And, amazingly enough, they’d fallen for the very first of his little traps. The two chatting corpses. It had been a bit tricky to set up—finding the mp3 player, recording the exchanges between the two, et cetera. But it had worked.
Boy, had it worked.
His memory drifted to the ugly business of getting the two bodies in that room. Good ol’ psycho-killer Don, and Colonel Wright. Wright had been the most recent suicide, prior to the whole affair with Don and Jeff. Walscombe had worn a hazmat suit, and entered the ’graveyard,’ the makeshift resting place they’d had to set up, and–
He closed his eyes tight, flushing out those images. Some things were best forgotten.
“Hey, Aube, we have a lot to celebrate, right?” The pale light on the monitors bounced off Walscombe’s face. “Look at them, the three little mice caught in my trap.”
It could have gone even better, he thought. He’d timed the gas leak to perfection, accurately predicting their movements as he tracked them on the video feeds. If White Trash Marley had fired his weapon, they’d have been blown to smithereens.
Still, this was good enough. They’d soon suffocate, so the outcome was the same, really. Less gory, too—which was a plus, because he happened to be sick of blood and gore.
Unable to resist the temptation, Walscombe held down a button next to the mic, leaned forward, and said, “This is for Ivan, you pricks.”
He tried to read Rambo Hippie’s expression. Exactly as he thought—no surprise at all. Yeah, he knows what I’m talking about. Whoever killed poor old Ivan, this old cunt was in on it, somehow.
But the looks on the two kids’ faces was a tad more troubling. Frowns, bewilderment, complete lack of understanding. He could almost read the words ’Ivan who?’ in the creases on their frowning foreheads. They both turned towards the hippie, infinite muted questions in their eyes. The old man ignored them.
Walscombe felt a knot in his throat. Tapping nervously on the desk, he looked at Aubrey, silently begging her to provide some sort of support. She seemed to have none to share, at the moment.
On the screens, the boys had raised the collars of their hoodies over their mouths. They were coughing. In the black-and-white frames of the CCTV feed, Walscombe saw the colour of their faces veer towards a darker shade of grey.
All of a sudden, this all felt horribly wrong.
But they’re the ones who killed Ivan, remember? Ivan your friend?
He bit deep into his lip, until it hurt.
They deserve no pity, you wussy, the voice in his very tired head insisted. They are monsters.
Yeah, the old man, maybe. There was something about him, something ruthless and violent, lurking beneath his tie-dye clothes and greasy dreadlocks. But the kids? As far as he could tell, they knew nothing at all about Ivan. In fact, they didn’t look like murderers. They looked like kids, and nothing else.
The old bastard was staring right into the CCTV camera now. Straight at Walscombe.
So you’re going to kill them, are you? his eyes asked. You’re just going to let them suffocate and die?
Walscombe realised he’d been holding his breath. Once again, he turned towards Aubrey. This time, its tiny branches seemed to be leaning forward, towards the controls on the desk. A plant-nudge of sorts.
He howled in frustration. “Oh, all right then,” he said, punching the armrest of his chair.
Seconds later, his voice resounded through Atlantis once again. It didn’t quite sound like a movie villain’s.
“Okayokayokay. I’m cutting the gas. Hang on.”
Chapter 11
Lucy
Her son walked beside her, his handsome face tilted towards the ground. She caught sideways glimpses of him, as they breathed in the fresh morning air, making their way back to town. The chill was invigorating, but thoughts weighed heavy on their minds.
Lucy knew this was a good time to ask Mathew how he was doing, how he felt about this whole mess. But talking about feelings had never been her thing. That had always been Edward’s job, not hers.
Mathew caught her eye, and twisted the corner of his lip into a little smile. It was a casual, genuine expression. He’s so good, she thought, observing the untainted brightness of his gaze. Rather than trying to find the right words, she slipped her hands in his. They walked like that, each lost in thought, as they approached Bately.
