Jessamy Beech Ch. 10: Plymouth

Finally they arrived in Wolseley Road on the dark eastern bank of the river Tamar. The water was high, fast flowing and littered with jagged pieces of floating debris. Many of the riverside properties showed evidence of flood damage. Swimming across would be treacherous. Just a few hundred yards away on the opposite bank ... was Cornwall.

High above them, the rusting remains of Isambard Kingdom Brunel's famous Royal Albert railway bridge spanned the river. It stood in darkness, left to rot, in stark contrast to the newer concrete suspension bridge alongside it, though even that was showing signs of decay. Visible even from this distance, beams from vehicle headlights and handheld torches scanned the pedestrian walkways and the approaches to that bridge.

"What if Skinner's still alive?" asked Jessamy, "he'll come after us. He still has Poseidon. It's crazy leaving it in the hands of a madman like that."

"We need to get away from here, let things cool down for a while, then decide what we're going to do," Mpenzi surveyed the riverside intently, not even looking at the others, "and don't think I hadn't realised what you were upto Beech. Steering us down towards Cornwall. I should put you on a charge."

Jessamy shrugged and gave her a 'what can I say?' look.

Mpenzi sighed, "It better be fuckin' worth it."

Jessamy nodded dumbly. She prayed that the decision not to go back and put the Poseidon out of action wouldn't come back and bite them in the ass at some point.

"Spread out," Mpenzi whispered, "we need a boat with a small motor that isn't going to make much noise. Hopefully this fuckin' rain should mask some of it. I'll sit tight and make sure these assholes up on the bridge don't spot us."

Jessamy nodded and scurried off along the river bank past abandoned waterfront cottages towards a decrepit looking boatyard and jetty. Alison waited a second before heading downriver in the opposite direction.

The boatyard was an utter waste of time. Small yachts and dinghies had been left to the elements and were slowly falling apart, holed and green with mildew. There was no sign of even an outboard motor, let alone a seaworthy boat with one attached. Jessamy took one last glance around and limped back to Mpenzi.

Off in the darkness a sound drew Jessamy's attention. A grating rattle just audible over the sounds of wind and rain hammering on the water. She crept forward, alert, listening.

There it was again. Almost like ... someone starting an engine.

Jessamy jogged the rest of the way back to Mpenzi's hiding place, clenching her teeth against the pain in her foot, "Lupita. It's me. Is that Alison? Did she find a boat?"

Mpenzi shrugged, "One way to find out. Let's go."

The two of them ran in the direction Alison had gone. They reached another compact little stone jetty just in time to see Alison powering away from the shore in a battered looking dinghy, the sputtering outboard churning the turbulent river's surface into brown froth.

"Alison," Jessamy called as loud as she dared, "what the fuck are you doing?"

"Corporal Nethybridge," Mpenzi growled, "get that boat back here now. That's an order."

Alison looked back at them once, tears running down her terrified face. Then she turned away and accelerated out into the current.

"Fuck!" Mpenzi swore.

Above them, a searchlight beam swung down from the suspension bridge and began sweeping to and fro over the river.

"They've either heard her or seen her. Get under cover Beech," Mpenzi snarled and darted for the ruins of a nearby bungalow just as small arms fire erupted from the bridge above them.

But Jessamy stood and watched from the jetty as Alison Nethybridge abandoned them.

KKRANG!

Something explosive suddenly tore across the sky from the direction of the naval base and slammed into the old Royal Albert railway bridge. Rusted girders and splintered railway sleepers plummeted down a hundred feet to splash into the fast-moving torrent below.

"It's the Poseidon's gun," called Mpenzi, no longer bothering to keep her voice down, "your friend Skinner must have guessed we'd try to cross the river."

"ALISON!" Jessamy yelled a warning, "COME BACK. IT'S THE POSEIDON."

Too late. Alison turned one final time, almost losing control of the dinghy for a moment and simply shouted, "F-fuck you Jessamy B-beech."

KA-BOOM!

Poseidon's second shell scored a direct hit. It tore the dinghy and Alison Nethybridge apart, sending a fountain of river water and debris hurtling skyward almost as high as the two bridges.

"NOO!" Jessamy gaped as bits of burning fibreglass boat hull peppered the river's surface and were instantly extinguished.

"We have to go," Mpenzi seized her arm, "NOW!"

As Mpenzi dragged Jessamy away from the river bank, a third shell destroyed the jetty where they'd been standing only moments before. Why the fuck hadn't she killed Skinner and O'Brian when she'd had the chance?

