IMPACT (Book 1): A Post-Apocalyptic Tale (11 page)

“There it is,” said Moore.

The warehouse was bigger than Cathy had expected. It sat on the outskirts of Ashford, large and silent in the afternoon mist. The main entrance was concealed by the rooftops of the other, smaller buildings nearby, but they had a clear view of the streets leading up to it.

They were all lying in the grass, one-hundred yards away. She scanned the building and its surroundings, the silence among them a reminder of the danger they might be facing. If the meteorwraiths were still inside the building, a confrontation was unavoidable. She threw a sideways glance at Neeson and Billings beside her. There was something comforting about their focused, expressionless faces.

The trip had been pleasant if uneventful. The constant hum of the liquid metal motor had had a mildly hypnotic effect on her and her two companions. As the bleak expanse of what was once ‘the garden of England’ slowly drifted by outside their windows, it had been easy to forget the purpose of their trip. They had talked idly, touching on the strange old man, Jeremy, speculating about his story. It was difficult to imagine he could pose a threat, despite Moore’s apparent hostility towards the old hippy. Although his words – ‘
You
do
have Afflicted in Bately, right?
‘ – had a sinister ring she couldn’t quite shake.

As they approached Ashford from the southeast, their chatter had gradually quieted down. She had secretly observed the two men sitting by her side: Moore with his serious, impenetrable eyes fixed on the view ahead of him and Paul, who sat stiffly, only occasionally moving to wipe off the sweat collecting on his upper lip.

Paul was no coward, she supposed that most of his unrest was likely due to the weapons that were travelling with them in the boot of the Wolf. She had noticed his frown when Neeson placed the firearms inside a metal container alongside three hand grenades. The sight had made her feel uneasy, but the effect had been greater on Paul.

“This is how we’re going to proceed,” Neeson said, almost in a whisper. All eyes turned to him. “We want to clear the area as soon as possible. We’ll split in two groups. Ms. Abbott,” his chin gesturing to Catherine, “you will come with me. We’ll enter through the main entrance, while Billings and Mr. Moore will approach the rear exit.” Neeson’s eyes flicked over to Paul, who was about to say something. “You, Father, will stay here by the vehicle.”

The disappointment in Paul’s eyes was plain. He opened his mouth, as if to protest, but was interrupted by Neeson.

“Your role is crucial, Father. You must ensure the area is clear and alert us if you see anyone approaching.” Neeson got on his feet and, head low, crawled over to the Wolf’s open passenger door. He grabbed something out of it and returned.

“We’ll use walkie-talkies. They're very easy to use, just press this button to speak,” Neeson pointed it out on the device, “and release it to listen. We only use the walkie-talkies in case of danger. No point in wasting battery. Got it?” Everyone nodded. The soldier’s eyes focused on Paul again. The priest’s expression was still slightly stiff, debating whether to protest. Catherine sensed the man felt his position as a lookout was somewhat demeaning. Neeson, too, appeared to be aware of this. “Father,” he said to him, his voice strong but cordial, “you must understand that our safety depends upon knowing whether possible enemies are approaching. Both Ms. Abbott and Mr. Moore must accompany us inside the warehouse, we need them to locate the medicine stash and to check its contents.”

Paul nodded. It was difficult to tell if he was convinced or not.

“And,” continued Neeson, “I’m told you didn’t do very well during firearm training. It would be imprudent to have you enter the building given that.” Paul nodded gravely. Catherine felt the unexpected urge to lean forward and hug him, to reassure him.

“Also,” added Neeson, “Mr. Moore here appears to be short-sighted, or at least that’s what his glasses suggest. Is that correct, Mr. Moore?” Edward dipped his chin.

Clever
, thought Catherine,
he’s pointing out a weakness in Edward, to counterbalance Paul’s with the firearms
. Despite the fact Neeson was quite obviously used to imparting orders to unquestioning soldiers, this didn’t prevent him from taking a more considerate stance when dealing with civilians.

And although this was a rather basic psychological move, it did seem to soothe Paul’s vexation a bit.

