Ruin

by Harry Manners

  *

  “Here,” Lucian said.

  Allie started as a blanket enveloped her from behind. His rough fingers brushed her cheek and she sighed, running a hand over his wrist, blinking eyelids that felt like they were made of concrete. “Thanks,” she muttered.

  She glanced over her shoulder and took in the sight of his grizzled silhouette. He looked terrible. “You’ve been up there again, haven’t you? In the hills. People are worried about you.” She hesitated. “I’m worried about you.”

  He grunted. “Any change?”

  She let it pass, returning her gaze to Norman’s bedside. “It’s like he’s never going to wake up.”

  “He will. Give him time.” Lucian staggered over to the other side of the bed and looked down at Norman’s lax face. He glanced at her, then around at the darkened clinic. “You need to get out of here, let someone else watch him.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You haven’t slept.”

  She couldn’t help smiling at the sacks under his eyes and the wild angle of his unwashed hair. “Look who’s talking.”

  His eyes bored into hers until she shifted and straightened. “I can’t help but feel responsible,” she said. “I was there not a minute before. There must have been some sign, something I missed.”

  “Bullshit. You were the one who found him. If anything, everyone should be parading in here to thank you.” He grew quiet for a while, and gripped Norman’s forearm. “It’s me who’s responsible. I failed him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s my job to keep us all safe.”

  “There’s nothing you could have done.”

  “There’s always something you can do.”

  She pulled the blanket tighter over her shoulders, hoping some words of comfort she could offer would fall into her lap. They didn’t.

  She settled for companionable silence. It was a strange thing, knowing that the two men before her had become her closest friends. When she had arrived in New Canterbury, coming up on two years before, she hadn’t expected to stay long. She had just been passing through.

  Funny how things had turned out.

  “What are you doing in here?” Lucian muttered.

  She blinked. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  She swallowed despite herself. “He’s hurt.”

  “So let Heather patch him up. What do you care?” Despite the coarseness of his words, his tone was flat, probing, without edge.

  She looked at Norman and found that her voice had abandoned her. What did she care?

  Not long ago she had been taken in by the legend of the Champion just like everyone. He had been the paragon to which the masses could rally. Then she had been assigned to scavenging duty with him, and for a while thought him a bobblehead on which the city hung its hopes and dreams.

  And now? Now that had changed again. He wasn’t the hero from the stories. How could anyone really be such a person?

  But there was something about him. It was buried somewhere deep, so deep that maybe it was just her imagination playing tricks. He was no Champion, but he was no fool, no everyman. Lost, maybe, and frightened, like a deer staring down the barrel of a gun. Yet, though she tried to deny it, he plagued her thoughts.

  “He’s my friend,” she said finally.

  The slight curve of a faint smile touched Lucian’s lips. “Sure.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He didn’t reply. His eyes had grown unfixed, glassy. For a while his knuckles whitened, gripping Norman’s sheets, and an ugly snarl flickered over his face. When he finally stepped back, his lips were twisted into a sour slant. “Get some sleep.” He stalked away into the gloom.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To keep watch. Nobody’s getting in here again. Not ever.”

  II

   

  Alexander watched Lucian carefully as he dropped a yellowed package before him.

  His expression was quizzical for a moment, the wind blowing his hair until horizontal. A week’s stubble glittered on his chin. His hunched form was nothing but a shadow atop the hill, overlooking the darkening city. He opened the package with care, revealing its contents with a grunt. “Another?”

  Alex sighed, looking down at the cathedral, and nodded.

  Lucian sat silently beside his rifle as the pressed silver feather dropped into his hands, the grass lapping at his bare shins in the wind. It had been a hot day, and only now was the temperature beginning to drop. The tree line sat a hundred metres away, hidden by an evening heat wave that shimmered without pause.

  Lucian’s face contorted into a grave mask: his eyes steely and his mouth a set, hard line.

  Alex walked a small distance away and looked towards the sun as it began to dip below the horizon. He waited for a while, unmoving, his mind blank.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “My doorstep. Just like all the others.”

  “When?”

  Alex shook his head. “It could’ve been left any time.”

  “How many is that now?”

  “I’ve lost count.”

  Lucian scowled. “What are we going to do about this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We can’t just sit around and do nothing.”

  Alex rubbed the bridge of his nose, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. “You need to stop coming out here.” He turned to face him.

  Lucian scowled. “And you need to stop shutting yourself away. People are looking to the kid, and he isn’t ready to say ‘Boo’ to a goose. So they look to me, and I—I can’t stop thinking that if I see anyone within a mile of this city, I’ll kill them. And it won’t matter who it is. I’ll pull the trigger all the same.”

  Alex swallowed to loosen the lump forming in his throat. “I mean it,” he said. “You can’t be out here.”

  Lucian looked taken aback. “Why?”

  For a brief moment, Alex considered showing him the scrap of paper he’d found in the old man’s pocket, the one with so many of the city’s secrets scrawled across it: where their sniper nests were hidden, the guards’ shift-change times, where the entrances to the catacombs lay—even the elders’ names.

  He hadn’t told a soul about that. It had taken a great deal of wile and patience to reposition each nest and change the sentry shifts without piquing anyone’s attention.

  But, right now, Lucian looked on the verge of breakdown. He’d have to keep it to himself at least a while longer. His fingers, straying close to his back pocket, dropped back to his side.

  He gestured to the darkening forest. “We’ve been attacked twice in as many weeks, two people are dead, and Norman is unconscious.”

  Lucian only shrugged, looking away towards the forest. “I know that they come from the east,” he said. “They wouldn’t have come across the river, and the land to the North is too flat.” He looked back to Alex. “I know they’re out there.”

  “You’ve seen them?”

