IMPACT_A Post-Apocalyptic Tale_The Complete Series

by Matthew Eliot

  “They’re trying to nick our food,” said the burly ’wraith, lips peeled back in disgust, revealing a set of crooked, yellow teeth.

  “It ain’t your food, fat cow. It’s ours,” said the other. Posh, they called her, somewhat ironically. She was a forty-something woman, skinny as could be. The other two nodded, eyeing Sixfingers with hostility.

  Ana stepped between them. “All right then, hang on,” she said, pressing her palms on the two opposing chests. “Calm down a second. First you, Sixfingers – what happened?”

  “They was trying to get in here, and grab the food.”

  “Well?” asked Ana, “that’s what the place is for, innit? It’s almost supper time, they were–”

  “No,” interrupted Sixfingers. “They were going to leg it, Ana. Leave with the food.”

  Ana frowned, turned towards them. The women lowered their eyes. “What’s she on about?” Ana asked them. “Is this true?”

  Posh snorted. “Yeah,” she said.

  Ana grabbed her chin, lifted it up. “Oi, look at me. What do you mean?”

  Posh jerked her head back, away from Ana’s hand. “We’re sick of this, Ana,” she said, raising her hands. “Sick of hanging about ’ere, waiting for the Wraith Queen to show up and save all our sorry arses… the way we see it, it ain’t gonna happen.”

  Ana’s eyelids were two slits, now. She was breathing through her nose, heavily. Truth was, she understood what Posh was pointing out. In fact, she was surprised this hadn’t started sooner. Who knew if the Greater Pack would actually show up, if they were even out there, any more. Maybe the men in black had dealt with them already. It had been two weeks now since she sent the pigeon. Two weeks, and not a word from the Wraith Queen.

  But she couldn’t show her doubt. Not if she wanted to try and keep what remained of the Pack together.

  She ran her eyes along Posh’s bony figure. “So you want to nick the Pack’s food and run, do you?”

  “Ana,” said Posh, her voice now lower, trying to be reasonable. “We worked to gather that food, too. And most of it we got during the raids anyway, by the men. And we all know where they are now, don’t we? So it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t me what got this food. So I reckon you can’t say it’s yours, Ana.” She hesitated, then added, “No, I reckon that food in there is as much mine as it is the Pack’s.”

  Sixfingers hissed at Posh, raising a beefy fist in the air, ready to punch. “Wait, Six. Wait a second,” Ana said. With a sigh, the fist was lowered, at least temporarily.

  “So how much do you want?” Ana asked coldly.

  The three shared quick looks, then Posh said, “Three weeks’ worth. For the three of us.”

  “No way,” butted in Sixfingers. “No staying, no food.”

  “For Christssake, Sixfingers, shut your mouth will ya?” Ana cried, exasperated. “I’ll send you off if you keep doing that.”

  Ana shifted her gaze on Posh, hoping she seemed a lot more menacing than she actually felt. She spat on the ground, and said, “One week. No more than that.”

  Posh raised her eyebrows. “But–”

  “Shut up. That’s the way it is. Otherwise, you can leave now, with nothing. Also, you’re on your own now, ladies,” she tried to make her words sound as glacial as possible, “don’t come back here begging for help, ’cause you won’t get any. You’re out of the Pack, now.”

  One of the women whispered What pack, anyway? or something along those lines. Ana let it go. No use trying to big up the Pack in its current state.

  With a friendly pat on Sixfinger’s arm, she said, “Keep an eye on them, will you. Call the others, if you need a hand. And if they take even a single grain of salt over what I said, kick the crap out of them.”

  “With pleasure, Ana,” said Sixfingers.

  She turned away, and saw the boy, Adrian, sitting a little way away. Looking at them. When their eyes met, he looked down.

  “Hey Ana,” said Posh, “let’s not make this harsh, yeah? Let us leave like friends, eh?”

  Ana regarded her extended hand. “Piss off,” she said, and walked towards Adrian.

  * * *

  The boy was sitting, cross-legged, in the grass, twisting a handful of blades between his fingers. Ana saw the damp green stains they left on his skin. She also saw how young this kid looked, how vulnerable, and felt an unfamiliar wave of warmth flush through her.

