The Bridge

by Simon Winstanley

  Images of tedious old disaster movies filled his head; capital city landmarks that always seemed to bear the brunt of meteorite strikes, famous coastlines engulfed by immense tidal waves, and the people running screaming through the streets.

  Something the man had said now triggered a thought.

  “Help me up,” he raised his hand.

  USV3

  Months had passed since the lunar shards had first impacted the Earth. During that time, Marcus had lived through the rise and fall of a despotic regime, and lost several of his friends from the Warren.

  The friendships and alliances he’d subsequently made within the Dover USV had been driven by a problem that faced everyone: the events of the past few months had left them all trapped underground.

  United by their confinement, Marcus and the others had worked to find a solution that would allow them to leave the USV and explore the world above. The Iseult, the first of several planned submarines, was the result of those efforts.

  In a series of controlled manoeuvres, their craft had exited the USV via a purpose-built submarine dock. Standing aboard the compact craft, Marcus stared at the monitor that showed their rear view. Through the low-lit water, he could see the outline of the USV’s massive airlock door.

  It was hard to believe that just six months ago, he and Sabine had gained entry to the facility using the same door. Of course, the train they’d been clinging to had been moving through nothing but air. The site was unrecognisable now.

  “I was here before it flooded,” Marcus stared blankly, recalling the hundreds of people who’d been aboard the portion of the train that had been left behind, “The poor sods never had a chance.”

  He could see the thickly intertwined safety guide ropes that crossed through the oppressive volume of water. Seemingly caught within the web-like ropes, was the twisted carcass of a train carriage, torn open along its side.

  “I don’t know if this is any consolation,” Tristan Westhouse spoke from the forward compartment, “but when we were out there, we never saw any bodies. They could’ve got out before it flooded.”

  Sitting next to Tristan, Izzy Kitrick was nodding in agreement.

  Tristan and Izzy had risked their lives diving through these waters in order to move a vehicle that had been blocking the USV entrance. They had no reason to lie about what they’d discovered, but he knew there must have been fatalities; the lunar shards that had impacted the Earth would inevitably have caused planet-wide tsunamis. Given that the Eurotunnel was flooded, it would be naive to assume that everyone had survived. A few minutes later, his opinion was given some stark reinforcement.

  Looking like a geology book illustration, the shattered, circular end of the tunnel was surrounded by layers of rock; each earth-toned stripe getting brighter as it rose out of the sea’s depths.

  Tristan picked up the handset and made contact with Sarah Pittman who’d remained behind at the USV.

  “USV, this is the Iseult.”

  Marcus saw Izzy briefly close her eyes and shake her head at the fact the sub had been named after her.

  “Receiving, over,” came Sarah’s reply.

  “We’re at the drop-off,” he reported, “High turbulence on exit. Proceeding to the Glaucus Dock land entrance for visual inspection.”

  Though originally built on the dry land above the USV, Marcus knew that the land entrance was now underwater. A few months ago, he’d watched Sabine and the other Warren occupants depart up through the USV’s vertical access shaft to dock with the waiting Sea-Bass submarine.

  Rising through the water now, it didn’t take long to arrive at the site.

  “Oh no…” Izzy covered her mouth.

  The view in front of Marcus crushed his chest.

  The Glaucus airlock mechanism above the access shaft was a mangled wreck.

  Tristan, whose own crew had been aboard the Sea-Bass, was assessing the site with darting eyes.

  “It’s OK,” he reassured Izzy, “They got away.”

  Marcus had grown to trust Tristan’s unique intellect, but right now he needed reassurance, “How d’you know?”

  Tristan began pointing at the airlock and the various stumps of building debris that surrounded it.

  “It’s only been a few months, so I’d expect to see large hull fragments,” he explained, “There aren’t any.”

  Marcus pictured an intact Sea-Bass beyond the forward window, “Where would they have gone?”

  Tristan appeared to consider his answer, “The original plan was to return to the ARC.”

  “So let’s go and find them,” said Izzy.

  Marcus felt his attention drawn to one of the console dials, and realised that actually finding the Atlantic Ridge Colony may be difficult.

  “Might be a bit tricky,” he pointed, “Your compass is a mess.”

  The arrow was fluctuating so rapidly that all directions appeared to be north.

  “It’s just interference,” Tristan watched the arrow, “It’ll stabilise.”

  Marcus watched as the compass needle skipped and jittered to a hovering halt.

  Izzy frowned, “So we head southwest to get to the ARC?”

  Tristan nodded and began entering the appropriate bearing.

  Marcus knew that the best odds of seeing Sabine and the others lay in heading for the ARC. But even at top speed, the Iseult would take several days to make the the trip.

  In contrast, his former home town was much closer. The odds that anyone had survived there were slim, but he had to know for sure; it could be several months before he’d be able to return to this part of the world.

  “Tristan,” he said, “Can we go north first?”

  “But…” Tristan frowned and pointed to the compass.

  “It would just be a few hours.”

  “I don’t know,” Tristan was hesitant, again looking at the course direction on the compass, “I think we’re supposed -”

  “Tris,” Marcus quietly interrupted him, “I’ve never asked you for anythin’ but I’m asking now… please… I need to know.”

