Ruin

by Harry Manners

  *

  The screech of crickets was deafening, occasionally punctured by the squawk of a passing bird. The clearing’s grass towered five feet high, protected from sheep or deer by an encircling shell of beech and oak. The underbrush had grown thick, with nettles and thorns interlacing the ferns and drowning ruined colonies of lavender.

  It had taken Robert and Sarah over ten minutes to fight their way through, led only by a sliver of light shining through the canopy, flat on their stomachs. They had advanced by the inch, so that their rustling had been obscured by the din of cricket song.

  Now the sun beat down on them from directly overhead, an orange fireball blazing without mercy. The grass was damp, the air between the blades stifling and stale, earthy in taste and lacking in oxygen. Even breathing had become a burden.

  Beside him, Sarah’s face was creased into a fierce mask of determination, rouge at the cheeks. Curled locks of hair clung to her crown and lay lifeless upon her shoulders, dark with sweat, and her robes were streaked with grime, clinging to her skin. Her breathing had become laboured, and she looked somewhat dazed. But she hadn’t made a single complaint.

  The forest had been too thick to ride this far, and so they had left their mounts tied to a tree. Robert had made sure to position them facing downhill, so that a quick getaway could be made, should they need one.

  “What do you think?” Sarah whispered. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the sights ahead.

  Nestled in the valley below was a small collection of buildings, laced with ragged concrete and rusted iron girders. Its borders had become shrouded by vines and a thick spattering of buckler ferns, but Robert still dared to wager that the complex had once been a remote business park of some kind.

  The central building, an ugly maroon-bricked tower block, was nearing its end. The exterior walls on the upper levels had fallen away, taking with them cabling, piping and myriad office-room clutter. The resultant wreckage lay in the grass below, forming a rubble field that stretched for almost a hundred feet in every direction. In the harsh light of day, the building was rendered bare and cold, its cracked, grey pallor unwelcoming.

  Running along the edge of the complex, beyond a small car park, was what remained of a chain-link fence, some ten feet high. Creepers had woven between the wire, obscuring its outline and engorging its apparent size. Heavily rusted in many places and torn away completely in others, it offered no protection to the complex’s borders now.

  Sarah shifted in the shallow well her body had created in the grass. She started forwards on her elbows, but succeeded only in digging herself deeper into the stinking mud.

  “What are you doing?” Robert hissed. He pointed to the blades of grass above their heads, which were undulating at her every move.

  “I can’t see,” she answered, squinting and darting her head back and forth. She jostled for a few seconds more, during which time Robert’s gesticulations became ever more adamant, and the grass continued to sway.

  He maintained his gaze upon her until her face had grown sheepish and her head still. He glanced down at the building, back to her questioning face, and then shook his head. “Nothing’s moving,” he whispered.

  “Then why are we lying down?”

  “We don’t know who’s down there. We have to wait until we’re sure.”

  She cursed under her breath, pulling clods of sodden fabric away from her body. He watched her face scintillate with restless energy, and smiled despite himself.

  “How much longer? I can’t breathe down here.”

  Robert took another look at the building, seeing nothing of interest other than the outer door teetering in the lacklustre breeze. “I don’t know,” he said. “A little longer.”

  He made to shunt the duffel bag forwards with the utmost delicacy, but winced as Sarah turned her head to watch, blinded by a ray of reflected light from the rim of her spectacles. “Take those off, will you?” he muttered.

  Sarah’s eyes grew forlorn, and her head slid down to make contact with the ground. “I’m sorry.” She paused. “I’m not like you. I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have followed you.”

  Her skin was now showing the first signs of sunburn, the delicate pallor of her thighs and upper arms taking on an angry pinkish glow. A lifetime with her nose in books had robbed her of any protection from the sun’s rays.

  He reached out, chancing an errant rustle, and gripped her arm. “It’s okay.”

  They would have to leave. He’d get her back to the city and return to the clearing later with reinforcements. All they had to do was clear up a little recon now, and then at least the journey would not have been wasted.

  He assessed the complex afresh as flies buzzed about his head. He was almost certain that this was the very same office building that the injured boy—Charlie—had mentioned. This was where he’d been held prisoner. And others had been held here too, entire enslaved families. Perhaps the nerve centre of the mysterious coalition Norman had spoken of. If this was indeed the place, they would have gained a major tactical advantage: they would have made the first step towards mounting an effective resistance.

