Back when they had all been together.
This might not have been Finn's home for the past twenty years, but it was his home now. His mother, his brother, and him—a killer and the loving family he turned away from—awaiting the end of the world.
Finn had chosen a life of hate.
And it had cost him so much.
He downed the whiskey despite his brother's warning it would be his last, unwilling to draw out the agony with tentative sips. Whiskey deserved a chance to work, and even now he sensed its warmness spreading through his legs.
Spreading like tar.
“You never were a patient one, were you?” said Clive, his native accent gone after two decades in England—just four years old when he moved here.
Finn patted his younger brother on the shoulder. “I’m an Irishman with a drink in front of him. You having one yourself?”
Clive shook his head. “Knew you would enjoy it more.”
Finn felt a lump in his throat where the whiskey burned. To get back to emotions he could handle, he glanced again at his dead sister. A brief memory of Marie threading daisy-chains while sitting on his lap in the forest flashed through his mind. It hurt like a rusty blade across his ribs. “What happened to her, Clive?”
Clive looked away, hiding his eyes. He rubbed at his left wrist and sighed. “No point thinking about it now. She’s gone. I'm going to bury her in the front garden. It's probably a silly thing to do, but I want her to be at rest when the end comes. She was such a kind soul.”
“I know,” said Finn, heart thudding inside his chest. “What bastard did this to her?”
“I don’t know, Finn, and it doesn’t matter. We’ll all be gone ourselves before the week is through. Danny Stanton said he drove down to Ramsgate last week, and the English Channel was gone. Just… gone. The tar was crawling right up the beach.” He stopped rubbing his wrist for a moment and wiped the dusty sweat from his brow. “It’s stupid, but even after all the news reports, part of me hoped it was all fantasy. I prayed to almighty it wasn’t really happening, but seeing the fear on poor Danny Stanton’s face was all the proof I needed. He reckons it will be up this way before the week ends. We should move north with Ma. They say Newcastle will be last to go. Makes you proud in a way. The last surviving patch of life will be right here in England.”
Finn sneered. “Why would it make you proud? You’re Irish. Ireland is gone.”
“I’ve lived here for twenty years, Finn. I might be Irish, but England is my home. Do you really look back at that place so fondly? It was a battleground. Why did you stay so long?”
Finn stared at his sister’s damp corpse. “This place is no different, Clive. Monsters dwell everywhere. A monster did this to Marie, and I want to know who.”
“Like I said, I don't know.”
Clive went to turn away, but Finn grabbed him by the wrist—harder than he’d intended—and it made Clive cry out.
“You’re lying to me, Clive. I want to know who did this. Who killed our sister? Who killed Marie?”
Clive yanked his arm away and rubbed his wrist as though it were on fire. “What the fuck does it matter? We’re all dead, anyway.”
“It matters because she suffered, alone and afraid.”
“Ha! Don’t act like you give a shit about Marie being alone. She had to get by without you for the last twenty years. I was just a baby when we moved here, but she remembered. She missed you her whole life.”
Finn recoiled. “I was here. I saw her.”
“The odd Christmas or Easter when you weren’t too busy fighting pointless wars?”
“I was a soldier, Clive. I had a duty.”
“You followed in dad’s footsteps and became a mindless terrorist. The IRA has a lot to answer for…” he trailed off, “but there’s no reason to debate it now. There’s no reason to do anything anymore. Don’t you get it, Finn? Marie is dead. She doesn’t care what happened to her, and neither should you. Instead of worrying about it, you should be making peace with God. You more than most.”
Finn clenched his fists. “Careful, little brother.”
Clive’s lower lip trembled, but he stood his ground. His younger brother thought himself a man. At twenty four he should be, but Finn could still teach him a few things.
“Finley!” Both brothers turned to face their ma who chose that moment as one of the few times she spoke as of late. “I will not see you at each other’s throats. We should all be making peace with God, not just Finn. Let’s count ourselves lucky we have any time at all. To be amongst family for our final days is a blessing. Don’t squander what most are nay lucky enough to have. You two are brothers.”
Clive nodded, looked at Finn. “I’m sorry.”
Finn shrugged, but said nothing. His anger had risen. The only thing that could bring him back now was taking a few breaths and remaining silent. His little brother was right, and it was infuriating. It meant that Finn was wrong—and had been wrong most of his life.
Fighting pointless wars against neighbours and children.
“Finn, can I speak with you in the kitchen, please?” His ma ordered rather than asked. She moved past the mahogany china cabinet older than she was and disappeared.
Finn followed her. Entering the small kitchen streaked with filth. Earth’s atmosphere was in tatters. The solidification of the oceans had put an end to climatic winds. England was hot, dusty, and still. Not so much as a mild breeze gave relief from the mugginess, and grime coated all. In the last few weeks, trees began to die, choked off from the sun by whatever foulness clung to the air. Some said it was decayed animal and human corpses. Others claimed flecks of the creeping grey tar casually devouring the earth. Finn didn’t care what the dust was, he was just tired of choking on it.
His ma stood in front of the empty fridge, blocking the curled family photo of them at their former home—the one picture that had Dad in it. His callous eyes stared back at Finn. “You’re still angry, Finley?” his ma said. “Even after all these years?”