  Adrian stiffened as she approached. Looked down, suddenly very interested in his hands.

  With a sigh, Ana let herself down opposite him. “So,” she said, “how’d you like it here at the Pack?”

  Adrian ignored her question, studying her with the same suspicion Ana knew she’d have, in his position. After a while, he nodded towards the shed, where Sixfingers was overseeing the gathering of food by the breakaway group. “They’re leaving,” he commented.

  “Yup,” Ana said simply. “Don’t believe that help is on the way, so they’ve decided to head off.”

  “Do you?” asked Adrian. “Believe help is coming, I mean.”

  Ana tore a few blades of grass for herself. Felt their moist texture against her skin. “Not sure about that, little boy. Not sure about much, to be honest. But cowards always leave, and that’s the truth.”

  “Like when your lot left Bately?” Adrian’s eyebrow was slightly raised now, and Ana found it hard to know how much of that question was sarky, how much honest curiosity.

  “You’re too clever for your own good, boy.”

  They sat there for a minute, in silence, each eyeing their strange surroundings. She noticed that his gaze kept drifting to the girl, Alice. She was sitting by her tent, reading a tattered book she’d dug out of god knows where. I wish I had someone looking at me like that, she thought. Although perhaps not a twelve-year-old boy.

  “Care for her, don’t you?” she asked. It was a serious question, one you’d ask an adult.

  Adrian looked at her, then quickly looked away. He shrugged. “Of course I do,” he muttered.

  She nodded pensively. “Have you told her?”

  Adrian replied with another question. “Do you miss Luke?” his voice was small, aware of his intrusiveness. She decided she could forgive him. With a gentle motion of her fingers, she dropped the tattered blades of grass to the ground. Her fingers were stained green too, now. Like blood, somehow. But it smelled nice.

  “Yes. Every second.”

  The boy nodded, as if he knew what she meant. Maybe he did. His eyes had drifted back to Alice, now. “I was hard on Luke,” she said. “Not sure why, now. Kept asking stuff of him. To leave Bately, to forget his faith. When he complained – and his complaints were always gentle, always good – I made scenes. Even if I didn’t really care that much, I made these huge scenes.” She chuckled sadly. “I wanted him all for myself. Make him mine. I thought I was controlling him, like he was my kid to boss around. But I think he knew I was the childish one, of the two. He just put up with it, and loved me back, with all his heart.”

  Adrian was looking at her. She had tears in her eyes. Not once had she allowed anyone to watch her cry, other than Luke. But with this quiet young boy, this kid who was so plainly in love, she felt it was okay. “And he’s gone now,” she said finally.

  Again, Adrian tensed up. For some reason, Ana knew he wanted to comfort her somehow. Wanted to, but was still suspicious, still guarded. Yes, as she’d have been, too.

  “Little man, listen to me. If you do have feelings for that girl, I suggest you tell her. I’m certain she’ll be happy. It’s hard to read a woman’s mind, I know, but I’m pretty sure she will.” At this, Adrian couldn’t hold back a smile. Ana got up on her feet, smacking the dirt off her trousers. She stared him in the eyes. “But tell her. Do it. The way this rotten world works,” she said, “we sometimes miss our chance.”

  Chapter 22

  R3dPill

  “Are you awake, Sean?”

  The question surprised him. It was a simple one, sure, but Sean found himself doubti
ng whether or not he knew the answer to it.

  Cool, damp air on his skin. Sort of like in the wine cellar, at the old restaurant Nan used to take him to. Refreshing, but somehow heavy, weighing down on him. He was lying down, on some uneven surface. Lumps of something hard, pressing against him. Was he lying on a mattress? The pain in his back suggested he wasn’t.

  Sean stared into darkness, still pondering the answer to that question. As he did so, the darkness began to recede, to draw back, until he found himself in a place of little light, and many shadows. There was a face, peering down at him. An old face drooling words into his ears, and before he even knew who it was, his body was filled with a strong, nauseating hatred. A loathing as sharp as a needle.

  Jeremy.

  “You okay, my boy?”

  It was Jeremy all right. A large, brownish bruise had popped up across his forehead, but other than that, this was he. One hundred percent Jeremy, from the greasy dreadlocks on his head to the stained tie-dye t-shirt below it.

