In the cellar the other door, usually hidden behind the fuse boxes, was open. Chester stepped into the very secret office. The light was on and he saw that there was another figure inside. This one, though, was bound to a chair, a gag in his mouth, a blindfold over his eyes.
“What the hell
did
happen to you?” McInery asked, as Chester stepped into the pool of light cast by the room’s solitary bulb.
“That building site, the one they’re turning into a hotel, there was a zombie there. A real zombie. I had to kill it. I mean, I split its chest open, and it didn’t die.”
“You left it alive?” Cannock asked.
“What? No. I killed it.”
“Really? That’s a shame. It would have been useful. Still, what’s done is done.” Cannock glanced at his watch. “Now, I really do need to get going. You’ve heard my employer’s terms,” he said to McInery, “do you agree?”
She glanced at Chester, then at the bound man.
“Yes.”
“Good. Then there’s just this last matter to be dealt with.” He pulled a revolver out from a pocket. “You sure this room’s soundproof?”
“Very,” McInery replied.
“Good, good. And it is good to see you again, Chester. Perhaps you’d like the honours?” He held out the revolver.
Chester examined the room. The solitary bulb, the wooden chair, the blindfold, but nothing to stop the victim from hearing what was being said. It was a set-up, a stage designed for an initiation. It was an act he’d been through himself, twice. On the first occasion, he had been the one sitting in the chair. That had been a few months after he’d first joined McInery. The second time, he had been the one holding the gun. That was just after Cannock had given them their first assignment. He knew how the routine worked. It was always the same, always about fear and control. That was what bred loyalty.
“Alright,” he said, taking the revolver from Cannock. He stepped over to the bound man and pulled the blindfold down.
“Look at me,” he said. “Look at me.” He waited until the man looked up.
He raised the gun, pointing the barrel between the man’s eyes, and pulled the trigger. It didn’t click on an empty chamber, it roared as a bullet slammed into the man’s head, blowing the back of his skull off and tipping the chair backwards.
“That was cold, Chester. Very cold,” Cannock said with a grin. “Oh no. You keep that gun. It’s an antique, but I’ve got far better.”
“Who was he?” Chester asked, hoarsely.
“Does that matter?” Cannock asked. He turned to McInery. “Do we have a deal?”
“I think so,” she said.
“Good.” Cannock nodded to Chester, turned, and went back up the stairs. Chester followed a few steps behind, wanting to make sure the man really had left the house and was far out of earshot before he said anything more.
“What’s he want us to do?” he asked McInery when he was sure they were alone.
“His employer wants to take over,” she said with a sigh. “Cannock wants us to help.”
“Take over what?”
“The country. The world,” she said with a shrug.
“His employer? The same one who’s been giving us those jobs these past few months.”
“The same.”
“I don’t suppose you found out who that is.”
“Oh yes, I did. It’s Sir Michael Quigley. The Foreign Secretary.”
Part 1 - Outbreak
Penrith, Cumbria, Northern England
6
th
March
“I don’t understand why we don’t go on the evacuation,” Jay said.
“Because I don’t trust the government,” Nilda replied.
“Yeah, Mum, you already said that. But you didn’t say why.”
She reached across the small table in the small kitchen of their small house and took her fifteen-year-old son’s hands.
“It doesn’t feel right. I can’t say what about it I don’t like, but this plan of evacuating everywhere inland seems like it’s beyond what the government would be able to do. Not just ours, but any government.” She saw the frustrated confusion in her son’s eyes and took a moment to marshal her thoughts. “You saw the police at the supermarket?” She refused to call it a Food Distribution Centre.
“Yeah. And?”
“And how they were dressed in military uniform? Carrying rifles?”
“Yeah, but that’s what you’d expect, isn’t it?”
“You’ve been watching too many bad TV shows,” she said, although he hadn’t been watching any these past few days. Since the phone networks went down, and the TV broadcast nothing but football and emergency government missives, he had actually been leaving the house. Due to the curfew, he hadn’t gone much further than the backyard, but he had been going out. She’d been relieved at that. The teenage isolation into which he’d sunk as his grades had slipped over these past few months had begun to worry her.
“Do you know how long it takes to learn how to use an assault rifle?” she asked. “You can’t just give someone a gun and call them a soldier.”
“Maybe, maybe not. You don’t know,” he said, stubbornly.
“The police wouldn’t choose to go armed. You see, that’s the problem,” she said, trying a different tack. “I mean, they actually had a ballot and voted against carrying guns.”
“Yeah, but that was before, Mum. It’s all changed.”