Finn went to argue but ended up nodding. Anger wasn’t something of which he was ashamed. It was a part of him—the only thing his father had left him with any value. “Yes, I am angry.”
“Good,” his ma said, surprising him.
He raised an eyebrow. “Good?”
His ma took a step towards him and placed her hands on his shoulders while she looked at him. Her eyes had once been green, but now they were grey, set above sunken cheeks. When she spoke, she kept her voice low, as if she didn’t want Clive to hear in the next room. “Marie had a boyfriend, Finn. A real piece of work.”
Finn swallowed, the lump in his throat returning. His eyes kept falling upon that family photo. Next to his dad stood Marie, a tiny three-year-old hanging off her thirteen year old brother. Clearing his throat, Finn urged his ma to continue.
“It was a year ago when she came home with her first black eye,” she went on. “She’d been down a local pub called the Hobby Horse drinking with some new fella. She swore he had nothing to do with her face, but it was as regular as the wind after that. Your brother went down one evening and tried to put a stop to it.”
Finn raised an eyebrow. “Clive confronted the guy?”
His ma almost smiled, but the sadness was too quick and snuffed it out. “Aye, he did, bless him. He came back with more than a black eye. Took three months for his wrist to heal. Even now, I see it pains him. We didn’t see Marie for weeks after that. The brute kept her from us.”
“Who is he?” Finn growled. “I’ll wring his bloody neck.”
“I know you will, Finley. That’s why I’m telling you. We may have been parted by your father's hate, but you've been brought back by your mother's love. Never have I made you unwelcome here. You have always been free to call this your home. Now ye have, just in time. You're my boy and I love you. Being here now, at the end, is what counts. Taking care of your family now is what counts. You look just like him, you know? But your eyes are much softer.”
“Are you saying that Marie’s boyfriend did this? It was him who killed her?”
His ma shrugged her shoulders and folded her arms. For a moment, she was once again the strong, no-nonsense Catholic woman he remembered from his youth. “Don’t have no proof, but if one day you see a cat eyeing up a mouse and then the next day ye have a dead mouse, it don’t make much sense to blame the dog. You know I don’t like killing, Finley, but it doesn’t cost so much these days. I don’t want to meet my end knowing that monster is still out there.”
“His name?”
“Dominic Cassell.”
Finn leaned in and gave his mother a hug. He didn't let go for a long time. Perhaps his ma's embrace might have saved him from the hatred, if only he'd allowed it more often as a younger man. “I’ll take care of it, Ma. If I’m not back when…”
“I know,” she said, cutting him off. “I love you, Finley. I’ll see you in the next life.”
Finley ground his teeth, nodded, then left the kitchen in silence.
“Everything okay?” asked Clive when Finn re-entered the living room. He still rubbed at his wrist and was wincing.
“Sorry I hurt you, little brother. I never meant to.”
Clive nodded. He didn’t hold grudges—never had. They fought every Christmas about something or other, and sometimes a year would go by before they saw each other again. Nonetheless, Clive always welcomed Finn back with open arms.
“I wish I had been here more. I always thought there would be time. You were right, I should have made better decisions, but I can't change what I am.” Finn pulled his brother into an awkward hug and patted him on the back. Then he turned and knelt down beside Marie. Beneath the blanket, he knew her face was a beaten mess. Her skull looked as though a horse had trampled on it, and one eye socket was so badly crushed that her left eye popped out a full inch. Even with all he'd seen, Finn had been so horrified that he'd not looked beneath the blanket since the day they had covered her.
“I’m sorry I hurt you too, little sis. I wasn't here, but I am now. Your big brother is here to look after you.”
Finn stood up and left the house without saying another word.
2
FUEL
Finn didn’t know the streets, for he’d only arrived in London three days ago. When the tar reached the north-western coast of his native Northern Ireland, he had decided to extend his existence by travelling to see his family in the UK. Getting hold of a boat had been dirty business, but there was no other way to cross the sea, so he had taken a yacht from a rich couple and made the journey. He'd found London to be the exact same dirty mess that Belfast had been, and since the earth descended into panic, every street corner played host to the dead and dying—the mugged and murdered. Every alleyway was a death sentence to those who walked it. It was hell on earth.
Finn knew roughly where to find the Hobby Horse. It sat in an area that would have been labelled “rough” back when areas were still good and bad. He couldn’t believe his little sister had hung around such a place.
Do I really know anything about her at all?
Finn remembered Marie's laugh—remembered the way her cheeks blushed bright red whenever she giggled. Even last Christmas, as an adult, her laughter had still been childish and innocent. It was the thing he missed most every time he returned home. How could somebody hurt a sweet girl like Marie?
Only a monster could.
During Finn’s last Christmas visit, he had not been himself. The emotional bloodstains were obvious, clinging to every inch of his flesh. He’d been sullen and tormented. His ma, Clive, and Marie could only have been glad when he went home and took the dark, sucking cloud with him. It still hung over him now, but the dreary rain-cloud had filled with thunder and lightning. When he found Dominic Cassell, more blood would stain his soul, but this stain would not add to his burden, it would lighten it. It would be the first time in a long time he killed somebody deserving. Finn might be a lot of things, but he did not beat women to death.
