9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (18 page)

Tom frowned, but stood and walked to the kitchen. The dog was still in his basket,
lying with his head on his paws. His dark eyes watched Tom, but he didn’t wag his
tail. Tom lowered himself onto his heels and scratched the dog behind his ears.

“Dusty, come with me, boy.” He stood and tapped his thigh.

Dusty looked at him and, for a moment, Tom thought that he’d have to pick him up and
carry him into the living room. Then the dog stood, shook himself and trotted to Tom’s
side.

“Good boy.”

Tom walked back into the living room, Dusty following, and stopped in front of Peter.
Dusty sat and regarded Peter quietly.

“Tom, if you could sit down. And, please, there’s no need to look so worried. Dusty
will come to no harm.”

Tom sat down on the edge of the seat of an armchair and watched.

Peter looked intently at Dusty for a moment. He held his right hand out in front of
him, index finger extended. The finger made a quick downward movement and Dusty lay
down. The finger made a circular motion and Dusty flipped onto his back. Then Peter
moved his hand, his finger again describing a circular motion as though drawing a
circle in the air. Tom gasped as Dusty mimicked the movement, describing his own circle,
scrabbling with his paws at the carpet as he pulled himself round, his nose almost
touching his tail.

Peter stopped and so did Dusty. The finger flicked upwards and Dusty sat on his haunches.
It flicked upwards again and Dusty stood. It beckoned him forward and Peter patted
him on the head.

“Good dog. That’s enough.”

Dusty turned and trotted over to Tom. He nuzzled at Tom’s hands before lying down
at his feet.

Tom looked at Peter.

“What just happened?” he said.

“Well, the finger was for your benefit. It would have worked without it.”

“You were controlling him? Are you a dog trainer or something?”

Peter smiled, but it seemed to Tom a sad smile. “No. I’ve never even owned a dog.
Megan was more of a cat person.”

“Then how. . . . ?”

Peter tapped the side of his forehead. “Power of the mind, Tom. I can control most
animals.”

“Could you hurt Dusty if you wanted to?”

“Yes. I could make him run into a wall. Or step into fire. And he knows it, which
is why he’s a little wary of me. Yet he can also sense that I mean him, and you, no
harm.”

“Huh! If I hadn’t just seen it with my own eyes. . . .”

“Quite. If I had told you rather than shown you, you wouldn’t believe me. There are
other things I will need to show you. Some you will need to take on trust. But not
now.”

“When?”

“One step at a time, Tom. One step at a time.”

* * * * *

From all over the world they came. Almost five thousand people converging on London
by plane and boat and car.

Ferries set sail from Le Havre and Calais in France, Ostend in Belgium, Esbjerg in
Denmark and Dublin in Ireland. Coach- and carloads headed for Heathrow by road from
ferry ports in the north and south of England, in Scotland and in the north and west
of Wales.

Planes landed from all points of the compass. Planes of all shapes and sizes, though
none so large as the 747 that flew in from New York.

The last aircraft to touch down was an Airbus that had flown in from Australia, via
Hong Kong.

Bishop was glad to arrive, not because he was tired from piloting the plane all those
thousands of kilometres, but because he would be able to get away from his co-pilot’s
inane and constant cheeriness.

Tess Granville had wittered away for the entire journey, or so it felt to Bishop.
And he was a captive audience. On more than one occasion, he’d handed over the controls
so that he could escape to the bathroom, even if he didn’t need to go, just so he
could have a break from the incessant chatter. It was either that or throttle the
woman, but he was very careful to conceal his feelings. He didn’t think that she would
try to probe him without his consent. Unless you were Milandra, to do so was considered
extremely bad form and this woman appeared far too conformist to commit such a faux
pas, but it wouldn’t hurt to be guarded from here on in.

Tess was a sociable person, she told Bishop about fifty times, and missed living amongst
her own kind.

“Oh, you know, humans are all well and good—better than being completely alone—but
they are so individualistic, don’t you think?”

Bishop grunted non-committally, which Tess seemed to take as a sign to continue.

“Despite all their talk of community spirit and altruism, and their crowding together
in cities, they’re really just a bunch of individuals only interested in bettering
their own situations. Yeah, okay, sometimes the greater good is improved at the same
time, but the bottom line is that they are self-serving. Do you agree?”

Bishop grunted again. He had quickly learned that this was all he needed to do. Thank
heavens for small mercies.

“And what is it with humans and religion. . . .”

Bishop had tuned out. So long as he remained alert to when he should insert a grunt,
he could stop listening to what she was actually saying. Besides, she would be surprised,
nay shocked, if he revealed his true feelings to her.

