UK2 (Project Renova Book 3) Read online

  UK2

  (Project Renova Book 3)

  Terry Tyler

  ©Terry Tyler 2017

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without the express written permission of Terry Tyler.

  All rights reserved.

  A big thank you to my husband, to Julia, my proofreading sister, and to all my readers ~ Abbie, Abi, Aiden, Alison, Amy, Andrea, Avril, Barb, Caryl, Cathy, Cathy, Christine, Claire, Deborah, Douglas, Eduard, Gemma, Gerry, Helen, Jackie, Jo, Judee, Judith, Julie, Kate, Katrina, Kev, Keven, Lilyn, Linda, Linda, Liz, Mark, Mary, Mary, Mr Bard, OJ, Olga, Rose, Rosie, Shelley, Soo, Teri, Val,

  and anyone who has enjoyed this series enough to reach the last part in the trilogy.

  INTRODUCTION

  Book #2, Lindisfarne, ended in spring 2026, with an epilogue skipping forward to December 2026, featuring two new characters, Seren and Hawk. If you would like a recap of the events in Tipping Point and Lindisfarne, please click HERE.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Part One

  Chapter 1 Dex

  Chapter 2 Lottie

  Chapter 3 Flora

  Chapter 4 Vicky

  Chapter 5 Lottie and Martin

  Chapter 6 Doyle

  Chapter 7 Devonport, Tasmania

  Chapter 8 Flora

  Chapter 9 Lottie

  Chapter 10 Dex

  Chapter 11 Lottie and Martin

  Chapter 12 Vicky

  Chapter 13 Lottie

  Chapter 14 Doyle

  Chapter 15 Dex

  Chapter 16 Flora

  Chapter 17 An island in the Pacific

  Part Two

  Chapter 18 Vicky and Lottie

  Chapter 19 Flora

  Chapter 20 Doyle

  Chapter 21 Lottie

  Chapter 22 Martin

  Chapter 23 UK Mercia

  Chapter 24 Dex

  Chapter 25 Vicky

  Chapter 26 UK Mercia

  Part Three

  Chapter 27 Flora

  Chapter 28 An island in the Pacific

  Chapter 29 Lottie

  Chapter 30 Doyle

  Chapter 31 Lottie

  Chapter 32 Doyle

  Chapter 33 Flora

  Chapter 34 Lottie

  Chapter 35 Flora

  Chapter 36 Vicky

  Chapter 37 Dex

  Epilogue: Martin

  The Story So Far

  Author's Note

  Other Books by Terry Tyler

  Part One

  June ~ August 2026

  Chapter One

  Dex

  June 2026

  When he looks back at the pre-virus Dex Northam, he sees but a cardboard cut-out of the man he is now. His life was two-dimensional, centred around words on pages and screens. Evenings were spent fine-tuning his and Jeff's blog posts about the shadowy figures behind world government for their audience of conspiracy addicts, while Vicky sat happily bovine on the sofa, safe in her fantasy of their perfect life in the cottage by the sea.

  Each weekday morning he would enjoy a peaceful half-hour drive to Wroxton College, where he would presume to analyse the innermost thoughts of writers long dead, in an effort to educate his eager and not-so-eager students.

  Like he had a clue.

  He had never met Chaucer or the mystery author of Beowulf; he had not lived in their worlds, walked in their shoes. How could he, his students or colleagues, claim to understand the hardship suffered by Dostoevsky, the allegedly brilliant mind of James Joyce? And who the hell really enjoyed Joyce, if they were honest?

  More to the point, did any of it matter?

  If faced with a roomful of students today, he would say, 'Read it, enjoy it, or don't. Then put the book away, get up, go out, and live."

  Now, he likens the reading of fiction to watching life through a window.

  When he looks back on the pre-virus Dexter Northam, he sees a man who only semi-existed.

  Real life is now.

  Glorious life, pulsating with danger, triumph and colour.

