Jessamy Beech Ch. 09: Helston

He hadn't been thinking at all, he told himself. That was the trouble. And now Vicky Beech's little girl Jessica or whatever the hell her name was, no longer had a mother. Helen's betrayal had been like a brutal physical blow. Like having his heart torn out in front of him. He needed time to think. There was a hotel room in Gloucester reserved in his name that he could hole up in for a few days, so he thought he may as well take it.

Who was he kidding? Only a few people were aware that he was travelling to Gloucester, but when the word got around, Camborne railway station would be the first place the authorities would come looking. The hotel next. He'd have to hide out somewhere else.

"OH FUCK!" a smartly dressed man in his twenties sat on the bench beside him stared in disbelief at something on his smartphone. Fredrickson was about to turn away but the man spotted him looking, "they've done it! THEY'VE ACTUALLY FUCKING DONE IT."

Done it?

"What are you on about?" Fredrickson snapped.

"Breaking news. The Russians have launched a missile at Thanatos."

Thanatos. That was all the news was about nowadays. No longer Brexit, but Thanatos. The enormous rogue asteroid that was going to narrowly miss Earth. But if the Russians had decided to launch one of their last remaining nuclear weapons at it ...

Fredrickson rose to his feet, filled with a growing sense of unease, "W-we have to get under cover. Everyone's in tremendous danger."

The man with the smartphone stared up at him, "How so?"

"It's a preemptive strike you bloody simpleton," Fredrickson had scanned through the schematics and computer generated projections of what could conceivably occur if nuclear weapons were unwisely used on Thanatos. It didn't make for happy reading ...

Everyone without exception on the crowded platform abruptly stopped their conversations and looked skywards, shielding their eyes as an intense white light as bright as the sun bloomed hundreds of miles above.

"What the hell is it?"

"Is that the sun?"

Sensing what was about to occur, Dale Fredrickson clambered onto the metal bench, "EVERYONE GET INSIDE. YOU'RE ALL IN DANGER!"

"Piss off!" called a fat Londoner wearing an Arsenal shirt stretched over his prodigious gut. A few others laughed nervously and went back to watching the dimming light in the sky above them.

"LISTEN TO ME YOU IDIOTS! IT'S THANATOS! WE'RE ALL IN TERRIBLE DANGER."

Several of the waiting passengers had by now taken note of Fredrickson's naval uniform and edged closer to listen to what he had to say, pulling their bulky wheeled suitcases behind them. Perhaps he wasn't an eccentric lunatic after all.

Anything that had happened between himself and Helen would have to take a back seat, Fredrickson realised. Even Vicky Beech's unfortunate death. If NASA and the ESA's predictions were right, much of the northern hemisphere was in mortal danger. He prayed he was wrong.

A crowd of expectant faces stared up at him, suntanned from lying on Cornish beaches for a week or two, happy to have had such a great time but sad to be heading back home and back to the routine of mundane jobs.

Fredrickson cleared his throat to address them. In the distance he could just about make out his train from Penzance slowing as it approached. Despite his rank he still hated public speaking, "I've seen ..."

An eerie sound started up from somewhere near the station's main building further down the platform. A haunting wail that harkened back to the dark days of the Second World War and the nightmare of the Blitz.

"What now?" snorted the fat Arsenal fan, "a fuckin' air raid? Are they 'avin' a fuckin' laugh?"

A deafening noise like a jet engine accompanied the first meteorite that slammed into the approaching Great Western Railways train. The engine exploded, sending chunks of jagged metal flying hundreds of feet into the air. The passenger carriages were blown backwards, derailing and smashing sideways into the buildings alongside the track. The blast shattered windows and blew waiting passengers off their feet.

Smaller meteorites, some no bigger than a coffee cup, streamed down from the darkening sky in their dozens, smashing into the town of Camborne itself, Tuckingmill, the great industrial estate in Pool, Illogan and the neighbouring town of Redruth. The sky filled with fire and debris as impact after impact shook the ground. Despite their size the missiles had entered the Earth's atmosphere at such incredible speeds, they still caused utter devastation.

Fredrickson scrambled shakily to his feet, pushing aside a gaudy pink suitcase that had burst open, spreading t-shirts and floral summery dresses across the body strewn platform. Ignoring the screams of the wounded and dying, he ran. Blood from a head wound blurred his vision as he pushed through the station's ticket barriers and out into the street.

It was chaos. People ran terrified in every direction, frantic, not knowing which way led to safety. Vehicles collided in their haste to escape. Debris fell from the sky like rain - bricks, glass, girders, corpses, tree branches - crushing cars and people alike. A headless cow landed just feet away with a wet crunch, spraying Fredrickson with who knew what.

