“Can’t see any mist,” said Vera. “Think we’ve left it behind, for now.”
“Good... oh Christ.”
The motorway lights flickered, flashed twice, and went out; the dark piled above and around them, rushing in.
“Mike!” Anna shouted; for a second she sounded like Renwick. He cut the speed as fast as he dared, turned the headlights on full beam.
Behind them, more headlights blinked into life, following.
Anna held Renwick’s hand, stroked Mary’s hair. “Where now?”
“The hell should I know?”
“Try the radio,” said Vera.
He did, but heard only a mush of static, and dull, leaden voices full of dead, empty misery.
None of them spoke after that; the voices of the dead filled the car. Behind them, the other headlights shone in the black; the few who’d escaped. Stakowski shut the radio off, and they drove on in silence through the endless night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Monday 23
rd
December.
S
TAKOWSKI WOKE, BLINKING
crusted eyes. He was lying on a hard surface; his head ached. His mouth tasted foul; he was bloody cold.
He sat up, hugging the coarse blanket around him. The room was bare. Blanket-wrapped bodies covered the floor. In the corner, a couple of blankets had been hung up in front of a row of buckets. Despite the cold, they reeked. The only sounds were snores and heavy, sleep-laden breathing.
In the distance, gunshots and an explosion’s muffled thud.
Stakowski uncurled and rose stiffly to his feet, stretching aching muscles and wincing at the crack and creak of joints and bones. A few sleepers twitched and stirred as he picked his way over to the window, but no-one woke.
The window was cracked; a thin blade of wind keened through it. His reflection’s eyes were tired and bloodshot; there was greyish-white stubble on his face. He looked old; felt it too. And he stank; hadn’t changed his clothes in two days. He felt greasy, dirty. He’d have killed for a hot bath and a leisurely soak.
His grey hair was matted, odd tufts sticking out.
Shouldn’t let you out on our own at your age
, Renwick would’ve said. His teeth were furred, and started to chatter; he clenched them.
Cold morning; a thin snow falling. Jesus: two days to Christmas.
Half a dozen squaddies jogged down the street outside. Someone shouted orders. Stakowski heard engines revving.
The dead’s dull, leaden voices had faded as they’d driven, Renwick lolling in the passenger seat, the kiddie coughing and retching in the back. Around three in the morning they’d found a living voice and been guided to an industrial estate on the outskirts of Leeds, pressed into service as an emergency refugee centre and ad hoc hospital. One blanket each, a space on the floor and a bucket to shit in.
Refugee
. Stakowski tasted the word; it was bitter. His father had been one. That was why he’d come here, because Britons didn’t become refugees. It hadn’t all been plain sailing. If Ulster hadn’t been a civil war Stakowski didn’t know what was
–
but compared to most other countries, it had been safe. Maybe they’d been lucky to last this long.
Outside was an army Land Rover, a machine gun mounted on the back, engine running. Across the road was the ‘hospital’; a defunct haulage firm’s offices. Renwick was there now, and the little girl.
Best not think of Renwick now. Drive himself mad. He was having trouble thinking about yesterday, full stop. But he’d done his job, got the sick to the hospital, seen Anna and Vera securely billeted, before collapsing. He’d managed that, but he didn’t know how much he had left for anything else. Stakowski breathed out; condensation bloomed across the glass.
He picked his way towards the door; Anna blinked, groped for her glasses. “Mike?”
He put a finger to his lips.
Anna nodded. Beside her, Vera started to stir.
“Wake her up,” said Stakowski, “and let’s go.”
I
N THE HOSPITAL
block, they found an army medic, a haggard-looking corporal with a missing front tooth and a thick moustache.
“Griffiths, Mary...” He went down his list. “Yeah. She’s here.”
“How is she?” asked Anna.
“Not brilliant, to be honest. Gonna be touch and go, but we’ve done everything we can. You her aunty?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s been asking for you.”
Anna half-smiled, then covered her mouth, face crumpling. Vera put an arm round her. The corporal glanced at Stakowski, opened his mouth, closed it. From outside came shouted orders, the sound of movement. Shuffling footsteps, groans, coughs; they were getting the civilians up and about.
“What time you moving out?” Stakowski asked.
