‘Yeah, always,’ he mumbled, dragging his eyes back up to hers. They were brown, large and circled with heavy bags. She swung her hair around her shoulder, roughly dragging the bobble from it. It streamed in the wind and he caught the scent of grease, smelting fumes and perfume — or at least what passed for it these days. He drank it in for second before it swirled away into the night.
She glanced around at the empty floor before locking eyes with him once more. ‘I smell like steel right now, but give me five minutes to grab a shower and you can come in for some breakfast if you want? Or not-breakfast.’ She rambled more than suggested, making a concerted effort to be sweet. He smiled. She was obviously exhausted. He imagined her in a different setting, in a different world. In a house of her own, raising some kids maybe. She’d told him once that she’d wanted to be a painter. This world takes everything, he thought. Now, she was standing on the balcony of a refugee prison, dirty and tired from a twelve-hour welding shift spent crouching in the bowels of a power station coming apart at the seams.
The charcoal circles under her eyes told Aaro she needed sleep more than anything else, but in a city on the verge of implosion, any day could be their last. And if for the next hour or so they could forget it all, just get lost in a tangle of sheets, well hell, why wouldn’t they?
He nodded to her and offered his hand. She pulled the handle of the duffle towards it. He shouldered it and followed her to her apartment. He’d been there almost nine years now, she’d been there seven. They lived only a couple of doors from each other, which made it easy. Work, survive, sex. It was a far cry from love, but even so, as they paced slowly back down that bleak hallway towards the momentary warmth of her mattress, she reached out tentatively and laced her fingers between his, squeezing like they were in some happier time.
They reached her doorway and she fumbled for keys. It creaked open and snapped shut. The duffel hit the floor with a clang and she was against him, rough and tired, clumsy and wonderful. He felt her fingers in his hair, brushing up over his shoulders and behind his ears with an impatient passion. She breathed in his ear as he grabbed her waist. She kissed him, not wasting time. She moved her tongue over his and tilted her head to the side to kiss him harder. Her hair spilled over his arms, long and fragrant, lashing back and forth as he walked her through the apartment. She tore at her shirt buttons, pulling them through worn eyelets. He pulled it off her shoulders and it hit the floor. She bit his lip. It hurt.
She pushed him away and skipped backwards towards the waiting bed, fumbling with her belt as she did. Aaro smirked and watched her fall into the sheets, moving her hips, peeling her jeans over her muscular legs, the kind that come from carrying heavy bags up thirty flights of stairs every day. She arched away from the linen and the denim came free. She rode them down over her knees, kicking them off with disdain. She grinned up at him and beckoned him towards her. He reached for his shirt hem and dragged it up over his body. For a long time, he’d been ashamed of the long raking scars across his midriff, a constant and foul reminder of that night. But it didn’t matter now. Everyone had scars, physical or otherwise, and these were at the bottom of a long list he’d acquired since.
He sank onto the bed and she groaned gently as he ran his lips over her neck and collarbone, kissing and teasing at her skin with his teeth. Her fingers clenched into the sheets either side of her head, her elbows next to her ears, her tired eyes screwed up with pleasure. She kissed him again and she ran her hands up his back, not saying a word, but speaking volumes with her nails and teeth. It must have been a tough night at work. But he was happy to let her take her frustrations out on him.
It went on for almost twenty minutes, her work-hardened muscles put to use on a much more satisfying task than welding. She hung her head back, eyes closed, exposing her straight, white teeth — a rarity these days.
Each breath was a long, loping squeeze. Their bodies glistened with sweat in the glow of the single dim bulb overhead.
Their eyes closed, their movements based on feeling alone. He felt her hot breath at his collar, her teeth in his skin. In that moment there was no dying city. No end of the world. It was just her and him, shackled together by something you couldn’t quite call love.
And then it was over. They both held staggered breaths, grasping at the moment for as long as they could.
For how long they stayed like that, they couldn’t have said but after what seemed like not long enough, she sat up.
