The Reckoning (Earth Haven Book 3) Page 5

  “Okay. Fortunately for me, I don’t feel bound by such constraints.” She reached for the bottle of Jameson’s.

  * * * * * * *

  Milandra closed the door to the cottage behind her, preoccupied with what Grant had told her about his update from Tess Granville in London.

  Small sections of the city had been reconnected to the Grid. More would be illuminated each week. By the time the Great Coming took place, Tess reported that around a third of the city should be powered up.

  She also informed Grant that humans had been pouring into the capital from mainland Europe. A trickle that became a stream that had grown into a raging torrent.

  Tess had been surprised by the first arrivals, but she was quick on the uptake. Grant acknowledged that she had been the ideal person to take charge while he relaxed in Cornwall. As soon as Tess realised that there was a steady influx of people, she organised squads to roam the city capturing any humans they encountered. The captives were sent to Hillingdon Hospital where the electrical treatment centre had once more become operational. Humans walked in; drones shambled out. They were put to work alongside British drones, clearing and salvaging and switching off electrical appliances.

  If Tess wondered why the humans were arriving in such numbers, she didn’t speculate to Grant. And Grant had not, of course, been able to express anything but surprise at the turn of events without raising suspicions that he’d had something to do with it.

  Milandra shook her head; she had more pressing concerns. She crossed to the bed and sank into it, closing her eyes. She reached, inwards.

  Having visited once, she could easily find her way through the labyrinthine passageways to the dusty corner where she had discovered the memory of the ancients’ ship leaving Earth Home. Many other memories crowded the virtual shelves. Some slim—if they were books, they would be little more than pamphlets—some novel-sized. Milandra chose a thick one at random and delved inside…

  A landscape. Thickly wooded slopes reared over lush vegetation. Rain fell in gentle showers; when it stopped, puffs of steam rose from the trees under the benevolent gleam of a huge, red orb that dominated the sky. Great winged creatures skimmed the jungle, soaring on hot draughts, alighting on tangled nests built in rocky crevasses of the highest peaks.

  Glass domes glinted above the canopy like rubies in firelight. Burnished ziggurats and pagodas poked through the treetops like gigantic totem poles. The polished tops of pyramids glowed blood-red.

  Whoever’s eyes she was looking through was moving over the jungle. She glimpsed padded seats, thickly paned windows, robed and cloaked travelling companions.

  Milandra delved deeper, allowed herself to become fully immersed so that she experienced sounds and smells and sensations. The deep thrum of a powerful engine; a crackling air of tension, mirrored by the taut expressions on her companions’ faces; a sinking feeling in her stomach as the craft swooped down to a clearing near an imposing, domed structure.

  The scene changed to a fragranced interior. Cool marble floors and columns glowed in sunlight magnified by the overhead glass dome. Trailing plants climbed towards the light, multi-hued flowers exuding scents of summer and spice. It should have been a soothing, relaxing space.

  Two groups of people faced each other across a vast expanse of tabletop. Milandra remembered the wood from which it was made: isuz. As easily fashioned as pine, tougher than teak. The people had been seated on long stone benches that ran the length of the table, but had risen to their feet, faces flushed beyond the ruddy glow of sunlight. A babble of raised voices, speaking in a language Milandra had never before heard, yet recognised. It was the ancient forerunner of the tongue which she and her fellow star travellers had brought with them to Earth Haven.

  Amidst the tumult, Milandra could not follow precisely what was being shouted, although some words she could pick out. Mamui: loyalty. Palduranki: betrayal. Tuhazu: fight.

  The man in the centre of the group opposite looked directly at the person through whose memory Milandra was observing and fell silent. Lips set into a grim line, he raised a slender black rod. It was marked with intricate designs down its entire length; the air around it seemed to shimmer and grow dimmer.

  The din of voices died as all eyes turned to watch the man. The balmy air tingled with hushed expectancy.

  Without lowering his gaze, the man brought up his other hand. A grimace, a grunt, and the rod snapped in two. The pieces dropped to the table with a dull clatter. A collective shudder ran around the chamber.