“The next hour.”
“Bad?” asked Stakowski.
“What do you think?” The corporal lit a cigarette, glanced round. “Only just got the word – our comms have been banjaxed. The mist’s streaming south, practically in a straight line. Looks like it’s being
directed
, somehow.”
“Directed where?”
“On the current trajectory? London. We got a satellite picture half an hour ago. It’s hit Manchester already, early this morning. The whole city’s gone.”
“Oh god.” Anna whispered.
“It’s travelling at nearly 60mph. At the current rate, it’ll hit London this afternoon, early evening.” He shrugged. “Makes military sense, I suppose. Take out the capital, plus it’ll split the country in half. We’re moving south. Try and intercept.”
“And what then?”
“Hold it off as long as we can. The grey funnel line are commandeering anything that floats and shifting people offshore. Islands off the coast, neighbouring countries. Norway, Sweden, Finland are pitching in – Denmark, Holland, Belgium, Germany, even the Frogs.”
“Grey funnel line?” Vera looked dazed.
“Navy,” said Stakowski.
The corporal raised an eyebrow. “Where did you serve?”
“Omagh.”
The corporal nodded. “Lived in Northern Ireland for a bit. My dad was stationed there. Anyway, the plan’s to get you civvies to an evacuation point on the coast, probably Scarborough or Filey. There’ll be a skeleton force acting as escorts. Me, I’m heading south. We can’t take any patients with us, so they’ll be moved out with the rest of you. Some of them aren’t going to make it, state they’re in, but there’s not much else we can do.” He saw Anna’s face. “Keep your kid warm, fresh air if you can get it. Other than that, pray. Hard.”
Anna covered her mouth.
Stakowski coughed. “There’s another patient came in with us.”
“I’ll have a shufti. What name was it?”
“Renwick. Joan Renwick.”
The corporal ran his finger down the list, then stopped. Stakowski bit his lip, clenched and unclenched impotent fists.
“Shit.” The corporal looked up. “I’m sorry.”
“When?”
“Oh-seven-thirty-five. Never regained consciousness. Best guess is a brain aneurysm. Nothing we could do.”
Stakowski nodded. His body was a huge, leaden suit of armour that he was trapped inside; a tiny, wearied speck expending its finite energy in flexing its limbs. “I’ll take you to the little one,” the corporal told Anna and Vera. “Will you be OK?”
It took Stakowski a moment to realise the corporal meant him. He turned away. The window facing him was vast and swam with winter light. He stepped towards it, swayed, leant against the wall. A hand on his shoulder; Anna. He shrugged her off. He couldn’t bear anyone’s comfort, not now.
“Come on,” the corporal said again.
That was it, then; all over. Their footsteps clicked, faded, became silence. Stakowski went to the window. Below was the haulage yard. In it, stacked in piles, were dozens of bodies. Outside the surrounding wall, thick black smoke billowed up. He was glad the window was tightly sealed; he knew what it’d smell like.
E
NGINES GRUMBLED; REFUGEES
stumbled out into the street. A truck rolled past. Stakowski glimped white, drained faces staring out from the back.
He saw his reflection in a cracked window; he looked even older than before. Gaunt. He touched the whitish stubble on his cheeks. Did his hand shake? Didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered.
The tiny spark within him was still working his limbs, but it was growing ever more feeble. Anna, Vera and Mary would get a ride to the coast, a chance of survival. He didn’t give much for the kid’s chances, but he’d keep his fingers crossed for her.
And him; what of him?
He still had his Glock; a minute alone was all he’d need. Then he saw the corporal outside the hospital building, puffing on his cigarette. No, there was another way. He took a deep breath, made his choice and walked towards the hospital.
THE TESTAMENT OF PRIVATE OWEN SHORE CONCLUDED and the rain beats down foul stagnant trench water laps around my groin i grip my rifle tighter with sodden gloves shivering with cold staring across the pulverised landscape of mud ponded with great drowning shellholes full of fouler water still and i stand here i stand alone with the comrades bodies scattered round and the germans starting to advance and someone finds me says theres a way out an exit from this nightmare if you dare take it if you will fight one last time a new front a new enemy we can break out and all shall be well all shall be well all manner of things shall be well and the rain beats down foul stagnant trench water laps around my groin i grip my rifle tighter with sodden gloves shivering with cold staring across the pulverised landscape of mud ponded with great drowning shellholes full of fouler water still and i stand here i stand alone with the comrades bodies scattered round and the germans starting to advance and i turn to him and what can i say but yes
“M
IKE
?”
