I look out. They're all watching now, rising from one nightmare into another. They see me, kneeling on Drake's corpse as bloody as a newborn babe. Amo the murderer. Amo the liar, the killer, the monster. They see what I am, every inch the animal he branded me, every inch the animal that I am, so let it fucking be.
I clank my chains together loudly and they startle. They gasp. I'm exhausted after two days of being beaten and ignored, of no food and scarcely any water, after fighting Drake to the death, but I will do this now. I choose to do this thing in this way. Let them feel the fear.
I turn my back and haul myself bodily onto the stage. There's Lara now too, watching me. She's got the gun in her hands. I don't know what message passes between us. I don't know what her eyes say, or mine. I just hold out my shackled hands, and she puts the gun into them. I flick the safety off. I swing back to the edge of the stage, and I point the barrel down at Drake.
BANG
BANG
BANG
I shoot him three times; in the back of the neck, in the head, in his massive barrel chest. Little spurts of blood puff up like sad firecrackers.
People suck breaths and pull away. My children will never forget this. They will never forget this, but I haven't got time to protect them from it. I've seen what's coming. From the looks in their eyes they all have too, a giant white eye to bloom over us all, and now I need to make it real.
"We're leaving now," I say. My voice comes out cold and rough. I sound cruel. "You've all seen it."
I don't understand what I saw in the sparking darkness after Lara took my hand, not any more than they do, but the truth of it was undeniable. I saw them all die. I saw the world burn in a terrible holocaust, and I'll never take a chance again. I should have shot Drake from the start. I should have shot his children and his people as soon as they resisted. I should have killed Julio and Maine and every single bunker from the off, I shouldn't take another chance, not a single other risk.
I don't care.
"You just murdered that man!" A voice calls in outrage from the crowd, and I know who it is from the first syllable. They all have guns out there too. Perhaps they have bombs. But what does it matter?
She appears from their midst, Witzgenstein, like an angel coming down from the clouds. She's standing with her gun pointing at me. Feargal stands near, slack-jawed with his pistol in its holster. Alan stands to her right, holding his gun down at his side. It's laughable, such a joke, because she still thinks she can win.
"Say one more word, Janine," I say thickly. I don't raise my voice or my gun. I don't do a thing because at this point I don't need to. It feels as if I can kill her with a thought. I'm standing here covered in Drake's blood and brains and there's nothing she can do. I feel invulnerable. She can't kill me, she won't because she never has before, while for me it'll be easy, like taking off a pair of socks. I'll kill her and all her people until I can't breathe for all the blood. "One more word."
I wait. I weave in place. I watch her, as she raises her left hand to steady the pistol. She can have a shot for free. She can take her chance, but her hands are shaking and she won't hit and she knows it. I stare into those bright blue eyes as they color with fear.
Finally.
We never faced off before like this, but now I see we should have. I never demanded respect. Perhaps I earned it, for a time, but I never had fear, and now I see the power it brings, and so does she. That's another lesson from Drake.
I drop my gun, clattering off the wood. I don't need it any more. I stop looking at Janine and instead I look to them all. Still my comics are burning in braziers around them, but that's fine, that's so far in the past now that I can't even remember when it was important. My shoulder burns, my fists ache, my chest heaves. I speak.
"We're leaving. Right now. Stay here and I'll let you die. Leave and we have a chance. You've seen the white eye. You know what's coming."
I see the fear increase, and that's good. This is the new apocalypse.
Lara comes up behind me, catching her arm around my chest just in time, before I fall. Together we hold position for ten seconds, twenty, a contest of wills with these people who moments ago were baying for my blood. They've seen more blood than they ever wanted, and it's turned their stomachs.
Good. Together Lara and I start down off the stage, with me leaning on her and my chains rattling along behind. We don't talk to anyone or each other. I don't ask Feargal to gather my children, because I trust that he will. It's all performance now, all about the show; another lesson I learned from Drake. I hold my shackled wrists together over my belly like it's a choice, like this is how I choose to walk.