  Before she and her stony-faced companions turned and swept from the building, the person whose body Milandra occupied uttered one phrase into the charged silence.

  “Ki’am lu ama.”

  So shall it be.

  The memory flickered, faded and Milandra opened her eyes.

  Judging from the failing light, most of the afternoon had passed while she’d been immersed in the memory. She needed food and to discuss what she’d seen with Jason Grant. It might help her to make more sense of it.

  But first, there was another memory that had attracted her attention; a slim one that shouldn’t take long to view.

  When Milandra opened her eyes in the memory, she was looking once more through the gaze of another. This time, she could see who it was.

  Chapter Four

  Zach drove slowly to stay abreast of the cruiser. The road hugged the coast and there were no buildings erected seaward, so it was easy to keep the boat in sight. When it turned towards the shore, Zach grunted.

  “They’re aiming for that inlet.”

  Ahead, the road bent sharply to the right to follow the course of a narrow gap that channelled the sea inland. Zach brought the pick-up to a stop at the head of the inlet. A sign by the side of the road read, ‘Marina 200 yards’.

  He watched the cruiser approach. It rode the waves with an easy grace that bordered on contempt.

  The passage smoothed as the cruiser entered the mouth of the inlet. Its engine barely above idling, it motored past them. From the windows of the cabin on the top deck, two faces peered at them: a pretty white female and a youthful black male. Zach felt Amy stiffen. Her bottom lip was tucked between her teeth and she chewed on it like it was beef jerky.

  “Something wrong?” he asked mildly.

  Amy shook her head, but continued to chew on her lip.

  “Look, missy,” Zach said, keeping his voice level, “my buddy in ’Nam was black as ink. Ray Walker Junior from Louisiana. Best friend a man could ask for. Saved my life. I couldn’t return the favour.”

  “It’s my momma. She said…” Amy let out a great sigh.

  Zach regarded her solemnly for a moment. Her glance fluttered towards him, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. “Whatever poison your momma has filled your head with, let it go. If you can’t do that, lock it away.”

  She nodded. For a moment, she continued to chew her lip before turning towards him. This time she didn’t drop her gaze.

  “Okay,” she said and nodded again. “It’s okay.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  Zach got the pick-up rolling and headed after the cruiser, which was disappearing around a bend.

  The marina wasn’t large, but exclusive.

  “Whew-wee,” said Zach as he parked as close to the landing stages as he could. “Must be millions and millions of dollars’ worth of boats here.”

  There were at least three other moored cruisers that appeared as though they could withstand an Atlantic crossing, but Zach agreed with the choice the other people had made. The white cruiser coming in to dock was the biggest, the most modern and looked robust enough to cross a hundred oceans.

  Zach killed the engine and opened the door to get out.

  He stopped when he felt Amy’s hand on his arm.

  “What about guns?” she asked. “We don’t know anything about these folks.”

  Zach patted his jacket. “Got my Beretta. Don’t want to frighten them by carrying openly. Besides, the
y’re prob’ly packing. Best way to start a gunfight—carry guns.”

  He got out and closed the truck door. He walked to the front and leaned against the hood. Amy got out and started forward.

  “Wait,” said Zach. “Let them tie up. Don’t want to make ’em jittery.”

  Amy shrugged and stepped to his side.

  Three people appeared on the lower deck of the cruiser: two women and a man. The man—the youthful black male who had peered at them earlier—leapt lightly to the landing stage. He held a rope that he wound around a cleat attached to the dock, before walking smartly along the stage to help the young woman down. She, too, clutched a rope that she wrapped around a cleat. With a reverse engine thrust and a churn of water, the cruiser settled against the mooring, bumping gently on the floats dangling from its sides. The man and woman pulled the ropes tight and tied them off.

  “Neatly done,” murmured Zach.

  The second woman remained on deck. She gazed at Zach and Amy, her face expressionless. Grey-haired, maybe in her sixties. Loosely in her arms she held a rifle. The boat’s engines were cut and an older man joined the woman on deck. It was the man who had gestured to them when they first noticed the cruiser. He, too, carried a rifle.