  If it was empty then they could set a watch and surprise the enemy when they returned. If it was occupied, they could saddle up every volunteer and storm the entire complex. Troublesome they might be, but a few marauders couldn’t stand up to a hundred-strong cavalry charge. They could rid themselves of this scourge.

  The tower block’s door slammed against the outer wall, caught in a sudden gust of wind. He ducked instinctively, but forced his head back up and focused on the distant doorway. All was still. The wind died, and the door settled, squeaking.

  Then a shadow moved inside. It was a mere blur of darkness against the concrete floor, but it sent a shiver down his spine nonetheless.

  The heat suddenly seemed far away, the insects’ chorus a distant nuisance. The doorway became scarred on his retinas, and he saw its frame even when he blinked, cast in glowing greens and neon purples.

  The movement came again soon after. The shadow—that of a slouching man—slid across the floor beneath the open doorway. It was positioned some way inside, but from Robert's raised vantage point he could see some two metres into the building.

  He froze in place and scanned the meadow by swivelling his eyes in their sockets, determined not to make a further sound. If the tower block was occupied then there might be others lying in wait, or patrolling the surrounding areas. The last thing he needed now was to be spotted because of his own carelessness.

  Beside him, he sensed that Sarah hadn’t noticed this turn of events. Her head still rested upon her arms. Sweat now ran in rivulets down her back, and she breathed laboriously in the heat. For the time being, Robert was glad for her exhaustion. As long as she remained as she was, they would most probably remain unseen.

  The pair of legs passed the door again, stepping around debris and plant matter scattered on the floor. Robert almost cringed when the tip of a rifle barrel swung into view.

  Moments later, another man came around the corner from behind the tower block, twirling a stunted pistol in his hand: a grizzled old goat with unkind Hispanic features and a long, grey beard. His skin was tanned a uniform bronze, weathered and pockmarked, and one arm was tarnished by deep scars that snaked from elbow to shoulder. Patrolling the edge of the rubble field, he didn’t bother to look beyond the bounds of his path, making for a poor guardsman. Yet Robert wasn’t fooled, sensing danger in the man’s brutal face and lumbering gait.

  Inside the doorway, the pair of legs passed into view again. This time they moved fast, with purpose. A few moments later a resounding clatter emanated from within the tower block.

  Sarah jumped as though electrocuted. Robert reached for her arm to steady her, once again risking a stray rustle. She looked at him with wide eyes, but yielded under his soothing grasp, and settled back into the grass.

  The banging grew louder, now accompanied by shouting. It sounded as though several people were fightin
g inside, and more were joining the battle by the moment.

  The Hispanic man stood very still. He glanced about himself, then trained his gaze upon the wall closest to him, head cocked, listening. The pistol hung lame in his grasp, the hand twitching near the safety catch.

  A single resounding rumble brought the scuffling inside to an abrupt end, leaving in its wake a deathly silence.

  “What’s going on?” Sarah whispered.

  “Shhh.” Robert didn’t take his eyes from the Hispanic guard. “I’m not sure.”

  The guard remained frozen beyond the rubble field, patient and calculating despite his brutish visage.

  The doors of the tower block flew open as a group of men burst outside. Two bore automatic rifles and sported dark, lank hair, their faces cruel and grimed. The other three stumbled some way ahead, arms folded behind their heads, unarmed, backing away. Those in the former group were dressed in ragged, shapeless shawls, while the latter were clad in somewhat cleaner work shirts and dungarees.

  Two of the unarmed men were babbling, falling into a crouch before their captors, hands drawn up to their faces. Their companion stood erect and still, face set and expressionless, his blue shirt flapping in the wind. Even from a long way off, and with only the back of his head to go by, Robert could sense perseverant dignity and pride about him.

  The Hispanic guard came striding forwards, his patience having vanished, waving his pistol and uttering rapid obscenities. He approached the two armed men and struck one of them across the head with the butt of the pistol without a break in his stride.

