IMPACT_A Post-Apocalyptic Tale_The Complete Series

by Matthew Eliot

  Just do what he’s doing, she told herself. Keep calm. Copy him. That’s all you have to do.

  They gradually left the crowd behind them. Most people were still inside the castle, but there was still movement, out on Bately’s streets. Individuals leaving the surreal gathering with the Warden, scared and overwhelmed, wanting only to get back to their houses. The soldiers in black patrolled the streets, but they too faded, as the three of them advanced.

  They walked together now, their steps almost in unison. Throwing glances behind their shoulders, making sure they weren’t being followed.

  “I’ve studied their patrol patterns,” said Neeson, wisps of cold air punctuating his words. “Not one hundred percent accurate, of course, but good enough for our plan.”

  Yes, their plan, thought Cathy. It was meant to be simple, right? Locate the stash of explosives, and dig them up. They’d take turns, two digging, one on watch. In the secret notes they’d exchanged, Neeson said that the amount of explosive they needed could easily be concealed, once they had it.

  They turned a corner, onto Devon Street, and stopped. Neeson signalled to kneel down, behind a small garden wall.

  Cathy sucked the night air in, held it there. The cold felt good, now. It helped her stay focussed. Beside her, Neeson was eyeing his watch, mouthing something. Numbers. He peered towards the end of the street, and ducked his head a little lower. Cathy and Moore did the same.

  Instants later, a couple of uniformed men appeared. They walked mechanically, in silence, surveying the area around them with a keenness Cathy had rarely seen in the old Guard patrols. It was like they were walking in hostile territory. Ready to shoot and kill.

  The three of them sat as still as they could, hardly daring to breathe. Although Cathy could see them advance across the street, and knew they were about to disappear past the opposite end, time seemed to stretch. A few seconds, but it felt like hours. What would happen if they saw them? Would they simply fire at them? Or –

  “Okay, let’s go,” said Neeson, and Cathy realised the soldiers had walked by.

  On they went, past the outskirts of the small town, and found themselves walking on a narrow country lane, stretching through the open fields and copses that surrounded Bately. This was one of those places, those occasional corners of this land, in which one could almost forget the impact. Pretend it never happened. Here, among the silent lives of trees and bushes and grass, the meteorites were somehow very distant. Unlikely, almost. Cathy let her eyes wander on the quiet surroundings, and felt a small pang in her chest, a longing for the peace she’d so often given for granted, in her previous life.

  “Keep your eyes open,” said Neeson suddenly, and she was immediately thrust back into the demands of the present. She watched as he walked a few paces away, searching for something. He disappeared behind the trunk of a large tree.

  Moore cleared his throat, but said nothing. Just to interrupt the awkward silence between them, the same one she was trying so hard to ignore. She watched the town behind them, wondering if she’d even manage to spot one of the Warden’s men, in the thick darkness. Their uniforms could make that tricky.

  With a rustle of leaves, Neeson emerged from behind the tree. He was holding a stained old sheet of some kind, brown with dirt, wrapped around two partially-concealed spades. “Our tools,” he said. “See anyone?”

  Cathy and Moore shook their heads.

  Neeson threw a glance towards town, then nodded. “We’re close.”

  As they walked, he told them about the stashes. “Bill Hughes arranged them,” he said. “There are quite a few of them, around here. I think Bill had a situation like this in mind, when he came up with the idea – an enemy force occupying Bately.” There was a brief hesitation, and Cathy watched Neeson’s Adam’s apple bob up and down. Despite his British stiff upper lip, and very military disdain for public displays of emotion, Cathy knew how much Bill’s loss weighed on him. On them all.

  “Anyway,” Neeson continued, “some of these stashes contain firearms, others contain canned food and supplies. The one we’re after,” he concluded, raising his chin towards a small clearing surrounded by thick bushes, “contains explosives.”

  They reached the spot, and stopped. A quick, shared glance of tension, excitement and fear, then Neeson laid the spades to the ground. “Let’s get to it,” he said. “You want to take the first lookout shift, Cathy?”

  “I’m fine digging,” she said confidently. It was also kind of nice to be away from Edward, for a while.

