The Silent Neighbours E-Book

S.T. Boston

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The Reaper Virus has raged across the globe, leaving over one billion people dead.

After an EMP brought Earth's technological age to its knees, the superpowers have entered a race to rearm, leading to new tensions between the East and West.

Tensions that those responsible for the virus hope to exploit to deadly effect.

Unwillingly thrown into the fight once again, Adam and Sam find themselves in a deadly fight against evil. Against the one responsible for The Reaper.

The fate of the human race on Earth is about to be decided once and for all.

Leseprobe

The Silent Neighbours

Watchers Book 2

S T Boston

Copyright (C) 2015 S T Boston

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Robin Ludwig (www.gobookcoverdesign.com)

Edited by D.S. Williams

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

In memory of both my Dad and Nan, both of whom were with us when I began this project but sadly taken before its completion.

Science fiction writers and Hollywood film producers have always shown us that if we ever faced a threat from a hostile alien race, we would be locked into a bitter fight to evade extinction at the hands of a race who bear no resemblance to life as we know it. They were wrong. When it came, the threat from space was much closer to home than any of us could ever have imagined, and they were already here. They lived among us, worked among us, and all the while they schemed against us. They were our silent neighbours.

-Adam Fisher-, Watchers

The Story Behind the Reaper

Chapter 1

The stars hung brightly in the sky, a thousand fairy lights connected by an invisible mess of tangled wires. Sam Becker hunched his shoulders down in his Berghaus jacket and pulled the collar up an extra few inches to try and keep out the biting cold sea breeze, which felt like a frozen blade against his skin. Steadying the tiller on the small, four-horsepower Honda engine, he gunned the twist-grip throttle until it reached the stop. As the small Honda maxed out, he whipped his wrist away from the engine, instantly killing the motor by activating the emergency cut off.

Eyes fixed firmly on the approaching shore, Sam focused on the rhythmic sound of the water lapping at the aluminium hull, and the continuous distant whistle of the biting wind. He tried his best to relax. Just as he began to think he'd killed the engine too soon, a breaker picked up the rear of the boat and fired him toward the shore, faster than the feeble outboard could manage at full revs.

As the bow hit the shingle beach with a satisfying crunch, Sam was on his feet and jumping ashore, a spiked tie-off rope clenched in his cold, gloved hand. Driving the spike down hard into the shingle, he heaved the front of the tender onto the beach, leaving the rear end bobbing in the shallow water, resembling a cork in a bath tub. Satisfied the small boat was secure, he hiked his kit bag onto his back and scurried up the shingle bank, making more noise than he would have liked.

The large chateau that was Sam's folly, lay in a blanket of ominous darkness at the edge of the beach, surrounded by long grass scrubland to either side. The chilled breeze stirred the unkempt plants and they swooshed softly and invisibly in the night, a multitude of whispering voices announcing his arrival.

Reaching the edge of the shingle beach, Sam hunkered down by the wire perimeter fence and slid the backpack off his tensed shoulders. Removing the damp thermal gloves, he dove an icy hand into the bag and removed a pair of latex ones. They offered nowhere near the same amount of warmth, and the cold sea air blowing in off the English Channel felt as if it were slicing right into his flesh. Satisfied that they were fitted correctly, he closed the bag and removed a small pair of wire cutters from a pocket on the side. Starting at the base of the fence, he began snipping at the thick wire, one section at a time. Each time a thick strand of plastic-coated wire gave way, it sent a shockwave of pain through his icy fingers.

Satisfied that he'd created a hole big enough to gain access, he pushed his backpack through and lay down on the coarse grass springing up through the fringes of the beach. With small wriggling movements, he squeezed his way through the breach and emerged on the other side. He was in.

Bending the wire back and disguising the hole as best he could, Sam collected up his bag, dusted himself down and ran in a half-hunched position across the grounds toward the building, his soft-soled shoes almost silent on the well maintained grass. An impressive fountain lay to his right, the water switched off; it seemed as if the concrete gargoyle perched proudly at the top had his stone-cold eyes on Sam the whole way.

As he reached the back wall of the magnificent beachfront property, Sam breathed for the first time in what felt like an age, feeling exposed despite the cover of night. Back pressed to the masonry, he silently slipped along the building line until he reached the door. It was precisely where he'd estimated it to be when he studied the satellite image of the house. Utilising the kit in his pack once again, he removed a small screwdriver from the same pouch and proceeded to pop out the beading from around the bottom UPVC panel. Timing the removal of each bead with a strong gust of sea air, he snapped all four panel-retaining beads out of place. Despite the wind helping to disguise the noise, each time one popped out it seemed alarmingly loud.

Pausing for a second to slip the screwdriver back into the pack, Sam removed a small electronic pass-card reader from his bag and gripped it in his teeth. With hands too numb and cold to be performing such a delicate operation, he tapped the loosened panel with his fingers, right at the base, causing it to fall in. With a swift and surprisingly accurate movement he caught the top before it could clatter to the tiled floor on the other side. Allowing himself another deep breath, he climbed headfirst through the gaping hole he'd made.

The warmth of the chateau hit him like a deliciously snug blanket, but there was no time to enjoy it. The alarm panel immediately began beeping angrily, as if annoyed by the intrusion. Quickly scanning the kitchen, Sam located the box from its flashing red light. He had precisely twenty seconds to deactivate it. The soft black plimsolls made almost no sound as he padded briskly across the darkened kitchen, which looked big enough to host a TV cooking competition – camera crew, celebrity chefs and all. Such shows were a thing of the old world, however; the world before The Reaper.

