Fall of the Cities: Putting Down Roots

by Vance Huxley

  “But fresh honey. Slurpy, drippy, yummy, sticky sweet crunchy-comb honey.” Holly’s lip licking became a real Sal special. “Jeremy said hundreds of bees, thousands, in and out of a pile of bricks. Some of us are going to have a proper look tomorrow. We won’t destroy the hive, just steal some of their goodies.”

  “Does anyone know enough to make a beehive and capture them?” Harold fancied fresh honey as well, sweet was endangered because of the price of sugar in the mart. “They’ll have to be careful, I distinctly remember the fuss about someone crossing African Killer Bees into ours to stop disease.”

  “Yes but only crosses which made them feisty, not real killers. I’ll bet Jeremy won’t care if Matti offers to kiss the stings better.” Holly sniggered. “He’ll take off his shirt.”

  “Cripes, there’ll be a lot of volunteers for bee-knapping if that sort of first aid is on offer.” Harold laughed. “That garter could get a serious workout afterwards. Though I’ll be over at the Mansion arguing with Caddi and trying to resist punching that little smile of his.”

  “I’ll have to work on compensation. After all, we have plenty of lettuce?” Holly frowned. “Lettuce and honey? Maybe not.”

  *   *   *

  Harold looked up at the low clouds, squinting his eyes against the steady drizzle, and hugged Holly tighter. “Sorry about your honey, but this weather means I’ll be here for the raid on the hive tomorrow or whenever the rain eases off. It’ll probably be late before I get back since Charger turned up so late.” Harold curled a lip in distaste. “Even if it’s dark I’ll come home. I am not stopping in that place.”

  “Good. I like my alien killing machine right where I can find him at night.” Holly pursed her lips and debated on what sort of goodbye Harold should get. “Just a four now, to keep you eager to come home.” Harold drove off up the road still smiling about that, despite the rain.

  Harold’s smile had long gone by the time he headed for home. Caddi had been a complete arse, haggling over every tiny thing. Worse, the Hot Rod boss been called away for an emergency and left Harold kicking his heels for over two hours. Now, at nine o’clock, Harold had to drive home in the dark, real darkness only an hour after sunset because today had been a cloudy, drizzly miserable day. The beams cutting through the inky blackness only emphasised how little of the city still had lighting at night.

  An inky blackness suddenly split by the flickering of gun-flashes! The Army, it had to be. The shooting stopped but Harold drove faster, worrying in case some soldier had spotted a carelessly hidden firearm and shot someone in Orchard Close. He raced down the road and turned up the access road, driving quickly round to the side wall. As he scrambled over the wall the group coming to meet him seemed to be confirmation.

  “Who?”

  He couldn’t see who was in the group but Harold’s worry grew as nobody answered, then as they reached him a voice said “Holly.”

  Emmy’s arms wrapped around Harold, tight, as he swung towards the bypass and the Army. “Not them Harold, they didn’t do it. Don’t go crazy Harold. The bastard is dead. He’s dead.” Emmy spoke quietly and hugged fiercely and now more arms wrapped around him.

  “Holly?” She couldn’t be dead, just like that, when she’d waved him goodbye with that big smile. “Holly!”

  “She’s gone Harold. Holly’s gone.” For once Liz had lost all her banter, the grief stark in her voice. “We’ve got her safe, but she’s dead Harold.”

  “Where?” Harold turned back towards home, and the arms let him. “Where’s Holly?”

  “Safe. You don’t want to see her just now. Soon, Harold.” Liz sobbed as she spoke but held tight, and now others were sobbing as well.

  “Why? I want to see Holly.”

  “We’ll make her pretty. Soon, Harold.” Emmy sniffed. “We won’t let you, Harold.” Emmy started to cry again and both women’s arms tightened around him.

  “I brought her home Harold. Your Sharyn’s got her.” Barry’s voice was bleak. “Just wait a little bit, Harold. It really is best.” Even above the sounds of grief, Barry’s great racking sigh came through clearly. “Better to wait. I know Harold, please believe me.”

  The sheer certainty in Barry’s voice got through, but didn’t help as Harold tried to work out why he shouldn’t see her. “But why? What happened? Why Holly? Who did it? Who’s dead?” Because now Harold wondered what mistake he’d made, what sign he’d missed, which traitor he’d let in to kill her.