  “No… But I know they’re there. I can feel their eyes on me sometimes.”

  Alex couldn’t quite keep his own gaze from flitting to the tree line. The forest suddenly seemed daunting, malicious. “All the more reason to stay back in the city,” he said.

  Lucian ignored him. “How’s Norman?” he said.

  “Heather says he’ll be fine.”

  Lucian nodded. He turned slowly, squinting as the sun set in earnest. “Why him? He was too young to be responsible…he doesn’t even remember what happened. What could He want with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Alex pulled his coat tighter over his shoulders as a sudden gust of wind tore at his flank. It was cooling fast. The sun had dipped to a crescent of fire, slowly being consumed by the earth. He turned away and headed down the hill.

  “You never get used to it, do you?” Lucian called.

  Alex halted, looking out over the barren wasteland, where crops and vineyards
had once been. His eyes swept past the blackened fields, towards Canterbury, broken and collapsing as the forest overtook the land, year upon year.

  Lucian continued, “The silence. Sometimes I wonder whether there was ever anybody else here at all.”

  Alex didn’t answer.

  “We still have to figure out what to do about this.”

  Alex nodded before continuing on towards the city.

  III

   

  Norman heard his breath whistle through his teeth long before he opened his eyes. The world, having been a blur for days, finally materialised. A harsh light bore down upon him from a fluorescent strip light fixed to the ceiling, clawing at his retinas.

  He groaned, trying to turn his head away, but the weight of his chest seemed incredible, crushing. A stabbing ache in his intercostal muscles was rendered unbearable with each breath. He opened his mouth, felt stale air stir in his throat, and his cheeks move sluggishly against his teeth.

  “Hello?” he called. His voice emerged clipped and broken.

  The small effort brought such pain that he subsided, closing his eyes. He listened hard, trying to hear something—anything—over the rasp of his breath against his parched throat.

  A bustling caught his attention: building footsteps from afar.

  “You’re awake,” Heather said, appearing above him.

  Norman ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, trying to free his jaw from its concrete-like set. “What happened?” he croaked.

  “You were attacked.”

  “No, no, I remember that. What happened to Jason?”

  “Who’s Jason?” Heather asked, absentminded as she bent over his bed and pushed two fingers against his wrist.

  “The man who was in my house. He did this to me.”

  She scribbled on a chart at the foot of his bed. “Yes, I know. We looked all over, but we couldn’t find anybody. But we did find out how they’ve been getting into the city. Lucian found a maintenance door to the sewer system, up on the hill. They’ve been going right underneath our guards and popping up wherever they please.”

  Norman blinked against the fluorescent glare. “That’s very clever… Shut that light off, will you?”

  “Sensitive to the light?” Heather crossed the room and flicked the switch. “Does your head hurt?”

  Norman sighed with relief in the sudden gloom. “I’m fine,” he lied. “How long?”

  “Two days.” She sounded unperturbed by his denial, shining a penlight into his left eye. “You’ll want to be careful. I suspect you’ve cracked a few ribs, and your head’s taken a nasty hit. Take it easy for the next few days, at the least. Probably weeks. No work in the fields for at least two.”

  Norman cowered away as pain ripped through his head. Heather clicked the light off and put it away, her eyes stern.

  He lay back, frowning. “What have I missed?”

  She maintained her stare for a moment longer before replying, “Not much, just a lot of panic and moping. We’ve sealed all the manholes that we could find and doubled the guard again.”

  “You sure that’ll stop them? They’ve been getting in just fine so far.”

  “Half the city’s volunteered to keep watch. The place is as loud at night as during the day. Almost everyone else is sleeping in the cathedral. Nobody feels safe. Lucian is having trouble keeping people working in the fields without Alex around, and now that you’re in here…he’s not coping very well.”

  Norman sat up, wincing as his limbs protested. “What’s he been doing?”

  “He’s been out on the hill since we found you. We’re worried about him. Robert found him sitting on a rock with a gun, talking to himself.” She paused. “I’m afraid he might do something stupid.”

  Norman braced himself against the headboard, gasping. The clinic swam before him as nausea took its course. He lowered his head until his vision cleared.

  Heather moved away, her footsteps dissipating.

  With his isolation came memories of Jason looming over him, the chilling stare of the man with the neckerchief, and the marble-faced leering figure who had plagued his semi-conscious daze since dreaming of the city and the storm.

  Despite the infirmary’s stifling heat, he shivered.

  Heather appeared at his side, bearing a pile of clothes that he recognised as his own, from his bedroom.

  “Thanks,” he said, trembling as he sat up. “Would you mind giving me some privacy?”

  Heather nodded. “I’ll tell Alex that you’re awake. He’ll want to speak with you.”

  “I thought you said nobody’s seen him.”

  “We haven’t. But I know he’s been coming here. I think sometime during the night.”

  “How can you tell?”

  The smallest of smiles played on her lips. “Somebody’s smoothed your sheets by the time I clock in every morning.”

  She made for the door, blocking the light filtering in from the hall. She stopped at the threshold and turned to face him. “We’re burying Ray and the old man tonight,” she said. She looked down. “We decided that night. We just couldn’t take the injustice of leaving them any longer. Allison was coming to tell you…that’s how she found you.”

  “Allie found me?”

  The memory of her voice was a blur, but now that he thought of it, he did remember it, and the banging at his door.

  Heather shrugged. “She woke the whole city, hollering like she did. She’s been in here nonstop since. More than anyone else.”

  “She has?”

  Heather considered him for a moment, smiled minutely, and nodded. “Sundown,” she said, tapping her watch.

  “I’ll be there.”

  She turned and left.

  Norman was left alone to sit and stare. The other beds were empty, for the most part. The two rows of identical frames, covered with neatly folded sheets, sat unused and dusty in the gloom.

