Viewpoint
Chapter 23 - Act II - INGRESSION
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Chapter 23 - Viewpoint
Archie
We’d dug Linda’s shallow grave under the boughs of a large beech tree with our inadequate camping trowels. As I’d hacked through the dry soil and hard chalk, another emotion had been kindled by Paysha’s example: revenge. It continues to burn inside me, overcoming the blackness which threatened to have me lie down with the dead. Instead, I yearn to eradicate every filthy Slaver, no matter where they might exist on this fucked-up planet.
After I’d engraved the base of the trunk with Linda’s name and silently mouthed a solemn goodbye, we’d headed into the Uplands, startling at every unexpected noise. I’d earlier told Tom the location of several hidden caches of emergency supplies dotted near the Gate. His pack was now almost as large as him. The Elder’s council had planned on far more mouths to feed after any hit-and-run attack on our crops or livestock. The possibility of everything being destroyed in a single night defied comprehension.
I’m trying not to think of how many Remainers might have captured. Slaver prisoners were said to endure a living hell, wishing only for a quick death. At least Linda’s suffering was short.
“You Townies might not get beaten so easy,” Tom chirps into the silence as we trudge northwards. “Reckon there’s food lastin’ weeks tucked away in those deeper tunnels.”
“Newtown isn’t under siege, Tom. The Slavers were already inside when we escaped, killing people like”—I fight back a lump in my throat—“like rats trapped in a cellar.”
Tom shrugs. “Reckon nuthin’ anyone can do, then.”
“For pity’s sake, Tom,” Paysha snaps. “Stop being so callous and show some sympathy. Everyone Archie knew and cared for was in those caves. Most of them are probably dead or…or worse.”
“I were only tryin’ to be hopeful,” Tom replies, adding, “and I dunno ‘bout everyone,” provoking Paysha’s exasperated sigh.
I can’t conjure any reply. Paysha’s own conflicting displays of sympathy are hard enough to deal with. Instead, I focus on continuing to guide them along still familiar paths, through overgrown fields and dense woodland. After walking for several more arduous, anxious hours, we eventually halt in a narrow, stump-filled valley, strewn with bracken fern and dry moss. Too exhausted to set up camp straightaway, we slump to the ground where we stand.
I manage a few hours of restless sleep before Paysha declares an urge to check tomorrow’s route from a nearby hill. I rebel at her suggestion, but only because I fear looking back at Newtown as much as onwards. But she insists, saying tomorrow’s trek needs to be on less-travelled routes. I sigh in resignation, wincing from two sore feet. It will only be our first task tomorrow if we don’t reconnoitre now.
Through the dark plumes, the clifftop turbines are occasionally visible as flowers of flickering orange.
Dusk is descending as we follow Py through a scattered flock of sheep and crest the nearby hilltop, panting from the effort. Paysha scans the north-eastern horizon whilst Tom faces south, towards Newtown. I’m too cynical to imagine it’s out of concern for my home, rather than his morbid curiosity.
I join him only when Paysha does. Tom gestures needlessly towards the southern horizon. The setting sun gives a purple hue to the smoke billowing up from where the cliffs plunge into the Lagoon. Through the dark plumes, the clifftop turbines are occasionally visible as flowers of flickering orange. Looming above Newtown’s destruction, occasionally wreathed in the smoke, hovers the Slavers’ giant airship.
“Hundreds… like Markus,” Paysha whispers, immobile. I’ve been desperate to think she might genuinely care, despite how she’d reacted to Linda’s death. So when I see her face, full of sorrow, I can’t hold back my tears of sadness and relief. She sniffs and gently takes my hand, interlacing her fingers with mine as I stare towards the horizon and whisper “we will endure”, again and again.
The dawn chorus heralds a day my guilt insists I shouldn’t be seeing. Linda’s death and Newtown’s capture still sear my mind, and I’m struggling to regain any semblance of normality, despite Tom’s snoring. Linda is dead and my parents are either killed or captured. My only physical reminder of them is the creased and bloodstained photograph which I’d held onto throughout the night. The comfort Paysha had shown me yesterday hadn’t extended to us sharing a tent. She’d mumbled something about ‘rules’, but perhaps it’s avoiding any mention of how she’d avenged Linda’s death. