The Crash of Hennington (53 page)

He began to cry.

—You all right, Jarvis?

He nodded and pulled the car into the car park of a deserted playground.

—I think we’re safe.

—For now.

—No, I have this feeling that we’re okay. I think we’re out of whatever’s been happening.

Luther’s voice rose so quietly from the back seat that Jarvis had to turn to hear him.

—What’s been going on? Why is the city burning?

—No one knows. I mean, at least, Peter and I don’t. Listen, may I …

He stopped.

—What is it?

—I know you hardly know me, but may I touch you, Luther?

—Of course.

Neither Luther nor Peter asked why. Jarvis reached his hand into the back seat and ran it lightly across Luther’s face, running his fingers over Luther’s bald head, touching both his ears, feeling the curve of his neck.

—A miracle.

—Yes.

—Impossible yet so. The definition of miraculous.

—Yes.

—Where have you been, Luther Pickett?

—I’m forgetting it, like you do a dream. I can only remember bits and pieces. It’s hard to describe. I knew that I had to wait, and then all at once, I knew it was time to stop waiting. That’s really all.

—I think that’s probably more than enough. I know what my own two eyes saw, and I know what they’re seeing now.

Luther took Jarvis’ hand, squeezing it tightly. After a moment, Peter spoke.

—So what’s next?

—We should get some clothes on Luther.

—I don’t think we should go back to the city.

—I’d agree.

—There’s nowhere for us to go back to, anyway. From all the smoke, I’m sure my old house is gone. Luther’s too, probably.

—Same with the parish. In fact, I have a horrible feeling it was probably the first thing to go.

Luther spoke again in his low voice.

—We should move on.

—What do you mean?

—We’re out of the city. We should keep going.

—To where?

—I want to go to Tishimongo Fair.

—Where’s that?

—Due south in the Molyneux Valley. It’s where I grew up.

—I know where that is. I could take you both there.

Peter interrupted.

—Jarvis, we can’t ask you to do that. We have nothing to go back for, you’ve got—

—No, no, I could take you. I’ve got some money on me.

—So do I, but—

—We could get Luther some clothes on the way. It’s only a day’s drive. We could be there by tomorrow morning.

—We can’t ask you to do that.

—I have to make sure the two of you are safe. Truly safe. Try to understand me. I have to. I don’t know why I know, but I do. I’ll see to it that you get to Tishimongo, and when you are—

He paused. Luther caught his eye.

—When we are, then what for you?

—I don’t know.

Jarvis looked out at the horizon, at a sky filled with smoke.

—Is it my imagination or is the smoke thinning?

—Could be.

—Will you be needed back there?

—Part of me says yes.

—And the other part?

—The other part tells me that my time in Hennington is finished, that I have some new destiny, and that I should just stay out of its way.

—Come with us, then. We’ll get back on our feet together.

Jarvis turned around and faced them once more.

—I’ll take you to Tishimongo Fair, and I’ll make sure that you’re safe, like I promised.

—And then?

—And then. And then I think I’ll drive to Mackettsville, on the coast.

—Why?

—I think I want to catch a ship.

—A ship? Where are you going?

—To see if I can find someone from my past who sailed across the ocean a long, long time ago.

—Lost love?

—Something like that.

—There’s no better reason.

—It’s probably impossible, it’s been so long, but—

—But.

—Yes, I know.

Jarvis looked at the two men in his back seat.

—Miraculous.

He turned back to the wheel of his car, starting the engine. He said it again.

—Miraculous.

He put the car in gear, pulled out of the car park, and began the long journey south.

116. Ashes, Ashes.

After an endless night, the sun rose again over a damaged city, some pockets still smoldering, one fire in the northwest corner even still burning brightly as the morning light poured in from the east. Max Latham was already awake. He had slept for just an hour and only that because Talon refused to lie down unless he was there with her. They were in the back room of someone’s house, a man named Richards or Richardson. Max didn’t know for sure, but he would find out in the day ahead. Richards/on’s house sat in a rare pocket of the city that had escaped the destruction, and he had offered it as a ‘command center’ (as he called it) for Max to use. There was much, much work to be done.

Max sat on a chair in Richards/on’s living room, considering the daybreak. The mass hysteria – perhaps typically, though it seemed far too grave a thing to ever be called ‘typical’ – had turned out to be a tenuous, shimmering thing held
together by its misdirected passion, and like all passions, blunting it was only a matter of finding the correct dowser. Standing on the roof of that car, Talon in his arms, facing down a crowd of strangers who were about to kill them, Max had instinctively seen the means to end the madness. He had simply, intuitively reached for the lever and flipped it. Thankfully, luckily, amazingly, it was the right one. He could just as easily have been wrong.

Like a sound rippling out from its source in all directions, the small halted crowd at the foot of Max’s car became a streetful of stalled rioters as more came running into the area and without knowing quite why, stopped what they were doing. One street became two, two became four. Waves of bewildered calm spread through the city like the fires that had preceded it. As mysteriously as it had all started, the rioting ebbed. A confused populace shook itself from a stupor, feeling oddly confused and ashamed, but mostly feeling lost. Max had performed, somehow, the miracle of zero becoming one.

And for that, they called him ‘leader'.

He didn’t like it. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t fit. But if someone needed to do it and if destiny or fate had selected him, then ultimately he felt he had no choice. At least for now. If they needed a leader then he would do it because there seemed to be no one else. For now.