She pushed the hair from her face and over her head, grinning. She chuckled, blinked her eyes clear and looked down at Aaro, who lay there, smiling softly at her.
She returned it and patted him on the chest.
I needed that. Thanks, her face said.
He didn’t mind. It was what it was. Each was using the other in their own way. She wheeled her work-weary body off him and stumbled at the side of the bed, making her way to the bathroom on aching legs. He heard the shower click on and then she appeared in the doorway.
‘You can make yourself some coffee if you want,’ she said casually, half hidden by the frame. ‘There’s a little left in the jar over there, I think.’ She lifted her head towards the kitchenette in the corner. Just two units, a sink, a hotplate, and a microwave.
‘It’s ok. I think I’m gonna head out and grab some overtime before my shift starts,’ he replied, knowing she wouldn’t be offended.
‘Okay, cool. I’m gonna get to sleep anyways, after I shower.’ She slinked out of view, unphased by his answer.
He was right, she wasn’t offended.
He pulled on his jeans, dressing as quickly as he’d undressed. He walked towards the door with his jacket under his arm and as he did, Sorina appeared in the frame again, a towel loosely clasped around her. She called gently to him, motioning him over.
His hands found the small of her back and he kissed her tenderly. Lovingly, almost. ‘I wish things were different,’ he whispered, not really thinking.
‘Different with us?’ she asked, a little taken aback.
‘No, different for us.’
She blushed. ‘Me too. It’s a pretty fucked up old world, isn’t it?’ She turned her head and sighed. ‘Time do you get off tonight?’
‘Six,’ he replied quickly.
‘I’m in at eight.’ She smiled coyly. ‘If you hightail it back we might be able to squeeze in round two before I have to leave.’
‘Here’s to hoping,’ he laughed. It was easy to pretend when he was with her.
He kissed her once more, holding her close to him, feeling her arms over his shoulders, the embrace slow and long. And then, the door closed behind him and he was back in the wind-swirled corridor.
He hiked up his jacket, cursing himself for not zipping it up before, and fumbled in his pocket. He pulled out a battered box of cigarettes and struggled with his lighter, cupping it to protect the flame. He got it lit and checked his watch. It was still just six in the morning and the sun was barely in sight behind the horizon. He sighed out a long stream of smoke and started for the stairs.
Just another day at the end of the world.
FOUR
THE BEGINNING
2108 AD
Aaro’s eyes opened slowly and he stared into an ocean of pale cloud. The light rain that drifted in the wake of the storm spattered on his almost blue skin. His hands and feet were utterly numb. He shivered and a streak of pain split him in half. He cried meekly, still dazed.
He drew a weak breath and willed blood back into his muscles. The turbulent sky seethed but made no sound. As the cogs in his brain began to engage, a sudden realisation dawned on him — that last night’s events were not a dream. Tears ran from his eyes, warm on his otherwise frozen skin. His fingers crawled over his stomach and he felt the gashes there, deep and fresh. The rain had washed away the excess blood and the near freezing Nordic night had stemmed the flow enough to keep him alive.
But the question he found himself asking was why?
Why was he a
live? Why hadn’t the beast come for him? Why had he survived while his wife and his daughter had been slaughtered? He curled onto his side and wept, sobbing and whimpering into the grass like a dog.
When he finally mustered the strength and the courage to move, he couldn’t even bring himself to look at the house. He rolled onto his stomach and dragged his body through the grass. Each blade tugged at the ragged flesh on his midriff. When he reached the side gate, he hoisted himself to a rickety stance and waited, watching for any movement in the sliver of street visible ahead.
He started to bleed again and felt the blood run over his stomach and into his groin, snaking down his naked thighs. He welcomed the warmth, but knew that he had to get inside and get dry. Against the side wall lay a wood splitting axe. To him, it looked like a crutch. His fingers closed around the handle and he willed them to curl.