The retrieval mission had been rather anticlimactic. The decision to take her son along with her had not been an easy one. But walking around alone would have appeared suspicious, if she’d come across the Warden’s people while rummaging around in the bushes. She needn’t have worried. Something was up, and the black uniforms were all busy in their tents, or rushing in and out of the castle.
She had simply walked up to the bush depicted in the crumpled map Edward had handed her in prison, and collected the explosive. That was it.
Now, it sat in her rucksack, concealed in the best way she could come up with. It wasn’t perfect, but would likely be enough to elude a superficial inspection. Luckily, the measurements provided by Neeson turned out to be correct. She’d spent hours slitting the pages, and–
“Mum,” said Mathew. He was frowning. “Is that Paul?”
Lucy had hardly registered the fact they’d reached Bately. Despite the early hour, the Warden’s men were in full swing, bustling about in the streets, busy with whatever their secretive tasks were.
At first, she had no idea what Mathew was talking about. There was no one who remotely looked like the young priest. Passers-by, dark uniforms, Bately inhabitants minding their own business. Then, she spotted him.
He was walking behind one of the soldiers. He’d lost weight, and, by the looks of it, an eye as well. Some sort of condition had devastated his skin—it looked scaly, irritated. A makeshift bandage was wrapped around his head, covering his right eye.
The gaunt figure that had once been Paul walked passed them, following in the steps of his escort. He must’ve been lost in thought, because he didn’t notice them at all.
At first, Lucy dipped her face behind her scarf, keeping her eyes low. She tugged at Mathew’s sleeve, pulling him away. Her instinct was to get away, report this to the others, but avoid getting involved. She didn’t want to draw the soldier’s attention to her. Especially not to her son.
But something occurred to her. She stopped abruptly and turned back.
They’re heading towards the castle. Paul is being brought inside. Why? The only likely reason was that he’d somehow been granted (or ordered) to meet the Warden. Lucy wondered how this might be linked to Alice being in town.
Likely, Paul would soon be in the presence of the Warden himself. And that meant that he might be able to…
It’s worth a shot.
“Wait here,” she whispered to Mathew. Her tone was one that allowed no protest, and he obeyed. She quickly made her way towards the two men.
“Hey!” she called out, reminding herself that the men in black didn’t know Paul’s real name. They thought Claudio had been Paul. And they’d killed the old man.
“Hey!” she said, louder. This time, Paul turned his head. A weak, tired smile spread on his face, when he recognised her.
“Lucy,” he said softly, as she got closer. “It’s good to see you.”
The soldier scoffed. “No time for this. The Warden is expecting you.”
Great, she thought. Exactly what I was hoping for.
“It’s just a book, sir,” she said to the soldier. Her voice oozed respect, and a little hint of flirtatious warmth. “I haven’t seen my friend in a long time, and I just wanted to return it.”
The soldier eyed her closely. He hesitated.
“I would be ever so grateful,” Lucy added, with a smile. Without waiting, she turned to Paul.
“I’m so sorry I held on to it for so long,” she said, digging into her rucksack. Paul’s confused stare vanished, as he realised there was a point to Lucy’s act.
He smiled a little awkw
ardly. “Oh… thank you very much, Lucy.”
The book weighed a lot. A lot more than a book should, even given its size. It was a huge, leather-bound atlas she had found in the library of the house they were living in. Just about the only one big enough to conceal the explosive and its remote control (or detonator, or whatever its name was). Now, heaving it out in the open, it looked ridiculous. How could I have thought this was a good idea? She asked herself, her smile turning somewhat stiff.
But the guard was too busy glancing towards the castle, eager to get going. He hardly even noticed the book.
“Thank you,” Paul said, his eyebrow slightly raised, What is this? He quickly slipped it into his own rucksack. “It’s good to have it back.”
Lucy suddenly threw herself forward, wrapping Paul in an embrace. “We’ve missed you,” she said. An instant before the soldier tore them apart, she brought her lips to Paul’s ear and whispered three words that made her own heart falter.
“Blow him up.”
Chapter 12
Glitch
Blow him up?
