by G. P. Moss
My hand firmly on the pistol grip in my jacket pocket, the three of us head back towards the closed hotel. Resisting the temptation to slam my fist hard on the hastily erected boarding, I knock firmly before projecting my voice in a calm but authoritative manner.
“There is a woman and her young child here, in need of urgent protection. They are uninjured and unarmed. I do not require entry myself. Please hurry – thank you.”
We stand, waiting for what seems like ten minutes, before a hesitant shuffle can be heard from behind the door. The woman is shaking with cold and fear as the temperature begins to drop sharply. A nervous-sounding female voice manages to project itself through the barricade.
“Okay, but we can’t unseal this entrance. Head around the left-hand side – there’s a service entrance I can open quickly. Be quick.”
I breathe an audible sigh, knowing it’s for my own desperate situation as much as for the mother and child. As they’re ushered inside by the clearly terrified middle-aged woman, I stay until the door shuts with a heavy, sealing slam. – they’re safe for now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Resuming my march through my shattered town, it’s clear there’s no transportation available – much of the centre’s pedestrianised but the few car parks I’ve encountered, contain just a few, burned or battered wrecks, including several thrown onto their roofs – the occasional car alarm stubbornly blaring its intermittent whine while there’s still power in the battery.
On a normal day, it takes me around thirty minutes to clear the edge of central Eastsea, and another fifteen along the main road before reaching the small private estate, and our cul-de-sac. Alice and I love it, our modest home, surrounded by quiet, friendly neighbours. It’s the perfect place for us – close to the sea but away from the drama that seaside towns and ports inevitably attract.
I try not to attract attention as I hurry through both asphalt and cobbled streets, the dark sky heavy around the town like a malevolent force here to squeeze out the soul. People scurry around, darting in and out of alleyways as they attempt to reach loved ones or try to escape. The problem is, where to? There’s no electricity visible anywhere, as the last bits of weak light recede into the black night.
Shop windows, large and small, have either been blown out or are part of a more serious collapse as fallen rubble exposes husks of concrete like a devastated war zone – this time with the huge artillery of nature as an antagonist. So far, since the hotel, no subhuman killers have launched their rage upon me. I can’t even associate the word human with them any longer. ‘Subs’ – that’s my name for them now – a clear enemy, easily identifiable by their undisguised, murderous lust.
On the edge of town, I look back briefly at the smashed-up town, praying once again that some areas have been spared the brutal treatment of seismic devastation. We never saw it coming but deep down we knew there was a possibility – yes, sometime, far into the future, too many generations removed to be at the forefront of our consciousness. What now? Restore the electricity supplies and water systems? The evidence says it’s already gone too far for that – this could push us back decades or even further – if any of us survive long enough to start to rebuild. I shove these debilitating thoughts away – they’re not helpful. Once I’ve located Alice, we’ll carve our own way through this, whatever it takes, wherever we need to go. We’ll survive. I’ll protect us and I won’t leave her again.
I’m on the road now, climbing slightly, on asphalt ripped apart, leaving large craters all along. I count at least a dozen cars in the side ditches, my torchlight showing burned husks of metal, tipped nose forward into incinerated grass and hedgerows. Sometimes there’s evidence of a body, but mostly the heat has removed any evidence of former owners.
*
Reaching the edge of the estate, my stomach lurches as I survey the scene, tightening my waist strap as I start to jog through the ripped-up streets leading to our road. Most of the houses and bungalows have suffered massive damage, their roofs collapsed as shifting ground and combusting air has undoubtedly caused many to implode. The loss of life must be catastrophic but I’m not checking – I won’t give up hope – our house may still be okay.
Approaching the final corner to our street, my heart lifts a little as the large, first house appears relatively unscathed. There’s fallen masonry but at least it still looks like a house. Directing my torch to our home, a couple of hundred yards away, I immediately feel sick – heavy waves of nausea throw bile to my throat, constricting my airwaves as I bend over to get rid of the burning acid clogging my mouth.
It’s there but it’s half-collapsed. Running now, I ignore the weight of the sack trying to pull me back – if she was in there, she couldn’t have survived. We’ve no cellar – why didn’t I buy a house with a cellar? I’m furious with myself – this is all my fault.
Reaching our house, I shine the beam over the rubble and the half of our home that is left. Even the garden is black as the beam zooms in – the grass scorched to a brittle, crisp wasteland. As I begin throwing bricks and concrete behind me in a rage of self-admonishment, in a futile attempt at gaining access to the house, I realise one very important thing. Something’s missing - a glimmer of hope restoring itself as I notice Alice’s BMW isn’t here – burned, wrecked, or otherwise.
It’s not here.
She’s not here.
She could’ve made it.
*
From across the road, a banging sound interrupts my moment of happy realisation. Turning, I see it’s two of my older neighbours – Jack and Maureen. In their early sixties, they’re a cheerful, adventurous, and active couple. I call out to them, my voice hoarse from the sickness, but they don’t seem to hear me as they throw rubble from their own severely damaged home.