  The three unarmed men glanced at each other, blinking in surprise. The Hispanic guard continued to berate the ragged pair, and struck them each a further two times. The unarmed men who had grovelled looked almost hopeful, but Robert saw a flicker of sorrow cross Blue Shirt’s lips.

  The armed pair threw off the Hispanic guard’s assault with a barrage of their own obscenities, gesturing towards their prisoners with their rifle barrels.

  The Hispanic guard turned slowly to the unarmed men and cocked his head; an almost childlike curiosity had infected his manner. Robert’s gut twisted at the sight of it. The guard then sauntered closer, skirting around them, and said a few words. His voice was reduced to a near-inaudible hum by the intervening distance, but Robert picked up the tone: a faux-pleasant sigh far more sinister and blood-curdling than any bellow of rage.

  The grovelling captors didn’t answer, stood rigid—as one stands when confronted by a snarling hound—staring at the ground. Blue Shirt, meanwhile, hadn’t moved. He still looked straight ahead, as though unaddressed.

  The Hispanic guard nodded, as though to himself, and backed away. He and the ragged pair bickered with their backs turned while their prisoners waited in silence.

  Sarah was tugging at Robert’s cuff, her voice strangled and agonised. “What’s going on?” She was once again darting her head back and forth, trying to see through the grass.

  “They’re just talking,” Robert said, eyeing her carefully. He was now very aware of the rifle beneath him. He sensed that he should have it ready, as there wouldn’t be time to prepare when the standoff broke. At least he’d positioned it so that it was easily accessible. Careful not to make a single rustle, keeping each motion fluid, he released the barrel from the duffel. Its size made it impossible to hide from Sarah any longer.

  Her sudden outburst caught him off guard, and he almost lashed out, thinking her an assailant. He winced as she dug her nails into his shoulder and let loose an angry spiel from between gritted teeth.

  He whirled, glaring. With as much delicacy as he could muster, he removed her arm from his shoulder, observing the blood welling up in the fingernail-shaped puncture marks in his skin. “Be quiet,” he hissed.

  He turned away, flipped up the tripod, and slid the barrel’s length into the grass until the scope was positioned before his face.

  “What are you doing? We can’t, Robert. There are only two of us.”

  “I’m not doing anything. We’re just here to watch. I promise.”

  “But we can’t just let this happen, we have to help them. We have to go for help.”

  “We can’t. We’ll be spotted.”

  A pause. “They’re going to be killed, aren’t they?”

  He swallowed. “I think so.”

  He tried to ignore the stifled noise in her throat, and peered through the scope. The men below ballooned to five times their previous size, revealing minute details that even Robert’s hawk eyes hadn’t been able to pick up before.

  Sarah didn't answer, but he could feel her eyes burning a hole into the side of his head.

  Shame festered in the seat of his loins. But not for a moment would he consider risking her. Not ever. If saving them meant living with the knowledge that she might have died through his doing, he’d watch them die a thousand times over.

  The captors were now more animated in their speech, and the conversation was becoming heated. They hadn’t bothered to glance over their shoulders to check on their prisoners for some time.

  One of the men who had grovelled took a step forwards. He started babbling once more, hands clasped together, outstretched. Then he stumbled forth as his voice broke and he began whimpering, falling limp and cowering, as though recognising his terrible mistake.

  The Hispanic guard turned to him, looking genuinely shocked at such audacity. He surged forwards, screaming, and began beating indiscriminately, sending both grovelers to the floor and plunging his fist into Blue Shirt’s gut, doubling him up.

  Sarah’s exhalations shuddered. “What’s happening?” she breathed.

  Robert didn’t answer. Though she didn’t have the best vantage point, he knew that she’d caught at least a glimpse of it. And a glimpse would have been more than enough to see just how grave the situation was.

  The three armed men by now stood before their prisoners, unmoving. Their weapons now seemed more obvious, more significant.

  The prisoners visibly realised their imminent fate. They cringed unanimously and stepped back. The two who had begged before began in earnest now, sinking lower to the ground as they pleaded in high-pitched wails.

  Sarah caught Robert's arm in an iron-fisted grip. He could feel her shaking. “Robert,” she breathed. “Robert, kill them.”

  “What?”

  “Kill them.”

