IMPACT_A Post-Apocalyptic Tale_The Complete Series

by Matthew Eliot

  The two men strolled on silently.

  “What is it you want from me?”

  The Warden drew a long breath. “Two things. I have a question for you—but that will come later. First, I’d like to hear your questions. I am happy to answer them. If my intuition is right, if you do have a role to play in this, I feel you have the right to know more.”

  I do have a question, yes. Should I detonate the bomb now, and die alongside you, you lunatic?

  “So? If there anything you’d like to know from me?”

  Paul straightened his shoulders. “It’s obvious, really. My first question would be why?” He spread his arms, gesturing to the hall, the throne, and the world beyond. “Why all this? What is your plan? But,” he added with a sigh, “I think I’d rather know why you killed Claudio, first.”

  They turned a corner, and now walked along the wall opposite the throne.

  “The two answers are linked, father. You see, for a new idea to prevail, it must overpower the old ones. Religion is a very powerful set of beliefs. A virus of the mind, one there is no cure for—other than one which is more contagious.”

  “And yours is?”

  “Of course. The idea I preach is the most powerful. I preach the end of all suffering, my friend. A real end to all suffering, all injustice, all pain. Not one that is merely postponed to the afterlife. Some turned to religion after the impact, but most shunned it. It had betrayed their childish belief that there was a bearded man, somewhere in the sky, that was looking after them.” The Warden chuckled quietly, amused. “When they looked up, there was no loving god peering back any more. Just thick grey clouds and the boundless void of space beyond them. Yet, many were still poisoned by the evil lies spread by people such as yourself. Priests, imams, rabbis.”

  “Evil lies? And what is the truth, then?”

  The Warden smiled. “Truth? There never was truth. Like everything else we’ve conceived of, it’s a distortion, a misunderstanding. A lie.’

  Paul frowned. He was tired, and this pseudo-philosophical talk was tedious. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “You see, it’s very simple, really. A lot simpler than the theology you dedicated so many years to. We’re a glitch, Father. A mistake, and nothing more. Mere matter that, for whatever reason, developed thought. Think of it: the same stuff of grass, rocks, metals. Whisked together and somehow developing consciousness. It’s absurd. And along with thought, came feelings, relationships, beliefs, science. And pain. But they all stem from that single, erroneous glitch.”

  Paul’s mind wandered back to Claudio, his death.

  “And to prove your point, you kill priests and imams?”

  The Warden nodded, as if it were perfectly normal. “Wherever we went, they were our first victims. They had to be. Their vision of life, of the world, no longer fit the reality of our devastated little planet. I didn’t want them spreading their filth any more.”

  “You’re a murderer.”

  The Warden pondered Paul’s words. “I’ve killed, yes. And more will die, of course. That’s the whole point.” He fell silent for a moment, then asked, “You know what pages of the bible always fascinated me the most, Paul?”

  Paul remained silent. There was a tendency amongst evil men to refer to holy scripture, and it made his blood boil.

  “Those about Abraham and Isaac,” the Warden said. “What went through his mind, I wonder? Abraham, I mean. What could lead a father to kill his own son? What thoughts crossed his mind, as he bound Isaac and prepared him for the slaughter? What kind of parent would do so?”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Paul said through gritted teeth. “That you’re merely doing what Abraham did—following a higher calling, one that escapes common morality, human law.” Paul dared look him in the eyes again. “It’s quite predictable.”

  The Warden chuckled. “As I said, father, I am a simple man. Predictable. Yes—a higher calling. But, unlike Abraham, I’m not obeying a fictional deity, here. My vision is irrefutable—if you want to eliminate suffering, you must vanquish its root cause. That cause is consciousness.”

  “You mean… humanity?”

  “Exactly.” The Warden displayed a wide, self-congratulatory grin. Then, noticing the disgust in Paul’s voice, he added, “You’d be surprised how many bowed down, embraced this vision. They did it almost immediately. I started off alone, walking the wasteland of Eastern Europe. All it took, at first, was words. And they believed me. They too saw.”