  Only two stood out from the rest. The first was the bed in which the old man had been stretched out. The sheets had been made up, but traces of blood and dirt still stained the floor at its base. On the second sat Agatha, staring into space, so still and absent-faced that she blended almost seamlessly into the background.

  After a while, footsteps from the corridor signalled Heather’s return. Alexander and Allison followed her into the room, and the trio gathered around his bed.

  Alexander stopped a few steps away. He looked haggard, unlike himself. His lips were pale. Yet he smiled, standing at the foot of his bed. “How are you?” he said.

  “Can’t complain.” Norman tried to return the smile, but as Heather helped him into a sitting position, he gasped. The stabbing pain tore across his chest again, and he collapsed back.

  “Alright, I think you’ll be staying here at least another day,” Heather muttered.

  “If you insist,” Norman managed to speak over a stifled grunt, but only just.

  “You’ll be fine, you just need to rest up.”

  Allison sat by his heels. “When did you wake?” she said.

  “A minute ago.”

  “We’ve been all over the city looking for them… When I found you, I thought you were dead.”

  Norman leaned forwards, cradling his head in his hands. “I owe you my thanks,” he said, pushing the heel of his palm into his brow. The pressure eased the pain, but couldn’t mask the stabbing agony.

  Alexander had grown closer. He gripped his shoulder. “You scared me for a while there,” he said.

  Norman nodded.

  “I'm glad you’re okay, James, dear,” Agatha sang, rocking to and fro upon her mattress. Her eyes drifted across the room and settled on Alex, and for a moment her face grew tighter. “Alex…you look so old.”

  Then her cheeks fell slack, and her eyes grew distant once more. She stared at the wall, her lips forming unspoken words. They watched her for a while and then Norman looked to Alex.

  “James?” he said.

  Alex shrugged. Perhaps his eyes flickered, a
nd his lips grew a shade whiter, but the pain in Norman’s chest was too great for him to care.

  Heather handed him a walking stick, one that had obviously seen many years of service in the hands of previous owners. He palmed it with a curse and sidled to the side of the bed.

  “She has good days and bad days,” she whispered, her eyes on Agatha.

  Norman hauled himself onto shaking legs. When pain erupted in his chest once more, he collapsed onto the cane. He balanced atop it momentarily, staggered, and fell back onto the bed. There, he lay gasping, until he and Alex shared a look.

  He cursed, and muttered, “That man, in my house…he was a messenger. They’re out there. They want us gone. All of us.”

  IV

   

  Norman could stand resting in the clinic for a mere half an hour before escaping Heather’s clutches. Despite being surrounded by a safety net of aides and nurses on the clinic floor, a great many people found their way to his bedside within minutes, and refused to give him a moment’s peace.

  The news of his awakening had spread fast. In times gone by, he would have suspected that Allison’s legendary ability to disseminate information to all ears within the city single-handedly was responsible. Now, however, he was at a loss to explain it. She had been by his side since before the droves stormed into the clinic.

  His visitors ranged from grey-haired discontents—though none were old enough to be elders—to children young enough to be recognisable from his own martial-arts classes. But the resounding impression they left was identical: people were no longer only disgruntled, nor only hungry. They were angry.

  In fact, having been left for days to toil in the fields without a single word from Alexander or Norman, led only by Lucian’s blustering placations—who had in the interim spent most of his time alone in the hills—they were quite beyond that. After Ray’s murder, the attack on Norman, and the still-increasing scarcity of food, it was unsurprising that the entire city had been driven to the point of a tumultuous, feckless rage.

  Before he could escape, they were still marching up to him with fire in their eyes and ugly grimaces plastered over their cheeks, demanding to know what he planned to do, and when more scavenging parties would be sent out to gather fresh supplies.

  He was only able to stare back at them, dumbstruck. These were the very same people who had greeted him in the streets each morning, worked beside him in the fields, laughed with him over countless meals.

  All of that seemed forgotten. Now they looked to him for comfort, for his divine guidance, as though he and the city’s elders had been holding secret meetings amidst darkened dungeons.

  If Allison hadn’t been by his side, he was certain that he would have burst into a tirade. His head throbbed, and the burning in his chest was still as fierce. Patience was in short supply. But she had been there and, to his utter surprise, had allowed the visitors to speak for only moments before shepherding them away. As soon as he’d showed the first signs of wanting to escape, she had ducked beneath his arm and guided him from the clinic, heedless of the nurses’ cries for them to return.

  She was different. She had grown in some slight and yet unmistakable way that had changed the essence of her presence. It was almost as though a spell had broken, and maturity had fallen over her like a blanket draped over her shoulders.

  Now, as they left the clinic, she all but carried him into the streets, and he felt the faintest of flutters in his chest as he glanced down at her determined face. For a moment he thought that the flutter was brought on by the look she in turn gave him—one that had ceased to be expectant and become watchful, almost enraptured—but then the nature of it sharpened, and he was then sure that it was something quite different.

  She was wearing her sandy-blonde hair up today, and her clothes were neater, closer in style to the practical, simple robes worn by the elders. She was, he saw, without her pall of adolescent affectations, quite beautiful, all rosy cheeks and soft lips.

  “Where to, then?” she said.

  Norman blinked. The flicker had gone. He thought of going home to sleep, where he wouldn’t be disturbed, but cast the notion aside. Not only was Jason’s intrusion still too raw, but the last thing the city needed now was for yet another person to shut themselves away. Instead, he pointed along the street, and guided her towards the school building.

  He planned to drop in on Sarah’s class of eight-year-olds, intending to take Sarah up on her offer to act as a guest for the daily English lesson. Maybe there he’d find some peace.