  “They’ll know we’re here.” The rifle wasn’t silenced, and in the valley the sound of any gunshot would travel for some distance. If there were more men inside—and he suspected there were—shooting these three would be a deadly mistake.

  “Well, do something.” Her fingers dug into his shoulder with shocking strength, enough to make him wince.

  “I can’t.”

  “They’re going to die unless we do something!”

  “I know.”

  He could feel her eyes on him, and sighed. In any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have hesitated. In fact, he was fairly certain that if he’d been alone, he would have intervened long before now.

  But he wasn’t alone, and his feelings hadn’t changed. He would watch them die, if he had to. It would haunt him—the callousness of it would forever be a blight on his memory—but at the same time he knew it was indisputably just.

  The Hispanic guard now approached one of the two grovelling men and flicked his pistol towards the floor in a quick motion. The meaning was unmistakable: Kneel.

  The man responded by redoubling his pleading. Soon after, his companion joined him.

  The three armed men shook their heads. One of them laughed openly. They waved their weapons at the ground imperiously.

  Still, the two grovelled. Only Blue Shirt remained upright, his face grim.

  The guards’ amusement soon waned. The Hispanic then strode forwards, grasping the wailing pair by their collars and yanking them to the ground.

  “Robert,” Sarah hissed. Her voice was wooden, without intent, seeking comfort rather than attention.

 
Robert didn’t look away. All his attention was focused on steadying the scope’s crosshairs, each movement cold and fluid. Despite his certainty that he would watch—just let it all happen—he reached forwards and adjusted the magnification, bringing the Hispanic’s head into sharp focus. Just in case.

  Blue Shirt was still standing proud, staring at the tower block wall. He didn’t acknowledge the guards’ orders, or even their presence.

  The Hispanic guard approached him, looking him up and down. The grey moustache above his lip bristled as his eyes constricted to fine slits. Then he spoke softly, a sibilant hiss of ill intent. Robert didn’t need to hear the words to know what was coming.

  Blue Shirt didn’t answer. He still gave no indication of recognising anybody around him.

  Then a scream rang out from the tower block, a feminine shriek laden with weeping shudders. Scuffling and grunts also issued from within, but were almost unnoticeable beside the volume of her piercing voice.

  Blue Shirt’s trance broke immediately. He surged forth, calling back to her, raising his arms, his set expression having dissolved into a mask of horror. Yet when he spoke, his voice was soothing, affectionate—dulcet tones of reassurance.

  She answered, her cries interlaced with sobbing. She sounded young—Robert wouldn’t have guessed any older than twenty.

  Blue Shirt replied, his voice having exhausted its reassuring powers. He came to a staggering halt and hung his head, staring at the floor. He was shaking. Robert saw his shuddering shoulders and rapidly clenching-unclenching fists, and knew that his nerve had broken.

  Through the scope, he saw the Hispanic’s face crease into a wicked expression of satisfaction as he gripped Blue Shirt’s collar and tugged him to the ground.

  Blue Shirt, however, resisted. He threw off the Hispanic’s grip and managed to land a single punch on his captor’s face before being restrained by the ragged pair.

  The woman still called out from inside, wailing with such pain and fear that Robert’s chest felt as though a dagger had been thrust through it. Sarah whimpered beside him, cursing.

  The Hispanic man roared, blood flying from his lips, waving the nose of his pistol and stalking forwards, striking Blue Shirt across the face with the sharp edge of the butt. An arc of crimson opened on Blue Shirt’s face, right down to the cheekbone, exposing a streak of white.

  “Why are they doing this?” Sarah shrilled.

  Robert didn’t dare look away now. The Hispanic visibly inflated as he took a deep breath, as though steeling himself. Then he raised his pistol, aimed at one of the grovelling prisoners, and squeezed the trigger.

  The gunshot was deafening. It tore along the valley walls, returning from every direction in repeating echo, throwing a flock of birds from their nests in the nearby forest, scattering them into sky.

  The prisoner flopped onto his side without a sound and landed in a heap amidst the dirt-streaked rubble, his hand twitching. The back of his head had been completely obliterated.

  The woman inside let loose a spiel of unconstrained screams, choking on her own sobs. There were other voices in the building now, male and female. The sound of movement inside built as it had done before. Dozens of voices were suddenly ringing out, accompanied by as many sources of disturbance.

