Fiction

9. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

Without really thinking about it, I’d already walked most of the way to the pub. I shuffle in and collapse into a corner seat with the bag on the chair beside me. The big clock above the bar says it’s only quarter to ten in the morning. I realise that I don’t even know what day it is. Hell, I don’t know who I am.

I notice one of the staff watching me. Are they seeing my dishevelled appearance and bag of possessions and judging me as the homeless nobody that I am? Or are they familiar with me and the shitshow that is my life? I guess that despite everything, I have made this place my homebase. I try to mix it up, but I always end up back here. They probably do pity me. I’m just another of the miserable old pissheads but without the excuses that they at least boast.

I smile at them and make a show of pretending to text someone. I don’t have any data on my phone so I’m forced to just sit and wait for salvation. When your guardian angel is a chubby dwarf who lives with his grandparents it really puts your own life into perspective.

I spot Corgi at the bar and I’m ashamed how relieved I feel. He waddles over with two ciders and plops down opposite me. He slides one across then interlocks his fingers as he studies me with dramatic scrutiny.

“This is Doctor Wolff sitting down with patient number six. So, my files suggest that you suffer with delusions of self-grandeur, fueled by excessive use of alcohol. I’ve interviewed several acquaintances of yours and the common theme of their statements are, and I quote, “He’s an utter bastard”. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I didn’t know they did apprenticeships for psychiatrists. If it’s anything like the sparky one then I wouldn’t trust you to diagnose a dead cat as being a little under the weather.”

“I don’t think psychiatrists deal with dead cats, to be fair.”

“Was Shrodinger a psychiatrist?”

“Was the cat dead?”

I shrug. The cider stands a few inches from my hand. I stare into the pissy depths, looking for answers. The sight of it turns my stomach. I’ve drank too much the last few days, and it’s caused far too many problems. I don’t want to drink. So of course I do. Corgi hasn’t touched his. I wonder if he even drinks if I’m not around. Maybe he’s just another person I’m pulling down with me.

“What happened?” he asks after a contemplative silence between us.

“I don’t know. Everything’s a little fuzzy. Pete was being a dick like usual. He fucked everything up. I was pissed, and then something happened. I wanted to celebrate, so I might have had a few glasses from Steph’s personal stash. Then I wake up with my room gutted and Steph refusing to look at me.”

“Wait, so Pete was in your face like usual, then you wanted to celebrate?”

I think about it. Between the alcohol and all the emotional bullshit, I’m finding it hard to fish the memories from the abyss of my mind. There was a pretty girl. She stands out like a beacon. Why did she stand out so much in my memories?

“The scratchcard!” I say aloud as the memory clicks into place. Corgi stares at me blankly.

“I went to the shops and this cool chick bought me a scratchcard. It was a winning ticket! Fifty grand! Fuck! I put it in a bottle but Steph had cleared my room out by the time I woke up. How did I forget that?”

I punch myself in the face. People from the nearby tables stare at me. I bare my teeth at them and most look away. 

“Corgi, that’s it! I just need to find that card and all my problems disappear. Steph probably threw the bottle away, so I just have to dig through the brown bin, find it, and I have a lovely £50k pumped into my account. I don’t even have to talk to her.”

“Are you sure you didn’t dream this? A pretty girl giving you a winning scratchcard hours before you get kicked out of your home seems a little unbelievable.”

I neck the cider and stand up. “We have a mission. This scratchcard is the single most important thing in the world right now, okay? We head to Steph’s, grab the bottle, then get the hell out of Dodge.”

“It’s your sister’s bin, not Fort Knox.”

“Are you in?”

Corgi sighs and starts to sip his drink. “Sure. It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

I impatiently wait for Corgi to finish. I know the brown bin isn’t due for collection, but I still feel tense. I’m pinning all my hopes on a piece of paper. If it isn’t there, I genuinely don’t know what I’ll do. 

It seems to take an age for him to finish before we finally set off. I’m lazy by nature, but I can’t help but power walk along the streets with Corgi trotting behind me. I don’t know if it’s the weight of the bag and speed of my pace, or pure nerves, but god damn do I need to start working out. I’m sweating like a priest at a preschool.

I round the corner and Steph’s house comes into view. Seeing it gives me a strange jolt of anxiety. I lived there for years and have only been gone for an hour, so how can I already see it so differently?

The three bins are lined up against the fence between our garden and the neighbours to the right. They’re in clear view of the kitchen window. I take the time to scope out the house in search of Steph. Her car is there, but I can’t see her through the window. This is my chance.

I open the bin and find it filled with bottles. It’s almost like we have an ingrained drinking problem. There’s zero chance of being quiet with the clinking glass so I go for speed over subtlety. I dig, wincing with every sharp sound. A whisky bottle slides to the side and I see the scratchcard rolled up inside a wine bottle. I reach for it.

A hand grabs my shoulder and pushes me away roughly. I stagger back and catch my balance just before I fall.

“Digging through the bins like the rat you are.”

It’s Pete. I tense up and hate myself for it. 

“Look, something of mine was thrown away. I just want it back then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Something of yours? You don’t get it, do you? You own nothing and you are nothing. The clothes on your back, the stuff in that bag, and the inevitable booze in your gut, it’s all just charity. You’ve never earned an honest penny to buy anything for yourself, and if you did, you’d owe it to everyone you’ve leached from your entire life. So no, there’s absolutely nothing of yours here. Or anywhere. Now get lost.”

I take a step closer to him. My fist curls.

“I need this.” My conscience is waging war with itself. I take a breath and swallow my pride. “Please.”

“Aww, what’s up? You going to cry?”

The genuine part of my conscience surrenders. His words are like steroids to my inner bastard. That suits me just fine.

“Cry? Nah mate. What do I have to cry about? I know who I am. I’m not the bratty rich kid who spends his life trying to find meaning in his own disillusioned sense of superiority. Let me guess, Mummy and Daddy never gave you any love so you can only feel by holding power over others. Pay people to kiss your ass because nobody would even look at you otherwise. I bet you can’t look in a mirror, can you? You’re a tiny dicked moneybags who’s never physically or emotionally satisfied a living creature in your life. Even Steph is only with you for your money. It certainly isn’t for the two minute circus that you call your love life.”

I can’t begin to describe the satisfaction I take from the look in his eyes. I know I’ve hit a nerve and a Cheshire cat grin splits my face. The satisfaction is instantly replaced by agony as he lunges a fist into my throat.

This time I do fall. I can’t breathe. I’m clutching my throat and writhe with my legs. Seconds of panic feel unending, then something releases and I can draw a gaping breath. In the corner of my hazy vision I see Corgi crouch beside me. Pete is breathing almost as heavily as I am.

“If I see you here again I’m calling the police. Now fuck off out of Stephany’s life. Go die in a ditch like you deserve.”

Pete turns back to the house, making sure to wheel the bin with him as he leaves. With him goes any hope I had left. I lay there struggling to breathe, my mind blank other than an overwhelming longing for death.

“You okay?” Corgi asks. I don’t answer. What’s the point?

“Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

He tries to help me up. After a few moments I pull myself up and let him lead me away. He even grabs my bag. I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve anyone.

Previous – 8. (Something Like Life)

Next – 10. (Something Like Life)

Chapter 7. A New Look. (A Rubber Ducky at the End of the World)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

To believe that we live in a world of order is to ignore just how hard it is to be ‘good’. Indulging in your desires is the easy path, it is our instinct and grants us the most personal satisfaction. Take what you want and have fun doing it. The only fear in this world is crossing someone stronger. To be good though requires sacrifice. It requires patience, compassion, and often sees you doing things against your best interests for the benefits of others.

We see this here in our protagonists. Damian tears at his body and soul, killing or manipulating any that stand against his ideals. He commits sin in a quest for power, but a quest that is motivated by a desire to do good.

Peace though, well, he isn’t really a nice person. He lives for himself and actually enjoys the wanton violence that his powers permit him. But he isn’t grasping for power, and neither is he going out of his way to hurt others without cause. As we look down upon him we actually see him protecting a downtrodden minority against a cruel world. The fact that this is purely for personal gain will be forgotten. Actions speak louder than intentions afterall.

So we find Peace yawning expressively beside a burned out campfire. For him it was the small hours of the morning. To the more grounded Daisy, it was the dizzying heights of 10:30 AM. Not that time had much meaning anymore.

Peace chewed idly on a handful of berries from a small bag he had been collecting them in. He’d never been that knowledgeable on nature, but even he was sure that the Change had affected plants like it had people. Everything looked and tasted different. His general theory at the moment rested on the hope that if anything was poisonous then his new body could take it. So far that had proven to be the case.

Daisy stood nearby, tapping her foot agitatedly. Peace had made her power his phone well into the night, and even after he had fallen asleep, she had found little rest. Life had taught her not to be trusting. She didn’t trust Peace, she didn’t trust being out in the open, and she didn’t trust anybody else that might have been nearby. So she sat awake for most of the night, the stungun clasped firmly in her oversized hands.

“Are you going to sit here all day?” she asked.

Peace shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t have anywhere more pressing to be. Neither do you, so far as I can tell. You seem in a real rush to be going nowhere.”

“No. Here is nowhere. Anywhere else is somewhere. We’re sitting ducks out here. I need to find somewhere far away from people, somewhere safe where I can live in pea… err… live undisturbed.”

“Yeah? You want a little cottage out in the woods that’s nice and secluded. Sounds real nice. But hey, where are you going to find food? What about clothes? You any good at foraging, hunting, sewing, you know, anything useful for solo survival?”

