Alex Scarrow - October skies

It was a pitiful plan, but short of running away into the woods alone and freezing to death, or joining Keats in some futile last stand, he could think of nothing else to do.

He caught a glimpse of light through the trees, the flickering orange of a flame. Keats had built a large pyre in the middle of their blockade to provide enough illumination that they’d clearly be able to see anyone coming for them. The pyre, it seemed, had now been lit and was already burning well.

It was then that he heard the first echoing crack of gunfire.

‘Oh, God, no!’ he gasped.

It’s started already.

He watched Lambert struggling past, wheezing and panting, staggering through the branches and drifts of snow, making enough noise to awaken even the hibernating creatures of the woods.

Squatting in the branches, he watched the man pass beneath him towards the camp, whimpering and muttering to himself.

You’re too late, Benjamin Lambert.

This man will try to stop them, the voice whispered to him from a dark corner of his mind. He didn’t mind the voice being there in his head with him; it was comforting in a way. It knew just what to do.

This man might stop it. Kill him.

It’s too late now. They’re all going to kill each other.

He watched Lambert stagger blindly forward through the undergrowth and low branches, towards the peeling echo of an opening salvo of gunfire and the distant undulating twinkle of firelight.

The angel was right, of course. Lambert might yet put an end to this before it got going. The angel always offered the best advice, the best guidance — a voice to listen to and learn from. Alone, his own anger would have been the end of him. The angel had helped him channel the energy of his rage very cleverly.

Ingeniously.

It had become fun, watching the fear and paranoia eat into those people, watching the Elders become like frightened children, and Preston descend into madness.

He smiled beneath the mask. Listening to Vander beg, whimper and squeal like a pig had been the most fun of all.

Kill him.

He dropped down from the tree into the snow. He was hesitant to follow the angel’s whispered instruction. Lambert was further away now, making better speed through the thinning trees, drawing closer to the clearing.

He is getting away from us.

He found an inner reserve to dare to confront the angel.

I wish for him to get away.

The bones stirred uneasily, and for a moment he thought he felt the warm smoulder of disapproval burning through the canvas sack to touch and scorch his skin. The warmth intensified for a moment, then the sensation quickly faded.

Perhaps. He is a good man.

They watched him stagger out of view, wading through knee-deep snow, calling out desperately to those in the clearing to cease. But the crackle of gunfire had intensified and there was a growing cacophony of voices coming from the clearing; some taunting, some pleading, some screaming — men, women and children all joining in a chorus of chaos.

I want to get closer, so that we can see.

The voice was silent in agreement. He stood up, spines of bone clinking softly against each other, then he stepped forward and followed with quiet, lithe grace in Lambert’s tracks.

Tonight, the one we both want will die.

Yes. I want his death to be worse than that of the others. I hate him.

Then we should be closer.

Friday

Blue Valley, California

Julian checked the email on his BlackBerry to remind himself of the agreed time as he stepped inside.

It was, as he thought, four p.m.

He looked around Angel’s Muffin House, a small and cosy teahouse with lace doilies, chequered tablecloths and a faux brass oil lamp adorning each table. Several small windows with net curtains allowed in some of the dull pallor of late afternoon, but it was dim enough inside that he needed a moment for his outdoor eyes to adjust.

It appeared to be deserted, not a single customer. Not that that surprised him. Like the rest of this quaint little holiday-season town, he imagined Angel’s Muffin House bustled with trade in the summer but tumbleweed rolled through it the rest of the year.

It was a well-chosen spot for a discreet meeting. This had been Arnold Zuckerman’s emailed suggestion. Julian hadn’t noticed this cake shop, tucked away off Blue Valley’s one, quiet, high street.

The guy’s visited this town before, then.

Julian was busy wondering why the proprietor of Angel’s would bother to keep it open like this, when he spotted movement in a dimly lit corner. He noticed a middle-aged man sitting alone at a table. Self-consciously he wove his way past several tidily laid tables towards him.

‘Arnold?’ he asked, holding out a hand.

‘Yes,’ the man replied with a warm smile and a rich, deep, vaguely familiar voice. ‘Mr Cooke?’

Julian nodded and they shook hands formally.

‘Please,’ the man said, ‘pull up a seat. I ordered us a pot of Earl Grey and some delicious-looking cinnamon muffins.’ He spoke with the warm, old-world charm of a storekeeper; very appealing and welcoming in a come-and-join-me-by-the-firem’boy kind of way.

Julian sat down and the man poured tea into his cup from the pot.

‘You flew in from Britain today?’ he asked.

Julian nodded. ‘Into Denver, earlier this morning.’

‘You must be tired.’

Julian added milk and spooned in some sugar. ‘Yes, I am a bit.’

An awkward silence passed between them as Julian decided how to open up the discussion.

‘Look,’ said the man, ‘this is a bit awkward. I’m not particularly good at playing games with people, Mr Cooke. I lie very badly, which.. believe me, is a real handicap in the line of work I’ve chosen. I’m afraid I’m not who I said I was.’

Julian looked up at him. The man smiled a little guiltily. ‘You might recognise me, or you might not. Depends how well you’ve been following the news lately.’

Julian realised he knew the face from somewhere — distinguished in the way a mature character actor might be.

In the news?

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘now you say it, I think I have seen you on TV.'

The man sighed and his smile widened. ‘I suspect you probably have. It’s getting harder and harder these days to find a quiet corner where I can be myself.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He shook his head. ‘Don’t be. I should apologise for not being on the level with you, Mr Cooke.’

‘Okay, Arnold Zuckerman is an alias.’ Julian smiled. ‘I thought it sounded like a badly made-up name.’

‘Yes,’ the man acknowledged with a soft laugh. ‘If I place a cap on my head and a pair of glasses on my nose and try a change of clothes I can still — just about — walk up a street without being accosted by someone. But’ — he sipped his tea — ‘not for much longer, I imagine.’

Julian looked at him intently, trying to place this man’s face in the right context. He remembered seeing that face recently as a still image, a picture on the front of a magaz Then it came to him.

‘Oh shit!’ he whispered. ‘You’re… you’re the independent candidate, uh… Shepperton?’

He nodded. ‘William Shepherd.’

Julian’s jaw dropped open. ‘Oh my God!’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Not quite. I’m just a part-time lay preacher.’

Julian grinned. There was a warm, disarming familiarity to the man, which he found quite charming.

I’m sitting across the table from a man who may well be the next President of the United States.

Shepherd noticed Julian’s sudden stiffness. ‘Relax,’ he laughed warmly, ‘and please call me William. You know, despite being demonised, or lionised, depending on which news network you want to watch, I’m just a tired old guy trying to muddle through one day after the next and do what’s right for my country.’