The atmosphere was tense, and just shy of breaking out into a physical confrontation. The smaller group never uttered a word.
“What are they doing?” asked Adrian. Alice simply shook her head.
One of the scavengers picked up a large plastic bag containing what appeared to be vegetables, and headed deliberately towards the martial-looking men. His intention was, apparently, to walk past, ignoring them.
At first, they did nothing. The men merely watched the wretched individual approach them without the slightest variation in their expressions. The man with the plastic bag turned towards his group and smirked sarcastically, as if to say that these men, despite their intimidating appearance, obviously posed no threat.
Then came the first gunshot.
Its sound was almost completely drowned out by the tumultuous storm. Alice and Adrian felt their hearts stop as the horrific scene unfolded before them: the scavenger walking forward, leaving deep footprints in the wet sand, turning his head, while almost exactly at the same time, as if following some sort of secret choreography, one of the other men raised his arm, the small, dark object in his hand hardly discernible.
This moment was the longest. From their perspective, the children caught a glimpse of what was to come – an instant’s worth of the future. They witnessed the possibility of the scavenger’s death before he, the victim, was even aware of the gun pointing in his direction. If ever he was.
Just as the scavenger’s head started turning, the uniformed man (he was standing slightly ahead of the others, although it wasn’t clear whether he carried more importance, within their mysterious hierarchy) raised his pistol. And fired.
What followed was both terrible and strangely uneventful. A sudden silence. A lifeless body falling to the ground with a muffled thud which the kids didn’t hear, but imagined. Then the stillness of the scavengers, as they realised their life was in peril. Adrian noticed he was holding Alice’s hand (gripping it, actually). He couldn’t remember having reached out for it.
Now, the other uniformed men raised their arms, each holding a firearm the children hadn’t noticed before.
“Let’s go, Ady,” said Alice.
“Y-yes” muttered Adrian, almost incapable of looking away.
There was something mesmerising about those men. Something terrible.
Then the firing began. So did the screams. It was nothing short of an execution.
Adrian felt Alice pulling him up. Yes. It was time to go. While the fight (if one could call it that) ensued, they’d perhaps manage to slip away, unseen.
They stood up, turned around, and saw the rifle pointed at them.
Chapter 7
A Council Meeting
“Tea, anyone?”
Paul smiled as Ms. Brand, a sixty-year-old former school teacher, posed this quintessentially British question to the Council members. Despite it all, and despite the apparent fate of his own Church, some traditions held strong. This was one of the reasons he had returned after all, wasn’t it? The British ability to down-play even the greatest of tragedies, at least on the face of it, by following their odd set of priorities, the first of which was invariably a cup of tea.
A chorus of ‘yes, please’ and a couple of ‘cheers, Marge’ had Ms. Brand pouring out seven steaming cups. Perhaps, when the last teabag finally runs out, so will their sanity, Paul thought to himself, leaning forward with a smile to accept a heart-warming cuppa.
They sat in a circle in the centre of what had once been a classroom. Colourful drawings still covered the walls, and Paul’s eyes wandered upon a touching depiction of Bately Castle populated by Norman soldiers and what appeared to be a dragon peering outside of the Eastern tower. The dragon was smiling, and seemingly got along well with its military fellow tenants. Everywhere were hills, trees, and butterflies. A kindly sun shone above it all, indiscriminately dispensing joyous rays of light on everyone and everything. Nature, thought Paul, was indeed indiscriminate, both in its blessings and its curses.
“So,” started Bill Hughes, a retired Major in the British Army, who now helped coordinate Bately’s patrol and defence squad, which they referred to as the Guard. “If we’re all ready, let’s open the proceedings.”
Everyone nodded.
“Good.” Bill said and gestured towards a slightly overweight kid in a black hoodie, by far the youngest attendee in this Council meeting. Sean shuffled in his seat and seemed to shrink as all eyes turned towards him. He nodded nervously.