We go into the darkness, away from the halo of white light and the braziers and people, toward Drake's silver Winnebago at the end of the row of RVs. Someone has the keys, someone knows the code, and somehow the door will open. I have faith.
By the time we reach the door, it happens. A heavy woman darts nimbly ahead and keys in the code. Lydia. The door opens and a flood of children rush past me, flowing in before I can get a foot on the step. I don't know. I killed their father, and now they follow me? Dozens. Hundreds maybe, I can't count them all. We follow. I'm too weary to drive, every muscle shaking now, so I leave it to Lara. I sit, she sits, and she keys the ignition.
Someone puts their hand on my shoulder.
"I have them," says a voice I always thought I could trust. Feargal. I nod and a bloody tear leaks down my cheek. I look through the windshield and back toward the stage, letting my eyes run over the rows of scattered seating and braziers, where nobody is now standing. Drake's huge body is barely visible at the base of his stage. I look at the ornate Chinese Theater roofing above, lit up by the red of the brazier fires like a neon demon, and I say my farewells.
We won't be coming back ever again.
The Winnebago kicks into gear and draws away. We are the first and take the lead. I feel the weight of so many children behind me; almost a hundred people in all, in flight. We drive at the head of just another exodus convoy.
Time passes in silence, perhaps thirty minutes, perhaps forty. Lara watches the road, weaving north and east and out of LA, and I watch her. She belongs in this driving seat, like this. She's got the still, quiet strength, now; the same stuff I used to have, while I've become a beast, all raw violence and rage. I'm played out as mayor and I have been for years. I should have seen it after Maine, but I thought I could still do good. I hoped my flag and my work on Sacramento would help us, but I see now what pathetic bullshit that was. New LA has had enough of me, and I've had enough of it too. I should thank Drake for pulling off my mask.
We drive on. When the boom finally comes, the whole convoy halts.
The flash comes first, illuminating the road ahead and all around like sheet lightning that doesn't end, like someone turned on a great electric light in the sky. I see everything ahead and around so drab and lonely, everything in the cab and out on these dead streets, then there's the-
BOOM
It's a boom to beat all booms. It rolls and gathers and rises like a tsunami tide, bringing behind it the whole aching mass of the sea. I feel it in my bones, in the burr rising up through the wheels, in the shivering of the air, until the furious rush of dust and wind rattling off the back of the RV supersedes it. It's like a hurricane landed and we can barely see. The road ahead seems to twist, then that rush is over, and the boom is over, and without a word Lara pulls over. Without a word we get out of the vehicle. It's too big a thing not to pause and observe, too vast a change in our world, and a few seconds more of exposure won't make any difference now.
I get out and stand beside her, stumbling over my chain. In the sky above downtown LA there hangs a vast ball of flame, an unblinking white eye, which lights the whole city as if it were day. The ball roils and expands like a boiling egg in oil, sending devastation out into the sky and down, raining down upon New LA. I watch as the massive mushroom cloud of pulverized city rises up to obscure it. I feel the hea
t on my skin like the sun on a fifty-degree day. I feel the ionized wind.
Airburst, my mind tells me. Intercontinental ballistic missile. Without a doubt, if we'd lingered just a few moments longer, if I'd stopped to discuss the finer points of leadership with Janine, we would now all be dead.
It's not a coincidence. It was a choice. My mind turns on simple details. All the people gathered in one place. Perhaps all the survivors in the world, collected on one forecourt for the first time ever. Their demons had failed so they waited for this, waited for us to congregate, then they sent a missile when Sacramento finally came in.
Someone gasps. Someone wails. Someone cries. I watch for a time, as the white eye steadily blinks itself out, leaving only a burning afterimage behind, seared into our collective memory. This is what they think of us, the bunkers, because who else could it be? This is their vision of the future, no treaty and no hope of co-existence, and there's no going back now. This is what they want, so this is what they shall have. I'm finally ready.
