Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1)

by Harry Manners

  The message was apparently not to her liking; she immediately responded with an all-consuming screech of heartbreak.

  The Hispanic raised his pistol to his last victim, a despicable smirk running rampant across his cruel features.

  In his last moment, Blue Shirt’s mouth drew tight, and he closed his eyes. He jerked as the gunshot exploded along the valley, plummeting straight down instead of falling backwards like the others. There, he lay still.

  The Hispanic assessed the three corpses before him with a distinct air of satisfaction. He remained there as the ragged pair stepped forward to loot the bodies, simply staring. The murderous tool in his hand seemed to have been forgotten, hanging loose by his side.

  Sarah pounded the dirt with her fist. Her sobbing was now an ugly concoction of furious snarling and muddled obscenities.

  “We couldn’t have done anything,” Robert said. His voice ill-matched his wavering conviction.

  She didn’t stop beating at the ground until he gripped her arm and hissed, “Quiet!”

  The ragged pair retreated to the tower block, leaving the bodies half-stripped. The disturbance inside was now more akin to the din of a full-scale riot. The wailing woman shrieked when a dull thud rang out, followed by a sound that dredged distilled dread from Robert’s heart, one that unhinged his jaw and drew a gasp from his throat. Even the old Hispanic froze.

  A baby was crying. Over the roar of dozens of screaming voices, it was unmistakable, sending Robert’s stomach in a head dive for his boots.

  He dropped the rifle and swung around, clamping his hand over Sarah’s mouth just as she let forth a full-throated, anguished scream. He managed to stifle the body of it against his flesh, but he’d been just a moment too late to catch the initial piercing warble. He closed his eyes in dread as the noise broke out into the valley, rebounding from the valley walls for what seemed an eternity. Even the infant’s wailing and the rancorous roar within the building failed to mask it.

  Robert didn’t need the scope to know that the Hispanic guard had heard. He had been hurrying inside, no doubt to quell the raging insurgence that awaited him. Now he stood perfectly still, facing the tower block door.

  Sarah fought against Robert’s grasp with stunning strength. To keep hold of her, he’d have to hurt her, and he’d never risk doing that—not for one second. And so, with a curse, he loosened his grip, and she wriggled free. “The baby,” she choked. “Oh my god, there’s a baby down there.” She was too smart to try to stand, but still she cried out.

  Robert was forced to take hold of her once more. The beginnings of genuine panic coursed through him. She was going to get them killed. “What are you doing?”

  “We can’t just sit here!”

  “We have to.” Robert pushed her head close to the dirt, shielding her as best as he could from his awkward position. He held his breath, muscles tensed, ready to make his move.

  The old Hispanic’s attack came with stunning suddenness. He turned so fast that any movement was lost in a blur of ragged tunic—it appeared as though he had turned one hundred and eighty degrees in a single instant. Robert now stared down the barrel of his pistol.

  He broke cover and leapt upon Sarah just as the grass began surging back and forth and clouds of dirt were kicked up by a searing volley of bullets. Sarah screamed beneath him, shuddering as he forced her further into the dirt with his bulk.

  The riot inside the building was interrupted by an outbreak of machine-gun fire. Battle cries gave way to unbridled screaming. The volley of bullets stopped, and Robert chanced glancing up just in time to see the Hispanic turn his head ever so slightly, distracted.

  A flash of rage arced behind Robert’s eyes, and he dived for the rifle. He landed with such momentum that he and it were carried end-over-end through the grass as he swung the barrel around. The moment he came to a stop, his eyes reached the scope, and his finger came to rest against the trigger. Before he even had time to register the magnified image, he had fired. The rifle bucked in his hands, slamming into his shoulder.

  He immediately knew that the old Hispanic had been killed. His torso had been reduced to chum, an amorphous mass of bright-red jelly. He didn’t fall for several moments, just stood there with an expression of frank disbelief spreading across his face. Then he plummeted to the ground, as though pulled by unseen wires.

  The machine-gun fire continued in the tower block as Robert cast the rifle aside and dived back on top of Sarah. Men and women were shrieking inside, screaming for their lives, but to no avail. The infant hadn’t made a sound for some moments.

