot point anyway. There’s bad weather closing in. We won’t be going anywhere by sea for the next few days.”

  Chapter Three

  Throughout the world, those who had outlasted the Millennium Bug and the black despair that in most cases followed went about the business of survival. They dragged corpses outside and burned or buried them. They scavenged houses and shops for food and water. They kept themselves warm and sheltered.

  It was survival at its most elemental: satisfy the basic demands that maintain life’s spark, but nothing more. They did not seek out others for companionship or support or merely to hear another’s voice. They remained where they were, not venturing far. Surviving.

  But the human mind is a powerful instrument. Gradually, imperceptibly, the shackles that bound the minds of the survivors were loosening.

  Milandra was well aware that this would happen.

  “The restraint that we placed on them during the Commune won’t last indefinitely,” she said to Grant as they sat in the hotel suite eating lunch. “In fact, it’s probably already wearing off.”

  Grant nodded. “It will have kept them from banding together. Perhaps for a little longer.”

  “Maybe. But they will start seeking out other survivors soon. And when they start to group, they’ll be too strong for us to influence. They could become dangerous.”

  “Then just as well we’re on an island,” said Grant.

  “And here we’ll stay. Until later. . . .”

  “Yep. After the Great Coming, they’ll no longer be a threat.”

  Milandra was aware that Grant had turned his head and was watching her. Yet again, he appeared to be testing her resolve. She kept her expression closed.

  “No,” she said. “After the Great Coming, there will have to be a reckoning. Then humankind will no longer be a threat. In fact, it will no longer be. Period.”

  * * * * *

  In the southeast of Maine, in a secluded section of the foothills of the White Mountains, away from the conservation areas and tourist trails, a rutted track wound through the trees, leading uphill to a chest-high timber gate. Nailed to the top crossbar of the gate wa
s a thickly-lettered wooden sign:

  No Trespassers! Visitors NOT Welcome!

  The ‘NOT’ was underlined several times.

  A timber fence, also chest-high, the cross posts too close together for anyone larger than a toddler to squeeze through, ran away to either side. A thick chain, secured by a sturdy-looking padlock, attached the gate to a fence post. Beyond the fence, the land had been cleared of trees. Set back in the clearing stood a log cabin and a clutch of small outbuildings.

  In case anyone stumbling across this abode might be left in any doubt about the attitude of the owner towards casual callers, rough boards with upturned rows of rusting spikes had been attached to the top of the gate and fence.

  Any visitor brave enough to linger in the face of such antagonism might have looked closer at the log cabin and wondered if their first impression of a crude dwelling was correct. The gable end of the roof confirmed that it, like the walls, had been constructed of rudely-hewn, split trunks of pine, complete with peeling bark. But a closer examination of the gables would reveal that the roof had been overlain with felt and tight-fitting, deep-grey roof tiles that would ensure a leak-free interior. The tiles were now covered in snow, except for a six-inch or so radius around the galvanised steel flue that protruded from the roof, emitting a gentle stream of billowy smoke.

  One or two of the trunks that formed the walls of the cabin had warped under the extremity of the elements; a casual glance might lead an onlooker to believe the interior must be cold and draughty. But if the onlooker was intrepid enough to risk impalement by scaling the fence and approaching the cabin for an up-close look, he would glimpse in the gaps between the warped trunks a high quality wind- and waterproof membrane. Poking the membrane with a finger would yield the impression of a thick layer of insulating material behind it and the notion of wind howling through the gaps would seem a foolish one.

  A stroll around the cabin would show the increasingly foolhardy observer a double-glazed window set snugly into the wall facing away from the gate, alongside a thickset, well-fitting door. Peering in at the window would not yield any clues as to the interior for the glass was tinted and the onlooker would see only a snow- and tree-framed reflection of himself.

  This was a log cabin that gave only the pretence of being a humble abode. It was the home of Zacharias Trent, a survivor of Vietnam, of alcoholism and, more recently, of the Millennium Bug.

  * * * * *

  She made the boy lie on the sagging settee that she had so recently vacated. He obeyed her willingly, staring up at her with wide eyes that conveyed trust but little else.

  “Phooey!” she exclaimed. “You don’t half stink.”

  The boy smiled at her. It made his expression appear a little less vague.

  “Phooey!” he said, mimicking her.

  She grunted. “Well, at least you can speak.” She eyed his trousers. They were so encrusted in filth that she couldn’t tell what colour they had been. The lower half of the right leg was deeply stained with blood. “We need to fix you up.” She grimaced as she tried to swallow. “First, though, I need to drink.”

  Moving deliberately—the pain behind her eyes was threatening to overcome her—she walked back into the narrow hallway. Her last memory of before was of wheeling her bicycle into the hallway. It had gone. Her backpack lay on the floor. It did not look as though it had been tampered with.

  She knelt and undid it. An unopened plastic bottle of water lay within, together with an opened one around a third full and a few bars of chocolate. She removed the top of the opened bottle and raised the bottle to her lips. The water tasted unbelievably sweet, like nectar, and she had to force herself not to gulp it. Nevertheless, in what seemed no time at all, the bottle was empty.

  Her stomach grumbled, low and insistent, like the growling of the dogs chasing the boy. She fished a bar of chocolate out of the knapsack and tore off the wrapping. Unable to help herself, she chewed the first bite as if it was toffee and almost swooned as the sugar-rush enveloped her. Within moments, the bar had gone and she was licking her lips with unadulterated pleasure. She glanced at the full bottle of water, but resisted the urge to open it. Instead, she took it back into the living room with another bar of chocolate. Already the intensity of her headache was fading and she was able to think more clearly. She placed the bottle of water on the floor next to the settee.

