IMPACT (Book 1): A Post-Apocalyptic Tale

by Eliot, Matthew

  He figured she was probably telling the truth. It did get creepy when the fog was this thick.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “We’ll find another place.”

  She set off, leaving so swiftly that Adrian found it hard to keep up. She paused, waiting for him.

  When he was standing by her side, she said, “I’m happy you’re here with me, now, Ady.”

  So was he.

  Chapter 16

  The Southern Outpost

  “Greetings, my friends.”

  The old man smiled, revealing a handful of crooked teeth. He covered the last few steps that separated him from Catherine and the others at a measured, confident pace.

  He’s dressed like he just got back from Woodstock, thought Catherine, eyeing the man’s colourful clothing and long, braided grey hair. He looked so out of place, almost ridiculous, framed by the colourless landscape that surrounded them. Catherine had the odd, but nonetheless distinct, impression that the sun she hadn’t seen for months was somehow still shining on this man.

  He was such a bizarre sight, her companions were at a loss for words. He’d emerged from the beach below, unflustered by the awful weather, looking like he was out on a placid afternoon stroll.

  “Please hold still, sir,” Neeson said as the young Guard members approached him.

  “I’m sure there’s no need for those,” said Catherine, glancing at their raised weapons.

  “Please, ma’am, let us do our jobs,” Neeson told her with a look that convinced her to drop the issue. The old man didn’t seem at all bothered. He showed no fear of the firearms. When Tim Greene asked him to raise his arms so he could pat him down, the man did so without a complaint. His arms went up, palms towards the clouds, and he tilted his head backwards, eyes closed. A hint of his smile still lingered on his lips. It looks like he’s about to receive manna from heaven, she thought.

  Greene frisked him quickly but thoroughly, then stepped back, gesturing that everything seemed to be in order. The old man was carrying no weapons and apparently posed no threat.

  “Where are you coming from, sir?” asked Neeson, his demeanour as cold and professional as the old man’s was warm and friendly.

  “Oh, from over there,” he replied, vaguely gesturing towards the Channel. There was a silent beat, as they waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. He just stood there, responding to their quizzical glances with that unflinching smile.

  “And where are you headed?” asked Neeson. He seemed to be studying the older man, possibly scanning him for giveaway signs of the Affliction.

  “Wherever I’m welcome,” he replied, simply.

  Paul, who had slowly emerged from the surprise of the man’s arrival, extended a hand and said, “I’m sure we’d be happy to welcome you to Bately, sir. My name is Paul.”

  Before shaking Paul’s hand, the man’s gaze rested upon his clerical collar. He seemed to consider it, although his thoughts about it were unclear.

  “Glad to meet you, Padre.”

  They each introduced themselves, in turn, and at every introduction, the man looked deeply, steadily into their eyes. It made Catherine feel quite uncomfortable.

  “I’m Jeremy, although few people call me that,” he said, again without elaborating further.

  “We like to ask new arrivals to contribute to the smooth running of the town,” said Billings. His distrust for this elderly hippy was plain.

  “Oh,” he began, “I’m sure my contribution will be greatly appreciated.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Neeson, deciding not to let him get away with another vague reply.

  “I have very good news for you and the people of Bately.”

  “Please elaborate, sir,” came Neeson’s unmoved reply.

  “Do you have an executive body in Bately? Someone overseeing things?”

  “Well,” replied Paul, “we have the Council, it’s a–”

  “I’d rather announce my message before your Council in that case.” Although his tone was polite, it wasn’t a request, rather a non-negotiable statement.

  Billings turned to the other Guard members. “Old geezer’s a nutcase,” she heard him whisper to Jack Wallace, who sniggered discreetly in return.

  “Both Catherine and I have seats on the Council, so perhaps you could let us know what it is you–” began Paul.

  “No thank you, Father. I’ll wait for your next session,” came his reply.

  Paul smiled awkwardly. “Well… we’d be happy to give you a lift into town, but we’re off on a little errand and I’m afraid these men can’t abandon their post.”

