This is Hiccup & Eleanor, book two of The White Age, which I will be releasing as a serial - with one chapter per week - over the coming months. You can also preorder the book here.
Book one, Absolution, is available for purchase on Amazon, or you can catch up here.
TW // sexual assault
i)
Hampshire, England
22nd August 2070
Zoë shivered in her cell as the morning sun splintered in through the window where steel bars were set precariously in concrete, preventing escape. Fucking England. The weather was worse than she had ever expected: gravely cold and relentlessly bitter. The rain was a cruel bitch and took great pleasure in saturating every inch of her clothing, her body, her soul. Damn this place and damn this war. The dew on the metal bars gathered in staccato bursts of movement as it ran down the rusting tubes to pool at their base. The pathetic, daily exertions of nature on the manmade cell did little to quench its desire to erode away to dust and ash; the walls ached for their end, just as Zoë did, time and time again. Freedom from this hell was all that she wanted but her longing for home had faded with time. Now death seemed as much a likelihood, or indeed a favourable outcome, as being allowed to leave the camp and fly back to America.
The true state of her home country was unknown. Whispers between soldiers had gathered like the dust and dirt of a broken England and formed a thick mud of tangled truths. Nobody knew anything. Letters from home were redacted or withheld entirely, and radio contact was limited to more and more sporadic updates on their duties and missions. Now they would hear once, maybe twice a month of the plans of the US army to strengthen their position, fortify their stronghold, or send out a scouting mission into the long-dead countryside. The latter was becoming increasingly rare, and Zoë had left the camp once in the last year: a fruitless task of circling the encampment’s perimeter and noting any potential areas of weakness.
She could feel a rising nonchalance in her bones, along with the ambivalence toward the war itself. Nothing matters anymore. There is no war to fight and probably nowhere left to call home.
“Your highness, you have been summoned.” A thick, grainy voice entered the room as the door of the cell squeaked open. Teddy Leech’s formidable frame blocked all of the burgeoning sunlight as he stood in the entrance. Zoë couldn't see but she was sure he was smiling, he was always fucking smiling, like some big, dopey clown. She rolled off the metal frame which was supposed to resemble a bed and stood with the fragility of an uncomfortable night trying and failing to get any sleep.
“Fuck off, Leech.” She had no time for his demeanour, least of all after a night in a cell. He chuckled and walked away, leaving the door open wide for her to follow. She wandered out and shielded her eyes from the bright sun. It always made her miss home when the sun was up, except it actually got hot in Houston. Whereas here the sun was just a mockery; a big gormless star that just stared down at them, offering no heat and a stark, unwelcome light.
ii)
Her cell was at the foot of The Shard, and she exited out into the deserted, post-breakfast mess area. Her stomach growled at the thought of food, but her strange surroundings became her main focus. It was the quiet; ghostly and dull. Nothing seemed to move. It were as though the earth had stopped turning during her night in the lockup. The usual, incessant noise of orders being shouted; or troops yelling while playing cards; or the clash of metal on metal as guns were cleaned and rebuilt with rigorous method. And the drumming had stopped. It stopped briefly while Matilda rested or ate, though it was never for long. She would soon return to the clearing and the drumming would recommence. Now the silence was all-purveying, which made bile creep up into Zoë’s throat and her eyes urgently scan her surroundings.
As she rounded the tower to face the runways and the rolling Hampshire hills in the absolute distance, she saw them. They were lined in severe rows, facing away from her in full uniform: all of her colleagues and fellow soldiers, sat in perfectly still lines of ten or more, as though they were guests at a wedding. Awaiting the bride. Awaiting her. This was not a wedding, Zoë knew, and she gulped down another wave of nausea as she approached.
There was a gap through the middle of the rows. The aisle. She walked toward it for a better vantage point and then she saw Leech, grinning like a court jester, urging her forward, down the aisle, leading to the front. No, no, no. Her mind raced. What the hell are they doing? This isn't fair. But her feet wouldn't stop their walk forward; she was hungry to know, to understand what was happening, to see it. Blood pumped in her neck.
She heard the whispering as she made her way through the ranks of soldiers. She caught their sideways glances, despite the harsh sun in her face. They were glaring at her, judging her, for what she had done and for what was about to come. She hated them and she hated herself. She never wanted this to happen. But it was too late, she had to do what she always did: grit her teeth and keep her head held high. “Chin first”. Her father used to say, when he was sober enough to care. “Walk into any situation chin first and you will have all of the power.” She needed all the power she could get, so she raised her head to the blaming sunshine of morning as she continued her march up the aisle towards her fate. His fate.
iii)
Liverpool, England
3rd October 2074
Zoë woke to see Roken at the window, rifle by his side and the thin, morning sun silhouetting him against the white wall. She felt refreshed; she hadn't slept in a proper bed for years and her body hummed with the ache of relaxation. She checked the side-table for her gun and picked it up. She was still putting a lot of faith in this man she had just met, and whom she had seen kill a comrade. Her behaviour was reckless, she knew that, but it was all she had left, a chance to get out of this place forever. Freedom: something she never thought she would have.
