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  Without releasing the girl, Simone glanced at Milandra. “No,” she said, nodding towards the girl. “They are the animals and we once more have dominion over them.”

  A murmur of assent rose from the small crowd behind the Chosen. Milandra gazed at each of them in turn. One or two cast their eyes down and withdrew their minds from Simone’s, but most glared defiantly back. Simone retained sufficient psychic support to make the girl do whatever she wanted.

  Simone was looking again at the girl, making her tweak her nipples until they started to bleed.

  “You don’t need to do this, Simone,” Milandra said quietly.

  The Chosen shrugged. “Now. Later. Makes no difference.”

  Milandra glanced at Grant. He was still watching her, his expression grim but calculating. He hadn’t needed to call her over.

  He’s trying to teach me a lesson she thought. Maybe he’s right. . . .

  She walked over to him and stood by his side. They didn’t speak. Milandra watched as Simone made the girl strip naked. She watched as she made the girl climb onto a check-in counter and balance there, tying one arm of her jumper securely around an overhead stanchion. She watched as Simone made the girl tie the other arm of the jumper around her neck.

  As the girl took a step backwards off the counter, Milandra looked away.

  * * * * *

  Peter’s circle of exploration of the area surrounding his cottage had grown wider and wider as he found no sight or sound of any living person. He stopped at each small settlement and sounded his horn in the main street. The only reactions to the sound were raucous cries of crows and seagulls, complaining loudly at being disturbed in their feasting on corpses, and the distant barking of dogs, though Peter only saw one: a mangy, half-starved creature that slunk away at the sight of the Range Rover.

  With every rain-slicked gradient or ice-frosted bend Peter safely negotiated, he was thankful for the sure handling of the vehicle and took great delight in manoeuvring it through narrow country lanes, even if his travels had so far yielded no results.

  He stepped out in larger villages and explored a little on foot. The only living things he encountered were scavenging birds and rats and, more rarely, unseasonal flies. In one house he peeked into, seven or eight cats peered balefully back at him before resuming their chewing on the body of a man. Peter left them to it.

  He quickly grew accustomed to the smell of putrescence; it wasn’t as though he had never encountered such odours before. For weeks in the trenches of Belgium, he had lived amidst mud and ordure and decomposing flesh. These smells took him back to that time as if it had happened only last year; in a way, to Peter’s sense of time, it had.

  As the days wore on and he failed to glimpse another living person, Peter began to feel like Tom Evans had started to feel: as if he were the only person alive. Unlike Tom Evans, Peter knew this not to be the case, but he still found it difficult to shake the sensation.

  Then Peter’s journeying brought him to a town. It had snowed a little overnight, but it would have to come down considerably heavier for it to affect the handling of the Range Rover, and then he had the four-wheel-drive to utilise if necessary. He drove slowly around the snow-sprinkled streets, the driver’s window wound down, listening for sounds of life.

  Silence.

  He headed out of town on the opposite side to which he’d entered and almost missed them. The snow itself was so faint on the road that tracks made by another vehicle were almost invisible, but his eyes must have taken in the double parallel strips of black tarmac showing through the light dusting for, twenty or so yards further on, it registered in his mind.

  Peter pressed hard on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a smooth halt. Not certain if he had imagined it, he reversed until, sure enough, he could make out tracks on the road. Assuming the vehicle that had made the tracks had been travelling in the direction that traffic would normally have been heading on this side of the road—not a failsafe assumption, he knew—he turned the Range Rover and followed the tracks.

  They weren’t easy to see, even now he knew they were there, and he was forced to go slowly not to lose sight of them. So intent was he on keeping his gaze fixed on the dark twin strips that he didn’t notice the vehicles blocking the road until he was almost on them. Once more, he brought the Range Rover to an abrupt halt.

  An army truck was parked side on, blocking the road in both directions. A long, light-blue car was parked near it. Something moved in the passenger window . . . a dog? Peter had no time to consider this any further. All of his attention was suddenly fixed on the muzzle of the gun pointing at his face.

