IMPACT_A Post-Apocalyptic Tale_The Complete Series

by Matthew Eliot

  Before turning to leave, she frowned. “What’s your name, Dimwit? Your real one?”

  He looked down, a bit of shyness creeping back. “Laurence… with a u.”

  “Laurence?” Ana laughed. It was so grand, compared to his silly nickname. “It’s a beautiful name, boy.”

  Hearing those words, he seemed to believe her.

  Leaning in for one last hug, she whispered, “Good luck, Laurence.”

  Then she watched him leave, rifle in hand, happy to join the battle. She knew she’d ever see him again.

  Ignoring the dampness in her eyes, Ana turned towards the others. “Ready. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 25

  Atlantis

  Jeremy’s face was an inch from his own. Panting, drawling, hissing. It filled Sean’s view, pushing everything away, into the background. He’d never seen eyes like those.

  He opened his mouth, fighting to breathe, but Jeremy’s hold was too strong.

  “Die, you little shit,” he hissed, the skin on the old man’s neck taut against his protruding tendons.

  Sean tried to push him away, but the strength in his arms was failing him. His fists beat weakly against Jeremy’s torso, against this old man’s incongruous strong muscle.

  Jeremy tightened his grip. “Not long now, my boy.”

  It was true, Sean knew it. He knew with absolute certainty that he was about to die. Surprisingly, there were no thoughts going through his mind. No longing, no regret—just the dread of those terrifying eyes staring into his own.

  Somewhere behind Jeremy, Walscombe was shouting, begging the old man to let him go. But it wasn’t working. No, Jeremy was about to kill him.

  Sean’s lungs squirmed inside him, demanding oxygen. He choked and coughed, as he felt the last of the air leave him.

  This is it, he thought.

  “Stop it!”

  This was a new voice, not Walscombe’s. In his confusion, Sean wondered who is could be. Who had come to try and save him?

  He trained his eyes beyond Jeremy’s ghastly features, and saw Checkmate. He was crying. “Please, please stop, Jeremy!” It was the begging voice of a child.

  “I’ll just be a second, boy,” Jeremy said reassuringly. “Almost done.”

  Sean’s eyelids began to flutter. The world was growing darker. His arms fell limply at his sides.

  Then came the shots.

  Two bursts, incredibly loud. They were immediately followed by a weird series of quick, metallic bursts. Sean had no idea what they were.

  Jeremy’s hold on him weakened, then stopped.

  Sean opened his eyes—the old man was staring at him. The fury was still there, stirring in his quivering pupils. But it was fading, drowned out by an imploring look of defeat, a sadness so vast Sean could barely stand it.

  He was vaguely aware of something happening beyond Jeremy, near the bed. Something he knew was terrible. But he just couldn’t get himself to look away from the old man’s eyes, his impotent glare.

  Jeremy’s forehead finally fell against Sean’s chest, then slid down, along his stomach, his crotch, his knees. The hippie’s body hit the floor.

  Jeremy was dead.

  * * *

  Walscombe had watched speechlessly as Checkmate fired. The first shot had struck Jeremy straight in the back. As little as he knew about human anatomy, Walscombe was sure the bullet had pierced his heart.

  Had he left it at that, Checkmate would have killed Jeremy, and they might have had a chance to survive all this. But he hadn’t. He shot twice.

  Both shots proved deadly.

  As the second round exploded, Walscombe saw small bursts of sparks erupt randomly across the room. Like tiny explosives going off around them. Then, Checkmate’s head had oddly recoiled—a brief motion of the neck snapping backwards at unnatural speed, as though he’d suddenly remembered something important.

  The sparks stopped.

  An instant later, the boy was lying on the ground.

  The bullet, Walscombe thought, jumping to his feet and hopping clumsily over to the kid. It ricocheted.

  A jet of thick, red blood was gushing out from Checkmate’s neck. Before he knew it, Walscombe found himself on the ground, cradling the boy’s head in his lap. Checkmate was looking up at him, confused, scared.

  Walscombe could only shake his head. He felt tears run down his cheeks, as he peered down at the young man, at the terrible, bewildered why? in his eyes. He ran his fingers through Checkmate’s hair, trying to think of something comforting to say. But there was nothing.