  Again, they turned along another corner, and Paul felt that reality was somehow coming loose, hanging precariously on a rusty hinge. He had the distinct impression that this titanic hall was no longer within Bately Castle, but rather floating between the stars.

  He blinked once, twice. Tried to stay alert.

  “I built an army to serve this vision. End humanity, end suffering forever. We’ve swept across the old world, father. East and West, what remains of them, bowing down to our banner. And everywhere we went, more and more people joined us. We are the true apostles of the meteorites, come to finish their job.”

  Paul scoffed. “I thought that was the ’Wraith Pack. You’re quite similar to them, aren’t you?”

  The Warden shook his head. “We’re very different, father. Like your lot, the ’wraiths lie. As you know, the rocks killed billions. And even after the impact, their deathly pathogen kept reaping lives. Those who survived were either completely immune to the disease, like you and I, or they had some sort of partial immunity: the ’wraiths. These ’Afflicted’ lived on, but sick and deformed. You’d have thought they’d just give up on life. Some did, of course. But others developed a new, poisonous religion. A powerful idea in itself, that inspired many meteorwraiths. They coalesced, formed armies and packs. They began to see themselves as the ’chosen ones,’ and nonsense like that. And it’s not just Britain, Father. With small variations, but it’s happening all over Europe. Or rather—it was.”

  Paul slid his hands into his pockets. He’d done it unconsciously, to keep them warm. When his fingers brushed against the detonator, he almost missed a step. His thumb wandered along the small object, daring only to touch it delicately. We’ll be close to the throne again, soon. Close to the bomb.

  “We exterminated them,” the Warden continued. “Both because their philosophy is in direct contrast with ours, but mainly because every army needs an enemy. An antagonist. Something to keep them busy, while we work towards the end of humanity.”

  He throws these words around so casually—’the end of humanity’. Am I really here? Am I actually listening to this madman, in this dreamlike place?

  “Why Bately? Why did you gather here?” Paul asked. It was out of genuine curiosity, but also because he felt the need to veer from those dark topics.

  “Logistics, mainly.” They were nearing the last corner, the one that would lead them back to the throne. “We needed to get as close to the north Atlantic as possible. This area offered the best available opportunity to locate functioning planes, and have them take off with some chance of success.”

  Paul didn’t know what the Warden was talking about. Planes? The Atlantic? He was too tired to ask.

  “Also, there was someone very special we needed to collect, in your town. I believe he goes by the name of Redpill.”

  Paul frowned. “Sean? Why?”

  “He’s a pawn in this game father, but nonetheless vital.” The Warden looked up, admiring the hall’s vaulted ceilings. “But it’s more than that… I knew there was something else, here, Paul. There’s something powerful, symbolic about this place. With its castle, its proximity to the sea… As a man of the church, I’m sure you appreciate the power of symbols. We came across one, Father.” The Warden’s voice had now taken on a strange tone. The same he himself sometimes had, during a rather moving service. Enchantment and wonder filled his words. “A symbol that will give my men the final proof they needed. The final push to see my vision through.”

  They tur
ned the corner. The throne only a few yards away, now. Paul’s hand shook in his pocket. His thumb lay fearfully on the DETONATE button. Was this really it? Was this how he was going to die? In his dazed state, he found it hard to think straight.

  He recalled the words the Warden had spoken but a few instants earlier. They sounded insane. “Destroy all humanity?” he asked, and it felt like his own voice were coming from somewhere far, far away. “That’s absurd.”

  “Not if you have the right weapons at your disposal,” the Warden replied confidently. “And soon, I will. You see, the rocks almost wiped us off the face of the planet, but not quite. I’m here to finish their work… I’m here to kill every single man, woman and child on Earth.”

  Paul gasped. Was he referring to nuclear weapons? It sounded like it. Paul wondered whether he controlled enough of them to actually do that.

  If this was the case, then there was only one thing to do. Regardless of whether he could think straight or not—with this man gone, his insane plan would likely never come to fruition. His mindless flock would be lost, without their charismatic leader. He tightened his grip around the detonator and swallowed.

