Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1)

by Harry Manners

  “Any news on the radio?” he said.

  Allie looked taken aback. “No,” she said, eyebrows raised. She tittered without humour. “To be honest, I think everyone forgot all about it after you…well, you know.”

  “The summit’s still planned, though?”

  “So far as I know. The elders’ council. All of them.” She looked sheepish. “But we still can’t get a word from Alexander.”

  Silence settled over the room, and they turned their gazes to the chessboard, set up and ready for a new game to begin.

  “Do they always play?” she said.

  He smiled. “Every day.”

  “Why?”

  “Old habits…keeping them alive, along with everything else.”

  She picked up Richard’s king piece, squinted at its fine ivory detail, and set it back down. “Does Richard ever win?”

  “Not once. John says that he’ll be in this room until he does.”

  They shared a chuckle, one that persisted for several long moments and left in its wake a more relaxed atmosphere. Eventually, however, the nagging doubt of Allison’s change of heart became too great for him to resist any longer, and he looked at her until he caught her gaze. “Why are you helping me?” he said. “Everybody else is lining up to bite my head off, and you’re here…picking me up off the floor.”

  “All the best gossip, right from the horse’s mouth,” she quipped. “You’re hot news right now.” She offered him a wry grin, as though to cement his certainty that her words were in jest.

  He smiled, and felt the first genuine semblance of good humour that he’d felt for a long time boil away in his bowels. “No, really,” he said.

  She took a while to reply, in the meantime straightening Richard’s king unnecessarily, tightening her lips. “I’m here because I see something in you.” She swallowed with an audible crack, averting her eyes. She swayed from side to side, running her finger along the desk. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s there. I know that you don’t believe in destiny, Norman, but I’m starting to think that you might be the one to save us after all.”

  V

  Lucian pulled his coat up against the burgeoning shock of hair upon his chin, shivering in the evening chill. He was beginning to squint in the growing darkness as the sky turned from a rich pink to duller orange, and had laid his rifle horizontally across his lap. His eyes were set hard upon the tree line a hundred yards away.

  Behind him, distant booms and whirs echoed across the landscape as their handful of biofuel generators—which were currently enjoying a new lease of life thanks to the composted waste from the fields, aiding the struggling wind turbines—chugged to life, flooding the city with white light.

  A great yawn forced his mouth ajar, drawing a tired growl from his throat. Fatigue was hitting hard now, and he was finding it difficult to keep the trees in focus. He would have to leave soon and make his way home. Even within sight of the city, it was unwise to remain after dark.

  For the last few days he’d only left the hill to stand guard at night near the clinic. From what he could remember of it, he hadn’t slept for more than three consecutive hours since they’d found Norman.

  But there was a good reason for his self-imposed isolation. A very good one.

  Two days before, when Allie had sounded the alarm, he had been so infuriated that he had mistaken an elderly man for the attacker. Lucian had tackled him to the ground in the street. It had transpired that he hadn’t felt safe in his own home and had been walking to the cathedral in the rain when Lucian had leapt upon him. The elder, a man of great wisdom and kindness, had been Rayford Hubble’s father. He would need crutches for a month. The guilt and embarrassment were still raw and fresh in Lucian’s mind, like a splinter.

  He rubbed his hands together against the cold and looked up at the sky. The orange tinge was now long gone, and only a glimmer of indigo remained, clinging to the treetops, imbuing the forest with a shimmering aura.

  He stood with some difficulty, his knees stiff from lack of use. He stretched, holding his rifle at arm’s length.

  Then, a sound: wailing. Wailing carried on the wind.

  He dropped into a crouch, trigger finger ready. Only his eyes moved, scanning for a sign of movement. The same meadow met his gaze. The same tree line. The same silence. But the growing darkness had taken on a more menacing tone. Besides the moths and bats swooping and diving amongst the treetops in the distance, the floor beneath the canopy was still. Yet still the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  Then the sound came again: a reverberating howl, coming from the maintenance gate that led to the sewers. Somebody was down there.

