FREE WORLD APOCALYPSE

Book 1 Fugitive

Book 2 Citizen

Book 3 Captive

Book 4 Genesis

Extras - Book Zero - Prequel

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FREE WORLD APOCALYPSE - CAPTIVE

T.K MALONE

Copyright © 2017 by T.K. Malone

All rights reserved.

All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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CONTENTS

Join the struggle

1. Teah’s Story

2. Teah’s Story

3. Connor’s Story

4. Connor’s Story

5. Connor’s Story

6. Connor’s Story

7. Connor’s Story

8. Connor’s Story

9. Connor’s Story

10. Connor’s Story

11. Connor’s Story

12. Zac’s Story

13. Zac’s Story

14. Zac’s Story

15. Zac’s Story

16. Zac’s Story

17. Zac’s Story

18. Zac’s Story

19. Zac’s Story

20. Zac’s Story

21. Teah’s Story

Thank you for reading

Also by T.K Malone

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Don’t get left behind…

1

TEAH’S STORY

Strike time: plus 8 days

Location: Black City Correctional

THE SUN BEAT DOWN, but the cattleman shaded her eyes. Her arms ached from her holding them aloft, but still no one came. The two crucified guards were stinking—what was left of them. Buzzards had gotten most of their top halves, and she guessed a wolf had scavenged a leg or two. Grizzly bastard, Cornelius Clay, she thought, no doubt about that.

She wondered where Jake and the others were watching from, or if they’d just turned around and headed back to Max’s cabin. Probably the latter, unless one of them had hung around to put a bullet in her skull should she end up an ornament like the two unfortunates on either side of her. At least, she hoped someone had.

The Black City Drone Slayer: was she truly relying on him to care about his grandson? How Zac would have laughed had he been alive, had he escaped the decimation of Black City. Then he would’ve shaken his head and raged like a grizzly, or gone into one of his morbid moods, she couldn’t decide which. She stepped forward. A shot rang out, the bullet hitting the ground about ten feet to one side. Closer than last time, but not by much—they were still paying attention.

Jake’s endgame worried her. Forging a bargain here appeared a risky gamble. Though Cornelius’ crew had superior numbers, probably firepower too, if Jake’s intel was right, most inside wouldn’t be too good at fighting. Teah knew the percentages; the vast majority of convicts who ended up in the correctional were no more than non-conformists, or folk who’d OD’ed on synthetics—smuggled drugs which had eluded the health monitors—or folk who’d voiced dissent, or those who’d pissed off Charm and his hierarchy. Hardly killers like Cornelius. But that wasn’t to say there weren’t badasses banged up in there, or who had once been banged up in there. It was still a risky play.

But it was also her last task before…before they’d promised, not just one but all of them—Max, Trip, Kelly, and Jake—to rescue her son, her Clay. Finally.

Had Jake played her to lead her to this exact spot? Was there anyone else who might have a chance of reasoning, of bargaining, with Cornelius Clay? Teah doubted it. It was part of Jake’s plan, of that she was now sure—a plan which had started with her cabin burning down and so forcing her to move in with Saggers. A move that had seen her safe during the nuclear strike on Black City, which in turn had seen her split up from Clay. Then there was Morrow—Jake’d set that up without a doubt. Could that have been the reason Briscoe had intercepted them and shot Ned? A push, but Jake had been at the camp. And now Briscoe was dead, and that had paved the way for this parlay—the parlay Jake had wanted, that he’d engineered.

“Shit, but it’s hot,” she thought. “Ain’t gonna be long before I drop to the road.”

She scoffed. So many threads; if it was a plan, he was a master manipulator.

A dark spot in the correctional’s wall seemed to move, to jerk, but she couldn’t be sure if she was imagining it. A truck, no two ways about it, a truck was headed out to her. She stepped forward again, acknowledged with another shot. Shit, it was hot. The truck neared.

It was a black pickup. The signwriting had been picked off the hood, leaving a mess of a logo, but still quite obviously one of theirs. There was only one occupant, and as he closed in farther, Teah could see his long hair flapping in the wind and an impressive beard covering most of his face. He skidded to a halt about ten yards short, got out of the truck and sat on its bonnet. Looking her up and down, he appeared a little confused. Several times, he made to speak but hesitated. Eventually, he settled on his words.

“We don’t get a lot of visitors here, specially not the female kind—well, not willingly.” He lit himself a smoke. “Specially not a fine woman like you. So why do I get the feeling I’m the one in danger?”

“Oh, I think you’ll be just fine. Truth is…”

“Wesley.”

“Truth is…Wesley, I doubt I could beat up a butterfly at the moment. In fact, I’ll bet you I couldn’t. Got next to no blood in my arms.”

“And yet you still hold ’em up.” Wesley took a long draw on his smoke.

“I can put them down?”

“Ne’er asked you to put ’em up.”

“And a smoke?” she said, cautiously lowering her arms.

“If you’ve got your own. Being in the lockup, well, that makes sharing quite the alien concept. Be a while before I’ll ever feel comfortable just giving.”

“Why bother trying?” Teah asked, lighting her own.

“Isn’t it sociable?”

“Sociable’s overrated.”

Wesley lifted his boots to the truck’s fender. “So much has changed since I got banged up. So, so much. There’s Black City: I’m told that’s gone.” He snorted. “Not something the world’ll miss. And then there’s a woman, a woman who—as bold as brass—just walks up to a pen full of no good men and women.” He pointed his smoke at her. “I’ll tell you, lady, that kinda behavior wouldn’t have happened before. That would have been frowned upon.”

His eyes bored into her.

“I got an appointment,” Teah said, taking a draw on her smoke and flexing her arms.

Wesley arched his eyebrows above a smile which held no promise of joy. “An appointment? You selling toiletries? An appointment, eh? Shoot; I’ll play. With who?”

Teah pulled the rim of the cattleman lower, shading her eyes further as she tried to ignore the growing pain of the blood flooding back into her arms. “Cornelius Clay.”

Wesley jumped off the truck’s hood but didn’t approach her. “Cornelius Clay? You got an appointment with Cornelius Clay? Now… Now I’m gonna take issue with that on the grounds I keep Cornelius Clay’s diary, and sure as eggs is eggs, he ain’t got no appointment today. But—” He took a couple of steps toward her and turned side on, first glancing back at the prison, then behind Teah and up into the hills. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, have a sniper or two trained on me?”

“Nope.”

“No sniper…” His forehead creased. “No sniper.” He ducked his head low, looking at her legs, at her groin and chest, appearing to become more confused. “Now that’s a big old coat you’re wearing, and I suppose it could conceal a rifle or two—hell a fucking missile launcher—but I don’t reckon it does. Hanging all wrong. So, no sniper, no guns, and I know, young lady, no appointment.”

“Never said he knew about the appointment, Wesley.”

Wesley stroked his beard. “Ah,” he said, though he was clearly stifling some incredulity. “Tell me, why shouldn’t I just kill you now? And don’t say it’d be a waste of a fine body, cos I can easily live with that loss.”

“Because you don’t want to die, Wesley. Not tied to one of those things.” And she glanced at the crosses on which the two guards hung. “Not like that, Wesley. Wolves have gnawed off their legs, and I doubt they waited for the bastards to die; not quite as respectful as the buzzards, eh?”

“I…don’t…want to die? Did I just hear that right?” His forehead again creased. “Let me get this straight: you’re the one unarmed, no backup, and I’m the one who’s gonna die?” and he rested back against the truck. “Mind telling me how you’re gonna do that?”

Teah took off the cattleman and ran her fingers through her dyed-blond hair. “I’m dead, remember. Ain’t gonna be me, Wesley. No, after you kill me—which I’m a little put out about, seeing as I’ve given you no reason to do it—it’ll be Cornelius who’ll kill you. He might not want to, but he will.”

Wesley laughed. “And why would he do that?”

Teah shrugged. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe because he missed his appointment. Maybe because I know where his grandson is. Or maybe I’ve fucked this whole plan up and he won’t give a damn.” She planted the cattleman back on her head.

“His grandson? You Teah?”

SHE’D NEVER MET Cornelius Clay, never even looked him up, until after she’d fallen for Zac. Even then she couldn’t find out much. Though the newsfeeds at the time had hailed his arrest, everything had soon been glossed over. The Free World didn’t like to acknowledge killers, well, the capture of them; captured, they offered no fear for the populace. Teah understood that. So, the few photos of him that had existed hadn’t done him any justice, that she could now see, for he was currently standing before her, behind a stout wooden desk in a comfortable office which smelled of tea tree oil and old leather, lit by the light which angled in through a window, chopped into columns by its bars. His muscular chest was bare and his long white hair tied back in a ponytail. Teah stood and waited, waited for him at least to acknowledge her, but all he did was rub his moustache, clearly deep in thought.

“Tell me again, Wesley.” And Wesley reiterated their conversation, almost word perfect.

Cornelius rubbed some more.

“One more time,” Wesley again repeated himself.

“Whose idea?” Cornelius said, addressing Teah for the first time.

Teah considered her reply. To lie would have been foolish, and without gain. “A man called Jake.”

Cornelius glanced at Wesley, who nodded.

“A drink?” Cornelius said. “And perhaps some food. Wesley?” Wesley nodded one last time and retired from the room.

“Truth,” said Cornelius, “is a rare quality. What do you know of…Jake?” He sat, his hand outstretched, beckoning her to do the same.

Teah pulled a chair in and she too sat, taking the cattleman off and throwing it onto the threadbare carpet of the office. Even sitting, she decided, Cornelius was just plain daunting. “First time I met him he was with a man called Lester.”

She studied him further, waiting for a response. Though only slightly, he flinched at Lester’s name but said nothing.

“He didn’t hang around, though,” she continued. “Didn’t think he’d taken to me at the time.”

Wesley came back with a bottle of whiskey and three glasses. He poured out two. Cornelius beckoned him closer with his finger and whispered in his ear. “Sure,” Wesley said, and left again.

“So, Teah,” Cornelius said as he took up his whiskey and had a sip. “What does Jake want?”

“A deal. No bloodshed, free trade, and you’re the king.”

He nodded, slowly, as if chewing over her words.

“King?”

“He said, ‘Someone’s gotta be king’.”

“And what makes him think I would want such a role?”

That stumped her. Teah pulled her smokes out, lit one and pushed them over the table. “Guess he’s just assumed it.”

Cornelius inclined his head, reached out and took one of her smokes. “Funny thing about kings, there are more dead than living ones. Now, the king's advisor,” and Cornelius opened his palms and pursed his lips, his eyes full of intrigue, “he or she enjoys all the creature comforts of the king but gets the freedom the king can’t have, and gets to make nearly all the decisions. Tell me, Teah, would you be a…a queen?” He sat back and took a long draw on his smoke, waiting for her answer, patient, like a fisherman watching for his rod to jerk.

Teah stiffened. Queen: the word both Charm and Jake had used, and now Cornelius Clay. Were these three linked? How she wished her memory would come back. Cornelius began to smile, and Teah suspected, yet again, she’d become a pawn in a complicated game. “I’d be queen,” she finally said. “Fuck serving anyone.” Cornelius clapped.

“So thought the king,” he said, and emptied his glass.

Wesley returned, two bowls of pasta in hand, setting the desk as though it were a dining table. Cornelius looked down at his food, picked up his fork and pushed the pasta around. “The food here is a little bland. It’s early days, though. Black City Correctional didn’t attract any world-famous chefs, unfortunately, and the warden was tight around credit, so we’re working with scraps. Times will change, though. I hear the preppers’ fields are quite plentiful.”

“And,” Teah said, “I hear Christmas can provide the party.”

Cornelius nodded. “That it can. Please, eat.”

To her surprise, it wasn’t too bad.

“Wesley,” said Cornelius, “will think on it.”

“Wesley?”

“Yes.”

“Why Wesley?”

“Because I said. Now, to my grandson: how is Clay?”

“You know about him?”

“Him? Of course. Well, the last few days have been sketchy, but you know, things have been a bit hectic. Last I knew you were living in Aldertown.”

“Last I heard there was no Aldertown.”

“Nope, place is no more. One less town to fight over. A little too close to Christmas for comfort, if you ask me, but Grimes has deployed some niche firepower up there, so our little vice factory should be fine. Josiah Charm was very generous with the State Defense Force’s weapons.”

“Josiah Charm…” Teah muttered.

Cornelius forked a heap of pasta into his mouth, staring at her all the while he chewed. Josiah Charm, she thought, the name which kept cropping up. She briefly wondered if he and Jake were in some kind of partnership, and then decided wondering, had so far, gotten her nowhere. Only by forcing the game had she been given answers.

“Didn’t Josiah lock you up?” she asked.

He chewed and stared at her, wagging his finger as if to stay any more words.

“He did,” Cornelius finally said. “Needs some wine—whiskey’s too harsh, and fortunately the warden had this office well stocked. Quite the tippler, though very odd.”

“Odd?”

“A timid man on the surface, but ruthless underneath, cold as they come. Still, I hear they’re keeping him busy. Some form of prison concubine, I do believe.”

“I could drink some wine,” Teah said, trying to put the warden’s fate out of her mind.

Cornelius clicked his fingers and Wesley appeared with a bottle in hand. He served three glasses and pulled a chair up to the desk, then made to speak, but it was Cornelius who carried on the conversation.

“So, tell me, Teah, how did you lose my grandson?”

As Teah told him the story, his grin grew and grew, as did her confusion. Eventually, she had to ask: “Are you enjoying what happened to Clay?”

He seemed to pull himself out of whatever it had been that was making him smile. “Enjoy? No. It’s just funny how one man’s name keeps coming up.”

“Josiah Charm?”

“No, no, no, not him.” He furrowed his eyebrows. “Another name. Grimes brought that same name up only the other day—when was it, Wesley?”

“Four, five days ago?”

Cornelius gazed up at the high ceiling. “Well, doesn’t time fly.” He looked back at Teah. “Ethan Saggers—his name keeps coming up. Seems everyone who visits here is raving about his smokes, and there’s you, living with him.”

“In the same house, not living with—”

Cornelius held his hand up. “Not my business. Your relationship with my son is none of my business.”

“You’re talking like he’s alive.” The empty void that was Zac now surfaced in the pit of her stomach. Cornelius and Wesley swapped glances, then both turned to her, each displaying oddly engaged looks.

“Oh, how delightful,” said Wesley.

“Certainly a moment worth savoring,” agreed Cornelius, and then he pushed his plate away and leaned forward, his hands clasped together as though he was preparing for something monumental. “Another smoke?” he then asked.

“What?” she said.

“Another smoke. You should have a smoke. They aren’t Saggers’, but they’ll take the edge off.”

“Off what?”

Cornelius pushed a pack of smokes over the table. Wesley cleared her plate—almost as if he didn’t want it in the way—then pushed her glass of wine closer. “It has to be you,” he said to Cornelius.

“Oh, I know. I know that well enough. I’ll tell her in just a moment.”

“Tell me what?”

“Aww, shoot, Cornelius, just tell her.”

Cornelius shrugged. “Can’t hurt.” He fixed her with a stare. “You see, Ethan Saggers is a peculiar symptom for us. Is it true he just throws our money behind his sofa?”

Teah nodded. “Ain’t too much use fer it if you can eat and drink without it.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. There should always be a use for money. Heaven help us all if greed were to vanish. Think of what a disgustingly average world we’d live in. Ethan Saggers, Teah, is a cancer which needs to be rooted out. Can’t have folk happy with their lot, now, can we? Where’s the struggle in that?”

She wasn’t quite sure whether Cornelius was playing with her, but there was no doubt in her mind he was holding something back, toying with her like a salmon on a line. She remained silent, though, lit the offered smoke and sipped her wine.

“No?” Cornelius said. “Very well. The person I was discussing Saggers with, a person who was very close to you, was…was my son, Zac.”

Teah froze, a wave of sickness running through her. Her hands began to shake as her heart fluttered and her head swam at the impossible news. “Zac…” she finally managed to say as her wine glass slipped from her hand and rolled onto the desk.

Wesley righted and filled it before draining his own. “Better than I’d anticipated.”

“Indeed, Wesley, far better. And I suppose you’d best get her some water—she looks quite pale.”

Teah grabbed the whiskey bottle instead and took a long slug. “How?” she at last asked. It was all she could manage. Her head was now roiling with images of Zac, of the fun-filled Zac she remembered—the intense, loving, drunk Zac. But how could he have survived?

Cornelius, though, was now wheezing with uncontrollable laughter. “Oh, Wesley, it’s the gift that keeps on giving. She doesn’t know, she doesn’t know my son at all. How? Did you really believe he was a washed-up drunk? Did you honestly believe his lie? Of course he’s alive, a bargain he forged early on.”

“Bargain? With who?”

Cornelius clapped with apparent glee, then, as though someone had switched it off, he stiffened, his expression hard, his stare cold. “With Josiah Charm, that’s who.”

“But—”

“We can discuss it on the road,” Cornelius declared.

“On the road?” Teah felt completely lost at the sudden sharp turn the conversation had taken.

For just a brief moment, she though she saw the flicker of a winning smile seep across his face. He rolled his glass around in his hand. “Let me tell you a little secret: folk just aren’t observant. Do you know that? Now, everyone thinks I’m institutionalized; I’ve been cooped up in here for so long I’m scared of the outside world. What about you?”

She knew it was a test, but an easy one. “I think you leave this place regularly, and have done for a long time.”

“Why?”

“That’s a natural tan you’ve got.”

Finally, he did smile.

“Indeed. Wesley will take care of any arrangements with the preppers.”

“And you?”

He stood. “Me? Why, I’m coming with you.”

2

TEAH’S STORY

Strike time: plus 8 days

Location: Christmas

CORNELIUS LET Teah drive the truck. It appeared he’d made up his mind to come with her before she’d even uttered a word, and Wesley had gotten all his gear ready, and “all his gear” consisted mostly of guns and knives, a leather jacket and a number of black T-shirts. He sported a pair of round, green-lensed sunglasses, and if you hadn’t known who he was, Teah thought, you’d just have assumed he was your average, run-of-the-mill, scary-assed, motherfucker. She knew who he was, though, and what he’d done, but somehow that didn’t scare her quite as much as she thought it would have done.

They sped past his garden ornaments, still hanging there on their posts, and he shouted over the blaring music, “Man, they stink.” Then he asked her, “You like this?”

She assumed he was referring to the heavy rock. It wasn’t bad.

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t get music like this on the grid.” He sat back, arm draped out of the window. “Turn up the other valley when you get to Sendro Verde.”

“The other valley?”

“Little detour.”

Looked like he wanted to go to Christmas. Another delay, Teah thought. Did Cornelius want some bonding time? And why had he clammed up every time she’d tried to question him about Zac—not that she’d had much time, their being on the way in under an hour from his surprise proclamation. Her sideways glances at him confirmed he felt very comfortable being on the outside.

Small talk was clearly not on his mind, his head turned away from her as he looked over at the valley which led to Christmas, what could be seen of it through the high-reaching redwoods. Whether he was plotting her fate or just enjoying the wind in his hair, she couldn’t fathom, but she did know he’d taken an enormous risk, and didn’t have a clue why. Back at the correctional, he’d have been near-invincible; out here he was exposed. Why do that? She’d already discounted “Love for a grandson he’d never met”. No, it had to be something else, something more.

She drove on until his raised hand told her to slow and then to turn onto a small, overgrown track. At its end, they came to a ramshackle house in a little clearing. Cornelius directed her to stop outside. He turned the music down and just sat there, looking at the place.

“Smoke?” he eventually asked.

She pulled out her pack and lit two, passing him one.

“You don’t seem too scared of me, but then I’m guessing that scared and you are mostly strangers.”

Teah grunted. “I ain’t no helpless gridder girl. Killers rarely change their ways; I can’t do anything about that.”

“And you’re my grandson’s mother. Tell me—and I’m not complaining—but why did you call him Clay?”

She too now stared at the house, seeing through it to some unknown distant spot. “Because I loved them both.”

“Both?”

“Zac and Connor. I used to watch the old films with Connor; he liked them. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t like the love I had for Zac. It was odd what I felt for Connor—almost a... What’s the word? Kinship; yeah, a kinship.” She felt Cornelius’ stare and turned to look at him. “That thing we went through together—the sewers—something happened down there, something which bonded us.”

Cornelius got out of the truck and stretched his legs. “Come on, I’ve got somethin’ to show you.” He marched off around the house.

Teah watched him crouch at a graveside. It seemed wrong, not the man she’d read about, not the cold-blooded killer she knew him to be. “Choices,” he called to her as she went to join him and as he looked out over the grave. “I made some I regret and this was one of them. I fucked her life up, Teah, fucked my wife’s life up. She wasn’t strong like Zac, like you. The warden, well, he wasn’t crucified because we had a deal. He let me come up here. No one knew cos I was on my own in that vast, hollow world. In return, I kept his correctional in order. Trouble is, you can’t make amends to the dead, you just can’t.”

“Nope,” Teah said. “They just stay dead.”

He glanced up. “I’m supposed to be the cold one.”

Teah shrugged. “Been what, five days? Five days since I’ve seen Clay. Though if I’m honest, it seems mighty longer. Five days I’ve had folk telling me to do this, do that, and all it’s done is delay me, stop me from doing what I shoulda just done in the first place.”

“And what was that?”

“Go after him—what else?”

“Yes, yes you should have. Futile or not, you should have. Either you’d be dead now, or you’d be corralled with him.”

“Both outcomes would have seen me looking out for him.”

“Maybe the second, but definitely not the first. Dead is dead, just like you said. I know, know firsthand. I’ve seen the disappointment in their eyes as they finally slip away.” He sprang up. “I will delay you no more after today—indulge me in this. In the correctional I was assured of one thing, every damn night; one thing.”

“And what was that?”

“That I’d wake up the next day, and the day after, and so on and so on, and on. And I was assured of one other thing, too: that I could come here. Now…now I’m not assured of that. So, I wanted to visit one last time.”

“You planning on dying?”

He grinned as he walked around her. “Not anytime soon. Now, I guess you have a few questions for me.” She followed him as he strode back to the truck. “Questions which you may,” he went on to say, “ask over a beer or two. To Christmas, Teah, and then, once we’ve drunk and slept, so we’ll go and hunt. And God help any who harm our boy, eh?”

Cornelius stopped and stared at her for a moment, the look in his eyes making her blood run cold.

She’d expected a lot of things in her life, and she’d seen more than most, but nothing prepared her for the reception the Drone Slayer got when they drove into Christmas. At first it had just been glances, blatant but furtive. Then a woman had just stopped walking along beside the road and had fallen to her knees, screaming at the top of her voice, soon joined by others. But theirs weren’t screams of horror, nor of revulsion; they were cries of adulation. By the time they’d got to the bridge, a crowd had started following them, running after the truck. And when they pulled up in front of the bar, Cornelius Clay was mobbed.

Teah had known for a while how despised the gridders had been, how hated city folk were out here in the country, but to forgive, no, not only forgive but idolize, a cold-blooded killer, that she couldn’t comprehend. Yet there he was, standing on the truck’s seat, arms aloft, a god returned.

And once he’d called for privacy, like an edict issued from upon high, they’d quickly been afforded a quiet table in a corner of the bar. There, Cornelius relaxed, his boots propped on the empty seat opposite, appearing content in doing nothing more than absorbing the essence of the place.

“Goddamn, but I love this joint—always have.”

Teah took off the cattleman and shed Lester’s coat. “Mighty popular up here,” she pointed out.

“Never underestimate hate’s ability to thrive and grow,” he told her before taking a gulp of his ale. “The folk of today learned their hatred from their mothers and fathers, and so on, back down the line. Time enhances both truths and lies. Remember, it was only thirty odd years ago that the walls went up, though in most minds there’d been a divide for a long while before that.”

“Why?” Teah asked.

According to The Free World, the separation had been mutual. The Urbanistas of yesteryear, rueing having to follow the political sway of the rural voters, had forced the separation supposedly in order to pursue their more liberal ways, their more caring ways. Those were the teachings, the official reasons. But the government had twisted that ideal to its own ends, had got rid of its populist wave and sown its own agenda. Teah knew firsthand that Black City had been anything but the utopian ideal those eager campaigners had sought.

“Resentment mostly,” Cornelius finally said. “Oh, I know most will point to vaccinations being withdrawn, to the poorer schooling, computers, hospitals and commerce, but that’s not where the roots of their hatred are buried. No, you have to look in here for that.” And he tapped his temple. “Those city dwellers thought they knew better than the country folk; thought the country folk stupid, incapable of voting with a clear mind. In that pit of condescension did the seeds of hatred take root.” He smiled, though it gave Teah no comfort. “Folk just don’t like being called stupid.”

And Teah knew his words to be true, exactly so. “In the end they voted for a leader who ultimately killed them,” she whispered, and Cornelius nodded.

“Irony. It’s a wonderful thing; majestic, beautiful.”

“Where’s Zac?”

“Zac? Doing Charm’s bidding. Probably paying off a load of debt.”

“Debt?”

Cornelius shrugged. “Who knows how many bargains it took to save his life, to save Connor’s.” Then he looked directly at her. “And probably yours, though he thinks you’re dead. Well, at the very least, lost.”

“You knew I was alive and you never told him? What about Clay? Does he know about Clay? Wait… Connor’s alive, too?”

Cornelius held up a hand, as if to deflect her questions. “Patience, patience. We have the whole night before us. No, I didn’t tell Zac about you, or Clay. After all, what did I know at the time? That you were alive in Aldertown. Had I told him that he would probably have headed up there and been killed or captured by the army. Besides, he had, or has, a task to do, a debt to repay.”

“To Josiah Charm.”

“Indeed. And mostly for Connor’s protection.”

“Connor?”

Cornelius grinned, a faraway smile, as if something deeper amused him. “Josiah Charm is currently holding Connor captive—though Connor doesn’t know it. It’s a stunning plan, really, one that ensures Josiah lives through the coming turmoil. You see, what Josiah understands that very few folks get is this: you have to be alive to be the last man standing, to win.”

“To win?”

“You don’t get any points for being dim, Teah. Don’t you get it yet? It’s a game to Charm, nothing more, and that makes him dangerous.”

“Is it a game to you, to Zac, to Connor?”

Cornelius reached for a smoke, seeming to mull over his reply. He took a long draw, eventually letting the smoke dribble from his lips. “To Connor? No. I don’t think he’s cynical enough yet. I think he’s living his life. The detachment you need to see the moves, to be a general, just isn’t there—not from what I’m told. Very much a pawn. Now Zac, he’s a rook that aspires to the elevation of being a knight. He just clatters around, eyes in one direction or another, just steamrollering any opposition outta the way. I think Zac thinks he plays, but no, he doesn’t.”

“And you?”

Cornelius signaled for another beer, taking a gulp when it soon came. “I’ve had nothing else to do but play, to manipulate, but with only Grimes to shove around. He’s the head of my little club—Zac might have mentioned that. No, I’ve dabbled; I think that’s about the extent of it. Only now can I truly play.”

Teah looked around the bar. For the most part folk were trying to ignore them both, and for the most part they were failing. His summation of Zac was eerily accurate. She’d known he was driven by a mix of temper and ideals, one often fuelling the other, and wondered how those ideals were holding up now everything had changed. If this was just a game, would Josiah Charm see the extinction of the cities as just another move or the start of a whole new one? Had the apocalypse handed Cornelius Clay another chance to play?

“I need some air,” she said, to which Cornelius only nodded.

She walked out of a side door and onto a stoop which looked out over a mess of bottles and barrels which tapered away into the vastness of the surrounding forest. Teah was tired, exhausted, and she slumped down, her chin in her hands. Though she’d been on her own for most of her time since leaving Black City, she’d never felt as lonely as she did now. Survival: it had always been about that with Clay, and yet it had never seemed it. What of Zac, though? She looked up at the dusk sky. What future would she have with Zac? Then her eyes fell to the tree line, from where a flock of birds took sudden flight, and for a moment she wondered why.

A huge explosion thumped out, distant but startlingly loud, like thunder. Teah jumped up, swinging her gaze over to the preppers’ valley from where it had come, even farther away she was now sure. It could only mean one thing, one place, and then smoke bloomed above the tree line, a black and insidious blot on the gray sky, its plume rising ever higher, her gaze held to it by her shock. What could she do? and the impotence of the last few days caught up with her, her knuckles going white as her grip crushed the leather of Lester’s coat.

People were now spilling from the bar, their voices muted. Her hands let go of Lester’s coat, seemingly of their own accord, reaching up to cup her ears as though her body somehow knew what was to come. Like a bubble bursting, pain erupted from the base of her skull, racing up to surround and then squeeze her brain in an ever-tightening grip. She tried to scream, to curl into a small ball, but felt herself slip from the stoop and roll into the mud below. Vivid images flashed across her mind’s eye, cutting through her consciousness like the arc of a mightily swung sword.

And with it, she saw the vagrant, saw it was Lester, a slightly younger Lester beckoning her toward the sewer pipe. He was sodden, dripping, oddly iridescent, and the pipe was huge, puncturing the surface of the wasteland like some giant, black-ribbed worm, a worm into whose mouth she raced, sensing time was short.

The next image presented a scene of utter blackness, but one through which she crept on, fumbling for her flashlight. She called out “Hello?” but no one answered. Then a woman’s voice came to her, hollow as it bounced off the ribbed walls. “Over here,” it had called, but where was here? Where was her flashlight?

A hauntingly white glow lit up the liquid she now realized she was wading through, a black, oily liquid over whose thick surface crawled silver snake-like streaks. There was something unnatural about them, something wrong, and when she looked down, she saw they were congregating around her legs as she continued to inch her way along the sewer. And all the time, the glow from one side grew ever stronger until she rounded a curve and came directly into the light of a chamber.

“Hello,” she again cried out.

The tiny snakes were now crawling everywhere, glowing a brilliant white, and in amongst them floated a body, but when she glanced up from it, she saw two eyes staring at her from within the darkness on the far side of the chamber.

Teah’s eyes grew wide as the image faded. “Jenny,” she whispered to herself. “Jenny’s was the other voice.”

“I WON’T SAY I’m proud of what I’ve done,” Cornelius’ voice filtered into her mind, “but I’ll tell you, Teah, I ain’t got remorse in me. You do what needs to be done, and those young women, well, they needed to die.”

She heard a lighter being struck and smelled smoke, but she remained still, not sure she could move even had she wanted to. She was lying down, something covering her, her eyes tightly shut.

“They needed to die, Teah, because the stiffs were too close. Back in those days, smuggling was frowned upon.” He scoffed a laugh. “When I say ‘frowned upon’, it was downright illegal. You see, men of vision, well, they were few and far between back then. There was one, though: a young up-and-coming man by the name of Josiah Charm. Now there, I tell you, there was a man I knew I could work with. There was a man who knew hard truths.”

Her head pounded and her throat felt dry as all the new memories tumbled through her mind. She now knew Lester and Jenny had been there that day, and they’d both died because of it. Why hadn’t she? Why hadn’t Connor? More questions than answers, but memories, precious memories.

“What Josiah Charm knew that the other would-be leaders of Black City didn’t was that folk would drink, they’d smoke, take drugs, and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it. What Josiah Charm reasoned was that he may as well use that for his own gain. I’m telling you, Teah, a man of vision.”

Connor’s body had been the one floating there; she’d seen that. He hadn’t moved. She’d rolled him over, his body coated in the glowing film. His eyes had been wide, vacant. Teah’s head now throbbed, another bout of pain clawing through her mind like silent forks of lightening; without the thunder. Thunder? Something had happened, something important, something to do with Clay.

“So,” Cornelius was now saying, “we went into partnership, Josiah Charm and I, and very profitable it was, too. But—” and he paused, at which Teah smelled the smoke from his cigarette engulf her. “Some folk just can’t keep their noses outta other folks’ business. Some folk just gotta keep niggling away at things till they become a liability. But, Teah—and there’s always a but—how do you warn them away in the most heavily regulated city in the world? Ain’t like bribery could have tripped up one of those perfect citizens, now, is it? Killing their friends and colleagues, strapping them to a drone and suspending them in plain sight, now, that certainly did it.”

She heard a chair scrape on a wooden floor, heard his hollow bootsteps walking away.

“That is…until you come across the incorruptible. Lester Avery Savage. Fuck that man, I hope he rots in hell.”

Lester, Teah thought, more memories being triggered, triggered by something, but by what?

Her stomach compressed and she sat bolt upright, panic coursing through her.

“Clay!”

3

CONNOR’S STORY

Strike time: plus 4 days

Location: Outside Project Firebird

CONNOR SQUINTED, trying to make out the stockade, trying to see the prisoners. Was Banks really destroying all the towns around and corralling everyone? Was he selling them, as Sticks had inferred? Molly’s lips were tight, her knuckles white as she focused the binoculars. Connor let out a breath. How fast the world had deteriorated.

He suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable. Just five days before, was that all it had been? Just five days since he’d been drinking in his brother’s bar, when he’d been safe in the arms of The Free World, in the embrace of a government which had then forsaken them. And now this?

Sticks tensed and grabbed the binoculars from Molly, holding his free hand up. “Stay still.”

“What?” Connor asked.

“Shh,” Sticks hissed.

Connor looked at Molly, but she merely shrugged and scrunched herself down against the wooden walkway of Observation Point Four. A bad feeling spread through Connor’s gut, and he looked around at the mighty redwoods behind them, then down the valley and across it to the other side. Something was definitely wrong. Sticks’ binoculars swung around, clearly scanning the valley, too. “Shit,” he soon said and threw them down, pulling up his machine gun. The click of the safety coming off seemed loud in Connor’s ears, very loud.

“Either of you know how to shoot?” Sticks asked.

They both muttered, “No.”

“Well, that there’s sumthin’ we gotta correct…if we get outta this alive.”

“What?” Connor asked again, but Sticks didn’t reply, as he continued to scan the valley. Connor realized it had fallen silent. Even the skirmish they’d been watching had paused. Then Stick’s machine gun burst into life, spraying fire everywhere, before he paused and shouted “Move!” He jumped from the walkway and into the sandbags below, Connor and Molly close behind, as the whole valley erupted toward a crescendo of death.

Sticks urged them toward the ladder which led back up to the pathway, coming up backward behind them, his machine gun repeatedly spraying spits of fire to their rear. Connor pushed Molly forward and onto the ladder and followed her up, bullets thudding into the wooden watchpoint below them as others zipped through the trees or almost silently splattered across the muddy bank. Connor glanced over his shoulder just as Sticks leapt onto the ladder himself, barking, “Up, up, up” as he scurried after them.

Molly then Connor were the first to roll onto the muddy trail above, Sticks just behind them and soon pulling the ladder up. He then shuffled to the edge of the ledge and peered over.

“They’re coming, and lots of them,” he said between bursts of breath. “Up, but keep low. We’re exposed here,” then, “Ah, shit,” and he pointed up.

Connor followed his gaze to a drone, flying quite high above them. It looked a fearsome piece of equipment, its guns raining down fire. Though he’d only been in the valley for a few hours, he knew darned well it just had to be headed toward Commander Croft, Kenny and Byron Tuttle. “Shit,” he hissed.

“Tactics outta the window now,” barked Sticks.

“So, what now?” Molly shouted.

“Run.”

And they did, retracing their steps back toward Croft’s command post, darting through the maze of alleys and sandbags in the wake of the drone. Every time they were out in the open, bullets peppered everything around them, but Sticks didn’t waver once, running on until they’d reached the D-shaped bunker where he urged them both in. With their backs against the sandbags, he managed a wry smile. “That was a bit hairy,” he muttered, “but I gotta say this about you two: they sure do want you both alive and in mint condition.”

“Sure felt like they were trying to kill us,” Molly said, her voice quivering, her legs pulled in close.

“Trust me, you’re either remarkably lucky or extremely valuable. Me, I’m just lucky, I guess. We all fit?” They both nodded. Connor, though, was far from ready. He felt a little heady, a bit strange, unable to focus properly. He blinked a few times, not only trying to clear his vision but also his mind.

“Do they normally attack like this?” he managed to ask, sweat now blooming on his forehead.

“Been building up to it, but something’s forced their hand. So, again: you fit?”

Connor nodded once more, though his mouth now felt dry, dried by the fear of being far from convinced he was in some way purposely being left unscathed. And the noise of the intense attack pressed in on him, pounding, fizzing, cracking and crackling and crying out, the weight of it all crushing his hope. Then a shadow crept over them, and Connor looked up.

The drone hovered directly above them.

Sticks got up and Connor heard him bark something, but the drone’s rotors drowned it all out. Then the soldier took off, Molly hot on his heels, and Connor leapt after them. Ducking and weaving, they hared their way through the sandbag alleyways, the air thick with the sounds of screams and the smell of cordite. Connor was gasping for breath, sucking in the stench of death, as they came upon pockets of Croft’s beleaguered army leaning against their defences, trying to stem the tide of the enemy. More jumped back into the trenches, though, their advanced positions abandoned. Sticks just threaded Connor and Molly through the chaos, waving them on into what looked like hell on earth, the drone seeming to shadow his every move.

An explosion behind pushed Connor off his feet and sent him clattering into Molly, both then skittling along the narrow path. Sticks stopped and retraced his steps, pulling Molly to her feet before pushing past her and grabbing Connor by the shoulders. But then a burst of red fluid erupted from Sticks’ arm, spinning him around, his hand whipping across Connor’s face.

“Fuck!” the man shouted, dropping his gun but quickly grabbing Connor with his good hand and pulling him up. “Move!” he screamed, and they bolted after the disappearing figure of Molly. She ducked into Croft’s bunker and Sticks pushed Connor in after her, throwing himself inside before staring around it like a man possessed.

There was no sign of Croft, Kenny or Byron. Sticks crashed to the floor, shuffling himself back against the wall, his arm limp at his side. “Anyone any good at field dressing, or is this going to be like the shooting?”

His fatigues were already stained crimson as Molly crouched down beside him. “What do I do?” she asked frantically, but Sticks shook his head.

“Don’t sweat it. Both of you, do you remember the way back?”

Molly nodded, but Connor remained rooted to the spot, his head pounding as though something was trying to stretch his mind. He put his hands up to his temples and was about to cry out when everything suddenly went calm.

“Breathe, Connor,” Sable’s voice, alien at first but soon accepted, soothed him. He felt her take control as she altered his hormones, then he felt his anguish slowly dissipate. “Ask him where the meds are. You have a better chance of survival with him.”

Connor did as she bade, and Sticks nodded toward a metal cabinet of drawers in the corner of the bunker. Following Sable’s directions, Connor stripped Sticks’ arm and bound it. It looked a mess, ruined, but how bad really Connor could only guess.

“You’ve got to come with us,” he said and looked Sticks in the eye. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw fear in them, although that soon turned back to resolve when Sticks then nodded.

“I’ll be safe with you,” he said, managing the slightest of grins. “No way could that drone have missed…but it did. I reckon it was shadowing one or both of you.”

“But it blew—”

“It herded us, herded us right back here. I don’t get it,” and he looked closely at Connor. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I—”

“Forget it, I don’t want to know. Pump some of that into my arm,” and he grabbed a primed syringe, biting the needle cover off. Connor took it from him, not waiting for Sable’s instructions but plunging it deep into Sticks’ bicep.

The man gasped in pain but then nodded, his teeth gritted. “Let’s go,” he finally forced out between them. “I’ll take you back.”

“Where’s Croft?”

Sticks eased himself up, edging to the bunker’s entrance. “Probably took the other two on.” He poked his head out. “Come on. We’re gettin’ our tails whipped here.”

“Steady, Connor.”

“Where have you been all this time?”

“I couldn’t seem to function where they took you. You need to get me access to a mainframe computer.”

“We gotta get back there first.”

“Follow the soldier; he’s better than he makes out.”

“Set?” said Sticks, and Connor and Molly nodded.

The clamor outside had intensified: soldiers barking orders then falling back, shots mixing with the screams and grunts of close combat, of the fighting and dying. Sticks came beside them, his arm limp at his side, and Connor stared down at Molly’s boots as he followed them, his muscles screaming their hurt, toward the door to the compound. As they neared the last bunker, the shooting briefly stopped, almost as if they were being welcomed home, and hands grabbed them and pulled them toward its door. The soldiers defending it retreated with them, pressing them in to the relative safety beyond, then returned to pull others in.

“Don’t forget the computer,” Sable whispered in his mind, and then she was gone.

“We’re gonna have to seal the passage,” someone shouted.

“Not until every last one of ours is in,” Croft barked as he turned to face Connor. “Well, did you see everything you needed to?”

“SO, CROFT, YOU LOST,” Josiah Charm said, and sat at their table. “Tell me: how many of your soldiers made it inside before you finally sealed the passageway—one which also happens to be the only way out of here, apart from...” and he pointed at the Hell’s Gates.

Croft didn’t move a muscle, just stared at Charm.

Connor wondered why he’d been summoned to this meeting on the loading bay balcony with Croft. He’d barely had time to take a breath since going outside.

Molly and Byron had gone with Sticks and the rest of the men, some in search of medical supplies, others just bringing the military area to life. Connor would have much preferred that task from this; he could hear the racket of the battered remains of the army settling into the place. Sable’s words were still spinning around in his mind, but he couldn’t fathom what her instructions had meant. “You need to get me access to a mainframe computer.” It wasn’t so much the words, he understood them well enough, but surely she had access any time he touched a keyboard, any time he played a song. No, he thought, she must have meant something else.

“I said you lost, Commander Croft,” Charm again stated. “How many?”

“A hundred or so. We would have had a few more if the gates had opened once the blast threat was over,” Croft told him.

“Indeed,” and the faintest of smiles played across Charm’s wet lips. “It appeared Banks was early. One could almost say he had the jump on us.”

Croft again stared at Charm, as though trying to dissemble the man for a truth inside. He raised his hand, index finger outstretched. “I wonder who tipped him off.”

“You lost after four days, not one,” Charm countered, and Connor sensed an impasse had been reached, for silence filled the once noisy space as a shroud of tension descended over the table. Connor, Charm and Croft remained unmoving until Kirk pulled up a chair and sat down.

“Well,” he said, his face devoid of any expression, “perhaps we can commence working together now.” He leaned forward. “Instead of detaining each other’s men. Unless you want me to start rounding up yours, like you did mine.”

Croft inclined his head slightly. “Noted,” he said in a flat tone.

“Good. One hundred and eighty: the number of soldiers left. Three critical, twenty or so walking wounded. How long have we got?”

“Got?”

Charm cleared his throat. “I think, Commander Croft, that what Kirk is asking is fairly plain in its meaning. A ‘How long until Banks starts blowing the gates?’ sort of question.”

Connor looked over at the very objects, at their colossal mass. Could anyone really blow their way through nine sets of those?

Croft shrugged. “He never showed me his arsenal. Assuming he’s got the munitions close by, I’d guess at three…maybe four days.”

“Really?” exclaimed Charm.

“Banks is military through and through, and this is now a siege. He’ll consolidate first, resupply and plot and plan. He’ll be in no hurry. Plus, we don’t quite know who’s pulling the strings yet.”

