Ruin

Ruin Page 33

by Harry Manners

  *

  “The sewers?” Norman said, frowning. He was ambling, but walking under his own power. Alexander’s emergence from hiding had been enough to get him standing.

  Alexander nodded as they proceeded into the clinic with Allison in tow. “Lucian dragged him into the street and let the others tear at him for a while.”

  Norman cursed. “Why would he do that?”

  “To punish him. And me.”

  Norman glanced to Allison, arching an eyebrow.

  She merely shrugged.

  He couldn’t help but notice that she no longer looked to him in the same way; no longer were her eyes expectant, but instead comfortable, almost complacent.

  They entered the clinic’s back room and laid eyes on a filthy young man lying in the nearest bed.

  Norman felt something stir in his gut at the sight of him, something unexplainable that tugged at his attention, but he couldn’t quite place it. He shook his head, and kept in step with Allie.

  “Keep still, Charlie,” Heather said.

  The young man screamed as she applied her fingers to his leg, squeezing hard. He tried to claw at her, to get away, but Lucian grabbed him by the shoulders and held him down.

  “Stop moving.” Despite being no louder than a whisper, Lucian’s voice shook.

  Charlie looked furious, his eyes red and his throat emitting a deep hum, but he lay back nevertheless and set his arms down on the mattress.

  Norman limped to the bed, weary of being back in the clinic so soon. He looked over to his own bed in the corner, still unmade. The sheets were probably still warm. By the time he’d turned back to Charlie, a palpable tension filled the room.

  Charlie was barely into his twenties, with a small torso and spindly arms. His eyes were deep-set in his ruined face, and his bloodstained neck was filthy with slicks of grime. Just like the men they’d hunted down after Ray’s murder.

  Again, he felt a tingling at the back of his mind. But he couldn’t quite place it.

  “How’s the leg?” Lucian muttered.

  Charlie spat a tendril of saliva that landed upon the bridge of his nose.

  Lucian hardly reacted. His arms remained crossed over his chest, and his eyes remained set. All that moved was in his mouth, which formed a strict, paper-white line. Several moments passed. Then, slowly, he took his left arm from its locked position and wiped away the spittle. A stifled sound rumbled in his throat, and he shifted slightly so that Charlie could see the rifle slung over his back.

  Charlie turned away, his face strained and emotionless. Norman thought he saw a glimmer of fear in his eyes.

  “There’s no way for me to be sure. But if I had to guess, I’d say he has a closed fracture on his left tibia,” Heather said. She locked eyes with Charlie. “Try to lie still. Don’t move until I can get you something for the pain.”

  She moved up to the remains of Charlie’s face, turning his head left, then right. “Move your head in a circle.”

  Charlie jerked his head in a haphazard, jagged motion, wincing. “It feels fine,” he grated. “My mouth hurts.”

  Heather yanked his jaw down and stared into his mouth, clicking on a penlight. “You have a gash on your tongue and a few missing teeth.”

  Charlie pushed her away, massaging his chin. “How many?”

  “Four.” Her voice was cold.

  She’ll treat him, Norman thought. He’s her patient. But she’s not happy about it.

  He knew that she was strong enough to keep her urges at bay, above mindless spite. Yet he couldn’t help wondering whether she’d have been part of the mob on Main Street if she’d never taken the Hippocratic oath—whether any of them could have been, if they hadn’t had so many people looking to them.

  It was frightening to think so. But he’d seen good people do things of late he would have thought beyond them a year ago, Lucian chief among them. It was almost as though he hadn’t really known some of them at all.

  Alex sat down on the bed. The springs creaked under his weight. “We’ll take care of you,” he said, “but you’re going to tell us what we need to know.”

  Charlie’s eyes grew as he bolted upright. He winced momentarily before speaking, slurred, “No!”

  “You’ll talk or we'll throw you into the streets,” Lucian breathed.

  “I can’t!”

  Lucian’s face became an image of untainted fury. He ripped the rifle from his back and pushed the barrel against Charlie’s temple, his teeth bared and his eyes searing.

  Norman and Heather moved to stop him, their wild cries blurred into a wordless groan.

  Lucian ignored them. “Better yet,” he said slowly. “Instead of waiting for you to die of your own accord, I’ll tell everybody exactly who you are, and why you’re here. They’ll blow your brains right into the gutter.”

  Charlie jerked. Tears burst from the corners of his eyes and his mouth fell ajar. His bleeding gums shone under the fluorescents. “Please!” he yelled, “I can’t tell you anything! I don’t know them!”

  He raised his hands, pleading. “Please,” he whispered, “please. I met them just over a week ago. I was with my dad. He and I had been on the road for a few days, just looking for some food, like everybody else.”

  He paused, staring around at them, his eyes darting from one to the other. Lastly, he turned to Lucian, and paused.

  Norman held himself at the ready, ignoring the shooting ache in his chest, determined to lunge for the rifle if it came to that.

  A muscle jumped in Lucian’s jaw. The crevasse on his brow brimmed with sweat, but after a final grunt he took the barrel of his rifle away from Charlie’s temple.

  Charlie hesitated, but, under their watchful gaze, continued, “They came during the night. Put guns to our heads. Told us that we’d do whatever they told us, or we’d die right there…”

  He looked to Lucian. “You people are just the same.”

  “We’re not like them,” Alexander said, giving Lucian a stern glance. “Just continue, please.”

  Charlie sighed. “One of them,” he muttered. “He didn’t speak all that much at first, but later—when he’d sent the others away—he gave us some kind of…recruitment pitch. He said he was gathering an army.”

  “Who was he?” Norman said. He blinked, surprised that he’d spoken. He’d been caught in Charlie’s words. His breathing had grown shallow.

  “I don’t know,” Charlie said. “I didn’t see his face. He wore a cloth over his head the whole time, like a mask.”

  Norman felt a chill run up his spine as the man with the neckerchief appeared in his mind’s eye. He could feel Alexander and Lucian’s eyes move over him, but tried to ignore them.

  “They took my dad,” Charlie was saying. “They didn’t want me, said I was too weak, or wasn’t motivated…or something. I don’t remember. But they took Dad. While he was away with them I was kept with the others.”

  “Others?”

  “Women and children, mostly. They kept us under guard and made sure that we didn’t leave.”

  “Where?”

  “A building, not far from here.”

  “Where?”

  “Never saw it before then. I think it had been a tower block once, but the top half had fallen away.”

  Heather turned to him with a pan of water, a dripping sponge in hand. “Why would they guard you?” she said, dabbing at his face, smearing blood across his chin.

  “Insurance. To make sure nobody who went with them ran away.” He swallowed. “They were making people do some pretty bad things. Sick things.”

  They exchanged looks.

  “Who are they, really?” Norman said.

  Charlie shrugged. “It’s like I said: They just found us and took my dad for some mission.”

  “Mission?”

  “That’s what they called it.”

  “What kind of mission?”

  “They wouldn’t tell me, but they’ve got it in for you. Everything that they said was about you.” Ch
arlie looked around. “What did you do to them?”

  “Nothing,” Lucian said. “We did nothing.” Then, almost too abruptly, “How many of them are there?”

  Heather finished wiping away the blood and set the bowl aside, observing Charlie’s face critically. After a few moments of poking and prodding, she disappeared from the room.

  “From what I saw, two dozen or so.”

  “From what you saw?”

  Charlie nodded darkly. “I don’t think they were on their own.”

  Heather returned to the bedside holding a small black box in her hands. She thumbed the lid open and took out a long silver needle. “You’ll need stitches,” she said.

  Charlie looked revolted. “You’re going to knit my face closed?”

  Heather paused, her brow set. “If you’d prefer, I could just leave it to rot from infection.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I’m a doctor.” Her lip had curled. “But don’t tempt me.”

  “Charlie, focus,” Alex said. “How do you know that there are more?”

  “It was the way they talked. That man—the one with the mask—spoke with too much…what’s the word? Conviction?”

  He grimaced, his face bunching up as Heather applied the needle to his face. He gave a stifled whine of discomfort as the needle punctured his cheek.

  “What happened to your father?” Norman said.

  Charlie took longer to answer than before, growing pale. He spoke stiffly, keeping his cheeks and jaw still as Heather worked, moving only his lips. “I don’t know. That’s why I was here. I convinced them to let me on one of their missions. I was hoping that maybe I’d run into him.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I didn’t know where he was! He hadn’t shown up for three days.”

  Norman stiffened. “And you came into the city through the sewers?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “To attack me? You were with Jason?”

  There was a pause.

  “They didn’t tell me that they were going to hurt you,” Charlie muttered, his eyes downcast. “They were just talking about sending a message.”

  “But like you said: They’ve made people do some pretty bad things,” said Lucian. “So you knew it wasn’t going to be pretty.”

  Charlie said nothing.

  Norman felt a surge of nausea at the thought of Jason. Yet, behind the churning in his gut, that prickling sensation was still pulling at his attention. The way in which Charlie angled his head, and the manner of his speech, were somehow familiar.

  “If all you wanted was to find your father, then why did I find you crawling in our sewers two days later?” Lucian asked, leaning close to his face.

  Charlie cowered, clutching the sheets, apparently having forgotten about the needle imbedded in his face. “I fell,” he squeaked, his eyes pleading.

  Norman released a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. The longer he watched Lucian, the more certain he became of an impending breaking point. The bloodlust in his eyes was unmistakable, but at the last moment Lucian seemed to regain control and straightened back into a standing position, folding his arms once more. “You fell?”

  Charlie nodded, grunting as Heather cut into his cheek once more. “I was supposed to guard the manhole: our escape route. I was at the top of the ladder, and I heard somebody shouting from the other side of the street.”

  Norman looked to Allie, who nodded.

  “Just after I found you,” she said.

  Charlie waved his hands in embarrassment. “I panicked, and it was raining. The ladder was wet. I fell down the chute, landed on top of my leg.”

  Lucian cleared his throat. “And what did they do when they found you?” he said.

  Charlie lowered his head, his eyes growing red and his voice weak. “They left me. I begged them. I begged. But that man,” he said, looking up at Norman, “the one with the mask. He took one look at me and led the others away.” He swallowed, lowered himself onto his pillow, and closed his eyes.

  Heather pulled the thread taut, closing the wound on his cheek. Crafting a neat knot, she cut the line deftly.

  Alexander stood amidst fresh silence, his eyes glazed. “I believe you,” he said. “We’ll fix your leg. Then you can decide where you want to go.”

  Charlie barely responded, his face red as a plum and swelling.

  Alexander turned to the others. “Does anybody else have anything to say?”

  Silence stretched out as they looked around at each other.

  Heather excused herself. “I’ll check on you in an hour or so,” she said over her shoulder.

  Charlie nodded glumly.

  “You too, Norman,” she called as she left the room.

  Norman barely heard her. The odd sensation that had been tugging at his bowels had finally sharpened into focus. It took him by such surprise that he swore aloud.

  Charlie bore a striking resemblance to one of the men they’d hunted down after Ray’s murder: the emaciated man who had been so unwilling to fire on them, whom Lucian had shot dead, whose body they had left to decay in the forest, unmarked.

  They had killed Charlie’s father. Not a misguided fool who’d taken the wrong men for company, but a hostage. An innocent man.

  VII

   

  Norman straightened gingerly, and fresh pain tore across his chest. His legs throbbed. He let the hoe in his hands fall to the ground and sucked a deep breath, turning away from the half-dug furrow at his feet.

  The film of putrescent slush in the fields had finally been cleared away. Their pace had slackened of late, but at Alexander’s return, people had been all too ready to burst into action. With startling vigour, people had leapt to work, filled with new life.

  Norman stood a small distance apart from the main body of activity, working in small bursts whenever he could manage it. Heather had repeatedly insisted that he stay in the clinic, but merely being near Charlie had been enough to unsettle his stomach.

  The sun was half-obscured by the distant forest, but it was still sweltering out in the open. Any stray breeze was lacklustre, claggy.

  The others on shift didn’t seem bothered. Their bodies arched amidst shortening shadows, turning the soil with shovels or tearing at remaining weed stalks with blunted scythes, fervent, possessed by common will.

  A guard patrolled fifty yards away, an automatic rifle slung over his back. Farther away, another figure paced amidst the spreading furrows. Though he saw no others, Norman sensed that a great many more surrounded him.

  He couldn’t get used to all the guns being thrown around. They’d kept the armoury locked up tight for years, guarded at all times. Now, it seemed that every second person brandished a rifle.

  He bent over with a grunt and struck at the ground. He looked at the pitiful track that he’d dug in the ground and sighed. He wiped away the band of sweat on his brow after a further minute, cursing under his breath. His arms felt like blocks of lead. His chest was on fire.

  “You should go back,” Robert said, brushing past. His huge arms were making light work of the weed-ridden ground, carving vast furrows with each stroke. Sweat glistened on his dark skin, accentuating his bulging biceps.

  Norman felt a pang of jealousy at the sight of his powerful movements, wishing that he could just take a breath without feeling as though he were at death’s door. “I’m fine,” he said.

  Robert straightened, towering over him. “You look like the Reaper,” he said. “It could take you a while to get back to being yourself, so don’t push it.”

  “I’m fine,” Norman repeated, stabbing ineffectively at the ground. “How’s Sarah?”

  Robert nodded. His clipped hair sprayed droplets of sweat onto the newly exposed earth. “She’s good.” He wiped his top lip with a free hand, not quite hiding a frown.

  Norman waited for him to elaborate, allowing a courteous silence to stretch out.

  “I mean, she’s not doing too well with the siege,” R
obert blurted, his eyes slanting as he turned away. “She’s a trooper, though.”

  “You’re getting along well?”

  “Sure. She usually spends her time with her books in the warehouse, but she stays at home with me now.” He paused for a moment, looking skywards. “It’s nice,” he said. “A nice change. So long as I’ve got her, all this is just a bump on the road.”

  Norman tried to smile, to congratulate, but in the next moment he found himself doubled over, gagging and spitting in the dirt.

  “Go back,” Robert said firmly, hacking away. “I think I can cover your load.” He cast a wry grin at the thin tract at Norman’s feet.

  Norman sighed, trying to hold onto his lunch. “Alright,” he gasped. “You win.” He dragged the hoe in his wake, retreating to the city. “I can hear my brain frying.”

  Robert called after him, “Rest up. Just make sure you’re ready by nightfall.”

  VIII

   

  “You just have to give it time,” said Heather, prodding Norman’s bare chest.

  “You’re sure?” He tried to keep the pain from showing on his face. “I’ve been walking around nonstop and it’s exactly the same.”