Peace crammed the last few berries into his mouth and chewed them messily. “You see, our new powers are worthless out in the wilds. Here in the cities and towns though, we’re kings, or queens, maybe, I dunno. What good is your electric powers out there? In a city you are a god! Goddess! Whatever you damn well want to be! Don’t you get it? You’re strong now. You don’t have to run and hide anymore.”

The words had all the effect of bugs hitting the windscreen of a truck going at 80mph down a motorway. It apparently takes more than superpowers to overcome years of victimhood and self loathing. To Daisy, the world had changed, but she hadn’t. Though of course she had. Everything had.

“You can keep your delusions of grandeur. We’re in the bloody apocalypse, not some fantasy story.”

Peace stood up and threw his phone over to the woman. She clumsily caught it and the screen instantly lit up. Peace stood in front of her, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for the phone to start up. 

It is a universally acknowledged fact that nothing is slower than a piece of technology when you need something from it quickly. Waiting for the phone to boot up every time he wanted to look at it was going to become annoying very quickly. Peace vaguely wondered if he could run some wires from Daisy’s body. The phone finally loaded and Peace tapped the screen a few times. Guitar and drums began to play from the speaker. He nodded then hopped up onto a log.

“Delusions and dreams are just opposite sides of the same coin,” Peace began in an attempt at an inspirational speech. “You have lived a fake life. The world forced you to be something that you didn’t want, tortured you for it and taught you to run and hide. I hated that old world. It was an utter bastard. But now it’s broken body is lying bleeding on the ground, just waiting for us to finish it off. 

“For people like you the world isn’t any scarier now. People wanted to abuse and kill you before and they want to abuse and kill you now. Well fuck that. Fuck them and the horses they ride in on. This is your time now. Don’t run from it.”

Peace had grown up watching movies where inspirational speeches were made and the group cheered or looked on with teary eyes. Daisy just sighed and shook her head. An important part of such characters was charisma or gravitas. Peace had the charisma of a puppy on cocaine. Sure, most people liked him, but they were also worried by his continued existence and felt pity as they wait for the OD to kick in while he dies in a pool of his own vomit.

“That’s all a little rich coming from you, a suicidal teen with no long term plans.”

“I prefer the term ‘Motivationally Challenged’ thank you. But that’s what you’re not understanding. I wanted to escape, just like you. I don’t have to anymore. Here I can just exist, and that’s really all I’ve ever wanted. Why complicate it with other things? So what say we head into town, rob a store and get you some nice clothes and some makeup. Treat yourself. It’s the end of the world afterall, that’s a pretty special occasion.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Crazy, lazy, and my motivations are hazy. So what say you, Daisy?” Peace rapped poorly. He turned his back and started to walk toward the town, singing offkey to himself. Daisy cursed then jogged after him, his phone still in her hand.

They walked back into town and made their way to the shell of a supermarket. The place was a mess. Shelves were smashed and the ground was littered with boxes and spilled liquids. A group of three men were scavenging through the debris, but after one look at Peace they quickly left.

“Bloody idiots,” Peace muttered, indicating the wreckage. “Society has broken down with all food chains falling apart, so what does some bright little prick do? He destroys food supplies for the shits and giggles. This is why we can’t have nice things.”

That phrase actually sums up humanity quite well. Human history is filled with death and destruction that all basically stem back to someone wanting something and making it bad for everyone in the process. One wonders what humanity could have achieved if they took a step back and worked together. But then, they wouldn’t be human, would they? It’s one of the species’ main quirks. 

If Peace could gaze back into the mists of time then he would have seen that two women had actually cut the expected lifespan of the locals by destroying a source of food. Being an ambiguous narrator makes me basically a god, so that’s no problem for me. You see, once the initial dust of the change had settled and the adrenaline faded, base human nature took the reins again. The looting became less about panicked survival and more about filling the void of impending doom with pretty things. It’s the human way.

So it was that we find two women looting the supermarket two days before Peace arrived. A nice dress caught both of their eyes, but what a tragedy, there was only one. The women fought, destroying the store, and the dress in the process.

Back in the present though, Peace picked his way through the store with the thinly veiled anger that men in a supermarket who are unable to find what they want can relate to. He hadn’t visited the store in over two years, and even without the destruction, nothing was displayed in the same area as it had been back then. 

He finally found what he wanted and called Daisy over. He was surrounded by makeup, most of which was somehow intact. The change had taken the concept of beauty down a few pegs, replaced instead by the concept of how nice a tin of baked beans actually was. 

Peace motioned towards the pile proudly. Daisy still looked unimpressed. 

“New world, new woman,” he stated. “Let’s ignore the fact that your dreams of transitioning have likely been dashed on the rocks like a newborn seal after society’s collapse. Embrace yourself. What have you got to lose at this point?”

“This isn’t about who I am. I’m not scared to embrace myself, If I was I’d have never come out in the first place. This is about survival. Pretty clothes and makeup aren’t going to help with that. Why do you care anyway?”

“I don’t.” Peace shrugged. “It’s just my personal philosophy. I value freedom. So many rules and expectations are stifling. I want to live my life how I want to live. If it doesn’t inconvenience me then I’ll help anyone find their freedom. Consider me a missionary for the Church of Not Giving a Fuck.”

As he spoke, he dug through the makeup until he found a tube of eyeliner. He was no stranger to makeup himself and began framing his eyes in black. As he dug through the supplies, applying and pocketing anything that took his fancy, Daisy simply watched. When he was finished he looked peak emo as though he was ready to join the Black Parade itself. 

“This is a waste of time,” Daisy snapped when Peace held up a selection of bottles and tubes.

“What even is time anymore? You’re in such a rush but you don’t have any destination or goal in mind. Life is for living, and all time is now is a measure of life. So either try and relax or tell me what you’d rather be doing?”

“I don’t know. All I want, all I’ve ever wanted, is to feel safe. Well, feel safe and feel comfortable in my own body, but that isn’t going to happen now.”

 “I’ve heard rumours of people gathering together in the south. It sounds like they’re trying to rebuild things. That’s as safe as you’re gonna get unless you learn to live off the land real quick. I’ll take you there. How’s that sound?”

“Why would you do that for me? You’ve already said you don’t care what I do.”

“I don’t care what I do either. Wander south or wander north, it makes no difference to me. There’s zero additional effort to help you out.”

“You just want access to your phone for a while longer, don’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

Daisy took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll go south with you. But first, let me find some good makeup.”

Previous – Chapter 6. A Shelter of Hope.

Next – Chapter 8.

8. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

A vague notion that I’m alive nags at the corner of my brain. This quickly grows into a piercing pain that wars with the urge to slip back into blissful unconsciousness. I can hear bangs, each thud and clink driving icicles into my skull. 

It takes me a moment to unstick my eyes. The curtains are open, flooding my room with light. They’re never open. I don’t have time to wonder about it before an unholy roar tears into my head. 

Steph enters my room with the vacuum cleaner. The noise hurts. I try to retreat under the covers but the thin sheet does nothing to dull the assault. The pain makes it hard to collect my thoughts. 

“Jesus, Steph. Fuck off with that. You’re killing me.” 

She isn’t looking at me. I glance blearily around the room and it seems bare. My desk is empty and the usual piles of rubbish that litter the floor are missing.

“Hey, don’t mess with my stuff. Where’s my laptop?”

“Fuck you and fuck your laptop!” she shouts. “I spent all night defending you to Pete and when I get back I find you passed out from my wine! Time and time again I keep giving you chances that you throw away. You’re determined to drown yourself and I can’t let you pull me down with you anymore. I have a chance for a better life with Pete. I won’t let you ruin that!”

“Steph, I-”

“No more excuses! I want you out.”

The words hit me hard. She still isn’t looking at me. I try to form a response but the words seem to slip through my grip like sand. My whole body feels like lead. 

“Your stuff’s in that bag,” she says then leaves the room. 

I don’t move. Time ticks by, maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. I feel sick. My legs still won’t support me. I blink and cast a slow glance around the room. I can see the bag Steph mentioned. It’s a Tesco bag for life. Now it contains my entire life. Over twenty years of life and I don’t even have enough possessions to fill it up completely. A handful of old clothes, a laptop, Xbox, a small screen TV, a handful of games and books, and dozens of bits of paper. Piled together as they are, it all looks so insignificant. 

The only things that haven’t been tidied away are the wall of post-it notes on the wall above my bed. It all feels like a bad dream. I know it isn’t. The list of failures stare down at me. Each one stings. I know what they say even though I can’t make out the bad handwriting from here. I suddenly can’t bear the thought of them.

Anger races to fill the emptiness. I stagger to my feet and tear at the notes. They fall down around me like snow. In seconds the wall is bare. I’m breathing heavily but the anger has drained away as quickly as it came, leaving behind an even deeper emptiness than before.

I start to collect them up, more to busy my hands than anything else. A part of me is aware that I should be crying, but there’s no threat of tears. I drop the notes into the bag and pick it up. It’s heavy and I know I won’t be able to carry it for long. The coarse handle is already uncomfortable to hold.

I’m too proud to beg Steph to change her mind. I’m pretty sure I could. Why would I though? The knowledge that she sided with a controlling dick like Pete over her own brother is more devastating than I can admit. It hurts. Through everything that we’ve been through, we always have each other’s backs. Maybe we don’t actually like each other, and maybe I’m not reliable, but we’re always there for one another. Apparently that doesn’t mean much in the face of a shitty relationship with a man who overcompensates for his small penis with bags of money and an ego the size of a student’s debts.