  The Hispanic ignored the tower block, looking coldly at the remaining beggar. He dispatched him before a single plea could be made. The bullet caught the prisoner dead between the eyes. He fell beside his comrade, his arms splayed melodramatically across a jagged lump of concrete.

  Sarah cried into Robert’s shoulder, gripping his sleeve. Robert’s curses intermingled with hers as he watched the Hispanic turn to his last prisoner.

  Blue Shirt had struggled to his feet, and was staring forward once more. Though his eyes were wide, he trembled only slightly—it was only with the aid of the scope that Robert could see his shuddering knees. He called out to the woman, his voice raised over the increasing racket inside.

  The message was apparently not to her liking; she immediately responded with an all-consuming screech of heartbreak.

  The Hispanic raised his pistol to his last victim, a despicable smirk running rampant across his cruel features.

  In his last moment, Blue Shirt’s mouth drew tight, and he closed his eyes. He jerked as the gunshot exploded along the valley, plummeting straight down instead of falling backwards like the others. There, he lay still.

  The Hispanic assessed the three corpses before him with a distinct air of satisfaction. He remained there as the ragged pair stepped forward to loot the bodies, simply staring. The murderous tool in his hand seemed to have been forgotten, hanging loose by his side.

  Sarah pounded the dirt with her fist. Her sobbing was now an ugly concoction of furious snarling and muddled obscenities.

  “We couldn’t have done anything,” Robert said. His voice ill-matched his wavering conviction.

  She didn’t stop beating at the ground until he gripped her arm and hissed, “Quiet!”

  The ragged pair retreated to the tower block, leaving the bodies half-stripped. The disturbance inside was now more akin to the din of a full-scale riot. The wailing woman shrieked when a dull thud rang out, followed by a sound that dredged distilled dread from Robert’s heart, one that unhinged his jaw and drew a gasp from his throat. Even the old Hispanic froze.

  A baby was crying. Over the roar of dozens of screaming voices, it was unmistakable, sending Robert’s stomach in a head dive for his boots.

  He dropped the rifle and swung around, clamping his hand over Sarah’s mouth just as she let forth a full-throated, anguished scream. He managed to stifle the body of it against his flesh, but he’d been just a moment too late to catch the initial piercing warble. He closed his eyes in dread as the noise broke out into the valley, rebounding from the valley walls for what seemed an eternity. Even the infant’s wailing and the rancorous roar within the building failed to mask it.

  Robert didn’t need the scope to know that the Hispanic guard had heard. He had been hurrying inside, no doubt to quell the raging insurgence that awaited him. Now he stood perfectly still, facing the tower block door.

  Sarah fought against Robert’s grasp with stunning strength. To keep hold of her, he’d have to hurt her, and he’d never risk doing that—not for one second. And so, with a curse, he loosened his grip, and she wriggled free. “The baby,” she choked. “Oh my god, there’s a baby down there.” She was too smart to try to stand, but still she cried out.

  Robert was forced to take hold of her once more. The beginnings of genuine panic coursed through him. She was going to get them killed. “What are you doing?”

  “We can’t just sit here!”

  “We have to.” Robert pushed her head close to the dirt, shielding her as best as he could from his awkward position. He held his breath, muscles tensed, ready to make his move.

  The old Hispanic’s attack came with stunning suddenness. He turned so fast that any movement was lost in a blur of ragged tunic—it appeared as though he had turned one hundred and eighty degrees in a single instant. Robert now stared down the barrel of his pistol.

  He broke cover and leapt upon Sarah just as the grass began surging back and forth and clouds of dirt were kicked up by a searing volley of bullets. Sarah screamed beneath him, shuddering as he forced her further into the dirt with his bulk.

  The riot inside the building was interrupted by an outbreak of machine-gun fire. Battle cries gave way to unbridled screaming. The volley of bullets stopped, and Robert chanced glancing up just in time to see the Hispanic turn his head ever so slightly, distracted.

  A flash of rage arced behind Robert’s eyes, and he dived for the rifle. He landed with such momentum that he and it were carried end-over-end through the grass as he swung the barrel around. The moment he came to a stop, his eyes reached the scope, and his finger came to rest against the trigger. Before he even had time to register the magnified image, he had fired. The rifle bucked in his hands, slamming into
his shoulder.