Roken glanced over and saw her stirring, quickly raising a finger for her to be still. His neck was craned; he was listening with intent for something outside. All feelings of positivity from the night she had had fell away and she was alert with fear again. She checked the magazine of her handgun and flicked off the safety. Roken stayed perfectly still for several minutes, and Zoë strained to hear anything at all. Silence.
“It's nothing. But we should probably get going.” Roken’s voice was gruff with fatigue but it soothed Zoë, nonetheless.
“Agreed.” She rose and they gathered their belongings, swiftly exiting the motel and returning to their vehicle. They scanned the car park with their weapons, checking for any sign of change or movement. But there was not a leaf out of place. This country really is deserted, she thought, hoping the rest of their journey would remain that way. Roken started the Jeep, and they pulled out and back onto the motorway, cutting a northerly path through the stark, abandoned remains of England. “How do you know the way?” She asked after a few minutes of silence. Roken frowned and stared at the road for a while and Zoë wondered if he would ignore her question entirely.
“This place is somewhere I have wanted to go many times, but I’ve never plucked up the courage to see it through.” Roken chewed his lip and Zoë wondered if he was going to cry.
“Why?”
“It’s my father’s old house. He’s been dead for a long time, but I’ve always wanted to see it. It’s silly.” Roken shook his head and forced a smile. Let’s move on, his expression said.
“No, it’s not.” Her voice was soft, and her memories of home came flooding back in a savage, unsolicited rush. Just the word father was like a stick of dynamite in her grey matter. “I’m sorry.” She said, though for what exactly she wasn’t quite sure.
iv)
Hampshire, England
22nd August 2070
“AH-TEN-SHUN!” The command was bellowed from the commanding officer, Jack Reynolds. He was visibly annoyed by the commotion Zoë’s entrance had caused and wanted his soldiers back in line, in silent focus at the coming events. “Private Tenga. You have been summoned for court-martial for your actions of August 19 2070 at the Mosquito-Basing Outpost of the 51st.” Shardbase, just call it Shardbase and dispose of the formalities. He was reading from a script and paused to look at her. He nodded to an empty chair at the front of the gathering, facing the wide-eyed crowd. She sat and stared right back. To her left stood five armed soldiers from the scouting core. They had seen the most action and were therefore the most adept with a gun in case one was required. She could try to run away but she wouldn't make it five steps before they drilled her full of bullets. She wondered briefly if it would hurt before her attention was refocused.
“You are charged with grievous bodily harm of a fellow soldier. How do you plead?” He read, paused, and fixed her with a steady gaze. She hadn't had too many dealings with Reynolds. He seemed largely harmless and had grown overweight in his sedentary role as commander of a useless army. The sun made his overgrown eyebrows glitter.
“Guilty, sir.” Zoë was pleased her voice didn't tremble or catch in her throat as she replied. The thought of a punishment hadn't really occurred to her until this point, until she professed her guilt out loud. This was no doubt a side-effect of her lack of remorse. She felt she had done no wrong. The crowd remained silent, and eyes flashed away as she returned their stares. Fucking cowards.
“Given the circumstances of your misdemeanour, and the fact you have already spent one night in a cell, we feel that one week half rations, and one month of latrine duty will suffice as punishment.” As soon as he had finished his sentence the crowd began muttering and headshaking and declaring their disappointment at the punishment. Somebody shouted something inaudible, the only word Zoë heard was “bitch”. Wow, these people really hate me. She bit her cheek to stop herself from grinning. “Enough!” Reynolds raised a hand as he shouted, and the silence was instantaneous. “If you have anything to say, I suggest you provide a letter of appeal to your commanding officer in the next ten days. Otherwise, I expect you to maintain order.” He spoke softly as perspiration began to punctuate his bulbous forehead. Nobody would appeal, or at least any appeals would go unheeded. It's the cowboys and criminals who run the Wild West, she thought.
As the crowd regained its composure, Zoë saw Matilda in the second row from the front. Her loose hair framed her face beautifully. Her eyes were unscowling and the corners of her mouth were upturned with the essence of a caring smile. Zoë had to look away before she smiled back at her. It was a relief that somebody here didn't hate her, or didn't think her to be a monster, at least.
“Now, the court summons Sergeant Keogh to the stand.” All pleasant thoughts of Matilda vanished as she heard his name. She could smell the stale cigarettes on his breath and feel the finger-shaped bruises on her forearms as he forced his tongue into her mouth. Her stomach roiled with the thought, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. There were murmurings throughout the crowd. Zoë’s panicked eyes searched for him as all of the muscles in her body tensed and her lungs felt tight; each breath was an urgent snatching of air. He appeared where Zoë had minutes before, a short distance from the start of the aisle. He must have been kept in a cell overnight as well, she realised, her blood curdling at the thought that he would have been right next to her. Of course he had, after what he had done, or tried to do, she just hadn't allowed the thought to germinate in her mind until now.
