Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) (33 page)

The screaming carried for hundreds of yards in every direction. It permeated every wall, struck every ear, and echoed in the Old World’s darkest ruins. The rancid figure in Lucian’s grip had long since curled itself into a ball, desperate to prevent further injury. But that didn’t stop him dragging it along the street like a dog.

Each time its broken body impacted a stray cobble or scratched against the road, it would issue a groan or whimper. Its awful clothes, hanging in tatters, barely covered its body. None were recognisable as trousers, coat, or shirt, having been reduced to a single pall of filthy cloth.

Lucian grunted as he hauled the creature down Main Street, his fist closed around its neck. His short stature didn’t for a moment hinder his stride. His anger made up for lost height many times over.

Muted whispering passed between onlookers, but only for a few moments. With shocking rapidity their voices became louder, and then they began to yell with uncontained fury. The city’s bottled fury, which had for so many weeks boiled away in suppressed silence, burst from them like floodwaters through a broken dam. They yelled for family members to come quickly, hurling insults at the cowering figure, congratulating Lucian. Some simply released amorphous screams of raw anguish.

When each newcomer arrived and saw what Lucian held in his grasp, none questioned its origin. The conclusion that this creature was responsible for their woes and strife was reached unanimously. They had been waiting for a donkey on which to pin such a tail for countless weeks. This pile of rags was ripe for the pinning.

Dozens poured from nearby buildings, forming a mass in the middle of the street as Lucian approached. Their faces bore no sympathy for the creature’s unending screams. Yells soon became angry roars that reverberated amongst the backstreets, filling them with a ghostly, riotous din. People stepped forward, their arms outstretched, hands formed into tight fists. Some spat. Others sought to trample.

Lucian swept a glance around at them all and dropped the creature at their feet. He then walked away into the crowd without looking back, abandoning it to its fate. He didn’t take his gaze from the floor again until he’d reached the porch of a nearby cottage, from where he watched the scene unfold on the cobbled streets.

He was beyond feeling now. Beyond anger. He felt nothing but the dimmest satisfaction at the sight of the creature being swarmed by fists of fury.

The gathering was by now a hundred strong, and the rancorous racket was drawing more from across the city, even from the fields. The creature whimpered in the dying light, its cries now drowned out by the encroaching mob. It huddled against its knees, rocking back and forth on the ground.

But it was shown no mercy. A single kick from Sid Robeck—a stocky guardsman whom Lucian had sat beside on many an overnight watch; a quiet, amiable man, slow to anger—brought its head back with a snap. Blood spurted from a cracked lip. The back of its head made contact with the concrete with a sickening crack.

The crowd grew bolder at the sign of weakness, and approached the creature—which, now spread-eagled on the ground, no longer obscured by the pall of cloth, had taken the shape of a young man. Blurred limbs flew from every direction, swiping, kicking, and punching. A sharp scream rattled above the roar of their voices, but the crowd was heedless. The people had found their culprit—

“STOP!”

The new voice was no louder than any other, almost lost to the cacophonous ocean of furious bleating. However, those nearest to its owner froze, and immediately became quiet, their eyes growing wide and their bodies still. They regained their composure as what they were doing seemed to suddenly dawn upon them.

The silence spread exponentially. The crowd’s noise went from a deafening roar to an uneven hum in mere seconds.

Then, nothing. A hundred embarrassed pairs of eyes observed as many pairs of feet but, as though drawn by an irresistible, mysterious force, each gaze eventually settled on the voice’s owner: Alexander Cain, gaunt-faced, eyes ablaze, filling the town hall’s doorway.

The silence in the aftermath of the riotous outburst was deafening. People appeared unsure of what to do, or where to look.

Alexander stepped out into the street and walked towards the cowering young man, who shook as Alex approached, while his wild and bloodied eyes bulged in their sockets. Several of his teeth lay on the floor beside him in a pool of his own bodily fluids, and his left cheek was badly torn.

Alex crouched down beside him. He suspected that he was the first of the city folk to make eye contact.

The young man raised an arm to his face, ready to shield himself, but Alex took hold of his shuddering hand and slowly pushed it to the floor. Then he stood and looked around at the hundreds of furious faces.

