The Brink (29 page)

19

The complex was in uproar. The noise of shouting and wailing could be heard across the camp and everyone had turned out to either spectate on the chaos or take their part in demanding the justice they felt they deserved. Faces that had once been downcast, pale and lifeless had transformed into grimacing visages of fury, flushed red hot and twisted in expressions of anger and horror, fear and vengeance. It was as if a host of demons had risen up from the ground and possessed each and every one of them, called by the blood of the murdered guards, bringing retribution with them.

Alan weaved his way through the crowds, most of which parted at the sight of the giant and his hound and that now looked upon him with a suspicious aspect. Rumours were being spread; words whispered in the smaller groups, spreading here and there, bringing the accusations to the feet of the stranger who came from nowhere and who now walked among them. None of this had happened before he came. They were safe until he came. No one was ever found murdered in his bed until he came.

Alan heard and felt every one of these arrows as they were launched at him but none of them stopped him, not one slowed his pace at all as he made his way towards the infirmary, perhaps the only quiet place the crowd hadn’t gathered in and, finding Doc tending to the dying, waited in his office until he was free.

“Alan,” he cried, seeing him. “I’ll be with you shortly. Boil the kettle.”

He did as he was told, setting two cups on the desk and adding the coffee and the sugar as Doc did his rounds with a gentle smile on his face; a different man from the haggard creature he’d met the previous day. A lot had happened in that short time, he thought as he rummaged in his bag. So much in such a brief period. People had defied his expectations, grown, become new people in the new world and the hope he’d been able to give them had been repaid in full. Now that things were reaching their conclusion he realised that he still had so much to do before the end but at least whatever didn’t get done would be taken up by people like John and Rachel and Doc and he had every conviction that they’d do well, regardless.

He set the thick notebook down and flicked through the handwritten pages, checking some last minute details he thought he might’ve missed but, finding that it was all there, he sat down with the cup in his hands and sighed.

“Well you certainly know how to kick up a storm, don’t you?” said Doc as he came into the office. “I’ve never seen such a crowd baying for blood before.”

“It’s the most active I’ve ever seen them be,” he replied, grinning.

“Yes, that’s true. I don’t think my brother knows what to do with them just yet. I’m guessing you’ve heard what they’re saying?” He nodded. “It was probably Richard who started to say it.”

“It’s true, I suppose.”

“Yes but it won’t save either of them. The message you gave was clear and it won’t be forgotten in a hurry. Samuel’s days are numbered now, his power base has gone and now that Richard has fled-”

“Fled? When?”

“About half an hour ago. One of the guards told me. He’ll have probably run back to his scavenger friends.”

Alan’s face clouded for a moment as he realised what it meant. How had he not seen this? He thought, rubbing his eyes.

“Is something wrong?” asked Doc.

“Of course. Now would be a perfect time,” said Alan to himself.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s gone to get the Scavs. He’s going to attack the camp whilst it’s defenceless.”

Alan stood and pointed to the notebook.

“That’s for John, it’s everything I could remember about planting crops, watering, preservation, as much as I could think of. Make sure he gets it.”

“You’re not going, are you?” protested Doc.

“I need to meet them before they reach the camp. This place won’t stand a chance against them right now and Richard knows it. I have to go.”

His mind was frantically running round, trying to cover everything all at once before it was too late.

“There’s a letter in there for John. After this is over, you and Rachel must take control, deal with your brother somehow, get the crops growing as soon as you can-”

“Alan, wait, don’t do this. We need you here.”

“I can’t stay,” he replied. “Not now.”

He was about to leave when he stopped in the doorway and turned.

“What was the condition?”

“I’m sorry?” said Doc.

“You said there’d be a condition if you helped me. What was it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Really, I just said it because-”

“What was it?”

Doc sighed and shook his head. “I wanted you to find my daughter. Even if she was dead, maybe find a way to confirm it, so I’d have closure. But it doesn’t matter, it was unfair of me, I’ve seen what you’ve done for these people and that’s payment enough. The least I can do is carry on and help them.”

