by Peter Oxley
What the world had woken up to on that fateful day was a complete lack of all of these inputs, meaning that everyone and everything dwelling beneath it suddenly found themselves bereft of direction or motivation. This extended beyond humans to include birds and animals, for all of those creatures relied on the sky for navigation or other means, so they too were suddenly bereft.
Jones immediately decided to set off, pausing only to gather his belongings together. Passing by the sobbing woman’s door he noted that she had now subsided into a low moan, still refusing to respond to his knocks. He muttered some words of reassurance before moving off, realising that if he stopped to try to comfort everyone upset by what had happened then he would never reach London.
The inn sat at a crossroads just outside of Smeeth, a small village on the road to Maidstone, and it was in this direction that Jones set off, relieved to note that his horse was largely indifferent to what had happened to the sky. As he walked he noted that people were reacting in markedly different ways to the phenomenon above their heads. Some simply stood, mute and staring at the sky, as though by sheer willpower they could bring back the sun. Or maybe they were looking for some form of direction from an unseeable deity. Others were distraught: screaming, shouting and wailing at the loss as though it heralded the end of the world. Jones wondered if these were the ones who were most dependent upon the idea of a God above them for their sustenance and sanity, and therefore saw the blankness overhead as a sign that all they had believed in, the very basis for their faith, had been torn away. Indeed, some he passed were rocking in frantic prayer, tears streaming down their cheeks and tearing at their hair as they pleaded with their God to bring them salvation in this, the End of Days.
Making his way along the road, Jones passed a ruddy-faced squire dressed sloppily in fine clothes. One glance at him made clear that the man had been driven quite mad, his eyes swivelling left and right as he muttered to himself. This was to be the first of many such sad creatures Jones encountered on his journey, as the loss of the sky seemed to be too much for the sanity of some poor souls.
As he made his way towards Maidstone, Jones was surprised by a shout: “Oi, you!” He twisted in his saddle to gaze back and saw a swarthy-looking man stepping out from the bushes at the side of the road. Slowly and carefully, Jones slid his hand down to the pistol hidden in the depths of his coat as he eyed this newcomer with practised suspicion.
“Good to see another face,” the man said as he approached. “At least one that’s not just standin’ around starin’ at the sky.” He was wearing a long coat, under which was the remnants of what appeared to be an old infantry uniform. Slung over his back was a Snider–Enfield rifle, the standard issue for the British Army. Jones was in plain clothes and in no mood to reveal his status as a deserter and so decided to pretend ignorance of these details, for the time being at least.
“Aye,” said Jones. “Where are you headed?”
“London, I guess,” the man said. “Not much goin’ on around here apart from people giving up and going mad. I figure there’s better chance of some action up there in the big city. You?”
“Same.”
“Mind if I accompany you? Right now everything’s quiet, but I’d rather be travelling with people if others start getting violent on account of all this. Safety in numbers and all that, eh?”
Jones had to agree with the man’s logic. He nodded. “Of course.”
“Great, thanks,” grinned the man as he trotted over to Jones’ horse. “Don’t say much, do you?”
“It’s been an unusual day so far. Let’s just say I’m sizing everything up right now.”
“Includin’ me.” The man held up a hand. “Don’t worry, I totally agree. A man like you’s right to take precautions, especially at times like this. We’ll find me a horse in the next town and I can ride alongside you, we’ll make better progress that way. If you don’t mind keepin’ a slower pace until then I’d be much obliged. By the by, you can take your hand off that pistol; I promise I won’t do nothin’ stupid.”
Jones glanced at him, but kept his hand on the weapon. “What makes you think I’m armed?”
“Because you clearly aren’t a stupid man. Dressed like you are, with a horse, the way you talk and sit. You’re an army man, aren’t you?” When Jones did not reply the man continued, opening his coat: “I am as well. I would ask if you were an officer, but by the way you talk, I’d say you weren’t. Am I right?”
“Sergeant,” said Jones after a pause. “At least I was.”
The man clapped his hands together and let out a whoop. “A deserter too? My luck must be changin’ finally! Here I was worried I’d end up meetin’ a hopeless civilian and have to waste my time protectin’ them. Or worse, a bunch of soldiers all a-huntin’ for deserters. This is great: two of us’ll be unstoppable.”
“Against what?” asked Jones.
“Against whatever this madness throws at us next. I were there the first time the demons started opening portals back at Greenwich. I saw what they could do and I said to myself, never again. Never again would I let myself be on the losin’ side. That’s why I ran from my regiment, see? I knew things would be going south, but my commanding officer’s more concerned with sitting and doing nothing. That’s not for me: I want to be where the action is.”
The man’s bragging continued nonstop as they made their way to Maidstone, such that Jones seriously contemplated leaving him behind. But there was a lot to be said for keeping company with like-minded people, although he was determined not to let the man in on his own plans.
At Maidstone they set about procuring supplies and a horse, a task that was complicated by the lack of any open stores whatsoever. The residents they did encounter seemed to follow the pattern of others elsewhere: either overwrought, insensible or just purely insane. A large crowd had gathered in the main square, but none of them displayed much interest in the two newcomers.