A soldier stood at each of his shoulders, their arms looped under his, chains bound his hands and feet. His face was grotesque: Zoë didn't realise quite how much damage she had done. She saw his left hand was heavily bandaged and remembered the sounds of crushing bone and receding sinew; the lifeless mound of flesh that succumbed to her onslaught. The hand that had grabbed her so callously became the focus of her raw, unhinged rage, and she slammed the door closed on it again and again. Her throat ached from the screaming. Her body throbbed with the memory of the hate, the absolute determination to destroy. Then he looked at her and smiled. She wanted to disappear, to dissipate into the morning mist which clung to the top of the tower. To be anywhere else was preferable to being in the presence of that look, that smile, that embodiment of evil.
His eyes didn't leave her face as he made his walk up the aisle. Reynolds stood by the lectern wringing his hands in front of him. Even he, a man of formidable stature and power, was nervous at the sight of the chained man. Keogh shuffled up to the lectern and turned his smile to Reynolds, a challenge. This was all a game to him, which only deepened Zoë’s discomfort. The crowd were now deathly silent as they waited for the next words to be spoken. To learn of the crime, though the majority would have already heard what had happened, and the inevitable punishment.
“Sergeant Keogh, you have been summoned for court-martial for your actions of August 19 2070 at the Mosquito-Basing Outpost of the 51st.” Again, the script was relayed with a succinct monotony, though the paper in Reynolds’ hands trembled as he spoke. “You are charged with grievous bodily harm and the attempted rape of a fellow soldier. How do you plead?” He refused to look up and meet the smiling eyes of the aggressor. The word ‘rape’ hung in the air and a few of the crowd shifted in their seats, including Zoë. Keogh turned to Zoë. It seemed as though his smile was a tattoo, unfading and relentless on his face.
“Guilty.” His voice was a mechanic rumble. A churning of metal. A cracking of granite.
“Well,” Reynolds shifted from foot to foot as a subconscious display of his hate for this situation. His face had reddened and the sweat on his brow now hung against the concept of gravity in a brazen display of defiance, “I have no choice but to sentence you to death by firing squad.” There was a stiffness in the crowd as the announcement was soaked in. Zoë held her breath. It was obvious, the only conclusion. He had cracked: the desolation, the radiation (Zoë recalled his toothless grin and the ease with which his hair came out in clumps in her protesting, wailing fists), the abandonment had got to him and driven him to attack Zoë while she slept. He was a danger to everyone in the camp, though they could not see that now. He had to go. A few years ago, he would have been escorted out of the base and left to his own devices, unarmed and unaided. It was the equivalent of being made to walk the plank. But now, it was considered more humane to end their life, and also the theatre of the firing squad added an extra, visceral layer of deterrence to the process. There were rumours abound that the death penalty would soon become outlawed again due to the negative effects it would be having on the soldiers. Like sending us out, unarmed and disowned, into that hell was any better. Become a drifter or face death. Zoë knew what she would prefer.
Zoë felt the heat of the judging stares as she sat alone on the stage. Keogh was well liked, and many must have thought her to be a guilty party to his actions. Perhaps she had led him on and then flipped out or cried rape to screw him over. The entire attack was seen by three witnesses who, between them, had dragged Zoë’s furious, screaming body away from his prostrate, whining form. They knew what he had done, or tried to do. Reynolds saw her bruises as well. Some of her colleagues would never believe it, but she didn't care. This monster is getting what he deserves.
He was dragged away by the guards at his sides, behind Reynolds and out towards the runways, next to Matilda’s worshipping circle. His smile was unfading, a symbol of his insanity, despite his sentence. He was dropped onto his knees and his head covered with a canvas hood. He was motionless. Zoë could imagine his permanent smile beneath the stained, brown material. The scouting team to her left walked around and faced him in a semicircle, weapons raised. Reynolds continued to face the crowd, who seemed collectively dumbstruck; he was unable to look. There was a pause. A rigid silence filled the air, and the firing squad exchanged confused glances; who is going to call it? When the fuck do we shoot.
“Zoë.” That was all Reynolds said, without looking up from the lectern. The crowd simmered, eyes drifting across to where she sat and then back to their leader. The commander unholstered his handgun, a grand, silver revolver, and held it out, butt first, towards her. Still, he could not make eye contact. Her throat was fit to burst, and she felt as though, even if she tried, she would be unable to walk. All she wanted to do was stand up, take the gun and blow his head off, but she couldn't move an inch.
Hundreds of eyes were on her and she felt her stomach churn with nerves, stage fright and self-consciousness. The strength woke within her after a few moments trepidation and she managed to find her feet. The metal of the gun was warm to her touch, and it was heavier than any handgun she had handled. She imagined how the recoil would feel and knew it was something for which she would have to prepare herself. The floor was soft from recent rain and her boots sank into its mass as she walked over to her attacker. The firing squad had stepped back, lowering their rifles, perplexed looks on their faces. Zoë couldn't look back at the crowd. Just knowing that they were there was enough to make the gun quiver in her hand as she held it out to face Keogh.
