Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) (10 page)

They’d had problems with birds doing that for months. People were shooting and snaring every winged creature they laid eyes on. As the crops had vanished and the forests been picked clean, hungry eyes had turned upon ravens and songbirds alike. Flocks now sought refuge in any crevices they could find. Those atop the city’s electrical pylons had become a favourite.

Most people didn’t mind them. Their songs were a welcome reprieve from the unnatural silence that had set in over winter—set in and never departed. They had almost become public pets—to the point that, despite their hunger, the city folk had come to frown on eating them.

The only problem was that they got caught in the wires when they tried to take flight and got themselves electrocuted, shorting out the power in the process.

For the most part it had been chaffinches and magpies that had discovered the elevated havens. Today’s visitor, however, was unusual: a bird that Norman had never seen in the city before. The unmistakable profile of a pigeon bobbed upon the pylon before him, cocking its head and ruffling its feathers.

Norman waved to the overall-clad men as he approached. The rest of the street was empty, with most people either out in the fields or still eating breakfast. He had no trouble spotting Robert Strong, who stood as a giant beside his two young apprentices. As he drew closer, Robert appeared only larger by the second, until he began to blot out the building behind him.

His usual detail consisted of hauling ancient motor vehicles to the sides of the Old World roadways surrounding the city. Even with the aid of draught horses, it was tough work. To clear every road, even within a radius of a few miles, would take many more years yet.

“Morning,” Norman called.

They turned to him and returned the sentiment.

“Another squatter?”

Robert’s boulder-shaped head nodded, his gentle face—strikingly ursine—lost in the glare of the sun high above. The muscles beneath his overalls bulged, threatening to tear the fabric as he flexed his arm to shake Norman’s hand.

“Any blackouts while we were away?” Norman said.

“None. This guy showed up just this morning.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Buckshot,” said one of the apprentices. “And then the oven.”

“With a bit of cranberry sauce,” said the other.

They were both grinning, but there was something lustful in their gazes that made Norman question whether their words were in jest.

Robert put his hands on his hips, and they fell silent. “We’ll figure it out.” He glanced at Norman. “You heading back out?” he said. His deep baritone voice resonated in the empty street, further adding to the impression of his great stature.

Norman nodded, continuing on towards the stables. “We’re still a few bags short.”

“Be home for pigeon pie,” Robert said, which earned him a snicker from the boys at his waist. He began to turn away, but then paused, his brows lowered. “Hey, Creek,” he called.

Norman, having almost passed out of earshot, stopped in his tracks. The sharpness in Robert’s voice sent a twinge of unease snaking through his loins. “Yes?” he said.

“I heard you ran into somebody yesterday. Is that true?” His eyes said the rest—that which the young men didn’t need to hear:
How bad has it gotten out there?

Norman tried to keep his face level, but knew that his jaw had tightened despite his efforts. “Where did you hear that?”

Robert spread his arms, his face creased into an incredulous smirk. “Come on,” he said. “Do you really think that you can keep a secret with Allie Rutherford around? If she knows, everybody knows.”

Norman cursed inwardly. “It’s true, but nothing to worry about,” he said, more for the sake of the apprentices, whom he trusted no more than Allison.

The young had loose tongues these days, without enough crowds to teach them any better.

Robert drew away from his charges until Norman had to look straight up to make eye contact. His body now cut out the glare of the sun, allowing Norman an unmarred view of his face: small features set amidst vast tracts of forehead and pendulous cheeks, all of it weather-beaten, exuding a sense of frank pragmatism.

Despite his all-man appearance, his voice had fallen to a whisper that wasn’t much more than a sigh on the wind. “Listen, Norman, what’s going on? I mean, with all this?”

Norman blinked.

Robert watched him expectantly. “I mean, what’s the plan? Alex has filled you in, right?”

Norman’s stomach sank.

Robert was above playing sheep—was, in fact, one of the few who’d known Alexander since the Early Years—but in his eyes was the same look Norman had seen more and more often over the last year. Just like the others, Robert was fishing for guidance—as though Norman were privy to some deeper, hidden truth.

