The Second Wave Page 3

  “And you know that how?” Sophie wanted to know.

  “Mister Jones gave me a tour when they were building it.”

  Timothy gave a wolf-whistle. “That architect guy? The hot one? You made him give you a tour—is that what they call it these days?”

  “Carl, you hound!” Gavin joined in.

  Carl held up his arms defensively. “What do you even think of me? You call yourself my friends and colleagues? I’m in a relationship, you morons!”

  “Guys!” Sally interrupted the banter. “Will you stop being guys, and concentrate! Where is everyone?”

  Sophie made a few steps into the forest, but came back and simply shrugged. “Not even an animal trail. No one has been here in a long time.”

  Timothy shouldered his weapon, put his hands next to his mouth to mimic a megaphone and hollered, “Ho! First wave people! Anybody home?”

  No one answered.

  Eleven let them do their thing while she checked on the faulty map. It was as if everything had changed in the last four months. How was that even possible? The forest shouldn’t be here. The colony was supposed to be next to a small river and a grove of trees. There should be fields and stables, and, most of all, settlers. When she decided on a plan of action, her voice cut short every personal argument of her team. In an instant they were on their tasks.

  “We’ll break up. Gavin, Carl, check the East and the meadow. Sophie, Mandy, with me. Timothy, Sally, take a look at the forest. See if you can find any life signs. We meet back here in fifty.”

  They split up.

  * * * *

  Chapter 7: The Hour of Contact

  Sally, following Timothy along the forest tree line due North, rummaged in her jacket pocket for a snack. Walking made her hungry, especially with the sun warming them from above. Timothy was two steps ahead of her, weapon at the ready, but as soon as she produced the red licorice with a triumphant purr, he slowed down and, without looking, held out a hand. They resumed their way munching, passing another, smaller patch of the lilac flowers, which they gave a wide berth.

  It was a beautiful planet, they both had to admit that. Just strange enough to be different, but not to make them feel out of place. Sally felt like walking through a “one of these is not like the other” picture, idly wondering which one was indeed the right one. If there were so many realities out there, with so many planet Earths, then who could tell which one was the original? Was there even an original? Or were they all just copies of something long gone?

  “Holy Zeus!” Timothy’s yell yanked her back into reality. He had walked a few steps into the forest, his uniform was just visible between the trees. Something in his voice made Sally grab her gun tight and rush after him.

  * * * *

  While Sally Sheldon pondered alternative Earths, Eleven led Mandy and Sophie to a strip of barren land by a dried-up lake.

  Mandy shielded her eyes from the sun and looked around. “This looks odd.”

  “It’s the crop fields,” explained Eleven. She crouched down to let dry earth run through her fingers. Sophie made a confused sound.

  “This whole area should be cultivated,” Eleven told them. “Corn, rye, buckwheat, you name it.”

  “So either someone did a really lousy job—” But Sophie never got to finish her sentence.

  Eleven’s radio sprang to life, and Timothy’s voice cut through the silence of the midday sun. “Captain, this is Niman. You’re gonna wanna see this.”

  Eleven was on her feet in an instant. “Did you find someone?”

  “Positive.”

  He gave them his coordinates.

  * * * *

  When Sally caught up with Timothy, she almost let out an unprofessional shriek. It took a moment for her brain to register that they were not facing a monster, but something that almost resembled a human being. Timothy stood opposite a naked woman with mud-streaked skin, hair that might be auburn under a crust of dirt, and wide, curious eyes.

  Sally tentatively made contact, “Hello.”

  “We’re not here to harm you,” Timothy added, but didn’t lower his gun.

  “Are you from the settlement?”

  But the woman never heard Sally’s question. Her eyes rolled back and she fainted. Neither Timothy nor Sally were quick enough to catch her, even though Timothy later insisted on telling the others that she sank into his strong arms with a smitten sigh. Nobody believed him anyway.

