Light At The End | Book 1 | Surviving The Apocalypse Read online

  Light at The End

  Surviving the Apocalypse

  Tom Benson

  Copyright

  Copyright © Tom Benson 2020

  The right of Tom Benson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

  recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Any person who performs any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to

  criminal prosecution and

  civil claims for damages.

  Original graphic by Depositphotos

  Cover design by Tom Benson

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  1 - A Leap of Faith

  2 - Making an Entrance

  3 - Opportunity Knocks

  4 - A Dark Secret

  5 - Questions and Answers

  6 - Into the Darkness

  7 - We’re Not Alone

  8 - Enlightenment

  9 - Illumination

  10 - We need a Volunteer

  11 - As One Door Opens

  12 - Soldiers of Misfortune

  13 - Introductions

  14 - Responsibilities

  15 - Positive Actions

  16 - Security Measures

  17 - Mutual Support

  18 - Genesis

  One Year Later

  About the Author

  A Word from the Author

  Also by the Author

  Dedication

  Olive - wife, soulmate and steadfast support

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my alpha and beta readers,

  for their time, insightful comments

  and useful suggestions:

  Carmen I. Lopez, Lesley Hayes,

  Robert Lalonde and Diana J. Febry,

  all of whom are fellow indie authors.

  Special thanks to Sharon Brownlie

  of Aspire Book Covers

  for her help and advice.

  1 - A Leap of Faith

  Day One

  Saturday 28th May 2065

  The Trossachs National Park

  Scottish Highlands

  Paul Harrington was relaxing in the guide’s seat at the front of the luxury touring coach. At some of the viewing locations, he would accompany the guide and passengers but on this occasion, he’d opted to stay with the coach. Paul wasn’t interested in watching television, however, when it was close to the time for the mid-day news, he switched on the primary monitor.

  He grinned. “I wonder if any of our hothead world leaders have calmed down yet.” Days of public name-calling had made many politicians look immature.

  Strangely, although situated on the southeast boundary of the national park and at a reasonable altitude, it wasn’t a great place for radio or television reception. Even the signals for mobile telephones were hit and miss in this area, but it was worth a try.

  The face of Nick Fowler, the newsreader and the studio backdrop were hazy at best, but the sound was clear.

  “… and in the past half hour, President Daniel Stamp has once again issued a casual suggestion to the warring factions in the Middle East, and in the Far East. We have an excerpt of an interview conducted at the White House. The reporter is our very own, Carrie Myers.” The newsreader turned to share the screen with a view of the Oval Office.

  The outspoken President of the United States (POTUS), looked the part, in a smart suit, collar and tie. His excessive mop of blond hair was brushed to perfection. It was the man’s blunt attitude and open condemnation which caused mixed opinions of his rightful place as an international statesman. He appeared relaxed as he grinned and nodded towards a young brunette reporter.

  Carrie Myers: ‘Thank you for allowing this interview, Mr President. Can you confirm that US envoys have failed in their attempts to mediate for peace in both the Middle East and the Far East?’

  POTUS: ‘That’s correct, Carrie. I’m personally frustrated with the ongoing situation in both regions. I’ve recalled our people and I’m considering a different approach.’

  Carrie Myers: ‘If the peace envoys have failed after many weeks of mediation there can’t be much more you can do. The Russian leader, for example, has suggested stepping back and allowing the fighting to take its course.’

  POTUS: ‘It’s common knowledge that I don’t pay heed to the opinions of my opposite number in Russia.’ He grinned. ‘The United States of America has large naval fleets in both the Middle East and the Far East. Late last night I authorised our naval commanders to move closer to the troubled areas in preparation for physical peace-keeping duties.’

  Carrie Myers: ‘Surely you can’t unilaterally send armed forces into a foreign country in conflict … you are ignoring the sovereignty of at least one of the nations?’

  POTUS: ‘Carrie, I’m sure that like me, the rest of the world is fed up listening to those people arguing among themselves and killing each other. They need to get back across their borders in the Middle East and the Far East and stop bickering about a few stretches of land.’

  Carrie: ‘With respect, Mr President, isn’t that a further public declaration that you feel superior to them?’

  POTUS: ‘As my grandfather would have said when he sat in this office—get over yourselves. The leaders in those countries need to—’ The broadcast went silent and the picture faded.

  Nick Fowler, in the London studio inhaled deeply and turned to face the camera. “I apologise for the loss of that report from the White House. Meanwhile, closer to home, Sofia Kleinhof, President of the Federation of European Nations has made an impassioned plea to President Stamp. Mrs Kleinhof has asked Mr Stamp to apologise and halt any military advance, but there has been no reaction forthcoming. Following the televised interview, there has been no response from the Middle East region, but Mee Mi Wae, a leader in the Southeast Oriental Peninsula has warned against what he sees as an invasion and he has insisted on an apology—we will keep you informed ….”