  He immediately knew that the old Hispanic had been killed. His torso had been reduced to chum, an amorphous mass of bright-red jelly. He didn’t fall for several moments, just stood there with an expression of frank disbelief spreading across his face. Then he plummeted to the ground, as though pulled by unseen wires.

  The machine-gun fire continued in the tower block as Robert cast the rifle aside and dived back on top of Sarah. Men and women were shrieking inside, screaming for their lives, but to no avail. The infant hadn’t made a sound for some moments.

  “Come on,” he yelled, pulling Sarah up.

  She struggled, wild-eyed, and for a moment tried to surge forth down into the valley.

  Inside, the prisoners were still screaming. While the sound of droves being cut down rang out, Robert grappled with Sarah, certain that they were far too late. What might have been hundreds of voices had become no more than a few dozen in mere moments.

  Robert grasped her around the waist, hauled her around in a half-arc, and planted her upon the other side of the summit. “Run!” he bellowed.

  “We can’t just leave them—”

  “Go now. GO!”

  Dragging her in tow, he ran for the safety of the trees. As he bounded over fallen logs and past snagging roots, pulling Sarah beyond the first sheltering trunk, he felt a dagger twist in his heart.

  The screaming echoed in the valley long after they had reached their mounts.

  FOURTH INTERLUDE

   

  The baby had changed everything. The despair, hopelessness and apathy that had lingered since the End had finally broken, giving way to bouts of feverish activity, debate, and hope. The adults had started leaving Lucian in charge of James and the baby while they went on lengthy trips in search of others. They talked, argued and bartered with strangers, suddenly filled with a will to act, to do something.

  Vim and enthusiasm were rife.

  Alex and James, having for so long struggled with their crop field singlehandedly, were besieged by helping hands. With the added help, they’d managed to rear a respectable garden of tomatoes, onions, potatoes, and even a tiny patch of strawberries in a matter of weeks. Their cows now produced enough milk to consider selling the surplus; they planned to make it their foremost icebreaker once trade negotiations started with their far-flung neighbours.

  Today, James had already received plenty of help. Agatha and Oliver had risen before sunrise with him and taken the herd out to pasture. Though they’d soon retreated back to bed, haggard and bleary-eyed, he’d been nigh delirious with joy to have had them by his side.

  It was now mid-morning, and he was getting stuck into preparing the earth for a fresh batch of barley. He stood back for a moment to observe the turned soil, his chest swelling with pride, then went back to pruning weeds alongside Lucian—who, at nineteen, could still easily sleep most of the day away, but had taken to work nonetheless. The two of them would work until breakfast, after which Lucian would often stay out to tend the animals while James went away to the classroom.

  “Why don’t you come in?” James said.

  Lucian shrugged. “I won’t like it.”

  “You’ve never tried it.”

  Lucian looked uncomfortable. “I don’t read very well. I’m not like you, kiddo. I don’t have the brains.”

  “You can still learn,” James protested. “Learning is—”

  “—the only way to save the world,” Lucian said. His tone was far from the mocking slur it had once been. He now recited the mantra automatically, with force and familiarity.

  James smiled. “That’s what Alex says.”

  A shuffling made the two look up from their work just in time to see Paul shuffle around the side of the house. His gut had swelled to a size that could have rivalled Helen’s at the height of her pregnancy, and he wobbled to and fro as he walked, his unshaven face bouncing atop his neck without control. A sickly smile grew on his face as he saw them and made a beeline for the crops, an ancient bottle of merlot swinging at his side.

  “What you doing out ’ere, boys, eh?” he jeered, swinging the bottle to his lips. Most of the wine dribbled down his chin and splashed across the soil at his feet.

  His drinking had taken yet another turn for the worse. The Sunday Mass with Agatha that he’d ritually clung to for their eleven years together had ended the night little Norman Creek had arrived. He no longer made any effort to help collect food or water, and disappeared for days on end, returning laden with rare alcohol and myriad injuries.

