The Swarm Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  THE SWARM

  “With echoes of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road and John W. Campbell Jr.’s Who Goes There?, The Swarm is a tension-filled apocalyptic nightmare… as stark and unrelenting and chilling as its Arctic setting.”

  — Richard Chizmar

  New York Times best-selling author

  “Shocking and brutal, The Swarm explores the gruesome, desperate distances we'll travel to protect those we love. You can feel the cold, smell the death, and taste the terror on every page.”

  — Tim Lebbon

  New York Times bestselling author of The Silence & The Last Storm

  “A chilling tale for the end of the world.”

  — Priya Sharma

  British Fantasy & Shirley Jackson Award winning author of Ormeshadow

  “If ecological, apocalyptic, survival horror is a thing, then O’Connor has tapped the vein of those genres and bled them dry. A gripping and tension-filled read.”

  — Ross Jeffery

  Bram Stoker Award-nominated author of Tome

  THE

  SWARM

  BOOKS BY

  SEÁN O’CONNOR

  The Mongrel

  Weeping Season

  The Blackening

  Keening Country

  Revelations

  Horror Writers for Climate Action

  The Swarm

  THE

  SWARM

  SEÁN O’CONNOR

  I D O L U M

  Copyright © 2023 Seán O’Connor

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Idolum Publishing

  Dublin, Ireland

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Cover Artwork by Boz Mugabe

  ISBN: 978-1-8383788-8-2

  Digital Edition

  For Samuel

  Never Change

  “Vast and awful, the night hardens between us.”

  — 40 Watt Sun

  PART ONE

  REMNANTS

  Jeremy Boucher reached out to calm his son, Rémy, as he whimpered in his sleep. Another bad dream. They were becoming all too regular – especially during the dead of night when the fuselage interior was at its coldest. He pulled the boy in closer, hoping his body heat would help sooth him back to sleep, stroking his forehead as he sang in a soft whisper to him, wishing for first light to come. Loud noises in this place of absolute solitude could bring a death sentence, and the reavers didn’t care what they ate, as long as it was alive.

  The dawning light inched in on the back of a ferocious Arctic wind. He left the boy sleeping, wrapped up well, and went outside. Though he couldn’t be sure, he figured they’d already entered winter – he’d lost track of the calendar quite a while ago. He shielded his face as he looked in every direction, seeing white nothingness to the horizon. Their crashed plane, now a makeshift camp, had survived another long night.

  A few feet from the Basler’s cargo door, two boreholes in the ice overflowed with water. He sat on his hunkers and pulled up the fishing lines. Nothing from the sea this morning. Thoughts of another day without breakfast worried him. He replaced the bait with something shiny and went to wake the boy.

  Inside the plane, he lit a gas-powered stove, which soon turned clumps of snow into warm water. Something in the distance caught his attention, possibly a bird singing but he couldn’t be sure. He doubted it in such extreme conditions.

  Rémy shivered while cupping his bowl, listening to his father say grace, then complained of hunger.

  Boucher didn’t reply – nothing he could say would take the pain away. Instead, he hoped some warm liquid would take the cold out of his thinning body. He assisted the boy getting dressed.

  Routine was important to Boucher. It kept him from going insane in a bleak world of insignificance. At first, Rémy was interested in their daily tasks but when days turned to weeks and weeks to months, the sheer mundanity had him turning inward out of sheer boredom.

  Winter had arrived, that much he was sure of. The nights were longer, the water had iced over, and, after the low sun set on pale daylight, the bitter cold of the Arctic Circle became consistent.

  Most mornings, he’d teach Rémy what he could about survival. Simple things, like tying knots properly, and because the boy showed an interest, he would give him a tour of the Basler’s cockpit. Learning to operate a crashed plane seemed useless but it fuelled the boy’s imagination and allowed him to dream about flying away someday. He was only allowed to play with his figurines and read books before bedtime.

  At lunchtime, they inspected the boreholes but found nothing again. Disappointed, the boy wanted to return to the plane to play with his toys, but Boucher pulled rank and reminded him of the importance of their routine, which, in turn, signalled their first argument of the day, with the boy venting his frustration: “We never catch anything anymore.”

  “We have to keep the faith, son.”

  “Why?”

  “Help will come soon.”

  “When?”

  “When our signal is picked up.”

  “From the beacon?”

  “Yes. From the beacon.”

  When the sun was at its highest, though still weak, the wind eased off, allowing them to head east towards the white hills. While they weren’t far, the trek to the summit was hardest on days with empty stomachs.

  From the viewpoint, Boucher surveyed the landscape, keeping his desperation hidden, adding any new features he spotted to his hand-drawn map. He felt sure a fjord lay somewhere close by – the last thing he’d seen before their plane came down. But from high ground, it always seemed to be lost in the vast Arctic waste.

