Haven: The Silence

By Peter Stevens

This novel is the third book in the Haven trilogy.
It is 2054. EarthWatch forces are decimated, and city rebels begin the difficult process of establishing a new government. Meanwhile, Haven’s small society hidden in the forests and mountains of southern Australia has experienced three years of peace.
Jeanette Shaw, happily reunited with daughter Rosalie in Haven’s prosperous town, is missing her husband and sets off to search. She’s tasked with the extra burden of bringing back fourteen good men to correct a critical imbalance in the new community.
Blue Duncan, ex-EarthWatch captain, carries the scars of past torture, but his focus is now the new government’s success.
But what will Jeanette and Blue discover as they meet in tragic circumstances and join forces in the divided city? And how will they fulfil the mission when the insidious enemy returns?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jan 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664103030

Book preview

One

J eanette turned to look back.

At the high altitude, the wind tugged at her thick auburn hair, and she pushed it back from her face.

She wore a white T-shirt tucked into blue jeans, and hiking boots. It was a warm spring day, and the rigour of the climb had darkened her clothing with sweat.

Far below the rocky outcrop where she stood, the town’s three water towers looked like little grey pegs rising from a scattering of Monopoly-sized coloured roofs.

‘Au revoir, Haven. Goodbye, Jacob. Goodbye, darling Petal. See you again if all goes well.’

She rested for a short while and then turned away from the view, shifting the assault rifle’s strap so that the gun lay snug alongside her backpack. Its weight promised security.

‘Lighter than your big old dog gun, Elijah, but more deadly if the dog pack sniffs me out,’ she said as she fell into a loping stride downhill. ‘Or men,’ she added with a wry chuckle.

She stepped around littered granite rocks and ducked under mould-coated wattle branches, keeping the hot morning sun to her right. Dust hung faintly in the sluggishly shifting breeze, and the perfume of gum blossom and late wildflowers wafted lazily.

She saw wattle pods littered under the trees and unconsciously noted their position. Over the years, Haven people had reverted to many indigenous customs, learning to live off the bush. Wattle seeds made a nourishing bread.

Jeanette fixed her gaze on the mountain pass, still hazy blue, far ahead. Only a 45-kilometre hike to the plains. Hopefully, the Cruiser’s batteries are still good. Should be. If not, it’s a long, long walk to the city. And Brendon.

She frowned. Brendon. Why hadn’t he come? It was three years since she’d left him. He’d promised to come, said he wanted to meet his daughter, Petal—the daughter he’d only seen as a tiny baby.

His absence that first year was completely understandable. The revolution was in full swing and Brendon the leader of it.

Jeanette herself had been fully occupied fitting into the Haven workforce and teaching Petal.

And so busy flirting with Jacob, she’d hardly missed her husband.

The second year also could be justified. Brendon would be dismantling EarthWatch’s government. Setting up a new administration would take time.

But three full years? He should have come. And to make matters worse, Lillian was pregnant. Jacob had eyes for only one person, his wife. Strangely enough, Jeanette thought, I’m beginning to believe that’s OK. She laughed, slowing to step over a fallen tree. Monogamy. I must be going mad.

‘Bring back some men,’ Jacob had said as she left. ‘Good men.’ Not ‘I’ll miss you, Jeanette. Hurry back.’

Jeanette tossed her hair. Men: can’t do without ’em, can’t manage with them.

The terrain changed again, and she jogged uphill.

She picked her way quickly around strewn rocks as she climbed. Brendon, surely the new society could do without you for a week or two?

There was a flash of movement through the spindly eucalyptus trees to her right. Was it a roo? No, she thought as her heart sank. The size of a wallaby, but the gait was all wrong. That was a dog. So they’d found her. It hadn’t taken long.

‘I’m in your territory,’ she said aloud. One of the challenges to living in 2054, she thought, after the environmentalists, after EarthWatch had their way. Capitalism crushed, freedom dismantled, society destroyed. And one small symptom of the devastation—wild dog packs.