  The boys didn’t answer. He didn’t press them or repeat himself, but James could feel his gaze on the back of his neck. He worked faster and kept his eyes on the ground, hoping that Paul would become bored and drift away. Instead, he lingered to watch them work, swigging away.

  “Working in your fields, destiny child?” Paul said, laughing with great shuddering heaves. “Eh, destiny boy? You working to save us all, are you?”

  James said nothing, feeling blood rush to his face until his cheeks glowed red-hot. Lucian hushed him and nudged him onwards, urging him to work faster still.

  Paul receded into a deep silence, breathing with the harsh raggedness of inebriation, wobbling back and forth by several metres with each pacing stride. “It’s over,” he said eventually. His voice was low and laced with the tiniest of emotions, but James couldn’t tell which.

  Before he could think, wracked by a jolt of sympathy, he’d already replied, “What?”

  He instantly recognised his mistake, and barely reacted to the impact of Lucian’s fist against his shoulder, knowing full well that he’d doomed them both.

  “Our time is up,” Paul boomed. They both jumped at the sudden roar of his voice. “Tribulation is at an end!”

  James and Lucian shared a glance, rose slowly to their feet and backed away as his face grew red and he began roaring, swinging the bottle above his head. A sudden, genuine panic threatened to break James’s nerve.

  Paul pointed a finger squarely in his direction as his eyes grew narrow and he bared his teeth. Saliva flew from his swollen lips. “The Antichrist is among us!” he screamed, stamping on the crops as he advanced, ripping up the stalks of tomato plants, cursing, “Rotten, stinking things!”

  James stumbled back, but Paul was on him in moments.

  “It’s all your fault. You’re Him—you’ll kill us all!”

  James blinked as Lucian threw himself between them, his fists raised. He made to strike at the drunkard, but his hand became lost in the all-encompassing palms of the enormous man. Before James could move an inch, Lucian had been lifted bodily into the air and sent sprawling in the dirt. There was a resounding thrum as his head struck the iron weed bucket. He moved no more.

  James cowered, crying out and backpedalling towards the fence as Paul cast the wine bottle aside, his hands formed into outstretched talons. His chest shuddered with fright when his back made contact with the fence. There was nowhere to run. “Please, don’t,” he cried, scrabbling at the wood.

  “Cursed boy!” Paul roared. He raised his fist, bearing down with murderous rage.

  But his strike never came, because it was at that moment that another fist collided with his jaw, soaring in from somewhere over James’s shoulder. Paul staggered sideways and fell into the dirt.

  James blinked and let his arms drop, revealing Alex standing above him. His eyes were void of all but seething fury. His chest rose and fell as he strode forward and hauled Paul to his feet, hauling him up with apparent ease. He wrenched the drunkard around, manhandling him as though he was no more than a rag doll, striking him again and again.

  Paul spat blood into Alex’s face. Alex dropped him with a grunt.

  Paul took the opportunity to crawl to his feet and stumble away. Then he’d taken hold of a pitchfork and swung around, his face a shade of puce, his eyes alight with feral malice. He advanced on Alex, who backed away on his haunches, hands raised.

  “Alex!” James screamed. He made to surge f
orward, but Alex waved him back, his expression desperate. James hesitated, and cried out. There was nothing he could do.

  “Dirty bunch of sinners!” Paul hissed and swung the pitchfork, bearing down on Alex with intent to maim.

  The deafening roar of a gunshot, resounding and sudden, made them all duck. A flock of swallows exploded from a nearby thicket, filling the skies with wheeling silhouettes.

  Oliver approached from afar with a rifle held tight against his shoulder, aiming straight at Paul’s chest. His long coat was aflutter in the wind, his lazy eye was squinted shut, and the other was pressed against the rifle’s sights. “Keep still, Paul,” he called.

  Paul froze, the pitchfork still held aloft, his eyes wide. He watched Oliver approach while Agatha and Hector came sprinting out from the house. Surrounded, with all eyes on him and with James cowering at his feet, he appeared to shrink and wither. “Where’d you get a gun?” he growled.

  Oliver kept his gaze steady, coming to a stop at a distance appropriate to correct his line of fire, should it be necessary. “There’s plenty lying around, if you know where to look,” he said. There was no friendliness, familiarity, or emotion in his tone. His gaze was hard and watchful.