  A few hundred feet from the foot of the hill, what remained of their plane reflected in the sun. Beyond it, nothing but endless white. Behind him, the hill turned sharp and jagged –too advanced for the boy to trek in his weak state. He needed nourishment but it wasn’t coming to them, and the thought of starving to death during an Arctic winter terrified him, especially if he died before Rémy.

  Hours later, at the highest point they could reach, Boucher charged a dynamo in a handmade rescue beacon – patched together from the plane’s transmitter.

  The boy hated this part of the day, mostly because he had to watch hope build in his father’s eyes when the beacon started blinking, then die hours later when their signal went unanswered. “I want to go back to our plane.”

  “One more hour, Rémy.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone might catch the signal this time.”

  “And then what?”

  “We might get away from here.”

  “Where?”

  “South. Hopefully…”

  “Is it warm there?”

  “Warmer than here.”

  “But you said home was gone.”

  “Come here and help me.”

  “No.”

  Normally, his father would correct him when he got sassy. However, not this time. Instead, he nodded once and squeezed his shoulder. Though the cold was numbing, his father’s touch felt good. So much had happened to them, with those reavers taking their world away, along with… his mother. He wouldn’t have blamed his father for lashing out but it felt pretty good that he didn’t – something of a victory – he’d been listened to. They continued to charge the dynamo, hoping for the beacon to be heard.

  An hour later, they trekked down the hill in silence, heading for their plane. Hungry and cold, he could barely feel his toes. As they approached the boreholes, panting with the effort, his father stopped him. “You hear that?”

  It took a moment for a jingling sound on the breeze to fully register against the backdrop of cold silence. “Yes!” Excitement surged through him as he readied to sprint.

  “Don’t run.”

  He turned back, “Why?”

  “I told you before, there are crevasses all over this place.”

  He curled his toes. “Under the snow?”

  “Yes. Always take care before stepping. If you fall into one, I might never see you again.”

  Another lesson – one to remember.

  Snow crunched underfoot as they trudged towards the boreholes. The jingling grew louder as they got closer, both almost gasping with exhilaration. One of the lines danced and bounced, the makeshift chime ringing. His dad grabbed the line and it went taut. With a smile, he began pulling it from the icy water. His brows furrowed with the effort but when brown scales revealed themselves, they both could hardly contain themselves.

  “Woah, it’s a big one,” Rémy screamed, almost clapping.

  Moments later, the large brown fish was out and flopping in the snow, his father’s face etched with pure joy.

  “That’s the biggest fish I’ve ever seen, Dad.”

  His father didn’t reply, but a joyous laugh escaped his lips. Then they both went silent, watching the fish flap as it struggled for life. Its mouth gawped, the eyes almost bulging as it gyrated, too far from the borehole to make it back to safety. It didn’t take long before it be
came still, dead in the cold silence.

  A strong smell filled the fuselage. Normally, they would eat a catch raw to avoid wasting the lighter fuel and what little gas was left in the portable stove. But this was a special occasion. A fish of this size needed to be cooked and enjoyed. Nothing boosted spirits like a warm meal. The plump fillet sizzled in the pan and their stomachs growled in anticipation.

  “Can we eat it all?” the boy said.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “We need to keep some for breakfast… and bait.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s a cod,” Boucher said.

  “What?”

  “The fish. It’s a cod. Big one, too. Hopefully we can use it to catch more like it.”

  “Fish eat fish?”

  “Some do. I guess.”

  “Do people eat people?”

  “I hope not...”

  Silence returned as they devoured their first proper meal in weeks. Outside, the sunlight faded and a dull grey dusk cloaked the landscape. Boucher placed the remains of the fish outside beneath a layer of snow. Afterwards, the interior was prepared for night-time mode by covering the windows and locking the door, then they fell asleep with satisfied stomachs.

  Boucher woke with a fright. He grabbed about, searching for the boy’s sleeping bag, but failed to touch anything. When he sat up, it surprised him to see light inside the fuselage. Disoriented, he scrambled to his feet and searched the plane. He’d told the boy, if he needed to use the toilet, the rule was that he had to wake him. Now the kid was nowhere to be found.

  Outside, bloodstains in the snow by the entrance struck fear into his heart. Panicked, he scanned the wilderness and, to his delight, the boy was standing by one of the boreholes.

  “Rémy! What are you doing?”

  “Dad, the fish. They’re all gone.”

  Snow crunched under angry footsteps as Boucher ran towards him. He grabbed the boy’s shoulders, squeezed as he shook him. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

  “I’m okay. I’m okay!”

  He released his grip and hugged him. “You have to tell me if you’re going outside. It’s not safe.”

  “But the sun is up. Reavers can’t get us when the sun is up.” He looked up, his eyes full of innocence.

