Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) (37 page)

Behind the five dozen mourners lay the remains of the uninhabited parts of the city, its crumbling walls made only greyer by the sombre procession. Two dark slabs of rock had been carved into an approximation of the surrounding ancient stones, courtesy of Robert’s hard labour.

Upon the first was carved ‘Rayford Hubble—Loved Son and Husband—2004-2048’, before which crouched Ray’s wife and father, who both bawled without reserve. Several others wept with them, while many more stood close by, tight-lipped, heads bowed.

The other stone simply read ‘Friend’, a title decided on after much deliberation, marking the grave of the old Irishman.

Norman stood at the rear of the congregation, leaning on his cane at the summit of a slight rise. From his position, he could see over the heads of the others.

Norman hadn’t known Ray well—had only talked to him on a few occasions, and known his family even less—but the heaving shoulders of his prostrate father made his gut shrivel.

He started when a sniffle sounded beside him. He looked down into Allison’s tear-stained face and felt a distant flutter stir in his gut, one of many he’d felt when close to her lately. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she gripped it, giving a strained smile.

Alexander stood with Agatha, Sarah and Robert a short distance away, silent and bowed. Agatha appeared to be muttering a silent prayer. Opposite them, on the other side of the congregation, stood Richard and John. Lucian stood behind them, his face pallid and tense. His hands were bunched into tight fists, such that the knuckles had been stretched until pure white. The crevasse between his brows had furrowed into a perfect V shape, and his eyes almost seemed to be shaking in their sockets.

Norman kept his head angled towards the graves, but kept watch in his peripheral vision. Lucian’s face seemed to grow redder by the second, his jaw drawing closer and closer to his skull, until Norman was sure he must have been crushing his own teeth.

He sighed, focusing on the graves.

Alexander had stepped forwards, standing between the two gravestones, facing the crowd. He began a slow and careful speech, monotonous but sincere. Yet he seemed distracted, glancing frequently towards a small flock of pigeons perched atop a few nearby gravestones.

Ray’s wife continued to sob, and many eyes traced the wilted lawn. Norman managed to discern a few words of the speech, each of which hinted at a fond farewell to both men. Half-listening, he swept a look around at them all once more.

He jerked. Lucian was gone. Sudden panic reared up as he looked wildly about, scouring the surrounding area.

But Lucian was no longer a member of the crowd. He’d simply vanished. Nobody else seemed to have registered movement. The crowd’s unanimous attention was being devoted to Alex.

He cursed, turning full circle, scanning the distant buildings, looking for a silhouette, but nearby grass swayed gently, giving no indication of having been disturbed.

He grunted when he eventually spotted him trudging his way along a narrow gravel path, running along the edge of a group of crumbling cottages. He was moving fast, low, light on his feet. A definite sense of purpose hung about him.

Norman felt a deep and genuine fear spread in his bowels. He backed away from Allie one inch at a time, rubbing his chest, feigning a spell of pain. She didn’t appear to notice his muttered complaints.

As soon as he had slipped away, he strode after Lucian.

The pain was almost unbearable. Within moments his chest was heaving and his legs screaming. Lucian was at least a hundred metres ahead of him, and continued to accelerate away. Norman was powerless to stop him. Tears were forming in the corners of his eyes as he tried desperately to keep pace, and razor-sharp bursts of air lashed against his lungs.

The funeral was behind him now, and Alex’s voice was nothing but a dim echo. Norman tried to call out, but Lucian had by now cleared the farthest of the outlying buildings. He’d hoped that there would have been somebody else around to signal to, but the streets were empty. Everybody was either at the funeral or had retreated inside to sleep off the day’s work.

Ahead, Lucian disappeared from sight, entering the clinic.

Norman was by now seeing spots. The pain in his chest was so severe that he’d half-forgotten why he was moving in the first place. He was nearing the cottages, but a thick span of mud lay directly underfoot, adhering to the tip of his cane and further hindering his progress.