Many, many years of living in their midst, away from his own kind, had changed Bishop.
He had come round to thinking that humans had got it right; that it was all about
striving to improve your own lot in life and bollocks to the rest. So returning to
become part of the whole once more did not fill Bishop with the same delight that
infused his co-pilot.

Still, he needed to play the game, show willing and all that. Then, first chance he
got, when the Great Coming had succeeded—or failed; Bishop found that he didn’t much
care either way—he would leave. Return to Oz and pick up the reins of his old life.
Live in isolated splendour until the country became populated once more. Then live
like a king on the pickings he would garner from an abandoned continent.

Bishop taxied the Airbus to the main terminal building where a groundcrew with steps
awaited. He grabbed his two suitcases—one had grown much heavier with the weight of
gold and other items he had collected in Melbourne—and was forced to put one down
again as Tess held out her hand to shake his.

“Thank you, Troy,” she said, “for a safe journey and for being a good listener.”

“No worries,” he replied, and shook her hand, resisting the temptation to squeeze
until she squealed.

“For the good of the whole,” said Tess, releasing his hand and raising her own, fist
clenched.

“Yeah, sure.” He picked up the suitcase again.

“London awaits. Our family awaits. Can you feel the excitement, Troy?”

“Er, yeah.”

“We should join them. No doubt I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah.”
Not if I see you first
he thought.

Chapter Fifteen

A
rmed with a sharp carving knife from Tom’s kitchen, Peter left the house and visited
the gardens of the neighbouring properties. It didn’t take him long to find what he
was looking for. Rooting around in a small shed, he uncovered a coiled garden hosepipe.
He cut two lengths each of around five-feet from the pipe. He also picked up a couple
of sturdy screwdrivers before returning to Tom’s house.

Tom raised his eyebrows in enquiry when he saw what Peter was carrying.

“Refuelling kits,” said Peter. He held up the screwdrivers. “For prising open the
covers over the fuel caps. It’ll be much quicker than hunting around for keys.” He
held up the lengths of coiled green tubing. “For syphoning petrol. Diesel in my case.
I already have a supply of diesel back at the cottage, but it won’t hurt to top up
the tank as we go along.” He noticed the other man’s doubtful expression. “Have you
never syphoned petrol before?”

Tom shook his head. “Though I understand the principle. I’ve only ever done it with
water. I show– used to show, my kids how to do it in school.”

“There you are. It’ll be exactly the same, except you’ll want to spit out whatever
gets into your mouth straight away. You might throw up the first time, but you’ll
soon get used to it. I noticed a diesel Volvo parked just down the road. When we leave,
I’ll top up my tank. Then you can fill yours. There are plenty of petrol cars around
here. Only go for the older models, mind. Most modern cars are fitted with anti-syphoning
valves.”

“You’re very organised, Peter. It’s almost as if. . . .”

“As if I knew this was going to happen?”

“Yes.” Tom had grown very still.

Peter sighed. “I knew. But I didn’t take any part in it.”

“Take any part . . . What are you talking about?”

Peter looked at him. Tom’s mouth had formed a ring of surprise. He seemed to realise
that his mouth was agape and closed it with an almost audible snap.

“Tom, there’s something I can show you when we reach my cottage. I’ll tell you everything,
but you need to hear little bits at a time. You’re going to find it very hard to believe.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Are you saying that this virus, this plague, was
deliberate
?”

Peter nodded.

Tom sagged back against the kitchen counter as though he’d been punched in the stomach.
Colour had drained from his face.

“Tom, I won’t say any more now. Wait until tomorrow.”

Tom nodded, but didn’t look up.

“Okay,” said Peter. “I’m going to bed. Shall we set out at first light?”

Tom nodded again. Still he didn’t look up.

Peter climbed the stairs to the spare bedroom with a heavy heart.

* * * * *

The people who had been based in the U.K. had been busy. Those already in London had
begun the preparations. When others from around the U.K had started arriving, they
pitched in.

Two hotels to the north of the airport had been cleared of bodies. Soiled linen and
mattresses had been replaced. Clearance had begun on the residential properties in
the area. On nearby playing fields, pyres had been lit and rotting bodies cremated.
The fields were far enough away that the acrid smell of smoke did not reach the cleared
areas.

It was slow, dirty work and those doing it longed for the Commune so that the drones
could take it over. Four surviving humans had already been found and put to work.
After they had visited the medical station. A temporary station had been set up in
one of the hotel lobbies. It wasn’t much: a couple of hospital gurneys with leather
straps and an electro-therapy machine that had been hooked up to a series of car batteries.
Not much, but enough.

