The Fallen (20 page)

BOOK: The Fallen

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He heard a sadistic laugh from inside. “Oh, that’s right Tim, you forgot about the master set. So did I until I remembered I’d seen them hanging from the janitor’s belt, just before I slit his throat.”

“If you touch her, if you do anything to harm her in anyway, I’ll make you regret it.”

“Tim, you just came out to kill me. I saw you with the gun. That’s no way for a guest to behave. Your wife on the other hands seems much more, friendly. She’ll have a drink with me.”

He wished he’d never opened the gate and let the cook in, if only he’d known then. He should have been more cautious after he knocked him down out by the car, but his pity and hope for an ally clouded his judgement. The cook had clearly gone insane, maybe he’d been partially exposed to whatever had caused this, or maybe what he had done had destroyed what was left of his rationality with guilt. It didn’t matter anymore, what mattered was getting through the door and putting an end to him. “OK I’m putting my gun down,” he lied, “just open the door.”

Another laugh. “You can do what you like out there professor, and so can I.”

Tim started beating on the door and charging it with his shoulder, but it was useless. He stood back and fired the handgun at the door handle. The bullets did nothing but scratch it and ricochet dangerously back at him. He wished he had brought the rifle. How could he have been so stupid? He should have checked all of the offices upstairs or waited longer, until nightfall. His mind was racing over all the things the cook could be doing on the other side of the door. He had to get in there. Suddenly he heard his wife scream and shout his name. He could hear a struggle. His knuckles were now bloody but the door held firm. “Don’t touch her, don’t fucking touch her.” The struggle came to an abrupt halt and he heard nothing more. “Sarah.” He cried and fell to his knees, pounding pathetically on the steel with the butt of the gun. “Sarah.”

He had failed again. If she was taken from him he would do all he could to end the cook’s life before ending his own.

Ten minutes passed with no sound from the room. Then, from the other side, came the rattle of locks. He flung himself backwards so he was sitting against the opposite wall, his gun pointed at the door. But the door did not open. He crawled slowly towards it, gun raised, but still it did not open. He grabbed at the handle, turned it and still sitting kicked the door ajar. The door hit against something heavy and he flung himself through the crack. The cook lay face down on the floor, motionless and Sarah was standing over him, holding a bent and bloodied can, her clothes torn but intact. Immediately he wanted to hug her, but he had to make sure the cook was down for good and was ready to put a bullet in him if necessary. He tried to feel for a pulse but couldn’t. Blood was pouring from a wound somewhere on the front of the man’s head. He turned him over but as he did so the cook’s hands came from nowhere, crushing his throat and the wrist holding the gun. The gun went off, lodging a bullet in the skylight, creating a mosaic of cracked glass. Time seemed to slow as he grappled with the man, whose bloodied face was more terrifying than anything he had seen amongst the affected. He was so strong and already had Tim on his back. “Too much time counting chocolate teapots,” Asefa’s words rang through his head. He tried to raise the gun but the cook pushed it back to the floor, he could feel the other hand pressing down harder and harder on his windpipe. The room started to dim and he thought he could hear Asefa’s voice calling him. He was dying.

Then the cook’s grip went slack, he was back in the brightness of the room. Strangely the first thing he noticed was the bullet lodged in the toughened glass of the skylight; then realised the cook was slumped on top of him. He flinched and yelled, pushing the cook off and fired several rounds at random into the man’s side. He would not be getting up again. Finally he saw what had caused the cook to lose his grip; Sarah must have hit him again. She always was tough and he now felt sure that greater parts of her old self remained. The swathe couldn’t take her away from him, nothing could. He got up, feeling sick yet energised, and taking the can from his wife’s hand, he held her in his arms. “Thank you darling, thank you.”

The embassy was now theirs. It would be their home, it would be their prison; but he wasn’t afraid anymore.

Epilogue

The boy sat in front of the display, listening to the newscaster. The picture showed a man in handcuffs being led from a gleaming courtroom somewhere in America. The camera panned back to reveal a blonde female presenter with immaculate make-up, sitting on a clean red couch in a studio.

“And so the last major trial from the Lost Year comes to a close, perhaps bringing with it closure on a forgotten time many of us would rather forget.

General Richard Higgs, former commander of the US military facility at Cheyenne Mountain, has been found guilty on ten counts, including mass murder, dereliction of duty and use of weapons of mass destruction against US civilians, in what has come to be known as the ‘Cheyenne massacre’. Also found guilty was his second in command, Brigadier Howard Dawes.

