Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1)

by Harry Manners

  Alexander watched Lucian carefully as he dropped a yellowed package before him.

  His expression was quizzical for a moment, the wind blowing his hair until horizontal. A week’s stubble glittered on his chin. His hunched form was nothing but a shadow atop the hill, overlooking the darkening city. He opened the package with care, revealing its contents with a grunt. “Another?”

  Alex sighed, looking down at the cathedral, and nodded.

  Lucian sat silently beside his rifle as the pressed silver feather dropped into his hands, the grass lapping at his bare shins in the wind. It had been a hot day, and only now was the temperature beginning to drop. The tree line sat a hundred metres away, hidden by an evening heat wave that shimmered without pause.

  Lucian’s face contorted into a grave mask: his eyes steely and his mouth a set, hard line.

  Alex walked a small distance away and looked towards the sun as it began to dip below the horizon. He waited for a while, unmoving, his mind blank.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “My doorstep. Just like all the others.”

  “When?”

  Alex shook his head. “It could’ve been left any time.”

  “How many is that now?”

  “I’ve lost count.”

  Lucian scowled. “What are we going to do about this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We can’t just sit around and do nothing.”

  Alex rubbed the bridge of his nose, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. “You need to stop coming out here.” He turned to face him.

  Lucian scowled. “And you need to stop shutting yourself away. People are looking to the kid, and he isn’t ready to say ‘Boo’ to a goose. So they look to me, and I—I can’t stop thinking that if I see anyone within a mile of this city, I’ll kill them. And it won’t matter who it is. I’ll pull the trigger all the same.”

  Alex swallowed to loosen the lump forming in his throat. “I mean it,” he said. “You can’t be out here.”

  Lucian looked taken aback. “Why?”

  For a brief moment, Alex considered showing him the scrap of paper he’d found in the old man’s pocket, the one with so many of the city’s secrets scrawled across it: where their sniper nests were hidden, the guards’ shift-change times, where the entrances to the catacombs lay—even the elders’ names.

  He hadn’t told a soul about that. It had taken a great deal of wile and patience to reposition each nest and change the sentry shifts without piquing anyone’s attention.

  But, right now, Lucian looked on the verge of breakdown. He’d have to keep it to himself at least a while longer. His fingers, straying close to his back pocket, dropped back to his side.

  He gestured to the darkening forest. “We’ve been attacked twice in as many weeks, two people are dead, and Norman is unconscious.”

  Lucian only shrugged, looking away towards the forest. “I know that they come from the east,” he said. “They wouldn’t have come across the river, and the land to the North is too flat.” He looked back to Alex. “I know they’re out there.”

  “You’ve seen them?”

  “No… But I know they’re there. I can feel their eyes on me sometimes.”

  Alex couldn’t quite keep his own gaze from flitting to the tree line. The forest suddenly seemed daunting, malicious. “All the more reason to stay back in the city,” he said.

  Lucian ignored him. “How’s Norman?” he said.

  “Heather says he’ll be fine.”

  Lucian nodded. He turned slowly, squinting as the sun set in earnest. “Why him? He was too young to be responsible…he doesn’t even remember what happened. What could He want with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Alex pulled his coat tighter over his shoulders as a sudden gust of wind tore at his flank. It was cooling fast. The sun had dipped to a crescent of fire, slowly being consumed by the earth. He turned away and headed down the hill.

  “You never get used to it, do you?” Lucian called.

  Alex halted, looking out over the barren wasteland, where crops and vineyards had once been. His eyes swept past the blackened fields, towards Canterbury, broken and collapsing as the forest overtook the land, year upon year.

  Lucian continued, “The silence. Sometimes I wonder whether there was ever anybody else here at all.”

  Alex didn’t answer.

  “We still have to figure out what to do about this.”

  Alex nodded before continuing on towards the city.