  As Checkmate slipped shaking and scared into his meaningless death, Walscombe could only cry, wondering how much more suffering he’d have to see, before the end. How many more people would die in his lap? He was never meant for this.

  “Oh my god…” It was Sean. He was standing above them, a hand clasped against his lips.

  “Pass me a sheet,” Walscombe said, when Checkmate’s body had become motionless. He gently lifted the young man’s head, freeing his legs. Together, they draped the sheet over the corpse.

  Walscombe raised his bound wrists. “Help me get rid of these.” He let the boy get on with it, without saying anything else until his hands and legs were free. Then, looking Redpill in the eye, he said, his voice steady, “Listen to me. We’ll think about all this later. Now, our job is to stop the missiles.” But Sean was still staring at the sheet, at the red stain that was quickly spreading across it.

  Walscombe gave him a light, but firm, slap on the cheek. “Listen, kid. It’s important, okay? Let’s get to work.”

  Sean blinked hard, shook his head. “Yes, okay.”

  Jeremy didn’t get a sheet. Walscombe simply kicked him aside, getting him out of the way. They each sat at a computer, and began typing feverishly.

  “You work on the Russian end, I’ll take this one,” Walscombe said. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead.

  There’s no time no time no fucking time.

  “Has anyone initiated the launch?” He was afraid Jeremy’s boss in Britain—or Blighty, as the hippie had put it—might have initiated it while they dealt with the psychotic bastard.

  “No,” said Sean.

  “Okay, let’s hurry. We might just make it.”

  He didn’t know how much time had elapsed since the system had verified his voiceprint. He clicked around the screen, twice messing up and starting the wrong application.

  Try and calm down, for Chrissake.

  If Ivan’s credentials were correct, the Russian end of things should be easy. But he didn’t dare hope so.

  Walscombe’s eye fell on the chessboard. He thought back to his games with Ivan, each of them at opposite ends of the never-quite-ended Cold War. Pondered move after pondered move, they’d spent their days in good company. Nukes and chess, Walscombe thought. I’ve read countless metaphors combining nuclear warfare and chess. But they couldn’t be more different—chess offers an infinity of moves. With nuclear weapons, you’re only allowed one: the one that guarantees everyone will lose.

  After what felt like a lifetime, Sean turned to him, a weak smile on his lips. “I did it.” He pointed to his computer. “I’ve overridden their commands. It’s all blocked. They won’t know it on the other end, but if they launch the Russian missiles, nothing’s going to happen.”

  Walscombe was about to congratulate him, tell him he’d done a good job. But he couldn’t. His eyes were glued to his own monitor, where a red flashing message had popped up. Its bold, large letters read, ENGAGED.

  It was too late.

  They looked at each other, hope sizzling up and evaporating.

  Now, whoever Jeremy had given the controls to was in charge.

  There was nothing they could do.

  Chapter 26

  Alice

  An explosion rocked the castle, and Alice fell to the ground.

  “Come here, dear,” the Warden said, gently picking her up. “We’ll be safe, in here.”

  He held her by the han
d, and lead her past men and women in black uniforms, running all over the place. Some of them paused and smiled at her. Their smiles were scary.

  A large door opened, and they were in the room with the throne. A group of five or so people were standing near the rock, all huddled around something. As Alice and the Warden stepped inside, they all stood to attention. Alice saw what they’d all been looking at—it was a laptop computer.

  “Warden, sir, good news,” the man holding the computer said, as they neared him. “We have full access.” Alice noticed that his chin was shaky. He had tears in his eyes, too. But they seemed to be happy tears.

  The Warden let go of her hand, and took the computer from the other man. He looked them all in the eyes and said, “Good job, my friends.”

  “What now, sir?” one of them asked.

  The Warden stepped aside, clearing the way towards the large door. “Now, go out and fight. This is humanity’s last night on Earth. Face it with honour.”

  They all clicked their toes together in unison, bringing a hand to their foreheads. “Thank you, sir,” they said, as they ran out. Their footsteps faded, and Alice and the Warden were left alone.