The eerie sound of distant sirens hung in the air, not growing closer nor fading away. He shuffled cautiously down the path and paused at the corner of the house, peering into the street beyond. Nothing moved. A lonely police cruiser, its lights flashing silently, stood with its doors open on a neighbour’s lawn. There were no signs of the officers. Most of the cars were gone from the driveways, and the houses to which they belonged all looked deserted. He was tempted to call out for help but stopped before he made a sound. He looked both ways, but nothing moved. Even the trees hovered still, as if scared to move. Most doors were open and some windows were smashed. Pieces of wood and glass were strewn haphazardly over the grass and curbs, telling of a struggle. Aaro swallowed hard. The terror started to take root. His breathing shallowed, his heart began to pump harder, and his knuckles turned white around the axe handle.
He’d thought at first he’d just been unlucky but it seemed that the whole street had been attacked. How long had he been out? And how many were dead? He could see no bodies.
He fought to drag his eyes away from the carnage and found himself on his front step. He shivered, nude and bloody, and ran his free hand up the frame. His fingers played across the deep gouges in the jamb. Claw marks. The sounds and smell of him and Emilie... Or the scent of a sleeping baby, vulnerable and unprotected… Whichever it was, it had enticed this monster to his door and beckoned it in. Aaro stepped through the frame past the cracked door and his feet squelched in the sodden carpet. He winced at the sound and froze, his mind turning.
What if it’s still here? He’d grabbed the axe as a crutch but now raised it. His arms shook. Nothing moved and there was no sound. He scarcely breathed at all as he moved forward, fixed on the stairs. Snags and tears in the carpet led up to the landing. He hated himself for not having heard it. He followed the tracks, his breath misting before his eyes in the cold after-storm air.
He paused at the crest and stifled a whimper. Lila’s door hung limply off one hinge, broken and spattered with arterial spray. The carpets were soaked red, painted with ragged pawprints. The lump in his throat threatened to stop him breathing altogether as he passed, not daring to look in her room. He blinked and his eyes sheened. He felt a tear hit his filthy foot but couldn’t wrestle his gaze from his and Emilie’s bedroom door. The panel was all smashed in, the hole at least forty centimetres in diameter. It’d been caused by the creature’s skull. He touched the head of the axe to it and pushed. It swung quietly inwards on the well-oiled hinges and he let out a sickening gasp, biting down into it as it passed his lips.
It was still here.
FIVE
PLAYING GOD
2061 AD
The vein in his temple throbbed gently against the cool metal of the table. He watched through half open eyes as lazy curls of blue smoke wound up from the stubs in the ashtray on his desk.
Florian Gertlinger picked his head up slowly, reaching for his cigarettes. He made sure not to look at the screen while he did so. He hadn’t moved from this spot for months. Or at least that’s how it felt. Such an ambitious gene splicing project had never been undertaken and he’d been running simulations nonstop, all to no avail. The machine would crunch numbers for a few hours and then it would beep intrusively, as it was doing right now, to signify it was done. There were two possible outcomes. It would either be a screen displaying a green banner and the word ‘Viable’. Or for the thousandth time, ‘Failed’. He couldn’t face it again, not without a cigarette in his mouth at least. He fumbled with his lighter and pulled a deep lungful of smoke. He rubbed his head and stole a glance.
He paused, the smoke circling his fingers.
He blinked to make sure it wasn’t his weary brain playing tricks on him. The screen was green. ‘Viable’.
If he were a better man, he might have yelled Eureka, but being the one he was, he instead said three different ones. ‘Well. Fuck me.’
The notion was preposterous from the get-go. He was in a state of utter disbelief. Wildebeest and crocodile had been musings to him and, after extensive research and testing, he found that the most effective mix would be Canis lupus and Varanus salvadorii.
The grey wolf and the Salvadori’s monitor. The grey wolf’s survival instinct, pack mentality and endurance, mixed with the hardiness, intelligence and evolutionary traits of the monitor made — in theory — for one phenomenal creature, one perfect for the task at hand. That’s what he was simulating. The splicing of genes to see whether the preposterous really could become reality. And now it was. The eighteen months that had passed since the moment he’d walked into McPherson’s office were now suddenly well spent.