  The broadcast faded, and when it returned, the topic was the renewed space-race. Having disassociated itself from the International Space Programme, the United States had launched a rocket with an advance crew of six engineers to land on the Moon. This followed the unmanned craft which landed on the Moon one week previously. The US stated it would establish a base to enable experimental habitation. America would be first and would claim lunar rights.

  Paul poured himself coffee from his thermos. “We’re finally going to have a couple of guys living on the Moon, and we can’t be at peace with each other on Earth—well done, Mankind.” Paul stepped down and walked around to the front of his vehicle to appreciate the majestic mountains and the Trossachs National Park.

  The warmth of the sun played over the area and a light breeze fanned the masses of heather.

  “Meanwhile, I’m happy to appreciate a world within a world.” Paul sipped coffee and stared in wonder as a herd of red deer trotted along together on a hillside less than a mile away.

  For an hour, the thirty-year-old was content to relax, sitting on a large boulder near the coach. Apart from seeing the deer, two kestrels appeared, hovering and diving like tiny missiles when they saw prey. A mountain hare ran past, chased by a fox. Paul marvelled at the abundance of wildlife to be seen simply by sitting still in such a beautiful setting. The highlight occurred when a golden eag
le soared overhead on the thermals, making delicate adjustments with its broad wings.

  A faint buzzing had Paul reach for his mobile phone. He selected speaker. “Hi, Dawn—how’s it going with you guys up there?” He held the device out of the direct sunlight so he could see the tour guide’s lovely face while she spoke.

  “Paul, have you been keeping up with the news?”

  “I tried earlier, but it was a bit sketchy, so I’ve been sitting outside the coach to appreciate nature.” He laughed. “I couldn’t watch much more news anyway—that pig-headed windbag across the pond makes a great nation look bad.”

  “Reception is better up here, and one of our group has just shown me a news clip on her tablet—that blundering fool Stamp is shit-stirring with the Middle East and the Far East.”

  “Yeah, I caught part of the interview with Carrie Myers and Mr Stamp, and then the President of the EuroFed asking—”

  “Paul, that was ages ago—please watch the news bulletin that’s on now—we’re on our way back down the mountain.”

  “Whoa, Dawn, it can’t be that bad—you guys should be up there for a long while yet.”

  “Please, just watch the bulletin.”

  Paul got up and lifted his thermos. He climbed into the luxury coach and eased his light physique into Dawn’s regular seat. Paul switched on the TV monitor. The newsreader once again was Nick Fowler.

  “… and further to the comments from the White House earlier, the Middle East and the Far East nations have issued the American president with an ultimatum.” The man at the newsdesk appeared visibly shaken. “The statement from the Middle East says, ‘You have addressed us and are treating our nations disrespectfully for the last time. You now have one hour to appear on international media to make a public apology. If you do not, the representatives of the Middle East Alliance will initiate strikes on your irksome fleets which are now in our waters so far from home. We do not make idle threats.’ An offer for the spokesman to be interviewed on camera was refused.’’

  The reporter’s eyes glistened, and he swallowed hard before continuing. “A statement from the Southeast Oriental Peninsula goes further. ‘If you do not make an apology and stand down from your supposedly exalted position, many of your countrymen will pay the price. Are you able to protect the fleet you have in our waters, and your latest manned spacecraft, Mr President?’ There is so far no response from the US.”

  Paul shook his head. “You stupid, pompous bastard, Stamp. Get on TV and apologise.”

  The British Prime Minister, the Right Honourable Grace Jeffries appeared on the screen, standing in Downing Street—as she had, only twice since her recent election win. ‘I will not lie to you, my fellow citizens—we are in a dire situation. As I’ve stated before, we have tried like others, to mediate. More recently, we have continued to monitor the declining relations between three major regions of the world. My government now suggests that individual preparations are advised—’ The screen became a haze of colours and the sound distorted into unintelligible whining and whistling.

  “Damn it.” Paul changed channels and found the same problem. Five different channels all had the same hazy image of the first black woman Prime Minister of the UK, but her words were swallowed up in the ether. Paul returned to the channel likely to give the strongest signal.

  ‘… and so my friends, it grieves me to ask that you are prepared and resilient wherever you may go to protect yourselves. Please go to your safe havens, and may God watch over us all ….’ The sound faded and the Prime Minister’s tears were flowing as she was ushered away to her car by two men in suits. Media crews were leaving equipment behind and running from the famous London street.

  “What the fuck—” Paul stared at the monitor in disbelief. “This has to be a well-acted rehearsal—it doesn’t end this way—it should take days and weeks more of protracted international discussion—”

  A different newsreader appeared on screen in the London studio, and it was a face that any viewer would recognise from the man’s days as a front-line war correspondent. He was rarely seen in a studio environment. “Hello, this is Mark Harris taking over the ongoing bulletins. If you are still watching this programme for whatever reason, I’ll be staying with you for as long as we have the power to transmit.”