“Remember, all of you, this is
not
a game.” Neeson’s tone had now lost its delicate touch. “Do exactly as I or Lance Corporal Billings say. Do not pause to think or debate. Do what you are told, when you are told. Understood?”

“Yes,” said Catherine, her voice one of three uttering the same words.

This is all getting very real, very quickly
, she thought.

* * *

Neeson moved fast.

Catherine was doing her best to keep up with him, crouching as they advanced, the rifle clutched tight in her hands. Its unfamiliar weight, like that of a strange new limb attached to her body, made her movements awkward and uncertain.

The cubic construction of an abandoned petrol station blocked their view of the warehouse. They proceeded along it, their backs brushing against its grimy walls. Somewhere on the opposite end of the building, Moore and Billings were doing the same.

They were nearing the edge when Neeson held up a clenched fist. She’d seen this gesture in countless films – the man in the lead telling his men to hold still – and was mildly surprised to find out it was actually used. She stopped, observing Neeson’s quick, efficient movements. He slowly peered past the edge, rifle close to his chest, allowing only a few inches of his face to protrude around the petrol station’s corner.

The warehouse was on their left. Neeson glanced in the opposite direction first, presumably scanning for possible adversaries. Then, he turned to the left, to the warehouse, and the same direction where Moore and Billings would be emerging.

Catherine noticed his hesitation. It was a brief instant, in which his body appeared to be perfectly still, eyebrows drawn close to one another. He turned towards her, evaluating his words before speaking.

“Ms. Abbott,” he said, “when we emerge onto the street, you’ll see something that will shock you. Do your best to ignore it. We’ll move fast, and reach the entrance of the warehouse. It’s–” he shot a quick look outwards again, then looked back, “about 30 yards from where we stand. You go first. I’ll be right behind you. When you reach the door, crouch and stop. After that, you’ll await my orders. Got it?”

She nodded, doing her best to show Nesson he could count on her.

His eyes hesitated on her features for a second, then he stepped back, providing her space to step past him. She did, but before she could step out onto the street, he grabbed her shoulder, and whispered, “Try not to look, Ms. Abbott. Duck down and run.”

Again, she nodded, her heartbeat increasing. He patted her on the back, nudging her off.

Cathy sprinted forward, entering the ample road that stretched out in front of the warehouse. Moore, who was an indefinite shadow in her peripheral vision, was moving parallel to her.

Then she saw the crosses.

Catherine couldn’t help but freeze.

They looked like two men, but it was difficult to tell. Their hair had been shaved off and the bodies were covered in dry blood. They had been nailed to the two crosses and their guts cut open. A tangle of brown innards poured out of their midriffs, some still hanging there, others scattered on the ground below them. The heads of the two bodies rested, almost in identical positions, against their chests – a devilish symmetry they would never be aware of.

Catherine forced herself to call upon the detachment that was required by her profession, that self-imposed denial in the face of death and mutilation that she had learned while training as a nurse. After all, she’d seen countless bodies – even more since the impact – and she was used to witnessing horrific scenes.

Yes
, she told herself,
but not like this
.

Then came the pressure of Neeson’s firm push and she scuttled forth once again.

They walked around the crosses, the two of them from the right, Moore and Billings from the left. She was heading for the main entrance, while the other two would continue to the back door.

She reached the front wall of the warehouse with a gasp and knelt down, one hand resting on the ground, the other still holding the rifle. She tried to control her breath, to steady her heartbeat. She glanced towards Edward, who had reached the far end of the wall and was about to disappear behind it.

Their eyes met. She read her own horror mirrored in his expression. But she also saw concern. Concern for her. This was both flattering and mildly irritating. She never had been a soft girl, one who needed the reassurance of men, and didn’t want Moore to think of her as such. On the other hand, behind his glasses, his eyes were filled with a sympathy and compassion she rarely witnessed.

She gave him a quick nod.
It’s okay. Go
.

Billings pushed Moore forward, just like Neeson had done with her, and they both vanished behind the side of the warehouse.

