The Fall of Deadworld Omnibus

by Matthew Smith

  Like I said, I thought we were safe, which is a relative term these days, I know. We were safe if we played it careful. We—under Kez’s admittedly wise if authoritarian direction—did nothing to draw attention to ourselves, used our common sense when it came to scouting, or foraging for supplies. There’s nothing to prevent against plain bad luck but plenty you can do to ensure you don’t make your own problems, and we were all about that from the start. Rule number one was don’t give anything away. The farm was nondescript from the air, all signs of life carefully camouflaged, and deep below the ground, in the storm cellar, we carved out a frugal existence. The two RVs in the lean-to were draped in tarpaulins, next to a pile of discarded tractor parts. We did everything within our means to disappear from their radar. We were as safe as anyone could possibly be in the circumstances. Maybe we were kidding ourselves, and were just delaying the inevitable, but I thought—despite my moans and discomforts—we had a pretty robust system. It had been days since we’d last seen an H-wagon go overhead, and presumed that this area had been written off as uninhabited. No one was relaxed—we were all very much aware of becoming complacent—but we figured if we kept this up, then we had a good chance of staying off the grid.

  We were wrong. I guess no set-up will withstand an enemy utterly committed to hunting you out, whose entire raison d’etre is to find and eliminate you. They will not give up, and even the strongest wall will crumple if battered enough times. There’s always a weak spot, a crack, a thread to be unravelled.

  Emily was ours. Kez had seen it, and knew something had to be done sooner or later for the sanctity of the group. Like I said before, everyone knew it even if they didn’t like to admit it—yeah, including me—but reasoned that we still had enough humanity not to brook the idea of taking decisive action. That was our folly, and our safety—despite all our due care and attention—was fatally compromised.

  The beginning. Put it down. Confront it.

  It started on the night of the twenty-first. It was late, deep in the early hours of the morning (or that’s what it felt like). Something roused me, and I’m still not sure if it was a sound or some part of my hind brain sending me a warning signal that I should awake. I just remember opening my eyes to the purple shadows of the basement, and unease was my first sensation. Then I became aware of movement and voices, and panic gave me that kickstart into full consciousness.

  I stumbled to my feet, at the same time snatching up the torch that I kept next to my mattress, and flipping it on. The first thing that struck me was that there were several empty beds, the covers slung back and discarded. How long had people been up? If there was a crisis, how come I hadn’t been awoken at the same time? As it turned out, only minutes had passed in the interim, but at the time I was stuck by an inescapable fear of being abandoned. I deduced the source of the consternation was coming from upstairs and followed, beam swinging this way and that in the darkness, and caught a couple of dazed-looking faces—the young Mellius sisters only just emerging from sleep too, squinting perplexedly at the light. I didn’t stop but climbed the wooden steps at speed, the trapdoor wide open, sounds growing louder. That was when I first heard Emily’s name being called.

  Out of the basement and into the kitchen, which had long since been stripped of anything useful. Up-top was generally more of a dispiriting sight than the underground dorm we called home, the few remnants of what was—an old calendar tacked to the wall with birthdays written in biro, a broken eggcup sitting on a windowsill—a sharp reminder of what had been lost, and I for one no longer cared to linger within the rooms of the farmhouse. You felt like a ghost moving through the burned-out shell of someone else’s memories. The torch played over the walls and windows—it was pitch-black outside—as I crossed to the back door, where four or five figures were standing just on the edge of the threshold, seemingly unwilling to go much further. I squeezed past and joined them.

  “What’s going on?” I said to the person next to me, who turned out to be Riggs, whom I’ve never especially warmed to. Weaselly guy only interested in his own survival, and always the first to bitch about not getting his fair share.

  “It’s Emily,” he replied. “She’s out there, on the boundary wall. She won’t move, just staring up at the sky.”

  “Why? What’s she want?”

  “Christ knows. I think she’s finally cracked.”

  “Well, why doesn’t anyone bring her in—”

  “She’s got Bren.”

