Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) (6 page)

Alex was quiet. They skirted the edge of the river and headed towards the illuminated portion of the city. Voices calling from near the cathedral were now reaching their ears, bouncing off ancient slate chimneys and reverberating along the intervening cobbled alleyways.

When he glanced at her once more, he saw that her embarrassment had been replaced by a dazed frown. “There were so many,” she said thickly.

“We’re not going back, not there,” Norman said. “We’ll go somewhere else. If we take anything more from the coast then we’ll be killing them.”

Alex shook his head. “It’s too late to worry about that.”

A strained silence followed, but Alex made a point to keep his steady pace. The feather in his hand kept him moving, even as they passed beneath the first of the illuminated streetlights.

“We saw a lot of people today,” Lucian said.

Alex cleared his throat. “How did they look?”

“Skin and bones.”

They rode along in silence for a moment. They were now only a hundred metres away from the row of restored buildings that the people of New Canterbury had come to know as Main Street.

“We shouldn’t go back,” Norman said.

Alex sensed the tension in his voice. By the sound of it, they’d had a rough time in Margate. He decided to offer no resistance this time. If things were about to take a turn for the worse, he needed to keep Norman on his good side. “Alright, not yet,” he conceded. “But soon we’ll have to.”

There was more to say, more to argue over and report, but none of the three men said a single word further—not in Allison’s presence. He might not have known her name, but people had pointed her out to Alex before; it was common knowledge that the art of subtlety was as alien to her as the greater good. As it was, the least that they could expect was for the story of the encounter with the coast’s natives to be distributed overnight, as if by some infectious magic, to all ears within the city. The last thing they needed was gossip diluted by the hundred reiterations that would occur along such a chain of whispers.

And so their conversation petered out as quickly as it had begun. They each withdrew into their respective thoughts, their shadowed faces sheer white and bowed against the harsh glow of spluttering streetlights.

Norman was disturbed.

Guards—ghostly sentinels, hidden amidst shadow in the alleys overhead—were now appearing as they crossed the perimeter of Main Street. The detail, usually composed of one or two crack snipers, had swelled to a party of over a dozen. Norman had lived in the city for a long time, and not once had there been the need for such a heavy overnight guard.

Nevertheless, there they were, perched on roofs and balconies like fleshy gargoyles. To the casual eye they would have appeared to be no more than insomniacs staring out at the night. But from their stances and rigid orientation, spaced in a strategic barrier along the pool of light thrown down by the streetlights, Norman could spot them.

This was no doubt Alexander’s doing. Norman almost spoke of it, but then laid eyes on Allison, still haughty and quiet beside him, and the words died in his throat.

It was rarely loud, even here, and at night it was often just as quiet as the surrounding dead city. The sound of the horses’ hooves was accompanied only by the chatter of the few who remained in the street, standing outside what had once been a storage facility.

They used it as a town hall and kitchen of sorts.

As the gathering turned towards the returnees, familiar faces began to appear. The gaggle of night owls was gathered close to the main body of occupied housing, farther towards the cathedral.

A communal meal was afoot for those who had been lumbered with the night shift. Norman caught the deep, gamey aroma of roasted chicken and the tangy flair of stewed fruit.

To smell such luxury after only days of rotten soup flooded his mouth with saliva, and his mind with feelings of extreme guilt. To indulge in such things when thousands were dying of starvation beyond their walls seemed almost absurd, even callous.

Their arrival was heralded with great enthusiasm. Cries of welcome rang out in the night. Despite himself, Norman smiled.

Allison, the most sociable, leapt to the ground and was immediately immersed in conversation, disappearing into the crowd without a moment’s hesitation.

Alexander was also subsumed into their midst, beset by curious onlookers, but he merely spread his hands until they parted, wielding their attention with practised ease. He answered a few questions, smiled a few smiles, and then proceeded without further impediment. Norman watched with jealous awe. In similar situations, he was usually apprehended for what seemed like hours, tongue-tied and aghast.

