Blood Crazy (36 page)

I felt myself blushing as I kissed her and wished her luck.

Adam came and helped me load the canoe which was tethered to Bernadette's private landing stage. The lights from the open doorway sparkled on the dark waters.

‘As soon as you're on your way, we're going to have to switch off the light,' said Bernadette. ‘We can't risk anyone spotting the Ark from the shore.'

I nodded. ‘I'm ready, anyway. Good-bye, Adam. Thanks for everything.' I used the paddle to push the canoe away from the Ark. ‘Good-bye, Bernadette. I hope we'll get a chance to talk again.'

I saw her eyes glistening with tears as she raised her hand. ‘Don't hope,' she said. ‘You can count on it. Come back and see us one day … Good luck, Alexander.'

Steadily I paddled in the direction of the mountains that cut up into the star-spattered sky. When I looked back they had already turned out the light. It was so dark I couldn't even see the outline of the Ark anymore.

As Adam had asked I hid the canoe in the undergrowth beyond the shore. Then I pulled on the haversack, shouldered the rifle and began walking, the frozen snow crisp as biscuits beneath my feet.

Walking wasn't easy but by the time it was light I was over the first mountain and the lake behind me was out of sight.

Soon I fell into the rhythm of walking on the snow-covered road, and I found myself thinking of a million things. About DAY 1. The cottage where Sarah, her sisters and I had stayed. My first night with Sarah in the motel after Slatter'd tried to flatten my head, and everything else that had happened in the last few months.

At first it had all been confusing and terrifying. Now, if anything the danger seemed greater. Would the Creosotes wipe us out, would we starve, could we learn enough practical skills to survive? But after hearing what Bernadette had to say, I felt stronger, more clear-headed, more purposeful. I felt like an engine that had been revving uselessly away for years, but at last, someone had finally switched me into gear.

As I walked up the next mountain, my breath blowing out in white clouds, I did begin to wonder if what she told me was true. But did it matter?

Did it matter
what
we believed in, as long as we believed in something?

Then as I crested the top into sunlight I knew the truth.

I grinned and said, ‘Hello, in there. It's a beautiful morning. I don't know if you can see through my eyes but there's miles of forest, blue skies, and a spread of snow that looks like a million tons of white sugar.'

Then before I could stop myself, I did the weirdest thing. I took a great breath and let out a mighty roar that went echoing away into the blue-white distance.

The kind of roar that told Mother Earth I was glad to be alive.

The miles ticked by, my legs ached, but I felt good. I was hitting new energy reserves inside of myself.

The first night I found a barn and slept there.

The next day cloud built up in the sky until it made the day not much brighter than night. Still I pushed on, keen to reach Eskdale. That night I camped out by a river.

From then on I followed the river for two days. It grew so wide I could hardly see across to the far bank. When I reached a fork in the road, the map told me to take the right. Once more the road took me up into the mountains. It was then it started to snow.

It was still early in the day so I kept pushing on. The snowfall became a blizzard.

High on the mountain I found a farmhouse occupied by a small community consisting of a teenage husband and wife, who had actually worked the farm with the man's father before the sanity crash, their two babies, and eight teenage schoolboys who'd been on a field trip. After civilization hit the fan they didn't go home but ended up at the Murphys' farm where they'd stayed ever since.

They made me welcome, sitting me in front of the fire and giving me a hot meal.

‘You'll stay here, of course,' said Murphy Junior. ‘You wouldn't put a dog out there today.'

‘Believe me, I'd like to,' I told him. ‘But I've got to get home. There are people in danger there. And I don't think they know it.'

‘You can't walk in this, man. You'll be dead by nightfall.'

Mrs Murphy said, ‘We've got a radio transmitter. One of the lads rigged it up last month. If they've got one, we could get them a message through and tell them what the trouble is.'

I shook my head. ‘I only wish we had. Eskdale's pretty isolated and we deluded ourselves we were the only ones left in the world.'