  He didn’t even get close. He was accosted at the door by a crowd of over half a dozen parents, all of who outwardly appeared to be waiting to pick up their children, but all had eyes for him.

  It took all of his resolve not to explode.

  Once again, Allie saved him, guiding him through the sea of angry faces, parting them with fierce glares. By then, he was gasping for breath. The journey, although a distance of only a few hundred yards, had been more than enough to make the pain in his chest unbearable. His ribs didn’t feel just cracked, but shattered. It was as though an entire window’s worth of glassy shards had been woven into his skin.

  “I need to rest,” he said.

  “Where?” Allie said, breathless from the effort of dragging him.

  “DeGray’s classroom,” he slurred. “Alex said he and Richard are in the fields.”

  She led him along the darkened hallway, leaving the lingering crowd muttering bitterly. They rounded a corner and stepped into the dim hovel usually occupied by the Master and his disciple.

  “Over there.” He pointed to the desk upon which the chessboard lay, and the Master’s chair before it—a tattered leather wingback that seemed to exude the distilled essence of its owner.

  They ambled closer awkwardly, and Norman kicked the door shut as they went.

  “There we are,” Allie said, easing him down.

  He wheezed his thanks and set to rubbing his chest, which felt as though it glowed white-hot, and almost brought tears to his eyes. But once he had settled his breathing and sat still for a few moments, it began to ebb, descending to a dull and persistent nagging.

  “Any news on the radio?” he said.

  Allie looked taken aback. “No,” she said, eyebrows raised. She tittered without humour. “To be honest, I think everyone forgot all about it after you…well, you know.”

  “The summit’s still planned, though?”

  “So far as I know. The elders’ council. All of them.” She looked sheepish. “But we still can’t get a word from Alexander.”

  Silence settled over the room, and they turned their gazes to the chessboard, set up and ready for a new game to begin.

  “Do they always play?” she said.

  He smiled. “Every day.”

  “Why?”

  “Old habits…keeping them alive, along with everything else.”

  She picked up Richard’s king piece, squinted at its fine ivory detail, and set it back down. “Does Richard ever win?”

  “Not once. John says that he’ll be in this room until he does.”

  They shared a chuckle, one that persisted for several long moments and left in its wake a more relaxed atmosphere. Eventually, however, the nagging doubt of Allison’s change of heart became too great for him to resist any longer, and he looked at her until he caught her gaze. “Why are you helping me?” he said. “Everybody else is lining up to bite my head off, and you’re here…picking me up off the floor.”

  “All the best gossip, right from the horse’s mouth,” she quipped. “You’re hot news right now.” She offered him a wry grin, as though to cement his certainty that her words were in jest.

  He smiled, and felt the first genuine semblance of good humour that he’d felt for a long time boil away in his bowels. “No, really,” he said.

  She took a while to reply, in the meantime straightening Richard’s king unnecessarily, tightening her lips. “I’m here because I see something in you.” She swallowe
d with an audible crack, averting her eyes. She swayed from side to side, running her finger along the desk. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s there. I know that you don’t believe in destiny, Norman, but I’m starting to think that you might be the one to save us after all.”

  V

   

  Lucian pulled his coat up against the burgeoning shock of hair upon his chin, shivering in the evening chill. He was beginning to squint in the growing darkness as the sky turned from a rich pink to duller orange, and had laid his rifle horizontally across his lap. His eyes were set hard upon the tree line a hundred yards away.

  Behind him, distant booms and whirs echoed across the landscape as their handful of biofuel generators—which were currently enjoying a new lease of life thanks to the composted waste from the fields, aiding the struggling wind turbines—chugged to life, flooding the city with white light.

  A great yawn forced his mouth ajar, drawing a tired growl from his throat. Fatigue was hitting hard now, and he was finding it difficult to keep the trees in focus. He would have to leave soon and make his way home. Even within sight of the city, it was unwise to remain after dark.

  For the last few days he’d only left the hill to stand guard at night near the clinic. From what he could remember of it, he hadn’t slept for more than three consecutive hours since they’d found Norman.

  But there was a good reason for his self-imposed isolation. A very good one.

  Two days before, when Allie had sounded the alarm, he had been so infuriated that he had mistaken an elderly man for the attacker. Lucian had tackled him to the ground in the street. It had transpired that he hadn’t felt safe in his own home and had been walking to the cathedral in the rain when Lucian had leapt upon him. The elder, a man of great wisdom and kindness, had been Rayford Hubble’s father. He would need crutches for a month. The guilt and embarrassment were still raw and fresh in Lucian’s mind, like a splinter.

  He rubbed his hands together against the cold and looked up at the sky. The orange tinge was now long gone, and only a glimmer of indigo remained, clinging to the treetops, imbuing the forest with a shimmering aura.

  He stood with some difficulty, his knees stiff from lack of use. He stretched, holding his rifle at arm’s length.

  Then, a sound: wailing. Wailing carried on the wind.

  He dropped into a crouch, trigger finger ready. Only his eyes moved, scanning for a sign of movement. The same meadow met his gaze. The same tree line. The same silence. But the growing darkness had taken on a more menacing tone. Besides the moths and bats swooping and diving amongst the treetops in the distance, the floor beneath the canopy was still. Yet still the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  Then the sound came again: a reverberating howl, coming from the maintenance gate that led to the sewers. Somebody was down there.

  FIRST INTERLUDE

   

  Candles flickered in the gloom. The group of survivors sat back from the table, belching, satisfied by their meal. They had dined well tonight on the bounty of tinned foods the Old World’s ruins had to offer. Conversation was sparse, low-pitched, and trivial. The night was passing lethargically. Alex watched the proceedings unfold, for the most part contributing little.

