Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1)

by Harry Manners

  He returned to the street with gooseflesh blossoming on his arms and neck. Hurrying away, he could no longer ignore the endless piles of clothing. He was walking over fresh, invisible graves.

  From then on, as the hours passed, he checked larger and larger establishments, eventually making his way to police stations, schools and office buildings. He found nothing but more clothing, half-eaten food, and myriad half-completed tasks. Gas hobs blazed, air conditioners whistled, and cooling car engines ticked. But there was no hint of an evacuation, or abduction. Every shred of evidence indicated that people had simply disappeared, mid-action.

  On several occasions he considered searching for the man he’d seen while Paul Towers had died at his feet. Where had he come from? Where had he gone? Had he even been there at all?

  Each time he found himself shuddering with disquiet—the manner in which that lupine smile had fixed upon him had been almost predatory, as though Alex had been but a scurrying ant beneath a magnifying glass.

  He never searched for the man. After a while, Alex even found himself pushing any thought of him from his mind.

  He slept that night in the living room of a tiny bungalow, which had belonged to a couple of pensioners, judging by its many framed photographs, stagnant atmosphere, and the flock wallpaper hanging from the walls.

  After that, he lost track of everything. Time became a dimensionless entity, settling somewhere between a trickle and a relentless cascade. Villages, roads, and towns passed by, one by one, but none yielded a single clue, just more of the same wreckage.

  On the second day, the swarms flew overhead: enormous flocks of squawking birds that wheeled and swirled as one, stretching from horizon to horizon and blacking out the sky. He spent the majority of the daylight hours looking skyward. Millions passed overhead, hour after hour; every species Alex could name, and more. They cast shadows abound onto the ruined world of man, occasionally straying too close to the ground and committing suicide in their thousands, colliding with brick walls and plummeting through panes of glass without any attempt at evasion, as though blinded.

  They plagued the heavens until dusk had fallen. When the sun rose the next day, they too had disappeared. Alex hoped that they had merely moved on instead of vanishing themselves.

  He pushed on, still accompanied by the dog, which insisted on tossing around the bloody remains of brained birds whenever he stopped to rest. He was moving north, never once diverting from an arrow-straight course, following the roads.

  At the end of the third day, while he was hopelessly lost in an area devoid of landmarks or signs of habitation, the sky grew dark and mist scaled the hills. Then the heavens opened, and rain began to hammer down over the carcass of the Old World.

  V

  Sunlight streamed through the curtains, bathing the bed in an orange glow.

  Norman stirred slowly, his body cocooned in the sheets. It was some time before he could bring himself to move, listening to the din of the waking city.

  The room grew brighter, and the shifting shadows danced to the birds’ morning chorus. Against the far wall a chintzy sofa lay strewn with his muddied, half-rotten clothing. Surrounding it was a sea of trinkets and half-remembered trophies he’d liberated from countless ruined homes.

  As the fog of sleep waned, he found himself disoriented. He could only distantly recall returning home, and had no memory of going to bed whatsoever. The previous day seemed far away and unreal, but the dirt of the wilderness still clung to his skin, matting his hair, and he could smell its concentrated stink high up in the fleshy parts of his nose.

  They relied on a cacophony of hastily repaired knickknacks for power. Lighting the city at night commandeered what little they managed to store. Hot water was for daylight hours only, and so he had been forced to slouch away to bed after only a cold, cursory flannel wash.

  As wakefulness set in and he hauled his aching body free of the bed, his stomach rumbled to the sound of thunderous growling.

  They needed more food. What they had brought back wouldn’t last more than a day or two, even with all the cooks’ tricks and the pitiful portion sizes they had all grown used to.

  Rubbing his gut and pulling on fresh clothes, he found his gaze drawn to the walls. Whenever they returned from the wilds, it all seemed more unreal—the fact that endless crowds of people, real people, had once walked the streets outside filled him with unease.