Reaching the panel, he removed the pass-card reader from between his teeth and slid the credit card-sized section into a slot at the base of the panel. Holding the LED number pad in his shaking hand, Sam watched as the small electronic device worked its magic. Ten seconds, he thought to himself. The seconds ticked by like long, drawn out minutes as the each of the six-digit deactivation code numbers appeared on the screen in bright red. With no time to spare, the full code blinked up at him. Sam hit the enter key on the control box and instantly relaxed a little, when the main alarm control box stopped its low-pitched rhythmic beep and the light pinged to a welcome green.

Awash with a mixture of relief and elation, for the first time he noticed the smell of freshly-ground coffee, mixed with the scent of bread that had no doubt been baked the previous evening. It made him yearn for a mug of the hot liquid and something to eat –one, to help him get some heat back into his cold bones, and two, to take away the salty taste of the spray which had continually assaulted him on his trip from the cruiser to the shore. But there was no time.

Removing the card reader, he crossed the vast kitchen and hooked his hand through the hole in the door, scooping up his bag. Putting away the reader, he removed two syringes from a netted pouch at the top of the bag and slid them into his jacket pocket. Making his way toward the reception hall, a large clock, big enough to display the time in a Victorian railway station, told him it was fast approaching midnight. In less than five minutes the job would be done and with luck, he'd be back in that god-forsaken launch and on his way to the cruiser, which would be at full throttle and pointed firmly toward the English coast within minutes of his return.

Sam knew the layout of the chateau well from the plans he'd studied the previous day, and without pausing for thought, he reached the right-hand side staircase which led to the first floor. Tiles gave way to plush cream carpet which looked almost grey in the gloom. He was in no doubt that all welcomed visitors would be asked to remove any footwear before even going near it. He had no time for such etiquette. Taking the stairs two at a time, he was soon on the landing and looking at a line of white painted, Georgian-style doors. A mirror image of the layout was just visible on the opposite wing of the entrance lobby. For a split-second, Sam wondered if he'd picked the correct side, but he brushed the thought away in an instant, certain he was exactly where he needed to be. Stopping at the third door he carefully depressed the handle, the coolness of the brass seeping through the thin latex glove. The large child's bedroom was empty. Bright moonlight streamed in through a grand window on the far wall, casting strange shadows and highlighting the neatly-made and empty replica race car bed. The Lighting McQueen duvet cover seemed somewhat out of place in this grand and overly lavish home, but the image of the bright red, grinning race car smiled enthusiastically at him all the same. The intelligence had been right, much to his relief; the family were away for the weekend. Despite Sam holding no compassion for his target, the thought of carrying out his task with a child in the house made his blood run cold.

Leaving the door slightly ajar, he continued down the landing, arriving at an identical door which brought the passage to an end. With the same level of stealth, Sam unlatched the door and slid inside.

The cream carpet gave way to an impressive wooden floor, which still seemed to shine ever so slightly in the dim light. At the far end of the room was the king-sized bed, where Sam expected, and hoped, his target would be.

He drew closer one tentative footstep at a time, his breath almost clogged in his dry, parched throat. This was the tenth such target he'd taken out, then tenth time he'd been in this situation. It never got any easier.

The rhythmic rise and fall of the mounded bed covers told him his target was exactly where he wanted him to be – in bed and fast asleep. Removing one of the syringes from his jacket, Sam bit the end cap off with his teeth and tucked it away in his trousers. He was close now, he could hear the guy breathing; that slightly laboured sound of someone slightly overweight or not in the best physical condition. The guy's leather Armani wallet was on the bedside table, Sam carefully placed the syringe on the ornate looking table, collected it up and thumbed through the cards. The target's French driver's licence was there; pulling it halfway out Sam looked at the name and the photo, confirming this was his man. Just before he closed the wallet something else caught his eye – tugging the three strips of white card free from the section where you'd usually keep your bank notes, Sam removed a single airline ticket. The destination listed was Lima, Peru, the flight due to leave the following morning. Not a cheap purchase in this recovering world, but he reminded himself his target was a wealthy man. No matter what the cost of the ticket, it was one flight that this sleeping guy would certainly be missing. Sam slid the ticket back, replaced the wallet carefully onto the night stand and collected up the syringe.

Standing over the sleeping body, Sam whipped one hand down over the target's mouth, and in the same instant he slid the needle into the man's exposed neck and depressed the plunger. Instantly the target's eyes flew open, wide and panicked, a muffled cry of fear reverberating from the underside of Sam's hand; at the same instant, he felt warm saliva through the thin latex.

“Shush!” Sam said, in a soothing and sympathetic tone, “shush.” But the sympathy was only evident in his voice; his eyes told a different story.

The Pancuronium took seconds to work, the dose just enough to send Sam's target into a state of complete muscular paralysis. Beneath his gloved hand, the man's tense jawline relaxed, confirming that the injection had worked its magic. Holding one hand to his lips to gesture for the target to stay quiet, Sam gingerly removed his hand. A long trail of saliva formed a strand between the target's bottom lip and Sam's thumb, stretching out for a good six inches before finally breaking and falling back onto the target's stubbled chin.

“Mathis Laurett?” Sam questioned in a low voice. “Is your name Mathis Laurett?” Sam knew he had the right man; he'd studied his target's picture more than once and seen his somewhat chubby face on the driver's licence. Despite his dishevelled appearance, the man before him was undoubtedly who he was after. Despite this certainty, some small part of Sam still liked them to confirm it verbally.

“Ye-yes,” the man croaked, struggling to speak when he had virtually no control over his throat muscles.

“Do you know who I am?” Sam asked calmly.

“Ye— yes,” Laurett repeated, as if it were the only word he could manage.

“Good. Then you know why I'm here?”

“Ye— yes,” Laurett replied, his eyes wide and full of fear. More drool had joined the web-like strand on his chin, giving him the appearance of someone who'd just suffered a grand mal seizure.