  “That’s fine. I’m quite happy to walk,” he said with a glance towards the horizon and breathing in the damp air, as if savouring its taste.

  “Better get going,” Neeson reminded Catherine and her friends.

  The Guard members gathered their things from the Rover, transferring them to the Wolf as Paul explained to the old man how to get to Bately.

  “Thank you, then,” the man said finally. He turned and started on his way with the serene, tranquil pace of someone unencumbered by concerns of any kind.

  After a few steps, he turned back and asked, “You do have afflicted, in Bately, don’t you? The meteorwraiths, right?”

  “Yes, we do. More than we can handle,” replied Catherine. Jeremy smiled, nodding slowly, and turned his shoulders to them.

  “Why in the world would he ask us that?” said Catherine.

  “I have no idea,” replied Moore. His eyes fixed on the elderly hippy he added, “But I don’t trust this man.”

  The instant Moore spoke, Catherine knew she felt exactly the same way.

  Chapter 17

  Luke

  Luke was sitting on his bed in the empty flat the Council had provided him with. He was peering down at his open palm. Inside it, lay a fingernail. It had come off his index finger a few minutes ago, and now, detached from his body, it appeared alien. Artificial, almost. It had felt the same when his ear had peeled off a couple of weeks ago.

  He flipped it over, using the finger it was once attached to, and thought it strange that this rigid transparent material, so different from the meat and tissue that he thought of as constituting himself, could be produced by his own body. Looking at it now, he felt like it had never belonged to him in the first place.

  He turned his palm over, letting the nail drop on the stained carpet by the bed. He stretched his fingers out, a little like his mother used to do to check her nail polish. Three nails left. All of them thick and curved, twisted by the Affliction.

  He felt a sudden spasm in his side. It hurt. The pain had worsened significantly in the last month. Almost automatically, Luke whispered a Hail Mary, an imperceptible articulation of his swollen lips asking the Lord to grant him the strength to endure the pain.

  Sometimes reciting it three times was enough. Most times, it took about ten. Rarely – but increasingly – more. Luke believed these stronger pains hit him because he had sinned. He couldn’t be sure.

  A pebble struck his window. It was a soft, almost inaudible sound, but he’d been expecting it.

  He got up hastily, the pain finally fading, and rushed over to peer outside.

  There she was, standing in the back garden, a hood pulled up to conceal her face. She was looking towards him. He noticed the pale, white film that covered her left eye, as well as the swelling of certain facial features. When she curved a corner of her lips in a smile, he noticed she was missing one of her front teeth.

  She, too, was sick.

  He waved back.

  She was also beautiful.

  * * *

  “How are these bastards treating you?” she asked.

  Agnieszka – or ‘Hanna’ for the British folk – held a mug of tea in her hand, and peered outside the window. Bately Castle stood motionless against the backdrop of the turbulent skies.

  Luke sighed. “Don’t call them that, Ana,” he said, shaking his head slightly.

  She glanced at
him, a confrontational eyebrow raised.

  “They hate you. They hate all of us.”

  “If they hate me, why would they be using their medicine on me? Why would Catherine be doing so much to help me?”

  “Catherine?” she asked. “Ah. Yes. The little nurse.” She chuckled sarcastically. “You think they’re happy about wasting their meds on a wretch like you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is they are willing to do it.”

  “‘Course it matters,” she said, turning towards the window again.

  Luke put his own mug on the little bedside table, careful not to spill the tea. He then stood up and walked over to her. He stood behind her, and studied the small patches of bare skin amidst her hair. It pained him to see them. God had a plan for them all. He knew it. It wasn’t his place to doubt that plan, but if he could have asked Him to spare anyone the decay and suffering of the Affliction, that would be Ana.

  “Luke. Come and join us,” she said. Her voice was softer. “It’s tiring to sneak into Bately like this, like I’m guilty of something other than getting this fucking disease.”