  Before the End, his house had belonged to an elderly couple. Their personals spoke of a quiet, contented lifestyle, filling the house with a quaint and wholesome atmosphere that had outlasted not only them, but the entire world. He’d kept it all exactly as it’d been left, every picture and furnishing. It was a comfort to act as custodian to something so undeniably homely. Sometimes it felt almost as though the oldies had simply gone away on a trip, leaving him as housekeep.

  Little fantasies like that made the lonelier days bearable.

  He crossed the room to crack open the window, shivering as a frosty breeze brushed his cheeks, carrying with it the distant clink of cutlery upon plates and the chattering of sleep-addled voices. Those on field duty were having breakfast in the hall. He suspected that Lucian would be there too, watching for slackers like a hawk as usual—and waiting for Norman to show his face.

  But there would be enough time for a shower. He was grimed enough to be stiff as a board. He’d make time. As he grabbed a towel and headed into the hallway, floorboards creaking in his wake, his stomach rumbled once more.

  *

  Lucian was staring at him as they sat down, his brow furrowed into its signature pockmarked streak—a wrinkled, vertical canyon between his eyes. Norman averted his gaze, intent on quelling the ache in his belly before the day’s run of trouble began in earnest.

  There were around three dozen people in the kitchen, all eating ravenously. Breakfast was eggs and toast, courtesy of their own chickens. Despite the menu’s bold claim, the disappointment wrought by the sight of what actually lay on each plate—half a boiled egg and a single wedge of bread from the Mill’s brittle loaves—pervaded the room.

  The building was low and wide, with windows large enough to permit thick shafts of soft dawn light to splash down onto a patchwork of scavenged rugs. A hearty fire crackled in the inglenook at the far end, bathing the air in a woody punch.

  But the environs did nothing for the mood. The summer morning was powerless against the grumblings of unsatisfied diners and the racket of empty stomachs.

  Manning the cookers was a small group of acting chefs. The city’s more mundane tasks ran on a rota system. Everyone took their turn. Those on the morning shift today looked drawn and tired, discontent at having had to rise before dawn only to serve such a meagre meal.

  Norman took a bite of mottled crust, tasted sawdust—Rayford Hubble, the miller, had been adding bulk to make the loaves go further—and turned his gaze upon Lucian. “What do you think?” he said.

  Lucian swallowed the last of his ration without complaint and leant back from the table. “I’m not sure we should risk it. We don’t want anybody following us back here. We can’t afford the attention. People are stretched thin as it is.”

  “I thought we needed the food,” Norman said.

  “We do.” He shrugged. “Your decision. You’re the ‘future king’.”

  Norman grimaced. “I hate that.”

  Lucian’s face remained set, but his eyes flashed with brief amusement. “I’m not going to help you make every little decision forever. Sooner or later you’re going to have to do it all solo.”

  Norman sighed and bent closer, feeling more childlike by the second. “Well, what do you think we should do?” he murmured.

  Lucian shot him a glance laced with exasperation.

  Norman rubbed his eyes, gritting his teeth. If there was one thing he hated above all else, it was being put on the spot. “We need the food, simple as that,” he said. “We’ll have to risk it.”

  Lucian nodded. Norman thought the gorge be
tween his eyes had become a little shallower, but it might have been the light. “Fine. But we need to go now, before it gets late. If we run into trouble, I don’t want to have to retreat in failing light.”

  Norman cleared his plate, savouring the flavour for a moment. Eggs had been something he’d only recently begun to eat on a frequent basis before the famine. In his childhood they had been a rare treat. Now, they were once again a rarity.

  Then he nodded, getting to his feet. “Have you heard from Allison?” he said.

  “Not since last night.”

  Norman’s gut rattled with disquiet at that. Lucian’s eyes told a similar story.

  “Just how short on supplies are we?”