In that moment, he couldn’t have felt less divine. But the look in Robert’s eyes was too sincere, too trusting, to crush underfoot. He forced a smile onto his face. “I’ll keep you posted,” he said. “Listen, have you seen Allie this morning?”

Robert looked stricken. “Don’t tell on me. She meant no harm.”

“She’s coming out with us.”

Robert pointed down the street. “She was up at dawn. I stopped her before she could run her mouth too much. I left her with Sarah.” He winked. “Go easy on her.”

“No promises.” Norman made for the stables once more.

Sarah Clarke was quite possibly the world’s last librarian. She was also the last schoolteacher. And with such a ridiculous, inch-thick pair of spectacles as hers, she suited both roles to a tee. The warehouse behind Main Street was her domain, and everything beneath its high roof was under her protection.

To most, she was a kook to be avoided, hovering upon that delicious sweet spot between giggling lunacy and unbounded enthusiasm. To Norman, she was instead something to be appreciated, like a piece of experimental—if not overambitious—art.

An average day saw her flitting back and forth between the endless, sweeping towers of rescued books brought back from the wilds. The warehouse, an industrial-storage behemoth the size of an aircraft hangar, was filled to capacity; save for a network of narrow alleys, not an inch of floor space had been spared.

There were similar buildings for articles of art, electronics, and vehicles—but none as large as this. The Old World’s books, which housed all its knowledge and secrets, lay strewn in the rubble of towns and cities, waiting to be picked up like nuggets of gold shimmering in a riverbed.

The city folk saved as many as they could—had been doing so for years—but there were always more to find, and time was beginning to take its toll on their vulnerable pages. Here, they were sorted before being moved to vast storage catacombs beneath the streets.

Norman gawped at a new, yellowed skyscraper of leather-bound volumes close to the doorway until Sarah’s flowing figure rounded a bend in the aisle ahead and cried, “You’re back!”

She approached from an unsorted heap of hardbacks, her bony face and tomato-red hair illuminated by the widest of smiles, which was occupied by her four million teeth. Hanging from her shoulders was a robe identical to those worn by the elders, a simple white cloth that billowed around the body and stopped just beyond the knee. Precious few younger citizens were awarded the cloth, Norman among them, though he only wore his during ceremonial times, when it was expected of him.

“Morning, warden,” he said. “How are the inmates today?”

“Stale. Rotten. But still singing their sweet songs.” She threw her arms around him and giggled. “Welcome home.”

“Careful now,” he said. “Robert catches us and I’ll have a stump instead of a head before you can blink.”

She drew back and glanced out the door, to where Robert’s silhouette clambered the pigeon-infested pylon on Main Street, her eyes swimming with puppy love. “He’s not the jealous type. At least, I don’t think so. I suppose time will tell.”

Norman forced himself to turn his attention to the task at hand, but did so grudgingly. He’d have liked to spend the day here. After the struggle, hunger, and horrors that lay beyond the city, the warehouse never failed to act as an all-curing tonic. In his youth, when Alexander had been working so tirelessly to keep society alive—when even his name had been but the stuff of legend to a handful of scattered tribes—Norman had spent his days in similar secret troves, his nose buried in books written by long-dead Old World writers.

In addition, Sarah was among the few who were unlikely to ever look upon him with any degree of hero worship. Her gaze never failed to penetrate the aura of godliness erected by the city folk, to see him for the clueless idiot he truly was.

She would never expect anything of him.

However, the thought of the maelstrom that was Allison Rutherford held his attention, and he peered around without another word, scouring the scale-model city of yellowed paperbacks and leather-bound tomes.

Sarah was wittering on, “Library running thin? We just got a new batch of first editions from a bank vault in Dover.”

He shook his head. “I’m well stocked for the moment. I heard Allie was here. You mind if I borrow her?”

Sarah blinked, her lashes magnified to huge proportions by the slab-like lenses of her spectacles. “Not at all.”

While Norman had spoken, as though summoned, Allison had poked her head from behind the stack of hardbacks from which Sarah had appeared. Her face was downcast and sheepish.