“Ahem… yes, sure. So. I’ve been tracking the bulletin boards, and received a few updates from GliderBB and /b/tardReborn, and,” he paused, reminding himself the others hadn’t the faintest idea of what those names meant. They were often at a loss when he spoke. “Ahem… you know, my contacts online.” No use, here, going into the story of the scattered, surviving hacker community.
“And?” asked Bill.
“Well, there’s little news, this week. Umm…”
“Yes…?” Bill edged him on.
Sean flicked through a notebook, thick with scribbled notes and drawings.
“… lot of reports of looting and, you know, violence all over the place. A large gang of meteorwraiths is active on the border with Wales. London is a mess. There’s been another tsunami on the western coast of Ireland. The usual, really.”
Sean hesitated.
“What is it, Sean?” asked Catherine. Sean turned red under her gaze.
“Well, there’s no news at all from Europa’s impact zone, as usual… but… Nero–”
“Yes?”
“Well, you see,” Sean started explaining, looking to the floor, incapable of raising his eyes to meet Catherine’s. “Hackers in Russia and the Nero area are generally very active. Those of them left, y’know, but… the amount of communication from them has, like, dropped. As in – a lot. Say 25 percent or so. Not sure why that is.”
“Okay.”
“Anything else?” asked Bill. Paul couldn’t help but notice the former military man’s unease at treating this spotty kid as an equal member on the Council.
“Not really, no,” concluded Sean. He slowly relaxed, as if he’d just wrapped up a rather difficult exam in school.
Paul observed the others. He knew that they were disappointed, although they tried not to show it. Sean – or R3dPill, as he was apparently known online – had come to fill the gap left by newspapers and magazines, and everyone was constantly on the lookout for a juicy story from the outside world, both inside the Council and among the locals. Starved of the royal scandals and VIP reports they’d been bombarded with before the impact, the cataclysmic stories that occasionally surfaced on the web were all they had to entertain them.
“Well,” said Bill. “Let’s move on to the issue of the food and medicine supplies. Who wants to start?”
“So,” began Frank Bailey, a chubby farmer who was in charge of overseeing food production. “The results from the orchards are unsatisfying, as we had predicted. Pity, yes. But, on the other hand, we’ve had a ten percent increase in the yield from the vegetable and square-foot gardens. Which means,” he added with a sarcastic little hint of a smile, “more delicious cauliflowers for all of us.”
They giggled. Cauliflowers, along with a handful of other vegetables, had proven resilient against the post-impact lack of sunlight. Which meant they had been eating ungodly amounts of them.
“As Catherine requested, we’re working on distributing garlic, for whatever medical reason that was, and it seems to be working out okay so far. Bloody unpleasant to eat the stuff raw, even without chewing it, but you know.”
“Thank you, Frank,” said Catherine.
“In terms of livestock, we’re out of pork of course, but we should have enough cattle for the next three to five months if we stick to the ration plan.”
“And how are you doing in terms of workforce?” asked Bill.
“Well… I’m training a few of the new lads, the ones from what-was-Paris, and the other blokes that came in
a couple of weeks ago. They’re learning. Young, most of them, which is good. But they grew up with Game Boys, or whatever they were called, in their hands. Not shovels. Slow progress, but not too bad.”
As Frank spoke, Paul considered the radical shift in peoples’ social status since the impact. Those who made a living performing what the former higher ranks of society had thought of as menial or humble occupations – small farmers like Frank, as well as builders, plumbers, electricians, technicians of any kind – immediately proved to be indispensable. They knew where water pipes where located, how to repair engines (although few of them understood the finer workings of the LMMs – the liquid metal motors – which, although rare, were prized findings for anyone lucky enough to stumble upon one of them), and provided all sorts of services that helped fuel the smooth running of the town. The absolute protagonists, despite their only relative contribution, were kids like Sean. Paul glanced at the boy, who seemed ill at ease in his position as Outside Information Analyst for the Council, and only vaguely aware of the key role he occupied within Bately.
