The Beacon (Earth Haven Book 2) Read online

  “Yes,” agreed Milandra, a wistful tone in her voice. “So humankind’s means of producing energy can be allowed to decay into the soil.”

  “I think so, along with military installations and buildings like hospitals. We will have no use for them. Entire towns and cities will go the same way. I’m not sure what the optimum size of our civilisation will be on Earth Haven—many tens of thousands more than seventy-five thousand, I suspect—but we shall still be too sparse to need them all.”

  “What about food and transport?” asked Milandra.

  “Global food production won’t be necessary. Those who want to farm can take their pick of the best arable land. Cows, pigs, sheep, poultry, many will have died without man to feed them, or have been killed by predators without man to protect them, but many more will be wandering around waiting to be herded by anyone who takes the fancy. Fish stocks will rise dramatically. Fruit in season will be hanging off the branch waiting to be plucked. And there will be warehouses in every town and city piled high with tinned and dry goods. There will be enough food to go around for many years to come without us having to do anything.

  “As for transport, there will be no need to maintain networks and produce more oil to power automobiles and airplanes and ships. Why should any of us need to travel anywhere at speed? We shall have no use for global commerce or tourism or sporting events or any of the other things that mankind developed high speed travel in order to accomplish. If someone takes the fancy to travel to Australia, what will it matter if it takes six months under sail? Earth Haven’s sun is young and life-giving. We don’t labour under the limited lifespan that shackled man and made him rush to achieve things as if there were no tomorrow. Which, I suppose, for them, there wasn’t. But there will always be tomorrow for us. . . . next week, next year. For so long as each of us wants it.”

  Grant peered closely at Milandra as he said this. He hadn’t noticed any fresh wrinkles under her eyes or grey tinges to her hair, but he knew she had thought about allowing herself to grow old. And once the process began, it became extremely difficult to halt, even under a sun as powerful as this one.

  Milandra returned his gaze and smiled. “Don’t worry, old friend, I intend sticking around for now.”

  Deciding not to press the issue, Grant shrugged. “All this will be subject to consensus, of course.”

  “What about decaying bodies,” said Milandra, “in places where there are no survivors? I know that there are no diseases they can harbour that could affect us, but they’ll attract vermin. In sufficient numbers, they can cause us a problem.”

  “And large gatherings of vermin might attract larger predators,” said Grant. “I think it would be a foolish person who opts to live alone. A single person can be overcome even by something as small and inferior as a rat if they come at him in sufficient numbers. Packs of dogs or coyotes or wolves will be able to get the better of a person on their own. Controlling more than five or six larger animals simultaneously takes some doing. It will be wiser to travel in twos or threes, at least until a new status quo is reached.

  “As for decaying corpses, by the time the Great Coming has taken place and people start heading out into the world, most will already have rotted away, especially in warmer climes. Bones, hair, teeth, kidney and gall stones are likely to remain. Maybe finger- and toe-nails. And rotting clothes. But the remains will be easier to dispose of than those we are dealing with now. Less messy. Except, of course. . . .”

  “Except for the million and a half fresh corpses,” finished Milandra, her expression neutral. Cautiously neutral, Grant thought.

  He chose his next words carefully, opening a door to see if she would step through. “That’s if we decide to press ahead with the complete eradication of the human race,” he said.

  “We will,” said Milandra, slamming the door shut. “We have no choice.”

  * * * * *

  Ceri sat alone before the dying fire, nursing another vodka and orange. The alcohol was quelling the black depression that threatened to bubble to the surface and spill over. Quelling it for now.

  Clangs and bangs came from behind the bar where Peter was tidying up. He had cooked food for himself, but neither Ceri nor Tom had felt much like eating. Ceri rather believed she would stick to a liquid diet this evening. Maybe for lots of evenings, or for as many evenings that remained. She lit another cigarette and inhaled without much pleasure. Sometimes cigarettes tasted nasty, but that wouldn’t make her give up now. If anything was pointless in this new world, worrying about her health was high on the list.