“Don't miss, princess.” His voice was enough to make every cell in her body tense and ripple with rage. Fuck you, she screamed inside and allowed her finger to curl around the trigger until she felt it tumble and click. The gun exploded in her hand and sent it flying up towards the now bright, morning sky. His body took the shot in the centre of his chest and buckled backwards into the dirt in a shower of red mist. It was both brutal and beautiful in its simplicity. Zoë dropped the gun on the ground and felt hot tears on her cheeks. How long have I been crying? She wondered. It felt like all she did was blink and then Matilda was there beside her. She took her hand and led her away, away from the stares and the death and the pain. And all Zoë could do for such a long time was cry.
v)
Northumberland, England
3rd October 2074
“There's been fighting here.” Roken’s voice slapped against the silence with cold simplicity. Zoë was snapped back into focus. Their vehicle was slowing on the motorway; streams of lush vegetation tore past on either side but gained clarity which each second that their momentum eased. The road ahead was scattered with cars and trucks, half burned out and cast askew. The automated lanes had become a snarled mess of autonomous pileups. In the distance, beyond a dense clutch of trees, smoke poured up into the sky in several columns of silver-grey mist, rendering against the soft, blue morning sky beyond. Roken didn't stop the car but weakened the throttle enough for them to cruise safely past the vehicles and debris in the road. Zoë felt her shoulders tense and instinctively reached for her gun.
“We need to get off this road.” She spoke firmly but knew it was unlikely she would be able to convince Roken her idea was better than his.
“We'd need to track back three miles. We don't have time.” He half-glanced at her, clenching his jaw as his eyes returned to the road. “We don't know the fighting was recent enough to cause us a problem. It might be nothing.”
“The fires look fresh to me.” Her voice failed to hide her fear and anger. Roken only grunted in response. The motorway curved around to the left of the wooded mass and plumes of smoke, easing their source into view. Six large craters punctuated a deep, rolling field. They varied in size, but all appeared to be from a similar, explosive source. Smoke poured from each of the charred, blackened impressions and coursed up into the sky with a liquid perpetuity; each seeming to want to outdo the others in their surging temerity, girth and height. The sky was darkened by their vastness.
“Airstrike?” Zoë asked quietly, speaking out loud.
“Maybe. But why?”
“It makes no sense.” Zoë gazed out of the window beyond Roken, straining her eyes to try to decipher what exactly had happened to cause the flames and the smoke. She was on high alert; eyes darting across the brown-green plains from blackened, burning pit to pillar of roiling smoke. Something isn’t right here. They both knew it. Roken had brought their vehicle down to only 20mph, despite the road having cleared now, just so they could survey the area more clearly. This is too dangerous, we need to move on, Zoë thought. The motorway ducked down below the raised fields they had been alongside and swerved tightly around to the right behind them, under a tall, curvaceous bridge slotted snugly into the faces of rock, which straddled their road. Roken increased his speed with the realisation that there was nothing left to see here and that they should make up some ground. Thirty seconds later, the motorway rose up towards the shining sky of morning. In the distance, hunched against the horizon, a sprawling, industrial town clawed at the thinning clouds with towers of long-dead concrete. Either side, hills rolled with an erratic freedom and energy in every direction. Zoë drew breath at its beauty.
The valley which had briefly encased them was now gone and Roken slowed as he saw an opening in the wooded area to their right. It was a dirt track and a car park, once a sight-seeing spot for forlorn travellers. But it was filled with cars that, unlike those which had been left rotting in the roads, were in a relatively good condition: unburnt and unbroken. Hundreds of cars spilled out of the shaded rest-stop and onto the motorway, forming a neat line along the hard shoulder, for as long as they could see. The sun balked off the metallic surfaces of the vehicles and made them glow.
“What is this place?” Roken had almost brought the car to a complete stop and Zoë tightened her grip on her pistol.
“Don’t stop.”
“There might be fuel cells.” Roken replied, his voice dazed as he stared at the motionless, abandoned congestion. The dial on the dashboard was already showing energy was at well below halfway and Zoë knew he was right, though it pained her to admit it.
“That’s exactly my point. It might be a trap.”
“We need to check. If we can find out what has happened here then we’ll know how much danger we’re in, and those vehicles don’t look like they’ve been touched by looters.” Roken swerved the car across a gap in the intersection, about two hundred feet past the swell of cars, and drove back the way they came at a cautious, steady speed. Zoë tensed every muscle, and her eyes scanned each car window they passed. She saw nothing, the vehicles seemed long abandoned. It’s not like me to be so scared. I shouldn’t have stayed at Shardbase for so long. The car came to a stop beside a blue autobus. It was overladen with piles of clothes and children’s toys.
The pair jumped out with guns poised; Zoë passed the rear of the blue Renault and found herself against the barrier at the motorway’s edge. Beyond it was a few feet of dusty rubble with a broken hubcap and a few rotting, plastic bottles, and beyond that the road fell away into a thick, wooded area. Somewhere deep inside the trees she could hear a stream. Roken remained on the roadside of the vehicle and began to walk up the patient queue of cars, keeping his body low and his gun half-raised before him. He checked each window: a McDonalds wrapper; an empty handbag; an empty packet of cigarettes. Zoë traced his movement on the other side of the cars. This is madness, she thought, nobody here will be alive. And if they are, they will not want us to be. She had a feeling that there was something else on Roken’s mind. He has a theory about the fires, or about why all these cars are here. There was something that he wasn’t telling her.
