IMPACT_A Post-Apocalyptic Tale_The Complete Series

by Matthew Eliot

  9. The ‘Wraith Pack

  10. Alice and Adrian

  11. Shedding Skin

  12. Someone Knocks

  13. Walscombe

  14. A Council Meeting

  15. Alice, Adrian and Mathew

  16. Something Goes Missing

  17. The King of Atlantis

  18. Cathy

  19. The ‘Wraith Pack

  20. Signals

  21. The Guard

  22. To Bately Castle

  23. Angus

  24. Neeson

  25. R3dPill

  26. Rise of the Meteorwraiths

  27. Paul

  28. R3dPill

  29. Bately Castle

  30. Divide et Impera

  31. A Kingdom of One

  Dear Reader

  To you, Dunica.

  Chapter 1

  The Lookout

  Night. The man on the beach stood motionless.

  He was wearing a spotless black uniform. In a world wrapped in shadow, he was a shade darker.

  The wind that battered the Channel had died down, and the water lapped quietly against the sand, leaving traces of sick white foam behind.

  There was no knowing how long he’d have to wait. One day, one week. He could not tell. This didn’t bother him. He was a professional. More than that, he was a militant.

  He drew a breath, sucking the moist air deep into his lungs. Others, he thought, would be afraid, standing out here on their own. Not he. Not any more. He was part of something big, something stronger than his strongest fear. Something that, in time, would swallow the whole world.

  He brought a pair of binoculars to his eyes, and peered through them.

  Beyond the waters, England was dark. No sign yet.

  The man straightened his back, squared his shoulders. He noticed how standing still for long stretches of time wasn’t tiring. It would have been, before. It would still be, for others. But not for him or his comrades. His brothers.

  The infiltrator had reached the town about twelve hours ago, according to his estimate. There would likely be no signal for two or three days, at least. Perhaps more. But this man… he was good at his job. One of the fastest they had. It wouldn’t take him long.

  He lowered the binoculars, and lit a cigarette. There was something enchanting about that burning tip, the way it lit up when he inhaled. It shone bright, and, as it did, everything else seemed to get darker. He blew out a cloud of grey smoke. As he watched it rise gently, he thought of his previous life.

  On pre-impact Earth, he’d been a plumber. The thought made him smile. Sinks, baths, showers, piss. Hoses, wrenches, water, shit.

  It was all behind him, now.

  He felt his biceps twitch. Right there, where the tattoo was. The same one they all had. The urge to remove his jacket, peel back his shirt sleeve, and admire it was almost unbearable.

  But he’d been trained to restrain his passions. Restraint was good. Obedience was good.

  He raised the binoculars once again, not really expecting to see the signal he was waiting for.

  As he did so, he let his mind wander to that symbol he bore upon his skin.

  Three black circles. Simple, thick powerful lines. Just the thought of them filled him with purpose and resolve. They filled him with pure joy.

  Others might not understand, but it was true: the world he was working towards was a better one.

  A wonderful one.

  Chapter 2

  Paul

  Paul awoke to the echo of words spoken late into the night. There had been news… something unheard of. What was it?

  The young priest shuffled around in the bed, trying to recall what had happened. His head was aching. It was hard to think clearly. He hadn’t slept much.

  His elbow was itching like mad. Enough to force him to open his heavy eyelids and take a look.

  There were flakes of dead skin, peeling off his arm. Silver-white little things. Eerie, lifeless bits of himself.

  He began to remember. The trip to Ashford, for the medicines. The man he had wanted (tried) to kill. The two children. And Luke’s night-time visit.

  He had first noticed those flakes of dead skin there, on that grassy knoll, in Ashford. Right before the man in the black uniform had shown up.

  Paul sat upright, his eyes fixed on the flaky skin on his elbows. He poked at them, delicately. Then, with a pinch, he slid his thumb’s nail beneath one of them, where a little corner had come loose. It came off easily. Tidy, tiny circles of dry epidermis peeling away, under his nails. It was disgusting. But there was also a mesmerising quality to it. Like shedding oppressive memories from the past.