  The older couple watched Zach and Amy as the younger couple began to walk towards them.

  “Smart,” muttered Zach. “Clear line of sight. The youngsters will likely stop short so we can’t jump ’em.”

  Sure enough, the couple stopped walking ten yards away from the pick-up. The man took two further paces forward.

  In his early twenties, well turned out, hair closely cropped. He must be keeping it trimmed despite all that had happened. He had a certain bearing, one that Zach recognised.

  “Howdy, son,” said Zach. “I’m Zach Trent. This here is Amy Kerrigan.”

  The young man nodded. “Sir, ma’am. Before we go any further, please tell me if you are carrying any weapons.”

  “Amy’s clean.” Zach pointed to the breast of his zipped-up jacket. “I have a pistol in my inside pocket. I ain’t reckoning on having any reason to take it out.” He patted the hood of the truck. “Got some military hardware inside. A few M16 assault rifles and a couple of pump-action shotguns. And my hunting rifle.”

  Zach didn’t miss the slight widening of the man’s eyes at the mention of the assault rifles.

  “You military, son?”

  “Yes, sir. I was in my third year at West Point when everyone started dying.”

  “Gonna tell us your name?”

  “Franklin Jones, though Frank will do.” He pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. “That’s Sarah.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Frank.” Zach nodded at the young woman. “Sarah.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Amy and stepped forward, her right hand outstretched.

  Frank’s eyes widened. On the boat, the older woman brought the rifle up and pointed it in their direction.

  “Ma’am, please step back,” said Frank, holding his hands out in a warding-off gesture.

  Zach remained slouched against the hood of the pick-up. “Come back to me, Amy,” he said softly.

  Amy returned to Zach’s side, a perplexed frown creasing her brow. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “Just trying to be friendly.”

  “No, ma’am,” said Frank. “I’m the one who should apologise.” He glanced back at the cruiser and moved his hands up and down. The grey-haired women slowly lowered the rifle. “These are strange times. Not many of us left and we’re suspicious as heck of each other.”

  “Nothing wrong with being careful,” said Zach. “We intend you no harm.”

  “What do you want?” That was Sarah. She had been watching them with narrow eyes.

  “If you’ll pardon the expression,” said Zach, “I’ll shoot from the hip. We’d like to hitch a ride with you folks. To Britain.”

  “What makes you think that’s where we’re headed?” asked Frank.

  “I’m guessing you heard the same voice we did.”

  Sarah gasped. “You heard the voice too?”

  “Look,” said Zach, spreading his hands, “why don’t we all sit down and get to know each other a little? Like people used to do.”

  “Sir,” said Frank, “I’d feel easier about taking you to meet Elliott and Nan if you weren’t carrying that pistol.”

  Zach looked at the young man for a long moment. Frank returned the gaze steadily. If there was deception in his mind, he hid it well.

  “Okay,” said Zach.

  “Wait!” Amy laid a hand on his arm. She reduced her voice to a rough whisper. “We gonna walk down there unarmed with them toting rifles?”

  “If they’re fixin’ on shooting us, they could have done it by now.”

  Amy’s bottom lip had tucked itself back between her teeth. She sucked on it, staring at him with wide eyes, then glanced back to the waiting couples and the cruiser.

  “Okay.” She let go of Zach’s arm.

  He turned and walked to the driver’s door. Unzipping his jacket, he removed the Beretta and opened the door. Making sure his movements were deliberate and could be seen by Frank, he dropped the weapon onto the bench seat. He closed the door and locked it. Stepping around the vehicle, he locked the passenger door.

  “Okay, son, now I’m clean as a whistle. Amy, too.”

  “What about knives?” asked Sarah.

  Zach shook his head, keeping his gaze fixed on Frank. “My hunting knife’s in the pick-up. You can frisk me if you want. I’ll allow it. Once.”

  The young man hadn’t taken his eyes off Zach the whole time. Now he shook his head. “Don’t think that’ll be necessary, sir. Er, Zach, was it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then, please, Zach, will you and Amy accompany us to the cruiser?”

