Clever, thought Catherine, he’s pointing out a weakness in Edward, to counterbalance Paul’s with the firearms. Despite the fact Neeson was quite obviously used to imparting orders to unquestioning soldiers, this didn’t prevent him from taking a more considerate stance when dealing with civilians.
And although this was a rather basic psychological move, it did seem to soothe Paul’s vexation a bit.
“Remember, all of you, this is not a game.” Neeson’s tone had now lost its delicate touch. “Do exactly as I or Lance Corporal Billings say. Do not pause to think or debate. Do what you are told, when you are told. Understood?”
“Yes,” said Catherine, her voice one of three uttering the same words.
This is all getting very real, very quickly, she thought.
* * *
Neeson moved fast.
Catherine was doing her best to keep up with him, crouching as they advanced, the rifle clutched tight in her hands. Its unfamiliar weight, like that of a strange new limb attached to her body, made her movements awkward and uncertain.
The cubic construction of an abandoned petrol station blocked their view of the warehouse. They proceeded along it, their backs brushing against its grimy walls. Somewhere on the opposite end of the building, Moore and Billings were doing the same.
They were nearing the edge when Neeson held up a clenched fist. She’d seen this gesture in countless films – the man in the lead telling his men to hold still – and was mildly surprised to find out it was actually used. She stopped, observing Neeson’s quick, efficient movements. He slowly peered past the edge, rifle close to his chest, allowing only a few inches of his face to protrude around the petrol station’s corner.
The warehouse was on their left. Neeson glanced in the opposite direction first, presumably scanning for possible adversaries. Then, he turned to the left, to the warehouse, and the same direction where Moore and Billings would be emerging.
Catherine noticed his hesitation. It was a brief instant, in which his body appeared to be perfectly still, eyebrows drawn close to one another. He turned towards her, evaluating his words before speaking.
“Ms. Abbott,” he said, “when we emerge onto the street, you’ll see something that will shock you. Do your best to ignore it. We’ll move fast, and reach the entrance of the warehouse. It’s–” he shot a quick look outwards again, then looked back, “about 30 yards from where we stand. You go first. I’ll be right behind you. When you reach the door, crouch and stop. After that, you’ll await my orders. Got it?”
She nodded, doing her best to show Nesson he could count on her.
His eyes hesitated on her features for a second, then he stepped back, providing her space to step past him. She did, but before she could step out onto the street, he grabbed her shoulder, and whispered, “Try not to look, Ms. Abbott. Duck down and run.”
Again, she nodded, her heartbeat increasing. He patted her on the back, nudging her off.
Cathy sprinted forward, entering the ample road that stretched out in front of the warehouse. Moore, who was an indefinite shadow in her peripheral vision, was moving parallel to her.
Then she saw the crosses.
Catherine couldn’t help but freeze.
They looked like two men, but it was difficult to tell. Their hair had been shaved off and the bodies were covered in dry blood. They had been nailed to the two crosses and their guts cut open. A tangle of brown innards poured out of their midriffs, some still hanging there, others scattered on the ground below them. The heads of the two bodies rested, almost in identical positions, against their chests – a devilish symmetry they would never be aware of.
Catherine forced herself to call upon the detachment that was required by her profession, that self-imposed denial in the face of death and mutilation that she had learned while training as a nurse. After all, she’d seen countless bodies – even more since the impact – and she was used to witnessing horrific scenes.
Yes, she told herself, but not like this.
Then came the pressure of Neeson’s firm push and she scuttled forth once again.
They walked around the crosses, the two of them from the right, Moore and Billings from the left. She was heading for the main entrance, while the other two would continue to the back door.
She reached the front wall of the warehouse with a gasp and knelt down, one hand resting on the ground, the other still holding the rifle. She tried to control her breath, to steady her heartbeat. She glanced towards Edward, who had reached the far end of the wall and was about to disappear behind it.
Their eyes met. She read her own horror mirrored in his expression. But she also saw concern. Concern for her. This was both flattering and mildly irritating. She never had been a soft girl, one who needed the reassurance of men, and didn’t want Moore to think of her as such. On the other hand, behind his glasses, his eyes were filled with a sympathy and compassion she rarely witnessed.
She gave him a quick nod. It’s okay. Go.
Billings pushed Moore forward, just like Neeson had done with her, and they both vanished behind the side of the warehouse.
Neeson was standing next to her, his ear against the door. He was peering downwards, eyes flicking from side to side, as if trying to watch for sounds coming out of the building, as well as listen. She could hear no noise coming from inside.
“Ready?” he asked her.
He was now standing upright, one palm on the door handle.
“Yes.”
With a quick glance up and down the street, Neeson opened the door.
She followed him inside, her heart still racing.
* * *
Had he not been agnostic, Moore decided this would be the moment he’d whisper a prayer.
They approached the rear exit, heads held low behind a small brick wall that ran alongside this end of the warehouse. It had only been a few days since he and Mathew had made their lucky escape, walking nervously along this very path. Now here he was again. Luckily, this time his son was safe back in Bately. In front of him, Billings advanced, his knees bent at almost perfect 90-degree angles, the barrel of his weapon close to his chin, ready to be fired.