  Heather snapped off her gloves. “It’s not going to heal in a day, and definitely not in a few hours. I told you: broken ribs take weeks, sometimes months. And I can’t be sure that you don’t have other injuries. Especially your head. You need to watch it, and make sure you tell me if you notice anything out of the ordinary.”

  She swung the overhead lamp out of the way and stood, heading towards her desk on the other side of the room. She rifled through the various detritus upon it, returning a short time later with a small plastic bag containing shrunken bark.

  “White willow?”

  She nodded. “Painkiller. It’s all we’ve got. Don’t overdo it. It can cause gastric problems if you take too much, but you’re not going to be much use to anybody like this.” She handed him the bag. “Chew it up, one piece at a time, every six hours or so. Too much and it’ll kill you.”

  “Comforting.” He took the bag and peered at its desiccated contents. It didn’t look inviting, more like dried mouse droppings. He didn’t relish the thought of putting the stringy, dried pulp anywhere near his mouth, but thanked her nonetheless.

  She gave a loose salute. “I have to get back to work,” she said. “I have to have the caskets ready before…” She left with a sigh.

  Only a moment of silence endured before a voice rang out from the gloom.

  “I’m a dead man,” Charlie said. He was sitting up in his bunk, his cheek knitted closed by Heather’s stitches, and his injured leg stuck out at an odd angle. His face was catatonic, unblinking.

  Norman pulled a string of dried willow into the light, grimacing. “You don’t look dead to me,” he said.

  The lights flickered overhead, momentarily casting Charlie’s face in dull shadow. He looked to Norman. “I’m going to die, and you’re making jokes?” he said, his voice quivering.

  Norman looked over his shoulder, checking that they were alone. All was quiet, save for the distant footsteps emanating from Heather’s office. “Who says that you’re going to die?”

  He watched Charlie's face grow pained and sorrowful. “Nobody has to say it,” he said. “I’m not an idiot. I know a murderer when I see one.”

  “You’re talking about Lucian?”

  “Who else?”

  Norman shook his head and popped the string of pulp into his mouth. He tried to shift it to the back of his mouth as quickly as possible, but still the sour taste made him cringe. “We promised that we wouldn’t hurt you, and you’ve been just fine so far,” he said. “Your leg looks better already.”

  “Don’t do that,” Charlie cried. “Don’t pretend that you’re all not just waiting for him to come in here and strangle me.”

  “He’s not going to kill you.”

  “Oh yeah?” Charlie said. “How could you know that?”

  Norman picked up a nearby bedpan and spat a milky slick of saliva into it. “I just know,” he muttered. In truth, he wasn’t so sure at all. The look in Lucian’s eyes had been unlike him—consumed, almost feral. Just like the night of Ray’s murder. It had looked almost as though Charlie had wronged him personally, or reminded him of someone who had.

  Norman hadn’t seen him since setting out for the fields.

  Charlie snorted, turning away. He remained silent for a long time.

  Norman was halfway to his feet when Charlie surprised him by speaking again. His voice filled the room, muffled by his missing teeth, but was clear enough. “He came to me. Your man: Lucian. He told me that you chased a bunch of folks into the woods, that they must have been the same folks that took me. That you hunted them down like animals. Is that true?”

  Norman swallowed, hoping that he was far away enough from the lights for the shadows to be hiding his face. “They murdered one of ours.”

  “So you killed them?” Charlie’s lip quivered. “You killed my dad?”

  Norman scratched his head. Suddenly, the willow’s taste didn’t seem so bad at all. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am.”

  Charlie didn’t respond. He sat from then on, staring ahead, while tears burst forth onto his cheeks and fell to the sheets below.

  IX

   

  Lucian caught Norman on his front doorstep, fumbling with his keys. The cane made everything difficult, awkward.

  “Norman,” he said, throwing furtive glances over his shoulder as he approached.

  Norman tried not to turn his body too much. The willow dulled the pain, but not as much as he’d have liked. “What?”

  Lucian was still looking about himself as he crossed the drive, his face set. He didn’t speak until he was only inches away. For the first time in Norman’s memory, he looked afraid.

  “Can we talk?”

  Norman felt his eyes widening as shock bounced around inside his head. He frowned, but after several moments could only nod. “Of course,” he said, opening the front door and gesturing inside.

  Lucian stepped into the hallway, moving past the piles of books that lay within.

  Norman stared in after him. He thought that he’d never want to come back here again. He’d expected that he’d have to move. But by the time Robert had sent him away from the fields, he’d known that he was coming back.

  The attack had come and gone. Something told him that he was in no danger of a repeat event. The damage had been done, and the message delivered.

  After a moment, he followed. The base of his cane thudded against the floor every second step. He ambled, winced, cursed. It was humiliating to rely on the stick, but he couldn’t get around without it. Heather said he’d need it for a few weeks, even with the white willow numbing him up.

  He pushed the door shut with his elbow, sending a red-hot bolt into his abdomen. It almost brought tears to his eyes, but he barely noticed, so focused was he on Lucian’s hunched shoulders. Once he’d regained his breath, he made for the living room.

  Lucian was already seated, his head bent low and his hands clutched together between his knees.

  Norman ambled over to his chair and sat over a period of several seconds, easing himself down. His lamp stand was still askew where he’d fallen over it. He blinked until flashes of the neckerchief man standing at the window had passed.

  “How’s the pain?” Lucian said. He looked miserable. His voice was flat, hollow.

  Norman shrugged. “I’ll live.”

  Lucian looked up. His face had become a mask, his features drooping, a grotesque caricature of his usual firm expression. He seemed locked in a fierce internal struggle. His eyes darted in their sockets, focused on nothing in particular. A line of sweat rested on his upper lip. It was clear that he meant to speak, but he seemed reluctant to utter another syllable.

  Norman opted to wait, lest he push him away through unnecessary coaxing.

  Lucian was rocking slightly, though he
seemed unaware of it. His breathing was heavy. “Do you trust me, Norman?” he said.

  Norman straightened in surprise. “Of course.”

  “Still? After how I’ve behaved?”

  Norman sighed. “You had every right to be angry about what they did to us. Nobody blames you for being…out of the ordinary.”

  “When I saw that boy’s face out on that hill, I felt myself break.” Lucian spoke slowly, as though only to himself. “It felt like I’d left my body, and I was just watching my fist beat his face. I could see it happening, but I couldn’t stop.” He paused. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

  Norman’s subconscious proffered up an image from his dream: the storm above the city, the younger faces of Lucian and Alex yelling down at him, the pain in the side of his head, the leering figure that didn’t belong. Just like the memory of the neckerchief man, it flashed before his eyes for only a moment, and then it was gone. He shook his head, clearing his throat.

  Which of them was really in danger of losing their mind?

  It might have been the drugs, but he didn’t think so.

  “People who are crazy don’t know it,” he said, clearing his throat to cover his slow response.

  “Of course they do. They just don’t think about it. They’re too busy being crazy.”

  Norman smiled, banging his cane softly against the floor. “Since I can remember, I’ve seen you rushing off to save the day. Nobody thinks you’re losing your mind. You’re just doing what you’ve always done: taking care of us.”

  Lucian looked annoyed. “Every time I think about…that kid…my blood boils.”

  Norman frowned. “You have to remember,” he said. “Charlie hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “That’s my point,” Lucian shouted, leaping to his feet. “He’s just a boy, and all I can think about is ripping him limb from limb.”

  “Why?”

  Lucian stiffened and began pacing. That single word appeared to have a resounding effect on him. “Our past isn’t all roses, Norman,” he said.

  “Well, I can’t remember most of it.”

  “I know.”

  Norman frowned. “Since Ray was killed, you’ve been after blood. Something’s got you riled. So if these people are really as bad as you think they are, why don’t you tell me? Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”

  Lucian shook his head and sighed. He faced resolutely away. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said. “What’s done is done.”

  Norman pointed the tip of his cane in his direction. He was doing that more often. The stick was already becoming a part of him. He hid a grimace and pressed on, “Fine, but you need to stay away from Charlie if you feel that way. We may still need him.”

  Lucian gripped the sofa’s arm, as though for support. “I need to step away from all of it. Everything,” he said. “I need some time to myself.”

  Norman shook his head. “Everybody needs you. You’re a strong face. You just need to get some help. Talk to somebody.”

  Lucian looked stricken. He waved his hand. “No,” he cried. “No, nobody else can know. I can’t have people thinking that I can’t take a walk without a gun in my hands.”

  Norman stared. His chest ached from the strain of sitting, and his head was throbbing from all the white willow. The volume of Lucian’s voice was doing his building migraine no favours.

  He took a deep breath. “I’m tired. And I need to get some sleep.”

  Lucian’s eyes grew wide. “You’re kicking me out?”

  “No,” Norman said, standing. “You can stay if you want.” He pointed with his cane—Already a part of you, a voice jeered in his head—to a stack of paperbacks on a nearby table. “I took those from Sarah a few days ago. You should have a look at them for me. It’ll keep you busy.”

  Lucian sighed. “What should I do?”

  Norman moved towards the hallway. “I don’t know,” he called as he ascended the stairs.

  He had to wait for some time before he heard Lucian leave. He spent a quarter of an hour lying in bed, wishing that sleep would come. But his efforts proved fruitless. A sea of thoughts waged an unending war behind his eyes. If he didn’t do something, Lucian was apt to snap.

  Whatever that meant for Charlie, it wasn’t good.

  He needed help.

  X

   

  Alexander’s house was within direct sight of the cathedral. It was no simple abode. Spread upon a street corner, it rose some forty feet from the ground, tapering to an ornate carved roof. Atop it, angelic figures and gargoyles were set within glistening white stone, glowing in the afternoon light.

  To have called it a home would have been wrong, almost as wrong as it would’ve been to have called Alexander its owner. It was a museum—or mausoleum, some said—of the Old World, and he was its custodian. Within, the spirit of mankind had been captured in miniature. Thousands of years of history, culture and memories lay nested within its walls.

  Upon it, their entire way of life had been based. The principles by which the city’s hundreds of citizens—as well as the many thousands in the wilds who had heard its legend—now lived had been laid down here.

  After the End, the holy sanctity of places like the cathedral meant little to most. This was their temple. This was hallowed ground. This place was never unprotected. Guards had patrolled the neighbouring rooftops in twos and threes since long before the first attack on the city.

  The garden spoke volumes of the dedication it had been shown. A tiny stream ran through its centre, spanned by an arched bridge, the wood ancient and hard as diamond, having been trod upon by a million soles. The grass was cut short and neat. Stripes of exuberant flowers ran in a grand hexagonal pattern, bright purples and pinks, blues and reds; the only flourishing plants for many miles.

  Before the famine, some had even made pilgrimage to this spot, to look upon the house, hoping for a glimpse of the living legend within.

  Norman walked the garden path, taking his time. The pleasant glow of the midafternoon sun eased his aching chest, but his head still throbbed. In time he arrived at the front door, which towered over him, all brass and rich mahogany. Two fifteen-foot totem poles stood on either side of the door, resembling creatures Norman had never seen beyond the pages of books, eerily stretched beyond accurate proportion: the snarling head of a wolf, the serene stare of an owl, and the powerful bulge of a brown bear’s maw.

  He took the heavy knocker in his hand, slammed it once against the brass plate, and waited. From afar he heard calls of people returning from the fields after a hard day's work. Alexander’s return from self-exile had inspired new hope, enough for most to have almost forgotten their problems. Amongst the voices was a hum of merriment—even contented laughter.

  The door went unanswered. He knocked once more and waited for over a minute further, hearing nothing but the distant trickle of the stream and the continued ruckus from the fields. After a moment of hesitation he grabbed the handle. With a clunk, the heavy latch released and the door opened. He was surprised to find it unlocked, but proceeded nonetheless.

  Once he was over the threshold, he peered around at the atrium. Polished wooden floors ran underfoot, and a wide staircase led up to the second floor, out of sight.

  High ceilings. Freshly dusted walls. But no host.

  “Hello?” Norman called.

  His voice penetrated deep into the belly of the house, echoing in dark corners and forgotten crannies. Once, dozens of visiting emissaries had provided a steady hubbub here, exchanging ideas and gathering knowledge to be relayed to lands afar, part of a network Alexander had painstakingly built up since the End. Now it all sat gathering dust.

  The atrium gave way to a long corridor. Of all the mahogany doors lining either side—of which there were at least two dozen—only one lay open. He left the staircase behind, his mind turning back to years past.

  He’d been raised in this house, schooled by Alexander himself, trained to be the one he said they all ne
eded. The saviour of mankind. How many would have given anything for that chance?

  Countless.

  And how many times, sitting at his desk in Alexander’s study, had he wished to be somewhere else—anywhere else?

  Again: countless.

  He passed into that same study now, and shivered as a flood of memories leapt forward from the back of his mind. It occupied more than two thirds of the ground floor. He paused in the doorway and stared inside. He’d seen it every day in his youth, year after year. But he’d never grown used to it. It always sent a lump forming in his throat.

  Destiny aside, this place took his breath away.

  Nearest to him was a forest of spindly stands, their polished steel frames glittering. Upon them were more musical instruments than he could have possibly named. Each shone with fresh polish, set with loving care upon handcrafted bespoke cradles.

  Beyond them stood an enormous bookcase, easily fifty feet long and fifteen high. It was stuffed several layers deep with books that teetered on the shelves, the collective wisdom of the ages: from Shakespeare to Steinbeck; Calculus to Haematology; Ancient Egyptian mythology to Lycanthropy.

  On the opposite wall, every inch had been filled by the frames of a hundred painted canvases, great sunsets, harbours, hills, mountains, and figures walking the streets of forgotten Old World cities.

  Here and there were glass trestle tables, covered with trinkets and souvenirs from all over the country. A pitted brass Sextant, a tall golden globe, the ceramic body of a white rabbit, the long ears broken and the paint long faded. Others were covered with writings and figures, tiny statues of Greek and Egyptian gods, pieces of jewellery, Chinese and Arabic scrolls, pendants and pocket watches.

  Yet this was only the cap of a mile-high peak. Beneath the manor—amidst a vast web of catacombs that had once been wine cellars, pumping stations, sewers and air-raid bunkers—were miles of Old World treasures.

  Only Alexander and Sarah had the keys to that place. Even Norman had only glimpsed its innards a few times. In fact, most of the city folk didn’t even know it existed.