He checked his watch. One thirty-two in the morning. The lab was empty. He’d been here after hours most nights. Alone and isolated was when he did his best work, when his mind could venture into the realms too dark and terrifying to broach while in the company of others.
He still hadn’t moved. He was staring at the black screen, backfilled with genetic code and binary, displaying that glorious green banner and the single word he’d been lusting after.
Viable.
He scoffed, kicked back from the desk and dropped his cigarette. It bounced on the tiled floor and he cursed, picking it up. He sucked another lungful and spun on the wheeled chair towards the phone on the opposite counter. The small office was well ventilated so that he could smoke in peace. It was one of the conditions of his employment upon which he’d insisted. He tore the phone from the unit and threw it against his shoulder, pinning it to his ear. He jabbed the intercom button and it connected immediately to someone in the ether. A bright voice echoed back. ‘Hello?’
‘This is Gertlinger. I need McPherson on the line, now.’
‘Sorry, Doctor, it’s after one in the morning. I can’t connect you at this time,’ the guy said calmly.
‘Listen, I can tell the fucking time! You think I’d call if it wasn’t important?’ Gertlinger snapped, the computer still beeping proudly behind him.
‘What’s the issue? I’d be happy to forward a memo to be picked up first thing,’ said the anonymous voice. Gertlinger was disappointed it was anonymous otherwise he’d break a bell jar over this nimrod’s head the first chance he got.
‘I don’t want to forward a memo, I want you to patch me through right fucking now. I need him now.’
‘Is it an emergency?’
'Is it an emergency? No, the lab’s not gone up in flames if that’s what you mean, but this is something he’d very much like to know, regardless of the hour,’ Gertlinger cooed condescendingly.
‘I’m under strict orders to—’ started the voice again.
‘You know what, don’t call him then, see if I care. But I do want you to forward a message. It’s only two words. You think you can remember them or do you need to get a pen and paper?’ he asked in the same cool tone.
‘What’s the message?’ the voice sighed.
‘It’s viable,’ Gertlinger said curtly.
There was silence. The man cleared his throat and then sucked in a breath. ‘Give me a second. I’ll try to raise him on the other line. Hold on,’ he said, hurried suddenl
y.
Gertlinger hit the speaker button and twirled on his chair, letting the success wash over him. He broke into a grin and took another drag on his cigarette.
SIX
THE VEIL
2122 AD
Sore knees became a daily gripe living on the thirty-third floor. The sun was up by the time his feet hit the ground. Walking into the war zone that was Oslo, the streets were filled with vagrants and homeless, beggars and thieves, squatters and scroungers. Every house built for four was housing twelve and every office block was an aid centre or refugee camp. The population continued to grow with more survivors arriving even now, making the perilous pilgrimage from other walled settlements as they fell, one by one. And the ones who were there already seemed to be copulating furiously for lack of anything else to do. The smaller cities had been gradually weakening and dying off. Either from lack of food, rising crime levels, political coos or attacks from them. Whatever it was, people were running from there and coming here. Most died en route. But some made it. Barely.
Aaro walked the streets towards the plant, an obelisk on the harbour, a melting pot of hydroelectric and fossil fuel. He worked there for credits. The use of currency was suspended by the city council four years ago. The rising crime rates and population meant that muggings and thievery were becoming endemic. Now, everyone had to have a barcode lasered onto their palm with an account on the central city servers. Log work hours and credits are added to your account. You want to buy something, you put your hand in a scanner, and your credit goes down. That simple.
Now people traded in commodities instead. Food, drugs, women and, of course, coded hands. Severed and fresh, preferably. Anything worth anything that’s in short supply elsewhere. A cat for a chicken. Two chickens for a duck. Four ducks for a goat. Three goats for a pig. Four pigs for a cow. Five cows for a woman. Six for a decent one.
The Veil Page 3