  FIRST INTERLUDE

  Candles flickered in the gloom. The group of survivors sat back from the table, belching, satisfied by their meal. They had dined well tonight on the bounty of tinned foods the Old World’s ruins had to offer. Conversation was sparse, low-pitched, and trivial. The night was passing lethargically. Alex watched the proceedings unfold, for the most part contributing little.

  Seven years having passed, with all things considered, he still hadn’t managed to shake the numbness that had plagued him since the End.

  The first years had been the hardest. The power grid had soldiered on for almost a week before trundling to a stop. From then on, what was left of the world was plunged into darkness whenever the sun set.

  After a near eternity of searching, it turned out that there had been others, individuals at first, lost or halfway suicidal. Then there had been couples, partners exploring the New World together. Eventually, groups had emerged, with leaders and followers—shepherds leading flocks of bewildered IT managers, stockbrokers, farmers, and TV stars alike.

  But they had been so far flung that an encounter had never ceased to be exceedingly rare. Whenever paths crossed, a universal and mutual suspicion had been exchanged, preventing them from adhering together. People had feared large groups—feared each other. It was almost as though they’d been afraid that, if they ever tried to rebuild their lives, they too might disappear. Instead, they locked themselves away, found safe corners to sequester, and waited—though for what, nobody had known. And so it had gone. People had stewed, days had become months, and months years. During that time, almost all had been content to remain in isolated clans, gradually helping themselves to the vast stores of resources amongst their fallen civilisation’s great cities.

  However, those stores were now becoming thin on the ground. Tea, coffee, fuel, cigarettes and alcohol had very nearly ceased to exist. These commodities now held worth far exceeding that of anything else, and were in many cases viciously fought over, within and between groups.

  The End’s survivors were now rushing headlong towards a situation they’d all foreseen, yet lacked the will to prepare for. There had been no crops farmed, to their knowledge, at all, anywhere in the country.

  So far as Alex could tell, the End had struck randomly, indiscriminately, with no rhyme or reason as to who vanished or who was left behind. The likelihood of seasoned farmers having survived in large numbers was tiny. Even if any had survived, they would have been left alone, helpless to stop their crops falling into ruin without a single helping hand for dozens of miles.

  Even the group Alexander had come to think of as his family were painfully aware of their ignorance. Lighting fires, navigating, sterilising water, storing food and performing basic maintenance work were things still largely beyond them. Endless hours researching in eerie public libraries had taken them only so far. Even now, they would get lost, sick, or hurt and be unable to do anything about it. When something broke, it would forever remain broken, or be replaced by a scavenged double. When they came across the injured or sickly, as they occasionally did, they could do nothing to help.

  As close as he’d grown to the others, Alex sometimes couldn’t help but feel that he was alone after all. The others seemed almost content in their ignorance, and lacked drive, as though merely waiting for the next disas
ter to sweep them away. When they looked out the window, all they saw were ruins. Only Oliver and Agatha seemed truly present in the slightest, but even they seemed ready to sit and watch time deal mortal decay to the world.

  He, however, saw dormant homes, schools, hospitals, and factories. He saw what had once been, and what could be again. He never failed to hope that perhaps the world had been restored when he awoke each morning.

  He’d devoted every spare moment to reading everything he could find, along with saving as many books as he could manage. He also saved whatever else he came across: paintings, instruments, electronics and mechanical parts, storing it all away where it wouldn’t rot or be buried in rubble.

  Even if everybody else had given up, he would fight their decline to his dying breath.

  “As soon as this winter ends, we can finally get some seed in the ground,” Oliver said.

  Paul huffed. “What’s the point of that?” he said. He hiccoughed and took another swig of merlot from the bottle in his grasp, which was smeared with a layer of dust so thick that the vintage was most likely older than any of them.

  Turning to God hadn’t been enough for Paul, and so he had also turned to the bottle. His habit had been a persistent thorn in their side, forcing them to make weekly forays in search of untapped cellars.