In the meantime, the others, the ones who had lived a life of intellect, who had a hard time making use of a simple screwdriver, had plummeted to the depths of society. Paul felt his own seat on the Council had been assigned to him out of little other than a sluggish reluctance to abandon pre-impact social structures. He was the local priest and, since the Church of England minister, Father Theodore, had lost his life to Nero’s Affliction months ago, he was the only representative of the Christian faith and of the metaphysical architecture of old.
“Good job, Frank,” said Bill with the stiff appreciation of an army officer. “Catherine, how are things on your end?” All eyes turned to her.
Catherine sighed, and cleared her voice before speaking.
“We’re running extremely short on supplies. I’m trying to limit the distribution of aspirin and Paracetamol, but the demand keeps growing–”
“Especially with all those foreigners coming in,” said Ms. Brand, wrinkling her nose. Bill nodded quietly, in agreement, but said nothing. This was one of the more delicate topics, and Catherine felt both the urge to, and the fear of, discussing it with the rest of the Council members. Few things seemed to be as polarising as the issue of the infected from the continent.
“Ms. Brand, they are sick. They have nowhere else to go. We have a moral obligation to help them out.”
“I agree,” said Ms. Brand. “As long as that doesn’t interfere with our own business, here in Bately, Cathy.”
“I know, but–”
“Please, Catherine.” Catherine slumped back, crossing her arms on her chest. “Take me, for instance. I’ve been going around with my arthritis, and it’s killing me. Have I ever bothered you for some painkillers? No. I haven’t. I just put up with it. I think what we need is a wee bit of self-sacrifice around here.”
“Well said,” uttered Bill.
“But, what about these others,” continued Ms. Brand. “They swarm in, and expect us to provide them with medicine and food, don’t they? They turn up at our doorstep and wait for handouts, and what are they giving back, I wonder?” She was looking around, delivering her speech with an annoying combination of pedantic exposition, one you’d reserve for a bunch of eight-year-olds, and amateurish political propaganda.
“Well, a few of them are helping me out, out on the fields, Marge,” muttered Frank, shyly.
“Exactly, thank you, Frank,” said Catherine. “They do help out, Ms. Brand, believe me. And anyway, we’ve all had loved ones die of the Affliction, haven’t we?” Catherine didn’t wait for an answer. She knew it was true.
“That has nothing to do with it,” said Ms. Brand, looking away. Her hand was clenching the hem of her skirt.
“Of course it does, Ms. Brand. We can’t stop caring for the sick, simply because they’re not related or close to us.”
“But–” began Ms Brand, before Catherine interrupted her with an authoritative index finger that no one would have dared challenge.
“Wait. Most of them don’t help, it’s true.” Here Ms. Brand nodded in agreement. “But that’s because they are literally dying, Ms. Brand. Dying. We’re not talking about arthritis, here. We’re talking about being dead.”
Catherine surprised herself. She hadn’t meant to be quite so aggressive, especially towards a little old lady, bigoted as she may be.
The older woman considered her words for a moment, amidst the general silence. Unexpectedly, she turned towards Paul.
“Father Paul, you know I’m a Christian, and although I don’t attend your services as much as I’d like, I believe in the word of the Lord.”
Paul nodded, somewhat embarrassed.
“So,” she continued, “please don’t take offence at what I’m about to say…” She then hesitated, and turned back towards Catherine.
“The thing is, Cathy dear, if they are indeed dying, why are we wasting medicine on them?”
They all fell silent.
The thing was, Catherine thought, it was easy to see Ms. Brand’s point. And almost too easy to agree with her. But easy didn’t mean fair. Resources were scarce, not only when it came to medicine, and it was natural for people to want to safeguard their own, first. But what irritated her was the fact she was pretty certain that Ms. Brand hadn’t reached that conclusion after reflecting on their current situation. Rather, she was probably one of those who had always regarded immigrants as pests and nuisances.
