9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (16 page)

He stood and tried the door handle. Locked.

It was the same at the next three houses: a young couple expecting their first child;
a single mother with two young children, the younger of which had been in Tom’s class
two years previously; a middle-aged bachelor with a fondness for brewing his own beer.
No sight or sound of life from any of them, just the faint odour of decay.

At the fourth, the front door swung open at his touch. Tom hesitated, glancing around,
afraid of being observed, but there was nobody to observe him. He stepped inside.

“Hello?” he called. “The door was open. . . .”

He tailed off as the now-familiar waft of death assailed his nostrils. It was much
fainter here and Tom thought he could detect the reason why: a constant draft blew
through the house as though every window had been left wide open. The odour that he
could smell was coming from upstairs. He went up and glanced into the main bedroom.
The curtains were closed—taped closed judging by the almost total darkness in the
room—and the stench was much stronger. He closed the bedroom door firmly without going
in.

Before going back downstairs, he looked in the bathroom cabinet. Painkillers, anti-inflammatories,
indigestion tablets, anti-histamines and cream for piles. He pocketed the painkillers.

He went downstairs to the back of the house. The back door that led from the kitchen
had been wedged wide open, allowing the wintry wind open access. A large part of the
garden was taken up by a wooden shed, the door to which was also open, held in position
by a rusting iron hook. Tom walked over, avoiding the piles of excrement that dotted
the lawn, guessing what he would find inside.

Sure enough, lying on its side in a basket in a corner of the shed, was a dog. It
looked up at Tom and tried to wag its tail, but it seemed too much effort. It lowered
its head and uttered a faint whine. Tom recognised the animal: the border collie-Labrador
cross that he had passed when walking home from school what seemed a lifetime ago.
He guessed that the body of the person lying in the bed upstairs had belonged to a
middle-aged man who walked with a limp.

Tom stepped over to the dog and bent down. He removed a glove and placed a hand on
the animal’s side. The dog lifted its head again and tried to lick Tom’s hand, but
again gave up as if it was too much effort. Tom stroked the animal’s side and could
feel every rib. The dog was starving.

He glanced around the shed. Two food bowls and a water bowl stood on an old newspaper
against the shed wall. All three were empty; licked clean by the looks of them. On
a shelf he found half a dozen tins of dog food and a tin opener, alongside four empty
tins. He quickly opened one and emptied its contents into one of the food bowls. Using
the sharp edge of the top of the tin like a knife, he chopped the food into a gelatinous
mess.

Tom bent by the dog’s head and lowered the bowl towards it.

“Here, boy,” he murmured. “Get on the outside of this.”

The dog’s nostrils flared and its tongue came out to lick at the food, but it seemed
to lack the energy to stand to eat. Tom dug his fingers into the meaty mess and smeared
a little on the dog’s lip. Its tongue came out and licked at Tom’s fingers until they
were clean. He repeated the process and again the dog licked his fingers clean. He
kept doing this until the bowl was nearly empty.

“Good boy,” Tom said and this time the dog made a more concerted effort to wag its
tail.

When Tom stood up, the dog whined.

“Won’t be a minute, boy. Gonna find you something to drink.”

Tom picked up the bowl marked ‘Water’ and went back into the house. He turned on the
cold water tap in the kitchen. The thin stream that issued was brown and quickly petered
out. He tried the hot water tap, but nothing came out.

He opened the fridge and recoiled a little at the smell, but he was growing accustomed
to foul odours. He was in luck. An unopened litre bottle of spring water stood in
the door, alongside a carton of milk that had congealed to cottage cheese.

He returned to the shed and sloshed water into the bowl. The dog sniffed at it and
lurched unsteadily to its feet. As it lapped at the water, Tom stroked its fur, sleek
in spite of its owner’s deprivations.

“A coat as black as coal dust, eh boy? Hmm . . . coal dust. How about Dusty as a name?”

The dog lifted its head from the bowl and gave Tom’s cheek a cold, wet lick.

“That’s settled then. Dusty it is.”

Tom returned once more to the kitchen and rummaged around until he found some carrier
bags. Into them he placed cans of food that he found in a cupboard, a packet of chocolate
digestives, three more litre-bottles of spring water, a dozen more cans of dog food
to go with the five remaining in the shed and a box of dog biscuits. He also found
the dog’s collar and lead. Turning over the collar, he found an inscription: ‘Chester’.