The opening of the car park was wide and inviting. The line of cars continued into its mouth and Roken and Zoë did the same. The air cooled quickly in the thick shade from the luscious trees, and it made them both shiver. Birds squawked in the rampant foliage above and crusted mud crunched underfoot as they walked steadily, side-by-side, into the rest-stop. Deteriorated signs showed only glimpses of the description they had once adorned and fragments of words could be seen through the wear of age: “Kielder”, “Northumb” and “Natio Par”. There was a sweet smell in the air which made the pair hesitate and share a glance. They were both familiar with the smells of burning flesh, given they were living in times of war, and there was no mistaking it was just that which made their noses twitch. That, along with the stench of sulphur, made Zoë gag.
They continued further into the over-filled car park, towards a squat, wooden hut built amongst the trees over on their right. They fanned out instinctively as they approached, their gun-arms tensing and the barrels rising up to a more appropriate height for a snapshot. The door was ajar, and Zoë was the first to reach it. She kicked it all the way open and took a big step inside, her gun snapping up to chest height and swinging from side to side as she scoped the room. The figure of an overweight woman sat slumped at a desk, clearly dead. Her skull bore the gaping wound of a single gunshot. Zoë lasted five seconds in the cabin before she burst outside and vomited onto the hard ground; the putrid stench of death was too much for her. Roken offered her only the briefest of glances and continued his search around the outside of the cabin, towards a footpath which continued into the overgrown wood.
A short way ahead, he stopped, staring out into a small clearing. Zoë caught up and stood to his right so she could see what had caught his attention. A felled log, ten feet in length, lay on its side against a larger tree. On top of it were piles and piles and toys, photos and familial miscellany. Teddy bears of varying size, colour and wear clambered over each other, against the rough back of the tree behind. The tower teetered slightly but held firm. A toy tractor had filled with rainwater and lurched onto the ground, next to a child’s dummy and a cracked photo frame holding a water-marked picture of a smiling family. There were also religious symbols: a Christian cross was nailed halfway up the tree behind, with a star of David hanging a foot below from string. Roken noticed a Qu’ran supporting a large photo frame. It was just as he had seen in the abandoned office a few days before; a makeshift effigy, created by seemingly disparate people, combining their stories into something to find a meaning. But why? It made Zoë feel uncomfortable, reminding her of a roadside memorial where piles of dead flowers would symbolise a recent death. It was a rare reminder of the human world in which they used to live, and not a fond one. She remembered the Bible and how it had felt in her hands, how precious and timeless it had seemed. How can something so profound have been wholly discarded by the masses? How can we have let this happen?
“Let’s keep going.” Roken walked off and Zoë followed after one last scan of the decorated log.
vi)
Hampshire, England
22nd August 2070
Zoë vomited onto the packed, dirt floor and sobbed. Matilda sat beside her in silence. They heard the clamour of the crowd dispersing, the unavoidable chatter of what had just occurred, the debriefing. Zoë wanted to die. She wished that Keogh had killed her and none of this had happened. She didn't know how she could come back from this. It wasn't the first person she had killed but she knew it would hurt the most. Regardless of what he had done, and whether or not he deserved it, she had executed a man. It had seemed like the most normal thing to do, as though picking out what to wear in the morning or choosing which coffee to buy at Starbucks. Kill this man who has wronged you. Is this what we have become? Have we become animals? We are all just monsters now.
“Don't shoulder all of the blame, Zoë.” Matilda spoke as though she had read Zoë’s mind. She turned to face her and met her soft smile. “Have faith.” She whispered. The word was incongruous, odd, and it seemed to be felt in the air between them, like turbulence on a plane. Faith, she spoke it in her mind, trying to feel its edges and grasp at its meaning. She felt like a Neanderthal teasing out rationality from something that was new, unknown, like a flame, or a storm. Faith. “God will forgive you, if you let him.” Zoë’s jaw went slack as she stared at the woman before her. She had not encountered a believer since she had left for war. There were those who clung onto their belief, but they were being flushed out and quietened. Those at war were averse to the notion of faith, they had to be. To fight for the new world for which they had longed, there had to be a quelling of all piety, a drowning of belief in an intangible other. Otherwise, it just didn't work. Also, it was made very clear that any overheard utterance which hinted at a religious belief would be met with the severest of punishment. Fear was enough to suppress all faith. At least for Zoë.