Jeanette stopped, frustrated that now, with the extra hazard, her progress was going to be slower. Jacob was right. She swung the M20 off her shoulder, felt the clip, and cocked it. She moved the safety off and flicked the selector switch to automatic. M20, 3.8 kg loaded, less than a metre long, fifty rounds to a magazine. Bullets travel at nearly 3,000 feet per second. On automatic, the entire magazine can be despatched in less than two seconds. I’m ready for you if you come, you bastards.

Swinging her head left, then right, holding the rifle in front of her, she resumed her jog through the scrub.

For the next four hours, Jeanette pushed towards the distant goal, careless of thorny branches that tugged at her army pants and long-sleeved shirt when she ran through bush thickets, pausing to listen and watch when she reached open ground.

Always the dogs were nearby, waiting, she knew, for the right moment, the moment her attention wandered.

They feared the gun, the smell of oil, the clinging taint of cordite that, to their noses, bellowed danger. They feared the impact of bullets, but they feared hunger more.

Jeanette knew they would come. The tearing down of prey was their daily labour. Providing for the litters at home was their instinctive chore.

The pack was large, perhaps as many as twenty animals, Jeanette realised, as she caught glimpses. Big and small, sleek and long-haired, black and brown, fast and ponderous—many different breeds, and every one of them skilled in the hunt.

Despite the extraordinary fitness she’d achieved prior to the trek, Jeanette began to slow. The dogs, sensing it, moved in closer.

Now she saw them clearly, dripping tongues, the black shiny coat of the Doberman, damp-slicked hair of the Irish wolfhound, and the pointed features of the greyhound.

Even above her own rasping lungs, she heard their panting breath, smelled their sweat-drenched fur, felt their anticipation.

Jeanette’s muscles began to burn. Her feet pounded on the rock-strewn ground. Branches whipped her face. The pressure of maintaining vigilance had her head throbbing with tension. God, why did I come? Stupid, stupid.

She knew she had to find safety soon. Or exhaustion would pull her down, and in that moment, the dogs would be on her. Petal would lose a mother, Brendon, a wife.

The animals were quick. Every time she swung the gun, they vanished.

The gradient changed as another hour passed. The vegetation thinned and the dogs drew back.

Jeanette scrambled higher. Every muscle on her body screamed for rest. The straps on the pack she bore rubbed her shoulders raw. Sweat drenched her body, but her throat was so dry it felt like she’d swallowed knives.

To stop and slake her thirst would give her attackers victory.

She was so fatigued.

I’m tired, she berated herself, but I’m not dead. I have to make it.

What are you, a simpering schoolgirl? Run, she ordered herself. Keep fighting. Don’t give up. Find safety.

Near the pass, a steep stone wall loomed, stubby eucalyptus overhanging its top. A wide area of flat rock lay at its base, littered sparsely with gum twigs and branches.

With a final burst of energy, Jeanette ran for it. She slammed her long, slim body back against the wall, rifle at her shoulder, gulping oxygen into starved lungs.

She steadied the gun, sweeping a semicircle across the rock clearing. Her chest heaved. Where are you?

Nothing. No sign of them.

Beyond the clearing, scrubby bushes provided enough cover for a hundred dogs.

Jeanette stood, finger resting on the trigger. The slightest pressure would release instant death at three times the speed of sound. Come on. Come on. Show yourselves.

She pressed back against the rock, her pack a cushion, frozen in anticipation, her only movement the sweep of the rifle, the flickering of her eyes, for what seemed an eternity.

Too smart, aren’t you?

Jeanette slowly lowered the gun. Her shoulders immediately sagged with pain and fatigue. She shrugged off the pack, not taking her eyes off the clearing for a second.

She glanced up for a moment, feeling the cool of deep shade. The sun had sunk behind her. It was too late; she was too exhausted to go further today.

You’re not going anywhere. Next, a drink and then a fire. You can do it, girl.

She squatted, reaching behind her, holding the assault rifle in her right hand, looking ahead as she opened the zip and dug in her bag for her water bottle. Holding it between her knees, she unscrewed the cap, lifted it, and gulped life-saving liquid.