As they reached the storeroom, Lucian jumped down from his mount and began transferring the bags of food and supplies from its saddle with the help of Robert Strong, whose coal-black skin and navy engineer’s jumpsuit had blended seamlessly with the shadows until he’d moved. Now in motion, however, he couldn’t be missed. He towered at least a foot above everybody else, built like a tank.

“I'll take these over to Heather,” Robert said, hefting their small packet of liberated medical supplies. “She’ll need them. Bumps and scrapes are getting infected left, right and centre. She says it’s our immune systems, shot because of the crappy diet, but I don’t know…”

He disappeared into the darkness, hurrying in the direction of the clinic.

“You’re coming in, aren’t you, Lucian?” Allie asked.

“In a moment,” he said. He clearly had no intention of joining the gaggle of chattering well-wishers, and continued his task of moving the remaining food with his head down, brow furrowed.

Unsociable to the bitter end,
Norman thought. He considered helping to unload the mount, but another look at Lucian’s ugly grimace convinced him to pass on by. He was left looking down at the welcoming party, and realised that he wanted no more part of it than Lucian. He could sense their eyes upon him, silently expectant. They were waiting for him to follow Alexander’s lead and descend into their midst to give the latest on what was happening outside the city, dispensing wisdom and comfort along the way.

Even Allison’s earlier deference, however, had been more than he could manage. After the horrors of the day, he couldn’t stand being beset by a rapturous audience.

Before an uncomfortable stalemate could set in, he bade them each goodnight and turned his mount towards the stables, hurrying lest they replied or protested. A brief silence followed, but soon after he heard the others move inside.

“We’ll talk at breakfast,” Lucian said to him as he passed.

Norman nodded, firing off a brief temple-flick salute as he moved away. A moment later Alexander appeared at his side, leading Allie’s horse on foot. As soon as they were out of earshot of the storeroom congregation, the atmosphere between the two of them shifted to one altogether more frank and familiar. They were quiet at first, growing accustomed to their privacy, and then Norman sagged, breaking the silence. “So, what do you really think?”

“Of what?” Alex said.

“Of everything.” They led the horses into the gloom of the stables, and a concentrated odour of hay and manure filled his nose. “We work day in, day out to convince everybody that we’re the endgame, that we’re the ones fighting the good fight, and then…then we go and steal food from people’s mouths as soon as the going gets rough.”

There were around thirty horses nearby, snuffling somewhere in the dark. Each had been kept fed and watered at great expense, with food taken from far-flung lands. How many human lives had they cut short to keep their stables full?

Dozens. Maybe more.

Alex shook his head as he shut the stall’s gate on Allie’s horse. “I don’t know what to think,” he murmured. “I can’t afford to.”

Norman stroked his own steed’s mane as he attached a bag of grain to its muzzle. He followed Alex back into the streets, looking over the dormant city and the ruins beyond. “This has never happened before,” he said. “We’ve never been so close to the brink, even before we settled here.”

Alex locked him with a steely gaze. “No.”

“We
will
kill more people if we keep going out.”

“We’ll die if we don't.”

Norman paused. The echoes of his footsteps took a long time to dissipate, returning time and time again from the winding maze of crumbling bricks and mortar.

Alex shook his head, having grown stern in an instant. “It’s not a question of right and wrong. We go out and we take what we can, or we starve instead of them. It’s that simple.”

Norman said nothing. His mind’s eye was busy once again, wriggling the skeletal fingers of the fallen before his eyes.

Alex watched him carefully until the silence between them had grown taut. “There’s nothing that you can do until morning.” He made to turn away, hesitated, and instead laid a hand on Norman’s shoulder. He smiled, and although the expression was rendered monochromatic and twisted by the deepening darkness, Norman felt better. “Welcome home,” he said.

Norman nodded, then frowned. “People are starting to look to me,” he said. “All of them. It’s like they expect me to grow a white beard and lead them into the desert.”

Alex laughed for far longer than Norman thought appropriate; it was as though he had been privy to a hidden joke. After some time, wiping his eyes, he said, “Norman, they look to you because they can. You have something that they don’t. You have a des—”

“Destiny,” Norman muttered. “I know.”

Alex’s hand loosened somewhat on his shoulder, but his gaze was steady. “That’s right,” he said. “Destiny.”

