by Luka Petrov
She lay there on the carpet, her shallow breaths turning into quicker ones of panic. She stared up at the chandelier that hung from the ceiling suspended above her like a crown of hanging diamonds. One of her hands began to itch, an intolerable sensation like a bite of some kind, then the sensation grew more intense as if something was under her skin. She raised her bloodied hand to her face to find it covered in sores, some filled with pus, the veins in her wrist overtly pronounced and blue. With some confusion she whimpered, worried of illness, her head beginning to ache.
Then, as she thought only of her children and their fate, the large shapes from the night before seemed to creep into view. First, they started slowly, moving over the roof and seeming to exist within the air. They were apparitions of vision, blurring at the sides of her eyes, their ethereal bodies in a constant disappearing act. They seemed to get closer to her, dancing above her. The noise of the ringing became louder yet until blood poured from her ears. She screamed but could not move, trapped by fear and vulnerability.
The room itself seemed to cave in, the walls vibrating. The chandelier shook from its foundation, books fell from shelves, and dust rained down from every inch of its ancient structure. The mother’s screams became garbled noise, deafened by the screech and the rumbling, the blood from her mouth spitting out into the air, her ribcage collapsing inward like the crushing of a vise. In her mind’s eye, she saw her children playing happily in the sunlight, her hands holding theirs.
Several miles away in the sea’s midst, the nurse clustered the two albino children in her arms. As they left the Mainland, the nurse was haunted by the noises she had heard and by the way she had seen that woman collapse in her office. The sun had not been truly visible since the first blackout. It remained hidden beneath a cloudy mist that seemed to blanket out the light. The begrudging amount of glow it gave off shining down eerily onto the tumultuous waves, the water crashing against their vessel. The boat was a small dinghy without an engine, its captain a bearded gentleman transporting her and the babies to another island. There was said to be another doctor there, one who could deal with abnormalities, one who might help prevent the deaths of the only two children who had survived that month.
The cold winds blew hard against the nurse and the boatman, neither baby crying. It was a boy and a girl, so far nameless, their skin and hair the purest white, their eyes large and pink. Their newborn eyes blinking, they seemed to wince away from the light but made no sound, looking up the nurse with curious expressions. On the horizon was the black smoke of fires rising up into the air from distant shores. The blackouts blew out fuses and burned wiring in vehicles and buildings, often causing gigantic fires. With phone lines down, there was little way to communicate each disaster, leading to whole towns becoming engulfed in flame.
Finally, the rain came down too, a savage rain with a pungent odor rising off from the boat. The nurse covered the children’s faces to protect them, noticing that the rain stung as it touched her skin. A reminiscing sign that the Earth that she had once knew was no longer. The boatman turned to her, his weathered face full of unshaven clumps of beard. “Did ye see th’ lights last night?” he asked, shaking his head with confusion. “Never seen a thing like it. Much brighter than the Borealis, wi’ patterns ‘n’ waves o’ some kind.”
The nurse turned to reply, the rain falling harder. Suddenly, she reached into her mouth, a feeling of looseness coming from her teeth. Blood dripping from her lips, she pulled out one of her molars. She looked up to him with fear in her eyes, her pupils bloodshot, blood spilling onto the chest of her white outfit. The boatman stared in awe, gulping before looking away. “Strange days ahead,” he muttered into the wind, rowing as fast as he could.
3. The Devil's Fence
The nurse stumbled onto the shore of the island, wiping the blood from her chin, and whispering to the babies. She thought of the children’s mother back in the hotel, of the sores she’d seen covering her skin after giving birth. She wondered if somehow the mother had brought something inside, something diseased which had spread into her blood. By now, her footsteps were awkward and clumsy, stumbling along the wooden path to the beach. She held tightly to the babies, trying to stay alert for their safety. The wind continued to blow against her hair and face, threatening to hurl her into the sand.