I never took my shoes off yesterday, so I waste no time swinging the door open and slamming it shut behind me without so much as a backwards glance. I’ll never give anyone the pleasure of seeing me upset or full of regret. Spite is about the only motivation that hasn’t been burned away from me.

It’s not until I’m near the city centre that I slow down and allow myself a moment to think. I have no home, no family, and no money. It wasn’t a great start. I consider my options and quickly realise that I don’t actually have many to consider. I reluctantly grab my phone and tap my contacts. 

“Hey Corgi. You fancy a drink?”

“What’s up?”

“What’s up? I just want a drink. Does something have to be up?”

“You never call me and you always sound extra confident when you’re upset. Conmen only ever con strangers.”

I can’t keep it up. I slump against a shop wall and close my eyes. 

“Steph kicked me out. I… I don’t know what to do.”

Corgi doesn’t answer straight away. I can feel him piecing together his response like a jigsaw puzzle.

“Sounds like you fucked up.”

“Big surprise, I know.”

“Shocking.”

“Yeah.”

“Right. I’ll see you at Spoons. My round.”

“Thanks, Corgi.”

“Don’t start getting sentimental on me. You’re a miserable bastard and don’t forget it, okay?”

“Yeah. See you soon, prick.”

“That’s more like it.”

I end the call. I want to laugh. I want to cry. I don’t do either.

Previous – 7. (Something Like Life)

Next – 9. (Something Like Life)

7. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

My brain drifts semi-consciously through memories as I lie here half asleep. I feel good for the first time in years and my mind brings me to the last time I had this feeling. Steph had just turned seventeen and was working every hour she could at a shitty waiting job to move away from our mother the second it was her eighteenth birthday. Things were tense at home. They always were. For all of the years there, I have so few memories that I can look back fondly on. 

But one day we saw a competition in one of Steph’s trashy magazines that wanted short stories. I can’t remember what it was about. Something nebulous and cliche like ‘Change’ or the like. It was ages sixteen plus and Steph brought it into my room and shoved the magazine in my face excitedly. She had the idea for me to write something up and for her to submit it in her name since I was too young to enter. That was probably the first and last time she ever had faith in my ability to win something. 

The first place prize was £100. To us that was a fortune. Steph stroked my ego about how good my writing was, and finally convinced me to sacrifice a few evenings after school to draft up a piece about letting go of the past to embrace the future or some bollocks like that. When it was finished, Steph added in a few words and phrases that she said were essential for teen girl magazines, then she posted it and we waited. In the end we didn’t win, but we did manage to snag second place for a nice £50.

To me, we may as well have won the Lottery. I’d never seen that much money. Even to Steph it was a hefty amount, at least for the level of work that went into getting it. We didn’t let Mum know we had it. We’d not have seen a penny if we had. I kind of expected to be handed a tenner and for the rest to be put into Steph’s savings. But she surprised me.

In a rare showing of reckless rebellion, she managed to buy some vodka and wines without getting ID checked. She took me out to the woods near my school. It was the first time I ever got drunk, and even through the awful sickness and even worse hangover afterwards, I still remember that evening. It was probably the last time I saw Steph happy, at least in that carefree childhood way. She’d been happy on the day we moved out into our own place, but that had been the birth of adult Steph with bills to pay and full-time employment. 

It was such a good party for just the two of us, something fun we could share. We bought ice cream and chocolate with the spare money, which in hindsight was a poor choice to mix with alcohol, and Steph had brought out her bright pink CD player and a few discs. 

We talked about our dreams for the future, sang along with shitty 90’s pop, and laughed until we were in tears. I think Mum was close to murder when we got back, but thankfully I can’t remember a thing of the aftermath. Maybe she’d been strung out on some drug or other and never even noticed we’d been gone. Whichever it was, Steph had shielded me from it like usual. 

I guess money can buy you happiness. We’re certainly overdue some. Things will change now. I smile at the thought, then slip fully into pleasant dreams.

Previous – 6. (Something Like Life)

Next – 8. (Something Like Life)

Chapter 6. A Shelter of Hope. (A Rubber Ducky at the End of the World)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Life is an act. An individual’s outward personality is nothing but a mask forged to garner acceptance in a world without truth. 

Damian knew this all too well. Everything in his life was an act. Working in fast food as he had, the number one commandment had been to always smile and be polite to customers even when 90% of the time they deserved a round of apple bobbing in the deep fat fryers. Life was miserable, and the job eroded any faith in humanity, but you kept smiling and said what people wanted to hear despite the truth of the matter.

This is true for all aspects of life. A common greeting is to ask how one another are doing, but it would be a breach of social etiquette to actually express any real feelings of sadness. Life was about putting on a strong front. 

When his wife had died and he had been left to care for a small child, everyone constantly asked him how he was coping. The answer was always ‘fine’ despite the darkness and hopelessness of his thoughts. His love was gone, his child would never know a mother’s love, and he was struggling to make ends meet. But he had to be strong. There was no other path to take.

Gods were much the same way. They were mental shields of strength designed to fortify the inherent weakness of humanity. Men needed gods to guide them. The Bible had got that right at least. Humans were sheep, too stupid to choose the right directions without somebody to show them the way and stop them from straying. 

Flames burned brightly, illuminating the darkness of night. A whole block of flats would be nothing but ash and rubble by the morning. That was the fate of any who opposed Damian Smithson. That was the price of order.

“All resistance has been quelled,” reported a dark-skinned man with greying hair. “Twelve dead. Eighteen came over to our side. Another six fled the scene.”

Damian nodded. “Good. I take it that none of our men were hurt too badly. The plan was as foolproof as humanly possible under the circumstances. It would all be so much easier if they just listened to me and joined us without a fight.”

“Humans love to be led but they’ll never make it easy. We are a people of contradictions. We are ever changing yet are so resistant to any change that they will drag their feet every step of the way. It will get easier.”

“Too easy I fear,” Damian sighed. “Tell me Jonathan, what gives you the faith to keep moving forward? You are a man of belief belonging to the Church of Redemption yet you follow a man who seeks to destroy the very foundation of your being. Why?”

“You can destroy the church and all organised religion if you wanted to but you cannot destroy belief itself. What I think and feel in my soul cannot be altered by you. Besides, your heart is in the right place. Like our Lord, you strive to be the father to humanity and guide us to a better future. Sometimes that requires unpalatable actions.”

Damian considered these words carefully. He had never considered himself a leader but here he was now. No point slowing down or doubting himself. It is amazing what humans can achieve against the odds with nothing more than a blinding confidence in themselves.

His thoughts were interrupted by a young man who came rushing to his side. The boy had been a delinquent from one of the previous gangs that Damian had dealt with who had seen the error of his ways. He was a good kid now that he had some motivation.

“Sir, I just spoke with some of the local lads. The only other major group in the area is a bunch of women. They say that all the women joined up and took over a school campus a few miles from here. Everyone who’s tried to break in has been beaten back.”

“Good for them. That is the kind of attitude that should be applauded,” Damian told them with a satisfied nod.

“Should I gather everyone up ready to pay them a visit?” 

“We are not conquerors and nor is the world our enemy. We should praise such groups, not march upon them in force. I shall go alone to speak with them.”

Jonathan nodded his head. “What are your orders for the rest of us?”

“Secure the area and comfort what people remain here. Begin the usual changes.”

“Sir,” the older man answered before leaving. 

Now Damian was alone. His Amelia was back at the church with an elderly woman who had reared five children of her own. Damian had no doubts that he could protect his baby but there was no reason to subject her to potential danger or the sight of death. He wanted her to grow up happy in a kinder world.

With that ambition firmly in his mind he set off toward the school that the locals now knew as the Shelter. He had always had a good sense of direction and found his way easily through the destroyed streets to the outskirts of the town where a collection of buildings sat huddled together a short way away from any other structure.

The area around the gated compound was in ruins but the school buildings themselves looked fairly undamaged. Damian approached the gate at a carefree pace then waited in front of them. At first nothing happened but after a few minutes the doors to the largest building opened and a group of women started to head towards him.

“Why are you here?” asked a dark haired woman when the group arrived at the other side of the gate. She was stocky but had fair skin and wrapped dignity around herself like a cloak. “Men are not welcome.”

Damian considered the woman’s words and offered her a small smile. “A fair policy during these troubled times. It will not help to rebuild society though. Humanity must stand together, not become divided over such trivial things as gender. It is what is inside of us that counts, not that which lies between our legs.”

“We will not support any rebirth of society based upon patriarchy. Men have caused all of the world’s problems throughout history so now we will make our stand,” the woman announced passionately. Some of the other women nodded their agreement.

Damian frowned. He had not expected this. He didn’t really understand it either. Sure, men were bastards who would kill you in a heartbeat and couldn’t think past money and sex for long in too many cases, but women were no better. Men tended to know that they were simple creatures and were happy enough to acknowledge it while women wrapped themselves in denial.

“You attribute so much evil to us but most men just try to get by, earning enough money to support their families.”

“Support? More like enslave,” she spat. “They tell us that we are weak and stupid then make us reliant upon them. Men cage us in marriage then use us to cook meals, rear children and have sex with. All men are oppressors, no matter how noble they believe their intentions to be.”

Damian was at a complete loss now. How did you reason with people like this? The scientific method to do so is that you simply can’t. Once again, these people’s personal reality supersedes the universal reality and cannot be shaken by such petty things as evidence or logic.

A slow fire had begun inside of Damian that took him by surprise. He was angry. He had worked hard all of his life in a job that he hated to pay for his ill mother’s care home, support his wife and then to bring up his daughter. If he was going to be vilified for trying his hardest to be a good man then he would give them something to vilify him for. 

