Children of the Dust (13 page)

'Lilith's a mutant,' she said.

'That's evolution for you,' said Dwight.

'You don't understand! The mutant gene is a dominant gene! Think what it means!'

'Her children will inherit her characteristics?'

'That's right. Eventually all outsiders will be mutants. Unless we can make a breakthrough in genetic engineering we're going to be over-run.'

'We've got no future anyway,' said Dwight.

'What do you mean? Of course we've got a future! We've survived, haven't we?'

'Dinosaurs in a bunker,' Dwight repeated. 'We may have survived but we haven't adapted. We're trying to cling to a lifestyle that is obsolete, and even our minds are stagnant. Our outlook hasn't changed since before the war. We couldn't exist outside that bunker, but these people can. They've learnt to cope with changed conditions. It's the Liliths of this world who are going to survive in the long run, Ophelia. Not us.'

From the inner room came a thin baby wail and an echo of girlish laughter, laughter that went on and on, a maniacal glee. Dwight was talking rubbish! Of course the human race was going to survive! Catherine had just given birth to a lively healthy child and Ophelia was going to see.

The front sitting room was cramped and small. Books on shelves lined all the walls and half-drawn curtains cut out the natural light. Candles in jam jars smelled of mutton fat, made glowing reflections in a gilt-framed mirror. On a bare scrubbed table, cleared of clutter, the midwife was bathing the baby in a blue plastic bowl whilst Lilith watched and laughed, an insane gurgling sound. Her hands kept reaching to touch it as the midwife slapped them away. And in the corner of the room, on a soiled mattress on the floor, Catherine lay amid the bloodstained aftermath of birth. What remained of her hair was matted with sweat, but her eyes were bright in the candlelight, shining with joy and relief.

'It's a girl, Ophelia,' Catherine said. 'Lilith's baby sister. It's fit and well and it's going to live. Isn't that wonderful?' She struggled to sit up. 'Let me see it,' she asked the midwife. 'I want to show Ophelia my baby.'

The midwife wrapped it in an old woollen shawl , brushes aside Lilith's clutching hands, and placed it in Catherine's arms. Gently she opened the shawl for Ophelia to see. The baby was naked, a pale little thing, completely covered in white silky hair, soft and thick as fur. Tiny fingers gripped when Ophelia touched it and it's eyes opened wide. They too were white. Black pin-prick pupils seemed to drill through her mind, and the same fear shot through her. Just like Lilith the baby was deformed, a mutant albino thing.

'Isn't she beautiful?' said Catherine.

'Aye,' said the midwife. 'And more like her I have birthed this year than any other, fine strong babies, all of them.'

Genetic mutation, natural adaptation.

Suppose Dwight were right?

'She's very sweet,' Ophelia said sickly.

And Lilith laughed.

Johnson was dying of radiation-induced cancer and the walk up the track to meet Colonel Allison had left him exhausted. The cough racked his lungs and he lay on the sofa with Lilith beside him, the new baby cradled in his arms. Just for a moment his death did not matter, nor the fate of his cattle. He could still smile, still take delight from the sight of his new little daughter, Lilith's sister with her snow-white fur and milky eyes.

'Another little visionary,' Johnson said softly.

'What will you call her?' asked Bill.

'Allison,' said Johnson.

Colonel Allison shifted uncomfortably.

'You're naming her after me? After what I'm here to do?'

'I don't take it personally,'Johnson said.

'You make me feel like a heel!' said Colonel Allison.

'Which is what you are,' said Dwight.

'I didn't come here to argue with you, junior!'

'No,' said Dwight. 'You came to thieve their cattle!'

Johnson gave the baby back to Lilith to return to her mother. Outside the compound was full of men with rifles and white protective suits, and a dozen army trucks were parked on the hilltop. 'Let's get down to business,' Johnson said. And Colonel Allison placed the official requisition order on the table. The Avon bunker, he explained, was the administrative headquarters for the south west region and the cattle would be transferred there to be reallocated throughout the whole administrative district.

'Like hell they will!' said Dwight. 'They'll be reallocated via MacAllister's gut, more like!'

'Is that my fault?' asked Colonel Allison.

'You're here, aren't you?'