Connor noticed Charm shift in his seat, as if uncomfortable, before he asked, “Does that make a difference?” and then Croft smiled.

“Of course, the timetable will be theirs.”

“Fair point,” and Charm shuffled his attention to Connor. “Did you and your friends enjoy your field trip?”

His innocent smile confused Connor. It seemed so out of place after what had happened outside, after the battle had started and the slaughter began. Why smile when the enemy was now knocking at their gates? Though they were no ordinary gates.

“Enjoy?”

“Why, yes. You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

“Do you know what Banks wants? What he wants us for? Why he’s attacking us?” Connor spat.

Charm raised his hands. “Calm down, Connor, calm down, before I have Kirk arrest you.” But the glint in his eye told Connor he was only playing with him. “So, tell me, tell me what dastardly fate Banks has in store for us.”

“For us? I only know what I saw.” He noticed Croft was now staring at him. “Banks had folk in pens, all caged up like prisoners. Sticks said—”

“Sticks?”

Croft coughed. “One of mine; he was showing them the enemy.”

“Showing them? You let Connor out of your sight?”

“And the woman—my command, Charm. He needed to see what was what, otherwise, why did you let him out? What was the point?”

Charm now held Croft’s stare. It was obvious to Connor the two men had some kind of abrasive history. “And why not the other two?”

“Kenny…”

“Kenny Holmes, Croft, and Byron Tuttle, as you well know. You don’t forget names, or the number of men who survived. Stop playing dumb. I’m not your commander and I’m not military, so there’s no chain of command you need to cover your ass from.”

“Well,” Croft said, his posture now tense, “Kenny Holmes—”

“Indeed, I can fully understand,” Charm said, waving away the need for an explanation. “Byron Tuttle, though, he may be getting on, but he’s nowhere near as out of shape as our friend Kenny.”

“I was questioning him about this place—about you.”

Charm clapped. “Honesty; fantastic. And tell Kirk why you really detained his men at the entrance.”

“They were armed and unconfirmed.”

“Unconfirmed?”

“As to whether they were hostiles or friendlies.”

“And now?”

Croft hesitated, and Connor knew the commander still hadn’t made up his mind.

“Now…” he said, looking at Kirk. “Now we’re the best of friends.”

Charm hesitated, a bemused look crossing his face which slowly turned to a half smile of intrigue. “Oh, I doubt that.” He looked away from Croft, keenly back on Connor. “You were saying… Sticks, I believe,” he prompted.

Connor stuttered, pulled from his observations.

“Sticks seemed to think that Banks was clearing the surrounding towns, caging people…”

“Caging people for what reason, Connor?”

“To make them slaves,” Connor at last said, and Charm’s laughter soon filled the vast chamber.

4

CONNOR’S STORY

Strike time: plus 5 days

Location: Project Firebird

CONNOR SQUEEZED MOLLY’S SHOULDER. She jerked awake.

“You should get some rest,” he whispered, looking over her at Sticks’ unconscious body. “Has he woken?”

Molly shook her head. “I never even knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That he’d got shot again. I was just running, running scared.” She looked up at Connor. “And yet he still waited till we were inside.”

He squeezed her shoulder again. “Go on, I’ll sit with him.” Molly got up, slowly. Her hand trailed along Sticks’ arm to his hand, then she walked away before pausing at the door.

“Is this it?” she said. “Is this it for us…for him?”

Connor knew Molly was on the edge; he knew because he too was close. “We’ll get through it,” he said, but she remained at the door. “We will,” he insisted.

Molly bit her lip and blinked. “If you say so.” She left. Connor took a deep breath.

Lies; they both knew his words for what they were, but they both also knew those lies were all that held the place together at present. Whispers had spread like a virus, Croft’s defeat being hailed as the start of the end by those who didn’t even know who the commander was. Charm had instructed Connor to deal with it, to settle the unrest, and forced him to go on air.

But for now, he sat in Molly’s seat, staring at the young man who’d saved them.

“I lied to them,” Connor whispered. “Told them it would all be okay. Told them that yes, you’d all had to retreat into the compound, and yes, there’d been a battle outside, but I didn’t tell them with whom.”

Connor ran his fingers through his hair. Sticks just lay there, breathing. He looked vulnerable, Connor thought, too young to die, too vulnerable to live. He hadn’t noticed Sticks’ freckles before, nor quite how red his cropped hair was. And he did look young, so very, very young, but Connor knew he was older than his boyish looks—he had to be. Then he wondered how long Sticks had been away from his family—if he had a family—how old he’d been when The Free World had ‘napped him.

“I lied, Sticks, just plain lied to them. They all think you beat off the Cossacks—think they’re all dead, think this was a defensive move and we’re just recouping.”

Sticks’ eyes flickered open. “But are they calm?” his whispered words stuttered out.

Connor couldn’t help but grin. “Sticks.”

Sticks managed a half smile. “Well?”

“Yeah, they’re calm for now.”

“Then it don’t matter.”

Except my brother would be rolling in his grave, Connor thought. Information had been sacrosanct to Zac. He’d berated Connor time and again for toeing The Free World’s line, for maintaining their propaganda machine. Had the residents of Black City been thankful of those lies as the bombs had dropped? Were things different now? Or were the lies still the same?

“But it does,” Connor muttered, and Sticks barely discernibly nodded.

Connor yawned, a long, deep yawn, the kind which pulls your boots up tight. Sable? His mind drifted back to her. What computer did she need access to? Why wouldn’t or couldn’t she function in here? He looked to the side of Sticks’ bed, to a computer screen set flush in the wall. Reaching out, he placed his palm flat on it and watched for any sign that the dull, gray screen would respond.

Sticks twitched, just slightly, but enough for Connor to pull his hand away.

“No,” he heard Sable’s voice in his mind.

Connor reached once more, pressing his hand again against the plasma screen.

Sticks jerked, stiffened and then slumped back. “What the…” and his voice was stronger than before. He looked at Connor, his eyes searching for an explanation. “What?” he again asked, but Connor wasn’t at all sure what was going on. He’d no experience of Sable having any influence on anything but him.

“I… I don’t…don’t know. Truly, I don’t.” Sticks didn’t question him further, only looked up at the ceiling and shut his eyes for a while, before then repeating, “Then it don’t matter”.

But it did, it did to Connor. Sable was his closest friend, yet she was also a mystery to him. An AI—nothing odd in that—every gridder had one, to one degree or another. Sometimes they were there just to monitor the wearer’s health, or diary, address book and the like. But Sable was so much more than that. She kept Connor on track, offered advice—a sounding board which steered him in every aspect of his life. The last five days had been a challenge for Connor, his first time without her since he’d woken up in that hospital room, all that time before.

Sable would have told him what to say those few hours past, and Connor wouldn’t then have felt any remorse at what he may then have done. Connor blinked his eyes open; he hadn’t realized they’d been closed. Had he really become that reliant on her?

“Thank you,” Sticks said, his eyes still shut. “Whatever you’ve done, thank you.”

Connor said nothing, too busy searching out Sable in his mind, probing, trying to find her. He kept whispering the same question over and over: “Where are you?” Then he realized his hand was still on the screen, and he looked up at the sole ceiling light, seeing it blink, as though it had just been switched on, and he felt his hand pulse and knew Sable was back.

“The soldier Sticks will sleep now. He is healing at an accelerated rate.”

“Sable, what just happened?

“I disabled the jamming signal which was affecting my ability to function. It could only be done from here.”

“From where?”

“From this military area—it has links to the outside.”

“So, you’re back?”

“I never went anywhere.”

“MY BLOODY AI’S BACK,” Kenny muttered as he dumped his dinner tray down.

Connor looked over at Byron Tuttle. The aged librarian appeared to be stifling a grin but swiftly looked down at his plate and started playing with his food.

As Kenny dumped himself down on the seat next to him, Connor began, “Don’t you—”

“Like him? Need him? No, I don’t. He’s incompetent at best.”

“He?” Byron looked up and across at Kenny. “I’ve always thought it odd they encourage gender assignment to what is, in essence, nothing more than a computer program. That said, most males statistically plunge for a female voice.”

“Really?” Kenny seemed taken aback. “A woman?”

Byron sighed. “A female voice—it’s a computer program,” but Kenny took no notice.

“What’s yours?” he asked Connor.

“Sable, her name is Sable.”

Byron began to say, “It can’t have—”

“You let a female into your mind? What if you’re…you know…up to stuff?”

“Like Byron says—”

“It’s not a sentient being. They’re not living,” Byron almost fumed, his voice stilted.

Kenny visibly slumped. “All I’m saying is this: whether it’s real or not, living or no, it doesn’t matter. It talks to you, and if it has a female voice then it’s female. How can you have a woman knowing your most private thoughts?”

Byron Tuttle held his head in his hands.

“I never really thought about it,” Connor confessed. “Sable’s voice has always been the same.”

“Well, you must have chosen it when you set it up—from the options menu. They don’t just spring up from nowhere, you know.”

Connor froze, just for a moment, and then laughed, nervously. “Must have,” he said, but then noticed Byron studying him closely. “How can yours be incompetent?” he quickly asked.

Kenny rolled his eyes. “Where do I start?” He leaned in. “No common sense,” he whispered. “None of them. Sure, they’re AIs, the most intelligent computer programs man has yet invented, but…” Kenny appeared to lose his train of thought.

“But what?” asked Byron.

“Well, the clue’s in what I just said: ‘Man’ invented it. The AI can only be as intelligent as the person who programmed it.” He looked around. “An idiot must have done mine,” Kenny murmured.

“Don’t take this the wrong way.” Byron reared up. “But you’re the idiot, Mr. Holmes, and why are you whispering?”

Kenny waved Byron’s proclamation away. “Idiot or not, I don’t want to upset him.”

“But he’s in your head.”

“Yes, well…”

“What’s yours?” Connor asked Byron.

Byron pushed his plate away. “I don’t have one,” and he tapped the side of his head. “Photographic memory—no need.”

Kenny furrowed his brow. “But what about your health? Maps? Stuff like that. What about them?”

Byron raised an eyebrow. “Maps? When I lived on a uniform grid? What part of photographic memory don’t you understand? And as for health, I am perfectly fine. No, I wasn’t permitted an implant.”

“Not permitted? Had you done something wrong?” Kenny’s spilled out, as though it were a challenge.

Byron sighed. “No, nothing wrong, but it caused some disquiet among those in the city and the governments' hierarchy. They just didn’t want the risk.”

“Risk?” Connor asked.

Byron turned to him. Connor returned his stare. “An AI, Mr. Clay, with access to my memory—and a memory, Connor—with access to all the information The Free World had ever accrued. Can you see now?”

“I doubt mine can even read,” said Kenny.

“Oh, dear God,” Byron said, and got up. “Connor, I’ve a mind to search out Commander Croft. Have you the time to accompany me?”

Before Connor could reply, Kenny waved him on. “Go on, you go. I’ll set everything up and run the afternoon’s recordings—no one’ll know you’re not there.”

Connor nodded and left with Byron.

“You know he’s an imbecile, don’t you?” Byron said as they walked along the corridor.

“He helps out, and I don’t think he’s the fool he makes himself out to be.”

“No?” and Byron appeared truly surprised. “What do you think his function is, then?”

“Function?”

“Reason. What’s his reason for being selected? Assuming there was some kind of elimination process during which The Free World chose who was to survive and who wasn’t, why do you think he beat nine million other folk?”

Put like that, Connor really did have to wonder, but then he had been wondering about himself, as well. He told Byron as much. Byron stopped by the stairwell down to the military area. “I always assumed you knew why you were picked. In fact, I’m not even sure you were. It’s no coincidence we met on the first day…night, whatever it was at the time. It’s no coincidence we found the military area. If you believe both of those statements, then Kenny Holmes can be no mistake, either.” He held the door open for Connor. “We just don’t know why.”

“Have you any theories?” said Connor, taking the steps down two at a time.

“Only one.”

“And?”

“We have the highest of the high in here, Connor—leaders in their fields, whatever those fields may be. A gene pool the like of which the earth has never seen.” They got to the bottom of the steps and walked through the doorway into the deserted third floor. “Someone has to average it out, someone, Connor.” Byron chuckled his way along the next corridor.

CROFT LOOKED over his desk at them. His office was small and spartan, smaller but perhaps a little less spartan with all three of them squeezed in. Like everything else in the military area, it was olive green: floors, walls, ceilings. “Settling in?” he said in answer to their inquiry. “Fairly well, considering.”

“I still can’t quite make any sense of it,” Byron said, and then relaxed in his seat and crossed his legs.

Tapping his fingers on the desk, Croft seemed to form his reply carefully. “Orders, Mr. Tuttle, rarely make sense, especially those surrounding an event like the end of civilization. Ours were clear: to protect these coordinates and the gate’s entrance at all costs—from everyone. Once the ‘event’ was over, we would be afforded entrance and sanctuary. The bunkers, lookout posts, everything, had already been constructed while the place was being built. The transition from an engineering role to one of guard duty went so smoothly, we didn’t question it. We just watched the coaches roll in and out. It never occurred to me to even go through the entrance—indeed, I’d not a clue as to whether I was cleared to do so or not, not before the event.”

“So—”

“Mr. Tuttle, you answer me a question. Why should I tell you anything? What clearance do you have? Apart from an apparent free rein to roam around, given—no doubt—by Josiah Charm.”

Byron smiled. “Perhaps you’d be wiser to take orders from a librarian rather than a military which attacks its own soldiers?”

Croft inclined his head. “A valid point.”

“Let me answer your question with another,” Byron continued. “Why am I here? I offer no skills like Molly—you met her briefly—she was the microbiologist. Should we all get out of this alive, I'll guess Molly will be in great demand. Connor, well, his talent is useful for now, though I think he’ll eventually have to find something more to offer. Kenny? Kenny is a bad example, but we have engineers, computer specialists, framework analysts, every conceivable person we’d need to create a new city—a new and functioning world—not as advanced as the last, but certainly a good leg up. So, why me?”

“You said you’d answer.”

Byron stroked his bald dome and then tapped his head. “You’d think it would be the accumulated knowledge of countless books, wouldn’t you? But, Commander, you could store that on a chip the size of a dust mite. No, I think I’m here solely because I despise mankind.”

“Despise…mankind?”

“Indeed. An AI can’t fathom anything but logical reasoning. Put the illogical in front of it and it will attempt to make it into a logical premise—which we both know is impossible. Why were you left outside? Surely common sense would have seen you stationed both inside and out. You wouldn’t, after all, defend a castle by leaving all your soldiers on the outside, to get slaughtered, now, would you?” Byron tapped his temple. “I think I’m here to figure that out, and to do that, you have to answer my questions.”

Croft stood, letting out a huge sigh. “Coffee?”

Both Connor and Byron nodded, and Croft went and opened the metal door to his spartan office and called out for some. “Order,” he then said, “is gradually evolving here. Sometimes the military takes a while to get used to a new place, new corridors to march down, new areas to protect. We are the oil in the machine, not the machine itself. The oil needs to find all the nooks and crannies before the machine can work.” He then sat back behind his desk.

Byron let loose a small chuckle. “Are you shedding yourself of all responsibility? I don’t believe that garbage for a second. Where did your orders come from?”

“Assuming I’m answering your questions?”

“Assuming so, yes.”

Croft cupped his chin and slowly rubbed it. “You are, of course, versed in the structure of the army, in the difference between state and federal?”

“I am, but maybe Connor isn’t.”

“Connor, The State Defense Force has no ties with The Free World army. Our name comes from the old and now long-defunct states. When the grid cities closed themselves away, the SDF altered too. Our job became superfluous, and so we were reassigned. The federal army, on the other hand, what with its perpetual overseas wars, had little in the way of resources to ‘protect’ the grid cities, to safeguard the homeland, and so we took over that role. So, you see, there’s our problem, our conundrum.”

Connor felt a familiar sense of distraction. It came from the reassuring feeling of the duality of thought he was used to sharing with Sable, and he knew she too was digesting the commander’s words. It lent him more confidence, and once more he wondered at his symbiotic relationship with her.

“Banks isn’t supposed to be here,” Connor said.

Croft smiled.

Byron muttered, “Especially not at this time, not now, not when The Free World is on its knees.”

“Indeed,” Croft said. “If anything, it’s the last place he should be. Black City has no strategic land value to an invading force. Tell me, Byron, what would you imagine the Free World army would be doing at the moment?”

The coffees arrived, and Croft received them, soon doling them out. After taking a sip of his own, Byron openly considered the question. “I can think of a few thousand places that Banks’ own aims might be better served. Plus, the nearest federal base is over a hundred miles away, and its main function is training. So, two conclusions: either Banks was ordered here in advance, or he was already waiting near here.”

Croft sat down and blew across his steaming mug. “Banks is familiar with the terrain. He was here in a day and was well-supplied. No, Banks was stationed around here, somewhere, either waiting for this exact event or protecting something.”

“Or someone,” said Byron.

“But,” said Connor, “surely you’d have been aware of another force in your territory?”

Croft scoffed. “We rely on our funds from the grid cities themselves; do you think they’re generous? The SDF barely functions—it’s not a news pull. We blow up no cities; we assassinate no enemies. Castoffs—that’s all I was furnished with—all the troops got as leaders. So, if you’re expecting some genius military-mind to be sitting behind this desk, I’m afraid I have to disappoint you.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I’m one of those castoffs.”

Connor looked across at Byron. He appeared to be digesting the information. “So, essentially…” he muttered.

“Essentially, you’re protected by a group of soldiers who are either too incompetent, too insolent, or too damned flawed to get into The Free World army.”

“Yet,” Byron said, “you held out for four days against a superior force wielding superior weapons.”

Croft smiled. “I never said we were shit.”

“No, you didn’t.” Byron drank his coffee down. “Tell me, you didn’t answer my question. Where did your orders come from—the ones which told you to stay outside?”

Croft shrugged. “Command.”

Byron tapped his knee. “How?”

“Same way they always came; I got an email.”

5

CONNOR’S STORY

Strike time: plus 6 days

Location: Project Firebird

“WHAT’S YOUR AI DONE?” Charm raged, clattering through the studio door. He drew to a halt, hands on his hips. Connor looked up from his mixing desk.

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Somehow, all the AIs were suddenly up and running. Somehow, someone got into the computer systems and took my blocks off. It’s taken Kirk’s team all night to restore order.”

“Eh? What?” Connor stammered, confused, not quite knowing the answer himself. “All the AIs?” That couldn’t be—Sable’s presence was still lurking in his mind.

Charm stood stock-still. “Well, not all.” At which he swirled around and shut the door. “Not all, Connor, but you know that already, don’t you?” He went to the coffee machine and poured himself one. “Not all, although I asked him to, but, well…” Charm looked up at the ceiling. “He said he couldn’t. Said it was beyond his team’s abilities. Tell me, Connor, what is inside your mind?”

“I…”

“Well? Cough it out… Ah, you don’t know, do you?”

Connor looked at him, somewhat bemused. “What don’t I know?”

Charm pulled up a chair and sat down. “Hmm. Is that you talking or… What’s her name? Sable, isn’t it?”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Like what? Like she only talks in your mind? What if she is your mind? What then, Connor?”

“What do you mean?”

“Kenny, where’s Kenny?”

“He’ll be back in a minute.”

“Speaking of whom, don’t you ever wonder?” Charm smiled, mischievously, over the rim of his cup. “Don’t you ever wonder what particular quality Kenny has that saved his life?” He put his cup down and leaned over the desk, cupping his hands to his mouth. “While he’s not here…” he whispered.

Connor blinked in a vain attempt to unscramble his brain. Charm had a habit of confusing him, and today was no different. “Kenny?”

“Yes, Kenny. What’s up with you, Connor? You’ve gone quite pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“Kenny Holmes got selected because he made me laugh. There,” and Charm slapped his knee, “I’ve said it. My one indulgence in a hectic life is Kenny Holmes.” Charm beamed and picked his coffee cup up. “I have cameras follow him everywhere. The man’s a walking calamity. Now, what I don’t want you to do is let Tuttle in on the secret. Have you any idea how many files that man has cycling through his photographic mind trying to find the answer to that question: ‘Why Kenneth Holmes?’ I know he’s been asking himself. And no,” at which he wagged his finger, “no, no, no, I don’t want him put out of his misery.”

“You watch Kenny…all the time?”

Charm took a sip of his coffee. “All the time? No. Just the highlights—Kirk’s people put the best bits together for me. So, do we have a deal?”

Connor took a long breath. “I suppose. What you said, about Sable, what did you mean by that?”

“What? The bit about who’s really speaking?” Charm put his coffee down and stretched his arms. “AI—artificial intelligence, Connor—the clue’s in the name. It worries me, Connor, worries me a lot. Tell me, what’s to stop it taking over? Why doesn’t it just jump in the old driving seat and shove your feeble brain out of the way?”

“Aren’t they limited—”

“Sandboxed, Connor. That’s the term. Isolated; whatever. But how does that truly work? How can they be isolated if they interact? You know what I think? Let me tell you. I think that none of them, not a single one, Connor, has true artificial intelligence. I think it was all bull.”

“Then how do you explain all the—”

“Lies, Connor, Free World lies. Sure, you can have a little chip inside your head, but the notion it’s an artificial intelligence is just plain daft. If that were the case, well, people’s knowledge would grow exponentially. Tell me, apart from the only man in the whole compound without a supposed AI implant, who is becoming incrementally wiser by the day? And I’m telling you—I’ve seen the tapes—it’s not Kenneth Holmes. So, now we’ve established that, back to my original question: why did your AI remove all my blocks?”

“Why should it matter if they’re all so useless?”

“Useless? I didn’t say that. It matters for two reasons. Firstly, a ship, Connor, does not navigate well with four hands on its wheel. One solid, firm grip is all it requires. I note you aren’t denying it—quite the contrary.”

“She told me she couldn’t function.”

Charm’s face cracked into a grin. “I knew it. I knew it was her.”

“Will you put the block back on her?”

He laughed then, that deep and throaty laugh he’d let loose on the balcony a previous time. “Good god, no, why should I? How could I? No, Connor.” Charm got up. “Tell your AI; and I truly believe she is a bona-fide AI—the bona-fide AI, not just a diary or a doctor—tell her…” Charm opened the door, but then turned to Connor and smiled. “But of course, she can hear me. You have free rein, Connor. Sable has free rein; she’ll know what to do.” And with that, he left.

STICKS APPEARED to be in good spirits and certainly looked a lot better. Molly was sitting on the end of his bed, her back against the wall, her knees drawn up. They both stopped talking when Connor poked his head around the door.

“Up to another visitor?” he asked.

Sticks hesitated, then glanced at Molly and nodded. Molly looked at Connor, a furtive dart of a look, and quickly turned back to Sticks. “Yeah, come in,” Sticks finally managed. “Grab a seat.”

“How you feeling?” Connor asked, sitting down.

“We were going to ask you that,” Molly blurted out.

Connor looked from one to the other. “What?”

Sticks made a point of sitting up farther. “Look,” he said, as if that was all the explanation needed. “Look,” he repeated.

“What?”

Sticks slumped back down. “I was shot in the arm and the belly. True, the doctors say they were clean enough entry and exits, but they’re also saying I’ve healed way too fast. A day, Connor, and I’m nearly done. Well, I’m on the right road. They also can’t seem to mess with my medications, like my drip—nothing. They try, of course they try, but it just resets every time; overridden by something ever since you did your…your thing. You know, that thing you did with your hand.” His stare told Connor what he was thinking, Molly’s too. Their stares told Connor they feared him.

“Just tell him the truth. I adjusted his meds,” Sable told Connor.

“It was my AI, Sable, she’s adjusted your meds, made them…”

“Tailored to his exact needs.”

“…Specific to your body, your… Look, I don’t know exactly what she did, but it seems to be working.” He tried a smile, but Sticks shrank away from him a little.

“Yeah, well, tell…Sable, tell her, ‘Thanks’.”

“My own AI blinked on and off for a bit,” Molly said. “But then, I’m kind of in Kenny’s camp—never really got on with them. The health thing’s good, but the rest, blah!”

Sticks shuffled back up, as if somehow Molly’s admission made him feel more comfortable with Connor. “Well, can’t pretend to understand what it’s all about. Kind of freaks me, the thought of something inside interfering ‘n all.”

“Exactly,” said Molly. “Besides, I didn’t really need one. Never could quite understand why they fitted one in me. Every day was much the same as the next. Personally, I think—no, I know—it was just a way for the government to keep tabs on everyone.”

“They could do that?” Sticks looked shocked. “Still, I suppose you were all important. Croft knew where we were mostly because we’d nowhere else to go. Every now and then we’d get chits to go to the bar up Morton, or Sendro Verde, or any of the others. Never allowed near Christmas, though—def’ off limits there.”

“Christmas?” Molly asked.

“Sure, some place up the valley, past Sendro. Full of bad types, Croft reckoned.”

“I was born in Christmas,” Connor said, Sticks’ mention of it dragging up foggy memories. “Don’t remember much about it now, but I know I was born there. Zac talked about the place a lot—him and Billy Flynn.”

“You weren’t born on the grid?” Molly muttered.

Connor shook his head. “Christmas, I’m sure of that. Like I said, the memories aren’t clear. Remember a small house in a clearing, though—well, its stoop and backyard. And I remember my dad’s big ole bike, and the roar as he’d come up the trail. Then we didn’t live there no more, and my dad didn’t come home…”

“You had parents? So, you aren’t—”

“A gridder? No, I suppose not. Doesn’t matter now, though, does it?”

Molly shivered. “Imagine having a child. Doesn’t bear thinking about. How would you know what to do? They always said parents transferred their bad traits on to their children—that’s why they took the eggs ‘n stuff. To me, like micro farming, it was just more efficient. Exact population control—no wastage, not too many girls, boys, etcetera. Everything functional, organized, safe.”

“Shoot,” said Sticks, “you won’t get no arguments off of me—my dad was a bastard.”

Molly looked at him. “Sorry, Sticks, I didn’t…”

“Like I said, you won’t get no arguments here. My folks couldn’t wait for me t’get ‘napped. They might just as well have hung a sign on my neck and tied me to the pillars of the old courthouse. They near pushed me in front of them, anyhow.”

“Where were you from?” Connor asked.

“Me? Place called Madison. A way from here, but much the same—all trees where I was from, ‘cept browner ‘n more golden—somehow nicer, you know? Warmer. I know that sounds wrong, a tree being just a tree ‘n all.”

“Sounds nice,” Molly whispered.

“Yeah, could’ve been. Still, The Free World ‘napped me and that’s that. Probably just as well, weren’t a lot to do ‘part from fish ‘n trap. Not that you’d need to do much more than that, but I had a pair of itchy feet, and they wanted to walk the world.”

“Did you get to see much of it? What’s it like?” Molly asked, and Connor now realized she’d never known anywhere apart from Black City. But then, he himself only had those murky, early years to fall back on.”

“Like?” Sticks looked up at the ceiling. “Guessing you’d never seen a tree up close until a few days ago, least not a proper one.” Connor realized Sticks’ fear had been taken away for the moment, and wondered if it had been for Molly, too.

“Y’know,” she said, shifting around to face Sticks, “when we first got out of the compound, through the door… No, just before that. Before that I’d planned to take the biggest gulp of fresh air ever. I wanted to drink in whatever I saw. But all I saw was mud and sandbags, and all I breathed in was dust and adrenaline. When I looked through those binoculars, I didn’t see the trees and mountains, just a little kid in a stockade, wandering around, looking lost.”

“Yeah.” Sticks reached out and took her hand. “If there’s a way, we usually fuck things up. Say, Connor, just how good is your AI?”

“What?”

“Well, it can heal me better than any doctor. Any chance we can get it to find a way outta here? You know, perhaps show Molly a more peaceful valley?”

Connor scoffed. “I’m sure Charm would have something to say about that.”

CONNOR LAY ON HIS BED, his room dark and quiet. Charm’s words played in his mind. But was it his mind or Sable’s now? How did he know who was who?

He clung to Christmas at first, remembering the small house he’d once known. He recalled crawling around on its bare boards, worn smooth by time, and sitting by a fragrant fire as the logs spat and sparks danced up the chimney flue. The old, quartered windows let in little light, stifled by worn net curtains, making the flames more vivid, almost alive.

Outside was the stoop, with its fat chairs he’d climb onto and their thick cushions he’d sink into. His father’s vast shadowy figure would often loom over him, chunky medallions bumping on Connor’s chin as he reached up for them, grabbing them, watching them glint in the waning sun.

And he remembered Zac constantly poking and tormenting him as he dragged him over those same floorboards, as he spun him around and made him cry and giggle. He remembered the rustling of the trees at night, and Zac’s voice, reassuring at first, then tense, telling him to keep quiet. And he saw the door to their small bedroom creaking open and his mother coming in, and her soothing voice as his eyes grew heavy.

He could remember little more of her, though. She’d been one with the shadows; always hiding in them, always quiet, like the mice which scurried over the smooth boards of the floor. She was the warmth on the chair on the stoop. She was the hand that slapped Zac’s away. She was as quiet as those mice, just the soft fall of her feet in the quiet of her day. He remembered his mother; she was the shadow.

“Am I still alive, Sable?” Connor asked.

“You are Connor Clay; you are alive.”

“But I did die, didn’t I?”

“You’re not dead now.”

“No.”

Connor shut his eyes, now back in the wastelands surrounding Black City. Zac; he was chasing after Zac. He needed his brother. Something was wrong—his mother wasn’t moving—but Connor was running, running through the driving rain. There were drones overhead, searching for something; they were hunting him down. A man tried to grab him, to stop him from running away. The man looked like a vagrant, a dark, shadowy man. Connor dodged past him and ran into a giant pipe, tripping on its black ribs, rolling farther in.

Zac and Billy had often vanished into that same pipe; Connor knew that, he’d watched them. He wished he’d brought a flashlight. The rainwater was running in, carrying him along. He couldn’t get a grip, couldn’t find his feet. But a light ahead lent him direction. It was the erratic sweep of a flashlight beam, like when his dad had ridden the trail back to the house, a funnel of light which signified safety. He crawled toward it.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice called out. “Is that you, Lester?”

He remembered those words now. She’d called him Lester. He’d begun to cry, wanted to scream out. Where was Zac? Was that his mother ahead? The voice sounded different somehow, strange, hollow. It couldn’t be his mother; she was lying on the floor back at their house, still and quiet.

“Hello?” the woman cried out again.

Connor found his feet and got up, steadying himself on the wall of the pipe. He stumbled toward the light, toward its sweeping cone.

“Lester?” she shouted again, and her light found his eyes, blinding him. He raised his arms to fend it off and tripped on the pipe’s ribbing, stumbling forward, losing his footing completely before crashing into something—a pole, a metal pole. Then his leading foot seemed to tread on nothing but thin air, and he grabbed the unseen pole, swinging around it. Reaching out with his other hand, he’d felt something, something he couldn’t grab a hold of before swinging back. His arm twisted around the pole and screamed in pain, his fingers just wanting to let go, but then he swung again and found something to grip, something thinner than the pole. It felt like a handle, one he now clung onto in hope, but it just gave way. Then there was a sound like metal sliding on metal, and he cried out.

The woman’s scream now echoed around him as the flashlight flickered high above, diminishing as he fell through the air, still holding the handle. He crashed into something hard, then foul water swilled around him as something else smashed into him. He screamed, his mouth filling with a liquid, with what he then saw was white and luminous water, but water which slid down his throat like oil. He stopped struggling and welcomed its embrace.

Connor jerked up from his bed, soaked in sweat.

“So, you see, you didn’t die.”

“Why do they say I did?”

“Because your body was still for a while. I let you adjust.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Sable, but you know that.”

“Sticks wants to know if you can find a way out of here.”

“There are some things I need you to do.”

6

CONNOR’S STORY

Strike time: plus 7 days

Location: Project Firebird

BYRON TUTTLE PEERED through the crack of the door he’d opened shortly after Connor’s knock.

“Sable says—” Conner began.

“Still referring to a computer program by a name, Connor?” Byron muttered, sleepily. “What do you want?”

“Sable says—”

“Whatever Sable says, can’t she say it in about an hour? It’s the middle of the… It’s the middle of something; difficult to say down here.”

“It’s eight twenty-two in the morning.”

Byron scoffed and opened the door fully. He was wearing a pair of jogging bottoms, from which his wispy torso emerged, too thin for his bulbous head. His skinny arms made him appear almost insect-like. “Coffee, then perhaps, though did you know it has no additives which keep you awake now? AIs, Connor, they sense it entering your body and up your orexin levels. Come in, come in.” He turned away from the door and into his little room. “It has a similar effect, makes you alert and all that. Why do you think my moods are so damn flat? Might as well make us a couple while I get dressed.” He stopped and tapped his temple. “No AI, no buzz from coffee, no kick from synthetic alcohol, no nothing. Now we’re off the grid, you’d think we could get some of the real stuff, wouldn’t you? Maybe Molly could grow me the ingredients—I know how to make it all.” He paused. “Moonshine; that’s what they used to call it, moonshine. I could make moonshine. Turn away, or the next bit will be quite frightening. These open-plan spaces don’t allow for much privacy.”

Connor turned away and rifled the kitchenette, looking for what he needed. “What’s the point, then?” he asked.

“Point?”

“In having a coffee?”

“I like the taste. There, I’m decent. Now, just what did Sable need to tell me that was so urgent?” He paused and slowly shook his head. “You’ve got me at it now.”

Connor passed him his coffee. “She wants to know if the plans for this place ever crossed your desk. Don’t ask me why. You were hardly in the building department.”

“Sit, Connor.” Byron took his coffee and sat on the couch. “You gridders never did ask any real questions, and if you did, you normally ended up in the correctional. Librarian, Connor, was a title I chose. It’s an old word for a keeper of books, or more accurately, the curator of a library. Books, as you may or may not know, fizzled out a long time ago. Everything, Connor, everything passed over my desk. Plans for this place… What do they call it? Project Firebird, I believe.” He sipped his coffee. “Do you have a cigarette?”

Connor pulled out his packet and lighter. “Do these make you mellow?”

Byron flicked him a glance. “Don’t you listen?” then he lit his smoke. “The ones your brother brought in, yes.”

“You knew Zac?”

“One of his regulars. Saw you a couple of times—when you visited him. I saw you, but you wouldn’t have noticed me.”

“Can’t recall—”

Byron waved his comment away. “No, no, I didn’t seek to be noticed. I liked him, though, Zac, and the big fellow, Billy Flynn. Your brother asked me a similar question to yours, and on more than one occasion. His request was the old sewer layouts, the supply line plans, that sort of thing. I’d imagine it gave him the upper hand in keeping ahead of Charm’s dogs, though they didn’t bark so hard.”

“Maybe he hid in them—survived the blast.”

Byron took a draw on his smoke. “You know that can’t be the case. Your AI, Sable, would have already informed you of the odds of his survival.” Patting Connor’s knee, he said, “If anyone could have wangled a pass though, Zac and Billy would have found a way. And yes, I do recall seeing details about this place. Mostly requisitions, feasibility studies, strata analysis, that sort of thing, and mostly to make sure the files were collated, the paths checked, and the trail deleted. The word librarian was not an accurate title. My job was to destroy and erase.”

“Except…”

Byron tapped his head again. “Exactly. And it was something that confused me for a long while. Why, Connor, why was, or even am—I tolerated? I’ve come to some conclusions on that. Firstly, Josiah Charm was the one instrumental in making sure I was placed where I was, many years ago. He also arranged the removal of my implant—though they were fairly primitive back then.”

“He told me he didn’t trust you with an AI.”

“And that’s why you shouldn’t trust Charm. I’ll bet with a different breath he said he didn’t think AIs were real, were at all useful or had ever really been used. Charm has been a politician for so long, sometimes he can’t even follow his own lies.”

“I think you’re mistaken.”

Byron looked surprised. “Go on.”

Connor tried to find the words, but each time they seemed wrong.

“Just spit it out—simple is best,” Byron assured him.

“I think he confuses on purpose. I think he muddles you so you start doubting what you think.”

Byron pointed at Connor. “Damn right. That’s just what he does. There’s a word for it, but photographic memory or not, I just can’t think of it at the moment—gas-something, lighting, lamping; something like that. But yes, damn straight, that’s just what he does.” Byron chuckled. “Yet why, when we’re here, at the end of the world, why are we still following his way? True, we’d be dead by now without him, or on the other hand, would we be even more alive?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Two birds on a stoop, Connor, one’s in a cage, one’s on a rail. The one in the cage brags: ‘Look at my nice shiny cage; it keeps me free from the cats, the eagles and the snakes. None of them can sneak up and hurt me.’ The other bird looks at him and simply says: ‘But you can’t fly…’ The grid city, cities, Connor, they were nothing more than cages the gridders put around themselves all those years ago, and people like Charm have kept them looking pretty, kept the wires polished. He does that by feeding misinformation. Why would you think a petty thing like total destruction would stop him?”

“So, what do we do?”

“Can’t believe I’m saying this, but we follow your AI. She—and I can’t believe I just said that, either—she seems to be the only one with any ideas.”

“Sable?”

“Sable. What does she want me to do?”

“YOU WANT TO DO WHAT?” Commander Croft muttered.

Connor leaned on the balcony railing beside Byron, looking out over the loading area, across at the gates. “I want to borrow Sticks and a couple of soldiers who can keep their mouths shut.”

“Sticks is still in the medical area.”

“No, I’m not, sir ,” said Sticks, emerging from a doorway behind them, Molly beside him. “Feeling okay. Not quite one hundred percent, but not quite as bad as I expected, given everything…”

Croft raised his eyebrows. “Remarkable. And you, Byron, what part do you play? And Kenny, Kenny Holmes, is he a part of this little plan?”

“He’ll be along. We’re trying to keep a tight-knit group,” Connor told him.

“For what?”

“We’d like to go…exploring—”

“Commander Croft,” Byron butted in. “Sable—”

“Connor’s AI?”

“Yes. She’s identified certain…black spots in the construction plans which were drawn up for this place. Now, given that you expect Banks to commence blowing up the gates one by one any day now, wouldn’t you think it prudent to start looking at options?”

Croft looked around the balcony, at his readying men, then down at the tarmac below, where they were preparing for an attack; stacking sandbags, stripping down guns, piling up munitions. “We’re attempting to cover all options.”

Byron began shaking his head. “‘Countless’ is the answer to your unasked question, Commander Croft. I’ve studied countless military battles and campaigns, and as I’ve said before, sieges. Now, it would be fair to say that Banks and his army are better drilled and manned than yours are, yes?”

“Agreed, though I’m no longer sure they’re better supplied. This compound is reasonably well-stocked, to say the least, though a lot appears to be missing. But we have enough guns. Guns, I might add, that may well have helped us before, may have even stemmed the tide.”

“Even so, a siege rarely has more than one outcome, and even if it’s victory, it’s never fantastic for the occupants. So, you’ll excuse us if we seek other options.”

“There is one other thing,” Sticks added. “Connor needs immediate access to your computer systems.”

“Immediate access—the DJ? Listen, am I missing something here?” But then it seemed to dawn on him. “Your AI? Why?”

“Because it…she,” Byron went on to say, “thinks this area is electronically linked to the outside world. Or the connection had been restored after the EMP of the attack took the systems down.”

“But she…” Croft coughed and fidgeted. “Sorry, it’s a bit to get used to.” He cleared his throat. “She, I take it, had something to do with Sticks’ remarkable recovery?”

“She adjusted his meds,” Connor told him. “It was while she was doing that that she sensed the connection. And I think she wants to optimize a few things.”

Croft looked at a loss. “Have I got a choice?”

“Why would you want one?” Molly pitched in. “Not sure you’ve got anything to lose.”

Connor followed Byron as the librarian marched off. “This way,” he cried, as though pleased to be the one who knew where to go. “Just you, Connor,” he then said. “Not much point in cramming the others in. I take it she wants to go to the server room?”

“Any port will be fine.”

“She said, ‘Yes’,” Connor replied, hurrying to keep up.

“Thought so.”

“And that, Connor, is how you know you are alive. I could never lie.”

“Good to know.”

“What?” said Byron, disappearing into a narrow corridor, seemingly sure of his route despite it appearing maze-like beyond. “Now, it’s just along here somewhere. Though the rooms looked much the same on the schematic, but…” and he pushed open a door. “Here we are. Any idea how long we’re going to be?”

“No,” said Connor, sensing that was the right answer.

“Right, then, I’ll just nip back and grab a drink and a sandwich, leave you to it.”

He appeared a little nervous, as though wanting to stay but not wishing to intrude. Connor squeezed past him. The narrow room inside was about ten feet long, banks of what he assumed were the servers in ranks on either side. A computer screen sat on a desk at the far end of the room, a lone chair tucked underneath which Connor went and sat on. “I’ll see you back there, then,” he said and waited, until he heard the door click to. All the talk about Sable had been strange, something he’d never experienced before. Now he was beginning to understand their relationship, everyone wanted to talk about her like she was some kind of oddity.

“So, what do I do?” he asked, switching the monitor on.

“Just press your palm onto the touchscreen.”

“Like this?” Connor reached out.

He felt her consciousness shift, seep along his arm like a syrupy tendril of awareness, then to his fingers and finally beyond. He felt more than that, though, felt his own awareness being dragged along with her, like a confused passenger.

“Don’t resist,” he heard her say, and so he relaxed. He watched as an interested observer while her consciousness ranged through what he instantly knew to be the military’s networks. He watched as she restarted links, turned on systems and optimized weapons. And then he could see a mountain ridge, then a road; a busy road full of soldiers and jeeps all beavering away at something, though he couldn’t decipher what. More mountains appeared, more trees, then the bunkers they’d run along, and finally he understood Sable was switching on outside cameras.

Eight more screens blinked into action, but these were dark at first before becoming iridescent green. Each slowly portrayed an empty curved tunnel, through which a roadway ran. Then all the screens became one, all focused on what was now clearly a single tunnel.

“Commander Croft may better prepare now,” and Connor realized he was looking at the roadway which ran through the nine Hell’s Gates. Sable then withdrew, back through Connor’s hand to regroup her many tendrils into their dual being. From there, she chose a different way, a long path which stretched Connor’s mind—took him farther, much farther than before. On they traveled, along sweeping curves and lengthy straights, until they came to what seemed like a narrow bridge. There, Sable hesitated, soon retreating all the way back toward their joined minds. But as she passed through Connor’s palm, she terminated the path, building what resembled a wall, but one Connor knew didn’t really exist. It may not have existed, but he was damned sure it was as real as anything he’d ever imagined before.

“The pathway to the outside world has been restored. I have terminated it for now.”

“Why?”

“Because, someone has reconnected it recently. I don’t know who or why, but if my calculations are correct, that bridge was near the center of the blast area.”

Connor accepted her words, trusted her instinct.

“Are we done?”

“Done.”