I lead all my children, Drake's children and my own, back into the RV. Lara sits at the wheel and looks at me. She nods, and takes a breath, and we drive away from the nuclear blast.
It's time to say goodbye to New LA.
Author's Note
Thank you for reading The Laws! I sincerely hope you enjoyed it. As an indie author I'm keenly aware of how many great books there are out there, and I appreciate you taking the time to try this one. Would you consider reviewing it on the shop site and/or Goodreads?
It doesn't matter how many stars you give or how long/short your review is, as long as the review is honest. Honest reviews from readers like you are the lifeblood of indie authors, affording us visibility and social proof in a highly competitive market.
Thank you!
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As a thank you for sampling my work, I'd like to offer you my free Starter Library of 2 post-apocalypse thriller books- one of them is The Last, the other is titled Mr. Ruins, and tells the story of an ex-marine after an apocalyptic global resource war, and his battles with a monstrous figure who wants to swallow his soul- Mr. Ruins.
You only need to enter your email to get Mr. Ruins:
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You'll also be first to know when Zombie Ocean #7 is ready for launch!
In addition, I'm always looking for beta-readers to join my ARC (Advance Review Copy) Squad, who get free copies of all my books, a month before anyone else, forever, in exchange for reviews on launch day plus any beta-reading/typo-spotting you'd like to provide.
If you'd like to join the ARC Squad, please send me an email at [email protected] and I'll happily make you a member.
Now, read on for the first chapter of Mr. Ruins, Book 1 of the Ruins War!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to my Advance Review Copy team, in particular:
Pam Elmes, indubitably the fastest reader in the West, for finishing The Laws in less than a day, and offering great support on a thorny endgame problem. Rebecca Barnes, for cutting back on sleep to plow through the ocean in just a few days, and sending a flood of Britishism reports. Melissa Dykeman-Abourbih, for nailing several continuity errors (they can't eat French Fries if there's a potato blight). Karen Merendino for catching cupboard where it should be closet, Steve Kenny and Brita Morrow, Katy Page for knocking out two important continuity errors (does Lara know who died in the bombing or not? / is Amo wearing his shackles or not?), Jacqueline Clarke, Jill Scalzo for an American grammar flaw, Sue Davidson for such precise continuity comments and rigorous fact-checking, and Jacinda Matzer for a few hard-to-spot punctuation errors. Thank you all.
Also thanks to my Dad for pointing up issues of pace in the Past section and issues of clarity in the final chapter, and to my wife Su for her constant support in the face of me warbling on about possible plots on long rambles round our local park.
- Michael
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael John Grist is a British writer who lived in Tokyo, Japan for 11 years and now lives in London, England.
He writes science fiction and fantasy thrillers, and used to explore and photograph abandoned places in Japan, such as ruined theme parks, military bases and underground bunkers. These explores have drawn millions of visitors to his website michaeljohngrist.com, and often provide inspiration for his fiction.
OTHER WORKS
Zombie Ocean (zombie apocalypse)
#1 The Last
#2 The Lost
#3 The Least
#4 The Loss
#5 The List
#6 The Laws
Ruins War (science fiction thriller)
#1 Mr. Ruins
#2 King Ruin
#3 God of Ruin
Ignifer Cycle (epic fantasy)
#1 Ignifer's Rise
#2 Ignifer's War
#0 Ignifer's Tales (short stories)
Short fiction
The Bells of Subsidence - 9 science fiction stories
Bone Diamond - 9 weird fiction stories
Non-fiction
Into The Ruins - Adventures in Abandoned Japan
Mr. Ruins
A vicious, visionary new SF thriller. Gritty cyberpunk for the 21st century.
With the planet ravaged by devastating tsunamis, the last of humanity survives on a floating raft of neon-lit slums high in the Arctic Circle. There Ritry Goligh, an ex-marine broken by the horrors of the Arctic War, seeks only to drown his losses in liquor and lust, until a powerful stranger named Mr. Ruins appears. He offers Ritry a Faustian pact: the peace he's sought for so long, in exchange for his soul. And Ruins won't take no for an answer.
