In The End (Book 1): In The End Read online

  In The End

  G J Stevens

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © GJ Stevens 2018

  The moral right of GJ Stevens to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1998.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright under the Berne Convention

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Cover Illustration Copyright © 2018 by James Norbury Cover design by James Norbury

  www.JamesNorbury.com

  ISBN: 9781983268076

  DEDICATION

  To the women in my life.

  For Jayne, for giving me the space to create, for being the other side of my coin, my constant.

  For Sarah, for giving me inspiration, for our late-night conversations, for my confidence and being my Annie Wilkes.

  For my mum who I hope would have read with pride.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Adrian, who reads anything I give him and keeps me grounded whenever I stray from my station.

  To Ismena, who believes in me and is constructive in her criticism.

  To Scott, who long ago sparked my imagination and who understands a good story if he ever saw it.

  To James, for his wonderful talents touching every area where I am weak and his boundless enthusiasm for anything artistic.

  To Al, for his contribution. Less words, more inspiration.

  To my first readers, Sarah and Janna. Nothing spurs me on more than a late-night text message screaming excitement across the ether.

  For my sister, knowing one day she might actually read this.

  Thanks to all those who helped me along the way, be it big or small, I am grateful.

  1

  LOGAN

  The first sign was the internet going down, the music streaming into the floor-standing speakers going quiet without warning. A sudden loss of connection; Wi-Fi box rebooted twice and still nothing. The dimming of the lights came next. Not total power failure; the solar panels on the roofs to thank.

  Still we drank, draining the supply to a bottle of port bought from the local supermarket on a hangover-fuelled run.

  It was New Year's Eve 2017. We'd rented a holiday cottage on the extremes of Cornwall, almost Land's End. The cottage, one of nine in a gated development, each built the new way but made to look old. The doors were a funny proportion; building regulations, I'm told.

  Each cottage was built out of the way of the rest in a wide circle, a thick copse of trees separating them. In the centre stood a manager's house, a small shop and a bar.

  Where a tenth cottage could have sat was the wide road leading out and in. There were ten of us, the cottage full to bursting. Twin and double rooms were shared despite all but four of us not being coupled. We'd been there four days already, the recycling bin emptied with the ring of bottles each morning. A maid cleaned out the jacuzzi we'd piled in all night until the Atlantic air got too much and we headed back to dry around the wood-burning stove.

  We lasted an hour before myself and Andrew dressed, mounting an expedition and walking the couple of hundred steps to the centre of the circle. We weren't the only ones there. A huddle had formed at the open door of the manager's house, a half-drunk crowd shouting over each other.

  I remember the concern on Andrew's face. Our worst fear; the little shop had run out of its overpriced alcohol and the mob were about to lynch the grey-haired manager unless he'd drive a rescue party to the nearest twenty-four-hour supermarket. We still thought it was true as the door closed in our faces. People turned to each other. Some were strangers. Some were not. All were dumbfounded at his actions, but before the small crowd could become a mob, the door opened and out came the guy with an ancient radio in his hand, garbled words and static rattling from the paint-flecked speakers.

  The crowd hushed as more joined at our backs. We were now in the middle of a group, hushing too, listening to a voice settle. A handful of words come clean from the speaker. A power station had been attacked by terrorists; the nuclear reactor in Somerset.

  Panic rippled through the group, radiating adrenaline working to nullify the alcohol. Two of the group pushed outwards and I turned to see them running back to one of the nine houses. We continued to listen, my heart pounding in the near silence.

  The sudden drop in power to the grid had destabilised the network; emergency breakers had sacrificed the South West to save the rest of the nation from total darkness. The radio broke up as the word radiation came isolated from the rest of the sentence by static.

  Andrew and I stared, soon turning to other, but we’d read no more meaning. Then came the reassurance again. The damage was not to the reactor but to the distribution system. There was no immediate danger of radiation leaking. The core was stable.

  Torn between the silence from the radio and sharing the news with the others, we peeled away and back to the cottage. Thoughts of alcohol were long gone, but we found the house quiet, bedroom doors closed up tight. It could wait for the morning. The voice from the radio had made it clear there was no immediate danger.

  The second sign was the hammering at the door in the early hours. With the power still dimmed, rationed between the ten buildings, I was the first to answer. I was the one to see the silver-haired guy rush to tell me to get the hell out of here. I was the first to hear him mumble the word evacuation as he moved away, running towards the centre of the circle before I had a chance to question.

  2

  After five minutes, I'd only managed to repeat the explanation twice. Toby and Amy, the couple in the closest room to the door, watched through hangover-fogged eyes as we bounced off each other and fought through their disbelief that it was just some elaborate trick.

  Then to Leo and Daniel. Well, Daniel hid under the covers and I was sure I could hear him snore as I recounted the guy's strange words from moments earlier, trying my best to get across the urgent look in the guy's eyes.