After walking along the beach, she came to a car park full of the burnt-out husks of vehicles. One was turned on its side, still smoldering from a recent explosion, the rain beating against the cloud of black steam. She shied away from the darkened bones of the wreck, running as fast as she could through the dunes, heading toward the silhouettes of buildings far in the distance. They were humble peasant buildings made in the old style of grey cobblestones, their doorways close to the stony shore. Only a stone wall separated them and the beach, an ancient defense against the lapping of the high tide.
As the nurse approached the edge of a tall grey house, she noticed that a large barbed wire fence was being constructed along the perimeters of the town. Men were hauling wire to one another from step ladders, resisting the wind to create a defense for the island and its people. Through gloved hands, they twined the sharpened barbs around a gate, shouting at each other through the rain. The nurse slowly approached the fence, shouting up to the men with a weakened voice.
“Excuse me, lads,” she hollered, looking up to the burly-looking gentlemen, each perched on a ladder or wooden palette. These were fishermen who had little time for outsiders, especially in the days since the blackouts began. One of them, a tall looking fellow with jet black hair and steely eyes, descended the ladder to approach her. In his hands were a pair of heavy wire cutters, his body swathed in two raincoats and a woolen turtleneck.
“Whit’s it yi’ll waant?” he asked in his barbaric tone, his shaggy face full of rainwater. He was young, burly, with a face that showed no emotion. He had been through too much, not just over the years but during the past month. The nurse, who tried to smile through a bloodied and toothless mouth, gestured to the children she carried in her arms. “These two… twins… are in need of medical assistance,” the nurse bleated out, trying not to spit blood as she spoke. “I’m a nurse from the Mainland. Our doctor never arrived, and… You see, I was hoping yours might be able to—”
Suddenly, the man got a look at the nurse, seeing her face was covered in sores, her eyes with an eerie tint of yellow. Veins ran through her temples pulsing just below the skin, her breath heavy and full of gravel. With his wire cutters, the man began to gesticulate into the air, screaming at her to leave. “BE GONE, witch!” he screamed, “Or we wull attack ye! I swear it.” The nurse looked confused as she stared down into the bundles of cloth. The man pushed the wire cutters toward her threateningly. She felt her internal organs squirm around her bones, her eyelids heavy. She stumbled backward to protect the children from the man, but she lost her footing. Suddenly, her body fell back into the stony shore, and her hand cracked into a sharpened rock below. Her breaths became scarce until they were none, her jaw clicking, the last drops of blood falling from her chapped lips.
The nurse’s diseased body lay there, littered by the red dots of sores, the children still held in her arms, both unharmed by the fall. They wriggled and squirmed, entirely defenseless. The wind blew through her hair, giving her body a look of statuesque strangeness. The illness had clenched her mouth wide open. None of the men would approach the rotting woman, her infectious presence considered a bad omen, one that was potentially deadly. Now, the twins began to cry from the locked arms of the nurse, their voices lost in the wind.
The men could neither continue with their work nor simply leave them there, but none elected to go. It was with some hesitation that, moments later, the bearded fisherman approached the corpse of the nurse and pried the children from her hands, clasping the bundles into his arms. He had children of his own, and something paternal in him forced his hand and made him take those steps toward the corpse and the children still clutched in decayin
g hands. His humanity simply would not allow him to abandon them. He clutched them tightly, shielding the albinos from the foul weather.
Before he left the body, he looked down at her, knowing full well that the nurse was dead. He would report the death to the police in town and hope they did not assume his involvement. They were so busy now, however, that it was likely their inspection would be brief. It was the eighth person this month who had arrived ill, and the fear of contagion was high. Walking toward the other men by the fence, he watched as they cowered from him, placing their hands in the air. “Woah, laddie, dinnae wantae git infected. Keep them away from me,” one of the others exclaimed, stepping back from his associate. The others did the same, scuttling back toward town.