He beckoned her imperiously before she could disappear. “Come on,” he said. “We have things to do.”

She hesitated momentarily, reluctant to leave her sheltered hovel, but then her shoulders slumped and she stepped forwards.

“I’ll be back to see those first editions,” he called as he made for the door.

“Do keep a look out for more Tolstoy!” Sarah cried from the depths of the paper maze. “Our stocks are dangerously low.” She paused. “But no more King! We already have enough to build a whole new ridge on the east side!”

Norman couldn’t help smiling. “What’s wrong with King?”

She made a noise of disquiet. “I don’t play favourites when it comes to the world’s heritage.”

Norman’s smile widened. “Prude,” he said. “All work and no play…”

Sarah scoffed from the foothills of the pile he called Mount Fitzgerald and was gone, leaving behind a single resounding call, “Good luck out there, Gunslinger.”

Norman led Allie back towards Main Street.

“I wasn’t hiding,” she said quickly.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Yes, but—oh.”

He turned to her. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“Nobody.”

Norman didn’t speak again until they reached the stables, glad that Lucian had made his suggestion.

Norman darted between rows of plants, casting shrivelled fruits into a threadbare sack, his boots squelching in waterlogged mud. Nearby, Lucian and Allison filled their own bags. He worked at a feverish pace, pausing often to listen and look over his shoulders, hunched low to the ground.

The field in which they stood had long ago belonged to people who had enjoyed extra gardening and a steady supply of surplus greens. Quaint little plots, sectioned off in neat squares. The occasional dilapidated shed still protruded from the ground, sometimes adorned with a wisp of shredded tarpaulin.

When a sharp crack rang out, he instinctively crouched lower to the ground, turning on his heels to look for its source. He could see Allie and Lucian’s knees through the fronds, but little else.

Sweat immediately began to form in large rivulets upon his skin, smearing the dirt on his arms and hands, falling past his brow and stinging his eyes. His fingers dug deep channels into the stinking mud as he began to crawl forwards.

Within four feet, the leaves parted before him to reveal a dark shape, amorphous and bristling. Norman flinched, pushing off from the ground in a moment of blind panic. He collapsed back into a tangle of decomposing creepers, spluttering and kicking for purchase.

Before he could cry out, a snort filled the air, one that made him freeze in place. He ceased flailing immediately and rolled forth onto his haunches.

Staggering to his feet, he stared down at the pink back of the fattest pig he’d ever seen. Its underbelly was covered with a thick paste of rotten plant matter and its nose twitched without pause in the morning sun, hanging from which were tendrils of rotten aubergine.

After considering him for a moment, it stepped forwards and nudged his legs with its snout. Norman put out his hand and patted its head awkwardly, glancing to the adjacent row of strawberry bushes as Lucian and Allie emerged from hiding.

Lucian crashed through the undergrowth, studying the pig. “We shouldn’t have come out today,” he said.

“It’s just a pig.”

“Look how close it got before we realised. People would kill us without a break in their step to get at this food.”

“How is that different from any other day?”

Lucian shook his head. “That’s not the point.” He paused for a while, looking towards where the open gate swung in the wind. It backed immediately onto a main road. “We should leave,” he muttered.

Allison turned to Norman out of what was clearly a knee-jerk reaction. She was awaiting not Lucian’s word, but his.

A sliver of annoyance festered in his gut. In the past, those looks had come but once in a blue moon. Now, it seemed they waited for him around every corner.

With a grunt that wasn’t quite devoid of chagrin, he nodded. A squall of shame lapped at his conscience, but Allie seemed satisfied, and to be rid of her demanding gaze was reward enough.

They made to leave, but before they could do so, a thought occurred to Norman. By the manner in which they turned back to face the pig in step with him, he guessed the very same had occurred to them.

The hog stared back at them with benign friendliness, apparently mistaking their attention for reciprocity.

But, as their stares endured, and Norman was sure that his gaze had become a leer of craving—or madness—something too changed on the pig’s face. If it could have been smiling then, under their combined gaze, that smile would have faltered.