  Tristan sighed and shook his head, although Marcus didn’t know if it was in disapproval or denial of the request.

  Moving cautiously through the water, the Iseult left Dover behind.

  SHARD

  When the Moon had torn itself apart, it had unleashed seven super-fragments. Over several hours, all of them had impacted the equator. Throughout the onslaught there had also been a continual bombardment of smaller shards that had fallen worldwide.

  Although they had taken four days to reach the Earth, each new lunar shard took only a few seconds to cover the remaining distance to the ground.

  From her high perspective, Megan saw it all happening.

  Each time, as if being conjured out of thin air, a solid beam of broiling smoke and steam would draw itself across the sky, tipped by a white-hot lunar shard. Sometimes the shard would burn up, leaving an arc of black ash hanging unnervingly in mid-air. Other times were more terrifying.

  Like a needle passing effortlessly through layers of cloth, the line of smoke would lance through tall buildings before striking ground. Amid the fires of impact, there were no weighty, slow-motion collapses; entire city blocks would simply crumble in mere seconds.

  Then the process would begin again in a different part of the sky; a lethal, heavy rain that tore the air and pummelled the ground.

  Everywhere she looked, civilisation was being erased and history was fading into insignificant footnote. In a near miss, she’d watched as London Bridge had fallen down. The structure wiped from existence, it would now only be remembered as a children’s nursery rhyme. Assuming there were any future children at all.

  Then there was a curious calm.

  Through a sky littered with rainbows of black ash, thousands of birds suddenly flocked past. Migrating as one, a riotous cacophony began to fill the air.

  The noise filled her mind and she felt her heart hammering. Screams from the street below began to r
ise in pitch, and she turned to see what the birds were fleeing from.

  What she saw wasn’t the horizon, but the man in black. He was making his way out of the shadows and walking towards her, raising a gun.

  “Hey,” he shook her arm.

  As she screamed, the gun dissolved into shadow and the man’s featureless face began to resolve itself in the dim light.

  “Megan, it’s me! It’s OK.”

  Still breathing rapidly, it took her a moment to realise she was no longer in the grip of a terrifying memory.

  Terry sat down next to her, “You OK?”

  She nodded and tried to bring her breathing back under control.

  “Sorry,” she sighed loudly, “Thought I was done with this nightmare crap. Did I wake you?”

  “No,” he stood and pointed to the central staircase, “Thought I heard something, so I was just gonna check it out. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  She looked into the darkness and found herself focusing on her nightmare again.

  “I was back at the Gene Pool,” she made a vague gesture at her head, “You know? But it was all mixed up. I was here too.”

  “It’s gonna take time,” he quietly made his way over the carpeted floor and reached into a cupboard.

  “It’s been months,” she sighed, “I just wanna get past it now.”

  “I know,” he consoled her and held up a candle, “D’you want me to light it?”

  Since the events at the Gene Pool, he’d almost become a father figure; a figure that was missing from her life, and a role that seemed to have given him a sense of purpose. Right now, he was trying to offer some comfort; a little light to dispel the darkness of her night terrors.

  “No, it’s OK, we’ve gotta preserve our supplies,” she glanced at the other side of the room, “It’ll be dawn soon. I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” she stood and walked to their window on the world.

  The scintillating ring of lunar debris that now surrounded the planet, was casting its faint twilight glow on the world fifty-two storeys beneath them.

  It had been a desperate gamble but, as Terry had pointed out, survival was just about the odds. If he’d been wrong, it wouldn’t have mattered: they would have died just as easily as everyone in the tunnel shelters.

  “So many people…” her voice trailed off.

  Somewhere behind her, she heard Terry sigh.

  “You should come away from there,” he said, “Don’t make it harder on yourself.”

  A cold chill passed through her; a wave of soul-eroding survivor guilt that made every day seem a little emptier than the last.

  She turned away and saw that Terry’s face was a picture of concern.

  “You alright Meg?” he checked.

  “No, but…” she shrugged, “I just don’t know what I would’ve done without you and the guys… but now they’re -”

  She found she couldn’t speak anymore.

  Of their original group of six, she and Terry were the only survivors. An Exordi Nova sympathiser in their midst had brought death to their group.

  In the dim light she saw a match flare.

  “There,” said Terry, lighting the candle.

  The small flame spread its warm light and chased the shadows to the corners of the room. In the candlelight, she could see his eyes were slightly glossy now.

  “A light,” he said, “to remember those we lost, an’ guide the way ahead.”

  He placed the candle on the window ledge.

  From their elevated position, halfway up The Shard skyscraper, they waited for sunrise.

  WAKE

  Long after the lunar shards had impacted, they’d left another form of disruption in their wake: the oceans were saturated with debris.

  The fine particulate matter hanging in the water had introduced an extra layer of interference to the Iseult’s sonar readings. Navigation had been further complicated by a more geographical factor: their journey was over former areas of dry land.

  Emerging from the ever-present aquatic fog, drowned landscapes and towns would slowly fade into view. Ghosted outlines of electricity pylons and fallen buildings would coalesce into focus before being swallowed again by the cold haze.