  I played the beam out across the courtyard, and in the stark spotlight I caught the both of them perched on the brick wall—not high, only four feet at most—that separated the house from the fields on the other side. Emily’s face was turned upwards like she wanted to bathe her skin in the moonlight, though there was no moon visible, and her features were composed, serene; what made my bowels turn to water was that she had her arm around Bren’s neck. It could’ve been construed as a motherly protective hug, but the fright in his eyes suggested he most certainly didn’t want to be there. She was gripping him tightly, her bicep under his chin, refusing to allow him to wrest himself free. If she squeezed further, he’d struggle to breathe.

  I realised that there was someone standing slightly ahead of the pack, looking like they were trying to inch forward in Emily’s direction, and I didn’t need my torch to confirm that it was Kez. In fact, in that moment she seemed to become aware that I was there and glanced over her shoulder and hissed at me to switch it off. I did so, reducing us all to silhouettes on a dark grey background.

  “Emily, please,” Kez whispered. “It’s not safe out here, not for any of us. The longer we’re in the open, the greater the chance we’re spotted. Please come inside. You don’t want to hurt Bren, do you? ’Cause you’re scaring him right now.”

  Emily appeared not to hear the words, her head slightly motioning from side to side as if she were listening to music from somewhere. Her son’s attention was on us, however, his panicky gaze never leaving our direction. Fear seemed to have silenced him. Kez chanced another couple of steps forward like she was playing a high-stakes version of a school playground game, but I didn’t know what she intended to do should she get within reach of them.

  “Emily said anything?” I murmured to Riggs.

  “Nothing. First we know about it is when we heard the trapdoor opening, then by the time we get out here, she’s already got Bren on the wall.”

  “Maybe she’s sleepwalking.”

  “More likely having a psychotic episode.” He looked up at the sky himself. “She’s putting us all at risk. All it needs is one fly-by with their infrared scanners working and that’s us screwed. Kez manages to get her inside, she’s done—the kid might be able to stay, but she’s gone.”

  “We can’t abandon her—”

  “The hell we can’t,” another chipped in to my left. It was Lionel, a sixty-year-old prissy, NIMBY type, who’d lost his partner in the floods before he’d stumbled upon the farmhouse. He had an unctuous air about him, and did everything Kez said without question. “Our lives are on the line because of that maniac. She has to go—she’s gone full-blown whacko now.”

  “She’s traumatised!” I snapped. “Show some freakin’ compassion—”

  “This isn’t your decision to make, Mish,” Riggs said. “Adults get to choose what’s right for the group.”

  I was about to round on him and unleash what I thought of the adults in our particular community when Kez started imploring to Emily again. I’d never heard her so empathic; she sure could turn it on when she needed to. But it made no difference; the woman’s mind was clearly in a different space and unaware of what was going on around her. The way she kept tilting her head to the heavens suggested she was receiving a message, as if listening to instructions or directions. And the way she was holding Bren… I became scared she was taking him somewhere, under orders from a voice that resounded only in her ears.

  Maybe it was a waking dream, I mused, and she was far from logic or ration
al thought. She was trapped inside something that right now only made sense to her—in which case she needed to be stopped before she hurt herself or her son. But someone needed to act before it was too late.

  I glanced at Kez, who was still trying to reach out, one eye scanning the horizon for any telltale lights. The others were nervously retreating, already uneasy about having spent so long outside without cover. None of them could be trusted not to suddenly shut and barricade the door behind us. In that second, I ran at Emily.

  I heard Kez hiss a warning, but there was no tug on my arm to hold me back (I suspect I moved too fast for her to respond) and I launched myself in the woman’s direction. The transformation was chillingly abrupt—Emily’s space-cadet demeanour vanished in an instant and her eyes locked onto mine. Bren shook his head, his own expression pleading—“No, Mama,” he cried, straining as hard he could to wrest himself free, “No, Mama, please, no”—before his mother tightened her arm around his neck and yanked his head to one side in one swift motion.

