“It’s done,” James said, staring out at the storm. “Finally, things are being put right.”
The vortex of darkness now sheathed the entire length of the tower, pooling upon the ground and spreading towards the compound’s shattered walls. The surrounding skyscrapers were beginning to ice over, despite the endless sheets of rain pouring down from above.
No ordinary ice. It’s the End. It’s here, Alexander thought.
“It’s you, isn’t it? You’re doing this,” he muttered.
“We are all doing this,” James said.
“But you started it. You’re…”
“A catalyst. No more. Make no mistake: when the End comes, it will come from within. I was told that a long time ago.”
“By who?” Alexander said.
By what? he thought.
James said nothing.
They had watched people arrive from all over the city in stunned silence. Alexander had no idea where they came from, or why they came. Their messengers couldn’t have reached that many in so short a time. Yet they had come, hurrying onto the Isle of Dogs and passing through the walls.
They had caught glimpses of people emerging from the tower, drawn outside by the new arrivals, before the darkness had engulfed the compound. Now there was no knowing what went on inside. What they could see were bright red flashes bursting across Canary Wharf, colliding with other buildings. The mortar positions had been overrun, but the fire still came, undirected and random, as though trying to take out the reinforcements.
Alexander couldn’t take his eyes from the ice spreading radially outwards from the undulating blackness hiding the tower.
If the End really is coming again, it’s going to start there. It looks like the fight is nearly done.
James spoke from the window. “It was latent in all of us: the power to end things for good. The biggest irony is that if you hadn’t caused so much pain, we might never had managed it.”
Alexander shook his head. “I’m done fighting you, James. I can’t take any of it back. Why are we still here?”
James left the window and stood a few paces in front of Alexander. “Because I need you to see it, Alex. I need you to know, before it all goes away.”
“Why?” Alexander said. “Why end it all? These people have lives.”
“They had lives! Before you and the Alliance, they had a chance at making a new beginning. Now their minds are poisoned, and their families are gone. Better we all go to our fate, as we should have done in the beginning.”
“If we were all supposed to die in the End, why did we survive?”
James said nothing.
“You don’t know any more than the rest of us. You might be different—I don’t pretend to understand it, and I don’t care. But I know you can’t really think you’re doing what’s right by destroying what’s left of the world. I know you better than that.”
James tittered. “You don’t know anything about me. You never did. All you know is what you wanted me to be. If the world kept spinning, you’d do it all over again, wouldn’t you? You’d find some other poor sap to take Norman’s place, look into their eyes and tell them they’re special—that they have a great destiny. You’d fill them with hope and false dreams, and squash anybody who got in your way. You’d dig any memory of him and me out of your head and begin all over, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?”
Alexander said nothing.
James’s lip curled. “Even now, you can’t see that it was all for nothing.”
Alexander sank lower to the ground. All he wanted to do was sleep. “Just do it.”
“No. You’re going to watch. You’re going to see this through.” James pulled him to his feet, marching him to the window, pressing his face against the glass. “Watch the whole world end because you couldn’t let go.”
Alexander gasped, struggling for breath. “You can stop this. We can. Together.”
James turned him around with a wordless yell. His eyes were wild, and in that moment Alexander saw a little boy that he had once known. “Together?” he roared, his balaclava falling away, revealing the scars, the bare cheekbone.
“It wasn’t…”
James pulled them face-to-face. “What?”
Alexander forced himself to look him in the eye. “It wasn’t for nothing—”
A high whine built from nothing, and in the last moment Alex saw a shadow fall over them, staring over James’s shoulder through the window. The shell detonated twenty feet from the building, and for a silent instant a concussive blast rushed out towards them, forging an empty bubble in the sheets of falling rain. Then the roar was upon them, and the window blew out, and they were both yelling, tumbling end over end.
Alexander’s ears sang. For what seemed an age he stared at the ceiling, breathing shallowly as the wailing ebbed, replaced by a thousand sources of tinkling glass, and the rumble of the unfettered storm. Then James’s face was hovering over him, and hands wrapped around his chest, lifting him up to a sitting position.
“No,” James hissed.
Alexander struggled for breath, sharp pain stabbing his lower back. It felt very warm down there, too warm.
James’s hand probed his back. Alexander cried out when the hand pulled away, holding a six-inch shard of bloodied glass.
Alexander tried to move, but the pain only intensified. He coughed, tracing his hand over the ground and catching on the ragged shards until he found James’s arm. “James,” he slurred. He receded back now, falling away from his body, retreating under the surface of some inky ocean. “James…”
“No.” James’s stretched, scarred face contorted. His voice grew strangled, watery. “No!”
Alexander pulled him close as he fell under the ocean’s surface and whispered, “It wasn’t for nothing.”
SECOND INTERLUDE
1
By the time they reached London, the rain had become a relentless cascade. Their horses were exhausted; and being driven straight back home had proved too much. Alex had tried cutting through the capital to get back faster, but once they had entered the paved streets proper, the horses had simply stopped in united rebellion.
They piled to the ground and stood looking around at the empty city, huddled together for warmth.