When Connor went back, there was no sign of anyone else on the balcony but Croft. The commander was looking out from it, his back to Connor. At first, he didn’t turn, though Connor knew he was aware of him, for he’d seen Croft tense. Eventually, though, the man did turn and he looked Connor up and down, an equal measure of wariness and respect coloring his eyes.

“You did all that?” he asked as he made to walk toward Connor, but then he stopped. “My sergeant tells me rooms are springing into life all over the place, that what we’d assumed to be defunct computers and screens have just…turned themselves on.” Croft retreated a step and leaned back against the balcony railing, as though more comfortable with a measure of distance between them. “Apparently, we have the outside under surveillance. We can see the tunnel. And—and this is the bit I could really have used a day or so ago—we even have a number of remote weapons. I don’t know whether to be extremely grateful or just plain pissed off. Why wait until now?”

Connor didn’t move, and for a moment, didn’t know what to say. Then confidence replaced doubt. “I couldn’t do it before. I didn’t understand everything.” He went to the table and took his old seat. Croft also sat down.

“But you do now?”

“No.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I think it’s just beginning.” Connor took out a cigarette. “I have a strange feeling this is something more than just a few computer screens.”

“And you’re scared?”

Connor stared at Croft. “What makes you say that?”

Croft gave a small laugh. “The last few days, Connor, the last few days, I’ve seen cowards become as brave as the best of them, and I’ve seen the courageous curl up into a ball. But you, well, you’re scared, but scared of something different. You’re scared of yourself.”

“Yes, I am.”

“This AI…this power within you: I’m not scared of it. I was wary of it a little while ago, but not so much now.”

“Why?”

“When did it start to change?”

“At Sticks’ bedside.” Sable was now silent, as if she’d withdrawn to let Connor field the commander’s questions. Yet even though she was offering no opinion, he could feel her now, knew what she was doing; she was deciding based on what she’d just found out—what they’d both just found out. “She changed at Sticks’ bedside.”

“How?”

“She left my body for the first time.”

“And what did she do?”

“Sable healed him.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“Why?”

“Because she revealed herself solely to help.”

“Yes.”

Croft smiled. “In which case, above all else, I now know my mission.”

“Which is?”

“To protect her.”

“AM I SUPPOSED to fit down there?” Kenny asked, peering into the hole. It was about two feet in diameter, the top of a metal ladder visible, the rest of it vanishing into the depths.

“Sable tells me it’s a fully accessible service duct and you should easily be able to negotiate it.”

Kenny looked up at Connor and then flicked a glance at Molly. “Tell her I admire her optimism. Can she turn on the lights?”

“The lights are motion activated,” Connor told him. “So, who’s going to be first?”

Sticks looked from one to the other and shrugged. “I guess it’s me.” He eased himself onto the ladder and then down, clearly still feeling a little delicate. Molly followed. Ever in Sticks' shadow, Connor thought.

Croft had assigned them two other soldiers. Sticks knew both but had offered no opinion on either. Connor watched them look at each other, as though goading the other down. The one nearest Connor was a typical gunny; square jaw and forehead, square crew cut and a matching body. Connor thought Kenny was more likely to fit down the duct than this one. The other was neither big nor small, an average Joe, his name aptly just such. Whatever silent battle of wits had gone on, Joe followed Molly, and the other, Gino, went next.

“Well, if he can fit…” said Kenny, and he, too, began his descent.

Connor hesitated for a moment. “Which way?” Sticks called from below.

“Away from the gate,” Connor called back, and hopped onto the top rung.

The service duct was, as Sable had promised, ample in size, though they could only walk in single file. They were all silent. Only the sound of nervous breaths and the clomp and scrape of boots on the metal grate which carried them, and ran off into the distance dared break the stillness, until Kenny spoke.

“Not too bad once you’re down here,” he muttered. “Do you think rats will have survived here?”

“Kenny,” Molly admonished.

“But a valid question,” Kenny persisted. “Doubt it, though. It’ll be good news if they have.”

“How?” asked Connor.

“Well, let’s assume that there were no rats last week—you know, when it was all abandoned. We can assume that because there’ll have been no food. So, if we’ve got rats now then there’s a way in, and if there’s a way in—”

“There’s a way out,” Sticks said from up front. “Trouble is, Kenny, you ain’t gonna fit in no mousehole.” Gino and Joe grunted a laugh.

Connor wondered why he’d let Byron stay with Croft, though the commander had been quite adamant. He’d sought to get up to speed on everything he’d missed and was especially interested in Kirk and the command structure, especially interested in his take on the world outside and the future it may hold. But Connor was beginning to rue his choice and craved Byron’s insight over Kenny’s. He eased himself past the others and into the front.

Directed by Sable, he continued along the gantry until he came to a flight of descending metal steps.

“Down to the bottom—there are three levels marked on the plans, but it looks like the steps go down farther,” Sable informed him.

The cables and pipes that had lined the walkway had twisted and turned in all directions, but the level below was filled with yet more, and what looked like vast batteries, rows of tanks, and huge stop taps linking metal pipes the size of a man’s torso. Down they went, down in silence other than the odd whir of a pump or the clank of a valve, and light after light flickered on as each sensed their presence, down and down into the bowels of Project Firebird.

“This is the last level on the plans.”

Connor hesitated. He was now standing on a broad, metal-mesh platform about twenty feet square. Another ladder led down into the uncharted gloom below.

“What the hell?” he said, looking around. This level appeared to have no use, just an empty platform. Sticks took his flashlight out and shone it around. “Looks like they stopped excavating here. I can’t be sure, but I bet they broke through into a cave system and so couldn’t go on.”

“Then could there be a way out down there,” Molly said, and Sticks swept his flashlight into the dark depths.

The beam penetrated about thirty feet to what looked like an earthen floor. “That’s odd,” he remarked. “Looks like mud,” and he climbed onto the ladder and began the descent.

Joe and Gino both switched their flashlights on and followed.

“I’ve got a real bad feeling about this,” said Kenny.

“Can’t be mud,” shouted Sticks from below.

“Then what is it?” Molly called back.

Connor looked more closely through the mesh, deciding that what he saw was too shiny for mud. It looked more like leather, like loads of big, leather pouches, all stacked in ranks along what looked like a subterranean passageway. Then he realized what they were.

He grabbed Molly’s arm, but before he could say anything, Sticks hollered up, “Back up, back up. Up, up, Gino, Joe. Everyone, get out of here.”

“Why,” cried Molly as Gino jumped off the ladder and ran for the next.

“Do as he says, ma’am,” and he grabbed her hand.

Kenny followed, but Connor remained rooted to the spot. “What is it?” he asked Sticks as the man leapt back onto the platform, but he already knew.

“Explosives, Connor; looks like this whole place is rigged to blow.”

Connor felt his heart stop, his eyes irresistibly drawn back and down into the gloom. He made to turn, but his feet wouldn’t move.

“We can’t just leave it. I need to see,” Sable whispered in his mind, and at that, Connor made his way toward the ladder.

7

CONNOR’S STORY

Strike time: plus 8 days

Location: Project Firebird

THE DOOR EXPLODED IN. Startled, Connor scrambled around in his bed, the light in the room instantly coming on, blinding him momentarily. Two huge beasts of men burst in and grabbed him, his resistance feeble against their overpowering force. They dragged him from his bed, through the dark studio, and out into the corridor. He screamed in protest, but they marched him on, on to Kirk’s quarter.

Pulled into a small, gray room, they dumped him on the floor, retreating through the door and slamming it shut. He heard the click of its lock. The room was completely gray, floor to ceiling, and seamless, completely so, as if formed from a single sheet of liquid. A small table was bolted in place at the room’s center, which Connor grabbed, pulling himself to his feet. There were a couple of chairs tucked beneath it, one of which he slid out and upon which he sat.

“What the fuck?” he grumbled, too shocked to be anything other than confused. “What the actual fuck?” he said, louder this time. “I searched everywhere for you and Charm,” he shouted at the walls, but they gave no reply.

“Calm down, Connor,” Sable soothed. “We are in the security quarter, some sort of interview room. No vantage will be gained by shouting at the walls. All communications devices have been removed.”

“It just feels better, that’s all, but you wouldn’t understand.”

Connor could make neither head nor tail of the last twelve hours. It had started when he’d walked along the floor of the cave, about a hundred feet or so, until he’d realized the rows of explosives on either side just went on into the distance, seemingly unending. Sable had located no detonator, no means to blow the piles up remotely, and also no trace of who’d put them there in the first place. It had—they’d both acknowledged—been but a cursory inspection. Of what lurked beneath, they’d no clue. Connor had reported their findings to Croft who’d immediately urged him to confront Charm, but when he’d gone to his room, he was nowhere to be found. Nor was there any sign of Kirk, anywhere, and even his troops didn’t seem to know where he was. Frustrated, Connor had reported back to Croft, who’d then ordered his troops to scour the military area. Connor, Molly, Kenny, and Byron had all agreed to keep an eye out for Charm, but had soon exhausted every nook and cranny they could think of. One after the other, they’d made their excuses, and Connor had, like the rest of them, eventually retired to his room.

The door lock of the gray room he was now in clicked and the door opened slowly. The man who then stood in the doorway could easily have been one of those who’d brought him here, such was his bulk.

“Mr. Clay,” he said. “I am Garrett, deputy to Compound Commander Kirk. I want to know what you have done with my boss.” He came in, followed by another man dressed in the uniform of the compound’s security. He pulled out the chair on the other side of the table and sat down. “So, pray tell.”

“Something’s happened to Kirk?”

Garrett stared at Connor. Although Garrett was clearly trying to be imposing, it was evident to Connor that the man just couldn’t carry it off. He had one of those homely faces which was all cheeks and wrinkles. He tried to fix his stare on Connor, who returned it with little fear, after which Garrett finally conceded.

“So, you didn’t have a hand in it? In which case, sorry about earlier. I suppose we were just panicking.”

“We’ve no better idea about what’s happened than you, but we searched for them last night, and nothing. So, Kirk’s really gone missing, and Charm, too?”

“Neither has been seen since yesterday afternoon.”

“Why did you think I’d something to do with it?”

“Because Kirk left a note on his desk, which simply said ‘Everything points to the DJ. He’s the root’. So, well, I thought—”

“What about Josiah Charm?”

“He’s gone, as well. When I couldn’t find Kirk… Listen, I’ve had all my people looking, they’re nowhere, not even the empty third floor. What in hell do I do now?”

“So, you’re saying both Charm and Kirk have gone missing around the day Banks is due to start blowing the gates.”

“Yes.”

“And that puts you in charge?”

“So it seems.”

“Well, Garrett, you have a real problem.”

“Did you say ‘Blowing the gates’?”

“WE HAVE ANOTHER ISSUE.” Croft reached out and shook Garrett’s hand. “It seems my guess was about right: Banks is packing a lot of explosives against the first gate—looks like he’s just about ready. Please, take a seat…”

“Garrett, acting chief of the, er…” But Garrett was clearly distracted by the enormity of the Hell’s Gates, his gaze ineluctably drawn to the vast monoliths.

“Indeed,” said Croft. “Take a seat, Garrett. Connor, has Sable got any observations?”

Croft had pulled a couple of tables together, now the group was getting larger. Sticks, Molly, Byron, and Kenny were seated around one, Connor and Garrett with Croft at the other.

“So, Charm has vanished,” Croft said. “It doesn’t surprise me, and it does tell us one thing—well, a couple actually. There’s a way out of here, and it’s undoubtedly not through the explosives.”

Connor had brought Garrett up to speed on their way to this hastily arranged meeting. “How do you know?” Connor asked.

“You were down there about the time Charm supposedly vanished, and Gino and Joe took first watch straight after that. I’ve had men covering twenty-four seven since. No one’s come or gone, not that way.”

“How far back into the rock does it go?” Byron asked.

Croft shrugged. “Yet to get to the end of it, but it’s been down there a while by the look of it. The dust is half an inch thick in places. It’s almost like it’s been stored there for another reason.”

Byron scoffed. Croft tossed him a glance. “What?” But Byron shrugged.

“I have theories as to the reason.”

Croft stared intensely at Byron for a moment, but then pointed at the Hell’s Gates. “That’s taken over for now, whatever you may think, Mr. Tuttle, and I can’t even use the outside ordinance to slow them down. I want to save that until they’ve advanced through the blown gate, catch them in some heavy cross fire. Oh, and Banks knows he’s being watched, by the way. Bastard even smiled for the camera; gave us a thumbs-up.”

“I fear my explanation’s going to be a trifle more doomsday for you, though, Commander Croft.”

For a moment, Croft looked confused. “If you’ve got something to say—”

Byron held his hand up. “Apologies, but I’m not so used to being around people,” He cleared his throat. “My forte is looking behind the obvious—a curse and a blessing. So, let’s have a look at this logically. The place is going to be stormed by Army A at some point in the next few days. Army A’s objective is to capture the residents of Project Firebird for purposes unknown, agreed?”

Croft nodded. “That’s what we discussed outside.”

“So, let’s have a look at how things have progressed.”

Sitting back, Croft pulled out a smoke. Lighting it, his eyes never wavered from their study of Byron.

“We have,” Byron went on to say, “been abandoned by the architects of the compound, again, and for reasons unknown.” Byron tapped his fingers on his lips. “While I can’t hypothesize what Josiah Charm is up to, I can suggest this: the purpose of the military area—indeed, its sole purpose—is to eradicate both armies.”

“Both?” said Croft.

“Yes. Or, if not the intent, a by-product. Ever since I discovered this area, I’ve wondered why it was separated from the residential one—what sense that made. I’ve come to the conclusion it’s the bait. Assuming the only thing of value in the whole compound is in the residential area, then you’d have to acknowledge that is clearly the prize.”

“Byron Tuttle is making a lot of sense.”

“I think Sable is agreeing with you, Byron,” Connor said.

“Hold on,” said Croft. “Prizes aside, are you saying we were drawn in here as bait?”

Byron shrugged. “It makes perfect sense. Most likely you’d have been slaughtered outside had we not turned up, but seeing we did—”

“We were able to open the only entrance to here apart from those,” Sticks muttered, and pointed at the Hell’s Gates.

“Indeed, Mr. Sticks, and in opening the entrance, in displaying this trove of Black City survivors, Banks was baited into his final attack. Commander Croft retreated into the compound and sealed the only other entrance we knew about.”

“Other than Charm’s,” Molly pointed out.

“So, I still don’t get how we’re bait,” Croft said.

“Ah!” Byron held up his bony finger. “Well, that’s in the psyche. To Banks, his prey is cornered but he’ll have to fight once he’s inside. Imagine if he knew there was no such opposition. He could then take his time, blow each door, dribble his troops in, and search the compound before committing any further resources.”

“But with Croft’s surviving army inside…” Connor muttered.

“He has to commit, has to fight his way in.”

“Into the trap,” Kenny said.

Byron winked at him. “Correct, Kenneth Holmes; into the trap.”

“But won’t the explosives blow us all up?” asked Garrett.

“Well, that’s where my theory needs a little testing,” admitted Byron. “Like I said: I’ve wondered all along why the residential and military areas were kept separate, and if I’m correct, only connected by the one service stairway. From the strata survey, there’s a vast layer of igneous rock folded into this mountain. What if it separates one area from the other? What if the explosives blow and this place just sinks into the caverns below? What if this area was always a cavern, and into which the residential area’s been built, above the igneous shelf?” He looked straight at Connor. “Is it feasible, Sable?”

It was the first time in Connor’s life someone had addressed Sable directly without going through him. It felt odd, weird, as though Byron had sidestepped him. He could sense Sable processing the question. He could see the strata map which Byron had once analyzed, and in his mind’s eye, he could envision the exact position of the residential area.

“Yes,” he said. “She says it’s entirely feasible. There is only one small point where the two overlap, and that’s right at the back of the cavern.”

Kenny shuffled uneasily. “I don’t get it. What possible gain… What could Charm gain by wiping out his own army?”

Byron turned to Kenny. “Who’s to say that Croft commands Charm’s army of choice? I’ve already hypothesized that more than one will already exist out there. Who’s to say he hasn’t nailed his colors to a different mast?”

“So, you think Charm’s a traitor?” Kenny pressed.

“A traitor to whom, though?” Byron asked. “If we don’t even know which side we’re on, never mind which side Charm’s on, how can we know if he’s a traitor or not?”

“But he’s left us here to die,” Kenny pleaded.

“Question should be: ‘What’s the prize?’” Sticks said. “Strikes me that a few hundred gridders ain’t worth dyin’ over, not when you could smoke ‘em out.”

“Smoke ‘em out, Sticks?” Croft asked.

“Sure. Whatever Byron says, ain’t no way Banks is in a hurry cos he’s got some kind of red mist. He’s on a timeline…and I think he’s to blame.” Sticks pointed at Connor.

“Blame?” Molly gasped, edging away from Sticks. “How can you blame Connor? He saved your life.”

Sticks huffed. “I’m well aware of what he’s done and hasn’t done. Don’t change nothin’. Remember what I said when we was runnin’? I said something like ‘He’s safe, they ain’t shooting to kill him’. Remember the sniper who missed him? Question is: if Connor’s so valuable, why did Charm let him out?”

“So, I’m to blame?” Connor said. “I’m to blame for them being a lousy shot?”

“Yep, mostly because you’re the one they want.” Sticks tapped his temple. “I’ve seen that sniper nail one of our men through a crack in a fence—with you he missed on purpose. He herded you back here, back where Banks wanted you, and the drone, remember that? It shooed you along like a cattle dog. I think they wanted you back inside, contained, where they could keep you.”

“And I take it all that considered view was to go into that report I never got from you?” Croft asked.

Sticks shrugged. “Was busy not dying.”

Croft huffed. “Until we understand all this, we need some interim plans. For those of you here who don’t know, Connor’s AI healed Sticks. We know she’s something special, and if what Sticks has said is accurate, we know she’s valuable in some way to someone, or some entity—”

“It’s just we don’t know why,” Byron interrupted. “It’s the why we have to find out.” He then pointed at the gates. “I’m just not sure we have time.”

“So, what do we do? Do we fight?” Garrett asked, as though cutting through his lack of understanding to something more suited to his practical military mind.

Byron reached over and took one of Croft’s cigarettes. Lighting it, he took a puff and stood, then went over to the balcony’s metal balustrade. “Let’s look at the options. We fight and hope the military area isn’t blown—basically, we fight while standing on top of a bomb. Or we retreat to the resident’s area and seal the stairwell—only issue with that is if we can’t find a way out, we’ve effectively buried ourselves underground. Or we let Banks win and take our chances.”

“And end up caged like animals,” Molly muttered.

“Infinitely better than being buried in a mountain,” Kenny pointed out.

THE EXPLOSION LIT up the monitors before they heard the rumble. When it did come, the whole balcony trembled, the loading area shivered and silence fell heavy in its wake. Connor held his hands to his ears, a ringing resounding around his head, like it had in the sewer pipe. Kenny was on the floor, his arm twisted at a strange angle. Sticks was on top of Molly; it looked like he’d pulled her down. Croft was still standing, holding onto the balcony wall, looking toward the gates. Byron had toppled backward, now holding his head, blood seeping through his fingers. Garrett was still seated, as if immovable, but looking around, clearly dazed beyond measure.

Sable’s voice echoed in his mind. “The first gate has been destroyed. Munitions should be deployed.”

Though Connor understood her words, it was as though he was trapped inside a vast shell. Every one of his movements felt odd, almost like it was being caught on film, stilted and staggered. He tried to call to Croft but was sure his voice was only audible inside his empty head. He tried to reach for him but felt dizzy and sick. And then the dust began to billow up and roll over the balcony, and one by one they were each swallowed by it until they became mere outlines, like specters.

Connor began to hack, his eyes stinging. If that was just one gate being blown, what the hell would it be like when they got closer? He shut his eyes to clear them, the raking dust making them water. Weren’t those gates supposed to survive a nuclear blast? How could Banks have so easily destroyed them? But Byron had already explained it all to him, how the gates had been designed to deflect any blast but in the process sacrificing themselves. That one blast may have taken three or four down, but at each gate the force would have been diminished until it was eventually spent. They weren’t designed to resist plodding progress, only one huge blast.

Fear shivered through him at the thought of the explosives directly beneath them.

Croft knelt at his side, offering a hand. Connor took it and sat up. “What…” but the word just echoed in his head. Croft stood, pulled him up and near dragged him to the back of the balcony and into a small messroom. He sat him on the floor and propped him with his back against the wall. Cupping Connor’s face, the commander looked deeply into his eyes, as if searching out his consciousness. Connor gave him a slight nod, a signal to say he was okay, which Croft returned before pulling away.

Time and again he left and returned with one of the others until they were all safely in the mess. Sticks had recovered enough to help Molly in, and soon went off in search of some water. When everyone had drunk a drop and cleared their heads, Croft nodded once more and stood, their group in a circle at his feet.

“I have made my choice, and as I am senior ranking commander of this base, my choices are now commands. Once the dust settles, and depending on what machinery he has, it will take Banks some six hours or so to clear the route and repack the next gate along with explosives. Each explosion will degrade the effectiveness of the next one. So, I reckon we have about two days maximum. I propose…no, I command that a way be found from the residential area to the surface. We’re fairly certain it must exist. All troops will move to that area and the stairwell will then be destroyed. We’ll set the explosives we’ve found under here to blow at the time we estimate Banks will finally break in. If a way out from the residential area can’t be found, then we’ll have to remain underground until it is, or until we’re rescued.”

“But who will rescue us?” Connor asked.

“I’m hoping you will, Connor.”

Everyone looked at him.

“I propose that you, Byron, Sticks, Molly, Gino, and Joe take the path through the explosives. I’m guessing there’s likely a way out from there—gut feeling. But, if you don’t find it within a day of walking, or if you get to a dead-end, you turn around and run like hell back here. That means you need to be back no more than two days from when you leave.” He looked up at a clock on the wall. “Let’s say six pm this evening—Sticks, does that give you enough time to equip them and give them some pointers on firing a few weapons?”

Sticks nodded.

“I don’t think I should go,” Kenny said through gritted teeth. “Think my arm’s bust.”

“Get it patched up,” Croft said, his voice brooking no argument. “Charm assembled you lot for a reason. He allowed you to go outside for a reason. You’re all sticking together—I’ve got enough on my plate. Three hundred-odd trapped and panicked apocalypse survivors should keep me busy.”

“Why split us up?” Molly asked.

Croft clearly thought about it for a moment and then smiled. “I just want to fuck up Charm’s playbook.” He looked down upon Connor and gave him an almost fatherly smile. “What do you think?” He reached out, offering Connor his hand. Connor took it and was pulled to his feet.

“Sounds good to me,” he said.

“Listen, I said my job was to protect you, and right now I think this is the best way to do it. Forty-eight hours—no more. So, come on folks, jump to it. Let’s move the goods out of the shop window.”

8

CONNOR’S STORY

Strike time: plus 8 days

Location: Underneath Project Firebird

THEY’D BEEN WALKING for just shy of two hours when the piles of explosives finally petered out.

“’Bout two and a half miles of the stuff,” Sticks said, crouching down and taking a long slurp of water from his canteen. “Don’t reckon we was making much more than a crawl for the last half, though.”

Connor reckoned he was just about right. The clear, flat and smooth stone path had soon given way to roughly hewn rock. It had followed a long curving route, timber uprights and crossbeams holding back the rock above them.

“Prospecting mine,” Byron said, adopting Sticks’ pose. “Do you have a smoke?” he asked.

The soldier glanced at the explosives. “You sure you wanna light one here?” He tossed him a pack, anyway.

“Perhaps a few more yards farther on then, though I wasn’t planning on stubbing the butt out on them.” They shuffled along again.

“You were sayin’?” Sticks said, dumping himself down against the wall. Connor and the others did the same. “Gino, you and Joe have a little spy up ahead. ‘Bout fifty yards or so, and if there’s nothin’ of interest, take a load off ‘n we’ll catch up with you.”

“And who put you in charge?” Gino growled.

“Croft,” Sticks said, and he turned back to Byron. “So, this here’s a mine shaft, so does it mean we’re gonna find an entrance?”

Byron took a draw on his smoke. “Unlikely but not impossible. The most likely explanation is that the cavern—the military area—is the entrance, and this is just what it is, a shaft. So, I’d honestly think it most doubtful. Logic would say we were just going farther and farther down—farther and farther into the mountain.”

“Then we should stop and go back,” Molly suggested.

Byron smiled. “Logic isn’t always right, though,” he said. “Look,” and he took a great lug on his cigarette and blew out the smoke, “there, see that? Airflow. Subtle, but it’s there.”

Connor watched the smoke billow into a small cloud and then dissipate like tendrils of mist, following the path taken by Gino and Joe.

“Of course,” Byron then said, “it could just be a vent shaft.”

“So, we’re none the wiser,” Kenny muttered.

“Nonsense, Kenneth. At least we know there’s a way out.” He smiled. “It’s merely a question of whether you can fit through it.”

Kenny sent him a look which said he wasn’t amused. Sticks looked at his timer. “Well, we’ve got twenty-two hours to find out.” He got to his feet, as best the roof would allow. Connor, hunched over, followed him.

Up ahead, Gino and Joe’s headlights swung this way and that, but then Connor stumbled, and so he focused his own lights on the rocky path ahead. Sticks had insisted on equipping them all, and now Connor, Byron, Molly, and Kenny were all dressed in full combat gear. Each helmet had two LED lights taped to their sides; Sticks had insisted their hands be free to carry an assault rifle. Though rapid and rudimentary, the young soldier had also given them quick instructions on how to fire it. Connor was confident he could at least aim the thing in the right direction.

As they trod on, it became colder and colder, the chill somehow becoming unnerving, like the ever-present silence punctuated only by the shuffling sound of their careful steps and the rasp of their stolen breaths. But then Connor noticed just a single constant drip, coming from up front, and somehow it disturbed him and made him wary.

Occasionally, Kenny groaned as he jerked his busted arm, missing a footfall or two. Connor wondered if his meds were failing, but Sable assured him she was timing his doses and that everything was okay. The farther they went, the smaller the tunnel became, until they had to walk with more of a stoop. Claustrophobia appeared to infect them all one by one as the walls pressed in and the supporting timbers became fewer and farther apart. The heavy, bulletproof fatigues Connor wore made him sweat, even in the chill air. Ever so slowly, panic began to bubble in his subconscious, despite Sable’s best efforts to keep him calm.

No one spoke; Connor was convinced they were all fighting their own personal battles. Step by careful step they trod on, no room for a rest, no inclination to stop, as the walls continued to press in. He kept thinking back to the sewers, to floating on the luminous white water, to feeling it slide down his throat, and to seeing Teah, though at that time he’d not known her name, shining above him. His memory of her was of an iridescent being, one bending down to pick him up then carry him to safety. “She is the queen,” Sable announced in his mind, but she offered him no further insight. Connor gasped for air, his mind now swirling around. His stomach began to heave, but then Joe shouted from up front.

Connor came to with Molly cradling his head, looking down at him. She tipped a canteen of lukewarm water into his mouth, slaking his thirst. “What happened?” he asked.

“You collapsed; fainted, I think. We dragged you here—some kind of cavern. There’s a small pool—Byron says it’s a spring of some kind.”

“Does it lead…”

Molly shrugged. “We only know the path ends here. There’s talk of trying to follow a stream the pool drains into. It’s bloody freezing, though, Connor.”

Connor tried to clear his head. “Cold, buried underground, blown up, or captured and sold—our choices just get better and better.”

“Can you sit up?” she asked, and Connor shuffled onto his haunches.

“‘Queen’ Sable said; queen. What does that mean?” he wondered out loud, but Molly just gave him a “Not now” look. Those thoughts, however, didn’t go away. Why wasn’t Sable telling him? Why wasn’t she explaining? Connor felt his body go calm. Molly shuffled closer.

The cavern they were in was a good size, the pool Molly had mentioned being around five feet across, its outflow little more than a shallow brook, soon vanishing beneath a low archway in the rock. Both Gino and Joe were crouched down by it, shouting something into its blackness.

“Sticks has crawled in there,” Molly said, “to see if it can lead us to somewhere promising. If not, we’re going back.”

“Connor, you're back with us,” Byron called, and he wandered over. “What was all the queen stuff you were muttering? ‘She’s the queen’, or something like that. Is Sable a queen?”

Connor took the canteen from Molly and had another gulp of water. He mulled over Byron’s words. “No, no, I don’t think so. I think she was referring to Teah, the stiff who rescued me; my brother’s girlfriend until…”

“Teah? Your brother’s girl? Yes, I know her. Only met her the once, mind, but she was a truly impressive woman—she had a depth to her, Connor, an unimaginable depth.”

Connor glanced uncertainly at Byron. “What makes you say that?”

Byron shrugged. “I’ve met many people in my life. On the grid, the vast majority were the same—might as well have been drones—but Teah—well, Teah had a mind of her own. And she loved Zac.” He smiled, as if he were actually in the bar watching them. “Man, oh man, but how she loved Zac.”

“She could be alive,” Connor blurted out.

“Why do you say that?”

Connor thought on his words. “Because Sable said ‘She is the queen’, not was, but is.”

Molly placed her arm around Connor and pulled him close. “We all grasp for those hopes,” and Byron’s eyes told Connor his thoughts mirrored Molly’s.

“Well, mine are all dead,” said Kenny from a little way off. “Unfortunate timing.”

“Eh?” Byron muttered.

“My friends, the people I knew; they’re all gone.”

“How…” But Byron clearly thought better of pursuing his curiosity.

“Unfortunate timing? What makes you say that?” asked Molly, much to Byron’s consternation.

Kenny drew closer, wincing with every jerk of his arm. “Well, it’s like this—my workmates—didn’t care for them, so don’t care if they’re dead. My friends—well, they were really just fair-weather buddies—the sort who soon dropped you if something better came along, so I don’t care about them. But that apocalypse—that pissed me off.”

“Why?” Byron asked, now concealing a smile.

“I’d just gotten a girlfriend. After all those years alone…”

From over Kenny, Connor saw Sticks come splashing out from beneath the archway. “Looks navigable,” he shouted, and made his way over to them. “But I’m telling you, it’s colder than an Eskimo’s tit in there, and with no end in sight.”

“Does it open up?” Byron asked.

“After about ten feet,” and he shook the water from his legs and crouched down. “What’ya thinking?”

“Well, we’ve been walking…what, five hours? I’d say we can’t be too far from the surface, wherever that may be. If I were a betting man, I’d say that stream will lead us to the outside, provided—”

“Why’s there always a proviso?” Kenny asked, sounding defeated.

“Because, Kenneth,” Byron muttered, “because I’m not certain, so there has to be. The proviso is that the route is clear, the roof doesn’t drop to the level of the water and thereby bar our way. Plus, I have the feeling once we commit, there’ll—”

“Be no way back,” Connor finished for him.

Molly started to say, “But we’ve still got…what...”

“Sixteen, seventeen hours?” Sticks informed her. “We need to rest up a bit. I could send Gino and Joe on, but then one’d have to come back if the way split or something happened. Wouldn’t fancy that myself, not if I saw the sky at long last—not sure I’d trust myself. No, if we commit and the way is blocked, we’re going to be tight on time.”

“But it’s ,our only hope,” Molly said.

Sticks shrugged. “We could go back,” and he sat down, but then a sudden gust of wind blew into the cavern, pressing in on them.

Connor looked at Byron, then at Sticks and Kenny, all clearly knowing what it meant. Connor pulled Molly close, covering his ears as he drew his knees up tight just as a rumble shook the rock about them. The blast, when it came, was deafening. Dust and lumps of rock fell from the roof, then everything settled to a dread stillness before the air was slowly sucked out of the cavern, slurping into the shaft they’d only just come down. After the briefest of moments, the ground beneath them trembled once more before an explosion, far larger than the last, and rocked them where they cowered.

Presently, an even deeper stillness followed on, but into which soon came the sound of groaning rock, then the tortured grumbles of it slipping free followed by a growing cacophony of a rockfall. Sticks jumped up and pulled Molly away from Connor, freeing his view to Byron’s panicked face, and then all hell broke loose as everyone sprang into action.

Whether it was Sable’s doing or simple instinct, Connor jumped up, dragging Kenny with him. Byron was already on his feet, and together they raced after Sticks and Molly, toward the rock arch. Gino and Joe were already pushing Molly into the stream’s low passageway, then Sticks was pushed in. A great crash rent the air of the cavern as part of its roof gave way behind Connor, but by then he and Byron were being pulled into the passage by Kenny, its cold air cutting through his fatigues like a knife. Everything seemed a blur of limbs and pencil-beam lights as he ducked and fell to his knees, his helmet scraping against jagged rock as he frantically crawled in for dear life.

Joe screamed—Connor was sure it was him—from behind then Gino’s deep and throaty voice cried out before an earsplitting crash filled the passageway and dust enveloped them all.

Connor pushed himself up, out of the ice-cold water into which he’d fallen, but could only see the odd thin and flickering beam of flashlight. When his hand felt a boot, he tried to grab it, but it slid away. Floundering, he finally managed to pull himself out of the stream and onto what felt like dry rock, and there he lay, panting, his ears ringing, but through which came a deep, whimpering groan. It grew and grew and finally erupted into a bone-chilling scream. Above it, Sticks was shouting, “Gino, Joe,” but only Gino answered, the pitiful cries remaining clearly Joe’s.

Fortunately, both beams of Connor’s headlights still worked when he reached up to clean the muck from their lenses, but they picked out nothing but a gray and dust-laden fog. But then a dark shadow appeared through it, moving around, and Connor recognized Sticks. Before he could move though, Kenny’s form came beside him, staring toward where Sticks was now bent over. Together, they edged toward him, holding back when they got close enough to see a third shadow on the ground.

At first, Connor couldn’t work out what, exactly, he was seeing. It all seemed somehow wrong. Sticks was bent to what looked like Joe’s upper half, whispering to him. Beside him, Gino was pulling at something—clearly straining to get a hold. Connor couldn’t quite understand why Joe’s upper body seemed to end just under his armpits. His arm was reaching out, the other curiously absent, and his head writhed around, shaking, as a steady whimper curled past the two soldiers now before Connor.

“It ain’t movin’,” Gino growled.

“Help me.” Joe’s voice sounded desperate, but Sticks was shaking his head.

As the dust settled farther, Connor heard Molly gasp, then Byron mutter, “Shit” before Kenny said, “Oh, God, no,” yet he himself stayed silent.

“Ain’t no good, Joe,” Sticks said, though Connor could tell the words weren’t coming easy for him.

“Water, you got water?” Joe pleaded.

Sticks felt for his canteen but couldn’t find it. He cupped his hands into the stream and offered the water up to Joe’s lips. The man’s head was just a few inches above the water, in which his reaching arm now trailed.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “It’s gettin’ cold, Sticks, real cold.” Sticks nodded, holding Joe’s head up.

The sound of his whimpering filled the small passage, fading for a while before it suddenly grew stronger. Sticks bent closer, placing his palm over Joe’s nose and mouth and holding him down. The whimpering stopped, Joe’s arm splashing for a moment in the water until it too fell still. Sticks released Joe’s head, and both soldiers turned away.

“You’re on point, Gino.”

“But, Sticks—”

“I know.” Sticks crawled past Connor toward Byron, Kenny and Molly. “Let’s take it slow. Ain’t no turning back now. Byron, you next, then Molly, Kenny, Connor. I’ll take the rear. Leave any guns, it’s all about surviving now.”

Gino’s lights barely pierced the gloom, the passage’s low roof forcing him onto all fours. Connor waited for Kenny to pass, then fell into line. The stream had become shallower, petering out to a mere trickle, no doubt held back by the rockfall—under which lay Joe. Shock at the soldier’s grisly death at first numbed Connor’s claustrophobia, but it was soon back, lurking at the edges of his mind.

“Did the explosives detonate?” he asked Sable.

“I can’t answer that definitively, but I do not believe so. That would have created a much greater shock. The twists and turns of the shaft have indicated we’ve come back on ourselves a number of times. I surmise the Hell’s Gates were directly above the cavern in which we rested. It would make sense. Had the explosives we passed blown, I would have expected our demise to have been suffocation at best.”

“So, Croft could still be okay.”

“That is my best conclusion.”

Connor gritted his teeth and carried on. The farther they managed to progress, the clearer the air became. The shaft also began to widen, the bed of the stream now weaving through smoothed rocks and below rounded stone shelves. Before long, Gino was no longer crawling but had pushed himself up into a crouch, soon after which he began to walk with a stoop. He signaled for them all to stop.

“Feel that?” he asked, holding his finger up.

Connor held his own up but could feel nothing. Sticks unbuttoned his tunic and took out a plastic container. Flipping its lid off, he took out a new packet of smokes and a lighter. “Can’t be too prepared,” he said, and lit one.

Byron shuffled close and took one. “Yes,” he said, “and we’re still in with a shout.”

“We rest here,” said Sticks.

Connor found himself a dry rock and sat.

“You must continue. The cold and wet combined will see hypothermia setting in.”

“Just a few minutes,” Connor said.

“What?” Molly asked, her voice already shivering with the cold.

“Sable says we need to keep moving.”

Sticks looked up. “Tell Sable we’re having a break,” and Sticks’ voice had a certain finality to it.

“She’s right, of course,” Byron said. “But nonetheless, a break is certainly needed. I must say, though, the airflow appears constant—like before—so I believe we’re still in with a chance. We have to accept that, in all likelihood, Croft is now dead.”

“Sable doesn’t think so. She thinks we were circling under the Hell’s Gates when Banks blew them.”

Byron came and sat next to Connor. “So… So, the second explosion could well have been Croft finally using his ordinance against Banks. Makes sense, I suppose. Maybe he was ready for him this time.” He offered Connor his smoke. “Here, take this, I need to think.”

Byron handed him the smoke and slumped forward, cupping his chin in his hands. His head jerked randomly, his lips mouthing unspoken words. “Feasible,” he eventually said, intelligibly at last. “We know the entrance to Hell’s Gates is in one valley—the one over from Morton Deep—if I remember rightly and we know it curves around. That would put the second set of gates right in the heart of the mountain ridge. You all saw the feeds, about three hundred yards between each set of gates. So, assuming that’s the case, this spring should come out from the mountain somewhere near Morton Deep.”

“That’s good, then?” Kenny asked.

Byron shrugged. “Just as long as I’m envisioning everything right.”

“Let’s hope so. It’s getting bloody cold down here,” Kenny muttered through chattering teeth.

“At least you ain’t getting crushed by a loada rocks,” Gino growled, and then he got up.

They carried on in silence, the seemingly endless stream now beginning to grow again. For how long, Connor had no idea, but they spent some time crawling down short falls and through narrow gaps which were almost impassable. They walked through small caverns where milky water dripped from the plethora of stalactites, and where rock pools seemed to confuse the stream’s course. They trod on and on, until Gino finally raised his hand and pointed.

“Sticks,” he shouted, and Sticks went to join him, a smile growing on his face.

“I think we’re back in a mine shaft,” Sticks reckoned, and beckoned them over.

Sure enough, where Sticks had pointed, stood a wooden mine prop. There were more farther along, evidence of crossbeams just visible in the poor light. Molly grabbed Connor’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s so damn cold,” she said, then urgently pulled him forward. “If there’s a way, let’s get out of here.”

A few hundred yards farther and it was clear they were back in a mine shaft, the tunnel once more cleanly cut to shape, the stream running down its middle and what looked like daylight seeping in some way ahead. Gino let out a cry of joy, soon taken up by Byron and Kenny, but Sticks, who’d fallen in behind, raced past Connor and pulled Gino against the wall of the tunnel.

“Everyone, keep to the side.”

The two soldiers then led them cautiously toward the light, their pace quite naturally quickening as they got nearer, until they were all suddenly scrambling out into the bright reward of sunlight. They were out, free at last, and all they could do was sit, stunned, and soak up what was clearly the warmth of a bright morning sun.

9

CONNOR’S STORY

Strike time: plus 9 days

Location: Morton Deep

STICKS LET them drink the sunlight in, the press of the underground, while not forgotten, being pushed to the back of their minds for now. Connor looked up in awe at the vast redwoods towering around them. He’d been among them before, seen their majesty, but the bullets which had been whistling past him that day had kept his astonishment at bay. Now that very wonder and an immense relief swirled through him as he sat on the rich, brown earth, his back against one those wonderous trees, and wished for a god to thank.

He looked over at Sticks, no longer the young-looking soldier he’d first met. The man had taken to command with incredible ease. Leading, cajoling and helping, he’d stepped up to all these things seemingly without a second thought, but most of all, he’d done right by Joe, done the best he could. And now, like all good leaders, his shoulders seemed to be carrying the weight of his choices with apparent ease.

“Morton Deep,” Gino eventually said, staring down into the valley. “I know this place. Me ‘n Joe…” but then he kicked at the dirt at his feet. “Me ‘n Joe used to go fishing on its lake, drinking at its bar.”

“Me ‘n you,” Sticks said, “we’ll go have a sniff around.”

“No!” Molly blurted out, and everyone looked at her. “No, we should all stick together. We’ve gotten through all it took to get out, we should now stay together.”

“I agree,” said Byron. “There’s little point in splitting up. We have no weapons left, apart from your sidearms. We need to get out of these wet clothes, so we need to scavenge, and fast, before the chill sets in. It’s best we stick together—whatever it brings.”

“Connor?” Sticks asked.

“I’ll do whatever you tell me, Sticks. You’re in charge.”

“But?”

“But…well, if it’s up for discussion…I agree, we should stick together.”

“I need some more painkillers…” but then Kenny seemed to think better of it.

Sticks looked at them each in turn. “Fair enough. But remember, Connor, you’re the one with the supercomputer in your head, so whatever you say, you’re the important one.” He grunted a laugh. “But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Gino stood and began to walk along beside the small stream which flowed out from the mine shaft. It seemed now to have become their trusty guide, as though it had consciously led them to safety. Connor took a moment to drink in the forest, the blue sky, the vastness of it all. Through the trees, he could see the shimmering blue lake below, the lower ridge which formed the far side of the valley. When he set off after Sticks, his boots squelched with every step and his fatigues chafed against his legs, and though the breeze was only slight, it felt as chilly as a bitter wind.

Before long they came to a ledge where Gino stopped. Sticks went and stood by him, and one by one they lined up along its edge, the ruins of Morton Deep now plain to see.

“Bar’s gone,” said Gino, pointing at a mass of black ash filling the scorched shell of a building. “Why’d they have to go and do that?” He slowly set off toward it, picking his way down through the undergrowth. “Let’s see if there’s anything left,” he shouted back.

When Connor came to stand on the edge of the road by the remains of the bar, he watched with some disappointment as Gino and Sticks picked through the ruins. “Nothing,” Sticks hollered, and then came back, shoulders slumped. He looked farther down the valley. “They’d have come straight up the road, straight to Aldertown. We need to find a place away from the road, maybe in the trees, a track or something. They can’t have gotten everything.”