  Lucian belched, stretching skyward as he got to his feet. Despite his stature—his extended fingertips didn’t reach much higher than Norman’s crown—people rarely noticed. His perpetual scowling countenance made him seem a far larger, more dangerous creature, a silver-haired wolverine.

  He thought a moment longer. “Hard to say. There are still half a dozen other scavenging parties out there. No telling what they’ll bring back.” He grumbled for a moment. “To be safe, six bags. That’ll get us through the celebration.”

  “We shouldn’t be gathering for the celebration this year. There just isn’t enough to go around.”

  “Try telling Alex that.”

  Norman grumbled, made a quick estimate in his head, and cursed. “It just isn’t going to stretch far enough. Birchington doesn’t have that much to spare. Not half of it would have germinated by now.”

  “We could try Whitstable. And we should take Allison. She'll stir up a storm if we leave her here.”

  “She’ll just slow us down. How many people could she talk to in a few hours?”

  Lucian threw him a look.

  Norman hesitated—

  How many? The whole city, and the birds in the sky to boot.

  —and then nodded. “Right. I’ll get her and meet you at the stables.” He left the hall and stepped out onto Main Street, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the rising sun.

  Beyond a rusted substation transformer from which wires spewed on all sides were three men dressed in blue overalls and hardhats, all looking up towards the top of a rusted pylon. For a moment Norman was nonplussed, until he saw the jagged silhouette of a bird’s nest amidst the cables.

  They’d had problems with birds doing that for months. People were shooting and snaring every winged creature they laid eyes on. As the crops had vanished and the forests been picked clean, hungry eyes had turned upon ravens and songbirds alike. Flocks now sought refuge in any crevices they could find. Those atop the city’s electrical pylons had become a favourite.

  Most people didn’t mind them. Their songs were a welcome reprieve from the unnatural silence that had set in over winter—set in and never departed. They had almost become public pets—to the point that, despite their hunger, the city folk had come to frown on eating them.

  The only problem was that they got caught in the wires when they tried to take flight and got themselves electrocuted, shorting out the power in the process.

  For the most part it had been chaffinches and magpies that had discovered the elevated havens. Today’s visitor, however, was unusual: a bird that Norman had never seen in the city before. The unmistakable profile of a pigeon bobbed upon the pylon before him, cocking its head and ruffling its feathers.

  Norman waved to the overall-clad men as he approached. The rest of the street was empty, with most people either out in the fields or still eating breakfast. He had no trouble spotting Robert Strong, who stood as a giant beside his two young apprentices. As he drew closer, Robert appeared only larger by the second, until he began to blot out the building behind him.

  His usual detail consisted of hauling ancient motor vehicles to the sides of the Old World roadways surrounding the city. Even with the aid of draught horses, it was tough work. To clear every road, even within a radius of a few miles, would take many more years yet.

  “Morning,” Norman called.

  They turned to him and returned the sentiment.

  “Another squatter?”

  Robert’s boulder-shaped head nodded, his gentle face—strikingly ursine—lost in the glare of the sun high above. The muscles beneath his overalls bulged, threatening to tear the fabric as he flexed his arm to shake Norman’s hand.

  “Any blackouts while we were away?” Norman said.

  “None. This guy showed up just this morning.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “Buckshot,” said one of the apprentices. “And then the oven.”

  “With a bit of cranberry sauce,” said the other.

  They were both grinning, but there was something lustful in their gazes that made Norman question whether their words were in jest.

  Robert put his hands on his hips, and they fell silent. “We’ll figure it out.” He glanced at Norman. “You heading back out?” he said. His deep baritone voice resonated in the empty street, further adding to the impression of his great stature.

  Norman nodded, continuing on towards the stables. “We’re still a few bags short.”

  “Be home for pigeon pie,” Robert said, which earned him a snicker from the boys at his waist. He began to turn away, but then paused, his brows lowered. “Hey, Creek,” he called.