Jeanette recapped the glass bottle, put it carefully next to her pack, and never losing sight of her surroundings, dragged sticks and leaves together. She made a pile, pushing it forward as a barrier.

Jeanette moved around uncomfortably, glancing down, around for milliseconds, back up again quickly, focussed on the bushes.

A flash of black. Ah, there you are. Still there, waiting. She paused, gripping the gun in readiness, but no dogs came.

She went back to building her fire, moving further, dragging larger pieces back for later. ‘They won’t be scared of fire, especially those dogs that had been domestic. But I’ll need light, warmth.’

Satisfied with her modest preparations, Jeanette shuffled back to her pack. She groped blindly behind her until she found matches, and then, one hand, struck one and held it to the pile.

Dry, eucalyptus-oil-rich leaves caught quickly, and the rich, aromatic smoke thickened. Tiny flames licked around twigs and branches, until the crackle of flames lifted high.

Heat from the fire made her retreat. She sat, back hard against the rock face, knees up, pack half in front of her so she could rest the assault rifle on it.

The animals remained hidden.

Jeanette took food from her supplies: bread freshly baked early that morning, dried meat and fish, raw vegetables, sweet home-cooked biscuits. She ate, always watching, waiting as she knew the dogs waited.

As the fire settled, she shuffled forward, keeping the gun ready, dragging larger pieces of wood on to the flames.

She couldn’t see the sun but knew it dipped low in the west, behind her. The air grew colder, the shadows, darker.

She took a jacket from her bag, donned it carefully, and buttoned it high on her neck. Have to stay awake all night. In the morning, walk down to the cruiser. Three, maybe four hours of hiking. Once there, I’m safe. Simple.

Jeanette needed to pee. She stripped the jacket off again, awkwardly keeping the rifle ready. She scuffled a short way from her pack, pushed down her army pants with one hand, and relieved herself.

She made it back to her supplies, and the fire.

Jeanette moved several more gum branches on to the flames, pulled her jacket on, fastened it, and then settled back against the cold rock.

She sat with the rucksack between her legs. The assault rifle, held comfortably, rested on it. Four magazines, half her spares, lay in a small pile within easy reach.

Bushes surrounding the clearing were now in darkness. The glow from her fire flickered across their varied shapes, causing shadows to shift menacingly.

It was going to be a long night.

As the hours passed, stars shone brighter, and a crescent moon inched painfully overhead.

Red-hot wood, settling in the fire, sent tiny embers dancing upwards. Eucalyptus smoke swirled and puffed.

The time dragged interminably.

Several times Jeanette thought she saw movement, but no attack came. Perhaps it was her imagination or the ever-changing gloom.

At times, she stiffly moved the pack aside and shambled forward to build up the fire.

Jeanette grew more exhausted. Her eyelids became as heavy as concrete, her eyes rasping with grit. Her body longed to sleep. She talked aloud, mumbled experiences from the past and hopes for the future. She sipped water and slapped her face.

She wriggled restlessly, fighting the rising fatigue.

Intense concentration towards the extremities of her vision, and the uncertain firelight, produced hallucination. Several times she saw, emerging from the blackness, huge creatures bowing like worshipping demons. Once she saw an African elephant, its ears flapping like sails.

Twice, her finger tightened on the trigger and her heart pounded in her chest, as the apparition of charging canines dissolved into mist.

Her eyelids drooped, opened. She pinched her arm. They sagged again.

Jeanette dreamed.

She dreamed that she was in the very same rocky clearing. The fire was almost out. Only a glimmer remained of the once bright coals. She saw the perimeter bushes clearly, so clearly that even the leaves came into focus. Suddenly, in every gap between the shrubs, dogs’ faces appeared—hundreds of them. Their eyes glowed with hate and with anticipation. Their jowls dripped and their sharp teeth gleamed as they snapped their jaws.