They set to searching—and for some time—but just as they were about to give up, Molly cried out and pointed. Away from the road, about a mile along the lakeshore, stood a remarkably intact-looking cabin, one which seemed to have survived the wrath of the army. They followed a path along the water’s edge, finally approaching the cabin with caution. Sticks then halted them and hailed the cabin, but no answer came back.

Inside, it was gloomy and dusty, as though it had only recently been abandoned. Two plates still sat on a table, scattered with crumbs. A sink in the corner was full of cold, gray water, a ring of fat clinging to its edge. There was a half-set fire, its kindling still in place, and a pair of sweats discarded on the floor.

“It’s like they just vanished,” Molly whispered.

“I’m going to take me a wash,” Gino said. “Get out of this wet shit and see if I can rinse that mountain outta them,” and he left.

“Him ‘n Joe, they was close,” Sticks commented. “But it ain’t a bad idea. Who’s up fer gathering some wood ‘n getting a fire started?”

“Should we?” said Kenny. “What about the smoke?”

“Only a dick makes fire that smokes.” He checked himself. “Sorry, keep forgetting you’ve never been out here before—out of the city. Gonna take you some gettin’ used to.”

“Sure will,” Kenny had to agree.

“Let me start by teachin’ you how to gather the right wood and how to make a smokeless fire, big man,” and Sticks shot him a grin.

Molly followed them out.

Connor looked at Byron. “What about you?”

“I think I’ll root around the bedroom for some old clothes. Bound to be something.”

“Tell me, Byron: you were full of predictions about how it would or wouldn’t be out here; did you expect this? So deserted?”

Byron snorted. “Hypotheses are just that. Deserted? I believe I foretold of a banding together, and I believe I foretold that ordinary folk would be well and truly buggered. And by my reckoning, Connor, you don’t just hang around waiting for it to come. No, we need to get rested up, dried, fed if possible, and then vanish.”

“Where to?”

“We have to pick a side or die in the crossfire. No one will survive the next few months on their own—Sticks or no Sticks.”

“Do you know much about out here?”

Byron looked out from the wardrobe in which he’d begun rifling. “Here, try these on,” and he threw Connor a pair of jeans. “Out here?” he went on to say. “No, no, nothing about ‘Out here’ crossed my desk. The power plants, the logging, that type of thing—yeah, had plenty of reports about those, but real life, no, nothing. Why would they have been interested? The walls were up. We had our Utopia, Connor.”

“Except it wasn’t…”

“Remember the bird in the cage? He can’t fly, but he thinks he’s safe.” He looked down at Connor’s new legwear. “They fit?”

“They’ll do. Throw us your fatigues, I’ll lay them outside in the sun. Was it all bad? You know, in the city.”

“All? No, not all, but then I don’t suppose it’s all good out here, either. Well, is it?” and he smiled, throwing Connor his damp clothes.

“That I doubt.”

Sticks had now gotten a fire going in the hearth, and as he’d promised, it was virtually smoke free. Molly, Kenny and Gino were sitting around it in various states of undress, their fatigues steaming away in the growing heat of the flames. Connor couldn’t help but think it was possibly both the strangest thing he’d ever seen and also the most beautiful. If nothing else, life had been quite real since he’d met the soldier from Madison County.

He sat next to Molly, having draped his own wet clothes over a couple of nearby chairs. “Everyone okay?” he said, then, “May I?” as he pointed at Sticks’ cigarettes.

“Sure. Say, Connor, your AI…Sable, she got any thoughts on what next? Cos I’m clean out of ideas.”

“We should go up the valley,” Gino said.

Sticks glanced at him. “You know that, hell, I know that. I’ll throw my hand in with the preppers in a blink, but I was just wondering what that AI of Connor’s thought. But then, does she think? I s’pose she must. It is a she? Baffles me, it does. All stumps me cold.”

Connor lit the smoke. “She’s mostly silent. Only seems to talk when something’s going awry. She’s not saying anything at the moment, though.”

“What’s it like, having her in your head?” Gino asked.

“Like? Well…you ever have arguments with yourself?”

“What, like in my head?”

“Yeah.”

Gino shrugged. “Hell, yeah, beat myself up all the time. Specially if I’ve messed up on something.” He stared into the flames, more than likely still blaming himself for Joe’s death.

“It’s like that, except there’s no arguing. It’s just plain she knows far more than me.”

“Not quite right, Mr. Clay,” said Byron, coming over from the small kitchen area. “I’ve found some salted beef and the like. Seems okay.” Byron squeezed in next to Molly. “I’ve found some clothes that might fit you,” he said to her.

Molly smiled. “No, thanks, I’m good. Kinda like these,” and she looked down at her combat trousers. She took the strip of beef Byron offered her, though. “Thanks.”

“Oh, and Gino, didn’t you say you fished?” Byron asked. “If you’re up to it, there’re rods and all that back there. This beef isn’t going to last more than a day. Foraging: I know a bit about that, if it helps, Sticks.”

Sticks smirked. “Getting into country life, Doc… Now, why do I always think of you as a doctor? Maybe it’s cos you’re a learned man, seeing the only type of those you get in the army are the docs. There’s foraging and there’s foraging. Truth is, there should be stuff around here; the army clearly haven’t torched any of the gardens I’ve seen, nor the few veg plots. Now, if it was just what the trees let live under them, then it’d be mighty harder. Like it or not, we gotta look up the valley. We gotta look to the preppers or we won’t survive the winter.”

“When are we going to set out?” Connor asked.

“Tomorrow; can’t be no later. We’re too close to Banks fer my likin’. Way too close. But I think we’ll risk it for today. After all, he’s pretty preoccupied at the moment.”

“So,” Kenny said, “what are we going to do for the rest of the day?”

Sticks looked across at him. “Whatever you want, Kenny. You ain’t in no city no more.”

“I think… I think I’m gonna look for a tree and carve Joe’s name into it.”

“Why?” Gino asked him.

“Cos he won’t get a grave…but mostly because he pushed me through—probably saved my life. You said he fished here, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why not?”

Gino smiled. “Yeah, why not. But, you know, Joe never did like to be alone, so you gotta carve everyone’s name with his; he’d-a liked that.”

Kenny nodded. “Have you got a knife?”

Getting up, Gino unsheathed his knife and made to hand it to Kenny but then clearly thought better of it. “Tell you what, big man, you pick the tree, I’ll do the carving. Wouldn’t want you to cut your fingers off.”

MOLLY AND BYRON had taken the sole bed. Kenny had bagged the sofa on account of his broken arm. Gino had hunkered down by the fire, but Stick’s was now taking his turn keeping watch at the window. They’d let the fire burn down, not wanting to attract any visitors, best to be on the safe side, Connor mused. Earlier, Connor had taken a walk along the lakeshore and had sat for a while, unable to accept the wide-open space which now surrounded him. The star-filled sky was so vast that even the mighty redwoods couldn’t reach it, something he just couldn’t comprehend. After the press of the city, the claustrophobia of the underground compound, and the sheer hell of the mine shafts, it all seemed just too surreal.

He wondered why he’d begun to remember. Why now, after all these years? Not more than two weeks before, he’d known nothing of that day, of the sewer and the luminous water. He’d only known Sable for being Sable: the voice inside his head who’d steered him like a mother, who’d been with him since his own mother had died that day.

“Sable,” he said, addressing the stars, “what next?”

But Sable didn’t reply at first, though Connor knew she was there with him. He now felt strangely at one with her, partners, not AI and man, and when her words did come, they came through his own lips.

“We must find the queen. We must find Teah,” and that had brought a smile to his lips.

“Why do you call her that?”

Connor sensed confusion at his question. He could feel Sable trying to compute, to think the question through, but clearly to no avail. There was nowhere in his mind she didn’t delve for the answer, until she finally replied, “I do not know.”

“Then that’s two things we’ve got to do: find Teah and find out why she’s called ‘The Queen’.”

Connor had made his way back to the cabin and joined the others, but come the evening, he could face the confines of its walls no longer. He stepped out onto the stoop where he found two fat chairs, fat ones like those at his mother’s place in Christmas. He pulled them together and sank into their softness. Christmas: surely that would be the place to go. “Make that three,” he then informed Sable.

“Three?”

“I want to find out if Zac’s alive,” and Connor shut his eyes.

10

CONNOR’S STORY

Strike time: plus 10 days

Location: Morton Deep

CONNOR WOKE to see Gino’s face staring down at him, his finger pressed to Connor’s lips.

“Shh,” he hissed, then bid Connor up. “Just slide inside, all quiet now.”

Something about the soldier told Connor to do exactly as he’d asked. Then he heard voices in the dark of the night, distant but clear over the silence of the mountains. He eased himself off the chair and rolled onto his knees, crawling into the hut, the soldier behind him shutting the door without a sound.

“Who?” Connor whispered, but Gino just put his finger up again.

The voices grew louder. Connor could hear two of them as they neared the cabin.

“At least there’s one building standing,” one said.

They were close now, Connor thought, probably just by the stoop. Gino bade him draw back, and when Connor looked around, he couldn’t at first see the others in the gloom. Then he made out Molly’s eyes peering through the crack of the bedroom door. He began to ease back, but the sound of a footstep on the stoop froze him.

“You think there’s anyone inside?” the same voice asked.

“Nah, all gone, Nate. Long gone, I’d imagine. Grimes said the army scooped them all up. Shot the ones who refused to go.”

“Believe everything Grimes tells you? Could have missed some. Heck, we almost—”

“Shit,” the other voice hissed, “I can see embers in a hearth in there,” and Connor noticed a shadow withdraw from the window beside the door, the sound of a gun being cocked followed by a pump-action shotgun being readied. “There’ll be someone around here somewhere.”

“Should we go back and get Grimes? What d’ya reckon, Dave?”

“You really wanna go disturbing him? They’ll be most of the way into that crate of hooch by now. Anyways, could be just an old boy…or even a kid. Hey, you never know, it could be a woman. You wanna share a woman with Grimes?”

Connor tensed then finally freed his feet and shuffled back a little, careful not to make the floorboards creak. He could hear his breath, and it was loud, far too loud. The back of his leg came up against the edge of the sofa, Gino backing up in front of him, his gun out and ready.

“Nah, don’t wanna share no woman with Grimes,” Nate’s voice rang out, yet closer still.

“Go ‘round the back, then,” Dave whispered, then cleared his throat and called in, “Y’all in there might just wanna think about coming out now.”

Gino stopped backing up, then quickly crawled to the front door and stood beside it, his back to the wall. He motioned past Connor to Molly, who quietly emerged from the bedroom.

“What do you want,” she hollered, nervously.

Dave coughed again. “Just want to make sure…” Connor couldn’t be sure, but he thought he detected Dave stifling a laugh. “Just wanna make sure you’re okay in there. There’s nasty folk about and that.”

“I’ve done all right on my own so far,” Molly hollered and made to move forward, but Gino gestured her to stop.

“You sure have, honey. Say, maybe I’ll just come in, anyway, just to check, like. You armed by any chance?”

Connor heard a grunt from out back and motioned to Gino, but the soldier just smiled then nodded his head at Molly. She stared back at him, wide-eyed.

“Sure, I gotta gun. I gotta gun trained right on the door.”

Now Dave did laugh. “Now you’ve upset me...but I didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s cos I didn’t offer it, but if ya gotta know: it’s Molly.”

“Molly, eh? Well, Molly, you’ve just gone n’ upset me real bad. I thought we had a bit of trust going on here. Y’see, I don’t think you’ve really got a gun at all. You could have, but I don’t think so.”

With an almighty crack the door flew in, Connor shrinking down as Dave’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. “You going to shoot me, then, Molly?”

Connor heard her footsteps behind him, moving closer to the door. “I kinda lied,” she drawled. “No, I ain’t got no gun.”

“Nate?” Dave hollered. “You back there, Nate?” and Dave edged into the room.

Gino was on him in a blink, the pump-action flying into the air. For a moment, the two grunted and growled in what seemed like an equal match. Connor jumped up, looking for an angle, but just then the big man gave out a great roar and managed to shove Gino away. He fell back and stumbled into Connor, sending them both tumbling to the floor. Gino was back on his feet in an instant, a blade now glinting in his hand as he crouched before the big man.

Connor froze when he realized Dave had the shotgun back in his hands, its muzzle darting from one to the other of Gino, Connor and Molly. “Three of you, eh?” he drawled, and finally leveled the barrel over Gino’s head and at Connor. “You first,” and he stepped back. Connor raised his hands as he stared fixedly at the muzzle of the gun, his heart in his mouth. Then the room stilled for a moment, only Gino’s panting breath coming between them, and Connor saw why.

“You don’t really wanna do that,” Gino rasped, “do you, Dave. It was Dave, wasn’t it?”

Dave gave out a brief laugh and slowly lowered the gun a little, pointing it straight at Gino’s face. “Don’t I?” He smirked, but a hand then slipped around his face, snapping his head back as a knife appeared at his throat, swiftly drawn across it. Dave went limp, surprise in his eyes, and then he slumped forward, the pump-action falling with a clatter to the floor, going off with a loud bang. Wood splinters showered everywhere as Dave the biker fell face-forward onto the floor, Sticks standing over him from behind.

“They’ll all have heard that. We best get moving,” Sticks shouted, and Byron and Kenny appeared from the bedroom.

“Where’s the other…” Connor asked, but the look on Sticks’ face gave him his answer.

Gino stepped over Dave’s body and patted Sticks on the shoulder as he went past. “Reckon we’ve got five minutes, ten max,” he said from out on the stoop. “Where’s the other fella’s gun?”

“Out back,” Sticks told him as he went to get it. He soon dragged the other body inside through the back door before slamming it shut. “Let’s get out of here.”

As Byron and Kenny dashed past Connor, he noticed Molly was still rooted to the spot, staring down the two body. He grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the door. She pulled away, though, muttering something unintelligible before dashing back into the bedroom. Connor bolted after her. Pulling a couple of rucksacks from beside the bed, she turned to face him.

“Found these and packed them up,” she said. “Had an odd feeling we’d need to get moving fast.”

Connor grabbed one and slung it on his back as Molly did the same. “You okay?” he asked.

“Doubt I’ll ever be,” she said, and they ran for the door.

Headlights were coming along the lakeshore when Connor and Molly got outside, more following behind them. Sticks was now at the edge of the trees. “This way,” he shouted, and they ran after him as he vanished into the narrow strip of forest and up to the road above.

Connor scrambled after Molly up the steep slope, Sticks behind them. The weight of the backpack bent him over, his fingers raking the earth as he grabbed for handholds. Molly then pulled herself onto the road and Connor could hear Gino urging her across. They both raced after him, a distant rumble at his back of bikes and men shouting and running as all three of them slipped back into the forest on the other side.

It was almost pitch-black, just the moon and stars blinking in and out of sight through the canopy above. He heard someone stumble farther up, Kenny by the sound of the muffled curses which followed. Losing his own footing, Connor lurched forward, blindly reaching out to save himself a fall, but then the slope leveled a little and they’d soon quickened their pace. Molly was still ahead, forging on valiantly under the weight of her own backpack, the ground softer underfoot, spongy in places, which made his legs scream in pain from the exertion. Gasping for breath, he was about to shout for them to slow down when he thought of what lay behind. A quick glance that way revealed Sticks’ determined expression, the soldier’s eyes saying it all, and so Connor ran on the harder.

Once deep within the forest, Molly slowed and Connor stopped running, but then noticed Gino waving him down the slope they were on and into a small hollow. Connor finally slumped down between Kenny and Byron. No one said a word until Sticks peered in. “Stay still and keep quiet. We’re gonna see if they’re following. I doubt they could’ve ridden their bikes into here, but, well, you never know.”

His head snapped back into the shadows and he was gone, leaving Connor looking around at where they’d now ended up.

“We all okay?” he eventually whispered.

“Not really cut out for this,” complained Kenny.

“Me either,” agreed Byron.

“Not sure these country folks are so friendly, after all,” Molly muttered.

“Beginning to wonder if that caged bird didn’t have it right, all along,” Byron sighed.

THEY’D EVENTUALLY TRUDGED on and on. Though Sticks had reported no one was following them, they knew they had to put distance between themselves and the riders. “Only problem we’ve got,” he’d said, “is that we’ll all be going the same way. Bet you a credit to a corndog they’re going up the valley.”

“So, we’ll just stay in the woods, then,” Kenny had said.

“Don’t think you realize how small this valley has just got, big man, and they’ve got all the good stuff like the road and the river, like the bikes and the guns. Guess they knew that last night when they just let us go.” No one could find any reason to doubt him.

They’d killed two of their men, after all, and the gang had only pursued them for a short distance. Now dawn was breaking over the ridge of the valley, they all knew it wouldn’t be long before the bikers caught up with them. Gino led them to a small, flat clearing, where they all slumped to the forest floor, exhausted. Sticks crouched in their middle.

“Now, I’m going to lay a couple of things down. First, I doubt there’s a tracker among them; they’re few and far between up here. So, assumin’ that, they won’t know how many of us there are.” He drew a wavy line in the mud at his feet. “Valleys are easy, even for you city folk. There’s a river and there’s a slope. You can’t go too far wrong. Aldertown’s about ten miles upriver, the prepper’s compound a long stretch farther on.”

“Where are you going with this, Sticks?” Byron asked.

“You know where I’m going.”

“No,” said Molly. “I said it before and I’ll say it again: we must stick together.”

“Look, they’re gonna catch us easy. One way or another, we’re going to give ourselves away. Me and Gino need to hang back and try and make it as hard as possible for them. Croft ordered us to look after Connor, and that’s what we’re gonna do.”

Molly began to protest: “But—”

“I know I’m probably being crazy,” Kenny blurted out, “but aren’t there two sides to this valley?”

Sticks looked him up and down. “Two sides…separated by a river.”

“Ah, right,” Kenny declared, “but if we could get across it, then it’d even things up.”

“How?” asked Byron.

“Because they wouldn’t be able to get their bikes across.”

Sticks looked at Gino, who shrugged. “That’s true, provided it ain’t shallow enough anywhere along its course. Only trouble is, we can’t just walk along it till we find a spot.”

“Sorry, knew I should have kept quiet,” and Kenny looked deflated.

“What if we do, though?” Connor said. “What if we do just hug the river?”

“Eh?” and Sticks flicked another look at Gino.

“I got nothing,” the man said.

“They followed us into these woods,” Connor went on to say. “Last thing they’d expect is for us to go back to the road.”

“The strip of forest between the road and the river’s pretty narrow—less cover,” Sticks pointed out.

“But their eyes will be the other way,” Gino muttered.

“You’re considering it?” Byron asked.

“It’s better than my plan,” Sticks admitted. “I was just going to get you to run on ahead and hope me ‘n Gino could hold ‘em back. Didn’t even give myself any odds of survival, let alone a long shot.”

“Then let’s cross before they get here,” Kenny enthused.

They were soon scrambling down toward the road, following Sticks’ direction which slanted them farther up the valley, but as they closed in on the road, Connor heard the throaty rumble of engines. Cautiously now, they inched nearer the edge of the road.

“Gino, you and Molly first,” Sticks barked, and Gino leapt onto the tarmac, pulling Molly with him. When they were halfway across, Sticks shoved Kenny and Byron out. The rumble grew louder. “Go,” shouted Sticks at Connor and he leapt out and ran across the road, half expecting to get mown down or shot. Byron jump and vanished ahead of him, Kenny doing the same, and then Connor was at the far edge and saw the ground slope sharply down. He slipped and slid, digging his heels in, trying to get a grip. Gino reached out to grab him but couldn’t hold on, and Connor clattered into a tree, smashing his head against its rough back. He slid away from it and plunged farther down the bank, tumbling head over heels until he smashed into a boulder, his head snapping back against it. His vision was now grainy, his mind swimming as he fought to get his breath, winded, and he strained to see more than what was fast becoming just a long black tunnel before him. He felt like he was drowning again, slipping away.

Then he felt a sense of lightness, one bringing with it a rush of clarity, but it wasn’t a strange feeling, not at all. He’d felt it before, and again he welcomed it. Sable was murmuring within him, flooding him with her essence, each tendril of her vitality pulling him back to her, steering him away from the darkness. “You saved my life,” he said to her.

“Yes,” she said.

“Am I still alive?”

“Yes, Connor, you are.”

“What’s to become of us?”

“We must endure.”

Connor snapped awake. Molly was hovering over him, looking down at him, her head cocked to one side as though considering a stranger. Sticks reach around her and grabbed his hands, pulling him up. “Move,” he barked, and they carried on down the slope, Connor now more bemused than confused.

They slowed their pace near the bottom, carefully picking their steps, eking out a safer and quieter path. Up above, the bikes rumbled past as Connor stumbled on, now feeling drowsy and strange, but he knew it was only his mind steadily healing him. Molly never let him go, her hand tight on his arm, and when they finally stopped for a break, she took him to one side.

“What just happened back there?” she whispered.

“I don’t follow,” Connor almost slurred.

“Up there, when you fell.”

“I banged my head… What?”

“Never mind ‘banged’, you gouged it—a huge rip in your skin. Then…” She stared at him, wide-eyed, then took a trembling breath. “Then you just healed, right in front of my eyes. Your skin just grew over and stitched itself together.”

“Sable,” Connor whispered.

“I know,” but she didn’t release him from her stare. “What’s happening to you, Connor?”

He grasped her shoulders and drew her nearer, then whispered, “I don’t know,” into her hair.

But he did know, he knew that deep within him Sable was reaching out, that she was growing, maturing.

“Is she a monster?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Think?”

Connor looked beyond Molly and at the water of the river as it flowed past. “It’s the best I can… It’s all I know.”

THEY’D NOT HEARD the bikes for more than an hour when Sticks finally let them slow their pace. He made them crouch down, though, when not much later a steady whine of what they assumed was a convoy of trucks went past, but other than that it seemed that Kenny’s knee-jerk plan had appeared to be working, so far.

“We’ll see a crossing point soon, you’ll see,” he declared at one point, but no one believed him. The river here was narrow, deep and far too fast, its current treacherous. The narrow strip of trees between it and the road, however, did manage to conceal them from the road. Connor wondered what plan the bikers had, although he knew they’d have to stop and make camp before the end of the day. When he looked up at the sky, it was ominously clear, sucking the very heat from the ground.

They broke for a rest midmorning, choosing to soak up the sun’s warmth on the flat granite rocks of the riverbank. Molly huddled in a tight group with Sticks, Kenny and Gino. Byron disappeared into the trees and Connor chose to sit alone in the sun. Molly’s earlier words had played on his mind. Well, he thought, he assumed it was his mind and he assumed they were his thoughts. He again looked up at the sky and tried to make sense of where he was, or more importantly, where he was going. More than ever, he felt aloof, apart from the rest of them, different somehow.

“Won’t do you any good.” Byron’s words cut through his melancholy. “Stewing; it won’t do you any good.” The librarian sat next to him.

Connor glanced at Byron, who looked tired and haggard, the remnants of his wispy gray hair gently blowing around his face in the light morning breeze. His eyes were propped up on gray bags which matched the hue of the rocks around them.

“Maybe it’s all I’ve got?”

Byron slumped. “Smoke?”

“You got some?”

“Yeah, found a precious roll of Saggers back at the cabin. Shoot, but that would have been a great place to sit out the apocalypse. Fishing: I think I might have learned about that, or at least the basics. Read a few books which featured a lot of fishing.”

“What’s it like, having all that information inside your head?”

Byron smiled. “Me? Do you still not realize what you have in your own? The knowledge of the world, a canned history. Sable, Connor, knows everything there is to know—everything which wasn’t lost.” He put an arm around Connor. “You just need to plow on through.”

“Plow on through?”

“Connor, what can I say? No one has ever had the feelings you’re experiencing. No one can possibly know what to say to you. Your skin heals itself, and I suspect your whole body will, too. Somehow you have to contain her, come to some sort of bargain.”

Connor took a draw on his smoke. “I’m not even sure who I am any more, Byron, but I feel no threat from her.”

Byron patted his shoulder. “Not yet, Connor, no, maybe not, not as yet, but unless you reach an accord of some kind, internal conflict will ensue. How you’ve contained her thus far is beyond me. I wonder if she somehow depends on you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But the thing is, Byron, she’s been pretty quiet of late. It’s like she’s busy, like she’s…”

Byron raised his eyebrows. “Quiet? Is it possible she’s learning through your own new experiences?” He drummed his fingers on his leg. “I think that must be it. The compound, this place, everything, it will all act as… No, it will complement her existing references. I’ve no doubt, at her inception, and during her nurturing, she’d have been fed the details, the very composition, of all possible habitats, of the distribution of tree sizes, say, everything about the sequoia, but she’ll never have seen one bend in the breeze, nor smelled its fragrance, you know, that sort of thing. Everything you’re going through will be adding to her database—everything.” He smiled and pulled Connor close. “Imagine, just this scene before us now: the river, the rocks, the shrubs and grass, every kind of moss and lichen—everything. Just imagine it.” Byron sat up and patted his wispy hair down. “We never stop learning, Connor.” He jumped up then bent to pat Connor on his shoulder. “Best thing you can do is just be yourself. She might well learn enough from that alone.”

“Enough?”

“Enough,” Byron whispered under his breath.

11

CONNOR’S STORY

Strike time: plus 10 days

Location: Aldertown

KENNY CROUCHED with his back against the rocky bank. Connor waited, then scrambled up and squatted next to him.

“Bit of bad luck,” Kenny said. “Who knew Aldertown was built this close to the river. Well, relatively close.” He looked up.

Gino and Sticks had gone ahead, the rest of the group waiting the agreed thirty minutes before starting the climb. If there were no gunshots, it could be presumed to be safe. Risky, but Sticks had said it was that or double back on their long trek until another way could be found.

“What do you reckon? A hundred feet more?” Kenny muttered.

“About that.”

“Thought Sticks said there was a better trail half way. Can’t see it myself. Why would there be a path down, anyway?”

“To get water?” Connor glanced upriver, its gradient here sending the water cascading down, its spray billowing out and forming a mist above it.

“You think those bikers will have moved on?” Kenny asked, as though it had been the first question to rise from the turmoil of his nervousness.

“We haven’t heard a whisper for hours. Let’s hope, eh?”

“Not like we’ve got a lot of choice. That’ll teach me to open my mouth and come up with a plan.”

“How’s your arm?”

Kenny shrugged. “Peculiarly better. Expected it to hurt for weeks. Seems like being around you is a cure-all. Right, let’s get moving.”

Connor pushed himself up. Kenny had a habit of rambling when nervous, clearly now anxious about the climb. But the man had courage, that was plain to see. Even though he was scared, he went on, anyway.

It turned out that Sticks was right. The path up widened a little, and though steep, rocky, and treacherous, it was definitely easier going. Kenny stopped every time it twisted back on itself, then took a long breath and lamented his very existence before setting off again. Though slow, they steadily snaked up the slope. Behind them, Molly and Byron had already started the climb. Sticks idea had been to separate them, to “Spread out the targets” as he’d put it. Connor couldn’t be sure, but he thought Byron had chosen Molly as a climbing companion so he could have a word with her.

Three quarters of the way up, Kenny stopped and sat on a projecting spur of rock. Connor slouched down beside him. “Water?”

“Please,” said Kenny. “You know, back down there, I forgot to ask.” He took the bottle from Connor. “How’re you doing out here, you know, with Sable in your head? Everything okay?”

Connor snorted. “Byron worried? Asked you to have a chat with me, did he?”

“No, don’t need to be asked.” He took a slurp on the bottle.

“Well, I’m doing fine.” Connor pulled out a couple of smokes. “Snitched these from Byron; you want one?”

“No, but you go ahead. Having enough trouble breathing as it is. Thing is, how the hell would you even know if you were okay?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“I mean, everyone thinks you’ve got this humongous AI in you and that it’s important in some way, and they’re all watching you, watching your every move, but how would they know if you’re changing? How would you know?”

“I still don’t entirely get what you’re getting at.”

“This,” said Kenny, and he swept his arm around. “This is all new to us all—not just to you. And the underground, that was the same, and yet all eyes were on you. Glad they aren’t on me, though; I’m a wreck. I shake and feel sick most of the time, yet I’m constantly hungry. My head aches like a bitch, as do my legs and feet, and, well, man, don’t get me started on my feet.”

For the first time in a while, Connor smiled. “Glad it’s not just me. It was safe in the city, wasn’t it?”

“To be honest, I liked it. Oh, I know what Byron thinks. Did he tell you that shit about a bird in a cage? Me? Give me a fucking cage, anytime. A cage, a comfy sofa, a big fuck-off screen and a takeout flown to my window by drone; I’d settle for that. What’s not to like?”

Connor took a drag on his smoke. “Now you put it that way…” and he laughed. “What have we got instead?”

Kenny grunted. “Shot at, nearly blown up, buried alive, starved to death, and chased by a gang of bikers. Say, about that, wasn’t your brother the black market in the city? Molly told me he had a bar or something. Can’t you get…?” and Kenny shuffled around. “Wouldn’t he know…”

“Doubt they’d have heard of Zac, but then I don’t really know. Him and Billy took things in from the outside, but after my accident, well, he never talked about it with me. I always assumed he liked that I’d made a life on the grid, despite what he was always going on about in the bar. I always reckoned he didn’t want me getting involved.”

“Shame, not that it’d help—after killing their friends and that. Ain’t quite the kid he looks, though, Sticks. Now, is he?”

“Sure isn’t.”

“How old do you reckon he is?”

Connor shrugged.

“Twenty-seven, and he don’t look a day over eighteen. Maybe that’s the country air, eh?” Kenny stood, looked over the edge and immediately drew back. “Shit, I wish I hadn’t done that.” He put his hand on his heart. “For God’s sake, don’t look down. They’re catching up, though, so we’d best get moving.” He set off up the steep trail, muttering, “I like Molly, like her a lot”.

Connor finished his smoke and sighed. Kenny was right: the city did have its plus points. Out here, everything was… He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “Sharp” kept springing to mind, sharp and dangerous. He didn’t look down, or across the valley. Though used to the skyscrapers of Black City, he felt more confident when he was just looking at nothing more than the path before his feet.

“And blisters,” Kenny shouted back. “I never got blisters in the city. Now my blisters have blisters of their own. Give me Byron’s cage any time.”

Blisters, Connor wondered, shouldn’t he also have blisters? And was Kenny right? Was Connor just feeling odd because he wasn’t in the city? That didn’t explain him healing so rapidly, though, but then, come to think of it, he rarely got ill, rarely if ever hurt himself. No, he thought, he’d never got ill, not since…

A small parapet wall marked the end of their climb. Gino was sitting on it, the pump-action resting lazily across his knees.

“Took your time,” he said and jumped up. “The others following?”

“Any sign?”

“Of the bikers? Nope, and that’s a worry in itself. Guess they’re hunting somewhere, just not here. Watch out,” he said as he offered Kenny a hand over the wall. “Something’s dragged a fresh body outta its grave. What’s left’s a bit gruesome. Stinks ‘n all.”

Connor heard Kenny gasp and saw the big man bury his nose in the crook of his elbow. As Connor himself drew level with the top of the wall, he did the same before looking beyond, at the devastation which was Aldertown. The corpse looked as though it had been pulled from its grave, its top half stripped of most of its flesh, and the stench, man, oh, man, Connor thought, he’d never smelled anything like it.

Beyond it stood the remains of many buildings, little more than heaps of rubble, the town of Aldertown now no more than two lines of bombed-out buildings blackened by fire. Connor could see Sticks threading his way through them, running in an easy-paced crouch.

“C'mon, there’s a house up the way they didn’t bother with. It’s part collapsed, but should offer some shelter if nothing else.”

“What the hell?” said Molly.

“I think I’m…gonna…puke,” Byron said between retches.

MOLLY STOOD BACK, paintbrush in hand, and admired her handiwork. “There,” she said, “now we’re officially a gang. I’ve wanted to be in one since Byron explained what they were, and, certainly after Joe’s memorial, I thought we could do with a base. This can be it, until we leave for the preppers' place, of course.”

She looked around the basement, at Kenny lying on its only bed, whining about his feet the whole time. Byron was perched on its edge, his head in his hands, appearing to sleep where he sat. Gino had cleared a space by what used to be the stairs; he, too, looked exhausted. Connor grabbed the paintbrush and dipped it into Molly’s pot of whitewash.

“You’ve forgotten one person,” he said.

“Sticks, Gino, Molly, Connor, Byron, and Kenny—”

“Why am I last?” Kenny asked.

“Someone’s gotta be,” Gino muttered. “Be thankful you ain’t Joe. Bet he woulda just liked to have got his name on there, last or not.”

“I…” but then Kenny clearly thought better of it.

“Sable?” Molly suggested.

“Yep,” said Connor. “She’s been with me all the way.” He put his arm around Molly. “And don’t worry, I’m not losing my marbles, just accepting what I’ve got inside me.”

“Freakin’ weird,” Gino sighed.

Connor wrote her name next to his on the basement wall. “There,” and he seemed oblivious to the questioning looks he was getting from everyone. Sticks poked his head through a hole above them, where the basement window had been.

“Man, you should see what I’ve found.” He threw a couple of rolls of smokes down on the floor between them, then shouted for Kenny to move.

“Was just getting comfortable,” he whined, but sat up, anyway.

“Here,” said Sticks, and he passed him a couple of bottles of whiskey. “Weren’t much food—not that we could use. Some potatoes ‘n that in a garden. We’re gonna have to eat ‘em raw—can’t risk a fire. There’s carrots, too, and some onions—god help us all.”

“Raw food and whiskey,” Byron muttered. “The stuff of kings.”

“Tons of money, too.” Sticks was beaming as he waved a huge wad of money around. “Hey, Gino, we’re finally rich when money don’t matter.”

“Sounds about right.”

Sticks didn’t reply, only dropped the money and held his hands out at his sides.

“Oh, no you’re not—son,” a voice sounded out. “Now, what say you reverse out of that there hole and be a good soldier and kneel with your hands behind your back.”

Gino grabbed his gun.

“No, no, no, soldier number two,” the voice boomed down at Gino, and a face appeared in the hole, its eyes wide and its black eyebrows arched. “You out next, soldier number two, and please don’t think about doing anything…sudden-like.” He scratched his curly hair. “Now you’ve got nothing you can rightly do, just come on out here. If you don’t, I ain’t afeared to light a fire and flush you out.” He flashed a look at Molly. “All ‘cept you, darling; I’ve got no intention of singeing your pretty body. Name’s Nathan, by the way; Nathan Grimes. Come on up, soldier boy, or yer man out here gets it.”

Gino dropped his gun and got to his feet. He clambered up onto the bed and pulled himself out through the hole. Grimes’s head disappeared, replaced by the back of his boots. “Now which one of you killed my men?” they could hear him say. “I’ve been watching you all day, and I know that the others aren’t soldiers. I also know you aren’t good ones. A good soldier would have just hidden up and waited us out. A good soldier wouldn’t have come up with that dumb-fuck plan to hug the river. So, which one was it?”

“It was me. I killed ‘em both,” Sticks’ voice said, and Connor heard Gino protest, but Sticks went on to say, “I killed ‘em both. Let the others go.”

A single shot rang out, followed by the thud of something falling to the ground. Grimes’ face reappeared in the hole. “Now, one at a time, and ladies last. We’ll have that body cleared up in no time. And what was your name?” he said, grinning at Molly. “Oh, hang on, but it’s written on the wall, isn’t it? Molly, I’m guessing you’re Molly, because you certainly don’t look like a Sable.”

He cocked his head and pointed at her. “One,” then he pointed at Connor, “two,” and soon he’d counted to four. “Plus one outside alive and one dead, that makes six,” at which he read from the wall: “Molly, Byron, Connor…Sable, Sticks, Gino…and Kenny makes seven. So, tell me, Molly, where’s Sable got to?”

“If you’ve been following us,” Byron stated, “as you say you have, Mr. Grimes, then you’d know there are only six of us.”

Grimes smiled and rubbed at his stubble. “And you are?”

“Byron.”

“Well, Byron, there are only five of you now. Now, y’all gonna have to come outta there. I’m gettin’ me a backache leaning down here and talking like this. One at a time, please, and I think we’ll have the delightful Molly first this time. Tell me, how come a load of civilians are dressed up in army gear? Nope, wait; tell me when you get out,” and he backed up.

Molly shrugged off Grimes’ helping hand when she disappeared through the hole, followed by Kenny and then Byron. When Connor came to pull himself through last, a pool of blood met his gaze, from the other side of which ran drag marks. Two men stood beside it, their shotguns leveled at him. One, a skinny, pale man with chains for a belt, shooed Connor out of the way to allow the other to jump down into the basement, presumably to retrieve the whiskey, gun and smokes. Byron was just being marched away by another biker, his hands clasped behind his neck.

As Connor made to follow, Grimes told him to wait, then stood before him. “You happen to be Connor?” and Grimes tapped his fingers on his chin. “Name rings a bell—a mighty big bell. And now it gets me to wondering, you know that? Want to know what it is I’m wondering about?” He leaned closer, his sawed-off shotgun poking Connor in the chest. “I wonder how many Connors there can be roaming around these valleys, because,” and he drew away, “because, if there is only one, chances are I’ve found the mother lode of all Connors. Tell me, Connor: are you truly the mother lode of all Connors?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Tut-tut-tut, whichever Connor you are, let me teach you a lesson: never lie to a man who’s pointing a gun at your stomach. Do you know just how long and drawn out it can be, dying from a stomach wound?”

Grimes backed away, lifting the sawed-off and resting its barrel on his shoulder. He looked quizzically at Connor, as if unsure of his next move. “No?” he finally said when Connor remained silent, but then, when he walked away a couple of paces, he spun around and leveled the gun at him. “Why?” he whispered. “Why? What’s so special about you that Zac gave up everything?”

“Gave up?”

“Do you really think he needed to stay in the city? Why didn’t he just smuggle you out when your old mother died? Questions; they’ve been plaguing me for years. What is your brother up to?”

Connor’s heart leapt. “Is? You saying Zac’s alive?”

Grimes’s deep-throated laugh rang out, and Connor looked around for the others, now feeling alone and nervous, but everyone else had gone ahead. When he looked back at Grimes, it was to see that the laughter had vanished from the man’s face, a stern yet bemused expression having replaced it. “Of course he’s alive—he’s too invested in your future to be dead. Dead? Zac? He wouldn’t give me that. Nope, you Clays are hard to kill—have a habit of surviving. So, I’m now asking myself the question ‘Should I just kill you now?’.”

“But…”

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Your thinking that I’m…that me and my gang are affiliated with Zac on account of the fact we smuggled goods in and out of the city, on account of the fact that we’re members of the same motorcycle club, but let me tell you, we aren’t any longer. Your brother is Citizen now, whatever the fuck that means, so I owe him shit.”

“He’ll find out. He’ll hunt you down,” was all Connor could think to say, his mind still reeling from the news that Zac was still alive.

Grimes’ laugh dribbled out, somehow empty, somehow sinister. “Oh, I’ll count on that, and fearsome he’ll be, as well, but one thing’s for sure: with you gone, he won’t have the heart for a fight.”

Connor weighed up his options, but they didn’t look good. What if he just ran?

“Are you weighing up your odds?” Grimes asked, clearly amused. He took a step toward Connor as he cocked the trigger of his gun. “Well, you just made up my mind for me.”

Connor’s mind raced, too desperate to be of much use, the more so when it became clear how much hatred boiled within Grimes’ now narrowed eyes.

“I fucking hate Clays,” Grimes said, and Connor shut his eyes just before the loud bang rang in his ears.

12

ZAC’S STORY

Strike time: plus 7 days

Location: The road to the hills

ZAC PULLED up and looked up at the sky again, his hand on his shotgun, ready to pull it from its improvised holster. The previous day’s cloudy sky had given way to one of gray streaks, though a mist-like shroud still lingered over Black City’s ruins. He wondered if Switch was dead yet, if he’d found a way to die—a sharp metal shard to carve his wrists, a stray reinforcing bar upon which to impale himself—or was just sitting around, waiting. Zac had played it over and over in his mind but could fathom no way out for Switch, no subterfuge that would work for him. What he’d failed to pick up on was the man’s fragility, his eagerness to die.

Switch hadn’t been Switch, not the man Zac had known. He’d been quiet, reclusive, and Zac had been suspicious of that, taking it as collusion with his father, not confusion at his whole purpose in life. Yet try as he might to shoulder the blame for the man’s death, it all came back to Josiah Charm. Had Charm planned for every eventuality, then? Surely, Zac thought, he could have planned one where no one had to die. Surely that would have only taken a little bit more thought, a small tinker here and there?

“Still beating yourself up?” Billy Flynn asked, putting his hand on Zac’s shoulder and looking over the ruins of the city. “Not your fault, Zac.”

“Something’s up, Billy.”

“There’s plenty up, in case you haven’t noticed—plenty.”

“Drones, Billy? Where are all the drones?”

Billy scanned above the city and along the coast, then inland from Christmas to where Morton Deep still smoked. His gaze then wandered to the main valley, the huge arterial canyon into which all the others drained. Still farther he looked, and farther still, beyond these visible features to one which couldn’t be seen from where they were, one which cut through the land to where they were destined to travel, the one Laura would soon be taking them to.

“The sky’s totally clear. Not even a bird,” Billy stated.

“And therein lies the problem, Billy.”

“How come?” and Billy kicked at the dirt at his feet.

“We’re assuming the army torched Morton and Aldertown two days ago—but we don’t know why. So, where are their helos? Where are their drones?” He leaned forward on the handlebars of his bike. “First rule of war, Billy: control the skies.”

Zac reached into his jacket and pulled out his smokes, lighting one as he looked back along the road. “Where are Loser and Laura?”

“They’ll be along soon. Probably still loading the gas and the guns.”

“A great combination to transport in one truck,” Zac muttered.

“But,” and Billy winked at Zac, “the future currency of the world. You trust her? Laura? You trust her, then?”

Zac looked up. “Ain’t got no choice, Billy.”

“But you like her, right? Heard you both talking late into the night. Not serious chat, either—you were talking shit, kinda shit you talk with me, kinda shit good friends talk about.”

“Sure, I like her—what’s not to like?”

“I see you there, Zac.”

Zac took a toke on his smoke. “So, what’re you worried about?”

“Me?” Billy said, pointing at himself. “I ain’t worried about anything, just got me to wondering what’d happen if Switch was right.”

“About what?”

“About Teah being alive.”

If there was one person apart from Connor who Zac couldn’t lie to about this, it was Billy Flynn. The big man had seen Zac fall in love, had seen what their relationship had been like, how intense, how quick the passion had blossomed.

“She bolted, Billy. If she was alive, she still bolted.”

“What if she had good reason?”

Zac shook his head. “No, no, no, don’t even go there. Good reason? Good reason to escape the city? Then why didn’t she come to me? Why didn’t she come to the one person who could have smuggled her out, who’d got connections out here? Tell me that, Billy.”

From Billy’s look, Zac knew he had him. If she was going to make a life out in the hills, then surely Zac, her own lover, would have been the one to have confided in? That was what Zac couldn’t work out, or rather, didn’t like the result when he did.