  The other woman—it was Ceri’s turn to struggle to think of her by name—had disappeared upstairs, muttering something about needing more rest to complete her recovery. Ceri found that she didn’t much care whether the woman recovered or not.

  Tom had wrapped himself up warm and taken Dusty out for a walk. Like her, he hadn’t said much since Peter’s revelation of what their future held. He seemed preoccupied, lost in his own thoughts. Ceri hoped for his sake that they weren’t as dark as hers.

  The pain of losing her son, her husband, her parents and everyone else she held dear within the space of a week had left her broken. Terror that she was the only person left alive had completed her desolation. Tom and Peter had stumbled across her as she was on the verge of allowing grief to overcome her. The bottle of sleeping pills probably still stood on the coffee table back in her terraced house in Wales. When she had taken the decision to leave the house behind and go with the men, she also decided to leave the pills behind.

  Although she hadn’t overcome her loss, had not grown accustomed to its weight, she had resigned herself to the fact of it. That grief was now a part of her, a part that she didn’t want to lose as it meant her loved ones would also be part of her until the day she died.

  Until recently, she hadn’t given much thought to how long she might have left. The attempted invasion of her mind by a powerful alien intelligence, the flight from Wales and the ensuing helicopter pursuit had not allowed much time for introspection. But since arriving in Wick and settling into the hotel, long hours by the fireside and long nights in bed had granted her thoughts free rein. Those thoughts remained dark, but she had reached an agreement with herself, a sort of accommodation. No matter how bleak the future looked, she would strive to go on for as long as she could; to survive. It is what her family would have wanted her to do.

  “Mam,” said Rhys in his soft, lilting voice that had yet to break. In the black small hours she could conjure his image at will. “When your time comes, we’ll still be here waiting for you. Me and Dad and Gran and Grandpa. We’re not going anywhere. Take your time.”

  The thought of her loved ones waiting to greet her comforted her and gave her the strength to carry on.

  Now it appeared that her time was indeed measured. Tom’s too, and that of anyone else who had survived. Measured in mere months.

  The sound of a throat clearing made her glance up. Peter stood there, clutching a book and a paraffin lamp.

  “You all right?” he said.

  “I’ll survive,” said Ceri. “Ha! Okay, perhaps I won’t.”

  “Well, don’t give up yet. The Great Coming may not succeed.”

  “Peter, no offence, but I really don’t want to talk about it now. I just want to sit in front of this fire and get shitfaced.”

  “Fair enough. I’m retiring for the night.” He held up the book: Treasure Island. “There’s a tiny library off the corridor leading to the dining room. Do you know, I used to read a lot but haven’t picked up a book for probably sixty years or more. Ever since television became popular. Anyway, I’ll bid you goodnight.”

  No sooner had Peter disappeared up the staircase than the embers in the fire glowed a bright orange as a gust of cold air swept into the room. Dusty bounded to Ceri’s side, a wide doggy grin on his face, attempting to lick her.

  “Gerroff, you daft mutt!” said Ceri, but there was no malice in her tone. “You’re perishing. Sit
in front of the fire and warm up.”

  Dusty needed no second invitation. Giving her hand a last lick for luck, he curled up on the thick rug that covered the flagstones before the hearth.

  Ceri glanced behind her but there was no sign of Tom. She stood, placed a log on the fire and went behind the bar to make herself a fresh drink. By the time she returned to her seat, Tom had entered the lounge, still wearing his coat and thermal beanie, clutching a leaflet.

  He crouched by the side of her chair, an excited look on his face.

  “Look,” he said. “I found it among the leaflets at Reception.”

  Ceri took the leaflet in her free hand and squinted at it in the faint light.

  “A gun club,” she said. “So what?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? A gun club. It’ll have guns.”

  “Ye-es. I grant you that’s likely. But, again, so what?”