Their appeal on the grounds that their actions fell under the general amnesty for crimes committed during the Lost Year was rejected by the Judge, who agreed with the prosecution; the amnesty did not apply to persons who had been unaffected by the Swathe. The military in particular, he added, addressing the General directly, had a duty to serve and protect.

We have with us in the studio one of the key witnesses from the initial trial, Marius Hemalstein.”

The camera panned back further to reveal a smartly dressed man with a beard and glasses sitting opposite the presenter, legs crossed in the European style.

“Mister Hemalstein, welcome, how are you feeling today, it must feel like the end of an era for you?”

“Good evening Julie, first let me say thank you for inviting me on the show. Yes, this has been quite a long process for all of us, but I believe the Judge came to the right decision. I simply hope this means we can draw a line under the Swathe, the Lost Year, all of it and move on.”

“Because you yourself had to undergo questioning by one of the recollection, truth and reconciliation tribunals, is that not correct?”

“Yes Julie, like the others I had to face accusations of not doing enough to help the affected and we had to face the families of those we had killed.”

“But you had acted in self-defence, had you not?”

“That is true, but that did not make it any easier for those who had lost loved ones. I think people wanted someone to blame and the relatively small numbers of people who were not affected were, in some ways, an easy target.”

“But you were found innocent. And recently I hear your colleague Brian Wyndham was awarded the Copley medal, the British Royal Society's most prestigious prize for scientific achievement, is that true?”

The man laughed and nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid to say it is.”

“And that was for his work on the Swathe, some of which is described in your own, new book that we have here,
The Science of Forgetting
.”

The reporter held up a hardback edition of a book, the cover showing the earth shrouded in darkness.

“Yes, the book, thank you for the unofficial plug. The book tries to explain more than just the science behind the Swathe, but also looks at the psychological impact of the Lost Year on the world’s population.”

“Yes, you say in the book that you had hoped the Swathe would have caused more reflection than it did. Can you tell us what you mean by that?”

“Well, as you know, when people began to regain their faculties and realise the devastation that had occurred, some people did stop and re-evaluate what was important in their lives, but you know Julie, people are people. In the end we all had to get back to our lives and start piecing things back together the best we could. Seven years later, in many places it’s almost as if it didn’t happen.”

“And you think that’s a bad thing?”

“The scale and speed of the reconstruction has been amazing, but I do believe that we have collectively suppressed that period of human history – quite successfully actually.”

“But Mister Hemalstein, people would say you feel that way because you
do
remember what so many of us cannot.”

“Perhaps, but I think many people remember more about the Lost Year than they would care to admit.”

“Yourself included?”

“Perhaps Julie, perhaps. There will always be a stigma attached to those who remember things that other people would rather see forgotten.”

“Do you believe that what you saw was humanity’s true nature? Is that what people don’t want to remember?”

The man motioned to the room around him. “This is humanity’s true nature. We are civilized; we live in a world of constructs and trade-offs and compromises and love and hate; but this is our world, this is who we are. The Lost Year showed the worst of man, the beast that lives deep within man; but that is not man. At the end of the Lost Year, we were in a state of nature, but did we choose to stay there? No, we went back to our lives, the strong began to help the weak and the injured and we rebuilt all that we had so nearly lost.”

The presenter held up the book again. “Well for those who would like to know more, buy the book. Marius Hemalstein, thank you for joining us.

Now onto some other news, the release of what Steven Speilberg says will be his last film. It is the true story of a little girl and her dog trying to find her parents in the last days of the Lost Year…”

Tim turned off the display, cutting off the trailer and its uplifting orchestral soundtrack. “Time for bed.”

The boy looked annoyed. “But I want to see that movie, will you take me dad?”

“Maybe, if you’re good.”

“And I want a dog like hers. Dad did you kill anyone in the Lost Year?”

He was silent, caught off guard by the question. He didn’t notice his wife come in from the kitchen.

Sarah picked up the boy and put him over her shoulder. “Asefa, mummy and daddy told you the story already, your daddy would never kill anyone.” She smiled at her husband.

He got up and tickled the boy. “Except for little boys who don’t go to bed when they’re told.” Hugging them both he looked at his wife, “Just don’t make mummy angry, she’s the dangerous one.”