Jasper Fforde - Early Riser

‘I know,’ said Logan when I pointed out the pointlessness of it all, ‘let City Hall have their fun.’

On the third morning Logan and I went to the ranges, a low building situated on the other side of the river, opposite a bowling alley and KFC outlet, both closed for the Winter. We were there to see how good I was with a Bambi, but we ended up going through almost every weapon there was – from the palm-sized Plinker, which has about the power of a straight punch, [17] About 2,500 Newtons from a range of six feet, but reducing in power with distance by the inverse square law. all the way up to the Thumper, used primarily for riot control. With one of those on full choke you could knock a dozen people flying from twenty feet.

‘A nightwalker can take several large hits before they go down,’ said Logan. ‘Less in the noggin to scramble, apparently. Ever meet one?’

I told him about the Vacant my old friend Billy DeFroid found caught on the barbed wire in the orchard, and Logan patted the top pocket where his back-up weapon would have been.

‘A Snickers twin pack,’ he said. ‘You’d be surprised how quick comfort food can reorientate their moral compass. I’ve seen a hunger-crazed man-eater subdued to the mildness of a capybara in only eight Tunnock’s Teacakes.’

‘They should use it in their advertising.’

‘I think they do. Try the Cowpuncher.’

I replaced the Thumper and picked the next weapon from the cabinet, pushed home a larger power cell, pulled the stock hard into my shoulder, flicked off the safety, then squeezed the trigger. There was a momentary high-pitched whine, then—

Whump

The sound made my ears pop and the empty forty-gallon oil drum we’d been practising on was hurled to the other side of the range, badly dented.

‘Although nightwalkers are often cited as the most disturbing part of the Winter,’ said Logan, taking the weapon from me, ‘half of all deaths among the unseasonably awake are caused by panic.’

‘Waking night terrors,’ I said.

‘It’s why we never dismiss nightmaidens, Tonttu, Gronk and other Wintervolk as simply Winter myths and legends. To the unseasonably awake half out of their mind with fatigue, imaginary terrors can be just as dangerous as real ones.’

‘Sister Umbilica told me the Gronk feeds off the shame of the unworthy.’

‘Sister Umbilica says a lot of things,’ said Logan, not being as dismissive of the tale as I’d thought. Physical evidence of any Wintervolk hovered firmly around the zero mark but the Gronk – by far and away the least believable – was conversely taken the most seriously.

‘You think there is a Gronk?’ I asked.

‘As I said, dismiss nothing.’

I nodded sagely. The mythical Gronk had many peculiarities, not least a strange mix of a love of Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals and obsessive domesticity – most bizarrely manifested in an apparent desire to fold linen. As a diversionary tactic, superstitious sleepers often left a basket of unfolded laundry outside their house over the Winter, just in case.

‘Do you think I could try the Schtumperschreck?’ I asked, pointing to the largest weapon in the cabinet. It was originally designed for heavy demolition work and could easily flip a small car, although that close in you’d probably dislocate a shoulder in the attempt.

‘Actually, better not.’

‘Okay. But hang on,’ I said, pointing at a large grey object the size of a rugby ball sitting in the bottom of the weapons cabinet, ‘is that a Golgotha?’

The Thermalite Industries 18-B ‘Golgotha’ was originally developed for blowing railway cuttings through mountains, [18] The first pulse grenade to pack over a megaNewton, they said, but the factory never published specs. but once the military heard about it, they begged and begged until they got their own version.

‘Yes, it is, and no, you can’t touch it. Hang on,’ he added, digging in his pocket, ‘I need to give you something.’

He handed me an Omnikey made of gunmetal on a leather lanyard. It would be expected never to leave my person, and misuse or loss would carry the penalty of instant dismissal and a prison term.

‘Nothing is closed to you, now, Charlie. Not a door, not a car, not a safe, not a single padlock. Use that power wisely.’

I stared at the Omnikey curiously. It had my name engraved on it, and my Citizen number.

‘I understand, sir.’

The following day we were inventorying Winter pantry, [19] Not to be confused with Spring pantry, which is what everyone eats until the growing season begins. which is measured in person-days. For the number of people we expected to have awake over the Winter, we had more than enough. Other sectors were less diligent over stores, so pantry was often placed in a vault, and guarded. Grand Theft Pantry remains the only crime to which lethal force might be legally applied, and even this was controversial. Four years ago someone was killed for stealing a packet of shortbread fingers and there was one helluva stink.

Two days after that someone murdered Consul Klaar over in Barry.

She died outside Nightgrowls, a late-to-sleep hangout. Although any force we wielded was mandated non-lethal, by long convention criminals were more likely to suffer an ‘inadvertent fatal application of non-lethal force’ than to be detained alive, so in consequence, offing Winter Consuls was seen as not just a reciprocal arrangement, but a form of sport. Klaar was well known for corruptly playing one criminal gang off against another and her inevitable demise was revealingly disproportionate in its savagery.

I peered into Klaar’s half-track, took one look at her remains and then deposited most of my lunch into a nearby snow drift.

‘Vomiting is a waste of protein,’ said Vice-Consul Pryce, a short man, partial to sarcasm and chocolate peanuts. ‘In the spirit of practicality, you may want to bag it for later.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Mixed into a goulash you’d never know,’ he said with all seriousness.

‘Look, thanks for the advice, but I’m not going to eat my own vomit.’

‘That’s because you’ve not been hungry enough. When you are, you’ll eat carrion, lichen, cardboard, someone else’s vomit, anything . Ever heard of Toccata, Chief Consul Sector Twelve?’

Almost everyone had heard of Toccata. She was rumoured to have a policy of rarely taking wrongdoers alive and Deputy Consuls died under her command at eight times the national average. There was also a rumour she’d seen the Gronk – up in the fire valleys where the snow never settles and the air is full of sulphurous fumes, as though the devil herself had made landfall.

‘I heard she ate a nightwalker in order to survive a particularly bleak Winter,’ I said.

‘Two, I heard,’ said Pryce, ‘and that she now has a taste for it.’

‘C’mon,’ I said, expecting a leg-pull.

But he seemed deadly serious.

‘There are times when survival dictates extreme measures. Some say the Bard wrote Sir John Falstaff into so many of his plays for that express purpose – someone unseasonably portly for the Winter Players to feast upon if things got bad.’

‘Really?’ I asked.

‘Who knows? But Winter Cutlets should always be a consideration, when the hunger pangs hit, pantry is empty and hibernation isn’t an option. Oh, and speaking of Toccata, don’t mention her to the Chief. They had a thing going a few years back. He’s still a little raw over it.’

‘What happened?’

‘He fell in love.’

‘Really? He doesn’t look the kind.’

‘Oh, he’s the kind all right. But then she split on him and, well, as I say, he’s still a little raw.’