If anybody else had said these words to her, Zoë would have run away, through shock and also through fear of being caught sharing such a conversation. But this was Matilda. The dancing beauty. And it made some sense. Zoë couldn't act on it, she could only smile and appreciate the words spoken, their positive intention, their well-meaning. But she had to deny their truth. She hesitated a moment and then reached out and squeezed her hand. Matilda opened her mouth as though to speak but then closed it and looked down at the ground. Zoë felt a pang of guilt at her not retorting in kind, but she couldn't. It was too much to even think about, though she would every night for the rest for her life. Zoë rose and walked away, knowing that something would forever be broken between them. There would always be a force repelling them and knowing that hurt her more than she thought possible. But it is the only way. She entered the morning sun, now high in the clear, blue sky, and returned to face her punishment.
vii)
Northumberland, England
3rd October 2074
The moisture, which oozed from the thick foliage surrounding them, was cloying; it seemed to suck at their skin as though hungry to propagate with their perspiration. Zoë could taste vomit in her throat and felt a growing sense of dread as she scanned every shadowed corner of the wooded area. Why are we here? What are we possibly going to achieve? She looked at Roken and he had taken on a new guise; he seemed captivated by the place, enamoured with the thick, natural beauty of the ancient, rising trees and the opaque canopy which loomed overhead. Invisible birds chattered high above them; the place hummed with life.
Light began to intensify as they approached an opening on the far side of the wood. It coursed in at a sharp angle and shone brightly against the vibrant browns and greens, giving it the feel of an aquarium, a microcosm of life and beauty. Walking into the light, their eyes had to adjust to the renewed, morning brightness.
They were out in a rolling field, the same field they had passed in the truck. Interrupted by deep, burning divots of broiling steam and smoke; it ran from the motorway on their right, down to the distant horizon on their left. On the far side, roughly a mile away, another thick forest stood, like a reflection of their own.
“Oh my…” Zoë trailed off as she stared open-mouthed at the vast, stunning scene. All fear trailed away to be replaced by awe. The smoking pits were more numerous than those they had seen from the road. They spanned the acres of grass, as far as they could see. A greying gas hissed from each of them, varying in thickness but consistently viscous. It was lifelike in its turbulence as it rose, twisted, gathered and then went searching for the sky. This is from no air-strike. The ground is on fire. She glanced at Roken and saw a look of awe on his open-mouthed face. It was childish, sincere, and a portrait of a person she had never met before.
“It's a thing of beauty, eh?” A gruff voice came from behind them. They had let their guard down; assumed that nobody was here. Their guns shot up from their sides simultaneously as they spun to face the voice. A man in a long, weathered, black jacket stood facing them, a shovel in his hand. He raised his hands slowly in a tentative gesture of meaning no harm and produced a toothy smile. “Woah. I’m not gonna hurt ya.” He let out a half-chuckle as he spoke, this human was a juxtaposition to the war which surrounded them and Zoë’s grip on her gun softened.
“Are you alone?” Roken had not dropped his weapon, even slightly, and his voice was its usual, stern self.
“Aye, I am indeed, sir.” The man’s smile faded, and he shook his head, “it’s been three long winters since I last seen another soul.” They stood there in silence for a few moments, just listening to the wind whistling lightly through the treetops high above, before the man spoke again. “My name is Eddy. Can I get you some tea?” The smile reappeared, along with two ragged rows of teeth, and Roken, after one final glance over each shoulder, lowered his gun.
“Yes. Tea would be nice.” Roken met Zoë’s quizzical look with a quick shrug, and they followed, a surprisingly sprightly, Eddy back along the line of the trees.
“Follow me then. There should be a pot just boiled if I’m not wrong.” His stride was clumsy and stunted, a product of age and probably injury, but not slow. Zoë and Roken had to maintain a steady pace to keep up with him, as he followed the line of the trees around to the left. The smell of sulphur from the burning ground grew stronger and then faded as they moved under the trees towards another squat cabin, smaller than the last.
“This is a mistake.” Zoë whispered to Roken who offered nothing in response but a shake of the head. He’s lost his fucking mind, she thought.
viii)
“How’s the tea?” Eddy said over the cup he clasped close to his mouth with both hands, “sorry there’s not fresh milk. The cow’s all died in the first winter of my being here. My guess it was the stench in the air that done for them, not just the bleedin’ cold.” His eyes darted from one of them to the next, insistent on them listening, and knowing what he had to say. Three years all alone, Zoë thought, no wonder he is cracking at the edges. Just like the rest of us. His ruddy face was lined with grief, pain and a lifetime of smoking. Thin, grey hair clung to his head and danced in the breeze that occasionally ran though their clearing. Despite his obvious age he was broad of shoulder and bright of mind.
“The tea is great. Thank you.” Zoë said as she slurped at the too-hot sweet tea.
“Blow me over; you’re an American?!” He slapped his leg and laughed. “I’ve never met an American before. How perfect! You can have another cup of tea for saving my country!” He re-filled the kettle from a water butt beside his cabin and returned it to the stove, which hissed into life, all the while still chuckling at the revelation. “I suppose you are as well?” He cocked his head to the side as he squinted at Roken, playfully.
“Iceland.” Roken said quietly, as though anticipating another over-reaction.
Eddy exhaled out his nose as he rocked back on his camp chair to look at the canopy above. His shoulder started to jump up and down as he chuckled to himself. After his moment of mirth, he rolled back with a beaming smile to face them both. “What a day this is becoming. The last two people I may ever meet are an American, and an Icelander.” He fumbled with the last word in his mouth, unsure of its correctness. “What can I call you exotic creatures?”