  Seven years having passed, with all things considered, he still hadn’t managed to shake the numbness that had plagued him since the End.

  The first years had been the hardest. The power grid had soldiered on for almost a week before trundling to a stop. From then on, what was left of the world was plunged into darkness whenever the sun set.

  After a near eternity of searching, it turned out that there had been others, individuals at first, lost or halfway suicidal. Then there had been couples, partners exploring the New World together. Eventually, groups had emerged, with leaders and followers—shepherds leading flocks of bewildered IT managers, stockbrokers, farmers, and TV stars alike.

  But they had been so far flung that an encounter had never ceased to be exceedingly rare. Whenever paths crossed, a universal and mutual suspicion had been exchanged, preventing them from adhering together. People had feared large groups—feared each other. It was almost as though they’d been afraid that, if they ever tried to rebuild their lives, they too might disappear. Instead, they locked themselves away, found safe corners to sequester, and waited—though for what, nobody had known. And so it had gone. People had stewed, days had become months, and months years. During that time, almost all had been content to remain in isolated clans, gradually helping themselves to the vast stores of resources amongst their fallen civilisation’s great cities.

  However, those stores were now becoming thin on the ground. Tea, coffee, fuel, cigarettes and alcohol had very nearly ceased to exist. These commodities now held worth far exceeding that of anything else, and were in many cases viciously fought over, within and between groups.

  The End’s survivors were now rushing headlong towards a situation they’d all foreseen, yet lacked the will to prepare for. There had been no crops farmed, to their knowledge, at all, anywhere in the country.

  So far as Alex could tell, the End had struck randomly, indiscriminately, with no rhyme or reason as to who vanished or who was left behind. The likelihood of seasoned farmers having survived in large numbers was tiny. Even if any had survived, they would have been left alone, helpless to stop their crops falling into ruin without a single helping hand for dozens of miles.

  Even the group Alexander had come to think of as his family were painfully aware of their ignorance. Lighting fires, navigating, sterilising water, storing food and performing basic maintenance work were things still largely beyond them. Endless hours researching in eerie public libraries had taken them only so far. Even now, they would get lost, sick, or hurt and be unable to do anything about it. When something broke, it would forever remain broken, or be replaced by a scavenged double. When they came across the injured or sickly, as they occasionally did, they could do nothing to help.

  As close as he’d grown to the others, Alex sometimes couldn’t help but feel that he was alone after all. The others seemed almost content in their ignorance, and lacked drive, as though merely waiting for the next disaster to sweep them away. When they looked out the window, all they saw were ruins. Only Oliver and Agatha seemed truly present in the slightest, but even they seemed ready to sit and watch time deal mortal decay to the world.

  He, however, saw dormant homes, schools, hospitals, and factories. He saw what had once been, and what could be again. He never failed to hope that perhaps the world had been restored when he awoke each morning.

  He’d devoted every spare moment to reading everything he could find, along with saving as many books as he could manage. He also saved whatever else he came across: paintings, instruments, electronics and mechanical parts, storing it all away where it wouldn’t rot or be buried in rubble.

  Even if everybody else had given up, he would fight their decline to his dying breath.

  “As soon as this winter ends, we can finally get some seed in the ground,” Oliver said.

  Paul huffed. “What’s the point of that?” he said. He hiccoughed and took another swig of merlot from the bottle in his grasp, which was smeared with a layer of dust so thick that the vintage was most likely older than any of them.

  Turning to God hadn’t been enough for Paul, and so he had also turned to the bottle. His habit had been a persistent thorn in their side, forcing them to make weekly forays in search of untapped cellars.

  “It’d be nice to eat a meal,” Oliver said, his lazy eye bulging. “The canned food isn’t going to last forever. At the rate that we’re using it, we have months, not years, and then we’re on our own.”

  Agatha nodded. “Won’t be enough to grow our own. We’re goin’ to have to strike up some kinda deal with others…some kinda trade, if we’re going to get everythin’ we need.”

  Paul sneered. “There’s no sense in it,” he said.

  “There’s sense in eating,”
Oliver said.

  “There aren’t enough people left for us to go knocking on their doors. Folks want to be left alone.”

  “We have to do something, Paul. We have to start anew, or make the first steps, at any rate. Somebody will come along eventually and we’ll work towards something.”

  “Too few!” Paul roared, and slammed his fist against the table for good measure. “I tell you, there are too few of us left to form anything of the kind. It’s ridiculous, Aggie. You know it is!”

  Agatha sat stiffly and observed Paul along her lengthy nose as though from a great distance. The two of them glared at each other. “What’d you have us do?” she said.

  “There is nothing to do,” Paul said. “Look out the window. The world is gone. None of it is ever coming back. All this talk of starting over is just wishful thinking.”

  “Why does it have to be wishful thinking?” Alex said, leaning forwards. A pang of anger leapt in his chest.

  Paul rounded on him. “I’ll tell you why,” he spat. “The only reason we’re here at this table is because we’re damned. We’ve been left, because of the lives we’ve led. It may not look it, but this world is soon to be Hell. Mark my words.”

  Alex shook his head, his chest convulsing. “What about the boy?” he said. “A baby? He’s done evil worthy of being left to…the fires of Hell?”

  Paul didn’t answer, but instead proceeded to let fly a great spiel of scripture, eyeing him with unfathomable contempt. He stood up, wandered from the table, and stumbled outside, where he grumbled even louder to the wind.

  The table was left in silence. Alex collected his thoughts, while the others stirred with visible discomfort. The Creeks stood from the table, Helen casting a contemptuous glance about at them all. “I don’t want to hear this,” she said. “Goodnight.”

  They all murmured a farewell as the Creeks disappeared into their bedroom.

