World's End

by D. B. Green

  Nothing at the rubbish bin near the doors. There’s no sign of anything magic in the car park.

  Luther, don’t worry about Kathy’s hair. It’s a problem when it becomes a problem.

  We’re gonna stop for a Starbucks on the way. I’ll talk to Amber and try to get through her defenses. I need to somehow snap her out of this depression.

  And Luther…

  Leave the whisky alone.

  Pushing myself up, I watch them through the cracked side window of the van as they disappear behind the trees on their way to Wye Bank Bridge.

  Nicci is almost twenty years younger than me, but she’s acting like my mother.

  I rest my prosthetic leg on the table. My knee is throbbing more than usual. One more sip of whisky won’t hurt. I bring the flask to my lips and take a drink.

  That’s better. Numbs the pain as well as the memories. That would be a fitting strapline.

  I toast Nicci’s journal page and then turn back to Kathy’s.

  09:17 GMT

  KATHY MEADOWS

  RUTLAND HOSPITAL | NEW BAKEWELL

  Even though the ward is bright and clean, it feels like I’m walking through a weird haunted house. A deep dread sits in the pit of my stomach. Every step feels like a twist on a roller coaster.

  I close my eyes and block out the nausea. Focusing on my squeaking shoes helps — with each step on the polished floor, the panic fades.

  My hair sparked. I can’t get that fact out of my mind. And the fact that there’s nothing I can do about it makes it worse. The hair dye won't fool anyone for long.

  I stop outside Dean’s room and knock on the door. Even though he’s comatose, I still make the gesture. The other nurses must think I’m nuts. I swipe my card through the reader. The lock clicks and I open the door, pushing the drug trolley into the room.

  It’s dark inside, with only a soft blue glow from the bed showing any resistance. I flick the light switch next to the door. Bright white light floods through the hotel suite-like room, like a morning sunrise on fast forward.

  My heart races as I focus on the table under the window blind.

  The vase.

  It leans on its side, hanging off the edge of the table. Its contents, the blue and green plastic flowers, lay scattered across the lime green chair, with three stems on the blue vinyl floor in the shape of a “K.” Just how I left them. No member of staff has been in the room since I finished my shift last night.

  What’s else is new; no one lifts a finger here if they don’t have to.

  I close the door shut and head to the small bathroom next to the bed. Closing my eyes, I turn the faucet.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  One… Two… Three…

  I slowly open my eyes and stare at my reflection in the mirror — at my orange, highlighted hair. I’m just relieved Luther made me use the dye again. It almost disguises the magic… almost. If Ripley could see my hair sparking, she would turn me into the Military Police without a moment’s thought.

  I quickly wash and sterilize my hands.

  Returning to the bed, I pull back the thin, white sheet. Clamped to Dean’s chest is the Medusa Lapse — the magical cross that keeps him in a coma. Technology blended with magic. It covers most of his chest. Eight clear tubes — Diamond Lines — cut into his thin, pale skin, connecting him to the Lapse. Four on each side, making the Lapse look like a silver alien spider.

  I can still remember the shock of seeing one on my first day here. We searched for them for over a year. The magic, coma-inducing, hybrid device that could lead us to Dean eluded us at every turn. Until I came here… and found them both.

  Dean’s forehead is ice cold. I lower my hand over his cheek. He won’t need shaving for another couple of days. His metabolism is moving at just a fraction of its normal speed. I pull back his eyelids. His constricted pupils are tiny black pinpricks, lost in the middle of his pale blue eyes. Maybe the effects of a drug. The Lapse is pumping something into him, but they won’t tell me what. It’s not just magic keeping him in this state.

  I place my hand over the cross. It’s as cold as Dean. Two more flexible tubes snake out from the center. I follow them up to the Life Support Unit and turn on the screen. The heart rate monitor is the only function used. It shows Dean’s magically-slowed heart rate. Ten beats a minute. The only sign he’s still alive.