They found a coaching inn and knocked on the door, receiving nothing but silence in return. “Ah well,” shrugged the deserter. “I’m guessin’ it’s every man for himself, then.”
He headed round the side of the inn, and after a moment’s hesitation to hitch his horse to a post, Jones followed. Half a dozen horses milled around in the stables and yard to the rear, snorting and whickering, clearly slightly agitated by the lack of any food or water. The kitchen door was open and the two men entered, calling out a cautious greeting as they did so.
A quick inspection found the building to be empty save for a drunk who was sleeping on one of the tables in the bar, having seemingly taken it upon himself to consume all of the alcohol in the premises. The deserter stepped round him, examining the bottles until he finally found one full of more than just dregs. He took a long swig and then offered it to Jones, who accepted gratefully.
“Looks like everyone’s takin’ the end of the world pretty badly, eh?” said the deserter.
“Maybe they’ll come to their senses when the novelty of the absent sky runs out.”
“I doubt it,” said the deserter. “You see, I have a theory.” He grabbed another bottle, testing it for weight before taking a swig and wincing. “What do you and me have in common over all them others out there?”
“We’re both ex-army?” shrugged Jones.
The deserter nodded. “But not just that. Yes, we have the training and stuff, and we’ve no doubt both seen some terrible things on the field of battle, but we’ve also got purpose and direction. We’re both moved by earthly things like a chain of command, the need to take action, planning and reconnaissance. Not like them sheep out there, who care so much for their God and precious little else. They’re returning to their natural state, waitin’ for someone to lead them and show them the way.”
“What way would that be?” Jones asked. “You fancying yourself as some kind of preacher?”
“Oh no, not I,” he laughed. “But someone’ll step up at some point, mark my words. Or all them out there will die.”<
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Jones shuddered at the thought, but also knew from what he had seen that day that there was little he could do on his own. He needed to find Disraeli as soon as possible. “Let’s gather what supplies we can and make our way,” he said. “There’s nothing for us here.”
The deserter waved his bottle. “We have plenty to occupy ourselves here. Why don’t we rest a while?”
Jones gestured to the dribbling drunk. “And wind up like him? You help yourself. As you said, I have a purpose and it’s not served by getting insensible here.”
An hour later they were back on the road, the deserter having reluctantly agreed to Jones’ logic but still insisting on bringing as many bottles with him as he could carry. While in the circumstances Jones found the thought of getting drunk highly appealing, his sense of mission was even stronger and it was this that he clung on to as they made their way along the road to London.
Time was a difficult thing to measure under that never-changing sky, especially as neither man had the advantage of a pocket watch. The clocks they passed were meaningless: was it midnight or midday?
They rode until they felt the fatigue so intensely that they had to stop. By that point the deserter was merrily sloshed and Jones settled down to sleep in a hollow a little way from the road, not really caring if the man followed him or not.
He was woken by shouting in the distance and sat up, straining to hear over the sound of the deserter’s drunken snoring. The noise appeared to be drawing closer, coming down the road towards London. Jones crept forward, keeping himself as close as possible to the ground. He checked back, relieved to note that the horses were hidden from the road by the hollow.
He watched as a group of men, heavily armed and intoxicated, appeared from the southeast. There were about a dozen of them, all on horseback and some carrying bundles trussed across the saddles of their horses that, on closer examination, transpired to be the bodies of women. Some of these passengers were kicking and struggling feebly while others had clearly resigned themselves to their fate.
Jones bit back the urge to intervene: there were too many of them and it was apparent that they would be in no mood to welcome an intercession.
He watched them disappear over the horizon and, satisfied that no others were likely to appear for the time being, stood and made his way back to their makeshift encampment. He had no idea how long he had been sleeping, but felt strong and rested enough to get back on the road; with any luck they could be in London before they needed to rest again.
The deserter very reluctantly woke up, grumbling and groaning at Jones as he did so, and it was only the threat of leaving him on his own that galvanised him into action. They gnawed on hunks of bread and meat as they rode, Jones keeping a wary eye out for any other travellers. He had decided against telling the deserter about the group of men for fear that that would only spur him into doing something foolish, such as try to find them and join in their debauchery.
The deserter was considerably less talkative after his sleep, although Jones could not decide whether this was due to a hangover or the reality of their situation having finally hit home. Regardless, Jones was glad of the quiet, giving him a chance to make his own sense of what was going on. Frustratingly, he was able to focus on little other than the rocking motion of his horse, as the blankness overhead would time and again press down on his thoughts.
They were a few miles from Greenwich when Jones felt a familiar tingle on the back of his neck, a warning sign that they were being watched and pursued. He twisted in his saddle and then cursed.
“Go!” he shouted to the deserter, spurring his own horse into a gallop.
“What is it?” called the other, struggling to keep pace.
“Soul-less,” replied Jones, not caring if his voice reached the other man or not. He cursed himself; he should have realised that if anyone was well placed to take advantage of the current situation, it was those beasts.