Jeanette knew they would take her, but she had to fight. The rifle in her hands might give her at least moments to live. If she could fire quickly, reload, and fire again, she could make one futile attempt to resist.

To her distress, she couldn’t lift the gun. The barrel sagged low and her muscles were powerless. In desperation, she poured her mental energy into the action of raising her weapon, to no avail.

The rifle remained, like a lead weight, immovable. She cried out in frustration.

In her dream, the dogs glanced once at each other and back towards her, and attacked.

They sprinted, snarling, across the clearing. She was totally defenceless. Panic rushed through her mind, froze her helpless body. In moments, she would be dead, torn apart.

Jeanette woke.

On her left, curving around the blazing fire, a real, giant dog bigger than a man hurtled towards her, its long grey hair slicked back from saliva-drenched snarling jaws.

Instinctively, Jeanette threw up the rifle and fired. The noise was deafening in the silent clearing. A hail of bullets tore into the animal and a torrent of empty cartridges spewed from the breech. The dog disintegrated in a cloud of bone and blood. What was left veered away and ploughed, at full speed, into the rock wall next to her.

Jeanette swung right. Another dog, a split second behind the first, leapt. She saw white spotted fur and bared teeth and emptied the rifle into its face.

The animal’s head blew apart and its remains crashed painfully into her, sending Jeanette sprawling.

Spent cartridges rattled on stone.

Echoes rang around the rocky cliffs, numbing her ears, and the acrid smell of propellant stung Jeanette’s nose.

She pushed the dead weight of fur off her body and scrabbled back for another clip. She rolled the weapon, punching the first magazine out and ramming the second into the gun. She snapped the bolt handle back and released, pulling the gun back into her shoulder.

Several dogs surrounded her, snarling. She raked them with a long burst and slammed in a third magazine.

Two dogs dragged themselves away, howling piteously. One more lay dead. The others fled.

Within minutes, the clearing was still. The sounds of wounded animals faded.

Jeanette heard the crackling of the fire. She saw the shimmering light of the flames and the changing red shades of glow on the deserted bushes.

She looked at the corpses of the canines.

She put the gun down and stood up, shaking uncontrollably.

Jeanette stooped, resting her hands on her knees, until her body stilled.

She took several deep breaths.

When her heart rate slowed, she put more timber on the fire.

She returned to her spot and sat. Wide awake, and cradling the gun, she waited for dawn.

The light changed imperceptibly. Eventually Jeanette could see, beyond the firelight, dim shapes of rocks, cliffs, and a vague outline of the way forward.

She hoisted her pack, settled the straps into position, and set off.

Leaving her temporary refuge, she fell into a steady, if somewhat dazed, walk through the mountain pass.

Jeanette ate as she walked, the rifle always ready, as her body settled into an automatic rhythm. She was beyond tiredness, beyond exhaustion. Determination carried her forward.

There was no sign of the dogs.

Eventually, after losing her bearings twice, and having to track back and rethink, she found the base of the hills, and the hiding place in the bush.

The Cruiser rested patiently in a gap between tall gums, completely covered with branches.

It was mid-afternoon. Jeanette was completely spent.

Gratefully she dropped her pack, leaned the gun against it, and fell prostrate on the ground.

When she woke, the sun had dipped towards the horizon, and the air had cooled.

Jeanette pushed herself up, groaning as torn muscles rebelled.

She staggered to the Cruiser and pulled branches away. It took her an hour to free the machine. Dusk had settled over the bush, and wisps of mist slithered between the trees.

Jacob had personalised the machine’s security to her on their last trip to the city. Saying a silent prayer, she pressed her palm to the verification scanner.

The side door rose smoothly on its hydraulics, and she breathed a sigh of relief. I’m in, and the batteries are still good.

Jeanette glanced around. The stunted trees were hushed, their shadows still.

She removed her jacket. It was stiff with the coagulated blood of the animals. Jeanette threw it aside, glad that she’d brought more clothes.

She dragged her pack and the weapon inside. The door closed with a whir and a clunk. In the darkness, she found a couple of blankets, curled up on a bench seat, and slept like a dead woman.