  Dex looks out on his island, his territory, from the courtyard of his castle high above his land. He sees matchstick men in the far distance, his people, who won't always like him or agree with his decisions, but that doesn't matter; leadership is not about popularity.

  Leadership is about strength.

  It's also about power, but he keeps this to himself.

  Nobody can imagine how good power feels until they have it.

  He suffered too many years at the mercy of those who decided how much he should earn, how he should teach, the extortionate amount he should repay on top of his original loan for four walls and a roof.

  Now, he wonders if his rage against the shadowy figures who rule the world was an attempt to bring himself to their notice, or borne out of sheer frustration because he was not one of them.

  Dex has lived amongst those of pedestrian intelligence for too long. The inhabitants of his island, for instance, who, because they can no longer stare goggle-eyed at screens for most of their useless waking moments, liken their current situation to medieval times. Every day, he hears statements that make him want to scream at their lack of insight.

  'Fetching water in buckets—it's like living in the bloody Middle Ages!'

  'What's next, the Black Death and the Wars of the Roses?'

  Yet their life is nothing like that of seven hundred years ago. The survivors of Project Renova are lazier, less skilled, more self-obsessed and weaker of spirit than their ancestors, but still they are far more fortunate. Much of the 21st century is still at their disposal: preserved, packaged food, batteries, generators, fuel. Medicine, disinfectant, vehicles—the list is endless.

  Life has veered off in a crazy direction, but it has not gone backwards.

  Change is an inevitable part of this human life, but it was only the speed of this particular swerve that gave the impression of disaster. Most sociological shifts occur so slowly that you scarcely notice them happening, until someone recalls their grandparents referring to co-habiting as 'living in sin', or considers the many generations of women not permitted a voice, even in their own homes.

  In July 2024, the population was blasted out of its comfort zone overnight, that's all. Possibly for the better, in the long run, but he can't expect the island's worker bees to appreciate this concept. Most do not think. They just react, and repeat the views of others, like sheep.

  Somewhere down in the village a motorbike roars past, and Dex allows himself a wry smile. The one person who might have echoed these thoughts was Heath, though of course they’d scarcely talked, and now never will.

  The community has grown; Dex has over seventy subjects now. In the past few months more survivors have turned up at the newly constructed wall at the entrance to the causeway, seeking sanctuary. Most have been allowed in. An information system has been established, essential once the community grew too large for every resident's details to be immediately recalled. Scott takes a photo of each new arrival with a Polaroid camera, and keeps it in a file with a rundown of the individual's skills. Thus, Dex can match body to task for all necessary work.

  Scott also records details of newly-formed relationships or emerging areas of conflict. Dex does not want a repeat of the unwelcome situations of the previous year: the eviction of Jonas the thieving gossipmonger, and Neil, who was stupid enough to get caught screwi
ng fifteen-year-old Avery Lincoln.

  Affairs of the heart remain unaffected by the collapse of civilisation, and there is always somebody screwing someone they shouldn't.

  Two of the more dim-witted islanders—Paul Lincoln and Gareth Jones—refer to Scott as Dex's secretary, and make jokes about him sitting on Dex's knee to take shorthand. Scott is embarrassed by this; Dex doesn't care. Scott is an old associate from Unicorn, but there is not much call for his limited skills—mainly computer hacking—on Lindisfarne; he should be glad Dex has found a use for him.

  Dex’s eyes come to rest on the road leading from the village to the castle, where he sees Vicky mooching along, tired from a long day at the hotel. She always mooches these days, but she'll get over it. Here, they are building, growing, progressing. He couldn't have let her and Lottie go off to flounder on some ramshackle East Anglian smallholding. They wouldn't have lasted six months, and both are needed here on Lindisfarne.

  When a little bird whispered in his ear about the secret assignations next door to the quarantine house, his anger was intense. How could he command respect when his own partner was making a fool of him?

  When he heard that they were planning to leave together, he was given no choice.

  Kara should have been more careful who she told; it is always a mistake to assume where a friend's loyalties lie.

