Fray (The Ruin Saga Book 3)

by Manners, Harry

  Had he ever really appreciated the notion that it might all be for nothing—that he himself would certainly die before the Old World returned in magisterial splendour? In his daily speeches and plans he had stuck doggedly to a realist stoicism; but in his dreams, he saw the lights returning, lighting up the old cities, and planes taking to the skies once more.

  Did I ever really accept this life, or did I only hide away inside what was left of it?

  He wished it was a question he couldn’t answer, but the truth was he could: that was exactly what he had done. That was why all this had fallen down around him, why—in the end—it would all come to nothing. He had forgotten the bare reality of his fellow men, chasing street lights that would never again be lit and telephones that would never again trill.

  Alexander toured his home in the dead-quiet of early morning, touching things. He touched everything.

  People had come here from across the country not long ago. Live-in scholars in the vein of Professor DeGray who boarded upstairs in the many rooms, poring over his library and the books from the city’s vaults, excavating tidbits of know-how and nuggets of wisdom like archaeologists, rediscovering once great voices from across the sands of time. For that was what the Old World had truly become: already it was the stuff of legend, and to their children’s children it was little more than a bedtime story, myth and whimsy to explain away the hulking metallic carcasses that littered their world of encroaching forests.

  Now those scholars were gone, never to return. Where were they now, those who had been the sole conduits to the world’s origin for many fledgling communities? Dead in ditches, burned upon pyres, or marching under the sigil of a pigeon?

  By the time the first sounds of the city stirring began, Alexander had exhausted the many rooms and pokey crannies and retreated back to his study to stand by the fireside, wallowing in yet more nostalgic slime: all the times he sat here with Norman expounding a rhetoric that had never quite landed, raised a second heir—and what? Found him inadequate?

  No. Norman had greatness in him, but he would never be what Alexander had before in James.

  His mind turned to a memory he had cast from his mind for years: flames and screaming, the night everything had changed. He cast an eye at the mantelpiece, couldn’t bear to look at what was placed there, and fled. Tearing open the front door, he strode from the home he had for so long fought to uphold and knew he would never return.

  The sky had failed to grow lighter as the morning pressed on, a murky half light as hazy as a dream; pigeons whirled over the periphery of the city, an ominous black swarm that further blacked out the clouds hanging low in the sky. It had grown cold in the past day or so, not born of lack of warmth, a bone-chill he knew only too well but had felt only once: the day the world went away. As he walked the waking city’s streets, the chill chewed on him, prickling his arms and yanking at the gristle of his core.

  Warn the others? No. There’s no sense in that. They know only too well. Let them sleep.

  He passed by the cathedral, fighting off the urge to lay eyes on Agatha, Sarah, anyone. Perhaps with him far away, some of them stood a chance.

  Beside him the Stour trickled, meandering parallel to the twisting paths and cramped lanes. Such history here, over a thousand years of condensed heritage. The seat of archbishops, site decrees, and games of politics and murders that had shaped the course of entire civilisations.

  “I forgot how beautiful this place is,” he said aloud. His voice died on the breeze, bleeding away into stark nothing. The world seemed set to eat up all that remained of man, including the voices of those who lingered.

  Alexander didn’t notice when he left New Canterbury behind, but at some point he looked down and saw that he trod over grass yet again, though gnarled and unkempt, touched by recent decay. The crop fields had been on the verge of recovering from the plague that had wrought the famine. They might have been all right. Now it didn’t matter.

  The plague started all this, his mind protested.

  No. No, he had started this. Something would have brought this upon them, eventually. They should be thankful they had lasted as long as they did.

  He headed for the hills under the shadow of a lacklustre sky full of flapping harbingers, spreading his hands to either side and brushing the wheat with his fingertips.

  *

  Allie shook Agatha gently. “It’s morning. Time for the sermon,” she whispered.

  Agatha’s face wrinkled so deeply that she didn’t look quite alive, more like a carving of wisdom incarnate in moss-ridden bark. Upon her lips, the slightest touch of blue had stolen into the whitish pallor. Her eyes flicked beneath her closed lids, but otherwise she didn’t stir.

  The cathedral hummed to the tune of a few hundred people’s slow steady breathing. Most slumbered in their nests among the pews, covered in coats and blankets, gathered around candles that had died down in the night. A few sat awake, their eyes far away and fatigued by dread, hugging their knees and watching over children or elders. A few whispering appeals to the heavens rang in timorous echo under the high roof.

  Allie shook Agatha again who lay in the hollows of the transept, but she didn’t stir. She looked to Heather.

  Heather smiled, a long-suffering and tired expression that cast her a decade older. “I’m done healing, Allie. I’ve left that behind.”

  “This is Agatha. We owe her.”

  Heather crouched by Agatha, touching her forehead and squeezing a finger over her wrist. Her wan smile stretched. “She’s old, Allie. Old and tired.”

  “She’s a fighter. She’s done more for the city than anybody.”

  “Yes. That kind of strain has consequences.”

  “She was a vegetable for over a year before all this. Now she’s finally come back to us—she’s strong again.”

  “She’s near the end, Allie. She’s given everything she has to give.”