Fiery sparks began to spiral in the centre of his palm until the appearance of yet another woman like a valkyrie from the skies caused him to cut them off abruptly.

“What is going on here?” the new woman asked with all the authority that the words could hold. “Fay, you have been told to report to me when outsiders arrive.  You’ve tried to go behind my back too many times. Go back inside and wait for me in my office while I speak with our guest.”

“He will only bring us trouble,” sneered the first woman

“Now!” snapped the newcomer. The group of women reluctantly turned and made their way back up the path to the building.

Anyone who believes that human society automatically veers toward patriarchal rule has clearly never seen a ‘mother hen’ type woman in action. Her word is law and some cosmic force ensures that everyone obeys. Men might seem outwards in charge but it is only the barbeque effect. Have you noticed that, in most cases, it is the women who cook 99% of the family meals but when it comes down to cooking meat outside on an open flame that it is suddenly the men who take charge? Men like to look powerful and in charge to fulfil their masculine ego when it is a public occasion then are happy to sit back and let someone else do all the important stuff. Rulers work in much the same way, appearing as figureheads while secretaries and advisors wield the real power.

The woman was short and had frizzy hair. She looked like she should have worn glasses, but then glasses were pointless after the Change. She wore jeans and a jumper that both appeared undamaged.

“Sorry about that,” the woman said. She began to open the gate. “We don’t get many peaceful men come here. At least, I hope you are peaceful or you will regret it.”

Damian held up his hands placatingly. “I’m here to talk, nothing more.”

“Good. I am Julie Winters. You could say that I run this place.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Damian Smithson. I lead Redemption, the largest group in this area.”

Mrs Winters nodded. “Yes. I have had word of your organisation’s progress. You have achieved much in such a short time. I expect that you are far from finished through.”

She led Damian inside the building. The place still looked clean and orderly compared with the outside world. Tables and chairs had been moved and hastily arranged bedding filled several of the old classrooms. The women who moved around the corridors were not scared refugees seeking shelter but confident and in control. Damian was impressed.

He was shown into a small office containing two chairs, a desk, and pile upon pile of paperwork. Mrs Winters took the seat behind the desk and motioned for Damian to take the other. She took a small notebook from one pile and opened it up, a pen in her hand held like a cobra ready to strike.

“Please ignore the mess,” she told him. “Keeping track of supplies and who is doing what has proven to be a huge part of my recent life. You don’t realise how much space all of that data takes up without computers.”

 Damian sat and tried to look at ease. He felt uncomfortable here but couldn’t let it show. He couldn’t look commanding either though. 

In as friendly a voice as he could manage he slipped into salesman mode. “You have done well for yourselves here,” he began. “This is an island of calm in a raging ocean of chaos and death. May I ask what your plans are?”

Mrs Winters sighed faintly. “We are undecided. This place was set up as a sanctuary for people to come to and feel safe. Many here see no reason to alter anything so long as we are able to continue offering safety.”

“Tell me, do you believe that humans are fundamentally good?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you think that humans are good at heart and are driven to do evil by circumstance or are they flawed, selfish beings? Nature versus nurture?”

The woman frowned and was silent for a while. When she made no sign of answering Damian continued.

“What I am asking is: do you believe that if we leave the people outside of these walls to their own devices that they will pull together and end the violence or continue to rampage until the world is too damaged to recover? Can humanity walk the correct path without a shepherd to guide them?”

To be honest, nature versus nurture is a flawed human concept. Good and evil only exists to humans. Every other creature on the planet only does what is needed to survive. As babies, humans are selfish sacks of meat that scream and cry for its needs to be fulfilled and this continues as a toddler. They snatch other’s toys and throw tantrums to get their own way. Cruelty, honour, mercy and hate are all distinctly human traits. It doesn’t matter either how good a person is as they are only ever two meals, (or two cups of tea in England), away from breaking down and stabbing someone thirty seven times in the chest.

Mrs Winters fixed unwavering eyes onto Damien. “I suppose that things won’t get better without people trying. Society needs to be led. I assume that you feel that it is you who should be this leader?”

This was the moment. Damian’s next words would determine the future of the world. He didn’t know this. To him it was the balancing point in securing more allies but it affected so much more than he could ever have guessed.

“When the Changed happened I became stronger than those around me. Not only in my body but in my conviction of making this world a good place for my daughter to grow up in. She is my world. I didn’t want any of this, I was a struggling widow working in fast food, but I was given the power to make a change. To not use that power would be the real sin.”

“Are you a religious man, Mr Smithson?”

Damian laughed softly. “I am just a man. I believe that which I can apply logic to. Sadly, religion and logic do not see eye to eye. God is fundamentally a contradiction of himself, not to mention all of the contradictions in the Bible. How could God be all powerful yet choose to let people suffer? He would not be all loving in that scenario. Why pray to Him when, being all knowing, He would already know everything in your heart and head so would not need you to tell Him? Why do you ask?”

“Some would see you as chosen,” Mrs Winters said slowly. “That perhaps you are destined to greatness. By God or by Satan, somebody must have blessed you. Either way, let’s not beat around the bush. What do you want from us?”

“Want? It isn’t really a question of wants. It is a need. Humanity needs us to work together. Your group is the last collection of people in this town that haven’t pledged themselves to me. Can you imagine how rare a unified area is right now? I don’t ask for your loyalty, but for your cooperation.”

Mrs Winters watched him closely as he spoke. Damian felt uncomfortable under that calm scrutiny. He had grown used to anger and abuse. That was something he could deal with. Reasonable people felt much more intimidating these days.

“I sense a lot of darkness in you, Mr Smithson. You have a great gift, and we both know that you’ll use it violently. There will be a lot of blood on your hands by the end.”

Damian nodded, keeping his own eyes fixed on his thin hands. They were hands that had killed men, but then they were the same hands that comforted Amelia. 

“Great good demands great sacrifice. Somebody has to do it. Every drop of blood on my hands, and every bit of extra weight on my soul, is one less burden for the children that follow in the path we carve for them.”

Mrs Winters seemed to stare into his soul, assessing the damage it had already sustained. A kettle began to whistle from a small fire that burned in the corner. Only then did the woman look away. As she busied herself pouring out two cups she spoke slowly.

“I am willing to listen to what you have to say. Just know that we will not be bullied or threatened. I’d rather see humanity die out than build a society on the subjugation of the women in my care.”

“That is a fair stance to take. Let us begin then.”

Previous – Chapter 5. An Electrifying Transition.

Next – Chapter 7. A New Look.

Chapter 5. An Electrifying Transition. (A Rubber Ducky at the End of the World)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Peace gazed into the still water of the canal. It was brown and smelled, but compared to the smell coming from Peace himself, it was the lesser of two evils. He hadn’t had a wash since the night before the Change. It had rained on the previous day, but he was beginning to doubt the benefits of his natural shower.

His clothes were in a bad state and his hair was slick with grease. The bandages that wrapped around his arms were yellowed and torn. All in all, he looked like something the cat had dragged in from a minefield.

He stripped then unwound the bandages before climbing down metal rungs set into the stone into the water below. It was cold, but then Peace was numb to most sensations so it didn’t affect him much. He scrubbed at his skin and the bundle of clothes, splashing around noisily as he sang out of tune to himself.

These past two weeks had been the best of his life. The gray cloud that had hung over his soul for the past few years had faded. There were no expectations placed upon him and there was no stress about money or finding a career. He didn’t have to fake being nice to people and he didn’t have to do anything that he didn’t want. This was true freedom.

Lots of people had tried to attack him at first, but word of the black haired youth with wrapped up arms had spread quickly and people had learned to keep their distance from him. Now his life was simple. Pure survival was his only concern and that was almost too easy with his newfound strength and endurance. 

Only a few minutes had passed when his bath was interrupted by nearby shouts. He tried to ignore them but they showed no signs of going away.

“Damn it!” he hissed angrily. “As fun as it is, I wanted five minutes without having to smash someone through a wall. Inconsiderate pricks.”

Peace grabbed one of the rungs and launched himself straight out of the water and onto the grass with a single movement. Not even thinking to dress, he stormed off in the direction of the voices. The commotion was coming from an adjacent bungalow where a group of men could be seen through the front window. 

Peace kicked the door open. It flew off of its hinges and through several walls before exiting the building on the other side. The men all turned to see the intruder. Peace took in the scene before him. Six men stood around a seventh person with an assortment of makeshift weapons. 

In stories, the character’s eyes, the narrator’s eyes and the reader’s eyes can all see very different things. What Peace saw was a long haired man in a dress stood in the centre. An effeminate man, sure, but a man none the less. As an omniscient presence, I can delve deeper into the scene and say that, despite what evidence her eyes suggested, this person fervently believes with her whole heart and soul that she is a woman. As I have stated before, personal belief usually supersedes universal fact, so who am I as a voice in your head to argue with her?

“Six against one doesn’t sound like very sporting odds,” Peace said into the tense quiet. “Unless I am the one. If you want to fight me then I’d call in some friends if I were you.”

“Stay out of this!” the woman growled determinedly. “This is my fight. I will not be pushed around any longer!” Her voice was not right either but Peace couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

Peace stared at her for a moment then shrugged and slumped into an over-stuffed armchair.

“Go ahead then. Put on a good show.”

In this time the men had not reacted. Two of them turned back to the woman while the others watched Peace cautiously. Having a naked man barge in on them then sit himself down to watch had not been a part of their expectations for how this scene was going to go down. Peace simply watched with an amused expression. 

