Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1)

by Harry Manners

  He loved the boy—even dared to say he loved him more than he’d loved his own family, before the End—but knew that they would never understand one another. They were too different.

  Lucian didn’t lament what the world had lost, but accepted it as it was. He slept soundly.

  Alex turned from him to assess the rest of the room. He had perhaps become carried away with furnishings. Apart from Lucian’s drab, adolescent décor in the corner, the room was alive with vivid colours, painted patterns, models hanging from strings, and myriad toys of every description. It was filled to the very brim with stuffed animals, picture books, enormous reams of paper, colouring pencils, paints and board games. For each item, there was a replacement underneath, and another beneath that.

  “Story,” James repeated, his emerald eyes brimming.

  “You’re getting a little bit too old for bedtime stories,” Alex said.

  James looked shocked and horrified. “Why?” he said.

  “You can read.”

  “I like you to read.”

  Alex laughed again. “Looks like you’ve got a book right there,” he said. “What is it?”

  James turned the leaves of the hardback in his grasp, revealing its title: Birds of England.

  “Birds again?”

  James merely smiled.

  Alex sat on his bed and flicked through the pages. “You’ve always liked birds, ever since you were a baby.”

  “I was reading about pigeons,” James said. “People used to send them to their friends with letters tied to their legs.” He hesitated, but met Alex’s gaze. “We could do that, one day.”

  Alex’s cheeks were already aching from the strain of smiling. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe we can.” He closed the book and put it aside. “What story would you like to hear tonight?”

  “I don’t know,” James said without embarrassment. “You pick.”

  “Most people have favourites,” Alex said, standing and perusing James’s generous collection.

  “I like all stories.”

  Alex felt a flutter of glee. James had been more like him than the others since he’d been able to walk and talk. Something of Alex’s own reverence of the past seemed to have been infused within the boy’s mind. Now he yearned for knowledge, yarns and discovery.

  “All stories?”

  “I like to know that there’s more.”

  Alex frowned and glanced over his shoulder. “More?”

  “More,” James affirmed, then looked ashamed. “I like to know that it isn’t just…this.”

  The hairs upon Alex’s arms stood on end. He fumbled with the books upon the shelf, trying to hide a giddy grin.

  The boy was the key to starting over. Alex might never live long enough himself to realise his dreams—dreams of bringing it all back from the brink, of saving what was left of the Old World—but James could carry on even after he was gone. James could unite people, bring them from the gutter and claw back some civility in the world. For him, there would be time, time to fix it all.

  Alex had had the same thoughts a thousand times, lying in bed at night, but never before had they seemed more obvious. The others could never be counted on to make the first step or carry the torch. If anything—or anyone—was ever going to be saved, it was down to the two of them.

  At the realisation, he stood bolt upright and hurried to his own bedroom. He returned a few seconds later, holding a bundle wrapped in old cloth. He met James’s quizzical gaze, settled into the stool, and unravelled the package with nervous, shaking hands, revealing the mottled green cover of his father’s copy of Alice in Wonderland.

  James fixed his eyes on it. “What is it?” he said.

  Alex said nothing, just pressed the book into James’s hands and sat back. He followed James’s gaze as he looked over every inch of it, turning it over in his hands with great care by the candlelight, somehow sensing that the book deserved special attention. He read the cover and looked up at Alex, a frown upon his face. “Alice in Wonderland?”

  “It was mine, when I was a boy. Before that, my father’s.”

  “It was yours? Before?” James looked at the book with fresh reverence. He glanced up ruefully and held it out for Alex to take back.

  Alex shook his head. “It’s yours now.”

  “I can’t,” James stuttered. Not a glimmer of childishness remained about him now. His manner of honour, of polite refusal, was crushingly adult.

  “Of course you can,” Alex said.

  “It’s your book.”

  “It’s a gift.” He knelt beside the bed, holding James’s hands, gesturing to the cover. “It’s important,” he said. “You have to promise that you’ll take it.”