“Dinnae be a coward, boys,” he whispered, checking the children’s faces were without sores. “No markings on ‘em. No veins or blood. They’re clean...” The children looked half asleep, the cold air barely reaching them in their bundles of cloth. They made the fishermen think of his own children, of how scared he was of losing them in the woods, to the grasp of the tide, or in the darkness of their large farmhouse. For a man not to be able to provide light—electricity—for his family, that was more than humiliation. Now candles lit the island, dwindling supplies that would need constant replenishing.
The dark-haired man walked through the dim lights of town, carrying the pale-skinned children with him. The evening had faded into a glum sunset, the ashen dark glowing a burnt blood orange. As the remaining light faded, the horizon crackled with electricity, storms brewing up ahead. Waves crashed hard against the shores, too dangerous for any boat to venture into. The storms had become vastly worse since the blackouts, with waves swallowing up a few ships and lightning turning barn houses into balls of flame. He approached the house of the doctor, the only medical man they’d been sent since the first blackout. It was a red-doored building with a white cross painted crudely on the wood. A peephole was screwed into its center so that the doctor could peer through. The peephole served as a barrier to keep out the infection and the lowlanders. The fisherman rapped his knuckles firmly against the wood while hiding the children under his coat. Initially, there was no response, not until the fisherman knocked as hard as he could.
“What do you want?!” came the high-pitched voice of the doctor, a voice full of fear and confusion. “I’ve no time for more patients today. I’m very busy!” The fisherman sighed, he had given up enough of his day to the burden of the discarded infants, time he could spend fortifying the entrance to the village. The fence was the only way he could keep out further lowlanders, thus the only way he believed they could stop the spread of infection.
“Let me in, doctor,” he grumbled, his voice hoarse with aggression. “Or I’ll bash yer door down. Understand?”
There was a silence then a babble of words. “Do you have symptoms of infection? Bleeding, blood pressure, headaches…?” asked the doctor, his words growing more desperate by the minute. The man pounded one final time, and the doctor opened the door out of fear the man would follow through with his threat to knock it down. Through the gap in the door, the fisherman showed him the pale-skinned babes. “Newborns,” the doctor exclaimed, his shrill voice caught with excitement. “I’ve not seen any alive in months. Please, come in.”
Finally, they entered the doctor’s improvised surgery—a stale-looking living room with peeling wallpaper, several unmade beds, cluttered desks, and boxes full of equipment. Large painted signs on the walls warned of infection symptoms, accompanied by a diagram of what suffers could look like. Briefly, the surgeon inspected the children, the fisherman standing by the door with crossed arms. The doctor seemed fascinated by their skin color and general health, speaking out loud regarding the children. “They appear to be in good health, but both suffer from a disorder of albinism. Their genes have clearly been affected in some way.” He tested their heart rates, noting them down in a small book of scribbled numbers.
“Thair mother died oan th’ beach. She hud th’ infection,” he grumbled. The doctor, a middle-aged man with slick brown hair and spectacles, turned around with an angered expression. “And you didn’t think to tell me this before you entered my surgery?” The doctor’s face was full of a strange disbelief, an ability to comprehend the minds of the natives. They either acted instinctively and protectively or completely out of madness. The fishermen, in particular, were drunken anomalies, capable of great kindness and brute violence.
The fisherman groaned and turned to leave, making it nearly halfway out of the door when the cold air hit him, making him stuff his hands into the deep pockets of his coat. Perhaps, he thought, they could finish the eastern wing of the fence by morning. Eventually, they would have to hire guards to arm themselves against attackers. Each blackout brought with it more disaster. The doctor approached to stop the young fisherman from leaving, his fatigued eyes in a clear state of confusion. “Who will look after these children now? You’re not placing them in my care, are you!?”