  “You don’t have to sneak in, Ana,” he said, running a hand through her hair. He did it gently, as if in secret. He wasn’t sure whether she could feel his fingers against her. “Just move in, with me.”

  “Here we go again. I ask you to come with me. You ask me to stay.” She laughed without joy.

  “Ana, this place is safe. The people – most of them – are nice. There’s the Guard to protect the town from–”

  “From us,” she said, turning around. She now stood face-to-face with him.

  “–from danger,” he concluded. He tried to hold her hand, but she pulled back. He didn’t insist. “And I’m happy to be near the church. I like Father Claudio and Father Paul. Especially Father Paul. You’d like him too.”

  Ana rolled her eyes. “When you finally do make up your mind and decide to join us, make sure to leave all that religious nonsense behind, please.”

  He smiled. This was something they’d never agree upon.

  “Luke, there are lots of us now. It’s not like in the early days. About fifteen-hundred, I think. We look out for one another, we’re amongst our own. And we’ve all come to terms with the illness.”

  “Have you? What about all the looting? Stealing medicine from innocent people?”

  “We’re only taking what is rightfully ours,” she said, and he could hear anger growing in her voice. “You think some posh old woman deserves painkillers for her headache, when we could be using them to help with the real pain all of the ‘wraiths suffer?”

  “Don’t call us that.”

  “What?” she asked, knowing exactly what he was referring to.

  “‘Wraiths, it makes us sound like monsters.”

  “Ha!” Ana threw her hands in the air. “We are monsters, Luke. Wake up, mate,” she pointed an angry finger out the window, towards the town and jabbed it repeatedly to stress her words. “They all think we are monsters, Luke. They do. And you know what? I’m happy to be one, to them.”

  “Ana–”

  “When I first got here, to England, before the fucking meteorites, they already hated me because I was a bloody Pole. Then they hated me because I was poor. Now they hate me because I’m a disgusting meteorwraith. So fuck them.”

  Luke bit his lip. He saw her eyes were wet with tears, her lips shaking.

  “You don’t mean that, my love,” he said in Polish.

  “I do,” she replied, switching to the language of their childhood. It was sweet to hear it again. “I want them to suffer like we are,” she said, hatred was pouring out of her eyes along with tears, though she let him close his hand around hers.

  He drew her close and kissed her. They slowly moved to the bed, each lost in the other’s desire, and lay on the knotted bedsheets.

  The motions of love that followed were beautiful, despite the decay of their bodies, the sickness of their limbs. Or maybe precisely because of them. The desperate longing for physical love was no less powerful, even with their bodies so weathered and torn.

  “I love you,” she whispered as her legs gently parted.

  * * *

  Later, as Ana stood at the window again, a lit cigarette between her index and middle fingers, Luke wondered whether the sin of love between them, an unmarried couple, might be the reason behind the increase in pain he’d been feeling. But, as he slipped his clothes back on, he couldn’t help but think that God might forgive him, because his love for Ana was pure. Plus, as soon as she joined him in Bately, he’d convince her to marry him. He knew it would take some persuasion, but she would in the end.

  He smiled at the thought of them sharing his little room here in Bately, living what remained of their days in peace and quiet.

  “I understand why you like it here,” she said, blowing out a bluish cloud of smoke that lingered in the air. “It’s peaceful.”

  “It is,” he said. Maybe she’s changing her mind, he thought.

  “But I need time, Luke. Things aren’t bad with the Pack. We’re organised, and we have fun,” she looked at him, her eyes serious. “Please, please consider coming with me, too.”

  “I’ll try,” he said. It was all he could promise without lying.

  She giggled and looked outside again.

  “Wow,” she said, “who’s that weirdo?”

  Luke pulled his sweater over his head, joining her by the window.

  Together, they gazed down on the streets below, where an old man with long, braided hair and clothes of a million colours walked along. They watched as he stopped and savoured the damp air, like it was filled with the scent of spring, rather than smell of rotting leaves.

  As if they’d called to him, the old man turned towards them. He held his eyes on the young, sick couple.

