IMPACT_A Post-Apocalyptic Tale_The Complete Series

by Matthew Eliot

  “What the–?” he uttered, eyebrows drawing closer.

  He’d had lots of time to picture the intruders, the ones who had promised to come to Atlantis with the explicit purpose of killing him. They’d appeared in dreams, at night, sometimes pointing at Ivan’s dead body and laughing. Usually, they wore high-tech military ninja gear, like the bad guys in the movies. Other times, he pictured them as bare-chested savages, with sharp knives and long tongues thirsty for his blood.

  Whatever they had looked like in his head, it was nothing like this.

  Two spotty teenagers and, amazingly, a bona fide post-Woodstock, light-me-a-reefer, bearded, balding, dreadlock-flaunting old hippy.

  “What the fff–?”

  For a minute, Walscombe thought that this was wrong. It couldn’t be. These simply couldn’t be the killers he’d been expecting. They were simply a group of wanderers who needed shelter. Had to be.

  What about the assault rifle, man? Killers are kinda into those, aren’t they?

  Yes, sure, the old weirdo had an assault rifle. But then again, it would make sense to carry weapons, out there in the wild, right?

  So the rifle, Walscombe thought, might make sense. Unlike the two laptops the kids were carrying.

  With trembling hands, he operated the camera controls, adjusting the image and bringing the visitors into focus. The hippy was almost too odd to observe, so he concentrated on the kids. One was skinny, with curly black hair, a narrow, pointy face and wide eyes. They were not the eyes of a killer, Walscombe concluded.

  The other one was different. He was chubby, dressed in full black, with very fair skin. Pale, actually. His eyes were narrow, suspicious, with heavy dark circles below them. He didn’t look too happy.

  Suddenly, the hippy waved at the camera, making him jump. A wide smile spread through his thick beard, as he said something, but Walscombe couldn’t hear it through the video feed. It seemed like a friendly enough greeting, but it was hard to tell.

  What came next, on the other hand, was very easy to interpret.

  Without dropping his warm smile, the old bastard made a gun with his fingers, pointed it straight at the camera, and fired.

  Walscombe’s blood turned to ice.

  It was them. The ones who had murdered Ivan.

  They’d arrived. And they were here for him.

  * * *

  “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Walscombe whispered frantically to the empty room.

  He closed his eyes, breathing slowly and deeply. He brought the cup to his lips and took a long swig of that god-awful stuff that went by the name of coffee, in Atlantis. Then, he laid down the cup, and ran a finger on one of Aubrey’s tender little leaves. It was soothing.

  “It’s all right, Aube, isn’t it?” he asked the plant. “We’re prepared, right?”

  Yes, they were. As much as they could be, in any case. He’d spent the last few weeks setting the place up, readying it for the arrival of his foes. It wasn’t like he could count on an army of trained US military to defend the base (there were quite a few of them in the base, but they all happened to be dead), but he had arranged a few surprises for the invaders.

  The three said invaders were sitting on the ground, now. It looked like the old maniac in dreadlocks was actually meditating. One of the two young men (the one with the pale complexion) had opened up his laptop.

  Hackers. Of course.

  He’d been expecting someone with that sort of skill to show up. But not two nerdy guys like these. They seemed harmless enough, just two average geeks, and yet he knew that there could hardly be anything average about them, if they were here. They’d been chosen to break into a top-secret nuclear facility: not exactly the sort of thing you’d get two random dorks to handle.

  Walscombe leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin, feeling the stubble growing there. He thought of Ivan, about how his friend had told him that the Russians had gained access to most of Atlantis’s network from very early on. That was how Ivan had managed to get in touch with him in the first place. Once Ivan had been killed, Walscombe had presumed that they’d likely got hold of the stolen access codes and passwords.

  “And that’s why I changed them all, you bastards,” he said through a grin. It was by no means his area of expertise, but he knew a thing or two. For instance, he knew which of the base’s Wi-Fi networks were accessible from outside. “And I’ve changed passwords to all nineteen of them!” he said, triumphantly.