'Me or someone else, what does it matter? You had your chance, junior. I gave you a clear twelve hours' start: Those cows should have been out of here and miles away by now.'

'They're milkers,' said Johnson.

'Nowhere else can handle such a herd,' said Bill.

'I'm sorry about that,' said Colonel Allison. 'I really am. I don't much like what I have to do but we'll load them on to the trucks after evening milking and be on our way. There will be compensation, of course, paid in pounds sterling. You can name your price.'

'What good's that?' Dwight yelled. 'What good are five pound notes to these people except for wiping their backsides on?'

'When the economy recovers,' said Colonel Allison.

'Bullshit!' said Dwight. 'The economy isn't going to recover! You've got to be an idiot, Pop, if you believe that!'

'Let's not get carried away,' said Bill.

'He's talking crap!' shouted Dwight.

'I'm under orders!' said Colonel Allison. 'I've got no choice!'

'Everyone's got a choice, for Christ's sake! Even you. You've got a mind, Pop! Use it. Don't you care how many of these people are left to starve because of your actions? Sod MacAllister's beefsteak! Think about what you're doing! You're not bound to be a mindless cretin just because you've got some blasted stripes on your sleeve!'

'Keep on,' said Colonel Allison, 'and I'll give you a clip around the earhole, junior!'

'Why don't you go for a walk?' suggested Bill.

I'll stop him if it's the last thing I ever do!' Dwight said viciously. 'He'll not take those cattle
if I have to kick his teeth in!'

'You're just not helping!' said Bill.

'Here,' said Johnson, 'we don't believe in violence, son. I appreciate what you're trying to do but we'll handle it my way, thank you very much.'

Dwight stared at him, sharp blue eyes in the sudden silence, then turned on his heel and left the room. Bill closed the door behind him. With Dwight out of the way they could get back to business, and Ophelia sighed. Part of her wished that Colonel Allison would load the cattle and leave immediately, then she too could go home. But there were seven hundred people at the settlement, dependent on those cattle, milk and butter and cheese, and Johnson was not about to relinquish what he had struggled twenty years to keep. Reallocation, Johnson explained, was already taking place. Eventually every settlement in the area would be supplied with cattle, and he was quite willing to widen his supply area to include Avon and the Cotswolds and anywhere else.

'That's reasonable,' said Bill.

'Except that I'm not empowered to negotiate,' said Colonel Allison.

'We can't handle a milking herd,' said Bill. 'We've not got the facilities.'

'Central Government policy clearly states . . ."

'Government?' said Johnson. 'What government is this? I wasn't aware we had a government and I certainly didn't vote for them. None of us did. You can't just walk in here, Allison, and expect me to believe you represent some non-existent government which I've never heard of.'

'I do have credentials.'

'Credentials don't count,' said Johnson. 'I don't accept them, nor any other declaration of authority. No, Allison. The only power you have over us is force of arms. If you want those cattle then you'll have to shoot the lot of us in order to rake them, or else accept what I'm willing to give you . . . two milkers, six in-calf heifers, and one bull . . . the basis for a
herd, and no more.'

Ophelia yawned. Talk like this was liable to go on all day and already the sun was climbing towards noon. The settlement sweltered in the heat and its stink wafted in through the open window. Outside the cottage the army truck which Dwight had driven was ready to leave and the soldiers waited for their final orders. Skylarks sang over the pink willowherb hills and Colonel Allison was about to give way. He wanted more than Johnson offered but he was not an inhumane man. He was hardly likely to deprive seven hundred people of their livelihood. Or was he?

Ophelia was never to know. Shots rang out, the vicious rattle of a distant machine-gun blasting through the outside silence, shattering speech and birdsong and Ophelia out of thought. A series of huge explosions shook the air as she, and her father, and Colonel Allison rushed outside. Men in white protective suits, who had been sheltering from the sun in the shade of walls, and half the population of the settlement, came running, everyone staring up the hillside to where the army trucks were parked. Black smoke billowed and flames licked the sky. The whole convoy was burning and one solitary figure moved from the inferno and went running across the high horizon shouldering a gun.

'Dwight!' said Colonel Allison.

'No!' said Ophelia.

But she knew he was right.

Dwight had set the army trucks on fire.

White-suited men went pounding up the track.

Colonel Allison fired a revolver in the air.