  Norman, having almost passed out of earshot, stopped in his tracks. The sharpness in Robert’s voice sent a twinge of unease snaking through his loins. “Yes?” he said.

  “I heard you ran into somebody yesterday. Is that true?” His eyes said the rest—that which the young men didn’t need to hear: How bad has it gotten out there?

  Norman tried to keep his face level, but knew that his jaw had tightened despite his efforts. “Where did you hear that?”

  Robert spread his arms, his face creased into an incredulous smirk. “Come on,” he said. “Do you really think that you can keep a secret with Allie Rutherford around? If she knows, everybody knows.”

  Norman cursed inwardly. “It’s true, but nothing to worry about,” he said, more for the sake of the apprentices, whom he trusted no more than Allison.

  The young had loose tongues these days, without enough crowds to teach them any better.

  Robert drew away from his charges until Norman had to look straight up to make eye contact. His body now cut out the glare of the sun, allowing Norman an unmarred view of his face: small features set amidst vast tracts of forehead and pendulous cheeks, all of it weather-beaten, exuding a sense of frank pragmatism.

  Despite his all-man appearance, his voice had fallen to a whisper that wasn’t much more than a sigh on the wind. “Listen, Norman, what’s going on? I mean, with all this?”

  Norman blinked.

  Robert watched him expectantly. “I mean, what’s the plan? Alex has filled you in, right?”

  Norman’s stomach sank.

  Robert was above playing sheep—was, in fact, one of the few who’d known Alexander since the Early Years—but in his eyes was the same look Norman had seen more and more often over the last year. Just like the others, Robert was fishing for guidance—as though Norman were privy to some deeper, hidden truth.

  In that moment, he couldn’t have felt less divine. But the look in Robert’s eyes was too sincere, too trusting, to crush underfoot. He forced a smile onto his face. “I’ll keep you posted,” he said. “Listen, have you seen Allie this morning?”

  Robert looked stricken. “Don’t tell on me. She meant no harm.”

  “She’s coming out with us.”

  Robert pointed down the street. “She was up at dawn. I stopped her before she could run her mouth too much. I left her with Sarah.” He winked. “Go easy on her.”

  “No promises.” Norman made for the stables once more.

  *

  Sarah Clarke was quite possibly the world’s last librarian. She was also the last schoolteacher. And with such a ridiculous, inch-thick pair of spectacles as hers, she s
uited both roles to a tee. The warehouse behind Main Street was her domain, and everything beneath its high roof was under her protection.

  To most, she was a kook to be avoided, hovering upon that delicious sweet spot between giggling lunacy and unbounded enthusiasm. To Norman, she was instead something to be appreciated, like a piece of experimental—if not overambitious—art.

  An average day saw her flitting back and forth between the endless, sweeping towers of rescued books brought back from the wilds. The warehouse, an industrial-storage behemoth the size of an aircraft hangar, was filled to capacity; save for a network of narrow alleys, not an inch of floor space had been spared.

  There were similar buildings for articles of art, electronics, and vehicles—but none as large as this. The Old World’s books, which housed all its knowledge and secrets, lay strewn in the rubble of towns and cities, waiting to be picked up like nuggets of gold shimmering in a riverbed.

  The city folk saved as many as they could—had been doing so for years—but there were always more to find, and time was beginning to take its toll on their vulnerable pages. Here, they were sorted before being moved to vast storage catacombs beneath the streets.

  Norman gawped at a new, yellowed skyscraper of leather-bound volumes close to the doorway until Sarah’s flowing figure rounded a bend in the aisle ahead and cried, “You’re back!”

  She approached from an unsorted heap of hardbacks, her bony face and tomato-red hair illuminated by the widest of smiles, which was occupied by her four million teeth. Hanging from her shoulders was a robe identical to those worn by the elders, a simple white cloth that billowed around the body and stopped just beyond the knee. Precious few younger citizens were awarded the cloth, Norman among them, though he only wore his during ceremonial times, when it was expected of him.