It was a piece of charred metal, bent, twisted, and blackened. Norman thought he might have been able to discern a sharpened edge skirting its periphery, but couldn’t be sure.
“What is this?” Evelyn said.
Lucian turned the shard in his hands, such that the jagged edges threw off a dazzling collection of reflected light beams. “This was all I could find,” he said. “Everything else was vaporised, or melted into the ground.”
Evelyn stared at the sliver of wreckage, and her eyes softened for a moment. Then the moment passed, and her face tightened back up. She held her head high, throwing her desiccated white locks over her shoulder. “So they’ve lost power?”
She beckoned Marek with a flick of her wrist. He complied without so much as a blink, reaching her side and stooping to match her stature.
She whispered something incoherent, her words lost in the void between them and Norman’s ears. However, he could tell by her tone that they were no words of praise, nor even frank discussion.
Marek answered in high-pitched protest, but apparently the argument wasn’t to her taste; she dismissed him with another flick of her wrist.
Marek scowled, his head rearing to one side, his hands gathered into shuddering fists.
Evelyn ignored him, turning to Lucian. “I trust you’re unaware of the situation?”
Lucian frowned and looked at Norman and Allie.
“They’re here, surrounding us,” Norman muttered. “We can’t get word out, but they’re letting people in.”
Lucian paled. “They’re gathering us up.”
“Like sheep for the slaughter.”
Evelyn cut across them. “It’s prudent that we move quickly. However, little can be done tonight, and I therefore recommend that each of you rest as best you can.” She fixed Marek with a stern look. “Let that be an end to this foolishness. We have few friends left. We can’t afford animosity now.” She gave a small bow. “Goodnight.”
With that, she departed, leaving them amidst an awkward silence. Little moved as she swayed across the square and disappeared.
Marek remained a while longer, his eyes downcast. He moved close to Lucian. “Stay out of my way,” he muttered. Then he too wandered away, back towards the hut by the gate. The door slammed behind him, and the light emanating from within winked out soon after.
Lucian didn’t move until Norman patted him on the arm and said, “It’s good to see you.”
He mumbled something in return, and then hurried towards the tower.
Norman watched him go, sighing, and then took Allison under the arm, leading her inside. “Come on,” he said, “we need some rest. Evelyn’s right: There’s nothing more we can do tonight.”
She didn’t protest, bending freely to his will. “How could this happen?” she whispered. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Not how it goes in all those stories the elders told. We’re supposed to be the strong ones, Norman. We’re supposed to be the good guys.”
He swallowed, and his throat cracked. “There are no good guys. And it’s never like it is in the stories.”
XXII
Robert crept across his front door’s threshold, his face creased into a strained, desperate grimace. He was determined to tread only upon the hallway’s edge, but his bulk still sent the floorboards snapping like bullwhips with each step.
His mind buzzed with the day’s run of mayhem: flashes of endless thickets, fields and meadows, accompanied by the buzz of a hundred blurred voices; a thousand half-remembered conversations; screams and shouts, anguished and furious alike.
He hadn’t returned to the city since the explosion. Working at the turbine site, securing the surrounding area and searching the denser forest beyond the hills had taken until long after dusk.
By then the streets had been pitch-black, and there had been little point in staying out to search the city itself. There had been little else to do but ensure that the guards were at their posts and slink away in the distant hope of a night’s rest.
If he was lucky, he’d get a few hours’ sleep before sunrise. Then he’d go out to the hills again and see if he could find some trace of a trail. If he could find one, maybe he could find out how those bastards had gotten past the perimeter. Maybe he could set up some kind of defensive strategy.
The house was crooked, misaligned. He and his father had built it themselves, many years before, when Canterbury had been home to just the two of them. That had been long before the others had arrived, before the rebuilding or the restoration.
Before Alexander, even.
The hallway’s low roof forced him to bend at a ridiculous angle, but it quickly split off into two perpendicular doorways, forming a T-junction. He made to cut away into the kitchen, but before he could take another step, a rumble built from the living room: the patter of running feet.
Sarah appeared in the doorway, candle in hand. Her hair lay lank and knotted over her glasses, throwing red, puffy eyes into shadow. Her cheeks drooped, pallid, and her mouth quivered, lopsided between dried tear tracks. “Where were you?” she whispered. She strode forwards, and her voice rose to a shriek. “Where were you?” She raised her free hand and slammed it against his chest.
He barely felt the impact—her fist rebounded with such a kick that it almost struck her chin—but he recoiled nonetheless. “What’s wrong?” he said. He gripped her by the arms, but she struggled, cursing and yelling. The candle wavered to and fro, sending their shadows dancing across the wall. “Wait! What are you doing? What’s wrong?”
She ripped herself from his grasp, her mouth working as fresh tears splashed across her cheeks. “What’s wrong?” she wailed. “I’ve been waiting here for hours! You’ve been out there all this time, and I had no way of knowing whether you were hurt or—or dead!”
Robert gripped her once more, firmly, holding her still, and stared into her eyes. He bent until well below the horizontal, and he reached her head height. “I’m fine,” he breathed. “Everything is fine.”