  He guided her towards the throne, and she felt a chill as they got closer. “Come with me, Alice. This is where we both deserve to be,” he said, nodding towards the top of the throne. They climbed the rough steps, and when he was seated, the Warden picked her up gently and placed her in his lap.

  Sitting there, with the large empty hall spread out in front of her, Alice dared hope that Paul might still come and save her. She brought a hand to her lips, and began to cry.

  “There, there,” the Warden said. He slipped a lock of hair behind her ear, then stroked her cheek. “There’s no reason to be sad, little one. Besides, soon there will be no sadness left, believe me.” He drew a deep sigh. “You’ll never suffer again, Alice.”

  * * *

  They entered the castle from a rear entrance. Neeson knew his way around, and Paul remembered that the now defunct Bately Guard, which Neeson had been part of, had had its headquarters here.

  Rear entrance or not, there were still lots of black uniforms all over the place. Outside, Paul had watched them as they tried to gather, form lines, get organised. The Warden’s army adopted proper military tactics, but they were struggling to find order against the sheer mass of ’wraiths pushing against them.

  “Shhh.” Neeson half-turned towards Paul, a finger against his lips. Paul peered past him, and spotted two guards, kneeling beside a pile of shattered stone. A wall had collapsed.

  “We’ll get you out, Tim,” one of the men was saying. “Calm down, we’re gonna do it.” Paul couldn’t help being touched by the warmth of those words. The two men were assisting a friend, someone they cared for. Looking closer, he spotted a third man. Half his body was covered in large slabs of stone, two shaky legs jotting out. It wasn’t looking good for him.

  Neeson aimed his rifle. Three shots, surgically precise, fired from the muzzle. The two guards dropped to the ground. The one trapped under the stones stopped quivering.

  “Let’s move.”

  Paul’s blood turned to ice. He looked away, trying to avoid the sight of the three bodies.

  This is necessary, he told himself. This is necessary, if you want to have half a chance of getting to Alice.

  As he scrambled to keep up with Neeson, he quickly crossed himself. Apparently, old habits and ideas died hard. His faith, once so strong, wasn’t quite beaten.

  “Where do you think she is?” Neeson asked, as they crept along the corridors of the ancient castle.

  Paul concentrated. He knew she had a room on the upper floors of the castle, but would the Warden have led her there? No—he was one for drama and symbolism.

  “In the throne room,” he said.

  Neeson stopped. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  The other man checked his weapon, made sure it was loaded. “Only one bullet left, Paul. You better be right.”

  “I am.”

  Paul’s tone seemed to convince Neeson. “This way, then.”

  After more twists and turns, they finally found themselves in front of the great wooden door that led to the throne. It stood ajar.

  “No guards,” Neeson said, suspiciously.

  “He doesn’t need anyone else,” Paul said. “He feels invincible, now.” And if the Warden’s nuclear plan was successful, he was right. The Warden didn’t fear death, quite the contrary. Paul pushed the grand door open, and the two men stepped inside.

  * * *

  The Warden sat on the throne. In his lap, Alice and a computer.

  It was a strange sight. The man in his cloak sitting on that otherworldly rock, the innocent trembling child, and the laptop balancing on his knee. Was that how he was going to launch the nuclear strike? With the computer? And did its presence mean he still hadn’t done it? Perhaps, there was still hope.

  As he absorbed the image, Paul remembered something.

  The detonator, it’s still in my pocket.

  He wished the Warden had been alone, now. A press of a button, and the Warden would be gone, along with his plan to destroy what remained of life on Earth.

  Was that a sin? To murder a mass murderer, a man who wanted to end humanity? He didn’t know.

  “Paul,” the Warden said, extending a hand in greeting. “I knew you’d come.”

  Paul and Neeson began walking forward with guarded steps. Neeson raised the rifle, aimed it at the man on the throne. They moved slowly, afraid that he might harm Alice.

  But he wouldn’t, would he? His evil is of a different kind.

  “Come here, Alice,” Paul said, keeping his eyes on the Warden. “Come to me.”