  “All right then,” Neeson replied. Then, after the slightest of hesitations, he added, “So I’ll be lookout. You two dig.”

  Damn.

  “All right,” Edward said, picking up the spades, and handing one to Cathy. She took it without a word. Neeson showed them where to dig. “We’ll take brief turns. It’s not very deep, and there’s no need to tire ourselves out.” Before taking his lookout position, Cathy noticed his eyes pausing on the two of them, then awkwardly looking away.

  Is this a set-up? she wondered, with a hint of irritation. Or maybe our little drama is plain to see, even for an unemotional soldier?

  She cleared her thoughts. Concentrate on the digging.

  There was a lot of groaning and puffing, but what had been an inconspicuous patch of land, gradually turned into a small ditch, earth slowly piling up at its side. They rested the tips of their tools in the ground, digging deep into it with the help of their feet, their own weight. It was slow, mechanical work, but its numbing effect was pleasant.

  A couple of times, Cathy thought she’d heard Neeson whisper something. Her head would dart towards him, heart suddenly pounding inside her chest. But Neeson was there, silently scanning the darkness.

  Try and relax, girl.

  “Cathy,” Moore said, at one point. He was speaking in a low voice, his words meant for her alone. “Listen, I think it’s high time we–”

  “We’re busy, Edward. Keep digging,” she interrupted him, without looking up. Clenching her muscles harder than was needed, she raised a large heap of earth and dumped it forcefully to the ground.

  Edward bit his lip, seemed to give up.

  Silly little man, Cathy told herself, anger building up inside her. I liked you, you were one of those men who simply stumble into one’s life, unassuming, charming, strong. And suddenly it’s like a dream. Yes, I really liked you. But that’s well in the past now, you idiot. You’re standing next to me, and I feel none of the attraction, none of the charm you had. Simple as that. You’re gone to me, Moore. Gone.

  She nodded to herself. Yes, this indifference was good.

  “Cathy,” Edward said again, and now his voice was firm, bold. He stared her straight in the eyes, with a frown that somehow prevented her from interrupting him again. “Listen to me. I’m sick of this. Sick of you not speaking to me, not wanting to listen. Lucy–” He hesitated.

  “Your wife,” she said. “Yup. What about your wife?”

  He shook his head. “Cathy, we don’t even live together any more. Haven’t for years. She even mentioned she was dating another man, a few months before the impact.”

  Cathy tried to swallow, but a lump of conflicting emotions seemed to be stuck in her throat, with no intention of moving.

  “We’re married, yes, and I should have told you,” Moore continued. “But we’re only married on paper, nothing else. Our lives drifted apart a long time ago. And, in case you’re wondering – yes, I care for her. Like one cares for one’s sister, or an old friend. Often, I want to strangle her. But, if it weren’t for Mathew, I doubt we’d even talk at all, to be honest.”

  He shook his head, eyes glued to hers. Waiting for her to say something.

  Shit. “Um… why didn’t you say?”

  His eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re joking, right? I’ve been–”

  Cathy raised a hand in the air. “No. Wait. You’re right. I know you tried.” She could have added more, perhaps, but that was all she could manage
, for the time being.

  “Listen Cathy,” his voice was even lower now, and sweeter than she cared to admit. “If there’s one thing I want, other than safety for my son, that’s you. You, Cathy. As silly as it sounds, I knew it the instant I walked in on your Bately Council meeting, that very first day. I stepped inside, saw you, and I knew I’d be happy with you. Just like that. Ridiculous, but I knew it was true.” Moore stopped, as if realising he was perhaps going a bit too far. Revealing too much.

  And he’s back!

  “All right then… so…” How do I finish this sentence?

  “My turn, now. You rest a minute, Cathy.” Neeson had materialised between them, and she was both grateful and irritated by the interruption.

  “Yes, sure,” she mumbled, handing the spade over to him, and walking rigidly to where Neeson had been standing.

  I’m going to cry. I’m going to cry and I’m going to hate myself for it, but I think I’m going to effing cry now. Damn.

  She managed a smile, then shook all that soppiness out of her mind, and began watching out for the Warden’s men, as methodically as she could.