  Even if they did try to hack into one of the networks, and then into an account with sufficient privileges to control the entrance hatch, it would take them a while. Enough time for him to arrange a couple more–

  A small green light came on, on the control panel. Walscombe’s jaw dropped.

  On the screen, he saw the entrance hatch open, and the pale kid close his laptop. He threw a quick glance to the camera, and Walscombe couldn’t figure out if it was one of defiance or (funnily enough) apology.

  The old man patted him on the back, and Walscombe could almost hear his jolly laughter through the CCTV feed.

  The three intruders simply stood up and walked into Atlantis.

  Walscombe’s cup of coffee slipped through his fingers.

  Chapter 5

  Alice

  His eyes.

  There were four men looking at her, but it was his eyes that drew her in. For a second, she forgot everything. Adrian too.

  She’d been shouting her friend’s name, over and over, incapable of stopping. Desperately asking where he was, but her voice had been so high, so full of dread, that her words had come out as little more than muddled howls.

  Her own eyes had locked on this man’s, and everything stopped. The panic, the confusion, everything. It was just her, Alice, and that pair of black eyes peering into hers.

  She was still in the vehicle, the one she’d awoken in. It was dark outside, and it took her a while to realise she was in Bately. The air was damp and heavy, the wind bitter.

  The Warden leaned forward, a gentle movement that drew him closer to her, and Alice couldn’t help shrinking back.

  “Welcome, child,” he said. His voice was warm, soft. A voice that made Alice think of her father.

  The Warden smiled. “Welcome back to Bately. Fear not, you are safe here.”

  Alice tried to look away, but it was hard. Her heart was suddenly flooded with emotions. Part of her felt she could trust this man, because no one with such deep eyes, such a soothing voice, could possibly be bad. But she also felt terrified. She sensed something else, behind that gaze, something dark and dangerous. Like a monster swimming beneath the waters of a black lake.

  “W-where’s Ady?” she asked, finally managing to pull away from the Warden’s face.

  The Warden turned to his men. “Who is she talking about?”

  “Her friend. The little boy,” one of the men said. He was staring at Alice, too. They all were. There was something eager about the looks in their eyes. Not threatening, not exactly—just scary.

  “Well? Where is he?” asked the Warden.

  One of the men was lighting a cigarette with a match. It was dancing between his lips, as he casually said, “I shot him.” Then, with a shrug, he added, “He’s dead, probably.”

  Alice’s heart stopped. A breath got caught in her throat, and she began to shake. At the same time, she felt a hot ball of rage burst inside her, a burning desire to lash out and hurt that man, dig her nails into his face.

  The Warden raised an eyebrow. “… dead?”

  Something in his voice made the men stiffen. They all lowered their eyes to the ground, except the one who had spoken. He was busy trying to protect the flame on the tip of a match from the blowing wind. It kept going out.

  “Yes,” he said, distracted by the cigarette. “He was getting in our way. Little brat wouldn’t let us get out of the Pack. Trying to rescue his little friend here, I think.” He chuckled. “Just wouldn’t give up, so I shot him.” His cigarette finally lit, the m
an threw the match on the ground, then turned towards the Warden. When he met his eyes, his lips began to quiver.

  “You shot a child?” The Warden asked, his voice deep, menacing.

  The man started to mutter something, and the cigarette fell in the mud. “I-I… Sir, the mission was to… and…”

  “What?” The Warden straightened his back, and the other men’s heads bowed even lower.

  “We had to bring her to you, Sir… and, the greater good, Sir, end all suffering… I thought it was a necessary sac–”

  “Precisely,” the Warden interrupted him. “End suffering. Not cause suffering.”

  The other man brought his hands up, as if to protect himself from a beating. Alice read pure terror in his eyes. “I don’t think… I mean, h-he might still be alive, Sir, I–”

  With surprising grace and speed, the Warden drew a gun from a holster hanging on his hip. With no hesitation, he brought it between the shivering man’s eyes and pulled the trigger.