  Paul had a strange sense of foreboding. He’d watched Mark Harris report from a dozen war zones. This was a reporter who had been shot twice doing his job and was never phased. He was now broadcasting from the comfort of a London studio and for the first time, his features bore traces of concern—something terrible must be on the horizon.

  A glance at his phone told Paul that he’d had three missed calls from Dawn up on the mountain. Paul’s device was registering the incoming signal but giving no audio alert to the user. It was a sign that he’d have no sound if he tried to speak to Dawn. Not for the first time, he was astounded at being so high in altitude but not being able to capture a reliable phone signal.

  On checking his treasured analogue watch his thoughts raced. Time was passing fast, as it did when everybody would have liked a little bit more. Paul had a superb knowledge of his surroundings and the journey time to the nearest towns and villages. For personal satisfaction, he pulled out his digital screen map. He measured the time and distance to those places closest to the present location.

  If he didn’t know at which point Dawn might be with the passengers, it was impossible to tell how long it would take before they reached the coach. The forestry was too dense on the lower slopes, and the drone kept on the coach had been damaged earlier in the day. There was no way to see if Dawn and the tourists were still higher up on the mountain. Paul tried to locate her with her personal transponder, which ought to show on the local area map—nothing. A great day for malfunctions—not communications.

  Paul took several deep breaths and scrolled up and down, left and right on the map screen. “Nearest large town, Fort William to the north. Nearest small towns, Clifton to the east, and Oban to the west. There’s nowhere within ninety-minutes, even if I was driving a bloody hover racing car.” The nearest big city was Glasgow, but Paul knew it would be grid-locked with thousands of people in panic. Besides which, it was too far away. He looked to the mountainside and forestry again—nothing. “Come on, Dawn, bring them back, please.”

  Paul went through the coach and rapidly tidied the seats on both sides, lifting coats and other items and placing them in the overhead lockers. “Best be prepared for a worst-case scenario and a race to somewhere safe—but where?”

  When he’d done all he could, Paul turned up the volume on the TV monitor when he saw the consummate professional addressing the camera. There was no sound. Beneath a worried Mark Harris on the screen were rolling headlines: ‘Latest … the United States 4th Fleet in the Mediterranean Sea retaliates as it is pounded by missiles from the Middle East … the United States 5th Fleet in the Indian Ocean retaliates as it is bombarded from the Middle East … the United States 7th Fleet is under attack from the Southeast Oriental Peninsula … the United States manned rocket to the Moon has disappeared from scanners … The United States declares war … missiles have been fired … Russia has warned of retaliatory strikes … intercontinental ballistic missiles fired from submarines in both the Pacific Ocean and the Atlantic Ocean … European missile sites have been ….’

  The TV picture disappeared—no sound—no screenshot—nothing. It was as if it had no power, but the machine was solar-powered, and the little red light was on. The problem had to be at the source—the news station in London or the rebroadcast units.

  Paul checked his watch. “No chance of reaching a town of any size now—where the hell are you, Dawn?”

  “Paul … Paul … Paul.” The urgent cries were coming from the forest. It was Dawn, the pretty, thirty-year-old guide.

  Paul looked along the two minor tracks across the road. Dawn was running toward the road from the left path. Behind her were a line of people in a variety of outfits. Most were dre
ssed complete with hiking boots, ready for a day going up a mountain to sightsee and have a picnic at altitude. The young woman at the front of the line looked unusually anxious, and those in her wake looked distraught. Some were crying as they ran.

  Paul stepped out onto the narrow road to let them see it was clear to run straight to the coach. “Get onboard—Dawn, don’t try to talk—please, just check off the passengers. Remember, we’re looking for twenty-one people apart from us.”

  “What … are we … going to … do … Paul?” Her question was based on logic, not panic, as she threw her backpack onto the coach between her seat and the driver’s seat. “Where can we go?”

  “I have a plan—count these people and get the air conditioning on.” He turned to the passengers as they approached. “Please … get to your seats and buckle-up.”

  Some people were walking because they were now tired, and others supported them with an arm around the shoulders. The tourists were aged between twenty-five and fifty-five, and they were all British citizens, so at least no language barriers existed.

  A tall, muscular black man in his twenties came out of the track with his arm around a woman in her fifties. He whispered something to her, and though she was crying, she nodded and tried to smile. She thanked her handsome companion and walked to the coach. The man stayed on the road at the rear of the coach.

  “Hi, Paul, I’m Calvin, and I’m the last one.”

  “Thanks, Calvin.”

  Calvin glanced over his shoulders again, ensuring nobody else was around. He looked Paul in the eye. “Have we got any hope of reaching somewhere?”