Protectors - Book one of Beyond These Walls: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

by Michael Robertson

  Batting a hand through the air, Spike snorted a laugh. Any disappointment he felt at the missed opportunity vanished when he looked at the boy. “Bloody kids, eh?”

  Without saying anything else, Matilda continued smiling and rubbed his back.

  Spike returned his attention to the kid and leaned into her warm touch.

  Chapter 12

  When Spike and Matilda stopped outside her house, Spike’s throat tightened. Too many unspoken words for far too long. If he didn’t say them, he’d drown in regret. She already knew, of course she did, but he needed to tell her how he felt. Their lives would change forever tomorrow. A gentle breeze moved through the tight streets, tickling the wind chimes. Nature often gave song to the ceramic district. A dirge of lost love and missed opportunity. He had to say something. “Matilda?”

  “I think we should go for lunch,” she said.

  “You do?” He cleared his throat and lowered his voice slightly. “You do?”

  “You don’t want to go?”

  “Of course I do. But only if you’re happy to leave Artan?”

  “Happy isn’t a word I’d use, but I won’t have a choice tomorrow. He’s fourteen; he needs to learn to grow up and look after himself. It’s not like we didn’t know this day would come. I just want to check on him first. Do you want to come inside with me?”

  Again, Spike nodded. She didn’t invite him in often.

  The second Matilda opened her front door, she gasped.

  Spike rushed in after her and clapped his hand over his mouth as he took in the front room. “My god, what happened?”

  While Matilda rushed over to Artan, Spike looked at the state of the place. Their sofa had been turned over, plates were smashed on the floor, and many ceramic ornaments had been shattered. The colourful shards covered the room like confetti. Then he looked at Artan. The boy took after Matilda and his mother. They all had dark features, high cheekbones, and brown eyes. A tanned brooding that made all of them beautiful beyond many in the city. As Matilda had gotten closer to eighteen, Spike noticed how she turned the heads of men. It drove him insane, but he never commented. What right did he have?

  Despite sharing his sister’s looks, Artan’s usually boyish beauty was absent today. As Spike took him in, he winced. His dark features were darker with bruising and dried blood. His right eye had swollen closed and he had a deep gash torn open on his left cheek.

  “What happened?” Matilda said.

  Despite the bruising, Artan smiled. “I figured with you going for national service tomorrow, I needed to show that arsehole he couldn’t get away with pushing me around.”

  “He’s already started?” Matilda said.

  “He tried.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Artan nodded. “I’m fine. You should see him.”

  Back on her feet, Matilda held her hand down for Artan. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” Then to Spike, “Are you okay waiting here while I sort him out?”

  Despite Spike’s concern for Artan, he could see their lunch date slipping away from him. He should have told her how he felt when he had a chance. He’d sound like an arsehole if he said it now. With a tight-lipped smile, he nodded. “Sure, take your time. I’ll be waiting here.”

  “Hi, Spike,” Artan said while his sister led him away.

  While dipping him a nod, Spike said, “Artan, I hope you’re okay?”

  Artan smiled.

  After watching Matilda and Artan head out of the front room, Spike looked at the carnage again. Like most houses in Edin, the ceiling in Matilda’s front room stood about a foot taller than him at just over seven feet. A single-storey building, if they built it much higher, it would have a far greater risk of collapsing on them. Too many families had been lost to failing structures in the past. The house had two bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room. Just about enough space for four people. One doorway—the one Matilda had just gone through—led to the bedrooms and bathroom, while the other doorway led to the kitchen.

  There seemed little chance of them going for lunch now, and Spike couldn’t blame her for that. But he’d wait just to make sure she and Artan were okay, and see if they needed anything from him. While he stood there, he filled his lungs with a deep inhale before slowly letting it out, his cheeks bulging. Nothing could change the situation, so he needed to make peace with it. There would be plenty more lunches when he became the next protectors’ apprentice.

  Matilda didn’t let Spike in her house often because of her dad. She could never predict what the atmosphere would be like. When he did visit, if the mood started to turn, she’d give him the nod for him to make his excuses and leave. She’d often come to school the next day with bruises, and he’d hate himself for not sticking around. In his head, he’d beaten her dad down a thousand times, but she’d always told him she needed to handle it herself. And she did. The bruises stopped as she got older and stronger. She learned to fight back.

  Spike listened to Matilda’s and Artan’s steps as they made their way to their shared room. At least they’d had a trip to the arena for his birthday.

  Because he’d been lost in his thoughts, Spike hadn’t heard him coming. When he turned around and saw the man in the kitchen doorway, he jumped back. “Um … hi, Mr. Sykes. How are you? How’s the ceramic industry?” If he hadn’t forced himself to stop there, the questions would have kept coming, his nervous tongue threatening to run away with him.

  A short man, Mr. Sykes had thick black hair that grew in every direction. Stubble and eyebrows to match, he looked like he’d been sleeping in bushes for most of his adult life. Always scruffy, he wore clothes that could have been tailored had he cared enough to send them to the tailoring district. Although short, he stretched almost as wide as he did tall and wore his stocky frame with a hunch. Apparently, as a young man, he’d been fierce and had the power to damn near crush rocks with his bare hands. Now he walked with a limp on a right knee that could barely support him. A less stubborn man would have enlisted the aid of a cane.