“Chester?” Tom shrugged. “Oh well, you’re Dusty now.” He left the lead and collar
where he’d found them.

Back into the shed and Dusty had drained the bowl. He looked up at Tom, one ear cocked
expectantly.

“Still hungry, eh?” Tom bent and ruffled the dog’s head. “Well, I’ll sort you out
with some more food in a moment or two. First, we need to get you to your new home.
From now on, that’s going to be wherever I am. Okay?”

Dusty wagged his tail and Tom took that as agreement.

* * * * *

The private Airbus jet was owned by a corporation of which Troy Bishop was the Managing
Director. The corporation chartered the plane to oil and gemstone companies, or to
whoever else could afford it, on a frequent basis so that the craft was regularly
used and maintained. On occasion, Bishop himself took the controls to keep himself
familiar with the way she handled.

The Melbourne Airport staff had followed his instructions to the letter—they were
well paid to—and the plane was good to go. With the extra fuel tanks fitted and filled,
it had a range of 12,000 kilometres and would reach London with one stop for refuelling
in Hong Kong. A groundcrew of five should be awaiting them there—until recently, they
had been spreading Moondust throughout eastern China—and would come aboard for the
second stage after they had refuelled the craft.

Of the thirty-five people catching the flight from Melbourne, ten had already arrived
from New Zealand in a sleek Lear jet that Bishop eyed a little enviously.
I’m gonna get me one of those
he thought. The Lear pilot, a sandy-haired woman by the name of Tess Granville, would
serve as co-pilot of the Airbus. Eighteen more, including Bishop, had arrived from
various places in Australia. The final seven were en route, having the most arduous
journeys across the vast desert interior.

Bishop only half-listened to the chit-chat about the operation to spread the Millennium
Bug. He paced the corridors of the airport or the baking tarmac of the runways, anxious
to be away. The transformers that still provided power to the airport wouldn’t do
so indefinitely and he wanted to leave while he could take advantage of the airport’s
navigation systems. Not that it would be a disaster if the power went before they
left; they wouldn’t have to worry about missing a flight slot.

The stragglers at last started to arrive, pulling into the airport in dusty four-by-fours
and camper vans.

“It’s gone well,” said a voice behind Bishop. “Don’t you think?”

He turned to the smiling face of Tess Granville.

Bishop shrugged. “Long way to go yet.”

“Ye-es,” agreed Tess. “But it’s gone well so far.”

“Won’t mean jack-shit if something goes wrong during the flight . . . or if any of
the others should have a mishap.”

Tess frowned. “Yes, it will. We’ll have still done our bit. The whole is greater—”

“—than the sum of the parts,” finished Bishop. “Yes, I know how it goes.”

“Hmm . . . maybe it wouldn’t hurt to keep reminding yourself now and again. You know,
for the greater good.” She raised her eyebrows.

Bishop didn’t respond. He looked away to where a dust-streaked jeep was pulling in.

“There’s the last one,” he said. “The weather’s perfect. Light tailwind. Let’s go.”

Without waiting to see if she’d follow, he started to stride towards the Airbus, barking
orders at people to embark.

* * * * *

A similar scene was taking place thousands of miles away in JFK Airport, only on a
larger scale and without the dazzling sunlight.

Diane sat in a corner of a concourse in the terminal designated as the gathering point
and watched people arriving in dribs and drabs. Most were bedraggled from the rain
that still swept down from grey skies. A few were joyful, thumping the air and whooping,
greeting people with hugs. Many more seemed a little tired and listless, like Diane.

She sat straighter, though did not rush forward like the others, when Milandra and
the Deputies arrived. She didn’t join in the clapping and cheering and back-slapping
that accompanied their entrance into the concourse. She didn’t stand with a rapt expression
on her face while Milandra spoke a few congratulatory words. She didn’t add to the
triumphal pandemonium that greeted her words.

Later, when Milandra and the Deputies strolled about the concourse, chatting and smiling
and holding the occasional serious-faced discussion with some or others of their fellow
arrivees, Milandra passed nearby and glanced at Diane, holding her gaze for a moment.
Milandra stopped and motioned for her companion to continue without her. She walked
closer.

“It’s Diane Heidler, isn’t it?” she said. “You were in Los Angeles.”

Diane nodded.

“Yes. You sent a one-word response to my e-mail. Um, let me see. . . .”