  He looks out, enjoying the blue of the sky reflected by the cold North Sea. Vicky was so joyful in the girlish love affair that wouldn't have lasted five minutes once the honeymoon sheen wore off. She was not the only one who suffered; subjugating his own anger at betrayal in order to maintain the status quo came at no small cost—Wedge was a fine soldier, and a good companion.

  Vicky is his chosen partner. The right woman for the job. She is easy on the eye, kind, and people like her, trust her.

  The others fulfil different purposes. Naomi is the mother of his son. She has earned her place in his life, even if her face and body do not enchant him as Vicky's do, though, alas, Vicky has no inclination towards sex at the moment. Silly girl is still mourning her biker boy, but that's okay; he can wait until she's ready. In the meantime, something intended as nothing more than the scratching of an itch has blossomed, its necessary secrecy adding thrill to their encounters.

  He has the perfect trio. The wife, the mother, the lover. The others are as unimportant as they ever were. Momentary satisfaction of a fleeting urge, in the way of men.

  It is early summer, and Dex is pleased with his organisation of the community. This is the best time of the year for food production, on which their existence depends. Some of Phil's men have learned the principles of animal husbandry, and are breeding pigs and chickens. Tall, barbed wire-edged fences have been erected around the farm, and two armed guards stand on permanent watch, along with two German Shepherds that arrived with new residents Dan and Aiden.

  Summer also means good fishing; Audrey and her little team have become most proficient at drying and smoking. Kara's scavenging groups find stocks of flour, oats and pulses, along with tinned food, household goods and petrol. The availability of these items, along with ammunition and petrol, is limited, but Dex feels sure that by the time sources run dry, the world will change again.

  How, he doesn't know. Lindisfarne is the best of now, but the open book of the future excites him.

  Happily, there has been no follow-up to the invasion of last December. There has been trouble, yes; only last month a pack of army renegades turned up, but the new barricade is impenetrable. Parks shot two of them dead, and the rest scarpered.

  This time, there was no great uproar about the killings. The islanders are beginning to understand. In order to preserve what they have, people may die. This is the world, now. Some shut their eyes, pretend it's not happening, but nobody complains.

  Dex feels good. Whole. The discovery of his literary talent brings him yet more joy; like his aptitude for leadership, this gift might have remained forever hidden had the old world not fallen off its perch. His study of post-virus life is progressing nicely; when he has finished a section he takes it to the house he used to share with Naomi, so she can suggest suitable amendments. There, children run around in the courtyard, outside the makeshift school-nursery that she, Suzanne and Myra set up. There are twelve children now, one of whom is, of course, his son. Phoenix chortles when he sees Dex, and totters over on shaky, sixteen-month-old legs. He looks more like him every day. Dex understands, now, what he was missing by thinking he didn't want children. To have made another person in your own image: the ultimate creation.

  One day, Phoenix will be a great leader in this new world, too.

  Dex will show him how.

  Chapter Two

  Lottie

  July 2026

  "Get your fucking hands off him or I'll use it!"

  The dickhead on the ground is sweating, shaking with fear, shouting out to his mate to do as I say, to let Mac go.

  He is shaking with fear because I have a knife at his throat.

  I want to hurt him. I want to stick the knife in.

  These days, I'm more scared of myself than anyone else.

  Twenty minutes earlier

  We're doing a final scout around Berwick. We've picked the shops and most of the houses clean, but Kara wants us to take a last look round pubs, kitchens behind offices, anywhere that might have coffee, tins, disinfectant, loo paper—you get the picture. Lucas and Rob—two new guys—have gone off siphoning petrol. Kara's with Nish, and I'm with Mac.

  It's warm, muggy and airless, not like the bright, fresh summer days that, if Granny was to be believed, were the norm before I was born. I'm wearing my leather jacket over a cami, and I'm sweating. Mac tells me to take it off, but I hate not having it on.

  Kara says it's my security blanket.