  They both looked down as Agatha groaned and her eyes fluttered open. “Speak for yerself, Missy,” she croaked.

  Allie smiled. “It’s time for the sermon.”

  Agatha’s eyes flicked to her—which seemed to take a great amount of effort—and winked. “Time to shine, eh?”

  “That’s right.”

  Heather laid a hand on Agatha’s arm. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. Rest up this morning. Let somebody else take the sermon.”

  Others woke around them as though roused by Agatha’s mere consciousness. Those who had been quietly praying crept forwards over the pews, waking yet more as they went.

  “Are you volunteerin’, m’dear?” Agatha said with a thin smile.

  Heather said nothing.

  Allie cleared her throat. “I could…”

  Agatha shook her head, stroking her cheek. “My flock needs me. Now c’mon, get me up.”

  Heather made to protest, but Agatha cast a dismissive hand and looked out through the stained-glass windows.

  “Bloody dark, this mornin’. Today ain’t a good day, is it, kiddies?”

  “No. It doesn’t look too good,” Allie said. She and Heather had spent the predawn hours with Sarah out at the roadblocks. At first light on the horizon, birds resting on rooftops and power lines had taken to the skies and begun their endless circling of the city.

  “Something wicked this way comes,” Agatha muttered.

  Allie raised her brows. “Huh?”

  Agatha flapped her hands and waved for them to get her up. “We’ve stuff to do, souls to save, yada yada. C’mon, darlings, my legs aren’t what they used to be.”

  Allie implored Heather silently, and after a moment she relented with a sigh. Together they pulled Agatha to her feet and guided her towards the podium. She took a steadying breath and whispered over her shoulder, “Best that you go join Ms Strong, girls. Somethin’ tells me she’s gonna need you.”

  Suddenly Allie saw the truth in her eyes through the misty veil over Agatha’s countenance. Their job was done here.

  “If you
feel faint or tired, rest,” Heather said. “Drink plenty—”

  “Doc, you’ve been a saint, but you ain’t got to worry about me no more. You said it yerself: you’re done nursin’. Go on now, get outta here. Go be heroes.”

  Allie and Heather passed out through the side doors into the courtyard, and made their way towards the roadblock on Main Street where Sarah had gathered the militia’s lieutenants for the morning briefing.

  “I don’t like this,” Allie said, spying the birds milling overhead. “They’re still up there. You’d think they’d get tired and just… fly away.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore,” Heather said. A spot of pallor touched her cheeks. “I don’t know if I can do this. I… I’m not a fighter.”

  “You’ll be fine. We both will.” Allie didn’t feel nearly as confident as she managed to sound. They walked for a while, then Allie cleared her throat. “What do you think is coming?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe another siege like last time? One that won’t end.”

  “I’m betting they’ll starve us out. They can’t have enough strength to rush us. All we need is for the militia to repel a first wave, and they’ll keep their distance. But if they cut us off, all they have to do is wait.” She swallowed. “I’m betting that’s how it’ll go.”

  “Great.” Heather looked only paler, gripping her belt so hard her knuckles turned white.

  Allie checked the pistol hanging from a holster at her hip, a practise she had taken to mostly out of obsession. None of them would ever have the time to become proficient with guns.

  We’re idiots with sharp sticks, yahoos running around playing soldier, she thought. But we’re all that’s left.

  “We can’t win,” Heather said. She sounded half-strangled.

  “No, but that doesn’t change anything—”

  They drew within earshot of Sarah and the others. Standing over them upon the hood of a beaten old cement truck, her proclamations slotted into the conversation so well that Allie let Sarah answer for her.

  “We’re not born for this,” she called. “But we’re going to give them all we’ve got. Our friends are still out there, looking for help, and we have to believe that they’re going to come back. We have to. All we have to do is keep the city unbreached and hold out.”

  The congregation was silent. Every refutation had been uttered, all doubts voiced. Now was the time for action.

  “Go on,” Sarah said. “Hold your stations and remember that we’re not alone.”

  The group disbanded, heading out into the city’s web of side streets. In mere moments Sarah was left with but a handful, and all around them the city had become as still and silent as the surrounding wilds. “All of you, hold this line. I’ll be back soon,” she said.

  “Where are you goin’?” said Abernathy. He looked paler than ever this morning, but he stood fast.

  “To the school. I’m late for my lesson.”

  The contingent turned to her as one, wide-eyed. A thought seemed to blaze between them as though it had been yelled aloud: have you lost your mind?

  Sarah bore their incredulity with a calm stare. “I’m a teacher. The children have known nothing but fear and pain since all this started. If this really is the end, then they deserve to be kids again, one last time.”

  “But you can’t just…,” Tommy Doogan cried, a young lad who stuck to Abernathy’s side like a limpet. The rifle in his hands looked comically large. “Don’t leave us.”

  “I’ll be back. I have to do this.”

  “Why, for the love of Christ?” Abernathy said.

  “I’m going to read to them. If this is the end, that’s what I’m going to take with me: knowing I made a difference.”

  “They should be in the cathedral where it’s safe!”