The fisherman shrugged his shoulders and placed a cigarette between his lips. “Dae wi’ thaim whit yi’ll waant, doctor. If they’re healthy, keep thaim.” The doctor looked back at the two writhing bundles, shaken by the thought of further responsibility. Looking back to the fisherman, he listened as he continued, lighting his smoke in the wind. “Please excuse me, doctor. Now ah myst build th’ fence tae keep oot th’ devil.” With that the bearded man walked away, the red door closing behind him. Neither man knew if the fence would help or if the wire would even prevent the infected from climbing inside, but perhaps it was the start of something, of a more efficient defense. The doctor was alone, the candlelit house creaking in the wind like the floorboards of an old ship. Only the sound of snoozing children could be heard, the warmth of the room coming from a crackling fireplace.
The doctor walked over to the two babies that lay on the bed, considering a few things. Firstly, he thought of who, if any, of the town’s women, would take the twins into their family. Many had children, but all were scared of the blackouts, the lights, and the pox they could catch. His educated mind assumed that the superstitions that made them fear the lowlanders might be the same fear that would prevent the children’s safety. So, with a deep breath and heavy heart, he prepared a bottle of milk solution from a box in the drawers and set about to feed the pink-pupiled twins. The morality of a surgeon, he believed, should always trump his personal interests or safety. The selflessness of medicine was his purpose for entering such a profession.
Later that night, after the fishermen had heaved and pulled together as much wire as they could carry, the barbed fence was extended to cross at least one street, meaning that any outsiders would have to walk through the fields to enter the area. But out on the horizon, the men watched as a large group of people entered from the beach, many diseased and seeking medicine. Many could barely speak, their language function changed by their sickness. Others limped and staggered along, kept on their feet by the arms of their friends.
They were backpackers from the Mainland who had traveled across the islands, camping out in the depths of the woods. In the space between the gates and the town, they explained their symptoms, desperate for help. They bled from their noses, experienced nausea or migraines. They told of hearing sounds in the forests, of seeing drug-like hallucinations. Similar to a ayahuasca trip overseen by a shaman. They begged to see a doctor, to enter any kind of hospital, but they were turned away and threatened, told to leave the island.
But the backpackers would not leave. They had nowhere to go but into town, all the boats having finished their journey. So, they weakly pitched their tents on the beach, hoping to enter the town in the morning. Some died naturally, but others did not. Tents were set aflame, sparking like diamonds in the night. It was an event the fishermen would not share with any of the townsfolk, the lengths they went to in order to protect the healthy from the sick. With face masks and gloves, the fisherman tossed the backpackers’ bodies into an unmarked gra
ve, stuffing their tents in with them. At a month into the blackouts, even the smallest of towns were beginning to change, transforming into places of sacrifice and tragedy.
Several months later, the fence had extended its way around most of the towns and villages of the islands, allowing entry and exit only via selected points. The people at such entrances wore hazmat suits and wading overalls, carrying with them loaded guns and whatever weapons they could carry. They slept in shifts, permitted by police to take action if necessary. A fleet of boats had been accumulated from infected people that had traveled and died on the island, each of the vessels sterilized and tethered up to the harbor. Some decided to leave, in search of other places where life was safer, but most townsfolk stayed, intent on staying within the safety of their community.
Word came from the other islands that the Chapelcross power plant in Scotland had exploded due to the phenomenon of the last blackout, leaving the area covered in nuclear fallout. The next day, the islands of Orkney were treated to a snowfall that lasted several hours, dousing all the buildings and the open land in a delicate white powder. Children played in it, and the roofs and livestock were covered in it. It fell from the heavens like strangely falling leaves, an eerie slowness to its trajectory. Fields of crops were doused with the snow also, and it clung to leaves of grass and the branches of trees.
During a meeting of the islands of Ronaldsay, a consensus was made on the cause of the snow. The substance was believed to be a result of hazardous nuclear waste accumulating in the sky from the failing power plant emissions, soon rendering huge segments of farmland barren. Plants would not grow, and animals were dying. Cancer rates were increasing, and respiratory failure was as well. The options for the residents of the islands were becoming increasingly slim, the people desperate for solutions to problems that lacked them.