  “Here,” she said, handing the boy the chocolate. “Eat this while I find something to sort out that leg. And some clean clothes.”

  The boy took the bar and held it, staring at it as though he hadn’t seen chocolate before.

  “Oh for goodness’ sake,” she muttered, snatching the bar back and tearing off the wrapper. “Here. Don’t look at it. Eat it.” She mimed raising her hand to her lips and biting.

  After a pause, the boy followed her lead. Such a look of delight lit up his face as he slowly chewed that she regretted her impatience.

  She smiled. “Good, isn’t it? Well, you lie there and enjoy it. I won’t be long.”

  Feeling a little stronger, she moved more naturally, in less stilted fashion. The door at the rear of the living room led to a small kitchen that smelled dank and musty, like an old root cellar. An open tin of baked beans stood on a cluttered worktop. She glanced inside. The contents had blackened and dried. She looked around, taking in the jumble of scrap-encrusted crockery, dirty appliances, bundles of creased clothes, a pile of unopened officious-looking mail. Whoever had occupied this property before the Millennium Bug had surely not been house-proud.

  A fridge stood next to the worktop. She opened the door, expecting and receiving a rush of foul air. Breathing through her mouth, she explored the interior. The fridge was sparsely stocked and most of the contents had spoiled, but she pulled out three unopened tins of food, a can of cola and a litre bottle of water with the seal intact.

  She carried her prizes back into the living room and placed them on the coffee table. The boy had nearly finished the chocolate bar and favoured her with a brown-toothed smile.

  Returning to the kitchen, she made for the sink and turned the taps. The cold tap shuddered and spat out a cupful of brown, brackish water before falling still. The hot tap did not issue so much as a thimbleful. She turned to the kettle that stood beside the sink and hefted it, judging its weight and hearing the slosh of water. She lifted the lid and sniffed. The water smelled stale, but not stagnant, and would serve her purpose.

  Her attention was diverted by a green, thick glass bottle. Gin according to its label. She unscrewed the top and sniffed. Wrinkling her nose, she wondered whether it tasted better than it smelled. She brought the bottle to her lips and raised it.

  With a small cry of revulsion, she turned and spat the fiery, perfumed liquid into the sink.

  “People choose to drink this stuff?” she wondered aloud.

  She took the bottle and the kettle into the living room. The boy had finished the chocolate and was gazing at the can of cola.

  “Go on then,” she said.

  She handed him the can. He took it from her and stared at it for a moment as though uncertain what to do next. She was just about to take it from him to pop the ring pull when comprehension seemed to dawn and he performed the task himself. He took a deep slug of cola and issued a loud belch. He grinned. For a moment, his face went blank once more and then he held out the can to her.

  “No thanks,” she said, smiling. “You enjoy it. We’ll eat some proper food soon, but after I’ve cleaned you up. You smell like a rubbish dump. Now, what else do we need. . . . ?”

  Back in the kitchen, she rummaged through the piles of wrinkled clothes. They had taken on the musty odour that pervaded the house, but they at least appeared to have been washed. She pulled out a blue football shirt that looked as if it might fit the boy, but the rest of the clothes were too big.

  The boy’s eyes widened when he saw the shirt she was carrying. He shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “Millwall.”

 
“Huh?”

  He shook his head again. “Not Chelsea.”

  “Ah. . . . this is a Chelsea shirt and you support Millwall, right?”

  The boy smiled, again making him look more with it, less simple. “Millwall.”

  “Okay. I get it. Doesn’t much matter now though. I’ll see if I can find more clothes upstairs.”

  She went into the hallway and up the creaking stairs. Her headache had faded to a dull background throb, one that enabled her to function in spite of it, like having a mild period pain. And that was due soon, judging from the occasional twinge she was experiencing in her lower abdomen.

  Four doorways led off the landing. A double bed stood in what looked like the main bedroom. The bedclothes were rumpled, the duvet thrown back as if the bed had been vacated in a hurry. She stared at it for a moment, feeling troubled but not knowing why. She suspected it had to do with before, but she still had no memory of what had happened between entering this house and awaking half-clothed on the settee.

  The other bedroom was smaller and contained a single bed. A poster of Chelsea Football Club’s squad was pinned to a wall. A quick rummage through an old chest of drawers produced a tee-shirt with the imprint of some heavy metal band on the front, a thin jumper and a pair of jogging bottoms that looked a little big for the boy but would nevertheless be a vast improvement on his current attire. The bottoms had a drawstring waist that would keep them from falling down.

  “And if you don’t like this band, tough shit, mate,” she muttered.

  She also found some underpants and socks. The trainers she dug out of the bottom of the rickety wardrobe were cheap but fairly new; they might also be too big but should serve until they could find a pair of shoes to fit him. He couldn’t carry on wearing the shoes he had on. They were falling apart and one was soaked in blood. The wardrobe also contained a navy, padded jacket that would keep him warm. She carried the clothes and trainers to the landing and dumped them at the top of the stairs.

  She entered the bathroom and opened the cabinet, hoping to find antiseptic cream and bandages. No such luck, but she grabbed the packet of painkillers that were in there, a bar of soap and half a bag of sanitary towels. Not what she normally used, but they would do the job when the time came. Standing on top of the cabinet was a can of roll-on deodorant for women and a plastic bottle of talcum powder. She grabbed these, too.