  The nightmarish throne was now close. He knew, without having to ask, that it was carved from one of the meteorites.

  What will my last words be? He asked himself unexpectedly. He knew there wouldn’t be enough time to come up with something satisfactory, full of meaning. Life was like that.

  “Let me show you something,” the Warden said, as Paul’s thumb began to press the button. He heard those words, and knew there was nothing that could stop him now.

  Or maybe there was one thing. Adrian. Seeing Adrian there, safe and alive, would have done it.

  Adrian, yes. Or–

  “Alice,” the Warden said softly, just as Paul’s mind whispered the same name. “Come here.”

  Paul’s jaw dropped. His hand snapped open, the detonator slipping quietly back to bottom of his pocket.

  She stood there, innocent and fragile, framed by an open door. She looked clean, healthy, but scared.

  “F-father Paul,” she said shakily. She ran towards him, just as she had that very first time they met, arms wide and tears streaking her face.

  Paul knelt, or perhaps collapsed to one knee, and held her tight.

  * * *

  “Very well,” the Warden said, gently pulling Alice out of the embrace. “I’m sorry to rush you, but there are things I need to attend to.”

  The young girl stood beside Paul, holding his hand. “I’m happy you’re here,” she said, looking up at him.

  Paul frowned. With his eye fixed on the Warden, he asked her, “Have they been treating you badly, Alice?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “They’ve been… nice.”

  “Of course we have, I’d never mistreat a child, father.” The Warden’s tone was hurt.

  This man is insane, thought Paul.

  “There’s just one thing I want to show your friend, Alice,” the Warden said, as he knelt beside her. He spoke with a warmth that appeared genuine. “Would you please turn around and raise your sweater? Just a little bit.”

  “What are you–” Paul began.

  “Wait, Paul. I have no intention of harming her.” Turning to Alice, he said, “Go on, child, it’s all okay.”

  Alice nodded uneasily. With slow, embarrassed movements, she turned her back to them and uncovered her skin.

  The birthmark was just to the left of the delicate bulges of her spine. It was small, but hard to miss. At first, Paul couldn’t understand what he was meant to be looking at, why the Warden had asked this little girl to uncover in the freezing room. Then, it became clear.

  The power of symbols.

  Three circles. Uneven and jagged, perhaps, but definitely three circles. One larger, two progressively smaller ones. Just like the emblem on the Warden’s banners.

  Anyone in their right mind would disregard this—a birthmark, nothing else. But to them… to these zealots, it could hold any number of mystic meanings.

  “It’s a sign,” the Warden whispered to him. He delicately lowered the sweater down again, covering Alice’s milk-white skin. “The sign.”

  Paul could just stare back. “But it’s only a–”

  The other man raised a hand. “No, Paul. We came to Bately to pursue our vision. Here, we found Alice… we found the sign. It’s the final push we need to complete our mission.” He laid a hand on Alice’s hair, caressed it delicately. “Anyway, enough of that. I bet you’re hungry, child, aren’t you? Let’s all go and have something to eat.”

  He turned towards the door Alice had entered through, inviting them to follow him. As they left the hall, Paul felt the magnetic pull of the bomb he’d hidden under the throne. You have unfinished business here, it seemed to beckon him.

  “And while we fill our stomachs,” the Warden said, throwing a glance at Paul, “you can tell me all you know about the ’Wraith Queen. I think it’s high time we wiped her off the face of the planet.”

  Chapter 13

  The ’Wraith Queen

  Elsewhere, after night had fallen, Ana was making her way to the grand tent.

  The new arrivals had set it up with swift, expert motions, under the fascinated gaze of the members of her Pack. Once they’d finished, the Wraith Queen’s abode stood tall and wide, strangely majestic in its setting of muddy fields and wilted grass.

  Smaller tents had cropped up all over the place, her little Pack growing tenfold in a matter of hours. There was noise and excitement and ‘wraiths busying themselves all around her. Ana tucked her nose behind her turned-up collar, keeping her eyes fixed to the ground. She walked fast, but was in no hurry to get to her destination. People wanted to stop and talk, ask her to send their wishes to the Queen, or simply discuss the arrival of the army and their crowned leader. Ana brushed passed them. She wasn’t in the mood.

