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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * * * *

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

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

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

  “Yes. That’s what worries me.”

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

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

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

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

  “If anything.”

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

  “Okay. So let’s decide.”

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

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

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

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

  When they were all seated, she cleared her throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Who?” That was Lavinia.

  “A man by the name of Peter Ronstadt.”

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

  Milandra shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “He could intercept others as they make their way to London,” said Lavinia.

  Milandra nodded. “Again, true, but they will be flocking here from all over the mainland. He cannot possibly hope to intercept more than twenty or so. Even that will take a great deal of luck. And he may find that there is little he can do to undo the effects of the Commune. If we get it right.”

  “He could head to the continent,” said Grant. “Find survivors there. Band them together. Try to interfere with the Great Coming. He’ll have time to try something.”

  “Pah!” said Milandra. “What can he possibly do to interfere with that?”

  “Nevertheless,” said Grant. “Is that a risk we’re willing to take?”

  Milandra was about to argue further, but closed her mouth. She could see from the expressions on her Deputies’ faces that further debate was futile.

  “Okay, then,” she said. “Let’s vote. All those in favour of doing nothing about this Ronstadt?”

  Her hand was the only one to rise.

  “All those in favour of hunting him down and killing him?”

  Four hands rose.

  Milandra sat back with a sigh. “So be it,” she said.

  * * * * *

  Peter was right about Tom’s first effort at syphoning petrol: he threw up. Despite this, he succeeded in almost filling the Jag’s tank.

  As they prepared to leave, Peter said, “There are a number of small towns and villages north of here. I want to drive back to my cottage that way and approach my home village from the west. Keep your eyes peeled for signs of human life.”

  Tom nodded and got behind the wheel of the car. He glanced into the back. Dusty lay in his basket that fitted, just, onto the broad seat. Tom had agreed to pack as if he wasn’t returning. All the food and drink, including dog food, that he’d accumulated were boxed away in the boot, together with a small suitcase that contained his hiking boots, a pair of trainers and s
ome spare clothes. He had accepted Peter’s assertion that getting kitted out in new outfits wouldn’t present a problem so he had left most of his clothes behind. Also in the case were his collection of sleeping pills and painkillers, and the first-aid box from his bathroom cabinet. If Peter had noticed that the pills had disappeared from the telephone table, he didn’t mention it.

  The Range Rover pulled past him and Tom started the engine of the Jaguar, delighting again in the silky purr. It had rained a little overnight and the last of the dusting of snow had disappeared. The sky glowered grey and low, acting like a blanket that would keep the temperature high enough that ice shouldn’t be a problem during their journey.

  The light-blue Jaguar pulled off behind the bronze Range Rover and they left the village of Penmawr in convoy. Although he had packed as though he was never returning, Tom had every intention of coming back. Maybe not today—on that much he was still undecided—but one day, and he had locked his house securely. He guessed he owned it outright now. There was unlikely to be anybody left in the bank to enforce the mortgage; no judge to make a possession order; no bailiffs to change the locks. On the other hand, this wasn’t such a big deal bearing in mind that he could pretty much take his pick of any house he fancied: cottage by the sea; country mansion; swanky townhouse. Heck, he could probably move in to the Hilton in Cardiff if he wanted. Live out his days in five-star surroundings, even if the five-star service wasn’t available.

  The two vehicles made their way up the valley to the north of Penmawr, passing through villages that clung ribbon-like to the mountain sides.

  Reaching the head of the valley, Tom followed the Range Rover through winding mountain roads, the Jaguar handling the bends effortlessly. They passed through thick forests and across wild moors, chunks of granite poking through the bracken like broken dentures.

  The only times they had to slow were to avoid sheep, grown brazen by the lack of traffic, and to curve round the occasional abandoned vehicle. One car still had the driver inside, grinning and clutching the steering wheel in a death grip with fingers through which yellowing-white bone showed. Tom swallowed a little, but it seemed tame compared to what he had seen at the sport centre. Once they had to drive close to the edge of a precipitous drop to avoid a burned-out police car, but there was just enough room for them to squeeze between the blackened wreck and the crash barrier without scratching the paintwork on either vehicle.

  As they dropped into the next valley, they passed the still-bleeding, mangled corpse of a sheep. Tom glanced in his rearview mirror, craning his neck to see Dusty, fast asleep in his basket. Mild-mannered and friendly as the dog was, Tom couldn’t help but wonder if Dusty would by now have resorted to savaging sheep if he had been freed to roam by his former owner. Probably, he concluded. Without man’s interference, the brave new world would see a shuffling in the previous order of things as the fittest overcame the weakest. Claw and fang would become king now.

  Mid-morning and they drove on through more winding settlements and more twisting mountain roads. They dropped down into the Rhondda valleys, famous for their exploitation of coal and men alike.

  Peter chose a circuitous route, driving through hamlets, villages and small towns that covered the valleys like a rash. It was as they were leaving one such village, had almost passed the last of the grey-stone terraced houses that lined the road, that the Range Rover’s brake lights lit up for no apparent reason and the vehicle came to an abrupt halt. The former owner of the Jaguar had kept the car well-maintained and the brakes were sharp; Tom was able to comfortably stop without danger of ramming the Range Rover, though Dusty’s basket thudded against the back of the passenger seat and the dog uttered a small whine.

  “Sorry, boy,” said Tom. “I have no idea why we’ve stopped here.”