He steered her around and walked her slowly to the living room as her sobs began to settle. Once they’d passed inside, he started. Heather was perched on their dusty armchair, a cup and saucer frozen halfway to her face.
She observed them for a moment. “Hello,” she said after a brief, taut silence.
“Hello,” he replied. “Sorry I’m late.” A slab of awkward discomfort landed against the nape of his neck as he sat on the sofa, one that refused to dissipate.
The room was dark. The scant light of a dozen candles, even coupled with glowing embers in the grate, couldn’t quite replace that of the dead bulbs hanging overhead.
Sarah sat beside him, straight-backed, her eyes still seeping. There was something within them that made the struggles of the day dim and distant, and yet they inspired a great weakness in his bowels. It was almost as though she expected him to leave her again at any moment.
He put his arm around her and pulled her close.
“What happened?” Heather asked. “We’ve been waiting all day. But nobody came back. We thought…” She glanced at Sarah and grew quiet.
Robert raised a hand to his forehead and pressed hard. The pressure only somewhat relieved the headache festering behind his brow. He gave Sarah a brief squeeze before speaking, “From what we can tell, they came from the western hills and took out the turbines while we were distracted down by the river. There’s nothing left. No power.” He cleared his throat. “I’m thinking we might have enough biofuel left to get some lights going by nightfall tomorrow. At least we won’t be completely in the dark…for a while.”
A brief silence stretched between them.
“Was anybody hurt?” Heather said.
“No. There wasn’t anybody up there. I posted the sentries closer to the city to make sure the convoy was safe.” He tittered, cradling his aching head in his palms. “Not one of my best calls.”
Silence, bar the crackling in the grate.
“Why would somebody do this?” Heather m
uttered.
Robert shrugged, shaking his head.
More silence, thicker than treacle.
Sarah hadn’t said a word, nor moved a muscle. She’d merely kept her head rested on his shoulder, her face masked by matted red curls, which looked like flames licking at her cheeks in the candlelight. Her knuckles were bone-white, locked tight around his forearm.
He caressed her shoulder with his free hand. At his touch, her death-grip loosened slightly, became less desperate. “McKay and a few of the others came back,” he said, intent on breaking the lull. He tittered once more, but not a trace of humour stirred in his gut. “He wasn’t happy.”
“The guard detail? They came back?” Heather asked. “They just left everybody else out there?”
Robert nodded. “I wasn’t thrilled either, but there was no convincing him. At the time, I was just glad for the help.”
“Are they still here?”
Robert shook his head. “He took off back to London just before nightfall. I suppose he finally came to his senses.”
Heather rubbed her head. “I hope they get there alright.”
Robert shrugged. “They’ll be fine. These people weren’t looking for blood today. They were looking to terrorise, weaken. Shock and awe.” He paused, catching Heather’s alarmed expression. “They’ll send help as soon as they can. We’ll be fine. We just have to hold out the night.”
She nodded slowly, blinked, seemed to take deeper notice of how Sarah was draped over his shoulder, and cleared her throat. “I’ll get you a drink,” she said, standing with delicacy and hurrying from the room.
Robert and Sarah were left alone amidst fresh silence. Heather seemed to be intent on making a meal of whatever she was doing, crashing pots and pans together. Yet the atmosphere in the living room remained strained until Sarah finally spoke.
“Did you find anything?” she mumbled.
Robert brushed a stray lock behind her ear, looking down at the curtain of hair shielding her face. “Not yet.”
She nodded fractionally and resumed her silence. She held up her hand to the candlelight, turning the ring upon her finger until it twinkled and flashed. The two of them looked at it for a long time, not saying a word.
She’d said that she wanted a white autumn wedding.
Did they have that long?
Eventually, she muttered, “I’m glad you’re alright.”
Robert tried to smile, but the tugging in his gut soon wiped it from his lips. He folded his hand over hers. “Me too.”
*
Norman was brought to the gate by the sound of the klaxon like everyone else. He joined the ranks of a growing crowd, aghast, as a ragged group of travellers filed into the courtyard. The sun had barely risen, but there was no mistaking the blood. It lay over everything, every scrap of cloth, every inch of bare skin. Their carts had been purged of goods and loaded up with piles of dead and dying. Their agonised cries filled the air.
Evelyn, Alexander and Lucian raced from the tower. “Mr Rush! What happened?” Alex cried.
A round-shouldered, powerful man stepped forward, visibly shaking, lips trembling. Norman was shocked more by the sight of his fear than the sight of the wounded. Rush had been on the council since its founding with Alexander, representing Southampton. He was a presence to put all others to shame, a commander on par with the messiah himself.
Now he was in tatters, tears streaming down his face. “They came from nowhere. We tried to run, but the way back was blocked. They…they killed…there were over a hundred of us!”
Norman’s stomach turned over. No more than a dozen were still standing.
The crowd rushed forward to help unload the wounded and carry the survivors away for treatment. Norman fought his way through to the spot where Rush had collapsed into Alexander’s arms. He was whimpering. “Portsmouth and Worthing have been hit,” he said. Norman had always known his stare to carry nothing but dignity. Now it was jelly. He shook his head. “There’s nothing left.”
