Six Days (19 page)

T
he channels get narrower and more treacherous. A couple of times you can hear the hull scraping stuff below. Dad figures the tide is as high as it’ll get, and that trying to push on in the dark is pointless. So we pull into a little inlet on the east side of one of the islands, finally coming to a stop in a bed of reeds. Peyto shuts off the engine, and I do my best to tie us down to an old tree poking out the water. It’s shallow there – no more than a few feet to the bottom – and sheltered on three sides by mud banks and bushes. Not a bad place to anchor up and keep the boat out of sight.

We ain’t taking much with us, just some water and biscuits – no point in being weighed down with too many supplies. So we take the chance to down a bit of grub before the off. Everyone’s quiet, thinking about what lies ahead.

I watch how Maleeva “eats” hers. First up, she opens this little chamber near her belly and packs it with broken
biscuits. Then she takes this black bag with a tube taped to a hole under her jaw, pops it free, and squeezes a load of spit over the crumbs before closing the door. She does all this without fuss, glancing at me as I chew.

“Ain’t given yourself much” is all I can think of to say.

“I don’t need much. I just need it for cell repair. Nearly all my energy for moving and breathing comes from this.” She pats an armored box that’s fitted to one of her hips.

“How long does it last?” Me and my big gob.

Will you make it to the ship? How long before you keel over? Nice one, Cass.

“It depends on what I do, how much power I use up. Normally the battery lasts about two weeks before I need to recharge. I’m down to about fifty percent.”

I think about her dash from the Vlad base with Peyto on her back. This last stretch overland is gonna cost her.

At last we’re ready, and there ain’t no point in hanging about. Dad ain’t big on hugs, so he shakes hands with the others, but you can see he’s choked. Finally, he takes me in his arms.

He whispers in my ear, “I love you, Cass. Come back to me. Come back with Wilbur.”

I nod, but I ain’t able to say a thing. I just hold him for a bit, drawing in the smell of his old jacket – scav dust and toil. Then I clamber off the
Lodestar
and into the shallows. The last time I turn, I see a lonely figure on the deck, his arm stretched out in farewell.

It ain’t easy to see in the gloom, but we strike out for the tallest clump of treetops, hoping that’s the mainland. We have to wade in places, but most of the time it’s pretty easygoing. In fact, it’s harder when the tide goes out, cos then the channels are just pure sludge and there ain’t no water to hold you up. I keep thinking about when’s gonna be the best time to make my move. I figure I’ll wait till we suss out where we are on the map. Maleeva has to be thinking all this, too, but she never catches my eye. We just slog onward in silence, trying to pick out the shadow of the land against the darkening sky.

It takes us about an hour to reach what we hope is the mainland. The bushes and trees here are proper rooted down and there’s the remains of a road, too, all cut up and loaded with plants, but the white lines are still there down the middle. It leads roughly westward, winding through the forest, rising and dipping with the lie of the land. After a mile or so, we come across an old road sign facing back the way we’ve come, half buried under brambles.

Peyto reads it out. “Twenty-two miles to Lincoln.”

“So we passed it in the boat, then?” I go.

Ahead of us, Erin calls out. “There’s a village up here!”

We hurry along the road to what’s left of an old settlement. Lumps of concrete and slate lie about, covered
in moss and ivy. It ain’t till we’re on the far side of the place that we find out exactly where we are. There’s a PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY THROUGH OUR VILLAGE sign, then, a little farther on, the name Darlton.

“We’re here,” goes Peyto, casting a lighter flame over the map. “On the A57 road. It’s maybe fifty miles to Arbor Low.”

Erin checks her cuff. “We’ve got just over twenty-one hours.”

“It’s going to be tight,” mutters Peyto.

I glance at Maleeva but don’t say nothing. It ain’t the right moment. But maybe I’m stalling, kidding myself. Cos when exactly is the right time to betray your mates?

We hurry on at marching pace, following Peyto’s directions onto a smaller road, checking the village signs along the way, past the odd rotted-down car or truck, and, in places, gray tangles of bones – probably copped it from Quark bomb radiation. Tuxford, Broughton, Ollerton, Edwinstowe. We trudge through the night, slowing up with each mile. Only Maleeva looks fresh – bounding ahead now and then to scout for trouble.

Toward eleven at night, she goes missing for a good twenty minutes and I start to worry. At last she comes striding firmly between the potholes toward us, but when she spots me, she waves at us to get off the road. We scramble through a ditch and into the woods proper.