Two

M ore than two hundred kilometres north, Blue Duncan sat in a cane chair on a first-storey balcony.

He watched the sun go down.

Watercrest, the fertile farm where he’d spent three years recovering, was spread out beneath him—rolling green hills, stately gums, and down in the valley, a meandering brook.

It was time.

Tomorrow was the big day, the day he would conquer his fears and return to the city.

As the sun’s rays surrendered to the approaching dusk and a cool, clean breeze scented with grasses and wattles wafted up from the paddocks below, Blue rose and entered the bedroom.

He closed double glass doors and turned to survey the room, rubbing his face.

A light covering of familiar bristles rasped his fingers. His was one countenance that could never again be smooth.

He stared down at the rumpled doona on his bed. He hadn’t straightened it this morning, just pulled it up quickly.

If he understood his hosts, Stan and Marge, the owners of the farm, correctly, the bed was the very one where the woman he’d fallen in love with had consummated her marriage.

He’d been sleeping in it, alone, since he could climb the stairs unaided.

Stan and Marge. He would be always grateful for their painstaking care and love in nursing him back to health.

Blue felt the hard ridges of scar tissue that criss-crossed his face, and unconsciously dropped his hand to his chest. Beneath the faded T-shirt, matching healed wounds covered his torso.

The skilful scalpel of the torturer had stolen his looks and bled him almost to death. Only Blue’s reputation as a fair and generous leader, and the respect he’d earned in the army, had averted the complete upper-body flaying ordered by the late EarthWatch commissioner.

Because he’d set his loved one free.

Instead of terminating in a death sentence, the excruciating cuts had been deliberately restrained, and though Blue’s body would always carry the evidence of torment, he had survived.

His flesh had eventually recovered.

Blue smoothed the bed covers absent-mindedly. His thoughts were on the pale skin and supple body of the woman he’d come to know during her captivity, a woman he’d kissed fleetingly, a woman he’d never forgotten—couldn’t forget.

Of her marriage and her present circumstances, he knew nothing.

He was going to miss Marge and Stan, and he was going to miss the comfort of this house, this room.

They’d taken him in after the defeat of EarthWatch. He’d been transferred here, still in a critical condition, from a city safe house.

Blue moved to the comfortable armchair in the corner, next to the bookshelves, and sat down. He had spent hundreds of hours here during convalescence, reading his older friends’ classics collection.

He ran his eyes over the titles of some of the rare novels: Pilgrim’s Progress, Robinson Crusoe, David Copperfield, Wuthering Heights, Little Women, Huckleberry Finn, Brave New World, Nineteen Eighty-Four, The Lord of the Rings, and his favourite, A Tale of Two Cities.

There were also several versions of the outlawed Bible and a couple of commentaries.

He’d read from them too.

He plucked the Charles Dickens story from the shelf and opened it to the well-worn pages near the end of the story.

I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out …

I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy … I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of this day.

It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest I go to than I have ever known.

For a few moments, Blue quietly meditated on Sydney Carton’s words, his vision for a new France post-revolution and his preparation for sacrifice, and how they had encouraged Blue’s own decisions and hopes.

With a shrug of his shoulders, he put the book back, got up, and walked into the en suite.

In the house below him, he heard muffled clattering as Marge tidied the leftovers from one day’s meals and prepared for the next.

As always, when he dipped his toothbrush into the jar of salt and lifted his eyes to the mirror, there was a slight jolt of shock. Will I ever get used to the new me? he thought.

Blue scrubbed his teeth, grateful for one part of his face, at least, that had gone unscathed. That, and his piercing blue eyes, Marge would say, kept him handsome.

In the morning, Blue shouldered his pack. It was heavy with sandwiches, lovingly fashioned by Marge, bottles of clear water from the creek, and changes of clothes.

He wore khaki army pants, a short-sleeved khaki military shirt, and sturdy black leather boots.

Everything else he needed, he hoped to find in Carnival, in the city.