  Within, libraries that dwarfed even the mountains in Sarah’s warehouse were filled to capacity with leather-bound first editions, ancient manuscripts rescued from hallowed shelves, pocket paperbacks, and picture books. All meticulously treated, seal-wrapped, tagged and logged. Great stores of vinyl records, CDs, cassette tapes and DVDs diverged from a kilometre-long hall of canvas masterpieces, drawn from all the land’s galleries.

  Alexander and his ilk had been collecting mankind’s discarded trinkets for a long time.

  The farthest depths of the study were dotted with leather furniture, arranged in a parabola around a central fireplace. The grate was aglow, with the aid of disparate gas lamps casting the room in a rich, warm light.

  Finally, upon the fireplace, was an arrangement of packages. Despite being rotted and old, they retained their bright colouration: oranges and purples, covered with cheery patterns. Some were wrapped in bright bows, and had cards taped to their sides.

  All was still, waiting for the absent master to return. Uncertain, Norman idled near the trestle tables and looked around at the rescued remnants of endless dead. As hard as he might have tried to in some way emulate this temple, he would never know what he was trying to reproduce. He had never seen the Old World, never heard its din. These relics, while breathtaking, could never truly overcome that kind of estrangement.

  In some ways, the Old World was truly dead, and would forever remain so.

  “You look terrible,” said Alexander’s disembodied voice, echoing off the walls.

  Norman started, and turned to the door. “I feel terrible,” he agreed.

  Alexander’s eyes narrowed as he advanced into the room. He looked grizzled, his face peaky and drawn, his robes tussled and creased. He clearly hadn’t slept for some time. Yet still he smiled, and gestured to the leather chairs by the grate. “You should have Heather take another look at you. Make sure you’re really all there.” He tapped a finger to his temple.

  Norman shrugged, easing himself into the seat opposite him. They both took a moment to lounge, staring into the crackling fire before Alexander continued, “Surely you won’t begrudge me for worrying. You’re too important to go unchecked.”

  “I hate that.” Norman looked down at his hands. “I’m no more important than anyone else.”

  “You’re the only one who can carry on our work after we’re gone, Norman. It’s your—”

  “Destiny. Yeah, I know.”

  He’d heard those words a million times, but never before had they seemed so absurd, so irrelevant. Never before had he felt so lost.

  Alexander’s brow twitched. “You should rest up—where Heather can keep an eye on you.”

  Norman sighed. “I can’t sit in there. Not with him.”

  “Charlie?”

  Norman nodded.

  Alex clicked his tongue and stared into the fire for a while, motionless. “You've come to ask me something?” he said eventually.

  Norman paused for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. He thought of asking why anybody would ever attack them, why Jason—and those he claimed to represent—would want them gone, or why Lucian, a man he had thought he’d known as well as Alexander himself, was on the verge of strangling a wounded slave boy.

  But the look in Alexander’s eye—distracted, distant—made him hesitate. Perhaps this wasn’t the time. He suspected that if he asked now, he might do more harm than good.

  Judging by how Lucian had reacted when he’d asked—Our past isn’t all roses, Norman—maybe it wasn’t a good idea to start pulling skeletons out of cupboards. Right now, he wasn’t sure he’d like what he might find.

  He began to speak slowly, glancing at the door as he did so. “I'm worried about Lucian.”

  Alex didn’t respond for a while, his eyes still on the fire. He raised a hand to his chin, rubbing at the stubble on his neck absentmindedly—Norman was surprised to see the two-day growth. Alexander had been clean-shaven every day in living memory. “I have every confidence in him,” he said after a long silence.

  Norman splayed his arms. “I’d like to say that I do too, but after what I just saw, I can’t say that I do.”

  A bizarre twinkle scintillated in the deep-blue halo around Alexander’s pupils. “He was always the first to jump, always the first to respond, always the first to lash out…never thinking before doing. But it was never vicious, it was never…cruel.”

  Norman averted his eyes. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

  Alex rubbed his temple. “For all his ill temperaments, his intentions are what make Lucian who he is. For all of the years that I’ve known him, he’s never done anything to harm any friend of his.”

  “Maybe not,” Norman said, leaning forwards. “But if he continues like this, he’s going to get us in trouble. He’s going to kill that boy anytime now.”

  Alexander nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose.”

  Norman flailed. “What? That’s it?”

  “He’s gone too far for us to restrain him through reason.”

  “Maybe we could restrain him physically? Knock him out or lock him up until this blows over?”

  Alexander gave him an odd look. “I doubt that will help. Anyway, I’m almost certain that this situation will not simply blow over anytime soon. Having him around is vital for morale.”

  Norman looked over towards the door again, his voice dropping to a whisper. “If he gets worse…,” he said. “If he gets out of control, what do we do?”

  Alexander sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose we’ll have to simply hope that he doesn’t. We can’t afford for him to. With the hunger, the attacks, this news of the radio, and the funeral, the city needs him. Needs us all.”

  Norman swallowed.

  The funeral. It was now only two hours away. Already, the ruckus of returning field hands had given way to respectful silence outside.

&nbs
p; If they could get through the burial without incident, a weight would be lifted from their shoulders. Perhaps things would step down a gear.

  But could Lucian wait that long?

  XI

   

  Alexander threw yet another feather at Lucian's feet. “What in God’s name is wrong with you?” he spat.

  Lucian had once again retreated to his post upon the crest of the hill above the city. He barely moved as Alex set to pacing around him, his features unmoving. After a while he leant forwards and picked up the feather, turning it over. His face grew even grimmer. “Where did you get this?” he murmured.

  “My doorstep, again,” Alex said. He fiddled with the book in his hands—green and battered, adorned by an intricate golden title. “And this, too.”

  He hadn’t seen it for years. Not since…

  But there it had been, lying atop the feather, upon his doorstep. Waiting for him, looking just as it had when he’d first picked it from his bedroom clutter all those years ago.

  Yet Norman apparently hadn’t seen it when he’d left. That meant that it must have been placed there only moments before he’d found it.

  He shivered.

  Lucian was quiet for a while. The wind whistled around them. When he spoke, his voice was low and broken. “Why is He doing this?”

  Alex swallowed. “I don’t know.”

  “Just to torture us? See us dance?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Remind us of what we’ve done?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do we do about it?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Norman had left for home minutes before Alexander had raced for the hillside, but he was still visible in the city below, ambling down the street. Alex watched until he had passed out of sight before rounding on Lucian. “You’re getting out of control,” he said. “You could ruin everything.”

  “Ruin what?”

  “Everything. All of it. People need somebody to look up to.”

  “Like you?”

  “Like you. People look to you. You have to control yourself.”

  Lucian looked up sharply. His eyes were grave. “You don’t want them to look to me, you want them to look to Norman.”

  Alex frowned. “It’s his job to lead them. Maybe not now, or tomorrow, but someday.”

  “You made it his job.”

  Alex bent closer, dropping his voice. “He just came to me, worried about you, fretting over you harassing that boy!” he hissed. “He’s got enough to worry about without you making it worse for him. If he starts doubting what we’re doing then everything we’ve ever done, all we’ve sacrificed—it’ll all have been for nothing.”

  Lucian snarled, “That boy never wanted any of this.”

  Alex stopped. “What?”

  “Oh, come on: you've forced this on him since he was a child. Just like you did the first time.”

  “I’ve never forced him to do anything.”

  “You force everybody to do everything. You’ve already destroyed one life, and now you’re doing it all over again with Norman,” Lucian yelled, rising to his feet. “Even now, here you are, grilling me like it’s the Inquisition!”

  “I just want to know what’s gotten into you.”

  Lucian waved the feather before Alexander’s eyes. “This is what’s gotten into me.” He pointed to the book. “And that! This has nothing to do with starvation or survival. This is all happening because of what we’ve done.”

  Alex said nothing.

  “We have to tell them.”

  Alex felt his jaw tighten. “We’re not telling them anything.”

  “They have a right to know.”

  “If anybody finds out then they’ll leave, and we’ll be back to where we started. We’ll lose society, civilisation, everything. If they go then they’ll just become more of what’s already out there.”

  “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep lying.”

  A silence swept over them, interrupted only by the howl of the wind and the rustle of distant leaf litter.

  “We have to,” Alex said finally. “It’s our destiny.”

  XII

   

  The soil was dark and the grass a dappled blue under the overcast evening sky. Stray rays of light streamed from the distant streetlights. A light wind ran through the graveyard, rustling the trouser cuffs of those gathered amongst the thousands of weathered headstones.

  Behind the five dozen mourners lay the remains of the uninhabited parts of the city, its crumbling walls made only greyer by the sombre procession. Two dark slabs of rock had been carved into an approximation of the surrounding ancient stones, courtesy of Robert’s hard labour.

  Upon the first was carved ‘Rayford Hubble—Loved Son and Husband—2004-2048’, before which crouched Ray’s wife and father, who both bawled without reserve. Several others wept with them, while many more stood close by, tight-lipped, heads bowed.

  The other stone simply read ‘Friend’, a title decided on after much deliberation, marking the grave of the old Irishman.

  Norman stood at the rear of the congregation, leaning on his cane at the summit of a slight rise. From his position, he could see over the heads of the others.

  Norman hadn’t known Ray well—had only talked to him on a few occasions, and known his family even less—but the heaving shoulders of his prostrate father made his gut shrivel.

  He started when a sniffle sounded beside him. He looked down into Allison’s tear-stained face and felt a distant flutter stir in his gut, one of many he’d felt when close to her lately. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she gripped it, giving a strained smile.

  Alexander stood with Agatha, Sarah and Robert a short distance away, silent and bowed. Agatha appeared to be muttering a silent prayer. Opposite them, on the other side of the congregation, stood Richard and John. Lucian stood behind them, his face pallid and tense. His hands were bunched into tight fists, such that the knuckles had been stretched until pure white. The crevasse between his brows had furrowed into a perfect V shape, and his eyes almost seemed to be shaking in their sockets.

  Norman kept his head angled towards the graves, but kept watch in his peripheral vision. Lucian’s face seemed to grow redder by the second, his jaw drawing closer and closer to his skull, until Norman was sure he must have been crushing his own teeth.

  He sighed, focusing on the graves.

  Alexander had stepped forwards, standing between the two gravestones, facing the crowd. He began a slow and careful speech, monotonous but sincere. Yet he seemed distracted, glancing frequently towards a small flock of pigeons perched atop a few nearby gravestones.

  Ray’s wife continued to sob, and many eyes traced the wilted lawn. Norman managed to discern a few words of the speech, each of which hinted at a fond farewell to both men. Half-listening, he swept a look around at them all once more.

  He jerked. Lucian was gone. Sudden panic reared up as he looked wildly about, scouring the surrounding area.

  But Lucian was no longer a member of the crowd. He’d simply vanished. Nobody else seemed to have registered movement. The crowd’s unanimous attention was being devoted to Alex.

  He cursed, turning full circle, scanning the distant buildings, looking for a silhouette, but nearby grass swayed gently, giving no indication of having been disturbed.

  He grunted when he eventually spotted him trudging his way along a narrow gravel path, running along the edge of a group of crumbling cottages. He was moving fast, low, light on his feet. A definite sense of purpose hung about him.

  Norman felt a deep and genuine fear spread in his bowels. He backed away from Allie one inch at a time, rubbing his chest, feigning a spell of pain. She didn’t appear to notice his muttered complaints.

  As soon as he had slipped away, he strode after Lucian.

  The pain was almost unbearable. Within moments his chest was heaving and his legs screaming. Lucian was at least a hundred metres ahead of him, and c
ontinued to accelerate away. Norman was powerless to stop him. Tears were forming in the corners of his eyes as he tried desperately to keep pace, and razor-sharp bursts of air lashed against his lungs.

  The funeral was behind him now, and Alex’s voice was nothing but a dim echo. Norman tried to call out, but Lucian had by now cleared the farthest of the outlying buildings. He’d hoped that there would have been somebody else around to signal to, but the streets were empty. Everybody was either at the funeral or had retreated inside to sleep off the day’s work.

  Ahead, Lucian disappeared from sight, entering the clinic.

  Norman was by now seeing spots. The pain in his chest was so severe that he’d half-forgotten why he was moving in the first place. He was nearing the cottages, but a thick span of mud lay directly underfoot, adhering to the tip of his cane and further hindering his progress.

  Lucian had been out of sight for over a minute before he could clear the field and make his way onto tarmac. He began to dread reaching the clinic, afraid of what he might find. He fought a bout of nausea, both the sound of his heavy breathing and the roar of the blood in his ears turning his stomach. He stopped in his tracks when Lucian stepped back into the street.

  He stood stiffly, his mouth stretched into a tight line.

  “What have you done?” Norman wheezed, his heart racing.

  Lucian didn’t respond, nor did he even acknowledge Norman’s presence. He about-faced, and the dark nose of an ancient service revolver glinted in the light.

  Norman took a step back as a scream of fury rang out from within the clinic. “What do you think you’re doing?” Heather roared.

  Lucian waved the revolver. “Stay where you are,” he called in reply. Then his voice changed and became quieter, addressing someone closer, “Get out here.”

  There was a shuffling, coupled with a shuddering moan. Several seconds passed before a figure appeared in the doorway, stooped and snivelling. Charlie stepped into the light, dragging his broken leg. Most of his smaller wounds were still inflamed beneath Heather’s stitching. Tears ran down his face as he stepped forwards, his hands clasped before him. “Please,” he whimpered. “Please don’t. I’ll do anything, I swear.”

  Lucian didn’t respond, instead only waving the revolver, signalling for him to keep moving.

  At first Charlie froze, his eyes wild and his mouth drawn into a gape of silent terror. So focused was he on Lucian that he’d entirely missed Norman. “Please,” he said. “You said you would help me.”

  Lucian shook his head. “I promised you nothing.”

  Charlie uttered a high-pitched, childlike cry as he stumbled out into the street, his chest heaving. Norman could see his eyes darting in their sockets as he hyperventilated. “I haven’t done anything,” he whispered.

  Lucian put the barrel of the revolver to the back of his head, pushing him farther into the street. “You think that matters?” he said, a grimace appearing on his lips. “You think you can just sign up with whoever takes your fancy? That you can kill one of us and not pay the price?”

  Charlie whimpered. “I didn’t mean any harm. I just wanted to find my dad.”

  Lucian frog-marched Charlie away from the clinic. With the revolver coupling them together, an odd, slow dance played out in the street as they advanced. Charlie was dragging himself forwards, having adopted a pathetic, hopping gait.

  Norman gave chase as fast as his broken body would allow, but to what end he was unsure. Lucian was armed, and on the brink of murder; any attempt at negotiation could very well provoke the act all the sooner. He could only follow and look on, aghast.