“Mathis Laurett,” began Sam. “Under order of the Arkkadian Council you have been sentenced to death for your part in The Reaper Virus, which twenty-nine months ago, led to the deaths of almost one billion people. It has been identified that you are an Earth-Breed. Investigations have shown that you were employed in the staff of Jacques Guillard, an Arkkadian Watcher. During that time, you were responsible for helping to identify him and ultimately, that identification led to his death.” Sam paused; he'd read out charges like this on ten previous occasions, however the man before him was without doubt, the biggest player he'd executed since shooting Robert Finch back in the bowels of the Pyramid, over two years ago. Laurett offered up no comment other than a choked attempt to swallow. “Further to this, we have information to suggest that you were travelling out of Heathrow Airport on the day that The Reaper Virus was released into the population, and we believe you were responsible for releasing one of the four vials of pathogen.”

“Please,” croaked Laurett. “Please, I ha— have a f— family.”

“And what of the millions and millions that virus killed – didn't they have families?” spat Sam. “Do your family know who you really are?” A deep rage burned in Sam's chest; if he had his way, he would have beaten Laurett to death then and there with his bare hands. But that wasn't how things were done.

“No,” Laurett croaked, swallowing deeply to regain control of his voice. “P— please, I have useful information, if you s— spare my life.”

“I'm listening,” Sam replied. Laurett's words had taken him off-guard, none of his previous targets had begged for their lives, or offered up anything in trade.

“The one— the one you seek. he is here, and he has plans.”

An icy cold hand ran its spidery fingers down the length of his spine. For a second, he saw a wicked smile flicker in Laurett's eyes before he continued.

“Your silent neighbours are many in number, and they are coming for you!” Despite the Pancuronium coursing through his body, Laurett managed to spit the last word out with considerable venom. Beads of sweat were forming on his wrinkled forehead, and they ran down into his eyes and backwards, into his messy grey hair.

“Bullshit,” Sam replied, his voice sounding higher than he felt comfortable with. They were alone in the house, but he still felt as if the walls were listening.

“Believe wh— what you want, Mr. Becker. Y— you will see.” Laurett's gaze darted around wildly, as if he were searching for something – or someone – and it made Sam uneasy. Sam had only administered a miniscule amount of the drug, diluted down in a saline solution, and the effects were fast wearing off. This time Sam did see him smile, an unmistakable hint of it on the bastard's chubby face. His lips drew back, exposing his yellowing teeth, “E-n-o-l-a,” he gurgled.

“Who the hell is Enola?” Sam demanded, biting the protective end cap off the second syringe.

“You – will see,” Laurett croaked, grinning like a loon.

Sam refused to listen to anymore craziness and plunged the needle deep into Laurett's neck. The smile disappeared from Laurett's mouth. The second syringe contained a second, larger, much stronger dose of Pancuronium – a deadly one. This dosage would be enough to paralyse every muscle in Laurett's body, including his heart. A cry of fear spewed out of Laurett's drool-covered mouth when the needle plunged deeply into his fatty neck. Five seconds after the plunger hit the stopper, his body convulsed violently before falling back against the sweat-drenched covers, dead.

Stuffing the empty syringes into his pack, Sam headed out of the room and ran swiftly down the lavish stairway. Laurett's final words rang through his head remorselessly. He is here, he has plans and he is coming for you! And Enola. What the fuck was all that about? He didn't like it, not one bit.

In the kitchen, he threw his bag out through the missing door panel and hastily followed. Not bothering to carry out any repairs to hide the evidence of his visit, he hurried to the fence. Sam was always keen to flee the scene of an execution, but on this occasion, the desire was greater than ever before. It seemed as if he were running from some invisible pursuer, someone who would charge out of the night and grab him just when he reached safety. He knew one thing – he wanted to get as far away from the Laurett Chateau as possible. He was even looking forward to the five-minute ride in the freezing cold launch, certain every inch he put between himself and the French coast was a good inch. Thinking of the warm coffee he would make once back on the cruiser – with a hit of something a little stronger in it for good measure – and the phone call he would make to Lucie, Sam was relieved when his feet touched the loose shingle of the beach. He almost slid down the bank to the shoreline, stones avalanching around his feet. In the next instant he froze – the small tender was gone. Frantically he scanned left and right, certain he'd secured it right here, in front of the chateau. “Where the fuck are you?” Sam questioned, his whispered words igniting the cold night air with vapour.

A dazzling spotlight forced back the night abruptly, lighting the beach up like a stage. “Monsieur, restezoùvousêtes et placezvos mains survotre tête!” Someone called.

Sam whirled around, trying to focus on where the amplified words were coming from, his mind racing, “English!” he shouted, his heart pounding in his chest and echoing through his ears. “I'm English!”

“Monsieur, remain where you are and place your hands on your head,” the voice responded in a heavy French accent. “Police,” the man added, as if he'd forgotten to include that important piece of information.

“Shit,” Sam cursed, adrenalin rushing through his veins. He heard footsteps crashing across the stones, heading his way. The bright light made it impossible to see what direction they were coming from. Deciding that any course of action was better than none, Sam dropped his hands and ran, but he was too late. As he took flight, a heavy hand grabbed the back of his jacket, almost lifting him off his feet. A fist connected with his kidneys, and his legs gave way. Sam went down hard, face first onto the cold hard shingle; he tasted blood on his lips, mixed with salt. Struggling to focus and ignore the foul smell of the air-dried seaweed, he saw a shiny pair of black shoes crunch to a stop before his eyes. Hands yanked him up onto his feet, way before his legs were ready to take his weight.

“Monsieur,” the man with the very clean shoes began. “You are under arrest, on suspicion of burglary.”

