Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1)

by Harry Manners

  “Billy?” said Alex.

  Heather shrugged. “He was alone. He might have been hallucinating, because he’s taken a good few blows to the head.”

  Lucian went to the window. His face had contorted into a mask that failed to hide a boiling tumult behind his eyes. His brows had creased into the jagged crevasse between his eyes. “How did you find him?”

  “Hubble found him in the woods when he was out on patrol. He says he found him face down in a streambed…that there were footprints everywhere.”

  Lucian stormed towards the corridor before she’d finished.

  “Where are you going?” Alex said.

  Lucian’s bellowed reply echoed throughout the clinic, “To find Ray!”

  Alex and Norman shared a look, and then headed after him, stepping over the pile of stiffening clothes as they went. As they were about to pass the threshold, the old man cried out, “Stop!”

  They both froze, turning to each other and then to him.

  He had struggled onto an elbow, propped up by Heather, who hurried to place a supporting pillow behind his back. As soon as he was settled, he beckoned them, his spider-like fingers waggling, drawing them forth.

  Lucian’s retreating footsteps, however, seemed to clutch at Alexander’s attention greedily. He appeared to size up the old man, shook his head, and turned after Lucian, disappearing into the hallway’s shadows.

  Norman hesitated, cursing. He expected to follow at Alex’s heel but, before he knew it, found himself about-facing to approach the bed. Heather backed away a step to allow him access.

  Norman crouched beside the old man. Up close, he was a pitiful semblance of life.

  Despite the images of gnarled fingers and putrefying bodies floating in his mind’s eye, he leant closer to the bloodied ruin.

  Erupting from the sheets, the old man surged forwards and grabbed him by the collar with a bony fist, wrenching him forwards until they were face to face. His strength was incredible, frightening. A burgeoning fury flickered behind his eyes, and his voice carried a fire that it probably hadn’t known for a long time. “They didn’t want you see them,” he breathed.

  Norman’s voice caught in his throat, “W—What?”

  “There’s someone out there.”

  “Who?”

  The old man’s eyes twitched. “They didn’t want you to see,” he said. He glanced around the ward, as though expecting to see ghouls awaiting him in the shadows.

  “Who didn’t?”

  “They’re watching you, out there.”

  “Who?”

  “Watching you!”

  Wild-eyed and gasping, he released Norman and collapsed back onto his pillow, still throwing glances around at the room’s corners.

  Norman lost his balance and fell back onto the floor, aghast. He stared about the clinic in bewildered fright until his gaze fell on the doorway.

  Alex stood upon the threshold. Norman hadn’t heard him return. The hollows of his eyes were naught but shadows in the semidarkness of the corridor.

  *

  The racket of the distant feast played upon the edge of audibility as Norman and Alex hurried from the infirmary. Far away they could see Lucian’s silhouette as he ran towards the mill, near the edge of the city, far away from Main Street. They changed course to intercept him, scurrying from the streetlights’ glow and onto darkened cobbles.

  “Did you hear what he said?” Norman said.

  Alex nodded with a grimace. “I heard him.”

  “Why would anybody be watching us?”

  Alexander took some moments to reply, “I don’t know.”

  Norman thought he might have seen a flicker in his eyes, but then they’d both broken into a run, and he had to turn his attention to navigating the cobbles without breaking his ankles.

  They caught up with Lucian as he approached the mill’s iron-gated garden, beside which was Rayford Hubble’s adjoining stone cottage. In the day, its thatched roof and lichen-strewn walls were made beautiful by an encircling row of lavender.

  At night, however, it was very different—almost foreboding, perched upon its foundations in profile only, crooked and cold, with only the river at its rear to lend it a sense of life. A single light was filtering out through the ground-floor window, but besides that lonely glow the mill was still and quiet.

  “Ray!” Lucian yelled, hammering on the door.

  They waited for an answer, but none came. The only sound emanating from within was the echoing creak of the water wheel, which jostled in the Stour’s current.