  In the flickering light, James’s enormous eyes glittered. He nodded slowly, and took the book into a tender embrace. He opened it with great care and looked down at the illustration on the cover’s reverse side: the White Rabbit, dashing through the grass, pocket watch aloft, waistcoat trailing. Not once did he ask to be read to. After a long time, a frown crossed his face and he looked up. “Why is it important?”

  Alex leaned forwards, gripping James’s hands, and cleared his throat. “Because I have a very important job for you. One that only a special boy like you can do.”

  “Special?”

  “That’s right. Other boys aren’t like you, because they see what’s there. Not like you. You see what could be.”

  “Are there other special people?”

  “Many, once. Now…” He shook his head. “Not anymore. Just you, and me.”

  James’s frown had only deepened. He replied as carefully as Alex had spoken himself, “What job?”

  Alex swallowed.

  Could he really just come out and say it? Surely it would only frighten him—something that big would frighten anyone. But, looking into those piercing eyes, full of life and ambition, he knew that James could handle it. He leaned forward and spoke in a voice so hushed that James was forced to turn his head. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  James leaned close, glassy-eyed. His mouth had fallen ajar, and his pupils had dilated.

  “One day you’ll save the world,” Alex whispered.

  James blinked. Only a moment’s pause stretched out before he said, “The whole world?”

  Alex smiled. There was no fear in the boy’s eyes, nor incredulity. “The whole wide world.”

  James’s expression didn’t change in the slightest, but behind his eyes Alex saw a million thoughts erupt into existence. “How do we do that?”

  Alex sat back. “I don’t know. But I promise you—I promise—that we will.”

  James didn’t move for a long time. Only his eyes gave away his feverish internal reaction, darting left and right. Eventually, he said, “How do you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That we can do it. If that’s what we’re…supposed to do.”

  Alex smiled and stood, leaning over and placing a kiss on his forehead. “Because some men have a destiny.” He took James into his arms. “And you’ve got that in spades.”

  Holding back tears, he looked down into James’s adoring face, and felt his conviction grow tenfold. He placed the candle beside the bed and backed away towards the door, pulling it half-closed behind him before pausing to glance back in. “I love you, brother,” he said.

  James smiled, the book tight in his grasp. “I love you, Alex,” he whispered.

  Alex closed the door and crept away to his room. He froze at the sight of a figure, stock-still and wreathed in the kitchen’s shadows, staring back at him.

  Agatha’s smile was not only friendly, but maternal. It always had been, to all of them. She had taken Alex and James, broken and helpless, kept them alive, and warded away the worst of the pain. Even gruff Paul had found comfort in her embrace when gut-rot had been in short supply.

  Right now, her eyes twinkled. She held her diary in her hands, laden with their only records of after the End, the only thing that might remain of them if they
didn’t get their house in order. He smiled back at her, and that was enough for them both. They went back to their business without a word to one another.

  Alex snapped the door shut behind him and sighed. White walls, bare and lifeless, met his gaze. His uncarpeted, unfurnished, cluttered room sat unsaturated and beige in the candlelight.

  He’d never decorated. Never cleared the Old World relics from the cupboards or cabinets. Never changed a thing.

  What did he need wallpaper for? When he lay here at night, he didn’t see these walls anyway. His dreams took him far away, dreams of what mankind had once been, and could be again.

  He lay on the bed and looked across at the ancient fireplace, which lay dormant, unusable, and littered with mouse droppings. But the mantelpiece remained, and upon it were the purple and orange tattered packages that had been his parents’ last gifts to him. Beside them sat a framed photograph of the dog, long since buried.

  She had died saving his life. A dark voice in his head sometimes plagued him with promises that she was the first of many casualties, if he was ever going to save anything.