  Lucian led the boy off Main Street and any semblance of safety, into the quiet parts of the city. Charlie’s pleas became ever more desperate, until his mouth worked fruitlessly and only strangled groans worked their way past his lips.

  The buildings became more dilapidated with each passing second. Walls of untouched white stone soon became splashed with ancient graffiti.

  The trio waddled forth until they reached a place devoid of all activity. Weeds grew thick here, bursting through the tarmac, reaching for the light. The wind was dead, blocked by tall buildings and a narrow street. Every shuffle and footfall was amplified in the unstable silence, intermittently interrupted by Charlie’s shuddering cries.

  Lucian prodded Charlie’s neck. “Stop.”

  With visible reluctance, Charlie complied. He no longer spoke. His arms had fallen to his sides, his hands bunched into sweaty fists.

  Norman paused a short distance behind them, his mind racing. The notion of rushing Lucian in his weakened state was absurd, and yet it remained in his mind’s eye, plaguing him. He was helpless to do a single thing.

  “Get down on your knees.”

  Charlie drew himself up to his full height, for a brief moment topping Lucian’s stature. “I will not,” he said. His voice wavered, but was laced with defiance.

  Lucian pushed the revolver hard against the base of his skull, forcing a groan of pain from his lips. “I said,” he spat, “kneel.”

  Charlie appeared to burst, or break—Norman couldn’t tell which. His arms took flight as he fell onto one knee, moving awkwardly around his broken limb, yelling in a broken squeal, “You’re going to kill me? Shoot me right here like an animal?”

  Lucian raised his thumb to the revolver’s hammer, pulling it back with sinister sluggishness. He was panting, and his hand was shaking. “That’s right.”

  Charlie gave a burst of laughter, full-throated and hysterical. “Just like you did to my dad? You’re a murderer. Spineless. What have I done that you haven’t? All I’ve done is what I’ve needed to do to survive. Can you say the same?”

  Lucian fumed, and with a swipe of his arm struck him across the back of the head. The wound drew blood and sent Charlie sprawling, but he surged back to his knelt position with shocking resilience.

  “You’re one of them,” Lucian said. “You killed Ray. That defenceless old man. Attacked my friend and left him half-dead. Innocent people. Good people. Why do you deserve to live?”

  Charlie growled, a deep and hateful sound. “And you?” he said. “You hunted down and slaughtered two men. You gave them no quarter.”

  “At the camp? It was self-defence. They would have killed Norman and Richard.”

  Charlie turned his head fractionally. “Would they?” he said, his voice lower, almost inquisitive.

  Lucian recoiled for a moment, and the revolver dropped somewhat. His hands shook so much that he required the strength of both to keep the barrel steady. “You can’t live,” he said, his eyes wild. “You’re one of them.”

  Norman remained completely still. His eyes darted between them, as though the scene was a deadly tennis match.

  “I just wanted to find him,” Charlie said, his arms dropping to his sides. His body seemed to deflate, as though he’d now accepted impending doom.

  Lucian’s hand stopped shaking. His knuckles became bone-white, and the face of the Reaper overtook his features. His index finger squeezed the trigger. “Goodbye,” he said.

  Norman rushed forwards, pain exploding in his chest as Charlie leapt to his feet, screaming for his life.

  For the briefest of moments, time itself appeared to undulate, to flow and whorl like churning floodwaters. Norman felt his voice build deep in his throat over what felt like years, but must have only been microseconds. He had time to watch Charlie launch into the air with his mouth open in a piercing yell, time to watch the revolver’s trigger slam against the cartridge.

  Then, in a blurred flurry of motion, time snapped back into place:

  “NO!” Charlie howled.

  “Lucian, don’t!”

  Click.

  …

  Norman blinked.

  His mind was blank. His eyes surely fooled him, for Charlie’s head remained intact.

  Lucian lowered the revolver to his side, his eyes calm and dim. The revolver’s barrel was free of smoke.

  Charlie was abso
lutely still. He remained so for several moments before lowering his arms. However, he didn’t dare turn around. “What…?” he managed.

  Lucian took a step forwards and leaned close. “Close your eyes and walk a thousand steps, and then you can open them again. I’ll be watching.”

  “What?”

  “Go. Get out of here. Never come back.”

  Charlie remained frozen, his mouth working. “But…you…,” he gasped. “You’re not going to kill me?”

  Lucian stepped away. “Go.”

  Charlie remained for a moment more before turning his head. His eyes softened as he finally met Norman’s gaze. He looked from his face to his wobbling cane, and his mouth formed a thin white line.

  He nodded, and then closed his eyes.

  Norman ambled towards Lucian as the young man began his solitary journey down the street, towards the horizon. Together, they stood for a long time, watching as Charlie hobbled away in silence, until his body was no more than a distant speck.

  “The gun wasn’t loaded, was it?” Norman said after a while, not looking away.

  Lucian glanced at the revolver in his hand. “I couldn’t. I just wanted him gone.”

  “Then why the theatrics?”

  Lucian glanced at him. His eyes were bloodshot. “In the end, we all have to pay for our mistakes. All of us.” He lowered his head and muttered, almost to himself, “In the end…”

  Norman nodded slowly.

  Would he ever know what that meant?

  Maybe. But something told him that this was only the first thread of a vast web of secrets, one so tangled that he might never reach its end.

  They watched until Charlie was gone from sight. “You know that he’s probably going to be picked up again?” Norman said.

  Lucian nodded. “I know.”

  XIII

   

  Charlie crawled. His leg dragged behind him as he scaled the hill on his stomach, tearing at the soil. The wind ripped at his clothes, drying the tears on his cheek as he inched closer to the tree line.

  The streets of that cursed city were behind him, but he still felt eyes upon him, watching.

  He’d counted each of those thousand steps he’d taken away from the barrel of that revolver, expecting a bullet to find its way into his back at any moment. But no shot had come.

  Instead, he’d been left to the elements. No quick death, no mercy. Instead, condemnation to a long, savage decline. A boiling hatred rose in his gut at the thought of the grey-haired monster. His fingers curled into the mud, and a gurgling snarl rose in his throat as he hauled his broken body skyward.

  By the time he reached the shadows of the forest canopy, the wind had kicked up, icy and vicious. Shivering, he pushed on into the cool, wet mud beyond the tree line, whimpering, ashamed, lost.

  There was nowhere to go. Nobody would find him, nor help him. There was no food, no water, and no shelter—nothing.

  There was nothing for him out here but death.

  He stopped, propped himself against a tree, and wept.

  When he finally stopped, the wind was alive with the sound of footsteps. Charlie opened his eyes and tried to stifle his sniffling, turning this way and that, searching for the source of the noise. With a grunt of fright he fixated on a shadow as it emerged from the depths of the forest.

  The figure drew closer and resolved into focus. Charlie had time to take in the sight of long, tattered clothes, eyes of searing intent, and a face obscured by a dark balaclava.

  “What do you want?” Charlie breathed.

  The figure grew closer still. Emerald eyes stared down at him, piercing, hypnotising. Charlie pressed himself against the trunk at his back as the figure crouched down beside him and reached out a hand invitingly.

  SECOND INTERLUDE

   

  James looked out over the London skyline in awe. In the midday sun the city was ablaze with light, glass glittering and steel shining.

  The waters of the Thames had risen since the End. The city’s great Barrier, broken and useless, sat unused and drowned downriver, helpless to impede the progress of the floodwaters. The banks had long since burst, and so now waves lapped against the edges of street curbs, traffic lights, and skyscrapers.

  These new shores rendered the great bridges useless, having flooded the low-lying roads that fed them. They were now only so many vast and ungainly islands, jutting from green tidal waters, stretching for land that could never be reached.

  “I don’t see it,” James said, squinting.

  They were high up upon the rooftop of a crumbling block of flats—so high that buildings he knew to be enormous appeared tiny.

  Alex pointed into the sea of concrete and steel, drawing out an area far away, low and antiquated. James followed his finger, past the wreckage of the Great Wheel, and laid eyes on a series of oblongs, pillars and a grand central dome, centred in a swathe of glass.

  “I see it!” James said. “It looks big.”

  “It is.”

  “There must be a lot inside.”

  “There is.”

  James frowned. “How do we save it all?”

  Alex laughed. “We can’t. Even if we could, there would be nowhere to put it. It’s safest to just leave it all there for the time being.”

  “Won’t it all rot?”

  “It’s been stored better than we could manage.”

  James nodded. His legs began to quiver with excitement as he drank in the enormity, and grandiosity, of the great city. He thought of all of the pictures he’d seen of the treasures that lay waiting in that distant dome, of all the things that waited to be seen, the wonders that waited to be rediscovered.

  “Can we go inside?” he said.

  Alex smiled. “That’s why we’re here.”

  They descended to the streets and walked in silence, too sensitive to the echo of their own voices to strike up conversation. The capital’s streets had a habit of amplifying even idle chitchat to a ghoulish, disembodied rumble.

  Instead, they were content to merely let the scenery pass by, fascinated by the monstrous scale of it all and the desolate stillness.

  To most, it was disturbing. For all the land’s emptiness, the countryside at least carried on unhindered; grass and branches danced in the wind, birds flocked in the sky, and great herds of sheep trampled the land. In the country, there was life.

  London, however, had been stone dead since the End. It almost appeared vacuum-sealed, wrapped in protective sheeting and stored away for a distant future. All debris had been swept away by the wind and waves, and the food waste had been consumed by giant bird flocks and swarms of vermin in the Early Years. Perfectly sanitised and lifeless, the streets sat dormant, waiting to be traversed by bustling crowds that would never come.

  Underfoot, clothing still smothered the pavement. James weaved around blouses, work shirts, square-shouldered black jackets and denim jeans, stepped over necklaces, rucksacks, and briefcases emblazoned with strange words: ‘Prada’, ‘Levi’s’, ‘Armani’ and ‘Louis Vuitton’. He wondered for the millionth time whether the stories the others told were really true: that these things had once belonged to people—real, breathing people. Millions of them.

  It was almost too absurd. It boggled his mind.

  Though the great city had to have come from somewhere, James was sure that it could only have been crafted by departed gods. The perfect geometric shapes and gargantuan heights could only have been forged by creatures of unimaginable power.

  The people he knew, as great and kind as they had been to him, were not omnipotent, and they were certainly not gods. And yet, supposedly, they were descended from those who had built every crevice that he saw before him.

  He looked to Alex, frowning. “Did people really build all this?” His voice boomed back at him a hundred times in echo, filling every alley and room for hundreds of metres. But he ignored the racket. His eyes were fixed on Alex.

  He needed to know.

  A strange expression
crossed Alex’s face as he met James’s gaze. “What?”

  “People?”

  “Yes.”

  “And there was nothing here before them?”

  “Just the land, like where we live.”

  “And they built it all from nothing?”

  “Of course they did. Who else could have built it all?”

  “Others.”

  Alex’s face contorted into a confused smile. They walked for a while as he mused, tilting his head. “You don’t think that people can build these things?”

  “How could they?”

  “Builders built, architects designed, electricians wired. People spent their entire lives mastering a single thing.”

  “And where are they all now?”

  “Gone.”

  “I don’t think that’s it,” James said. “I don't think that people can do those things anymore.”

  “Books can teach you anything.”

  James shook his head. “A book can’t teach you how to ride a bike,” he said.

  Alex stopped and looked down at James. His frown had grown deep and his eyes forlorn, troubled.

  “I read that in a book,” James said. He felt that he might have said the wrong thing, but wasn’t about to apologise. In their classes, Alex had always said it was more important than anything to speak his own mind.

  Alex started walking again, but this time he looked away, across the river, and didn’t speak for some time. James trudged alongside, staring at the floor, waiting for his reticence to wane.

  They passed a set of black gates and arrived at the steps of the great building they had seen from the rooftop. James took in the sight of its marble pillars and the entrance beyond, and any thoughts of his indiscretion were forgotten in an instant. The two of them exchanged a glance. Alexander’s eyes were alight, and reflected in them James could see his own giddy smile.

  They hurried up past the pillars and took their first hesitant steps inside. Within, it was cool, dusty, and dark. They walked past the unattended reception and stepped into a cavernous space. There, they both stopped, agape.

  The court of the British Museum lay before them, bathed in amber light that struck down through a roof of tessellated glass panels. Portland Stone surfaces sat gleaming, untouched by time’s hand. To James’s eyes, Olympus itself would have paled in comparison.

  “You were right,” Alex said. In the vast space his voice was rendered an endless echo, louder than cannon fire. “We can’t do this anymore.”

  James saw something grow hollow in his gaze.

  But the sadness was brief. Within moments it had passed, and an infectious smile played upon his lips. The two of them dashed into the building’s depths, feverish with excitement, marvelling at passing wonders, unwilling to leave any individual piece for fear of neglecting it, making countless oaths to return to ornate ancient statues, tablets, tombs and sarcophagi. Dashing from exhibit to exhibit, and from room to room, they spent the rest of the day hopelessly wrapped up in their own thoughts, often on opposite sides of the museum. On several occasions they lost each other completely and were forced to make their way back to the entrance to rendezvous.

  James’s mind had all but ground to a halt at the sight of such richness. He did his best to absorb all he could, but knew that he could only take in a thimble’s worth—at least on this visit—and hoped to high heaven that the day would never end.

  Eventually, they made their way into a large room close to the great court. They looked at the unusual objects in the same manner as they had looked at everything over the past hours: with a burning desire to allocate a week to each exhibit.

  Their fascination, however, was nothing compared to what they felt when they laid eyes on the isolated glass capsule and the broken tablet that sat within.

  They approached slowly, unspeaking, unflinching, lured inexorably forwards. In the glass’s reflection their eyes were round as saucers, bulging from their heads. Side by side, they spent the longest time looking at the stone, and the three passages of mysterious, unintelligible writings inscribed upon it.

  The top was smeared with the most striking of the three, the letters in fact tiny drawings of birds, eyes, staffs and ankhs; the middle scrawled in strange, complicated glyphs; and the bottom a more geometric, aesthetic script.

  James had seen all three passages before in his reading, just as he had seen the stone. He and Alex had studied it for many weeks. “Is this it?” he said.

  “This is it.”

  James grinned, wide enough to make his cheeks ache. “It’s beautiful.”

  Alex smiled along with him. “It is.”

  “We’re going to save this?”

  “One day.”