  “Maybe he’s asleep,” said Norman.

  “No, he’s up,” Lucian said. “Hubble never sleeps a wink after nightfall. The bastard’s been convinced people are sneaking into the city for years.” He hammered on the door once more, shaking it upon its hinges.

  Again, there was no answer.

  “Wasn’t he at the feast?”

  “Just his family,” Alex said, standing back to check the darkened upper windows. “He went on one of his patrols. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t hear me.”

  Lucian hammered on the door yet again.

  This time, he was answered: the clinking of glass came from somewhere inside.

  Norman’s gaze jerked to the door. There was something unsettling about that sound and the strained silence that followed.

  “Ray?” Lucian bellowed. “Are you alright?”

  No response.

  “Ray?” Lucian listened a moment further, then waved them back and threw his body against the door, shattering the wood at the handle and slamming it against the interior wall.

  Norman glimpsed a blackened hallway lined with flour sacks. Then sudden movement over by the staircase revealed a figure that had been hidden in shadow, rushing into the bowels of the house.

  Lucian surged forwards with a wordless howl, racing past the flour sacks and shards of wooden shrapnel, with Alexander following close behind.

  Norman froze for a moment, caught off guard, rooted to the spot. It was only with great effort that he surged after them, while the sound of smashing glass and overturning tables rattled out from within.

  “Ray, are you in here?” Lucian called, his voice overwhelmed by the rumble of boots on hard floors.

  Norman fought his way past toppled sacks, stumbling over spilt flour. As he did so, he caught a glance through the tiny kitchen to the back door, which blew in the wind, with only a single hinge anchoring it to the door frame. Dimly, he registered the heaps of mud that had been traipsed across the floor.

  The light filtering through the living-room doorway flickered as bodies passed between it and its source. By the time Norman staggered free, Lucian’s voice once again seemed loud amidst fresh silence. “Norman.”

  Norman whirled past the threshold, cracking glass underfoot. He stepped over a toppled chair, the legs of which lay splintered on the floor. He came to a stop just behind Alex and Lucian, laying eyes on what lay below.

  A heavy silence fell over the room and its shredded furnishings. The light they had seen through the window had come from an old oil lantern, which hung from a high peg near the ceiling. It was still alight, throwing the horror upon the rug into sharp relief.

  Ray was a huge man, with a head the size of Norman’s torso and arms like slabs of ham. Bald and bearded, he was dressed in a checked lumberjack shirt, covered by a moleskin jacket that would have reached his ankles if he’d been standing.

  Spread-eagled on the floor, his eyes were fixed on the crumbled ceiling, unseeing. He had come to rest wrapped around the edge of his tattered dining table, his legs bent and his skin white as snow. His throat had been slit from ear to ear, and a pool of his blood had stained the carpet scarlet.

  Norman stared at the fallen giant, open-mouthed, as Lucian struck the doorframe with his fist and hurried back into the street. The sound of his footsteps dissipated into the night, accompanied by a feral growl gurgling from deep in his throat.

  Norman and Alexander were left s
tanding over the corpse. Alex crouched down beside Ray’s body and reached for his eyes. Under his fingers’ guidance, the lids rolled limply to a close, and Ray’s eyes were veiled from view forevermore.

  *

  “What are you doing?” Norman said.

  They stood in the armoury. A small building that appeared to be little more than a shed from the outside, it was in fact heavily fortified and surrounded at all times by half a dozen armed men. Breezeblocks formed an additional inner wall to that of the red brick exterior, while the ceiling was lined with steel and edged by rings of razor wire.

  Four men and three women, pulled from sentry duty throughout the city, were now gathered in the cramped space, grabbing rifles. They each bore masks of studied focus, and worked with efficient and nimble gestures, asking questions without pause—How many are there? Are they armed? Which way did they go?

  Lucian answered each with, “I don’t know.”