“Burglary?” Sam croaked trying to focus on the guy's face. A mere arrest for burglary would have been fine with him at this point in time – hell, he'd have pleaded to it right then and there if the deal were offered. However, Sam knew that the pending burglary charge would soon change – once they looked inside the chateau.

Chapter 2

In a layby on Chemin des Terrois, on the outskirts of Le Havre, France, a hulk of a man stood wearing a long dark overcoat. His black hair was thick and slicked back against his skull, making it almost invisible in the darkness. Shivering in the unusually chilly September air, his flat grey eyes watched in fury as blue lights flashed crazily off the Laurett Chateau, as if there were some manic party going on at the end of the road. This was no party, however. A second male, who appeared almost identical to the first alighted from the X5 BMW, stood by his brother and spoke. “I can't get used to how clean the air smells here.” To any other person, his accent would have sounded like an exotic mixture of several regional dialects. “Do we have a problem?”

“Yes,” the first male replied. “It would appear we were too late.” His voice was virtually indistinguishable from that of his brother. “It would seem that Mathis Laurett is already dead.”

“Nothing but a casualty of a war that we are on the brink of winning; it matters not,” the second male commented in an emotionless tone. “And Becker?”

“Likely in custody. This will delay our plan somewhat, and time is very short.” The first male shrugged his shoulders into his coat and popped the collar.

“A minor problem that we can overcome, brother,” replied the second male, as he sat himself back into the 4x4.

“You're right.”

“About what?”

“The air here is very clean, it's the cold I just can't get used to!” The first male started the engine and crept the vehicle forward, watching the blue lights fade into the night through the rear-view mirror. With a sly smile that revealed his dazzling white teeth, he slowly began to form a plan – a plan that would have Samuel Becker in his hands before first light.

Chapter 3

“Do you not find it all a little bit morbid?” The first question came from a slightly nerdy, spectacle-wearing student in the second row, whose hair looked like it hadn't seen a comb in a few days.

“How can the truth be morbid?” Adam retaliated, clutching the lectern tightly with both hands. He could just about see the question poser under the glare of the bright stage lights, which were focused mercilessly on him, highlighting the nervous sheen of sweat covering his forehead. His white cotton polo shirt was damp with sweat where the fabric ran down his back. Despite only having showered a few hours ago, he felt dirty and far too hot.

“But it isn't the truth, is it?” the young man fired back insistently.

For fuck's sake, thought Adam. What is this a trade-off of one question for another? He smiled falsely and tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. “If you go around your whole life with your eyes closed, you will never see anything,” Adam replied, trying to stay calm and sound professional.

“Your book, Watchers,” began the student, waving a copy in the air as if to highlight the fact. “Whilst there is no doubt that it's a very clever story based around the tragic events that happened almost two and a half years ago, a story is all that it is – fiction!” Despite the impediment of the stage lighting, Adam could see him glancing around the half-filled conference room triumphantly, searching for someone to back him up.

Adam had known he was in for a rough time at his first book launch talk; however, Mike Warren, his publicist, had insisted he get out there and, Promote, promote, promote! He could still hear his annoying and slightly high-pitched cockney accent, the words ringing round his head like a bell. “This book could have legs, I don't care if any of that shit is true, this is going to be controversial, and you know what controversy makes, Adam? Money, a fuck load of money, and if there is one thing we all need right now it's money!”

Six months after returning home, Adam had finally finished writing his account of the nightmare that he and Sam had gotten tangled up in. The world they'd returned to, however, was a very different one than they'd known. With one seventh of the population dead from The Reaper Virus (so nicknamed due to the aggressive and unforgiving way it had swept through whole nations, killing millions, like a deadly scythe), and the entire planet without electricity, society was hinging on outright anarchy. The first year was the toughest by far. While the British Government, which was nearing collapse itself, did their best to get the power back, trouble had brewed in the streets. Food rationing had been resurrected for the first time since the Second World War, a situation a wasteful modern society didn't take kindly to. The army were drafted in to help maintain order and in many places, martial law had been invoked. The past few months had started to see the military-governed areas being handed back over to local law enforcement. It was a slow process and the army still had primary control in a few of the rougher areas of the country, but a full handover was only months away. With one in seven dead, even more in urban areas, the British Government had held a recruitment drive, looking to replace the police officers lost to the virus.

Reports were saying that around eighty percent of the globe now had power, albeit on a limited basis for many people. Oil-run power stations struggled to operate for more than a few hours a day, which didn't help matters. Six months ago, the terrestrial and mobile phone networks had started to reappear. Those who were lucky enough to have such luxuries were paying a heavy price for them. In fact, any electrical consumer was paying top dollar for the privilege. Someone had to cover the cost of the vast amounts of work involved to get the pulse of the planet pumping once again. In those first few months of relative normality, as the countries of the world raced to restore the electrical grids, it became clear that new tensions were rising between the East and West. While companies and contractors worked tirelessly to repair the damaged power networks, and smiling politicians gave empty promises that things would soon be back to normal, oil prices began to rocket. Russia controlled the Siberian fields – which before the Reaper had provided around eighty percent of the planet's dwindling oil supplies – and began to put a stranglehold on the precious commodity. Despite what front a government uses to justify war; at the end of the day, oil is always a good reason. While no one had yet fired a shot in anger, there was a new and deadly race developing. The race to repair and prepare the nuclear weapons which had been rendered un-launchable by the EMP. News reports were informing the public that over the next few days, those defence systems would be back online and it was highly likely the planet would find itself locked into a second Cold War. Oriyanna's hopeful prediction, that the global tragedy would help to unite humanity on Earth once and for all, had been drastically wrong. The EU had all but broken down in the wake of the disaster. Although Britain still held on to the euro, many were calling for the beloved pound to be brought back into circulation. With every nation on Earth facing economic ruin and food shortages, it had turned into a case of every man for himself. Small amounts of mutual aid had been seen between the USA and Europe, but it was rare and on a minimal, 'you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours' basis.