Alan nodded very slowly and smiled.

“You could’ve killed them all, couldn’t you?” said Doc after a pause.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Thank you.”

“Can you forgive him?” asked Alan.

“I don’t know. Maybe. But I’ve been looking after him all our lives so why should I let a little thing like attempted murder come between us?”

He smiled but it was hollow and empty.

“You take care, Doc,” he said.

“And you.” They shook hands. “You’re a good lad, Alan. It’s a harsh world out there but please don’t let it change you, if you can help it.”

“I won’t.”

And with that final comment, he smiled and left, leaving Doc alone in his office to examine the notebook.

20

The rifle was heavier than anything he’d used before. He wore it on one shoulder using the strap Henry had been able to get for him but it still felt like a useless burden to him. He had no choice though - what he’d planned required it and going out into the wastes with just his walking stick and a machete might have been ill advised at the best of times.

Alan had walked through the crowds without incident but when he’d collected the last of his belongings, put on his ammunition bag and took his walking pole in his hands, those gathered near the complex took it as an admission of his guilt and quickly spread the word. By the time he reached the gate, the number behind him had risen to over 200 and they hurled their insults at him as well as any stones or rocks they could find. Moll took the first direct hit to her head, cutting a deep gash across her soft fur that only an hour earlier had been comfort to a young boy. She turned and snarled but was soon showered in further assaults, tucking her tail between her legs and limping beside her master.

Alan walked on without responding, feeling the insults wound deeper than any of the stones that smashed into his head and caused the blood to make his vision swim. He tried his best to reach the gates with some dignity, but by the time they swung open he was reeling from the pain and leaning heavily on his staff, almost in fear that he’d fall before he could pass through to the other side.

The guards that remained made little or no effort to stop the crowd. Instead they added their insults to the others, piling scorn upon him, but no one tried to stop him. No one attempted to grab him or detain him in any way. Was it fear? He wondered as he saw the blurred exit ahead. Was it just an outlet for their own frustrations? It didn’t matter, he realised as another stone slammed into his shoulder.

Then they were through and the blows ceased to rain down upon them. The gates swung shut and the chains rattled into place. The camp was now closed to them and as they walked on beyond the decaying buildings and the pitted roads, Alan’s tears mingled with the drying blood until he had neither left to give.

The two wanderers rested in the entrance to an underground railway as the rain began to fall, looking out on the cursed land as their wounds healed and their flesh regenerated before their eyes. The damage had been superficial but that didn’t matter anymore. There were deeper wounds, thought Alan as he wiped off the dirt and blood with a rag. There was no medicine in the world that would heal those.

“And how are you, little girl?” he said to the dog who lay curled up at his side with her enormous head on his lap. “You’re going to miss him, aren’t you?”

Moll looked up and fixed her crimson stare on him, letting her tongue drop out of one side of her mouth.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then,” he replied. “Me too.”

They waited there for a time, giving the rain a chance to spend itself on the ruins of the old world, imperceptibly wearing it down a drop at a time, promising to one day reduce those jagged stones and man-made abominations to the dirt, back to where they first came, back to where their creators lay. It was a promise that nature could keep too. It was a vengeful, angry rain that came down that day and one that offered timeless vows to anyone brave enough to have survived the destruction and who dared to try such madness again. The trees would grow back and split man’s creations with nature’s roots. Walls would be torn down by thin green fingers; metal washed away into rust and pounded back into the soil. Anything that survived would face a living death - submersion in the rich black earth that opened its mouth to receive plastic and glass and all kinds of pretentious materials made by man.

Alan sat there, surveying all this and thinking about the last few weeks. He didn’t want to dwell on it, that wouldn’t help him carry on and do what needed to be done. Right there and then, in the dark shelter with the pain of his wounds still fresh in his mind, he thought of just walking away. He could leave the scavengers to attack, to tear down their gates and destroy everything they’d built, murder them and worse. But there was Tim to think of. Poor little Tim, now in safe hands but still at risk if he didn’t act.