  Whatever.

  Mac's in his leather waistcoat with wings on the back, over a black t-shirt hanging out of his jeans; the baggy black clothes make his arms look even more white and skinny than usual. He's much too thin. Doesn't eat the right stuff. When I give him rice, spuds and pasta he moans, shoves it away, and eats a stale Snickers, instead. He wants burgers and chips, but we rarely make chips because it's a waste of oil, and burgers sit alongside ice cream on the 'Do You Remember' list.

  He's grinning at me. He looks dead sexy with his dark fringe in his eyes. I love his hair. It's long, tatty and dark, like mine. He says he loves me, and I suppose I love him too, but my head's gone all weird since Heath died.

  Mac says it's not just 'cause I miss Heath. It's because of The Problem.

  You know, the Big Gigantic Enormous one.

  Telling Mum about Dex.

  Mac understands, but he doesn't do 'owt soft' like make me talk about it. He just says odd sentences that kind of nail it, then shuts up. Like when he asked me to tell him I loved him and I couldn't. He said, "It's okay, I know y'do. Y'just cannit get your head together 'cause of y'mam and that shitehawk."

  I try to blot out The Problem, but it taps at the back of my head, asking to be thought about, every minute of every day.

  I told Mac because I thought I was going to go mad, and I had no one else to talk to.

  Jax won't discuss it. I hardly see him. He's either on watch, in the Monk's with the Hadrian, or out and about on his own. The only one of us he spends time with is Ozzy, and I think that's because he can get stoned with him and talk about shit, not real stuff.

  I'm going to tell Mum very soon. Mac says I have to. I just don't know how.

  Berwick's dead sad and quiet; I'm glad the sun's gone in and the rain clouds are rolling in, 'cause deserted, ransacked towns look worse in the sunlight.

  "In here," Mac says, and pulls me into a pub on the road down into the town. It's got the flag of England in the window. Lucas and Rob's friend, Kelly, used to live in Berwick; she told me they liked to show that they were English and proud of it, because for hundreds of years the town was at the centre of a tug of war between England and Scotland. Sometimes it wa
s in one country, sometimes in the other.

  Funny how stuff like that used to matter.

  Mac shines his torch around. "Howay, I'm having that."

  Amongst several empty bottles of Bud on a table there is one unopened; he knocks off the top on the edge of the bar, slurps some down and hands it to me. It tastes good. Warm, but good. He takes my hand in his big, knobbly one (I love his hands), and we investigate further.

  It honks in here. That lingering smell of rotten meat and fish. Must be from the freezer, even though it will have rotted away to nothing by now.

  OMG. On the wall are pictures of steak and chips, roast beef and Yorkshire pud, so I redirect my torch. Don't want to break Mac's heart. There's still booze behind the bar, but Kara will go ape if we go back with that and nothing else, so we make our way round the back and down to the cellar, where we hit a very stinky jackpot.

  "Oh, Jesus! Ew!"

  It really honks down here. Dead rats. I choke and splutter, and take out my scarf to tie round my face; it's got peppermint oil on it, we all take them when we're out scavenging. Despite the smell, we find dusty but clean tins of vegetables, fruit pie filling and custard, jars of coffee, soft drinks and tubs of Bisto, all intact. We cram as much as we can into our backpacks, and dash back upstairs as quickly as we can.

  I stop to nick two bottles of Jackie D.

  When we push the door of the pub open it's just started to rain, the sort that makes the air feel fresher. I like the smell of it on the pavements; I stop, shut my eyes and breathe it in, but it brings back a memory of walking off the beach in Shipden after a summer thunderstorm with our next-door-neighbour Claire and her kids, who all died, so I open my eyes and take several glugs of Jack.

  "Take it easy," Mac says.

  I wipe my mouth with my hand, and give him a 'look'. "You're supposed to be a freewheeling biker, not the booze police. If I wanted to shag a straight-laced twat, I'd be with Ollie or Glenn, wouldn't I?"