None of them spoke. There was nothing to say.
As the sun rose, more groups arrived. People poured in, desperate for shelter, some unscathed, some not. None had been hit as bad as those from Southampton. Norman couldn’t help but feel they were an example.
Soon the representatives of almost every settlement on the council had arrived. The fact that none of the ambassadors had been harmed, despite reams of fallen aides, friends and family, only fuelled his suspicion. By the time the sun had crested the distant skyscrapers, the courtyard was stained red, and the gates slammed shut a final time. They couldn’t risk waiting any longer for stragglers. The council would convene in the coming hours, and their course of action would be decided.
But Norman was no longer sure there was anything to be done. Until now they had been the dominant power in all the land. In a single morning, they had been reduced to rats in a maze.
THIRD INTERLUDE
James stepped out onto the beach and took a breath of rich sea breeze. He surveyed the rough surf and half-buried remains of old yachts, pale in the early morning light, overturned and pitted below the tide line.
The world was moving on. After eleven years, the things mankind had created before the End were beginning to vanish. People were beginning to call everything before that time the Old World.
Lucian appeared alongside him, only a head taller even after his recent growth spurt. Without a word to one another, they ambled along the beach, stabbing their spears into the sand to give them purchase, watchful of the trees. James smiled. His feet felt sure, and his legs strong. The roll of the surf was music to his ears.
Yet, he was more tired than he would have ever shown, especially with Lucian around. They’d spent the morning hunting without success. He didn’t relish the thought of keeping it up for much longer, but he’d never complain. If they didn’t make a kill, they’d go hungry. The tinned food wasn’t as plentiful as it had once been. Now, it was currency in itself. A tin of mackerel could buy you a sack of coal. For corned beef, you could get enough rags to clothe an entire family.
Food had ceased to become a given. If you couldn’t hunt, gather, or trade by now, you’d starve. And, from what they’d seen on their travels, many had. The unskilled survivors who’d gorged themselves on the Old World’s resources without a thought for how long it would last had followed the rest of humanity into oblivion.
James listened to branches snapping in the forest as the others followed a path parallel to the beach. Sensing that Lucian’s gaze was directed towards the trees, he allowed his eyes to droop for a moment. Walking along with half-closed eyes, it almost felt like sleeping.
“Doesn’t it bother you, kiddo?” Lucian muttered.
James brushed windswept hair from his eyes and frowned at his brother. “What?”
“You have no time to yourself. You were up all night reading again. You’ve been out with us since dawn. Soon as we get back, I’ll bet my dinner that Alex has a class waiting. Then what? More reading?”
“I like to read,” James said, though his gaze fell to the ground. Then he did a double take. “And I can hunt better than the rest of you put together.”
Lucian laughed and ruffled his hair, smearing it back over his eyes. “Of course you can.”
“I can. You’re all too loud. And clumsy.”
Lucian appeared to take offence, but at the same time seemed unable to mount any kind of counterargument, so let it pass. “But you've always got to be doing something,” he said. “If you haven’t got your head in a book then you’re in the classroom, you’re taking care of the birds, you’re milking the cows or you’re out tending the plants.”
“Crops,” James corrected.
Lucian was uncomfortable with that word. Like the others, he thought that their field was too small to justify using it. Most of the others merely frowned at its usage. Lucian said it was ridiculous. Paul said things far worse, things James wasn’t allowed to hear—Aggie always covered his ears.
But Alex insisted they were raising crops, that their one patch of earth was just the start of something much greater, that one day entire meadows would grow six feet tall with wheat and barley, and they’d be able to feed hundreds of people—maybe a thousand. That was more than enough for James.
“But don’t you want to do other things?” Lucian said.
“What things?”
“I don’t know…kid things. Don’t you want to play?”
James shrugged, frowning. “I play all the time. I love games.”
Lucian scowled. James shrank away instinctively, conscious of his bad temper. “Backgammon Night isn’t playing,” he said.
James shook his head, nonplussed. There was no time for play, no reason for it. Even if he’d wanted to, there was nobody to play with. The nearest people were a few hours’ ride away.
No, play wasn’t for him. His time was for learning, for collecting the Old World’s treasures. For saving the world.
“Don’t you sometimes wish that you didn’t have to do all those things?” Lucian said. “Don’t you wish that you could be free?”
James paused mid-step. His mind had fallen blank. Somewhere, deep down in his gut, anger stirred. “I’m free,” he said. His voice was more high-pitched than he’d intended, but he didn’t care. He was too busy searching Lucian’s face.
Lucian had stopped a few paces ahead. His brow constricted into a deep crease, something he always did when unsettled—James was sure he’d wrinkle early—as though sensing the pain in his voice. “I know,” he said.
“I have a job to do. It’s important.”
“I know, I know, it’s your destiny,” Lucian muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
James felt his face bunch up as the anger in his gut swelled, but it was quickly overshadowed by sadness—not for the insult, but for Lucian’s disbelief. “You don’t think so?” His spear had dropped to his side. “You don’t think I have a destiny? You don’t think… I’m important?”
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