In the churning magma of a mind's Molten Core, seven battle-scarred marines forge to life in a burning sub-lava ship: Doe, Ray, Me, Far, So, La and Ti. All they want is to survive the mission, but none of them know what the mission is, or what the cost will be if they fail.
Twin stories spiral like electrons in an atom in this action-packed sci-fi labyrinth, growing inexorably closer until at last they clash in a climactic riot of sparking SF ideas.
'Inception' meets 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind', packed with blood, twists and space marines of the mind.
MR. RUINS (EXCERPT)
The needle enters Mei-An's eye socket smoothly, nestling beside her bright white eyeball and passing back into her brain. She barely flinches, though I know it's uncomfortable as hell.
She's a pretty young half-Asiat, maybe 28, and I can't imagine what she's doing out here in the skulks. She came in to my graysmithy building an hour ago with a hunted look in her eyes, asking for a very specific inject: a hand-made combination of languages and vocational skills. It's plain she's running from something, but it isn't the job of a graysmith to ask questions.
I steadily depress the syringe plunger, injecting its silvery contents into her brain. It's dangerous stuff, enough to radically change her brain content and chemistry, but she doesn't seem too phased. A moment passes then I draw the needle out and lean back, giving her time to blink away the discomfort.
"How do you feel?" I ask.
"Shivery," she says. As her mouth opens I see the black tattoo on her tongue: DZ, the brand of Don Zachary, king of the skulks. "It's cold, like brain freeze."
I force a smile and study her, sitting there on the input tray of the bulky ElectroMagnetic Resonance machine. She's clearly strong despite her slight frame, and determined as hell. Her deep black hair is a stark contrast against the dive room's simple gray walls. Her long thin legs dangle down the EMR machine's side like a child's, though she's clearly no innocent. You don't get Don Zachary's brand and stay innocent for long.
A silvery tear beads from her eye and I dab it away with a surgical cloth.
"Let them settle for a few moments," I say, "then we'll dive."
She nods.
I leave her, exiting the spartan gray dive room to stand in the polished steel corridor alongside my assistant Carrolla. He's ta
ll and shaven-headed, with features just shy of model-worthy. I think he must have had marine training, though he never fought in the Arctic War, like me. Working here in the lawless skulks is his war.
He raises an eyebrow, and I know what he's thinking.
"She wants a dive," I say, by way of explanation.
"I heard the Don crucified the last guy who crossed him," Carrolla says conversationally. "Nailed him to the tsunami wall. Does that sound like fun to you, Rit?"
I shrug. There are no shortage of legends about the Don. "I'm not turning her away."
"You fucking should."
"I'm fucking not."
"Don fucking Zachary," Carrolla mutters under his breath, "he'll pull your face right off."
I let it go, and we stand quietly for a moment, waiting. In Mei-An's brain the silvery inject will be spreading, starting to make connections and change the architecture of her mind. I look down at my hands, pale but still strong, gifted in this skill if in nothing else. I'm helping her, I think. It's what she wants, and it pays the bills.
"I need you tight on me for this," I say into the quiet. "It's a bigger job than usual."
Carrolla nods sharply, like a marine. He's got discipline, I'll give him that.
We go back into the dive room together. Mei-An is sitting there like a dab of milk on a slate. Carrolla takes up position at the control panel by the EMR machine's large hollow hub. I sit on the stool before Mei-An and look into her artificially widened eyes. I offer my hand and she takes it. It's good to get the skinship started in small ways, to start our systems aligning.
"There are serious risks to this," I tell her, though I've already told her it once. "Potential damage to your memory, to your wits, to your personality. I'm good, but there's always a risk. I need to hear you say you're sure."
Zombie Ocean (Book 6): The Laws Page 31
