“I thought it sounded good,” said Adrian.
“What are you talking about, Ady? It was horrid!”
Mathew chuckled. “I gotta say, it was pretty shitty.” His hand darted up to his lips. “Oh my god, I’m sorry, you’re just kids. Forget that word.”
Again, Alice laughed. Adrian didn’t understand this. He told her the sound she had made (chord, Mathew had called it) was good. Mathew said it was shitty. Except, she seemed to appreciate him more. What was going on?
Adrian looked away. And saw something.
“Who are they?” he asked, slowly rising to his feet.
A long stream of people were walking out of the school were Father Paul, Cathy and the others were having their meeting. They were silent, and looked eerie in the day’s dying light.
“It’s the ’wraiths,” said Alice, now standing beside him, squinting.
They poured out of the building, marching slowly. Adrian recognised the ’wraith Father Paul had called ’Luke’ walking ahead of them. There was a girl, next to him, another ’wraith, and they were holding hands.
“Look, there’s that old bloke. The hippie,” said Mathew, pointing.
There he was, the man who had spoken from the castle steps, the day before. He stood still, waiting for the crowd to reach him. When they did, Luke walked up to him. They said something, but the kids were too far away to hear. Then, the old man and the ’wraith hugged.
“What are they all doing?” asked Cathy.
“Looks like they’re going away.”
And indeed, the stream of people, with their patchy hair and crooked legs, began to head towards the east, outside of town. A few healthy people stood around, at a distance, and watched them leave.
“Well, maybe that’s good, isn’t it?” asked Adrian, hopefully.
“I’m not sure,” said Alice, instinctively reaching out for Adrian’s hand. “There’s something creepy about this.”
The three of them watched as the Afflicted left, Adrian’s attention torn between them, and Alice’s warm hand in his.
Somewhere beyond the clouds, the sun was setting.
Chapter 16
Something Goes Missing
Later that night, Frank Bailey was in a shed, sorting out a number of misplaced garden tools. This was part of his daily routine. It was the city folk. He always had to tidy up after them. As soon as they got here, they figured they’d try their hand at gardening. Thought it was easy.
Take that woman, Claire or Clara or something. She had arrived about a month ago. It took her three weeks to understand that high heels and planting seeds don’t quite go together. Still, she did her bit.
Then, there were the ones who thought they got nature. Understood it. City dwellers who only wore, ate and shat organic. They’d turn up at the fields or the vegetable gardens full of enthusiasm, wearing designer gardening wear (what?) that had somehow survived the impact. They usually left in the early afternoon, after having messed up the sheds, wasted water, planted the wrong seeds, and generally messed things up.
Frank chuckled, as he hung a trowel off the peg it belonged on. He wasn’t resentful. Work in the fields had its own way of separating the wheat from the chaff. Those who really wanted to learn would stay on.
He walked over to the small generator that provided lighting to the sheds, and flicked the switch off. As he did so, his thoughts drifted towards that whole issue with the Afflicted. Some of his best gardeners had gone off with that Jeremy bloke, and this was a problem. “Good riddance to them, I say,” Ms. Brand had commented. “With them gone, there’ll be more medicines and more food for the rest of us.”
Frank believed she might be right as far as the medicines were concerned, but things were different, when it came to food. Most of the ’wraiths were foreigners, often from poorer countries where there was no shying away from hard work, and they had been willing to slog away in the vegetable gardens from day one. Without their help and expertise, Frank doubted they’d yield the same quantities of vegetables, in the coming months.
He sighed, as he shut the door to shed number 3 behind him.
Yup, hard work ahead.
He stopped.
There was something niggling at him. Something he’d seen but not noticed.
He dipped his gloved hand into a pocket, and drew out the key to shed n.3 again. He opened it, and peered inside.
“What–?”
Frank walked over to the rows of 20-litre jerry cans of petrol, on the north side of the shed.
One of them was missing.
It had been removed from the rear row, perhaps in an attempt to conceal its absence.