Poseidon had them in range. With it's sophisticated targeting software to aim the gun they wouldn't stand a chance if the bridge guards spotted them.

They ran. As searchlight beams from the suspension bridge swept the eastern shore and the river and the sound of vehicles drew closer behind them.

. . .

"They probably ... assume we're all dead. I'm guessing ... they'll be sending a party down to the river ... to help look for bodies ... I hope."

Jessamy only half heard what Mpenzi was saying. They'd charged up the hill away from the river as fast as they could to evade the Poseidon's bombardment. Up through dead trees, up through the shattered rubble of streets and a derelict industrial estate. Now, barely fifteen minutes after seeing Alison Nethybridge blown to pieces, they rested. Behind the wreck of an ancient burger van lying on its side at the eastern end of the Tamar Bridge.

The rain was still coming down in sheets and Jessamy's boot squelched as she walked, leaving bloody red footprints. She was in agony.

"I can't believe Alison did that. Fucking bitch," Mpenzi shook her head.

"My fault," muttered Jessamy through gritted teeth.

"Ssh, get down. Here they go."

Of the six of O'Brian's men guarding the toll booths on the bridge, four abruptly turned away from the swiveling searchlights they'd been manning and climbed into a scarred looking Toyota pickup with a roof mounted heavy machine gun. They drove quickly past Jessamy and Mpenzi's hiding place and turned right, down towards the river along the main road.

Mpenzi grinned, "What did I tell you? Only two left. But we still can't risk the noise of shooting them. You up for some bow practice?"

Jessamy grimaced - still in tremendous pain, but reached over her shoulder for an arrow from her quiver.

. . .

"There won't be anything left," sneered one of the guards, "an' if there was it'll have been swept out to sea by now."

"Captain Aubrey's orders bro," replied the other, "and he sounded really pi -"

THUNG!

Jessamy's first arrow hit the back of the man's head with such force that the arrowhead erupted through his forehead. He dropped to the road with barely a sound, like a marionette with its strings suddenly cut.

"F-fuck!" swore the other and raised his assault rifle, desperately scanning the shadows at the end of the bridge. He reached down for the radio attached to his flak jacket ...

With unerring accuracy, Jessamy's second arrow took him in the throat before he could raise the alarm.

"Let's go. Move," Mpenzi hooked an arm under Jessamy's, and together they hurried between the unguarded toll booths and across the bridge. They'd made it. Though with Alison Nethybridge dead and the HMS Poseidon still a very real threat, neither of them felt much like celebrating.

'WELCOME TO CORNWALL' announced a faded sign screwed to the bridge's concrete uprights. Jessamy Beech was almost home ...

THE END OF CHAPTER TEN

Nineteen years later ...

For years, tourists visiting Scotland's capital had been intrigued by the fact that Arthur's Seat, the craggy hill to the east of Holyrood and the Scottish Parliament building, was actually an extinct volcano. They had ascended to the rubble strewn summit to take smiling selfies against the stunning backdrop of Edinburgh's majestic skyline, cheerfully thrown frisbees for their dogs and eaten picnics on its lower, grassy slopes and climbed its cliffs at Salisbury Crags despite the signs warning them not to.

But when a fragment of Thanatos roughly the size of a Range Rover had slammed violently into Arthur's Seat at several thousand miles an hour, splitting the hill wide open, the volcano that had lain dormant beneath became the very opposite of extinct.

Seconds later the city and those few that had survived the shockwave of the asteroid's impact were smothered by a scalding, suffocating pyroclastic cloud before they even knew it was coming. Then rivers of lava had surged like a fast-moving tide along Princes Street and up the cobbles of the Royal Mile and down into the old town. Those sheltering below ground in Waverley railway station were soon trapped and entombed as the lava advanced, destroying Princes Street Gardens, the National Gallery, tram lines, cars, buses and everything else in its path.

Calton Hill with its observatory and Nelson Monument became an island in a sea of gradually cooling molten rock, looking forlornly across the devastated city to the much grander and more impressive island of Edinburgh Castle itself.

. . .

"Where the fuck are we?" asked Jessamy for about the tenth time in the space of a few minutes.

The outskirts of Edinburgh were like a weirdly sculpted black desert with the weak afternoon sun glinting on it. Rock spewing from Arthur's Seat just a few miles to the east had solidified into waves, ripples and splashes like ocean waves, making progress slow. Trapped cars and other shapeless, melted vehicles that had been swept along, formed half melted barricades, further impeding them.

