IMPACT (Book 1): A Post-Apocalyptic Tale

by Eliot, Matthew

  He had pressed the trigger with the intention of killing that man. That was all there was to it. The thought had loomed over him during the whole of their slow trip back to Bately. His fate was sealed. He’d have to renounce his priesthood, perhaps leave town and live as a recluse.

  But these two children who were sleeping beside him, oblivious to his thoughts and to the world that slowly slipped by outside the vehicle, offered a chance for redemption.

  He noticed that Cathy was looking at him. She was smiling. He returned her smile, wondering if she could understand the sense of flattered bewilderment he was feeling. But, in considering her expression, he realised she probably couldn’t. It was, after all, difficult for even him to understand.

  The children had been the only piece of good news in what was otherwise a failure of a day. The trip to Ashford hadn’t produced the results they hoped for – no medicine, no nothing.

  The next Council meeting won’t be a comfortable one, Paul thought. What was going to happen once they ran out of medicine? How would they handle the demand from both Afflicted and the local sick as their reserves diminished?

  * * *

  They arrived in Bately at a quarter to ten, their drive prolonged by the thick banks of fog.

  On the outskirts of town, a small group of people gathered around a tractor on the side of the road. Neeson slowed down and pulled up beside them.

  Frank Bailey, the farmer and member of the Council, was among the small gathering.

  Nesson rolled down the window, and Frank’s large, bubbly face peered in with a smile.

  “All okay here, Mr. Bailey?” asked Neeson.

  “Oh yes,” said Frank with a look at the tractor. “Just a spot of bother with the ol’ tractor. It’ll be all right. More importantly, glad to see you all made it back safe from Ashford. How’d it go?” he asked.

  Catherine shook her head in silence. Frank nodded sadly. Then, he adjusted his expression, in an attempt to cheer things up a little, “Oh well, we’ll find meds somewhere else, won’t we, eh?”

  “We will, Frank,” said Cathy, too tired to try and sound convincing.

  Frank’s eyes widened, and he leaned in to take a better look at the passengers.

  “What do we have here?” he asked, gesturing towards the two children, who were beginning to stir on the back seat.

  “We found them,” said Paul, almost in a whisper. “They’ll be our guests, here in Bately.”

  Frank bobbed his head, his smile larger now. “Lit’le darlin’s,” he said. Then he waved to them, and took a step backwards. Before Neeson set the vehicle in motion, Frank remembered something. He leaned back in, saying to Paul, “Father, I almost forgot. Luke ‘as been looking for you. Says it’s very urgent.”

  “Did he say what it was about?” asked Paul.

  “No, Father. He said he wanted to talk to you about it, first.” Frank paused, then added, “Whatever is was, he sure did seem very excited, Father.”

  Paul nodded, confused. Luke was one of the more fervent church goers, but he rarely had anything to discuss with Paul outside of church hours. He’d sometimes stay a little after Mass, asking him questions about sin and redemption – often thoughtful, deep questions – but little else. He had no idea what might have pushed the sick young man to go looking for him.

  “Anyway, off I go again,” said Frank.

  They waved goodbye as the Wolf quietly rolled into town.

  * * *

  “That’s Aunt Hellen’s house!”

  Adrian’s back straightened suddenly, his finger pointing outside.

  “Aunt Hellen?” asked Paul. They were driving past a row of houses along Castle Street, close to the school.

  “Yes, Aunt Hellen – that’s why we came here. To stay with her and Uncle Angus,” explained Adrian. He turned to Alice. “We’ve made it, Ally,” he said, his voice almost broken. She extended her hand and gave him a quick squeeze.

  Catherine’s eyes met Paul’s. If the children hoped to find a safe haven in that sad house, they were likely mistaken.

  “Do you know them? They have a son, my cousin. Toby. He’s–” the young boy looked down, trying to find the right words, “–he’s not too well, but he’s nice.”

  A quick series of concerned glances were shared between Catherine, Paul, and even Neeson who peered through the rear-view mirror from the driver’s seat.