  “It’d be nice to eat a meal,” Oliver said, his lazy eye bulging. “The canned food isn’t going to last forever. At the rate that we’re using it, we have months, not years, and then we’re on our own.”

  Agatha nodded. “Won’t be enough to grow our own. We’re goin’ to have to strike up some kinda deal with others…some kinda trade, if we’re going to get everythin’ we need.”

  Paul sneered. “There’s no sense in it,” he said.

  “There’s sense in eating,” Oliver said.

  “There aren’t enough people left for us to go knocking on their doors. Folks want to be left alone.”

  “We have to do something, Paul. We have to start anew, or make the first steps, at any rate. Somebody will come along eventually and we’ll work towards something.”

  “Too few!” Paul roared, and slammed his fist against the table for good measure. “I tell you, there are too few of us left to form anything of the kind. It’s ridiculous, Aggie. You know it is!”

  Agatha sat stiffly and observed Paul along her lengthy nose as though from a great distance. The two of them glared at each other. “What’d you have us do?” she said.

  “There is nothing to do,” Paul said. “Look out the window. The world is gone. None of it is ever coming back. All this talk of starting over is just wishful thinking.”

  “Why does it have to be wishful thinking?” Alex said, leaning forwards. A pang of anger leapt in his chest.

  Paul rounded on him. “I’ll tell you why,” he spat. “The only reason we’re here at this table is because we’re damned. We’ve been left, because of the lives we’ve led. It may not look it, but this world is soon to be Hell. Mark my words.”

  Alex shook his head, his chest convulsing. “What about the boy?” he said. “A baby? He’s done evil worthy of being left to…the fires of Hell?”

  Paul didn’t answer, but instead proceeded to let fly a great spiel of scripture, eyeing him with unfathomable contempt. He stood up, wandered from the table, and stumbled outside, where he grumbled even louder to the wind.

  The table was left in silence. Alex collected his thoughts, while the others stirred with visible discomfort. The Creeks stood from the table, Helen casting a contemptuous glance about at them all. “I don’t want to hear this,” she said. “Goodnight.”

  They all murmured a farewell as the Creeks disappeared into their bedroom.

  They were trying for a baby. Alex was gripped by panic at the thought of a child. After the food had run out, what would they feed it? Wasn’t anybody thinking about that but him? If they were going to bring a child into the world, there was no sense in it being raised by a bunch of folks interested in nothing but waiting for their own end.

  At least he had Agatha and Oliver in his ballpark. That was something.

  “He’s crazy,” Agatha said at last.

  Oliver wheezed, his lazy eye bulging. “Of course he is. But he has a point.”

  Alex paused midway through an appreciative smile, and his jaw fell ajar. “What?”

  Oliver sighed. “There’s not going to be any starting over.”

  Alex looked to Agatha for help. But at the sight of her face—downcast, guilty, yet sincere—he realised that he was indeed alone, more alone than ever. He collapsed back into his chair and raised his arms.

  Maybe his ballpark was empty after all.

  “You can’t be taking his side,” he said helplessly.

  Oliver leaned over. “There’s no side to take. Paul’s right. There are just too few of us left to do anything but try and stay alive for as long as we can. The End decimated the population of the entire world, as far as we can tell. The Old World is gone. There’s no coming back from this.”

  Alex raised a pointed, accusing finger before he could stop himself. He could feel his heart yearning to burst free from his ribs and was sure that his eyes were ablaze. “You’ve given up.”

  “There’s nothing to give up on! I’m not saying that starting over isn’t an admirable idea, but it’s a pipe dream, Alex. Leave it at that, lad. There’s a good boy.”

  Alex looked to Agatha for help, but she, too, seemed unable to quite meet his gaze.

  “You’re a visionary, Alexander, so you are,” she said. She was quiet, but her voice reached his ears without hindrance. “You’re the greatest of all’a us, there’ll be no denying that. But you’re young, so it ends righ’ there. Paul’s right. We’re not ready.” She paused. “Might never be ready.”