  Was this a sign of the Affliction? Was he going to die within a couple of weeks, as most did? Or would he end up becoming a ’wraith? He’d have to ask Cathy to visit him.

  ’Wraiths. That’s what Luke had told him about. The news.

  The Affliction, Father. They’ve found a cure.

  Suddenly, Paul was completely awake. He recalled Luke’s excited, almost feverish state, as he told him about this alleged cure. The sick man had wanted to talk to Paul, drag him out to meet someone – someone Luke was calling The Healer.

  It was good news, of course. Or rather, it would be, if it proved to be true. But there was something unsettling about Luke’s excitement, the intensity of his gaze, the way he kept reaching out and gripping Paul’s arm. It was almost as if Luke was doing his best to convince not only Paul, but also himself of this miraculous cure.

  He’d told Luke that it had been a very long day (although I conveniently omitted the whole bit about my attempt at murder, didn’t I?), and that perhaps it would be best to discuss the matter in the morning. Luke had agreed to that, despite his obvious desire to talk there and then.

  Pallid rays of sunlight filtered through the open window. Paul looked out, towards the heavy hills beyond the small town of Bately. Clouds were gathering on the horizon.

  He felt something nasty was heading straight for them.

  But then, the welcome thought of Alice and Adrian, the two ragged children they had found wandering across the Kent countryside, crossed his mind. They were sleeping in the room next door.

  Whatever lay ahead, his duty was to protect them.

  But first, he’d have to make breakfast.

  * * *

  Turned out they were already having breakfast.

  The children were sitting at the small kitchen table, with Father Claudio dishing out crepes and spreading thick layers of blackberry jam over them, before handing them to Alice and Adrian.

  “Good morning, Father Paul,” the kids said with big, jam-stained smiles.

  “Good morning to you,” Paul replied, his eyebrow raised as he observed the older priest jostling around among the kitchenware. This was definitely not like Claudio. He usually slept in, trying to sleep off the booze, before dragging himself out of bed. Approaching him before he’d had his third cup of strong, black tea was simply asking for trouble.

  But there he was, whistling happily as he cracked eggs, whisked in the milk, and poured the mix into the sizzling pan.

  Looks like the children’s presence is doing him good, too.

  Claudio noticed Paul’s unintentional stare. He turned slightly red, and then said, in his deep, strong Spanish voice, “Well? Come on, Pablo, tuck in will you?”

  Paul sat at the table, opposite Adrian.

  “Sleep well?” he asked, as he poured himself a cup of tea from the hot teapot.

  “Father Paul,” Alice said, “I haven’t slept so well in, like, decades.”

  “Decades?” Paul smiled.

  Adrian shook his head, teasing her. “You’ve hardly lived a decade, Ally.”

  “Oh shut up, you know what I mean!” She slapped him on the shoulder with a giggle. “Anyway, when I woke up, there in that soft bed, I felt like crying… actually, I think I did. But only a little bit.”

  Adrian didn’t mock her, this time. He nodded, his eyes focussing on
her features. He really cares for her, thought Paul.

  “I’m glad you got a chance to rest properly,” he said. And he was. After all they must have been through, listening to their high, clear voices echo happily through the kitchen was wonderful.

  “Perhaps later we could go and see Aunt Hellen,” said Adrian. “I can’t wait to see them.” He turned to Alice. “She’ll love you, Ally. Guaranteed.” The girl smiled, obviously pleased to hear that.

  Oh no. Of course – they still don’t know about Hellen and Angus, thought Paul. That was going to be very hard news to break to them. But, however hard it would be to tell them about Hellen’s death, and about Angus’s apparent loss of sanity ever since, he could not allow them to go there. To find out on their own.

  “Ah. Adrian, there’s something–” began Paul, his voice grave.

  “What’s that?” said Claudio, peering out the window.

  Paul, both irritated and relieved by the interruption, stood up and joined him. There was something going on outside. A noise, the clattering sound of voices and shouts from a gathering crowd, drifting through the window. It was coming from Bately Castle.