  They don’t know about Hellen, thought Cathy. She’d been among the first to fall victim to the Affliction, in Bately. This isn’t exactly the best time to tell them. And it most definitely isn’t the best time for them to go and stay with Angus either.

  Paul followed the line of Adrian’s gaze, to the dishevelled house Angus shared with his sick boy.

  “It’s a bit late, now,” began Paul. “They must be sleeping. We can pop round tomorrow. Is that okay?”

  Adrian considered this for an instant. He looked outside again. “Well, yes, the shutters are closed, I suppose…”

  They’re always closed, Cathy thought.

  “But where can we sleep, tonight?”

  “We have a room at the church. It’s small, but it’s comfortable,” said Paul. Catherine could hear the concern in his voice. He was trying to avoid having them find out about Hellen tonight, but he was also trying to avoid sounding pushy. “You’re very welcome to stay there for as long as you like,” he said.

  Adrian looked to Alice, who gave him a quiet nod. “Thank you, sir. That would be great.” He turned to Angus’s house, now slipping past them as Neeson turned for the church. “We can always go tomorrow. No hurry, really.” The boy smiled at Paul. “Thank you so much, sir – err, I mean Father.”

  The priest smiled. “Paul will do.”

  Catherine’s heart sank. The boy’s voice was so full of optimism. She could hear it ring with pride for having succeeded in leading his friend to safety. But there was little safety and comfort to be found in that house.

  It appeared that these children’s misfortunes weren’t over yet.

  * * *

  “Dad!”

  Mathew jumped up, running towards Moore as he entered the church. The boy flung his arms around him, and Paul couldn’t help but admire this boy’s spontaneity, his uninhibited display of affection.

  “Hey, young lad,” Moore said, resting his cheek on the boy’s head, wrapping his own arms around his son. Whereas Mathew was open and spontaneous, nothing in Moore’s bearing gave away the difficulties of the day they’d all just been through.

  “Welcome back,” said Claudio, rising from one of the pews where they had been sitting. His eyes were tired. Looking after the boy all day might have been a little hard on his nerves, thought Paul. Still, it does him good to do something other than drinking in solitude.

  They waved to the two soldiers in the Wolf as they drove off, and Paul closed the door behind them.

  “I want you to meet two brave young children, Mathew,” Moore said, introducing Alice and Adrian.

  “Hey,” said Mathew with a big smile. He extended his hand, and the two younger kids shook it one after the other with all the awkwardness of children imitating the motions of adults. “Great to meet you,” said Mathew.

  Adrian bobbed his head with something of a smile. The reserve and suspicion he’d been forced to learn during their travels contrasted starkly with Mathew’s more relaxed ways. Alice, on the other hand, seemed happy to meet another younger person. “Nice to meet you,” she said, mirroring his smile.

  “How about I pop some tea on?” said Catherine. “Why don’t you come along and give me a hand, Paul? Show me where the kitchen is.”

  “Of course, yes,” Paul said as he led her to the rectory. “You all settle down,” he told the small party gathered in the church. “We’ll be right back.”

  “Is that a guitar? Can you play?” Alice asked Mathew, her voice filled with admiration.

  “Oh, he can,” came Claudio’s reply, almost in a sigh. Paul hoped no one else had noticed the touch of irony
in his voice.

  Before leading Catherine to the kitchen, he let his eyes pause on that gathering of people of different ages, huddled amidst the pews. It was nice to see a bit of life in the old, battered church.

  * * *

  “We’ll have to pay a visit to Angus first thing in the morning,” said Paul.

  He was leaning against the kitchen countertop, arms crossed against his chest, waiting for the water to boil. His eyes were tired. It had been a long day.

  Cathy stood opposite him in the small, cramped rectory kitchen. She nodded, observing him closely as he turned and started laying tea bags in a pot.

  “After all they’ve been through,” he said, “they finally get here and…” There was no need to end the sentence.

  “I know, Paul,” said Cathy. He heard her move closer. “And we must. But it’s not the only thing that worries me now.”