  Alex gestured towards it with a grand sweep of his arm. His eyes were alive, his body in constant motion. “This is the key,” he said, hushed. “All of these things are. These are the things we have to rescue, the things that are going to teach us the future.”

  James leaned forward, instinctively reaching out to balance himself by pressing against the glass. Before he could complete his ascent onto tiptoes, Alex had caught his wrist in an iron grip and squeezed hard.

  “Don’t touch it!” he hissed.

  James gasped and collapsed back, catching a fleeting and sudden fury in Alex’s eyes. He backed away, seeing for the first time a monster, born of obsession, lurking under his brother’s skin.

  The look was gone before James could blink. Now Alex’s eyes were wide, and his mouth was ajar. “I’m sorry,” he said, blinking.

  James cradled his crushed wrist, taking a step back.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  James swallowed and stopped. The pain in his arm dulled at the sight of such sincere shock. “I’m fine,” he said.

  Alex rushed forwards and took him into a crushing embrace. James stood uncomfortably between his arms. Alex was shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “I shouldn’t have.” He pulled James to arm’s length and sighed. “You know I’d never hurt you.”

  James nodded. “I know.”

  “It was instinct. These things are just too old and delicate for us to be putting our fingers all over them. They’re too important.” Alex’s face took on that odd glaze yet again. His voice grew hazy, distant. “They’re too important, even more important than you or me.”

  XIV

   

  Norman sat with a sigh, back in Alexander’s study. A strange medley of sensations was at war within him: exhaustion, burgeoning guilt, and a distant throbbing emanating from his extremities.

  The fire still roared in the grate. Warmth permeated the darkened room, and a gentle wind whispered at the windows.

  He looked down at the faded green book that Alex had laid in his hands, taking note of the title’s delicate golden lettering. “Alice in Wonderland?” he said.

  Alex smiled, thin-lipped. He looked more drawn than Norman had ever seen him. Speaking at the funeral must have taken its toll. “Give it a try,” he said. “You might like it.”

  “Why are you giving me this?”

  Alex looked still more distant. “Tradition.”

  Norman frowned, but let it pass, resting the book in his lap.

  “The boy is gone, then?” Alexander’s slouched position made his figure hard to distinguish in the flickering light, his face hard to read.

  “Yes. He just let him leave.”

  A light smile wandered over Alexander’s features. “Where’s Lucian now?”

  “Guard duty, with Robert.”

  Alex nodded, and said no more for some time. When he finally spoke, he sounded no more present. “How’s your chest?”

  “It hurts.”

  “Heather told me to watch you for any strange behaviour. I thought I’d just come right out and ask.”

  “Ask if I’m seeing pink elephants?”

  Alex glanced at him. “Are you?”

  Norman smiled, but felt it grow tight on his face as the memory of his dream fla
shed before his eyes yet again—

  The storm. The city. The yelling faces. The leering stranger.

  Each time he remembered it, the details seemed that much clearer, that much more forceful.

  And yet, it had been just a dream. Hadn’t it?

  It was probably nothing. Yet, despite himself, he cleared his throat and caught Alexander’s gaze. For a moment he merely sat and listened to the crackling in the grate, and then he spoke. “When I was out, I had a dream…only I don’t think it was a dream. I think that I was remembering something. From before you took me in.”

  Alex’s silhouette was deathly still amidst the shadows. He said nothing, just waited for Norman to continue.

  “I remembered a storm. It was raining hard. Everything was flooded. It was a city—I think London. I was lying on the ground. You and Lucian were leaning over me, yelling… I’d hurt my head. I’d hurt my head badly.” He paused and shivered as the image in his mind’s eye sharpened once more, so much so that he could almost taste something awful, something stagnant. He thought of mentioning the marble-faced, leering figure—

  “Remember, Norman. Remember. You were all there. You all watched it happen.”

  —but, perhaps because Alexander had mentioned watching him for strange behaviour, he thought better of it. Instead, he grunted to fill the brief silence that followed. “Is that why I can’t remember?” he said. “Was that the night of the accident?”

  Alex stared at him for over a minute. Something stirred behind his eyes. “That was the night that your parents died,” he said. “And yes, it was also the night of the accident, and the night that I first told you about…”

  “About my destiny?”

  Alex nodded.

  Norman waited, but he said no more. He itched to know the rest—to pry further into this mystery—but Alexander’s expression, along with the fresh memory of Lucian’s blood-curdling near miss, made him think twice.

  He was tired of the questions, of the secrets, of not knowing. But perhaps this was something best saved for another night.

  Norman shook his head. “Why me?” he muttered. “I’ve always wondered. Of all of these people, any of a hundred of them would have been a better choice. Why did you choose me?”

  Alex looked away into the flames. “Because some men have—” He paused, and drew a deep sigh. Then he shook his head. “I didn’t choose anything. It was always going to be you.” He cleared his throat and shifted, as though uncomfortable, and fell silent.

  After that, the night took hold in earnest. The din of Ray’s wake, which spanned the breadth of the city, fizzled and petered out. While the city grew peaceful and the sleepy rhythm of the night set in, Norman rubbed his chest and broke the silence. “What’s the news on the council summit?”

  Alexander grunted. “It’s going ahead as planned. I’m very interested to hear about this radio signal. But now that this…trouble has come up, we’ll be able to address everyone. Warn them.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of what’s coming.”

  “You think the others are going to be targeted as well?”

  Alex didn’t need to reply. A glance was enough.

  They turned back to the fire, enjoying each other’s company as New Canterbury slept. The shadow that had hung over them all for so long now seemed punctured by the faintest glimmer of hope.

  “When do we leave?” Norman said.

  XV

   

  Don coughed. His breath wheezed deep in his throat and he shivered without pause beneath the bedcovers despite the thick, greasy sweat coating his chest and brow. Through bloated eyes he could barely make out Billy’s form, sitting upon a wooden chair beside the bed.

  The cabin had become their new home. Dilapidated and ancient, it had appeared to be little more than a shack from outside. But there were beds, a small living space, and even a miniature kitchen. More than he could have hoped for.

  In truth, he’d been utterly defeated before finding it. Now, there was a chance.

  “You mustn’t cry,” he said.

  A small candle burned in a dish on the bedside table, casting a meek light upon Billy’s tearstained face.

  “I’m scared,” she whispered, wrapping her arms tighter around her knees.

  “You mustn’t be. You have to be strong.”

  Billy whimpered, hiding her head.

  “Stop crying!” Don coughed, and lay back, groaning.

  Billy hiccoughed, and her sobs died under his tenuous glare.

  “I’m sorry,” said Don. “We’ll be alright.”

  She nodded.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “You’re sick, Daddy.” She grumbled for a moment, lowering her head towards her knees, until her eyes peeked just above her arms.

  “I know. But I’ll get better. Everything will be fine.”

  “Alright.”

  “You’re still worried.”

  “It’s dark outside.”

  Don sat up, glancing at the grimed window. It was almost opaque, but still he could tell it was pitch-black outside. “You’ve never been afraid of the dark before,” he said.

  “Now I know they’re out there. The Bad Men.”

  “They’re not here right now.”

  Billy’s gaze remained trained on the window. “How do you know?”

  “I just know. Trust me.”

  She nodded, and began to rock once more upon the chair. Its joints creaked even louder.

  Don sighed, turning to their bag at the foot of the bed. Dragging it towards him, he pulled it open and rummaged inside. Billy’s head lifted as he produced a torch from its depths, thin and stunted.

  He’d been saving it for an emergency. Once the candles burned down, it would be their last stopgap before having to rub sticks together. Their supply of lighters and matches had long since run dry.

  He clicked the power switch, and a harsh beam of white light lanced across the room, pooling against the far wall. Once satisfied that it wouldn’t falter, he handed it to Billy and sat back, gasping from the exertion. He had the sudden urge to sleep. “There you go,” he said between ragged breaths. “Now you’ll know if they’re near.”

  Billy took it with extreme care, unravelling her limbs and staring with wonder at the magic of the black bottle. Waving it to and fro, she smiled—a true smile, one he hadn’t seen in a long time.

  “How did they get all of this light in here?” she breathed.

  Don laughed, holding his ribs. “That’s not how it works.”

  “Then how does it work?”

  He coughed, sinking lower into the pillows’ folds. “I’ll tell you another time, I promise. Now get some sleep.”

  He needed to rest. His eyes pulsed with a steady, dull pain, the lids heavy. They rolled to a close, and he immediately began to drift.

  A bump jerked him awake some time later. After opening his eyes once more—a task that required extreme effort—he saw that Billy had moved across the room and climbed onto a stool to shine the torch through the window.

  She turned to him, smiling. “Magic.”

  Don laughed, and then began to drift once more. “That’s right,” he said. “Magic.”

  XVI

   

  Birdsong filled the summer air, accompanied by the trickling of the Stour. Dragonflies flitted across open water, racing parallel to the glassy surface. The sky was bright, the morning fresh, and the mist of dawn was evaporating to be replaced by a pleasant golden glow. There was no cloud cover other than a distant spattering of cirrus, many miles away.

  The riverside was alive. Milling droves hauled luggage along the bank, loading it into a small fleet of rowboats. Almost half the city had gathered to help load supplies, and to bid farewell to family and friends. The air was thick with excitement, saturating every crevice.

  On the far shore, a convoy of horses, wagons and other supplies was being assembled. The ant-like figures of two dozen men and women scurried without pause, moving b
etween animals and boxes.

  The earth had been turned. The fields sown. No more attacks had come.

  In the fortnight since Ray’s funeral, without the presence of the unwelcome prisoner hanging in the air like a foul stink, things had improved. The first signs of life were returning to the forests. The grass on the hills was growing green again. Tensions had lessened just enough to allow the radio signal to have become the subject of conversation once more. Rumours were spreading, whispers filled every street corner, and debate at the dinner table was rife.

  For many, the reality of it had finally struck home: they might not be alone.

  Somewhere out there, there might be others, others for whom the candle of civilisation still burned. Just maybe, after all this time, they might be saved.

  Norman watched, sitting on a decrepit bench a small distance from the main body of activity. His cane was propped beside him, a painful reminder that, after two weeks, he was only just beginning to feel better. Since his visit from Jason he’d started to feel trapped, imprisoned behind a broken body.

  Yet, despite his frustration, he was recovering, and his strength was returning.

  Heather crouched beside him, checking his collarbone and chest, where the pain was greatest. “You’re sure it hasn’t gotten any better?” she said, frowning as she massaged his shoulder.

  He shook his head, wincing, then hesitated. “Slowly,” he said.

  “How bad?”

  Norman looked at her, trying to keep a straight face. “I can’t think,” he said. “It feels like I have glass under my skin.”

  She nodded absently. “You should be mending by now. You might just need longer to recover. There’s no way to be sure how bad the injury was.”

  “You’re sure that I’m okay to go?”

  She wobbled her head. “As long as you don’t walk too much, you should be alright. Make sure you take a few deep breaths every hour, or you’ll get pneumonia.” She paused for emphasis. “If you get any worse, get help from somebody. I still don’t know if you’re punctured internally.”

  “I’d feel a lot better if you were coming along,” he said.

  She laughed and touched him on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind going either, but with so many people in and out of the clinic, the city would go crazy.” She sighed, brushing her prematurely greying hair from her face. “People are acting…odd.”

  “This is new for all of us,” Norman said, struggling to his feet.

  She nodded, standing with him for a time, watching the proceedings.

  Not long after, Sarah appeared, walking hand in hand with Robert. Her face was more alive than Norman had ever seen it, its soft curves strikingly feminine, bearing a smile so intense it outshone the sun.

  Robert, meanwhile, looked beside himself. A goofy, childish grin appeared out of place upon his enormous head.

  A gaggle of children surrounded them, giggling as they jumped to and fro, their shoes clattering on the cobbles. They chattered for a moment, and some of the older boys attempted to strike up conversation with Robert, their heads turned skywards in search of his face.

  It was only moments before a girl gave a cry of delight, holding Sarah’s outstretched hand. The children swarmed the two of them, circling and laughing in a gibbering frenzy, calling for parents and guardians to come quick.

  The activity stirred a sudden interest among others, who milled for a while before approaching. Some stretched their necks to see over the sea of children, while others instead rushed forwards. Boxes of supplies lay abandoned on the ground, and the boats were left lifeless.

  On the far shore, the workers looked nonplussed. Some scratched their heads, while others called out, waving their arms. They were met by silence.

  The excitement grew to staggering proportions in a very short time, until Norman himself was drawn closer. The couple were now invisible beyond the bodies of others. All attention had turned to them.

  Norman skirted the edge of the crowd, careful not to snag his cane on flailing limbs or the faces of small children. Before long he could see Sarah and Robert, overrun by ecstatic women and jovial men. “What is it?” he asked.

  His voice was barely audible over the squeals and merriment. Moving around to the side a little more, Heather split from his side and attempted to burrow into the sea of bodies, but to no avail.

  Sarah stood in her partner’s shadow, her hand held up beside her. A thick golden band of metal adorned her fourth finger. As he watched, the joy of a middle-aged woman beside him spilled into physicality, and she pulled him into an awkward hug. He struggled free and fought his way to the front of the crowd. In the corner of his eye he saw Heather forging her own path, parallel to his.

  “Congratulations,” he said as he reached Robert, stepping forwards to grasp his hand.

  Sarah was pulled by Heather into a crushing embrace, and both women propelled their voices to a high-pitched, incomprehensible babble.

  “How did this happen?” Heather cried.

  Robert shrugged, his face frozen in a foolish smile. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  “Where did you get the ring?”

  Robert looked at Sarah and then to the ring upon her finger. “It was my grandmother’s,” he said.

  “We just thought that we should do something,” Sarah said. “Just in case.”

  A stray voice, young and curious, arose from the incoherent rumble of the crowd, and a figure stepped into view. “What’s going on?”

  Allison froze when she saw the betrothed, her eyes bulging. The muscles of her forearms began to twitch as her mouth worked. Norman had only a moment to prepare for the forthcoming racket.

  She sprinted for Sarah and Heather, and the three of them entered a frenzy of heightened, even louder screeching, hugging and leaping on the spot.

  Norman squinted at the pain in his ears, sharing an uncomfortable look with Robert, with whom he was still shaking hands. Those around them threw glances of equal discomfort, some holding their palms over the sides of their heads.

  “When are you planning on holding the ceremony?” Heather asked.

  Robert and Sarah exchanged glances, their expressions blank.

  “The autumn?” Robert suggested.

  After a moment of thought, Sarah’s face brightened. “What do you think?” she said.

  Robert thought for a while—or, Norman suspected, pretended to—before nodding.

