by Devon Ford
The fight evaporated and the rest of the pack sidled closer, eager to fill their own empty bellies.
The thing locked into the alpha’s jaws spasmed violently, which the wolf took as an act of rebellion. Crunching down harder, and unbeknownst to the animal, one of his canine teeth punctured blood vessels deep into the neck and that release of blood pressure signified the end of the fight.
Bleeding out and partially paralysed from the trauma to his neck, his whole body awash in such unfathomable agony that he couldn’t even begin to understand.
Leo’s last experience in the cruel world he inhabited, and personally made so much more dangerous, was the sensation of being eaten alive before his heart finally gave out through blood loss. Hunger overtook the rest of the pack, and despite the savage sounds above him as the alpha fought the others away in demonstration of his dominance, the rest of the pack descended to devour him.
The hunter had truly become the hunted.
IT’S A NEW DAY
Steve’s declared ceasefire hadn’t exactly ended the hostilities of the night. There were more than a few people with scores to settle and the body count had risen slightly.
He found Jan still flat on his back in the arena next to the mangled body of Will, and the two men said nothing. They embraced, tears beginning to flow from the South African’s eyes freely. They were not tears of fear or joy, but of remorse, regret, and the sheer chemical force of all the adrenaline leaving his body.
Will, miraculously, survived. He would never walk properly again, nor could he move his neck because of the horrific damage done to him. A life of disability, being cared for by the people he had delighted in hurting, and seemingly lost without his older brother to guide him seemed a more cruel punishment than death.
The vast majority of guards had melted away and now loudly claimed that they felt no allegiance to the regime, merely wanted an easy life. Some of these men and women were given back their guns on good faith, and set to work protecting the camp walls from any possible outside threat instead of acting as jailers.
People followed Steve around, firing questions at him incessantly. He was tired. He ached all over from the exertion of the night and his irritation showed. He turned on one man who had raised a legitimate concern, and spoke more harshly than he intended.
“Who decided I was in charge all of a sudden?” he snapped.
Silence hung in the air as everyone around him glanced left and right hoping someone else would answer. Lizzie rescued the awkwardness of the situation and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You did,” she said quietly, “when you led a rebellion.”
Steve had no answer for that. So, he apologised for his tone, explained that he was exhausted, and changed the subject to the burial of the bodies.
Precious fuel was expended as a digger was employed to excavate the earth just outside the camp. Nobody had called for a service as such, but people flocked to the graves as each person was laid inside reverently, regardless of which side they had been fighting for when they fell.
Richards was laid to rest, and whilst a few spat on his grave most people simply seemed happy enough to know that it was over.
Last to go into the ground, his crisp white shirt stained dark with blood, was Max. Steve knelt as the earth was piled in over his body. Patting the dirt softly, he whispered his own silent apology and thanks to the boy.
Life had to go on. They had to eat, they had to grow their crops and tend to their livestock, and they had to rebuild their new way of life. As Steve and his unintentional entourage walked back to the headquarters building, a woman in a semblance of military uniform approached him apprehensively. She stopped in front of Steve, looking as though she wasn’t sure whether to salute or not, and cleared her throat.
“Sir,” she said hesitantly. “I’m Kershaw.”
“It’s Steve, not sir,” he corrected her as kindly as he could. “And do you have a first name?”
She seemed stunned, but answered anyway.
“It’s Anne,” she said.
“Hi Anne,” Steve replied. “How can I help?”
Helen handed a piece of paper over. “It’s from the Americans si—” she said, stopping herself in time. “They want to know our position.”
Steve took the paper, seeing a scribbled translation from Morse code to English in note form. Max had mentioned a radio room at one point, but as it hadn’t affected their plans at the time he had shelved the thought for later. Now was later.
“Have they given us their position?” he asked her to buy thinking time.
“Yes,” she responded simply.
“Do they seem friendly to you, Anne?” he asked.
Surprised at being asked for her opinion on the matter, she gave it some thought, chewing on her lip. She didn’t know how best to explain that she could actually tell a lot about an operator from their style of transmission; their nationality, character, even their mood. She knew in seconds from a transmission that one group of survivors were in the Middle East. Deciding not to overcomplicate the answer, she told him, “If I had to guess I’d say yes, they are.”
“Then give them our position,” Steve said, a thought tickling his mind. “Can you reach everywhere in the world” he asked her.
Anne smiled for the first time. “If they’re listening I can.”
Steve returned the smile. “Then start broadcasting. Find anyone listening and see who is out there.”
~
A few thousand miles to their south, across the Channel and safely nestled by the sea, an erstwhile paramedic and her veterinarian partner worked hard. They had to multi-task like experts, flicking their attention between a woman in premature labour, a dog with a temper and a large wound on its leg, and two people who had irresponsibly managed to get stabbed and shot.
