Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) (25 page)

In addition, Ray’s murder had choked any plans for further foraging expeditions. During the day, few had dared to go beyond the fields, the streets, or even their own homes. Most were convinced that the wolves were at their door.

The End Day cheer and the buzz kicked up by the radio died quick and quiet deaths. The mood became sour and disgruntled in a matter of days, kept from falling into a senseless, hungry stupor only by the continued labour in the fields.

People began to come to Norman, to single him out from the crowd and demand to know what they were going to do, what the Big Plan was, and from where they’d be getting their next meal.

Each time an angry face appeared in front of him, his patience would wane all the more rapidly. While he spent most of his time at the school in search of privacy, people still made their way into the building, usually under transparent pretences—delivering lunchboxes to children who’d already eaten, or ‘homework’ that Norman hadn’t set—to question him. Their expectant, pleading—yet almost hostile, demanding—stares ate at his nerves like acid.

He suspected that even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t have helped much—not without Alexander. With their prophet shut away, the people were aimless, their efforts impotent.

Soon, he too stopped leaving home unless it was necessary, withdrawing from a city that was beginning to wilt.

New Canterbury looked as haggard as its drooping populace under an ugly sky. The sun had disappeared behind black clouds hours before. Now, as it dropped below the horizon, the bulging thunderclouds overhead looked fit to burst.

Jason crouched low to the ground atop the hill, tapping his fingers to the beat of the timepiece in his palm. He glanced to the ticking second hand and nodded.

9:30: lights on, then shift change for the guards.

The lazy bastards he’d been charged with babysitting these long weeks better be right. If they were off by so much as ten seconds, he’d skin every last one of them.

But maybe they weren’t as useless as he’d thought.

He smiled as a thousand twinkling lights cast the city’s heart alight. A moment later, he sensed movement about the shadowed rooftops as the sentries were relieved. His sneer grew only wider as the first dainty drops of rain began to patter down around him.

Showtime,
he thought. If tonight was the night, then it had to be now, before the new guards’ night vision could settle. Under the cover of the storm, it would be a cakewalk.

“Are we ready?” said a voice beside him; flat, quiet, almost a sigh.

Jason turned to Him, and for a moment dared to look into the shards of emerald that were his eyes, suspended between flowing locks of auburn hair and a face obscured by black cloth. “We’re ready.”

The pigeons were cooing in the forest nearby. He hated that fucking racket.

As Jason grimaced, one of the damned rats with wings fluttered over and alighted upon His palm, bobbing and pecking. He uncurled his fingers to unveil a small pile of seeds, which the bird set to without hesitation. He stroked its head and looked back to the city. “You have a way in that won’t cause any problems this time?”

Jason wasted no time with boasting or jesting. Last time, they’d almost gotten Him killed. The others had all paid for that—paid for it dearly. Jason had delivered the lashings himself. “We have,” he said.

“Then let’s get to it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jason was left alone on the hilltop as He stalked towards the tree line, the pigeon still perched aloft upon his raised index finger, muttering to it all the while.

Jason turned back to the city as the others stepped up around him. A few of them were slaves from the coast, and eyed their waiting prey with forlorn reluctance. But none of them would lift a finger against Him. Jason had made sure of that. If they ever wanted to see their wives and kiddies again—with their skin still
on
, that was—they would do whatever He told them.

He felt a delicious stirring in his limbs—one that stole all the way down to his groin—as he unsheathed his knife and sang, “
Oh, little pigs, little pigs, let me come in…
”

Norman’s eyes flitted across the yellowed pages of the old paperback in his grasp. Turning the leaves with measured care, he shifted restlessly in his living room armchair and tried to maintain focus on the story. But his mind wandered, adrift.

Now that the storm was in full swing, the rain hammered the windows and competed with the crackling of the flames in the grate. Upon the water-stained walls, the furnishings of the elderly Old World couple hung in their respective places, untouched by his hand: silver-framed family photographs, an ancient mahogany-finished piano near the sofa, and innumerable ornaments upon the mantelpiece and windowsill, most of which had been carved out of precious stones and crystals.

He’d never been one for collecting furnishings of his own, with the exception of his extensive personal library, made up of the rejects from Sarah’s warehouse. He had started small at first, but over time had built up quite a collection. Now he was running out of places to store them, and had resorted to precariously stacking them in the hallway.

His eyes began to drift further from the page. Soon he put the book down and simply sat staring into the fire. In moments he was lost in the flames, turning over possibility, consequence, and nightmare.

Ray’s burial had been put off again. But they were determined to give him a proper funeral. He and Robert had scoured funeral homes for the embalming fluid Heather had needed. It would give them enough time to make the necessary preparations.

But now that it approached, it seemed like only another hurdle to brave. With Alexander shut away, Norman was sure that he’d be expected to say a few words.

But try as he might, he could think of none.

A flash of lightning drew him back to the living room some time later—how long, he couldn’t tell. The windowsills were now creaking under the rain’s bombardment and the howling wind. The entire house was filled with the storm’s whistling scream. Outside, he could see bushes, trees and fences churning in the gale.

He stood up and glanced at his half-eaten dinner: a morsel of the new miller’s inedible bread and a handful of browning berries, which he had taken from the kitchen on Main Street to eat at home, desperate to escape the diners’ prying stares. He thought of forcing himself to eat the rest—he was going to need the strength—but couldn’t bring himself to take another bite.

Grunting with dissatisfaction, he picked up the plate and headed for the kitchen. In passing, his gaze settled on the gritty window—

There was a man standing on the other side of the glass, staring in at him.