“What is it?”

“There’s a camp up ahead.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s on the edge of a built-up area – Mansfield maybe. They’re wild – Ferals.”

“This is not good,” mutters Erin.

“What are they doing?” I go. “How do you know they’re Ferals?”

“Who else are they going to be?” groans Erin.

“I mean, did you get a good look at them?” I ask, ignoring her.

“Whoever they are, they look dangerous. And we’ll have to be careful skirting around them because they’re not asleep,” goes Maleeva. “They’ve got a big fire going and they’re roasting a deer or something, and they’re all hooting like they’re drunk. Some of them are just wandering about in the woods singing.”

“How many are there?”

“Hard to tell – maybe a hundred. I don’t think it’s where they live – there’s no huts or shelters, just the fire and their horses.”

“They’ve got horses?”

“Yes, there’s about twenty of them tied to logs and trees.”

I stare at her, waiting for her to guess what I’m thinking.

“Oh, no, Cass. It’s too dangerous …”

“Are you kidding? It’d be rude not to! Listen, you said
yourself they’re all half cut. It’d be a cinch. We need to make up the distance …”

“You’re crazy,” goes Peyto. “Me and Erin, we can’t ride horses!”

“You don’t need to. Look, we only need to nick one. You can ride with me, then Maleeva can carry Erin. We’ll be there in half the time.”

“Unless they catch us snooping around!”

“No, Cass is right,” goes Erin. “It’ll save time. Walking’s just too slow – we’ll never make it.”

Maleeva is still staring at me, probably trying to fathom out how all this changes the plan. But it makes perfect sense to me.

“How far ahead are they?” I ask.

“About a mile. You hear them before you see them. Cass, I can’t go anywhere near horses – I spook them.”

“That’s all right. I’ll do it. You just guide the others past the camp. I’ll meet you farther up the road, where it’s safe.”

“This is insane!” complains Peyto.

“Look, you’re outvoted three to one. It’ll be a breeze, don’t worry.”

Maleeva takes Erin by the hand and leads her away from the road, north into the trees. Peyto hangs back, then he leans toward me and grabs a kiss.

“You’re wasting time,” I whisper. “Just keep going, I’ll catch up with you. Go!”

But when he’s disappeared into the undergrowth, I
linger there in a daze, suddenly shocked at the idea of being totally on my jack.

I creep onward, keeping the road in sight. Maleeva is right – I hear the Ferals long before I spot them. The drumming comes to me over the wind, a scary clatter of beats and bellowing. I slip from tree trunk to tree trunk, my legs all weak with fear. The woods give way to a concrete clearing and some old factory buildings. A hard core of Ferals are gathered around a huge bonfire, kicking up a racket that’d wake the dead. God knows what they’re on, but they’re completely wild, charging about half naked and screeching at each other in a frenzy. They’re all men – no women or kids – like a hunting party, or maybe they’re just bandits. And they’re all daubed up in splashes of blue, the paint glistening in the firelight. A smell of cooked meat reaches me through the trees, and I can make out the remains of a big animal on a spit. By this time I’m pretty terrified, cos being this close, you can see they live up to their name all right. Some of them are smearing themselves with meat juice.

As I’m trying to make out where the horses are tied up, I realize I’m a tad too close for comfort. No more than twenty feet away in the undergrowth are a couple of bodies snoring gently. I whip out my knife, but they carry on snoring just the same.

I edge closer. They’re sentries, I reckon, fallen asleep on the job. One of them is on his back, his belly rising and
falling with each breath, a great hunk of half-eaten meat resting on his chest. The stink of him makes me gag. His mate is curled up sideways, groaning in his sleep, cradling an empty glass bottle. There’s a niff of that, too – not booze so much as chemicals, like paint stripper. It’s the North Wilds all right.

I creep past them, trying to be sure of my footfalls, feeling out for twigs and stuff that might make a noise. The horses are tethered up farther on – shuffling about half asleep. I make a soft clicking noise so as not to alarm them as I approach and hold my hands out to the nearest ones so they can get used to my smell. They feel me out with their muzzles, all wet and warm and friendly, whinnying at me softly. So far so good. I get in amongst them and stay there for a good ten minutes, patting and stroking and calming them down. I choose a fairly big one – brown with a white streak on his bonce. Most of the others are bareback, but this one’s got a saddle and reins, all togged up and ready to go. The only problem is, the horse I’ve picked is hobbled. I duck down to get busy with my knife when a great holler freezes me to the spot. The horses shift about all nervy, snorting and stamping. Between their legs I can see a great oaf of a Feral crashing about in the bushes, howling away to the moon.