  He felt her hands gently rest on his shoulders. Her touch made him catch his breath. Physical contact was something he rarely experienced, one of the many things he had left behind in pursuing his path as a priest. Feeling her warm palms even in that innocent, comforting manner, he wondered whether his joy could be interpreted as a sin. But no loving God, he told himself, could possibly deny a person – even a priest – the pleasure of human touch.

  “You acted on instinct, today, Paul,” she said softly. “You have nothing to be ashamed about.”

  He swallowed. The motion of his Adam’s apple in his throat was almost painful.

  “You told us he was talking to someone else. They could have sent men over. They would have attacked us. Killed us, even.”

  He stared as the first bubbles rose to the surface of the water. There was something soothing about watching that simple chemical reaction. His mind was tired, hungry for simple things. Cathy meant well, but he wasn’t ready to think about all that. It hurt too much.

  Without turning around, he raised a hand to his shoulder, and lightly brushed the tips of her fingers with his own. “Thank you, Cathy,” he said simply.

  He sensed her hesitation. In the end, she patted his back, and drew her hands away. Paul’s fingers lingered for a second as that brief contact between them broke.

  “Come on,” she said, her tone jolly and practical. “Let’s get these mugs over there. I bet Claudio is about to have a nervous breakdown with all those people around him.”

  Paul laughed, pouring hot water over the teabags.

  * * *

  “I want you to listen to something.”

  Matthew was holding the guitar, the rest of the church’s guests gathered on the pews opposite him, forming a varied, tired audience.

  “I wrote a song while you were away, Dad,” he said, hardly concealing his excitement. “Oh,” he added quickly, “Father Claudio helped me out, I didn’t do it all by myself.”

  Claudio hastily leaned forwards. “Oh no-no-no,” he said, “I promise this is entirely young Mathew’s work, not mine.” Paul did his best to conceal a smile. He suspected Claudio wasn’t exactly eager to share the glory of this particular feat.

  Moore turned to the others. “It is a bit late, Mathew. We’ve had a long day. Perhaps you could play it tomorr–”

  “Nonsense,” said Cathy. “Yes, it has been a long day, and we definitely deserve a bit of entertainment, don’t we?”

  The others nodded.

  “All right then, son, go ahead,” said Moore, leaning against the backrest.

  “Okay,” Mathew began, his tone both modest and childishly proud, “it’s about… well, you know, about the meteorites and that. About our world… yes.” He coughed awkwardly, and looked down at the guitar.

  “Here goes…”

  His fingers formed a chord, strumming the strings with his right hand. The sound of the guitar filled the room. When Mathew started singing, the volume of his voice surprised them.

  “Death from above!

  Death from above!

  Nowhere to hide,

  nowhere to hide!

  Swallow your tears,

  and meet your worst fears.”

  Matthew’s fingers ran along the instrument’s frets, chasing the speed of a powerful riff. Before continuing the vocals, he said, over the music, “This is where the backing vocals come in. I’ll do both voices.”

  Then, he alternated his own voice with a high-pitched tone that had Claudio stiffen his whole body and clutch Paul’s hand. The young priest had to hide his laughter.

  “Meteorite strike,

  rocks from the heavens,

  meteorite strike,

  here comes Armageddon!”

  He repeated the verses once more, and picked up speed and volume as he did. When he finally struck a long, closing chord, his forehead was covered in sweat.

  The sound faded, and they all sat in absolute silence.

  Observing the speechless faces of his small audience – only Alice and Adrian appeared to be rather impressed – Mathew muttered, “It’s just a rough version. Still working on the lyrics and everything…” His cheeks quickly turned a deep shade of red.

  “I’d like to say something,” said Claudio, leaning forwards. All eyes turned to him. He cleared his throat and spoke solemnly. “I have listened to music all my life. All kinds of music. I’ve seen it performed all over the world, by all sorts of musicians and artists,” he lay his eyes on Mathew and paused before concluding, “And I must say, in complete honesty, that this was probably the worst song I have ever heard in my entire life.”