  Yes, he’s back.

  * * *

  “There,” said Neeson. “Found it.”

  He hopped into the hole, and reached down. When he emerged again, Cathy saw him holding a rectangular object.

  “Come here, Cathy,” Neeson said. They stood in a circle, Neeson showing them some sort of metal briefcase. It was small, a little bigger than a hardback novel maybe. Upon seeing it, Cathy realised she’d somehow been expecting something like a stick of dynamite, its stringy fuse dangling off one end, like in the cartoons. Again, expert revolutionary.

  “It’s in here,” Neeson said. “When we have a bit of time, we’ll go through its use. But we need to plan our next steps, first.” They stood there for a minute, the invisible strands of their lives pulling and tugging in different directions. Drawing Cathy to the past, before the Warden’s arrival. Or earlier still, before the rocks. And to the future, with the mystery of how their plans would unfold. If they’d survive. And, undoubtedly, the renewed lure of Edward, beside her.

  “Good. Time to –”

  “What are you doing here?”

  They froze. The words were spoken with what sounded like genuine curiosity, only the faintest hint of threat in them. But they were enough to send shivers quivering down her spine.

  Cathy saw the black uniform. It was one of them. But, upon looking closer, she recognised the face. A young lad, from Bately. She seemed to remember him being a member of the Guard.

  It’s one of the turncoats, she thought, wondering if maybe they weren’t yet entirely doomed.

  “Rice,” Neeson said, his voice tense.

  He knows him, Cathy thought, somehow hoping this meant Neeson would be able to talk them out of this mess.

  Upon the young man’s arrival, Neeson’s had immediately concealed the briefcase behind his back. Rice’s eyes were drifting from Neeson to the hole, mouth agape, and Cathy believed he hadn’t noticed it.

  “Lieutenant Neeson, sir,” he began, desperately trying to make sense of what was going on.

  As he said this, Cathy swiftly removed the container from Neeson’s hand. Then, making sure the young soldier’s eyes were still on him, she dropped it in a bush beside her. The instant the explosive lost contact with her fingers, her whole body tensed up. IT’S GOING TO EXPLODE, YOU IDIOT.

  It landed with a quiet whisper of leaves and branches, and nothing more happened. She shoved it gently with her foot, making sure it was concealed as best as possible.

  “I… I’m going to have to report this, sir,” the young man said. “Please stay still.” He began to reach for his belt, and Cathy wondered if he was going for the holster, or for the radio that both hung off it.

  “Wait,” said Neeson, and the boy stopped.

  He’s going to talk him out of it, thought Cathy. But when she noticed the look on his eyes, she realised his thoughts were elsewhere. Considering a very different approach to the matter. One he wasn’t comfortable with.

  She watched Neeson’s eyes dart from the boy, to the heavy shovel in his hand and, finally, to the deep hole they’d just dug in the ground. Then, he took a step forward. A slow, guarded step towards the boy. A bead of sweat trickled down his neck.

  Moore was advancing too. Small steps, following Neeson in a way that would allow him to assist him, should he attack.

  Are we just going to kill him? Cathy asked herself desperately. She wouldn’t, couldn’t allow it. And yet, it was impossible for her to do anything to prevent it. She just stood there, paralised by fear, incapable of acting.

  “S-sir, I–” the young soldier said, taking a small step back. Perhaps it was dawning on him, now. He was beginning to understand what Neeson had in mind.

  As he crept forward, shovel held tight in his hands, Cathy saw how hard Neeson was struggling with this decision. Muscles twitched in his arms, teeth grinding.

  He can’t do it. He can’t get himself to do it.

  They were never to find out though. “Stop where you are,” someone said, and Cathy realised it was all over. Everything was.

  Three black uniforms. Armed. “What’s going on here?” one of them said, eyeing the hole. “What’s that?”

  Cathy just opened her mouth, and began to speak. She was improvising. “You bastards,” she said, and felt Neeson and Moore’s surprised glances upon her. She swallowed, and continued. “You burned Father Paul alive. We want him to be buried decently.” Cathy inwardly thanked the heavens for remembering to use Paul’s name, rather than Claudio’s. She regarded the soldiers as coldly as she could, and caught a glimpse of Moore’s face. What are you doing, Cathy?