The woman gripped something tightly in her hand. Peace observed her curiously. Weapons didn’t do much good since the Change. He couldn’t see what it was but knives struggled to cut through human skin and blunt objects could barely make a bruise, let alone break bones. Whatever it was, it looked too small to do much of anything.

“This is our place now, freak,” spat one of the men. 

He grabbed her shoulder and made to shove her. Her hand darted out into his ribs and there was a flash of light and a crackling sound. The man’s entire body convulsed and shook violently. He fell to the floor in a twitching heap.

This sparked events into action. All of the men jumped towards her. She jabbed out with the small object repeatedly, filling the room with flashes of light. The sheer number of opponents still overwhelmed her. She took several hits but kept fighting, using her nails and feet as well as the tiny weapon.

Peace was pretty impressed with the display. She had zero fighting skill but refused to go down. Without the device she would have been beaten quickly but with it she was actually winning. This just made Peace all the more curious.

The last man spasmed then fell. Covered in her own blood and panting, the woman staggered away from the pile of unconscious men and supported herself on a nearby table.

Peace appeared at her side. “Not bad, though it was over too quickly. Where’s the fun if you knock everyone out with a single jab?”

“Fun?” she muttered. “I was fighting for my life.”

“Yeah. Heart pounding, adrenaline flowing and everything on the line. That is how you feel! That is a real thrill.”

“You’re mental.”

Peace just grinned insanely at her.

She shook her head. “Who exactly are you?”

“Me? I’m a nobody. Peace is my name though.”

“Peace?”

“Yeah. Hippy parents. Named my sister Love. I think that I came off easy. Now it’s my turn to ask a question. What the hell did you do to them?”

The woman opened her hand and turned it toward Peace while keeping it far enough away from him that he couldn’t easily grab it. It was a small, black stungun.

“Hold up a second,” Peace began. “Electronics don’t work any more. Trust me, I tried. Life without music was unbearable until I discovered the sweet sounds of carnage. How can your stungun still be working?”

“Haven’t you noticed that people have developed more powers than just being really strong and fast?”

“Not really.”

“How are you still alive when you are this ignorant of what’s going on around you?”

Peace thought about this. “I punch things really hard until they leave me alone.”

The woman sighed. “Look, people can do things now that we never could before. I can make technology work. I don’t know how but it’s like any electronic that is touching me becomes a part of my body. I can control and power them. Our bodies are stronger now but they seem weak to electricity. I’m not sure why but electric shocks hit people really hard now.

“So let’s say that I find a phone with some good music on it…”

“It would only work in my hands. I can’t just get something working then hand it back.”

“Crap. So you’re useless.”

“Excuse me?” the woman exclaimed, affront in her voice. “Is that it? I can’t charge your bloody phone so you no longer care at all about me? You have no intention of even asking my name?”

“Nope.”

 The woman’s face was becoming flushed with indignation. 

“Well I’m going to tell you anyway! It’s Daisy! Remember it! I’ve found out humanity’s new weakness and have, to my knowledge, sole access to use it. I will not be pushed anymore!”

Peace ignored most of what she had said. He looked at her quizzically. 

“Daisy?”

“That’s right. You got a problem with it?”

“No. Only, Daisy is a girl’s name and you kinda look and sound like a man. No offense.”

Daisy clenched her fist around the stungun. “Saying ‘no offense’ doesn’t make something not offensive. I am a woman locked away in a man’s body. Are you a bigoted jerk who is going to take issue with that?”

Peace shrugged again. “Not really. It’s just weird is all.”

“Weird? Coming from the guy with scars all across your arms. Self inflicted by the look of them. Cutting yourself up to feel. Attempted suicide too, right?”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right. I am pretty weird. You know what though, I see it as a badge of honour. I’m weird and I’m proud of it. My insanity keeps me sane and my pain brings relief. I am not normal and never want to be. To be normal is to be boring, to be part of the 99%. I am me and you are you and nobody can take that away from us.”

Daisy lowered the stungun and dropped onto a wooden stool. She didn’t know whether to punch Peace or hug him. She had spent the weeks since the Change hiding wherever she could. She had been homeless before the Change and had plenty of enemies for no other reason than what she was. She had escaped most but there were always people ready to lash out at that which they did not understand. This bungalow had only been her home for two days but now it looked time to move on.

“What’s your plan then, kid?” she asked him as she began to gather up supplies. “Got a family to go back to? A place to go?”

“I’m just wandering around. I checked out my house but it was empty. No idea where the folks could be,” he answered through a long yawn.

“Don’t you want to find them?”

“Nah. I’m enjoying this life. They’ll be fine without me. Or already dead. Either way means I’m good to just chill wherever. What about you?”

Daisy thought hard about her answer. Her general plan had never progressed beyond survive.

“I’ll find somewhere new to hole up in. It’s worked alright up to now.”

“It’s gonna be dark soon,” Peace observed. “You won’t have much time to look around. I have a shelter in the woods if you want somewhere to camp for the night.”

“Really?” Nobody had shown her any compassion since the Change. If she had a kind word thrown her way then that was a blessing but here was someone offering her a roof over her head and some company, if only for the night.

“I’d be grateful. I haven’t had a real conversation with anyone for months. Though I’d appreciate it more if you put some clothes on first.”

Peace offered her a grin. “Cool. I still have my phone on me. You get my amazing company and I get some music. Everybody’s happy.”

“God damn it…”

Previous – Chapter 4. A Flock of Faithful.

Next – Chapter 6. A Shelter of Hope.

6. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

At some point I must finally have dropped off as I’m woken up by violent shaking and a piercing voice that takes a few moments to resolve into words.

“Get up, you lazy piece of shit!”

I wince and glance up at the gloomy silhouette of Steph. She doesn’t look happy. She rarely does.

“It’s five thirty! Stop wasting your damn life!”

“Five thirty! Christ, why are you waking me up at that time?”

“PM, you sack of shit!”

“Ah. Err, just give me five more minutes. Honest.”

Steph yanks the cover off me and I’m thankful that I fell asleep still fully dressed. She grabs onto my clothes and drags me off the bed. I hit the floor with a dull thud that I hardly feel. The carpet is comfortable and I can already feel myself slipping back into sleep until Steph’s foot kicks me in the gut. I groan and she kicks me again. It isn’t hard, but it’s more than enough to drive the sleep away.

“Fine, I’m up,” I grunt as I swat her foot away agitatedly.

“I’ve been at work all day, you can at least help me get dinner ready. You make me question why I don’t just listen to Pete and kick you out.”

“Because he’s a dick.”

“And you’re not?”

I don’t dignify that with a response. Going back to sleep doesn’t seem like an option anymore, so I hold out my hand for Steph to help me up. She ignores me and leaves the room. I sigh and struggle to pull myself to my feet. 

I make the effort to get changed into clean clothes. While I’m swapping t-shirts, the doorbell rings and I have a moment of lurching fear that it’s Pete again. I hear Steph answer and I’m relieved to not hear his blunt tones.

“Alex? How are you?”

“Good evening, Stephany. I’m good, thank you. How are you? I’d heard that you have been feeling under the weather.” 

The voice is the overly formal sentence structure of Toto. He always speaks clearly, as though each word is a hand-picked flower chosen by a master florist. The tinge of Jamaican accent gives his speech a slightly musical edge, making everything he says simultaneously clumsy and poetic.

“I’m much better today, thank you. Are you wanting my brother? The lazy bastard has only just woken up.”

“Not today. I just popped around to offer you this. You know what my Mama Jaques is like when she gets cooking. I figured you’d both be tired.”

The thick scent of spices is already cutting through the general musk of my room. I don’t need to ask to know that Toto has brought over some of his grandma’s home cooked chicken. The woman is a saint, and her food is nothing short of heavenly. Even I can’t find a bad word to say about it.

By the time I’ve changed, Toto is already gone and Steph is in the kitchen plating up his offering. She scowls at me, and even the prospect of the meal isn’t enough to ease her temper. I watch her wonderingly. She got laid last night, her cold is on the mend, and she’s about to enjoy a delicious meal that she didn’t have to cook or pay for. What does she have to be so grumpy about?

“Are you going to help?” she snaps at me. 

“What would you like me to do?” 

She stares angrily at the plates stacked with food and the already placed cutlery. She takes a moment to try and discreetly glance around the room.

“Put the kettle on and make us a drink.”

I don’t argue. I’m thirsty anyway. I flick the switch on the kettle and busy myself with the cups. As I stand here and listen to the low bubble of boiling water and the clink of the plates being placed on the table, the air full of sweet smells, I can almost imagine us in a real little family scene. I know that feeling second hand, watching it play out on TV, and even seeing it first hand when Toto invites me over for meals with Mama Jaques or with Tink’s family. Both me and Steph know how these scenes are supposed to work, and maybe we both want it, but somehow, something is always missing. When our dad died, I think our sense of family died with him.

We sit and eat in silence. Steph knows that I have nothing interesting to say about my day, and I don’t care about whatever petty office gossip or boring spreadsheet she could possibly have to tell me about. What are people supposed to talk about? Other than the blood in our veins, we have nothing in common anymore, no shared interests, and broader topics like politics or philosophy would only end in an argument.

As expected, the food is beautiful. It offers a moment’s respite from my dark thoughts. Not for the first time I feel a slight inclination to learn how to cook like this, but any past attempt I’d ever made turned out as either tasteless slop or charred scraps. Maybe Toto could give me some tips?

I open my mouth to make a goodwill gesture of smalltalk when the light flickers and goes out. I remember something important at that moment and wince. If Steph’s eyes could kill I’d be little more than a smoking crater right now.

“You didn’t top up the meter when I asked you to, did you?”