  “Spike, Harold. Spike Pierce. The Minuteman.” Bess sounded in shock, stunned. “It’s my fault Harold, he came back.”

  Harold struggled to work that out even as voices rose, telling Bess it wasn’t her fault. Then he remembered. The Minutemen, the armed men who brought Bess and Conn and the rest of the refugees from the Armstrong Estate, a million years ago. That was the mistake. That was how Harold had killed Holly. “I should have killed him. It’s my fault.” Sheer black despair swept in and Harold never really pieced the next bit together. He never really tried.

  Sometime later Harold sat weeping and holding Holly’s hand as people squeezed his shoulder and murmured something, and then they were alone. Barry or someone had laid Holly on a door, on trestles. Emmy had been right, and by the time Harold saw her Holly was pretty. But she’d been pretty when he left her, laughing about what level his welcome kiss would be. Not even a level one now.

  Holly wore her vampire dress, the long green one down to her feet and up to her throat, with a wide green choker. Someone had put her hair up, as it had been for the vampire dance, but now her pale skin and cold hand mocked Harold. They’d made her up, more makeup than Holly ever wore, and had even put a little dusting of green on her closed eyelids to match her dress. Harold asked her about that, why she’d never worn eye makeup? He asked about the bees and talked about the amount of veg that had ripened. Harold started with those, and a lot of other bits about the pair of them, and ended up with how worried he’d been about kissing levels. About how happy he’d been to find that Holly wanted to kiss, had wanted advanced, had wanted to be his main squeeze. Harold talked until his throat was sore and he simply didn’t have any more words so he sat there and held her hand.

  Liz spoke quietly but Harold jumped anyway. “It’s time.”

  Harold tried twice and croaked “What?”

  “Three o’clock, the low time and you’ve stopped talking. Time for me to tell you. So you know.” Liz sighed. “But first for you to have a drink. Otherwise you won’t be able to speak.” A mug pushed against Harold’s hand. “Drink it all. There’s more.”

  Harold drank, the whole mug of juice. “Fruit juice?”

  “If you drink anything stronger, you’ll keep going and never climb out of the bottle. Now I’m going to tell you, and then you hear Holly’s goodbye.”

  “What!”

  “Keep calm, Harold. Listen to me and then to her. It won’t take long if you sit quiet.” Liz paused for a while, and then started in a quiet, level voice. “You weren’t home by dark, but nobody worried because you set off late. Holly left it an hour and then decided someone had to check the sentries. You always did that at full dark Harold, you did it together.”

  “But.”

  “Shush now. But nothing. At the gate Holly told the guards she was doing it to save you a job. That after your hello kiss you wouldn’t want to go out again.” Liz sighed. “I’d skip bits but too many people know and it will come out.” Liz fell silent for a few moments. “They came across the gardens, and came slow enough for the watchers to miss them in the dark. We’re all a bit casual about that side because of the two guards out watching for deer and rabbits.” Liz sighed again. “They’re both dead Harold, the guards. Three crossbow bolts in each one. The three of them had those things on headbands and could see in the dark.”

  “Three?”

  “All dead Harold. Drink your juice and I’ll get to the rest.” Harold drank in some sort of a daze and Liz topped it up. “They grabbed Holly and stopped
her shouting, but she got a hand to her pistol. That poser Glock thing you gave her for under her jacket. One must have stopped her aiming so she fired anyway.” Liz reached out a hand and gently touched Holly’s dress. “Under there is a big burn and a bullet track down the outside of her leg.” Liz stopped and her grip on Harold’s shoulder tightened. “I’m sorry Harold. I don’t carry a gun. I came out of Celine’s place and all I could do was scream. I couldn’t help.”

  “I understand.”

  “I know you do.” Liz got her voice almost level again. “The dogs started and others came out but the men dragged her over the wall, kicking and struggling and screaming. She didn’t give up Harold.”

  “She wouldn’t.”

  “They’d got handcuffs on her by then, and carried her, but we got lights on them halfway across the gardens. A dozen people called for them to stop or else, and they did.” Liz paused. “They stopped to get behind Holly so we couldn’t shoot and the leader, Pierce, put a big knife under Holly’s chin. Said if anyone fired she died.” Liz fell silent and Harold waited, because he knew what had to be coming. Not the detail, the ending.