“I’m Zoë.” Eddy’s spirits were infectious, and she couldn’t help but drop her concerns and smile; for the first time in a long time, she was enjoying some human contact. Roken flashed her a glance, questioning her choice to divulge that information, but she just smiled back and raised her eyebrows: your turn.
“Roken.”
“Lovely. Both of them. As I said, my name is Eddy. Not anywhere near as exciting a name as yours both, but it has served me okay. Was Edward but nobody called me that since my Ma passed fifty years back, before the war, if you believe me.” He eagerness to speak was tangible and refreshing as he rambled on without restraint. Zoë couldn’t help her grin now as the words tumbled from him after an extended period of loneliness. Even Roken’s expression had softened somewhat, she noticed, though his left hand still rested lightly on the butt of his rifle beside him.
“Thank you. And the tea really is lovely.” Zoë said between hungry sips. The taste of the sugar set her mouth alight, a previous mainstay of her diet was like a brand-new flavour which sent all of her tastebuds glistening happily.
“Oh, that’s no problem, pet, you’re a guest of mine and I’ll guess you’ve travelled far. Nobody comes this far north anymore; the fighting is all in the south.” He nodded at Roken’s gun which made its owner flinch and tighten his grip a fraction. “Have we won yet?” They didn't know how to respond, and so neither did. There wasn't a straightforward answer that Eddy wanted, certainly not the one his smiling face anticipated as he looked from one of them to the other, expectantly. “Okay, say no more.” He raised his hands, and his smile faded as he stood. “It's a world away from me anyways, I don't need to worry my old self about such drama. This is my life,” he gestured with arms wide at the scene around him, “just me and two dozen burning holes in the ground. Ha!” He laughed a crazed laugh as he stood, swaying slightly on his old legs.
“Is that your doing?” Roken asked, snapping Eddy from his reverie.
“The holes?” Eddy sat back down with a thud and stared wide eyed at Roken. His face was set, his eyes stern as he gazed at him. Zoë felt the air cool, and the two men tense in the momentary silence; all joviality was sucked from the atmosphere, and they were left with just birdsong and the light rustling of leaves high above. Eddy’s face slowly, to Zoë’s relief, cracked into a smile and then he began to laugh. Roken exhaled and Zoë smiled nervously as Eddy began to cackle loudly. He hasn't escaped the madness entirely, she thought, seeing his wide, white laughing eyes. It took a while for him to compose himself before he could continue, “no, sir. The holes are not made from man, they're born from the earth.”
“They're natural?” Roken leaned forward, his brow furrowed.
“As natural as volcanoes in England can be!” Eddy’s grin was all brown, crowded teeth, “I’m no scientist, but I know that England shouldn't be having any volcanoes. That's why the people went crazy about ‘em. Said they was a gift from God and suchlike. Drove half the North insane.”
“They're not just here?” Zoë asked, a calm voice hiding her concern.
“By all accounts, there are thousands, both east and west of here, from sea to shining, steaming sea. It makes no sense, I know, with the plates and the lines and what have you. But it's happened. And the quakes are huge too. Maybe old Mother Nature is fighting her own little war,” He stood and rubbed his hands together, “more tea, pet?”
“Earthquakes?” Zoë asked, as Eddy replenished their cups.
“Yep. You not felt one yet? Well, that’s something to look forward to! They’re a real, heavy treat three or four times a week. Really keep you on your toes.” Roken and Zoë fell back into a silence as they tried to digest the information being thrown their way. Matilda had spoken to Zoë about Earth detaching from humanity. It was part of what drove her to perform, to try and rebuild that relationship, somehow, she believed it would work. She had said Earth was “dismayed” and “crumbling” though they had never experienced anything like what Eddy had described. Zoë took it all with a pinch of salt, seeing it as a means of passing the time, of involving a large group in something more spiritual than the mundane day-to-day of barrack life. Without religion, this was all that remained.
“In the woods. We saw a kind of shrine. A memorial? What is that?” Roken asked, fixing Eddy with a stare. Eddy looked back blankly and blinked, as though lost in thought.
“People came here in their droves, not too long ago. To look into the fires. To see the beating heart of the world. To pay their respects. It was a kind of worshipping. Hell, that’s why I’m here.”
“I don’t understand.” Zoë interjected. Roken’s face was set as he listened.
“People saw them as a symbol. Like a message from God. Though nobody would say that out loud. So, families would come here and look at them. First a handful of them, then tens, and hundreds, until this whole field was filled with them. In tents and makeshift shelters, they lived here a while. Just mesmerised by the holes in the ground. Like moths to fire. They wanted it so bad.” Eddy’s face dropped to the ground, there was no hint of his smile anymore. Zoë looked at Roken, but his face betrayed nothing; he always seemed a step ahead of her in his ability to fill in the gaps, or to anticipate what was coming. “I don’t know who jumped in first, but once they did, it was like a domino effect. There was a shortage of food, no sign of help from elsewhere, diseases were building up. People were terrified. And these flaming holes offered some sort of answer.”