  “Be glad to.”

  Sarah turned and walked back the way she had come. Frank waited for Zach and Amy to approach. He held out his hand to Amy.

  “Pleased to meet you, Amy.”

  Zach felt a moment’s disquiet, but Amy didn’t hesitate. She took his hand and shook it briefly.

  “Pleased to meet you, Frank.”

  “Zach.” The young man held out his hand. Zach took it. The grip was firm and strong.

  They followed Frank down the landing stage.

  * * * * * * *

  Simone Furlong strolled on the sands beneath the jagged cliffs. Further along where the beach narrowed to a thin strip, perched on top of the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic, stood the hotel where they would await the Great Coming.

  The drones that remained from the twenty they had brought with them from Amesbury had cleared nearly all the corpses from the hotel. They had lost one back in the village. Simone had come across the drone, a young male, being torn apart by three starving dogs. It had been too late to save the drone—its throat had already been torn out—so she stayed to watch. The dogs did not approach her; even in their deranged condition, they retained instincts of self-preservation. She let the dogs eat their fill before probing their frenzied minds and showing them in no uncertain terms what would happen if they continued to make a nuisance of themselves. With bowed heads, tails tucked between legs, the dogs backed away, whining. They had not been bothered by those dogs again.

  There had been many corpses in the hotel, almost every room opening to the buzz of flies and odour of stale putrefaction. The hotel’s function room, rather pretentiously labelled by the ornate sign attached to the door as ‘The Grand Ballroom’, had been littered with used glasses, empty champagne bottles and streamers as though the occupants had held an end-of-the-world bash before retiring to the guest rooms to expire in a drunken haze. Simone often wondered what getting drunk was like. She had tried alcohol, but it made her sweat and shake and want to throw up. She really couldn’t see the attraction.

  Rats had taken up residence in the hotel, grown fat on rotten meat in the kitchens and rotting meat in the bedrooms. Simone rounded them up one by one, marched them dow
n the steps to the beach and watched in fascination as she made them leap into the bonfire. The fatter the rat, the louder the pop and, my, how those rats had popped.

  Cats had also moved in, grown fat on fat rats. They hissed and spat at any drone that came near. When Simone or Wallace or Lavinia approached, the cats fell silent. Ears pressed flat to skulls, belly fur brushing the ground, they slunk away to shadowed corners from where they peered with wide, dark eyes. Days later when Simone had finished dealing with the rats and thought to extend the sport to the fat felines, there was not one to be found.

  And now she was bored.

  Lavinia Cram and George Wallace were up in the hotel, directing the drones in their clearance work. The bus driver, Rodney something-or-other, was off somewhere fishing. Fishing! That was a drone pastime, not worthy of higher beings. Not that it stopped her tucking with gusto into the catch that he fried up each evening.

  She poked at a pebble with the toe of her sneaker, stooped and picked it up. Hefting it in her right hand, she judged its weight and ballistic qualities.

  Two drones worked near the foot of the steps, banking damp seaweed onto a smoking pyre built on dry sand above the high tide line. As the seaweed dried it would burn, but slowly, keeping the fire alive for they still had use for it. Although most of the corpses had been disposed of—they burned easily, little more than skin bags of bone held together by clothes—the drones were also destroying the stinking mattresses and bedding on which the bodies had lain. With windows and doors thrown wide to the elements, it would not be long before all trace of its former occupants would be removed from the hotel.

  The male drone forking seaweed onto the pyre was middle-aged. In the wind whipping off the ocean, wisps of greying hair flapped like ribbons on a desk fan. From her distance of thirty or so yards, Simone could not see the line of spittle that ran down its chin, but the damp patch on its chest was visible. Disgusting creature, she thought. The female was older, moving stiffly on arthritis-ravaged knees, struggling to lift clumps of seaweed from the barrow.

  Simone drew back her arm, took careful aim and let fly. The pebble sailed through the air and struck the female on the back of the head. It dropped to its knees, head slumping forward.