  Norman groaned as the three women enjoyed another bout of squealing, embracing each other once more.

  The crowd began to break up, and returned to work. The fleet of boats became more active. A number of women remained to hug and harass Sarah for a short while longer.

  “I suppose you’re not coming then?” Norman said.

  Robert shook his head, holding Sarah around the waist, his bulging arms dwarfing her body. “Alexander wants me to sit this one out and take care of things here.” He shrugged. “You'll be fine without me.”

  Norman wasn’t quite as certain after looking over his shoulder. Only a select few were to make the journey to London. It had been decided that a larger convoy would express undue risk.

  The city elders were being helped into the farthest boats—Agatha sitting in the prow of the closest, dazed and starry-eyed. Only members of the council, their families, and a security detail were to go—with a particular emphasis on security.

  Nevertheless, he forced a smile. “I’m sure we will.”

  Robert sagged with relief, finally releasing Norman’s hand. He steered Sarah from the riverside, retreating into the streets, disappearing from sight.

  Heather and Allison watched them leave with simultaneous sighs of feminine passion. Their bodies remained motionless, staring after the retreating couple.

  Norman stood and waited for a while, looking for something on which to focus his attention. In the aftermath of the excitement, the pain was returning.

  “I wish somebody would come and take me like that,” Allison said. Her swoon beca
me masked by a sudden and uncharacteristic depression. Heather uttered a longing sigh of agreement, her hands wedged deep in her pockets.

  Norman cleared his throat, leaning on his cane, awaiting their return to reality. They turned to him slowly, their faces downturned and reserved, spawning an unwelcome pity in the pit of his stomach.

  “Come on,” he said to Allison, beckoning to the rowboats. “We have to be going.”

  Her eyes were glazed as she nodded, bidding Heather farewell and then joining his side.

  “You’ll be careful, won’t you?” Heather said.

  Norman patted his cane. “I’ll be fine.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  He almost smiled, but didn’t quite manage. Instead, he pulled her into a weak one-armed hug. “Take care,” he said.

  She returned the sentiment before stepping away to join the rest of those who were to stay behind. The crowd now waved and called to the occupants of the retreating boats.

  Allison fell into step beside him as they wheeled towards the last of the boats still docked. They were beckoned forwards by John, whose face was adamant as he pointed to the sun, which was already nearing its zenith.

  “This should be interesting,” Allison said.

  Norman glanced at her. “You’ve been to London plenty of times.”

  She grunted hollowly. “Maybe,” she said. “But I’ve never had to be escorted by a small army.” Her voice wavered. “Maybe I should stay behind.”

  She looked over her shoulder. Her eyes had softened, and the corners of her mouth were twitching.

  “No,” he said. He hesitated, but pressed on. “I want you to come.”

  He had at first been thinking of whatever disaster could be averted by leaving the city with Allison in tow, removing the city’s primary source of gossip. But after mere moments he realised that he genuinely wanted her company.

  An odd fluttering sensation was once again prowling his bowels.

  “I could use a hand with getting about,” he added hastily.

  She stood motionless for a moment, her eyes darting between the boats and Main Street. “You're sure it’ll be safe?” she muttered.

  Norman offered a hand, attempting a smile. “Trust me,” he said.

  XVII

   

  Heather smiled as Robert and Sarah drifted into the kitchen. They walked hand in hand, still plastered with numb expressions of giddy joy. Sarah had changed into a long, billowing dress, adorned by sunflowers and abstract swirls that complemented her fiery locks.

  She observed the couple at length, her head falling sideways as she cupped her chin in her palms. A pang of jealousy rose in her gut, an ugly mixture of longing and deep-seated, instinctual hatred for a woman who had found happiness, one whom she considered her closest friend.

  She scorned her thoughts. Her own love life had been lacking of late, but there was still time for her. So long as the stray grey hairs on her crown kept at bay. In the meantime, what better sight was there amidst so much loss than untainted devotion?

  She watched them walk towards the counter, which had been abandoned when people had volunteered to aid the travelling party with supplies. They disappeared for a short while, and the sound of clinking and interested grunts filled the air.

  She busied herself with a sudden interest in the tabletop, using a fork to deepen an excavated crevice. Exhaustion reared its head. She’d eaten little, like everyone else. They’d ploughed the fields and reseeded for the summer months, but it would still be weeks before they saw anything worth harvesting. Rations were now meagre handfuls, mainly roots and berries, maybe with a slice of hard bread.

  She wanted nothing more than to stay at the bench for the remainder of the day, but the hypochondriacs that infested the city needed her.

  The couple reappeared with a single plate of leftovers, no less a maddening picture of happiness. They looked around and spotted her. Sarah’s face brightened and she dragged her new fiancé in Heather’s direction.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said as she sat down. Her mouth worked as she stared dumbly at the far wall, her eyes glazed and her free hand caressing the worn golden band upon her finger.

  Heather looked to Robert, who seemed amused by Sarah’s absence. He jerked his shoulder, nudging her from her reverie.

  She stirred. Her glasses briefly magnified her eyes to enormous proportions as she turned to face them, her usual analytical, intense mannerisms gone. What Heather saw before her was a child whose greatest fantasy had come true.

  “What?” Sarah mumbled, blinking.

  “Are you alright?” asked Robert.

  Her eyes remained cloudy for a moment before she nodded. “Yes,” she said, “of course.” She looked at the ring, holding it up to the light before speaking again, “I just can’t believe it.”

  “Believe what?” Heather put down her fork as jealousy sparked red-hot behind her eyes. She cleared her throat, bowing her head.

  What was wrong with her? She made a mental note to rest up properly.

  Sarah didn’t seem to have noticed her tone. Her voice was hollow and slow, far removed from her usual clipped and excited tongue. “I just can’t come to terms with the fact that I’m actually going to get married.” She looked to Robert. “I never thought that I’d get to experience it for real.”

  Robert took a cube of diced turnip and fed it to her, his face aglow. “Lucky you,” he said.

  Heather leaned forwards, overcome by the intoxicating miasma surrounding them. “I’m really happy for you both,” she said. She managed a smile. “What did you have in mind?”

  Sarah thought for a while, a critical frown momentarily punching through her mask of glee. “I’m not sure yet,” she said. “As we said: this just came out of the blue. But a white wedding, I think—”

  An extraordinary rumble ran through the ground. Plates jangled, glasses overturned, and tables leapt a foot into the air. An almighty roar—akin to the bellow of an enraged dragon—blasted through the open door and tore at their ears. The table jumped beneath them again as another shockwave reached the hall, sending any remaining cutlery clattering to the floor.

  The three of them surged to their feet. Heather’s heart was in her throat. Looking around wildly, she stumbled, trying to make sense of the blur of rushing diners as they clambered for the door.

  Robert’s immense shadow passed by as he bolted into the street, with Sarah following close behind. Passing through the crowded doorway, Heather squinted, blinded by sunlight. Dozens of gabbling people surrounded her, and the rumble of rushing footsteps sounded from all directions.

  “What happened?” Robert bellowed above the racket.

  Through half-closed eyes, Heather could see that some were still returning from the riverside, rushing forwards with astonishment written over their faces.

  Skywards was an orange glow, distant and obscured by the houses opposite; the horizon was ablaze. Smaller shockwaves still thrummed up from the cobbles, rattling her bones.

  Sarah was standing before her, jumping up and down on the spot, screeching in a blind panic, calling for Robert as he parted the crowd with his bulk, still calling, “What happened?”

  Those in the crowd shrugged unanimously. Some women had taken their children in their arms, eyes wild as they struggled to keep pace.

  Heather grabbed Sarah, shaking her by the shoulders. “What is going on?” she yelled.

  Scared and tearing eyes met her gaze. “I don’t know,” Sarah squeaked. She threw herself into Robert’s arms.

  He pulled her close, looking up to Heather. “I think it’s another attack,” he said.

  Heather glanced down the street, almost expecting to spy an angry mob advancing towards them. “What do we do?” she said.

  “I don’t know. I have to go.” He turned to Sarah, leaning at almost forty-five degrees to stare into her eyes. “I need you to stay with Heather,” he said. His mouth was set, his tone firm, yet his eyes were wide with desperation.


  Sarah protested, but, under his gaze, relented, and kissed him fiercely.

  He remained for a moment afterwards, his hardened gaze broken. Then he released her, and Sarah shrank away, her cheeks streaked with fresh tears.

  Heather guided her back towards Main Street as the people arriving from the riverside began to race past. “We’ll be in the clinic,” she called.

  Robert nodded, and ran for the armoury.

  XVIII

   

  The grey stallion galloped across the meadow amidst sweltering heat, breathing hard and leaving a trail of wispy vapour in its wake. Lucian sat erect upon the saddle, glad for the gentle wind being generated by the movement. The air was otherwise still, and stagnant.

  The grass here had grown tall and the peripheral hedges of the meadow wild. A sea of rapeseed had erupted across the surrounding hillside, filling the air with a heady aroma. Dotted here and there were a few archipelagos of flowers; stars studding a carpet of yellow as uniform as the dark of space.

  The lease of life was slight—any other year would have seen the grass waist-high and ablaze with colour—but it still set something resembling a smile on his lips.

  He swung his gaze in a wide arc as he rode, his eyes trained first on the horizon and then the middle distance, studying every crevice for a sign of activity.

  Seeing none, he focused instead upon ascending the slight rise that lay before him: an embankment of dark soil and patched grass. He encouraged his steed with precise nudges, being careful to avoid the many rabbit holes that pockmarked the incline. As he reached the summit, he pulled on the reins and ordered a halt, surveying the ground below.

  A convoy of wagons, horses and city folk trudged along a small valley road nestled between the embankment and another on the far side.

  Previous summits in London had seen Canterbury emptied. Today, only a few dozen lined the roadway. Some rode, the rest walked, while the elderly or tired sat atop the wagons, surrounded on all sides by piles of supplies.

  Looking up from them, Lucian observed the members of the security detail lining the embankments. Half a dozen dotted the crest of either rise, standing sentinel, strung out over a mile, each on horseback. Their stillness made them invisible, unless one knew to look for them.

  His attention was so focused on the convoy that he didn't notice Norman approach until his hand touched his shoulder, at which point he jerked, cursing.

  Norman was seated stiffly, with a pained squint splashed across his face, holding his side.

  “You shouldn’t be up here,” Lucian said, still scanning the landscape.

  Norman coughed, leaning forwards, wincing. “I’m fine,” he gasped.

  Lucian scowled, pointing down to the nearest wagon. “Just go and sit down, will you?”

  “I didn’t come along to sit down there with my thumb up my arse.”

  Lucian looked to him. “What if something happens right now?” he said. “What are you going to do?”

  Norman grunted. “Everybody expects me to be the one to step up, but when I finally try to do it, I’m told to go and sit at the kid’s table.” His eyes flashed with defiance. “I’m not going down there. I’m fine.”

  Lucian shook his head, looking back to the convoy. Many people looked sullen and frightened as they proceeded along the road. The mood was stark in contrast to the cheer that had hung over their heads not an hour before. It seemed they all sensed that something wasn’t quite right.

  They had refrained from taking the dual-carriageway route as usual, fearing that if they were ambushed in the open terrain, they’d have nowhere to hide. With so many old and frail among them, they would have been defenceless, and had instead opted to take the smallest and most secluded of paths. It was safer, but would take far longer.

  At the time, it had seemed the obvious choice. Now, Lucian wasn’t so sure.

  In the distance, Lucian could see the distant profiles of the tallest of Canterbury’s buildings. They were still close to home. Close enough to turn back.

  But if someone was watching, turning tail now would only trigger an attack.

  “Think we’ll make it?” Norman said.

  Lucian huffed, looking down at the decrepit elders upon the wagons. “If they were out there, we’d know it by now.” He looked out at the silent expanse, but saw only a flock of swifts swooping overhead. The meadows were barren, and the sky clear. “We’re alone out here.”

  Only a further moment of silence ensued before he was proven wrong—very wrong.

  A blast of brilliant orange light blinded them, sending their mounts rearing and bucking, very nearly throwing them both off. They both ducked as a deafening rumble reverberated along the valley towards them. A solid wave of heat followed soon after, striking them on the broadside and forcing their hands up to their faces.

  The screams of those below reached them a moment later, tiny beneath the continued rumble, which rattled through the air in concussive blasts, surging and ebbing like great ocean waves.

  Lucian yanked on his reins, red and green spots appearing before his eyes, trying to regain control. But his mount was spooked, and bucked to the very edge of the embankment before he could wrestle it back to sense.

  Norman grabbed his shirt, his face invisible behind a wall of dancing spots. “What was that?” he yelled.

  Lucian struck himself on the temple with the heel of his palm, trying to clear his head. “I don’t know!"

  “Was it the turbines?”

  Lucian rubbed his eyes as the spots dissipated. The grass of the embankment had been tinged deep red, and the sky a fierce orange. Beyond the far embankment was a monstrous fireball, reaching into the sky, as though the heavens had been set alight. A single plume of black smoke was billowing skywards, already beginning to block out the sunlight.

  As the sky darkened, several more explosions erupted beside the first, forging vertical bands of fire from the ether. Ground zero was out of sight, but the rising fire itself was indicative enough of the location: the wind farm was being destroyed. If it was left to burn, their power-generating capacity would be halved. Perhaps worse. At the very least, New Canterbury could be without electricity during the night, leaving them exposed.

  “Come on!” Lucian barked, yanking his reins and urging his mount forwards. Charging down the hill, he weaved between the floundering bodies of the fleeing members of the convoy, who clambered up the embankment on their hands and knees.

  The security detail had gathered along the valley floor, surrounding the wagons and supplies, yelling for the others to rally to them instead of scattering.

  Looking back for a moment, Lucian saw that Norman was barely past the precipice of the embankment. His face was creased into a grimace of pain, yet he too called down to the others all the same, as though he were as able-bodied as the rest.

  Another blistering explosion rang out in the distance, eliciting another bout of screams from those fleeing in terror.

  Through the mass of writhing bodies Lucian spotted Alexander, riding atop his white steed, bellowing over the din of the explosions and roaring fires, “Everybody to me! TO ME!”

  His voice brought some back from the brink of panic. Stopping in their tracks, they about-faced, the gravitas of the situation hitting home. They wheeled to their leader, infected with sudden purpose.

  “We’re under attack,” John DeGray cried from the back of the farthest wagon. “We have to get out of the valley. We’re trapped down here—trapped on lower ground.”