They reached the doorway, and Moore caught himself reciting a silent prayer to the god he did not entirely believe in.
Please. Please make this place be empty. And safe. Please let us find the medicine. Most of all, let me return home to my son.
The door was ajar, and all they could see was the thin black slit that sliced the space between the door and the wall. No noise came from inside.
“When we enter,” said Billings, “we’ll crouch behind the first cover we can find. If it’s too small for both of us, you stop there and I’ll find somewhere else. When we’re both protected, you point to where you remember the medicine being, then stay put.”
Billings didn’t wait for Edward to nod. He turned and quickly but silently opened the door. He crept through, the muzzle of his rifle raised before him.
Questions he should have asked Billings ran through his mind. Edward wondered whether he should run for the first cover he saw or if he should wait for the younger man to point one out to him. If the ‘wraiths were still in there, would it be wise to shoot? And, if so, could he just go ahead and pull the trigger or was he to await Billings’s permission?
The doubts crowded his mind as he inched through the doorway. It felt like the air was growing denser around him, the increased pressure weighing on his chest and mind.
Then he stepped through the door and none of the questions mattered any more.
* * *
Paul peered through the binoculars, trying to spot movement on the deserted streets of Ashford’s outskirts.
He hadn’t appreciated Neeson’s attempt to soothe his pride by referring to Moore’s eye sight. He saw it as a low, unpleasant trick. But, to be fair, this was likely the best arrangement. His shooting ability was sub-par and he had little to contribute inside the warehouse. The lookout was, after all, an
important role. What really nagged at him was this strange irritation that he had developed of late. Maybe it was due to Cathy after all. Or perhaps it was just a basic human need to prove oneself in the eyes of one’s peers. It could be one of a hundred things – Claudio’s worsening temper, his own faith continually being tested by the lack of attendees at Mass. It was difficult to tell.
The rifle lying by his side wasn’t helping.
Before leaving, Neeson had handed it to him, saying: “Father, I understand you don’t like the idea of using a weapon. But, if need be, use it.”
Paul had simply bobbed his head, knowing there was no way he could make that promise.
He lowered the binoculars and turned to the rifle. It lay parallel to his body, muzzle pointing to the warehouse. Having it so close made him uneasy, as if its mere presence could somehow lead to Paul murdering a man. He sat up and removed his jacket, flinging it over the weapon. He tugged at a sleeve to cover a part that was still visible.
There, he thought, that’s much better.
He lay down again and brought the binoculars to his eyes.
Yes, much better.
* * *
The bodies were everywhere.
Each one in a different position, some faced the front entrance, others the exit. They lay flat or slumped, their arms, legs, and faces twisted and turned in varying stances and expressions, as if exploring all the spatial possibilities of the human body, its layout, and its movements. Except here movement had been banished, and all were still, trapped in a bizarre frozen stasis. The death the ‘wraiths had tried to escape had been inescapable.
Moore forgot Billings’s instructions. He forgot to find cover and duck behind it; he forgot to follow his orders. He had forgotten everything.
He let his eyes wander over the scattered, lifeless individuals, who but a few days ago had filled his own heart with dread. They posed no threat now. Finally, his gaze landed upon the opposite end of the room, by the entrance, where Catherine and Neeson stood and observed the bloody remains of this massacre.
Billings poked one of the bodies with the muzzle of his weapon. For reasons he found difficult to explain, Edward felt the impulse to tell him to stop, that it was wrong. He kept the thought to himself. The corpse flopped back into position when Billings drew the rifle back.
“Looks like we won’t be firing, sir,” he said to Neeson. The officer dipped his chin, saying nothing.
Catherine walked slowly across the vast space, and Edward decided to move towards her. The two soldiers were examining the bodies, sharing comments quietly.
“Shocking, isn’t it?” he asked when he had reached her.
“Yes.” Catherine knelt down beside one of the bodies. The signs of the Affliction were masked beneath a new layer of suffering, but still clearly visible. “These are bullet wounds,” she said, partly to Edward, partly to herself.
He too noticed that all the bodies presented similar wounds, powerful perforations that had deprived them of their lives.
“Yes ma’am,” confirmed Neeson as he too bowed down beside a body. “And it looks like whoever did this was very well equipped.” He stood. “No reason to waste any more time in here. Where were the meds, Mr. Moore?”
Edward stood and, stepping over the dead meteorwraiths, scanned the room for the blue plastic boxes he had seen, when he was trapped in here with Mathew. It was difficult to focus among the carnage. “They were blue, quite big. Plastic,” he said, and the others began to search as well.
He recognized other boxes. The ones that had contained the tins of canned food they had feasted upon in their little bunker on one of the shelves. Out of curiosity, he shifted the cardboard flap back. The food was gone. Before he could reflect on the implications of this, he heard Cathy say, “Were these the ones?”
He turned. She was in a corner of the room, pointing at two boxes he recognized instantly. Something on her face made his heart sink.
As the men approached her, she dipped a hand inside one the two boxes, and drew out a single white pack of medicines. She glanced at them, then shook the small container in the air. The little pills inside it rattled. “MemoryAid,” she said sadly.
