IMPACT_A Post-Apocalyptic Tale_The Complete Series

by Matthew Eliot

  And yet, as perhaps for many others in similar lonely beds across town, the few moments before sleep were often infused with an unwelcome sense of longing. The empty stretch beneath the covers, this space unshared, always reverberating with the stillness of solitude.

  Oh god, stop it, she told herself. You’re not that kind of soppy girl, are you? Stillness of solitude? Really? Come on, Cathy.

  She rolled over, eyes to the ceiling, her body tingling with a sudden chill. It was cold, yes. But this was also a tingle of anticipation. Of empty spaces filled. She giggled to herself, musing about the ruder meaning of those words.

  Despite this excited wake, she couldn’t help thinking about the departure of the sick. She clenched her fists, wishing she had had five minutes alone with that conman, Jeremy. That would have been enough to set him straight. And yet, they had allowed him to spit out his venomous words, turn Bately against itself.

  Cathy sighed. Tried to get rid of those thoughts. But they kept coming back – images of resentful Afflicted gathering and plotting, thinking perhaps the healthy townsfolk had it a little too good, for their taste. And maybe–

  A key turned in her front door. Quiet, secretive.

  She froze. A childish desire to burst out into laughter possessed her. Pulling the thick covers over her face, she curled up, toes wiggling and rubbing against one another frantically. Okay, you get three seconds of this, then back to normal. You don’t want to freak him out, do you?

  She let the wave of excitement brush through her, then, as the footsteps drew closer to her bedroom, she lowered the covers, and lay still.

  Then, a subtler kind of agitation set in, as she wondered what position she should be lying in. How did she want him to see her, when he entered? An arm casually resting beneath her head, maybe? Or perhaps on her side, facing the door, an alluring gaze in her eyes? Again, she felt like giggling.

  And suddenly, there he was. This silent man, this strong man, quietly removing his clothes, and slipping beneath the covers, by her side. The empty space in her bed almost gone, and filled with invisible sparks of eagerness.

  “Hello, Cathy,” he said, simply and perfectly.

  “Hello, Edward.”

  * * *

  Later, Moore fell asleep. And just as the wonderful exhaustion she felt was about to turn into sleep, she heard him say, “Sorry.”

  “What was that?” she asked softly. Sorry about what? Cathy wondered. Everything had been perfect.

  Moore didn’t reply. His breathing was deep, steady.

  He had spoken in his sleep, that was all. No reason to panic.

  She wrapped her hand around his, and drew it to her lips. What is it with this air of sadness, Moore? You’ve got the girl, now, no need to play the tortured, quiet guy.

  Again, she kissed his hand, gently rubbing her cheek against it.

  That’s strange, she thought, as sleep began to claim her mind, what’s that smell on his skin? It was a faint, prickly scent, in his palm.

  Then she realised what it was. But she was too tired, too happy, to give it thought, now. The question just hung there, unanswered, as she, too, drifted into sleep.

  Why do his hands smell of gasoline?

  Chapter 19

  The ’Wraith Pack

  “’Ere, check this out, young’un.”

  The older ’wraith ran his fingers through the uneven tufts of hair on his head. Then he grabbed them, and lifted. The skin came up with a sticky, liquid sound. A few, minuscule tears appeared just above his forehead. Dimwit looked away, suddenly afraid he’d see the skull behind them.

  The ’wraith laughed raucously, and let go of his own hair. The skin sagged back into place, more or less.

  “You little coward. What, you afraid?” he asked, mocking him.

  “Nah, you joking?” replied Dimwit, still looking away. “We gotta be proud, right? Our decay is our badge of honour, that’s what Jake says, innit?”

  “Yeah,” replied the wraith, noncommitally. He observed Dimwit, then sniggered, and looked away. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  The young ’wraith was doing his best to fit in, but it wasn’t easy. Most of the others were older, and had been part of the Pack for a while. Dimwit had joined them only a couple of months ago, arriving with a group of about twenty, from the north.

  Yes, it was difficult, at times, but it felt good to belong. These were his people. This was his home.