  “Come on,” he yelled, pulling Sarah up.

  She struggled, wild-eyed, and for a moment tried to surge forth down into the valley.

  Inside, the prisoners were still screaming. While the sound of droves being cut down rang out, Robert grappled with Sarah, certain that they were far too late. What might have been hundreds of voices had become no more than a few dozen in mere moments.

  Robert grasped her around the waist, hauled her around in a half-arc, and planted her upon the other side of the summit. “Run!” he bellowed.

  “We can’t just leave them—”

  “Go now. GO!”

  Dragging her in tow, he ran for the safety of the trees. As he bounded over fallen logs and past snagging roots, pulling Sarah beyond the first sheltering trunk, he felt a dagger twist in his heart.

  The screaming echoed in the valley long after they had reached their mounts.

  FOURTH INTERLUDE

  The baby had changed everything. The despair, hopelessness and apathy that had lingered since the End had finally broken, giving way to bouts of feverish activity, debate, and hope. The adults had started leaving Lucian in charge of James and the baby while they went on lengthy trips in search of others. They talked, argued and bartered with strangers, suddenly filled with a will to act, to do something.

  Vim and enthusiasm were rife.

  Alex and James, having for so long struggled with their crop field singlehandedly, were besieged by helping hands. With the added help, they’d managed to rear a respectable garden of tomatoes, onions, potatoes, and even a tiny patch of strawberries in a matter of weeks. Their cows now produced enough milk to consider selling the surplus; they planned to make it their foremost icebreaker once trade negotiations started with their far-flung neighbours.

  Today, James had already received plenty of help. Agatha and Oliver had risen before sunrise with him and taken the herd out to pasture. Though they’d soon retreated back to bed, haggard and bleary-eyed, he’d been nigh delirious with joy to have had them by his side.

  It was now mid-morning, and he was getting stuck into preparing the earth for a fresh batch of barley. He stood back for a moment to observe the turned soil, his chest swelling with pride, then went back to pruning weeds alongside Lucian—who, at nineteen, could still easily sleep most of the day away, but had taken to work nonetheless. The two of them would work until breakfast, after which Lucian would often stay out to tend the animals while James went away to the classroom.

  “Why don’t you come in?” James said.

  Lucian shrugged. “I won’t like it.”

  “You’ve never tried it.”

  Lucian looked uncomfortable. “I don’t read very well. I’m not like you, kiddo. I don’t have the brains.”

  “You can still learn,” James protested. “Learning is—”

  “—the only way to save the world,” Lucian said. His tone was far from the mocking slur it had once been. He now recited the mantra automatically, with force and familiarity.

  James smiled. “That’s what Alex says.”

  A shuffling made the two look up from their work just in time to see Paul shuffle around the side of the house. His gut had swelled to a size that could have rivalled Helen’s at the height of her pregnancy, and he wobbled to and fro as he walked, his unshaven face bouncing atop his neck without control. A sickly smile grew on his face as he saw them and made a beeline for
the crops, an ancient bottle of merlot swinging at his side.

  “What you doing out ’ere, boys, eh?” he jeered, swinging the bottle to his lips. Most of the wine dribbled down his chin and splashed across the soil at his feet.

  His drinking had taken yet another turn for the worse. The Sunday Mass with Agatha that he’d ritually clung to for their eleven years together had ended the night little Norman Creek had arrived. He no longer made any effort to help collect food or water, and disappeared for days on end, returning laden with rare alcohol and myriad injuries.

  The boys didn’t answer. He didn’t press them or repeat himself, but James could feel his gaze on the back of his neck. He worked faster and kept his eyes on the ground, hoping that Paul would become bored and drift away. Instead, he lingered to watch them work, swigging away.

  “Working in your fields, destiny child?” Paul said, laughing with great shuddering heaves. “Eh, destiny boy? You working to save us all, are you?”

  James said nothing, feeling blood rush to his face until his cheeks glowed red-hot. Lucian hushed him and nudged him onwards, urging him to work faster still.