Muttered complaints about it being all or nothing cut through to Dan’s brain, fighting with the high-pitched whine as his hearing slowly returned. He didn’t know how he had got back down the steps, or what had happened at the top of the fort.
Vague memories jockeyed for position until one pushed its way to the fore, bringing him back to alertness momentarily. Trying to sit up and being hit simultaneously by the terrible pain on his left shoulder as well as the hand of Sera slapping his head lightly, he lay back down and asked what had happened. Leah appeared over him, dirty and bloodied.
“What…?” he began, until a wave of crippling nausea hit him and he swallowed the next words along with bile. His voice sounded strange, until he remembered his nose had very recently been broken again.
“Relax,” she told him, “you’re going to need your strength.”
His eyes asked the next question, and as Leah looked up towards the doorway to the next room his hearing tuned in enough to hear screams of pain. He couldn’t understand why Leah smiled, her bright eyes and white teeth showing from under a mask of dirt and blood. He couldn’t form the words, even when the screaming stopped and sounds of sobbing permeated the air. The sobs turned to noises which made him mindful of something happy, before the door opened and one noise sliced the organised chaos in two.
“It’s a boy,” Kate declared, the sound of Dan and Marie’s baby crying in her arms.
“I was right!” Dan said smugly, earning a very teenaged eye-roll from Leah before she left his side to meet her baby brother.
ECHOES
The New Year came and went inside the walls of Sanctuary. Sitting precariously on the parapet above the inky precipice beneath, five people dangled their legs into the abyss and enjoyed a companionable silence.
Behind them, the ravaged ramparts had been cleared but not repaired.
Dan lit another cigarette with difficulty as his left arm was heavily bandaged and in a sling. He tossed the stub of the expired smoke into the small brazier burning behind them, and retrieved his stubby bottle of beer from between his thighs.
Ash rested on the stone walkway close to the fire, his right foreleg also wrapped in band
ages, waiting to be needed or entertained. To his left sat Leah, her cheek sporting a half dozen neat stitches, also holding a beer which Dan suspected she might not be enjoying drinking as she barely raised it to her mouth. The furthest left set of dangling legs belonged to Neil, also cradling a small beer bottle which he had emptied quickly and sporting a similar bandage and sling having used the arm to catch two 9mm rounds. Leaning back dangerously he retrieved a second bottle and twisted off the cap with his teeth, took a long pull of it and let out a noise of satisfaction.
The weather was cold but at least it was dry, and blessedly up that high there wasn’t a breath of wind for a change. Even though it was dark and the sun had long since set, the moonlight shining a blazing pathway across the ocean looked so picturesque it was difficult to see it and not invoke any emotions.
“What do you miss most?” Neil asked out loud, not specifying who he spoke to or what period of their lives he referred to. Silence hung in the air before Leah fired the first shot.
“Social media,” Leah said simply. “What do you not miss?” she added, again to the air in general.
“Mess hall food,” Mitch interjected sarcastically, his uninjured arm wrapped around Aletta who seemed happy sit in companionable silence.
“Social media!” said Dan, smirking. “No more wading through adverts to see one mildly funny picture, or being subjected to vague status updates which are clearly just attention seeking shit.”
“Sad face emoji,” Leah answered with savage mockery and an exaggerated head tilt, picking up the trend of the conversation.
“What’s up, hun?” Neil added in an unkind, high-pitched impression depicting a vapid, wannabe socialite.
They chuckled softly, the subject seemingly left open for discussion.
“I miss the internet,” Neil added, “although figuring stuff out the old-fashioned way is fun. Sometimes.”
“I miss the heating,” Leah added, tucking her chin back inside the neck of her thick, black coat. Both men made noises of agreement on that subject.
“I miss driving fast,” Dan said wistfully, “not enough smooth road left. No high-octane fuel.”
Both Dan and Leah jumped in fright as Neil slapped his thigh, a risky and poorly thought out move given the drop in front of them.
“I just realised something really good,” he exclaimed. “How much tax have you paid in the last year?”
It was lost on Leah, not having spent years seeing close to half her income evaporate before her eyes, but Dan chuckled and countered.
“True, but how much have you earned and how many paid sick days did you take?”
Neil made no answer other than a thoughtful grunt. They all knew that their mindless conjecture was filling the empty air to stop their worried minds from wandering too much.
“I miss everyone else,” Leah said softly, prompting half a minute of silence as the three of them descended into the grief they had all kept buried deep for so many months.
“Well,” she added mischievously, “maybe not everyone.”
“What do you think happened back home?” Neil said, switching the tempo. “I wish we could talk to them, send them a message or something. We should’ve brought homing pigeons!”