I like to live my life on the edge, doing the absolute bare minimum to get by. This, unfortunately, is well beyond the bare minimum. This was me fucking up in a way that threatened my already unstable position as Steph’s personal parasite. In an uncharacteristic display of enthusiasm, I jump out of the chair and grab the electric dongle from the side. Within seconds, I have a jacket on and am at the front door.

“I’ll have the power back before my tea is cold.”

I don’t wait for an answer. I’m off down the street, my feet slapping against the pavement with the unsteady flatfooted rhythm of somebody who doesn’t run often. It’s already getting dark and the sky is threatening more rain but my eyes are locked firmly on the uneven ground in front of me. 

By the time I reach the closest Sainsbury’s Local, I’m breathing like a chain-smoker going into cardiac arrest. It isn’t even a far run. I skid to a stop outside the automatic doors and try to look casual as I step inside. The effect is ruined by the sweat and heavy breathing, but I think I play it off like a champ. I offer the Indian chap behind the counter a smile and he nods back with casual indifference.

I dig deep inside my jacket pocket for my emergency wallet. It was reserved for times when Steph needed tiding over or I risked being kicked out. Inside is a dog-eared £20 note I stole from a drunk a while back. I’m a regular Robin Hood, stealing from dickheads who cause trouble in bars, and giving to the poor, namely myself. 

To be on the safe side, I grab a cheap bottle of wine and a box of chocolates as a peace offering after reluctantly stepping away from a bottle of off-brand rum. Even a can of the cheapest cider would be stretching the money too far. I dump the items on the bar and hold out the dongle to the cashier.

“Just these and a tenner on the electric, cheers.”

The man stares at me for a moment and offers a friendly frown. He motions at a small pile of items beside my own. A loaf of bread, some milk, and a Pot Noodle.

“Waiting on another customer. They’re a pound short. Said they’ll be back in a moment.”

“Can’t you just void it, serve me, then re-scan everything?”

“I can, but it’s awkward. If they’re not back in two minutes then I’ll get you sorted.”

Two minutes is a long while in Steph time. I look at the offending items angrily. Someone’s having a worse time than me if they don’t even have the money for such pitiful supplies. The whole pile couldn’t come to more than a fiver as it was. What sort of a world is it we live in if a man can’t even afford an evening alone with a Pot Noodle?

“Look mate, I’m in a bit of a rush. I’ll pay the extra quid if we can rush this along a little. That suit you?”

He nods, and in a rare show of charity, I hand the twenty over as he finalises the other guy’s purchase. It cuts me deeply on an emotional level, but I don’t have time to waste. Merry Christmas and happy birthday rolled into one. I imagine some emaciated methhead huddling over the steaming Pot Noodle for warmth in an empty house, fervently thanking their benevolent patron.

The cashier scans my stuff then hands me the dregs of my change. Balls to paying for a bag. I try to balance all of the items in a way that allows me to jog back without catastrophe. I hear the doors slide open but my back is to them.

“It’s all sorted. This guy paid the rest,” the cashier says.

Great. Now the dickhead knows who helped him and will try to waste my time with praise or smalltalk. I turn around with a scowl on my face to try to put off any pleasantries but my face falters.

The person behind me is a young woman with bright purple hair that instantly puts me in mind of a can of dark fruit cider. I look past the hair to blue eyes that sparkle with the vivid shine of Curacao. Pierced nose, black nails, ripped jeans and a black band shirt of Papa Roach. 

She smiles at me and I become very self aware. I don’t know if I’ve been staring at her for minutes or half a second.

“Thanks for helping. I must have dropped the pound on the way here, but luckily I found it. Here.” 

She holds out her hand. A dull pound sits in her palm. I shake my head.

“Don’t worry about it. I’d only waste it.”

Her smile twists slightly and I get the feeling that she’s assessing me, searching me for answers to questions I don’t know. I feel strangely cornered by her, pinned in place by her eyes.

“That won’t do,” she says brightly. She turns to the cashier, her arm swinging around until the pound is inches from his chest. 

“One scratchcard please.”

He takes the pound and gives her the sheet without a word. In a heartbeat the woman is in my face and tucks the card between the chocolates and my fingers. I half expect a powerful scent of perfume, but there’s nothing. 

“You never know, a good deed might earn you a bit of good luck. Now we’re even, okay?”

She gives me an impish smile and a casual salute, then, before I’ve really registered it, she’s gone. The whole interaction feels surreal, like she was some kind of fairy that had appeared and disappeared again simply to confuse me. I look to the cashier, seeking some kind of confirmation that she had been real. He grins at me and gives me a thumbs up. 

Then reality catches up. Shit! I have a minor emergency to sort before I can start daydreaming over a pretty face. I leave the shop, a part of me hoping to see some trace of the girl, but there’s none. I’ve already wasted enough time, so I push her from my mind and begin the body-breaking five minute jog back to a no doubt furious Steph. 

It isn’t Steph who greets me when I burst through the door though. A broad hand grabs me by my t-shirt and I hit the walk hard. I barely have any air in my lungs to knock out but they still lurch painfully to expel what little there is. Pete is staring down at me. His mouth is set in a snarl but a glint of joy stirs in his eyes. 

“You had one job and couldn’t even do that. What did you spend the money Stephany gave you for electricity on? More booze?”

I can see Steph standing in the doorway to the living room. I’m surprised by how nervous she looks. It’s almost like she’s more scared than I am. The look on her face sparks something in me.

“Yeah, I did. I’m a useless idiot. Nothing new. But I’m sorry, and Steph knows I am. I topped it up with my own money and I bought some gifts for her. The rest is between me and her.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Another opportunity to twist her around your finger and get away completely free from consequences again.” He yanks the wine from my hand. “How typical of you, thinking that alcohol will solve all of your problems. It isn’t even a good vintage. You say you bought them with your own money too? Money you don’t earn and should be paying to Stephany as rent?”

He lets me go. I slump to the floor as he towers over me. I fix my eyes on the ground and don’t move. I’m too proud to run. I know that he’s eagerly waiting for the day I lash out so he has an excuse to really put me in my place. What else can I do but sit here like the worthless sack of shit that I am?

“Come on, Pete. Let’s go. Don’t let this ruin our night, okay? You still want to go out for drinks, right?”

I can hear the edge in Steph’s voice, the false confidence. She’s more scared than I am. I want to punch the bastard so badly that it hurts my chest just thinking about it. But I don’t. I sit there and wait like the coward I am. Wait for my big sister to fix my problems again, even at a cost to herself.

Pete knows exactly what she’s doing too. He stares down at me a moment longer then grabs his coat from the wrack with one hand while his other closes around Steph’s wrist. 

“Fine. He isn’t worth the effort. The things I do for you.”

He all but drags her from the house, and as the door slams shut behind them, I’m left in silence. I can feel the adrenaline and hate boil inside me with impotent rage. Rage at Pete, and rage at myself. Plenty of rage to go around. But more than that, I feel the wave of nothingness pulling at me. The anger is the only thing that keeps me human.

I scan the corridor numbly. The wine and chocolates are still on the floor. Fuck it. I stand and gather them up, managing to have the wine open and pouring down my throat before I’ve even reached my room. The place looks too much like the inside of a coffin for my liking. I’m trapped, just like before. Fifteen years and a new roof to stare at, but nothing else has changed. I must have been a real bastard in a previous life.

The bed squeals in protest as I collapse onto it. I can feel the springs digging into me. The wine will help with that. It always does. I move to open up the chocolates and find the scratchcard stuck to the shrinkwrap. It peels off easily and I stare at it, reminded momentarily of the girl. I wonder if she enjoyed her noodles.

‘Match three to win! £50,000 prize!’

If you won a tenner you were one of God’s chosen prophets. I’ve known many desperate souls that buy scratch cards like I buy pints, but I’ve never seen anyone win anything noteworthy. They’re just another tool to part poor people from their cash for a moment’s hope. 

I pick at the grey foil absently with my thumb while my other arm goes through the automatic motions of pouring wine into my mouth. Three lines of three. 

‘Triple the chance to win!’

I’m barely paying attention to the pictures that my thumb reveals. It’s only when there’s no foil left to scratch that I actually look down at the card.

I stare at it. 

I stare some more. My gut lurches and I blink to clear the blurriness from my eyes. It isn’t the wine playing tricks on me. Three pound signs make a line across the bottom row. I reread the rules.

My heart is pounding. I’m conditioned to expect the worst but I can’t find anything to dash the furtive hope that was suddenly blooming in my chest. £50,000! 

I knock back the rest of the wine without thinking. A few more bottles of wines and spirits from Steph’s collection join my celebration. The world starts getting a little hazy. As a precaution I roll up the scratchcard and slide it into an empty bottle just enough for it to stay in place. I give it pride of place on my desk and admire it from the bed.

Fuck Pete. Fuck this shitty house, and fuck my worthless existence! I’m rich!

Previous – 5. (Something Like Life)

Next – 7. (Something Like Life)

5. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

I lie in Madaline’s bed and stare up at the poorly plastered white ceiling. The room is no bigger than the one I’m borrowing from Steph, but unlike mine, this one is filled to bursting with clothes, bottles, photographs and cheap memorabilia from holidays abroad. Madaline is laid next to me, her back facing me and a good foot of bed between us. 

The night had been purely business. It usually is. People crave emotional connection and often try to fill that void with physical intimacy. That’s my theory anyway. A moment of pleasure to ward off the numbness of life for a few blissful minutes. I know it, and Madaline knows it too. 