  They were trying for a baby. Alex was gripped by panic at the thought of a child. After the food had run out, what would they feed it? Wasn’t anybody thinking about that but him? If they were going to bring a child into the world, there was no sense in it being raised by a bunch of folks interested in nothing but waiting for their own end.

  At least he had Agatha and Oliver in his ballpark. That was something.

  “He’s crazy,” Agatha said at last.

  Oliver wheezed, his lazy eye bulging. “Of course he is. But he has a point.”

  Alex paused midway through an appreciative smile, and his jaw fell ajar. “What?”

  Oliver sighed. “There’s not going to be any starting over.”

  Alex looked to Agatha for help. But at the sight of her face—downcast, guilty, yet sincere—he realised that he was indeed alone, more alone than ever. He collapsed back into his chair and raised his arms.

  Maybe his ballpark was empty after all.

  “You can’t be taking his side,” he said helplessly.

  Oliver leaned over. “There’s no side to take. Paul’s right. There are just too few of us left to do anything but try and stay alive for as long as we can. The End decimated the population of the entire world, as far as we can tell. The Old World is gone. There’s no coming back from this.”

  Alex raised a pointed, accusing finger before he could stop himself. He could feel his heart yearning to burst free from his ribs and was sure that his eyes were ablaze. “You’ve given up.”

  “There’s nothing to give up on! I’m not saying that starting over isn’t an admirable idea, but it’s a pipe dream, Alex. Leave it at that, lad. There’s a good boy.”

  Alex looked to Agatha for help, but she, too, seemed unable to quite meet his gaze.

  “You’re a visionary, Alexander, so you are,” she said. She was quiet, but her voice reached his ears without hindrance. “You’re the greatest of all’a us, there’ll be no denying that. But you’re young, so it ends righ’ there. Paul’s right. We’re not ready.” She paused. “Might never be ready.”

  Paul ambled back into the room and settled into his seat, still grumbling minutely. His derisive stare added to the lingering sting of Agatha’s words, amplifying Alex’s sense of isolation. Acknowledging that he’d been defeated, he leaned back. “I have to check on the boys,” he said.

  He stood amidst awkward silence and shuffled away towards the corridor, passing beyond the candlelight’s reach. At the mention of children, the conversation had grown embarrassed and diminished, hushed and somehow more sober, more lucid.

  Alex walked beyond their line of sight and paused, waiting for them to continue in his absence. Perfectly still, he pricked his ears and held his breath.

  “There’s something to that lad, I’ll admit,” Paul said. “But he’s still the devil’s work, I tell you now.”

  There was uproar at the remark.

  “Can’t be callin’ Vision the devil’s work, you daft ol’ goat!” Agatha said. “That boy’s the one thing keeping us goin’. Without him, there wouldn’t be any hope, and hope is the only thing tha’ makes me get outta bed in the morning. Wha’ else is there?”

  “Hope?” Paul blustered. “What place has hope got here? Everybody that we ever loved, gone, and whoever’s left is scrabbling for purchase. All the while, the world takes a nosedive towards fucking Armageddon. And you’re clinging to hope?”

  “S’all we got left. S’all that matters so close to such a thing.”

  “Ah!” Paul grumbled dismissively. “The words of the devil!”

  “Paul, we talked ’bout that word,” Agatha said. “Ain’t God’s will, an’ you’d do well not to test him in times like these.”

  Paul sighed. “I know, Aggie,” he said. His voice had grown a touch sheepish.

  “You'll see it, so you will. One day tha’ boy’s hope will change the world, and there won’t be a word ’bout the devil that’ll change anybody’s mind ’bout it!”

  Paul grumbled something incomprehensible. In reply, Agatha gave her final word on the matter, in a voice that pulled at strings within Alex’s gut, “Not everythin’ boils down to the End of Days. There’s more to life than tha’. Folks live on, and they’ll do whatever they got to do to survive. I tells you now: We’re not gonna give up. Wha’ we've been left with ain’t enough, so we’re gonna take back what we had.”

  “Unite under the boy’s banner, then?” Paul huffed. “I suppose that makes us his gang, running around and singing Kumbaya? That’s your idea, is it? We’re Alexander’s Pals now? The Kin of Cain?”

  A moment of silence. Then, “You’re bloody well righ’ we are.”

  Paul grunted. The conversation died at that. Reverting to idle grumblings and comments upon the meal and weather, talk from then on was stinted and overly polite.

  Alex, smiling, continued along the corridor until he came to the last bedroom. He knocked and received an invitation to enter. He found James already tucked in, pyjamas and all, propped up against the headboard, waiting.

  He seemed somewhat disquieted by the raised voices, but at the same time he smiled and welcomed Alex inside. As soon as the door was closed he bounded up and down beneath the sheets, brimming with glee. “Story!” he cried.

  Alex couldn’t help laughing. Already dinner’s troubles seemed far away and inconsequential. He stooped into the child’s stool beside the bed and glanced about the room.

  Lucian snored amidst the other bed’s sheets, against the far wall. He had little interest in stories at his age. Over the past year he’d taken to disappearing for hours at a time into the wilds. Nobody knew where he went—except Alexander.

  He’d followed him once, through expanding forests, along roadways lined with rusting cars, across fields littered with charred airliners. Eventually they’d come to a bluff amidst dense burdock, one overlooking miles of barren wilderness.

  Hidden amidst foliage, Alexander had watched him stretch his arms towards it, embrace it, breathe it in, relish it in a way that he’d never relished any wonder of the Old World.

  The others w
ere talking about keeping him home before he got hurt, but Alex knew they couldn’t if their lives depended on it. Lucian needed the wilds; needed to be wild.

  He loved the boy—even dared to say he loved him more than he’d loved his own family, before the End—but knew that they would never understand one another. They were too different.