  Dimwit caught up with her. He walked fast, trying to match her pace.

  “Hey, Ana,” he said, his breath heavy with excitement, “they’re actually here! It’s awesome, innit?”

  She nodded tersely and walked briskly on.

  “Will you take me in to meet her?” the young ‘wraith asked her. “Please, Ana, will you? Please?”

  “Sorry, can’t.”

  “Oh come on, just for a second, just so I can—hey, slow down, I can’t–”

  “No.” She tightened her fists inside her pockets.

  “But–”

  Gówno, she cursed in her native Polish. Dimwit could be so bloody annoying.

  Without slowing down, she said, “Listen to me. I know you think this is awesome and all that, but we don’t know these people yet. We don’t know what their plans are. We can’t trust them.”

  Dimwit’s eyes and mouth widened. “But… it’s our queen, she–”

  “She’s their queen,” Ana said, and then bit her lip. It was dangerous to utter such words. Plus, she didn’t want to spoil the kid’s enthusiasm. God knew he needed to feel he belonged somewhere. She stopped and laid her hands on Dimwit’s shoulders.

  “Sorry, I’m nervous. Lots of things have happened in the last few days.” She peered into the boy’s clear eyes, studied the decay of his young skin. The Affliction could be a terrible thing. “Of course she’s our queen, and of course it’s great that all these brothers and sisters are here with us. But we have to be cautious, right? Do you understand?”

  Dimwit nodded half-heartedly. He wasn’t convinced. “Yeah, all right.”

  “And once I’ve had a word with Her Highness, I’ll try and ask her if you could come and visit her, okay?”

  Dimwit’s face lit up. “You will?”

  “I will.”

  “That’s brilliant, Ana, thank you!” He threw his arms around her.

  “I gotta go now, she’s waiting for me.”

  She set off again, and despite the fact she was about to see the woman she’d once so longed to meet, all she could think about was the ruck
sack on her bed. Packed and ready to go.

  It’s okay. Have a word with her, be polite, then tell her you can’t be Alpha ‘Wraith of this pack any longer. Then, you gather your things and leave. That’s it.

  Something told her it wasn’t going to be quite as simple as that.

  * * *

  Two guards bowed and stepped aside. “Thank you,” muttered Ana awkwardly, as she ducked past the thick drapes of the tent being held open for her. It was similar to a Native American teepee, with tall wooden poles supporting the cone structure. It was large, and inside it seemed even larger.

  The light was low, and the scent of incense and a myriad spices she could not name weighed heavy in the air. It was warm and cozy, with cushions strewn all over the carpeted floors. The outside noises faded away, reduced to weak thumps and distant whispers. There were seven people inside. None turned to greet her.

  Three women, three men, arranged in a semi-circle before her, the Queen. Mojito was among them. Ana had never seen the others. They all wore the same odd pirate-looking clothes that hung limply from Mojito’s angular figure. Ana gazed at them, one by one, but left the ‘Wraith Queen for last. She felt her own heart beating faster, the closer her eyes got to the ancient woman. It was as if she had cast a spell upon them all. There were people with that sort of charisma—your senses seemed to be immediately drawn to them, their mere presence looming over you like a towering shadow. The ‘Wraith Queen was one of them.

  Ana stood by the entrance, hands nervously clasped together, fidgeting like a schoolgirl before an exam.

  “… they’re aware of us, of course,” one of the meteorwraiths was saying—a man in his forties, who had once been muscular. The Affliction hadn’t been generous to him, leaving his skin a pale green and the whole left side of his face bloated and deformed. Yet, he spoke with authority and without hesitation. “So far,” he continued, “we’ve gained ground. We always aim to catch their telegraphists alive, get them to send misleading messages to their superiors, their men in the south. Their reports state that they suffered heavy losses, but ultimately won. So far, the tactic doesn’t appear to have raised any suspicion.”