  When Marcus had asked Tristan why they didn’t just navigate their way on the surface, the reply made total sense; they would be blind to the perils within the water. As the hours continued to pass, Marcus could see it was true. Everywhere, remnants of architecture stretched up from the ground and ended in jagged peaks that lay just below the surface of the water.

  “Is the water clearing?” Marcus squinted out through the small forward window.

  “Possibly,” Tristan nodded, “The surroundings could be acting like a filter, stopping the drift of debris. The further we go, the more that’s being trapped.”

  A clinking sound caused them to turn and they saw Izzy enter the forward compartment, carrying some water.

  “Thanks,” Tristan accepted a glass.

  “Cheers Izzy,” Marcus shook his head at the view through the window, “Wish it was something stronger though.”

  “I know,” her smile wasn’t quite able to conceal her thoughts, “Right now, we need to be the ‘something’ that’s stronger.”

  Marcus shrugged.

  “Sorry. Just wish that stuff had turned out different,” he gestured at the outside world, “Don’t get me wrong or nothin’, you guys are great, but… we lost a load of people. Makes you think about the choices you made. How things could’ve worked out.”

  Tristan took a drink.

  “Marcus, without you, I’d be dead right now,” he said, “If you hadn’t grabbed me when that walkway collapsed, the fall would have killed me. This sub probably wouldn’t have been built. Everyone back at the USV has a chance to leave now.”

  Marcus sighed, “They owe Nathan, not me.”

  Nathan had closed the access shaft’s airlock, sealing himself on the inside, an action that had stopped the USV from flooding. Although his sacrifice had saved the USV, the fate of the Sea-Bass was still unknown.

  “I keep seeing her face,” Marcus admitted, staring into his empty glass, “You know? Sabine trusted me… I thought I was doing the right thing… telling her to go with everyone else… now they’re gone.”

  Tristan, who’d also lost contact with his own friends, cleared his throat.

  “Gone,” he said, “But not dead. They got away.”

  “But you saw the airlock,” Marcus sighed.

  “I did,” he nodded and sat back slightly in his chair.

  “Tris?” Izzy frowned.

  Tristan leaned forward again and lowered his voice.

  “What do you remember about how we first met?”

  “We were at the Glaucus offices,” Izzy watched him intently.

  “Yes,” he said, “You remember me talking about Mat, Pavna and Lucy?”

  “Your crewmates,” said Marcus, pointing upwards, “Up top in the Sea-Bass?”

  Tristan nodded.

  “There was a lot going on. We were trying to get you all out of the USV, but we were dealing with something else at the same time.”

  “Is that why they kept shouting numbers over your radio? Why were -”

  “It’s been months, Tris!” Izzy interrupted, “Why didn’t you say something before now?”

  “Despite all we’ve been through,” he shrugged, “You’d have thought I was insane.”

  “What?” Marcus frowned, “For talkin’ about a radio conversation?”

  “No,” he looked between them both, “Because of the circumstances that brought the Sea-Bass to the USV in the first place.”

  Over the next few minutes, he explained the broken circle symbols that had repeatedly presented themselves; the coffee stains, rust marks, even the blueprints of the Sea-Bass docking ring. He told them of the circular sonar shadow, the massive ice ring anomaly on the ocean floor, and the geometric folding event that had transported them to the
USV’s access shaft.

  “Bollocks,” Marcus expressed his disbelief.

  “This is exactly why I said nothing,” Tristan shrugged.

  “Marcus,” Izzy continued to study Tristan’s face, “I think he’s telling the truth.”

  “The numbers you heard over the radio,” Tristan continued, “They were temperature drops.”

  “Like the ones before the ice ring brought you to the USV?”

  He nodded, “The ring was still surrounding the Sea-Bass when the drops started happening again.”

  Marcus eyed him sceptically.

  “You’re saying that thing moved Sabine and the others somewhere else?”

  “I think so,” Tristan ran a hand over the back of his neck, clearly unsure how to phrase things, “but I know there’s something else to all this.”

  “Like, why the hell didn’t they come back?” said Marcus.

  “We don’t know what the world’s like out there,” Izzy pointed out, “They might still be trying to get back to us.”

  “We should never have left Dover,” Marcus sighed, “We should’ve waited till they got back.”

  “The new relay that we dropped will be there for them,” Tristan attempted to reassure him, “It’ll give them a direct line to Sarah. Her father can’t interfere anymore, so they -”

  “Pittman,” Marcus interrupted, “The bastard deserved worse.”

  The conversation stopped dead.

  The months they’d spent inside the USV had shown them the full extent of Bradley Pittman’s cruel control. Several days before their departure from Dover, his punishment had been finalised. It hadn’t been a popular decision, but it had ensured that his regime couldn’t return.

  A repetitive bleep came from the console. Marcus turned to see that the compass had begun to spin wildly.

  PICO

  Situated just off the North Atlantic Ridge, Pico Island was everything the name suggested: relative to the size of the Earth, it was less than microscopic. Barely nine miles wide, it was a tiny splinter of land in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Archive had chosen it because of its remote location and its abundant supply of hydrothermal energy.