  More and more were joining them, every day. The Pack was growing, and there was strength in numbers. Of course, a larger population had meant the raids had to occur more often. Scouts were dispatched across the region, to find food and meds. Sometimes, they came back empty-handed. But more often than not, they had spotted a caravan of vagrants, or a group of people trying to find a home in the better-off places. Then, a large troop of ’wraiths would set off, with weapons and horses, to carry out the raid. Dimwit stared at them, filled with admiration. He loved the look of the makeshift armours, the clang of steel rods and crowbars, ready to strike. It was like looking at one of those armies from The Lord of the Rings. One of the Mordor armies.

  It was bloody cool.

  Way cooler than staring at this bloke tearing the skin off his scalp, for sure.

  He couldn’t wait to be part of a raid. Maybe Jake would allow it, soon.

  “I blimmin’ hate lookout shifts,” said the other man, letting out a long, bored sigh.

  Dimwit just nodded. It felt wrong to criticise orders. Complaining wasn’t part of the job, he thought. He stood, and brushed off the earth from his trousers. Bringing a hand to his forehead, uselessly protecting his sight from the absent sun, he peered down, across the green-brown valley below.

  And saw the hundreds of people marching straight towards them.

  * * *

  “I was told you wanted to have a chat, old man,” said Jake, coldly. “But I wasn’t expecting you to turn up with a legion of traitors.” His eye flicked to Luke. “Whiny little Bately Afflicted,” he hissed, and shook his head in disgust, as his gaze returned to Jeremy.

  “Oh well,” Jeremy said with a hint of a smile, “I thought it would save me a trip, and you some time.”

  They stood in what the Alpha ’Wraith liked to call his court – an old bus, its seats torn out and replaced with worn carpets, loot from recent raids lamely adorning its rusty frame. Jake himself sat at the tail end of the bus, on a raised platform, peering down on his visitors. A handful of ’wraiths sat at his feet, staring at them. Outside, the Bately refugees huddled together in small groups, warily eyeing the members of the Pack.

  Jake raised a sceptic brow. “Save me some time? What you on about?”

  “Well,” Jeremy said, contemplating the view outside. “Your admirable community is flourishing, isn’t it? Brave, new members flocking in every day. That is good news, to be sure, but your resources must be a little… stretched, shall we say?”

  “And what is that to you and your little following of rejects, old fool?”

  The elderly man ignored Jake’s crass tone. “Well, let’s just say I’d like to help.” He rubbed his hands together, as if settling a lucrative deal. “You see, oh Alpha ’Wraith, I might have a solution for–”

  “Oh shut up,” Jake interrupted. “I know all about your lousy little story… your cure… how you were once a ’wraith yourself.” He laughed. “I’m not being funny, but if I wanted to get an earful of old bollocks, I’d ask Senile Sam, over here.” He gestured towards an ancient wretch of a man, eyes closed and mouth hanging open, absently sitting among the ’wraiths at his feet. “Isn’t that right, Sam?” asked Jake, kicking him in the back. Sam emitted a faint, woeful grunt, then returned to his senescent silence.

  Jake chuckled. “We’re not interested, Healer. Get out.”

  “Oh,” began Jeremy, as if surprised. “I’m not here to offer you the cure, sir,” he said. Beside him, Luke looked up, surprised. “Not yet, at least. There’ll be time for that, later,” concluded Jeremy.

 
After a long pause, Jake raised his chin towards him. “Go on.”

  “Well, as I was saying, you must be running short on supplies, right?” Jake stayed silent. It was true, of course, but there was no need to let this old geezer know. “And, of course,” Jeremy continued, “there’s the whole issue of these men in black, popping up here and there…”

  At those words, a shadow crept across Jake’s eyes. What do you know about that, you dirty hippie? But he held quiet.

  “So, what if I told you there’s a place where you can find all the food, all the medicines you need to tend to your community? A place nearby, whose people you could easily overcome?”

  “And where would that be?” Jake spoke cautiously. He didn’t trust this man.

  “Bately, of course.”