  “What’s going on?” Claudio asked Paul. “Another one of Bately’s silly fairs?” As a member of the Council, the young priest was generally aware of the events being organised by the townsfolk. They had found that keeping the town alive with festivities and the like helped boost the morale, after the impact. But none were scheduled for today.

  “I have no idea…”

  The skin on his elbows began to itch again.

  The children crept out of their seats, and joined the men at the small kitchen window. From here, it was hard to see what was going on. Whatever this was, it was unusual.

  Then came a loud roar. A cheer? A war chant.

  Paul rushed out of the kitchen, heading towards the church. The others followed.

  Just as Paul was about to open the heavy wooden doors, a fast, nervous knock rattled on the other side. It was Cathy, standing on the doorstep, the rough wind setting locks of her thick, dark hair loose.

  “Paul, do you know what’s going on?”

  “No – no, I don’t.”

  “I bumped into Luke… he was thrilled about something. Couldn’t stop shaking. Said he had to go, and that you’d know what was going on.”

  “Yes, well, he stopped by last night, said something about–”

  Another roar came from somewhere near the castle.

  Chapter 3

  Walscombe

  They had to get rid of the body. There was no way around it.

  Walscombe sat upright in his bed. He could not sleep. The cold walls of Atlantis pressed against his back. Against his soul.

  The images from that day haunted him.

  The woman. Don, appearing out of nowhere. The gunshot. Jeff, punching against the glass panel, his cries insane.

  Then, her head blown open. Her lifeless body on the ground..

  It all kept flashing before him. He squeezed his eyelids hard, shook his head. Didn’t really help.

  Walscombe reached out for the light by the bed. He peered over at the computer, hoping Ivan would reply to his messages. What time was it in Russia, now? He couldn’t think straight. It would have been difficult to play a game of chess, at the moment. But having a chat about this whole damn thing with his Russian friend might have helped.

  Whatever he did, his mind wandered back to that body, lying on the ground, in one of Atlantis’s infinite labyrinthine corridors.

  They had to get rid of it.

  I wish I had a cigarette, he said to himself. A smoke might help ease the tension, right now. Help him to think clearly.

  It wasn’t just the dead woman, though, was it? It was also Don.

  They could hardly have a raving lunatic roaming the base. Especially not a murderous raving lunatic. At some point, Don might turn against them. Him, or Jeff. Perhaps both.

  Walscombe shivered. He stood, and began pacing up and down his small room. Twice, he tried the door handle, to make sure it was locked.

  Yes, Don was too much of a risk. Realistically, there was only one thing they could do about it.

  Wait. Wait, he told himself. One step at a time. Deal with the body, first.

  Someone knocked.

  He almost shrieked in fear.

  “Fuck,” he whispered. “Shitfuck.” He froze, and breathed in deeply. Where was Jeff? Had Don killed him? Perhaps, now, he was here for him.

  Knock-knock-knock.

  Walscombe tiptoed over to the door, holding his breath. He leaned his ear against it. Silence.

  His eyes darted around the room, in search for something to use as a weapon. But, even had there been one, Don was twice his size. He’s also nuts, he thought. Don’t forget nuts, man. Twice your size and nuts. I’d need a fucking bazooka to take him down.

  Maybe he could just wait for him to go away.

  “Walscombe? You there?”

  It was Jeff. He closed his eyes. Exhaled slowly. He felt like killing Jeff himself, now.

  “Walscombe?” Jeff was whispering. “Let me in.”

  Making as little noise as he could, he tapped in his security code, swiped his card, and opened the door.

  * * *

  Jeff had brought coffee. Two cups, one for each of them.

  Typical Jeff, thought Walscombe. To him, having a psychotic killer on the loose is no excuse for neglecting courtesy, is it now?

  He handed him a cup. Jeff was nervous, although he’d calmed down a little, since the whole Don-murdering-a-helpless-woman incident. When she had collapsed to the ground, Walscombe had witnessed this quiet man’s brief nervous breakdown. He’d turned hysterical. It was good to see him back to something resembling his normal self.