  After a short discussion about quarantine protocols and international safety, Eleven and her team decided to put up a medical emergency tent and call Dr. Paige, instead of bringing the woman back to Earth. She looked healthy enough, but Eleven and Mandy had a point when they argued that she could be a carrier for something. Perhaps the rest of the settlers was out there as well, suffering from a new form of disease. Because people who were healthy and sane, Timothy couldn’t stress that enough even though they all agreed, did not run naked through forests on alien planets.

  So Eleven sent out a transmission through the wormhole, and two hours later, Summer Paige stepped into the medical tent Timothy and Mandy had erected in the middle of the meadow, close to the wormhole.

  The woman was still unconscious. They had lifted her onto a gurney and covered her up. Sophie carefully cleaned the woman’s face with a cloth and some water.

  “Where did you find her?” Dr. Paige wanted to know. She immediately began working, scanning the patient, taking blood samples, feeling her skin for abnormalities.

  “Two of my team walked into her at the edge of the forest,” explained Eleven. “She never said anything, she just lost consciousness.”

  “Of course she did. She is badly dehydrated. Hand me the IV bag with the clear liquid, Emily, would you.”

  Together, Dr Paige and Captain Eleven hooked the woman to the IV. All the while, Sophie took photos of the patient’s face and scanned her fingerprints. Since the stranger wasn’t going to talk anytime soon, this way they could at least find out who she was.

  When Dr Paige was finished with her initial examination, she drew blood from everyone else, then set up her own mobile office, to run the samples for contamination.

  “All clear,” she announced as the sun was beginning to set. “No contamination whatsoever. We are all clear to go back to Earth. However,” she looked at Eleven seriously, “I want my patient to stay here. There is something in her bloodstream I can’t quite put my finger on. Her PCV, for instance, is almost eighty percent.”

  When Eleven merely cocked an eyebrow, indicating how little medical abbreviations meant to her, Paige explained, “The percentage of red blood cells is very high, especially for an adult. Newborns have a PVC of about sixty percent, but it decreases as they develop. The normal PCV for an adult human female ranges from forty-one to forty-three. It may be elevated when a person is dehydrated but not to this extent. I want to come back and run more tests.”

  Eleven nodded. “Then I’ll come back with you. So will three of my team.”

  When Eleven, Dr. Paige, Mandy, Gavin and Sophie came back to Earth, though, they were greeted by an array of workmen, who were shouldering building materials, looking set to go through the wormhole. Eleven sent the remains of her team with Dr. Paige and to Doctors deLuca respectively. She herself paid General Fatique a visit.

  The General sat in the conference room with Elizabeth Burke and Annabella Guarini, crouched over something that looked like the food plan for the cafeteria. Without so much as greeting anyone, Eleven burst into the room, and demanded to know what was going on down there.

  Fatique looked at her, but Burke spoke first, “We’re going ahead with the plan.”

  “The second wave is scheduled to leave in two months,” Fatique elaborated.

  “Don’t you think this is premature?” Eleven asked.

  Again it was Burke who answered first. “On the contrary. We’re already behind schedule.”

  Eleven drew a deep breath, “This is not what I meant, Elizabeth. We haven’t found the fir
st settlers. There is no colony. The planet looks altogether different, and I’m not talking four months later different. Something happened on Alternearth that we have to figure out first. Sending more settlers now is too risky, General.”

  “No, Emily,” interrupted Dr Guarini. “Too risky would be us not acting now. The atmospheric storms are getting worse every time. We don’t have the energy anymore to set up shields for all the cities. Last week we lost Port Said—the energy simply didn’t suffice. We need more resources.”

  “People’s lives are at stake!” Eleven tried to point out.

  But Fatique, sensing the impending rise in excitement, calmly stepped in, “People’s lives are already at stake. We need the other Earth as Alpha Site. If the storms worsen and the energy runs out, we have to evacuate.”

  “Sir, it’s not safe—” but Eleven was interrupted by his raised hand. He hadn’t finished speaking, yet.