So. The Richards/on ‘command center’ it was. Using an erratic phone service, he spent the night marshaling as best he could the fire and police departments, what remained of them anyway, to try to get some sort of order back into the city, but more to try to save those lives that were still within reach. It had been slow going, but sometime in the early hours he had managed to get in touch with Hennington’s Fire Chief. The Police Chief was nowhere to be found, and Max presumed
the worst. The Fire Chief then got hold of several of his own deputies and several police deputies who in turn got hold of several of their individual stations and so on until something resembling an organization coalesced into place.

Max then turned his attention to bringing the city’s infrastructure back to life, following a similar pattern of locating top directors and spreading the message down through the networks that were already in place. How easily it could all function, but how uncomfortably necessary that someone at the top was needed to set it all in motion. It had been laborious, and it was still far too early yet to say anything for certain, but as dawn broke on the day after the riots, it somehow seemed that already a welcome quiet was settling over Hennington.

He sighed in his chair. There were still so many questions, still so many awful answers to undoubtedly discover in the days ahead. Cora and Albert had not yet been found, though City Hall was still a furnace, too hot to approach. Max would face that news when and if it came. And what of the perpetrators of this small apocalypse? He had a few clues from what Cora had said, but where were these people now? And who? And why? Would a real answer ever be forthcoming?

And what had happened to The Crash?

—Daddy?

He jumped in his seat.

—Sorry, baby. You startled me. Why are you up? It’s early still.

—You left.

—I’m only here in the next room, honey. There’s lots of work to do. Don’t worry. I’m not going to leave you. You can count on that.

—I’m hungry.

—Yeah, it’s been a while since we’ve eaten, hasn’t it?

—I think since yesterday morning.

—Really? Then let’s go see what this nice man has in his kitchen for you to eat.

He took Talon’s hand. They wandered among all the different people who had crowded into Richards/on’s house, most of whom seemed all too willing to take whatever direction Max handed to them. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but again, probably necessary. He and Talon found their way into the kitchen. He sat Talon at the dining table and started looking through cabinets.

—How about cereal?

—What kind?

—Um, lots of bran, it looks like.

—Anything sugar-frosted?

—There’s sugar-frosted
bran.

—Okay.

He poured two bowls, added milk from the refrigerator, and sat down to eat.

—So what happens now?

—Well, we try and put the city back together.

—How come you’re in charge?

—It just happened that way.

—Destiny?

He shrugged.

—Maybe.

—Why did those people burn the city down?

—I don’t know. I’m not sure
they
know. Some people start a thing, others join in. Movements and mobs are instantaneous and then just end. Who knows why?

—Everyone thinks you ended it.

—Why do you say that?

—I woke up and heard them talking.

—Well, I didn’t. I’ll have to make them understand that.

—What if you did?

—I didn’t. I was lucky.

—But everyone else says—

—It’s important that I don’t start believing what everyone else says, honey. Otherwise, how could I lead them fairly? Time will pass, I’ll do my best, and they’ll decide then whether they still want me to lead them or not.

—But—

—No more ‘buts', little pumpkin. That’s the way it has to be if the future’s going to work. I’m not a king. I’m just a man. Finish your cereal.

The sun peeked through the window of the kitchen. Father and daughter sat eating their breakfast quietly as light filled the room and dawn turned into full-fledged morning.

117. Out.

(—Would you look at that?

—What are they doing all the way out here?

—Coming from the fires, probably.

—I’ve never seen them this close.

—Me neither. Magnificent.

—Absolutely incredible.)

She reached the top of the hill and turned to look. This was a new place. The herd had never come this way before, so far outside the boundaries of the thin-creature city that still erupted smoke on the distant horizon. But there was grass here, she saw, green and fresh, and she could detect the faint scent of water somewhere in the distance. Over the next hill, maybe, or the one after that.

She turned to the tired herd behind her. The survivors. It was the smallest the herd had ever been, at least as far as her
experience fell, but they would be enough. There were at least ten healthy males and seven females who were of age to bear calves, plus a handful of youngsters who would grow and expand the herd in their own lifetimes. The older animals that remained would help provide safety in the coming years while the herd was still small in number. They would be a great herd again. Maybe not in her lifetime but certainly in the next leader’s. It was her responsibility to make it so.

The members of the herd looked at her, waiting for her next directive. She snorted once, paused, and then once again. The water was close. She could smell it. They would find it first and then settle in for a well-deserved rest. After a time, they would begin to explore this new area, find its boundaries, search for verdant pastures that could serve as temporary homes while the herd wandered. Soon. This would happen soon. Only a little more walking. Only a little bit more.

She snorted into the air again, turned, and led them down the hill and into a new day.

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, my biggest thanks to my agent, Michelle Kass, less agent than friend and champion, an absolute dream for an author. You wouldn’t be holding this book in your hands if it weren’t for her tremendous hard work. Special thanks also to Tishna Molla, who read the original manuscript and insisted Michelle do so. Equally enormous thanks to Philip Gwyn Jones and all at Flamingo, in particular Jon Butler and Nicola Barr.

Thanks to the early readers of this novel in its various forms. In Los Angeles: Rufino Cabang, Rick Felkins, Patrick Moore, John O’Neil and especially Caren MacDonald and Phil Rodak. In the State of Washington: my brother Joseph Ness and particularly my lifelong friend Vicki Burrows (neé Pelland). And in London: James Charles, Tony Cronin, Paul Kitchenham, Barry Quinn, Damian Strawbridge, and Andy Yorke. And also to my best-friend-of-long-standing Dave Valvoda in Los Angeles, who promises to finish it eventually.

Copyright

Flamingo
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Published by Flamingo 2003

First published in Great Britain by Flamingo 2003

Copyright © Patrick Ness 2003

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