The Soul-less. The remnants of humans who had been tempted by the demons and lost their souls in the process, as a result reverting to little more than bloodthirsty beasts united only in their hatred of humanity. Following the Battle of Greenwich they had become a large problem across swathes of the countryside, although the army had taken steps to eradicate as many of the creatures as they could over the following years. The one benefit was that they always seemed to take care to not get too close to any populated areas, and it was this that Jones was keen to take advantage of.
As they entered the outskirts of Greenwich, their horses panting hard, Jones looked back to see that the Soul-less were still closing on them. He cursed; they were showing no signs of slowing down. Could it be that they were emboldened by the new situation enough to lose their previous reticence?
They galloped through streets that were largely deserted, aside from the occasional prone body. They did not have time to pause and check whether these unfortunates were dead or merely unconscious, for the Soul-less were still hard at their heels.
They rounded another corner, the sounds of pursuit drawing ever closer, and Jones considered turning to fight as a preferable—albeit suicidal—option to being cut down from behind.
The pop and crackle of gunfire from around them focused his mind on the present, causing his horse to rear in terror. He landed hard, rolling away from his gelding’s hooves and towards the nearest wall in the hope that it would afford some protection from these new attackers. Pulling himself up onto one knee, he drew his pistol and scanned around for someone or something to shoot.
He paused as he realised that these new assailants were targeting the Soul-less. With a roar, Jones swung round to join in the attack and managed a handful of rounds before those godless creatures still standing turned and fled, screaming in frustrated rage.
“Wait there,” someone shouted from a window above them. Jones looked around in the sudden silence and saw the deserter lying on the ground near where his horse had thrown him, his head resting on a rifle pointed out in front of him.
“Are you all right?” Jones asked, scrabbling over to him.
The deserter looked up and flashed a weak grin. “Landed awkwardly on me ankle but I weren’t hit. Reckon I’ll live.”
Jones helped him to his feet and they looked around as people started to emerge from buildings. All were armed and cast suspicious glances at the two newcomers.
“You’ll drop them weapons,” said one man, pointing a rifle at them.
They complied and watched as a tall, grey-haired man stepped out from a building to their left. He looked them up and down and then nodded. “Come with us,” he said. Jones looked around at the wall of gun barrels and realised that they had precious little alternative but to comply.
They were escorted to a large town hall building that had been turned into a storage space, the once-ornate and ordered rooms and corridors now stacked full of food, weapons and blankets. Clearly these people—whoever they were—had not wasted any time in taking the sky’s disappearance as a call to action.
They were led to the council chamber room and ordered to sit in a pair of chairs placed in the middle of the room. They looked around, halfway between bemused and nervous, at the sea of hostile faces around them. After a few moments a tall, dark-haired and well-dressed man entered the room, pausing to talk to a few of the men standing by the door who had escorted Jones and the deserter to that building, before walking over to the two seated men in the centre of the space.
“Who are you?” asked the man.
Jones regarded this man impassively, glancing around at the others as well to determine how much of a threat these people really were. However, it was the deserter who answered first.
“We’re just normal folks like you lot,” he said. “Just tryin’ to survive, wonderin’ what’s been goin’ on, you know?”
The man stared at them for a moment, and then turned his attention to Jones. “And who are you?” he asked again.
“Ex-soldiers,” said Jones slowly. “Just like s
ome of you lot by the looks of things.” He glanced around. “So who exactly are you then?”
“What regiment?” the man asked, ignoring Jones’ question.
After a moment’s thought, Jones decided that the truth was the safest option. “The Royal Welch,” he said. “But I’m not welcome with them right now.”
“You’re not an officer,” the man said. “So I guess you’re either a Sergeant or a Corporal.”
Jones nodded. “Sergeant. Jones is the name. Who are you, exactly?”
The man stared at them for a moment. Then a small smile played across his face. “We have a couple of deserters here, do we?”
The deserter nodded rapidly. “That’s right,” he said quickly. “We’re no friends of the army. Oh no, not us. By the by, I love what you guys did back there, and we haven’t had a chance to thank you lot for savin’ our skins, have we?”
Jones ignored the man, instead focusing his attention on their interrogator. “You still haven’t told us who you lot are,” he said. “You’re not the army, that’s for sure. I take it you’re deserters too?”
The man sneered at him. “Some of us might be, some of us ain’t. Point is that things have been changing over the past few years and now it’s finally time for the likes of us to seize our chance while we still can. Seems to me that you boys have a choice to make: you’re either with us and a part of the new world order, or you’re against us.”
“With you. We are with you. Definitely,” babbled the deserter, his head nodding so rapidly that Jones half-feared it would fly off his shoulders altogether.
Their interrogator ignored this show of sycophancy, keeping his gaze focused on Jones. “What do you say?” he asked, a thin smile playing across his lips. “Where do you stand?”
Jones shrugged. “Seems to me I’m on the side of anyone who stops me being torn to pieces by those demons back there,” he said slowly. “But I always like to know who it is I’m fighting with and for before I nail my colours to any masts.”