  It was Toby who came up with the offer to trudge with me to the centre of the circle and find out what the hell was going on. I could see in his eyes he had a mind to give the owner a stern talking to.

  The cottage fell silent as we headed out in tracksuit bottoms and dressing gowns shrouding our shoulders as we trekked through the fresh morning dew. My own questioning of the situation was fully in bloom until we found the manager's house locked up, a paper notice written in heavy bold ink pinned to the door:

  Evacuate. Head north.

  A freephone number was scrawled below.

  I turned to stare at Toby as he gawked in my direction. Both of us pivoted on our heels as we searched out the surrounding circle for any sign of someone about to jump from behind a tree with a phone pointed in our direction to capture our faces as the words sank in. We must have stood for over a minute before I fumbled in my pocket, reading the number aloud as I tapped the digits into my phone.

  No Service was the message that came back. We ran the gravel path back to the house.

  Breaking the quiet of the cottage, we flung doors wide to the protests of the occupants, shouting for everyone to get their arses into gear.

  “The nuclear power station. Radiation,” I shouted, repeating.

  Toby followed my lead. Neither of us stopped to answer questions. Instead, I headed to my room, pulling off Andrew's covers as I frantically dressed then stuffing
what I could grab of my things into a small suitcase.

  Within another ten minutes the cottage was alive with activity. Even the most sceptical, Zoe and Naomi, who thought it some elaborate scheme to scare them witless, were making moves to get their things together.

  It was still half an hour before we were ready to leave. Half the group were not convinced, insisting on stuffing all of their belongings away and packing them into the three cars before they would let us start the engines.

  Still my inner scepticism forced me to lock the place up, checking twice before pocketing the key instead of pushing it back through the manager's letter box like it said in the welcome pack.

  Driving one of the three cars with Zoe and Naomi in the back, Andrew sat at my side, tuning the digital radio to each of the stations, flicking to the next as the No Signal message replied on the segmented display.

  “Where are we going?” Zoe said.

  “The way we came,” I replied, looking to Andrew for confirmation. His nod gave confidence to my words. The journey to the cottage had been made four days earlier, five hours from London via two motorways and a dual carriageway through Cornwall.

  The same people were in the car now. Zoe I'd known for twenty years since graduating. We were close, about as close as you can get without being in a relationship. I took up tenancy in the friend zone a long time ago.

  Naomi was Zoe's best friend, a new fixture since she'd moved from their childhood town to London last year. She was attractive, if you like the blonde knockout sort, but she made it abundantly clear to us all her interests lay elsewhere. Still, she'd melded with the established group seamlessly, even putting Andrew in his place early.

  Zoe's voice broke into my drifting thoughts.

  “Have you seen any other cars?” she said.

  “Since when?” Naomi replied.

  I didn't need to look to know everyone's gaze peeled around the road. We'd driven through two villages on the route to the A30 dual carriageway, but she was right; I couldn't remember seeing any other cars on the road.

  At first I put it down to my sleep-deprived state and the effects of alcohol leaving my body. I think we all did. Now, paying attention properly, there wasn't a car to be seen.

  “It's New Year's Day,” I heard Andrew say.

  “But,” Zoe started, her words tailing off until I twisted in the seat, watching as she paused; her head fidgeted either side. “I haven't seen any cars. Not even parked.”

  “Shit, look out,” came the urgent words from Andrew.

  My head sprang back around to the sight of a figure standing in the road. I had no time to react before his head bulls-eyed the windscreen to an eruption of screams.

  3

  I won't ever forget the dull thump or the loud snap as a dark head spidered the glass. The body rolled up the car and slipped down again, crunching to the road as I slammed hard on the brakes.

  With no time for what I'd seen to sink in, Toby's Merc slammed into our rear. The jolt went unfelt, my body numb, my concentration fixed on my foot wedged on the middle pedal.

  I sat frozen. Andrew was already out of the car. Lifting my head I watched as he turned back, his eyes wide at the Merc behind.

  His head slowly turned, his gaze catching mine as he followed down the bonnet to what I should have been the first to see. The shock should be mine. The pain in the centre of my chest was for me to bear alone. I caused the disaster; I was the one to affect our lives forever.

  Detached from my body, limbs cold and numb to sensation, I pulled open the door.

  Toby joined me. I brushed away his concern and his offered hand to help me out. The journey around to the bonnet took an age, but was over too soon. I watched on, disassociated from my flesh while Andrew knelt over a pair of corded trousers, the only visible sign of who I’d hit.

  Shouts echoed as Andrew reached under the car, growing in volume as he pulled his head high to look past me.

  I turned, not hearing the words and Toby was gone. I twisted around to see him back in his car as he let it roll backwards.

  Climbing to his feet, Andrew pushed me with gentle force to the side of the road before he climbed in my car.