Smoke and falling dirt filled the scalding hot air making it difficult to even breathe, but still he ran. Stumbling, crawling, as the road beneath him rocked and split apart. Was this the end of the world?

The impact of a mangled fork lift truck crashing to the ground nearby knocked Fredrickson off his feet. He realised he'd have to get under cover. If the meteorite impacts themselves didn't get him, all this falling debris most certainly would.

More meteorites screamed overhead. His nostrils filled with the smell of burning as he staggered onward. Burning oil, burning wood, burning flesh. And underlying it all a sulphurous stench that made his eyes sting, as if the meteorites had torn straight through the Earth's surface and opened a way down to Hell itself.

Up ahead, the smouldering wreckage of a double decker bus lay against the front of Camborne's Free Library, wedged up against the bronze statue of one of the areas most famous sons - Richard Trevithick. Fredrickson scrambled underneath. It would offer scant protection from anything large but should shelter him from smaller debris, he reasoned.

RICHARD TREVITHICK, ENGINEER, INVENTOR OF THE HIGH PRESSURE STEAM ENGINE, BORN ON APRIL 13TH 1771 ...

Fredrickson leaned back against the stone plinth, coughing and gasping for breath as he checked himself over for obvious injuries. Richard Trevithick's bronze features stared impassively down at him.

In Fredrickson's opinion, he'd arguably been one of the men responsible for the entire industrial revolution. Railways, engines - none of it would have come about if it hadn't been for visionaries like Richard Trevithick.

But the industrial revolution had also been the source of many of the planet's woes. Deforestation, global warming, pollution. Fredrickson believed that just a handful of men had indirectly been responsible for all of that.

It didn't matter any more of course. From what he'd just witnessed, Thanatos would soon wipe all of that out for good. Earth's history would be erased, leaving any survivors to pick up the pieces and start again.

Dale Fredrickson paused, pondering as he watched an hysterical mother jog past his hiding place, dragging a screaming toddler. HIS past had effectively been erased. Helen's infidelities, Vicky Beech's death, none of it mattered anymore. He could begin again. Do whatever he wanted. Be whoever he wanted to be.

He'd first have to choose a new name for himself though.

As the current onslaught of meteorites slowly dwindled and came to a stop, Fredrickson looked up once again at the statue looming above him.

TREVITHICK ...

THE END OF CHAPTER EIGHT

"There's a lot of collapsed buildings," said Jessamy, "I hope we can find our way."

Crossing the Kessock Bridge into Inverness had been a nerve racking experience to say the least. The rusting cables supporting its weight thrummed in the wind and the entire structure had creaked whenever there was a strong gust. Far below, a small cargo ship - a coaster, had shed her load of shipping containers, blocking much of the channel leading into the Beauly Firth beyond.

"We will," said Hamnavoe, looking ahead. In front of them, an industrial estate provided a thousand potential hiding places for a sniper.

"How can you be so sure?" Jessamy asked.

"Well, duh ... cos I was fuckin' born here?"

Jessamy realised that she still knew next to nothing about Hamnavoe. They'd travelled together for weeks - as bounty hunter and captive, then later as fugitives, and now as comrades. But she hadn't even known a basic fact like where he'd been born.

Hamnavoe pointed to an obliterated area near the shore, "I was born at Raigmore Hospital, lived with ma parents an' wee sister in Merkinch - over there."

"Nice place?"

Hamnavoe shrugged, "No' bad. I ... moved down south when I was in ma teens."

"So what did you ..."

"Heads up," Hamnavoe interrupted, dropping into a crouch, "movement. Doorway of the Brandon Tool Hire place on the left."

Jessamy looked, drawing her handgun, "I see it. Cover me while I go around the side ..."

Hamnavoe nodded.

The silent street was littered with broken glass, tyres and charred human bones. Jessamy tried to step nimbly through it all and winced every time her toe or heel crunched down on something. Even the quietest sound was like a gunshot.

The security shutters of Brandon Tool Hire had been ram-raided years before by something big. Looters stripping the place for anything useful Jessamy guessed. She eased open a broken fire exit door with her toe ...

Then froze. As a sound reached her from the dark interior.

Furtive, light ...

Rats? Oh please, don't let it be fucking rats, Jessamy prayed.

Aiming her weapon at the shadows where she estimated the sound had come from, Jessamy called out, "I know you're there. Come out and show yourself ..."