Stakowski blinked and turned. “Been looking for me, lass?”
Anna nodded. “You in the army now?”
He glanced down at his hastily slung-together uniform, the rifle in his hands. “They took me back, you might say. Not much else I’m good for, with her gone.”
The hazel eyes glistened. “I’m so sorry.”
He waved it aside. “Nowt to be sorry for, lass. Did all you could. Be a damn sight worse else. Lot of folk who’d not’ve made it, if it weren’t for you.”
“But there’s so many who didn’t.”
“Well, that’s not your fault, is it?”
She looked down. “No,” she said at last. “No.”
“Aunty,” whispered Mary, holding out a pale hand. Anna took it.
“Anna,” said Vera, “we’ve got to–”
“Yes.” She kissed his cheek. “Goodbye, Mike.”
Stakowski blinked. For a moment, he saw Renwick there. “Take care, lass.”
Anna looked away.“Good luck,” said Vera.
“You too.”
“Anna–”
A voice shouted orders; Stakowski put his helmet on. “Gotta go,” he said.
He ran to the waiting truck, climbed aboard. Someone passed him the camouflage paint. When he’d applied it he lit a cigarette. They’d issued him with a respirator; that would help, for a time.
The truck pulled out.
Better this way. Nowt else left. He patted the rifle. What he’d seen of the afterlife wasn’t promising, but with a bit of luck he’d see Renwick again. Might get complicated if Laney turned up too, though.
Stakowski smiled. It faded fast. He finished his cigarette, flicked it out over the tailgate; it bobbed in the slipstream and fell away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
T
HE MILES UNFOLDED;
the mist, at least for now, receded.Anna sat in the back of a truck full of casualties, Mary huddled against her in a blanket, pale face sheened with sweat, coughing. Mary had refused to let Anna’s hand go, croaking
Aunty
over and over again, and the soldiers had let her ride with the child.
The truck bounced and jolted over the frozen roads. Too fast for weather like this, but there was no choice. Flurries of snow whipped past; the winter landscape went by. Empty houses, Christmas decorations still hung in their windows. Cars abandoned by the roadside, doors ajar. A discarded suitcase in the middle of a road. A small, huddled body on the pavement. Above, ravens wheeled, tiny black arrowheads, against the bleached and empty sky.
Mary coughed; there was blood. Anna wiped her lips. The White Song.
No
. She might die anyway and any chance to stop this would be lost.Mary gripped Anna’s hand so tightly it hurt. But this pain was sweet. Anna squeezed gently back.
No-one will harm you
.
They reached Scarborough in the early afternoon. There were tailbacks on the roads outside the town. They were waved in once the previous batch of refugees had been ferried away. The streets were empty; the town’s population had already been evacuated. Houses stood open to provide billets for the refugees.
Mary was gently taken from her arms, carried to a seafront cafÉ serving as a makeshift clinic.
“Anna, love?” She turned; Vera. “Come here.”
Vera guided her to a small terraced house they’d been allocated. The electricity was still on; voices seemed to be coming from inside, but it was only the television in the front room that someone had on. Every TV channel showed only a series of test cards, jumping and flickering with interference: EMERGENCY BROADCAST – AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. Shattered, mangled faces superimposed over the picture, their leaden mumbling voices in the static from the speakers. In one corner stood a Christmas tree, lights aglow, almost bowed down with the weight of tinsel and baubles adorning it. The presents were still stacked underneath. Had Vera had time to grab Mary’s presents? What did that matter now? They were worthless now, meaningless. To Mary, to anybody. To her.
All I want for Christmas is Mary’s life
.
Anna collapsed beside Vera on the sofa. Vera reached out; Anna clung to her. She wasn’t sure any longer who was giving comfort and who was receiving it. She shook. It was all waiting now, for a boat out. Waiting and hoping the boat reached Scarborough before the dead.