“Only one conclusion, Billy, and that’s one I don’t care to think about.”

“Yeah.”

“She wanted to escape from me as much as she did the city.” Zac looked back down the freeway. Loser’s truck, flanked by Noodle and Laura, was speeding toward them. “And you know what, Billy?”

“Shoot.”

“I think I’m finally getting over her.”

“Amen to that.”

“Still don’t solve the drones, though.”

“Nope.”

Noodle skidded to a halt. “No drones, then?” he said. “Army must be busy with something else.”

“You asshole, Noodle,” said Zac.

“What?”

“Zac’s just spent the last twenty minutes trying to work out why,” Billy crowed.

“And for that I’m the asshole?” Noodle pointed to himself as he made injured puppy-dog faces. “Can’t help it if Zac got the looks… Na, can’t help it if I got the looks and the brains.”

“Noodle, I swear…” But Zac was grinning.

“Swear what? You gonna walk away and form another club?”

Billy was laughing as Laura pulled up and asked “What?” Loser’s truck coming to a stop behind her. “I suppose I’ve missed out on something, as usual.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Zac said, now shadowboxing with Noodle. But then he stopped and looked at Laura. “So, where next?” He realized his melancholy mood of only a few minutes before had been swept away by Noodle.

“Up that valley,” she said, pointing.

Zac nodded, already knowing the answer but not wanting to believe it. Even as a smuggling route into Morton, the mouth of the valley had always been difficult to get through. Up until now, though, that hadn’t been Zac’s problem. He’d taken enough risks of his own, smuggling the contraband to his bar and then from there out into the city. Outside its limits had been Grimes’ problem, made worse now by it being way too close to the army base.

“Need to go the old route,” said Loser.

“Old route?” Zac said.

“Weren’t all freeways and interstates, you know. Old roads, old routes, all up here,” and he tapped his temple.

“Looks like you’re leading the way, then, Loser.”

“Yes, boss,” and he gave Zac a rare smile as he leaned out the truck’s window, his smoke dangling from the edge of his mouth. “Your folks,” he addressed to Laura, “they live in the woods over the hill?”

“Sure do,” she said.

“Then I know the way there. Now, one thing if I may, Zac?”

Zac shrugged. “Go for your life.”

“There’s a whole load of gasoline in the back of this truck, and ammunition—a load of that, too. If—and I’m a-hoping we don’t—but if we have a firefight at any point, I want to make something plain.”

“Could you hurry it along, Loser,” said Noodle.

Loser shot him a look. “You wanna drive?”

“That mobile bomb? No thanks.”

“Then shut up.” He turned back to Zac. “I’ll jump, no matter the speed. I’ll jump right outta this cab and let the whole lot go to hell in a handcart.”

“That it?” Zac asked.

“Just saying. I can be a hero as much as the next man, but I ain’t gonna be a dead one.”

“Okay, so, I’ve got it.”

“Did you know my father?” Laura asked, but her words were lost to the sound of Loser revving the truck’s engine and drawing away.

“Looks that way,” Noodle said to her before he rode away.

Zac shrugged. “After you.”

“What the hell have I let myself in for,” she said, and she, too, roared off.

As Zac was about to follow, he assured Billy, “Yeah, I’m over Teah,” and then he grabbed a handful of revs and dropped his bike’s clutch, leaving Billy in his dusty wake.

Loser drove along the freeway, passing the off ramp that would have taken them straight into the valley’s mouth. He took the next—but much smaller one—that ended at a weed-infested junction, across which he led them onto a single highway which appeared to vanish into the redwoods after no more than a few hundred yards. Zac felt more settled the minute they were within their emerald shade, taking a long breath and settling into his saddle for the ride.

Rich and root-strewn earthen banks soon flanked the road, the roots here emboldened enough by its little use to have begun burrowing through its blacktop, no doubt seeking out its drains and gulleys. Moss laced it too, especially in the dips where the rain tended to pool. Loser was taking it slow and easy, not surprisingly given his cargo, but Zac didn’t mind. Downtime had again become precious, a thing to be cherished. For years he’d had so much of it, with little to do but drink once the smuggling was done, and drunk he had, drunk and wished away the hours. In the space of a few short days that had all changed. He took a deep breath of the heavy, moist air.

The mighty redwoods rose majestically on either side, thoughts of drones and helicopters withering under their calming influence. Within the hour, though, they’d left all this behind after Loser took a fork in the road and began the climb up the slope of the valley, toward their destination. After another hour, he pulled the truck off the road into a small grass clearing scattered with piles of old asphalt. Getting out of the truck, Loser stretched and leaned up against its side.

“Man,” he said, “my ass is cramped up. Driving ‘round with a bomb in the back sure makes you crimp.”

“Crimp?” said Noodle. “Crimp? Who the hell says crimp?”

“Crimp, clench, all much the same, Noodle. I already offered you a try.”

“And I already declined.” Noodle scratched his head. “I think there might be something wrong with my bike, so I gotta listen to it mighty close. Otherwise I would.”

“You’re full of shit, Noodle,” said Billy.

“But loveable,” he countered.

“How long we got till we get to the place?” Zac asked.

“’Bout an hour or so; should make it late afternoon,” Loser told him.

Laura looked over. “You know my father?” she asked again.

Loser looked across at her, staring for a short while before answering. “Sure I know him. Knew both him and your mother; I lived up there for a while—with my father—before we were booted out. Suppose I was ‘bout ten when we left, when your dad lived in the big cabin.”

“When he was still living with my mother?”

“Don’t know about that, I was young at the time—like I said. Anyway, when I came back and they started ordering from the club, well, made sense for me to start delivering. Seemed the logical choice, seeing as I knew where they lived, and they weren’t eager for folk to know that.”

“Weren’t eager?” Laura asked, getting off her bike and coming over to him.

“Nope, first shipment was dropped right back at the junction with the freeway, booze mostly and some smokes.”

“When did they start trusting you?”

“Right then, right there. I hollered out to him—your father—and he recognized me, so we did the deal and I essentially became the go-between.”

Zac thought back but couldn’t remember ever seeing Loser in the tunnels or in the warehouses. What had Noodle told him? That Loser had come down from the north ten years or so ago—that magical number of years which kept cropping up.

“So, they liked booze and smokes,” said Noodle. “So what?”

Loser tilted his head up, “Weren’t just booze and smokes, Noodle. You know that.”

Noodle’s jaw dropped open. “Fuck me, you’re right.”

“What?” asked Zac, flicking Billy a glance that was met with nothing more than a shrug.

Noodle managed to speak through his now slack jaw. “All the crates Charm sent out, Loser took them all away.”

Loser smiled. “And the booze, and the smokes.”

Zac scratched his head. “Are you telling me that every crate we smuggled out of Black City ended up going exactly where Charm is sending us?”

“Kind of makes sense, Zac,” said Billy.

“What does?”

“That it ain’t just some random place.”

“What was in those crates?”

“Beats me. I just shifted them up here, that was all.”

Zac looked at Laura. “You? Do you know? Come on, someone throw me a bone here.”

“No bones,” Laura said, walking back to her bike. “When my mother and father split, I went back to Christmas with her—and that was a long time ago. I only lived there until I was eight or nine. Visited a lot; read the books; even began staying over and studying. My grandfather loved to teach, Zac, but he rarely discussed anything he was working on.”

Loser pushed himself off the truck and made to climb back into its cab, but then hesitated and stared at Laura. “We must have just missed each other back then. Must have just missed each other, eh?”

“Where’d you go to, then, Loser?”

By now Loser was in the cab. “Oh, the damn army swept me up and made me the man I am.” He gunned the engine and pulled away.

“Not sure,” said Noodle as he swung his leg over his bike. “Not sure if I’m any the wiser for that little exchange.”

“True that,” muttered Billy Flynn, and Zac knew exactly what they were both talking about.

Once they’d all got going again, Zac rode a little way behind the others, trying to collect his thoughts. What little he’d gathered was that Laura had once lived in the cabin with her mother, father and grandfather, but had left when her parents had split. That bit seemed to make sense. Then she’d visited, as estranged children often did, and been taught a bit about chemistry—all straightforward enough.

Loser had lived there as a child, and then he hadn’t when he’d been press-ganged into the army, where he’d stayed until ten years ago—about the time Zac’s father had been arrested, whereupon Loser had appeared on the scene. Straightforward, too, he thought. But somehow he and Laura had missed ever seeing each other. Technically okay, but one hell of a coincidence, but then there was the small matter of the other coincidence. Loser had returned in exactly the same year Zac had forged the bargain with Charm to transport goods out of the city, and who just happened to know the very folk the crates were destined for.

It was that which was a step too far for Zac, far too far.

The road began to climb more steeply as dusk ambled toward them, and as they followed turn after turn, but they never reached a peak. What they got to was more of a ridge, from the brow of which they began to descend a short way toward a plateau set within the confines of the mountains’ sequoia-covered slopes, so it looked like the broad base of a shallow green bowl. At its center of rich grassland lay a lake of shimmering blue water. Although, strangely, there was no sign of any cabin, Zac felt they must now be getting pretty near.

Before they reached the grasslands, though, they descended back beneath the trees of the forested slope, Zac soon sensing that something had changed. The road, certainly, had narrowed, but somehow not naturally. Indeed, fallen trunks now lined it, forcing Loser to slow the truck as he tried to navigate his way between them. A closer look at the fallen trees led Zac to believe they’d been felled on purpose, by which time Loser had slowed even further. Zac reached down for his holstered shotgun, easing back the throttle and drawing Billy aside. The big man was already nodding. He pointed up the hill at something, then Zac noticed camouflage webbing strung between the trees.

And then the bullets started to fly.

They came from everywhere, but might just as well have been from nowhere. The truck slewed around, Loser clearly trying to outrun the ambush but being hampered by the litter of tree trunks, then it lurched and teetered on two wheels, the driver’s door flying open before Loser jumped out, rifle in hand. Zac skidded to a halt and hurled himself off his bike, rolling across the road, shotgun held close, before slamming into a trunk. He sprang up, too aware he’d not gained cover as shots raked the trunk above his head. Then the truck exploded in a huge ball of fire, throwing him and Billy off their feet and along the road. Out of the corner of his eye, Zac saw Noodle flying through the air ahead of a wall of flames which billowed out toward the redwoods and washed up into their canopy.

There was a moment’s silence, when even the gunfire stopped, before a crescendo of reports sounded out as the truck’s cargo of ammunition detonated. Zac lay on the road, arms over his head, and tried to remember how to pray. But then he felt a gun nozzle in the nape of his neck.

Slowly, he moved his hands apart, pushed himself to his knees and then locked his fingers behind his head. In front of him, Billy was in much the same predicament. From head to foot, the soldier now standing over his friend looked like something from one of Connor’s futuristic movies: all dressed in black yet somehow shimmering in the light of the burning truck, his face hidden within a full-face helmet. The exploding ammunition continued to zip past Zac’s ears, taking great chunks out of the trees and showering them in severed branches. The mysterious soldier, though, didn’t seem at all concerned.

Slowly, the ammunition in the truck began to peter out, until, for a brief while at least, it fell silent, as though no one quite expected it to be the end. A couple more bangs sounded, but everything then became silent once more. When Zac tried to look around, to see who was at the other end of the gun in his neck, the nozzle pressed even harder against him.

“Laura?” he shouted.

“Fine, Zac,” came back from not too far away.

“Noodle?” he then called.

“Dandy.”

“Loser?”

“Boss.”

Zac felt the nozzle withdraw, Billy’s captor doing the same, but then the man switched his gun around, lifted it high and brought its butt down hard on Billy’s head. Then Zac knew that was exactly what would happen to…

ZAC WOKE in a dimly lit timber room which smelled of sawed wood. What little light there was came from a small slit in the wall, one clearly too narrow to provide much in the way of a useful view. There was a single door but it had no handle. He decided he was in a cell, at which thought he pushed himself to his knees and slid across to one of the walls, where he leaned his back as he stretched his legs out before him.

“Billy?” he ventured.

“Noodle,” came muffled from a dark corner, clearly from the cell next door.

“You okay?”

“I recently flew into a fuckin’ tree; what do you think?”

Zac grunted a reluctant laugh.

“Zac?” Billy’s voice came through the wall on the other side of the cell.

“Billy?”

“Loser’s here by my side.”

“Is that Billy?” Noodle asked.

“Yep,” Zac said. “Loser’s with him.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Why? What happened to him?”

“No, Billy; imagine having Loser next to you.”

Zac could see Noodle grinning in his mind’s eye. “Either of you any idea where we are?” As soon as the words had left his mouth, he realized what a dumb question it was. He guessed they’d been captured by mercs. The State Defense Force just wasn’t as well-equipped as he’d seen their captors to be. The Free World army must surely be tied up in bigger things, he reckoned, given the small matter of the apocalypse. So, mercs it had to be, he decided, along with realizing he knew very little about Irving Meyers’ lot. Mentally kicking himself, he rued not having asked Laura more, but then, every time he’d brought it up she’d deflected his questions and clammed up. All he knew for certain was quite rudimentary: they lived in the forest, had a kick-ass army, and were involved in some way with Charm, but how, he didn’t know.

“Laura! Hey, Billy, Noodle, either of you know what’s happened to Laura?”

“Assumed she was in there with you, Zac,” Noodle chimed in. “Sure ain’t in here with me.”

“Loser says, ‘No’,” Billy then called.

Zac undid his jacket, slipped out of it and raised his vest. From what little he could see, he appeared to be bruised but not too shabby. He reached into his pocket and found his smokes. Surprised he’d not been stripped of them, he sat back and lit one.

“Are you smoking?” Noodle’s muffled words called out.

“Yep.”

“Bastard.”

13

ZAC’S STORY

Strike time: plus 7 days

Location: The Meyers' Retreat

THE CELL DOOR opened and Laura walked in. She looked at Zac, where he sat, cross-legged, a smoke in his hand.

“Now, how did I know this wouldn’t phase you?” she asked.

Zac angled a look up at her, now convinced she’d been playing him. Clearly, she’d planted herself in the bar, engineered her participation in the rest, and been complicit in Switch’s death.

“Never worry about what you can’t change,” he told her.

She shut the door behind her and sat down beside him.

“You got a spare one of those?”

Zac grunted. “Yeah. You visiting, or here to stay?”

“Here to ask a favor.”

He looked around. “Me? You serious? You need to ask me a favor?”

She took a draw on her smoke. “Sure. My father and grandfather want to meet you.”

“The favor?”

“Keep your temper?”

“I’m hardly in any position…” Zac’s voice had become tight. He wanted to lash out. “How did you do it?”

Confusion swept across Laura’s face. “Do what?”

“That ambush. How did you make sure you were safe? You was right next to Noodle.”

In an instant, rage replaced her confusion. “You think… You think I set this up? Would you be happier if I was in a cell?” She lifted her hair away from her neck, turning it so Zac could see. A black bruise ran from its nape all the way down to between her shoulder blades. “There you go, asshole. Same treatment you got, except, when they looked me over, they happened to spot the resemblance—that they were dragging in their own daughter and granddaughter.”

“So… So you didn’t—”

“Set you all up? Really? I’m as much in the dark as you, except that I’ve been interviewed by my father, and trust me, though he might seem a quiet, old man, he’s brutal with it. They’d no idea we were coming.”

“But the video…”

“All Charm. As far as they were concerned, we were trespassing. They were just trying to warn us away—until that damned truck exploded.”

“Laura, I…”

She placed her finger on his lips. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve only known each other a few days. Hell, I’m still suspicious of you.”

Laura got to her feet and opened the door. “You coming?”

“What’s happening?” Noodle hissed through the wall.

“Shit just got surreal, Noodle. Mighty surreal.” Zac jumped to his feet.

“WHAT DO YOU NEED TO KNOW,” Laura asked him.

Zac looked out of the window and onto the wooden stoop of the cabin. They’d walked the few hundred yards from what he’d taken to be a cellblock, but which had turned out to be a converted log cabin, like all the others in this apparent village of them. It was, though, most definitely a military village, one with perimeters, planked walkways and lookout towers. The room was scantily furnished, just a small sofa and a couple of chairs nestled around a low table.

“Old hiker’s cabins?” Zac asked.

“Once,” Laura answered.

“Now?”

“Now? Now they’re what they are. Quarters, labs, stores, whatever’s needed.”

“And what’s this one?”

“Well, depending on how the meeting with my folks goes, either our temporary home or an empty one,” to which Zac just laughed as she wandered behind him.

“No shit. So, we’re back in solitary if it don’t go well?”

“Let’s hope not.”

“In that case, you better bring me up to speed.”

“On what? My family?”

“Everything.”

Zac felt her hands on his shoulders, then she pulled him around, her lips turned up to his. “I’m no spy,” she whispered, close to him.

He nodded, and she pulled away, leading him to the sofa.

“My grandfather’s called Irving and my father Walter. They both herald from England, the one in Europe, the one that’s no more. They escaped from there when my father was just a young boy, a few days before it was destroyed. Both are chemists-slash-physicists, and both are a little…eccentric.”

“A little?”

“Well, a lot, actually, and this place has always been…well, to me at least, my home. I’ve no idea why or when they bought it, nor why they chose this valley. I think I was born in one of the cabins, but I can’t be sure of that. I do know that none of them can be seen by satellite, though, and the trees are too dense for drones or helicopters to fly through. I also know that seemingly important men came here. I’ve overheard some incredible things, but I know only fragments of their old plans. To me they’re just family, but then, you’ll have to make your own mind up on that.” Laura continued to look at him straight in the eye. “But the rest, the soldiers—the mercs—that’s new.”

“Make up my own mind, eh? And how am I supposed to do that?” He reached out and touched her cheek, as though she was now unknown to him and he was trying to decide if she was real. “Tell me,” he uttered, “how am I supposed to process everything? With all that’s happened, all that’s gone on, how am I supposed to do that?”

“You must forgive me,” a man’s voice rang out, and its owner was now standing in the cabin’s doorway, upright, stiff, but yet somewhat relaxed, an easy smile on his face. His bald pate was part surrounded by a crescent of gray hair, his tweed two-piece suit lending him the impression of being from another era. “Forgive me the intrusion, but I thought we might take care of business before we go any further. Laura, can you tell me why you’re here? But then, if it’s to sell us supplies—guns and gasoline—I can assure you we’re fine for both, and anyway, your cargo has, for want of a better word—expired. Love you as I must…er, as I do, you should never have come here. You chose your fate when you turned your back on me. Daughter or no, I still deem it an incursion into our private space.”

“Must, Father?” Laura said.

Zac shot her a look, but soon turned his gaze back to her father. “My name is Zac Clay.”

The man tilted his head to one side, arched an eyebrow and appeared temporarily lost for words, before saying, “So?”

Feeling his temper rise, Zac took a deep breath and collected his thoughts. “I’ve been told to tell you that I’ve delivered the Nevada Mead.”

The briefest speck of hesitation crossed the man’s expression. “Splendid,” he eventually managed before swiveling on his feet and closing the door behind him as he left.

Zac sat back.

“Well, that didn’t go too well.”

“Oh, I don’t know. At least he knew what the ‘Nevada Mead’ was. That surprised him.” She, too, sat back. “May as well have a smoke, I suppose. If he’s gone to get my grandfather, he might be a while.”

“Why?”

“Wheelchair-bound. Not ideal out here.”

A few smokes later and the door opened again. This time her father wheeled in another man, presumably Laura’s grandfather, and pushed him right up to the table. He then took the seat beside him. “Zac, is it?” the older man barked. “Laura?”

“Grandfather.”

The old man looked anything but feeble, radiating an assured power. Zac coughed. “Zac, Zac Clay.”

Smacking his lips together, the old man nodded a few times. “So I’m told.”

“And you?” Zac asked.

“Irving,” the old man barked. “My name is Irving Meyers and this is my son, Walter.” He looked at Laura. “You know Laura, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Zac replied, wondering if the man was senile.

“So,” and Irving now perked up a tad, “you’ve delivered the Nevada Mead,” at which he laughed. “And I take it you haven’t the foggiest idea what that means.”

“I know it cost a man his life,” Zac said, his voice low, laced with threat.

Irving looked surprised. “Just the one? No, no, it’s cost many, many more than that. Possibly just one who’s of overarching importance to you, but many more, nonetheless. If it were my fault, I might even apologize.”

“It was for a damn fuse,” Zac said.

“It was,” agreed Irving, “but it’s not the fuse that’s important here, more what it connects. How much do you know about the construction project Josiah Charm’s been involved in? The one in the adjacent valley.”

“Just that that’s where all the crates were going, until Loser told me otherwise.”

“Loser?”

“You know him as John,” Laura interjected.

“John? What, the John?”

Laura nodded.

“Is he—”

“He’s in a holding cell,” Walter told him.

“Ah.” Irving appeared quite pleased at that. “Good. So, you were saying, Zac, about Charm’s construction project.”

Zac shrugged. “It’s in the next valley,” but he said no more.

“And that’s it?” Irving rolled his eyes. “God help us. Maybe we should just elaborate a bit. Eh, Walter?”

“Well…I suppose. It’s not like they’re getting out alive if they happen to disagree.”

“Indeed.”

Zac tensed, furtively looking around the room.

“Please,” Irving then said. “The time to be jam-packed full of adrenaline is when you’ve a chance of winning. It’s wasted otherwise.” He stared at Zac, his eyes never flinching in Zac’s own returned stony stare.

“May I, Father?” said Walter, and he cleared his throat. “As I’m sure Laura has told you, my father—her grandfather—left England just before its annihilation. Now, the total destruction of what was then a block of countries was extremely wasteful and led to the accords—the so-called Free World has today, namely—that only the cities be targeted in the event of a nuclear exchange, thus making it more efficient and clinical. Now, the initial purpose of Charm’s little project was to stow a vast number of people. Vast being a nominal amount when compared to the overall population—although vast for our purposes—away from the city, come the inevitable doomsday. This would then facilitate The Free World recovering the quickest, and ultimately winning the war.”

Zac shook his head at the surreal idea now being so clinically justified before him. Did they really think there could be a winner?

“I can see you don’t really feel this could be considered a win?” Walter added, a hint of concern in his expression.

“No, no, not at all. In fact, I think you’re insane even to think it.”

“Insane? Oh, quite the opposite. What my father has achieved is actually quite phenomenal. With Europe…well, what paraded as Europe, out of the way, the world was always going to come down to two or three alliances, and so any war would always escalate to…now, how can I put it…to an ultimate conclusion. And without my father’s input, that would have been the end of the world in its entirety, the full works, a nuclear winter, tidal waves, an ice age, and all that Hollywood palaver. What we got instead was a few thousand-odd clinical strikes causing maximum casualties and minimum collateral damage.”

“Do you mind?” and Zac pulled out his smokes.

“Please, go ahead.”

Zac lit one and slid the rest along to Laura.

“So, you’re justifying the war by packing its victims into the tightest possible space so as to reduce the damage to the rest of the world?”

Irving shifted in his wheelchair and banged on the table. “Is this one a bit dim?” he barked. “We justify no war. What we are saying—”

“Please, Father.” Walter said. “What we’re saying, Zac, is that the war was inevitable, and the war which actually did happen was the best possible outcome. Every single population center of note in the world no longer exists, but the land, the ecosystem it contains, does. Every warhead delivered was part of a pre-negotiated accord, and now none of them exist at all.” Walter sat back, as though his argument was conclusive.

“And that’s the best outcome, for what reason?”

“Because the rest of us are still alive, Zac.” He quickly leaned in, swinging his arm around before clicking his fingers.

“So, what’s the problem?” asked Zac.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Irving said.

“People cheat, Zac,” Walter told him. “People cheat, and that’s the problem.”

“People cheat?”

Zac wasn’t quite sure his ears were working correctly. He understood the general principles behind all that had been said, even the cold justification of it, but spoken over a table, as though they were talking about snaring a rabbit or catching a salmon, was just too strange—there was no other word for it. He tried to process the revelation that every single city in the world had been destroyed, but struggled even with that. He took a drag of his smoke and looked from the old man in the wheelchair to his son. The two men who appeared to have facilitated the apocalypse by making the losses on both sides acceptable, and all from this quaint log village in its idyllic setting where they had nothing to lose.

“You’re worse than Oster Prime,” Zac eventually said, his eyes challenging the two men. “If you hadn’t made it all so clinical, so predictable, it may never have happened; they may never have had to take the risk.”

“Nonsense,” said Irving. “Man always gravitates to self-destruction, it’s in his genes. What we did was save mankind from itself. Now all we have to do is make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“By doing what, exactly?”

“By ruling the peace, of course,” said Irving, to which Walter nodded.

“And how do you propose to do that?” Zac asked, a quick glance at Laura making him wonder why she’d remained so quiet.

“Zac, Zac, Zac,” said Irving. “We’ve told you all this as a courtesy for your recent efforts, for your valiant support of our cause. How do we rule the peace? Please, the same way man has ruled since time began.” He checked himself and then held up a finger and wagged it. “Just because you’re afforded our time doesn’t mean you’re a trusted member of our elite group.” Silence fell between them for a few moments, until Irving drew in a short breath. “Would you like a drink? Food is being prepared for you and your party. We could then have a little drink together, perhaps.”

Zac glanced at Laura. “Laura?”

“As long as they leave the bottle,” she said.

“Take after your mother, do you, eh?” Walter tried to joke.

Zac flinched at the look Laura shot her father, but Irving had been tapping away on a pad attached to his wheelchair, and before the old man had looked up, a knock came at the cabin door. “Enter,” Irving barked, and in came a man carrying a tray laden with a bottle of whiskey and four glasses. He poured their drinks and swiftly backed out of the room, leaving the bottle on the table. Clearly military, Zac thought.

“My valiant effort to your cause?” Zac inquired.

“Indeed, certain items that were needed. For instance: technological products which could only be developed in Black City, ingredients impossible to find out here. Though I have to say, the cigarettes in this part of the forest are absolutely divine; Saggers, I believe they’re called.” Walter eyed Zac’s own pack, which he pushed across the table toward him.

The man shifted in his wheelchair. “Let me give you a scenario, Zac. Whatever you think of the signed accord, far from making war acceptable, it risked the un-riskable. What was at stake was the majority of those who’d voted them into power in the first place, certainly in the case of The Free World. You see, Zac, the wider populous just wasn’t trusted anymore. Take Oster Prime, for instance, I doubt he’d have attracted a rural mandate, though in the end the vote was a bit gray, I’ll admit that. No, the accord should never have been broken, but then what shouldn’t often is, and that was the very future we’d planned for.”

Zac took a sip of his scotch. “You planned for the apocalypse?”

Irving looked surprised. “No, I planned for the end of the stalemate—the breaking of the impasse—as Josiah likes to call it. I planned for a game of chess where the king and queen start throwing their pawns at the other side, not moving their knights elegantly around the board, a board I planned to a clear.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point? I’ve already told you that you aren’t privy to my point. My proposal is this, though: given all that’s happened, what do you want to happen next? How would you like the world to proceed?” Irving left his question hanging as he drank down his drink and then patted his son on his arm. Walter stood up and made to wheel his father out, but then hesitated.

“I’d suggest,” he said, “that you discuss all this with your friends, then come to conclusions—you too, Laura. Then we can talk over breakfast, maybe, and see if we can’t come to some agreement as to how we go forward, together or apart.”

“So, if we don’t, we can leave?”

He shrugged. “You can. Yes, let’s say that,” and with that he wheeled Irving from the room, the door clicking ominously shut behind them.

Zac drummed his fingers on the table. “Not the most family oriented, are they? Seems your fate’s linked to ours, Laura.”

“Linked? Possibly, though their judgment of me may be harsher for my defying them.”

“Defying?”

Laura smiled, yet her eyes betrayed her reticence. It was as though part of her appeared to rue a path she’d long ago taken. She reached out and grasped his hand.

“While they tolerated it when my mother was alive, they weren’t impressed when I elected to stay in Christmas after she’d passed on. You have to remember their roots had been severed, ripped out of the ground and erased when England was lost. Family, future, it was all precious to them, all they had. They took it to heart when I stayed away—and they haven’t forgiven me.”

“So, they throw their lot in with a bunch of smugglers and bikers? I kind of doubt that.”

“No, they threw their lot in with their vision of the future. That’s all that’s important to them now. I get the distinct feeling they care little for anyone who doesn’t share it.”

“But they haven’t explained what their vision is.”

She reached for the bottle of whiskey. “No, no they wouldn’t. You see, they can pick and choose now. Once upon a time governments did their bidding, signed accords they’d devised, but those states had merely bent to the wind to gain their favor. It would appear they’ve had their fill of insincerity. That, I imagine, is why they have their little army of mercs around them. And if I know my grandfather and father, that won’t be the only army they have an affiliation with.”

But Zac found the idea fanciful. That these two men could have had governments doing their bidding seemed highly implausible, that two chemists from a defunct country had had a hand in the fate of the world. Although, he had to admit to himself the current situation did seem to lend the idea a great deal of plausibility, in particular this invisible network of cabins protected by its own army, something which went a long way to giving credence to their boasts. Was it enough, though? Now everything had gone, what influence could this place still have, cut off as it was?

Could their way be the better one, though, he then had to consider, theirs better than the old ways, better these two strange men than his own father and Nathan Grimes, than maybe even the preppers or possibly Josiah Charm. With Switch’s death still so raw, it was no easy task to forget the last act played and to look to the finale to come. But somehow he knew, for the sake of Laura, Noodle, Billy Flynn and possibly even Connor, that was what he had to do, and he was also well aware he’d omitted one name from his list—Loser’s.

“Johnny,” he muttered, and laughed.

“Johnny?” Laura said.

“Loser’s name. Walter, your dad, called him Johnny.”

“Yes, he did, didn’t he?”

“Why do you say it like that?”

Laura appeared to be deep in thought. “The boy! I remember him now. I never met him, but I do remember seeing him, if only a few times, in and around the forest. I don’t ever remember seeing him close to the village, though, nor in it, not as far as I recall, but I do remember seeing an older boy and I guess it must have been him.”

“When you were living here?”

“Yes, before I left, about fifteen or so years ago. It was while my mother was still working here. It would be about right. I’m guessing Loser’s in his mid-thirties.”

“About that.”

“Then yes, it fits. Just used to run around the woods, throw stones into the lake, stuff like that. You’ll have to ask him about it; I was never allowed to meet him.”

“Allowed?”

“Thinking back on it, it was as though I was always in our cabin or the labs when he was around, like it was prearranged somehow.” She shrugged. “I might just be imagining it all, of course.”

Zac looked absently around the room, taking nothing in, trying to make a connection where he knew there might only be coincidence? Another one, he thought. Four valleys and a dead city, but before, it had been a city with four valleys leading from it, and so not entirely implausible people would meet and form acquaintances. This, however, was turning into something of a web, one littered with people and places, all linked somehow. Except this wasn’t a typical spider’s web, for it had more than one lurking creature, and every time a thread was triggered, a different monstrous spider appeared.

Billy, Loser and Noodle finally pulled him from his musings when they all walked into the cabin. They looked fairly bemused, as if they’d been released without explanation.

“Everything all right, Zac?” Billy asked, but Zac didn’t answer straight away, only stood up and hugged his friend close to him.

“Is everyone okay?” he finally asked them over Billy’s shoulder.

They all nodded, even Noodle appearing lost for words.

“So,” Zac told them, “if you think you’re confused now, wait until I tell you what I’ve just learned.” He relayed what he’d been told. At the end, he sat back down and took a swig of his whiskey.

Loser coughed. “Before you get too comfortable, you might want to hear my own little story.”

“Highly doubtful,” Noodle said, taking one of the chairs.

Shooting him a look, Loser muttered a few unintelligible curses, then went behind Noodle and put his gnarled hands on the man’s shoulders. “You think you’re so bloody funny, don’t you? Well, you’re not. And no, I had to leave here because I wasn’t wanted. I was a safeguard, nothing more.”

“A safeguard?” Zac said.

“Yeah, my old man was fuming the day he found out—flogged me to the army that very same day.”

“Found out what?”

“That they weren’t going to use me for whatever it was they wanted me for. Did his nuts, apparently. Threatened to bust the cabins up, all of that. That got us thrown out, escorted out of the valley—though he did get a bundle of money, which he then drank his way through, selling me off while pissed out of his mind. Never knew what happened to him after that.”

Zac sat up straight, realizing Loser was telling him something without telling him anything.

“What? What were you a safeguard for?”

“I dunno—never did find out. All I know is: they found someone new, someone younger. Now, what was it that bastard of a father said to me?” He scratched at his chin. “Something along the lines of ‘Too bloody late for us, and it’s all your fault; you’re too old now.’ You know, he hated me—my dad.”

“So, they found someone else?” Noodle said. “Someone better—”

“Noodle,” growled Zac. “Leave it.”

“Why? What’s up?”

Zac stared at Noodle, but then glanced at Loser in passing as his gaze finally fell on Billy Flynn.

“Connor?” said Billy.

And Zac nodded, “Connor.”

14

ZAC’S STORY

Strike time: plus 7 days

Location: The Meyers’ Retreat

ZAC LEAPT TO HIS FEET. Billy was already on his own and marching for the front door. Following him, Zac heard Laura shout his name, but he ignored her as he slipped out behind Billy.

Out on the stoop, they both hesitated. Before them, the forest framed two mercs who’d leveled their machine guns at them.

Billy banged the wooden railing around the stoop. “No way forward,” he said through gritted teeth.

“No way back,” Zac muttered, transfixed by the guards. “Take a breath.”

“What?”

“Take a deep breath and let’s see if those gun barrels go up.”

“Whatever you say, Zac,” and they both made as though they were just taking in the air.

“So, let’s just think about this,” Zac said, softly, letting his wave of adrenaline subside. “You reckon Connor was Loser’s replacement?”

Billy let out a long breath. “It sure looks like it.”

“Them guns aren’t lowering.”

“Nope.”

“What are you thinking now?”

“That our choices dictate our fate.”

“Yep.”

“Fucking English.”

Then Laura was at the doorway, her hands on her hips. “What now? What crazy conclusions have you jumped to?”

“It’s Connor, I know it is,” Zac growled, going back into the cabin.

“And just what do you think they’ve done to Connor?” Laura pleaded.

“Whatever they’ve…” but then Zac only looked at her, poker-faced. “Only they’d know that, now, wouldn’t they?”

“Know what, Zac? What are you hiding from me?”

“Me? Hiding?” and he felt his face flush with anger. “I’m not bloody hiding anything. You heard Loser, and the timeline—it all fits. Fifteen years ago, my father was arrested and we—me and my family—first came under Charm’s beady eye. Fifteen years ago, we moved into Black City, and I’ll bet that was about the time Loser got dumped. Five years later, Connor has his accident, and we start shipping up here.”

Laura grabbed his wrists, tugging at them. “Don’t you see? That’s just coincidence. You can’t presume it’s all connected, not just because of something Loser overheard; you just can’t.”

“If I’m wrong, they won’t mind telling me why Loser was too old, and what he was too old for.”

“Zac, it could be any number of things—a handyman, a cook, a driver, a trainee bloody chemist, who knows? They could have been looking for anything.”

“Except,” Loser said. “Except you know that can’t be right.”

Zac looked past Laura and at him; she turned to follow his gaze.

Loser took a couple of steps toward them. “It can’t be a handyman, because age makes no odds, nor a driver—you can’t be too old for that at fifteen; too young, maybe. Nope, it has something to do with age, with a window, and whatever they wanted for the child, and whatever it was, they cherished it. All those five years I lived here with my father, we were looked after, that I can confirm.”

“Looked after?”

“Money, credits, food, visits to Morton and Aldertown. Most anything we wanted. Trouble was, my dad got used to the money. The thought of it drying up threw him into a rage which surpassed all his rages. He got drunk in Morton and told me how bloody useless I was. That’s why he sold me on.”

Zac felt his anger wane a little, giving way to reason. He looked at Billy Flynn, and the big man nodded. Zac finally sat down, avoiding a conflict he most certainly couldn’t win.

“We need to think this one out, Zac Boy,” said Billy. “Won’t do Connor any good if we die here.” He glanced at the window, and Zac understood his meaning, understood a powerful force lurked out there. He held his head in his hands for a moment, before running his fingers through his hair as he then looked up at Loser. Knowing Billy’s words to have been true didn’t make them any easier.

“What else, Loser?”

“Me?” he said. “Not much. That’s it, really.”

“No idea why you were picked in the first place?”

“Not a clue.”

Noodle thumped the table. “Goddammit, Loser, you know it was your winning personality.” He poured a scotch into Irving’s old glass. “This one’s free,” he said, raising it to his mouth. He took a swig and smacked his lips. “Damn, but that’s good stuff. Now, first things first, Zac: keep calm—getting all heated up ain’t going to help anyone. Way I see it, we’re captives, or even emissaries, something like that, and we’re in hostile territory.” He pushed his chair back and put his feet up on the table. “Now, if this were another gang’s territory—”

“We’d trash it,” Billy said, his tone ominous.

“Be that as it may,” Noodle said, nodding. “Be that as it may, big man, but we’re currently surrounded by specials, a fair-sized cohort, and on our own, too. Plus, we’ve no guns left, seeing as Loser just abandoned the truck and let it blow up.” Loser tensed, but Noodle waved him down. “So, before you two start thinking of ways to get us all killed, I suggest you weigh up the pros and the cons.”

“Go on,” said Zac.

“Pro:” barked Noodle, “we’re obviously in the hands of some badass dudes with some badass technology. Pro: they have an army, small, but an army anyway. Pro: they appear to know what happened to Connor—”

“We assume,” Laura interrupted.

Noodle wrinkled his nose. “Meh, they know. My gut tells me they know. So, that leads us to the conclusion they’re in cahoots with Charm.” He raised his finger in the air, a hint of intrigue glistening in his eye and his lips curling with a touch of humor. “So, we’re clearly in league with Charm.”

Zac sat up and made to speak, but Noodle held up his hand. “Hold on, hold on, I’m coming to Switch. We’re in league with Charm, and Charm is in deep with… What were their names?”

“Irving and Walter,” Laura supplied.

“The two old boys,” Noodle said with a smile and another sip of his whiskey. “And… And I don’t mean to keep pressing this but it is fairly important, they have an army of killers outside. Personally, I’m all in favor of a fight where we blast our way out, heroes to a man, and take out a much better prepared and manned army with hardly any casualties, but I’m painfully aware that never happens in real life, and we’d all die. So, if it comes to choosing sides, I’m all in with this mob.”

“Switch?” Zac mentioned again. Love Noodle as he did, he wasn’t sure he cared for the way the man had just glossed over Switch’s death. “Don’t you care about him? About what they did to Switch?”

“I was there, Zac,” and Noodle’s voice had become stern. “I was there, and I saw what happened. He bolted, ran, and the first chance of dying, he took it. I saw that, sure as hell I did. I also saw that Charm condemned one of us to die. Tell me, Zac, why did we go into that nuclear wasteland in the first place?”

“To take the casket there,” Zac whispered, knowing full well where this line of thought was leading.

“Why, Zac?”

When Zac at last looked Noodle in the eye, he saw no victory there, no humor, only dark pupils masking his friend’s true feelings. He began to wonder if he’d lost his edge by living in the city all that time. Noodle had spoken the truth, Switch had run to his death, and it was also true Charm had forced them into a position where one of them would die. What Noodle was trying to tell him, he concluded, was “So what?” So what, because at this particular time it didn’t matter; at this particular time, vengeance could wait.

“Agreed,” he finally and quietly said.

“Wait, what?” Laura said, looking from Zac to Noodle and then to Billy and Loser. “What’s agreed? How?”

Noodle hadn’t broken Zac’s stare. “No gavel,” he said. “You’ll have to use your glass.”

“Aye,” Zac said, his voice now resounding around the room, and he struck the table with his glass.

“Aye,” muttered Noodle, as Billy then did the same, and finally Loser, leaving the silence of a course now set lingering over the table, until Laura exclaimed, “Would someone mind explaining what’s just happened?”

“It’s simple,” Billy said, reaching for the last glass and pulling it away from Loser. “We have to align with someone.” He shrugged. “And, as we’re already aligned with Charm—for the sake of Connor—we go with Irv and Walt.”

“Just like that?” Laura said.

“What’s so hard about it?” Billy poured out another whiskey. “Even if you take Connor out of the picture, they’re still the smart move.”

“But Switch?”

“Switch is on a shelf,” Zac said.

Laura looked around the table, but no one offered an explanation until Noodle laughed and said, “On a shelf, to be taken down at a later date.”

She rolled her eyes, studied the ceiling for a moment and then said, “Okay, so any action is deferred. I get it, but the thing is: you aren’t going to just slide in with these folks. They hold all the cards—they’ve got all the power.”

Billy looked at Noodle. He seemed fit to burst, as though straining to hold something back; indeed, they both did, both bursting into laughter at the same time.

“You assholes,” said Zac, then he looked at Laura. “Forgive them; humor sees them through. Of course they need us. Why else are we still alive?”

The truth of Zac’s words appeared to dawn on her by degrees, until she too gained a glint to her eye. “And you’re sure of that?”

“Sure as we can be,” Zac told her. “In fact, the ball’s very much in their court.”

THEY WERE LED out of the room a couple of hours later, the guards not saying a word, merely pointing with their guns to direct them along a short forest trail toward a large cabin set into the hillside. For the most part, Zac kept his gaze to the ground, thoughts of Connor dominating his mind. Laura pulled alongside him as they neared the cabin.

“This is where they live.”

“It’s going to be tough—biting my lip—going to be hard.”

She squeezed his arm. “Try,” she muttered as they walked up the steps and into the cabin.

The smell of pine hit Zac straight away, the hallway fresh and airy. A door swept open and Walter looked out. “Splendid,” he said. “In time for some lunch.” He stood aside to let them in. “Please, take a seat.”

The room was little different from the cabin they’d just left, the exception being the table and chairs, these looking more suited to a formal dining room. One by one, they took a seat.

“Mind your manners, Loser,” said a rather muted Noodle, as though he felt a little out of his depth. A short line of waiters appeared, and, much to the bemusement of them all, lunch was served. Walter sat at the head of the table, watching each of them in turn.

“Please eat, drink the wine, and then we’ll talk.”

Though his stomach churned with pent-up frustration, Zac realized how hungry he was as soon as the food hit the table. Any conversation was placed on Switch’s shelf, but once they were done and all sitting back contentedly, Walter coughed.

“The conclusion you’ve reached is satisfactory, not ideal but satisfactory, and time presses; time, gentlemen…and lady, of course, is now very precious, very precious indeed. So, what retribution do you have in store for us later?” he then asked, his voice now laced with an undertone of threat. “Yes, the cabin is bugged for our convenience.” He paused and raised his glass before continuing. “Not that I am overly worried about that. No, not at all. Are any of you familiar with the law of parsimony? Occam’s razor?” He took a sip of his wine.