A solid lump had settled in his throat. He sighed and forced a nod. “I haven’t been here,” he said. “I wasn’t here when you needed me.” He paused. “I can only beg your forgiveness. I’ve been…troubled. I know that all of you have been patient, that you’ve worked hard, that you’ve gone hungry. I know that I’ve failed you.”

He pointed down at the young man, and to his bleeding wounds. “But we are BETTER THAN THIS!” he bellowed. “We can never let this happen. We can never allow ourselves to fall this far. We can never BE this!”

Shame infected every face in sight. A thousand feet shuffled.

A faraway pigeon cooed. He gritted his teeth, determined to stay the course, but couldn’t help searching the rooftops for a bobbing silhouette. He pushed on despite himself. “We’re going to stay strong. We can get through this. I know that I haven’t been here when I should have. But from now on, I will be. I promise.”

Silence filled Main Street.

He swallowed. “We’re going to talk with this man.
Talk
with him. I want everybody back to the fields. We can be ready to reseed by the week’s end if we keep at it. We
can
get through this, but only together.”

He drew a long, calming breath, then crouched down once more and addressed the young man. “Who are you?”

The young man hesitated, his eyes darting from Alex to the mob. He seemed to weigh the danger of talking against that of being torn apart if he stayed quiet, and mumbled, “Charlie.” His missing teeth addled his words, but Alex could still make them out. “My name is Charlie.”

“Okay, Charlie. I need you to tell me where you came from.”

Charlie stiffened, clocked the crowd once more, and then sank back. “Manchester.”

“Who was with you?”

“Nobody. I—”

Alex cut him off with a sigh. “Charlie, don’t lie to me. If you spin a tale then the people behind me will kill you right here on this floor. But if you tell the truth, I promise that nobody will hurt you.”

Charlie looked horrified, his eyes darting into the crowd once more. He seemed to find no comfort amongst their faces, and swallowed audibly. “There were three of us. We were here to send a message.”

Alex nodded. “We’ve heard. This…Jason, he was with you?”

Charlie blinked. “Yes.”

Alex stood up, looking around at the others. He suspected that the crowd now consisted of over two-thirds of the city’s population, and more were still coming.

“Who brought him here?” he called.

There was a moment’s silence in which people looked around at each other, shrugging.

Then a call rang out. “I did.”

Alexander turned with the rest to see Lucian standing beneath a nearby doorway. His face was set and harsh, but his eyes remained placid. “I found him in the sewers. Leg was broken.”

Alex felt anger burn in his gut, but forced his expression to remain neutral.

Lucian came forwards without a word, parting the crowd in his wake, and crouched beside the young man. “Can you stand?”

Charlie shook his head. “Not a chance.”

Lucian and Alex grabbed him by the arms and lifted him to shoulder height. He groaned, making no effort to stand under his own power, and was half-dragged down the street. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, furious yet forlorn, as Charlie was taken away to the clinic.

“The sewers?” Norman said, frowning. He was ambling, but walking under his own power. Alexander’s emergence from hiding had been enough to get him standing.

Alexander nodded as they proceeded into the clinic with Allison in tow. “Lucian dragged him into the street and let the others tear at him for a while.”

Norman cursed. “Why would he do that?”

“To punish him. And me.”

Norman glanced to Allison, arching an eyebrow.

She merely shrugged.

He couldn’t help but notice that she no longer looked to him in the same way; no longer were her eyes expectant, but instead comfortable, almost complacent.

They entered the clinic’s back room and laid eyes on a filthy young man lying in the nearest bed.

Norman felt something stir in his gut at the sight of him, something unexplainable that tugged at his attention, but he couldn’t quite place it. He shook his head, and kept in step with Allie.

“Keep still, Charlie,” Heather said.

The young man screamed as she applied her fingers to his leg, squeezing hard. He tried to claw at her, to get away, but Lucian grabbed him by the shoulders and held him down.

“Stop moving.” Despite being no louder than a whisper, Lucian’s voice shook.

Charlie looked furious, his eyes red and his throat emitting a deep hum, but he lay back nevertheless and set his arms down on the mattress.