My head is pounding and my throat’s dry. I groggily weigh up my options. Water is priority one. Slowly, I slide from the bed and scan the gloom of the room for my clothes but can’t spot them in the sea of Madaline’s clothes. It looks like she could wear a different outfit every day of the year and still not have worn everything she owns.

I decide that it’s likely still too early for any of her flatmates to be up, so I risk opening her door and, after seeing that the coast is clear, stride stark bollock naked toward the kitchen. The place is a tip. Cans, bottles, and half eaten food litter every surface. That’s not my problem though, so I pay it no mind. It takes me a while to find a clean glass. I pour myself a drink from the tap and sip the water reflectively.

Gradually, I begin to feel more human, not that that’s a good thing. Now that higher brain functions are returning, I have to consider what my plans are for the rest of the day. Drinking is out of the equation, so I’m left with the prospect of wandering around the city or returning to Steph’s to sit alone in my room. That’s the option I should choose. To get back on the writing horse and be productive. To start a new story or something. Neither option fills me with much joy. On the other hand, I’m currently in a moderately attractive young woman’s home. It could prove to be a pleasant enough morning, if I play my cards right.

Playing my cards right means being kind to others for entirely selfish reasons. The thought triggers my inner gamer. That’s all role-playing games are: Solve puzzles to help people help you. Thankfully, this is much easier than fighting through a dungeon or the like. Today’s quest: Breakfast in bed.

I’m no cook, but I do like to think that I’ve mastered toast. I look around the kitchen until I finally find everything I need. It’s a good thing that I don’t want to try anything fancy to impress Madaline because there’s jackshit in her cupboards or fridge. Student life is a glorious thing.

My secret is to butter the bread before putting it in the toaster, then make sure that the heat isn’t set too high. The results are usually a warm, soggy slice that slides down your throat like fresh escargot. Perfect for dealing with that dry feeling you have just after waking. I slap on some Nutella, since it’s the only spreadable I can find, pour out two glasses of orange juice, load them all up onto a tray, then begin a careful walk back to Madaline’s room. 

She’s still asleep. I clear enough room on her bedside table to fit the glasses then waft the plates near her nose before gently rubbing her cheek. Mascara has run down her face during the night, giving her a dark eyed appearance and black tear steaks that look reminiscent of the tryhard emos of my youth. I’m somewhat partial to the style. Maybe it’ll help me lie to myself that she’s somebody else.

She stirs, makes a cute little grunt, then slowly opens her eyes. I watch the subtle stages of her thoughts through her bloodshot eyes. First there is pain, the pounding head and jumble of scant consciousness, compounded by a complete dryness of the mouth and eyes. Then comes the understanding. Memories of alcohol, that this is the price paid for a good time. The eyes focus, looking past the inner thoughts to the outside world, and to me specifically. A moment of softness, replaced almost instantly with fear, then a jolt of memory as my identity is pieced together. Finally comes acceptance. This is her life. She is here, I am here, and more importantly, food and a soft drink is here too.

We eat without much talking, and once the toast is gone we just lie there and dwell in our own private thoughts as the breakfast works its way through our abused system. It isn’t an awkward silence, but neither is it a comfortable one. It just is. After a while I turn to her with a smile.

“I’ve got to head off soon. If you’re feeling up for it, fancy another round for the road?”

Her eyes assess me and she shrugs. She doesn’t speak, but her answer is clear enough as she slides under the covers and I feel her warm breath against my inner thigh.

We share half an hour of fun, then I dress and leave, jotting my number down and handing it to her before I hop through the door into the pissing rain of another grey day. I wholly expect to never see her again. That’s the way things usually go. We’re all just passersby on the oppressive motorway of life, everyone looking for the first convenient pit stop to refuel at before continuing on to the inevitable cliffedge that awaits us. 

 I notice that greyness keeps popping up in my thoughts and I can’t tell if that’s the way the world is, or if my jaded existence simply casts everything in dulled tones. You’d think that being jaded would be to see the world in green, not grey, but here we are. 

It’s not been twenty minutes since I had a pretty girl wrapped around me and I can already feel the misery bleeding back in with every step closer to Steph’s house. I take a winding path since I’m already soaked to the bone, but I can only delay for so long. Eventually I bite the bullet and trudge up the gravel path to her front door, unlock it, and step inside. 

There are voices coming from the living room, one belonging to Steph while the other was the deep voice of her current partner, Pete. It sounds like an argument that trails off as heavy footsteps approach the living room door. I try to speed past to the sanctuary of my room but don’t make it before Pete steps out into the corridor.

“It was too much to hope you’d decided to grow up and stop pulling your family down.”

“And it’s too much to hope that you’ll drop dead.”

Pete represents everything I hate. He’s tall and tidy, his expensive clothes always neatly ironed, his designer glasses always smudge free, and his hair styled like a movie star. He’s a manager at the accountancy firm where Steph works, and is the type of person that can’t function unless he has control of every little detail in his life. 

“Stephany has more sentiment than sense, putting up with you. Can’t you see the blight on her life that you are? When are you going to grow up and move out?”

“Fancy giving me a job, or offering a place with reasonable rent? No? Then fuck off.”

I edge past him and retreat to my room as fast as I can without running. I’d long since learned not to push past him, as he always pushed back harder. Despite the suit, Pete was a man always looking to lash out. I’ve spent time with a lot of rough people in my life, and found myself face to face with guys who’ll beat you half to death for a pack of cigarettes, but something about Pete scares me.

Even before my door closes I can already hear his raised voice berating Steph to kick me out. I try to ignore it, sitting down at my desk to distract myself with some work. My laptop is old but it’s my most valued possession. Inside that plastic shell are all my hopes and dreams given form within the digital pages. 

As always, my first step is to open up my emails. There’s the usual bundle of spam, and buried amongst them are the kernels of hope that I cling to. Three emails from jobs I’d applied for and two from literary agents. I’d seen more than my fair share of these emails recently and had learned to tell the tone from the preview sentence alone. I still check them on the odd chance that I’m wrong, but I’m not. 

Rejection. Rejection. Rejection. Rejection. Rejection.

The word echoes through my head. I’d like to say that I’m numb to it, that my carefully constructed cynicism shields me from any emotional backlash. It doesn’t. Neither does it shield me from the following spiral into misery that is scrolling through pages of recently listed jobs. This is the point that I usually turn to the spirits to help, but I’m all out.

I know I should start writing, but there’s something haunting about the blank page I load. I try to think of words and anxiety hits me like a truck. Writing used to be my escape but now even just the thought of it reminds me of all the rejections and wasted time. I’d never admit it, but I realise I’m scared. Scared to open myself up to the creativity and effort only for it all to hurt me again in the end. Each time chips away at my sanity, at my soul, and I don’t know how much more I have to lose.

Eventually I can’t take any more and tab onto a porn site instead. I click through a few pages to try and find something that catches my eye but I’m not feeling it. I realise that I’m going through the exact same motions as on the job site, and don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’d blame the morning’s activities, but in reality it’s an ever more frequent occurrence. 

In the end I close the lid and collapse onto the bed to watch shitty Youtube videos on my phone until I inevitably passout. Even such a simple plan as that is ruined though by the appearance of a rhythmic thudding noise punctuated by muffled groans from the next room over. I turn up the volume but the sheer knowledge of events is enough to traumatise me. The crashes of the Blitz would give me a better chance of sleeping through it.

True to form, two minutes hasn’t passed before the nightmare ends with a shrill noise reminiscent of a stuck pig. I long for a large amount of whisky to knock me out.

Previous – 4.

Next – 6.

3. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

Corgi is already outside waiting for me. I sometimes wonder where he goes when he’s not with me. He never really mentions his home or family, though I know he has them. He feels almost like a side character in my life, always waiting on the sidelines for somebody else to appear. Maybe I should ask him. I know he hasn’t been having an easy time recently.

“You linger like a bad smell,” is what I end up saying though.

“Yeah, and your attitude stinks, so that’s probably why we get along.”

I snort and give him the middle finger, which he returns like a patriotic salute. I start down the road and he trots behind me to catch up. Even at this time the streets are busy. The sky is black and a fine drizzle hangs in the air, but city life never slows. I notice that most of the beggars are gone though. I wonder where they go when crowds die down and the nights set in. 

I take the path that I’ve walked so many times I could retrace it with my eyes closed. It’s a good job too, because coming back I’m usually so far gone that I might as well be blind. We don’t really talk as we walk. Most of our store of conversations had been drained during the morning. Thankfully, it isn’t long before we’re back in the shadow of the Wetherspoons.

Larry and Toto are already waiting for us inside. They’re sitting at the same table we had occupied hours earlier. The place is much busier now. Steak nights always draw in a good crowd. I slump into the chair beside Toto while Corgi goes to the bar to get us drinks. Again, I vaguely wonder where he gets his money from, but know I’ll never bother to ask him. 

“You are looking well, all things considered,” Toto tells me. “I worry about you at times.”

“Life is just the interconnecting tissue between moments of misery. I accept that, so have no reason not to live it to the fullest. YOLO and all that bollocks, you know?” I answer with a smile that rivals Toto’s. “Alcohol is just the mortar to fill in the cracks in that confidence.”

“To be fair mate, that sounds like something an alcoholic would say,” Larry quips.

“An alcoholic probably wouldn’t have the coherency required to articulate philosophical theories regarding the ephemeral nature of existence,” I answer, my brain working in overdrive to pull out the most pretentious chain of words possible and speak them without fucking up. My brain fails me on most things, but any attempt to be a dick usually succeeds with flying colours.

“That’s proper good mate. It’s almost like you should be a poet or something.”

“Fuck you.”

It’s at this moment Corgi returns, placing an orangish pitcher down in front of me.