  “I think so,” muttered Sean. He tried to rise. Failed. Then tried again, this time with two sets of hands propping him up, until he was finally resting on his elbows.

  They were in some sort of cave. The walls seemed to be of rock, or dirt, rising thick and murky around them. On one end, an opening sealed by thick steel bars revealed to him that this was a cell. A small cell: just a handful of feet across, and completely empty, but for the four prisoners inside it.

  Jeremy was staring at him, his smile as creepy as ever. Opposite him, and showing a lot less interest in Sean than the wrinkly hippie, was one of the uniformed men that had boarded the plane with them.

  He turned his head, and a sudden jolt of pain stabbed him in the neck. He groaned, and noticed Checkmate, wrapped in a dirty old coat. Jeremy’s maybe. The hacker was lying very still, and Sean couldn’t make out if he was breathing or not. Turning to Jeremy, he bit his lip, suddenly scared. “Is he–?”

  Jeremy’s smile widened. “No, no. He’s fine. Better than you, as a matter of fact.” He chuckled. “Just getting a bit of rest.”

  Sean nodded. He was relieved. Whether because the other boy was alive, or because he knew he wasn’t sharing this claustrophobic room with a corpse, he could not exactly say.

  “I told you we’d make it Sean, didn’t I?” The old man patted him gently on the thigh. “I told you.”

  Yes. Except, there are two pilots missing, as far as I can see, and another one of your soldier men. My suspicion is they aren’t sleeping in a cell nearby, are they? So – yes, old bastard, we made it. But only just.

  “Yes. You did,” he said stiffly.

  Jeremy nodded, pleased.

  There was a single light source, in there. Sean scanned the place, to find it. It was a kerosene lamp, lying beyond the bars. He studied it, taking in the eerie flickering of its light on the stone surfaces.

  “Where are we? Who–”

  Again, Jeremy’s hand was laid on his chest, doubtless in an attempt to sooth, to calm.

  “It’s all right, Redpill. Trust me. All according to plan.”

  Sean was about to ask how the heck could being in a deathly plane crash, barely surviving it only to be thrown in this surreal cell-cave be part of his psychotic plan. He opened his mouth, ready to shout out how ridiculous it was of him to say that, when someone else spoke.

  Sean turned his head, ignoring the stabbing pain, and saw the figures beyond the bars.

  * * *

  Five or so, partly concealed by the shadows. A large, barrel-chested man in his fifties, muscular and twitching with nervous energy, took a step forward. His head was shaved, and a thick, greying beard poured down from his chin.

  Sean observed him, then the rest. They wore strange clothing, odds and ends thrown together haphazardly, scraps and tatters from the bygone world. Leather gilets, mismatched shoes, blankets sewn into odd-fitting garments. They also wore strange ornaments – glasses without lenses resting on their foreheads, wrists heavy with row upon row of broken watches, rusty chains hanging from frail necks. Lots of bare skin, and many rather amateurish tattoos. Sean spotted weird symbols, would-be runes and hieroglyphs and words in ancient languages. Like the confused mash-up of esoteric nonsense in some goth student’s diary.

  They look like the cast from Mad Max.

  The shaved man glared at them with intense, unblinking eyes. A mixture of hostility and curiosity. Perhaps, Sean thought, even a touch of fear. “Who are you?” the man blurted out, breaking the silence. For a second, Sean was surprised by the accent. American, of course. I forgot, this is – or was – the USA.

  Jeremy rose to his feet and stepped towards the bars, but the man’s burly arm snapped up. “Stay where you are,” he ordered. “I can hear you just fine.”

  Jeremy was taken aback. He innocently held up his hands and said, “We mean no harm, we just–”

  “That’s not what I asked you, old man.” His voice was deep, raspy, but somehow pleasant. The voice of a cowboy hero perhaps, thought Sean. “I asked you who you are. Janet here found you, in that plane of yours.” A woman appeared behind the man’s broad shoulders, peering at them. Thin, bony, a mop of black hair hanging in front of her eyes. She struck Sean as someone who might have been a teacher, in the past. She had that sort of look about her.

  Yeah, a teacher. Strange, Ms. Janet, isn’t it? Would you have hung out with the likes of these guys, before?