Lucian had been out of sight for over a minute before he could clear the field and make his way onto tarmac. He began to dread reaching the clinic, afraid of what he might find. He fought a bout of nausea, both the sound of his heavy breathing and the roar of the blood in his ears turning his stomach. He stopped in his tracks when Lucian stepped back into the street.

He stood stiffly, his mouth stretched into a tight line.

“What have you done?” Norman wheezed, his heart racing.

Lucian didn’t respond, nor did he even acknowledge Norman’s presence. He about-faced, and the dark nose of an ancient service revolver glinted in the light.

Norman took a step back as a scream of fury rang out from within the clinic. “What do you think you’re doing?” Heather roared.

Lucian waved the revolver. “Stay where you are,” he called in reply. Then his voice changed and became quieter, addressing someone closer, “Get out here.”

There was a shuffling, coupled with a shuddering moan. Several seconds passed before a figure appeared in the doorway, stooped and snivelling. Charlie stepped into the light, dragging his broken leg. Most of his smaller wounds were still inflamed beneath Heather’s stitching. Tears ran down his face as he stepped forwards, his hands clasped before him. “Please,” he whimpered. “Please don’t. I’ll do anything, I swear.”

Lucian didn’t respond, instead only waving the revolver, signalling for him to keep moving.

At first Charlie froze, his eyes wild and his mouth drawn into a gape of silent terror. So focused was he on Lucian that he’d entirely missed Norman. “Please,” he said. “You said you would help me.”

Lucian shook his head. “I promised you nothing.”

Charlie uttered a high-pitched, childlike cry as he stumbled out into the street, his chest heaving. Norman could see his eyes darting in their sockets as he hyperventilated. “I haven’t done anything,” he whispered.

Lucian put the barrel of the revolver to the back of his head, pushing him farther into the street. “You think that matters?” he said, a grimace appearing on his lips. “You think you can just sign up with whoever takes your fancy? That you can kill one of us and not pay the price?”

Charlie whimpered. “I didn’t mean any harm. I just wanted to find my dad.”

Lucian frog-marched Charlie away from the clinic. With the revolver coupling them together, an odd, slow dance played out in the street as they advanced. Charlie was dragging himself forwards, having adopted a pathetic, hopping gait.

Norman gave chase as fast as his broken body would allow, but to what end he was unsure. Lucian was armed, and on the brink of murder; any attempt at negotiation could very well provoke the act all the sooner. He could only follow and look on, aghast.

Lucian led the boy off Main Street and any semblance of safety, into the quiet parts of the city. Charlie’s pleas became ever more desperate, until his mouth worked fruitlessly and only strangled groans worked their way past his lips.

The buildings became more dilapidated with each passing second. Walls of untouched white stone soon became splashed with ancient graffiti.

The trio waddled forth until they reached a place devoid of all activity. Weeds grew thick here, bursting through the tarmac, reaching for the light. The wind was dead, blocked by tall buildings and a narrow street. Every shuffle and footfall was amplified in the unstable silence, intermittently interrupted by Charlie’s shuddering cries.

Lucian prodded Charlie’s neck. “Stop.”

With visible reluctance, Charlie complied. He no longer spoke. His arms had fallen to his sides, his hands bunched into sweaty fists.

Norman paused a short distance behind them, his mind racing. The notion of rushing Lucian in his weakened state was absurd, and yet it remained in his mind’s eye, plaguing him. He was helpless to do a single thing.

“Get down on your knees.”

Charlie drew himself up to his full height, for a brief moment topping Lucian’s stature. “I will not,” he said. His voice wavered, but was laced with defiance.

Lucian pushed the revolver hard against the base of his skull, forcing a groan of pain from his lips. “I said,” he spat, “kneel.”

Charlie appeared to burst, or break—Norman couldn’t tell which. His arms took flight as he fell onto one knee, moving awkwardly around his broken limb, yelling in a broken squeal, “You’re going to kill me? Shoot me right here like an animal?”

