Afterlight

by Alex Scarrow

  So obvious now . . . Of course, armed with hindsight, he admitted that the old world had been heading towards something like that; an end-of-times event. Not just a twelve-week-fucking-crisis, but The End. He remembered an economist once calling it ‘Petri dish economics’ - where a bacteria feeds on a growth solution, expanding to fill its grow space and finally, upon consuming the last of the free food, it turns on itself.

  Eats itself.

  He looked back at the pale faces of the workers, gathering in ever larger numbers on the receding quayside, and realised all he’d achieved these last ten years was to duplicate the old world on a much smaller scale; a twenty-acre Petri dish.

  The boat chugged heavily and slowly out into the middle of the Thames. Ahead, across the foredeck and the bobbing, excited heads of his boys, he could see the bend in the river, and in the distance the row of shell-like hoods of the Thames barrier.

  Nathan watched London drift slowly past them. It reminded him of a riverboat tour of the Thames he and his cousins, mum and auntie had once been on. A warm day like today, ice-cream dripping onto his fist and pigeons pestering them.

  From out here in the middle of the river, London really seemed to look no different to the way it had then. The buildings still stood. The tower blocks of Canary Wharf still glinted and shimmered proudly. This far away from the river’s edge, all the small telltale details of dead London were lost; the weeds, the cracks, the broken windows, the overgrown lawns, the rusting cars, the cluttered streets. From where he stood on the stubby aft of the tugboat, Nathan imagined he was nine years old again as the vessel strained its way past Victoria Docks. London bustling in the distance.

  He spotted the roof of the ExCel Centre beyond a row of giant freight cranes and dockside warehouses and shuddered at the memory of what had happened inside. He wondered if Leona actually did manage to escape, or whether - the thought turned his stomach - her bones had been added to that pile.

  Coming to London had been a mistake. A huge mistake. But he knew they’d had to do it. Not knowing for sure, one way or the other, would have gnawed away at him and Jacob until they finally couldn’t stand it any more and had to go see.

  He shook his head sadly. Both he and Jake had thought the dome was nirvana. The beginning of the future; an epicentre of recovery and hope. But, despite all the lights, the arcade machines, the pounding music of party nights, he realised it wasn’t a beginning, it was an end. It was denial, a last blast party with whatever could be scooped together out of the ruins.

  He looked around at the other boys stretched out amongst the coils of diesel-stinking rope; all of them excited at their brand new adventure, smoking their cigarettes, stroking their guns with fingers heavy with gold.

  It’s like a game to them. Like a computer game. Like ‘Grand Theft Auto’.

  Here they were off to some place they knew absolutely nothing about other than Snoop had promised them it would have endless electricity and lots of women to play with. A new playground for them. A new party to go to. And as long as there was somebody coming along who was going to make sure there’d be booze and smokes they seemed content.

  What the fuck have I done?

  They were all heading to a place he’d called home. Where his mum lived. Where other people whom he’d considered extended family lived. And they were going to have a party there. Oh, yes, it was going to be a party. He could imagine any one of these boys, fired up with excitement, pissed or stoned, cornering his mum in some small cabin . . . his mum pleading.

  Nathan felt something in his chest flip and turn with guilt, suddenly realised guilt.

  The fuck have I done?

  The cold sick feeling spread down into his stomach and started to churn there. He realised Snoop had talked him into believing this was a friendly visit; a pooling of resources, a combining of personnel. And he’d hinted, hadn’t he? Hinted that the rigs would be a new kingdom, under their shared rule. Maxwell ousted and the praetorians in charge with Snoop and him as kings. These boys had been promised someplace even better than the dome . . . and they were going to have it.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘Oh, shit.’

  Chapter 71

  10 years AC

  ‘LeMan 49/25a’ - ClarenCo Gas Rig Complex, North Sea

  Valérie Latoc stood beside the railing and watched Howard and Dennis march Walter, hands bound behind his back by loops of gaffer tape, up the last flight of steps and across the helipad. They held him tightly between them - not that there was anywhere for Walter to run to if he broke free.