With the reintroduction of the phone system, the internet had finally made a re-appearance, albeit on a very limited basis and with download speeds that hadn't been seen since the demise of dialup. With the web starting to grow once again, Adam saw his chance. He released Watchers into the public domain as an online publication. Within certain circles the book went viral –as viral as it could get on an internet service which was a shadow of its former self. Unfortunately for Adam, the readers who believed his account were the kind of people the rest of society didn't take too seriously, the kind who walk around with tin foil on their heads to stop aliens reading their minds. The clear majority of readers saw it as no more than a fictional story, one that cleverly used the most tragic event in human history as its plot line. It was fair to say the book was controversial; this of course led to Adam getting offered a deal from a newly-formed publishing company, who promised to get three thousand physical copies of his book into circulation, with more to follow if it took off. To try and fend off some of the criticism and flak the book was attracting, Adam agreed to split the profits from his sales between the many charities who tried to help the less developed parts of the world, the areas that were still suffering and didn't have the luxury of food, let alone power. For some of these countries, the end of The Reaper was only the start of the suffering. Following the rains that had cleansed Earth of the rabid alien virus, Earth-born ones took hold. Ebola swept through parts of Africa, on a scale not seen since the 2014-2016 outbreak. With aid virtually non-existent in those early days, and many of the doctors as dead as the patients they'd so desperately tried to help, Ebola ran wild, decimating already ravaged communities. It was like an aftershock to the worst humanitarian disaster since the Black Death.

He pulled his attention back to the young man in the audience. “And you prefer to believe the odd, disjointed accounts given by the governments of the world, do you?” Adam asked, hoping that no one else would join the attack.

“It certainly seems more plausible than some elaborate plan by a highly-developed human species to wipe us out, so they could claim the planet as their own,” the student smiled. “Do you also believe that the world's governments know the truth and are deliberately trying to cover it up?”

“No,” Adam replied, leaning toward the small microphone. It was a good question and the first sensible thing that this bespectacled, spotty student had asked. “I believe they have no idea about how things really happened. They've looked at the events of those tragic few days and tried to explain them as best they could. I don't think there's any cover up.” Adam scanned the rest of the audience. Much to his despair, he spotted two rather odd-looking middle aged men, sporting tee-shirts that read in big bold letters 'JESUS WAS AN ARKKADIAN & HE'S COMING BACK!'

“So then,” the student began, obviously not willing to let his point go, “you think they believe that a breakaway section of Al-Qaeda were responsible for the virus?”

“I do, yes. But do you?”

“Why should I question it?”

“Because there had been a six-month period of peace in the time before The Reaper, because all reports suggested that Al-Qaeda had dissolved and was all but at an end,” Adam defended. It almost made his blood boil, knowing how closed-minded some people could be. “That virus was indiscriminate, it killed in every corner of the globe, some of their own men would have died. It makes no sense. Not to mention the veracity of it – I fully believe that a virus that aggressive, able to spread and kill so swiftly, was beyond anything even the most talented scientist on Earth could develop.”

“It wouldn't be the first time terrorist activities were continued by a breakaway faction during a period of supposed peace. Look at what happened with the IRA.” The student was grinning, looking rather pleased with himself. He'd obviously chosen to ignore Adam's rather accurate reasoning.

“A few shootings and car bombings are in a slightly different league to a virus which wiped out close to a billion people,” snapped Adam. “Sure, some fanatical breakaway group claimed responsibility. I have no doubt that's true, but really? They would never have the technology or the means to do it, as I said before.”

“I guess we'll have to agree to disagree,” the student replied smugly.

Adam took a deep breath. “Thanks for your question; shall we let someone else have a turn?” Adam scanned the audience again, ignoring one of the tee-shirt sporting nut jobs, who was waving his hand frantically. “Yes, you madam,” he said, pointing to a smartly-dressed woman two rows from the front. She looked like a reporter; coming from that background, he was good at spotting his own.

“Does that mean you also dismiss the claim that the EMP was caused by a period of unusual solar activity, even though this has been confirmed by NASA?”

“Look,” Adam said, releasing his grip on the pine-trimmed lectern and rubbing his clammy hands together. “As it details in the book, the EMP was caused by a major disruption in the Earth's magnetic field, a side effect of turning on The Tabut.”

“You mean The Ark.” She grinned. “Lest we not forget that not only did you save the world, but you also managed to find the Ark of the Covenant. You're a regular little Indiana Jones, aren't you, Mr. Fisher?”

“Okay,” Adam sighed, letting his eyes fall to the floor and away from the burning stage lights. “I knew I would be open to all sorts of criticism for my work. Hell, if I read it I probably wouldn't believe it myself, so I don't blame you. It seems pointless that we keep going over the official account of what happened during those few days. I know that a terrorist group claimed responsibility for the virus. I know that NASA believe a solar storm caused the EMP. I'm no astrophysicist; for all I know the effect of the Tabut powering up could have all the right characteristics to replicate a solar flare. But surely you find it hard to believe that the weeklong storm which followed was a natural, freak weather occurrence, caused by the EMP? And that after the storm that covered the entire globe, the Reaper virus magically disappeared?”

“Harder to believe than what?” questioned the woman, flicking a long strand of auburn hair back from her face. “That space aliens cured the planet with a storm? No, Mr. Fisher, I don't find the official account hard to believe at all. I'm almost surprised that they didn't tell you to build an Ark and place all the animals inside, to protect them from the flood!”

“God on high saved humanity after washing the lands clean,” cried the frenzied voice of a scruffy, grey-haired elderly man at the back. Adam rolled his eyes. The old guy might be as mad as a hatter, but he wasn't too far wrong.