“Obeisance,” said Diane.

“Yes, obeisance. Curious choice of word. Different shades of meaning.”

Diane shrugged. “It just means ‘I’ll do what you ask’ as far as I’m concerned.”

“I wonder. . . .” Milandra stared at her intently.

Diane felt the briefest flutter and slammed the door shut. Milandra blinked.

“I’m tired,” said Diane, standing. She stood a good three inches above Milandra. “Not
seen the sun for a few days. I think I might even need a nap to recharge. I’m going
to find somewhere quiet to get my head down.”

“Sleep well,” said Milandra.

Diane could feel her regard on her back as she walked quickly away.

Chapter Thirteen

T
he car didn’t like to start in cold weather at the best of times. When it hadn’t been
used in almost two weeks, Tom had no chance of coaxing it to life.

It didn’t much matter. He had the run of the neighbourhood and there was a street
a little behind his of older, larger houses with walls and gates and drives and huge,
mature gardens that Tom could not imagine having to tend. Most of these houses had
double garages that contained at least one car, often two, shut away from the elements.

He gained entry to each of his immediate neighbours’ properties by smashing the glass
panes in the back doors with a lump hammer. The first one had been the hardest. Tom
gasped at how loud the breaking glass sounded and looked around guiltily, though he
knew he was alone. He removed from the houses all usable food and drinks. Some of
the neighbours had kept pets—dogs, cats, guinea pigs, hamsters—but none had had the
foresight of Dusty’s former master who had at least given the dog a chance by opening
four tins of food and leaving the doors unlocked.

He roamed further afield, to the larger houses, only stopping when he had collected
sufficient food and drink to withstand a siege.

Tom did not enter the darkened bedrooms of the houses, from where the smells emanated.
He only went upstairs to empty bathroom cabinets of sleeping pills and painkillers;
soon, he had accumulated quite a collection. Enough to do the job, he hoped.

In each house he paused for a moment before each Christmas tree. Many had presents
beneath them. One such present, a chocolate orange by the size and feel of it, had
the name ‘Mr Evans’ printed on the tag in a childish scrawl. Tom thought he knew which
child this house belonged to and could not bring himself to go upstairs, not even
to inspect the bathroom cabinet, for fear of seeing the tiny, rotting body. He replaced
the present under the tree; it somehow seemed wrong to take it.

Tom and Dusty ate and drank their way back to strength, the dog’s presence helping
to keep the black pit at bay, though not banish it completely. As their weakness receded,
they took to going for longer and longer walks in the empty countryside, though Dusty
seemed to enjoy them more than Tom. A sense of solitude pressed down on him, making
him feel insubstantial, a ghost. This sensation came to a head one late evening when
the air was unseasonably mild and the moon hung full and low in a clear sky.

As he strolled through parkland at the furthest reaches of town, Tom came to a suspended
wooden footbridge spanning a lazy stretch of river that was brown in daylight, black
at this hour, leading to more parkland beyond. Dusty had gone ahead, snuffling through
the sparse undergrowth at the river’s edge.

Tom stepped onto the bridge and walked down the centre strip, the boards faintly echoing
beneath his boots. The raised sides of the bridge were formed of thick wooden beams
like railway sleepers and steel girders with cross struts, giving the structure a
feeling of solidity that overcame the contrary sensation caused by the slight give
in the boards.

He had crossed the bridge before, had sometimes brought his class to this park on
summer outings. But it no longer seemed familiar. He felt like an intruder.

He paused before he reached the end of the bridge. The rectangular arch that supported
the cables formed a perfect frame for the moon. Its light spilled over him and he
glanced behind at his shadow that stretched back down the bridge like an elastic man.
Or an alien.

An abrupt feeling of utter desolation threatened to overwhelm him. He glanced at the
girdered sides, estimating the ease with which he could scale them. From the top,
he could topple to the blackness below, probably knocking himself unconscious in the
impact with the surface or the river bed. The water would finish the job.

Tom looked ahead, knowing that he lacked the courage to throw himself over, despising
himself a little for recognising that fact. He shivered, regretting his decision to
come out without a jacket. Calling to Dusty, he turned and walked away from the moon.
He did not venture far on foot again.

On the day that Tom awoke and felt as healthy as he ever had, he nudged Dusty, who
slept on the top of the duvet next to him, and said, “Hey, boy. How do you fancy a
ride in a Jag today?”