Frank scratched his chin. This was odd. He tried to remember who had had access to the shed, that day, but couldn’t. They kept a log in every agricultural area within Bately, and everyone working or visiting was meant to sign it. But this rule was seldom enforced, and most people hardly bothered. He’d take a look at it, nonetheless.
What would they want with a can of petrol? thought Frank, as he closed the shed. He turned the key twice, and checked it was properly locked. And who are they?
Fuel was scarce, and a whole 20-litres of it disappearing was bad news.
The wind picked up, and Frank began his slow walk towards Castle Street, and his home.
He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Bately was heading for dark times.
Chapter 17
The King of Atlantis
Jeff was dead.
Walscombe had dragged him to his room, laid him on his bed, still wrapped in the bulky suit. That was to be his burial place. A man entombed within an abandoned nuclear missile site, his shroud a hazmat suit. Welcome to the apocalypse, thought Walscombe.
Before leaving, his eye caught the plant Jeff had mentioned. It sat on his tidy desk, beside pictures of nameless people, from a world ago. Dead people, likely. Walscombe reached out and stroked its delicate leaves. There are three living beings, in this place, now, he thought. You, me, and a murderer.
An odd kinship warmed and perplexed him, as he considered that simple, mindless life form on his dead friend’s desk. He wondered if the planet his own species had dominated would return to these quiet organisms, once the last of the humans had shuffled off this mortal coil. An Earth devoid of thought or words, and filled with the indifferent stir of nature. Or perhaps, it would be less than that, even. No organisms, just lifeless matter, obtuse and blind, like Colossus, Europa and Nero.
Walscombe wrapped his hands around the small vase that contained the plant, and gently carried it out with him.
He considered resting his eyes on Jeff one last time. A farewell.
But decided against it.
* * *
He hadn’t locked his own door. Who cared, after all? If Don was planning to kill him, he might as well get on with it.
Walscombe looked inside his room, half-expecting the insane soldier to be standing there, gun in hand and grinning insanely. It would have been okay, after all, to be shot, there and then.
The room was empty.
He dragged himself over to his desk, pushed aside a pile of paperbacks and made room for the plant. It looked nice there.
A message popped up con his computer screen, making him jump. So much for your I-don’t-care-if-I-die nihilistic detachment, a-hole.
The incoming text read:
[email protected]> Greetings, Comrade. You down for a game of chess? I must admit, I’m not feeling too great, my imperialist friend.
Walscombe reached out for the old, heavy chessboard box and opened it.
Yeah. Tell me about it.
* * *
Operatsiya Ne Odin was the Russian version of the US plan that gave birth to Atlantis. An almost exact replica, in fact.
Ne Odin translated to Not Alone, a name that denoted a somewhat more pragmatic sense of humour, on the Russians’ side. The assumption was that, despite all nuclear powers agreeing to dispose of their remaining warheads, the Kremlin had assumed Washi
ngton was never going to stick to the plan, no matter how many friendly smiles and official signatures were exchanged. So, just as the US had done, Russia had disposed of about half of its arsenal, while secretly storing the remainder in an undisclosed, top-secret location. They were cheating, but they were not the only ones. Ne odin.
“We infiltrated your systems right from the start,” Ivan had told him, during their chats. “That’s why I thought I’d reach out and see if anyone on your end had survived the impact. Our people had been monitoring your communications and accessing your logs all along.”
“You had the keys to my house, so you thought you’d drop in to say hi, after the end of the world,” Walscombe had commented.
“Da, my friend.”
Ivan was in a very similar position to Walscombe’s. He too was buried underground, along with an undefined number of nuclear weapons. But, unlike Walscombe, he was alone. Everyone else in his facility had either died, escaped, or gone insane and committed suicide. Or murder-suicide. Ivan didn’t like talking about what had happened, over there, within the deathly reach of Nero’s area of impact. It was a topic they avoided. There were only occasional hints, when Ivan had had too much vodka from his apparently infinite stash.