Paul couldn’t help but gasp, as the soldier’s hands slipped between them, pushing them apart. He stared into Lucy’s eyes, desperately wanting to ask her a million questions. But there was no time. Lucy was already walking off, casually waving him good-bye.
The soldier grabbed him by his worn coat, “Time to go. Now.”
Paul stumbled along beside him, too many thoughts crowding his mind.
Blow him up? Then, the realisation.
I’m carrying a bomb.
He was ushered through the castle gates, the same ones they’d tried so desperately to defend against the meteorwraiths. Two guards stopped them, but when the soldier said, “He was summoned by the Warden. Top priority,” they stepped aside immediately.
Paul’s head was spinning. This was happening too fast. All he wanted was for Adrian to be safe. Now, he was tasked with detonating a bomb that would kill the Warden.
The heavy walls of the castle devoured him, as they stepped inside.
* * *
The vast hall stood empty. Other, of course, than the colossal stone throne.
They were standing at the entrance of the mighty room. “Where are the guards?” Paul’s escort asked his comrades guarding the passageway.
“It’s a private meeting. Warden’s orders. No one else is to attend.”
The soldier shrugged. “All right. Inspect him and I’ll let him through.”
Paul’s attention was torn away from the surreal alien throne. Inspection? His heart stopped. He turned towards the guards, who were already gesturing him to spread his arms and legs. Another one was slipping the rucksack off his back.
Don’t oppose resistance, he told himself. Try to keep calm.
It wasn’t easy. As they patted him down, Paul eyed his rucksack. The guard who was holding it had it dangling from two fingers, frowning at its unexpected weight.
“Wider,” the one patting him down said, slapping his ankles. Paul complied.
The rucksack was placed on a table, and the guard began to open it.
“I–” Paul began. He desperately wanted to divert the man’s attention from its contents. But it was useless.
“What?” the one behind him said, brashly.
Paul gave up, shook his head. “I… have a skin condition. Psoriasis, it’s called. Please don’t touch my skin.”
“Wasn’t going to,” came the reply. “It’s fucking disgusting.” The others sneered.
The guard’s hands disappeared inside the rucksack. He craned his head, trying to get a better look. Paul swallowed and closed his eyes.
Hurried steps echoed through the corridor. A woman’s voice called out, “The Warden is on his way down. Is he ready?”
Paul kept his eyes sealed.
The man behind him stepped back. “Nothing on him. He’s clean. What about the rucksack?”
There was a pause. The only sound he could hear was the shuffling of the man’s hands against the backpack’s fabric.
“All good. Just a few bits and bobs, and an atlas. No guns, no weapons.”
Paul swallowed, and opened his eyes again. The man was handing it back to him. Paul muttered his thanks. “You nervous?” he asked, as Paul slipped his arms through the straps.
Fearing words might somehow give him away, he simply nodded.
“You should be,” said the other. “But only if you’re on the wrong side. He’s a great man, you know?”
Again, Paul nodded.
“Okay, go through. Walk up to the throne, but don’t sit on it. Wait there. The Warden will be with you shortly.”
Paul stepped through the large doors that opened onto the hall. An instant later, they were creaking shut behind him.
With slow, hesitant steps, he made his way to the throne. He wondered how much time he had, before his host appeared. With quick, nervous movements, he took the rucksack off again. His fingers were shaking, making it tricky to open the buckles.
Collier’s World Atlas, the cover stated in golden letters. The font was elegant, and distinctly out of fashion. A subtitle informed the reader that this was a New Up-To-Date Edition. For a brief instant, Paul felt the fascination he’d always experienced when opening a book. The distinct scent of pages left unread for years, perhaps decades. The soft touch of the leather binding. The glimpse into a different world (an older, perhaps simpler one) this dated atlas might provide.
He drew the cover aside and caught his breath. The pages had been meticulously cut out in the centre, to create a hidden rectangular compartment. He’d seen this in countless films, and it looked somewhat ridiculous.