Neeson was standing next to her, his ear against the door. He was peering downwards, eyes flicking from side to side, as if trying to watch for sounds coming out of the building, as well as listen. She could hear no noise coming from inside.

“Ready?” he asked her.

He was now standing upright, one palm on the door handle.

“Yes.”

With a quick glance up and down the street, Neeson opened the door.

She followed him inside, her heart still racing.

* * *

Had he not been agnostic, Moore decided this would be the moment he’d whisper a prayer.

They approached the rear exit, heads held low behind a small brick wall that ran alongside this end of the warehouse. It had only been a few days since he and Mathew had made their lucky escape, walking nervously along this very path. Now here he was again. Luckily, this time his son was safe back in Bately. In front of him, Billings advanced, his knees bent at almost perfect 90-degree angles, the barrel of his weapon close to his chin, ready to be fired.

They reached the doorway, and Moore caught himself reciting a silent prayer to the god he did not entirely believe in.

Please. Please make this place be empty. And safe. Please let us find the medicine. Most of all, let me return home to my son.

The door was ajar, and all they could see was the thin black slit that sliced the space between the door and the wall. No noise came from inside.

“When we enter,” said Billings, “we’ll crouch behind the first cover we can find. If it’s too small for both of us, you stop there and I’ll find somewhere else. When we’re both protected, you point to where you remember the medicine being, then stay put.”

Billings didn’t wait for Edward to nod. He turned and quickly but silently opened the door. He crept through, the muzzle of his rifle raised before him.

Questions he should have asked Billings ran through his mind. Edward wondered whether he should run for the first cover
he
saw or if he should wait for the younger man to point one out to him. If the ‘wraiths were still in there, would it be wise to shoot? And, if so, could he just go ahead and pull the trigger or was he to await Billings’s permission?

The doubts crowded his mind as he inched through the doorway. It felt like the air was growing denser around him, the increased pressure weighing on his chest and mind.

Then he stepped through the door and none of the questions mattered any more.

* * *

Paul peered through the binoculars, trying to spot movement on the deserted streets of Ashford’s outskirts.

He hadn’t appreciated Neeson’s attempt to soothe his pride by referring to Moore’s eye sight. He saw it as a low, unpleasant trick. But, to be fair, this was likely the best arrangement. His shooting ability was sub-par and he had little to contribute inside the warehouse. The lookout was, after all, an important role. What really nagged at him was this strange irritation that he had developed of late. Maybe it was due to Cathy after all. Or perhaps it was just a basic human need to prove oneself in the eyes of one’s peers. It could be one of a hundred things – Claudio’s worsening temper, his own faith continually being tested by the lack of attendees at Mass. It was difficult to tell.

The rifle lying by his side wasn’t helping.

Before leaving, Neeson had handed it to him, saying: “Father, I understand you don’t like the idea of using a weapon. But, if need be,
use
it.”

Paul had simply bobbed his head, knowing there was no way he could make that promise.

He lowered the binoculars and turned to the rifle. It lay parallel to his body, muzzle pointing to the warehouse. Having it so close made him uneasy, as if its mere presence could somehow lead to Paul murdering a man. He sat up and removed his jacket, flinging it over the weapon. He tugged at a sleeve to cover a part that was still visible.

There
, he thought,
that’s much better
.

He lay down again and brought the binoculars to his eyes.

Yes, much better
.

* * *

The bodies were everywhere.

Each one in a different position, some faced the front entrance, others the exit. They lay flat or slumped, their arms, legs, and faces twisted and turned in varying stances and expressions, as if exploring all the spatial possibilities of the human body, its layout, and its movements. Except here movement had been banished, and all were still, trapped in a bizarre frozen stasis. The death the ‘wraiths had tried to escape had been inescapable.

Moore forgot Billings’s instructions. He forgot to find cover and duck behind it; he forgot to follow his orders. He had forgotten everything.

He let his eyes wander over the scattered, lifeless individuals, who but a few days ago had filled his own heart with dread. They posed no threat now. Finally, his gaze landed upon the opposite end of the room, by the entrance, where Catherine and Neeson stood and observed the bloody remains of this massacre.