  The wind gusted in an uneasy way this morning, rattling the protective plastic sheets so they snapped like canvas sails, stirring the field of tomato plants, sending white horses galloping across the restless sea far below.

  Only about fifty members of the community were assembled up here to pay witness. The rest of them were lining the railings on the decks below.

  Howard and Dennis finally came to a halt in front of Valérie. The old man between them looked surprisingly calm, given the fate awaiting him. Valérie had been hoping Walter would’ve started kicking and screaming on his way up here, pleading in an altogether undignified way for his mercy. Instead, he stood sullenly in front of him, eyes narrowed with bitter hatred and rage that was almost palpable.

  ‘Walter Eddings, you understand why you are up here, yes?’ asked Valérie loudly, his voice carrying across to the witnesses gathered on the helipad.

  Walter’s lips quivered slightly but he said nothing.

  ‘It was decided collectively by these people - people who know you far better than me, people who trusted you - that you should be put to death for what you did to Natasha Bingham.’

  ‘You know I did nothing,’ Walter replied, struggling to keep his voice even. ‘I didn’t touch her.’

  ‘She was on your boat, Walter. Do not try and lie about that. What things you did to her, how she died, I am afraid we will never know. Perhaps it is better that way—’

  ‘I never fucking well touched her!’

  ‘You are also being punished for what I suspect you may have done to the other girl, Hannah.’

  Walter shook his head. ‘I know it was you! I know that was you, you dirty bastard!’

  ‘Walter . . .’ Valérie said, reaching a hand out and placing it amicably on his shoulder. ‘Why are you lying now? It is too late to change things, really. At least if you were to admit it now, and ask God for His forgiveness you could leave the world unburdened.’ He smiled. ‘You see, God really does love everyone. Even you. If you open your heart to him, this will not be the end for you. But the beginning of a period of redemption.’

  Walter lurched forward and spat at Valérie, but the gusting wind carried his spittle away.

  ‘You’re a fucking lying pervert! You’re a fucking sick bastard!’ the old man screamed at him. ‘I never touched either of them!’ He twisted round to shout over his shoulder at the women gathered on the helipad behind him. ‘Do you see what he’s doing!! DO YOU SEE!!’

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted someone in the crowd.

  ‘Why?’ Walter’s voice broke. ‘Why me? Why don’t you believe me? I’d never hurt Hannah. I’d never h-hurt anyone!’

  ‘Shut up, shut up!!’ screamed Mrs Bingham. ‘JUST DIE!!’ Her voice trailed away into a wash of burbling tears as Alice folded a protective arm around her. ‘Why don’t you just go, Walter.’

  Walter’s temper flared. ‘You fucking bitch! After all I’ve fucking done for you lot!! Why? Why??? Why are you doing this to me?’

  That’s better.

  Valérie had hoped he’d crumble. Make a scene. Plead. Accuse. Snarl. Every word he spat at them only made him sound more guilty.

  ‘Don’t you see? Doesn’t anyone see? It’s him! HIM!! Latoc! I’d never hurt our girls! I didn’t hurt Hannah!! I loved her for God’s sake!!’

  Yes, every single word damning him further.

  ‘She was like my own. Like my own daughter!!’

&
nbsp; Valérie gently squeezed his shoulder. ‘Walter.’

  The old man turned back to him. There was spittle on his cheeks, caught in his beard, his eyes wide and his face was mottled and crimson with fear. He couldn’t have done a better job of looking like the right man to face the charge.

  Thou protesteth much too much, sir.

  ‘Walter,’ said Valérie softly, just for his ears. ‘I could spare you, you know? But these people feel betrayed by you. They are angry and hurt. Why not admit now what you did? Perhaps I could use that to help you. Show them that you understand what you have done is wrong. Perhaps then I could persuade them to settle for you just being evicted? Yes?’

  Walter shook his head. He even managed to sneer. ‘What? So you can be in the clear? Fuck you!’

  Valérie let go of his shoulder. ‘Then I am so sorry. I really cannot help you, if you will not help yourself.’