  III

  Norman heard his breath whistle through his teeth long before he opened his eyes. The world, having been a blur for days, finally materialised. A harsh light bore down upon him from a fluorescent strip light fixed to the ceiling, clawing at his retinas.

  He groaned, trying to turn his head away, but the weight of his chest seemed incredible, crushing. A stabbing ache in his intercostal muscles was rendered unbearable with each breath. He opened his mouth, felt stale air stir in his throat, and his cheeks move sluggishly against his teeth.

  “Hello?” he called. His voice emerged clipped and broken.

  The small effort brought such pain that he subsided, closing his eyes. He listened hard, trying to hear something—anything—over the rasp of his breath against his parched throat.

  A bustling caught his attention: building footsteps from afar.

  “You’re awake,” Heather said, appearing above him.

  Norman ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, trying to free his jaw from its concrete-like set. “What happened?” he croaked.

  “You were attacked.”

  “No, no, I remember that. What happened to Jason?”

  “Who’s Jason?” Heather asked, absentminded as she bent over his bed and pushed two fingers against his wrist.

  “The man who was in my house. He did this to me.”

  She scribbled on a chart at the foot of his bed. “Yes, I know. We looked all over, but we couldn’t find anybody. But we did find out how they’ve been getting into the city. Lucian found a maintenance door to the sewer system, up on the hill. They’ve been going right underneath our guards and popping up wherever they please.”

  Norman blinked against the fluorescent glare. “That’s very clever… Shut that light off, will you?”

  “Sensitive to the light?” Heather crossed the room and flicked the switch. “Does your head hurt?”

  Norman sighed with relief in the sudden gloom. “I’m fine,” he lied. “How long?”

  “Two days.” She sounded unperturbed by his denial, shining a penlight into his left eye. “You’ll want to be careful. I suspect you’ve cracked a few ribs, and your head’s taken a nasty hit. Take it easy for the next few days, at the least. Probably weeks. No work in the fields for at least two.”

  Norman cowered away as pain ripped through his head. Heather clicked the light off and put it away, her eyes stern.

  He lay back, frowning. “What have I missed?”

  She maintained her stare for a moment longer before replying, “Not much, just a lot of panic and moping. We’ve sealed all the manholes that we could find and doubled the guard again.”

  “You sure that’ll stop them? They’ve been getting in just fine so far.”

  “Half the city’s volunteered to keep watch. The place is as loud at night as during the day. Almost everyone else is sleeping in the cathedral. Nobody feels safe. Lucian is having trouble keeping people working in the fields without Alex around, and now that you’re in here…he’s not coping very well.”

  Norman sat up, wincing as his limbs protested. “What’s he been doing?”

  “He’s been out on the hill since we found you. We’re worried about him. Robert found him sitting on a rock with a gun, talking to himself.” She paused. “I’m afraid he might do something stupid.”

  Norman braced himself against the headboard, gasping. The clinic swam before him as nausea took its course. He lowered his head until his vision clear
ed.

  Heather moved away, her footsteps dissipating.

  With his isolation came memories of Jason looming over him, the chilling stare of the man with the neckerchief, and the marble-faced leering figure who had plagued his semi-conscious daze since dreaming of the city and the storm.

  Despite the infirmary’s stifling heat, he shivered.

  Heather appeared at his side, bearing a pile of clothes that he recognised as his own, from his bedroom.

  “Thanks,” he said, trembling as he sat up. “Would you mind giving me some privacy?”

  Heather nodded. “I’ll tell Alex that you’re awake. He’ll want to speak with you.”

  “I thought you said nobody’s seen him.”

  “We haven’t. But I know he’s been coming here. I think sometime during the night.”

  “How can you tell?”

  The smallest of smiles played on her lips. “Somebody’s smoothed your sheets by the time I clock in every morning.”

  She made for the door, blocking the light filtering in from the hall. She stopped at the threshold and turned to face him. “We’re burying Ray and the old man tonight,” she said. She looked down. “We decided that night. We just couldn’t take the injustice of leaving them any longer. Allison was coming to tell you…that’s how she found you.”