I think about just cutting my horse free and going for it, but if this Feral raises the alarm I’m stuffed. No, I’ve got to sweat it out. Trouble is, it don’t look like he’s going
anywhere in a hurry. He sways about for a bit, then he drops his tattered trousers and starts going for a dump. I can’t believe it! The way he’s straining away, I’m set to be there for hours. As I drop my head, I catch sight of a stone and start grubbing it up out of the mud. It’s a big old cobblestone, but I don’t trust my aim, so there ain’t nothing else for it – I’ve got to creep up behind him.

First I cut my horse free and take the rope. There are just ten or so paces between me and my squatting target. I can see his great pale bum cheeks in the firelight, shuddering away to another gargantuan fart. That seems to be my cue. Forget stealth. I just charge him, swing back my stone, and clobber him on the back of the head. He pitches over without a peep, leaving behind a great pile of steaming turd. Quickly I tie his hands and feet with the rope, then gag him with the piece of rag he’s been using as a belt. I make sure all the knots are proper done up, and bury him under a load of dead branches.

Then it’s back to the herd to lead out my horse. I coax him through the trees and round in a big circle past the camp to pick up the road again. Then I’m in the saddle and kicking on – just a gentle canter, nothing too hectic.

About a mile on, Peyto comes flying out the trees, waving his arms. When I see him grinning from ear to ear, my heart dives, cos I know I’ve got to give the shout to Maleeva soon enough. Not yet, I reason. Get some distance between us and the Ferals.

I think Erin is quietly impressed. She don’t look at me, but she smiles and makes a fuss of the horse. I help Peyto into the saddle behind me, and Maleeva hoists Erin onto her back. We’re away. Maleeva goes loping ahead, and I keep about ten lengths behind with Peyto clinging to my waist.

That’s how the night passes, and I try to block everything from my head, settling into the ride, staring into the tunnel of trees, their branches clacking overhead in the wind. And I can feel Peyto’s body resting warm against my back. There ain’t no more thinking to be done – the plan is set as sure as a loaded sling, and the only question is when I should let it fly.

But with each canter stride north, the waiting just gets harder, till every breath is heavy, and the thought of breaking away from Peyto makes me sick to the soul.

I
t’s a long night and we rest only to take water. When the gray light washes in, we find we’re in open hills. Streaks of mist flit over the ruins of farmhouses and broken walls and bare hedges. I glance at the only band left on my cuff, growing ever shorter. I count up the freckles. There’s just eight hours to go.

It nearly sends me off to sleep watching Maleeva’s swinging strides ahead of me – so regular, like a pendulum. But as the mist thickens, I see her slow up, and I know her batteries have got to be running down now. It ain’t a sudden thing, but the bounce goes out of each thrust forward, and for the first time ever, I see her stumble.

As the morning wears on, the hills grow steeper around us. There are ravines and rivers and nestled villages – all quiet, home only to tiny birds that burst for cover as we come near. I grow dizzy for sleep. My horse is down to a walk, head bowed, clopping through the mud. The mist closes right over us. Then the rain sets in, straight as stair
rods, but I’m too done in to care now. Only the cold trickles down my neck are keeping me awake.

“We’ve got to rest,” goes Peyto at last.

“No time.”

He jumps down and stares up at me, squinting in the rain. “No, listen. We’re nearly there, but we have to be alert now – in case the Russians are up here. There’s another village up ahead, see? Let’s put our heads down, just for an hour or so.”

With him off the horse, there’s a golden chance to do what I’ve got to do. Maleeva has stopped up ahead and I can see her poised waiting for the signal. But still I hang back. I’m so cold and wet through that the idea of getting out the rain is too tempting.

And when Peyto grins up at me, I feel the guilt as a sting inside, rearing up from my chest, looking for a way out.

He goes, “Look at you – you’re so tired you can’t even speak!”

