The Culled

by Simon Spurrier

  Something gnawed at me. Something that had been gnawing for a long, long time... Something I’d noticed and disregarded, or ignored without concern. Something that had been clanging and shouting to grab my attention, formless and silent; beginning to piece things together moment-by-moment, to build me a message.

  To show me something.

  It had to do with Bella, I think. With something she’d said.

  Doesn’t matter. Not your proble –

  No, not that. That was solved, now. I’d made it my problem. For her and Rick, and the crew of the Inferno, and the scavs and citizens and misguided Klansmen and everyone, I’d made it my problem. A regular little hero. But that wasn’t it.

  My brain itched.

  What else?

  What else did she say after we’d fucked, in the pub outside Heathrow, as we lay on the barrel chute and I curled my fingers through her hair, thinking of someone else? My Jasmine. Thinking of my Jasmine and feeling guilty and dirty and wrong, and not evening listening to what the poor girl, poor little Bella, was saying.

  Further along the corridor, a hurrying Choirboy limped towards me, hood-up, a red pack slung over his shoulder, with a medical stand used as a support. I knew it was Nate without even looking around. The drug made him smell of sweat and fear and chemicals.

  And guilt.

  What?

  “Th-that you?” he said. “What you doin’? We gotta get out of here.”

  I stared at the door of the Comms Room. Was I ready for it yet?

  Instinctively, I felt it should be the last thing that I did. It should be the last mystery to be solved. I should get everything else out the way first.

  Don’t you get distracted, boy.

  Don’t you let things slip.

  Know everything. Cover the angles.

  “Just thinking,” I said.

  “Yeah? Well... well you do it and walk, man. Crazy shit goin’ on.” He leaned down and waved frantically at the other goons, face buried in the folds of his robe. I didn’t ask where he’d got it. “They saying... they saying the Abbot’s dead. You know ’bout that?”

  I shrugged.

  “They saying there’s boats out on the lake. Circling round and round. They saying one of the choppers been knocked out. They saying it’s the... Hau... Howdenoh...”

  “The Iroquois?” I said, barely interested.

  “Yeah! How the fuck ’d they do that?”

  I shrugged again. Good for them. Wouldn’t have been difficult, I guessed. Impossible to invade the island, but easy to prowl the lake. Sneaking about, exploding a lorry or two, taking down the choppers from afar. No big undertaking, for enough people.

  I wondered how many survived the fight by the reservoir. How many of them got away because Cy and his shitheads were so busy collecting me and Nate.

  I wondered if the Tadodaho had planned it all along.

  Who knew?

  Who cared?

  I imagined Malice’s baby, gurgling on the distant shore, listening to the fireworks.

  I cared.

  How annoying.

  Nate tried to pull me upright. I shook him off.

  “C’mon!” he burbled, eyes bulging. “N-now’s the time! We can... we can slip away, maybe. Huh? In the confusion, you know? It’s your show! ’S what you do, man!We gotta... we gotta look out for each other!”

  I translated in my head. It was almost pitiful.

  You’ve got to look after me! I saved your life! Protect me! Protect me!

  He tugged at me again, staring off down the hallway.

  “Ain’t no fucking way Nathaniel C. Waterstone’s gonna die here today...”

  And there it was.

  I stared at him. He was struggling out of his robe, yanking the eye patch out of his pocket to cover the tattoo, muttering under his breath.

  “Nate?” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “What’s... What does the ‘C’ stand for?”

  He stopped with the robe looped round his neck and stared at me, like I was insane.

  “What?”

  “The ‘C.’”

  “The fuck you wanna...” He rolled his eyes and shook his head, like he’d decided to humour the mentalist to hurry him along. “Stands for Cassius. Why you wanna know?”

  “Like... Cassius Clay?”

  “My pop’s hero. S’where they got the name.”

  The pieces slotted together.

  I should have seen it before.

  No more mysteries. No more excuses.