  Paul receded into a deep silence, breathing with the harsh raggedness of inebriation, wobbling back and forth by several metres with each pacing stride. “It’s over,” he said eventually. His voice was low and laced with the tiniest of emotions, but James couldn’t tell which.

  Before he could think, wracked by a jolt of sympathy, he’d already replied, “What?”

  He instantly recognised his mistake, and barely reacted to the impact of Lucian’s fist against his shoulder, knowing full well that he’d doomed them both.

  “Our time is up,” Paul boomed. They both jumped at the sudden roar of his voice. “Tribulation is at an end!”

  James and Lucian shared a glance, rose slowly to their feet and backed away as his face grew red and he began roaring, swinging the bottle above his head. A sudden, genuine panic threatened to break James’s nerve.

  Paul pointed a finger squarely in his direction as his eyes grew narrow and he bared his teeth. Saliva flew from his swollen lips. “The Antichrist is among us!” he screamed, stamping on the crops as he advanced, ripping up the stalks of tomato plants, cursing, “Rotten, stinking things!”

  James stumbled back, but Paul was on him in moments.

  “It’s all your fault. You’re Him—you’ll kill us all!”

  James blinked as Lucian threw himself between them, his fists raised. He made to strike at the drunkard, but his hand became lost in the all-encompassing palms of the enormous man. Before James could move an inch, Lucian had been lifted bodily into the air and sent sprawling in the dirt. There was a resounding thrum as his head struck the iron weed bucket. He moved no more.

  James cowered, crying out and backpedalling towards the fence as Paul cast the wine bottle aside, his hands formed into outstretched talons. His chest shuddered with fright when his back made contact with the fence. There was nowhere to run. “Please, don’t,” he cried, scrabbling at the wood.

  “Cursed boy!” Paul roared. He raised his fist, bearing down with murderous rage.

  But his strike never came, because it was at that moment that another fist collided with his jaw, soaring in from somewhere over James’s shoulder. Paul staggered sideways and fell into the dirt.

  James blinked and let his arms drop, revealing Alex standing above him. His eyes were void of all but seething fury. His chest rose and fell as he strode forward and hauled Paul to his feet, hauling him up with apparent ease. He wrenched the drunkard around, manhandling him as though he was no more than a rag doll, striking him again and again.

  Paul spat blood into Alex’s face. Alex dropped him with a grunt.

  Paul took the opportunity to crawl to his feet and stumble away. Then he’d taken hold of a pitchfork and swung around, his face a shade of puce, his eyes alight with feral malice. He advanced on Alex, who backed away on his haunches, hands raised.

  “Alex!” James screamed. He made to surge forward, but Alex waved him back, his expression desperate. James hesitated, and cried out. There was nothing he could do.

  “Dirty bunch of sinners!” Paul hissed and swung the pitchfork, bearing down on Alex with intent to maim.

  The deafening roar of a gunshot, resounding and sudden, made them all duck. A flock of swallows exploded from a nearby thicket, filling the skies with wheeling silhouettes.

  Oliver approached from afar with a rifle held tight against his shoulder, aiming straight at Paul’s chest. His long coat was aflutter in the wind, his lazy eye was squinted shut, and the other was pressed against the rifle’s sights. “Keep still, Paul,” he called.

  Paul froze, the pitchfork still held aloft, his eyes wide. He watched Oliver approach while Agatha and Hector came sprinting out from the house. Surrounded, with all eyes on him and with James cowering at his feet, he appeared to shrink and wither. “Where’d you get a gun?” he growled.

  Oliver kept his gaze steady, coming to a stop at a distance appropriate to correct his line of fire, should it be necessary. “There’s plenty lying around, if you know where to look,” he said. There was no friendliness, familiarity, or emotion in his tone. His gaze was hard and watchful.

  “Hector!” Helen cried from inside. “What’s going on?”

  Hector threw a hand up. “Stay inside. Don’t bring the baby over here.”

  “Paul,” Agatha hissed, agape. “What’re you doin’?”

  Paul gestured to James accusingly, as though pointing alone was sufficient to justify his actions.