  “Allie found me?”

  The memory of her voice was a blur, but now that he thought of it, he did remember it, and the banging at his door.

  Heather shrugged. “She woke the whole city, hollering like she did. She’s been in here nonstop since. More than anyone else.”

  “She has?”

  Heather considered him for a moment, smiled minutely, and nodded. “Sundown,” she said, tapping her watch.

  “I’ll be there.”

  She turned and left.

  Norman was left alone to sit and stare. The other beds were empty, for the most part. The two rows of identical frames, covered with neatly folded sheets, sat unused and dusty in the gloom.

  Only two stood out from the rest. The first was the bed in which the old man had been stretched out. The sheets had been made up, but traces of blood and dirt still stained the floor at its base. On the second sat Agatha, staring into space, so still and absent-faced that she blended almost seamlessly into the background.

  After a while, footsteps from the corridor signalled Heather’s return. Alexander and Allison followed her into the room, and the trio gathered around his bed.

  Alexander stopped a few steps away. He looked haggard, unlike himself. His lips were pale. Yet he smiled, standing at the foot of his bed. “How are you?” he said.

  “Can’t complain.” Norman tried to return the smile, but as Heather helped him into a sitting position, he gasped. The stabbing pain tore across his chest again, and he collapsed back.

  “Alright, I think you’ll be staying here at least another day,” Heather muttered.

  “If you insist,” Norman managed to speak over a stifled grunt, but only just.

  “You’ll be fine, you just need to rest up.”

  Allison sat by his heels. “When did you wake?” she said.

  “A minute ago.”

  “We’ve been all over the city looking for them… When I found you, I thought you were dead.”

  Norman leaned forwards, cradling his head in his hands. “I owe you my thanks,” he said, pushing the heel of his palm into his brow. The pressure eased the pain, but couldn’t mask the stabbing agony.

  Alexander had grown closer. He gripped his shoulder. “You scared me for a while there,” he said.

  Norman nodded.

  “I'm glad you’re okay, James, dear,” Agatha sang, rocking to and fro upon her mattress. Her eyes drifted across the room and settled on Alex, and for a moment her face grew tighter. “Alex…you look so old.”

  Then her cheeks fell slack, and her eyes grew distant once more. She stared at the wall, her lips forming unspoken words. They watched her for a while and then Norman looked to Alex.

  “James?” he said.

  Alex shrugged. Perhaps his eyes flickered, and his lips grew a shade whiter, but the pain in Norman’s chest was too great for him to care.

  Heather handed him a walking stick, one that had obviously seen many years of service in the hands of previous owners. He palmed it with a curse and sidled to the side of the bed.

  “She has good days and bad days,” she whispered, her eyes on Agatha.

  Norman hauled himself onto shaking legs. When pain erupted in his chest once more, he collapsed onto the cane. He balanced atop it momentarily, staggered, and fell back onto the bed. There, he lay gasping, until he and Alex shared a look.

  He cursed, and muttered, “That man, in my house…he was a messenger. They’re out there. They want us gone. All of us.”

  IV

  Norman could stand resting in the clinic for a mere half an hour before escaping Heather’s clutches. Despite being surrounded by a safety net of aides and nurses on the clinic floor, a great many people found their way to his bedside within minutes, and refused to give him a moment’s peace.

  The news of his awakening had spread fast. In times gone by, he would have suspected that Allison’s legendary ability to disseminate information to all ears within the city single-handedly was responsible. Now, however, he was at a loss to explain it. She had been by his side since before the droves stormed into the clinic.

  His visitors ranged from grey-haired discontents—though none were old enough to be elders—to children young enough to be recognisable from his own martial-arts classes. But the resounding impression they left was identical: people were no longer only disgruntled, nor only hungry. They were angry.