  He was right, of course. It took Boucher a few minutes to calm himself and regain focus. The fishing lines had been pulled from the water and abandoned. He studied the scene and noticed markings in the snow. Animal prints – he was sure of it. Large ones, too. The tracks led to the plane.

  “Get back inside now,” he ordered.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t argue with me. Get inside, now!”

  He slammed the Basler’s door shut. The boy sat on his bedding, his eyes wide as Boucher paced from side to side, looking through the round windows, searching.

  “Where are you?” he repeated to himself.

  “What is it, Dad?”

  He looked at the boy, then resumed patrolling, “Bear. I think. It must have been drawn by the smell of last night’s dinner.”

  “Why?”

  “Cause he’s probably just as hungry as we are.”

  “Because of the reavers?”

  “Probably.”

  “But they only come at night, right?”

  “Yes. Which means the bear came at first light and could still be around here somewhere.”

  About an hour later, Boucher felt it was safe enough for him to leave – the daily tasks had to be done and he reckoned the bear had moved on. Well, he hoped. Then, with no other choice, he lied to the boy, telling him everything was going to be okay. While Rémy was young, he wasn’t as naive as he’d initially thought but a little reassurance would do no harm. “I have to go to the beacon.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why, Rémy.”

  “What if the bear comes back?”

  “Then you stay quiet and keep the doors shut.”

  “But I don’t want to be on my own…”

  Boucher didn’t know what to say. He hugged the boy and slipped outside, taking his time – watching. Nothing but cold silence, with an odd snow flurry falling beneath a canopy of grey cloud. The fresh tracks and bloodstains sent a rush of anxiety through him. No way could he leave the boy here. He turned back and opened the door.

  “Right, come on, let’s grab our gear and get moving.”

  “Okay.”

  They set out along the white top towards the hill, Boucher keeping the boy close – each the other’s world. A bitter wind cut right through them as they climbed. When they reached their spot, he used the hand crank to charge the beacon, wishing with all his might for the signal to be heard. He looked to the sky, seeing only cloud, with no sign of life in any direction.

  “Dad…”

  He looked down and Rémy tapped his lower lip. It took him a moment to realize that his lip was bleeding from being clamped between his teeth.

  The wind grew stronger, sharper. Rémy shivered, barely able to keep himself still for more than a few seconds, his teeth chattering as he ducked his head beneath his shoulder in a futile attempt at shelter.

  Boucher wanted to stay another hour, but the boy wasn’t able so he was left with no choice but to give up. As he packed up his things, Rémy jumped to his feet and pointed towards the bottom of the hill, “Dad, Look!”

  “Where?”

  “Right there.” He pointed to what seemed like a plain white backdrop.

  Within the nothingness, a faint movement caught Boucher’s eye and he focused in, realizing that it was larger than he’d imagined, with powerful limbs. That thing would rip us to shreds.

  He pulled the boy down into the snow. “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered, failing to hide the terror in his voice. The large white beast seemed content enough wandering along, stopping every few steps to sniff the air. They watched for what could have been minutes, or an hour, waiting for the bear to move on out of sight. Thankfully, it hadn’t caught their scent.

  With all his focus on the foraging animal, he almost missed the beep, not looking back until a second one had his heart in his mouth. He turned to see a small green bulb flashing. The beacon beeped again. And again. And again. Horrified, he scrambled over to the device and pressed buttons on the panel, cursing as he failed to stop the repeating noise. Sweat stung his eyes as panic set in.

  “Dad?” the boy called, his voice high.

  “I’m trying.”

  “Dad, the polar–”

  “Quiet!”

  He rose to his feet, his eyes locking with the bear’s, staring back at him from the foot of the hill. A stand-off, sound-tracked by the intermittent high-pitched beeping. Both man and beast refused to break the connection, until the unmistakable drone of a plane caught their attention. He searched the sky and his heart wrenched when the aircraft appeared, with black smoke trailing from one of its engines. Then it vanished beyond the hills.

  To his relief, the noise spooked the beast, causing it to disappear back into the white haze. Or, at least, that’s what he hoped. With a sense of urgency, he gripped the boy’s hand and cursed their failed chance of being rescued – their first in months.

  “Damn that fucking bear!”

  At the foot of the hill, Boucher removed a knife from his pants’ pocket and flicked the blade out with a snapping sound. He didn’t say anything to the boy, signalling him to watch instead, showing him an engraving on its handle: To My One & Only, Love, Vicky.

  “Mom?” the boy said.

  “A gift from our last anniversary…” He proceeded to run the blade along his palm, grimacing as the steel invaded his flesh. It had to be done. He closed the knife with his good hand and clenched the other into a fist, squeezing until blood oozed through his fingers.