  The Medusa Lapse does little to hide how emaciated Dean is. His ribs poke out from under the sides, like a skeleton waiting to jump out and scare the crap out of me. Eddie once said, in the right hands, Affinity magic can unite the world. But how can this half-dead guy save us all?

  Eddie’s wise smile flashes in my mind. He had faith in Dean and what he could achieve. And I still have faith in Eddie, my lost soulmate.

  Tears fill my eyes — I can’t stop them. I blink them away and take the MP3 player out of my pocket. It contains Nicci’s custom software app that will allow me to disconnect the Lapse while continuing to fake Dean’s life support readings

  I plug it in the USB slot on the back of the LSU. The small screen flashes as it tries to connect.

  Connecting…

  Connecting…

  Connected

  My heart rate shoots into high gear.

  The blue glow under the Lapse fades and the Diamond Lines retract from Dean’s skin. With a sickening squelch, they disappear into the metal cross.

  I hold Dean’s bony, freezing-cold hands.

  The heart rate on the LSU screen stops beating.

  Crap.

  Nothing from Dean.

  Crap… Crap… Crap…

  I lean over Dean’s shaved face and lower my ear to his mouth.

  Nothing.

  Oh no. He’s de—

  A low croak escapes from his mouth, like a creaking door in an old house. His dry breath blows against my cheek.

  My heart feels like it will burst out of my scrubs any second now.

  Dean takes several more shallow breaths, and then a longer one. I lean in closer to his mouth and listen as his breathing gets stronger.

  Thank God.

  The heart rate monitor flashes twice on the LSU. Then it starts beating with the fake readings from Nicci’s app. Ten beats a minute, just like before.

  I lift off the Lapse. It leaves an angry red cross on Dean’s chest and eight red holes where the Diamond Lines pierced his skin. The ice-cold underside is soft and curved, formed to the contours of his chest. Apart from the two tubes connecting it to the LSU, there’s nothing on the smooth silver surface apart from the embossed name at the base of the cross.

  MED UNIT 5A

  Nicci would love to get her hands on this, to figure out its secrets. Not today though… Never… if everything goes to plan.

  I place the back of my hand against Dean’s forehead. His skin is warming up. I check his pulse; it’s strong. A lot stronger than the fake heart rate beating on the LSU.

  I take out the blood pressure monitor from the drug trolley and wrap the cuff around his arm. I squeeze the pump, and the cuff inflates. I place my stethoscope against his skin. The readings are normal.

  He’s recovering — no pupil response though, but I didn’t expect any. He won’t regain consciousness for at least twelve hours, even with his magic genes. The Veil will stop them kicking in and healing him quicker.

  I gently place the deactivated Medusa Lapse back on Dean’s chest and pull the bed sheet over him — just in case anyone decides to look in on him. No one will though — Dean’s on my watch list.

  Opening the drug trolley door, I take out my laptop bag. The loops they made me jump through to bring this in were worse than my visa application. I rub the side of the bag and slip it in the bedside cabinet, ready for later.

  Collecting the fallen plastic flowers, I stand them back in the vase on the table, then I pull open the window blind. Leaning against the glass, I search for Nicci’s camper van in the parking lot.

  Crap.

  It’s not there.

&
nbsp; My heart rate shoots back into high gear.

  Where’s the van?

  A hint of rusty blue twinkles through the trees. It’s still there.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Nicci should be on her way to collect the delivery van. The bomb is on its way.

  10:04 GMT

  NICCI BELL

  HIGH STREET | NEW BAKEWELL

  I lean back and take in the supposed splendor of the glass atrium covering the entrance to the High Street. Each glass panel reflects the morning sun at different angles, creating natural spotlights, highlighting various shop advertisements. An engineering trick intended to entice anyone close by. The low-hanging, metal sign welcomes shoppers. Yeah, right. Welcoming the chance to take your cash, more like.

  Amber waits by the doors, each one colored blue with vertical gold letters running down the glass advertising the Fall Remembrance.