  “We’re aware of the risks, Captain. But we’re going through with this. The second wave tickets have already been activated. The new settlers should be preparing to leave right now. What am I supposed to do, Emily, hm?” He looked at her with serious eyes. “The budget commission is breathing fire down my neck, so is the Energy Crisis Circle, and, frankly, I can’t blame them. We need to do something, and we need to do it now. I know you understand that.”

  Eleven did understand. The reasons were good, it was just not the right time, yet. But she also understood there was no more discussion. Everything was set now; she couldn’t stop or slow them down anymore. So she gave a small, defeated sigh and made up her mind. “Permission to accompany the new settlers with my team. Just to be on the safe side.”

  Fatique smiled at her, “I was going to ask you to, anyway.”

  She gave him credit for acknowledging the danger of the mission at least. Now all she had to do was pack, get her team, set up camp on an alien planet and protect the workmen and the settlers from any possible threat. Including, she added, a strange, naked woman who was lying unconscious in a medical emergency tent for now.

  * * * *

  Chapter 8: Back to the Lighthouse

  It was a blood bath. John had anticipated that, but in between the fighting and the running, his brain used every second it could to reprimand him on how much the magnitude of this massacre had not been properly taken into consideration beforehand.

  He managed to free the businesswoman’s son. He almost lost an eye, two legs, and six fingers, but in the end, when he exchanged the mangled bundle that had once been a son for the priceless colony ticket, John decided it had been worth it. That the man was not much more than a cripple wasn’t John's fault, he’d found him that way. As far as John was concerned, the woman should be glad she got anything back at all, even if it was hardly recognizable as a human being anymore.

  After the exchange and his payment, John withdrew into the library to tend to his wounds. He had all but forgotten about the old bootmaker and his offer until he checked the pigeonhole in the crypt the next day. A pair of sturdy and comfortable boots was stashed inside. The cobbler had kept to his word. So John would keep to his.

  He got out his horse the next day and called on Abdul-Wahid. Then, stocked with two goats, three chicken, a bag full of dried fruits and nuts, as well as one loaf of bread, John went to see the old man and his pregnant wife.

  It took a while. John didn’t know exactly where they lived, so he had to ask around. Alexandria’s East was, if possible, even dirtier and more dangerous than the rest of the city. Mostly peasants lived here, people who couldn’t pay for the protection from the gangs that ruled the area, who lived in constant fear of being hunted by them and forced to pay their share after all. Yet the shared fear bound these people together. They helped each other, as if they were a family instead of a bunch of exiled, penniless paupers. Sometimes ten or more of them had to live in the ruins of a building, not enough room to house all of them, not enough food to feed any of them properly, and still they got by. The crime rate in this part of the city was minimal. In a way John respected them highly for their way of life; he never worked for them, though, because either they outright told him they had no payment, or they lied. But the boots he wore now made him belatedly rethink his reluctance to work for them. Maybe they could have paid even better, or at least with more useful goods, than some of the other criminals who had needed his services in the past.

  However, those thoughts were meaningless now. He was going to leave. As soon as he had given the cobbler his goods, he would take his belongings and go. He wasn’t even going to wait until the snow melted, not after the businesswoman had given him a piece of free information with his payment, advising him to be vigilant, because she wasn’t the only one who knew about his roaming, and those who were on his tracks wanted him dead.

  The old cobbler’s home was in a third story flat of one of the less destroyed buildings. There was no entrance door; the blizzard had blown a thick carpet of snow inside, covering the floor and the staircase right up to the first landing.

  John dismounted, but lead his horse upstairs along with the goats he had brought along as payment so it wouldn’t have to wait in the snowstorm. When he knocked for the fourth time, a soft female voice begged him to go away.

  “It is Yuhanan, woman. I have come for you and your husband.” He kept his voice down in case someone was eavesdropping.

  The sound of a heavy bolt being removed preceded a fractional opening of the door. The frightened face of a woman was visible through the crack. She looked him up and down. She looked at the freezing goats noisily expressing their dissatisfaction with the temperature.

  “You came!” Her eyes, already appearing big in her drawn face, widened in surprise. Hastily she unbolted the lower part of the door to let him in.