“What the fuck’s this?”

“It’s a cocktail. Sex on the Beach. The bar lady recommended it.”

“Corgi, under no circumstances do I ever want to drink cocktails with you, let alone one named Sex on the Beach. Sex is the last thing I want to think about when I see your face. And why would you ever do it on a beach? Sand gets everywhere. That’s real uncomfortable. I can only imagine it’s like tossing off with sandpaper. Awful. So why have you put these thoughts in my head?”

“Because it’s fruity and filled with alcohol.”

I take a sip and it is indeed very sweet and filled with alcohol. I shrug and drink more. “Fair enough.”

Larry leans across the table and lowers his voice. “How’s Steph doing? I heard she’s been ill.”

“You’re as subtle as a sledgehammer to the balls. I want you to take any thoughts in your head involving my sister and thoroughly wash them away with bleach.”

“Hey, I’m only asking. It’s not like you care.”

“I care by association.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that I don’t care what she or you do in your own lives, but I don’t ever want to imagine anything involving either of you, let alone together. I have enough nightmares as it is. I’m pretty sure that she finds you disgusting though, so thankfully I don’t really have to worry about it.”

“That’s harsh.”

“The truth hurts. What can I say? It’s only the flu, so don’t worry your little head about it, okay?”

“You just don’t like to see people being happy.”

“True enough. I wouldn’t surround myself with miserable bastards like you lot if I did. Except Toto. His outlook is as bright as your pasty skin.”

“And your thoughts are as dark as mine,” Toto adds merrily. “Yet somehow you gather people around you like a mother hen. Fate laughs at your attempts to push people away.”

“Yeah? Well fate can take a long walk off a short pier. Let’s not get the wrong idea here, I don’t hang around you for your optimism or company. You just make good food and are generous with your portion sizes. It’s purely a selfish, one way relationship.”

Toto just laughs and drains his drink. He isn’t wrong though. Somehow it’s me that holds this little group together. None of the others knew each other before me. I’m the common denominator. I guess that shows how desperate they all are if I’m the best option to spend time with.

“Tink say’s he’ll meet us at the house. He’s heading there with his brother,” Corgi says into the lull between banter. He has his phone in one hand and the cocktail pitcher in the other. “He expressly states that nobody is to cause trouble.”

“I wonder why he felt the need to specify that?” I say innocently. “At no point have I ever started a fight when Tink has invited us to these little gatherings.”

“You did draw a dick on that fancy painting when we were at his uncle’s BBQ. I’m pretty sure you spent most of his cousin’s wedding reception flirting with the bride.”

“Look, this is an invitation from little Po, and frankly, I’m not going to do anything to get on his bad side. I’ll be on my best behaviour. Scouts honour.”

“You were never in the scouts.”

“No. And from what I read in the news, they don’t have much honour, so it all works out in the end.”

“Touché.”

Previous – 2.

Next – 4.

Chapter 4. A Flock of Faithful. (A Rubber Ducky at the End of the World)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Some of you by now might be wondering why certain people were changed more dramatically than others. Why can Peace Lenrow withstand attacks that crippled others and tear through toughened flesh like tissue? Why can Damian Smithson create beams of energy? 

The answer is more simple, (or infinitely more complicated depending on your outlook), than you would ever think. The universe needs to get its shit together. Everything in existence is just so random that it only offers the visage of order. Mutated genes lead to evolution, taking a single cell and turning it into every animal and insect on the planet. Even in humans, random traits manifest themselves without explanation. One person can naturally remember every single thing they have ever read, seen or done while another could develop muscle at an accelerated rate. Someone else could be unable to move at birth or be inclined to gain excess fat.

So people like Peace and Damian are simply genetic abnormalities. This story could have been focussed on someone else but then, it wouldn’t be a very interesting story, would it? We are following these two individuals in particular because they are the centre points of upcoming events. They are the right people in the right place at the right time. 

I suppose there was also the dog that single handedly, er pawedly, saved Africa from aliens during this time, but let’s not confuse things that much just yet.

For you see, things were moving quickly for the people of Earth. Society cannot be destroyed as easily as some people believe. View society as water. It can change and flow, even become ice or steam, but no matter how much you break it down, it will always pool into small groups that seek to become larger until the whole is once again reformed. Humans hate other humans yet cling to them for survival.

Groups had begun to emerge from the chaos that individuals flocked to for protection. Only, these groups then proceeded to fight one another in larger battles for control of lands or resources. This is how countries are forged and are usually viewed by historians as jolly exciting times.

One such group had made its home inside an old church that had been, rather redundantly, barricaded and fortified. This is the building where an empire began. As we look upon it we see Damian Smithson approaching the grand doors alone. At least, alone beside the giggling baby that was fastened into a harness on his chest.

He knocked on the door, careful to limit his strength and not damage the wood. It didn’t open. Instead a voice called out from within. 

“Begone. These are the holy grounds of the Church of Redeemers. None may walk these hallowed halls without the Lord’s blessing.”

“And how would I gain your Lord’s blessing?”

“By worship, good deeds and a charitable donation to our organisation.”

 “How is the amount deemed enough?”

“Sorry?”

“How much should I pray? How many good deeds should I accomplish? What good deeds could I even do as a single man in a world of chaos. How much money should I donate when money has become so devalued that it is all but worthless?” 

Damian received no answer for several long seconds. “Erm…” started a voice before it trailed off. Hushed voices were just audible behind the door. More seconds passed.

Eventually the voice returned. “Look, just go away. We don’t want to let you in. Okay?”

Damian sighed. “That is such a shame. I quite liked this door. So much hard work must have gone into making it while such little effort will go into destroying it. That is the way of the world though I suppose.”

He placed the palm of his hand on the door and pushed. Metal screeched, stone broke away and wood buckled. The door collapsed inwards, revealing the interior of the church and two dozen or so faces torn between shock and anger.

“You will suffer for this sacrilege!” screamed a grey haired man in robes of white and gold. They were not the clothes of any position in the church that Damian knew of but sought to surpass even the Pope in their pompous grandeur.  

“I suspect that we all will suffer before the end,” Damian said softly. He looked the white clad man directly in the eyes as he spoke.

Damian looked unimpressive compared to most of the men within the church. He was still scrawny and dressed like a paperpusher even now. He had thick glasses, thinning blond hair and a baby on his chest. What was not so visible obvious though was that in the two weeks since the Change, Damian had been training. He had pushed his body to heights that would have destroyed his old self. In such a short time there were few physical signs of this but he carried himself with a strength and dignity that he had never known in his life before.

“You heretic! Infidel! How dare you break into my sanctuary! I am the Grand Redeemer and I will not accept such blatant disrespect. You will be scourged from this world in the holy fires of redemption!” screeched the man, self-importance filling his every word.

“You mean like this?” Damian asked. He held out his hand. There was a spark then a blazing fire appeared in his grip.

The Grand Redeemer, (who was actually a stamp critic called Dave Smeg. Tragic, I know. With a name and occupation like that he was never going to be a balanced individual), stammered and gawped. He recovered amazingly fast though.

“You hold no sway here, conjuror. Your black magic of Hell passed to you by Satan does not intimidate me!”

Damian considered this. “Fires of Hell? Are they not pure enough for you?”

The flames grew fiercer until they burned with a blinding white light. Everyone in the room besides Damian covered their eyes from the painful glare. Amelia giggled happily and reached out a tiny hand toward the flames. The light faded, dulling back down to a gentle amber flame.

“This is what is going to happen,” Damian announced as the men began to lower their arms and reopen their eyes. “Your little group here represents the closest thing to order in this area. Society needs order, now more than ever. You are going to help me to spread this order.”

The Grand Redeemer sneered in a way that twisted his already ugly face. “Order is but a byproduct of our true ambition. The End is nigh and we must use what time we have left to spread the word and mercy of God!”

Damian shook his head. “About that. The whole religious angle is not in the world’s best interest. Religion has caused so much conflict throughout human history that it would be a poor decision to build a new society upon its back.”

A woman stepped forward who had kept well back before now. She was a stout woman with rough skin, the kind of woman you see in working class backgrounds who work all hours of the day to keep their family, community and the world in general running.

“But what about all the good that the church has ever done? The charity work and support? The hope that we give people?”

“But what about all the good that war has ever done? The advances in technology and medicine? The removal of corrupt regimes?” Damian replied calmly. “Do they make war a good thing?”

“That is not the same!” 

“I believe to the contrary. 

We have already witnessed what happens when common sense is ignored. Sometimes though, human stupidity extends beyond the simple breach of common sense and into the realms of downright objection to the survival instincts. Those people with fervent beliefs, whatever the beliefs may be, are unable to see past those beliefs at the bigger picture of the tiny picture of their own life.

“You have revealed yourself to be a Godless sinner!” Grand Redeemer Smeg howled. “The Lord will smite you down! It shall be me who rebuilds this world, not you, demon! I-AAAAARRRRRRGGGH!”

His ranting was cut short as his eyes burst into flames, which quickly erupted across his body. His skin melted and his bones cracked until only ash remained inside the robes. The robes themselves were completely undamaged.

“The name is Damian, not demon. Easy mistake to make,” Damian told the smouldering human remains in a level voice. He turned back to the others. “Sorry about that. He wouldn’t listen to reason. So, does anybody else have any issues with me taking command here?”

There was a brief moment of silence as the men and women shared horrified looks with one another.

“No, boss. No issues at all. Lead on.”

“Good,” Damian muttered. “Let us begin then. This world will not rebuild itself.”

Previous – Chapter 3. A Brave New World.

Next – Chapter 5.