Nilda closed her eyes, and took a breath. Her son was right. It had all changed, and just in the space of a few short days. But she knew she was right, too. He really didn’t understand. It all stemmed from the lack of any solid information. When the radio broadcast that there were no reported outbreaks in the UK or Ireland, Jay believed it. Though she wanted to, Nilda couldn’t. The last report she had believed said the virus was sweeping through North America, Europe, and Africa. The way she saw it, that meant there would be billions of people trying to get away from those countries. They would all hear the same message stating that Britain was safe. It was inevitable they would head to the UK and bring the virus with them. There was no way of preventing it, there was simply too much coastline to be protected.
“Alright, ask yourself this,” she said. “Why are the police now dressed in Army uniforms? What good exactly is that camouflage pattern here in the streets of England?”
“I don’t know, Mum, and the thing is, neither do you. I mean, unless you have some reason to think they’re lying, then we should trust them, right?”
No, they shouldn’t, but she couldn’t quite explain why not to her son. There was nothing tangible behind her wariness. It was just a gut feeling that they were safer on their own. As she gathered her thoughts in preparation for another assault on his uncharacteristic reasonableness, there was a knock on the back door.
“Stay here,” she hissed.
“It’s only Mr Baker,” Jay said. Ignoring his mother, he went to open the door.
They lived in a two-up, two-down terrace in a part of the small town that the council had tried to forget. The bedrooms upstairs were just that, with enough space left over for a small wardrobe. Most of Jay’s clothes were in a dresser on the small landing. Nilda had only two well-laundered outfits for work, and had become used to ignoring the snide comments from her clotheshorse colleagues. Downstairs was the living room, the wall of which the previous owner had partially knocked down during an evening that was never explained to the court’s satisfaction. It was this that had caused the council to put the house up for sale. Unable to afford a contractor, Nilda herself had completed the work that debauchery had begun and had knocked through the living room into the kitchen. But that had been the extent of the improvements she’d been allowed to make. Her house, with its eighteenth-century frontage and cobbled backyard, was under a preservation order. All the houses in the terrace were, including the one opposite belonging to Sebastian Baker.
“What do you want, Sebastian?” Nilda asked, as she went to stand in front of the now open back door.
“Look,” he said, quietly, “I know you’ve got food—”
“We’ve just enough for the two of us,” she said firmly.
“You’ve got more than that,” Sebastian said. “You’ve enough for the two of you for three months. I helped you carry it in from the taxi, remember?” She did. Times had been tough since the recession began. Her hours had been cut, her wages frozen. For two winters in a row they had had to forego heating in order to buy food. Their car had been sold, but even then she’d often gone hungry in order that her son had enough to eat. The moment that she found a second job, stacking shelves during the middle of the night, she’d decided they would never go hungry again. She’d kept three months’ food in the house ever since. She’d have liked to have kept more, but there just wasn’t room.
“But don’t worry,” Sebastian continued. “I’m not here to beg. I’m guessing you’re going to stay put tomorrow.”
“We haven’t decided yet,” she lied.
Sebastian looked past her through the kitchen to the small living room, as if taking in the complete lack of packing.
“Well, I’m going,” he said. “Sooner or later you’ve got to trust someone. For good or ill, that time is now.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling her,” Jay said.
“What,” she asked again, though this time more loudly, “do you want, Sebastian?”
“Since I can’t take everything with me,” he replied, “I thought I’d give you what I’m leaving behind. In the days to come, it might help.”
“Like what?” Jay asked with excited curiosity.
“Well, it’s nothing much. Just my spare camping kit, some tools. That sort of thing.”
“Oh, cool!” Jay stepped forward. Nilda raised her arm to stop him from going outside.
“And what do you want in exchange, Mr Baker?” she asked, coolly.
“Nothing,” he said.
“I don’t believe that.”
The older man tilted his head to one side, and sighed.
“In a few days’ time,” he said, “when the silence descends and the power is cut, you’ll start going from house to house looking for the things that you need. It’s rather obvious that you’ll begin with mine. You won’t see it as such a great crime robbing from me as you would from an unknown neighbour. I thought I would pre-empt your descent into criminality and offer you what I had.”
She eyed him with even more suspicion. He just smiled.
“Well, come on,” he finally said. “I’m not carrying it over for you.” He turned, walked across the small alley, opened the five-foot high wooden gate, and entered his back garden.
“Mum. He’s being nice,” Jay whispered.
Nilda closed her eyes. Sebastian was always being nice. That was the problem.
“Fine. Go on. I’ll follow.”
Jay pushed his way past his mother and walked quickly - at fifteen he was too cool to run - across the yard. Nilda took a moment to lock the back door and followed through their yard, across the narrow alley and into Sebastian’s garden.