The dog wagged its tail and yawned.

When they stepped outside, it was onto a thin covering of snow. It wasn’t deep enough
to leave a track, crumbling and melting away under the pressure of a boot or paw,
but it was snow nevertheless. Dusty lowered his head and sniffed hard, causing a sharp,
snotty sneeze.

“Well, Dusty, my old boy,” said Tom, placing a gloved hand on the dog’s head, ruffling
his ears. “Did you know that according to the calendar on my watch it’s Christmas
Day today? Merry Christmas.”

Tom gazed at the smattering of snow.

“At least the bookies got something right,” he muttered. “I’m dreaming of a white
Christmas . . . I guess nobody will be taking their decorations down this year so
it’ll be Christmas every day. Ha! Roy Wood got his wish.”

Dusty sneezed again in reply and Tom glanced down, suddenly concerned.

“Hey! Don’t you dare come down with something. Let’s get you into the car. Correction.
The
Jag
.”

Parked at the pavement where Tom had left it the previous night sat a pale blue Jaguar
XJ6. Tom didn’t care much for the colour but cared very much for the smooth purr of
the engine, the worn leather upholstery and the walnut dashboard. The engine had roared
into life with the first turn of the key. Tom had driven it out of the garage and
the few streets to his house feeling like royalty.

Now he was itching to sit behind the wheel again, even if he dreaded going where he
intended to go. The car had over half a tank of petrol: plenty to take a drive for
pleasure afterwards.

Tom opened the driver’s door and held it wide. Dusty glanced up at him.

“Come on, then,” said Tom. “In you get.”

With an effortless bound, the dog leapt into the car and stepped over to the passenger
seat as though he knew the driver’s seat was for Tom.

Tom got in and closed the door. It made a satisfying, silky clunk.

The thin coating of snow on the road crunched lightly under the Jag’s wheels, but
was too shallow to affect the tyres’ grip on the surface.

Tom saw many vehicles on the drive to town, but all were parked outside houses or
on driveways. He saw no evidence of mass panic. Apart from the fact that everywhere
was deserted, all seemed orderly. The only incongruous sights he noticed were the
rear end of a camper van sticking out of a deep ditch and a small pack of dogs, maybe
half a dozen of mixed sizes and breeds, some wearing collars, that stopped to watch
the Jag go past. Tom looked in his rearview mirror as he pulled away: the dogs watched
the car for a few seconds and then, as one, they set off again, running in the opposite
direction.

Dusty pricked up his ears as they passed the dogs and uttered a small whine, but otherwise
was still. He seemed to be accustomed to riding in cars, though not perhaps one as
posh as the Jag, and took it in his easy canine stride.

The traffic lights in town had stopped working and Tom felt that strange sense of
disassociation once more. Quite why the non-working traffic lights should have that
effect Tom had no idea, but the haunting feeling that he was the only person alive
returned.

He turned into the road that led to the sport centre and slowed the Jag’s speed, remembering
the last time he had driven here. The road block was still there and more military
vehicles were parked behind the truck that blocked the road. A soldier in uniform
and gas mask sat on the road in front of the truck, rifle laid across knees.

Tom’s stomach began to churn, but he drove slowly forwards, dropping his speed to
crawling pace, staring intently at the soldier. He stopped about ten yards away from
the truck and cut the engine.

The soldier hadn’t moved. Tom glanced at Dusty and rubbed his head.

“Stay here, boy,” he said.

He opened the door and stepped out. He closed the door softly. This time the clunk
did not seem so silky; instead, it seemed incredibly loud to Tom’s heightened senses
and he glanced anxiously at the soldier. He—or she; it could be a she under that mask
and uniform for all Tom knew—hadn’t moved.

Tom did not expect the rifle to be raised and to stare down the infinite blackness
of the barrel again, but he feared it, too. He stepped forward, one deliberate pace
at a time, pausing between each like a bridal march. Or funeral.

When he was only a few paces from the soldier he realised that his fears were unfounded.
The shoulders of the soldier’s tunic, the top of the full-head mask and its snout-like
nose piece, the rifle, the legs and toes of the black boots, all were sprinkled in
a light dusting of snow.

Not aware that he had been holding it, Tom let out his breath in a deep sigh and felt
his shoulders sag like a marionette whose strings have been cut. He stepped around
the soldier and the back of the truck.