  “We dug a hole. We were planning on finding his body, whatever you’ve done with it, and giving him the decent funeral he deserved.”

  She shut her mouth. Pleasepleaseplease fall for it.

  The Warden’s men looked at her sternly. “No priests, no old gods anymore, lady,” their commander said. Then, to the others, “Arrest them. Take them to the castle. The Warden will decide the punishment they deserve.”

  With rough movements, Cathy, Neeson and Moore were shoved back towards Bately. No one dared speak, their minds reeling to find a way out of this. But there was none.

  Just before they lost sight of the clearing, Cathy threw a quick look at the bush, desperately hoping it would conceal the explosives.

  We’ll be back for them, she told herself. And we’ll fight back.

  But right now, as she stumbled through the night with the hard elbows and hands of the Warden’s men guiding her steps, she couldn’t help but feel like their little revolution had come to an end.

  Chapter 24

  Half-Wraith

  The day Paul felt a muzzle against his neck for the second time, he’d been for a walk.

  It was something he’d begun to enjoy, although perhaps ’enjoyment’ wasn’t quite the right expression. Rather, it was something he’d begun to need.

  Long hikes through open fields, trying to picture them under the warm sun of spring. Walking, and drawing some sort of weak comfort in the mechanical repetition of his movements, trying to drain away the thoughts that clouded his mind. The Pack, with its growing trickle of deserters, who had decided there was no point in hanging out with the rest of them, waiting for help that would likely never come. And if that were the case, then he’d made a mistake, leading the children there. Perhaps it was time to start considering their options, head elsewhere. But where?

  There were other thoughts, too. His eye, now likely beyond repair, even if he eventually somehow managed to get Cathy to do something about it.

  But it was Claudio, mainly. Even now, it seemed like his voice were calling out across those stretches of damp grass. Calling out, but never really saying anything. Only his name, in the older priest’s rugged Spanish accent.

  Pablo!

  Claudio had posed as Paul, the night the Warden ha
d attacked Bately. Fearlessly, with no hesitation, standing up to the humbling strength of the invaders. And, shortly after, he’d burned alive. Were these two events linked? Did Claudio sign his own death warrant, the instant he faked his identity? In that case, Paul thought, it was his fault wasn’t it? Claudio might have lost his life because of him. And maybe–

  Paul focussed on his feet, trying to free his mind of these thoughts. One step, two steps and on. Breathing the damp air in, clearing his head as best he could.

  A lonely tree stood about half a mile away, rising up from the ground like a grand relic. He walked towards it, drawn by nothing other than its being there. Once he’d reached it, he ran his hands across the bark, wondering wordlessly about the secret years concealed by those layers of frail wood. Paul closed his eyes, rested his forehead against the ancient tree. Life was simple, at times. Not necessarily happy, but simple.

  Some time went by, and he started feeling the urge to get back to the Pack, to Alice and Adrian. But before he could move, he felt the uncannily familiar pressure of a firearm against his neck.

  “Who are you?” said a voice he did not recognise. Raspy, but deep, emanating rough authority.

  Paul sighed. There was fear, of course, but not much. Not for his life, anyway. Rather, he was immediately assailed by images of the children, left to fend for themselves.

  “Paul,” he said, once again marvelling at the missing ’Father’ before his name. “I’m with the Pack.” He added these last words, and instantly bit his lip. Being part of the ’Wraith Pack was hardly a guarantee of safe passage.

  Slowly, cautiously, the pressure from the firearm disappeared. “Turn around,” the voice ordered.

  Paul found himself staring at six-foot tall ’wraith, dressed in what appeared to be a 17th century naval officer’s uniform. His nose was completely missing, and he breathed through two almost perfectly vertical slits above his mouth. Paul saw minuscule bubbles of red snot burst and shift as the ’wraith inhaled and exhaled. The ’wraiths’ eyes drifted from the patch on his blind eye, to the spreading psoriasis on his neck.