  “It’s the turbines!” Norman called from afar, still twenty feet from the main body of the convoy.

  Alex looked pained. “It very well may be,” he said. “But if it is, they may not know that we’re here.”

  Lucian felt incredulity blossom on his face. “They decide to take out our power just as we leave?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Alex said. “Either way, we have to leave now.”

  Lucian wheeled to the far embankment. “Okay, everybody,�
�� he called. “We have to get back home as soon as possible.”

  Alex jumped in before he could say any more, cutting across him, “No! We can’t go back.”

  Lucian whined, “What?”

  “It’d be dark by the time we could get back, and then what would we do? We can’t get across the river without the lights.”

  “So what then? Just keep going?”

  Alex looked at the angry faces surrounding him. All members of the convoy had now gathered around the wagons. “We need to press on to London, and go from there. If we go back then we’ll be vulnerable.”

  Norman finally reached them, his face pale and perspiring. “What about the city?” he gasped.

  “They’ll be fine for one night,” Alex said. “They have plenty of people standing guard—to mount a defence, if need be. There aren’t enough of us to warrant turning around. We’d probably do more harm than good.”

  Lucian shook his head, adamant. “No. I’m going back.”

  Alex started in distress, but Lucian turned away before he could utter a word. “Who’s coming with me?” he called.

  There was a brief silence, and then a dozen calls of affirmation rang out.

  “I’m coming too,” Norman said.

  Lucian turned to him, shaking his head. “No.” He looked around at the cowering members of the convoy, to Alexander’s fuming face, and then back to him. “They need you here.”

  “What about everybody else?”

  Lucian pulled his reins and steered his mount towards the far embankment. “Like you said: They may not even know we’re here.”

  He gave his stallion a vicious kick, and together they charged up the hill, followed by a dozen members of the security detail, leaving the others behind. He looked over his shoulder as they neared the summit, and yelled, “We’ll catch up to you.”

  XIX

   

  Not far from the site of the blast, Charlie stood atop the hillside above New Canterbury, beneath the shadow of the tree line, silent beside two stoic companions. High above the convoy that had been snaking away from the city for the last few hours, they each looked out across the meadow at the distant embankments, watching the pandemonium.

  They had waited here for days. By now their supplies were low, and their water all but exhausted. A small camp lay behind them in the undergrowth, but the fire had been stamped out hours ago to keep them hidden.

  Despite his companions’ assurances, he’d begun to suspect that the rats would never leave their hole.

  But now, at last, their quarry had arrived. And he could watch his very own private light show without fear of being spotted.

  He turned to the pair beside him. “I’m sorry I doubted you,” he said.

  As he spoke, yet another explosion ripped across the hillside complex that housed the Old World Power Mills.

  The older of the two grunted, His face obscured by a balaclava. He only offered his eyes to the outside world, diamond-hard and unblinking. He was focused on the group of distant specks upon the horizon, which now moved away along the valley, disappearing from view.

  Charlie stepped forward. He still had a heavy limp, but had grown numb to the pain. In any case, he wasn’t going to miss this on account of a gammy leg. “What do we do now?” he said.

  The masked man stood for a while in silence before answering. “We do nothing. Just follow them. For now.”

  Charlie growled. “But they’re defenceless!” he cried. Sudden panic set in, sending his pulse racing. He couldn’t have his prize snatched from under his nose now. They were so close. It wasn’t fair.

  The remaining man, short in stature, wielding a huge knife, struck Charlie across the back of the head. “Watch your tongue,” Jason muttered, picking the underside of his fingernails with the tip of the monstrous blade. “That’s not part of the plan.”

  Charlie started forward. “You said they’d bleed. You promised!” he cried.

  The masked man observed them both coldly. “Patience,” he said.

  XX

   

  The skyscrapers rose like sheer cliffs above the superstructure of London, imposing and darkened, for the most part as abandoned and dead as the surrounding city. Save for one.

  One Canada Square, a pyramid-capped obelisk of stainless steel and glass, rose fifty storeys into the sky, reaching for the heavens. On some days it even punctured the clouds. Visible for thirty miles, its walls remained strong, and after forty years of neglect and punishment it sported only a vague weathering. The perfect beacon with which to draw wandering traders, intrepid explorers, and lonely travellers.

  The tower was aglow with blue artificial light, throwing a ghostly shadow upon the crumbling remains of the surrounding capital. The blackened waters of the Thames were painted with reflections of the glittering spire and the decks of wizened ships lining the quays.

  The sight brought Norman ultimate relief. The darkness of London had been a harrowing gauntlet; the tall buildings had blocked out the starlight, leaving him near blind, save for the convoy’s few scattered lamps. The sound of hooves upon broken tarmac filled his ears as the light of the tower drew the procession from the darkness.

  He rubbed his chest, desperate to keep straight upon his saddle. Glancing around warily, he scanned the kerbs and alleyways, his flesh crawling. Alexander rode alongside him, his gaze locked fast upon the tower. He had spoken little since Lucian had broken off with the majority of the security detail.

  The convoy was quiet, calmed by the twinkling jewel ahead, now no more than a quarter of a mile away. The surrounding streets were blackened voids, with only the very outlines of town houses, corner shops and office buildings identifiable. All other detail was lost in a black haze. Anything beyond the dim glow of their lamps would have been invisible.

  The light emanating from the tower’s base was cut off by an intervening object as they approached: a black wall running perpendicular to their course.

  Norman flinched as the convoy was engulfed by an intense beam of light. The halogen glare pooled upon the tarmac and sent them all scrambling for shade.

  A deafening voice boomed in the night, amplified by a loudspeaker, commanding and agitated. “Stop!”

  Norman groaned, squinting. His eyes were met only by brilliant whiteness, excluding all objects from view, rendering him blind and half-deaf for the second time in a day. He sensed Alex stir beside him, then the clatter of his white horse’s hooves upon tarmac, moving ahead of the cowering travellers.

  “The convoy,” Alex called, “the convoy from Canterbury.”

  For a short time there was no reaction, and then the light vanished with a reverberating clatter, revealing the compound before them. The black wall was relatively new, solid concrete, fifteen feet high and at least three feet thick. Atop it, a hundred pairs of eyes watched them, brimming with suspicion.

  They had reached the outer perimeter of the London camp, the central trading hub and seat of political might for all that remained of the land’s civilised peoples.

  The wall marked the edge of their territory, running the length of a sizeable chunk of the Isle of Dogs, enclosing an area of over half a square mile. Upon a raised metallic catwalk, stationed guards held steady, all wielding deadly looking automatic rifles.

  As his vision adjusted, he saw their suspicion wane. They lowered their weapons, calling out to one other. The floodlight that had been shut off was replaced by small secondary lights mounted along the wall’s edge.

  The convoy stood silent in the night, waiting to be granted access.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have come,” said a voice in the gloom.

  Norman turned and squinted until Allison’s figure resolved from the shadows. The whites of her eyes were aglow, wide and afraid. Several smaller pairs of eyes hovered close to her side—children’s eyes. “I knew something bad would happen. It’s my fault. I jinxed us.”

  She paused, and her voice grew thinner. “Do you think they’ll let us in?”

&nb
sp; Norman glanced at the wall, and then back to her. “They’ll let us in. And no, you didn’t jinx us.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “You should know.”

  “I’ve only lived in New Canterbury two years.” She tittered. “Country girl, through and through. I’m just useless… I shouldn’t have come.”

  Norman looked to the young, wide eyes around her. He now saw that she held them all close, bundled against her waist. Even a few elderly folk had crowded close around her. They were looking to her, just as they had looked to Alexander. Just as they had looked to him.

  While her voice wavered and her eyes flickered, she stood strong, braced against the night.

  “You’re not useless,” he said—

  Not anymore, uttered a stray voice in his head.

  —and looked to the wall once more. “They’ll let us in. No question about it.”

  Here, the name Canterbury was as revered as Alexander’s. Here, they were all prophets.

  The loudspeaker boomed again, and the same deep voice rang out. “Open the gate.”

  An electronic buzzer sounded, followed by a resounding clunk. Norman perceived movement beneath the catwalk, and a brilliant halogen light filtered through a central crack that appeared in the wall. Its width slowly increased until the iron doors of a twenty-foot gate became visible.

  Above the gateway, the armed men beckoned them, now docile as lambs, almost ignoring their presence. Their eyes were trained back on the surrounding darkness, braced to strike, as though hawks perched upon a cliff edge.

  Alexander rode onwards as a man appeared at the gate’s threshold, walking out to meet them. After a moment’s uncertainty, reins cracked, horses snuffled, wagon wheels creaked, and the streets were once again filled with the sound of footsteps.

  The convoy was waved to the left, stretching through the gate and around a tight corner. Norman lagged behind a short distance, ensuring that everybody had passed through before he did so himself.

  Then the gate was behind him, and he’d entered the camp. With the imposing wall now gone from view, Canary Wharf was revealed in full. Many behemoth towers stood stoic amidst the blackness, but only theirs flickered with so many thousands of twinkling lights.

  Halogen lamps had been erected across the courtyard beyond the gate, set atop the tips of long poles trailing thick, ugly cables. The light they cast was white and unflattering, yet clean and comforting.

  Around fifty people milled in the courtyard at the foot of the tower. At the sight of the convoy, they all rushed forwards with enthusiasm, smiling and greeting the newcomers with open arms.

  Yet the smile burgeoning on Norman’s face and the warmth buzzing around his heart were quelled almost as soon as they’d arrived by another noise, one altogether more unpleasant.

  “What do you mean you’ve lost power?” said a voice, high-pitched with outrage.

  Norman turned to see Alexander and a man who stood upon the gate’s threshold, locked in conversation. He peeled away from the wagons and paused a few feet from them, waiting in silence.

  “There was some kind of explosion,” Alexander said. “McKay took most of our security detail to see what it was about.”

  The man stepped into the light, his arm flung in the air, fists bunched with rage. His wizened face creased into an angry grimace and he cursed profusely. Norman cringed when he recognised him: Marek Johnson.

  Marek was, to Norman’s knowledge, the only person to supersede Lucian in the arts of being stubborn, short-tempered, and uncouth.

  “You mean to tell me that you brought all these people here without security?” he bellowed. “We told you to stay together at all costs, Alexander.”

  Norman found himself, as usual, disturbed by Marek's lack of respect. Most didn’t dare even meet Alexander’s gaze. Raising one’s voice to him was unthinkable to all but a precious handful.

  But Marek knew no bounds. His ruthlessness was his saving grace—instilling a steady peace in even the most skittish of men—yet such blatant disregard had never sat right with Norman.

  However, he kept quiet, merely listening.

  “I remember,” Alex answered in a clipped, testy voice. “But I thought it best to think.”

  “Don't…talk…like…that…to me,” Marek growled, his face growing puce. “You should have kept them with you until you got here.”

  “So far as he could see it, leaving eight hundred people in the dark was more of a risk than the forty of us chancing it in full daylight. And, judging by your remarks, I assume you’ve discovered some way by which Lucian can be made to listen to anybody other than himself?”

  Marek didn’t answer, stalking forwards, teeth bared.

  “Canterbury is going to be in dire need of assistance without the turbines,” Alexander said. “We need to send help as soon as possible.”

  Marek nodded, flapping his hands. “Of course they will.” He fumed. “This shouldn’t have happened. We can’t afford to lose you.” He glanced to Alexander, then Norman. “Especially you.”

  Then his eyes softened. He blinked and took a deep breath, as though for strength. Then his shoulders dipped and, with evident difficulty, he said, “Truth is you’re lucky to be alive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they’re here, Alexander. Here, in the city. They’ve been going around the outer settlements, burning them to the ground, absorbing anyone who’ll bow down. We tried to send word not to come, but our scouting parties were gunned down before they made it a mile past the wall. I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s no way in hell you should have made it here.” He looked around at them all. “You should be dead.”

  “What about the radio transmission you intercepted?”

  “I haven’t heard anything. To be honest, I haven’t given it a thought. This summit isn’t about that anymore. It’s about how we’re going to survive, because right now, we’re being exterminated.”

  Alex scratched his head, his eyes darted to and fro. “Have the other council members arrived?”

  “You’re the first. And I wouldn’t hold your breath for any more. Even if some smell a rat and hole up, it could be days before they get here. The rest…”

  “We don’t have days! We’re on the clock, Marek.”

  “Tell it to Evie. I’m up to my eyeballs with security.” He paused. “It’s good to see you.”

  Then his gruff barrier shot up once more, and his mouth drew into its signature crooked line. He pointed towards a large group of shacks, lean-to shelters and storage tents. “We’ll wait for your security detail first. We’ll chance making it back to Canterbury, but there’s no way I’m going anywhere in the dark. The new stables are over there.”

  Alex said no more, and led his horse away. Frightened glances lanced in all directions, then one by one people filed away into the night.

  Norman remained alone in the gloom for some time before following.

  XXI

   

  It was quiet.

  Norman had tried to sleep, but had given up fast. While most—including Alexander—had bedded down immediately to be ready at first light, John and Richard had insisted on a midnight game of chess, desperate to retreat into abstraction. So many real-world dangers had been too much for them.

  Norman had only been able to bear so many of Richard’s frustrated grunts and John’s bored utterances of “Checkmate.”

  It had been minutes before he’d crawled from his bunk, donned his coat, and set to prowling the catwalk outside. At so late an hour, even the perimeter guards had thinned in number. Only a few heavyset veterans still patrolled the floodlit catwalk.

  He drew his coat closer around his body in the midnight chill. The journey had taken its toll. His tired eyes worked with difficulty, as though old machinery in need of oiling. His body had been worn ragged. It felt sluggish, abound with aches and pains.

  From here he looked directly across the Thames. The ghostly ripples of the black water reflec
ted the tower’s pale blue halo, cut into which was the undulating profile of his own body. The buildings on the far side were long ruined, their roofs fallen, and their walls crumbled. Some of the older and sturdier specimens were still standing, but they had nevertheless failed to escape extreme dilapidation. The streets were buried beneath lank vegetation, which snaked around millions of rotted briefcases, handbags, earrings, and rusted smartphones. The carpet of clothing that had blanketed London during the Early Years had decomposed, leaving behind a dark crust that stained the tarmac.

  No signs of habitation were visible in any direction.

  He started as a series of voices rang out from afar, accompanied by the clanking of boots upon metal. He turned to see the blinding searchlights flicker to life above the main gate.

  A trio of guards had congregated there, their weapons trained on the ground beyond the wall. They turned and called to others upon the far-side catwalk.