  “As-salamu aleikum,” he greeted her, bowing deep as was the custom, when he was inside and the door was locked again.

  She was too excited to bother with any ritualistic reception, but took hold of his cold hands and kissed them. “You have come. Thank you, Sharif. I did not think you would.”

  The apartment they lived in was but two rooms, separated by a wooden partition panel. John saw a bed made of straw and a hearth in a corner. Pots and pans sat neatly stacked on the floor, a wash basin filled with water, and some wet clothing hung from a washing line in the middle of the room. The woman appeared to be alone.

  “I gave you my word, woman. I always keep to it.”

  “Please, my name is Junah, Sharif. I fear I have nothing to offer you except weak tea.”

  “Weak tea sounds like a dish from the Gods. Where is your husband?”

  Junah busied herself with boiling water over the fire, but she couldn’t help a defeated sigh escaping her lips. She was beautiful, John could tell. Not young, and prematurely aged from hunger and probably fear, but her eyes were bright and intelligent, and she moved with grace, despite her swollen belly evident underneath her clothes.

  “My husband, it pains me to say out loud, is dead. He was killed not one week ago in a street fight.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I only just got back in town. I found the boots this morning and came as quickly as I could. They are exceptionally well done.”

  “My husband was an exceptionally good bootmaker,” she told him. There was a proud look on her face when she turned around.

  John waited for the tea to be served and listened as Junah told him what had happened. It wasn’t different a story from what usually happened—people got in a fight, they shot at each other, passers-by got killed. John had heard and witnessed many of those incidents. It was the first time he felt sorry for anyone, though. At one point, when Junah was drying her tears, absentmindedly patting the taller goat’s head who walked up towards her to press its forehead against her thigh, John even wondered if the incident might have been avoided, had he been back sooner. It was a ridiculous thought, he knew that; he shook it off almost instantly, blaming the cold for his sudden melancholic disposition.


  Junah, though saddened to no extent by her husband’s death, seemed chipper enough. She served him tea, thanked him in many words for the food he had brought, and was the most pleasant company John had had the fortune to encounter in a long time.

  “Please, you are most welcome to visit anytime you want, Sharif,” she told him as he left.

  “I will,” he lied. He would, if he had any intention of staying even one more day in Alexandria. But his time was running out and he wanted a head start; even though the thought of spending more time with Junah, maybe even sharing a bed with her the next time, was tempting.

  He left his horse with Abdul-Wahid when he left the city that night. He didn’t need one where he was going, and the boat he used was too small to accommodate anything but him and his kitbag.

  Wrapped in a thick cloak, the hood drawn deep into his face, trying to shut out the icy sea wind, John pondered where to go next. Anywhere, he decided, with a good black market, to get a decent price for the ticket.

  * * * *

  Chapter 9: All that Gets Left Behind

  One of the cities that had only recently lost its atmospheric shield was Ryde. The whole of the Isle of Wight was now unprotected and lying in what scientists had found out to be the main hotspot of the atmospheric storms.

  The people living on the Isle of Wight, or at least those who lived in Ryde, tried to leave the island as soon as possible for the nearest shielded area. A task made nigh impossible by the fact that everyone preferred living in the protection of the shielded cities, but the space was too small to take them all in. Bunkers were built outside the shields, subterranean shelters, complete with fresh water supplies, to accommodate those who couldn’t make it into a city.

  There was a vast underground network on the Isle of Wight. Few parts of the island were still populated, at least over the ground. Under the ground was an abundance of apartments, shops, schools, and even playgrounds. The only people who still lived on the surface were the meteorologists and geologists who studied the storms, the earth, and the vegetation. They lived, and mostly worked, in a series of low, steel-enforced concrete buildings, semi-hidden from the storms by a grove of dead oak trees they had relocated there for that purpose. Apart from the trees, now little more than skeletons, the area mostly consisted of rocks and dried-up, infertile earth. The frequent storms corroded the vacated buildings, whipped dust and dirt through the deserted streets, slowly ablated the city layer by layer.