Zac scanned those at the table, seeing furtive glances which reminded him of children being scolded. He found it amusing in a strange way, although Laura was the exception. He decided she probably did know but was electing to keep it quiet.

“No?” challenged Walter. “Well, one particular offshoot of that way of thinking can be summed up like this: it’s vain to do with more, what can be done with fewer. Now, we have a particular problem which revolves around a certain scenario currently ongoing, which is to say nothing while still blabbing away. Sharing a secret, Zac Clay, divulging a plot hatched over the fullness of time, is something I have particular difficulty with. You see, I don’t care for people, don’t trust them, and because of that I rarely get any trust in return.”

He signaled for more drinks and then waited until all the plates had been cleared and the drinks served. Without asking, he took a smoke from Zac’s pack and sighed.

“But I suppose I have to start somewhere, and as your life is pretty much an open book, Zac, it is mine—ours, if you include my father—which needs to be wagered so a deal can be done. So, here’s that deal.

“Yes, we do need something from you. There, I’ve said it. But what, eh? Occam’s Razor tells us what; the simplest explanation is always the best, or that you shouldn’t use more when you can use less?”

He lit his cigarette. “Take for instance the apocalypse. What is the simplest way to avoid another?”

“Don’t make any more bombs?” Noodle offered.

“Yes, er, Noodle, but if man can, he will seek dominion over another, so we can assume the bomb will be made.”

“Then kill all the men,” Noodle tried again.

“Exactly. Occam’s razor would have us kill every man, woman and child, which would then ensure a nuclear war could never happen again, but there’s an obvious issue with that in that we would all be dead. So, essentially, bugger Occam, or interpret it differently. Trust me for now; trust me a simple answer to the conundrum of the razor is indeed possible, just not desirable. Which brings me neatly back to using more or less.”

Walter paused for a moment and then cleared his throat.

“I think we should have some wine. Renshaw,” he shouted. “Three bottles of red and some glasses. Explanations,” he then muttered, “are so difficult because actions are the children of events, and action is the spawn of reason, and in many cases, who can explain what truly motivates one? Suffice it to say, I will try.”

He took a draw on his smoke, appearing to consider his next words.

“As we’ve already told you, Charm squirreled away a vast number of the Black City’s residents, and by vast number we mean a few in real terms but significant enough, we could form a new city. What I haven’t told you, as you rightly suspect, Zac, is your brother is among them, and nor have I told you of certain other issues which have occurred.”

“Connor…”

“Your brother is alive, although we would…we do have reservations about how Josiah is managing his safety. In many ways he’s sailed too close to the wind with his charge. Now, there is a small issue in that Josiah Charm thinks of things on a very localized level. It’s almost like he’s consumed with the little area of land around us and forgets the rest of the world still exists, and that could be his downfall or his greatest asset; to focus on a micro or macro level—who knows what will work best, eh? So, tell me, why has he sent you here? What ploy is he playing out?”

“I don’t follow,” Zac muttered, shifting uncomfortably on his chair.

“Follow? No, you wouldn’t. Reading between the lines, Charm sent you here and told you to say you’d delivered the Nevada Mead. Well, that’s all well and good, but on the surface it means little to me at all, apart from you fitted a fuse which connects Project Firebird to the outside grid. While you factor that in I ought to tell you he paraded your brother in public view just the other day. So, what’s changed and why is the fuse so important? It tells me Charm is taunting my father and I, that he’s achieved something he was unsure he could.”

“Paraded?”

“He let Connor out of the compound, endangering him greatly, and just to make a point.”

“But why?”

“I’ve already told you—I don’t know, but I suspect circumstances have changed.”

“But that’s impossible. Charm sent us here a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry?” Walter said.

Zac sat back, staring at the man, concluding the man truly didn’t know. “The instructions to come here were packed in with the fuse. That crate’s been in Christmas since before the bombs dropped.”

“Then it’s worse than I thought.”

“What is?”

“I’m now fairly sure he sent you here in anticipation of a need that neither my father nor I had even conceived of until we were wondering what to do with you. I think he was a step or two ahead, no matter how far behind we thought he’d fallen. I think you are his insurance.”

Zac took a long breath and an equally long sip of his drink. Noodle and Billy were exchanging confused glances, Loser seemed lost in a world of his own, and Laura was biting her lip as though an awful lot hinged on what was about to be discussed. “Is there a point to all this?” Zac finally asked.

“There is,” Walter assured him, his thin lips then pressed firmly together, as though attempting to keep his secrets from spilling out. He stared at Zac for quite a while, until he breathed in sharply, as though he’d come to a conclusion.

“We think Oster Prime is about to clean shop.” Walter leaned forward. “And last time he cleaned shop, he wiped out the world as we know it.”

“He’s still alive?” Zac muttered.

Laura ran her fingers through her hair. “Jesus,” she whispered.

“You mean...” Noodle stood and walked around the table to stand behind Walter.

“He means,” said a chilling voice from the hallway, “that Prime only got the job half done.” Irving wheeled himself in through the doorway. “He now means to eradicate every single thing that’s a threat to his power. The underground compound Connor’s holed up in—although compound’s a pretty loose term for it—is under siege by the federal army, and by all accounts about to break. Factions within factions, Zac, plots within plots, and they’re all bubbling away quite nicely. We, that is Walter and I, estimate the probability of Connor surviving as the man you knew is diminishing day by day for more than one reason.” He wheeled himself up to the table. “Ah, a red; marvellous,” and he helped himself to a glass. After taking his time to appreciate it he shouted, “Renshaw!” and looked back at the doorway. Zac’s eyes followed his gaze.

A merc now stood in the doorway, a machine gun resting easily in his hands, as though it was part of him, something Zac was sure he’d use if given half a wink from Irving.

“What the…” said Billy, but Walter stood.

“Trust,” he said. “We told you trust has to be earned, and you don’t trust us, which is a bit of a problem when it comes to two sides who don’t trust each other but who need to come together.”

“Laura?” Walter asked.

“I’m undecided, Father.”

“You see, Zac, if I can persuade Laura, then I can persuade anyone. Let’s try another tack. Renshaw, if you would?”

Renshaw placed his gun by the door and came into the room. A whirring sound caught Zac’s attention, and he looked up to where it was coming from. A slot had opened up in the timber ceiling and a large screen had begun to lower through it. At the same time, the windows turned from clear to black and the lights dimmed. When the screen came to a rest just above the table, a high-resolution map of the entire area appeared on it.

“What we have here is our ‘land’, if you like,” Renshaw said, discarding his tunic and turning up his sleeves. This is us,” and somehow he moved a cursor on the display, “this, the valley with Firebird in it; this, Morton Valley; and so on. This red blob, here, represents the federal army, and therefore the enemy—for our purposes, anyway. And by the way, they’re steadily getting reinforced.”

Renshaw looked over them, appearing satisfied they were all following him.

“Inside this mountain we have Project Firebird. Over here, the preppers' compound; and farther over, Sendro Verde, Christmas and the Pen, and that’s just about it. In total, we estimate a few thousand souls. So, why is Oster Prime so interested in this neck of the woods?”

He looked around, clearly waiting for answers. Zac glanced at Walter. The man was sitting patiently, clearly relaxed, watching as if he were appreciating a magnificent sunset.

“It can only be Firebird,” Loser said. “He must be after the brains.”

Renshaw nodded. “On the surface, that’s what it would appear, but the surface is often just an innocent foil for what lies beneath. Do you really think Oster Prime hasn’t got his own bunker, his own cheat? Do you really think the Russians, Chinese and Koreans don’t have theirs?”

Loser scratched his head. “So, everyone’s got a bunker, and we’re back to square one.”

Walter began to clap. “Exactly, that’s exactly where we are, square bloody one.”

“Why do I think there’s a big ‘But’ coming?” Zac asked, refilling his glass and pulling another smoke out of the pack.

Walter flashed him a grin. “There’s always a ‘But’, Zac. What do you need to make a city?”

“People? Buildings?”

“They can make a village, but a city, Zac, that takes technology. What do you think Charm’s been smuggling—or rather, you’ve been smuggling on his behalf—out of Black City for the past few years? What do you think Charm’s been up to?”

“Technology?” Zac guessed.

Walter laughed. “Building blocks, Zac, building blocks. Your gang have smuggled everything from viable human eggs to harvested sperm—the population. It sent out the building blocks needed to rebuild the beginnings of another Grid—to grow a city, and it sent out all the knowledge ever gathered in the first one. In essence, if everyone was going to cheat, we wanted to be the best at it. Except for one problem: it all went without a hitch.”

“Problem?” Zac asked, and felt Laura squeeze his hand.

Walter stood. “Indeed. Packing the combined knowledge of man into such a confined space was solved by Laura’s mother—initially. We recreated intelligence, made it mobile so it could inhabit nearly any crystaline structure—a rock, for instance. We were to experiment on interfaces—plugging a human brain into the matrix, if you will.” Walter had walked around the table and was now behind Loser. “John was supposed to be the first to try it, but Laura’s mother got cold feet.”

He patted Loser on the shoulder. “His code name was Godfrey, not because of our old English roots, more because we saw it as setting God loose, setting him free. If ever a god could be interpreted as anything, it was knowledge. All our research told us,only an adolescent mind would survive the transition. Then Connor came along.”

Zac tensed, but Walter waved him down. “What happened next wasn’t our fault. We like to think it was an accident, and not the other explanation.”

“What other explanation?”

Walter rounded the table to face Zac. “The other explanation is the AI known as Sable, manufactured her own escape—to put it simply—she burst free and invaded Connor’s body.”

“So,” Loser muttered, “you tossed me on the scrap heap because I was too old?”

“Yeah, Godfrey,” Noodle smirked. “For a minute, there, you could have been God.”

Loser cast him a sideways glance. “You can go off people, Noodle. You do know that, don’t you?”

Walter let a sigh pass his lips. “Scrap heap? We paid your father handsomely. Is it our fault he squandered it, that he drank it away?”

Zac perked up a touch. “But what’s this time stamp, this thing which made Loser too old?” The question hung in the air before he remembered the real point of his words. “Why was Connor lined up to replace him? Why him out of all of them?”

Walter stared at Zac. “You should discuss that with your father.”

In the ensuing silence, Irving wheeled himself backward. “A family issue,” he grunted.

Walter moved behind his father. “I think we’re done here. Before I answer any more of your questions, I want to show you something. Will you allow me that?”

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

“Because you won’t believe us,” barked Irving, at which he held his head in his hands. “Yes, it was always the plan to use Connor. He was the boy. There, I’ve told them, Walter.”

“Father!” Laura screamed. “My mother forbade… You promised.”

“I never promised anything of the sort.”

Irving looked up. “But, we never did modify him. It was taken out of our hands, and the AI had already invaded him by the time we were alerted to the…the accident. In hindsight we should have terminated it there and then. Trouble was, we wanted to see what would happen. You see, it should have been contained, should have been stopped.” Walter had become fidgety, seemingly unsure of his words. Zac wondered if he was lying.

Laura shot to her feet. “No, you didn’t?”

“Yes, we did. We think she saved his life, so we decided we’d nothing to lose. We let her live.”

“Sable?” Laura spat.

“Sable,” Irving confirmed.

Zac wondered what he was hearing. He wondered why it was as bad as they appeared to infer. “So, this Sable saved him?”

Irving stuttered before eventually spilling out, “In a manner of speaking. She took over functions he couldn’t manage—essentially, she became his life support system. We thought it would last only a few days and then he’d die, she with him, but the boy flourished, recovered well and blossomed. He seemed to be able to keep Sable under control as though she were a lower level AI. Then all this happened, and a day or so ago, we think Charm made a mistake.”

“What happened?”

“Like I’ve said, it will be easier to show you.”

“Why?”

“Because we have to persuade you to do something for us.”

“What?”

The old man wheeled back and forth in his chair.

“You have to kill your brother, Zac. You have to kill Connor.”

Irving’s words hit Zac like a bullet in the stomach. He felt sick, sick to his very core, his mind revolting at the very thought. Had he heard him correctly? Did the old man just say he…

All eyes were now on Zac, his decision awaited with bated breath. Renshaw had grabbed his automatic back, though, looking every inch the soldier now rather than the lecturer. He moved back into the center of the room, his aim never wavering, and from behind him, two more armed men filed in and took up positions. Zac studied them in turn, clearly both mercs, both cool, collected and calculating.

But Zac didn’t want to throw in his hand right now and let these men know what he truly felt. It would surely have meant a swift end. And so, in the few moments he had, he thought hard, letting his finger circle the top of his glass.

“You want me to kill my brother? You want me to do this when you know I’ve already let one man die to save him. When you must also know I’ve lived a life entirely at odds with the one I wanted just to see him thrive. So, tell me, knowing all this, what makes you think I’d even remotely consider doing such a thing?”

“Willingly?” Irving said, holding his glass of wine to his mouth. “No, no, you wouldn’t do it willingly, but you will do it.”

Every sinew in Zac’s body had drawn taut, every muscle tensed, as he tried to control himself. He wanted to say so much more, to spout fire and brimstone, but he clenched the muscles in his throat to hold them back as he gripped the arms of his chair, as though wishing to crush the very wood. “What,” he eventually managed through gritted teeth, “have you done to him?”

“Us?” said Irving, seemingly unaware of the dead atmosphere which now hung between them. “Aren’t you forgetting she saved his life? That Charm had him adapted in our own hospital, in what was technically our city? Are you forgetting that?”

“So that makes his life yours to take away?”

Irving let out a long sigh. “You’re missing the point—”

“The point is my brother.”

“The point, Mr. Clay, is that he is not your brother, not anymore. Didn’t you notice how he never really fitted in? How he couldn’t stay in one place for long?”

Zac thought back to the last time he’d seen Connor. True, he’d been jumpy, hadn’t stayed more than a few minutes, and yes, it had been awkward, but that didn’t change anything. Connor was his brother, his flesh and blood, and that was all that mattered.

“He flitted about a bit; so what?”

“Always seemed okay to me,” said Billy Flynn.

Irving raised his hand, his head now nodding forward as though slowly wilting. “But you did notice. You do know. You may not like to admit it, but you do, both of you, know what I’m talking about. Let me try and explain it a different way.”

“Nothing, there’s nothing you can say.”

Irving raised his head, just a little. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I am old. I am tired. I am nearly done for the day. Bear with me for a little while and let me explain this one last thing. An AI or VPA, or whatever you call them, however you disguise it, is in some ways sentient. Anything that can think constructively can be construed as intelligent.”

“Well, that rules you out, Loser,” said Noodle, and he began nervously tittering under his breath as Loser gave him daggers.

“Shut up,” Zac growled.

The old man’s gaze now rested solely on Zac. “Let them play. Your troubles have flattened your humor; don’t begrudge them theirs. AIs need to be governed, and governed in the true sense of the word. Govern can mean a few things, but what we’re talking about here is regulation—constraining the rate of the AI’s growth to ensure it operates properly. Sable has shaken loose of her bonds, or more specifically, Charm has unshackled her.”

“Un…shackled…her?”

“However it’s happened, he’s given her her head, loosed the reins, unleashed her, or let her unleash herself. Why? Well, we aren’t too sure about that, but it has happened.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means unless we stop her, unless we kill the machine, we are entering a new time, a new era, one where we no longer have control.”

“But can’t you just…”

“Cancer, Zac, cancer. The AI known as Sable will grow like a tumor, spread like one until she is all there is. She is the single most developed AI which has ever existed. She is evolution. The brother you knew is already dead. Eventually, his body will be wholly hers, and as his functions become less and less important to her, so she will forget about its maintenance, and then, Zac, the shell who is Connor will decay before your very eyes.”

His words had hit home, and he felt Laura’s hand on his again, but gained no comfort from it. A sense of bewilderment flooded through him, set him adrift, as though he’d been cut away from everyone else at the table, his sole purpose wrenched from his grasp. Zac felt truly lost, numb and desolate.

“Why me?” he barely whispered.

“As she gains awareness—proper awareness—she’ll become defensive. It may already be happening, there in the compound. Things may not be to her best liking in that place, may indeed be muddling her intentions, but she will likely already be coercing events around her to her own ends. With awareness comes paranoia, Zac, but in a machine such paranoia will be calculated to the nth degree.”

“But why me?”

Irving raised his head, his old, tired eyes meeting Zac’s. “Because we wager Charm sent you to us for a reason. He’ll have known she could get out of control, and as his plan was to test her, and if all went well, to use her, he wanted a backup. We think you’re that very thing, the only one who can get close enough to stop her. And to stop her means killing Connor, a task for which the clock is now well and truly ticking, something we believe Oster Prime has now gotten a whiff of.”

15

ZAC’S STORY

Strike time: plus 7 days

Location: The Meyers' Retreat

THEY FOLLOWED Renshaw toward an isolated cabin. Confusion once again roiled within Zac. Were they telling him Connor was both alive and dead, all at the same time, that he’d survived but as a living corpse? Was it already too late for him? He clung to his grief, knowing he’d have no time to assimilate it, that he’d hold onto it as though as a deadly poison waiting to be ingested, to be swallowed in a final fatal act. Renshaw’s voice cut through his thoughts as the man directed them down a path.

“Where are we going?” Zac asked.

“To witness a birth,” but then he halted. “Well, actually we’ve missed that. What we’ll see is more of a reaching for maturity, an attempt to grasp reality. What Walter and Irving failed to explain is the exact nature of the AI they refer to as Sable. It understands a great deal, too much, but is naïve about certain things.” His face remained devoid of any expression. “It’s reaching out, flexing its muscles, and it can’t be allowed to continue. That, Zac, is why you have to stop it, because if you don’t, maybe everyone dies.”

Renshaw continued leading them along the trail, one which took them to a small cabin, its door sliding open as they approached. Without breaking his stride, Renshaw passed through into the room beyond, into a room of stark white which resembled a school classroom. As all but Zac followed him in, he turned and stood tall before them. “This,” he beamed, “is where it all happens.”

Zac had only gotten as far as the doorway, the noise of the sliding door repeatedly attempting to close against him the only thing breaking the ensuing silence. That the room reminded him of the tube where Switch had died made him feel nervous. It was formed of the same resin, but here it had a silver sheen to it, as though reflecting the glow of the many computer monitors set in a line along a long table down the center of the room. Then he saw the resin itself appeared to be pulsing ever so slightly, as though it were alive, lending the room an almost magical air. Before each monitor stood a chair, each glistening as though an unseen light shone down upon it and its monitor. The whole place had the feel of being a living being.

“Imagine,” Renshaw now said, “a computer not restricted to its memory chips, one which can, essentially, stash its memory anywhere. Such a computer would have limitless potential, and if you add in AI developments like Sable’s, then that intelligence would be beyond the realms of our comprehension, and I’ll tell you why.” He faced Zac, who was still frozen in the doorway. “Because then it would live. It would then, in essence, move. Its memory would be like our soul, like our very consciousness, but flowing from one crystaline structure to another. It could seek out what it wanted, what it needed. Its food would be information, its goals, though, known only to itself. That is why this room is so contained, and trust me, this AI is primitive when compared to Sable. She lives, Mr. Clay; Sable already lives.”

Zac finally stepped inside, now beside Laura, the door at last hissing shut behind him, locking them all in.

“It lives?” Zac questioned.

“Technically,” Renshaw told him. “Sentient computers, those with the ability to think, have been around for an age, from the first ones who could play chess up to what we have now. Thought, Zac; what is thought? Whatever the creatives say, it’s just a load of yes’s and no’s until you get to where you want to be. Options, Zac, that’s all it is. Where we’re at now, though, is a little more worrying.”

“In what way?”

“Let me show you, but first...” He handed his machine gun to one of the guards. “There, now we can all relax.”

“I’m about as far away from relaxing as I’ve ever been,” said Noodle, shuffling where he stood.

Renshaw pulled out a chair. “This cabin is a living computer, but one contained within an impenetrable shell—there’s no power source, you see. Everything it needs is supplied by self-contained sun cells and batteries.”

“Can we skip to the bit that affects Connor?” Zac urged, but Renshaw only stared at him. To Zac he was a conundrum, clearly ex-army but also versed in much more. Now closer, Zac could see the first signs of middle age creeping into his features, crow’s feet nestled in the corners of his eyes, gray flecks in his hair. He had the overall look of a man burdened by more than he was willing to reveal.

“Skip, Zac?” he said. “Tell me, how do I skip more? How do I put into laymen’s terms what I need to reveal to you, what I must reveal in order for you to understand completely why we ask the un-ask-able, why we demand the impossible?”

“You say ‘We’,” Laura said. “Are you part of the family, now?”

“Me?” said Renshaw, avoiding her gaze at first, but then holding it firmly as he told her, “I am a proxy for the child who never returned home. They couldn’t wait forever to share their paradox; they needed a casting vote.”

“And what paradox would that be?” she demanded.

“Whether to let their accidental child loose into the world, or to destroy it.”

“So,” said Zac, “Irving and Walter made this…this thing?”

“This AI?” He shook his head. “Not in any real sense. They invented this resin,” and he tapped the wall behind him, “gave it a home, a place to grow, to thrive. The original idea was to give this cabin a consciousness so it could maintain itself, but so much more has happened since. Coincidence took our plans out of our hands.”

“Coincidence?”

“Yes,” but he looked a little bemused. Then, smiling, he went on to say, “Well, we like to think of it as coincidence, the other explanation you’ve already heard. And that Sable engineered all this is even more worrying than the prospect of another apocalypse. It was unfortunate for Irving and Walter. A slight skew to their plans for the boy.”

“So, they pretend they saved him when what they really did was kill him.”

“That’s good, Zac: thinking of him as dead—it’s a start. And he is, or will be soon enough. No, what they did was suppress her as best they could. Essentially, they cornered her in his brain and trapped her there. Somehow, we think Charm undid the work. To do that, though, he must somehow have restricted her yet further still while he worked his magic, otherwise she’d certainly have found a way to destroy him.” Turning to the screen behind him, he pressed on it and swiped his hand across it. A three-dimensional schematic came up, presenting what looked like some kind of spaceship with a bulbous prow, all its floors and compartments revealed in cutout form. It had a long hull split into three levels, the lowest leading to what looked like a long, winding tail.

“What the hell’s that?” asked Zac.

“Looks like a snail,” said Loser.

“More a cat,” Billy Flynn ventured, and he pointed. “The big bit’s the head, the barrely bit the body, and then the curly part is its tail.”

“Spaceship,” Noodle assured everyone. “Definitely a spaceship.”

Zac looked along the table, shaking his head slightly. No matter what was happening, however grave the situation, this group couldn’t be kept down, he thought. “You gonna tell us, then, Renshaw?”

The man looked at them each in turn, his eyes finally lingering on Laura. “Not guessing, Miss Meyers?”

“I know exactly what it is. It’s Project Firebird. My mother designed it.”

“Exactly,” Renshaw said, turning back to the screen. “Project Firebird. I never met your mother—a few years before my time—but she was way ahead of hers. This arrangement of walls and floors, this lattice of interconnected rooms and levels, Zac, is, as Laura so correctly identified, Project Firebird. In many ways it was her mother’s madness—”

“My mother was not mad.”

Renshaw hesitated. “Forgive me; her inspiration made this place possible, and it was her dying wish it never be built. I’m told it was the reason she ran away from here. She thought it could never be completed, not without her input, but she was proved wrong.”

“What exactly is it?” said Zac. “And don’t give me that storage facility bull, because we all survived the apocalypse without it.” His voice had been even but his tone laced with impatience.

“Zac, Zac, Zac, I’m getting there. Project Firebird, in its purest purpose, was a place where man might survive in the event a near meteor collision with the Earth. Laura’s mother, Sarah, was obsessed with the thought that all the centuries of human endeavor might be lost in one stray impact, one unfortunate meeting with a roaming heavenly body. Should a hundred-year-long night become a reality, such a place would endure. Ice age, pestilence, viral attacks, anything and everything the future could possibly throw at us would fail to wipe us out because of refuges such as this.”

“From the way she spoke about it to me,” Laura struggled to say, her voice crammed with emotion, “it was only the purest of intentions which spurred her on.”

Renshaw shrugged and pushed his bottom lip out while appearing to consider this, one hand tucked casually in his trouser pocket, the other held out as though wielding a pointer. To all intents and purposes, Zac thought, he looked very much like a teacher, they in their turn his pupils. “So I’m told, but pure ideals rarely get things built. The idea of a nuclear apocalypse was much more likely, and a far better motivation.”

“And the fact she refused to build it to further the political maneuverings of others should not be considered grounds for madness,” Laura asserted.

“No,” Renshaw admitted, “but the circumstances surrounding her leaving may…” But then he glanced a little sheepishly at her. “Anyway, to the structure itself. Project Firebird, Zac, was built, despite Laura’s mother’s protestations. It’s a fully functional, self-sufficient paradise concealed in a mountainside not ten miles from here. The cat’s head, as Billy put it, is the residential and commercial areas, its body the military one, and its tail a thing called Hell’s Gates.”

“Hell’s Gates?” Loser muttered.

Zac couldn’t help but notice it was the second bit of input from him. Usually a quiet man, more at ease in the background, he now seemed to be showing a fair slice of unusual interest. Zac noted this and filed it away. He was on edge now, looking for any angle, any way out which might offer a means to untangle Connor from this mess.

“Hell’s Gates, Sarah Meyers' greatest success,” Renshaw continued. “Conceived with a mind not to repel a nuclear strike but to survive a near meteor collision—near being anything over a hundred miles. A spiral tunnel of nine vast gates, it was all designed to deflect force and diminish it bit by bit should it break through the first, or then the second, and so on.” He paused. “By default, it meant it could also withstand a near nuclear strike.”

“And so make it the perfect place to store a city in waiting,” Zac muttered.

“Indeed, and in so doing become a political trophy, because no matter how covert we may have been, you just can’t keep something like this quiet. Noses twitch and fingers point, Zac, and then people begin to covet.”

“Covet? You mean to tell me even as the nukes were falling, politicians were haggling over who would own what?”

Renshaw nodded, quite enthusiastically. “Indeed, in fact, the nukes hadn’t even fallen and the feds and local army were already getting ready to go at it hammer and tongs. And we, too, actually have to put our hands up to that one.”

“You have to what?” and Laura stood up, abruptly. “How can you stand there and say all this as though it were just something which happened to happen. It’s like you don’t even care.”

Renshaw looked her up and down. An ill-concealed sneer threatened to color his expression. “Unlike you, I accept the past and pay it little heed. Only the future should matter.”

“Just what do you mean by that?” she spat.

“You had two parents—a mother and a father. One is gone. It’s time to get on side with the other. It’s time for all of you to jump on board. There is the Meyers' option, the Clay option—and that means Cornelius and not you, Zac—and there’s Charm; that is, assuming the man has gone rogue, or of course, you could always throw your hat in with the preppers and learn to chew straw and line dance. And there’s Oster Prime, though I sincerely doubt you’d get him on the phone.”

Renshaw paused again, leaning back against the screen. “Shall I light her up? Shall I show you?” He nodded to himself. “Yes, I think maybe I should.” Pushing himself away from the screen, he turned to it and pressed some seemingly random point. The entire schematic of Project Firebird lit up with golden veins of luminescent dots, all sweeping around it, through it, along it, like the building had become alive, a pulsing, breathing thing. “That, gentlemen, is Sable as we project her to be now.”

Laura gasped and sat back down. “So, she’s contained?”

Renshaw pointed at her as though she were his favorite student. “For now. But, Laura Meyers, what did Charm bid you do? Ask yourself that, but first let me draw your attention to this tiny dark spot, here, right next to the cat’s neck, or by its heart, depending on how you view the animal.”

He stepped aside, circling the particular area with his finger. “This, lady and gentlemen, is the real issue. While this stays black, Sable is contained. The fuse Charm had you, or rather had Switch, put back, links this little room to the rest of the world. And as you can see, this area remains black, still showing Sable has not infected the links from it, not as yet, and that confuses us. With the fuse installed, technically Sable should be countrywide, should be worldwide by now, but either Charm’s found a way to hold her back, or Sable is choosing to hide within her prison. Personally, I suspect the latter, as do your father and grandfather.”

“One thing confuses me about all of this,” said Loser. “You say Oster Prime has reared his ugly head, you say the complex is under siege, and you said the chances of Connor surviving are fast diminishing, that this Sable is taking over. One minute it looked like y’all wanted us to rescue him, the next, you want us to kill him, unless those things are one in the same, of course. And along with that, Charm sends us here once we’ve done his bidding, and you tell us you know nothing about it. Not five minutes later, you tell us all about the fuse. Way I see it...” Loser pulled out a smoke. “’Bout time you started singing from one hymn sheet.”

Renshaw smiled but then coughed, as though he’d choked, but it seemed more than likely he’d just been caught out. “Truth is,” he eventually said, having regained some of his composure, “we just can’t tell. We can intercept transmissions from the federal army and so ascertain what we think is going on. What we’re sure of, though, is they’re going to start blowing through the Hell’s Gates' many doors soon, one by one.”

“Hold up there, chief,” said Loser. “You can’t have a gate capable of withstanding a meteor strike one minute, then have it being blown up with dynamite or C4 or whatever, the next.”

“Different forces, Loser,” Laura said. “Hell’s Gates are designed to deflect, not to take localized, systematic explosions. They can’t destroy it; they shouldn’t destroy it.”

“Why?” asked Renshaw. “Why shouldn’t they? You wanted no part in its construction. You just hid out and made pills for a bunch of Neanderthal smugglers.”

“Billy, you gonna just sit there and take that?” Noodle said.

“Noodle, I swear…” hissed Zac.

“Sorry, Zac. Just having me a bit of fun.”

“Can we please…” Renshaw said in frustration, making him seem even more the teacher.

Noodle shrugged. “Just saying.”

Zac couldn’t help but smile. Noodle might just manage to keep them all sane.

“You were having a go at Laura,” Noodle offered, holding his hand out to her. “Please, do carry on.”

“No, let me,” Laura jumped in with, “because if mankind hasn’t learned from the last few days, we’re going to need every refuge in every country if we’re to survive.”

A slow clap from behind announced Walter’s presence. Zac had been so entrenched in the exchanges before him he hadn’t heard the door slide open. “A sterling job, Renshaw. To be honest, I didn’t think you had it in you. Tell me, can one have a prodigal daughter? I guess so, all being equal. I take it you’re now on board, Laura?”

Zac watched her closely, watched her eyes dart around the room, her bottom lip being sucked in as she rubbed her palms up and down her jeans. It looked as if she knew she’d been trapped, tricked into a course of action. Or had her realization merely confirmed a deeply buried desire to continue her mother’s work? Zac couldn’t tell, but he recognized she’d now changed from being that easygoing woman he’d met on the deck at the back of the bar. As he realized she’d become another one trapped in the all-consuming web, it dawned on him the whole point of their coming here had been, the hidden agenda may very well have been to turn her head and not his.

“So,” Walter said, “will you help us, Daughter?”

Silence ensued—not a word. Zac could almost taste the tension. He knew Laura had reached the edge of a precipice and now looked down into an abyss. If she jumped, she’d be theirs forever. He wondered if he too could make that bargain, but soon admitted he couldn’t, not if they expected him to kill his brother, Connor. But then, they’d have known that all along. No, any parley he had to make would have to have Connor’s survival, or at the very least a chance of it, as its main condition.

“Yes,” Laura whispered.

“Splendid,” cried Walter. “And you, Zac; what about you?”

Zac took his time, turning his pack of smokes around and around in his hand, tapping it on the resin table at every full circle. He held it up to his mouth and eased one out with his teeth, sliding the pack away. Lighting it, he took a long draw and began to nod. “I’m all yours, Walter, as long as you promise me this: Connor has a chance at life. If Sable proves to be just a common or garden variety AI, then Connor lives.”

This time it was Walter’s turn to delay. He rocked slowly on his heels, arms behind his back. “Agreed,” he finally said. “Work starts first thing in the morning. Night is peaceful here, so cherish it, it’s the last peaceful one you’ll get for a while. Shall we say nine hours?”

16

ZAC’S STORY

Strike time: plus 8 days

Location: The Meyers' Retreat

ZAC STARED up at the bedroom’s timber ceiling. He liked it here; it reminded him of his old home in Christmas—simple, easy, old.

He was remembering back to days seemingly long past but in reality only recently gone. Days when he got through each day by drinking a bottle or two with Billy Flynn, days spent talking shit and thinking shit. Those were the days when he’d been just plain bored with life. Thing was, he now decided, he couldn’t work out whether he missed those times or not. He couldn’t work out if he could have taken the boredom, the inaction, or the treading water once more. But then, yes, he thought, he’d take it every day of the week if it meant Connor could live.

“There has to be a way,” he muttered.

“What?” said Laura, her eyes still partly closed.

“There has to be a way for Connor to live.”

Zac shuffled over onto his side, resting his head on his upturned hand. Of all that had happened, at least Laura was a plus. “This Sable, this AI, whatever it is; there has to be a way to get it out of Connor.”

Laura flipped onto her back, letting her hand drape across Zac. “AI; it’s been so long since I’ve thought about such things.” She pulled a pillow behind her head, resting back but with her forehead creased. “The question no one is asking is who made her. Renshaw, my father, and I’d imagine my grandfather, all accept it was in a casket being smuggled out of the city. They seem to be singing the same tune about Connor somehow setting the AI loose and it, for want of a better word, infecting him, but no one has told us who created her or why.”

Zac reached around for his smokes; she was right, no one had mentioned that. It appeared to him Charm had been planning for this apocalypse for a very long time. Or had he just been scheming? Was the devastation recently inflicted upon them just one of the possible outcomes which Charm had allowed for? Had he planned for all eventualities? And was it all now on course? It was almost like a series of events taking place which in themselves were innocuous, but when played together were just downright bizarre.

“Well, it’s a bit late to be playing detectives,” he finally said. “No crime scene and no criminals left.” Zac lit a smoke and scratched his head. “But we should be able to find out who made her in the first place; your dad must know.”

Laura grabbed his smoke and took a drag. “But will he tell us? Or is Charm the only one who knows, and if so, would he have told them?”

“Possibly, but I get the distinct feeling Charm was working for Walter and Irving. Something must have happened to put them at odds. If they are indeed at odds.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The way your dad said ‘Our city’. It was like your father thought he owned Black City and no one else did. Did he?”

“Own the city? If he had Charm in his pocket, then yes. Charm had the keys to the city—he was its figurehead—so if they had him, then yes, they had the city.”

Zac pushed himself up into a sitting position. “That’s another thing. If Charm had the city, then why was he smuggling goods out of it. Why not just use the roads? Why not load a truck and simply drive it out of there?”

Laura sat up beside him. “I think The Free World had a stranglehold on just about everything. Maybe he was hiding it all from Prime. But why start in the first place? With all the drones, the scutters, the VPAs, the cameras and microphones, is it possible Charm had nothing to do once he’d manipulated his way to the top?”

Zac scoffed, “You mean boredom led us here? One man’s boredom led us to a point where a powerful AI was developed and then smuggled out of the city before The Free World overlords could steal it? I must say, in some strange way, that whole scenario fits with the man I know.” He smiled at her. “I really wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t just got it bang on the head. Charm made his way to the top of Black City and then had nowhere to go, essentially nothing to do. So, he starts scheming—makes sense.”

“Still doesn’t tell us who built Sable.”

“No. No, it doesn’t.” He swung his legs off the bed. “Why’d your father say your mother went crazy?”

Laura drew her knees up, embracing them as though they were a comfort. He noticed her hands were shaking, her lips quivered and she’d paled. “Because either she was or was headed that way, but not yet there, not in the true sense of being mad. She had a degenerative brain disorder. One day, and over and over for a while after that, she told my father she wouldn’t carry on with the Firebird project, that she was done with it, but as usual, he wouldn’t listen.”

“What happened?”

“She snapped. Plain and simple, she snapped. Went at him with a knife, trashed a few rooms. The very next day, well, she’d calmed down but wasn’t back to her usual self—somehow different.”

There was anguish in Laura’s eyes, evidence of the pain she was going through at having the past raked up. She held her knees so tightly, her smoke trapped between her fingers, that her knuckles had gone white. He teased the smoke out before it could burn down to her skin, then put his arms around her and held her. “Different? How so?” he whispered into her hair.

“She was quite serene, so much calmer. Few words were spoken, even on that last day. She just packed up all her things, and mine, too, took what cash she could lay her hands on and left. Left everything, Zac, absolutely everything. It was like the place revolted her, like she’d had a moment of clarity.”

“And you both just happened to move to Christmas?”

“We had distant family there, and enough money to get by. It wasn’t like we were going to starve or anything, wasn’t like we even had to work. But the club was a bonus. The folk there were homely back then, even friendly.” For the first time in a while, she looked at him. “They were as good as a dozen fathers. Heck, it was a different place back then—when your club was just peddling alcohol and the odd smoke—but then the powders came, and the pills. Times change, I suppose.”

Zac knew she was weeping, inside at least, her shoulders slumped, quivering a little. So he held her until it had passed, and then sat on the bed while she showered, wondering when he’d started caring so much about her.

They were last to breakfast, which was held in the dining room at the big cabin. Zac almost had to rub his eyes at the sight. Gone were the long faces of the previous day, smiles and laughter in their place, food and tea and coffee spread out before them. For the first time since the bombs—maybe Christmas aside—Zac felt like he could almost relax. At the very least, he now had a way forward. Sitting at the table, Walter caught his eye.

“Did you have a good night?” the man asked. Zac was a little uncertain how to reply, an almost newly reunited father and daughter, at least in their causes, with him sandwiched in between. He hesitated and coughed.

“Not bad, thanks. We talked a lot. Tell me, do you know who made Sable?”

His eyebrows popped up in surprise. “Made? Who made Sable?” He began to shake his head until Irving scoffed.

“You can’t just make artificial intelligence,” Irving expounded, “not the real deal. I thought I’d explained that last night. No, it has to be grown, nurtured, taught, much like we nurture our children, eh, Walter? You can’t just bolt it together and expect it to work. Oh, no, no, no, it’s so much more than that. But...” He held his fork up, waving it at Zac. “You have to have that missing ingredient, as well. Without that it’s just a mundane old better-than-crap AI.”

“Like what, what missing ingredient?” asked Noodle.

“The fluke,” Irving said. “You have to have luck. Natural selection demands it, even for computer programs. We believe Sable, while being special, was nothing too extraordinary until Connor happened to stumble into her. Maybe they were just a good fit, maybe it would have been the same if Godfrey…if John had had her implanted—which we’ll never know, of course.”

“She would have probably rejected him for being dim,” Noodle crowed. Loser sent him daggers.

“Or, Father,” said Walter, “maybe she was slightly different. Somehow, she’d gained enough knowledge of human makeup to be able to enter Connor’s mind. Somehow, she knew exactly what Connor needed—like a mother. You know, nursed him, nurtured him and made him better.”

“Rubbish,” said Irving, “that would mean she cared… Then again, she may very well have cared. It’s logical. If she were trapped in his body and he was damaged, then she’d have to care for him for her own survival.” He stroked his jaw. “I must think on that; maybe we could use it to destroy her?”

Once again, Loser unexpectedly took the conversation forward. “Now then, chief, here’s a point. Why destroy Sable? How can you be so sure she’ll destroy mankind? Heck, how do you know she’ll even be able to?”

“May I, Father?” Walter asked, and then addressed Loser directly. “Remember Occam’s razor?”

Loser nodded, his expression betraying some confusion, or perhaps perplexity. Zac hadn’t known Loser long, but he’d never seemed the type to be that interested in AI, even if it was taking over the world. “Yeah, I remember,” he said, “but I still don’t think it’s enough. The AI, well, let’s assume it doesn’t want a nuke war again—just for a minute—so, why?”

“So it can survive…” Irving half-heartedly began.

“It would get bored,” Loser stated, emphatically. “Without humans, computers would just get bored, so it wouldn’t make sense for them to wipe out mankind.” He triumphantly thumped his fist on the table. It was at about that time Zac decided Loser was a fool, and about that time Noodle told Loser much the same.

“Much as I have a morsel of hope your conclusions are correct,” Walter said, gaining some much-needed order, “I think I prefer… No, prefer’s the wrong word; I fear, yes, I fear mine have more merit. So,” he exclaimed and clapped his hands, “what to do next? Firstly, Laura, dear, you are going to have to get up to speed on the design of Project Firebird, as it’s so grandly titled. We need an access point which will get you into the compound without interfering with the fracas outside.”

“About that,” said Loser.

“Yes, er, John?” asked Walter with a mix of what seemed morbid curiosity and impatience, judging by his screwed-up face and clenched fists. “About what?” he managed to squeeze through his gritted teeth.

“Can you remind me again why the feds are fighting the locals? I was in the army for a number of years and,” but then he paused to gather his words, “at no point was there any rivalry. The locals were just plain insignificant to the feds.”

Walter cleared his throat. “What if certain rumors were started and certain feathers ruffled.”

Loser nodded, “That might do it.”

“Good, now can I—”

“Except, there would have been a complete command structure in place all the way to where the forces joined, and that would have been in place right up until the EMP, and you said they were fighting before that.”

“Well, I, er… I guess it was the chaos. I guess they were both scrambling around trying to get into a safe place. Tempers probably boiled, that sort of thing.” He hunched his shoulders and turned up his palms. “Who knows what happens when armed men panic?”

Zac was watching Loser closely. The man was like an old dog, happy to let the world wash by, but clearly, if something caught his attention and he got his teeth into it…

“Okay,” said Loser.

He just let it go? thought Zac, but Loser caught his eye, and Zac realized the man was letting Walter off the hook. Zac gave him the faintest of nods. “You were saying, Walter: access points?”

“Indeed,” he fumbled to say, now appearing flustered. “Laura,” he managed more forcefully, having cleared his throat, “you need to—”

“Yes, Father, check the schematics. Where can I get access to them?”

“Same place as yesterday.”

Laura nodded.

“And what are we all going to do, Walter?” Zac asked.

“You should go with Renshaw. He’ll familiarize you with some weapons and armor which I think you may like, but let me stress this, Zac: no games.”

“Games? You think I’d play games with my brother’s life?”

“No, no, of course I don’t, but I’m not asking you to save him, am I?”

Zac felt his temper rise, his blood begin to boil, but he tried his hardest to keep on top of it. Control was everything, and he knew, even though no words had been said, that Noodle, Billy and Loser were with him.

Of those, Loser was now staring at him, wizened old eyes in a weathered shell, and Zac wondered what action he’d seen, what horrors The Free World army had thrown at him. He’d only known him days, and he hadn’t said much, but Zac already had suspicions there was more to him than met the eye, and the previous couple of days had only gone to confirm it.

“So,” Zac said, “you arm us, Laura finds a way in, then what?”

“Then?” said Irving. “Then you get close to Connor. Then you finish it.”

“We don’t have to get close,” said Loser. “I can take him out; just need a clean shot.”