  And finally Bella’s little voice in my head, saying over and over not your problem, not your problem, that voice had an answer from the wolf, its eyes glowing in the dark.

  Problem solved, it said.

  “Nate.”

  “Huh?”

  “We need to talk, Nate.”

  “Shit, man – it can wait! We gotta go –”

  “You remember I called you a parasite?”

  He went quiet, then nodded and waved it away.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I remember. Forget it, man. It was a... tense time. No need to apologi –”

  “I wasn’t going to, Nate.”

  “Wh... what? Oh.”

  “I was right. You are. You are a parasite.” My voice was cold. I couldn’t change it for the world. I was on autopilot.

  Not your problem, Bella said. I shushed her gently and looked up at Nate.

  His mouth formed words, trying to find something to say. Clergymen shouted nearby.

  “L-look. Fucksakes! I... listen, you got something to say, okay. O-kay. But you do it when we’re out of here, huh? Or we both die right no...”

  I pulled Cy’s gun on him. His eyes bulged. He looked angry.

  “What the... what the fuck, man? Are you out of your fucking mind? I saved your life, limey! I saved your goddamn life, like, ten times! I got shot in the goddam foot, man. Don’t you point that thing at my –”

  “Nate.”

  “Don’t you poi –”

  “Nate. Listen.”

  He listened.

  “You’re good at favours, Nate. Good at finding people to take care of you.”

  “Now hold o –”

  “No. Be quiet.” I armed the gun. It sounded like bones scraping. “You told me you went over to England in the eighties, right? Got taken out there by your exec-bitch? Lived the life of Larry, blah-blah. Cushy sort of arrangement. Right.”

  “Look, this ain’t the ti –”

  “Then you fucked her pal and screwed it up.”

  He sighed. Looked down.

  “Bummed your way around. Attached yourself to people. Yeah? Did the bare fucking minimum to make yourself useful. Got taken care of.”

  He wouldn’t look me in the eye.

  “Same as later on. You told me so yourself. The Clergy showed up, offered you a job. Nice and cosy, safe as houses. And who cared if the job was ferrying kiddies to get themselves sucked dry? Huh? Who cared? You just pretend like you don’t know.”

  The look in his eye told me: he knew.

  “Oh, and there was the smack, too. You forgot to mention that. You told me you got clean back in London. Maybe you did, for a while. Must’ve been too good an opportunity, right? When these robe-wearing pricks showed up with all the skag you can shoot?

  “Bare minimum effort, maximum reward. Easy life.”

  “L-look. It’s... it’s not like...”

  “It was the same when I showed up. Shit, Nate, don’t look at me like that. I know. You see this psycho Brit, all fired up – who cares about what? – and he can make sure you don’t get dead, and he can lead you back to the supply, and all you’ve gotta do in return is patch him up when he needs or wait for him to die.”

  “Don’t you gimme that,” he hissed, real anger in his voice. “Don’t you act like I used you. You done the same! You lied to all them scavs. You had yourself a goal, same as me, and you used any motherfucker you had to to get it.”

  “That’s true, Nate. Thank you for that.” I smiled
, cold fury doing something sharp to my belly. “I’m not a very nice piece of work either.”

  He nodded. Like he’d scored a point. “Well then.”

  “Except, the thing is, Nate... Responsibilities.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve all got them. Don’t always benefit us, but they’re there. You think I gave a shit if John-Paul lived or died? Had nothing to do with me. Just got mixed up in this. But I tell you what, Nate: I finished it. Too many people died on the way not to. Too much at stake.”

  “Make your point, limey.”

  “The point.” I worked my jaw. Sighed deep. Saw Bella’s face. “The point’s name, Nate, was Shayla.”

  He stopped breathing.

  Looked up.

  “H-how... how did you...”

  “She would’ve been, what? One, when you ran. Shit, you even left a note... ‘Couldn’t handle the responsibility,’ Bella said. Rare moment of honesty there, Nate.”

  “You... you know B-bella..?”