The car park in front of the sport centre wasn’t littered with parked cars or rubbish
or military equipment, but with bodies. Soldiers, civilians; men, women, a few children.
Despite the cold, they had bloated and discoloured, and gave off the sweet stench,
though it was less noticeable here outside.

As Tom picked his way between the corpses, a movement caught his eye. Big black birds,
crows or some such, feasted on the bodies. With a cry of disgust, Tom ran at them,
making them take to the air with startled caws.

He was gaining a fair idea of what he would find inside the building, but he made
for the entrance anyway. Not all of the bodies scattered about the car park had died
of the Millennium Bug; at least, not the civilians. Most of them were surrounded by
pools of blood; some had severe injuries that not even the savage beak of a crow could
inflict. Scattered on the ground around many of the soldiers were spent brass cartridges.

Tom reached the side entrance to the main sports hall. The emergency doors were propped
open by a tangle of blood-soaked bodies; people had been shot as they tried to get
out.

The stench here was much stronger and Tom held his hand to his nose as he stepped
over the corpses, trying to avoid stepping in congealed blood, finding it impossible
not to. The thin winter daylight only penetrated a few yards into the hall. The rest
stretched away, hidden in darkness like the inside of a cave.

The sounds of scrabbling and squeaking came to his ears. He yelled. The shout died
almost as soon as it left his lips, swallowed by the stinking blackness. The scrabbling
and squeaking, if anything, increased. He didn’t yell again.

As he took a few more paces in, flies buzzed up at his face. Maybe they could feast
and lay eggs here where it was a little warmer, shielded from the wind and snow.

At the furthest edge of illumination, just before the darkness proper began and Tom’s
courage ended, he found what he was looking for. She lay face up, almost unrecognisable
if it wasn’t for the mole on the cheek, the Monroe mole, the one he had kissed the
last time they had been together.

Tom looked down at her for a long moment.

The scrabbling in the darkness seemed to be coming closer, or Tom’s imagination made
it feel that way, making his skin crawl with revulsion. He knew that he ought to drag
her out of there. Afford her a decent burial if he could manage to dig another grave
in the frozen earth.

His physical strength had returned, but he required a different sort of toughness
to bury another person dear to him. A toughness that he had surprised himself once
by demonstrating but that he doubted he would ever possess again.

“Goodbye, Lisa,” he whispered. Then he turned and almost ran from the sports hall.

Gaining the fresh air, he stopped and doubled over, gulping in cold air. Just when
he thought he must lose his breakfast, the wave of sickness passed.

“Got to get away from here,” he muttered and made his way at a trot-march back to
the Jaguar.

He opened the driver’s door and looked in.

Dusty gazed back at him, tail thumping against the leather upholstery.

“Let’s go for a drive, shall we?” said Tom. “See what this baby can do.”

For a moment, Tom thought that Dusty’s ears pricked up and his head cocked at the
sound of his voice, but then he heard it, too.

The sound of an engine, heading their way.

* * * * *

Almost five hundred people descended upon JFK Airport, coming from all points of the
United States and some from further afield in Canada and Central America.

A fully-fuelled and safety-checked Jumbo stood ready on the wind- and rain-swept runway.
Milandra had discussed departure with the flight crew who were keen to wait for an
area of low pressure in mid-Atlantic to move away before leaving.

The weather forecast systems were still operational. The main meteorological centres
in the U.S.A., South America, Canada and the U.K. were manned by skeleton staffs.
The American staffs would keep the centres operational until the last flight had departed
continental America and would then follow in readied private jets that stood waiting
on local airstrips.

The airways were clear and the only risk would be encountering another of their flights
on its way to Heathrow. Geostationary satellite systems for navigation and communication
continued to be fully operational and would remain so, even without attention, for
many years. The aircrafts’ onboard radar systems would remain effective and there
was no reason to suppose that a midair collision was a realistic worry; far less so
than before the Millennium Bug.

The flight crew’s only concern was the weather. Although the Boeing was capable of
flying through an electrical storm, the crew would much prefer avoiding any sort of
weather systems that might knock out an engine or any of the onboard safety systems.
It wasn’t so much the remainder of the flight that would be risky, but the landing
in London without a full fire and safety groundcrew on standby. Milandra assured the
Captain that they would not depart until he was satisfied that the way was safe.