  ‘Jenny knows,’ he hissed breathlessly back at him. He turned to shout over his shoulder again. ‘Jenny knows I never did anything!! That’s all that fucking matters to me! That she knows!! Ask her!’

  ‘Let us pray for this man’s soul!’ called out Valérie, dipping his head.

  ‘Jenny knows I’m innocent!’ Walter screamed, his voice ragged and breathless. ‘SHE KNOWS!!’

  ‘Lord, hear our prayer. This man has sinned against his family and his friends. He has taken the lives of two innocent young girls in moments of madness and selfishness. There can be no—’

  ‘I DIDN’T DO IT!! IT’S HIM!!’

  ‘—room aboard our ark for one who would take a young life for his own needs—’

  ‘HE KILLED NATASHA! HE KILLED HANNAH! I’M NOT A PERVERT!!’

  ‘—we hope, in this final moment, that he can understand the hurt he has caused to those beautiful children, to their mothers, to all of us. May God have mercy on his soul.’

  Valérie dropped his hands and looked up. He nodded to the two men and they proceeded to wrestle Walter towards a narrow gap in the railing at the edge of the helipad.

  ‘Dennis . . . Howard!!’ gasped Walter turning to him. ‘For fuck’s sake! Please . . . don’t do this!!’

  ‘You brought this on yourself, mate,’ grunted Dennis.

  Walter writhed and twisted in their grip as they shunted him through the gap until he teetered on the very edge of the platform, nothing between his overhanging toes and the sea but one hundred and eighty feet of blustering air.

  ‘PLEEEASSE!!’

  Both men locked their free arms around the railing to brace themselves against Walter’s weight, teetering and swaying over the edge. They both looked at Valérie, awaiting his nod for them to release their grip on Walter’s upper arms.

  ‘It’s HIM . . . NOT ME . . . it’s HIM!!’

  Then, all of sudden, his desperate twisting and struggling was too much for Dennis to maintain a grip, the left arm pulled free and Walter swung around with Howard still struggling to keep a hold onto the right arm. Their eyes met over Walter’s shoulder.

  ‘Oh, God, no . . . !’ he whimpered. ‘Please . . . please . . .’

  Howard grimly pressed his lips together. ‘I’m really sorry, Walt,’ he whispered. He let go and Walter pitched forward. He tumbled, spinning end over end, his hands bound behind his back, white-knuckled and clenched as if in prayer, his legs scissoring in a futile attempt to right himself. Nearly six seconds of descent, then he disappeared into the roiling suds that spilled between the platform’s legs.

  The Journey Home

  Chapter 72

  10 years AC

  M11, London

  It was approaching twilight when they decided to stop. Leona hadn’t worn a watch in years, but if she was going to hazard a guess at the time, then she would have said it was after eight in the evening.

  Last night they’d hurried away from the Zone along the Blackwall Tunnel, expecting a hunting party of Maxwell’s praetorians to be in hot pursuit. But no one had followed. Halfway along the tunnel, at its lowest dip, they’d had to wade through a puddle of stagnant water almost chest high. The result of ten years of rain and the accumulation of Thames water leaking through crumbling and neglected fissures in the structure.

  An hour later they’d emerged into moonlight again on the far side, north of the Thames. They decided to hole up for the night on the first floor of an office block, sleeping fitfully between quiet cubicles and dust-covered desk tops.

  Today’s going had been slow. Leona had hoped they’d be out into the countryside by the end of the day, but instead they were still trudging along the M11 approaching the junction bisecting the M25. Beyond that was ‘outside’ London, according to Harry. But it was still very far from being outside the foreboding urban landscape looming down on either side of them.

  ‘There they are again,’ said Adam quietly.

  Leona turned and looked over her shoulder.

  A hundred yards down the motorway she could see them; about a dozen people, pale and ragged, old and young alike.

  ‘There’s a few more of them now,’ she replied.

  Adam nodded.

  It had been about midday that she’d first spotted someone, as they picked their way along a high street. A curious face peering out of the dark gloom of a window above the empty shell of a shop.