As I start to cross the road, they interrupt their work, breaking into a run as they scream at me in hate-filled rage. I’m shocked as I pull out the gun, my eyes involuntarily filling with water as I realise even my favourite neighbours want to kill me. With five yards to spare, I fire two rapid shots, one to each head, thankful the weapon didn’t jam. In future, I’ll shoot before they get that close – trying to retrieve a second weapon from that distance could be fatal.
I won’t rest, not until I know Alice is safe. The dark sky looks almost serene as the stars fill my vision like a multifaceted gem, oblivious to the devastation of our tiny earth in its immeasurable vastness. I waste no more time as I set off back towards the main road, leaving Jack and Maureen lying in the middle of our previously pleasant cul-de-sac, their crimson eyes dimming in the aftermath of their quick death.
Alice’s school is further into the country – it makes sense that she’ll be sheltering there, making sure the kids are looked after first. It’s what I should have done – looked after her instead of chasing bandits in faraway lands.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I can see the ruins of Alice's school from several hundred yards away. Cars are numerous along the main road - they're all burned out, some thrown over the hedgerows on each side from petrol tank explosions as they combusted while at high speed - desperately trying to escape, I can only guess.
Filled with terror, they must have witnessed others' fate before their own as they fought to put distance between themselves and the horror - there would have been no escape as each direction they turned to brought the same cataclysmic response to their pleas for survival.
I'm searching every car, holding the flashlight with a grip so firm, I release some pressure before I break either the torch or my hand. I look for any sign of Alice's BMW - the shape is etched in my memory as sharp as a photograph as I compare each wreck.
There's nothing matching her car - so far. That's good, but from what I've seen, escape, at least this way, would have proved to be impossible. As I move closer to the school, thick, cloying concrete dust brings an extra menacing element to the pitch-black sky, the dazzling stars mocking me as they illuminate the school in a show of grotesqueness
that tears at my heart.
Whole side walls are missing from classrooms, corridors exposed, filled with brick rubble, and steel beams, bent and twisted from the enormous pressure forced upon them. Shining my torch along the remaining, broken walls, childrens’ drawings hang on, tattered, and singed as melted electrical wiring protrudes through plaster and concrete.
The silence is oppressive.
"Is anybody here?" I shout, as much to disturb the stillness as expecting a response. This level of pointless destruction deserves to be called out, not to be allowed to just annihilate families then settle quietly in piles of ash.
It's impossible to search properly in here without manpower and equipment - high piles of compacted rubble block passages every twenty yards or so, forcing me to change direction like an unwilling participant in a maze where the options are stacked heavily against me.
Stepping back out, through a gaping hole in a stubbornly standing wall, I find myself to the side of the building, at the edge of the car park. It's virtually empty, the three remaining cars burned to their shells. Even in the darkness, the car furthest away has a familiar shape - as I run to its remains, my legs growing heavier by the second, I know it's Alice's BMW.
*
My heart is banging in my chest, threatening to explode as breaths become shorter - I need to control myself, quickly.
The driver's door opens with a tearing scrape of stripped, corroded metal, revealing nothing but the faintest remains of melted plastic, fused to the steel skeletons of seats, floor, and roof. I check with the focussed concentration of a forensic scientist, running my fingers through piles of ash, making sure there are no human remains.
From the corner of my eye, I briefly catch a different kind of light, orange in colour, dipping in and out of focus as if it's flickering - it could be fire. Leaving the school grounds, I climb again, towards a hill, several hundred yards away, to find the source of the light. I think it's the old manor house that Alice mentioned before I left.
I pray that Alice has made it away from the school and that she's not buried under tons of rubble. Still using the flashlight to guide my way, the ground is patchy, the feeling underfoot stony where the grass has burned away but in other places, still standing strong, even where the turf has been forced from the ground.
My gut feels heavy as I press on, willing my wife to be alive - if she's made it, we can get through this. Even if we need to sail the oceans looking for an undamaged spot, we'll do it.
Climbing higher, I can see what's left of the fracking and geothermal wells - smashed skeletons, exhausted after they've taken more than they needed, like an army of giant honey bees, dead after their killing sting. Near the summit, a sudden warmth mixed with wood smoke confuses my senses, softening the chilly night air.
At the hilltop, my gut settles at a sight I never expected - a ring of fire surrounds the manor house, much of it still intact.
*
Two figures walk slowly around the inside of the rising flames - their disciplined walk suggests they're military personnel, but they're too far away for me to be sure and the flames keep moving in response to a stiffening breeze coming off the east coast, periodically hiding them from view.
I don't walk in their direction, rather moving along on a diagonal slope as I aim to find a way through the fire. I have two loaded handguns in my pockets but I'm hoping these people are friendly and have news of survivors from the school - specifically, Alice.
"Stop right where you are!" a commanding female voice shouts, cutting through the roaring fire.
I can't see either of them now but I do as I'm told, before calling back an answer.
"I'm looking for my wife, Alice. She's a teacher at the school, behind me. Her car's burned-out there. Is she here?"
A different voice now barks instructions.
"Keep going to your right, following the fire around, until we tell you to stop. Have some identification ready."
"Okay," I call back. "I'm military - Lieutenant Alex Nowak."