He calls out to the others and so we cast about for somewhere to lie down. I don’t even ask what this place is called, but it’s the biggest settlement we’ve come to for ages. There’s a sorry-looking parade of amusement halls nearby and we break into one of them through the window. It’s fusty inside but fairly dry – dust covering all the fruit machines and video games, but no reek of bodies. We’re all so whacked out we don’t even speak – we
just cozy up to each other, Peyto in the middle, me and Erin on the outside. Maleeva is stood stock-still in the doorway, gazing out at the street, or maybe she’s asleep already, slumped in her frame. For a while I stare up at the drapes of old spiderwebs near the ceiling, then I feel Peyto’s hand gently seeking out mine and the guilt rises hot inside me again. This is the last leg, the time for choices that’ll make or break us all, and I can’t go soft, not now. But still, lying there with his fingers cupped in mine, I can dream for an hour at least that things are gonna pan out, that we’ll pull it off. And so I shove the guilt away and turn to my enemy, the ship, and all the details of my plan bubble up, until sleep takes me down. And I dream of the ship sailing silently through the black sky with its cargo of sleepers, waiting, waiting …

I’m alone on the floor when Maleeva wakes me, her caged face just above mine.

“Just when are you going to do it?” she whispers.

“Hey! Back off! When it’s the right time, I’ll let you know.”

“What are you waiting for?”

I look over her shoulder toward Peyto and Erin, who are talking by the entrance. Peyto glances over at us – is that a worried look on his face?

“Look, I’ve got it sorted. We need to be close to Arbor Low before everything kicks off.”

“Not so close that the whole Russian army can track us
down. You don’t suppose this thing will happen quietly …”

“We don’t even know the Russians are up here.”

“And we don’t know that they’re not. Cass, you’re waiting too long, letting your feelings …”

I sit up sharply. “My
feelings
ain’t none of your business, right? I’ll give you the shout when it’s the right time and not before. I don’t want anyone stranded in the middle of nowhere while we do the necessary, OK? Everyone’s got to be where I can find them or this ain’t gonna work.”

Maleeva’s head nudges forward in its frame, slipping out of the stays that keep her cheeks in place. I guess she’s lost a load of weight for that to happen, and even in the hour I’ve been asleep, she looks worse. Her movements have slowed right down, even the assisted blinking, so that her eyes are raw and moist. Almost straightaway I feel wrong for snapping at her, and I start to say sorry, but she waves it away.

“I’m sorry, too,” she goes. “I just want it to be over now.”

“Before we get to Arbor Low, I swear.”

And so after sharing the last of the food in our packs – just a few broken biscuits and some water – we set off again into the rain.

We try to step up the pace, but after an hour we’re flagging. Maleeva has the map and keeps stopping to check signs and roads more often, and I know we’ve got to be close now. I check the cuff – there’s just two freckles left. Less than two hours …

It’s Peyto who spots the danger first. We’re picking our way along a narrow road clogged up with bushes and brambles when he clutches at me and points through a gap in the branches. Across the field, maybe a quarter of a mile away, is a clump of trees on a hill, and gathered around it is a small encampment – men and trucks and tents. A crane is being winched into position near the top of the hill and there’s a scar of earth and bare rock splitting the slope in two.

“Soldiers, it has to be,” breathes Erin.

If it is the Vlads, it’s just a small unit – no helicopters, no Okhotniks. And that’s strange, unless they’re camped in force elsewhere.

Maleeva checks the map. “It’s Gib Hill.”

“Where Halina was buried,” I blurt out.

And Peyto stiffens on the saddle behind me.

“It was all written down at the museum, where she was found,” mutters Erin. “It makes sense that the Vlads would come here, too.”

“But what are they looking for?” goes Peyto. “How can they know there’s another shuttle?”

“They don’t know,” answers Maleeva. “They’re just digging to see what they can find.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” goes Erin. “We’ve got to summon the shuttle now!”

I feel the moment close around me. It’s now. Or never.

When I speak, my voice is flat, stone-cold certain.

“The shuttle ain’t there.” I think about Halina speaking to me down through the ages. “It’s buried under some stones.”

Erin stares at me. “What stones? How do you know?”

“From the message in her flinder.”

“You never said.”

“I didn’t think we’d make it.”

“That means they’re digging in the wrong place,” says Maleeva, pointing at the map. “The stones – that has to be the circle here at Arbor Low. She tried to reach it, but she died in battle. They must have buried her where she fell …”

It’s hazy, but I half remember the photos and displays at the museum. On the map, the stone circle is set to one side of Gib Hill but very close, perhaps within sight from the trees at the top of the slope.