Yet he was still a monster. He had created orphans beyond count. Did the fact the world was over absolve him? The lives he took had been unknowingly brief. The days he cut short were less.
But the grief he caused was no less severe.
Finn stepped over an elderly woman lying against the curb in her bloody nightdress. She trembled and shook while muttering to herself, but he could do nothing to help her, so he did not try. The suffering in the world would continue until the last gasps of humanity, and it was too pervasive to prevent. They would all get what they deserved.
Wherever Finn went next, he doubted he'd see Marie again.
When he and his sister had been children in Belfast, they would often go up into the nearby hills and enter the forest. There, they played in streams, discovered insects, and collected acorns. Sometimes they took jam sandwiches and sat on fallen logs to eat them. Other times, they would find a clearing and sunbathe with their shirts off. Finn couldn’t believe he'd once lived in a world where a boy could take his six-year-old sister to play without fear of monsters preying upon them. Now, monsters dwelled everywhere, feasting on those unlucky enough to be alive.
And all the while the grey tar got ever closer. Inch by creeping inch by creeping inch.
The shops Finn passed on his way to the Hobby Horse bore smashed windows and bent doors. Druggies and alkys pottered amongst the ruins looking for a fix, but the fixes had all dried up. No more drugs to push. No more vodka left in existence. The pleasures of the world had evaporated.
However, certain pleasures still remained. Like vengeance
Finn strolled towards an underpass beneath an empty highway. Mounds of black dust collected at the bottom where a couple of teenagers leaned up against the underpass's walls. They eyed Finn as he came near “How’s it going, mate?”
“Just fine,” said Finn, not bothering to make eye-contact.
“Got any smokes?”
Finn kept on walking.
“Oi, mate, I said, you got any smokes?”
Finn stopped walking. He turned and looked at the lad who had spoken—a weasel in a red woollen cap. “Now, let me consider your question,” Finn said in a low voice. “Several million people in this country were addicted to smoking before the world ended. Since the world is now utterly fucked, I imagine cigarettes are in dwindling supply. That would make a single smoke extremely valuable.”
The teenager pulled his hands out of his pockets. “Yeah, mate, what’s your point?”
“My point is,” said Finn, “that if I possessed something extremely valuable, why the hell would I give it to some ballsack who just asked for it?”
The teenager leaned forwards, putting his face closer to Finn’s. “Because I’m asking nicely, mate. Want to see me get upset?”
Finn smirked, which the teenager didn’t appreciate if the irritated look on his face was any indication. “You must be pretty tough to have survived this long, I'll grant you that, but do you really want to spend the time you have left getting battered in an underpass? You may have experienced a whole lot of shit in the last few months, kid, but I’ve been surviving in shit for the last twenty years. I killed my first man before you were even born, and I’m on my way to go kill another. You want to get in my way? You won’t be the first I’ve killed or the last, you’ll just be some dead dickhead I won’t remember beyond today.”
The teenager clenched his fists and locked his jaw. He looked ready to throw a punch, but before he was able to, his friend stepped
forwards and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not worth it. He probably ain’t got no smokes anyway, so let’s just bounce.”
The angry teenager sucked at his teeth, but took a slow step backwards. He sneered at Finn. “You ain’t worth my time, blud. Hope that geezer you’re off to see takes you out.” He raised his hand like a gun, turned it sideways, and quietly mouthed the word “Blam.”
Finn smirked. “He’ll be dead before he even knows who I am. Same goes for you if you don't get out of my face.”
The teenager looked like he was going to get into it again, but his friend pulled him back once more. “Come on, Frankie.”
The two of them headed in the direction Finn had come from.
Finn shook his head. Fecking eejits.
He carried on through the underpass, attempting to ignore the rank odour of piss radiating from the walls. All manner of bodily fluids stained the dusty pavement, and he was fairly certain that at one point he stepped on an ear. Leaving the underpass didn’t ease the suffocating feeling though. The world outside swirled with black ash. The sky above was a grey sheet, lowering by the second. A few weeks ago, the sound of sirens had pierced the air at all hours of day and night. Now the world was silent. Doom had struck the words from people’s mouths.
Eventually, the Hobby Horse came into view. Like other buildings, its windows were shattered and its door hung loose. Wooden picnic tables sat outside on the pavement but had been reduced to kindling. Only one table survived intact, and it was currently occupied by two men.
Finn crossed the road, not bothering to look for traffic. Now and then, you would see a car travelling, but it had become increasingly rare. There was nowhere to drive to, and getting around the endless wrecks and abandoned vehicles was a nightmare.
The two men at the picnic table stood up and scrutinised Finn as he approached. “Help you mate?” asked the biggest of the two. The man wore a tight suit like a bouncer, and his shaven head and tattooed neck suggested he enjoyed being a cliche of an English thug. His colleague was more ordinary, with short black hair and a two-day layer of stubble. He also wore a suit.
Tar: An apocalyptic horror novella Page 2