  He stared across at the gifts for a long time, having settled beneath the sheets, listening to the sound of Oliver and Paul singing merrily to an incomprehensible tune. Their argument had apparently become lost to a mellow rhythm and drink-addled giggling. At some point, his eyes ceased to look upon the packages. But still he saw them in his dreams. The faintest of smiles remained upon his lips even when he woke the next morning.

  VI

  The screaming carried for hundreds of yards in every direction. It permeated every wall, struck every ear, and echoed in the Old World’s darkest ruins. The rancid figure in Lucian’s grip had long since curled itself into a ball, desperate to prevent further injury. But that didn’t stop him dragging it along the street like a dog.

  Each time its broken body impacted a stray cobble or scratched against the road, it would issue a groan or whimper. Its awful clothes, hanging in tatters, barely covered its body. None were recognisable as trousers, coat, or shirt, having been reduced to a single pall of filthy cloth.

  Lucian grunted as he hauled the creature down Main Street, his fist closed around its neck. His short stature didn’t for a moment hinder his stride. His anger made up for lost height many times over.

  Muted whispering passed between onlookers, but only for a few moments. With shocking rapidity their voices became louder, and then they began to yell with uncontained fury. The city’s bottled fury, which had for so many weeks boiled away in suppressed silence, burst from them like floodwaters through a broken dam. They yelled for family members to come quickly, hurling insults at the cowering figure, congratulating Lucian. Some simply released amorphous screams of raw anguish.

  When each newcomer arrived and saw what Lucian held in his grasp, none questioned its origin. The conclusion that this creature was responsible for their woes and strife was reached unanimously. They had been waiting for a donkey on which to pin such a tail for countless weeks. This pile of rags was ripe for the pinning.

  Dozens poured from nearby buildings, forming a mass in the middle of the street as Lucian approached. Their faces bore no sympathy for the creature’s unending screams. Yells soon became angry roars that reverberated amongst the backstreets, filling them with a ghostly, riotous din. People stepped forward, their arms outstretched, hands formed into tight fists. Some spat. Others sought to trample.

  Lucian swept a glance around at them all and dropped the creature at their feet. He then walked away into the crowd without looking back, abandoning it to its fate. He didn’t take his gaze from the floor again until he’d reached the porch of a nearby cottage, from where he watched the scene unfold on the cobbled streets.

  He was beyond feeling now. Beyond anger. He felt nothing but the dimmest satisfaction at the sight of the creature being swarmed by fists of fury.

  The gathering was by now a hundred strong, and the rancorous racket was drawing more from across the city, even from the fields. The creature whimpered in the dying light, its cries now drowned out by the encroaching mob. It huddled against its knees, rocking back and forth on the ground.

  But it was shown no mercy. A single kick from Sid Robeck—a stocky guardsman whom Lucian had sat beside on many an overnight watch; a quiet, amiable man, slow to anger—brought its head back with a snap. Blood spurted from a cracked lip. The back of its head made contact with the concrete with a sickening crack.

  The crowd grew bolder at the sign of weakness, and approached the creature—which, now spread-eagled on the ground, no longer obscured by the pall of cloth, had taken the shape of a young man. Blurred limbs flew from every direction, swiping, kicking, and punching. A sharp scream rattled above the roar of their voices, but the crowd was heedless. The people had found their culprit—

  “STOP!”

  The new voice was no louder than any other, almost lost to the cacophonous ocean of furious bleating. However, those nearest to its owner froze, and immediately became quiet, their eyes growing wide and their bodies still. They regained their composure as what they were doing seemed to suddenly dawn upon them.

  The silence spread exponentially. The crowd’s noise went from a deafening roar to an uneven hum in mere seconds.

  Then, nothing. A hundred embarrassed pairs of eyes observed as many pairs of feet but, as though drawn by an irresistible, mysterious force, each gaze eventually settled on the voice’s owner: Alexander Cain, gaunt-faced, eyes ablaze, filling the town hall’s doorway.