  “Well,” said Tom, a sober expression settling into his features. “I think it’s high time we armed ourselves.”

  Chapter Six

  The idea came to her during those soft moments that occur when, after an unbroken ten hours of sleep, a mind is drifting gently up towards full awareness.

  Bri opened her eyes. Pale light entered the room around the edges of the closed curtains but it did not make her scrunch her eyes closed again. The headache had receded, for now.

  She nodded to herself. “Why not?” she muttered.

  She clambered out of bed and quickly dressed, shivering a little in the cold air. She opened the curtains and glanced outside. The bedroom was at the front of the house and looked down onto the road. The edges of the road and the pavement held a thin covering of frost. The sun was peeking above the roofs of the houses opposite from a pale sky.

  A tiny bathroom led off the bedroom. Bri went in and shut the door. She needed to empty more than her bladder. The toilet paper felt a little damp, but was adequate for her purposes. When she had finished her business, she closed the toilet lid and tried the flush. Nothing. She shrugged. She had no intention of remaining in this house so didn’t suppose it mattered if she left a calling card. Neither would it matter to Will; he could use the main bathroom.

  She doubted it would matter to him anyway. Whatever damage had been done to his mind—and she had clearly understood that those dark greens and vivid oranges represented damage inflicted from an external source—made him unconcerned about pretty much everything.

  Bri glanced longingly at the shower cubicle that occupied most of the tiny bathroom. She had last taken a shower in the hotel in Looe after pulling out of the fever. Weak as a kitten, she had stood shivering under the spitting cold water until, with a clanking of pipes, it had sputtered to a halt.

  She turned to the sink and tried the cold water tap. Nothing. A plastic bottle of liquid soap stood on the sink; maybe she could use that to feel at least a little cleaner. She looked for a towel and found a pile of them, slightly damp but clean, in the wardrobe in the bedroom. She also found a thickly padded ski jacket that meant she could dump the tattered anorak.

  Returning to the en suite clutching a couple of bath towels, she closed the door and undressed, the cold air making her skin pimple. The dispenser on the soap bottle was clogged so she unscrewed it and poured a few drops from the bottle onto one palm. She lifted her other arm and rubbed at the armpit with the soap. Greasy, not particularly effective, but better than nothing.

  On impulse, Bri tried the hot water tap on the sink. To her astonishment, a thin stream of brown water came out. She turned the tap off. Sliding open the door to the shower cubicle, she examined the shower controls. An on/off switch and a temperature dial. She twisted the dial fully to hot and the switch to on.

  With a cough, a splutter and a groan, water spat out of the shower head. Like the water that had come from the tap it, too, was brown but as she watched, it began to run steadily and clear. Uttering a small squeal of delight, Bri grabbed the soap bottle and stepped under the water.

  It was how she imagined it must feel to be flayed with whips of ice. Her breath left her in a gasp and her instincts cried at her to step back out. She ignored them and began to slather herself in liquid soap, rubbing vigorously at her skin in as much an effort to get warm as clean. Her scalp turned numb as she worked water and soap through her hair, and she winced when her fingers brushed the lump on her forehead.

  She managed to soap and rinse her entire body before the water gave out. She stepped out of the cubicle, shivering uncontrollably, but feeling alive and vital. Her skin tingled as she wiped it dry in a towel, using exaggerated movements to warm up.

  Glancing at her clothes on the floor, she wrapped herself in a clean towel and stepped back into the bedroom. She returned with a clean pair of women’s panties and a selection of toiletries. The panties were too big and definitely not her style, but she shrugged them on anyway.

  A few minutes later, feeling fresh and smelling fragrant, Bri went to find Will. He was sitting on his bed, half-dressed, playing with a toy. A baby’s toy.

  That’s just what you are, she thought. Or what you’ve become after what they’ve done to you.

  Quite who ‘they’ might be, Bri had no idea.