Alex’s mind turned dully about in circles, caught in an endless cycle.
I lost him. He’s gone. James is gone.
Those same thoughts, replaying over and over, a maddening mantra recited without end.
He knew he should have felt guilt, anger, loss. He should have felt a lot of things. But the truth was he felt nothing. He had done what he needed to do, and it would have worked—if James hadn’t done what he did. They had been so close.
He chose to stay.
In his mind’s eye he saw a little boy, no more than eight years old, sat upon his bed begging to be read a story. Alex had read Alice in Wonderland for the thousandth time, but only after changing the boy’s life forever.
They could have been great. Together, they could have saved it all. Now the dream lay smouldering at his feet.
He knew the mourning would come later, in the light of day when he was confronted with decades’ worth of collections back home, all gathered with James by his side.
Everything he had invested, every scrap of effort over the past twenty years, all gone to nothing. The fate of the mission hung in the balance. What were they working for now, if there was nobody left behind to take up the mantle?
Lucian and Oliver took an end of Norman’s stretcher each and brought him down to the ground. The boy had scarcely stirred since they left Newquay’s Moon. They removed the tarp that had been erected as a rain-shield, revealing his head turning from side to side, splashed with fat droplets of rain. The others gathered around in silence, weary and cold.
The child’s eyelids flickered. As he stirred, the others gasped and bent close. Alex stood very still as something somewhere deep in his mind sputtered and chugged to life. The boy…
&nb
sp; A stinging blow came from nowhere, and Alex wheeled away into the rain, turning to find Lucian before him, fists bunched, his face a picture of agony.
“I know what you did!” he roared.
“Lucian, what are you doin’?” Agatha cried.
Lucian ignored her, taking a threatening step forwards. “I know it.”
Alex held up his hands. “Lucian, James—”
“I heard the shots. I heard him screaming. You would never have come down if they had come from Malverston.” His eyes bulged from their sockets. “It was you. You killed him.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Lucian’s eyes searched the air, flitting back and forth as his lips worked. Alex could see the cogs turning in his head.
“The girl.” Lucian fell slack, just staring now, all the anger gone out of him. “You…”
Alex said nothing. Agatha and Oliver had remained by Norman’s side, just out of earshot, but their gaze on him felt just as potent, burned just as deeply. He made to lay a hand on Lucian’s arm, but Lucian recoiled as though he were a leper.
“Don’t. Don’t.”
“I had to. To save him.”
“But you didn’t save him.”
“I tried. You have to believe me.”
Lucian swallowed hard. He seemed to have aged in the past few hours; some spark of youth had winked out, replaced by haggard callousness. “All my life I’ve believed you. We all have. But James…”
“I did everything I could.” Alex took a step forwards.
Again, Lucian backed away. “You used him, like you used all of us.” He shook his head. “Damn you. Damn you.”
Alex rushed forwards and pulled Lucian’s head to his chest, and Lucian came limply, beating feebly at his arms.
“Damn you!”
“I’m sorry.”
They remained like that until Lucian’s fists stopping windmilling and he stood with his head lowered in Alex’s grasp. Alex let him go and took him by the shoulders. “We can’t stop now.”
“How? He was the one, wasn’t he?” Lucian muttered. “The one with the destiny.”
Alex looked to the boy twitching between Agatha and Lincoln and swallowed hard as an idea solidified in his mind.
Am I really going to do this?
Yes. There was no other choice.
“Maybe not,” he said.
He approached Norman as the rain slicked off his brow and into his eyes. Norman blinked, squinting up at the world and whimpering. He tried to grab at his head, but Agatha took his hand gently down again, crooning and hushing.
Alex stepped between them, gesturing for them to give him space. Crouching down beside Norman, he thought of the boy’s parents, the lackadaisical sheep who had inhabited their homestead for so many years—feckless lumps to his eyes, for all the vision they had ever had.
They had never once shown a sign of desire for the Old World, nor interest in the artefacts they horded from the wilds. Never had they been awake. The boy was on the road to being the same. James had pressed Alex to teach Norman, but Alex could never bring himself to entertain the notion. Every time he looked into his eyes, all he saw was the place where light should have been, but none shone; a sad and lonely sight, like that of an extinct hearth.
No choice. It has to be one of us, one who knows our ways. He’s young enough. Maybe I can change him.
All the while in his mind’s eye, that twinkling brilliance of the boy with the emerald eyes.
“Norman, can you hear me?” he said. “I know you’re afraid. I know it hurts. But I need you to listen to me.”
“W-what’s going on?” the boy moaned. “Who are you?”
Alex looked to Oliver, then Agatha, saw the sunken dismay on their faces, and sighed.
“Friends,” Lucian said over Alex’s shoulder. His voice broke as he croaked, “We’re friends.” His brow was twisted into a twitching frown. He pursed his lips and nodded. “Go on.”
Alex could only stare at him for a moment, then turned back to Norman. “What do you remember?”
The boy only blinked, his eyes searching the city above their heads, breathing fast. “I-I…”
Alex hushed him, laying a firm hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m going to take care of you.”