  “You latched onto her too, didn’t you? Nice young thing, bright as a button, rich family. I mean... there’s you, out on the streets, no place to live, and here’s this stupid kid. What an opportunity...”

  “Y-you... you shut the fuck up, now...”

  “Made her love you, right? Used her money. Got her hooked on shit and right up the duff. Then just when the cons outweigh the pros, just when there’s a kid in the picture, off you toddle. Off to the Choirboys, waiting with their job. Off to the U-S of A. Something like that?”

  He was glaring, now. Wondering whether to run or punch me.

  “Malice kept wondering,” I said, “why you wouldn’t stop staring at her kid.

  “Guilt, right?”

  The gun was heavy in my hand. I sighed.

  “Bella helped me get here.” I said, voice tighter than I’d expected. There was something like a choke rising in my throat. “She’s dead now.”

  “How long have you known who I was?” Nate said, quietly.

  “I think...” I scowled, looking inwards. “I think from the beginning. Heh. Maybe I am like you, Nate. Maybe I ignored it because you were useful. Was only just now, sitting here, that it all clicked.

  “‘Claystone,’ Bella called you. Nathaniel Cassius ‘Clay’ Waterstone. Small world.”

  “Small world,” he muttered. Almost a whisper. Then: “How’s... How’s the girl?”

  My jaw clenched.

  “That’s just it, Nate. That’s what I meant about responsibilities. Y’see, that girl, that little Shayla... she turned five last year.”

  Nate’s eyes bulged. He saw it coming.

  “They raped her mummy and dragged her away, screaming, to an airport just outside London.”

  “Oh... oh, God...”

  “They loaded her onto a plane with a dozen more, all crying, and shipped them to a shitty little airport outside the Big Apple.”

  He moaned, knees giving way.

  “And you’ll never guess who was waiting for them, with a kind word and a silly costume, to ferry them off to see a nice old man.”

  “...No, no, no, no, no...”

  “Bella told me... Bella told me it wasn’t my problem. I wonder if she knew you’d be waiting there, at the other end?”

  Tears oozed out of his eyes, falling in thick blobs to the floor of the corridor.

  “I wonder if she knew I’d make it my problem?”

  His lips parted.

  “Wait. please! Just, wai –”

  And I shot him in the head, through the centre of the tattoo over his eye, and watched as smoke coiled up from the hole.

  Then I stepped into the Comms room with a clear head.

  HER DIARY WAS there.

  The goons had moved it all to one side. Bits of old detritus, files and notes and sheets. Enough paperwork to keep anyone busy for months. They’d swept it all aside and got-on with preparing the place for John-Paul. On the TV above the control board the withered old man died, mid-confession, over and over again. Stuck on a loop.

  Her diary was there.

  I almost didn’t see it. Almost mistook it for just another book of notes, more tedious laboratory results to be communicated back to New York.

  I bought her that diary. It was just... just this stupid thing. An idea for Christmas, one year. We gave each other notebooks, wrote down all our thoughts, everything we’d done, all the stuff we’d seen and said... then swapped them back at the end of the year.

  Seems daft, now. It’s not like I would’ve been allowed to write down half the stuff I got up to.

  But hers... hers were always full. Fat with notes.

  My heart almost exploded. Her handwriting. Neat little letters, unjoined, in neat little columns. Page after page. Different pens, different colours. Dated at the top, and always the same beginning:

  My darling.

  My eyes went fuzzy.

  She’d been here. She’d been here once, but how long ago?

  My fingers were clumsy, suddenly. Pages stuck together, paper tore. I scrabbled through the tears and shakes to the last pages, blinking at each date in turn.

  Towards the end, she’d started using a page per week. Then per month.

  Space was running out, as the back cover nudged closer. I didn’t read a word, just let my eyes dance from date to date, not understanding, flicking further and further back.

  The last two entries were separated by six months.

  The last one –

  Oh...

  – the last one was made three months ago.

  I was on the floor, then. Not understanding. Lights in front of my eyes.