“Look, it's getting late,' Adam replied, squinting at the clock. It was just past ten thirty. “Thanks for attending, if you'd like a signed copy of the book, I'll be in the foyer in ten minutes.” The announcement was met with a murmur of dissatisfaction from the eclectic mix of people in the small audience, before the first few attendees stood up and made their way toward the exit. Although later than he would have liked, it was the cheapest time available to hire the room for a few hours and the most his cheapskate publicist was willing to pay for the first promotional talk that he deemed so important. With everything so expensive, price was more important than convenience. Satisfied that his non-adoring public had gotten the message, Adam stepped away from the lectern and began to pack his notes into a small plastic storage box which also contained a few copies of his book. He didn't expect anyone to be waiting in the foyer, eager to purchase a copy. He had no doubt the tee-shirt-wearing guys at the back would be waiting, hungry to barrage him with a volley of questions. The type of mad talk that he didn't want to air in front of an already doubtful audience.

“I believe you,” came a slightly accented, yet soft female voice from somewhere in the now-empty conference room.

“Thanks,” Adam replied, placing the last of his things into the plastic container. “As I said, if you want to purchase a signed copy I'll be in the foyer shortly, or if you want your copy signed I'd be happy to oblige.” He clicked the handles down over the lid and collected the box from the floor.

“Just how many Earth-Breeds has Samuel Becker killed now? Ten?” the voice replied, an air of nervous tension in its softness. Adam felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck, as if someone had just stomped carelessly over his grave. Clutching the box, he whipped around and tried to glare through the lights that stung his eyes. Three rows from the back he could just make out the figure of a dark haired young woman, still in her seat.

“I never wrote anything about that in the book,” he said warily, a nervous octave higher than he would have liked. Naturally, there had been several things he'd left out. Their home town and the details about the Gift being another. If people took it seriously, he didn't want some whack-job to try and find them, eager to test out either of their healing abilities. “Just who are you, exactly?” His voice echoed through the empty room, amplified by the PA system.

“Maya Tomenko,” she replied. Adam side-stepped the stage lighting and hopped down from the temporary platform. He saw that Maya was a young woman in her mid to late twenties, her dark brown, almost alabaster coloured hair fell over her shoulders, deepening her tanned complexion and highlighting her granite grey eyes. She was smartly dressed in a three-quarter length black coat; beneath it Adam could just make out a white blouse. Her black trousers disappeared into the top of a pair of boots that came half way up her calves. “It's imperative that you listen to what I have to say, the survival of both you and your sister depend on it!”

For a split second, it seemed as if someone had vacuumed all the air out of the room; Adam's breath caught in his throat. The young woman remained seated, eyes fixed on him pensively.

“How do d—do y—you know th—this?” he finally managed to stammer, relieved when his chest relaxed enough to let some much-needed air in.

“Let's just say I'm someone who isn't keen to end up on Sam Becker's kill list,” she announced bluntly, her wide and somehow familiar grey eyes fixed intently on Adam. He remained three rows away from her, the plastic box tucked firmly under his arm.

“You're Earth-Breed?” he spat, gripping the plastic container tightly.

“Was. I mean yes, but I'm no threat to you, I'm here to help.”

“Why the hell should I trust you?” he growled, the fear gradually settling into anger.

“Because if I was here to kill you, I'd have been waiting silently outside your aunt and uncle's old house. I'm guessing that's where you're staying tonight,” she said calmly. “Being in Brighton, I'm guessing you don't plan to drive back to London at this hour.” The mention of his aunt and uncle's took him off guard – the last surviving members of his and Lucie's immediate family had been claimed like so many by the Reaper.

“How do you know about that?”

“There were a good few of them – us – left after the events at the Pyramid,” she began, her eyes growing distant. “Your names were known to the Earth-Breed who didn't die that night. It wasn't hard for them to find you.”

“If that's the case, why didn't they come for us before? Why did they let Sam kill ten of their— I mean your kind?”

“The first few were inevitable, the rest were casualties of war,” she said coolly, as if she were discussing the weather. “We were also leaderless and directionless; laying low you might say. The few who remain have direction now, a leader. I don't have time to go into the finer details, either trust me and survive tonight, saving Lucie's life in the process, or take your chances on your own and be dead or captured by first light.”

“What about Sam?” Adam snapped.

“They know he's taking a target in France tonight. It may already be too late – they plan to take you all at once.” She stood up and swept her dark hair back behind her shoulders. “Please, Adam,” she continued, a hint of panic in her voice. “You're not the only one being hunted. I risked a lot to do this, I was on the team sent to capture you, only I had other plans. I'll explain everything once we're moving. Time is short.”

“What's in it for you?” he asked, his brain working at warp speed to try and reason the fast-developing events. His first concern was his sister – he hoped Sam could handle whatever was coming his way. “And what the hell has Lucie got to do with it? She wasn't even involved.”

“She's your sister, and six months ago, she married Sam. They want to make you pay for what you've both done – anyone in your family is fair game. There are much bigger things in play here than you, but you three are his first concern,” Maya fired back, eyes looking hungrily towards the exit. “You need to call Lucie,” she added, “I just pray the mobile phone network is functioning near her bar. If we stall any longer, it will be too late.” Maya gave Adam a last, fleeting look before she headed towards the door, long black coat tails trailing behind her.

“Wait!” Adam cried, discarding the box full of notes and books on an empty chair. “They know she runs a bar now?”

“They know everything.” Maya reached the door and flung it open, bathing herself in light from the hotel foyer. “Where's your car?”

“Parked across the street.” Adam ran to catch up with her, brushing past the two men in the Jesus tee-shirts.

“Good. Give me the keys, I'll drive – you need to call Lucie.” She shook her wrist, revealing an expensive watch. “Shit!” she exclaimed. “You need to get her out of that bar, Adam. You need to do it now!”