Blue had resisted taking the weapons Stan offered. He had little intelligence about the state of the city and whether he would need arms.

He didn’t want Stan and Marge to be left defenceless.

Maybe God would protect him.

The farm here was self-sufficient. In the first months of Blue’s recovery, Stan and Marge had rarely left his side. As his health had improved, they’d gradually involved him in daily work. Blue had learned how to shear sheep, milk the cow, tend the chickens, and till the couple’s large vegetable garden.

Eventually, as he grew strong again, Blue had been glad to shoulder a larger part of their work.

They would miss him.

Though the farm was only twenty kilometres from the outskirts of the city, it was not adjacent to a main road, and few people knew of the house.

EarthWatch had evacuated country areas. All citizens were relocated to Carnival, by force if necessary, as part of the plan to protect and replenish the earth.

Marge and Stan had resisted EarthWatch pressure so far. Now, it was hoped, the revolution would bring freedom.

Only one traveller had passed by in the time that Blue had been a guest at Watercrest. The dishevelled old man had bustled in and bustled out, taking food, saying it was all falling apart.

Exactly what was falling apart Blue had never discovered. Was it the rebellion or was it rather the death throes of EarthWatch the traveller described, with the rebels establishing the long-yearned-for good government?

One valuable gem had been provided by their anxious visitor: the address of the rebel leader.

Marge and Stan had entertained Brendon Shaw’s wife briefly, years ago, and had gathered a strong indication of the fighter’s whereabouts.

The old nomad had confirmed the location.

Blue had long planned, if he grew healthy again, to go there and join the rebel cause.

That was where he was headed. If that led, as he hoped, to finding her again, so much the better.

In the driveway now, in front of the house, he pulled Marge into his arms, surprised at how frail she seemed. He held her close, smelling the soapy freshness of her greying hair and the rich odours of cooking.

The soft contact of her motherly body brought memories of her deep concern for his injuries, and the healing touch of cool fingers on his skin.

While he held her, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she dabbed them away with the corner of a lacy handkerchief.

‘Please don’t forget us,’ Marge said. ‘Come back when you can.’

He looked at her watery smile. ‘I love you, Marge. I’ll be back, don’t worry.’

Blue took Stan’s rough hand in his and pulled the old man in for a hug. The farmer’s body was hard and sinewy.

‘I’ll miss you,’ Blue said gently.

‘We’ll see you soon,’ was the gruff response. ‘God be with you.’

‘He will. I love you both.’ He held their gaze. ‘Thank you for everything.’

Blue adjusted his pack and strode away.

At the gate, he turned. They stood together on the veranda, clad in their rough, worn farm clothes. Stan’s arm was around his wife. Marge lifted a small hand.

Blue waved back, finding it suddenly hard to breathe.

In three and a half hours, and a little surprised that he’d lived almost in its shadow for so long, Blue had his first glimpse of the city—the western suburbs.

As he hiked along a deserted, rutted highway, the first dwellings came into view. A cloud hung over them.

He saw streets thrust brutally into grassy paddocks, old brick-and-tile homes, unkempt gardens, leaning porches and jagged windows, softwood paling fences flattened by wind or vandals or war.

The whole wretched picture was tainted by drifting blue smoke.

Almost immediately, he felt he was being watched.

He spun around.

Was that a bright speck of light up in the sky? As quickly as Blue thought he saw something, it was gone.

The only watchers were several black crows perched on a rooftop.

As Blue continued, sweat formed under his arms and seeped down his chest. It dried in the hot sun and moistened yet again. He knew he would smell, but doubted anyone he met would notice, not with the acrid odour of burning filling the air.

He passed the rusty shells of long-obsolete cars, their bonnets gaping like stranded fish, wheels missing, upholstery ripped.

Armourlites and other modern vehicles had been abandoned. Blue tried to start a couple, but their batteries were flat. He hoped to find weapons or food in the stalled vehicles, but they were completely stripped.

Grass and trees pushed up through the once-smooth asphalt and turned footpaths into broken, tilted slabs.