And now, as Walscombe sat at his desk once again, chatting with his counterpart on the other side of the world, he marvelled at the absurdity of their situation. It was enough to drive you insane.
[email protected]> Mind if we try VOIP, this time, Comrade? All this typing is getting in the way of the drinking.
The VOIP communications were crackly and unreliable. Also, Walscombe had always wanted them to restrict their chats to text, partly because he feared Don’s reaction, had he known about Walscombe’s little rendezvous with a Russian (even when he was sane, this would have been enough for Don to accuse him of high treason, then maybe beat the crap out of him). But partly it was also because it was nice, to have those private sessions, this little slice of life he didn’t need to share with the other inhabitants of Atlantis.
But things were different, now. Now, Walscombe didn’t care any more.
He keyed-in his response:
[email protected]> Sure, no probs.
He started the VOIP application, and waited for Ivan to answer.
Although they had chatted a thousand times, Walscombe had only heard Ivan’s voice in a handful of occasions. Now, he felt mild curiosity, and a weird sense of excitement, at the prospect of listening to it again.
“Walscombe,” said Ivan, in his heavily-accented voice. “It’s a pleasure to talk to you.”
“Same here, tovarishch.”
“How are you doing, over there?” Ivan asked, before taking a sip of what was most likely a chilled vodka.
“Well,” sighed Walscombe, “to tell you the truth, it’s a pretty shitty day, over here in ’Murica.”
Ivan nodded. Or at least, Walscombe pictured him nodding. It was the kind of thing a reflective, understanding man like Ivan would do.
“I see. Nothing a game of chess can’t fix, I hope.”
Walscombe laughed, sadly. “I’m afraid even that wouldn’t help, Ivan.”
“Listen, you soft Yankee, why don’t you leave the introspective depression to us Russians. It’s better suited to us. Also, you lack the gravitas.”
They stayed silent, for a moment. Walscombe turned to the open door, behind him.
“Wait a second, will you, Ivan?”
“Go ahead. I’m in very little hurry.”
Walscombe walked over to the door, and peered outside. No sign of Don.
He closed it, and tapped in the lock code.
Don and death can wait a little longer, after all, he told himself.
* * *
Sleep wouldn’t come easily.
They had decided to suspend the chess match – Ivan had some security routines to carry out in his own man-made version of hell. They had wished each other good night, in their usual way: few words spoken, many more left unspoken. The quiet affection of grown men.
Walscombe slowly removed his clothes, and lay on the bed. He pressed the palms of his hands against his temples. Squeezed hard, as if this could somehow make the weariness ooze out of his mind.
Something had to be done about Don. Because, as strong as his death wish had been earlier that afternoon, his survival instincts were beginning to kick in again.
He lay there, picturing the ways he might get rid of the crazed soldier. He went through a whole arsenal of unlikely weapons and methods – poison, firearm, suffocation, and many more. All these fantasies ended up with Don’s body on the floor. Another corpse for him to drag across Atlantis.
Then, the images of Jeff, of the roaring world outside, of the woman, of Don began to mix and mingle and lose meaning. Voices, sounds. Their echo reverberating loudly, pouring outside of his head and bouncing off those four walls.
“Shut up,” he whispered, and it seemed to work. Suddenly, all he could hear was his own breathing. But he wanted silence. Silence and sleep. So he took a big gulp of air, and sealed his lips.
But the breathing didn’t stop.
He opened his eyes, and stared into the shadows. Yes, someone was breathing.
Then he realised.
Don was in the room, with him.
* * *
Before Walscombe could do anything, an arm shot out from under the bed, and pinned him against the mattress. Don leapt out, like some sort of devilish childhood monster, and sat on top of him, a forearm beneath Walscombe’s chin, suffocating him.
“Having a friendly chat with the enemy, are we, Walscombe?” he hissed, then spat. Something thick and gooey and foul hit Walscombe’s face.