  “Bess offered to swap herself. Crap Harold I don’t want to tell you this but half Orchard Close heard, maybe more.” Liz paused again and Harold heard a catch in her breath. “He said no, that Bess is a bit used up but this one had plenty of mileage. Said she’d bring a decent price when they’d done. That she’d be trained and if Soldier Boy wanted her back to put in a bid.” Liz stopped and Harold heard her take a drink. “All just to keep us listening instead of shooting because all the time the three of them moved back a bit at a time, getting further away. He put a hand on her leg, said he’d leave you a souvenir and Holly said something. He let her talk.”

  Liz leant forward and put a hand recorder on the door next to Holly. “Holly asked someone to record. Half of us carry these in case we think of something, to save paper.”

  “I know.”

  “You would. It’s your idea. Now listen.” Liz pressed play. Holly’s voice came from a long way off, even though she was shouting.

  “Hello Harold. Please listen to me. Don’t follow them, or they’ll ambush you in the dark. They’ll kill you and then the animals will get us all, everyone in Orchard Close. Keep everyone safe. Find another girl, take her to level eighty-four, and have lots of babies. I won’t let them touch me Harold, I’m yours.” Voices were raised nearer, exclaiming, and then a brief storm of gunshots rang out. The recorder stopped.

  “Holly brought up her hands and grabbed the knife blade, caught him by surprise. Then she dropped so her throat ran across the knife, Harold. No! Don’t!” Harold had automatically reached for that wide choker Holly wore, much too wide and thick, but Liz’s voice stopped him. “Everyone pointing a weapon pulled the trigger and all three dropped.” Sheer savagery showed briefly as Liz spoke on. “All the shooters wished they hadn’t, afterwards. We wished they’d aimed at legs to get them alive.”

  “Bad road to go down.” Right now Harold wanted to go down that road, bloody-handed and with no remorse.

  “You always said so.” Liz’s hand tightened briefly again. “Holly was really happy you know.”

  “Don’t. Not now.”

  “Now is the right time. Holly thought it was funny how you worried. How you fretted that she still had to get over Brodie.” Liz chuckled but without much humour. “She never needed to.”

  “But.”

  “Shush. Holly found out she wasn’t angry about Brodie when Gabriela died. Holly was angry about everyone who died. So when a bloke kissed her at Halloween and she liked it, there was nothing to stop her.”

  That broke through enough for surprise. “Halloween?”

  “Oh yes.” Liz paused. “You frightened the life out of her because Holly suddenly wanted to kiss you again. Holly was terrified.”

  “Of me?”

  “No, you big daft lump. Frightened of being too easy, or of you finding someone else, or that you didn’t like her. Cripes, she went to the dance wearing a tutu and a halo so you’d notice her and then worried you’d think she was a tart.”

  Harold smiled, a sad one. “I never thought that.”

  “No you didn’t. All the girl club laughed about Holly trading her numbers to get Sandy, or Barry, someone like that. Then they caught on, but too late. Casper nearly wet himself.” Liz stopped. “Ah, Casper.”

  “Where is he?” For one awful moment Harold wondered if Casper had died as well, because he hadn’t been waiting, or come round to see Holly.

  “Alive. He insists if he’d pulled his fairy head out of his fairy ass he would have been with Holly, walking round the sentries. He won’t talk to you yet.”

  “Idiot.”

  “So are you. I heard you. It’s your fault because you didn’t shoot a man in cold blood nine months ago.” Liz drank and nudged Harold, so he drained the mug and accepted a refill. “Anyway, wetting himself, or myself. I nearly did when you came in all stern and ticked me off.” Liz actually sniggered. “Level four rocked Holly’s world and shook her rigid. She fancied level fourteen right then, but was still frightened.”

  “She rocked my world, Liz.” Harold blinked slowly, then forced his eyes wide open.

  “We all got that part, probably because of the big stupid grin. Grieve Harold, you have to, but remember Holly smiling and be happy for her. She’s been happier this last nine months than most people in this stinking city will be in their whole lives.” Liz paused. “That’s enough. Why don’t you sleep now? Holly won’t mind.”