Maleeva and me stare at each other. There ain’t never gonna be a better time.

“Now!” I snatch at the word, feeling the threads of everything draw together.

Maleeva drops her shoulder and topples Erin, pinning her to the ground. Peyto scrambles out of the saddle to help her. Erin squeals and wrestles, but Maleeva holds her firm with just one arm.

“Hey, leave her alone!” cries Peyto. He tries to reach Erin, but Maleeva checks him with her free arm. He whirls to glare at me.

This is gonna be the worst part – the explaining. But they’ve got to know certain things or it all goes belly up.

“Me and Maleeva are going on alone,” I say.

Peyto starts toward me, but I pull the horse clear, ready to spur away if he gets too close.

“Are you crazy?!” Erin bucks and spits and throws herself at Maleeva, but there ain’t no budging from that grip.

“No, I ain’t crazy,” I go, trying to keep my voice level. “We’re going up there to bring back Wilbur, and all the other sleepers. But the only way that’s gonna happen is if you and Peyto stay right here on Earth. You can’t come with us.”

I’m pretty calm then, all things considered, cos the plan is so utterly clear, like a road unwinding ahead of me.

“This is madness!” screeches Erin.

“I’m sure Cass is going to explain.” Peyto’s voice has gone deadly quiet now.

I look over at Gib Hill. I can’t just sit here and tell them the full story. The soldiers might rumble us at any moment.

“But we
all
need to go!” shouts Erin. “The ship needs all forty-nine flinders to stop it crashing!”

At last Peyto closes his eyes. “You’re not going up there to repair the ship, are you? You’re going up there to confront it.”

“You can’t!” cries Erin, beating at Maleeva’s solid pillar of an arm.

“I ain’t leaving Wilbur up there. End of.” I hold my
hand out to Peyto. “I’m going to the ship without you. And you’re gonna give me your flinder so I can get there.”

Peyto shakes his head. “But what if it won’t listen?”

“Just hand over your flinder, Peyto.”

But he ain’t budging.

Erin’s nearly choking with the effort to break free. “Why don’t you trust us? We were all going up there to save Wilbur …”

“The ship thinks he’s the perfect sleeper. It ain’t gonna let him go. Not unless it’s forced to.”

“But if the ship refuses …,” goes Peyto. “You won’t have Erin’s last flinder with you – the ship will crash. And wars will sweep across the world. Everyone will die, including you.”

“I don’t care. If the ship repairs, it won’t wake anyone up – not for centuries, maybe never. It’s mad. I ain’t leaving Wilbur up there.”

“What makes you think you can defeat the ship when my mother couldn’t?”

“Cos your mother didn’t have a plan, and I do. That’s why. I’ll be making the ship a deal it can’t turn down. As soon as I’m there, the shuttle can’t come back for you and the last flinder, unless I reset it. So the ship
can’t
complete the forty-nine the way it wants. It’ll let the sleepers go. It has to.”

“What if it can’t let them go, Cass? What if it won’t? You’re holding everyone on board ransom – Wilbur, too.”

“The flinders are too precious. The ship won’t let them or the sleepers die.”

“But you would?”

There’s no answering that. The whole thing hinges on what I would risk, what I’m prepared to do. I wait for his flinder.

Erin gives a strangled cry, a last-ditch attempt to wriggle free. “You and Maleeva can’t
both
go back to the ship! It’ll dock on the bridge side where there’s no air and there’ll only be Halina’s suit in the shuttle …”

“I’ve thought everything through. I need Maleeva up there in case the Okhotnik shows up, but one suit’s enough.”

“There is no other way.” Maleeva states it as plain fact. “Give her the flinder, Peyto.”

“No! Don’t do it!” Erin cries.

He nods very slightly, maybe working it through in his mind, and a sad smile rises to his lips. “When did you figure all this out, Cass?”

“On the boat.”

“Well, maybe you haven’t thought through everything,” he goes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not just a question of numbers. It’s the identity of the sleeper that matters. How the flinder
chooses
you, remember?”

I stare at him, and the tears come to my eyes at last. “I ain’t got time for this.”

“No, I suppose not. But you think about it when the time comes. Because you’re a match for this. More than me. We both know it.” And with that he reaches under his collar and pulls out the flinder. It sparkles blue in the gloom, a light hovering between our outstretched arms. Then he puts it in my hand without another word.