He got up and checked the rifle and the ammunition he had. It seemed none the worse for the stones that he knew had bounced off it when he’d left the camp but he did see a few chipped pieces of bodywork that didn’t matter. He made sure it was loaded and ready, and then looked at the sky, noticing that the rain had eased a little.

“Right, let’s get this done, Moll. Then we’re going home.” The dog cocked her shaggy head at him. “Well, the nearest thing to home we actually have.”

They walked on well into the evening, moving through the rubble like spectres that had lost their way, but with a singular purpose that might’ve terrified anyone who saw them. With the rifle in his arms and the enormous beast at his side, they tracked across the wasteland, ever looking for things unseen; signs, maybe even hope that lay buried in the decay. When they found it, the darkness had already come and there was no moon to help them dig.

They found more shelter and sat down for the night in the last corner of a hotel, long since collapsed leaving two walls and the partial remains of the floor above to keep the rain off them. It was a dismal place with faded walls that had once been white, now dirty yellow, and the pictures on them had blurred beyond recognition, now just canvasses of sadness and misery, images of a long dead past. It was an oppressive town and the loss of its grandeur swelled in around Alan as he sat there in the darkness, looking out and hearing only the rain again. He had no light to read by - there were little or no fragments of wood to start a fire with. They were long minutes that went by. Longer hours of waiting and stuck only the recurring thoughts of his leaving the camp to dwell upon. He tried to look ahead, but saw nothing. Maybe more of this, he thought. Alone. Wandering. Picking over the dead like the vultures once did.

He fought with these soul destroying ideas until the first light of dawn and when it came he felt exhausted, worn down, almost defeated but still holding on to hope. There would be other survivors, other camps. They’d need his help and he’d need theirs too.

By the time the morning came he felt he’d passed through the darkest moment of his life. He sat for a time, watching the dust motes settle, realising that his constant enemy had become himself - the only thing that would kill him. But he’d done war against it and come out the victor. There’d be other nights but none as fierce, none as difficult as that one had been. The threat was to his sanity, his hope, all the things that would stop him from lying down in the ruins and giving up. He’d waged his war against them and won. He could go on now.

When the day was bright enough, Alan walked carefully along the old pavement that ran between two burned out buildings - the result of the camp’s scavenger policy no doubt. The map that Henry had sketched for him indicated he should take a left at the end and he did so, moving cautiously down a wide alley lined with overturned blue plastic wheelie bins and stacks of mouldy cardboard. Around 4 metres from the far wall, under a tool box, was the thing he sought and as he approached he saw that it hadn’t been disturbed or activated.

“Wait here, Moll,” he said, taking off his coat and jumper and piling his belongings up at the entrance to the alley. If his skill failed, he didn’t want them damaged by the result.

He approached the toolbox and got down on his knees, looking under it as carefully as he could, being careful not to nudge anything that might trigger the explosive charge beneath. He could see the box and the wires that snaked their way out of two tiny holes in its side and Henry had told him that the trick to disarming it was to pull the little cord that would be facing him, down from the left hand wire that had been built into the thing for just that reason. It was there to help the recovery crew disarm and replant them somewhere else without the need for snipping wires and subsequent rewiring.

Gently, Alan reached under the box and felt around for the cord, sweat pouring from his brow as he did so. He wondered what it would feel like if it went off. How much pain would there be, or would he simply black out until the healing was done? He had no intention of finding out and so when his fingertips fell upon the cord he was able to let out the breath he’d been holding.

He didn’t rush to yank on it. Instead he withdrew his hand and took another look at it, making sure it was the same cord type that Henry had shown him a sample of. When he was happy that it was, he reached back inside and, holding his breath and closing his eyes, he pulled on it.

Nothing happened. Relieved, he lifted off the toolbox and found explosive number 42, now harmless, partially buried in the rubble and dug it out with his bare hands. Then he walked back to Moll who waited patiently for him to return and set the package down on the side of one of the bins.