  *

  The silence in the aftermath of the riotous outburst was deafening. People appeared unsure of what to do, or where to look.

  Alexander stepped out into the street and walked towards the cowering young man, who shook as Alex approached, while his wild and bloodied eyes bulged in their sockets. Several of his teeth lay on the floor beside him in a pool of his own bodily fluids, and his left cheek was badly torn.

  Alex crouched down beside him. He suspected that he was the first of the city folk to make eye contact.

  The young man raised an arm to his face, ready to shield himself, but Alex took hold of his shuddering hand and slowly pushed it to the floor. Then he stood and looked around at the hundreds of furious faces.

  A solid lump had settled in his throat. He sighed and forced a nod. “I haven’t been here,” he said. “I wasn’t here when you needed me.” He paused. “I can only beg your forgiveness. I’ve been…troubled. I know that all of you have been patient, that you’ve worked hard, that you’ve gone hungry. I know that I’ve failed you.”

  He pointed down at the young man, and to his bleeding wounds. “But we are BETTER THAN THIS!” he bellowed. “We can never let this happen. We can never allow ourselves to fall this far. We can never BE this!”

  Shame infected every face in sight. A thousand feet shuffled.

  A faraway pigeon cooed. He gritted his teeth, determined to stay the course, but couldn’t help searching the rooftops for a bobbing silhouette. He pushed on despite himself. “We’re going to stay strong. We can get through this. I know that I haven’t been here when I should have. But from now on, I will be. I promise.”

  Silence filled Main Street.

  He swallowed. “We’re going to talk with this man. Talk with him. I want everybody back to the fields. We can be ready to reseed by the week’s end if we keep at it. We can get through this, but only together.”

  He drew a long, calming breath, then crouched down once more and addressed the young man. “Who are you?”

  The young man hesitated, his eyes darting from Alex to the mob. He seemed to weigh the danger of talking against that of being torn apart if he stayed quiet, and mumbled, “Charlie.” His missing teeth addled his words, but Alex could still make them out. “My name is Charlie.”

  “Okay, Charlie. I need you to tell me where you came from.”

  Charlie stiffened, clocked the crowd once more, and then sank back. “Manchester.”

  “Who was wit
h you?”

  “Nobody. I—”

  Alex cut him off with a sigh. “Charlie, don’t lie to me. If you spin a tale then the people behind me will kill you right here on this floor. But if you tell the truth, I promise that nobody will hurt you.”

  Charlie looked horrified, his eyes darting into the crowd once more. He seemed to find no comfort amongst their faces, and swallowed audibly. “There were three of us. We were here to send a message.”

  Alex nodded. “We’ve heard. This…Jason, he was with you?”

  Charlie blinked. “Yes.”

  Alex stood up, looking around at the others. He suspected that the crowd now consisted of over two-thirds of the city’s population, and more were still coming.

  “Who brought him here?” he called.

  There was a moment’s silence in which people looked around at each other, shrugging.

  Then a call rang out. “I did.”

  Alexander turned with the rest to see Lucian standing beneath a nearby doorway. His face was set and harsh, but his eyes remained placid. “I found him in the sewers. Leg was broken.”

  Alex felt anger burn in his gut, but forced his expression to remain neutral.

  Lucian came forwards without a word, parting the crowd in his wake, and crouched beside the young man. “Can you stand?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Not a chance.”

  Lucian and Alex grabbed him by the arms and lifted him to shoulder height. He groaned, making no effort to stand under his own power, and was half-dragged down the street. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, furious yet forlorn, as Charlie was taken away to the clinic.

  *

  “The sewers?” Norman said, frowning. He was ambling, but walking under his own power. Alexander’s emergence from hiding had been enough to get him standing.

  Alexander nodded as they proceeded into the clinic with Allison in tow. “Lucian dragged him into the street and let the others tear at him for a while.”

  Norman cursed. “Why would he do that?”

  “To punish him. And me.”