  The snap of his young neck breaking still echoes inside my skull. The loudness of it. The shock. In the space of a moment I flashed back to that night when we all ran, the retort of the guns behind us, and then Joel falling beside me, and I looked back and the blood haloed his head where the skull had blown apart, and only the night before I’d been twirling my fingers through his hair as we’d watched TV together on the sofa in his apartment, his right cheek on my lap, legs stretched out on the cushions, when everything felt comfortable and secure and you didn’t want to be anywhere else at that point but now… now it was gone, ripped from you with the finality of a door slamming shut on all the goodness in your life. A bang. A crack. The world splits open and everything you cherished is gone in a heartbeat.

  I think I screamed, partly in rage, partly in fright—maybe in frustration too that I didn’t get to him in time. It was purely instinctual, an animal howl of grief. Bren dropped to the ground just as I launched myself at Emily, and she made no attempt to defend herself when I clattered into her, throwing her off the wall. We landed in a heap on the other side, me on top, grabbing her by her jacket lapels and yanking her towards me, eyesight blurry from the tears, bawling in her face, asking her if she knew what she had done, what she’d just destroyed. Her own eyes were rolled back in their sockets, whites only visible between the lids, and she flopped back and forth in my hands like all the energy had deserted her. I got tired of shaking her and let her fall to the earth. A small smile creased her lips and the words “It ends” emerged from her throat like an exhalation. It didn’t sound like Emily’s voice; there was a dry, rustling quality to it, far beyond her years. It was ancient, bereft of life and humanity.

  I stumbled to my feet and backed away from her, fear clawing at me. Then I heard Kez’s shout. I turned and saw her pointing at the sky. I followed her gaze and there in the darkness were twin pinpoints of light rapidly growing bigger as they approached, a rumble filling the sky where once there’d been silence.

  They’d found us.

  A cry of panic ran through those still congregating at the doorway and they collided with each other in their haste to scurry back inside the house. Kez yelled at them to stop, that it was no longer safe, but her voice was being drowned out by the H-Wagon’s lifters as it descended towards us, and the others were too scared to pay attention in any case, vanishing across the threshold in the vain hope that they hadn’t been spotted. But the Judges knew we were here; that’s what the whole pantomime with Emily had been in aid of. She’d been a beacon for them, or some kind of transmitter they could home in on. They’d been following her signal, one they’d probably caused her to broadcast. Our weak link—the one I really didn’t want Kez to exile from the group despite the security risk she posed—would prove to be our undoing.

  Her back towards me, our leader’s shoulders slumped as she realised she wasn’t getting through to them. Then she evidently noticed I was still there, and regained some of her composure.

  “We have to leave,” Kez snapped at me. “They know about this place—cowering in the basement and hope they don’t find us any more isn’t an option any more.” She nodded in the direction of the farmhouse. “We have to convince the others to go.”

  “Go where?” I asked.

  “Anywhere. If we stay, we die.” She started to jog towards the doorway, and motioned at the same time to the RVs parked under the lean-to. “You know how to drive one of those, right? The old boy taught you.”

  “Yeah, but I’m still a beginner—”

  “Doesn’t matter. Right now that’s our only way out.” The wind began to pick up as the craft drew closer, violently whipping our hair about our faces. Kez looked back over her shoulder at it, a slab of shadow falling towards us. “Get it started. You know where the keys are?”

  “In the RV’s glovebox.”

  “Good. I’m gonna evacuate as many as I can. We got maybe a couple of minutes’ grace before that thing lands.”

  “Jesus,” I breathed. “All our stuff… There’re kids down there too. Can we get them all out in time?”

  She didn’t answer, vanishing into the house at speed. I ran towards the vehicles, heart pounding, legs trembling. One of the RVs was more prone to stalling than the other—an older model scarred with rust that the Mellius family had arrived in, trailing exhaust smoke—and nowhere near as user-friendly as the one Mr Graham had taught me in, so I avoided that and went straight for what I knew. Just as I tugged off the tarpaulin I heard a skin-crawling caterwaul above the rumble of the H-Wagon’s engines, and saw Emily crawling on hands and knees towards the body of her son. Lucidity had returned, and with it the awful realisation of what had happened. Did she know she was responsible? It was impossible to tell. I was convinced she hadn’t been in control of her actions—that it was them, remote-controlling her—but she wouldn’t understand that. Her keening as she pulled his thin frame to her lap was heartbreaking. Everything she’d done over the weeks since the Fall had been to keep him safe, and now she was the architect of her own failure.