  Since Will did not have the jogging bottoms on, she took the opportunity to change the dressing on his leg. She was pleased to see that the cut had scabbed over. The skin beneath the scab looked pink and healthy, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Come on then, mister,” she said. “Go use the bathroom then get dressed. I’m going to make breakfast. I don’t know what it will be, but I can tell you this: it’ll come from a tin.”

  She giggled and Will gazed at her, wide-eyed and uncomprehending.

  After they had eaten, Bri took a couple more painkillers. She suspected she would need them if she was going to put her idea into action.

  Leaving the breakfast dishes where they were, Bri led Will into the living room and sat next to him on the settee.

  She reached out and touched her fingers to his forehead.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m going to try something. It shouldn’t hurt. You, at any rate.”

  She stared at his face and narrowed her focus. It happened quickly and easily, as though having already done it once it had become second nature.

  The swirling pastels, the grey pool, the dark gashes. . . . all as she had seen them the previous evening. She headed straight for the gashes and into them, surrounding herself with muddy greens and bright orange. Concentrating fiercely, aware that she may not have long to try this, she focused on the orange.

  Gradually, like a developing photograph, it changed. Became terracotta. Then burnt umber. Brown. Muddy green, melding with the surrounding colours.

  She turned her attention to the greens. They became less muddy. Lightened, spreading to the black edges of the gashes, which absorbed them.

  The gashes had all but disappeared. Beyond them she could sense the limpid pool, except that it wasn’t so limpid now. Colour was leeching back, pastel shades of green and blue, as though a dye bomb had been dropped into it.

  Bri gasped as she lurched back into herself and clutched at her nose. Blood was gushing from it in a hot stream. She stood and stumbled to the kitchen where she grabbed a cloth to try to stem the flow. Her headache had returned but to nowhere near the intensity of the previous evening. Whether through the pain killers or the nosebleed acting as a pressure release valve, she didn’t care.

  Still holding the cloth to her nose, she returned to the living room and resumed her seat next to Will.

  “Bri? Are you okay?”

  She looked at the boy. He gazed back at her, but the blank, vapid expression had gone. In its place he wore a frown of concern.

  “Are you okay?” he repeated.

  “Yes, I’m fine. . . . I’m hungry. How can that be? We’ve only just eaten. But never mind me. How do you feel?”

  The boy’s frown grew deeper. He looked down at his hands on his lap.

  “Nasty people wi
th guns.” He brought a hand up and rubbed his temples. “They put something—” he pronounced it ‘sumfing’ “—on my head. Then. . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Will looked up. His eyes were wide, perplexed. “Have I been dreaming?”

  “Maybe. In a way. What do you remember?” Bri brought the cloth away from her nose. The flow of blood seemed to have stopped. She dabbed at her nose to clear blood away.

  “My mum,” said Will, “and my sister. Poppy. She was six. They died.”

  “How old are you, Will?”

  “Nearly eleven. All my friends died, too.”

  “I know. So did mine. Where are you from?”

  “Lambeth. South London.”

  “‘Sarf Lundarn’,” Bri mimicked with a smile. “You sound as if you’re in Eastenders.” Will returned the smile, but it seemed forced and quickly faded. “So what are you doing in this part of London?”

  “The hospital,” said Will. “I had to go to the hospital.”

  “Hillingdon Hospital?”

  Will nodded.

  “What else do you remember?”

  The boy’s brow furrowed in thought. He shuddered and clutched his arms to his thin chest.

  “Bodies,” he whispered. “Dead bodies. Smelly. I had to help carry them. We burned them. And dogs. Snarling dogs. Sharp teeth.” His eyes opened wide again. “How could it be a dream, Bri? You were in it. Like the cheese but without the e.”

  Bri leaned forward, dropping the cloth to the floor, and grasped his hands in hers.

  “It wasn’t a dream, Will. I don’t know why and I don’t know who, but they did something to you at the hospital. They hurt you. In your mind. Somehow I fixed it.”