  There was a blast. Alice shrieked, and closed her eyes. She heard a deep thud, then silence.

  “Listen carefully,” the Warden said. “Find the boy. Bring him here. Now.”

  A chorus of Yessir followed.

  “And, for your sake,” he continued, “he better be alive.”

  Alice felt a hand on hers. Tentatively, she opened her eyes again. The Warden was very close, his voice and eyes even gentler, now. “I’m sorry you had to witness that, girl. I promise your friend, Adrian, will be okay. I’ll do everything I can to help him.”

  He paused. Alice found she desperately wanted to believe him. She nodded, and said, “Please, please save him.” Tears were running down her cheeks.

  “We will,” the Warden replied. “Now, come with me, child. You need rest, and we have a lot to talk about.”

  Alice stepped out of the car, and the Warden wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. She noticed more people, standing in two rows at their sides. As they walked by, the people solemnly lowered their heads.

  She heard the Warden whisper in her ears, “They’re bowing before you, child.”

  Chapter 6

  X Marks the Spot

  It was the girl, Alice.

  Lucy was almost sure of it, although she’d only caught a glimpse of her, as she stepped out of the car, and into the Warden’s open shawl.

  What’s he doing? She wondered, walking briskly past. Despite her curiosity, she didn’t dare stare, and kept her eyes on the ground in front of her. One thing she’d learned in this new Bately, was not to interfere with the matters of these idiots in black. Especially if their Warden was out and about. So, she simply made a mental note of it and kept on walking.

  It was late at night, and the town was wrapped in a dense blanket of mist, as if the endless clouds above them had begun to seep down, slowly flooding the streets. There were few people about, most walking along just as she was—foreheads low, mindful of not attracting unwanted attention.

  Quite the jolly place, she thought ironically. But, even now, she noticed little details that made her mind wander to before the impact.

  She’d never been to Bately, back then. It was a little-known Kentish town, overshadowed by Dover and other prettier places in the region. A quiet place few had reason to visit. But there were still traces of the tidy hedges that once adorned the pretty front gardens, the charming dry stone walls enclosing small lawns that had been green. Everything was fading now, but Lucy was aware of the welcoming atmosphere that had once made this little place welcoming and comfortable.

  The occupiers were all-present. They stood at street corners, overseeing the silent flow of people. Some went by in military vehicles they had taken from god knows where, rushing towards some mysterious task or another. They’d set up a large tent camp, just on the outskirts of town. It was always busy there, people bustling around, talking on radios, coordinating plans, movements, perhaps wars. Lucy wondered how the rest of Britain was faring, if it was true that they had occupied large amounts of it.

  They surely had lots of recruits. Even here, in peace-loving Bately, lots of people had converted, donning the black uniforms and joining the Warden’s cause, whatever it was. She doubted the details of it mattered at all. It was the sense of security, these people were after. The order and stability he seemed to be able to provide. Add a sprinkle of messianic vibe to it all, and you’ve got quite the recruiting machine, she thought.

  It was strange. Here she was, walking towards the cell where her husband was being held, making her way across a dystopian dictatorship, complete with megalomaniac black-clad leader and brainwashed worshippers.

  Ex-husband, she corrected herself. Edward, now locked up the Warden’s prisons, along with Cathy and Neeson.

  She was almost there. She turned eastwards, following the walls of the castle. The entrance to the cells was close, now. Lucy swallowed, felt her heartbeat pick up speed.

  Try and relax. You don’t want to make them suspicious.

  She breathed deeply, a white plume of air flowing from her lips, and dissipating in the mist.

  Her thoughts went back to her husband. And Cathy. Both in the same cell.

  It was odd, there was no reason to be jealous. Jealousy was a feeling she’d long left behind, even before they separated. Edward had simply turned out to be the wrong man for her. Her friends had warned her—they were too different. But she had somehow fallen for his quiet ways, his sombre, but strong presence. And he was a loving father, no doubt about it. But, to no one’s surprise, the marriage had come to an end, once Mathew was old enough to face the facts. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse. Bottom line was, they were separated now, and had been for a while.