'I want no killing!' he shouted. 'Go after him and bring him back, but no killing! And see what's happened to Denton and Hargreaves! I left them guarding those trucks!'

The men waved, and saluted, and ran on.

'What now?' asked Bill.

'You can't drive milk cows across seventy odd miles of desert,' Colonel Allison said grimly. 'MacAllister will have his guts for this, of course.'

'Providing you catch him,' said Bill.

Ophelia knew Colonel Allison would never catch up with Dwight. He would lose himself in the wilderness of land and never come back. It was what he had intended, right from the beginning. Dinosaurs in a bunker, he had said. He thought the only future was here, but not for Ophelia. Her future was still in Avon, and the one remaining truck would take her back. She would go home, become a geneticist, and never see Dwight again.

Tears rolled down her cheeks and the sunlight burned her. She turned to go back inside. Lilith was standing in the doorway. Her eyes were narrowed in the light and she held the baby in her arms. Black pin-prick pupils saw the fire, saw the grief on Ophelia's face, and slow and pityingly she smiled.

SIMON

At dawn Simon took a rifle and a pair of binoculars and climbed the hill. The land looked dreary in the grey half-light and a chill wind blew from the river estuary, stirred the miles of cotton grass and whipped through the tatters of his white protective suit. Even after fifty-five years the toughened nylon still served its purpose, but the seams had rotted long ago and crude woollen stitches held it together. Scratches on the plastic visor impeded his vision and he raised it cautiously, watched the sky grow pink above the humped escarpment of the Cotswold hills.

As the light brightened the distances grew clear. He could see through the binoculars the wreckage of Avonmouth and the broken remains of the suspension bridge that had once spanned the river Severn. Water birds headed for the marshes and a colony of seals were dozing on the mud flats. Directly below were the ruins of the town and the orange overnight tents where Harris and Sowerby were sleeping. A stone jetty at the river's edge dated back to Roman times, and the cross in the market square was even older. Celtic, Sowerby had said, and recently restored. Its dark shadow pointed towards him, or maybe to something behind.

Simon turned to look. Valleys dipped and hills rose before him, a rugged upland of gorse and heather, stunted bilberries and withered skeletons of trees. Later they would be heading into it and he raised his binoculars, hoping to see. There was a garden in a valley, his mother had said, green and fertile, where trees grew and cattle grazed. But all Simon saw were the ruins of yet another village and a single standing stone against the skyline.

It was time turning backward. Stones like that, which had marked the beginnings of civilization, now marked the end of it. No one in the bunker knew why the outsiders had resurrected the cromlechs, and monoliths, and stone circles, or how they had raised the giant blocks. Yet all over England the great stones marched across the trackless land, repeating the patterns of pre-history with uncanny precision. This one aligned with the Celtic cross behind him and he guessed it went on to Stonehenge. Everything led to Stonehenge, Sowerby reckoned.

'As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,' Simon murmured.

Those stones had a power that had survived nuclear war and some things could never be destroyed. He shivered in the clear morning light, watched as a pack of dogs came over the hill. They hunted like wolves, scented and circled their prey, a goat, or a sheep, or maybe a person. A movement among the ruins of the village caught his eye and once more Simon focused the binoculars. The figure came clear, robed and hooded, kneeling in the dust among the crumbling walls of a building. He, or she, appeared to be digging, sifting through the debris of an earthen floor, searching for something, oblivious of danger. And the dogs closed in for the kill.

Simon did not stop to think. He aimed the rifle. Bullets ricocheted from the brickwork, pinged against the stones around the doorway, an immense rattle of sound that blasted through the silences. One dog lurched and fell. The others fled, shot whining around their ears, yelping and howling back up the hill to disappear over the horizon. And the silence returned with the calls of birds and the sigh of the wind through dry grasses. 

Simon ran, his goatskin moccasins going soundless over the half-mile of moorland. He stumbled over the stumps of ancient hedges, the wreck of a tractor and the massed brambles of a buried farmyard. He was afraid of what he would find, that he had not only hit the dog but the person as well, killed what he had meant to save. Through old fields gone to wilderness he ran, along a track that must once have been a road, clambered over mounds of crumbling concrete and rotting timbers to reach the gap of the door.