The Silent Neighbours

Chapter 3

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 f**k'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 s**t is true, this is going to be controversial, and you know what controversy makes, Adam? Money, a f**k 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. “s**t!” she exclaimed. “You need to get her out of that bar, Adam. You need to do it now!”