The horrifying aftermath of a volcano exploding in the middle of a crowded city, the upper storeys of some of the city's grander Georgian terraces had survived surprisingly unscathed - merely scorched by intense heat, with their doors and windows now empty like the staring eye sockets of a thousand skulls. A gritty, sulphurous smell permeated the dry air and there was mud. Thick, claggy grey mud formed from volcanic ash that clung to their clothes and boots and made every step a struggle.

Hamnavoe winced as Jessamy shifted his weight under her arm, "We're on the right tr-track lass," he said, pointing to a blistered sign fixed to what may have once been a stadium of some kind.

"Welcome to ... Mur ... F, I, E, L ..."

"Murrayfield lass. The home of Sc-scottish rugby. We're close."

They'd decided that in order to avoid both Keaton's militia and the savage Reiver cannibals that infested the western side of Scotland, their only possible course of action was to head east towards Dunbar and the coast. Unfortunately that meant going through Edinburgh. Keaton's militia would be unlikely to follow, Jessamy guessed, even if they managed to pick up their trail.

The clouds of choking ash had long since settled and the lava had long since cooled but after twenty years of being an uninhabitable wasteland, there were now other dangers in the city ...

Barely discernible streets blocked with rubble and wreckage and lava floes hardened into towering wave formations limited their choices and Jessamy, Hamnavoe and Myrtle found themselves herded, funneled closer and closer towards the city centre. In the distance, a trail of dirty white smoke drifted lazily skyward from the shattered crater that had once been Arthur's Seat and was whisked away by the strengthening wind high up.

"Do you really think Trevithick was stupid enough to come this way?" Jessamy asked. She'd never been afraid of much in her adult life but she had to admit that this place was giving her the creeps. Odd sounds - scratching, whining, groaning sounds - that she hoped were made by the increasing wind twirling through the ruins around them made her turn every few seconds, gun in hand.

Jessamy preferred a straight fight with a foe she could see but all that seemed to inhabit this place were the ghosts of the city's past. She sincerely hoped that they were friendly ghosts that would leave them be. She'd heard rumours of course, of other things. Other things that were one of the reasons why scavengers and treasure hunters had given the city a wide berth since the strikes. Things far worse even than Reivers.

"If he didnae, its g-gonnae be nigh on impossible to pick up the b-bastard's trail on the other side," Hamnavoe grunted. Jessamy knew his condition was worsening. She could feel the heat from his sweating, infected body through her damp clothes and it seemed like every few minutes he was calling a halt to drink some of their dwindling supply of fresh water.

The quiet did nothing to dispel the feeling that someone, or something was watching them. Jessamy found herself peering into shadowy doorways and at twisted formations where cooling lava had accumulated around phone boxes, street lights or misshapen road signs, imagining crouching figures waiting for them to pass by before lunging at their backs ...

Myrtle was caked in thick crusts of the grey mud, but still scampered ahead, ears pricked and ever alert. Jessamy felt grateful for finding the dog. There was no way she could carry Hamnavoe AND remain vigilant for any possible threat of attack.

A collapsed hotel on the corner of Lothian Road meant that they had to backtrack and find a way through barely passable side streets to the south of the castle.

Jessamy froze, as a tiny pebble skittered and bounced down the almost vertical cliff from the castle a couple of hundred feet above them, "That certainly wasn't the wind."

"You sh-should leave me JB," Hamnavoe moaned.

"Ssh," Jessamy growled impatiently, straining her ears. She was secretly grateful for the distraction so she didn't have to give Hamnavoe's suggestion any consideration. Was there someone up there? In the castle, watching their every move?

Bits of rubbish were now dancing along the deserted streets, yellowed newspapers pirouetting across the lava floes as gusts whipped up dust devils. Perhaps it had been the wind after all ...

PTOING!

A bullet sparked off the cast iron railings beside them just inches from Jessamy's head. She unceremoniously dropped Hamnavoe and spun around in a crouch.

"THERE THEY ARE!"

Clambering over the rubble from the direction they'd come, were at least a dozen of Keaton's militia.

"Fuck!" Jessamy cursed and roughly hoisted Hamnavoe back across her shoulders in a fireman's lift, whistling to Myrtle as she did so. Gunshots echoed off the surrounding buildings as some of the militia took up firing positions, "so much for them not following us."

BLAM! PTOO!