Norman limped to the bed, weary of being back in the clinic so soon. He looked over to his own bed in the corner, still unmade. The sheets were probably still warm. By the time he’d turned back to Charlie, a palpable tension filled the room.

Charlie was barely into his twenties, with a small torso and spindly arms. His eyes were deep-set in his ruined face, and his bloodstained neck was filthy with slicks of grime. Just like the men they’d hunted down after Ray’s murder.

Again, he felt a tingling at the back of his mind. But he couldn’t quite place it.

“How’s the leg?” Lucian muttered.

Charlie spat a tendril of saliva that landed upon the bridge of his nose.

Lucian hardly reacted. His arms remained crossed over his chest, and his eyes remained set. All that moved was in his mouth, which formed a strict, paper-white line. Several moments passed. Then, slowly, he took his left arm from its locked position and wiped away the spittle. A stifled sound rumbled in his throat, and he shifted slightly so that Charlie could see the rifle slung over his back.

Charlie turned away, his face strained and emotionless. Norman thought he saw a glimmer of fear in his eyes.

“There’s no way for me to be sure. But if I had to guess, I’d say he has a closed fracture on his left tibia,” Heather said. She locked eyes with Charlie. “Try to lie still. Don’t move until I can get you something for the pain.”

She moved up to the remains of Charlie’s face, turning his head left, then right. “Move your head in a circle.”

Charlie jerked his head in a haphazard, jagged motion, wincing. “It feels fine,” he grated. “My mouth hurts.”

Heather yanked his jaw down and stared into his mouth, clicking on a penlight. “You have a gash on your tongue and a few missing teeth.”

Charlie pushed her away, massaging his chin. “How many?”

“Four.” Her voice was cold.

She’ll treat him,
Norman thought.
He’s her patient. But she’s not happy about it.

He knew that she was strong enough to keep her urges at bay, above mindless spite. Yet he couldn’t help wondering whether she’d have been part of the mob on Main Street if she’d never taken the Hippocratic oath—whether any of them could have been, if they hadn’t had so many people looking to them.

It was frightening to think so. But he’d seen good people do things of late he would have thought beyond them a year ago, Lucian chief among them. It was almost as though he hadn’t really known some of them at all.

Alex sat down on the bed. The springs creaked under his weight. “We’ll take care of you,” he said, “but you’re going to tell us what we need to know.”

Charlie’s eyes grew as he bolted upright. He winced momentarily before speaking, slurred, “No!”

“You’ll talk or we'll throw you into the streets,” Lucian breathed.

“I can’t!”

Lucian’s face became an image of untainted fury. He ripped the rifle from his back and pushed the barrel against Charlie’s temple, his teeth bared and his eyes searing.

Norman and Heather moved to stop him, their wild cries blurred into a wordless groan.

Lucian ignored them. “Better yet,” he said slowly. “Instead of waiting for you to die of your own accord, I’ll tell everybody exactly who you are, and why you’re here. They’ll blow your brains right into the gutter.”

Charlie jerked. Tears burst from the corners of his eyes and his mouth fell ajar. His bleeding gums shone under the fluorescents. “Please!” he yelled, “I can’t tell you anything! I don’t know them!”

He raised his hands, pleading. “Please,” he whispered, “please. I met them just over a week ago. I was with my dad. He and I had been on the road for a few days, just looking for some food, like everybody else.”

He paused, staring around at them, his eyes darting from one to the other. Lastly, he turned to Lucian, and paused.

Norman held himself at the ready, ignoring the shooting ache in his chest, determined to lunge for the rifle if it came to that.

A muscle jumped in Lucian’s jaw. The crevasse on his brow brimmed with sweat, but after a final grunt he took the barrel of his rifle away from Charlie’s temple.

Charlie hesitated, but, under their watchful gaze, continued, “They came during the night. Put guns to our heads. Told us that we’d do whatever they told us, or we’d die right there…”

He looked to Lucian. “You people are just the same.”

“We’re not like them,” Alexander said, giving Lucian a stern glance. “Just continue, please.”

Charlie sighed. “One of them,” he muttered. “He didn’t speak all that much at first, but later—when he’d sent the others away—he gave us some kind of…recruitment pitch. He said he was gathering an army.”