Where hers was very definitely a yard, used for very little except storage, his was a garden. Dotting the small space were pots, some filled with evergreens, and others with empty earth in readiness for a spring planting that now would never come. No windblown leaves ever found sanctuary there, nor moss a foothold. Even the chipped and worn cobbles had been dug up and replaced.
Walking through the back door, Nilda found her son picking through the items stacked neatly on Sebastian’s kitchen table.
“I’ve brought down what I think would be most useful,” Sebastian said without pre-amble, as Nilda closed the door. “There are two stoves. They burn paraffin, or paraffin gel. That’s the stuff in the toothpaste tube.” He pointed. “I haven’t used it since last summer, but it should be fine. You’ll have to find some more fuel. I’d suggest the camping shop on Packard Street. They don’t keep it out on display, but in a metal box out in a storage cabinet next to the bins behind the shop.”
“Why do they keep it there?” Jay asked.
“Well, Jay, because it’s incredibly flammable,” Sebastian said with the patience of a man who’d been teaching for the past thirty years. “If they have it inside, then their insurance premiums go up. But they have to stock it because it’s one of the things you can’t send through the post, again because it’s incredibly flammable.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah.”
“There’s a good little camping kettle here, and a saucepan and frying pan.”
“We’ve got utensils,” Nilda said.
“These are compact. If you do decide to leave, you’ll want to pack light. There are some boots here that should fit you, Jay. They’re well-worn, but waterproof. There’s a first aid kit, some fire proof matches,” he pointed at the items on the table, “and… well, you can go through the rest yourselves.”
“Don’t you want to take any of that with you?” Nilda asked.
Sebastian pointed through the door to the front room where a packed bag leant against an over-stuffed bookshelf.
“I’m taking all I can. But you heard what they said. Bring what you can carry, but you’ll have to carry everything you want to bring. Speaking of which, you’ll need bags.” He picked up a black, drawstring bag.
“Amity Finacial,” Jay read.
“They didn’t notice the spelling mistake until after they’d printed twenty thousand of them,” Sebastian explained. “They gave them out to all the sales reps, even us part-timers. There’s a box of them up in the spare room. And there’s some other things in there you might want. Help yourself to everything. My spare food is down here.” He bent down to open a cupboard. Neatly lined up inside three wicker baskets were a few cans, packets, and jars.
“That’s kind,” Nilda said. “Thank you.”
“It’s not really,” he said. “And it’s really not very much, but it might help. If you stay.”
“I’m not planning on leaving,” Nilda finally admitted. “That’s our house. Our home.”
“Just remember that circumstances may change. A time may come when you have no choice but to leave. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. That’s what I’ve tried to do, although in recent years I’ve just hoped for things to stay the same. Speaking of which, there’s this. I definitely can’t take it with me.” He pulled out one of the chairs tucked under the table. On the seat was a bundle tied up in cloth. He picked it up and unwrapped it.
“That’s a sword!” Jay exclaimed.
“A gladius. The type the Romans used. It’s a replica, but it’s an old replica. An antique in its own way. I shouldn’t really have it at all, but it was, broadly speaking, my retirement plan.”
“I don’t know what you think we’re going to do with it,” Nilda said.
“I think you do,” Sebastian replied. “Let’s just say that with what’s coming, it’s better you have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.”
“Is that some old Roman saying?” she asked.
“No, Mum,” Jay said. “That’s from Lord of the Rings.”
7
th
March - Evacuation Day
Jay was woken by the sound of people in the street outside. When he came down to the kitchen he found his mother sitting by the window, peering out through a gap in the curtains.
“What’s for breakfast?” he asked, blearily.
“Porridge. It’s on the stove.”
“Again?”
“Enjoy it while you can. It won’t last for ever, and when it’s gone you’ll look back and wish for nothing more.”
“Yeah, I doubt that,” he muttered, as he emptied the saucepan into a bowl. “Is everyone leaving?”
“It seems so,” she said, her eyes glued to the procession of evacuees filling the street.
“It sounds like it. What about Mr Baker?”
“He left at half past five this morning.”
“But that’s before the curfew lifted.”
“I don’t think that matters today. Or after today.”
“Are you sure about staying, Mum?” he asked.
“I am.” She’d watched her neighbours leave, chivvying each other along. As far as she could tell, they were the only ones staying in the terrace.
Jay ate in silence. When he’d finished he looked up to find his mother watching him.
“So, what now, Mum?”
8
th
March
“We need to go out for supplies,” she said, when Jay woke the next morning. On the kitchen table was a road map.
“You mean looting?”
“You can call it that if you want. But there’s no law and order anymore, Jay. No crimes. No authorities.”
“Yeah, alright,” he said, uninterestedly. “So, what are we looking for? We don’t really need food.”