  Panels clicked and lights flickered on the consoles. My head swam.

  This room. This was where she contacted me. This was where the signal started.

  This was where my journey began.

  And the greatest revelation of all, the one that all the others presupposed, but that somehow took far longer to settle; that blew them out of the water one by one and left me curled in a ball, head in my hands, teeth grating together, choking on dry sobs.

  She’s alive.

  Oh, God.

  She’s alive.

  ABOVE GROUND, THE Clergy ignored me. In my robe I was just another figure, and they had more than enough to be worrying about.

  Wailing and screaming at the death of their master.

  Hunting for Iroquois warriors, as their rusting ferry was sabotaged – listing in the water – and distant rumbles shook the island.

  Some were taking over-optimistic potshots at the canoes and rowing boats just visible though the smoke, dodging between flaming patches of scummy liquid. The rest were just sitting, watching, waiting. They’d all seen the broadcast. They all knew.

  It was over.

  Soon, I’d swim out to the Iroquois in the boats. Nudging aside fiery drifts and scalding slicks. Maybe the Tadodaho was expecting me. Maybe I’d get medical treatment and food and thanks for my help.

  Maybe not. Who cared?

  I took the diary and the papers, bound up neatly. I stepped past arguing clerics and screaming soldiers, and let the world turn on around me.

  She’s alive.

  The sun was setting. Through the settling quicksmog it was a distant spotlight, misted and artificial, and by its waning glow I read through the final pages of my lover’s life.

  Find me. The last page said. Come and find me, my love.

  The fires of Lake Erie burnt around me, and the sky choked up with smoke and haze, and I flicked through pages and found –

  Yes. There.

  – found where to go. Found where to find her.

  And smiled.

  Don’t you fucking give up, soldier!

  Sir, no sir, etc, etc.

  THE END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SIMON SPURRIER is an award-winning writer of novels and graphic novel fiction. He’s worked extensively for the UK’s talent-factory title 2000 AD, has published novels with Abaddon, the Black Library and
Black Flame, and has won a series of accolades and prizes for screenwriting. He’s worked as a cook, a bookseller, a BBC Art Director and a film student. He lives in London because the night sky is a far better shade of green there than anywhere else.

  We all go a little crazy sometimes...

  Jasmine has spent five years underground, locked in a secret government bunker. Outside, the world has gone to hell, a mysterious virus killing all but 1 in 20 of the world's population.

  It's enough to drive anyone mad - but Jasmine's crazier than most. The cure she was working on had an unexpected side effect, psychotic symptoms which only powerful drugs can suppress. Jasmine's rescuers, the pirate rulers of the New Caribbean, don't care. They need Jasmine's help to discover what it is that has turned the inhabitants of Cuba into rabid killers. Jasmine's quest to find a cure for this new plague, as well as for her own madness, draws her across the fractured continent of America and into the darkest recesses of her own past.

  The Afterblight Chronicles is an exciting series of high-action post-apocalypse fiction set in a world ruled by crazed gangs and strange cults.

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  ‘AFTER THE WORLD DIED, WE ALL SORT OF DRIFTED BACK TO SCHOOL. AFTER ALL, WHERE ELSE WAS THERE TO GO?’

  Lee Keegan’s fifteen. If most of the population of the world hadn’t just died choking on their own blood, he might be worrying about acne, body odour and girls. As it is, he and the young Matron of his boarding school, Jane Crowther, have to try and protect their charges from cannibalistic gangs, religious fanatics, a bullying prefect experimenting with crucifixion, and even the might of the US Army.

  Welcome to St. Mark’s School for Boys and Girls...

  School’s Out Forever collects School’s Out, Operation Motherland and Children’s Crusade, with the short story The Man Who Would Not Be King, an introduction by the editor, interviews, and new, previously unpublished material.

  ‘Youthful idealism conflicts with jaded experience, and the characters are frequently forced to balance ruthless effi ciency with utopian optimism... A lot of provocative discussion sneaks in under the cover of machine gun fire.’