  Tom wound down his window and poked his head out, looking enquiringly towards the Range Rover. Peter was craning back, pointing excitedly to something to Tom’s left. Tom pulled his head back inside the car and leaned over to peer through the passenger window. With a gasp, he saw what Peter had noticed.

  The terraced houses were set back from the road behind stone walls and peeling iron gates. The front gardens sloped upwards so that the ground floors of the houses were raised above the level of the road. Tom had to dip his back and crane his neck to see it, but the last-but-one house had smoke pouring from its chimney.

  Tom felt his stomach give an excited flip. “Oh, shit,” he said.

  He switched off the Jaguar’s engine and got out. He closed the door, leaving Dusty sitting in the back. Standing in the open air, freed from the noise of engines, it suddenly seemed too quiet to Tom. Although the sky had lightened, it remained steadily overcast and the day had not grown appreciably colder. Nevertheless, Tom shivered. Peter had stepped out of the Range Rover and was standing by the bonnet, gazing up at the house. Tom joined him.

  Sometimes when Tom felt nervous or unsure, he resorted to stating the obvious.

  “There must be someone in there,” he said.

  “Come on,” said Peter, and started walking towards the house.

  Tom followed. The creak as Peter opened the gate sounded like a sound effect in an early Hammer horror film and Tom found himself glancing wildly around, certain that someone—or something—would come lumbering down the street, attracted by the noise. He forced himself to look ahead, to breathe slowly, to stop reacting like a ten-year-old.

  The house was narrow. A navy-blue painted door faced them at the top of the path. To the right of the door was a window.

  Peter walked slowly, but steadily, to the front door and knocked upon it. Three sharp raps. Tom stood at the gate and held his breath.

  No answer. Peter looked back at Tom and motioned to the window.

  Reluctantly, Tom walked up the path, trying not to creep, and turned behind Peter where the path continued past the window to the stone wall separating the house from the end house. He stopped in front of the window and peered in.

  Curtains were drawn tightly across, leaving no gap in the centre or on either side through which Tom could see anything of the interior. A plant in a china pot sat on the inside windowsill. Judging from the blackness of the soil, it had recently been watered.

  Tom glanced across at Peter and shook his head.

  Peter stooped and poked his fingers through the letter box, opening it, and placing his mouth to the gap, much like Tom had done days ago at his neighbours’ houses.

  “Hello!” Peter called. “Hello? My name is Peter. My companion’s name is Tom. We’re looking for survivors. We’ve only found each other so far. And you. Tom has a dog; his name is Dusty. Hello?”

  Tom stared at the white lining of the curtains, expecting them to twitch apart, wanting them to yet dreading it. They didn’t move.

  Peter tried once more. “Please. Won’t you at least speak to us? Tell us your name? We mean you no harm.”

  He turned so that his ear was pressed to the opening. After a few moments, he released the letter box and straightened. He looked at Tom and shook his head slowly.

  “Doesn’t look like they want to be friendly,” Peter said. “Don’t suppose we can blame them.” He beckoned Tom. “Come on. We need to get going. The day is wearing on.”

  Tom left the window and followed Peter to the gate. He shut it behind him, the creak not sounding so ominous now. As he turned towards the car, he heard a voice.

  “Wait.”

  He turned back to the house. The blue front door had half opened. Peering around it was a woman.

  * * * * *

  The park was wide and wet and windy. Many had brought rugs or plastic sheets that they spread on the grass and sat down on. Most who hadn’t, stood; some sat anyway.

  They formed a rough circle with a space in the centre, which was occupied by Milandra and the Deputies. They sat on five plastic chairs, the Deputies forming a square in the middle of which sat Milandra. The chair had creaked when she settled her bulk onto it and she had felt the legs
sink a little into the sodden soil, but she put it from her mind. It had far more momentous matters to occupy it.

  There was little preamble. The Deputies rose to their feet and faced the crowd, holding their arms out straight in front of them. The babble of whispered conversation died immediately. The Deputies sat back down. The damp air almost crackled with anticipation.

  Milandra spoke briefly, her voice resonant in the silence.

  “You all know why we are gathered here. We must Commune. This may be the last time we need to do this before the Great Coming, so give me your all.”

  Almost five thousand pairs of eyes watched her intently. Nothing moved except the breeze and the drizzle. She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes.

  “Now.”

  Milandra cast her mind free. Instantly it was joined by almost five thousand other minds. Like a feather caught in an updraft of warm air, her psyche spiralled upwards and outwards. Buoyed and strengthened many multiples more than five thousand, it spread out like a vast blanket or a stormfront, moving faster than the strongest hurricane, covering the British Isles in a heartbeat, catching everyone in its path.

  A moment later, almost five thousand intellects melded as one—squeezing, grasping intellects—Milandra pushed. . . .

  * * * * *

  The woman’s name was Ceri; Ceri Lewis. She, too, had fallen ill, but not before watching her husband and ten-year-old son die in the hospital. This was in the first days of the pandemic, when hospitals still took in patients, though the corridors were rapidly filling with sufferers. When Ceri walked, red-eyed and dazed, through the hospital doors, soldiers were already patrolling the grounds, turning the dying away at the main gates.

  “If it had been a day or two later, they probably wouldn’t have let me leave,” she told them in her gentle, lilting voice.

  She was thirty-five, a dinner lady at the local comprehensive school. Tears brimmed in her brown eyes as she told them her son had been due to start at the school in September.

  “I wasn’t even able to give them a burial,” she said, her voice breaking.