  Lucian didn’t lament what the world had lost, but accepted it as it was. He slept soundly.

  Alex turned from him to assess the rest of the room. He had perhaps become carried away with furnishings. Apart from Lucian’s drab, adolescent décor in the corner, the room was alive with vivid colours, painted patterns, models hanging from strings, and myriad toys of every description. It was filled to the very brim with stuffed animals, picture books, enormous reams of paper, colouring pencils, paints and board games. For each item, there was a replacement underneath, and another beneath that.

  “Story,” James repeated, his emerald eyes brimming.

  “You’re getting a little bit too old for bedtime stories,” Alex said.

  James looked shocked and horrified. “Why?” he said.

  “You can read.”

  “I like you to read.”

  Alex laughed again. “Looks like you’ve got a book right there,” he said. “What is it?”

  James turned the leaves of the hardback in his grasp, revealing its title: Birds of England.

  “Birds again?”

  James merely smiled.

  Alex sat on his bed and flicked through the pages. “You’ve always liked birds, ever since you were a baby.”

  “I was reading about pigeons,” James said. “People used to send them to their friends with letters tied to their legs.” He hesitated, but met Alex’s gaze. “We could do that, one day.”

  Alex’s cheeks were already aching from the strain of smiling. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe we can.” He closed the book and put it aside. “What story would you like to hear tonight?”

  “I don’t know,” James said without embarrassment. “You pick.”

  “Most people have favourites,” Alex said, standing and perusing James’s generous collection.

  “I like all stories.”

  Alex felt a flutter of glee. James had been more like him than the others since he’d been able to walk and talk. Something of Alex’s own reverence of the past seemed to have been infused within the boy’s mind. Now he yearned for knowledge, yarns and discovery.

  “All stories?”

  “I like to know that there’s more.”

  Alex frowned and glanced over his shoulder. “More?”

  “More,” James affirmed, then looked ashamed. “I like to know that it isn’t just…this.”

  The hairs upon Alex’s arms stood on end. He fumbled with the books upon the shelf, trying to hide a giddy grin.

  The boy was the key to starting over. Alex might never live long enough himself to realise his dreams—dreams of bringing it all back from the brink, of saving what was left of the Old World—but James could carry on even after he was gone. James could unite people, bring them from the gutter and claw back some civility in the world. For him, there would be time, time to fix it all.

  Alex had had the same thoughts a thousand times, lying in bed at night, but never before had they seemed more obvious. The others could never be counted on to make the first step or carry the torch. If anything—or anyone—was ever going to be saved, it was down to the two of them.

  At the realisation, he stood bolt upright and hurried to his own bedroom. He returned a few seconds later, holding a bundle wrapped in old cloth. He met James’s quizzical gaze, settled into the stool, and unravelled the package with nervous, shaking hands, revealing the mottled green cover of his father’s copy of Alice in Wonderland.

  James fixed his eyes on it. “What is it?” he said.

  Alex said nothing, just pressed the book into James’s hands and sat back. He followed James’s gaze as he looked over every inch of it, turning it over in his hands with great care by the candlelight, somehow sensing that the book deserved special attention. He read the cover and looked up at Alex, a frown upon his face. “Alice in Wonderland?”

  “It was mine, when I was a boy. Before that, my father’s.”

  “It was yours? Before?” James looked at the book with fresh reverence. He glanced up ruefully and held it out for Alex to take back.

  Alex shook his head. “It’s yours now.”

  “I can’t,” James stuttered. Not a glimmer of childishness remained about him now. His manner of honour, of polite refusal, was crushingly adult.

  “Of course you can,” Alex said.

  “It’s your book.”

  “It’s a gift.” He knelt beside the bed, holding James’s hands, gesturing to the cover. “It’s important,” he said. “You have to promise that you’ll take it.”

  In the flickering light, James’s enormous eyes glittered. He nodded slowly, and took the book into a tender embrace. He opened it with great care and looked down at the illustration on the cover’s reverse side: the White Rabbit, dashing through the grass, pocket watch aloft, waistcoat trailing. Not once did he ask to be read to. After a long time, a frown crossed his face and he looked up. “Why is it important?”

  Alex leaned forwards, gripping James’s hands, and cleared his throat. “Because I have a very important job for you. One that only a special boy like you can do.”

  “Special?”

  “That’s right. Other boys aren’t like you, because they see what’s there. Not like you. You see what could be.”

  “Are there other special people?”

  “Many, once. Now…” He shook his head. “Not anymore. Just you, and me.”

  James’s frown had only deepened. He replied as carefully as Alex had spoken himself, “What job?”

  Alex swallowed.

  Could he really just come out and say it? Surely it would only frighten him—something that big would frighten anyone. But, looking into those piercing eyes, full of life and ambition, he knew that James could handle it. He leaned forward and spoke in a voice so hushed that James was forced to turn his head. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  James leaned close, glassy-eyed. His mouth had fallen ajar, and his pupils had dilated.

  “One day you’ll save the world,” Alex whispered.

  James blinked. Only a moment’s pause stretched out before he said, “The whole world?”

  Alex smiled. There was no fear in the boy’s eyes, nor incredulity. “The whole wide world.”

  James’s expression didn’t change in the slightest, but behind his eyes Alex saw a million thoughts erupt into existence. “How do we do that?”

  Alex sat back. “I don’t know. But I promise you—I promise—that we will.”

  James didn’t move for a long time. Only his eyes gave away his feverish internal reaction, darting left and right. Eventually, he said, “How do you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That we can do it. If that’s what we’re…supposed to do.”

  Alex smiled and stood, leaning over and placing a kiss on his forehead. “Because some men have a destiny.” He took James into his arms. “And you’ve got that in spades.”