The four drones went about their work with slack-jawed efficiency, never questioning
or complaining. If they needed to use the toilet or eat, they did so, quietly and
quickly, before returning to the task in hand. They didn’t care what they ate, though
seemed to be able to distinguish between what was and wasn’t edible. Someone had tried
feeding one of them grass. The young woman had put a handful into her mouth and chewed
briefly, before opening her mouth and allowing the congealed mass to fall out, staining
her already filthy blouse with a green blotch.

A fleet of vehicles had been obtained and fuelled and made available at the airport
concourse for ferrying people from the airport.

As more people arrived and more houses were cleared, more survivors were found and
soon the number of working drones had increased to sixteen. A dozen were given the
task of picking up decomposing corpses, wrapping them in sheets to contain the ooze
and placing them in the back of transit vans or ambulances. Sopping, stinking mattresses
and bedding and the occasional ruined armchair or settee or carpet were also loaded
into vans for burning. The vehicles were driven to the playing fields where the remaining
four drones unloaded them and built pyres. Depots and warehouses had been raided for
supplies of lighter fluid that the drones used to douse the corpses before setting
them alight. It rained frequently, interspersed with the occasional flurry of snow
or hail, and the bodies burned much easier with the lighter fluid.

Thick black smoke billowed above the playing fields before being dispersed in the
fresh winter winds. Those driving the vans and ambulances wore damp cloths over their
noses and mouths to lessen the stench of the insides of the vehicles and the air at
the playing fields. But still it was a job that nobody wanted to do for long and the
drivers were rotated frequently.

Diane Heidler had found a small flat that had not contained a corpse and installed
herself there. She returned to it each evening, weary and filthy, pausing at the entrance
to strip off her clothes and deposit them for collection and burning, then sluicing
her body from head to toe with a bucket filled from a barrel of rainwater. Teeth chattering,
she would wrap herself in a towel and climb the stairs to the flat where she would
outfit herself in a brand new set of clothes taken from a nearby shop.

Once or twice, she had been lucky to avoid driving duty and had instead joined others
in collecting tinned food and bottled water from supermarkets and warehouses, stockpiling
it in the hotel kitchens where anyone could go and take what they needed. On those
days, she had been able to avoid the shivering sluicing down and had worn the same
set of clothes the next day.

She was always glad to shut and lock the door to the flat behind her.

Troy Bishop had been annoyed to find that the best suites in the hotels had already
been taken. He was reduced to scouring the area until he found a deserted apartment
that wasn’t quite in keeping with the standards he was used to enjoying, but would
do for now. He, too, was forced to take part in the clean-up operation, as to refuse
would have betrayed his true feelings. He was, however, more fortunate than Diane
in being among the last to arrive so he only had to endure a couple of days of getting
his hands dirty.

With everyone now in London, the Commune could take place.

* * * * *

Unlike Dusty, who showed no ill-effects of the tricks he had performed at Peter’s
bidding, Tom did not sleep well. He wondered how Peter had made Dusty behave as he
had. Tom had no idea whether the animal had ever been formally trained, but even if
he had, Peter had no way of knowing. Then the answer occurred to him: hypnotism. Peter
had stared intently at Dusty while he controlled him, and he’d made some remark about
the power of the mind. Yep, that must be it—hypnotism.

What disturbed Tom’s sleep more was the man’s assertion that the Millennium Bug had
been caused deliberately. Tom did not,
could
not, believe that in which case the man must be lying. Yet, Tom didn’t gain the impression
that he was. Insanity, then. The man must be deluded, believing that virtually the
entire world’s population had been wiped out in little more than a week by an illness
that had been spread on purpose. Yet, again, he did not appear to be crazy. If anything
in the short space of time that Tom had known him, Peter presented as one of the most
calm, rational men Tom had ever met.

Dark thoughts resurfaced in the predawn hours; the cold, dark hours. Tom almost welcomed
them like old friends.

He had reached no firm conclusions by the time they sat and ate tinned rice pudding
for breakfast. In winter dawn’s pale half-light, Tom watched the other man eat. Peter
glanced up, but Tom did not look away.

“Wondering whether I’m nuts?” said Peter, with a tight smile.

Still Tom did not look away. “Frankly, yes,” he said. “It’s the only sensible explanation
for what you claimed last night.”

Peter shrugged. “I’ll show you. At the cottage. You’re still coming with me?”

“I’ll come as far as your cottage. After that. . . .”