Norman’s eyes rolled around to focus dimly on him. A fine boy, a nice boy—but that spark… that spark was just not there. How could Alex overcome that basic element so vital to it all?
I’ll do it by doing it. The mission demands it.
He crouched low over Norman Creek, begging forgiveness from the heavens as he whispered into his ear: “Let me tell you a secret: some people have a destiny…”
2
James tried to scream and found he couldn’t move. Lightning bolts of pain throbbed upon his face.
In his head echoed the tumultuous crash of wood, the roar of fire, the flash of live embers rushing down and mashing under his eyelids. It was burning him! He was being burned alive, he was—
Light swam above him, cool yellow shafts of morning glory. Somewhere, a bird twittered a snippet of morning chorus. He lay on a soft bed. His body was whole, still very much alive; he knew as much because pain threaded every inch of him, as though it were a resonating piece of glass on the brink of shattering. And his face—his face!
God, let me die. Let me die, now. I can’t take it, I can’t!—
“Don’t move,” said a voice beside him.
He inched his head to the side and caught sight of a small, blurry outline. He blinked his eyes into focus, and his heart burst open.
Beth. She’s alive!
He made to surge forwards, but his entire head rang like a bell and he sank back with an agonised cry. With the pain came the realisation that the person sitting next to him wasn’t Beth, but Melanie. He sobbed quietly as liquid fire crawled over his skin, and he concentrated on breathing, nerves tortured as though dug from his flesh and rubbed with sandpaper.
“Lie still,” Mel said, standing over him and gripping his hand.
He squeezed back with everything he had. He heard her grunt, but he couldn’t loosen his grip. “Wha-what?” He coughed and moaned at fresh pain running from his tongue down and into the meat of his chest.
Crackling. I can hear my lungs crackling.
Why had they pulled him here? If he was this close to death, better they had shot him like a lame horse.
He searched her eyes as his own streamed silent tears, begging for death.
“You’ll live,” Mel said, squeezing his hand in return. “You have a chance if we keep the bandages clean. The doctor said—”
James managed to mouth around his aching face—every minuscule twitch felt like pressing his head into a pool of molten lead. Doctor?
Melanie nodded. “I found one in the next town. He dressed the burns, used ointments to cover your… your face. He kept you asleep for a long time, to let it heal. He said you should be dead—that anybody else would have died.” Her eyes glittered with something that might have been fear. “But you didn’t die. He was here so long I ran out of things to trade, and Mum”—her brow darkened—“Mum is Mum. But I have medicine.”
James turned from her, shaking his head despite the pain.
Just go, leave me to fade away.
She leaned over farther. “I’m the big girl now. I’m taking care of you.”
James swallowed, bracing himself for the exertion, and wheezed, “Beth?”
The modicum of light left Mel’s eyes. She turned from him and busied herself with something behind her. Glass tinkled, metal clattered. When she turned around, she had a straw dropped into a tumbler filled to the brim with light amber liquid. The acid smell hit his nose.
It seemed moonshine qualified for medicine now.
Even shaking his head or pressing his lips together was too much. The pain increased by the moment, creeping towards unbearable. In moments he would begin screaming, whether doing so would split his face wide open or not.
When the
straw came within reach, he lunged and sucked desperately. His throat clamped shut on contact with hard liquor.
It’ll either dull the pain or make me go blind, he thought.
It seared his blistered lips, gums, and throat, but he sucked greedily until it sent him into a coughing fit. The convulsions sent fresh ripples of pain through him and Mel had to use both hands to keep him still, but already he could feel the alcohol at work, marbling his mind.
When the coughing stopped, the world warped, turning of its own accord as though somebody rotated the ceiling about his head. The pain remained, but the urge to scream had passed. He risked talking and heard his rasping voice as though from a great distance. “Beth…”
“We buried her.” Mel’s eyes were dry, but the same emptiness stole into her gaze.
James gave her a lingering stare. With the alcohol inside him, an agony all the greater came crashing in; something no drug or poultice could treat. “Take me,” he said. “Let me see her.”
Mel shook her head. “The doctor said we can’t move you. He left for Penzance yesterday. If you fall, I don’t have anything left to trade. If the burns get infected, you’ll die. You have to—”
James reached out to grip her sleeve, pulling her close. He saw fear—or was it revulsion?—in her eyes at being so close to his face.
“Take me,” he said. “Please.”
She swallowed hard with an expression so much older than he would have thought possible for her tiny round face and nodded. It took a long time for her to reposition him, incrementally lifting his torso and stuffing pillows under his back to prop him up. Then came the business of swinging his legs out, swollen yellowish-purple lumps. He had to stop several times to groan and cry, the salty tears stinging his face—a fine garnish of misery from the powers that be.
Melanie straw-fed him more liquor, until the world undulated without pause, before she risked trying to get him into the wheelchair. Even then he screamed, a high-pitched wail trapped mostly inside his own head, for his jaw remained immobile, held shut by an entrapment of bandages. Eventually he was trussed up in the seat, and she pushed him out into the street.
Fray (The Ruin Saga Book 3) Page 35