“No.” Zoë felt nauseous at the thought. This cannot be possible. Eddy gave her a furtive glance before continuing.
“Mothers jumped in with their babes in their arms. Whole families jumped in, hand-in-hand. Within a couple of days, only a handful of people remained here. Some couldn’t get together the courage to make the leap, so they killed themselves in their tents, or hung themselves in the woods.
“I was one of the last. One of the weak-minded that could manage none of the above. So, I cleaned up. I built that effigy from what I found left behind; a reminder of what had happened here. I threw everything else into the flames, including the bodies that were left behind. I felt like that was my duty. I came here for a reason, I didn’t get blessed with the balls to throw myself in, but I could help those that did get to where they wanted to go.” Tears had gathered in his eyes as his voice croaked to a stop. Roken hadn’t flinched and Zoë stared up at the sky; baffled, lost. This isn’t real. This can’t have happened.
“Why didn’t they wait? Help would have come.” Zoë asked with a shaking voice.
“They had waited for years and nothing had happened. The Americans came and helped, but there weren’t enough of them. And they were all down in the South. We started to hear rumours that they weren’t coming back, and people gave up all hope. You two are the first living souls I’ve seen in months, so maybe they were right to?”
“I don’t know anymore.” Zoë put her head in her hands, partly through sadness, but also through guilt. Why hadn’t more help come? Why were these people left with this as their only option? Or to go mad enough for that to seem the case?
“We saw a body, in the cabin on the path.” Roken’s voice was grave as he spoke.
“Oh, that’s Barbara.” Eddy’s mouth flickered into a half-smile as he remembered. “She was one of the last to go. Couldn’t bring herself to do it. I tried to move her after, but she’s too damn heavy. And that smell.” His face creased up with the memory.
“We can help you.” Roken stated, as though it were changing a tyre, or mowing the lawn.
“You sure about that?” Eddy said after hesitating. Roken nodded once and Zoë gulped.
ix)
Roken and Zoë helped Eddy carry the rigid corpse of Barbara out of the cabin where they laid her on a bedsheet on the floor. They wrapped her tightly, as though swaddling her bloodied, bloated form; each working in silence as they tried to work without looking at the gaping hole in her head or taking a breath through their noses. Once wrapped, they lifted her up; Zoë at her feet, Roken at the head, and Eddy to one side, and walked her over to the nearest hole. It was their first close-up look at one of the volcanoes Eddy had spoken about and, once they lay down the corpse, they peered inside, awestruck. A churning, molten core winked red, yellow and black, metres below the surface of the ground. The grass at the edge was blackened and curled into charred, black fingers and the stench of sulphur clung to the back of their throats. The noise of earthly churning deep below them and the tremble of the ground beneath their feet was overwhelming; Roken felt a wave of seasickness as they stood on the precipice of hell.
Zoë couldn’t help but stare into the abyss, its unceasing beauty was captivating, enthralling. Her eyes hurt with the brightness of the churning, liquid rock and her throat stung from the endless stream of sulphur which poured out and up at her face. She saw Matilda, dancing in her controlled, dissonant way, as though she were fire; the fire that was trying to burst out from the mantle of the precious Earth.
“On three.” Eddy’s voice was firm and rattled the pair back to their duty; he understood the thrill of the below and he knew the hold it could take on people. They exchanged a quick, knowing glance of sober understanding and then grasped the body between them. It was lighter now, with the knowledge of where it was bound; somehow it was easier to carry a corpse when it was on the final moments of its journey into a place of absolution. They lifted and swung and then released Barbara. She twisted into the puckered mouth of the Earth, curving into a dive of measured control and precision. A lick of material grazed the edge and immediately blackened as flames coursed from it, spreading along the length of the dead body in a sulphuric breath. The white sheet vanished beneath a rapturous cloak of yellow, orange, red and white fire, before disappearing entirely behind a blinding flash of wet, hot flame. The three of them backed from the space as hungry, burning tendrils leapt up and out of the hole, reaching several feet in the air and sending a wave of heat into the mild, afternoon air.
x)
“Thank you both for your help. I felt as though I could not complete what I had started, and you have allowed me to get that done. I can rest easy now.” Eddy shook their hands. His smile was gone and there was less pretence now, as though he could relax into the person he really was, who he was really meant to be.
“What are you to do now?” Zoë felt as though she knew what the answer was, at least eventually, though the question ran from her before she could restrain it.
“I will stay here. Maybe more will come, maybe they won’t. Maybe the world will end, maybe it won’t. I will drink some more tea and watch over those that have passed on to the Earth. Until I deign to join them.” His half-smile was complete; unabashed and succinct. This was his choice, and they had granted him a chance to see it through to its resolution. Zoë hugged him tightly and he laughed. “Be gone, the pair of you! And God speed.”
xi)
After retrieving three full fuel cells from the cars that had marked their entrance, in silence they began driving North once again. The sun was trailing away behind some hills to the West, and they could see tendrils of metallic, grey smoke oozing up towards the sky against the low rays and below the oily clouds. It’s going to rain, Zoë thought, but it will need a hell of a downpour to put out those fires that are sprouting from the earth.