Chapter 4

Lucie Becker tugged the receptacle free from the coffee machine and knocked the spent, ground beans into a small waste bin at the side of the counter. Satisfied that it was empty, she stole another quick glance at her mobile phone, the tenth such check in under a minute, and willed it to ring. He'll call any minute, any minute now, she kept telling herself over and over in her head. Sam always called when he was away on a job – once the deed was done and he was back to safety, he always called. Clipping the container back into the espresso machine, she picked up her annoyingly silent phone and hit the menu button, bringing it to life. The somewhat unreliable phone network was working; she even had five bars of reception, something of a miracle in these uncertain times. Hitting the volume button, she double-checked that it wasn't set to silent. It wasn't, but she'd known that already. Just ring, she thought again, as if the mere power of thought would magically force the call through.

In the days following Adam and Sam's return home, Adam had spent his time penning the events that had changed the modern world forever while Sam had practically moved into their family home in Eltham. It was no surprise to either Adam or Lucie, as he'd never spent much time at his own place anyway. Dark days had followed, days of uncertainty, days when it wasn't safe to wander the streets of London in the day, let alone at night. Over those first few months, when the three of them had literally been barricaded like prisoners in the family home, only venturing out in the daytime to collect food that was being strictly rationed out by the military, she and Sam developed a closeness which blossomed into a relationship. Despite the fact she had known Sam her whole life, it didn't feel odd – more like a natural progression. He'd turned out to be the missing piece of a puzzle, the piece that had made everything fit and as time past and their situation improved, they'd grown to rely on one another more and more. Then one warm and sunny day in July, while they'd been picnicking under the canopy of two ancient oaks in Oxleas Meadows, enjoying the summer sun on their faces, Sam had proposed. A full-blown, down on one knee affair, not the kind of romantic gesture she would ever have imagined him making. She agreed then and there. With most of the UK still under strict martial law and things far from normal, they knew they had a wait before any kind of service could even be planned.

Over a year had passed since the virus claimed so many lives; and conversation about the events of those fateful days had petered out, even between her brother and Sam. There were times when they were almost able to fool themselves into pretending that nothing had ever happened, times when they were together at the house and chatting about childhood memories and people now lost. Then on one oppressively muggy August day, which rumbled with thunder and threatened rain, a package had arrived.

That was how it all began. Contained within the package was a gun. Accompanying the gun was a sheet of paper, detailing the name and address of the target, and two syringes with instructions on how to use them. Lucie had made herself scarce that night while the boys had talked about the strange parcel.

It was how the hidden war, the war against those responsible for all the death and suffering had begun. It was also the first sign that the Arkkadians were once again a presence on Earth, albeit a very elusive one. At first, Adam had insisted on being involved in the justice that they'd been chosen to mete out. Sam had refused Adam's request outright, saying that despite the baptism of fire he'd endured during their time in the States and Egypt, he was not a trained solider. Eventually, Adam had listened and agreed to let Sam do the job.

Lucie's pleas for Sam not to go had fallen on deaf ears. “Hey, don't worry,” he'd said before leaving that first time, “I was always a difficult bastard to kill; now I'm practically the Terminator.”

The first job had been close to home, on the other side of the city. It was a stark reminder that the Earth-Breeds left behind could be anyone you'd pass in the street, without being able to distinguish any difference between them and humans. Much to both Lucie and Adam's relief, Sam had returned home within five hours, rumbling noisily up the dark street on his Triumph risking arrest for being out past the government curfew. As time went on, and overseas travel began to get up and running, the targets had become wider spread. The introduction of the first transatlantic flights had seen Sam gone for three weeks. With no domestic telecommunications working, the first Lucie knew he was safe was when he walked through the door, clutching his Deuter backpack, a stupidly smug grin on his face.

Those tasking the targets never made themselves known; merely ensuring Sam had the tools needed to do the job. One of the benefits was the ludicrously large sums of money which started appearing in his account. Lucie would have gladly given it all back however, if those unwelcome intelligence packages would stop. Six months ago, once law and order, and a general standard of living had returned, they were married. Nothing posh, just a small service with Lucie's best friend Claire and Adam. Most her other friends were either dead or had fled the city and couldn't be contacted.

On their wedding night, she'd finally managed to ask Sam the question which had been eating away at her ever since his proposal. Both slightly drunk, and laying in each other's arms, she'd turned to him. “You do know that I'm going to grow old? You'll have to watch it happen while you remain unchanged. Do you think you'll still love me?”

Sam had chuckled. “Oh, I fully intend on chopping you in for a younger model once you hit forty – being eternally youthful has its perks.” It was Sam's way of putting her mind at rest, in a way that only Sam could. He followed up by swearing that if he ever saw Oriyanna or any Arkkadian Elder again, he'd ask for the process to be reversed. While the Gift was undoubtedly handy for healing minor wounds and preventing those annoying bouts of summer and winter flu, eternal life wasn't an idea he relished.

Placing the phone back on the counter, Lucie glanced at the one customer still in the bar. When she looked up, the lone male quickly averted his eyes and retuned his attention to the latte he'd been nursing for the past twenty minutes. It was growing late and she badly wanted to lock up and head home; she didn't normally close until half an hour before curfew, but the stress of the day had taken its toll. Despite the growing sense of law and order in the city, it was still best to be back in the safety of your home when the power went off at one. Thankfully the small bar-come-coffee shop was minutes from the house, allowing Lucie to make the most of the last minute trade, no matter how sparse custom was. The government were promising the daily interruptions to service would soon end. Essential maintenance work was the official line offered as an explanation. Many suspected it was to help enforce the curfew, which conveniently began at the same time the power shut down. Those like Lucie, who ran businesses that opened late were issued a permit, granting them an extra half an hour to travel home, but thankfully she'd never needed it. Tonight would be no different; it was only just gone half past ten, but she'd had enough.