  The driver’s window was still wound down and so Peter had an uninterrupted view of the weapon and the man who wielded it. A young man, tall, with sandy, curly hair starting to recede at the temples. He was dressed against the cold in a thick ski jacket. If he had been wearing gloves, they had been removed the better to handle the weapon. The index finger of the man’s right hand was curled around the trigger.

  “Switch off the engine,” said the young man.

  Peter did as he was told. In the silence, he could hear the man’s heavy breathing.

  “I mean you no harm,” said Peter. “You’re the first person I’ve seen in days. Weeks.”

  The man watched him closely. Peter considered for just a moment probing to ascertain the man’s intentions, but thought better of it. Not while a gun was being held in his face. Peter waited.

  “Who are you?” said the man.

  “My name’s Peter. Peter Ronstadt.”

  “Okay,” said the man. “So where’ve you come from?”

  “Not far. A small village a few miles north of Cardiff. I’ve been looking for survivors. You’re the first—”

  “Survivors? You mean, there are survivors?”

  “Well, like I said, you’re the first I’ve found, but there will be others.”

  “How do you know? How do you know that we’re not the only ones left?” The words came out in a mingled rush of hope and fear, as though the man wanted to hear affirmation but wouldn’t believe it.

  “It stands to reason,” said Peter. “If we are still alive, there are bound to be others.”

  “Others. . . .” It came out in almost a whisper. The gun wavered from side to side as though the man had forgotten about it.

  Peter hadn’t. “Look, I meant what I said about not meaning you any harm. Why would I want to hurt you? I’m really pleased to see you. What’s your name?”

  “My name? Uh, Tom.”

  “Well, Tom, I’m very happy to meet you. I’d be even happier if you’d lower your weapon.”

  Tom blinked and looked down at the gun. He grunted. “I grabbed this from a dead soldier when I heard you coming.” For the first time, he smiled. It was a wan smile, little more than a grimace, but it made his face light up like a child’s. “I’m not sure how to use this. Don’t even know if it’s loaded.” He lowered the muzzle until it pointed at the ground.

  Peter opened the car door and got out, moving slowly and deliberately. Tom watched him and took half a pace back, but he didn’t raise the gun. Peter stood and held out his right hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Tom stepped forward and gripped it. They shook.

  As they released hands, Peter grinned. Tom returned it and a tear slid down his cheek. He swiped it away.

  “Look at me,” he said. “Blubbing like a baby. I thought I was the only one left. . . .” He shook himself. “Let me get rid of this”—he motioned at the gun—“before I shoot myself in the foot. Then you must come and meet Dusty.”

  “Your dog?”

  Tom nodded. He stepped to the side of the road and lowered the gun carefully to the ground, leaving it propped against the kerb. Then, side by side, the two men walked to the blue car.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The man sitting next to Diane during the flight tried to engage her in conversation until he took the hint from her monosyllabic replies and left her to her thoughts.


  Those thoughts were a jumbled morass that Diane tried to pick her way through as the 747 headed out over the Atlantic Ocean. Though Diane had never felt any great love towards the human race, she had never felt any particular animosity either and her indifference to what she had done puzzled her. In the years leading up to the moment that she had opened the canister and infected that child in the park, she had often dreaded what she would have to do, anticipating that it would sicken her. She had sometimes worried that she may not be able to go through with it.

  In the event, it proved to come as easily to her as putting on lipstick. As she had wandered the streets of L.A., smearing the powder as she went, she had even started to enjoy herself, especially as she worked her way through Beverly Hills. The idea of infecting what she thought of as The Plastic People gave her the kind of excited jolt that she rarely experienced.

  The excitement had not lasted long. It had soon been replaced by the familiar emptiness that she had come to accept as her normal state of being.