  On the throne, the little girl hesitantly shifted, her shoulders tense. She gradually freed herself from the Warden’s hold. After a tense moment, he let her go. Paul watched as she stepped off the throne, and began walking towards him, picking up speed as she left the man in black behind her.

  “I knew it, Paul,” the Warden said. “I knew you’d be here when it mattered the most.”

  Paul ignored him, crouching over Alice, who had buried her damp cheeks into his chest. He gave the Warden a cold glance. Were they far enough to detonate the explosive? He doubted it. The best thing to do was leave, and activate the detonator when they’d put some distance between them and the castle. Hoping the Warden hadn’t launched the attack, by then.

  “Let’s go, Neeson,” he said, taking Alice by the hand.

  But before they could leave, the Warden spoke again. “Nothing matters any more, Father,” he said. “Nothing at all.” He looked lovingly towards the computer before him. “I’ve done it. One small motion of my finger on this keyboard, and the world ends.”

  Neeson frowned. “What’s he talking about?”

  Could this really be? Could he really launch a nuclear strike from that computer? It’s insane—but then again, the whole world is insane, isn’t it?

  They watched as the Warden’s index finger hovered above the ENTER key. He was moving slowly, savouring the moment.

  Hurried footfalls echoed through the corridors outside. Someone was coming.

  “Neeson, we better–” Paul began, but was interrupted by the rifle’s last shot. On the throne, the Warden slumped forwards, falling to the ground. The computer rattled a few feet away from him, as its plastic casing struck the hard rock.

  “Come on,” Neeson said, twitching his head towards the exit. Paul’s eyes were glued to the Warden, strewn out on the floor, the ghostly light from the laptop’s screen shimmering on his black cloak.

  Is he dead?

  “Paul. Let’s go now.”

  He turned towards Neeson, grabbing Alice’s hand. “Yes, let’s.”

  They hurried towards the door. A tentative belief that perhaps this was finally all over warmed Paul’s heart. He squeezed Alice’s hand, drawing strength and hope from her presence.

  Then came the gunshot. An
d the explosion of pain in his side.

  * * *

  The Warden was still holding the pistol. A quivering plume of smoke rose from its muzzle.

  Alice screamed, and Paul felt something shatter inside him as he fell to the ground. There was a passing moment in which he was neither standing nor sprawled on the stone, just falling. Just then, he knew it was all over.

  As Alice knelt by his side, he felt blood pooling beneath him, spilling out across the floor.

  She was repeating his name, over and over. Not knowing how to reply to her calls, he simply smiled. Outside, the steps were getting louder.

  “I can’t move,” he said to Neeson, pain seizing him at every syllable. “You two go. Take her with you. You need to leave before they get here.”

  “No!” Alice cried, gripping the fabric of his coat in her fists. “You need to come with us!”

  Neeson was hesitating, torn between him and the footfalls reverberating outside.

  “You know you must, Neeson,” Paul whispered. “Save Alice, please.”

  Neeson cursed beneath his breath. He quickly picked Alice up, slinging her over his shoulder. Paul felt the pressure of her touch fade, his hand instinctively darting out to hold hers. He held it outstretched, his fingers shaking.

  “Goodbye, Alice,” he said. He didn’t know whether she could hear him. Her innocent face was twisted with sorrow, tears rolling down her cheeks. Paul had never been a father, but he suspected that this, what he was feeling now as he watched her go, was the pain a father would feel. It was worse than anything. He kept his head raised, despite the searing pain this caused in his abdomen, desperate to catch every last glimpse of them.

  Before leaving, Neeson turned and gave him a short, meaningful nod. Then, they were gone.

  “Goodbye,” he said again, this time to an empty space.

  They’ll make it, he told himself. They’ll save Adrian and make it to the boat.

  Just as he thought that, there was a deep rumble, and the whole castle seemed to collapse upon them all.

  * * *

  Large slabs of rock came crashing down. The sheer noise was unbearable. It boomed and thundered, striking the walls of the castle and rebounding a thousand times over, making Paul’s bones rattle inside him. He was only semi-aware of something heavy landing on his leg, and the painful crack that followed.