  From the look of Matilda’s dad, Artan’s assessment of the fight had been accurate. Mr. Sykes had clearly come off much worse than his boy. Both of the man’s eyes were swollen and puckered slits. Dried blood clung to his nasal hairs and beard.

  About thirty seconds passed where Mr. Sykes did nothing but stare at Spike. Despite the swelling, the man’s eyes remained sharp. Penetrative.

  Fighting the urge to ball his fists—for Matilda’s sake, not her dad’s—Spike kept his calm and tried again, “Um …” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s a beautiful day, wouldn’t you say?” He hated how his voice shook, adrenaline flooding his system.

  Mr. Sykes continued to watch him, the slightest twist to his features as if regret turned through his wild and hairy face. Almost as if he felt sad for the things he was yet to do to Spike.

  The thud of footsteps then sounded out from Matilda and Artan’s room. Spike looked in the direction of it as if he could see through the walls. When he looked back at the doorway to the kitchen, Matilda’s dad had gone.

  Several more thuds as she made her way to him, Matilda appeared a second later. “Artan’s telling me he’s fine. We can go to lunch if you’re ready?”

  Spike looked at the doorway leading into the kitchen.

  “What is it?” Matilda said.

  “Um … nothing.” He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “Are you sure? You look pale.”

  “Yeah, it’s nothing.” If he told her, they wouldn’t have their last meal together before national service. She wouldn’t want to leave Artan with her dad coming back so soon, especially with him as wild as he looked. Spike opened the door and stood aside to let her out into the street first. “Come on, let’s go.”

  A twist of guilt tugged on Spike’s heart as he watched her step out of the house. But she was right, Artan needed to work it out for himself. She’d be gone tomorrow, so he needed to f
ind his own way.

  Chapter 13

  They’d walked no more than ten metres from Matilda’s front door before Spike broke. It didn’t matter how much he wanted to have lunch with her, it wasn’t up to him to decide if Artan would be okay. “Um, Tilly?”

  Matilda stopped in the middle of the street and turned to look at him.

  “Your dad came into the front room when you were with Artan.”

  The colour drained from her face and her mouth fell slightly open. “Oh god. Artan said he hadn’t gone to work, but I didn’t realise he was still at home. What happened?”

  “Nothing. He just stared at me.”

  “He does that. A lot.”

  “I think Artan was right though; it looks like he got the better of him. Look, I’ll understand if you want to cancel lunch.”

  After she’d drawn a deep breath, Matilda looked back at her house and squared her shoulders.

  Spike took her hand as if to lead her back to her front door. “Come on, be with your brother on your final day.”

  But Matilda shook her head. “No.”

  “No?”

  “I spoke to Artan and he said I should go out with you. That, from tomorrow, he has to deal with Dad on his own. Besides, we can use today as a test run. Dad’s always his worst around this time of the year, so if I can leave Artan and come back to see he’s coped, I can focus on national service knowing he’ll be okay.” A heavy sigh, she shrugged as she looked at Spike, tears in her eyes. “He’s going to have to be, right?”

  Spike nodded. “But only if you’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay. Lunch at Mr. P’s?”

  She smiled. “Naturally.”

  Chapter 14

  When Spike pulled the door open for Matilda, the bell above it rang, announcing their arrival to Mr. P. Before Spike had even entered the restaurant, the heady mix of spices he associated with the place rushed out to meet him, his mouth watering instantly at the infusion of basil, mint, pepper, and god knew what else. Mr. P kept his recipes very close to his chest.

  Stepping into the restaurant so he stood next to Matilda, Spike looked around the dark room, squinting to see as best he could. “As ready as I am for tomorrow and beyond, I’m sure as hell going to miss Mr. P’s cooking.”

  As if savouring the moment, Matilda pulled in a deep sniff and nodded. “Me too.”

  Were his food not as good, Mr. P would have had to close his place down years ago. In the city, you needed to justify your business and prove it mattered to the community. The turnover in restaurants happened quicker than most services. There were many chefs waiting in the wings should people grow tired of their selection of eateries. And because they all had to cook with the same limited ingredients, many establishments failed because of what they had supplied to them on a daily basis more than their culinary skills. Mr. P also had the added incentive of keeping the place open because it allowed him to remain inside during the day. He’d be screwed if they expected him to work in the sun.

  Mr. P came as if from nowhere, a wide smile on his pale face. “Here they are,” he said, his voice so loud many of the diners turned around to look. “And how are the two lovebirds?”

  Matilda stared at the ground. “We’ve already told you, Mr. P, we’d be mad to fall in love with one another. We might only live in neighbouring districts, but they’re as good as worlds apart in this city.”

  “Ah, come on, don’t be coy.”

  When Spike saw Matilda’s cheeks flush red, he said, “It’s a hot one today, Mr. P.”

  Still a few metres away from them, Mr. P halted, gasped, and pulled his hands into his chest as if the sun could find a way into his restaurant. A glance at the door behind Spike, he wiped his white hair back and shook his head. “It’s all right for you two. Especially you, Spike.”