‘Well …' Murphy poured me a whisky. ‘You're going nowhere tonight so we'll make you a bed up.'

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘I'll be on my way as soon as it's light.'

It never did get light the next day. Cloud and snow blotted everything out.

The day after was the same. Then the next. Murphy told me this was it for the winter. Once the snow set in here, it gripped tighter than a boa constrictor.

Of course, we talked a lot round the kitchen fire. It wasn't easy passing on what Bernadette had told me about why the adults had gone psycho, or the two minds stuff – I fumbled over the words and sometimes I wondered if they thought I was crazy. Some of my metaphors for the human brain were a bit shaky too: ‘Imagine you've bought a video recorder … That's your brain. With the recorder comes two video tapes. One's blank – that's mind number one, that becomes you. The second tape is pre-recorded with lots of information; you can't add to, or remove anything from tape number two – this is your unconscious mind; mind number two …'

Then one blonde-haired kid who'd sat there quiet as a plastic head said, ‘Shit … You know earlier this year I thought I was going freaking crazy, but I was thinking something along those lines. I'd learned about this Dr Jung guy at school. And how we have not just one mind in our heads, but two.'

For me it was one hell of a relief to know I'd got someone to understand what I was talking about.

We talked for another twenty-four hours with everyone getting very excited about it.

My excitement nose-dived every time I looked out of the window when I saw the snow coming down not in feathers but lumps.

I'd been there a week when I dreamed I saw myself in a big house, writing something down that seemed so important to me that I felt my neck would go permanently crooked from bending over the desk. In the dream my brother was there. ‘What you doing, bro?'

‘I'm writing a book. I've got to write it all down in case anything happens to me.' I looked up puzzled. ‘But why should what happened to me be important to anyone else?'

‘Keep writing the book, bro, keep writing the book.'

The second I woke up I knew what I had to do. It was a clear enough message from the wise old number two mind inside my head. Write everything down. That way it's easier to give people the knowledge that'll save lives.

As I got stuck into bacon and eggs it struck me I'd become a kind of new apostle for the new age. Christ, my old teachers would have had heart attacks if they'd known I was going to write a book.

Murphy understood what I wanted and helped me find this house by the river. Miles from anywhere, it gives me the peace I need to write the thing.

Even though the house is barely seven miles from his farm it took us six hours to walk here through the blizzard.

Naturally I wanted to get back to Eskdale quick. The need burned inside of me like molten metal, but I knew it'd be suicide. The weather was nothing short of Arctic. In a way that helped. I guessed bad weather for me would be bad weather for the Creosotes; it would hold up their march on Eskdale.

So here I am, sitting at this table, looking out over the river. Apart from the river which looks black, everything else is white with snow.

I've got all the food I need, gas lamps for light and coal for the fire.

I ate my meal alone here on Christmas Day. Boy, was that weird. I sat here and thought about everyone I've ever known. At one point I thought I heard Jack's electric guitar upstairs. I searched the house and found nothing.

I poured a tumbler full of whisky ready to blot out the rest of the day in a booze-out, but suddenly I had an incredible feeling of presence. Like there was an old friend in the room with me. So strong came the sensation, I could almost feel it.

The number two mind was there with me. In my head. It strained to make its presence felt. That I wasn't alone. And that I always had a companion who was rooting for me.

I tipped the whisky back into the bottle and began to write.

Now I write all day; the pencil burns across the paper like someone else is moving my hand. I smile. My immortal partner and I are working together.

In late January I began to see the things in the river. They looked like logs floating slowly by. It was only when I got close I saw the holes where the eyes were.

They were dead Creosotes. And they'd been in the water a while. Maybe somewhere miles upstream kids were desperately fighting to stop them over-running their community.

This went on for day after day, week after week.

Late February the thaw began. But it was so slow it was painful.

I'd stand and watch the icicles drip, willing them to turn to water. Once the snow started to thin I could begin the walk back to Eskdale.