A faint noise like grit scraped against cold concrete ...

Jessamy huffed. She didn't really want to go any further into the building alone, "Last chance. Come on out."

A pointed snout and a pair of intelligent brown eyes peered nervously out at her. Jessamy took aim at a spot between them, ready to shoot. Some kind of animal?

A shaggy black and white dog shambled out of the shadows towards her, limping slightly on one of its forepaws and with its tail between its legs. Jessamy relaxed a little. The dog certainly didn't look threatening.

"JB?" Hamnavoe shouted from outside.

Jessamy lowered her gun, "S'okay. It's just a dog."

She'd encountered many packs of feral dogs over the years. Desperate, mangy specimens hunting and killing anything or anyone they encountered. But this one looked different, its coat glossy, eyes still bright. The dog wagged its tail a couple of times and limped another step towards Jessamy.

She could see now what the problem was. Blood dripped from a deep gash on one of the dog's paws. Knowing that if the animal turned nasty she was putting her own safety at risk, Jessamy held out the back of her hand for the dog to sniff, "Easy fella. I'm not going to hurt you."

The dog flinched as Hamnavoe appeared behind Jessamy in the doorway.

"He's injured. Get the medical kit out," Jessamy told him.

"JB, it's a fucking dog. We might need the medical kit for US," Hamnavoe argued.

"DO IT!" Jessamy gently stroked the dog's neck as it tried to lick her fingers. Apart from the feral packs that roamed the cities, she hadn't come across that many dogs since leaving her family thirty years before, but she could remember a lot of the different breeds. She guessed it was some sort of collie.

Hamnavoe grumbled but fished their basic medical kit out of his rucksack, "So the legendary Jessamy Beech DOES have a weakness after all. And it's not a he, JB. It's a fuckin' lass ..."

. . .

Half an hour later later, Jessamy had cleaned and dressed the collie's wounded paw. She found a piece of polythene sheet at the back of the shop and taped it around the dog's leg to keep the dressing clean and dry.

"Where do you think she comes from?" Jessamy asked, offering some of their meagre supply of rabbit jerky. The dog hungrily wolfed it down in seconds.

"For fuck's sake JB," exclaimed Hamnavoe angrily. But Jessamy couldn't take his stern demeanour seriously when he placed a cup of their drinking water on the ground for the dog, "she's not from some pack, that's for sure. She's reasonably well fed and in good condition."

Jessamy watched the dog drink, still regarding them both warily.

"Well ... we've done all we can," she said, rising to her feet, "we better check out that smoke before it gets dark."

They pulled on their rucksacks and stepped back out into the street.

"You think she'll be okay?" Jessamy asked. The collie still watched them expectantly, making barely audible whining sounds in the back of her throat.

"Pfft ... she seems to have managed okay so far," said Hamnavoe, "there must be plenty of sentimental soft shites happy to give free handouts around, that's all I can say ..."

. . .

Getting across Inverness involved as much climbing and scrambling for them as walking. Many of the tall Victorian buildings had completely collapsed, blocking the main thoroughfares with mountains of rubble. But whether the destruction was caused by Thanatos or the devastating earthquakes that followed they had no way of knowing.

They had reached Church Street and were about to cross the High Street onto Castle Wynd, a narrow lane leading up to the remains of the castle and the source of the smoke, when Jessamy froze.

She grabbed Hamnavoe's arm, "Ssh!"

"What is it?" he whispered.

"I think we're being foll ..." she closed her mouth as the cause of the furtive sounds she'd heard behind them came into view. The collie, limping stubbornly after them.

"Looks like ye made a wee friend," said Hamnavoe, but his expression was serious.

"Ooh fuck," Jessamy squatted down as the dog approached, "go 'way. Go on, quit following us."

The dog stared at them, licking her lips, with her injured paw lifted off the ground a little. She whined plaintively.

"Ignore her and perhaps she'll go away," Hamnavoe suggested.

Jessamy tried to. They advanced up the rise towards Inverness Castle with their weapons ready. By now they could actually smell the smoke. Wood smoke, like a small campfire.

Every few yards Jessamy glanced back to see if the dog was still behind them, each time hoping that it wasn't. But every time, it was. She suspected that if the dog continued following them, Hamnavoe was probably going to shoot it.

The red sandstone of Inverness Castle loomed off to their right, angry scorch marks blackening the walls around empty windows and doors. It had been gutted by fire, the Sheriff's Court and offices it had housed destroyed. Ahead, on the barren earth that had once been immaculately laid lawns and flower beds in front of the castle, sat a blue one person dome tent next to a smouldering camp fire.