  7P7: Remember the Fallen

  They’re new. Installed overnight like the rest of the Fall… decorations. Decorations. Even the word makes me sick. It was bad enough when that dumb newsreader said it this morning: ‘The world has woken to Fall decorations.’ Stupid bitch. The Fall was a fricking tragedy, not Christmas Part Two.

  I take off my sunglasses and join Amber at the doors. Arms crossed, staring at her shoes — her normal posture.

  I check my watch. It’s five past ten. “Starbucks does a mean chocolate croissant.” Amber looks up, forcing a smile. I pull her in for a hug, being careful not to clatter her legs with the bomb bag. “It will all be over soon. When we restore the correct timeline, we won’t remember any of this,” I whisper, hoping this will soothe away Amber’s depression. But she remains rigid, like a cat not wanting attention.

  Pushing open the atrium doors, we enter the High Street. Dark-blue Fall banners hang from the metal lamp posts. They look like a row of medieval knights playing trumpets.

  Jesus Christ.

  Even my favorite electronics shop has joined in. Flashing yellow LEDs advertising the Fall Remembrance seems a little in bad taste.

  A warm breeze suddenly blows down the High Street. The sun hasn’t reached over the tall shops yet, so most of the street is still in shadow. But it’s still fricking hot. Like someone left the sauna door open.

  Amber walks over to a fashion shop, or should I say boutique. It’s the fancy shop where I got the bomb bag from yesterday. Christophe Daché. Amber’s transfixed by a dress in the window.

  “What have you seen?” I ask, joining her outside the shop.

  Shit.

  The dress.

  An almost identical replica of my sister’s — her stepmum’s — wedding dress hangs in the window. She’s already opening her locket to compare.

  “It looks similar,” I say, glancing at the photo in her locket. “I’ll tell you a secret. Your mum made me bunk off university for the bridesmaid fitting. Yes, little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes made me skip an afternoon of uni.” I ruffle her hair. “Come on, Amber. Let’s get some food.”

  A sweet, cinnamon smell drifts past on the breeze, triggering a deep breath. I half close my eyes and follow the smell. It’s coming from a café on the corner of a block, halfway up the High Street. It’s the kind of place you don’t notice. The frontage is white. Several matching columns fall between the door and windows. As we get closer, I can make out the name. Rosie’s Place. Worn, golden letters above the door spell out the name. This café looks like it’s been here a long time, although I can’t say I’ve noticed it before.

  Amber’s picked up the sweet scent too. Her somber expression lifts for a second, replaced by her angelic smile, a smile I’ve not seen in a long time. She turns, searching for the source of the smell. She hasn’t noticed the café yet.

  A group of people, holding dark-blue banners, gather next to a covered bandstand further up the High Street.

  “Must be for the Fall Remembrance,” I say. “But they’re not scheduled until this evening.” Amber locks away her smile and follows my gaze.

  A muscular man in a tight white T-shirt barges between us, a blue scarf wrapped tightly around his thick neck. He raises his arm and runs to the bandstand.

  “We don’t want your kind here,” he shouts, his face turning beetroot red.

  Several more men and women join him from the opposite side of the street. They’ve all got blue scarves around their necks.

  No, not scarves…

  Collars.

  Shit.

  It’s the Blue-Collar League. The people around the bandstand must be Enchanters. I focus on their banners. Similar to Fall ones, but these spell out a different message.

  We’re not to blame.

  How did the BCL get here so quick?

  “Chanter scum!” a rough voice shouts from across the street, as sirens blare in the distance.

  “Shit, shit, shit!”

  Amber glances at me, her eyes full of worry.

  “This is gonna trigger a Mag Alert.” I look further up the street and past the bandstand. I can just make out the gray roof of the multi-story car park in the distance. “We need to get to the delivery van. Now!”

  A black truck suddenly thunders past us and parks on the pavement. Several men storm out, dressed in black riot gear.

  The Military Police.

  They’re carrying MP5s. Sub-fricking-machine guns — in public, too. What the hell is going on?