“Let’s hope we don’t have to do that again,” he said, putting his clothes and gear back on and setting off with bomb 42 in his hands.

The last known location of the scavengers had been sketchy at best. Henry had asked some of the looting parties but the only site they all agreed to have seen them on was the football grounds over on Cheapside, some three or four miles north of where Alan was standing. Again, Henry had added this information to another of his maps and it was to there that Alan now made his way.

It was an odd sky above him, he thought, as he crossed streets that looked untouched by time or disaster and walked down roads that might be full of traffic in another hour or so. The clouds had thinned a little and he swore that once he might have even seen a sliver of a blue sky - like a strand of stray wool lost on a white dress that ruffled itself in the light breeze. It renewed his hope a little as he continued on, passing the husks of humanity that were parked in nice neat rows and which reminded him of Tim a little and made him wonder what the young man was doing right then. Was he missing him? Was he upset? He didn’t want to think of Tim in that way. He wanted the memory to be of the happy little boy with his cars and his fun, oblivious to the world around him. But his mind wrestled between those images and the memories of his illness, his tears and his sorrow.

An hour or so passed before he could hear something in the distance directly ahead and he slowed a little, moving off the road where he stood in plain sight, and continued towards it. It could’ve been music for the rhythm it had, interspersed with sharp cracks like rifle fire, sporadic, intermittent. The closer he came to what he now believed was the football field, the clearer the noise became. Talking. Cheering. Gunfire and deep thumping music.

There was a thick treeline to the left made up of tall conifers and to this Alan and Moll made their way, looking to the left and right as they went. Seeing no patrols or scouts, they pushed inwards, disappearing amongst the dense green foliage which appeared to have been untouched by the radiation or at least suffered no ill effects from it.

They reached the opposite edge and waited, peering out into a strip of open grass land before it stopped at the walls of the football grounds themselves. Thankfully, thought Alan, the team who’d played there hadn’t been more than a local one and the building itself was all red brick and poverty, meaning that access would be easy.

The festival-like noise was louder now, but not as loud as he’d first thought and the random gunfire had diminished, leaving only the dull, thudding music pounding the air and the occasional cry from somewhere on the other side of the wall nearest to him.

They crossed the open space quickly, reaching the wall and skirting to the left to see if they could peer over it at a low point and get a better idea as to what was happening inside. Yet even as they walked, the music quietened more and the gunfire ceased all together. The cries had become softened moans now, like someone in pain but losing consciousness quickly. The talking had stopped too, he noticed. Whatever had happened, he’d missed it.

They reached a fire door but found it closed. Then they continued on until they saw a window that’d been smashed by a beer bottle. It took them some time to get in but once they had, Alan realised that he needn’t have worried. Completely missing the stench that he’d become so familiar with, he nearly tripped over the pile of bodies in the shower block as he made his way to the door. They were stacked haphazardly under the rows of showerheads and the bodily fluids drained into the plug hole at one end which was now choked by solid matter. A quick examination told him that they were both the bodies of their victims but also of their own number - scavengers and survivors, both joined in death from radiation poisoning. The signs were obvious: hair loss, missing teeth, burns on the skin and jaundice. A few showed signs of torture and these appeared to be missing patrols from the camp, but the majority had died of ‘natural causes’ if death caused by nuclear fallout could be called ‘natural’.

Now awake to the smells around him, Alan passed through the door with Moll behind, entering a long corridor that ran the length of the field with exits on either side, interspersed with motivational posters from famous footballers and various certificates associated with the training team in glass frames. He found most of the doors to be locked and a few had been kicked inwards to reveal offices and kit rooms, more changing rooms for the visiting team and even a small kitchenette that led to a larger cooking area used by the fields to cook in-game snacks like hotdogs, pies and chips. There was rubbish everywhere from empty food packages to used needles, tin foil and spoons. Half-drunk bottles of beer and spirits littered the floor and Alan stepped carefully over them as he made his way along, following the green arrows that led him to the field itself.