  “When she told us ’bout you, we thought she’d lost her mind, didn’t we Jan?” The woman nodded nervously, still eyeing the prisoners. “We set out,” continued the man, “and sure enough, there you all were, in a plane. A freakin’ plane.”

  Sean shuffled around on the floor, tried to sit up. Despite their situation, there was something fascinating about these people. The big bloke was clearly their leader, and apparently the only one who hadn’t been reduced to a trembling wreck. Among this lot, at least. Maybe there were more, elsewhere in these tunnels. When one of them happened to meet Sean’s eyes, they immediately lowered them, or looked away, ducking down behind the man with the beard.

  So different from Bately. They look like savages, almost.

  He thought about how little it took for things to turn out like it had for them – too few intelligent, or strong enough individuals. And one charismatic enough to subdue them, to turn them into this.

  “As I said,” began Jeremy, with a humble tone he’d heard him use in Bately, at the Council meeting (manipulative old bastard, he thought). “We genuinely mean no harm, friends, and–”

  “And as I said,” the other interrupted him, “you ain’t answering my question, friend. Seems to me like you talk and talk and you don’t get to the point. So let me make it extra-simple for you, dreadlocks…” Sean couldn’t help but feel a hint of warm pleasure at seeing Jeremy mistreated like this. “I asked you why you came here, in a plane, to the Colony. What do you want from us?”

  At first, Sean failed to grasp the meaning of those words. Then, he realised – They’ve been living alone, in isolation, perhaps under the iron fist of this other crazy old man for who knows how long. Forgotten about everything else. They automatically assume that we’re here for them. To reach their shambles of a ’Colony.’

  All those wide, bulging eyes pointed at them, the idiotic expressions in their faces, the dumb assumption that they’d cross the ocean just to hang out with a bunch of insane cave-dwellers, were almost enough for Sean to burst out laughing.

  “I, Jacob of the Colony, ask you that,” the man concluded.

  “Long live the Colony,” a hurried chorus recited behind him.

  God, it’s too much, thought Sean, and almost did laugh, when he heard Jeremy’s response, and his jaw dropped.

  “This is the Colony?” asked Jeremy, in utter astonishment. “And you… you are the Jacob?”

  Under the bewildered gaze of Sean and their captors, the psychopathic hippy dropped to his knees and covered his eyes, shoulders shaking. Tears flowed down his cheeks.r />
  “We’ve found you,” Jeremy said, his voice broken. “We’ve found you at last.”

  Chapter 23

  A Night-Time Dig

  Three furtive steps into the dark, and suddenly this did feel like the revolution.

  The beginning of it, anyway, thought Cathy.

  Neeson, Edward and herself, walking along Castle Street, a loose group of three. A casual onlooker might have thought they were together, or perhaps not. Three figures advancing among the others, hardly suspicious.

  But every single inch of Cathy’s body felt like it was oozing suspicion. Calling out I’m guilty! I’m guilty, I want to overthrow the regime! Arrest me NOW! She tried lowering her head, eyes on the ground, but felt it looked too shady. That’s how people hiding secrets walked.

  Which, of course, it exactly what I am, she told herself. But I don’t want the nutters in black to know, right?

  So she decided to straighten her back, walk normally. It worked for a few steps, but then it started to feel too casual. Unnaturally easy-going. An evening stroll – not quite fitting for a woman in an occupied southern English town who had just seen a megalomaniac self-appointed Warden sit on a throne made of mystic space-rock. No. Not fitting at all.

  “Ugh,” she grumbled in frustration. That’s how expert a revolutionary you are, Cathy. ’Ughing’ your way to victory.

  Her eyes drifted towards Moore, who seemed to be having her same exact problem, with the added inconvenience of his wounded leg. It was almost healed now, but it still caused a slight limp in his step. He noticed her, and began to smile, wanting to share that awkward moment with her. She turned away, expressionless, and fixed her eyes on Neeson. It was like sitting in on a masterclass of deception. The soldier was walking along, perfectly naturally, hands in his pocket, showing a sort of worn uneasiness, interspersed with just the right degree of concern, when they came across some black uniforms. He looked like everyone else, in the street.