Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) (42 page)

The skyscrapers rose like sheer cliffs above the superstructure of London, imposing and darkened, for the most part as abandoned and dead as the surrounding city. Save for one.

One Canada Square, a pyramid-capped obelisk of stainless steel and glass, rose fifty storeys into the sky, reaching for the heavens. On some days it even punctured the clouds. Visible for thirty miles, its walls remained strong, and after forty years of neglect and punishment it sported only a vague weathering. The perfect beacon with which to draw wandering traders, intrepid explorers, and lonely travellers.

The tower was aglow with blue artificial light, throwing a ghostly shadow upon the crumbling remains of the surrounding capital. The blackened waters of the Thames were painted with reflections of the glittering spire and the decks of wizened ships lining the quays.

The sight brought Norman ultimate relief. The darkness of London had been a harrowing gauntlet; the tall buildings had blocked out the starlight, leaving him near blind, save for the convoy’s few scattered lamps. The sound of hooves upon broken tarmac filled his ears as the light of the tower drew the procession from the darkness.

He rubbed his chest, desperate to keep straight upon his saddle. Glancing around warily, he scanned the kerbs and alleyways, his flesh crawling. Alexander rode alongside him, his gaze locked fast upon the tower. He had spoken little since Lucian had broken off with the majority of the security detail.

The convoy was quiet, calmed by the twinkling jewel ahead, now no more than a quarter of a mile away. The surrounding streets were blackened voids, with only the very outlines of town houses, corner shops and office buildings identifiable. All other detail was lost in a black haze. Anything beyond the dim glow of their lamps would have been invisible.

The light emanating from the tower’s base was cut off by an intervening object as they approached: a black wall running perpendicular to their course.

Norman flinched as the convoy was engulfed by an intense beam of light. The halogen glare pooled upon the tarmac and sent them all scrambling for shade.

A deafening voice boomed in the night, amplified by a loudspeaker, commanding and agitated. “
Stop!
”

Norman groaned, squinting. His eyes were met only by brilliant whiteness, excluding all objects from view, rendering him blind and half-deaf for the second time in a day. He sensed Alex stir beside him, then the clatter of his white horse’s hooves upon tarmac, moving ahead of the cowering travellers.

“The convoy,” Alex called, “the convoy from Canterbury.”

For a short time there was no reaction, and then the light vanished with a reverberating clatter, revealing the compound before them. The black wall was relatively new, solid concrete, fifteen feet high and at least three feet thick. Atop it, a hundred pairs of eyes watched them, brimming with suspicion.

They had reached the outer perimeter of the London camp, the central trading hub and seat of political might for all that remained of the land’s civilised peoples.

The wall marked the edge of their territory, running the length of a sizeable chunk of the Isle of Dogs, enclosing an area of over half a square mile. Upon a raised metallic catwalk, stationed guards held steady, all wielding deadly looking automatic rifles.

As his vision adjusted, he saw their suspicion wane. They lowered their weapons, calling out to one other. The floodlight that had been shut off was replaced by small secondary lights mounted along the wall’s edge.

The convoy stood silent in the night, waiting to be granted access.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come,” said a voice in the gloom.

Norman turned and squinted until Allison’s figure resolved from the shadows. The whites of her eyes were aglow, wide and afraid. Several smaller pairs of eyes hovered close to her side—children’s eyes. “I knew something bad would happen. It’s my fault. I jinxed us.”

She paused, and her voice grew thinner. “Do you think they’ll let us in?”

Norman glanced at the wall, and then back to her. “They’ll let us in. And no, you didn’t jinx us.”

“You’re sure?”

“You should know.”

“I’ve only lived in New Canterbury two years.” She tittered. “Country girl, through and through. I’m just useless… I shouldn’t have come.”

Norman looked to the young, wide eyes around her. He now saw that she held them all close, bundled against her waist. Even a few elderly folk had crowded close around her. They were
looking
to her, just as they had looked to Alexander. Just as they had looked to
him
.

While her voice wavered and her eyes flickered, she stood strong, braced against the night.

“You’re not useless,” he said—

Not anymore
, uttered a stray voice in his head.

—and looked to the wall once more. “They’ll let us in. No question about it.”

Here, the name Canterbury was as revered as Alexander’s. Here, they were all prophets.

The loudspeaker boomed again, and the same deep voice rang out. “Open the gate.”

An electronic buzzer sounded, followed by a resounding
clunk
. Norman perceived movement beneath the catwalk, and a brilliant halogen light filtered through a central crack that appeared in the wall. Its width slowly increased until the iron doors of a twenty-foot gate became visible.

Above the gateway, the armed men beckoned them, now docile as lambs, almost ignoring their presence. Their eyes were trained back on the surrounding darkness, braced to strike, as though hawks perched upon a cliff edge.

Alexander rode onwards as a man appeared at the gate’s threshold, walking out to meet them. After a moment’s uncertainty, reins cracked, horses snuffled, wagon wheels creaked, and the streets were once again filled with the sound of footsteps.

The convoy was waved to the left, stretching through the gate and around a tight corner. Norman lagged behind a short distance, ensuring that everybody had passed through before he did so himself.

Then the gate was behind him, and he’d entered the camp. With the imposing wall now gone from view, Canary Wharf was revealed in full. Many behemoth towers stood stoic amidst the blackness, but only theirs flickered with so many thousands of twinkling lights.

Halogen lamps had been erected across the courtyard beyond the gate, set atop the tips of long poles trailing thick, ugly cables. The light they cast was white and unflattering, yet clean and comforting.

Around fifty people milled in the courtyard at the foot of the tower. At the sight of the convoy, they all rushed forwards with enthusiasm, smiling and greeting the newcomers with open arms.