  I turned, alcohol-laced bile rising, projecting to the tarmac. I twisted back, hopeful what I'd seen had been a vision.

  It wasn't, because there lay an old man with grey hair and wrinkled skin. His eyes were closed and sunken. His bloodied face held no expression. His head folded at ninety degrees.

  No one checked for a pulse. It was a sight I knew I would hold until my days came to an end.

  Andrew turned me away by the shoulders, gripping my upper arms as he spoke.

  “He was flagging us down, tripped and fell into the road.”

  I had no idea of the truth in his words. Was he saying this for me? Was he telling me to get my story straight? I didn't know how he'd come to be in the road.

  I hadn't seen a thing.

  I knew what had to be done and I pulled my phone out. Tapping the three digits, I barely heard the flashing pips in my ear.

  No service.

  With my mouth hanging wide, I turned to the nine and watched my friends hugging, tears streaming as they looked in my direction with sorrow in their eyes.

  I hated the pity pouring towards me. All I could do was shake my head as I held out the phone. Hands grasped for their own mobiles, but all soon came back shaking their heads the same.

  I threw up for a second time as Andrew patted my back.

  Looking around, I took in our surroundings as if for the first time. My gaze followed the dusty back road to a short wooden bridge a few paces from where the car had stopped. The view stretched out to fields either side, the horizon punctuated by a column of grey smoke rising in the direction we'd been heading, the sight only adding to the guilt constricting my throat. Had I really been paying such little attention as I drove?

  Swallowing down the renewed bile, I watched the rising smoke dissipate high in the sky. The sound of hushed voices caused me to turn, to look over at the group of two stone houses just off the road. The right one had its bright-red door wide open.

  Much to Andrew’s protests, I walked in its direction.

  “Let me,” he said, stepping past.

  I shook my head. Still he travelled at my side, his knuckles arriving first at the door, his high greeting echoing inside.

  Andrew turned and gestured Tony to its neighbour as he took a tentative step over the threshold.

  Inside, the air hung still, the silence clinging to my throat. It was Andrew who spoke again, repeating the greeting. Only silence replied; a thick, dampening quiet.

  We both spotted the phone at the same moment, Andrew's hand reaching first. He paused to listen before replacing the receiver.

  We heard Toby's knock, his call next door and his footsteps as he joined us.

  “No answer.”

  The TV didn't work as I clicked its buttons and I remembered the power was out, trying the light switch with my finger.

  Toby coughed, the noise violent in the stifling silence.

  “We can't stay here,” Andrew said, pulling a blanket from the armchair.

  My eyes widened as I realised its purpose.

  “I can't, I can't.”

  Andrew held up his hand. “It's okay,” he replied and I watched as Toby, red-faced, followed Andrew, corralling two of the others.

  I turned away and headed into the kitchen.

  Andrew drove, peering around the mess of a circle in the centre of the windscreen.

  I sat in the back, silently grateful for Zoe’s insistent arm around my shoulder. Time drifted in fits and starts. One moment it dragged, the world going by so slow, the next minute the scenery had changed, the sky darker, the sun covered by the smoke, thicker than before.

  The car slowed, but I couldn't make out the reason; the blocked view through the windscreen only forcing the blanket of guilt down further.

  Stopping the car, Andrew opened the door and was half
out, peering between the gap. He turned back as he pulled himself all the way out, his expression flat and colour drained.

  I didn't want to move from the seat, didn't want to leave the comfort, but I had to see why we'd stopped. I had to see what had caused the fear in Andrew's expression.

  Zoe made the choice for me, pulling away and grabbing the door handle. The others were already at the side of the car, their stares forward and mouths hanging open.

  Toby turned and caught my eye, his head shaking, pupils wide. A chill ran down my spine.

  4

  A long procession of cars wheeled out, silent to the extent of my vision as I climbed from the car. My face fixed as my friends held theirs, mouths wide, locked with bewildered stares.

  Engines lay at rest. The traffic filled the two thin lanes bordered by dry stone walls. Each abandoned, with few of their owners having the presence of mind to close their doors.

  “What the fuck?” were the words I barely heard from Toby's mouth, words I knew weren't meant for anyone.

  “Why the fuck?” My words came without command, my feet unbidden the same. One in front of the other, slowly at first, building, building until I was flat out.

  My gaze jerked this way and that, searching out for new information. Searching for the end of the line as I swerved left and right around cars which became three across as each one tried and failed, despite the brush of metal on metal, to squeeze past. Shoes and bags, luggage and holdalls littered the remaining gaps, slowing me to more of a hurdle as I raced to the head of whatever this could be. I swerved right at the bumper of a van, having smashed the wall before bogging down on the grass. Its doors were wide. A glance of a hand imprinted red to the white paint of the bonnet.