The following day I sat scribbling away like a demon when I heard a thunderous knocking. The urgency in the noise sent me running to open the door.

On the doorstep stood Murphy.

His face looked grim.

He said: ‘Nick … Do you know some people called Martin Del-Coffey and Sarah Hayes?'

My heart lurched. ‘Yes.'

‘We've got them on the radio. They're in big trouble.'

‘What's wrong, Murphy? What did Del-Coffey tell you?'

Murphy stamped the snow off his boots before stepping inside. ‘To be honest, Nick, not a damn lot. Either they haven't got the hang of the transmitter or it's on the blink. We haven't been able to make much sense of what they've told us.'

As he pulled off his coat, gloves and boots he talked. ‘First thing this morning we heard it. They're putting out a general call to everyone. It sounded urgent so Gary called me down to the shack. They were asking over and over: did anyone know the whereabouts of someone called Nick Aten? And that they were up to their eyeballs in deep, deep shit.'

‘Did they say what kind of trouble?'

‘No. They went off air before we could ask. Anyway, as soon as I heard they needed you I kitted up and got down here. It took me nigh on five hours solid walking.' He sat down with a sigh. ‘What we've got to do with you, Nick old mate, is get you back up to the farm so you can talk with your folks.'

‘Damn.' I looked out of the window. The sun had hit the mountains across the river. ‘We're going nowhere tonight. It'll be dark in half an hour.'

Of course I couldn't sleep. I prowled the ground floor of the house.
Sometimes I'd sit at the table and blaze away with the pencil. I felt old number two taking me over, so all that I became was a hand to hold the pencil while it poured out the words like machine gun bullets across the page. We both knew that time was running out. Events were moving to a climax.

We were kitted up and walking before sunrise. In the haversack I carried Bernadette's document and a bundle of paper covered in my own scrawl. Across my shoulder I'd slung the rifle; the pistol I'd pushed into my belt.

Murphy put his head down and crunched through the snow like an Eskimo. He was born to this kind of thing and I had to push hard to keep up.

The thing that kept me going was the sheer hunger of wanting to speak to Sarah. What was wrong? Why the urgency? Had Curt and his crew harmed them? Maybe the Creosotes were attacking?

The hotel defences were a shambles. I remembered some idiot had driven a truck through the perimeter wall at one point; the gates were bust.

Del-Coffey's place might be the safest, now he'd bricked up the lower floor's windows and doorways. But I remembered what'd happened to the kids in Dublin, with their thirty foot high concrete walls … and the Croppers with their fire moat … and the German kids on their island. Shit.

It took us seven hours to cover the seven snow-choked miles back to Murphy's farmhouse.

The first thing we did was go straight to the radio shack. One of the kids sat at the mike, tapping the table in frustration.

‘Just when we think we're through they go off the air,' said the kid. ‘I think their set's on the fritz.'

‘Who are you talking to?'

‘A guy called Martin Del-Coffey. There's a girl with him as well.'

I shrugged off the haversack and rifle and pulled up a chair beside the kid with the mike. ‘The girl. Is she called Sarah?'

‘That's her. Sarah Hayes. She said she's … Hang on, here we go again.' Static burst from the speaker, then came a voice that sounded like a geriatric robot.

‘What's he saying?'

‘Your guess's as good as mine, Nick … Del-Coffey. Del-Coffey. It's no good … I still can't understand you … Too much distortion.'

There was a series of mechanical growls then a loud snapping sound. ‘… better. Is that any better?'

It was Del-Coffey's voice. I was ready to rip the mike out of the kid's hand but he handed it to me. ‘Go ahead and talk, Nick. Make it quick, I don't know how long they can keep on the air.'

‘Del-Coffey.'

The voice coming over the speaker shot higher in astonishment. ‘Nick Aten? Is that you, Nick?'

‘It's me, Del-Coffey … Shit, I never thought I'd be so glad to hear your voice. What's the problem?'