  Diane had long lived a solitary existence, preferring her own company. She had wondered what it would be like to be once more amongst her own kind; whether that would stir up more sociable longings within her. The answer turned out to be negative. Here she was, surrounded by almost five hundred of her people, and still she yearned for solitude. Not even the promise of being part of a much greater whole if the Great Coming was successful filled her with particular anticipation.

  She knew that she would have to play her part, the dutiful servant as she thought of it, though no doubt Milandra would never agree with that assessment. Yes, she would play her part and after the Great Coming she would be free to go wherever she wanted and be alone. And there would be a world of choice. Unlike before, she wouldn’t be forced to inhabit a certain place. She could head somewhere warm; find a tropical island, somewhere with coconuts; she would live off them and fish.

  Her happier contemplation was interrupted by the sound of Milandra’s voice coming over the aircraft intercom.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Milandra, sounding tinny. “Your Captain informs me that we are almost midway across the Atlantic. Radio communications are still operational and Heathrow is ready for our arrival. Some snow has fallen on the U.K. in the last few days, but the runways are clear and the conditions are perfect for a safe landing. So if any you are not too keen on flying—and I sense that to be the case—then have no fears. We are in good hands.

  “Now, as you all know our operation to, er, cleanse the Earth has gone well. The virus developed in Nevada by our small team has proved to be as effective as we could have hoped. Dr Samuels, take a bow.”

  A few rows in front of Diane, a small man stood and gave a short bow to the sound of cheers. A round of spontaneous applause broke out. Diane did not join in, drawing a glower from the man in the seat next to her. She ignored him.

  Milandra’s voice came again over the intercom. “Some of you may have found what we did distasteful. Some of you may have grown fond of humans. I confess that I held a certain fondness for them myself. But we cannot afford to feel sympathy for them. We were ruthless in carrying out the cleansing. We must maintain that ruthlessness in our coming dealings with the survivors.

  “Greater London had a population of just over eight million people. The estimated survival rate is 0.02 per cent. If that is spread evenly, around one thousand, six hundred people will have survived in the greater metropolis of London. Many of those may have already left the city, but there will undoubtedly still be survivors there. Our presence may flush them out. If you encounter any survivors in London, do not eliminate them. There is a great deal to be done and we need to put them to work.

  “As I speak, almost five thousand of our people are making for the U.K. When all are gathered, we shall hold a Commune. We will call out to all surviving humans in Britain and draw them to us. While they are splintered and afraid, they will be unable to resist.

  “However, as they answer the summons and begin to group together, we must exercise extreme caution. Until the Great Coming, our numbers are insufficient to control groups for any length of time. Humans in combined strength are too powerful still for us to bend completely to our will. Yet there is a way of weakening their intellects, of overcoming their resistance so that they will be powerless to resist our command. A medical unit will be established near the airport. A temporary unit to deal with the first survivors we find. As more come in, a more permanent unit will be established, probably in a local hospital.”

  In front of Diane, a man stood up and began to mime the actions of a shambling zombie from some cheap-rate horror flick, to much amusement. Diane did not so much as smile, drawing another glower from the man next to her.

  “So,” continued Milandra. “Do not harm any survivors you encounter once we’re on the ground. You don’t need to try to control them; if you’re alone, you’ll probably find that you won’t be able to. If any survivors are controlled, they are to be sent to the temporary medical unit. From there, they will be set to work. We will need places to stay. The hotels near Heathrow will do for now. Bodies will need to be cleared and burned; food and water will have to be collected. These are the first tasks we shall set the survivors to do.

  “We can all remember when we held complete dominion over humanity. We considered them to be no more than drones, created to do our bidding. We now once more hold sway over them. We must now again treat them as drones. We are to show them no mercy. Is that understood? No mercy.”

  * * * * *

  Milandra’s estimate of the numbers of inhabitants of Greater London who had survived the Millennium Bug wasn’t too far off the mark. In fact, one thousand, four hundred and seventy-three people fell ill, but did not slip into a coma, and pulled out of the illness, feeling weak and hungry but very much alive. Of those, over three hundred had already fled the city in a doomed effort at outrunning the virus. Another four hundred had since left, fleeing the stench of putrification. Twenty-seven people had given in to black despair or guilt and taken their own lives.