  Norman grabbed him by the arm, taking him aside. “Do you really think that this is a good idea?” he whispered.

  Lucian blinked. “What? Are we supposed to let them get away, Norman? What kind of message does that send?”

  Norman felt incredulity rear up in his stomach. “What kind of message will it send? That’s not important right now. What’s important is assessing the situation.”

  Lucian cast a hasty wave of his hand. “We don’t have time to assess anything.”

  “You’re going to go out there into the middle of nowhere at night? You don’t know what could be waiting for you, and you don’t know where they went.” He paused. “In fact, we don’t even know who did this. We know nothing!”

  Lucian scowled, tucking a pistol into the seat of his trousers. He then lifted an assault rifle from a rack beside the door, picked up a pair of magazines, and pushed Norman aside. “Norman,” he grated. “Those people in the cathedral may have the luxury of being ignorant enough to believe that we’re safe here, but not you and me. You’ve seen what happens to people out there, I know you have. We’re no different.” He pointed to the door. “There was somebody here who we didn’t so much as catch a glimpse of. They’ve killed an innocent man in his home, and beat another half to death. If we don’t go right now then they’re going to get away with murder.”

  He made to push past, but Norman held firm, gripping Lucian’s wrist. “Everybody’s looking to me to make a decision. But when I try to make one, it falls on deaf ears. If I can’t convince you of this one thing, who can I convince of anything?”

  Lucian looked at him searchingly for a moment. “Not this, not now,” he said.

  He tried to pull away, but Norman only gripped harder despite himself, feeling desperation crawl up his spine. “Lucian—”

  “Listen, boy! I don’t have time for your crisis of confidence tonight,” Lucian spat, his eyes alight and his brow furrowed into its deep crevasse. With a jerk he pulled himself free and stalked off down the street, followed by the procession of guards, leaving the city defenceless.

  Norman remained in the doorway for some time, trying to quell the lump in his throat.

  He thought of going to Alexander, but quickly cast the notion aside; if Lucian wanted to go, then there was nobody who could stop him. Besides, Alex had already left for the cathedral to warn everybody.

  And, said a voice deep in his head, what good are you ever going to be if you need him to fix every little thing? Just this once, do something yourself. He stepped out into the street and looked away towards the mill.

  Ray’s murder had been stealthy and quiet, far removed from an outright attack. It was more akin to something that Norman had only read of, something that belonged to the history pages of the Old World: an assassination.

  There couldn’t have been more than a handful of intruders if they’d gotten in unobserved. Such limited numbers made for good odds in a showdown.

  But Lucian’s hunting party was still in danger. There was no plan. They had set off at random into the night. Lucian had given chase without a single thought for what they would do when they caught up with their quarry.

  Sighing, Norman ducked back inside, grabbing a pistol and shutting off the lights. Locking the door and throwing the keys to the nearest armoury guard, he took one last look back towards the cathedral and then hurried after Lucian.

  XII

  Don ran through the night. He was sure the crunch of his footsteps in the leaf litter was loud, too loud, but all he could hear was the roar of the blood rushing in his ears. Billy was clinging to his back, sobbing into his coat. He hushed her with a shaking voice as he struggled uphill, his legs burning with each stride.

  Clawing for purchase, he slipped and staggered his way uphill. The trees were wreathed in darkness, and the underbrush was disorienting, undulated in the moonlight. From every direction he sensed eyes upon him.

  But whenever he blinked, expecting to be set upon by a dozen shadows and beaten into oblivion, he instead found himself an inch higher up the incline, still struggling—still alive.

  Billy’s sobs showed no signs of stopping, and soon Don was fighting back tears of his own, pawing like a dog at unseen leaf litter. Detritus clung to his hands and caked the ragged soles of his shoes, slowing him further and threatening to send them both crashing back to the floor of the ravine below.

  But he couldn’t stop. Instead, he pushed on at the same headlong pace.