  Holding back tears, he looked down into James’s adoring face, and felt his conviction grow tenfold. He placed the candle beside the bed and backed away towards the door, pulling it half-closed behind him before pausing to glance back in. “I love you, brother,” he said.

  James smiled, the book tight in his grasp. “I love you, Alex,” he whispered.

  Alex closed the door and crept away to his room. He froze at the sight of a figure, stock-still and wreathed in the kitchen’s shadows, staring back at him.

  Agatha’s smile was not only friendly, but maternal. It always had been, to all of them. She had taken Alex and James, broken and helpless, kept them alive, and warded away the worst of the pain. Even gruff Paul had found comfort in her embrace when gut-rot had been in short supply.

 
Right now, her eyes twinkled. She held her diary in her hands, laden with their only records of after the End, the only thing that might remain of them if they didn’t get their house in order. He smiled back at her, and that was enough for them both. They went back to their business without a word to one another.

  Alex snapped the door shut behind him and sighed. White walls, bare and lifeless, met his gaze. His uncarpeted, unfurnished, cluttered room sat unsaturated and beige in the candlelight.

  He’d never decorated. Never cleared the Old World relics from the cupboards or cabinets. Never changed a thing.

  What did he need wallpaper for? When he lay here at night, he didn’t see these walls anyway. His dreams took him far away, dreams of what mankind had once been, and could be again.

  He lay on the bed and looked across at the ancient fireplace, which lay dormant, unusable, and littered with mouse droppings. But the mantelpiece remained, and upon it were the purple and orange tattered packages that had been his parents’ last gifts to him. Beside them sat a framed photograph of the dog, long since buried.

  She had died saving his life. A dark voice in his head sometimes plagued him with promises that she was the first of many casualties, if he was ever going to save anything.

  He stared across at the gifts for a long time, having settled beneath the sheets, listening to the sound of Oliver and Paul singing merrily to an incomprehensible tune. Their argument had apparently become lost to a mellow rhythm and drink-addled giggling. At some point, his eyes ceased to look upon the packages. But still he saw them in his dreams. The faintest of smiles remained upon his lips even when he woke the next morning.

  VI

   

  The screaming carried for hundreds of yards in every direction. It permeated every wall, struck every ear, and echoed in the Old World’s darkest ruins. The rancid figure in Lucian’s grip had long since curled itself into a ball, desperate to prevent further injury. But that didn’t stop him dragging it along the street like a dog.

  Each time its broken body impacted a stray cobble or scratched against the road, it would issue a groan or whimper. Its awful clothes, hanging in tatters, barely covered its body. None were recognisable as trousers, coat, or shirt, having been reduced to a single pall of filthy cloth.

  Lucian grunted as he hauled the creature down Main Street, his fist closed around its neck. His short stature didn’t for a moment hinder his stride. His anger made up for lost height many times over.

  Muted whispering passed between onlookers, but only for a few moments. With shocking rapidity their voices became louder, and then they began to yell with uncontained fury. The city’s bottled fury, which had for so many weeks boiled away in suppressed silence, burst from them like floodwaters through a broken dam. They yelled for family members to come quickly, hurling insults at the cowering figure, congratulating Lucian. Some simply released amorphous screams of raw anguish.

  When each newcomer arrived and saw what Lucian held in his grasp, none questioned its origin. The conclusion that this creature was responsible for their woes and strife was reached unanimously. They had been waiting for a donkey on which to pin such a tail for countless weeks. This pile of rags was ripe for the pinning.

  Dozens poured from nearby buildings, forming a mass in the middle of the street as Lucian approached. Their faces bore no sympathy for the creature’s unending screams. Yells soon became angry roars that reverberated amongst the backstreets, filling them with a ghostly, riotous din. People stepped forward, their arms outstretched, hands formed into tight fists. Some spat. Others sought to trample.

  Lucian swept a glance around at them all and dropped the creature at their feet. He then walked away into the crowd without looking back, abandoning it to its fate. He didn’t take his gaze from the floor again until he’d reached the porch of a nearby cottage, from where he watched the scene unfold on the cobbled streets.

  He was beyond feeling now. Beyond anger. He felt nothing but the dimmest satisfaction at the sight of the creature being swarmed by fists of fury.

  The gathering was by now a hundred strong, and the rancorous racket was drawing more from across the city, even from the fields. The creature whimpered in the dying light, its cries now drowned out by the encroaching mob. It huddled against its knees, rocking back and forth on the ground.

  But it was shown no mercy. A single kick from Sid Robeck—a stocky guardsman whom Lucian had sat beside on many an overnight watch; a quiet, amiable man, slow to anger—brought its head back with a snap. Blood spurted from a cracked lip. The back of its head made contact with the concrete with a sickening crack.

  The crowd grew bolder at the sign of weakness, and approached the creature—which, now spread-eagled on the ground, no longer obscured by the pall of cloth, had taken the shape of a young man. Blurred limbs flew from every direction, swiping, kicking, and punching. A sharp scream rattled above the roar of their voices, but the crowd was heedless. The people had found their culprit—

  “STOP!”

  The new voice was no louder than any other, almost lost to the cacophonous ocean of furious bleating. However, those nearest to its owner froze, and immediately became quiet, their eyes growing wide and their bodies still. They regained their composure as what they were doing seemed to suddenly dawn upon them.

  The silence spread exponentially. The crowd’s noise went from a deafening roar to an uneven hum in mere seconds.

  Then, nothing. A hundred embarrassed pairs of eyes observed as many pairs of feet but, as though drawn by an irresistible, mysterious force, each gaze eventually settled on the voice’s owner: Alexander Cain, gaunt-faced, eyes ablaze, filling the town hall’s doorway.