The sentences are so shocking that Clara immediately thinks she’s misheard. The elders don’t age, and they don’t fall sick. For some reason, Clara assumed they were immune to accidents, as well.
Her head swimming, she tugs on a pair of shorts and a loose shirt, realising that there are five numbers written on her right wrist. She must have put them there last night, but she can’t remember doing it.
Unable to make sense of them, she steps into her sandals, then runs out into the heat after Magdalene. By the time she arrives in the rear yard, the warehouse is smouldering in the driving rain and a dozen villagers are dragging the ancient, much-patched hosepipe out of storage. There’s a fire hydrant built into the wall of the abandoned infirmary, which pumps water up from the ocean.
Emory carried Niema’s body out of the warehouse a few minutes ago, placing it reverentially on the cable-car station steps. A few of the villagers are weeping nearby, but Emory’s kneeling by the body, coolly poking her finger through a bloody tear in Niema’s dress.
‘Mum,’ says Clara, laying a hand on her mother’s shoulder.
Emory glances up at her. The ash coating her face is being streaked by rain, revealing the olive skin beneath. Her eyes are red with tears and hollowed out by grief, but there’s a sparkle in them. She has a question, thinks Clara.
‘You okay?’ she asks softly.
‘Something’s wrong with all of this,’ says Emory, widening the hole in the dress to reveal a deep wound in the centre of Niema’s chest.
Her curiosity reeks of disrespect, and Clara can already hear the murmurs of disapproval buzzing in the air.
‘Come on,’ says Clara, trying to tug her away. ‘We should get you cleaned up.’
Wood groans, then shrieks. A crash comes from the warehouse, followed by a belch of dust rolling out of the door and lower windows. It’s followed a few seconds later by three distinct wet thuds.
Emory exchanges a horrified glance with Clara. The noise was too soft to be wood or brick, and the same awful suspicion has entered both of their minds.
Staggering back into the smoke, they finds the bodies of three villagers lying on a pile of rubble. The floor above must have collapsed, bringing them down with it.
Glancing upwards, Clara sees arms and legs dangling over the edge of the hole.
‘How many more are there?’ asks Emory, shell-shocked.
‘Too many,’ I admit.
TWENTY-ONE
Oblivious to what’s happening in the village, Shilpa and Abbas wake up in a tin-roofed shelter on the farms to the east, next to the dead cow they were trying to save. The cabbages, kale and parsnips around them are oozing and putrid.
‘Abi?’ queries Abbas, staring at a carrot that’s turned to mush under his heel.
‘I see it,’ I reply.
Shilpa lets the soil crumble through her fingertips. Every vegetable in a five-foot-wide patch around them is black and lifeless.
‘It’s dead,’ says Abbas, horrified. ‘The soil is dead. What could have done this in one night?’
‘Disease,’ I lie. ‘You should bury the cow before it begins to rot.’
‘Where are my boots?’ asks Shilpa, wriggling her toes. ‘I was wearing them when I fell asleep. Why would anybody take my old boots?’
‘We’ve got bigger problems than your boots,’ says Abbas, who’s wandered through the open door of the warehouse, where the harvested crops are kept.
Every shelf is empty.
‘Our stores are gone,’ he says. ‘We don’t have any food.’
TWENTY-TWO
Rojas lays the last body on the cable-car station steps, before backing away in numb disbelief.
After a thorough search of the warehouse, they found three more people inside, bringing the total number of dead to seven. They have been placed in a neat row, where their families can mourn them. They’re clinging to each other and sobbing, begging to know what happened.
‘Niema and the others were trying to put the fire out,’ I say. ‘Niema was crushed, and the others died of smoke inhalation. It was a dreadful accident.’
It’s a plausible enough story, and they accept it without question. After all, it’s impossible to live in the village without losing somebody to accident, or illness. Tools shatter. Fires start. Roofs collapse. It wasn’t that long ago that Thea lost five apprentices in a boat wreck, including Emory’s husband.
Moving among the crowd, Clara is trying to comfort people as best she can, while examining the faces of the dead. She knew them vaguely, but they sat at the other end of the communal tables – far enough away to be friendly without necessarily being friends.
She sweeps her gaze across the yard, looking for her mother whom she lost in the confusion.
‘She went back into the warehouse,’ I tell her.
Clara stares at the building, which is currently being doused by a hose so powerful it requires six villagers to keep it under control. We drill fire emergencies every month, and they’re expertly beating back the flames, huge plumes of dirty smoke pouring out of the windows.
‘There’s two hundred bar of pressure in those hoses,’ she says incredulously. ‘If one of them hits her, it’s going to blast her through the wall.’
‘I pointed that out.’
‘And?’
‘She said she’d duck.’
Clara scans the windows, searching for any sign of Emory, but there’s no obvious movement inside.
‘What’s she doing?’
‘Being Emory,’ I reply.
More villagers are arriving in the rear yard, drawn by news of the tragedy. Watching them arrive, Clara realises they’re all hurt in some way. There are cuts and scratches, gouges, scrapes, nicks, black eyes and bruised limbs. Some are hunched over, cradling broken ribs, wincing as they breathe. The extent of the injuries worries Clara, who’s yet to see Hui. If her friend isn’t in bed, she’s normally wherever the commotion is, but there’s no sign of her.
‘Where is she?’ she asks, remembering the smashed violin she found in their dorm.
‘Hui is no longer connected to my mitochondrial network,’ I admit.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I can’t hear her thoughts or see through her eyes.’
Clara stares at the bodies, a sick feeling rising in the pit of her stomach. ‘Does that mean she’s –’
‘Not necessarily,’ I interject.
‘I don’t understand … how does … if she’s …’ Her thoughts are all arriving at once, like ten people trying to squeeze through a narrow door.
‘Where’s Thea?’ she asks, at last.
TWENTY-THREE
Thea is snoring on a camp bed at the bottom of an old munitions silo, her arms and legs splayed over the sides. She started living in here years back, after discovering it was much cooler than anywhere else on the island, and happily free of rats.
A memory gem is clutched in her hand, its green glow seeping through her clenched fingers. There are four more scattered around her; all of them taken from Blackheath before it was lost.
Before society collapsed, these gems were the dominant form of entertainment. People bought memories the way they’d previously bought music, books, videogames and movies. Instead of watching sport, they bought the memories of somebody taking part, then experienced the game themselves. For a few hours, everybody could be the lead singer in a rock band, or participate in pornography first-hand.
Of course, it wasn’t all so innocent. Serial killers had their memories excavated and sold on the black market to fund their defence. Certain countries loosened their laws, allowing the legal trade of rape and child-exploitation memories. A few governments tried to ban the technology, but humanity does not easily abandon its pleasures, even the vile ones.