  He hadn’t the slightest inkling of where he was going, or what he was going to do. Without any of their things, and with no shelter in sight, there wasn’t much he could do. Their situation was looking more hopeless by the moment.

  But he wanted to live.

  He had to, for Billy.

  XIII

  Norman crouched low to the ground, inspecting a displaced arc of dirt. Leading away from it, the grass was bent at an odd angle at regular intervals. From then on the ground was softer, and a trail of footprints almost seemed to glow in the twilight.

  Canterbury was now far behind them. They had scaled hills and traversed ravines, following the river. They now stood at a farm gate between two hedges, leading to a winding country road.

  The gate hung ajar, swinging in the wind; someone had passed through recently.

  He stood up and signed to Lucian: Close.

  Lucian nodded and waved the others forwards. They passed through the gate one by one, instinctively drawing closer to the ground and picking up their pace.

  *

  The cathedral had grown quieter. Old Hadley’s band still played in the pulpit, but the mood seemed dampened by the muttering that had erupted from all directions. The fizz of the celebration had been extinguished, as though water had been thrown over a roaring fire. Hundreds were milling around the chapel, casting worried glances in the direction of the doorways.

  Most had stopped eating or drinking. The food and cider lay scattered across the tabletops, growing stiff and flat, forgotten.

  “Why Ray?” Allie said.

  She stood at the head of a group that had surrounded Alexander, asking myriad questions over the top of one another. Alex held up his hands, doing his best to calm them, but his voice was drowned out by the sheer volume of enquiries. “I don't know,” was his constant reply. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  Eventually, somebody at the back called a question he was able to answer. “Where did you find him?”

  “The mill.” He was so pleased at being able to offer a reply that he failed to consider its implications until it had passed his lips. By then, it was too late. Each face had grown slack.

  “In his home?”

  At that, their voices grew frantic. Some whirled and rushed for the door, muttering about family who had remained at home. The rest stood fast, now yelling—We're not even safe in our own homes? How’d they get in? How could you let this happen?

  The news spread throughout the cathedral within moments. A gaggle of children playing between the cloister’s pillars were besieged by guardians who swooped down to claim t
hem, gabbling like startled hens.

  Alexander watched the growing unrest with bated breath and sighed. There would be no calming them anytime soon.

  He turned to Agatha, who sat close by, ancient and decrepit, watching the pandemonium. Despite her misty grey eyes and slack-jawed senility, an air of indignation at their uncouth panic seemed to seep from her pores. She turned to him and offered a throaty chuckle. “Don’t make ’em like they used to, my boy,” she croaked.

  “I suppose not,” he said, bending down and taking her hand. “I have to go and check on something. Could you watch them for me?”

  She met his eyes, and the ghost of a great woman winked somewhere behind the cataracts and fog of dementia. “Of course,” she whispered. Her cheeks stirred, her eyelids narrowed, and she touched his face. “Alex….”

  He nodded, waiting.

  Her brows furrowed, and for the briefest of moments Alex was looking into the face of an old friend—and a mother. “You look so old,” she whispered.

  He squeezed her palm gently, nodding. “I know,” he said. Then he headed for the door, keeping his head low.

  *

  Norman’s eyes took some time to adjust to the light of the campfire. Only after minutes of squinting did the silhouettes of three men become visible. Until then, all he had to go by was a ghostly muttering, carried on the wind.

  Camped in the depths of a steep depression, backed against a screening of foliage provided by the boughs of an aged sessile oak, they could only have been seen from above. Unfortunately for them, it was from just such a position that the hunting party from Canterbury now watched them.

  Lucian was still agitated and restless, in constant danger of sending a cascade of pebbles over the edge.

  The others were balanced on their heels, crouched low to the ground, perched like vultures atop the ridge. Their long cloaks hung around their shoulders and pooled on the floor, turning their bodies into only so many amorphous bulges in the dark.