  Crushing sobriety smeared Sarah’s irked expression. “It won’t make any difference where they are. I’ve got a lesson to get to. Keep your eyes peeled.” She stalked away over the cobbles, heading for the schoolhouse.

  “Well that’s just bloody brilliant,” Abernathy said, deflated, turning his eyes upon the streets beyond the roadblock.

  “Mental,” Tommy Doogan muttered, climbing to a screened hide set into a pile of rubble. “Mental, mental…”

  Sarah passed Allie and Heather and reached out a hand to touch Allie’s arm. “Look after the boys. Not too much chocolate, make sure they’re in bed by eight.” She winked, and Allie returned a wan smile, but there was a tautness between them that could not be melted; in Sarah’s eyes there was scarcely anything but glassy, churning fear—and Allie knew that if she looked into a mirror, she would see little else.

  “Don’t dally.”

  “One story. The kids deserve that.” Then she was gone.

  Allie and Heather took their positions at the roadblock and settled down to the watch. All around the city, Allie reckoned she could feel the others hunkering down, waiting for the first pieces of hot metal to come hurtling from the ether.

  “I’m scared, Allie,” Heather said quietly.

  Allie took Heather’s hand in her own and squeezed tight.

  *

  Alexander climbed the hills alone, freezing despite the stuffy air under the clouds. It felt as though ice ate at his chest, pushing in from all sides, setting his heart racing; an afterglow of those awful moments when the skies had turned purple and a deafening whine covered all the world.

  What the hell is going on? he thought.

  Maybe he had lost his mind. Maybe he’d died in his sleep and walked not through New Canterbury but along the road to the underworld to join all those who had vanished so long ago.

  Or not, he thought as he looked at the pigeons over the city.

  He reached the log where he sometimes came to think, an innocuous and gnarled old thing that wasn’t at all sheltered from the elements but gave a good view of the city. Right here was where he had brought the first of James’s signs to Lucian: the pigeon feathers he had left for them to find. The look Lucian had given him seemed to reach through time and wrap a tight fist around his throat.

  He sat and reached into his robe, pulling out a green book so battered and torn that it was by now hanging together by threads: Alice in Wonderland. He stared at it in his hands for a while, but in time his thoughts turned to Lucian; Lucian who had stuck by him, even knowing what he knew.

  Stupid bastard was always too loyal for his own good. If he had any kind of sense, he’d have killed me…

  Alexander wondered if he would ever see him again. Was he even still alive out there with Norman and the others?

  They were so scattered. Oliver in London, Norman and Lucian in the North, himself here with Agatha—who faded so fast she might as well be gone already. They had been so strong once, so bright that the entire world seemed malleable in their hands.

  How did I screw it all up this bad?

  He stroked the book gently, feeling the embossed golden filigree, remembering his parents. His father had been given the book by his own father, just as Alexander had given it to James. Of everything he had held on to, the copy of Alice held so much of who he was and where he had come from. What if he had never dug it from the detritus of his bedroom, the day he left his parent’s home forever? Maybe the destiny of the world would have played out differently.

  He dropped the book into the grass and turned to the city. How beautiful it was even now, its colours diminished as though washed out by rain, shifting with myriad shadows cast down from the flocks circling above. He closed his eyes and let thoughtlessness take him, going gladly to a place he had seldom allowed himself to travel: sweet blissful nothing, where there was only the air in his lungs and the wind against his skin.

  When finally the cold in his chest seemed to encase his heart altogether, the masses of pigeons simultaneously ceased their orbiting and scattered, spreading out radially into the clouds. It was now mid-morning, yet the sky dimmed even further, throwing a lifeless pall over all the land, rendering the g
rass almost black and the city in a dead, flat grey. Footsteps behind him in the grass.

  Alexander didn’t move, just kept watch over his city, taking each breath deeply, savouring it. The distant treeline grew black, a lurking smudge stretching for a solid mile across the western flank of the abandoned parts of the city.

  They were here.

  The footsteps reached his side. In his peripheral vision, a figure sat beside him on the log and joined him in overlooking New Canterbury. Silence again, the wind. A few pigeons returned, circling down as they approached, landing in the surrounding grass. One landed upon the newcomer’s shoulder.

  James took a slow, ponderous breath. “Let me ask you something. When you found me—when you looked into that crib and saw me for the first time, did any part of you wonder? Did you ever have an inkling that one day that little creature you found inside would be sitting next to you about to end everything you ever cared for?”

  Alexander, over what seemed like a millennium, turned from the city to face him. Despite himself, he blinked at the ruined face: the sunken flesh and the naked gums protruding through denuded cheeks, the missing masses of bone and patches of scar tissue. His immediate thought was that he really had died, gone to a place where undead things roamed. But those eyes were just as alive as the last time he’d seen them.

  James glowered. “That’s it. How does it feel to look at your work? There was a time when I would have done anything in your name. I would have killed for you, or given my own life. The destiny you gave me, like something wrapped up pretty in ribbon, made me special—made me better. I thought it was my duty to go out there and enlighten them all—poor defenceless cretins hugging to the edge of the world, waiting for us to come along and save them. We had the divine right to poke our collective heads into other people’s business and do as we pleased… for the good of the mission.”