"The zip on the tent's up," Hamnavoe muttered, "whoever it is must be inside. Cover me and keep the fuckin' dog out of the way."

Jessamy scanned the dead bushes and skeletal trees beyond the tent as Hamnavoe advanced with his M16 at the ready. Something felt wrong ...

She spun around as the collie dropped into a crouch beside her, snarling with her teeth bared, hackles raised at something in the castle ...

Jessamy spotted the man in one of the downstairs windows as he took aim at Hamnavoe with an ancient looking double barreled shotgun. With a two handed grip she opened fire ...

BLAM-BLAM!

Hamnavoe whirled around startled, as the stranger's shotgun discharged both barrels above his head. Jessamy charged up the castle's steps to ensure their attacker had been alone, "Check the tent!"

"Fuckin' bitch!" snarled the gunman. Jessamy found him lying on his back in the castle's foyer, clutching the two tightly grouped gunshot wounds in his shoulder. The collie stood close by her legs, growling menacingly.

"Are you alone?" she kicked the man's shotgun out of reach.

"Fuck you!"

Jessamy pressed the HK's barrel against the man's cheek, "I'll ask again ... are you alone?"

"Y-yes. Don't shoot me."

"Who the fuck are you?" Jessamy demanded. She glanced down at the collie, still growling only a foot or two away from the wounded man, "tell me or I'll let the dog rip your sorry throat out."

"I ... I use the camp as bait. When someone comes along I ambush them."

Jessamy kicked him in the leg, "You piece of shit."

Hamnavoe chose that moment to walk in, limping on his bad leg, "Tent's empty. This the wee bastard that tried to shoot me in the back JB?"

The wounded man took a closer look up at Jessamy, his eyes slowly widening in horror, "JB? Y-you're not J-jessamy B-beech are you? Jessamy B-beech the bounty hunter?"

"Yep."

"Oh f-fuck ..."

Hamnavoe chuckled, "It seems your reputation precedes you again JB."

"Have you seen anyone else pass through this way over the last few days?" Jessamy asked. The prisoner's eyes carefully followed the movement of her handgun as she spoke.

"One or t-two."

"Describe them."

The wounded man glanced from Jessamy to Hamnavoe and back, "S-some old bl-blind woman begging for food. And a couple of days later another guy. Tall, late sixties maybe. Something' real fuckin' scary about him ..."

"Trevithick? ... he say anything?" Hamnavoe demanded.

"Asked if I knew about conditions down south, Aviemore, Perth ... Edinburgh, that way. I told him he'd die for sure if he w-went anywhere near Edinburgh."

Jessamy twiddled with one of her blonde dreadlocks, thinking, "What did Mr Real Fuckin' Scary say to that?"

"He said ... he said EVERYONE will die ... and just left. You gonna shoot me now?"

"Definitely Trevithick," Hamnavoe scowled down at the wounded man, "What about the old blind woman? Where did she go?"

Their prisoner trembled violently, "Please ... she was just some old woman! Nobody'll miss her. Y-you would've done the same!"

"No ... no, I wouldn't," said Hamnavoe grimly, and shot the man in the head.

. . .

They made camp that evening in the same place. After all, there was a tent and the fire was already lit. They searched the ambusher's belongings and took what little food and warm clothing he'd had. Jessamy found herself a half decent knife to replace the one taken by Keaton.

Hamnavoe was quiet and withdrawn while he and Jessamy ate, until the dog pushed her wet nose into his hand, demanding attention.

"I think she likes you," said Jessamy.

Hamnavoe stroked the dog and shrugged, "She probably saved both our miserable lives JB. I didnae want to be lumbered wi' another mouth to feed but ..."

Jessamy smiled from across the crackling campfire, "You want to keep the dog?"

Hamnavoe nodded, with a dopey smile. He scratched the collie behind her ears.

"We don't know where she's from or anything about her."

"She warned us JB. That shite with the shotgun could've seriously messed up my hair ..."

"Not to mention your thick skull ... well, she's your responsibility. You feed her and keep her outta trouble and whatever."

"JB. She saved both of us. She's OUR wee dog."

Jessamy sighed and threw another branch on the fire, sending a shower of embers floating skyward, "Okay, fair enough. She's OUR dog. I can't believe we've got a fucking dog now. What are we gonna call her?"

Hamnavoe thought for a moment, "How about ... Myrtle? After m' auld granny?"

Jessamy nodded after a moment's consideration, "Myrtle it is then."

Myrtle happily wagged her tail, pleased to have made two new friends.