  Jake and his courtiers laughed. “Listen here, Bately is well protected. They’ve got their act together. Top-notch surveillance systems. They’d see us coming from miles away. We’ve had run-ins with them in the past, and no way we’re gonna piss their Guard off again, mate.”

  “You’d have two hundred extra men you could count on,” said Jeremy, gesturing towards the new arrivals, outside. “They have every reason to despise the people of Bately. They’d fight for you.”

  The Alpha ’Wraith seemed to consider this, for a moment. Then, he shook his head. “Get out of the Pack, you skanky hippie. The Bately ’wraiths can stay, if they want. They’re welcome here, even if they are a bunch of posh little gits. But you – you leave. Now.”

  Jeremy nodded slowly. “What if I told you I can deactivate their CCTV cameras… what if I could guarantee you’d have the element of surprise?”

  Again, the room fell quiet. As little as he liked it, Jake’s curiosity had been piqued.

  “The days go by, Jake,” said Jeremy, coolly. “Food runs out. Medicines run out. I think it’s time, my friend.”

  “Time for what?” asked Jake.

  “Time for the ’wraiths to rise.” Jeremy’s smile was devilish. “And ravage Bately.”

  Chapter 20

  Signals

  Moore moved silently.

  He tip-toed across the room, collecting his clothes, feeling clumsy and noisy. Floorboards creaked too loud, and the carpet appeared to be littered with obstacles. But Cathy didn’t stir. Although they had agreed upon him leaving (he had to get home, to Mathew), he couldn’t shake the feeling of being that sort of guy you saw in films. The one that creeps out, for fear he’ll end up moving in.

  After a long glance at the shape of her body, concealed beneath the heavy covers they had shared, he crept outside.

  This was Bately at 2 AM. Quiet, peaceful, living its little life beyond the apocalypse. Moore walked along the street, arms wrapped across his chest, against the cold. This is a nice place, he thought. A place that deserves happiness.

  Was this thing with Cathy good? Was it appropriate? It felt like this was all happening too soon. Especially with all the other things on his mind.

  “’Evening,” a voice said, making him shudder.

  Moore looked up. It was a couple of Guard members, on their night patrol. They waved a hand in the air. Friendly.

  He nodded his greeting, and walked on. Yes, with the Guard protecting Bately, the locals had little to fear.

  For now, anyway, he thought sadly.

  * * *

  He reached the door of the small semi-detached they occupied when they had arrived in Bately. Amazingly, it already felt like home.

  But before setting his foot on the doorstep, he froze.

  The glove had been tied around the door knob, fingers fastened into a knot. It hung there, surprisingly pristine, its white wool shining bright in the dreary darkness. Moore’s eyes darted up and down the street, in search of those who had left it here. Nobody there.

  He swallowed, and delicately untangled the knot, as if dealing with a real hand, whose broken fingers needed care. Hesitantly, he drew it close to his face, and breathed in, deep, searching for traces of the scent he knew so well. A storm of conflicting feeling erupted somewhere in his chest.

  Something small fell out of the glove, landing by his feet. He leaned down, and picked it up. It was a note, scribbled across a torn piece of paper.

  A single word had been hurriedly scribbled across it.

  Tonight.

  With rage pulsing in his wrists, Moore crumpled up the note, and threw it on the damp ground. He ran his shoe on it, again and again, until it was twisted and torn and tattered.

  Then he stared at the glove, not quite knowing what to think, what to feel. He folded it with care, and placed it in his pocket.

  “So be it,” he said, to no one.

  * * *

  Across the waters, in the dying night, a lookout stood watch.

  He had not moved from his post, had not allowed himself to be distracted. He understood the importance of obedience. Of following orders.

  At times, he had wondered if the infiltrator had perhaps been exposed. Maybe he’d failed the recruitment process, his accomplices refusing to cooperate. It had happened before, in other places, with other infiltrators. But then, he remembered how good this man was at his job. They had only met once, in that northern stretch of what-was-France. Immediately, the lookout had felt the scheming intelligence, the manipulative charm this man possessed. It was lucky he was on their side. In fact, he was one of the most passionate members he had come across.

  The wind picked up, carrying with it the icy, damp air from the ocean.