  That left around seven hundred survivors in the city, most of them still struggling to come to terms with the fact of having survived and living a hand-to-mouth dazed sort of existence. Most still had not ventured far from their homes and remained unaware that they were not the sole survivors. If they had known that there were others, that they would soon be faced with another threat and that banding together may increase their chances of surviving again, maybe they would have made more effort at seeking each other out.

  Or maybe not. A torpor had descended over the survivors like a shroud, making them unable to contemplate life beyond today, hoarding any food they came across automatically, not with any thought of long-term survival in mind. This was true of most of those who had survived across the world, not only in London.

  * * * * *

  The same could not now be said of Tom Evans. For the first time since the death of his mother, he allowed a faint bloom of hope to settle in his breast. Faint, yes, but hope nonetheless.

  He was back behind the wheel of the Jaguar, driving towards his house. In the rearview mirror, he could see the Range Rover following.

  “Well, Dusty,” he said, stretching out his left hand to ruffle the dog’s ears, “I’m not the only survivor, after all. There’s a turn-up for the books. Not sure that you’re very impressed by our new friend, mind.”

  The dog’s reaction to Peter had puzzled Tom. Dusty hadn’t wagged his tail, hadn’t barked a greeting or exhibited the slightest excitement at seeing another person. In fact, other than flattening his ears, Dusty hadn’t reacted at all, just sat very still while Peter patted his head. Tom put it down to the animal still being a little traumatised by his ordeal, though he had not displayed any other ill-effects of nearly starving to death.

  Tom parked the Jaguar in front of his house. The Range Rover pulled in behind and Tom showed Peter into his home. Dusty ran in ahead of the men, making for his food bowl. When he
found it empty, he gave a small enquiring bark and Tom emptied a can of food into the bowl. He topped up the water bowl from a saucepan. He was running short of water that he’d collected from the cold tap, though still had almost half a bathtub full upstairs and hadn’t touched the water in the hot tank. There was no cause for concern as he had accumulated plenty of bottles of spring water on his explorations of neighbours’ houses that he was saving for when the tap water was all gone.

  He opened a tin of beans and a can of luncheon meat.

  “We’ll have to have them cold, I’m afraid,” he told Peter. “I haven’t yet come across a camping stove on my travels. That’s something I could have got today in town, but meeting you drove it clean from my mind.”

  “No worries,” said Peter. Tom could detect no obvious accent in the man’s voice. “I have a camping stove and plenty of fuel for it, but I left it in my cottage. I’ll be going back there to collect my stuff before. . . .”

  “Before?”

  “Well, I’m thinking of heading north. Look for other survivors.”

  “North? Why north? It’s cold enough here.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed it’s cold in here,” said Peter. “Don’t you have any means of getting warm?”

  Tom shook his head. He noticed that Peter had side-stepped his question, but decided not to pursue it for now. “Modern house. Gas central heating. No fire place. I keep my coat on to stay warm and Dusty sleeps on my bed. We help keep each other warm in the nights.”

  “You’ll be using a lot of energy to stay warm like that. You’ll go through your food a lot quicker.”

  “Hmm . . . hadn’t thought of that. Haven’t thought of many things, to be honest with you. Here you are.” He handed Peter a plate of beans and meat. “Let’s go eat in comfort.”

  They carried the food through to the living room and spent the next few minutes in silence. Tom surreptitiously studied Peter as they ate.

  Medium height; muscular frame; the skin of his face was lined and tanned, as though he had spent many years in much warmer climes than those of South Wales; the face itself had an open aspect, suggesting that its owner would struggle to conceal deception; dark brown hair, thinning on top; pale blue eyes, like washed-out denim; indeterminate age though Tom would guess, if pressed, at early fifties.