  As the H-Wagon landed in the field beyond, I leapt into the RV driver’s seat, grabbing the keys and inserting them into the ignition. It took a couple of cranks, but the engine roared into life. I wrenched it into gear, stomped on the accelerator, and the RV lurched forward, scraping the bodywork of the other one as I struggled to get to grips with the steering. The back fishtailed and smacked the perimeter wall, but I kept it going.

  Figures emerged from the Judge ship and headed in our direction. I braked and leaned out of the window, trying to warn Emily. She gave no indication she heard me, or was aware of the impending danger. I punched the horn, and the blare was enough to make her look up and around, her cheeks wet with tears. The greys—there were four of them, advancing in a line—were holding weapons of some kind, attached to tanks on their backs.

  Flamethrowers, I realised at the very moment they let rip.

  A blossom of orange flame erupted from the nozzles and Emily and Bren disappeared in the fiery blast. When the Judges pulled their fingers from the triggers, mother and son were nothing more than a dark centre in the midst of the roiling flames that lit up the night and sent flickering shadows across the courtyard. I squeezed the steering wheel in terror as the four uniforms walked past the burning bodies without a backward glance and came nearer.

  At that moment, Kez came barrelling out of the doorway, shepherding half a dozen of our group, revolver in hand. She shot a grey as it brought its weapon to bear—the bullet passed through its midriff, causing it little concern—then bellowed at everyone to get on the RV. The people, some clutching holdalls but most empty-handed, tore towards the open door of the vehicle, and needed no further encouragement to climb aboard. Danny Mellius hesitated, and glanced across at his own motorhome. His wife, Katherine, tugged at him.

  “There’s not going to be enough room for everyone!” he shouted. “We need ours too!”

  “There’s no time,” she pleaded. />
  “Get the girls on. I’ll be right behind you.” He headed off towards the remaining vehicle.

  Kez pushed everyone onto the RV as another lance of flame shot past. “Is there anyone still left in the house?” I yelled as they tumbled past into the main living area, where once I too had thrown myself to escape the purge, saved by Mr Graham. “Kez!” I repeated when I got no reply. “Are you sure we haven’t left anyone behind?”

  “I rounded up all I could,” she muttered, looking shellshocked.

  Before I could stop myself, I jumped down and ran into the house, my brain screaming at me to get out, but I knew in all conscience I couldn’t have handled the guilt if we’d abandoned anyone. I fell down the steps into the cellar, calling all the way, but receiving no reply. It looked deserted, though there was clothing and possessions strewn everywhere. That’s when I saw you, dear diary, and I snatched you up and held you to my chest, beating a swift retreat. Was it you I was after all along, and couldn’t admit it to myself? Couldn’t I bear to lose my confidant?

  Smoke was billowing into the kitchen as I fled, and I had to shoulder-barge a grey out of the way, who was standing by the doorway and unleashing his flamethrower at the house. The wooden frames were quickly catching and spreading across the façade. I slalomed between another two jays, who staggered back as Kez fired again from the door of the RV, and she pulled me in the driver’s seat. The vehicle shuddered forward as I stepped on the gas and we bumped our way out of the gate and onto the road that led to the highway beyond.

  I looked in the mirror and saw Danny Mellius’s motorhome emerge from the lean-to. It started to pick up speed, then the gears crunched and the engine died. Katherine screamed her husband’s name. The greys doused the stationary vehicle in fire, and the instant the tank caught, it blew out, an ear-splitting detonation of glass and metal.

  I put my foot to the floor and accelerated away from the inferno in my mirror, eyes staring straight ahead, not daring to look at the faces of the traumatised survivors beside me. I drove like that for a long time, my mind blank.