“That’s entirely up to you. I would like you to come north with me. It will be to
your advantage to do so, but I won’t try to coerce you. But know this: I intend heading
north this afternoon. I would have gone yesterday, but I bumped into you. I have already
tarried a day or two longer than I’d intended.”

“What’s the rush? If there are other survivors out there, it’s not as if they’re going
anywhere.”

“Oh, but they will be. And very soon, I fear. They will be called.” Peter held up
his hand to forestall Tom’s question. “Soon. I promise.”

* * * * *

Hand-printed notices went up around the cleared areas notifying people that the Commune
would take place the following afternoon at an area of parkland to the east known
as Cranford Park. Clearance and salvage work was to be suspended for the morning and
people were urged to use the time to rest and eat to build up their strength.

Milandra could, with the help of her Deputies, have simply sent the message—it would
be a lot easier now that everyone was closely confined—but she and they needed to
conserve every ounce of mental energy for the Commune.

“Everything has gone like clockwork,” she remarked to Grant in the hotel suite.

“Yes. That’s what worries me.”

“It worries me a little, too. I still can’t quite believe that here we all are in
London, everyone’s got here so quickly and we haven’t lost a single person in the
operation.”

“Not in the operation, no. But we have lost one, don’t forget. That worries me, too.”

“Hmm . . . yes, Ronstadt,” said Milandra. “I had almost forgotten about him.”

“We need to decide what to do about him.”

“If anything.”

“Yes. If anything. But we need to decide.”

“Okay. So let’s decide.”

“Not you and me. The other Deputies, too.”

“But...” Milandra broke off under the intensity of Grant’s regard. She sighed. “No,
you’re right. As usual. Fetch them.”

Grant rose and strode to the door. He opened it and called into the adjoining room.
“Please would you all come in for a moment.”

Simone, Lavinia and Wallace walked in. Grant closed the door behind them. Milandra
motioned to the armchairs that were arranged in the same formation as in the New York
apartment: a horseshoe shape with her at the apex.

When they were all seated, she cleared her throat.

“As you all know, we’re holding the Commune tomorrow. We’ll be reaching out to the
surviving humans. First those in the U.K., that we estimate to be over ten thousand
strong, though I hope they’ll be anything but ‘strong’ since they outnumber us two-to-one.”

“It’s the main reason we’ve had to move so quickly,” said Grant. “We need to get to
them while they’re still spread out, still weak and bewildered. Once they start to
regroup, we may lose them again.”

Milandra nodded. “We’ll be persuading the U.K. survivors to make their way here immediately.
A couple of miles north of here is Hillingdon Hospital. We’ll establish a much larger
treatment centre there, one that can cope with a large influx of drones.”

“And zap ’em!” said Simone with one of her flighty giggles.

“Quite,” said Milandra. “Once we’ve contacted all the U.K. survivors, we’ll cast the
net wider to the whole world. With them, we can only suggest they begin clearing up
their local areas. As we’ve previously discussed, it would be far too risky at present
to get them to travel here. Too many of them are liable to group together and start
resisting. By persuading them to remain where they are, the chances of them grouping
are slim. Besides, once the Great Coming has taken place, it won’t matter.”

“We already know all this,” said Wallace. “Why have you called us in here?”

“Straight to the point as usual, George,” said Milandra. “Okay. What you don’t know
is that we’ve lost someone. Not dead. Closed his mind off.”

“Who?” That was Lavinia.

“A man by the name of Peter Ronstadt.”

“Did he take part in the operation?” asked Wallace.

Milandra shook her head.

“Fucking traitor!” Wallace almost spat the words. Lavinia uttered a low sound in the
back of her throat, like a growl. Simone nodded in agreement with Wallace.

“I have no reason to believe he has done anything to hamper the operation,” said Milandra.
“Or that he will.”

“But we can’t be certain,” interjected Grant.

“No,” said Milandra. “We can’t be certain.”

“Do we know where he is?” asked Lavinia.

Milandra nodded. “He’s here in the U.K. In South Wales, last I knew. He was due to
cover Cardiff. During the Commune, I should be able to pinpoint precisely where he
is now. And who he’s with. What we have to decide is what we do about him, if anything.”

Wallace’s response was immediate. “Hunt him down. Kill him.”

Milandra frowned. “To what end? We are not violent people. He has done nothing to
hurt us.”

“But he could do many things to hurt us,” said Grant. “He could shield any survivors
with him from the effects of the Commune.”

“True,” agreed Milandra. “But not many. Three, four, maybe five at most. More than
that would be very difficult. He is but one against almost five thousand.”