“Anything else?” asked Neeson.
Catherine looked down again, then shook her head.
“Nothing.”
* * *
They stood in a circle, all peering inside the empty blue boxes. They had come all this way for nothing.
“Shit,” said Billings, and turned to spit. “Blokes who did the ‘wraiths in must’ve taken the meds, sir,” he told Neeson.
“Apparently. Yes,” agreed the officer.
“Damn,” said Catherine, kicking the ground with her foot. Edward could hear the frustration in her voice. As the only living health professional left in Bately, the lack of medical supplies must have been a constant, nerve-racking concern.
“We should leave,” said Neeson, “the area isn’t safe.”
Catherine and Edward turned towards the entrance, and shuffled along in disappointment, trying to avoid the sight of the dead bodies.
“You reckon the attackers were another gang of ‘wraiths, sir?” asked Billings.
“No. They were properly trained. Well armed. They’re not ‘wraiths.”
They reached the far end of the warehouse.
“Also,” added Neeson as they neared the door, “‘wraiths don’t waste their time with stuff like that.”
Moore was about to ask what the soldier was referring to – then he saw it.
A large symbol had been traced above the warehouse entrance. It stretched all the way from the ceiling to the floor, even covering the door they were about to step through. Three precisely-drawn circles, painted with a thick, black paint. A larger one and two progressively smaller ones below it.
It was terrifying in its bare simplicity.
Catherine, Billings, and Moore could just stare, open-mouthed.
* * *
Paul thought he heard something.
He eyed the roof of the warehouse. Was it a gunshot? He hoped not.
Paul shifted his weight, the pressure of the damp ground against his chest becoming bothersome. For what seemed to be the thousandth time, he scanned the view ahead of him, not really expecting to see anyone or anything. There were noises coming from the west, inside Ashford, but they were far away and he supposed they were of no concern to him or his companions.
He felt an itch on his left elbow, and put the binoculars down on the grey grass to scratch it. He pinched the fabric of his shirt, rubbing it up and down, but the itch didn’t quite go away.
He perched himself up on the opposite elbow, legs still spread flat out on the ground behind him, and rolled up his sleeve to inspect his skin.
There were three silver-white flakes of dead skin, almost perfectly circular, where he had felt the itch.
“What–?”
His fingers prodded at the dry film of epidermis, both fascinated and disgusted by it. He scratched a little harder and they came off.
“Yuck,” he said to himself. Then he noticed a similar itch coming from the other elbow. He reversed his position, planting the first elbow in the grass, and rolling up the opposite sleeve. Here too he found the dead flakes of skin. His eyebrows drew together as he wondered, concerned, what they could be. Was he ill?
That was when he felt the cold touch of the muzzle behind his head.
* * *
“Who are you?” asked the voice.
Paul tried to speak, but couldn’t. Also, finding an appropriate answer to that question wasn’t easy. His mind registered the fact that it was a male voice, and that it had a slight accent – Swedish perhaps, or Danish.
There were no thoughts flying through his head, no words he could utter, just a basic, instinctive and voiceless dread of death that utterly paralysed him.
He felt a boot shoved into his back, pinning him to the ground. The muzzle stabbed at his head, the man obviously frustrated by his lack of response.
“Who are you?” he repeated, louder.
Paul tried to articulate his reply, but failed. All he succeeded in producing was a strange, high-pitched muttering sound. He felt the pressure from the boot on his back increase. He swallowed and tried again.
“I-I’m… my name is Paul. I’m a priest,” he said realising how odd it was to define himself, his whole person, in such a scanty collection of words to a man who might be about to kill him.
The man grunted. The muzzle was once again thrust into the back of his head.
“What are you doing here?”
Paul tried to think, but it wasn’t easy. What combination of sentences might, somehow, get him out of this situation without giving his friends away?
Before he could speak, there was a rasping sound somewhere behind him. It was a small, metallic voice, and heavily distorted. In his fear, Paul conjured up the image of a small devil, like the ones he’d admired in the illustrations within ancient manuscripts in monasteries all across Italy. He pictured it there, standing next to this armed man, pushing him to end Paul’s life.
“Stay there,” the man said, and Paul felt the pressure from the boot abandon his back. Soon after it, the firearm went too. It was a walkie-talkie, just like the one he had under his chest. Someone was trying to contact the man with the weapon.
“I’m here, sir, what is it?” the man said into the walkie-talkie.
The response was muffled and Paul couldn’t make out its contents.
“I’m still in Ashford. Found someone in the area I was patrolling, sir. Got him here.”
Something in the quality of the sound of those last few words made Paul realise the man had turned around, shoulders towards him.
Paul decided to take a peek. He turned his head, slowly, and saw the back of a muscular man, the rifle in one hand and the walkie-talkie in the other, held close to his ear. The peculiar thing was that he was wearing a uniform – a stern, red and black outfit that was meticulously clean and strangely intimidating in its elegance.
“No one else, no,” the man was saying, in reply to a question Paul hadn’t heard. “The team has left. I’ll follow soon.”
IMPACT (Book 1): A Post-Apocalyptic Tale Page 9