  Jeff sat on the bed. Then he stood. Then sat down again. His shoulders were tense, his movements stiff. He hadn’t yet looked Walscombe in the eyes.

  “Jeff?”

  He peered up at him. He looked like he’d forgotten where he was, for a second.

  “Yeah. Umm–” He brought the cup to his lips, but didn’t drink. He swallowed nonetheless. “Walscombe. We–”

  “Yeah?”

  As if picking up his own stream of thought from just moments ago, Jeff said, “We have to do something. About the body…” A long pause. “… and about Don.”

  Walscombe was surprised. Not because of Jeff’s idea to get rid of the body (there was no way they’d ever sleep peacefully again, with the knowledge of that corpse in Atlantis), but because of his hint to ‘do something’ about Don. It was unlike Jeff to talk like that. To talk about killing someone. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?

  Walscombe sighed, and nodded. “Yup. Something needs doing.” He tried to come up with something sarcastic to say, to ease the tension. But it wasn’t easy. He sat down on the bed, next to Jeff. They were silent for a while, staring blindly ahead, their hands wrapped around their coffee cups. Walscombe could feel his gradually turning cold.

  He actually considered the prospect of killing Don. How would it feel to strangle him? Wrap his fingers around the soldier’s neck and squeeze, squeeze with all his strength, thumbs pressing hard against his Adam’s apple, until he lay still. Or shoot him, maybe? Gently lean the muzzle of a gun against his temple, and pull the trigger. Kind of like what Don had done to that woman. Again, Walscombe shivered. If conjuring up these thoughts was difficult, doing the actual killing would be almost impossible.

  As if reading his thoughts once more, Jeff said, “Walscombe… if it’s okay with you, let’s deal with the body, first… not sure I can handle Don, right now, ’kay?”

  Walscombe nodded, and took his first sip of coffee.

  It tasted awful.

  * * *

  “We gotta wear the suits,” said Walscombe.

  Jeff was still sitting on the bed, watching the other man as he walked up and down the room, trying to piece together their next steps.

  “Whatever that woman was suff
ering from, I don’t want to catch it. The suits will protect us.”

  “Don was exposed to it… to that woman’s disease,” said Jeff, quietly.

  “Yes. Right. But we don’t know how this thing works yet… but, yeah, we might try to head back to R and R and isolate Don, somehow. You know, close the blast hatches, lock him inside the corridors. Far from us.”

  Jeff shook his head, “Okay, we’ll think about that later.”

  “Yes. So – the suits. They should protect us from whatever she had, and from the outside–”

  “Outside?” asked Jeff.

  Walscombe stopped. For some reason, he’d assumed they’d take her body to the outside all along. It wasn’t like he’d given it any thought, it was a decision he’d taken unconsciously. He wanted her out of there. As far as they could get her.

  “Yeah… do you think we should take her up to the morgue?”

  There was no morgue, in Atlantis. This was the nickname they (or rather he) had given to a meeting room, one level up, they had reserved for the dead of Atlantis. Suicides, all of them.

  Jeff rubbed his fingers across his forehead, massaging it. “No,” he said. “No. It makes sense.”

  “Yes, it does. Hey, I’m the security guy here. But my job was to keep an eye on the nukes. I know little about viral threats, man. Not sure if we could prevent the virus, the bacteria, whatever it is, to enter the ventilation ducts, even if we sealed her off in the morgue, or in some other room. We need to take her out. Also–” Walscombe paused. “–well, it feels right, doesn’t it? To have that poor woman out of here?”

  “Yes,” Jeff replied, in a slow voice. “It does feel right.”

  “Okay… we’ll wear the suits, go up to where she… her body is, and carry it to ground level. Once we’re there, we leave her, and rush back in. We don’t want to spend any more time than necessary on the outside, yeah?”

  “Got it.”

  Walscombe laid his cup on the desk. He was picturing it all. Their carrying that woman’s dead, slaughtered body all the way to the surface… it was easier said than done. Way easier.

  “Hey, Walscombe…?”

  Jeff was rubbing his hands together, nervously. “Do you think we should take a gun? You know, just in case…”