  No one spoke. Paul noticed a small spark was shining in the old man’s eyes, as he held them on the boy with the guitar. His tone had not been hostile, but it was likely his joke was lost on Mathew and the others.

  Mathew looked at Claudio. His jaw had dropped.

  Paul was about to try and explain, to say that Claudio was mocking him, when he noticed a smile curve the boy’s lips. The smile quickly became a giggle, and then open, wholehearted laughter. The boy had to lay the guitar down on the floor, bending over, hands on his belly, and almost without breath.

  Before they knew it, they were all laughing, Claudio louder than everyone else. He kept smacking his hand against his knee, eyes welling up with tears.

  The sound of their laughter echoed through the nave and isles of the tired, small-town church. It’s a beautiful sound, Paul told himself, momentarily forgetting the horrors of that day. Looking at the people gathered around him, he realised that, in that precise instant, everyone was perfectly happy.

  Yes. The most beautiful sound there is.

  Chapter 23

  Atlantis

  Walscombe was distracted by his reflection in the glass panel inside the blast hatch.

  He hardly recognised himself. This face staring back at him, all frowning eyebrows and wide eyes, was the face of a nervous man, one who found it quite difficult to cope with difficult situations. Walscombe could hardly be described as nervous. Yet, for some reason, this whole thing with Don and the sick woman beyond that glass panel had stretched his nerves.

  Calm down, he told himself. Calm the fuck down.

  In the end, they had decided against using the PA. If Don discovered this woman’s presence there was no knowing how he might react. She’d have to find her own way around.

  Standing nervously in S and S, they had watched as their new guest wandered from corridor to corridor, disappearing from one monitor and appearing, a few instants later, in the following one.

  The complete silence that accompanied those black-and-white images had an eerie feel to it. It was like watching one of those old reality-horror movies, where spycams had been set out in a supposedly haunted house to witness its horrific night-time goings-on. The woman’s appearance didn’t help. One of her legs was injured, maybe broken, because she dragged it along behind her, one arm stretched outwards to help her maintain her balance. Walscombe did his best to avoid staring at her face. It was awful.

  It felt like Atlantis was indeed haunted – by a ghostly new arrival and th
e insane Major who was nowhere to be seen.

  “She’s getting close,” Jeff said, eyes glued to the monitors.

  They had shut down most of the passageways to keep her from wandering off in the wrong direction. But they hadn’t managed to limit her route to a single one – there were too many corridors and passages inside Atlantis.

  “Come on, it’s left, woman, turn left,” Walscombe said, his frustration mounting. He wanted her to reach their location and get this whole thing over with.

  They had gathered food from the mess hall kitchens and left it on the floor just beyond the blast hatch. “She must be hungry,” Jeff had said, his willingness to help that unknown woman surprising Walscombe once more.

  And now the two of them were standing there, peering down the silent corridor that lay beyond that glass panel, waiting for her to appear. Walscombe’s focus shifted to his reflection again, and saw it fade slightly beneath the damp overlay of his breath on the glass. He too, now, looked like a ghost. He held his breath for an instant and the condensation receded.

  What the hell am I doing? He asked himself, almost bursting out into hysterical laughter.

  “Walscombe, there she is,” said Jeff, laying two fingers on his sleeve and nodding towards the corridor.

  And indeed, there she was.

  The woman stood exactly at the centre of the corridor – a haunting vanishing point for the horizontal lines projected by the side walls. She was pale and sick and desperate. Despite that, she smiled when she saw them.

  Jeff raised a hand, and offered a hesitant welcoming wave. Walscombe did not.

  What if this sickness, the meteorite thing, gets through the hatches? What if we all fall sick? Will we all end up looking like her and then dying in this shit hole?

  Another voice inside his head reminded him that, not too long ago he was about to commit suicide and, if it hadn’t it been for that first chat message from Ivan, he likely would have.

  That’s different, he thought, not knowing exactly how it was different.

  The woman saw the tray of food Jeff had prepared and darted – or, rather, hobbled inelegantly – towards it. She knelt down in front of the tray and eagerly brought its contents to her slack, pale lips.