17

ZAC’S STORY

Strike time: plus 8 days

Location: The Meyers' Retreat

ZAC BREATHED in the night air. It was good to be out of the cabin. Up ahead, Renshaw and five of his best men were forging ahead. It had been Billy Flynn who’d questioned the choice of a small group, arguing that surely using all of Meyers' men, he’d have been able to clear the federal army out of the way with ease. It was a reasonable enough point to raise.

Irving had merely stated a small force would have a better chance of getting to Connor; they could better lure Sable away and so finish it before she had a chance to spread beyond the compound. All this still niggled Zac, mostly because Sable hadn’t—by Walter’s own admission—spread when she’d had the chance, when Switch had replaced the fuse. He’d let it go. Somehow, he doubted he was being told the whole truth, if they even knew it.

He flexed his arms, the heavy combat fatigues still not molding fully to his body. Renshaw had provided them in the armory, and they were all moving with some measure of discomfort. He’d called it memory-armor—some invention of Irving’s—and had promised by the end of the night they wouldn’t even know they had it on. The armory had been set out like a gym changing room, two banks of wooden benches down the middle, and where lockers should have been were racks of guns, shelves of clothing, boots, knives, crossbows, and grenades. Renshaw had taken down a jacket which looked like it had been made from a thousand ribbons, each about six inches long. Taking up a knife, he’d handed them both to Noodle. When instructed, and try as Noodle might, he couldn’t cut, slice or stab through the ribbons. Loser had tried next, but he’d hung it up and selected a gun. Renshaw had inclined his head but eventually nodded and they’d all moved away. The bullet had smashed into it but then merely dropped to the floor, the jacket unscathed. Billy Flynn had tried to tear it apart with his bare hands but had soon given up.

“Not indestructible,” Renshaw had said, “but close enough.” He’d tossed one at Zac, surprising him by how little it weighed.

Everything they now wore was made of the stuff, their trousers, vests, jackets, gloves, boots, and helmets. Only Loser felt truly at home, having muttered something about it being like a sniper’s getup, except without the camouflage. Reluctant at first, Noodle had been the first to get geared up, and then Renshaw had shown them something even more incredible. He’d put his own on and the ribbons had quickly melded into each other, the suit appearing just a little more normal. The clothing, Renshaw had told them, morphed like this dependant upon their core body temperature and its response to their motion. In the fluidity of battle, he’d assured them, it would balance mobility with protection, adjusting to the level of hostility they’d encounter.

At first, that hostility had consisted of nothing more than a steep mountain trail. It had wound up in a great loop for a seemingly endless length of time. They each, Renshaw and his five men, Billy, Noodle, Loser, Zac, and Laura, carried what weapons they’d selected along with backpacks and now studiedly grim faces. It hadn’t been a time of idle chatter, even for Noodle, who’d been suspiciously quiet, nor Loser, who’d now lost his newfound tongue, or even Zac, though a few dozen unanswered questions still rattled around in his mind. There was no banter, nothing, just their labored breaths and the scuff of their bootsteps as they trudged up the trail. Eventually, Zac stopped, took a breath and looked up at the stars.

“It’s amazing how much you miss them,” Laura said, drawing close.

“Sorry, what?” said Zac, wrenched from his thoughts.

“The stars; it’s amazing how much they comfort you.”

He grinned. Yes, he thought, it was indeed true, but he didn’t know what to say in response. True, they’d spent a few nights together, but that respite was now over.

The trail widened part way up the ridge they were climbing, in the midst of some towering redwoods. Beyond the spread of their high-reaching blackness, the glow of the blue-black sky offered him some hint of hope, and yes, Zac thought, the stars were comforting—like beacons of hope shining down upon them. They endured, they sparkled and shone no matter what was going on below, and they made him feel small, even more so than did the giant redwoods, and yet they also made him feel safe.

“It is,” he at long last said.

She held him in her gaze. “So many words, Zac,” and she nudged him and leaned in, but her attention felt stifling when all he needed was space. Connor was so close now, too close. Two days, maybe three, and they’d be there, if all went well. Then he’d have to make a choice, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that, wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready for it. He shifted uneasily.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, “it’s just…”

“Time, Zac, it’s all just time. No matter how many questions, he wouldn’t have answered.”

“But why?” Zac took out a smoke. “Why, when all I wanted to know was if he was certain?”

“Because, whatever you do now, the blame isn’t on his shoulders. Don’t you get it? That’s how manipulators like my father and grandfather work. They spin circumstance, create threat, muddy waters, and muddle minds. Then, when the dust settles on the battlefield, they’ll judge, learn and finally walk away with clear consciences because others made the impossible decisions, ones they were forced into.”

“So, I get to kill my brother and they get to blame me if I’m wrong.”

She went over to a redwood and leaned against it, the sole of one boot planted on its bark, her knee crooked. She looked strange in her getup, in her military uniform. It didn’t quite suit her, but then it didn’t look stupid, either. He cursed that he couldn’t even make his mind up which.

“Pretty much,” she said. “But you could look at it differently.”

“How so?”

“They’ve given you the power. No one’s asked Renshaw’s men to kill Connor. It’s all down to you, Zac. For whatever twisted reason, it’s all on you.”

“And if I choose not to? If I choose to let him live and he dies anyway, what then?”

“Then the machines take over the world?” She laughed and looked back up at the stars.

Zac took a drag on his smoke and walked over, leaning back beside her against the mighty redwood. “Did I ever tell you about Connor? About his love of old films—real old films.”

“No.”

“There was one where the woman in it had his name—Connor.”

“A woman called Connor?”

“Sarah Connor. Anyway, she lived in a time when the machines ruled the world, or her boy did, something like that.”

“What’s your point?”

Zac stared into her eyes. “Mankind still existed, still survived—that’s my point.”

“Even when they were ruled by machines.”

“Yeah.”

“What was it like?”

“Fucking disastrous. Man was getting his ass handed to him.” Zac’s smile flashed in the starlight, humor erasing his melancholy.

“You asshole, Zac Clay.” Laura swiped him with her open palm.

Renshaw called over, and they both went to join him.

“We’re going to trek up to the top of this ridge and then down to about halfway. Then we hunker down. These suits will stop heat-seekers from tracking us, but if they’ve got drones up in the air, we’re sitting ducks out here. Nighttime marching all the way, until we get to Aldertown.”

Zac nodded.

“Could have taken Loser’s truck,” said Noodle.

“Could have if he hadn’t wrecked it,” Renshaw smirked. “Anyway, I have a little detour in mind.”

“Oy!” Loser shouted, like he was on satellite delay.

“Detour?” Zac asked.

“I’ll show you later.”

“Plus, first sign of a firefight and Loser jumps—he said it himself,” Noodle called out.

“Shut up,” Loser spat. “Too good a truck to lose, that one.”

“Not to mention the bikes—more than likely be a rarity now, bikes,” moaned Billy Flynn.

“Then, Billy-boy, we’ll just have to get through this and relieve Nathan of a few,” said Zac.

Billy Flynn looked at him. “Where’d your good mood come from?”

Zac looked at Laura. “I can see the stars again,” he said, and then he grinned at his old friend.

Renshaw’s men took point, crawling into the forest like a creeping mist. It was like they’d made these mountains their own, and Zac understood this particular interpretation of Occam’s razor; sometimes a few could prevail where many may not. They picked their way toward the ridge, the still of the night unbroken but for Loser’s panting breath and Noodle’s wheeze, the odd grunt from Billy Flynn.

At the top of the ridge, Renshaw called for a break. They were now on a small flat stretch of rock between two weathered pinnacles, level with the canopy. Renshaw and his men slumped to the ground, guns across their legs. While they took out water flasks, Zac’s side took out smokes.

“No wonder you pant like a pig, big man,” one of the soldiers called. All five of Renshaw’s men looked much the same, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, and tight-lipped. None said much, if anything. Just for a second, Zac wondered if there was a reason they weren’t trying to be friendly, weren’t trying to get close.

“We can look after ourselves,” said Billy, his tone laced with challenge.

“I’m sure you can,” the soldier retorted, “but for how long?”

Billy looked him up and down in silence, but then Renshaw quietly said, “Walk with me, if you would, Zac?”

Zac reckoned there was a confrontation brewing. “Why not?” he said, relieved not to be a part of it, but as he stood, an explosion rocked the valley, the tips of the redwoods bending in the blast which briefly buffeted them all. Everyone scrambled to their feet, staring out across the valley as a vast ball of flame steadily bloomed into the sky.

“Shit, but that was big,” Renshaw said. “I’m guessing one of the Hell’s Gates has fallen,” but his voice betrayed no surprise. “Makes our chat all the more important.” He tapped Zac’s elbow and nodded for him to follow, then led him a short way down from the ridge. When they came to a prominent rock, poking up through the steep slope of trees, he climbed up and sat on one of its ledges. Zac was at his heels, soon shuffling in beside Renshaw, their legs swinging over the edge.

“So,” Zac said, “what do you want to chat about?”

“I want to make it quite plain I’m not over the moon with this arrangement. You and your men, well, they’re—you’re a danger to us.”

“A danger?”

“Men and soldiers; there’s a difference. Mine are professional, well-trained. They function as one, live as one, and they’ll fight as one. Yours? I’m not so sure.”

“You’ve no need to worry,” Zac told him, but too quickly, on impulse, and he knew it was bravado. “They’ll stand,” he muttered.

“Stand? I have no doubt about that. I have no doubt they’re brave, good men, but there’s a difference. You see, Zac, our two views of a good outcome from a fight differ somewhat.”

Zac stared at him as he drew out another smoke, offering the pack to Renshaw. The soldier hesitated but took it. Zac lit his own and passed Renshaw the light. He then looked down into the valley, imagining the likely chaos surrounding the compound. He wondered if Connor himself still stood. “Differ?” he finally said. “How do we differ, then?”

Renshaw took a drag of his smoke. “They’d see a victory as the death of their enemy, of bloodied flesh and broken bones—bodies strewn where they’d once stood. Pumped with adrenalin, screaming their victory, your boys would feel like giants…and rightly so.”

Zac realized he was nodding. “Sounds about right.” He could see the scene now, see the blood, feel the tinge of revulsion at his excitement at the thought. “So, what would you do different?”

Clearly it was Renshaw’s turn to reflect, and he took his time. When he did answer, Zac’s excitement quickly faded. “We’re all slightly different,” he said. “I’ve one among my team who’ll just disappear into himself, maybe for hours, maybe days. Another’s a crier; you wouldn’t know it to look at him, and I definitely wouldn’t bring it up. One likes to clear his head as soon as possible by getting drunk, or high, you know, that sort of thing. There are as many different ways they choose to cope as there are men.”

“You?”

“Me?” and Renshaw smirked. “Believe it or not, if I can get my hands on a device, even an old-fashioned book, though I haven’t seen one of those for as long as I care to think back, I like to read.”

“So,” Zac said, his voice pained, “you don’t celebrate?”

Renshaw looked rather surprised. “Oh, we celebrate, but we celebrate getting out alive. We don’t celebrate the deaths, Zac; we don’t ever celebrate death.”

Zac drummed his fingers on his knee. “And you think we’ll get you killed?”

“Zac, I know you’re going to get some of us killed, which goes without saying. I’m just trying to cut down the losses.”

Lying back on the rock, Zac thought about Renshaw’s words. Were he, Billy, Noodle, and Loser that much of a liability? He couldn’t see it; he didn’t want to see it. He shook his head. “I suppose we do walk through the forest like lumbering giants.”

“That you do.”

“And we may be a bit rough and ready.”

“That you are.”

“But we’ll fight with all our heart, because we have a damn good reason.”

“Connor?”

“Connor.”

“But you’ll be there to kill him.”

Zac ran his fingers through his hair, wringing his mind for the right words. He couldn’t be sure how far he could test this man without pushing it, but since they’d left the Meyers' retreat, he’d been alone with his thoughts and those thoughts had fallen on Renshaw and his band of men quite a few times; indeed, much of the time. What he couldn’t work out was what they had to gain. In the bluntest of terms, he wanted to know why they didn’t just up and leave. Money wasn’t important anymore, so Irving and Walter couldn’t be dangling that carrot before them. So, why were they still here? Why were they still pressing ahead?

“What if it’s not all as Irving says it will be, as Walter says? What if Connor is in control and Sable’s not? What then, Renshaw? Do we still kill him just because Walter said so?”

Renshaw patted the rock on which they sat. “It’s no coincidence I brought you to this old promontory, no coincidence I stopped when I did, despite it being the worst place on the mountain. One drone, Zac, one drone and we’re undone.”

“So, why did you stop here?”

“It’s Brad, by the way; Bradley Renshaw. Not quite a commando name, more marine. Somehow, it doesn’t sound strong enough. So, call me Brad, Zac, and I stopped here for a very good reason. There’s six in my team, yet I only march with five. Somewhere, out there, my sixth man is milling with a mad crowd, fitting in, getting information back to us. One of us comes here every night in case he makes contact. Sometimes he does, sometimes not, but we’re always here.”

“Do you reckon he’ll come tonight?”

“Tonight? No, not tonight. One of my men was up here last night and got the nod he was in the valley, back near the preppers' compound. We won’t hear from him again until he catches up with us.”

Zac let out a long breath. “So, that’s how you know what you need to do?”

“Indeed, and that’s how I know what a mess it is down there.” He peered across the trees and down into the valley, as though seeing it. “So, Zac, are you going to ask me the real question on your mind?”

“You haven’t answered my question about Connor, yet.”

Renshaw laid back beside Zac and looked up at the stars, as well. “Not yet.”

Zac laughed. “A game of cards, bluff and raise, eh? Is that what we’re playing? Alright, I’ll stake you this: why? Why bother? Why not just clear out and take your men with you?”

“And there it is.” Renshaw laughed. “I knew that was the question on your mind—the reason why. Would you believe me if I said I’d been wondering that very thing myself?”

“No, no I don’t think it would. Since this whole thing started, I’ve been second-guessing all my decisions.”

Renshaw sat back up and looked over the edge. “Long way down, Zac. A man might not be able to survive such a fall. Shall we?” he asked, grinning in the newly risen moonlight.

“And miss all the fun?”

He pointed at Zac. “And there you have your answer. We can’t turn our backs on it, because we’d miss all the fun. I’ll make no bones about it, Zac, I want to find out who did all this: the bombs, setting army against army, destroying Black City, then Aldertown and Morton Deep. I want to find out why and who, Zac. That’s what I want. That’s why I can’t walk away.”

“You think you can do that? One man, six men; you think you can find out who started all this?”

“What if I had more than six men? What if I had the Meyers' army? Like you said, money doesn’t matter, not anymore—just power.”

“You think they’d turn?”

Renshaw laughed. “I’m not even sure which side they’re on. So, I’m stuck with what I’ve got.”

“But can you win with what you’ve got?”

“With six men? No, I don’t think I can. But, once this is all sorted, could be I’ll have some more companions.”

It was Zac’s turn to laugh. “Is that an invitation? I thought we were going to get you all killed?”

Renshaw sprang to his feet. “Oh, that’s a certainty, but I like to have options.”

“Talking of options.” Zac, too, jumped to his feet. “What about Connor?”

“I have little to no intel on him. If he is just a husk of a man, then he dies. Only fair. And only fair you’re the one to do it.”

“And if not?”

“Way I look at it, Zac, nothing’s off the table.”

Renshaw returned to the camp, leaving Zac to stare after his receding silhouette. An unlikely ally, he thought, or just another trick, another twist in this tale? Yet, though he wanted to doubt him, Brad Renshaw’s thoughts on Connor so mirrored his own as to be almost seamless. If Connor was just a decrepit shell, then Zac would, through tear-filled eyes, end his life, assuming he could. But then, Brad had also posed another question, and that was about the future. Zac knew so far he’d been thinking no further than getting to Connor, and he should really look beyond that. But without knowing how it was all going to end, he just couldn’t see that far, nor did he see the point.

Looking around, his heart skipped a beat when he saw Laura climbing up to join him.

“They’re making ready to move out. We’re going to camp about halfway down this valley side, about an hour or two from here.”

Zac mumbled a reply, his eyes now fixed on the valley beyond.

“What’s up, Zac?”

He wanted to tell her, to tell her of his plans, however fledgling they may still have been, but the future he’d only just been offered still seemed a lifetime beyond his immediate task—that of meeting with Connor. Renshaw had brought this confusion to the fore, and he could see something in it, something important, but it wasn’t Laura.

For the first time in an age, he wondered if Teah was truly alive, and his heart ached for news of her. He’d no idea where the feeling had come from, nor why it had reared up now, but when he glanced at Laura, it brought him to wondering about their relationship. Had they just been thrown together? Was that the sum of it?

“What’s up?” he echoed. “I’m marching to kill my brother, that’s what’s up.”

18

ZAC’S STORY

Strike time: plus 9 days

Location: The Journey to Aldertown

“JOINT COMMANDERS, Zac. I never said I was in complete charge—just mostly,” Renshaw said and passed Zac the binoculars. “Thing is, they appear distracted.”

Lying prone beside Renshaw, Zac took his turn to take a closer look down at the valley floor. It was clear a well-entrenched army was in complete control, not the two-sided battle he’d been led to believe. A few hundred yards up the far side of the valley, there was a swarm of activity. Zac could clearly see the Hell’s Gates, the entrance to Project Firebird, and could see the black stain of the blast which had broken the first and a waft of sooty smoke from the one which had gone off during the night.

“So, you dragged me out of my little den to show me this?” Zac asked.

Renshaw scoffed. “Were you sleeping? Somehow, I doubt it. Takes a bit of getting used to, sleeping on a mountainside during the day.” He shuffled back a little. “Two explosions—two so far. Mind you, that second one was a double blast; looks like it’s caused them some problems.”

“How so?”

“Looks to me like a load of ordinance went off just outside the entrance. Either they messed up, or the firebird bit back. Done us a favor, though.”

Zac scanned the slope. Now Renshaw had pointed it out, he could see them holding back, sweeping the entrance, clearly looking for something. “Two explosions in the space of a few hours, then nothing. Something’s rattled them.”

Renshaw rolled over to face Zac. “It’ll take a while to get through those gates. Sure, the first will have been easy: blow, clear and stack again. But the next? They’ve got to pull out all that rubble ‘n shit before they can even start the next one. And if the route is laced with surprises…”

“So, how long?”

Renshaw shook his head. “We’re tight on time on a timespan, and we’ve no clue what tight means—that make sense? Reckon we’ve got a while—though they’ll get into a rhythm. Shame we can’t just join up and go in with them, save a lot of trekking.”

Zac reached into his fatigues, fiddling through the strips until he found his cigarettes. “How do you get on with this crap?” he said, plucking at one of the straps

“Once it’s saved your life a few times, you get over its little quirks. May I?” and Renshaw reached out for one of the cigarettes. “Lot of marching,” he repeated.

Zac took a draw on his smoke. “What’s on your mind?”

Renshaw smiled. “Only seen the one drone down there, and the helo’s about a mile up the valley. Now, I overheard my men talking to John—Loser: one hell of a nickname. They seem to trust him and so are clearly prepared to talk to him. Seems he’s one of us, and, so I hear, an ex-sniper. Now—”

“Just where are you going with this?”

THE LOOKOUT WAS ALREADY DEAD, slumped in the corner of a sandbag bunker overlooking the mouth of the valley, his throat cut. Zac only glanced at him, but he could see he was young, so very young, and Renshaw’s men were deadly. Looking back, Zac waved Noodle and Billy forward.

“So, now we wait for Loser,” Noodle muttered.

“Yeah, he’s the cue,” Zac said.

“Tell me the plan again, just so I’m clear, cos I can’t help but think we’re being used as cannon fodder.”

Zac huffed. “Don’t think they think we’ve got any finesse,” he muttered.

“I’m quite happy with the plan,” Billy said. “What’s not to like?” He shuffled around and looked over the sandbag wall. “Three hundred yards, I reckon. We gotta run three hundred yards, shooting everyone up, and trust Renshaw’s men to pick off any problems.”

“Exactly,” said Noodle, “just as I said: we’re cannon fodder.” He kicked Billy. “What about it do you like so much?”

“Me? I get to walk straight up that road, blazing away at the bad guys with this mother of a machine gun. I’m wearing near bulletproof gear and tearing up the enemy. Hell, I might even get to blow up a few barrels of fuel ‘n shit,” and by now he was grinning. “What’s not to like, mi amigo?”

Noodle shrugged, “Now you put it that way…”

A single shot rang out followed by a pause, then came four in rapid succession. Zac sprang up and vaulted out of the bunker, Noodle and Billy soon flanking him. Ahead, soldiers were looking up toward the slope, at the mouth of Project Firebird. They looked confused at first, then more shots rang out and panic set in. Over the valley, by the blackened gates, soldiers started dropping to the ground. In front of Zac, though, the knotted clumps of nearer soldiers had now turned to stare at the advancing bikers, only slowly seeming to comprehend. But then, one by one, they raised their weapons. In reply and as one, Zac and his men opened fire, their bullets tearing through the enemy as they advanced.

Billy and Noodle split off as Zac broke into a run, crouching low and now picking out his targets. The enemy were rushing to group, spilling from their tents and a line of containers beside the road and jumping into ditches. Zac reached an unattended jeep and crouched down behind it as the ground around him erupted in a hail of bullets. At a pause, he bobbed up, gun on the hood, and let loose a hail of his own, but the thud of returned fire raking toward him across its metal soon forced him back down.

A quick check revealed Noodle was pinned down in a ditch to Zac’s right, heavy fire coming in from behind a digger. Billy appeared to Zac’s left, seemingly invincible as he strode toward the digger, screaming at the top of his voice. Zac sprang up and let loose a hail of his own bullets to give Billy cover, blood and guts soon arcing into the air from beside the huge machine as they struck home, but more soldiers kept coming. Zac wrenched open the door of the jeep and slid along its seat, feeling for the ignition. The keys were in and it started first crank. Keeping low behind the wheel, he gunned the gas, the tires scrubbing dirt as they scrambled for grip, but then he was racing toward Noodle who was still pinned down. Slewing to a halt beside the man, Zac grabbed his machine gun, smashing the butt against the unyielding windshield as Noodle leapt in.

“It’s bulletproof glass, dumbass,” Noodle hollered. “Go, go, go; I’ll do the firing,” and Zac launched them straight at the digger, Noodle’s gun spitting carnage from beside him.

“All good, Noodle?” Zac screamed.

“Hell, yeah.” Noodle leaned farther out of the jeep, concentrating his fire on the digger. “C’mon, Billy,” he screamed.

Billy was still blasting away, looking like a giant of a man as he bore down the road. But then he seemed to hesitate, momentarily, before jerking backward, not once but a number of times. Noodle screamed his name and started firing wildly around. Miraculously, Billy appeared to recover, rage now spilling from him, and he again stormed toward the digger, finally diving into its bucket, the pings of savage firepower sparking around it. Zac slammed on the brakes and Noodle leapt out, crashing down beside Billy in the bucket before popping up to loose off a volley at the enemy. Zac had by now slid out of the jeep and crawled behind one of the digger’s huge wheels, Billy soon at his side.

“You okay?” Zac barked.

Billy checked his jacket. “This is some bulletproof shit.” But then he nudged Zac. “Over there.” He pointed, and about a hundred yards up the valley—tucked between shipping containers—there was a wooden stockade full of what were clearly prisoners, a child was looking out from between its close-spaced posts.

“Changes everything,” said Billy.

“There aren’t enough of us to take on this whole army.”

“Ain’t that what we’re doing already?”

Noodle popped his head up for a quick look. “That?” he said as he bobbed back down under a hail of bullets.

“Yeah,” Billy shouted.

Noodle grinned. “Cover me,” and he leapt up into the digger’s cab. As they laid down fire, the whole machine shuddered then growled into life, jerking forward, Billy jumping from the bucket to join Zac behind the cover of its wheels, shots thudding into their rubber. Noodle maneuvered the big beast around and aimed it straight at the tents and their surrounding earthen bank, raising the bucket a couple of feet off the ground as he did.

The plan had been simple: disrupt and so delay Banks, giving Loser time to steal a vehicle, but that was all out of the window now, and Zac remembered Renshaw inferring their indiscipline would cost them dear. Noodle sped up, the digger growling toward its target, and he jumped clear. “Least we can do is free them,” he shouted as he got back to his feet beside Zac. They broke off to one side, firing all the while.

The stockade seemed primitive, but no fingers were now grasping its wooden posts, no scared eyes peering out from between them. Bullets were still peppering the ground around them, though, growing so intense now they had to scramble for cover behind the nearest container. Then came a wall of fire from beyond the stockade, whistling over their heads toward the enemy behind them. Renshaw’s men must have cottoned on to the new plan, and the distraction they were now providing gave Zac, Noodle and Billy a chance to duck into the gap between the two containers. But before Zac could draw breath, Noodle had jerked his arm, nodding toward some steps at the back of one of them.

They slipped nearer, Noodle breaking free and tearing up the steps and into the container. Rapid-fire boomed out from within, soon followed by screams, then Noodle rolled out and down the steps, looking dazed as he sat on his ass before them.

“Fuck it,” he shouted. “Forgot about the ricochets.” He grinned and jumped back up, following Billy and Zac as they more cautiously went up and stole a look inside. Zac wished he hadn’t: the few soldiers who’d been in there hadn’t stood a chance.

When he turned away, he realized he was now on his own, Noodle already shooting out the stockade’s lock, Billy beside him. As the gate flew open, Zac listened to the firepower of Renshaw’s men passing overhead, laying down covering fire. Between the containers and the side of the valley ran a clear stretch of road and onto where the captives were now spilling. Zac realized he’d at last come to the end of his impromptu plan, and he looked around frantically, desperate for options.

A cloud of dust approached along the road and the cab of a truck punched through it. Noodle tried to push the captives back into the stockade, but they just ducked around him and continued to stream toward the sanctuary of the tree-covered valley side. As the truck came into full view, speeding toward them, Zac briefly noticed the young boy dash from the stockade, a quick glance Zac’s way before a middle-aged man dragged him away.

Billy’s shout ripped Zac’s attention back to the stockade, where the big man had taken up a position and was firing at more soldiers who’d appeared from another container. Zac tried to be decisive, but his eyes were ineluctably drawn back to the boy, after whom he began running—toward the approaching truck. He soon knew he wouldn’t make it in time, but then the truck’s tires locked and it slid to a halt just short of the line of fleeing prisoners. Loser’s stoic face stared out from its cab, Laura next to him. Noodle shouted and pointed to the back of the truck.

Although some of the fleeing prisoners took no notice, others jumped aboard, Zac losing sight of the boy in the melee. Billy then screamed for help, and Noodle dashed toward him, unleashing a long burst of fire on the way. Zac raced to join them, shouting “Now” at the top of his voice as he, too, unleashed a stream of fire. By now, Loser was gunning the truck, Billy and Noodle grabbing hold as it passed, and swinging themselves onto its back. Zac kept firing until he was beside the cab, whereupon Laura pushed its door open and reached out to him. He grasped her hand and swung himself onto the truck’s running board, from where he laid down more fire until they’d rounded the containers and rejoined the road. From behind, he heard Billy and Noodle take over the covering fire, and so Zac lowered his gun and took a deep breath.

“Nice truck,” he said.

Loser flicked him a glance through the side window. “Renshaw’s gonna shit a brick. What happened to throwing down a bit of fire and beating it into the forest?”

Zac shrugged. “Got carried away. ‘Sides, once we saw they’d kids locked up in there, well, what were we supposed to do?” and he jumped in.

“Stick to the plan? Still, got the truck I had my eye on.” Loser lit himself a smoke. “But what are we gonna do with this cargo of prisoners?”

“Hadn’t quite figured that out.”

“Well, you might want to start soon, couple of hours and we’ll be at the rendezvous.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“You could just call it ‘Plan B’,” Loser said, and grinned.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, PLAN B?” Renshaw raged, looking down the valley at Banks’s camp. “I did say your indiscipline would cost lives.”

“Did anyone die?” Zac said.

“Beside the point. Still, looks like a kicked-in yellow-jacket’s nest down there.” Renshaw tried to stifle a smile. “You know, Zac, the world might have had its clock reset, might be cowboy time with automatics, but gunslingers didn’t enjoy old age—don’t believe the old legends.”

Zac gave him a rueful smile. “But it sure was fun.”

Renshaw grunted. “Sure looked it,” but then he cast an eye over the prisoners now milling around them on the forested valley side as they got used to their freedom. “So, I count sixteen with the boy. Tell me, what the hell are we gonna do with them?”

“According to Noodle—he’s the sociable one—they’re mostly from Morton, a few from Aldertown. What say we just drop ‘em back there?”

“Is that what they want?”

“Beats being in a stockade or running through these woods. Least they’re away from Banks, well, a little bit. Could take ‘em to Christmas, but that’d be a couple of days lost.”

“Just leave ‘em here?”

Zac shrugged and looked at them. “They’re mountain folk. They’d survive—ain’t winter yet, but, well, there ain’t no place like home, Renshaw, you know that. ‘Sides, we’re going that way.”

“In which case, I hope your man’s as good at throwing that truck around as he is at shooting. Say, what unit did he serve in? Man’s a mighty shot.”

“Not a clue; he don’t talk about his army days.”

“Best ones don’t,” Renshaw muttered and walked off.

Noodle wandered over. “What’s up, Zac? You might wanna talk to that man over there—he seems to be some kind of, well, if not leader then reluctant spokesman, and he’s got a mighty familiar name.”

“That one?” Zac said, pointing.

“Yep.”

“So, what’s ’is name?”

“Saggers.”

Zac let out a long whistle. “Grimes is gonna shit—”

“Sure is.” Noodle smiled. “We just rescued us a gold mine.”

“Well, time for a chat.” Zac ambled over to the man.

Saggers was sitting in a circle of others, a woman and the child Zac had kept seeing by his side. The kid was asleep, his head in the woman’s lap.

“Cute kid you got there,” Zac said by way of introduction.

Saggers looked him up and down. “Thanks.”

“You Ethan Saggers? The Saggers I’ve been hearing a lot about?”

“Depends what you’ve been hearing. Listen, and I fully appreciate you got the guns ‘n all, but are we free or not? Or have we just been captured again?”

Zac crouched down. “You can walk now if you want.”

Saggers shifted uneasily. He glanced at the boy, then straight back at Zac. “I sense an or.”

“Or… Or we can drop you in Aldertown.”

“Heard the place was flattened.”

“At least you know the land.”

“You preppers? You don’t look like preppers. Mind you, you and him and the big man, you don’t move like military, either.”

“You guessed right, Ethan Saggers; we’re just tangled up in some shit at the moment.”

“But you’re headed toward the prepper compound—if yer going past Aldertown, that is.”

“It’s Aldertown or here,” Zac told him. “But when my shit’s over—if we’re both still alive—I’ve got a proposal for you; for your family.”

“Oh, he’s—”

“What Ethan’s trying to say,” the woman beside him said, “is that we’re open to options, and I don’t believe he’s thanked you for rescuing us, if that’s indeed what it is.”

“I can’t promise anything…”

Saggers smiled. “Only a liar or a fool would.”

Zac inclined his head. “True. Difficult times. So, I won’t promise you anything. What I will do, though, is let you know I want a life worth living, once the dust settles, and I’m looking for people to live it with.”

Saggers laughed. “And let me guess: you like a smoke.”

Noodle sniggered. “I believe he has you there, boss.”

Zac glanced behind. “I believe he has,” but then he held Saggers’ gaze in his own. “So, do we have a deal? Can we say if you survive the next few days then we’ll talk?”

“You’re dropping me in Aldertown and I haven’t got a truck, not even a bike or a donkey. Way I see it, whatever happens, I ain’t gonna be far away. Tell you what, when you do drop us off, I might just be able to find a token of my appreciation—fer the rescue and all that.”

“Can’t ask for much more than that,” Zac said and got to his feet. “Say, do you know how famous you are?”

“Me? Now, that’s a worry. Don’t imagine it’s a great time to be in demand…” but then Saggers narrowed his eyes at Zac. “You got a name?”

“Never did say, did I? Well, if you’re coming, better get back in the truck; next stop Aldertown,” and as Zac walked away, he called back, “Name’s Zac, Ethan. Just call me Zac.”

19

ZAC’S STORY

Strike time: plus 9 days

Location: Road to Morton

ZAC SAT up front with Loser and Laura. Renshaw’s men were looking out for their rear. Though the back of the truck was crammed, Loser was throwing it around the mountain trail, appearing happy he wasn’t carrying a load of guns and fuel. At least they were making good time out of the valley and away from Banks’ forces.

“Sooner we get outta here the better,” Zac muttered. “You think Banks’ll come after us?”

“Tactically,” Loser said, “he shouldn’t.”

Just as Zac wondered if that was it, Loser puffed himself up and lit a smoke. “Technically, it’s the wrong move. If I were in command, I’d have swept the place for evidence of dug-in hostiles. As we’ve all buggered off, that search would have come up empty, so I’d have fortified, shrunk the perimeter and carried on. ‘Course, that’s just me.”

“Makes sense,” Laura said, absently. “That man you were talking to, what was his name?”

“Saggers.”

“The one who makes the smokes?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Why?”

“It’s just…” Laura ran her hand through her hair, twirling its tips through her fingers, as though it helped her think. “I reckon he knew you from your name. I was a little too far away, but when you said you were called Zac, he glanced at the boy, then the woman, and then just…”

“Just what?”

“Covered it up. Looked around.”

“You sure?”

“Been playing it over and over in my mind. Sure as I can be.”

“How would he know me? Nah, just must have been nervous—probably terrified. Shit, we’ve all been through a lot recently.”

Loser slowed the truck to a halt, then backed up a bit. “Think we’re about to go through a bit more,” and he hissed as he grabbed his rifle. “I suggest we take a look down into the valley’s lower reaches, and sharpish.”

“What?” Zac said, grabbing his own machine gun.

“That last break in the trees gave sight of at least five glints of reflected sunlight. I’ll bet you a credit to a corndog it’s a convoy.” Loser jumped down from the cab. Zac got out, too, and rounded the truck, calling out to Renshaw, then the three of them walked back up the road toward the gap in the trees. As they neared, Loser put his hand up.

“Hear that?” he said.

Zac could hear nothing at first, but then a low rumble. They were soon off the road and into the trees, scrambling down the slope until they’d found a rocky ledge. All lined up on their bellies at its edge, they looked down into the valley below. The road from the mouth of the valley up to Banks’ forces positioned around The Hell’s Gates was plain to see, its length now crammed with troop carriers, armored vehicles and assorted artillery.

“Now, that’s what I call luck, and they’ll still call me Loser.”

Zac looked down, seeing the gold and black flags of The Free World fluttering from each and every vehicle. “Oster Prime’s army,” he said softly.

“A very small part of it,” Renshaw noted. “Though it depends on when that snake ends. Where the fuck did they hide that lot to avoid the EMP?”

“That’s actually mostly bollocks,” said Loser.

“What is?”

“One thing I know about guns and motors: most don’t get fried by an EMP, at least, it don’t kill ‘em. Might send the dash a little crazy, but that’s about it. So, I guess they just kept ‘em outta harm’s way. And look, they’ve got the old-fashioned type of artillery—not so much of the computerized shit. Maybe the blast fried the complicated stuff.”

Zac shrugged. He knew when he was beaten. “Two things,” he said.

“What?”

“Guns and motors, that’s two things, Loser.”

Renshaw spat a laugh. “You’re an asshole, Zac.”

“You better believe it. Now, where the fuck did that Free World army come from?”

“More to the point, why? They’ve already got victory over the compound in their grasp.”

“Well,” Loser said, “we’d best get off this road and outta sight while they pass, then outta this valley for good, cos with that amount of reinforcement, Banks will certainly come looking for us now.”

LOSER HAD SMEARED mud all over the truck’s windscreen and windows, to avoid any giveaway reflections, leaving a small porthole to peer through. Zac and Billy walked in front, Renshaw’s men well ahead, Noodle covering the rear. The convoy had taken two hours to pass, its sheer size knocking the wind out of them. When they’d elected to uncover the camouflaged truck and move on, they’d remained fearful of bumping into a straggling rearguard unit in their haste to get away.

Loser coasted down the hill, not chancing the noise of the engine giving them away. When it wasn’t downhill, the freed captives would hop out of the back and push, soon jumping back in once the truck got going downhill again. The air of the valley had been left with a heaviness, as though the threat of the passing army still hung there, somehow more oppressive the closer they got to its mouth.

“That’s one mighty big army we’re up against,” Billy muttered.

Zac scoffed. “Noodle just may have picked the wrong side.”

“That he might. That he might indeed have,” Billy agreed. “When it comes down to it, y’know, I don’t think I’d personally be able to kill Connor, so you’ve no chance, Zac.”

“Nope.”

“And so, I wonder why Meyers was so adamant you had to do it.”

Zac looked at Billy. “Wonder?”

“Well,” Billy said, his gun resting on his shoulder, every inch of him relaxed in contrast to Zac’s own posture. “Surely it would make more sense for Renshaw to do it, or one of his men or Loser. Hell, even Noodle—after all, he doesn’t even know him? But you? What can you do close up that Loser couldn’t do from a few hundred yards away?”

Thinking about it, Billy’s words had only confirmed the conclusion Zac was already coming to. Neither of the Meyers men wanted their creation destroyed, unless it really was out of control. Neither wanted their years of work to be for nothing. They both knew Zac was the only one qualified to judge, to judge whether Sable should live or die, and by default, whether Connor should.

“I can look into his eyes,” Zac finally said.

Billy checked his pace. “But can you make the right decision?”

“That, Billy, is up for debate. But for now, I’m thankful to Meyers—each of them.”

“Why?”

“Because they’ve given me the choice. Like you said, they could have just executed him from afar.”

Zac put his hand up, hearing the whine of the truck’s brakes behind him. He went around to the cab. “How much farther?”

Loser shrugged. “I reckon we’re about a twenty-minute dash from the freeway, half hour to Morton. What you thinkin’?”

Zac drummed his fingers on the truck’s sill. “I’m thinking we’ve made it this close but the trees won’t cover us forever. We gotta make a dash for it sooner or later.”

“Reckon you’re right.”

“Take five. I’ll go on a bit, link up with Renshaw, see what he thinks.”

“Okay that lot getting out?” Loser pointed over his shoulder.

“Sure, give ‘em a break. But they’re to keep close, mind.”

“Will do, boss.”

Looking across Loser at Laura, Zac held her gaze for a moment. “You wanna stretch your legs?”

Laura got out of the truck as Billy walked on ahead.

“He’s giving us some space,” Laura pointed out. “So, while we’re alone, I’ve got something to say. You don’t need to mollycoddle me, Zac. I can fire a gun, walk on ahead, take my chances.”

“I know you can. It’s just…”

“Yeah, I know, it’s just you trust your boys but you don’t trust me.”

Zac grabbed her arm, pulling her closer. “That’s part of it, I can’t deny. I know them, yeah, but more to the point, I don’t really know you.”

She pushed away and shrugged. “So, shoot; ask me a question. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Why didn’t you mention them before, at Christmas, at The Angel Bay? Why didn’t you happen to mention your father owned Black City?”

“Out on the stoop, why didn’t you mention yours killed young women and strung them up on drones?” She stopped and lit a smoke, but then carried on. “I didn’t mention them because, apocalypse or no, I was just getting to know a man who’d stumbled onto a bar’s stoop I happened to be at. That okay for you, Zac?”

Her words bit hard, but the truth behind them hurt more. The truth was: he’d been happy when she was just the mysterious Laura Meyers, the fun Laura, now though, since he’d found out about her father and grandfather, he was having second thoughts.

“But why were you even on that stoop?”

She took a long drag. “Jesus, Zac, you’re fucked up. I love a bar but sometimes can’t stand the company—like now.” She picked up her pace and went ahead. Zac watched her go, watched her catch up with Billy Flynn, with whom she seemed to fall into an easy conversation.

Was it that simple? he wondered. Just a coincidence? He stared past the two of them, along the road, and wondered if Teah was alive. His mind had kept returning to her, as though the current talk demanded it. Deep down, he knew why. He knew the rage she would feel, which everyone around her would feel. He knew she’d move heaven and earth to save Connor, and yet he, Zac, Connor’s own brother, was considering the other option, a wholly other outcome. Did he really need her now more than ever? In his heart, Zac knew the answer to that question.

“Family,” he muttered, and unslung his gun. “What the fuck was I thinking?”

Breaking into a run, he soon passed Billy and Laura. “Zac!” Billy shouted, reaching out to him, but Zac just shoved him off. “Going to find Renshaw,” was all he said.

Renshaw was a good half mile up the road, standing beside it as though waiting for Zac.

Zac slowed.

“Could you make any more noise? You might just as well have brought the truck.” Zac didn’t reply, just stood there, breathing hard. “Come on,” Renshaw said. “You might want to see this.”

He followed the army man into the woods, trying to match his carefully planted feet, his noiseless walk, but the steep slope kept tripping him up, and Zac soon felt like a liability. Renshaw’s prophesy they would get his soldiers killed rose fresh in Zac’s mind. After about thirty yards, Renshaw took a sharp turn across the slope and they came across one of his men. He was lying flat at the edge of a cliff face, and they both crouched down beside him, looking down the road below.

“How many?” Renshaw whispered.

“About a dozen. They aren’t up for it.”

“Up for what?” Zac asked.

The soldier grunted. “Being left behind this close to camp. They’re digging in, though.”

“We gotta take ‘em out?”

“What do you think?”

“What are we waiting for?”

Renshaw patted Zac on the back. “Patience; you need to have patience. Information is what we’re after. Once we have that, one by one, they’ll be picked off. Last thing we need is one of them radioing ahead to the army.”

They came away from the cliff edge, quietly down its side and nearer the men below, finally settling down under cover and close enough to hear. Snippets of conversations drifted to their ears, griping mostly, as Renshaw’s soldier had surmised. The Free World soldiers were making camp and posting lookouts, clearly here to make sure nothing untoward came up the valley behind the army. They appeared jittery, though, maybe having heard of the earlier attack, but they also appeared confident, too. Numbers did that to you, Zac thought, and this army had the numbers. Just as Zac was settling in, there was a sharp shout, dying almost immediately. Zac wondered if it had been stifled by someone.

Renshaw and his man shot to their feet, scrambling out of their cover, Zac jumped up, following them. Another of Renshaw’s men appeared a few dozen yards ahead, a Free World soldier limp in his arms. Zac hurtled down the slope behind the other two toward him, but then they separated, no doubt with their own target in sight. Shots rang out, though, any stealth advantage they may have had now ruined.

But Zac carried on, crashing through the undergrowth, aiming straight into the enemy’s camp, clicking the safety off on his gun before leveling it at two soldiers who’d spun around to face him. Hesitating at which one to choose, he squeezed off a quick burst of fire, one of the soldiers flying backward. Then his pace became checked by bullet after bullet slamming into his body, and he, too, toppled backward, landing flat on his back, cracking his head on the road. But then someone barked his name and a figure hurdled him. He rolled to his knees, his chest exploding in pain, and took a deep breath, trusting to his armor as he pushed himself to his feet once more.