Lucian raised his thumb to the revolver’s hammer, pulling it back with sinister sluggishness. He was panting, and his hand was shaking. “That’s right.”

Charlie gave a burst of laughter, full-throated and hysterical. “Just like you did to my dad? You’re a murderer.
Spineless
. What have I done that you haven’t? All I’ve done is what I’ve needed to do to survive. Can you say the same?”

Lucian fumed, and with a swipe of his arm struck him across the back of the head. The wound drew blood and sent Charlie sprawling, but he surged back to his knelt position with shocking resilience.

“You’re one of them,” Lucian said. “You killed Ray. That defenceless old man. Attacked my friend and left him half-dead. Innocent people. Good people. Why do you deserve to live?”

Charlie growled, a deep and hateful sound. “And you?” he said. “You hunted down and slaughtered two men. You gave them no quarter.”

“At the camp? It was self-defence. They would have killed Norman and Richard.”

Charlie turned his head fractionally. “Would they?” he said, his voice lower, almost inquisitive.

Lucian recoiled for a moment, and the revolver dropped somewhat. His hands shook so much that he required the strength of both to keep the barrel steady. “You can’t live,” he said, his eyes wild. “You’re one of them.”

Norman remained completely still. His eyes darted between them, as though the scene was a deadly tennis match.

“I just wanted to find him,” Charlie said, his arms dropping to his sides. His body seemed to deflate, as though he’d now accepted impending doom.

Lucian’s hand stopped shaking. His knuckles became bone-white, and the face of the Reaper overtook his features. His index finger squeezed the trigger. “Goodbye,” he said.

Norman rushed forwards, pain exploding in his chest as Charlie leapt to his feet, screaming for his life.

For the briefest of moments, time itself appeared to undulate, to flow and whorl like churning floodwaters. Norman felt his voice build deep in his throat over what felt like years, but must have only been microseconds. He had time to watch Charlie launch into the air with his mouth open in a piercing yell, time to watch the revolver’s trigger slam against the cartridge.

Then, in a blurred flurry of motion, time snapped back into place:

“NO!” Charlie howled.

“Lucian, don’t!”

Click.

…

Norman blinked.

His mind was blank. His eyes surely fooled him, for Charlie’s head remained intact.

Lucian lowered the revolver to his side, his eyes calm and dim. The revolver’s barrel was free of smoke.

Charlie was absolutely still. He remained so for several moments before lowering his arms. However, he didn’t dare turn around. “What…?” he managed.

Lucian took a step forwards and leaned close. “Close your eyes and walk a thousand steps, and then you can open them again. I’ll be watching.”

“What?”

“Go. Get out of here. Never come back.”

Charlie remained frozen, his mouth working. “But…you…,” he gasped. “You’re not going to kill me?”

Lucian stepped away. “Go.”

Charlie remained for a moment more before turning his head. His eyes softened as he finally met Norman’s gaze. He looked from his face to his wobbling cane, and his mouth formed a thin white line.

He nodded, and then closed his eyes.

Norman ambled towards Lucian as the young man began his solitary journey down the street, towards the horizon. Together, they stood for a long time, watching as Charlie hobbled away in silence, until his body was no more than a distant speck.

“The gun wasn’t loaded, was it?” Norman said after a while, not looking away.

Lucian glanced at the revolver in his hand. “I couldn’t. I just wanted him gone.”

“Then why the theatrics?”

Lucian glanced at him. His eyes were bloodshot. “In the end, we all have to pay for our mistakes. All of us.” He lowered his head and muttered, almost to himself, “In the end…”

Norman nodded slowly.

Would he ever know what that meant?

Maybe. But something told him that this was only the first thread of a vast web of secrets, one so tangled that he might never reach its end.

They watched until Charlie was gone from sight. “You know that he’s probably going to be picked up again?” Norman said.

Lucian nodded. “I know.”