Suddenly, that thought lurking at the back of Dan’s subconscious took form. Gasping, he threw his right leg back over the wall and scissored his left to follow. Abandoning his half-drunk beer on the wall and discarding his cigarette into the flames he walked away to find the annoying man who might know the answer to his as-yet unformed question. Ash sparked into life and followed unquestioningly.
“What was that about?” Neil asked the girl.
“No idea,” she answered. “He does that sometimes.”
“Like Batman but less cool,” Mitch said.
“Debateable,” Neil answered, looking back to the moonlit sea and sipping his beer.
~
Out of breath by the time he had climbed down to ground level and then back up to the tower in the furthest corner of the central keep, Dan finally knocked on the door of Victor’s chambers. A heartbeat later he heard, “Oui, entrée,” and opened the door.
To his credit, he didn’t pull a face or make any comment about having obviously disturbed Victor and Polly in what he suspected was a very private conversation, and scanned the room with his eyes.
“Can I help you, Dan,” Victor asked, his embarrassment fading.
“Aha!” Dan exclaimed as his gaze fell on the thing he had seen but not registered every time he had been in the room.
“Does that work?” he said, pointing to an old Ham radio set.
~
Injuries healed. Some scars remained visible where others left no visible sign of the terrible damage suffered. Simon and Lexi made full recoveries, physically, but both seemed hollow sometimes. Paul, despite getting kicked almost to death, was back on his feet inside of a few months but, like the others held by le chasseur, he was never quite the same. Small, comfortable niches were carved out in Sanctuary for them and, mainly out of necessity, life moved on.
Contact was made, with other continents at first, then miraculously with their old family. The news spread fast and became legend told to the next generations. The conversations were slow and difficult, having to use a dog-eared sheet of Q codes and a Morse crib sheet to facilitate the passing of information.
Victor had cleared a wall and marked pins into various parts of the world map, each pin linked by thread to a report on the population and status of other survivor groups. Their discovery about the blood-borne origins of the propagation issue were news to some, but not to all. One group of Americans were neck and neck with a settlement in Canada for the total number of babies born.
It took Dan and his people almost three years to clear every available resource within a possible radius before every drop of fuel was spoiled or spent. After that they used horse-drawn carts but by that time they were self-sufficient with their curious mixture of old and new.
Leah led many of the forays, her own German shepherd cross dogging her heels as she trained it to emulate its father.
They scavenged like they had done at the very beginning, but now their society grew into some amalgamation of medieval technology with some stone-age mechanics thrown in, and mixed into a strange hybrid of renewable energy technology.
They thrived, they grew, and they lived.
They had survived.
AWKWARD CONVERSATION
Thousands of miles apart, two men sat and had the slowest conversations of their lives.
Both had a drink in their hands and smiled at the responses the other gave almost as if they were sharing the moment together.
Dan was speaking, if the unintelligible electronic beeps coming from the radio set could be called that, through an old sailor who had found himself retiring early from the fishing industry as the only surviving person to have experience of Morse code.
Steve, stood over Anne’s shoulder as she tapped and listened, spent much of the intervals where their French counterparts were translating explaining the hidden meanings behind their exchanges.
A noise sounded outside the room Dan was in, followed by a shout of his name. Giving his final message to the old man, he finished his drink and went to his duties.
Anne translated the final message for Steve.
“Got to go now, have baby to feed. Stay Safe. D.”
EPILOGUE
Stretching her aching back, the old woman rose from her chair and picked up the battered carbine she had carried for years. It was so worn in places that the dappled camouflage pattern she knew every inch of was rubbed down to the smooth metal. Her weapon possessed the last of the working parts for that model, and was as close to its end as she was. She hadn’t fired it in nearly ten years, and even then it was to drive away a curious predator, but couldn’t quite give up on it. She said she would be buried with it and didn’t want it far from her reach; like a Viking warrior wanting to go to Valhalla with her hand gripping
a sword’s hilt.
Walking slowly, she took the stone steps one at a time until she stepped out onto the exposed walkways and turned to face the bay as her stiff-limbed and tired companion flanked her without instruction. The loyal mongrel hadn’t left her side in over a decade; a proud warrior heritage of its great ancestry still present despite the dog’s advanced age.
The sinking sun had dropped behind the far cliff and silhouetted the watch tower beautifully, bathing Sanctuary in a rich, golden, fiery glow.
She never got used to how powerful a sunset was. How it stirred feelings in her which reminded her very soul that she was alive.
She had grown sentimental in her old age; prone to reliving stories to an audience who had heard them before but listened out of reverence, respect and entertainment. The good old days, she called them, even though there was little that happened during those days which was good. She was permanently wearing her rose-tinted glasses, as was her right having survived for so long through everything the world had thrown at her.
Age did nothing to dull her senses, however, and soft footsteps betrayed the approach of two people. She knew who they were before they got to her, and she was also certain that they were hoping to startle her with their sudden appearance.