  Then came the light.

  It flickered into existence, a bright speck of fiery red, fighting the winds that attempted to subdue it. Gradually, it grew stronger, larger, hungrily burning oxygen and darkness.

  The lookout waited. He had to be absolutely sure. Chances of a wildfire were scarce, especially in this climate, but there was no room for error.

  The location was correct, and the timing appeared to be right. Once he was satisfied, he lifted his coat and grabbed a walkie-talkie. With a hand cupped around the speaker, against the howling wind, he buzzed the receiving end.

  “Lookout B21 coming in, over.”

  A pause. Then the crackly voice from the other end came through. “Reading you Five. Go ahead B21, over.”

  “Bately signal active, sir. I repeat: Bately signal active. You can proceed, sir. Over.”

  “Roger. Return to camp. Over and out.”

  The lookout tucked away the walkie-talkie. Once again, he glanced at the fire across the water. It was still burning bright.

  After a minute or so, he gathered his things, and set off.

  Chapter 21

  The Guard

  “Some sort of signal, I believe, sir.”

  Lieutenant Robert Neeson stood at attention, as he spoke to Bill Hughes, in their modest HQ. The Guard’s commanding officer sat at his desk, quietly mulling over the information.

  “I agree,” he said, finally. “The question is, of course, what kind of signal are we dealing with, here.” He sighed, then, noticing Neeson’s rigid stance, added: “At ease, Neeson.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, relaxing his shoulders. But Bill got the impression this efficient young soldier had been more comfortable before. This was the sort of man whose at ease lay within the boundaries of military discipline and rigour. Bill liked that.

  “The men stationed at the Southern Outpost put the fire out as soon as they could,” Neeson continued. “The rain helped, of course. Unfortunately, it also washed away most of the trail.”

  “Did they manage to glean any information from it, Lieutenant?”

  “Enough for them to believe we’re dealing with a single individual, sir.” Then, Neeson seemed to hesitate.

  “What is it?” asked Bill.

  “Well, we can’t be certain of this sir, but the trail – or what was left of it – seemed to lead back to Bately, sir.”

  Bill slowly rose from his seat. Despite his age, the tall stature and wide shoulders still commanded respect. He walked
over to the window, Bately Castle neatly framed within it. He silently wondered how many wars and battles and blood that ancient structure had witnessed. Perhaps it would again, soon.

  “Send out three teams to check the town’s surroundings. Extend the perimeter to a two-mile radius. Have them report back this evening. Also, I want 24-hour CCTV monitoring,” Bill said, without turning.

  “Yessir.”

  As Neeson was about to leave, Bill spoke again. His words were low, almost whispered.

  “Things aren’t looking good for our little town, are they Neeson?”

  “No sir. I’m afraid they are not.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, Neeson sat in his home, nervously flicking through an old edition of Churchill’s wartime memoirs. Clichéd, perhaps (a soldier pouring over the writings of that wartime leader), but that didn’t really bother him. His concerns were others, at the moment.

  His home was a tidy one, the unadorned dwelling of a meticulous single man. There had been love, in his life, but he soon discovered that romance and war were too demanding to accommodate both of them. With little hesitation, he had opted for the latter.

  If there was one thing he had learned from his military career, it was that war was sudden. One can prepare for war, carry out all sorts of drills, train diligently, but preparation had nothing to do with the actual thing. War always caught you off-guard. There’s no preparing for the death and the destruction. Everyday life is torn to shreds, in an instant, and all it takes is the first gunshot, the first mortar blast. The first lifeless body beside you.

  Most of all, there was no preparing for your first kill.

  Outside, a couple walked past his window. One of them laughed.

  A fleeting feeling of irritation struck him. If often happened, when he considered civilians. Especially before the rocks arrived. They had lived happily, closeted in their comfortable lives, thinking of themselves as busy, or entrepreneurial, or gifted, or whatever it was that made someone a success, in their world. But those were all lies. At least in part. An individual cannot know him or herself, not entirely, unless they’ve witnessed war. And his job was to ensure they were protected, should that day come.