Sensing that she'd caught him staring the guy looked up briefly from his coffee and offered her an unsettling smile. The smile didn't reach his eyes, which were cold and devoid of any emotion. A chill ran through Lucie's body. Looking away from her again, the man lifted his mug and drank from it, although Lucie was sure that by now the coffee inside must be stone cold.

The loud ring of her phone snatched her away from the unsettling hold the customer had on her and her stressed body filled with a sense of relief. Finally, Sam, thank god, she thought turning her back to the creepy guy and reaching for her phone. The relief was only temporary however, when she saw Adam's number displayed on the screen. Although she was always happy to speak to her brother, the thought of him tying up the line at a time like this was annoying. Snatching the phone off the counter, she hit the answer button. “Adam,” she began, instantly feeling guilty when she heard the annoyed tone in her voice. “What is it?”

“Are you still at work?” The line was unusually clear; she heard a hint of panic in his words that caught her off guard.

“Ye— yeah, why?” she replied, turning to face the shop floor. Her lone customer was once again watching her with more interest than she was comfortable with.

“Is anyone with you? Just answer yes or no.”

“Yes,” she replied anxiously.

“How many?”

“Just one,” she muttered in a low voice.

“Male or female?”

“The first option,” she replied, thinking on her feet. Her earlobe had begun to sting, the smart phone pressed to her ear far more tightly than was needed. She fiddled with her long, brown ponytail, twisting the locks through her fingers.

“I think you're in danger, but I can't explain now,” Adam said hurriedly. “You need to get out of the shop, and you need to go now!”

“I don't un— under— underst— stand,” Lucie stammered, her pulse quickening.

“Please, trust me, just act natural and head to the rear of the building,” her brother fired down the line. “Go straight out the back door and get into your car. Don't bother stopping to lock up and don't approach that customer and ask him to leave, do you understand? Make it seem like you're just going out the back to grab something.”

“No problem, I can sort that out for you,” she said, trying to make it sound like a normal call.

“Once you're in the car, drive to the place where we used to spend summer holidays with Mum and Dad.”

Lucie knew exactly where her brother meant. The family had inherited a small thatched cottage from her mum's parents, it lay in the sleepy village of Alton Barnes in Wiltshire. The place held many fond memories for Lucie; the small, modest cottage would have been laying empty for the last few years, and no one had been there since the world had changed. While she knew exactly how to get there, the idea of driving well over a hundred and twenty miles wasn't a tempting thought. And why the hell was he even asking her to make the trip? Her hands begin to shake, and she instantly tried to quell it by moving her hand from her hair to her apron, clutching at the front pocket and pressing the phone even harder against her burning ear, so hard her earlobe throbbed.

“O— okay,” she managed. “I can do that, I'm off tomorrow so I'll meet you then.” She offered her lone customer a faint smile. He gave no reaction, other than to continue watching her with interest.

“Good thinking, sis.” Adam's voice came down the line, and in the background Lucie could hear the sound of a revving engine; wherever her brother was, he was in a car and on the move. “Call me when you're clear, before you get out of London and lose the mobile phone signal.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and sis?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful!” The line went dead.

Removing the phone from her ear, Lucie dropped her hand to her side and collected up a rather grubby-looking cloth from the counter, before making her way to the small kitchen area at the back of the shop, letting the swinging door shut behind her. In the artificial light, she took a deep, steadying breath and grabbed her bag from the top of the microwave. Opening it, she made a cursory check for her car keys. Snatching them out, a cold hand wrapped itself around her mouth and pull her backwards, and the keys and the phone clattered onto the tiled floor. She gave a small, muffled cry of surprise and fear and her already shaky legs turn to pure jelly.

“Shushhh,” came a surprisingly soft voice from behind her. “Do not scream, I am here to help.” The voice was unmistakably female. Lucie's head swam with questions; every part of her had expected the attacker's voice to be male. As suddenly as the hand had grabbed her it was gone, and Lucie whipped her body around defensively, to try and protect herself from an attack she felt sure was imminent. Readying her fists to punch out, she froze. The woman standing in front of her had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen, and her long blonde hair flowed down over her shoulders where it met with a black, tight fitting long sleeve top. Her trousers matched, giving her an almost assassin-like appearance. Before Lucie's spinning mind had time to question it any further the swinging, saloon-style door to the kitchen burst open.

The coffee-nursing customer came rushing in, a gun clenched firmly in his hand. At that exact instant, everything seemed to slow down. The woman's hands pulled Lucie out of the way; her shaky legs could offer no resistance so she just went with the motion. The deafening sound of gunfire erupted through the small, confined kitchen and somewhere, far off in a world where time was operating at the correct speed, Lucie heard crockery smashing. Her back hit the wall, sending a selection of stainless steel ladles and spatulas crashing to the floor, and Lucie watched as the woman ducked low and removed a pistol from a belt around her waist. She moved far quicker than what seemed possible, her brilliant blonde hair whipping around her like a shawl. With deadly accuracy, she discharged a round. Through wide, frightened eyes Lucie watched blood spray from the customer's neck and splatter over a bunch of aprons that were hanging up just behind the door, giving them an odd, abstract art effect.

Time suddenly caught up. With an unearthly cry of pain, the man went down hard. His head split open on the corner of a stainless-steel workbench as he fell, and his upper cheekbone making a sickening crunch when it made contact. He was dead before he hit the tiled floor.

The woman's wide, blue eyes darted about the small kitchen, ready to take on any new threat. Seeming satisfied that they were alone, she grabbed Lucie by the wrist and pulled her toward the back door which was slightly ajar and resting on its latch.