Norman had time to observe his hooded face, the mouth and nose obscured by a neckerchief of mud-stained cloth. It was unmistakably the man who had escaped them: the silent man.

Norman jerked in shock. Panic pinched his heart. As every muscle in his body seized, the armchair took his feet out from under him, and he fell against the lamp stand. Once he had regained his balance, he blinked furiously, letting loose a wordless cry. Struggling over to the window, he slammed his hands flat against the glass and stared out into the night.

Each raindrop glittered as it fell past the window, catching the light of the fire. Wilted hedges fluttered in the wind. The paved drive was submerged beneath a deep puddle that stretched across the house’s width. The streets beyond were cloaked in blackness, on occasion thrown into sharp relief by distant cracks of lightning.

But there was no face to be seen on the other side of the glass.

He backed away, numb from head to toe. A tight knot had formed in his gut, tugging at his spine.

Had his mind been playing tricks on him?

It was possible. He was tired, and two days into a strict new diet. The rain could easily have caused him to take an amorphous collection of raindrops for a face.

But as the moments passed, his mind’s eye threw that fleeting glance back at him. The neckerchief, complete with spots of grime. The tendrils of dripping hair caught in the wind. Those wide, piercing eyes…

No, the man had been there. He was sure of it.

He shivered. Suddenly, he felt alone, trapped in his own home. The image behind his eyes was replaced by that of Ray’s dead body, bled out on the ground, open-mouthed and chalk-white.

His pulse quickened, thumping against his ribs and throbbing in his neck. He began panting as he backed away from the window, his mind reeling—

He yelled in fright as something solid met the front door with a resounding clatter.

A branch caught in the wind?
he thought.

Not likely
, answered a more primal part of his mind.

He looked from the window to the hallway, breathless. For a moment he considered running for the back door, but instead his feet began to carry him towards the source of the noise, as though independent of him.

His heart was now rattling at a feverish pace, and he could hear blood rushing in his ears. A surge of adrenaline sent his extremities trembling until, though they carried him towards the door, his legs yearned to run—to escape.

Hijacked by his own instincts, he shuffled past a pile of hardbacks, stepped over a stack of
In Search of Lost Time
—

Who the hell ever found time to read
that
shit, anyway?
cried a stray, half-hysterical voice in his head.

—and peered through the frosted glass panes set into the door. He could see two dark shapes looming from the night. When his hand was mere inches from the doorknob, he froze, gripped by apprehension.

What was he going to do? Confront a horde of murderous barbarians in his dressing gown?

He glanced around the darkened hallway for something to put between him and an attacker. Shadows danced under his gaze, throwing everything out of focus, but after long moments of frantic searching he spied a small collection of sawed-off sections of drainpipe nestled amongst the books. They had planned to restore central heating the previous year, but plans for that had been cut short when the crops had started to wilt.

He tore one up from the ground, bringing it to head height and bouncing it in his palm, testing its weight. There was silver insulation foam wrapped around most of its length, but the tip was exposed copper pipe, the rim sawn in a ragged line, almost like a maw full of serrated teeth.

The clatter rattled from the door again, and he saw the looming figures on the other side move closer to the glass, as though trying to peer in.

Now armed, Norman approached the handle once more, holding the pipe ready at shoulder height. “For God’s sake,” he muttered, steeling himself and tearing the door open, ready to strike.

“Jesus Christ!” a voice yelled, followed by a high-pitched shriek of terror.

Norman opened his eyes while the wind tore into the hallway and kicked up his hair. Allison and Richard’s shocked faces were staring back at him, half-cringed in the doorway. Norman blinked, then glanced at the piping held over his head, still ready to battle his imaginary foe.

He dropped his arm hurriedly to his side and threw the pipe back into the hallway. “Sorry,” he said. The two were alone, and by now their shock was being replaced by anger. “I thought I saw something.”

“So you try to kill us?” Allie shrieked, brushing past him and into the hallway. “My God, I’m soaked.”

Richard eyed Norman for a moment, still on the doorstep. “What was it?”

Norman glanced over Richard’s shoulder, seeing nothing but the overflowing puddle on his lawn. “Nothing,” he muttered, standing aside and gesturing him inside.

Richard shrugged and followed Allie, moving gingerly around the stacks of books and disappearing into the living room.

Norman took a last look around before closing the door. Though he saw nothing, the hairs on his neck stood to attention as he turned his back on the frosted glass. Despite his relief at seeing them, already his overriding sense was one of being intruded upon. It was as though a spell of the macabre had been prematurely interrupted, and was barely being kept at bay by the presence of his visitors.

He followed them into the living room and cleared a pile of Richard Matheson paperbacks from the tattered sofa, dusting it off for them. “Sorry about the mess,” he muttered, gathering his dressing gown tighter around his waist. “I wasn’t expecting anybody.”

“When do you ever?” Allie said, dropping down with an exhausted sigh and wringing out her dripping hair.

Norman watched them until they’d settled, then cleared his throat. “So, what is it?” he said.

They exchanged a glance. “We were just with Lucian,” Richard said. “He’s still pretty pissed.”

“Try obsessed,” Allie muttered.

Richard shrugged. “It’s not like him. He’s pushing for more sentries again. He’ll have half the city up on the rooftops before long.”

Norman nodded, forcing himself to chew on a few mottled berries. He sighed, looking at his hands. “I know.”

“We thought maybe you could talk to him…”