  “I can’t sleep.” Even as he said it Harold’s eyelids drooped again and he fought them open. “Later, lots of time later.”

  “Now, so you can be washed and shaved when she needs you to be.”

  “I can’t.” Exhaustion crashed in and Harold swayed. “Wha…?”

  “Sleep now, Soldier Boy.” Harold didn’t feel Liz catch him and hold him up in his chair. “Come on you lot, he weighs a ton.”

  “Let me check. Patricia, check him. Was it too much?” Gayle fussed as Patricia and Lenny checked and smiled.

  Patricia patted Gayle’s shoulder. “Sleeping like a baby. If I need a good solid night I know who to see, you and Lenny.” Meanwhile Barry, Alfie and Bernie brought in a camp bed and put it up next to Holly. The men laid Harold out in recovery position, then almost everyone left. Liz settled down in an armchair just in case he woke up, but Gayle had got the dosage right.

  *   *   *

  Harold stumbled and caught himself when he saw the pyres, because he knew exactly which one had been built for Holly. He was still in some sort of daze but Sharyn had shaken him awake and poured coffee into him. She’d chivvied him into a shave and shower and clean clothes, in the main bathroom because Harold couldn’t go back in there, into his bedroom. She’d said the pyre was ready, but not what they’d done. Some stupid part of Harold said the bugs would have a field day because flowers from the gardens and even from the ruins smothered one stack of timber. Someone even made a posy for Holly, and a Daisy chain to crown her.

  Harold stood on the step and looked at Holly and couldn’t say a word. No last words, they wouldn’t come. Instead people came past and murmured this and that. Eventually he stood there alone, and Sharyn pulled him gently backwards. Someone took the step away and Harold never saw Holly again because experience and books had taught them to build pyres higher, shaped to concentrate the heat. “Here, Harold.” He took the first torch and then the second, and bid Muhammad and Luke fare thee well. Liz lit the third, then Harold stood there with the torch burning until Sharyn gave him a push.

  It took Harold three tries. “Fair thee well, Holly.” The torch went in and Harold stepped back and turned towards the rest. He took a deep breath.

  “Atoms reborn into grass.” His sight blurred and Harold pulled in another breath.

  “Fire and passion….” He couldn’t say it, say the next word, and tears blinded him.

  “Stilled at last.” Tha
t might have been Liz, but then more voices joined. Harold’s legs went and he sat down as the chant grew, and grew, until the voices of children joined the last two lines.

  “Clouds, of happy what might be’s

  Scattered showers of grief and tears

  Fading memories, not quite true,

  One day, my friend, this will be you.”

  The final words rolled out across the pyres and Harold, and out over the ruins, and Harold buried his head in his hands.

  *   *   *

  Harold raised his head as he heard the centre of the pyre collapse, pulling some of the other timbers in as well. Dusk, but a large figure wrapped in a big blanket still sat about twenty feet away. “I’m all right.”

  “I know. Amber wants to watch.” The blanket opened and a small head peeked out, then retreated.

  “I mean it. I’m not going to throw myself on there.”

  “Not now.” Casper made no move to get up.

  “Is this payback?”

  “More like an apology.” Casper looked up and Harold could make out his face in the light from the flames. He looked shocking.

  “You look bloody awful.”

  “Yeah. You too.” Casper sighed. “Yes I’m staying, no I won’t go, and yes it would have been different if I’d walked the sentries because you weren’t back instead of being busy feeling sorry for myself.”

  “It would have been different if I’d told Caddi to stop fucking about and come home earlier, or shot that fucker back in November.”

  “Not that Harold. Holly hated the swearing.”

  “Sorry luv, except she can’t hear me. That’s the only problem with being a godless heathen. No happy lies.” Harold sighed. “But you’re right about swearing.” Harold turned towards the pyre and looked up at the tower of flame and smoke. “It’ll be a while yet.”

  “You know the answer.”

  “Yeah. Payback.”

  *   *   *

  As dawn struggled through the clouds Harold stood up. It took a bit because he was stiff, almost set in place. The bottles of water people brought in the night had meant him leaving the pyre briefly, but otherwise he’d watched it burn. He’d watched the ashes glow and hiss in the light rain sometime after midnight, and then probably slept. Casper stayed where he sat, watching. “The urn is there. There’s two shovels?”