  Paul ambled back into the room and settled into his seat, still grumbling minutely. His derisive stare added to the lingering sting of Agatha’s words, amplifying Alex’s sense of isolation. Acknowledging that he’d been defeated, he leaned back. “I have to check on the boys,” he said.

  He stood amidst awkward silence and shuffled away towards the corridor, passing beyond the candlelight’s reach. At the mention of children, the conversation had grown embarrassed and diminished, hushed and somehow more sober, more lucid.

  Alex walked beyond their line of sight and paused, waiting for them to continue in his absence. Perfectly still, he pricked his ears and held his breath.

  “There’s something to that lad, I’ll admit,” Paul said. “But he’s still the devil’s work, I tell you now.”

  There was uproar at the remark.

  “Can’t be callin’ Vision the devil’s work, you daft ol’ goat!” Agatha said. “That boy’s the one thing keeping us goin’. Without him, there wouldn’t be any hope, and hope is the only thing tha’ makes me get outta bed in the morning. Wha’ else is there?”

  “Hope?” Paul blustered. “What place has hope got here? Everybody that we ever loved, gone, and whoever’s left is scrabbling for purchase. All the while, the world takes a nosedive towards fucking Armageddon. And you’re clinging to hope?”

  “S’all we got left. S’all that matters so close to such a thing.”

  “Ah!” Paul grumbled dismissively. “The words of the devil!”

  “Paul, we talked ’bout that word,” Agatha said. “Ain’t God’s will, an’ you’d do well not to test him in times like these.”

  Paul sighed. “I know, Aggie,” he said. His voice had grown a touch sheepish.

  “You'll see it, so you will. One day tha’ boy’s hope will change the world, and there won’t be a word ’bout the devil that’ll change anybody’s mind ’bout it!”

  Paul grumbled something incomprehensible. In reply, Agatha gave her final word on the matter, in a voice that pulled at strings within Alex’s gut, “Not everythin’ boils down to the End of Days. There’s more to life than tha’. Folks live on, and they’ll do whatever they got to do to survive. I tells you now: We’re not gon
na give up. Wha’ we've been left with ain’t enough, so we’re gonna take back what we had.”

  “Unite under the boy’s banner, then?” Paul huffed. “I suppose that makes us his gang, running around and singing Kumbaya? That’s your idea, is it? We’re Alexander’s Pals now? The Kin of Cain?”

  A moment of silence. Then, “You’re bloody well righ’ we are.”

  Paul grunted. The conversation died at that. Reverting to idle grumblings and comments upon the meal and weather, talk from then on was stinted and overly polite.

  Alex, smiling, continued along the corridor until he came to the last bedroom. He knocked and received an invitation to enter. He found James already tucked in, pyjamas and all, propped up against the headboard, waiting.

  He seemed somewhat disquieted by the raised voices, but at the same time he smiled and welcomed Alex inside. As soon as the door was closed he bounded up and down beneath the sheets, brimming with glee. “Story!” he cried.

  Alex couldn’t help laughing. Already dinner’s troubles seemed far away and inconsequential. He stooped into the child’s stool beside the bed and glanced about the room.

  Lucian snored amidst the other bed’s sheets, against the far wall. He had little interest in stories at his age. Over the past year he’d taken to disappearing for hours at a time into the wilds. Nobody knew where he went—except Alexander.

  He’d followed him once, through expanding forests, along roadways lined with rusting cars, across fields littered with charred airliners. Eventually they’d come to a bluff amidst dense burdock, one overlooking miles of barren wilderness.

  Hidden amidst foliage, Alexander had watched him stretch his arms towards it, embrace it, breathe it in, relish it in a way that he’d never relished any wonder of the Old World.

  The others were talking about keeping him home before he got hurt, but Alex knew they couldn’t if their lives depended on it. Lucian needed the wilds; needed to be wild.