Through a hail of gunfire, Jessamy sprinted for the cover of a narrow alleyway with muscles straining and Hamnavoe jouncing around on her shoulders, every moment expecting to feel the impact of a bullet. Chips of brickwork and plaster fell about her as the militia's shots grew steadily more accurate and ricocheted off the walls.

BLAM!

"L-leave me," pleaded Hamnavoe.

"Shut it! For the last time I'm not fucking leaving ..."

BLAM!

Jessamy was thrown against a half melted plastic wheelie bin as something hit her in the back. She tasted blood as a wave of intense pain washed through her and Hamnavoe went tumbling to the ground.

All her life she'd considered how she might die. In battle, in a firefight with some criminal she was trying to bring to justice, an asteroid strike ...

But shot in the back in some dingy alleyway?

Jessamy could feel a hot wetness dribbling down her ribcage from an entry wound just below her right shoulder blade. No exit wound - which meant a bullet lodged in her lung. She already felt breathless as she drew her handgun with shaking fingers slick with blood but quickly realised she could no longer grip the weapon tightly or steadily enough for it to be of much use.

"She went down the alley!" shouted someone, "think she's hit."

Myrtle stood protectively over Hamnavoe's unconscious form growling a warning as out in the street Keaton's militia started to break cover and advance ...

"Shoot that fuckin' dog first!"

"Take it slow. Beech is still dangerous."

"It's just one woman ..."

"That woman is Jessamy Beech and don't forget it."

The first militia man to reach them peered cautiously into the alley moments later and raised an antique looking shotgun ...

THUNK!

... then fell forward flat on his face with a crude but effective axe buried in the top of his head, a surprised look frozen on his stubbled face.

"What the ..." Jessamy stared in horror as uncoiling ropes dropped from the cliff above and dozens of scrawny figures slid quickly down them from the castle to street level. Taken by surprise, Keaton's militia opened fire on the new threat under a withering deluge of rocks, crude spears and antique weapons obviously plundered from the castle.

Jessamy grabbed Myrtle by her scruff as the collie tried to charge forward into the fray.

The newcomers, both male and female, were mostly naked but for the odd loincloth, bone necklace or filthy scrap of tartan. Swirls of blue painted crude patterns over their scarred, wiry bodies as they ploughed into the men and women of Keaton's militia, seemingly with no fear of their superior weapons. They squawked and grunted at one another in a dialect Jessamy couldn't understand. What may have once been words rendered gibberish by time and isolation.

But for each malnourished blue attacker gunned down, several more took their place - with more reinforcements descending from the castle - as one by one the Orcadians were overpowered by their enemy's ferocity and sheer numbers. Jessamy watched in stunned silence as at close quarters the castle dwellers discarded their makeshift weapons and went to work with their bare hands and yellowing teeth instead ...

Whatever these subhuman creatures were, she realised, they were much, much worse than Reivers.

"Hamnavoe!" she shook him urgently, "we have to get the fuck out of here. Wake up!"

It was no use. Hamnavoe was out cold. Glancing back to the mouth of the alley to see if she'd been spotted yet, Jessamy once again hoisted Hamnavoe across her shoulders. She clenched her teeth as the pain in her chest and shoulder doubled, threatening to overwhelm her. Tears of frustration blurred her vision as she steadied herself against one grimy wall and tried to take a deep breath.

Ominous screams and a last few desperate gunshots sounded from behind as the first fat drops of rain made tiny craters in the grey mud. It would only take one of the feral creatures to spot her and it would all be over. Jessamy discarded the M16 and other weapons as she doubted she'd be able to use them even if she got the opportunity. No point carrying extra weight. Motioning Myrtle to follow, Jessamy staggered up the alleyway one torturous step at a time - hoping, praying, that it wasn't a dead end ...

. . .

It took them another two days and three nights to escape Edinburgh.

Shivering as they hid amongst the filth and debris, jumping at the slightest sound, they skulked and crawled along the shadowy back ways eastward through Edinburgh's devastated suburbs. Jessamy cursed herself for leaving the handgun. If the castle dwellers found them, she didn't want herself or Hamnavoe to be taken alive ...

The terrific storm that began as Keaton's militia were massacred and feasted upon undoubtedly helped conceal their flight and therefore probably saved their lives, providing cover and obscuring their trail. But as they stumbled and dragged themselves onward through Tranent and Haddington with lightning, hail, torrential rain and gale force winds to contend with, they were quickly soaked to the skin, freezing cold and exhausted.