“You traitor,” Don said holding down his arms, and pushing hard against his throat. “You motherfucking traitor.”
Walscombe struggled, trying to get Don off his chest. He wriggled and fought, but was no match for the soldier.
How long has he been hiding there? He asked himself, pointlessly and insanely, as the lack of air burned his lungs.
“Don–” he whispered, desperately. Then, he saw Don’s face, and gasped.
He’d lost his front teeth. Saliva dribbled through the gap in his murderous grin. Most of his hair was gone, revealing bloody patches on his scalp. Large, swollen lumps on his neck engulfed his chin, giving him a weird, frog-like look. One of Don’s eyes was fixed, staring blindly up and slightly to the left. And his breath smelled like his organs were rotting inside him.
What the fu–
Don straightened his back, and retracted an arm, fist closed.
The punch landed on Walscombe’s nose, breaking it instantly. Warm blood gushed out, pouring into his eyes, his gaping mouth.
“Take this, you–”
Punch.
“Fucking–”
Punch.
“Cock sucking–”
Punch.
“Sonnofabitch traitor.”
Walscombe jolted sideways, and the last punch landed on his blood-stained pillow. Don’s arm sprung backwards, making him lose his balance. Immediately, Walscombe pushed up with all his strength, and both men landed on the floor.
“Aaaarrggghhhhh,” Walscombe shouted, as an explosive mix of fear, frustration and rage brewed inside him. Their arms and legs tangled, as each of them tried to get back on their feet before the other. There were grunts and blows and bites, the awkward movements of two men fighting for their lives. Around them, Atlantis lay still and quiet, a silent observer indifferent to their fate.
BANG!
The gunshot was insanely loud, like thunder bursting inside the room. Walscombe couldn’t decide whether he felt pain or not, and wouldn’t stop to find out. His hand grabbed Don’s wrist, trying to point the gun away from him.
“You ready, Walscombe?” Don whispered, his revolting breath filling the space between them, like toxic fog.
He wasn’t. And, even if he had been, Walscombe didn’t want that disgusting face to be the last thing he saw.
His fist flew through the air, filled with the strength of the desperate. He aimed for the chin.
But Don dodged the punch easily, and grabbed his wrist, holding it tight. Once again, he had pinned Walscombe to the ground, ass on his chest.
“This is it, Walscombe. This is when you die.”
Don pointed the gun at his head.
Walscombe struggled, but his attempts were now feeble, weak. There was no getting out of this, any more. There were no deep thoughts, no longing good-byes or farewells. Death was cold, irrational, inevitable.
He gave up.
Don realised he had won. He loosened his hold, wrapped both hands around the gun, and aimed it precisely between Walscombe’s eyes.
“Any last words?” asked Don. He was suddenly solemn.
Walscombe shook his head slowly. He looked around the room that had been his home ever since the rocks had hit Earth, one last time.
Then, his eyes met Don’s. “Just one thing, Don,” he said.
“Wha–”
Walscombe’s arm snapped out, towards the chess box, and for a brief instant he feared it was too far. It wasn’t. He grabbed it and swung it with all his might against the side of Don’s head. Chess pieces rained down across the room. Two sounds followed, in quick succession: the crack of Don’s skull as a corner of the heavy container struck him, then the bang from the gun.
Walscombe closed his eyes, tight. Waiting for death.
But death didn’t come.
He felt Don’s body tilt to one side, then drop to the ground. His feet twitched a couple of times, pressing faintly against Walscombe’s side, then lay still.
A few seconds went by, as reality came back into focus.
Walscombe felt something small sticking under his arm. He shifted to one side and picked it up. A chess piece. He raised it against the dim light, to examine it.
It was the king.
Chapter 18
Cathy
A bed for two, for her alone.
To be a woman, a single woman, after the apocalypse. To put her duties as a nurse before anything else, for Bately’s sake. This was who she was – a strong, steadfast woman, who had little time for self-pity, or drama.
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