The objects lying inside the atlas, on the other hand, had nothing ridiculous about them. A bomb. Stark, unadorned letters that contrasted harshly with those on the front cover read ’C 4 EXPLOSIVE.’ Tucked in next to it was a small device that looked a bit like a walkie-talkie. There were fewer buttons on it, however. Above one of them, alarming red letters read ’DETONATE.’
He heard steps. Fast, loud and heading towards this room.
Paul’s eyes darted feverishly around the hall. There was nowhere he could place the explosive without it being in plain sight. He spun on his heels, taking the whole place in, desperately trying to spot a place to conceal it.
The footsteps were very close now.
And he saw it. An uneven slit at the base of the alien throne, raising it slightly off the ground.
Without thinking, Paul quickly shoved the C4 under it. It scraped against the rock, and Paul was sure the thing was about to explode. Squinting, his muscles tense, he rapidly stood up again. Somehow, he managed to slip the atlas inside the rucksack, then just stood there, unsure about what he feared the most: an explosion that would undoubtedly kill him, or being caught by the Warden.
Then came the bang.
Paul shuddered. It took him a handful of seconds to realise that it hadn’t been a detonation. It was just the echo of a large door being shut.
The Warden entered, his eyes fixed on Paul as he stood stiffly by the throne.
“Welcome,” he said simply.
* * *
Adrenalin and drowsiness both surged through Paul’s body. He needed to sleep, desperately longing to lie down and forget everything for a few hours. At the same time, he felt jittery, restless. His mind kept wandering back to the detonator in his pocket.
The Warden took a step towards him. There was a striking patrician air about him. His was a noble, imposing presence, combined with a streak of general contempt. But just below the surface, an endless sadness seemed to stir, bleak and dense.
“Welcome,” the Warden said again, extending a hand. The courtesy of a ruthless murderer. Paul shook it uneasily.
“You took in the boy, am I correct?”
He nodded, trying to escape the pull of the Warden’s magnetic gaze. “Is he okay? No one would tell me anything.”
“Hopefully, my medics will manage to save his life. We can on
ly hope. If it is of any comfort to you, the man who did this to him has paid dearly.”
Paul didn’t want to know what he meant by that.
The Warden set his lips, narrowed his stare. “Very well,” he said, after an uncomfortable pause. Uncomfortable for Paul, in any case.
For some reason, Paul had assumed that the Warden would take his seat on the eerie throne, but he didn’t. He just stood there, next to him, like two strangers in a café.
“I know who you are,” the Warden said.
“W-what do you mean?”
“Surely, you know,” the other man said, through an enigmatic smile. “The night we arrived here, in Bately. At the gates. You were there with your friends. We were looking for the priest—Paul. The old man with the attitude stepped forth, claimed he was the one we were after.”
Paul looked down.
“Our eyes met, remember?”
He would never forget that stare. Paul dipped his chin.
“So, perhaps it’s time to set aside that little lie, and be honest to one another.” The Warden paused, before adding, “Do you agree, Father Paul?”
“Yes. I agree.” He didn’t bother correcting him, telling him the religious title was no longer required.
“Good. Let’s walk.” He began to pace idly along the imposing walls of the hall. Paul followed, the detonator weighing heavily in his pocket.
“Why didn’t you kill me? Why did you let me go?” Paul asked.
The Warden seemed to ponder his words, before speaking. “You see, Father, I’ve always let intuition guide me, as much as reason. I’m a simple man. That night, after the battle, I sensed that there was something about you. More than that—there was a role left for you to play, in this story. A crucial one.”
“So that’s why you had Claudio murdered, rather than me.” Paul failed to conceal his bitterness, and the words came out cold, harsh.
“Claudio was his real name, was it?” The Warden nodded quietly. “Yes. He was a priest, too. In my vision, he deserved to die. I don’t expect you to accept it placidly. But perhaps, one day soon, you’ll understand.”
IMPACT_A Post-Apocalyptic Tale_The Complete Series Page 47