Catherine drew a breath, and was about to talk, when Paul spoke. “Perhaps it would help,” he began, as eyes shifted towards him, “if we considered what would happen, were we to stop caring for them.”
Catherine was curious. Despite all the thought she’d given to the matter, she had never seriously considered not providing assistance to the ‘wraiths and the sick from abroad.
“It appears that, somehow, people are somewhat aware of our… shall we call it ‘privileged’ condition?” Paul spoke with a soft, measured voice. “No doubt also thanks to the efforts of this Council, Bately has coped with the aftermath of the impact in a far better way than most other places. Both here, and abroad, it seems.”
He grew nervous as the others listened. These were very delicate issues, and he had to tread lightly.
“It is understandable that the less fortunate would set out to reach the few islands of relative tranquillity, such as ours, that remain. Now, if we turned them away, if we denied them the little cures and medicine we have at our disposal, would they just go elsewhere? Perhaps, yes. But I suspect some might refuse to simply leave. Over time, they’d grow bitter, and might team up with other sick and desperate souls arriving from the continent, and take with force what we refused to provide out of kindness. They would not only be a threat to our resources – as you perhaps see it, Ms. Brand – but also a threat to our safety.”
“Do you mean, Father, we should keep giving them what is ours for fear of reprisals?” asked Bill. He was visibly irritated. “In any case, that’s what the Guard is for. For protecting us. And if that means shooting gangs of violent meteorwraiths, home-grown or otherwise, that’s what we’ll do.”
“No, Bill,” intervened Catherine. “It’s not about that. It’s about providing a service to those in need.”
“Please, Major,” said Paul. “Don’t misunderstand us. The Guard, under your lead, has had to make tough decisions, and has always protected us wisely and bravely. But rather than having to confront scattered groups of vagrants and ‘wraiths, we’d have a growing number of embittered, desperate souls to deal with. And these souls never set out to come and harm us, as others do. They just want our help.”
Bill rubbed his chin, then squared his shoulders. He was often uncomfortable when involved in a debate. But, unlike Ms. Brand, he didn’t seem to consider the migrants a threat in themselves, but rather a danger for their resources. Which, Catherine had to admit to herself, was undeniable.
“Well,” said the former soldier drily. “I’m
happy to comply with whatever decision the Council makes.” He appeared to have nothing else to add.
Ms. Brand wasn’t happy. “But even if we do continue to care for these… people, where are we going to get more medicine?”
“Perhaps I can help with that,” said a voice.
* * *
They all turned their heads and saw a man in his early forties, worn but good-looking, whose tired eyes peered at them through thick, black-rimmed glasses.
“But it isn’t going to be easy,” he added.
Paul recognised him immediately. He’d seen him at Mass with a young boy who appeared to be his son. They had stood out amongst the few, old faces he was so used to seeing at every function.
“Ah – sorry, I’d heard there was a meeting here, and I thought I’d pop round to take a look,” said the man in response to their surprised expressions.
“Of course, of course,” said Frank as they all stood up. “It’s just that we don’t usually have people turn up at the Monday meetings.”
“Please, come in,” said Paul.
The man grabbed a chair and joined the circle of adults. There was something intriguing about him, thought Catherine. Despite this being his first time among them, his movements were relaxed, self-confident. Once seated, he smiled at them. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Edward Moore. Me and my son, Mathew, arrived in Bately a couple of days ago.”
The others cordially expressed their welcomes.
“It’s great to have you here, Mr. Moore. Would you fancy a cup of tea?” said Ms. Brand, with a smile the likes of which Catherine had never seen her display before.
“Oh, yes please. That would be fantastic.”
As Ms. Brand rose, heading for the teapot in the corner of the classroom, Bill leaned forward, shifting his burly weight on the creaking chair. “You were saying you might be able to help with the meds, right?” There was a hint of distrust in his voice, but Moore seemed to ignore it, or accept it as understandable.
IMPACT (Book 1): A Post-Apocalyptic Tale Page 3