  Still… there was that little itch, that irritating feeling at the thought of Edward and Cathy spending so much time together, albeit in a cell they shared with Neeson.

  Okay, stop it now. You have to focus.

  “’Evening,” one of the guards said, as she approached the entrance. It was one of the turncoats, a young man who, she’d been told, had spent his entire life in Bately.

  “I’m here to visit my husband. Edward Moore.”

  The young man stared at her, his eyes pausing on her lips. He cleared his throat, looked away. “A little late for a visit, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “I’ve been working in the fields. Late shift,” Lucy replied. It was true. Everyone in Bately was required to do their bit, and was assigned tasks and shifts to follow.

  “Carrying anything in there?” He jerked his chin towards her pockets. Lucy pulled out her hands, wiggling her fingers in the air. “Nope.”

  Visitors weren’t allowed to bring anything in the cells, other than food. And even then, it was checked by the guards. In fact, that’s how she’d smuggled something in, last time—a small pencil and a single sheet of paper, concealed inside a sandwich. Luckily, the guards had been too busy observing her body to notice.

  “All right then,” the young guard said. “Go on.”

  Lucy nodded and walked past him. Despite not having anything to smuggle in, this time (in fact, she’d be smuggling it out), she felt tense.

  “Ma’am,” the man called to her again.

  Lucy turned, trying to look surprised rather than scared. “Yes?”

  The guard pinched the lapel of his black uniform. “Still not wearing one of these?”

  Lucy slowly shook her head. “I feel I’m not quite ready for it, yet,” she said, stressing the last word. She forced herself to smile. The guard returned her smile, showing a set of crooked teeth. “Right. No worries, I’m sure you will be soon.”

  Gormless idiot, she thought, as she turned away.

  * * *

  The air in the cells was damp, humid, as heavy as the castle’s ancient stone walls.

  There were six cells in this section, all of them full, with a couple of the Warden’s men guarding the narrow corridor that separated them. Most of the prisoners were in here for minor misbehaviour—failing
to show respect to the soldiers in black, turning up late at a work shift, and so forth. No one here had committed serious crimes. Those who did got executed immediately.

  Lucy walked to Edward’s cell, the guards eyeing her closely.

  “Ed?” Three shadows stirred as she pronounced his name. When her eyes had accustomed to the darkness, Lucy made out the rather ragged figures of Edward, Cathy and Neeson.

  “Lucy,” Edward said. He laid one hand on hers, and stroked it affectionately. Not, perhaps, as a lover would do, but it was nice.

  “No touching!” one of the guards shouted. Edward withdrew his hand, his eyes full of hatred.

  “How are you?” Lucy asked the three prisoners.

  “Could be better,” Neeson replied, with a hint of a grin. “But not too bad.”

  Lucy nodded. She agreed. It was uncomfortable, of course, but they were being fed, and, as far as she could see, no one had been hit or tortured.

  “How’s Mathew?” Edward asked.

  “He’s okay. Misses you.”

  He bit his lip and nodded. “Tell him I’ll be back soon.” They both smiled, pretending that was the case.

  Lucy’s gaze drifted over to Cathy. Her cheeks had turned slightly red, as they always did when the two women met.

  Get over it, girl. You fancy the man I married and he fancies you. I get it.

  Right now, Cathy, who was meticulously avoiding her eyes, looked just like a nervous little girl. Which reminded Lucy.

  “I saw Alice, earlier.”

  “What?” Edward asked. “Here in Bately?”

  Neeson shook his head. “I hoped they’d managed to escape.”

  Lucy lowered her voice. If Alice was a guest of the Warden himself, it wasn’t wise to discuss it in front of the guards. “I think they did get away. But she was brought back.”

  “Brought back?” Cathy took a step towards the bars. “What about Adrian,” she asked, “was he with her?”

  Lucy sighed and shook her head. The others looked at one another. This was bad news.

  “None other than the Warden greeted her. Took her somewhere inside the castle. The poor little thing looked scared stiff.”