Yet the smile burgeoning on Norman’s face and the warmth buzzing around his heart were quelled almost as soon as they’d arrived by another noise, one altogether more unpleasant.

“What do you mean you’ve lost power?” said a voice, high-pitched with outrage.

Norman turned to see Alexander and a man who stood upon the gate’s threshold, locked in conversation. He peeled away from the wagons and paused a few feet from them, waiting in silence.

“There was some kind of explosion,” Alexander said. “McKay took most of our security detail to see what it was about.”

The man stepped into the light, his arm flung in the air, fists bunched with rage. His wizened face creased into an angry grimace and he cursed profusely. Norman cringed when he recognised him: Marek Johnson.

Marek was, to Norman’s knowledge, the only person to supersede Lucian in the arts of being stubborn, short-tempered, and uncouth.

“You mean to tell me that you brought all these people here without security?” he bellowed. “We told you to stay together at all costs, Alexander.”

Norman found himself, as usual, disturbed by Marek's lack of respect. Most didn’t dare even meet Alexander’s gaze. Raising one’s voice to him was unthinkable to all but a precious handful.

But Marek knew no bounds. His ruthlessness was his saving grace—instilling a steady peace in even the most skittish of men—yet such blatant disregard had never sat right with Norman.

However, he kept quiet, merely listening.

“I remember,” Alex answered in a clipped, testy voice. “But I thought it best to think.”

“
Don't…talk…like…that…to me
,” Marek growled, his face growing puce. “You should have kept them with you until you got here.”

“So far as he could see it, leaving eight hundred people in the dark was more of a risk than the forty of us chancing it in full daylight. And, judging by your remarks, I assume you’ve discovered some way by which Lucian can be made to
listen
to anybody other than himself?”

Marek didn’t answer, stalking forwards, teeth bared.

“Canterbury is going to be in dire need of assistance without the turbines,” Alexander said. “We need to send help as soon as possible.”

Marek nodded, flapping his hands. “Of course they will.” He fumed. “This shouldn’t have happened. We can’t afford to lose you.” He glanced to Alexander, then Norman. “Especially you.”

Then his eyes softened. He blinked and took a deep breath, as though for strength. Then his shoulders dipped and, with evident difficulty, he said, “Truth is you’re lucky to be alive.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they’re here, Alexander. Here, in the city. They’ve been going around the outer settlements, burning them to the ground, absorbing anyone who’ll bow down. We tried to send word not to come, but our scouting parties were gunned down before they made it a mile past the wall. I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s no way in hell you should have made it here.” He looked around at them all. “You should be dead.”

“What about the radio transmission you intercepted?”

“I haven’t heard anything. To be honest, I haven’t given it a thought. This summit isn’t about that anymore. It’s about how we’re going to survive, because right now, we’re being exterminated.”

Alex scratched his head, his eyes darted to and fro. “Have the other council members arrived?”

“You’re the first. And I wouldn’t hold your breath for any more. Even if some smell a rat and hole up, it could be days before they get here. The rest…”

“We don’t have days! We’re on the clock, Marek.”

“Tell it to Evie. I’m up to my eyeballs with security.” He paused. “It’s good to see you.”

Then his gruff barrier shot up once more, and his mouth drew into its signature crooked line. He pointed towards a large group of shacks, lean-to shelters and storage tents. “We’ll wait for your security detail first. We’ll chance making it back to Canterbury, but there’s no way I’m going anywhere in the dark. The new stables are over there.”

Alex said no more, and led his horse away. Frightened glances lanced in all directions, then one by one people filed away into the night.

Norman remained alone in the gloom for some time before following.

It was quiet.

Norman had tried to sleep, but had given up fast. While most—including Alexander—had bedded down immediately to be ready at first light, John and Richard had insisted on a midnight game of chess, desperate to retreat into abstraction. So many real-world dangers had been too much for them.

Norman had only been able to bear so many of Richard’s frustrated grunts and John’s bored utterances of “Checkmate.”

It had been minutes before he’d crawled from his bunk, donned his coat, and set to prowling the catwalk outside. At so late an hour, even the perimeter guards had thinned in number. Only a few heavyset veterans still patrolled the floodlit catwalk.

He drew his coat closer around his body in the midnight chill. The journey had taken its toll. His tired eyes worked with difficulty, as though old machinery in need of oiling. His body had been worn ragged. It felt sluggish, abound with aches and pains.

From here he looked directly across the Thames. The ghostly ripples of the black water reflected the tower’s pale blue halo, cut into which was the undulating profile of his own body. The buildings on the far side were long ruined, their roofs fallen, and their walls crumbled. Some of the older and sturdier specimens were still standing, but they had nevertheless failed to escape extreme dilapidation. The streets were buried beneath lank vegetation, which snaked around millions of rotted briefcases, handbags, earrings, and rusted smartphones. The carpet of clothing that had blanketed London during the Early Years had decomposed, leaving behind a dark crust that stained the tarmac.

No signs of habitation were visible in any direction.

He started as a series of voices rang out from afar, accompanied by the clanking of boots upon metal. He turned to see the blinding searchlights flicker to life above the main gate.

A trio of guards had congregated there, their weapons trained on the ground beyond the wall. They turned and called to others upon the far-side catwalk.

Norman made for the nearest staircase. As he reached the ground he saw Marek’s silhouette appear from an outbuilding not far from the gate. He ran with a loping gait, his shirt hanging from his shoulders as he tried to pull it on mid-stride.

Norman jerked when the buzzer sounded, immediately followed by the deep, metallic clanking of the gates. As they swung open, the guards overhead relaxed.