  Spike looked down at the backs of his own hands as if seeing his ebony skin for the first time.

  “But that weather out there cooks an albino like me.” He shook his head. “What kind of temperature is this for March? Anyway, how can I help you both?”

  “We’d like a table for two,” Matilda said.

  His apparent fear of the weather gone, Mr. P drew a deep breath as if about to deliver bad news, but then he stopped and clapped a hand to his mouth. A camp man, everything came with an eccentric flourish. His eyes flitted from one of their necks to the other’s. “It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  Until that moment, Spike had forgotten about his scarf. With a self-conscious tug on the black fabric, Matilda spoke before he could. “Yes, it is, Mr. P.”

  Tears filled his eyes and he looked between the pair several times before he found his words. “It seems like it was only yesterday when you two lovebirds were starting school. And there’s me about to tell you I don’t have space today.” Long fingers on delicate hands, he pointed at them both before he said, “Wait here. I’ll go and find you a table.”

  Spike dipped a nod of thanks at the restaurateur.

  In the minute or two he’d left them for, Mr. P had clearly had a chance to compose himself. His eyes were now dry and his smile wide again. He ran a look up and down Spike. “You’re a fit lad. What are you, six feet tall?”

  “Six two.”

  “Do you plan on doing the apprentice trials?”

  “I sure do.”

  “And you, Matilda?”

  The twist of Matilda’s face forced Mr. P back a step. “No,” she said. “I don’t even want to go for national service.”

  “I’m not sure many do, sweetheart.”

  Before Matilda could respond, Spike said, “What’s it like? No one ever talks about it.”

  The skin at the corners of Mr. P’s eyes wrinkled from where he winced. “Just you two look after one another, okay?”

  “Of course,” Spike said.

  “Of course you will. Lovebirds mate for life, don’t you know?” As if to spare them their blushes, Mr. P said, “Well, for today, the food’s free. Leave the ration stamp with your family so they can get extra another time. I want to make sure we send two of Edin’s newest heroes into national service with their bellies full. Today, you can have whatever you like.”

  A rumble ran through Spike’s stomach. “Even rabbit stew?”

  “Even rabbit stew, William.”

  Where Matilda would normally smirk at someone calling him that, her expression remained unchanged. Spike said, “Thank you.”

  They followed Mr. P through the dark restaurant. The tables were packed so closely together they had to weave between them, their hips snaking as if they moved to a Latin rhythm. When they reached the small stage at the back of the room, Spike and Matilda stopped. Mr. P stepped up onto the slightly elevated area and showed them the best table in the house. It was the only one unoccupied. He often ate there himself at the end of a shift.

  Removing the reserved sign, Mr. P wiped the tablecloth—not that Spike saw any need for him to—and then held his hand out to help Matilda up.

  Spike jumped onto the stage and pulled a chair away for her to sit on.

  After lighting the candle in the middle of the table, Mr. P bowed at the pair. “Have a wonderful meal, you two, and know you go into your national service with my love and prayers.”

  “You don’t have to worry about us, you know that, Mr. P?”

  The apparent grief Mr. P had managed to swallow rose in him again, tears filling his eyes for a second time. Words seemed beyond him, so he left them on the stage without speaking again.

  When Spike looked across at Matilda, he saw she’d turned paler than before. Maybe the poor light played tricks on him; although, from the way she wrung her hands, maybe it didn’t.

  Reaching over, he leaned across the table and stroked the back of her forearm. “Don’t worry about what Mr. P said. We’ll be fine, I promise.”

  Matilda pulled away from him and steel settled in her eyes. “I’m not sure we will. So much can go wrong between now and you becoming the next protector.
”

  “I’ll get through national service.”

  “You don’t know that. Besides, I might not. And then after that, there’s still too much that can go wrong.”

  “I don’t believe that. I think—”

  “Can we just order, please?” Matilda said.

  The snap of her reply made Spike pull back. Before he could respond, she picked up the menu and looked at it instead of him.

  Chapter 15

  For the next few minutes, Spike and Matilda ate in silence. The attention of the restaurant remained on them from how Mr. P had announced their arrival. Many of the diners watched on with blank expressions at best, but many more stared pity at them. Spike mirrored Matilda by directing his focus to his plate while he ate the complimentary rough bread and butter. Although, Mr. P had made everything complimentary today.

  Matilda spoke first. “I’m sorry, Spike. I’ve been really negative towards you about being a protector.”

  “I understand. National service is a big deal. I know I’m unusual in how much I’m looking forward to it.”

  “It’s not about national service. Well, it is, but only kinda.”

  Although Spike opened his mouth to respond, Matilda cut him off. “I’m ready to tell you about my dad if you’ll listen?”

  The second she said it, Spike gulped, and the bread he’d been chewing wedged in his throat. His shoulders and neck tightened and his heart quickened as he thought he might choke. It took him several gulps and a sip of water to regain his composure. “I only want you to tell me if you feel ready. I’d like to know, but I don’t need to.”

  “And I appreciate you never asking. And for you putting up with me having wicked trust issues. But you must have been curious?”