In The End
Series
G J Stevens
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © GJ Stevens 2018 - 2020
The moral right of GJ Stevens to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved.
Copyright under the Berne Convention
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover Illustration Copyright © 2018-2020 by James Norbury Cover design by James Norbury
www.JamesNorbury.com
IN THE END: 2nd Edition
BEFORE THE END: 1st Edition
AFTER THE END: 1st Edition
DEDICATION
To the women in my life.
For Jayne, for giving me the space to create, for being the other side of my coin, my constant.
For Sarah, for giving me inspiration, for our late-night conversations, for my confidence and being my Annie Wilkes.
For my mum who I hope would have read with pride.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Adrian, who reads anything I give him and keeps me grounded whenever I stray from my station.
To Ismena, who believes in me and is constructive in her criticism.
To Scott, who long ago sparked my imagination and who understands a good story if he ever saw it.
To James, for his wonderful talents touching every area where I am weak and his boundless enthusiasm for anything artistic.
To Al, for his contribution. Less words, more inspiration.
To my first readers, Sarah and Janna. Nothing spurs me on more than a late-night text message screaming excitement across the ether.
For my sister, knowing one day she might actually read this.
Thanks to all those who helped me along the way, be it big or small, I am grateful.
Books by GJ Stevens
BEGINNING OF THE END
An ‘In The End’ Novella
OPERATION DAWN WOLF
LESSON LEARNED
FATE’S AMBITION
Contents
Book 1 – In The End
Book 2 – Before The End
Book 3 – After The End
In The End
G J Stevens
1
LOGAN
The first sign was the internet going down, the music streaming into the floor-standing speakers going quiet without warning. A sudden loss of connection; Wi-Fi box rebooted twice and still nothing. The dimming of the lights came next. Not total power failure; the solar panels on the roofs to thank.
Still we drank, draining the supply to a bottle of port bought from the local supermarket on a hangover-fuelled run.
It was New Year's Eve 2017. We'd rented a holiday cottage on the extremes of Cornwall, almost Land's End. The cottage, one of nine in a gated development, each built the new way but made to look old. The doors were a funny proportion; building regulations, I'm told.
Each cottage was built out of the way of the rest in a wide circle, a thick copse of trees separating them. In the centre stood a manager's house, a small shop and a bar.
Where a tenth cottage could have sat was the wide road leading out and in. There were ten of us, the cottage full to bursting. Twin and double rooms were shared despite all but four of us not being coupled. We'd been there four days already, the recycling bin emptied with the ring of bottles each morning. A maid cleaned out the jacuzzi we'd piled in all night until the Atlantic air got too much and we headed back to dry around the wood-burning stove.
We lasted an hour before myself and Andrew dressed, mounting an expedition and walking the couple of hundred steps to the centre of the circle. We weren't the only ones there. A huddle had formed at the open door of the manager's house, a half-drunk crowd shouting over each other.
I remember the concern on Andrew's face. Our worst fear; the little shop had run out of its overpriced alcohol and the mob were about to lynch the grey-haired manager unless he'd drive a rescue party to the nearest twenty-four-hour supermarket. We still thought it was true as the door closed in our faces. People turned to each other. Some were strangers. Some were not. All were dumbfounded at his actions, but before the small crowd could become a mob, the door opened and out came the guy with an ancient radio in his hand, garbled words and static rattling from the paint-flecked speakers.
The crowd hushed as more joined at our backs. We were now in the middle of a group, hushing too, listening to a voice settle. A handful of words come clean from the speaker. A power station had been attacked by terrorists; the nuclear reactor in Somerset.
Panic rippled through the group, radiating adrenaline working to nullify the alcohol. Two of the group pushed outwards and I turned to see them running back to one of the nine houses. We continued to listen, my heart pounding in the near silence.
The sudden drop in power to the grid had destabilised the network; emergency breakers had sacrificed the South West to save the rest of the nation from total darkness. The radio broke up as the word radiation came isolated from the rest of the sentence by static.
Andrew and I stared, soon turning to other, but we’d read no more meaning. Then came the reassurance again. The damage was not to the reactor but to the distribution system. There was no immediate danger of radiation leaking. The core was stable.
Torn between the silence from the radio and sharing the news with the others, we peeled away and back to the cottage. Thoughts of alcohol were long gone, but we found the house quiet, bedroom doors closed up tight. It could wait for the morning. The voice from the