  James couldn’t help flinching. Embarrassment coursed his veins as a whimper escaped his lips.

  Agatha’s eyes flitted from Paul to James, then to Lucian’s static body, and finally the pitchfork, still hanging over Paul’s head. She shook her head, almost imperceptibly. Behind her tense expression, James thought he could see deep disappointment—maybe pain.

  “Tell ’em!” Paul yelled. Tears had formed in his eyes. “Tell ’em, Aggie! Tell ’em that it’s Him!” He pointed his talons at James once more. His finger wavered wildly.

  “He’s jus’ a boy,” Agatha said.

  “We talked about it, you and me! We talked about how this was our fault, how it was us being punished!”

  Agatha’s face remained blank, though a flicker of shame lingered on her brow. “All tha’s changed with the baby. I don’t believe tha’ God would let a baby be born into this if it was nough’ but punishment.”

  “The baby!” Paul laughed hysterically. “That baby’s probably another one of them. Like Him!” he roared, rounding on James.

  Agatha said nothing. She took a step back, causing Paul to gasp, his eyes suddenly wide and terrified. As she continued to back away, he took a step forward, dropping the pitchfork to the ground, his arm stretched out towards her.

  “Aggie,” he wailed. Fat tears spilled onto his unshaven cheeks.

  Agatha shook her head and backed away still. Only when Oliver approached, ready to shoot, did Paul stop his advance. He whirled on the spot, staring around at them all, and appeared to shrink further. He now looked no more significant than a squirming child. He began to whimper quietly.

  Watching him, James lost all power to describe his feelings. The closest he could get: a dash of sympathy, engulfed by an all-consuming hatred. He wanted to lash out, kick, bite and stamp, yet a strange lump had formed in his throat at the sight of the defeated creature.

  Alex took a step forward. His gaze was even harder than Oliver’s. “Leave,” he said.

  Paul didn’t move for a while, while his eyes softened and grew wider. Then his lower lip began to quiver. “Where will I go?” he muttered.

  Alex shook his head.

  Paul took a step forward, unhindered by Oliver’s warning, and clutched at Alex’s coat with wringing hands. “Alex, please, don’t.”

  Alex took a step back, but Paul followed, grasping and pleading.

  “Don’t make me go.”

  Alex shook
his head.

  Paul made to step towards the house, but Alex stepped aside to block his way. Again, Paul clutched at Alex’s coat. “M-My things,” he stuttered.

  Again, Alex shook his head.

  Paul stepped back, shrinking still, until his back was arched and he looked up at them all with one hand clasped over the other, his eyes red and puffy, his face sodden with tears and mucus.

  “I don’t have nowhere to go,” he said. His voice cracked at the sentence’s end. He looked to the others for help, seeking sympathy with waterlogged eyes.

  But Hector was silent, and Oliver remained stoic, the rifle raised. Agatha’s mouth was agape, and her own tears flowed across her cheeks. But she said nothing, and Paul’s shoulders slumped.

  Then he began to turn towards James. But before his gaze could reach him, Alex snarled, “Don’t you dare look at him.”

  Paul froze, took a last sweeping look around at them all, and then—to James’s shock—began to nod with sudden sobriety. He staunched his whimpering for long enough to mutter, “I’m sorry.”

  Nobody said anything. He looked forlornly at the house, and then began to shuffle towards the faraway road, hands clutched together.

  Hector and Oliver watched him go until none of them could hear his sobbing any longer, then disappeared inside. Agatha and Alex went to Lucian, roused him, and pulled him to his feet. He looked dazed and his speech was slurred—James’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of his lolling jaw—and so they carried him inside.

  James, however, stood and watched Paul go until he was nothing more than a speck upon the horizon, slowly shuffling through the long grass. James knew there was nothing out there, not that way, not a stream to drink from, nor a single fruit-bearing tree. As he watched him go, though the knot in his throat refused to loosen, the fury in his gut matured, and grew.

  *

  Dinner was a quiet affair. Nobody ate with any enthusiasm, poking at their soup. Not a single conversation was struck up. They each remained at the table for long enough to take a few bites, then announced a loss of appetite.