Before the voice calls me to stop, I see her, the flames illuminating her olive military clothing – combat pants held tight around thick-soled black leather boots with light brown puttees. The girl is tall, perhaps five feet ten, chestnut hair tied back in a ponytail. Her grey-green eyes, sharp and alert, bore into mine, never wavering for a second, as I face her, preparing a quick speech that won’t spook her – she’s pointing a Browning straight at my sternum.
“I’m armed,” I say. “Two handguns in my pockets, one in the sack, along with two shotguns. I’ll take the guns from my pockets, and put them on the floor. Then I’ll reach inside my jacket and retrieve my military identification – okay?”
I realise that my mini arsenal would raise questions in any normal situation but this is as far from normal as it gets. The girl just raises her eyebrows, unfazed, and nods.
The other girl arrives to retrieve and inspect my identification card, while carefully moving the two guns towards her – the taller one training her weapon on me, hand steady, eyes never leaving me. The young woman reads my card, comparing the photograph, and tilting it towards the flames, checking the holograms and watermarks. Slightly shorter than her colleague, her eyes flash aquamarine, her hair dark brown, cut neat just below her ears.
Satisfied, she hands the card back, before saluting smartly, as the taller girl hands back the guns to me.
“Sir, I’m Second Lieutenant Preston.”
“No need to salute. Do you have a first name?” I ask.
“Anne, Sir.”
“Sir, I’m Second Lieutenant Miller – Evie Miller, Sir.”
As I leap over a lower section of fire, I land heavily, forgetting until the last seconds that I’m carrying a lot of weight on my back.
“Okay, but call me Alex, please. You look mighty young to be army officers – no offense meant.”
“We’ve both just finished cadet training. New commissions,” says Evie, looking less menacing now there’s no gun pointing at me.
“We can’t leave our posts, Alex. Just head to that side door but introduce yourself first – Sister Maria may be older than us but I wouldn’t want to upset her. There are a few people the Sisters rescued – I don’t know if your Alice is among them.”
Grateful to be among some friendly people at last, I head to the side entrance, its heavy frame cracked but still holding the thick oak door in place. I tap on the door, my heart beating faster than at any time since I left our devastated house.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A small, thin woman in her fifties answers my knock. Wearing a navy-blue habit and pale blue headscarf, both displaying signs of brick dust and grime, she speaks in a low but clear, confident voice.
"Yes? What do you want?"
"I'm searching for my wife, Alice - a teacher at the school."
Her intense, dark green eyes seem to soften at my answer.
"Come in," she says quietly. "We rescued a lady after she had returned to the building, searching for a colleague. The children were evacuated early on."
I resist the pointless urge of recalling the scenes on the main road, of the many people who never made it.
As I enter the manor house, the lady stops me for a second, raising a small, thin, steady hand.
"We need to be quiet. There are a few people here who are badly injured. If it is your wife, dear, she is not very well. I am Sister Maria - please follow me."
I feel sick, knowing in my heart it must be Alice - thankful she's alive but aching for her suffering. I follow Sister Maria into a side room where a younger nun initially blocks my view of a figure lying on a basic wooden bed, covered with white and blue cotton sheets.
The younger Sister moves aside as I step quietly to the bedside. Thick bandages wrapped around her head hide the beautiful hair I loved to touch, the aromas I cherished. Her eyes are shut as I stare at the familiar face of my wife, my heart refusing to steady as I will her to wake.
Turning to the older Sister, I
need to know what's wrong.
"She has crush injuries, particularly to her chest, legs and pelvis. Her breathing is shallow, severely restricted. We are giving her pain medication but her injuries are severe. Exhaustion is causing her to slip in and out of a coma. I am sorry. Your wife is very brave."
Blinking back the water accumulating in my stinging eyes, I nod, knowing she means that Alice will die, that only inner strength is keeping her alive.
Oblivious to the busy Sisters, coming and going along the corridor to the aid of others rescued, I take a seat by Alice, gently stroking her hand.
"I'm here, love. I won't go again, I promise. When you're up and better, we'll travel, go anywhere and everywhere until we find the perfect place. I love you."
I want to say more but I don't trust my voice not to crack, and betray the absolute terror in my heart.
Her eyes flicker, the delicate lashes moving rapidly for just a second, sharpening my attention, but they don't open. Feeling a change of pressure in the palm of my hand, I don't know if she's consciously squeezing it, if it's an involuntary movement, or if I'm imagining it. It feels real and I cherish the moment.
A small group of Sisters pray quietly - their words of gratitude sounding at odds with the situation. I can feel thanks for Alice, for who she is, for the joy she brings to my life, but not for the present - not this. I'm grateful for them though, for not letting her live her final moments alone.
There's always a chance. People have made miraculous recoveries since history began to be recorded - this is no different. Alice deserves to live - she gives everything, asking for nothing. I find myself thanking her, for being the brave, amazing woman she is. I'm saying it quietly but aloud - I desperately want her to know how she makes a difference, not just to me but everyone she comes across.
My eyes are growing heavy. It's the early hours of the morning and this time, the pressure in my hand increases, decreases, increases again - it feels as though she's consciously squeezing my hand.