Derelict homes lined the highway, mile upon mile of them, disturbed only by empty shopping centres with sagging signs or tightly closed industrial buildings with peeling tin-sheeted walls.

No shout greeted Blue, no challenge, no abuse, no warning. No birds sang, no dogs barked, and no clank of machinery disturbed the air.

The loudest affront to Blue’s sensitivities was the incredible, shocking silence.

He remembered this place as a bustling metropolis before the rise of the greenies and all that followed. Now it felt like a city extinguished—smothered but still smouldering.

For three years, Blue had known the constant music of the farm—sheep bleating, cows lowing, the excited yaps of the dogs, busy birds singing and chirping, Marge and Stan’s amusing chatter. Before that had been the companionship of other soldiers, the whir of Armourlites, the sharp report of rifles, the cries of prisoners, the bustle of the Barn, and the teeming needs of the capital.

Now, it was as if life had died—not just humanity, but every living, breathing being.

It certainly didn’t look like a city under good new government.

He took a water bottle from his pack and had a long drink.

Blue wondered where everybody was.

An hour later, he found some of them.

He found the flies first, or rather, they found him.

Next came the smell.

Blue made his way through the western suburbs, heading in the general direction of the area where he believed Brendon Shaw lived.

In places, the silence was marred by the crackle of flames as untended fires devoured homes or businesses.

A fly landed like a fat beetle on his arm, and Blue reacted with disgust, slapping it away.

He continued along a narrow side street. Houses were older here, tiny stone dwellings with wrought-iron trims. Grass pushed through picket fences, and chimneys crumbled.

An intersection ahead suggested a way to advance more directly to Brendon’s.

A second fly buzzed his face, then another. Blue swatted them away.

More insects came.

Blue walked into a cluttered yard and broke a pliant switch from an unkempt bush.

Waving the branch around his face, Blue reached the intersection and turned left.

The sight was not unfamiliar. Before his conversion to the rebels, Blue was an EarthWatch captain. Though most of his work had been rural, on occasion, his platoon had been ordered to reinforce city forces, resisting insurgents.

There had been a battle here. The street was blocked by piles of ancient cars, furniture, and other debris.

And there were bodies.

Swallowing his revulsion and flicking the flies away from his face, Blue approached the roadblock.

There had been pathetically few defenders, perhaps twenty—all dead, their parched skin stretched tight over putrefied corpses.

Birds or vermin had ravaged some, taken their fill, and left. Apart from the effects of these smaller predators, there was no evidence of bloodshed.

The smell of ancient rotting flesh was thick enough to choke on. Blue took a large handkerchief out of his pocket and held it over his mouth. The smoke was annoying, but this stench was debilitating.

Both men and women were dressed casually, no uniforms among them. Rifles and handguns lay beside them or were clutched in skeletal fingers.

He rejected the idea of helping himself to a weapon. Left for months or years in the open like this, rust, dust, and grit would have rendered them useless.

Nerve gas? The lethal vapour used by EarthWatch?

As Blue climbed over the man-made barrier, his suspicions were confirmed. An EarthWatch Armourlite sat in the centre of the street like an ugly black cockroach.

X-class—six wheels, with solar roof panels, was the base model.

Blue climbed down off the rubble and approached the vehicle slowly. He was surprised to see, this side of the wall, more civilians scattered about like leaves after a storm.

There was no sign of life. No one came, no one challenged.

Attacking?

The Armourlite’s door was open. One dry corpse was laid half in and half out of the machine, a surprised look on his shrunken face, his assault rifle held rigid in an outstretched hand.

Blue peered inside. The emaciated driver and two passengers, all apparent non-combatants, sat frozen as if waiting for resurrection.

No sign of a uniform. Townsfolk with EarthWatch weapons? A deadly mistake? And why were they fighting each other?

Blue took a last look around. He stood alone, the only living, breathing creature present. Buildings lining the street stared back at him, their facades blank, dumb.

He shivered. He had an eerie feeling that behind its blank veneer of anonymity,