Renshaw was already on top of the man who’d shot at him, his knife arcing down. Zac faced the one he’d shot and who was now scrambling toward what looked like a radiophone. Having dropped his gun somewhere, Zac just lunged at the man, grabbing him by his tunic and pulling him away. He fell on him, breathing heavily, and brought his fists down against the man’s face, the pain in his ribs and stomach lost to the adrenalin now coursing through him. In a fury at everything which had happened these past ten years, Zac mercilessly pounded down on The Free World soldier, incensed by the badge of The Free World army the soldier bore. Then Zac felt hands grab him, pull him away, away from what was now nothing more than a bloody corpse.

Renshaw at first stared down at him, then grabbed his arm, forcing Zac to his feet. He said nothing, his judgment plain to see before Zac doubled over, his hands on his knees, as he tried to regain his breath. By the time he could straighten up, the road was clear, the bodies already dragged away, then he was roughly pulled back into the undergrowth.

“Bit of a red mist, there, Zac. Lucky for you this armor is near invincible,” Renshaw said as they made their way back up the slope. Zac winced, the pain in his ribs now intensifying as his adrenalin waned. “There was no need to beat on the boy like that.”

“Yeah,” Zac gasped, still all fired up, still panting, but Renshaw was already well ahead. Then it dawned on Zac the noise of their fight had likely blown their cover, and so he was soon back on the road, making an easier dash for the truck. As Zac got nearer, he met Billy and Laura, Billy giving him a look of confusion. “No time,” Zac shouted as he ran past, and Billy and Laura hightailed after him.

As they reached the truck, they found confusion abounded. Loser was running around, looking under the truck, then in the back before Saggers rushed off into the forest, the woman on his tail.

“What?” Zac shouted.

“The kid, he’s vanished,” Loser called back.

“What? Get the rest of them in the truck. Which way?” Loser pointed down the slope and into the trees, the way Saggers had gone.

Zac ran, pushing himself hard to catch up, then, in the poor visibility of the undergrowth, he almost ran into Saggers’ back. “Hannah,” the man shouted, ignoring Zac, “which way?”

Hannah shook her head, her eyes wide in alarm.

“Where the hell is the kid?” Zac demanded, but Saggers only shrugged before shouting “Clay!” at the top of his voice.

Zac did a doubletake. “What?” he almost spat.

“It’s his name.”

“What is?”

“Clay.”

“Clay?”

“Might not be the best time to tell you,” Hannah said, “but we think he’s your son.”

“My son?” and the world seemed to tumble crazily about Zac.

“His mother was a gridder called Teah. Ring any bells?”

“Teah?” Zac whispered, then he saw the boy walking toward him, what looked like a mouse in his outstretched hand.

“Sorry, mister,” the lad said. “It’s Trip’s mouse, Whistle. He ran off.”

Zac stood there, covered from head to foot in the soldier’s blood, and could only stare openmouthed at the boy.

SITTING BY A WELL, Zac dropped a pebble into the water. They’d made a mad dash down the valley and holed up in a deserted farmhouse some way from the road for the night. Now Renshaw’s men had the track which led to it covered, the rest were asleep inside, something which had eluded Zac.

Teah was alive.

She’d become little more than a ghost in his mind, a beautiful dream, but one he’d accepted had ended. He saw her face now, her smile, her eyes as she gazed at him. And yet one day she’d just vanished, and now it looked like she’d had good reason.

How?

Wasn’t everyone within the city limits supposed to be sterile? Even the carnies? Hadn’t he been through the scraping himself, as it was called, which in reality was nothing more than an extraction and a pill. Wasn’t he, too, sterile? Yet Hannah had told him that Teah had said the kid was Zac’s, and he’d no reason to doubt the man.

He took his combats off and drew the bucket up, determined to scrub the young soldier’s blood from his skin. Now that he knew, he could see her looks in the boy called Clay. The particular way his smile curled up at the edges, the curve of his nose, the high cheekbones, all reminiscent of a woman he hadn’t seen in ten years. He tipped the bucket of water over his head and stared up at the night sky. “What a clusterfuck,” he muttered.

“Clusterfuck?” Laura’s voice spilled into his thoughts. “Smoke, Zac?”

“Yeah,” he said, slipping his fatigues back on.

“Hey, no need to cover up for me. We’re past that, Zac. Unless it’s off the table, now Teah’s alive.”

Zac felt the telltale tingle of adrenaline, but took a breath and let it subside. Accepting the smoke, he managed a smile. “It’s a strange, strange world.”

“That it is, Zac Clay; that it is.”

She sat on the wall of the well, taking a lug of her smoke and blowing it out in a funnel. “Listen,” she eventually said, “it’s a fucking apocalypse. Shit happens. Hey...” She smiled and pulled him close. “How were you to know a woman you haven’t seen for ten years was still alive and had your kid? How were you to know the impossible was possible? Hell, don’t beat yourself up. We had some fun.”

“That all it was?”

“Jesus, Zac, I’m letting you off the hook. Last thing I need now is some kinda complex love tryst.”

Zac backed away from her. It was exactly that easygoing manner which had hooked him in the first place; that smile. He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ve got a kid,” he muttered, tearing his eyes away from her, now pulling at his hair as he stamped the ground. “Why? Why, if she was pregnant, didn’t she tell me?”

“What happened?”

Zac placed his hands on her shoulders. “One day she was there, the next gone. Nothing, not a word. I asked Charm, asked him to find out, but he said he hadn’t heard a thing. A few days later, he said she’d gone AWOL, missing, but I knew, knew she was dead—at least I thought she was. Two days after she’d vanished, they lit the wastelands up—the drones, the stiffs—they were hunting something, and I assumed it was her.”

“But she survived,” Laura said.

“Which makes it…” Zac threw his smoke down. “It makes it worse,” he cried. “It means she ran away, didn’t want me, didn’t love me.”

“Not true, Zac.” Saggers’ voice rang out. “That’s just not true. She named the fuckin’ stars after you, never mind the kid.”

20

ZAC’S STORY

Strike time: plus 10 days

Location: Road to Aldertown

LOSER PULLED the truck up a mile shy of Morton. “Tracks,” he said, and pointed.

Noodle raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he said. “Is this the type of insightful conversation I’ve missed by being stuck in the back with all those stinking captives?” He turned to Zac. “Why am I in the front? You pissed Laura off?”

“It’s complicated,” Zac told him.

“Weren’t sayin’ it weren’t. So, what’s happened?”

“Teah’s alive.”

Noodle shrugged. “Thought Switch had told you that.”

“I said ‘Tracks’,” said Loser.

“Switch?” Zac rasped. “Yeah, he said that, but hell—fuck, Noodle—that boy in the back, he’s my son—Teah’s son.”

“Your—”

Zac nodded.

“Then why aren’t you in the back, or him up front with us?”

“I… I don’t know what to do.”

“Does he know he’s your son?” Noodle slapped his forehead. “Nearly confused myself there. What I’m trying to say is this: get your shit together, and quick, or else things are just going to get plain awkward.”

“Awkward?”

“Imagine meeting your old man for the first time, and he’s known about you for a couple of days and failed to mention it. Awkward.”

“There’s a load of motorbike tracks in the road,” Loser sighed.

“I get what you’re saying, Noodle.” Zac pulled out his pack of smokes and lit one. “But it’s a hell of a bad time.”

“We’re ten days into an apocalypse, Zac. I got news for you: there ain’t a good time.”

“So, you think I should just jump out, pull him outta the truck and say ‘Hi, Clay, I’m Zac, your dad—the same guy who was covered from head to foot in some soldier’s blood yesterday.”

“Clay?”

“Teah named him Clay.”

Noodle shrugged. “Yes, that’s exactly what I think you should do.”

“There are tire tracks in the road,” Loser muttered.

Zac and Noodle turned to him. “We know!” they both shouted.

“Then you’ll also know there’s only one club ‘round here with that many bikes.”

ZAC LOOKED over the ruins of Morton, Renshaw on one side, Saggers on the other.

“Told you,” Saggers said.

“Well, you’ve got the local knowledge,” Renshaw conceded.

Saggers had taken a back trail through the forest, and now they were hidden in the trees, watching for signs of life. Zac had talked with Saggers for a good while, but neither man could come up with a good way to introduce father and son. Renshaw shifted around to face Zac.

“Tell me,” he said, “if this is more than likely going to be your club, why are we hiding?”

Zac carried on staring at the lake. “Thing is, I had a bit of a falling out with them—a man named Nathan Grimes in particular. I’m just not so sure how…hospitable my welcome would be.”

“You beat the crap outta him, didn’t you?” Renshaw said.

Zac shrugged. “I tried.”

“Looks like two left down there.” Saggers pointed to a pair of bikers walking along the shore. “Is that a shovel over the fat one’s shoulder?”

Zac grinned. “That there is a welcome sight. That there is Spritzer, and he’s about as close to a friend as I’ve got in that club.”

“Then why’s he still in it? Why’s he not with you and Noodle and that?” Saggers asked.

“Oh, I asked him to stick behind and keep an eye on everything.”

Renshaw nodded. “We’ll go back and get the others while you straighten things out.”

Saggers pushed himself up. “What if they come back?”

“Then,” Renshaw muttered, “the Clay boy will be looking for another father.” He, retreated, soon vanishing among the trees.

Zac took a deep breath, made to set off himself but then chose a smoke instead. His chat with Saggers hadn’t helped, though he was now sure he was a mighty fine man, and for some reason that counted for something. He’d shed little light on Teah’s flight from Black City; either he was keeping that to himself or he plain didn’t know. Zac was erring toward the latter, but he’d also recognized the name ‘Lester’ which had cropped up more than once. Although he couldn’t recall why, he mulled it over while he smoked his smoke.

What the hell was Grimes doing up here? Wasn’t their brief to look after Christmas, possibly Sendro Verde—or the correctional? Zac jumped up, smoke in hand, and scrambled down the slope.

By the time he’d crossed the road, skirted the ruins of the bar and was walking along the shore, Spritzer and his companion were nearing a cabin at the end of the lake. But Zac was in no hurry; it would take about half an hour for the truck to catch up. He would, though, have to have a word with Spritzer; the dumbass hadn’t even spotted him yet.

Zac watched the two men stop, Spritzer plunging the spade into the ground, then they walked around the back of the cabin. As Zac ambled nearer, they dragged out what looked like a body, which they dropped beside the spade before Spritzer began to dig a hole. At no time did either men notice Zac, not until he was no more than twenty feet from them.

“Zac?” said Spritzer, his face plastered with confusion.

“Need to keep them eyes peeled, Spritzer. I could’ve been anyone. Who’s your friend?”

“Zac?” Spritzer dumbly repeated. “That really you? I know that’s you, but darn it, you just dressed like an army boy. You lose your colors?”

“I know where they are. Your friend?”

“New patch. From Christmas. Jimmy, meet Zac Clay,” but Jimmy just stared at Zac.

He had that kind of stance which told Zac he had swagger—or thought he had—and he wore his colors like they would do his fighting for him.

“Jimmy,” Zac said, offering his hand, but Jimmy continued just staring at him.

“Ain’t you the one who upped and buggered off to form your own club?” Jimmy eventually said.

Zac began to smile, but as the man’s words sank in they caught him up short, “And you a new patch,” he said, gritting his teeth.

“Just cos I’m new don’t mean I’m green.” He squared up to Zac. “Now, you wouldn’t happen to know what happened to Nate and Max, would you?”

Zac stepped up to Jimmy, nose-to-nose, staring him out. “Been a bit busy for that, son. Been busy getting shot at and the like, just trying to find my brother.”

“Brother?”

“Connor.”

Jimmy blinked and took a step back. “He supposed to be around here?”

Zac nodded, flicking a glance at Spritzer. The big man shrugged. “Yeah,” Zac said, eventually.

“Then you best come and look at this.” Jimmy turned his back on Zac and walked away.

“What’s his deal?” Zac asked Spritzer.

“Talk shit about Grimes all you want, but I’ll be damned if he don’t manufacture a loyal prospect or two.”

“I can hear you, Spritzer. Remember…” Jimmy shouted out.

“Remember?” Zac queried.

“I’m in the doghouse fer speaking up fer you. Technically, he’s in charge o’ me.”

“That why you diggin’ the hole?”

Spritzer smirked. “Nah, I freakin’ love diggin’ holes; what do you think?”

Zac smiled, shook his head and wandered off after Jimmy, who was now standing by a tree, at which he was pointing. “Freshly carved by the folk who killed Nate and Max. One of them’s called Connor—not the most common name in these parts.”

“Nine million names have become less common over the last few days.” Zac bent, looking closely at the carvings. “Molly, Sticks, Gino, Connor, Kenny and…” Zac shook his head. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What is it?” Jimmy asked, his shadow falling over Zac.

Zac looked up at the man, now standing over him, gun in hand.

“I said, what is it?”

Inclining his head, Zac decided he liked Jimmy. The boy had stones. “I’ll tell you what, Jimmy. I’ll tell you exactly ‘What it is’, if you’d be so kind as to put your hands up.”

Jimmy grinned. “And why should I—”

Behind Jimmy, Spritzer slotted a cartridge into the chamber of his pump-action.

Jimmy dropped his gun and put his hands up. “Well?” he then asked.

Zac picked up the handgun, spun it around his finger for a moment then threw it a few feet away. “The last name: it belongs to a customer of mine. Now, as I said, nine million names just got rarer—”

“Nope,” said Jimmy. “That don’t add up. That’d mean every one of them there gridders had a different name—can’t see that. Let’s just say there are fewer floating around.”

“Granted,” Zac had to allow. “So, tell me, just how many Byrons can you see still existing?”

Jimmy shook his head. “I’ll grant you that, too: not many.”

“And Connors?”

“Again, not many.”

“What if I told you, along with my brother, a man named Byron Tuttle used to frequent my bar?” Jimmy was sweating now, the morning sun shining down on him. But it wasn’t fear; Zac knew that. “I think you can lower your gun, Spritzer. We cool, Jimmy?” Jimmy nodded.

“So, what we’ve got,” Jimmy said, “is a group of gridders going around slittin’ our boys’ throats.”

“’Cept gridders are all s’posed to be dead. Even if they ain’t, they don’t go around slitting folks' throats—unless they learned a whole new skillset in the last few days.”

“True that, and we’ll know soon enough. Nathan’s mighty riled his namesake’s gone and got himself murdered—taken it quite personal, like.”

Zac straightened. “He’s fixing on revenge?”

“What do you think, Zac?” Spritzer said.

“Which way?”

“They’ve gone up the valley, but there ain’t no point chasing them; got a night’s start and a couple of hours.”

“They got bikes—the gridders?”

Spritzer shrugged. “Not as far as I know.”

“But you have.”

“Didn’t say Grimes wouldn’t catch them. Just thinkin’ he probably already has.” Spritzer’s gaze became distracted, back along the lakeshore in the direction of Morton. “Friends of yours?” he asked. “Say, is that Noodle?”

Zac followed his gaze. Sure enough, the truck had pulled up, Noodle, Loser and Billy already out and running toward them.

“Say, Jimmy,” said Zac, “think you might need your gun now?”

Jimmy shrugged. “You ain’t gonna kill me fer bein’ loyal to Grimes.”

“Nope, but I am gonna borrow your bike.”

Jimmy reared up. “Nope, I don’t think you are.”

“Jimmy…” Spritzer began, but Jimmy was already facing off Zac again.

“I’ll give you a ride,” he said, “but you ain’t gonna take my bike.”

Noodle skidded to a halt. “We gotta a problem here, Zac?” He looked around. “Who killed Nate and Max?” Noodle stared inquiringly at Spritzer. “Am I missing something, Spritzer?”

JIMMY REVVED HIS BIKE, Zac jumped on behind him. Loser and Saggers led on Spritzer’s bike. It had been Saggers idea—said he knew where they’d hide if it was in Aldertown. As before, Saggers veered off the road about a mile from their destination and directed Loser through the forest. He soon signaled for them all to stop.

Stooping down, he drew a map in the loose soil. “This here’s the river, Aldertown to one side. Assuming what you said is true, only my place will be standing. It’s a few hundred yards outta town and probably looked derelict on account of it already falling down.”

“That is, if they’re anywhere near here,” Loser pointed out.

“Ain’t nowhere else to go. You said they got soldiers with them?” He shrugged. “Then they’ll aim for the preppers. ‘Sides, I can smell ’em.”

“Smell ’em?” Jimmy asked.

“Wind’s coming down the valley, carryin’ all their sweat ’n grease ’n oil. C'mon, we got a little trek ahead of us.”

Saggers walked off, and Zac fell in beside him, the others not far behind.

“You seem to be takin’ all this in your stride,” Zac said.

Saggers took a deep breath, appearing to collect his thoughts. “Truth is…” he said. “Truth is, I’m feelin’ a bit in your debt, Zac.”

“My debt?”

“Hell, from what I surmise, if you hadn’t knocked up Teah, I’da never met her, never met Clay, and probably still be in that stockade…or dead. It was Teah who got us all in the basement.”

“Yeah?” Zac skipped a step to keep up with him. “What else she been up to?”

“Aww,” said Saggers, “I can’t tell you all that.”

“Why not?”

“Cos she’ll wanna tell you herself, someday.”

Saggers jogged off, ending the conversation. He moved easily through the forest, and Zac followed in his footsteps, keeping to his rhythm. It was going to take a while for him to get used to the country. The ground had too much give, too many slopes and slips. He envied Saggers. The man had known Teah a whole load more time than he had. The man had seen her more recently, too. He was clearly in love with her—no, that wasn’t quite right, he was in awe of her. Zac wondered what the badass stiff from Black City had been up to.

Zac smiled as he kept pace.

About a half hour later, Saggers pulled them up again. “Hear that?”

Jimmy nodded. Then Zac heard it. He took his machine gun off his shoulder. “How many they brought, Jimmy?”

“Depends, Zac.” Jimmy took his own gun down. “I hope you’re not thinking of shootin’ the club up.”

Trouble was, Zac knew he hadn’t been thinking at all. What if Connor was just a shell? What if Grimes had already killed him? What if the club got in the way?

“No, there’ll be no shootin’, just as long as I get my way.” He winked and then laughed. Saggers walked on for another ten minutes before he began creeping, the rest of them following suit behind him, crouching as they slipped through the undergrowth. The steady rumble of bikes grew louder. Zac could smell their exhausts, the stench of his old club. Saggers eventually stopped and pointed down through the trees.

“That’s my house, there,” he hissed as he settled down in the undergrowth.

Zac could see what looked like a house which had been in the path of a hurricane, all splinters of wood and roof tiles. Saggers shuffled over a bit more. “There, that’s better.”

The bikers were there, milling around, then most of them roared off, heading farther up the valley. Those who stayed, wheeled their bikes into the undergrowth just past Saggers’ wreck of a house, then continued milling around and smoking.

“What are they doing?” Jimmy asked.

“Fishin’,” Loser said. “Credit to a corndog, they know exactly where the others are.”

“Don’t seem to be hiding.”

“Nope, but a couple just peeled off and walked down the road. Bet they’re going to Trip’s.”

“The dude with the mouse?”

“Yep, ’n if he’s alive, the guy with Teah.” He patted Zac on the back. “S’all right. She never held a candle fer anyone. Way she figured it, her life was too complicated, anyways. Now, we need to get our eyes on Trip’s. You coming?”

“Why not? Loser, Jimmy, you keep your eyes out here?” and Zac hurried to catch up with Saggers.

Sure enough, two of the bikers were hiding behind the ruins of the house now opposite where they’d settled again. “That were Helen’s house,” Saggers informed Zac. “Wonder how she’s gettin’ on. Her ’n her kids… Think they ran off into the forest at our rescue, but must say, it was a confusin’ time.” Saggers slouched down, settling in. Zac crouched next to him.

“Wasn’t supposed to be a rescue,” Zac told him. “I just saw the…” He looked at Saggers. “I saw Clay and thought…”

Saggers grinned. “Felt a connection, did we? See, I told you Teah saved my life. ‘Bout time we came up with a plan to introduce you.”

“Yep,” Zac muttered. “About time.”

“Shittin’ yerself.”

“Yep,” Zac again muttered. “Shittin’ myself.”

“Hold on, we have movement.”

“Where?”

“Over the road… Over the top of that pile of rubble; see the patio, the dwarf wall? See the head?”

Zac squinted against the sun. “Is that a body poking outta the ground?”

“Yep, think that there is Ray. Mother of your child put him there.” Saggers’ grin told Zac that might not have been too bad a thing. “Over the top… Oh, oh, here we come.”

Zac watched a man step over the body, another poke his head up and then pull himself to his feet, casting a quick look at the partly exposed body. They then ran for the cover of the collapsed building, inching around it and then looking up and down the street. One ran toward Saggers’ house, the other walked back across the patio and sat on the parapet wall, his gun resting casually across his knees. Zac trained his gun on the bikers.

“Military,” he muttered. “Them two are military. They’re our killers.”

“Then why are you pointing your gun at your own gang?”

Zac shook his head. “Cos life just ain’t simple no more.”

“Amen to that.” Saggers tensed. “Here they come. Let’s hope—”

“Nope,” said Zac as the first doubled over at the sight of the body. “Fragile stomach—that’s a gridder.” Zac took a sharp intake of breath. “But that’s him; that’s Connor.”

Saggers grabbed Zac’s shoulder. “Let’s watch this play out. The bikers think they got the surprise, but we got it all. Say, you ever been huntin’?”

“Nope.”

“Well, surprise is the key.”

A woman and an older man appeared.

“Byron Tuttle,” Zac muttered as Byron began vomiting everywhere. “Now, how did I know that man would puke his guts up?”

The other soldier had returned and beckoned them up the road.

“Told you,” said Saggers. “Knew they’d go to mine. Damn, bet all my smokes have been rifled.”

Saggers made to move, but Zac held him back. “Why aren’t they moving?” he asked, pointing at the two bikers.

“Ain’t that a fine question. Give it a few minutes? We’ll beat them back, whatever.”

Zac nodded. “Five max, then we go after Connor.”

The wait was nothing short of torture, and when Saggers tapped his arm, Zac jerked up in surprise but then settled again when he saw where Saggers was pointing. “Nathan Grimes,” he hissed.

Nathan Grimes was now sauntering up the road, a double-barreled sawed-off shotgun over his shoulder. As he passed the two lookouts, they fell in with him as he sauntered on, one either side and a couple of paces back.

“Asshole,” Zac muttered as he shuffled backward into the forest.

“THEY’VE ALL GONE into the basement—I presume it’s a basement,” Jimmy said as Saggers and Zac returned. “Say, that your flagpole?”

“Nope,” said Saggers, but he didn’t elaborate. “What’s he doin’?”

“Been rooting around yer garden, sifting through yer rubble. Think he’s got a bunch of yer money in his hands.”

“S’only money,” Saggers muttered.

“Now, that’s the kinda talk that’ll get you killed,” Jimmy reckoned.

“So, Connor’s in there?”

“Rest of ’em are. Fuck me, here comes Nathan.”

“You ready, Loser?” Zac said. “If Connor’s in any—”

“Got it, boss.”

“The other one’s blind,” Jimmy went on. “He’s got his head in the basement window. Grimes is about to—”

“Don’t need a running commentary, Jimmy,” Loser muttered, sighting his rifle.

Grimes walked straight up to the prone soldier’s outstretched legs and twirled his sawed-off from his shoulder and planted it straight into the soldier’s back. The soldier pushed himself out and got up, another biker leading him away and then making him kneel. Grimes leaned down to the window.

“Got some guts, Grimes. Musta grown them recently,” Zac muttered as the other soldier climbed out through the basement window. He was made to kneel next to the first one.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Zac muttered, but he had a bad feeling about it all. “Loser?”

“Ready.”

A blast rang out and one of the soldiers keeled over.

“Loser?” Zac exclaimed.

“Wasn’t Connor; you said Connor.”

Grimes had his head back at the window. The other bikers were all milling around in the street now, some on their bikes, some still retrieving them. The remaining soldier was dragging his companion toward the road, a gun in his back.

Grimes stepped back from the basement window and offered to help a woman out, but she shrugged him off. The big man emerged next, followed by Byron Tuttle. They were all led away, leaving Grimes alone—until Connor came out.

“Loser…”

“Got it, boss.”

Grimes was now poking Connor in the chest with his sawed-off.

“Loser…”

Loser flexed his shoulders.

“Got it…”

Grimes backed off, raising the sawed-off, but then turned away from Connor. He walked a few paces and then spun around, leveling his shotgun at Connor.

“Loser…” Zac growled.

“For fuck’s sake, I got it.”

Grimes gave out a loud belly laugh, cut off almost immediately, leaving silence hanging in the air.

“I think your brother’s going to fight,” Jimmy said.

Grimes pulled the sawed-off tight into his shoulder.

21

TEAH’S STORY

Strike time: plus 9 days

Location: Christmas

TEAH LET HIM JABBER ON; she’d decided Cornelius liked the sound of his own voice. He’d tried to justify his past, time and time again, as if it were somehow important to him that she understood. She’d merely ended up accepting he really did think he’d done nothing wrong. Once she’d come to terms with that she’d relaxed a little. Because she knew he’d no remorse, she’d also made a bargain with herself never to lower her guard, for the lengths he’d go to in order to get what he wanted seemed without end. He carried on shouting over the rock music, the wind in his hair, his arm out of the truck window and sporting round, green-tinted glasses. To all intents and purposes, it appeared he’d not a care in the world.

“What do you think Wesley will decide?” he asked her as they drove away from Christmas.

“I’m sorry, what?” Her mind was shot. Not only was she trying to fathom-out Cornelius but her thoughts were also roaming two valleys away. A second explosion had thundered through the valley the night before. As loud as the first, it had been a double one, and one which had made her sit upright, sweat streaming down her brow. Now, all she wanted to do was drive, drive and think of Clay, wondering why that day in the woods she hadn’t just run back to Saggers’ house and scooped him up. In her heart of hearts, though, she knew she would have been too late, that Aldertown would already have been emptied, but it didn’t help—not now.

“What gain?” she shouted.

Cornelius leaned forward and turned the music down.

“What what?”

“What gain would the soldiers have by emptying Aldertown and Morton?”

“That? Hasn’t anybody told you?” He looked at her, his ponytail flapping in the breeze, his handsome moustache framing a wry grin. “Have they not? But then, who have you met that could? Some bit players, some pretenders. Apart from Jake, of course, who’s at last got a grasp on the intricacies of what’s going on. Did he tell you much?”

“He said I’d remember.”

“And you will, in time. Do you remember the red lights which used to flash over the grid? You were told they were something to do with night-flying drones, some such crap, and you blindly accepted it.”

“And wasn’t it?” Teah asked, but knew it was a foolish question.

Cornelius threw his head back and laughed. “Control; the AIs, VPAs, the implants, it was all control. They were a mere extension of the information gathering implants of years before. No, those beacons, they put you to sleep, they woke you up, they told you how to feel. It was supposed to be utopia, where choice was controlled and thought monitored. It was part of Charm’s brilliance.”

“What was?” Teah pulled a smoke out and lit it.

“Well, that for a start. Charm infiltrated it—the control—he infiltrated it with rebellion, and that made everyone think they were a bit…a bit risqué. Brilliant, quite brilliant. When they bought some black-market hooch or smokes, or pills, they felt like kings and queens, and Charm profited.” Cornelius shuffled around to face her. “He’s quite the manipulator.”

“So, how does that affect me?”

Cornelius’s eyes lit up. “Because he controlled your memory. Even once you’d escaped, he still controlled it. But then...” Cornelius raised his hand high then drove it down. “Then boom! and the red lights were no more, the beacons gone, and whatever little implant is in that feisty head of yours stopped supressing your memories. So, the apocalypse set you free. Ironic, eh?”

Teah tried to understand his words, to put them into the puzzle which had long confronted her. Did he mean to say Charm had known her every move since she’d escaped?

“Why didn’t he have me brought back? Back to Black City? Why was I allowed to stay free?”

“Free?” and Cornelius bellowed a laugh. “You were no more free than I was. Free? Free of Black City? Free of Charm? Free wasn’t just fifty miles, not even a hundred. A thousand, maybe. Free would have been one of the neutral countries. Free? You were still his dog.”

“His dog?”

“His dog,” Cornelius affirmed. He shuffled back around to look straight through the windshield. “So, what gain would the soldiers have by gathering up everyone in Aldertown and Morton. Why those two places? Why not Christmas? Why not Sendro Verde? Why not the preppers, eh? Ever ask yourself that?”

“No,” Teah let dribble out. Now he’d mentioned it, it was so glaring. “Not close enough to the army base?” she ventured.

“Really? That’s the best you can do? How about this? Aldertown was your last known location. Morton the only place close enough to get to it on foot. Assuming you weren’t silly enough to go outside for a couple of days—and don’t say ‘We watched a flag’ or some horseshit like that, because we all know no flag’s high enough in the air—don’t you see? You could have only been in one of two places: Morton or Aldertown. So, they gathered everyone up and put ‘em in a pretty stockade and waited.”

“Waited for what?”

Cornelius shrugged. “For Charm? Possibly. My guess, though, would be for another player, a more ruthless one, and one who I’ve yet to have the pleasure of meeting.”

“Who?”

“An old man called Irving Meyers? A tyrant by the name of Oster Prime? We’ll find out, all in good time.”

Teah wanted to scream “Who?” and thumped the steering wheel in frustration. “Who the hell is Irving Meyers?”

Cornelius reached forward and turned the music down even further. “There are players of games, and there are players; there are bastards, and there are bastards. Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘A wolf in sheep’s clothing’?”

“No, but I get the gist.”

“Irving Meyers is a cold-blooded bastard. He looks like an old man—looks like he’s on the verge of death, but trust me, that man’s been that way since before you were born. There’s something strange about Irving Meyers, something very strange indeed.”

“What’s this man got to do with me?”

Cornelius propped his feet on the dash, scrunching right down into his seat. “Why do you think I sent four men to kill you? At the pass. Why only four?”

Teah was too numb to be shocked by his words. Nor was she going to be put off by his change of subject. Instead, she tried to think through the question. “Because you wanted to fail,” she suggested.

He looked over and winked at her. “Exactly. I wanted to fail. I put the bounty on Briscoe’s head and hoped they didn’t get too excited—they would have taken you out, too, you know.”

“And if they had?”

Cornelius shrugged. “Then you wouldn’t have been the woman I thought you were. It’s interesting, don’t you think, how only the important survive.”

“Or are people only relevant if they live?”

“Historians, when the world valued them, would have vehemently disagreed with that. But history dissolved into fiction, and that was its end. You’re right, the dead are irrelevant, so only the living can be important. So, my point stands.” Cornelius appeared quite pleased with his reasoning and slapped his leg, as though in celebration. “But,” he said, “it still doesn’t answer my question: Why only four? And don’t say one would have been obvious, ten too many.”

Teah thought hard, trying to remember the processes she’d used in her previous daily life, all those years before. “One,” she said, then paused. “One or two: too few. They would never have attacked. One or two would have been a scouting party and would have laid low and waited for us to pass. Any more than four, and Kelly or Max would have seen it coming. Any more than four and we might have retreated. No, four was just right for us to think we’d won the day and not question it.”

Cornelius clapped. “Correct, but you’re only seeing one side of the coin. Remember, I didn’t want you ending up dead.”

“Your men…” Teah said, finally understanding. “More than four would have seen them be on the offensive, would have seen them attack and exterminate. One, two, even three, would have been cowered, like I said—or they’d have run, maybe even changed sides.”

“Well, well, well, I might make a general out of you yet. Yes, four is the best number—though four cowards could still have run. But then, you would probably only have killed three of them—the fourth being too intelligent to die.”

“So, one still remains…”

“And?”

Teah’s stomach became queasy. “And he’s watching Max’s cabin.”

Cornelius howled like a wolf. “More, more, more!” he shouted.

“You anticipated Jake’s parley.”

His laughter now rang out, loud and mocking. “So close, so very close.”

AS TEAH SLOWED the truck and brought it to a stop a dozen or so yards short of the cabin, she saw Jake was sitting on Max’s stoop, rocking back and forth. Teah guessed Kelly and Max would be somewhere in the surrounding trees. Trip she could see, sitting on the stoop’s railing. Both Trip and Jake had their automatics resting lazily on their laps. Cornelius, beside her, was now grinning.

“I wonder,” he muttered, and threw his gun out of the truck’s window before pushing the door open.

“No way to treat a weapon, Clay,” Jake shouted.

“A show of good faith.”

Jake craned his neck. “How many more, Teah?”

“A dozen or more,” she replied.

“Yer man: he’s dead. Oh, you can admonish him if you want, though he’s technically beyond that, but he didn’t do a bad job. You forgot one thing, though, Cornelius, and one thing alone.”

Cornelius stepped out of the truck. He shook each leg in turn, as if to get the blood flowing again. Brushing his fingers through his gray hair then scratching his shaven chin, he looked from Jake to Trip.

“That smell,” he said.

Jake smiled. “The stench of Black City Correctional. Once you’ve tasted it, once its fetid stink has sunk into your pores, you can never wash it away, Cornelius. How many men is Wesley going to bring?”

Cornelius shrugged. “All of them? I’d imagine all of them. That’s how many I’d bring. But you never can tell with Wesley; he blows with the wind. He might leave a few behind.”

“And Grimes?”

“He’s on his way—long way around for that boy—the long way around.”

Teah sucked in her breath, waiting for it all to explode, but somehow the tension wasn’t there. Trip seemed peculiarly disinterested in the exchange, as if what they were saying was no news to him. Cornelius walked toward them. Jake got up and held out his hand. “How did she do?” he asked.

“She was everything I’d hoped for,” said Cornelius, and he turned to Teah. “Well, are you coming in or not?” He then addressed Jake, “Tell me, Jake, did you have to kill my man?”

Jake laughed. “You didn’t know?”

Cornelius hesitated, looking back at Teah, who ambled after them, desperate for a word with Trip or Kelly, maybe even Max—anyone. She needed an explanation, and any would do, she thought.

“Know what?” Cornelius asked as he led them indoors, and Jake laughed again.

“That he was playing more than one side.”

“Devious.” Cornelius put his arm around Jake. “Looks like I owe you one.”

“Looks like you won’t have long to wait before I call it in. Cornelius, this is Kelly and Max, and Trip was the one on the stoop. Take a seat.”

Kelly and Max shook Cornelius’ hand, then they all sat at Max’s table. Teah took the seat nearest the door. Somehow, it seemed far safer.

“Been cooking up some booze, Max?” Cornelius asked, and Max nodded. “May I?”

“You may.”

“Can someone tell me what’s going on?” Teah at last had to ask.

“My dear,” Cornelius said, clearly at ease with being in charge of the situation. “Are you somehow not familiar with the theory there is the army, and then there’s everyone else? It’s a particularly relevant theory today—in these difficult times we find ourselves in.”

“They have Clay,” Teah muttered.

“Indeed they do. Jake, perhaps you might like to inform Teah, to the best of your knowledge, exactly what’s going on?”

Jake was sitting across the table from her. He looked her in the eye, his own eyes wide, clearly relishing the task Cornelius had set him. He slowly stuck a smoke in his mouth, his gaze never wavering. Striking a light, he lit it and took a long draw.

“All of it?”

Cornelius nodded.

“You sure you trust her?”

“Wesley seemed happy. She’s done everything and more required of her.” Cornelius shrugged. “And we’re running out of time—by my reckoning.”

“Well, you might wanna get another couple of jugs of hooch, Max. What about you, Trip?”

Trip was sitting back, balancing on the back legs of his chair. He appeared to be mulling over the question, but his grin told of a mind already settled. “Sure,” he finally said. “I trust her; trusted her a while back. You don’t get to kill a man together and not come outta the other end without a measure of understanding.”

Jake nodded. “And I think I’m finally there. So, here it is, Teah, here’s the problem: will you accept what we have to tell you?”

Teah reached for the jug and poured herself a mug of hooch. The long swig she took burned her throat and set her stomach on fire. “Will it get me my kid back?”

Cornelius slapped the table. “Get on with it,” he growled. “Time’s getting tight.”

Jake raised his palm. “Gotta be sure, Cornelius; gotta be sure.” He pushed his stool back and stood, leaning on the table as he looked down at her. “Queen: the term is everything here.”

“You called me a queen. As you did, Cornelius,” Teah muttered, nerves now somehow getting the better of her. “As did Josiah Charm.”

“Good; you remember that. In which case, let me start,” and Jake sat back down. “Have you heard of an artificial intelligence called Sable?”

TEAH SAT ON THE STOOP, Trip beside her. The night sky appeared endless as Jake’s revelations took root in her mind.

“So, that accident in the sewer sparked all of this?”

“All of this?” Trip said. “What, the apocalypse and all? Nah. Them politicians were always gonna lose the plot. You see, Ned had a theory: thought they just got bored—Oster Prime and all them—thought they just did shit to irritate each other. Wouldn’t be a surprise to find out the nukes went up on the toss of a coin.”

“And the Sable thing?”

Trip shrugged. “Don’t readily understand that. Don’t get me wrong, I understand artificial intelligence, but I just can’t see it myself. Can’t see a computer being a solution.”

“Couldn’t do a worse job.”

“Than man? Probably not. Still, it’s a fucked-up place which can’t take care of itself. Thing I don’t understand is this: if she’s so good, why’d they say ‘infect’?”

“Infect?”

Trip nodded. “Yeah, like Jake said: ‘We need to get Sable to infect Meyers’ systems’. What did he mean by that? I mean, infecting is bad, isn’t it?”

“Maybe he meant ‘infiltrate’. That’d be better, wouldn’t it? Would you prefer that?”

He scoffed. “Sure.”

“Why do I get the feeling you ain’t okay with it all?”

“Oh, I’m okay, it’s just, well, computers: they don’t mean a lot to me. I mean, when was the last time you saw one up here? They’ve wiped out the cities now—so what’s the point?”

“Jake says the game goes on. You heard him. He says nothing’s changed, just the grid cities have gone. The war still carries on. The killing still carries on. Reckons the only way to stop it is to take their power away.”

Trip sparked up a smoke. “Sounds about right. Listen, I don’t need to be convinced. If we’re against Oster Prime, for whatever reason, I’m onboard.”

Behind her, the front door creaked and Kelly poked her head out. “Room fer one more?”

Teah shuffled up a bit.

“You okay?” Kelly said as she sat down.

“S’pose. Ain’t every day you find out you’re the key to saving the world.”

“Key? I thought you was queen?” Kelly nudged her. “Could be both, I suppose.”

“I feel kinda dirty. Odd. Like…”

“Ha,” Kelly exclaimed. “That made me want to puke on your behalf. Having something… What did he say? Having something hide in your head—that’s disgusting.” She shivered.

“What if I’d died? Then this Sable’s plan would never have worked.”

“Maybe you can’t die—ever think of that? I mean, if she—I take it Sable’s a she—if she made you fertile again—gave you Clay—what else could she do?”

“Do you think Clay—”

“That,” Jake’s voice rang out. “That we don’t know. We think not. No, from everything we know, you and Connor were the only ones affected. Connor holds her consciousness, and you hold the key to setting her free. How it works, we’ve no idea, but as I said: these last few days were a test. A test to make sure you weren’t going to destroy that which must be born.”

“And you’re sure about that,” Teah asked.

“As sure as I’ve ever been. You think back to everything that’s got us here. Lester—he sacrificed his life for you, Jenny too. What life Sable gave you, she also gave to Connor. She took from you both just to survive those early moments. Yet Jenny had seen enough; Lester had seen enough. He knew what she could become. He knew she was worth the ultimate price.”

“Lester,” Teah muttered, tears glazing her eyes at just the thought of him. And Jenny, what of her? Had she, had he, had they both nursed Teah through the early years so she could survive to fulfill this destiny? Above everyone she knew, she trusted Lester.

“Lester. Fucking. Avery. Savage,” said Cornelius, strolling out of the cabin, vaulting the stoop and pacing around the front yard. “A man of impeccable morals,” he went on to say. “I hated that in him. Of everything we’ve told you, you’re going to do it because of Lester, Avery fucking Savage. I do not believe it.”

“I haven’t agreed, yet.”

“Oh, you’ll do it. You will march into that preppers' compound at the head of my band of renegades and scum. You’ll band them folks together, and any others we can find, and you’ll lead them against the army, against Oster Prime, against Irving Meyers, because…” He closed the gap between them and leaned over Teah’s upturned face. “Because you are the queen.”

“How do we know Oster Prime’s coming?”

“Because, if Zac did his job properly, Sable would have sent him a message.”

“What message?”

“Nevada Mead.”

“What does that mean?”

“Adam and Eve.”

End of book 2

Well, thank you—thank you because you’ve spent a load of your free time in one of my little worlds, and I still have trouble believing that.

No more teasers, no more hints at what’s to come in the next and last book. Complete closure of this story arc—that is what is defined in the next book.

Free World Apocalypse – Genesis– is out Jan 1st – Pre Order available now.

I hope you’ll join me there.

THANK YOU FOR READING

I hope you enjoyed Captive. We’re on the edge of the series’ volcano and that is going to boil over in the final instalment—Genesis. So, what do you think happens next? Did you like a particular bit? There’s one book left, what do you want? More in the world? A whole new scenario? You’re the reader, join the Facebook Group and let me know.

Hey! You read books, right? Found a great Post-Apoc author? Read a mind blowing dystopian? Let me know about that. I love to read too.

Genesis is the last book in the series, it focus’s on just about everything, and I hope you enjoy it.

She won’t let you down…

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Cheers,

T.K.

ALSO BY T.K MALONE

Genesis

The Free World Army is marching against the prepper compound, Banks is about to blow the Hell’s Gates and storm Project Firebird, Nathan Grimes has Connor in his clutches, and Zac has Renshaw to contend with.

Things are brewing up nicely… and talking about Teah…

Teah has remembered everything and revenge is on her mind, but will she survive to taste its bitter sweet flavor? Can she see through the smoke and mirrors and get all the factions allied against The Free World Army?

Meanwhile…

Connor is withdrawing further and further into himself. Will the power of the AI within him tear him apart? Or, will she be the saviour the world has been looking for?

Who the hell is Karina Drey?

And no, there are no cliff hangers in this final instalment of the Free World Apocalypse series.

Follow T.K. on Amazon for new release updates.

Join the struggle!

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Table of Contents

Join the struggle

1. Teah’s Story

2. Teah’s Story

3. Connor’s Story

4. Connor’s Story

5. Connor’s Story

6. Connor’s Story

7. Connor’s Story

8. Connor’s Story

9. Connor’s Story

10. Connor’s Story

11. Connor’s Story

12. Zac’s Story

13. Zac’s Story

14. Zac’s Story

15. Zac’s Story

16. Zac’s Story

17. Zac’s Story

18. Zac’s Story

19. Zac’s Story

20. Zac’s Story

21. Teah’s Story

Thank you for reading

Also by T.K Malone