  Norman made for the nearest staircase. As he reached the ground he saw Marek’s silhouette appear from an outbuilding not far from the gate. He ran with a loping gait, his shirt hanging from his shoulders as he tried to pull it on mid-stride.

  Norman jerked when the buzzer sounded, immediately followed by the deep, metallic clanking of the gates. As they swung open, the guards overhead relaxed.

  “What’s going on?” he asked as he came to a standstill beside Marek.

  Marek turned to him, looking him up and down. He pulled his shirt on fully, ruffling his collar and averting his eyes. “They’re here,” he said. Then, reluctantly, but firmly, he added, “Sir.”

  Norman eyed the gate as the searchlight’s beam filtered in through the opening doors.

  Thirteen figures on horseback cantered through, stretched out in a V formation, their faces taut and withered. Lucian, leading at the head, nodded to him as they moved into the square.

  Norman strode after him. “What happened?”

  He didn’t answer at first, his eyes downcast. He dropped to the ground, sighing. “Nothing but ash,” he said. His face was set, emotionless, but his eyes betrayed a seething rage bubbling beneath the surface. His movements were calculated, smooth, overcompensated.

  Norman mouthed silently, lost for words. “All of it?” he managed after some time.

  Lucian looked over his shoulder. Norman turned to see Allison, who had just emerged from the tower. She had clearly overheard; her eyes were fawning, her cheeks fallen. She held her head in her hands, groaning.

  “It looked like a crater,” Lucian said. The crevasse between his brow was deeper than Norman had ever seen it. “There’s no chance of salvaging anything.” He fumed for a moment, and then turned the others. “Get over to the stables. We need food.”

  There was no protest, nor a change in the volume of chatter. The small crowd simply milled for a time before dispersing, disappearing into the night.

  Only Norman, Marek and Allie remained with Lucian, subdued, yet on the verge of outburst. His grey mount was restless, tugging against Lucian’s grip on the reins. But he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes had glazed and his mouth was slack as he gazed into the middle distance.

  And then Marek rushed forth, growling. He blasted past Norman and collided with Lucian. With a sharp push he launched him back, lifting him from his feet.

  There was an endless moment in which Lucian seemed to hang in midair. Then he collided with his mount’s thigh, bouncing from it with an utterance of horror. Norman, stunned, watched his face go through a startling transformation: passing through several emotions associated with surprise before settling on dawning fury.

  He steadied himself, his eyes wild. “How dare you!” he cried, rushing forwards with teeth bared.

  He was almost a foot shorter than Marek, but he looked no less intimidating. A guttural growl escaped his throat, but then he took a deep breath. “After the day I’ve just had, I would really like to get some sleep. But right now, I wouldn’t mind—”

  “Shut up,” said Marek. “Who do you think you are?”

  Lucian struck him hard in the chest, sending the larger man careening back through sheer force. “What are you talking about?” he hissed.

  Marek rushed forwards, his muscles taut beneath his shirt. “You and your stunts. They’re going to be the end of us if you don’t start taking orders, you little runt.”

  Lucian’s eyes popped wide. “Don’t you dare,” he said.

  Marek ignored him. “You think you can just wander off at the first sign of something interesting?” He jabbed Lucian’s chest as he spoke, snarling. “You have a responsibility, a job to do! There are people who could have died because of you.”

  Lucian’s face had become a doppelganger of Marek’s, his eyes brimming with pent-up anger.

  Norman had time to exchange a look with Allison, who seemed strangely unbothered by the sudden hostility. Her eyes were still dazed, and her face slack. He guessed she still hadn’t recovered from the news about the wind farm, or the fact that they were probably trapped here.

  Lucian’s face was millimetres from Marek’s, both of them stretched into tight masks of fury. “I had to find out what was happening,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Marek’s finger struck his chest once more. “And what if it had just been a trap to lure you away? Divide and conquer? Did that cross your mind?”

  Lucian gave a humourless bark. “Oh yes, that’s very insightful. Perhaps if you had been there then everything would have been just fine, except for the fact that anybody back in Canterbury would have been ripe for the slaughter.”

  Norman watched the argument jump back and forth, his eyes following each aggressor in turn.

  “Not everybody needs you to protect them.”

  “They wouldn’t have been ready during the middle of the day. If something had happened, they would have been caught off guard.”

  “It’s too late for ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’.”

  Norman turned towards the sound of footsteps echoing in the square behind them. A magnificent regal woman was stalking towards them, her face thunderous despite her withered eyes. “Enough!” she roared.

  A long pink shawl hung about her, making her torso appear elongated and amorphous. A generous smattering of jewellery hung around her neck and adorned her fingers, twinkling in the blue halo of the Wharf. Her face was heavily scarred down one side, and on the other marred by the kind of leathery wrinkles that only come with extreme age.

  Evelyn Fisher was a sight for sore eyes. She held herself rigid as an iron rod, observing Lucian and Marek from the summit of her long, cragged nose.

  Lucian didn’t seem to notice her deathly stare, his eyes still fixed on Marek.

  Marek, however, appeared to deflate. The fire left his eyes, and his shoulders slumped. His breathing remained shallow and ragged, betraying the fire still crackling beneath the surface. But, after a moment’s hesitation, he took a step back.

  Lucian looked perplexed. Evelyn’s draconian stare suddenly seemed to become visible to him. In time, he too slackened and stepped back.

  Evelyn didn’t seem to derive any satisfaction from the ceasefire. Her stare remained merciless, aglow with scorn. Her body shook under the halogen glare, vibrating with barely contained abhorrence. “What is going on here?” she demanded.

  Lucian turned from Marek, pulling open a small satchel hanging from his mount’s saddle. There was a clinking as he reached inside, turning back towards them and holding something up to the light.

  It was a piece of charred metal, bent, twisted, and blackened. Norman thought he might have been able to discern a sharpened edge skirting its periphery, but couldn’t be sure.

  “What is this?” Evelyn said.

  Lucian turned the shard in his hands, such that the jagged edges threw off a dazzling collection of reflected light beams. “This was all I could find,” he said. “Everything else was vaporised, or melted into the ground.”

  Evelyn stared at the sliver of wreckage, and her eyes softened for
a moment. Then the moment passed, and her face tightened back up. She held her head high, throwing her desiccated white locks over her shoulder. “So they’ve lost power?”

  She beckoned Marek with a flick of her wrist. He complied without so much as a blink, reaching her side and stooping to match her stature.

  She whispered something incoherent, her words lost in the void between them and Norman’s ears. However, he could tell by her tone that they were no words of praise, nor even frank discussion.

  Marek answered in high-pitched protest, but apparently the argument wasn’t to her taste; she dismissed him with another flick of her wrist.

  Marek scowled, his head rearing to one side, his hands gathered into shuddering fists.

  Evelyn ignored him, turning to Lucian. “I trust you’re unaware of the situation?”

  Lucian frowned and looked at Norman and Allie.

  “They’re here, surrounding us,” Norman muttered. “We can’t get word out, but they’re letting people in.”

  Lucian paled. “They’re gathering us up.”

  “Like sheep for the slaughter.”

  Evelyn cut across them. “It’s prudent that we move quickly. However, little can be done tonight, and I therefore recommend that each of you rest as best you can.” She fixed Marek with a stern look. “Let that be an end to this foolishness. We have few friends left. We can’t afford animosity now.” She gave a small bow. “Goodnight.”

  With that, she departed, leaving them amidst an awkward silence. Little moved as she swayed across the square and disappeared.

  Marek remained a while longer, his eyes downcast. He moved close to Lucian. “Stay out of my way,” he muttered. Then he too wandered away, back towards the hut by the gate. The door slammed behind him, and the light emanating from within winked out soon after.

  Lucian didn’t move until Norman patted him on the arm and said, “It’s good to see you.”

  He mumbled something in return, and then hurried towards the tower.

  Norman watched him go, sighing, and then took Allison under the arm, leading her inside. “Come on,” he said, “we need some rest. Evelyn’s right: There’s nothing more we can do tonight.”

  She didn’t protest, bending freely to his will. “How could this happen?” she whispered. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Not how it goes in all those stories the elders told. We’re supposed to be the strong ones, Norman. We’re supposed to be the good guys.”

  He swallowed, and his throat cracked. “There are no good guys. And it’s never like it is in the stories.”

  XXII

   

  Robert crept across his front door’s threshold, his face creased into a strained, desperate grimace. He was determined to tread only upon the hallway’s edge, but his bulk still sent the floorboards snapping like bullwhips with each step.

  His mind buzzed with the day’s run of mayhem: flashes of endless thickets, fields and meadows, accompanied by the buzz of a hundred blurred voices; a thousand half-remembered conversations; screams and shouts, anguished and furious alike.

  He hadn’t returned to the city since the explosion. Working at the turbine site, securing the surrounding area and searching the denser forest beyond the hills had taken until long after dusk.

  By then the streets had been pitch-black, and there had been little point in staying out to search the city itself. There had been little else to do but ensure that the guards were at their posts and slink away in the distant hope of a night’s rest.

  If he was lucky, he’d get a few hours’ sleep before sunrise. Then he’d go out to the hills again and see if he could find some trace of a trail. If he could find one, maybe he could find out how those bastards had gotten past the perimeter. Maybe he could set up some kind of defensive strategy.

  The house was crooked, misaligned. He and his father had built it themselves, many years before, when Canterbury had been home to just the two of them. That had been long before the others had arrived, before the rebuilding or the restoration.

  Before Alexander, even.

  The hallway’s low roof forced him to bend at a ridiculous angle, but it quickly split off into two perpendicular doorways, forming a T-junction. He made to cut away into the kitchen, but before he could take another step, a rumble built from the living room: the patter of running feet.

  Sarah appeared in the doorway, candle in hand. Her hair lay lank and knotted over her glasses, throwing red, puffy eyes into shadow. Her cheeks drooped, pallid, and her mouth quivered, lopsided between dried tear tracks. “Where were you?” she whispered. She strode forwards, and her voice rose to a shriek. “Where were you?” She raised her free hand and slammed it against his chest.

  He barely felt the impact—her fist rebounded with such a kick that it almost struck her chin—but he recoiled nonetheless. “What’s wrong?” he said. He gripped her by the arms, but she struggled, cursing and yelling. The candle wavered to and fro, sending their shadows dancing across the wall. “Wait! What are you doing? What’s wrong?”

  She ripped herself from his grasp, her mouth working as fresh tears splashed across her cheeks. “What’s wrong?” she wailed. “I’ve been waiting here for hours! You’ve been out there all this time, and I had no way of knowing whether you were hurt or—or dead!”

  Robert gripped her once more, firmly, holding her still, and stared into her eyes. He bent until well below the horizontal, and he reached her head height. “I’m fine,” he breathed. “Everything is fine.”

  He steered her around and walked her slowly to the living room as her sobs began to settle. Once they’d passed inside, he started. Heather was perched on their dusty armchair, a cup and saucer frozen halfway to her face.

  She observed them for a moment. “Hello,” she said after a brief, taut silence.

  “Hello,” he replied. “Sorry I’m late.” A slab of awkward discomfort landed against the nape of his neck as he sat on the sofa, one that refused to dissipate.

  The room was dark. The scant light of a dozen candles, even coupled with glowing embers in the grate, couldn’t quite replace that of the dead bulbs hanging overhead.

  Sarah sat beside him, straight-backed, her eyes still seeping. There was something within them that made the struggles of the day dim and distant, and yet they inspired a great weakness in his bowels. It was almost as though she expected him to leave her again at any moment.

  He put his arm around her and pulled her close.

  “What happened?” Heather asked. “We’ve been waiting all day. But nobody came back. We thought…” She glanced at Sarah and grew quiet.

  Robert raised a hand to his forehead and pressed hard. The pressure only somewhat relieved the headache festering behind his brow. He gave Sarah a brief squeeze before speaking, “From what we can tell, they came from the western hills and took out the turbines while we were distracted down by the river. There’s nothing left. No power.” He cleared his throat. “I’m thinking we might have enough biofuel left to get some lights going by nightfall tomorrow. At least we won’t be completely in the dark…for a while.”

  A brief silence stretched between them.

  “Was anybody hurt?” Heather said.

  “No. There wasn’t anybody up there. I posted the sentries closer to the city to make sure the convoy was safe.” He tittered, cradling his aching head in his palms. “Not one of my best calls.”

  Silence, bar the crackling in the grate.

  “Why would somebody do this?” Heather muttered.

  Robert shrugged, shaking his head.

  More silence, thicker than treacle.

  Sarah hadn’t said a word, nor moved a muscle. She’d merely kept her head rested on his shoulder, her face masked by matted red curls, which looked like flames licking at her cheeks in the candlelight. Her knuckles were bone-white, locked tight around his forearm.

  He caressed her shoulder with his free hand. At his touch, her death-grip loosened slightly, became less desperate. “McKay and a few of
the others came back,” he said, intent on breaking the lull. He tittered once more, but not a trace of humour stirred in his gut. “He wasn’t happy.”

  “The guard detail? They came back?” Heather asked. “They just left everybody else out there?”

  Robert nodded. “I wasn’t thrilled either, but there was no convincing him. At the time, I was just glad for the help.”

  “Are they still here?”

  Robert shook his head. “He took off back to London just before nightfall. I suppose he finally came to his senses.”

  Heather rubbed her head. “I hope they get there alright.”

  Robert shrugged. “They’ll be fine. These people weren’t looking for blood today. They were looking to terrorise, weaken. Shock and awe.” He paused, catching Heather’s alarmed expression. “They’ll send help as soon as they can. We’ll be fine. We just have to hold out the night.”

  She nodded slowly, blinked, seemed to take deeper notice of how Sarah was draped over his shoulder, and cleared her throat. “I’ll get you a drink,” she said, standing with delicacy and hurrying from the room.

  Robert and Sarah were left alone amidst fresh silence. Heather seemed to be intent on making a meal of whatever she was doing, crashing pots and pans together. Yet the atmosphere in the living room remained strained until Sarah finally spoke.

  “Did you find anything?” she mumbled.

  Robert brushed a stray lock behind her ear, looking down at the curtain of hair shielding her face. “Not yet.”

  She nodded fractionally and resumed her silence. She held up her hand to the candlelight, turning the ring upon her finger until it twinkled and flashed. The two of them looked at it for a long time, not saying a word.

  She’d said that she wanted a white autumn wedding.

  Did they have that long?

  Eventually, she muttered, “I’m glad you’re alright.”

  Robert tried to smile, but the tugging in his gut soon wiped it from his lips. He folded his hand over hers. “Me too.”

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