  Scavengers, Adam had said. No better than those wild children. He said they saw them here and there, but never in large numbers; pitiful, lonely figures managing somehow to continue to find scraps in the city.

  ‘Never seen that many at once. They seem to be getting a little less nervous,’ he said.

  They were closer, and no longer darting to hide every time one of them turned round to check where they were.

  ‘Why do you think they’re following us?’ asked Bushey.

  ‘They see your uniforms.’ She nodded at the faded and patched khakis Adam and the other men were wearing. ‘Maybe they think you’re, like, representatives of the government or something.’

  They see hope.

  ‘They want us to help them,’ she said.

  Walfield shrugged. ‘We can’t.’

  ‘Not saying we should,’ replied Leona. ‘But that’s why they’re following us.’

  It was an hour later that Leona and the others finally stopped. It was a beautiful moment that stopped them; in a way a reassuring thing, that life goes on quite happily without mankind’s help. Just as the last pale stain of day was being chased by long shadows across the motorway, they watched in stunned silence as a small herd of deer ambled across the four lanes of the motorway passing within feet of them, their dark eyes expressing only a casual curiosity and not fear as they trotted by.

  Here were several generations that had never known roads filled with moving vehicles, roads that could kill them. Or people that could shoot them.

  Leona stretched a hand towards the nearest of the animals, a large doe bringing up the rear. She felt its hot breath coming in gentle puffs as it paused to sniff her outstretched fingers curiously.

  ‘Hello,’ she said softly.

  It snorted wetly then broke into a trot to catch up with the others as they began to weave their way through a logjam of vehicles and down an off ramp leading into a cluster of low office blocks.

  Adam shouldered his gun without a word of warning and fired a solitary round. An old stag, one of the largest animals in the group, dropped heavily to the ground with a clattering of its horns against the boot of a rusting Renault estate. The rest of the herd scattered, their pale rears bobbing like ghosts amidst the gathering gloom.

  ‘Meat,’ said Adam. ‘Jesus, I haven’t eaten fresh meat in . . .’ he looked slowly round at them, a widening smile spreading beneath his beard. ‘Shit, I can’t even remember.’

  ‘Come on, lads,’ said Walfield to the other two men, ‘let’s get something for a fire.’

  Leona nodded, glad at least that he’d not shot the doe that had sniffed at her hand.

  ‘But they all seemed so young.’ Leona chewed on the hot gris
tle in her greasy hands. ‘I mean, those three smaller boys at the gate, they must have been eleven . . . twelve?’

  Walfield shrugged and tossed another slat of fence wood onto the fire, sending a shower of sparks up into the sky. The deer’s skinned and cleaned carcass hung from an improvised spit, dripping fat into the fire as it cooked; one hind leg already pared to the bone in places where cuts of meat had been removed.

  ‘The younger the better,’ he replied after a while.

  Adam nodded, finishing a mouthful. ‘Child warriors. They’re often the most fearless. Certainly the most ruthless.’ He swigged warm water from one of their plastic bottles. ‘Maxwell was no fool. He set up his boys’ army as “auxiliary staff”, initially to help out the emergency workers. That’s how it was for a couple of years until he staged that coup and had them turn our own guns on us and kick out the rest of the lads in our platoon.’

  He picked meat from his teeth. ‘There’s a long history of dictators using child soldiers as a psychological weapon on their own people.’

  ‘East Africa,’ added Walfield. ‘Somalia, Ethiopia, Eritrea . . . I remember reading about some warlord who ruled over something like a quarter of a million people with just a couple of hundred boys with guns. It was their totally psychotic reputation that did it. Kept all them people in line.’

  ‘Boy soldiers,’ added Adam, ‘because they haven’t lived long enough to understand right from wrong, to “grow” a morality. Older soldiers - men - have lived long enough to have wives, girlfriends, younger sisters, younger brothers, perhaps even sons or daughters of their own. It makes them pause for thought. At the moment of committing an act of atrocity, it gives them a reason to hesitate. And that moment . . . that second of hesitation can mean the difference between killing an innocent civilian or not.’