  “Hector!” Helen cried from inside. “What’s going on?”

  Hector threw a hand up. “Stay inside. Don’t bring the baby over here.”

  “Paul,” Agatha hissed, agape. “What’re you doin’?”

  Paul gestured to James accusingly, as though pointing alone was sufficient to justify his actions.

  James couldn’t help flinching. Embarrassment coursed his veins as a whimper escaped his lips.

  Agatha’s eyes flitted from Paul to James, then to Lucian’s static body, and finally the pitchfork, still hanging over Paul’s head. She shook her head, almost imperceptibly. Behind her tense expression, James thought he could see deep disappointment—maybe pain.

  “Tell ’em!” Paul yelled. Tears had formed in his eyes. “Tell ’em, Aggie! Tell ’em that it’s Him!” He pointed his talons at James once more. His finger wavered wildly.

  “He’s jus’ a boy,” Agatha said.

  “We talked about it, you and me! We talked about how this was our fault, how it was us being punished!”

  Agatha’s face remained blank, though a flicker of shame lingered on her brow. “All tha’s changed with the baby. I don’t believe tha’ God would let a baby be born into this if it was nough’ but punishment.”

  “The baby!” Paul laughed hysterically. “That baby’s probably another one of them. Like Him!” he roared, rounding on James.

  Agatha said nothing. She took a step back, causing Paul to gasp, his eyes suddenly wide and terrified. As she continued to back away, he took a step forward, dropping the pitchfork to the ground, his arm stretched out towards her.

  “Aggie,” he wailed. Fat tears spilled onto his unshaven cheeks.

  Agatha shook her head and backed away still. Only when Oliver approached, ready to shoot, did Paul stop his advance. He whirled on the spot, staring around at them all, and appeared to shrink further. He now looked no more significant than a squirming child. He began to whimper quietly.

  Watching him, James lost all power to describe his feelings. The closest he could get: a dash of sympathy, engulfed by an all-consuming hatred. He wanted to lash out, kick, bite and stamp, yet a strange lump had formed in his throat at the sight of the defeated creature.

  Alex took a step forward. His gaze was even harder than Oliver’s. “Leave,” he said.

  Paul didn’t move for a while, while his eyes softened and grew wider. Then his lower lip began to quiver. “Where will I go?” he muttered.

  Alex shook his head.

  Paul took a step forward, unhindered by Oliver’s warning, and clutched at Alex’s coat with wringing hands. “Alex, please, don’t.”

  Alex took a step back, but Paul followed, grasping and pleading.

  “Don’t make me go.”

  Alex shook his head.

  Paul made to step towards the house, but Alex stepped aside to block his way. Again, Paul clutched at Alex’s coat. “M-My things,” he stuttered.

  Again, Alex shook his head.

  Paul stepped back, shrinking still, until his back was arched and he looked up at them all with one hand clasped over the other, his eyes red and puffy, his face sodden with tears and mucus.

  “I don’t have nowhere to go,” he said. His voice cracked at the sentence’s end. He looked to the others for help, seeking sympathy with waterlogged eyes.

  But Hector was silent, and Oliver remained stoic, the rifle raised. Agatha’s mouth was agape, and her own tears flowed across her cheeks. But she said nothing, and Paul’s shoulders slumped.

  Then he began to turn towards James. But before his gaze could reach him, Alex snarled, “Don’t you dare look at him.”

  Paul froze, took a last sweeping look around at them all, and then—to James’s shock—began to nod with sudden sobriety. He staunched his whimpering for long enough to mutter, “I’m sorry.”

  Nobody said anything. He looked forlornly at the house, and then began to shuffle towards the faraway road, hands clutched together.

  Hector and Oliver watched him go until none of them could hear his sobbing any longer, then disappeared inside. Agatha and Alex went to Lucian, roused him, and pulled him to his feet. He looked dazed and his speech was slurred—James’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of his lolling jaw—and so they carried him inside.

  James, however, stood and watched Paul go until he was nothing more than a speck upon the horizon, slowly shuffling through the long grass. James knew there was nothing out there, not that way, not a stream to drink from, nor a single fruit-bearing tree. As he watched him go, though the knot in his throat refused to loosen, the fury in his gut matured, and grew.