“You’ve told me that every day since I can remember.” He looked over his shoulder to make sure that they were alone. “But I don’t know if I’m the right person. I can’t do this, Alex. I’m not ready, I’m not… I can’t save anyone.”

Alex’s expression didn’t change. Instead, he merely clapped a hand against Norman’s cheek. “Nobody ever wants to lead,” he said. “And anybody who does is the last person for the job. But that’s what people need: somebody to look to. In fact, it’s all they ever need. And”—he looked down at himself and laughed once more—“I’m not always going to be here. They need a fresh face, to know that somebody’s ready to step in and take the reins when… when the time comes. They need you to be that person, Norman. I need you to be that person.”

Norman’s words caught in his throat, the same ones that had lodged there every time he’d tried to argue his case. Day after day, year after year, they had festered in his bowels.

I’m not you.

Instead, he forced the falsest of smiles onto his face—one he hoped was hidden by shadow—and nodded.

Alex patted his shoulder once more and turned away towards the hall, becoming a mere silhouette against the flare of the streetlights. “Get some sleep,” he said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Norman stood alone for some time outside the stables. He peered in through the hall’s windows and watched Allison talk with haunted eyes. Although it was against orders, he was sure that she was recounting their tale, and his stomach sank. He no longer felt hungry at all. He sighed and headed home, his footsteps echoing through empty streets.

Alexander waited in the gloom while the supplies were packed away. He paced back and forth until the job was done and the others stumbled away into the night.

By then, Lucian was taking a last look around at the pavement for forgotten scraps. He then affixed the storeroom door with its enormous padlock and stowed the key in his pocket with great care. It wasn’t until he was on the verge of turning for home that Alexander stepped from the shadows.

“Thought you'd gone home,” Lucian said, apparently unsurprised to see him materialise from the darkness.

Alexander said nothing—Lucian had always had a sixth sense about being watched—and approached until they were no more than a few inches apart; close enough for Alex to smell the several days’ worth of perspiration that had accrued on Lucian's body. “Welcome, brother,” he said.

They embraced, but for a moment only. Lucian stepped back and frowned at the proximity. “How are things?” he said slowly.

“They’re fine,” Alex said.

“Did something happen while we were away?”

“No. It’s been quiet here.”

Lucian’s eyes narrowed. “Then what’s wrong?”

“I can’t give my brother a hug when he comes home?”

“You haven’t given me so much as a handshake since I got old enough to piss without sitting down. And don’t call me ‘brother’.”

Alex was quiet for a moment. Then he merely nodded, ignoring the unsettled lump in his throat, and held out his hand. “Here.”

Lucian received the perfectly kept pigeon feather, a silver slick upon his palm in the artificial light.

The two of them looked at it, frozen in place for a long time, uttering not a sound. So quiet had it become that the trickle of the Stour seemed deafening. Alex could almost see the cogs turning in Lucian’s mind as the atmosphere around him took the long road from bemused surprise to confusion, through disbelief and finally to a muted, distant fear.

When Lucian spoke, his voice was cracked. “What's this?”

Alex swallowed hard. “I found that on my doorstep this morning,” he said.

Lucian’s stance remained unchanged by the news, and yet to Alex’s eyes his entire manner had shifted. His eyes were suddenly trailing the edge of their sockets, his lips parted and his breathing quickened. Alex knew to exactly what extent Lucian’s inner calm had been shattered, because the very same thing had happened to him that morning.

“You’re sure that it isn’t a coincidence?”

“I’m sure.”

Lucian ran a hand through his hair and grumbled to himself. He turned in a wide circle and threw myriad glances out into the night. “This can’t happen,” he whispered. “It can’t.”

Alex said nothing and watched him whirl on the spot, distantly pleased to see him react so well, and slightly ashamed that he himself hadn’t taken the news with quite as much grace.

After only a minute, Lucian was standing still again and was looking down at the feather. “It’s not possible,” he said. “It’s ridiculous… It’s not poss—” He muttered to himself for a while longer. His whispering dissipated only after several emphatic grunts, and his voice began to come back to him. Soon after, his usual irritability returned.