  “He’s seen us,” said Luke, feeling a childish need to hide behind the curtain.

  “Luke, he’s smiling at us,” said Ana. Luke had noticed. It was odd, nowadays, to see people wandering around with a smile on their faces.

  “I must say,” she added, “this bloke’s smile is amazing.”

  It was.

  Chapter 18

  Ashford

  “There it is,” said Moore.

  The warehouse was bigger than Cathy had expected. It sat on the outskirts of Ashford, large and silent in the afternoon mist. The main entrance was concealed by the rooftops of the other, smaller buildings nearby, but they had a clear view of the streets leading up to it.

  They were all lying in the grass, one-hundred yards away. She scanned the building and its surroundings, the silence among them a reminder of the danger they might be facing. If the meteorwraiths were still inside the building, a confrontation was unavoidable. She threw a sideways glance at Neeson and Billings beside her. There was something comforting about their focused, expressionless faces.

  The trip had been pleasant if uneventful. The constant hum of the liquid metal motor had had a mildly hypnotic effect on her and her two companions. As the bleak expanse of what was once ‘the garden of England’ slowly drifted by outside their windows, it had been easy to forget the purpose of their trip. They had talked idly, touching on the strange old man, Jeremy, speculating about his story. It was difficult to imagine he could pose a threat, despite Moore’s apparent hostility towards the old hippy. Although his words – ‘You do have Afflicted in Bately, right?‘ – had a sinister ring she couldn’t quite shake.

  As they approached Ashford from the southeast, their chatter had gradually quieted down. She had secretly observed the two men sitting by her side: Moore with his serious, impenetrable eyes fixed on the view ahead of him and Paul, who sat stiffly, only occasionally moving to wipe off the sweat collecting on his upper lip.

  Paul was no coward, she supposed that most of his unrest was likely due to the weapons that were travelling with them in the boot of the Wolf. She had noticed his frown when Neeson placed the firearms inside a metal container
alongside three hand grenades. The sight had made her feel uneasy, but the effect had been greater on Paul.

  “This is how we’re going to proceed,” Neeson said, almost in a whisper. All eyes turned to him. “We want to clear the area as soon as possible. We’ll split in two groups. Ms. Abbott,” his chin gesturing to Catherine, “you will come with me. We’ll enter through the main entrance, while Billings and Mr. Moore will approach the rear exit.” Neeson’s eyes flicked over to Paul, who was about to say something. “You, Father, will stay here by the vehicle.”

  The disappointment in Paul’s eyes was plain. He opened his mouth, as if to protest, but was interrupted by Neeson.

  “Your role is crucial, Father. You must ensure the area is clear and alert us if you see anyone approaching.” Neeson got on his feet and, head low, crawled over to the Wolf’s open passenger door. He grabbed something out of it and returned.

  “We’ll use walkie-talkies. They're very easy to use, just press this button to speak,” Neeson pointed it out on the device, “and release it to listen. We only use the walkie-talkies in case of danger. No point in wasting battery. Got it?” Everyone nodded. The soldier’s eyes focused on Paul again. The priest’s expression was still slightly stiff, debating whether to protest. Catherine sensed the man felt his position as a lookout was somewhat demeaning. Neeson, too, appeared to be aware of this. “Father,” he said to him, his voice strong but cordial, “you must understand that our safety depends upon knowing whether possible enemies are approaching. Both Ms. Abbott and Mr. Moore must accompany us inside the warehouse, we need them to locate the medicine stash and to check its contents.”

  Paul nodded. It was difficult to tell if he was convinced or not.

  “And,” continued Neeson, “I’m told you didn’t do very well during firearm training. It would be imprudent to have you enter the building given that.” Paul nodded gravely. Catherine felt the unexpected urge to lean forward and hug him, to reassure him.

  “Also,” added Neeson, “Mr. Moore here appears to be short-sighted, or at least that’s what his glasses suggest. Is that correct, Mr. Moore?” Edward dipped his chin.