  In fact, having been left for days to toil in the fields without a single word from Alexander or Norman, led only by Lucian’s blustering placations—who had in the interim spent most of his time alone in the hills—they were quite beyond that. After Ray’s murder, the attack on Norman, and the still-increasing scarcity of food, it was unsurprising that the entire city had been driven to the point of a tumultuous, feckless rage.

  Before he could escape, they were still marching up to him with fire in their eyes and ugly grimaces plastered over their cheeks, demanding to know what he planned to do, and when more scavenging parties would be sent out to gather fresh supplies.

  He was only able to stare back at them, dumbstruck. These were the very same people who had greeted him in the streets each morning, worked beside him in the fields, laughed with him over countless meals.

  All of that seemed forgotten. Now they looked to him for comfort, for his divine guidance, as though he and the city’s elders had been holding secret meetings amidst darkened dungeons.

  If Allison hadn’t been by his side, he was certain that he would have burst into a tirade. His head throbbed, and the burning in his chest was still as fierce. Patience was in short supply. But she had been there and, to his utter surprise, had allowed the visitors to speak for only moments before shepherding them away. As soon as he’d showed the first signs of wanting to escape, she had ducked beneath his arm and guided him from the clinic, heedless of the nurses’ cries for them to return.

  She was different. She had grown in some slight and yet unmistakable way that had changed the essence of her presence. It was almost as though a spell had broken, and maturity had fallen over her like a blanket draped over her shoulders.

  Now, as they left the clinic, she all but carried him into the streets, and he felt the faintest of flutters in his chest as he glanced down at her determined face. For a moment he thought that the flutter was brought on by the look she in turn gave him—one that had ceased to be expectant and become watchful, almost enraptured—but then the nature of it sharpened, and he was then sure that it was something quite different.

  She was wearing her sandy-blonde hair up today, and her clothes were neater, closer in style to the practical, simple robes worn by the elders. She was, he saw, without her pall of adolescent affect
ations, quite beautiful, all rosy cheeks and soft lips.

  “Where to, then?” she said.

  Norman blinked. The flicker had gone. He thought of going home to sleep, where he wouldn’t be disturbed, but cast the notion aside. Not only was Jason’s intrusion still too raw, but the last thing the city needed now was for yet another person to shut themselves away. Instead, he pointed along the street, and guided her towards the school building.

  He planned to drop in on Sarah’s class of eight-year-olds, intending to take Sarah up on her offer to act as a guest for the daily English lesson. Maybe there he’d find some peace.

  He didn’t even get close. He was accosted at the door by a crowd of over half a dozen parents, all of who outwardly appeared to be waiting to pick up their children, but all had eyes for him.

  It took all of his resolve not to explode.

  Once again, Allie saved him, guiding him through the sea of angry faces, parting them with fierce glares. By then, he was gasping for breath. The journey, although a distance of only a few hundred yards, had been more than enough to make the pain in his chest unbearable. His ribs didn’t feel just cracked, but shattered. It was as though an entire window’s worth of glassy shards had been woven into his skin.

  “I need to rest,” he said.

  “Where?” Allie said, breathless from the effort of dragging him.

  “DeGray’s classroom,” he slurred. “Alex said he and Richard are in the fields.”

  She led him along the darkened hallway, leaving the lingering crowd muttering bitterly. They rounded a corner and stepped into the dim hovel usually occupied by the Master and his disciple.

  “Over there.” He pointed to the desk upon which the chessboard lay, and the Master’s chair before it—a tattered leather wingback that seemed to exude the distilled essence of its owner.

  They ambled closer awkwardly, and Norman kicked the door shut as they went.

  “There we are,” Allie said, easing him down.

  He wheezed his thanks and set to rubbing his chest, which felt as though it glowed white-hot, and almost brought tears to his eyes. But once he had settled his breathing and sat still for a few moments, it began to ebb, descending to a dull and persistent nagging.