  I grab Amber’s hand. “We’ll have to go the long way around.”

  We turn back and head towards the atrium, but more MPs block that way too. We’re trapped and holding a very realistic-looking bomb.

  Two MPs advance on the bandstand. They’re holding Bio-Scanners.

  Shit!

  They aim the slender, magnifying glass-like devices at the protesters and check the biometric information displayed on the circular screen at the end.

  My stomach churns. Our plaster-covered, fake biometric implants won’t stand up to a close inspection.

  Even more MPs march down the High Street.

  “Shit.” I grip the bomb bag, tight.

  Amber tugs at my sleeve. She points at the café, Rosie’s Place. “Good idea,” I say, grabbing her hand.

  The brass bell above the door rings as we enter. A few more people follow us into the café. Looks like they’ve had the same idea. The bell sounds like a slot machine paying out a jackpot.

  The chairs and tables are all different styles. Contemporary and old-fashioned. Wood, metal, and glass all meshed together. An eclectic mix, sitting around four orange sofas in the middle of the café. A rickety bookcase leans against the back wall, full of worn looking books. American diner style booths sit in front of the windows looking out onto the High Street.

  My phone rings as we push past the counter, making me jump. Don’t call me now, Luther. We’ll wait in the café until the MPs finish outside.

  The ringing stops as Luther reads my thoughts in the journal.

  I sit Amber down at an empty window booth and slide the bomb bag under the table. “Keep a watch outside,” I say. “Do you want something to eat while we wait?” She shakes her head and turns to the window, her face pale with worry. “I’ll get you a drink then; you need some sugar.”

  I head past the orange sofas in the middle of the room. A young couple sit together, curled up, reading books. Steaming cappuccinos sit on the small table in front of them. Their tense bodies are far from relaxed as they hide behind their books. They’re not oblivious to what’s happening outside — they just choose to ignore it. Like everyone else in here. No one looks up as a high-pitched scream filters in through the open café windows.

  “Freaking Chanters!”

  Shit.

  It’s like the windows aren’t even there as the swearing fills the café.

  The guy waiting in front of me at the counter doesn’t even flinch. I turn to the booths. Amber stares out of the window, shaking her head at what’s unfolding outside.

  I follow her stare. Another group of BCL members gather a
round the Enchanters outside. They’ve circled the bandstand, arms raised. They’re acting like a lynching mob. The MPs stand back and watch, doing nothing to break them up.

  I take out my phone and check the latest news feed.

  Organized Enchanter demonstrations across all major cities.

  President Mills says not to panic.

  Fall Remembrance services will go ahead as planned.

  “Can I take your order?”

  I slip my phone into my pocket. “Sorry, I was miles away.” I glance at the menu above the counter. “I’ll have a black coffee and a small orange juice.”

  The young server smiles. It’s a half-smile, like the kind Amber makes. Forced. She doesn’t look that much older than Amber. Eighteen at the most.

  Another piercing scream comes from outside.

  “Get off her!” a woman shouts.

  The server flinches. Her half-smile falters as she turns to the window, searching for the source of the scream. She’s the only person in the café that seem to acknowledge what’s happening.

  Her eyes open wide, panic on her face. She turns back around and glances at the staff door, next to the counter. Then her eyes fall back on me and the forced smile returns. “Sorry, would you like anything else?” she asks.

  My stomach dropped at the first sight of the Military Police. Hunger left the building a long time ago. I search her pink apron for her name badge.

  Sophie.

  “No thanks, Sophie,” I say, reading the dislodged, white tag hanging from her pocket.

  I count out the exact money. Three dollars and fifty cents. Using dollars in England still feels weird.

  I place the drinks on a tray and make my way back to Amber, passing the orange sofas again. The angry shouts have ramped up a few more decibels.

  “Stay down you mother freaking Chanters,” a man shouts. “Or I’ll put you down!”

  The woman looks up from her book on the sofa. Her shaking hands reach for her frothy coffee. She takes a nervous sip and then returns to the comfort of her book.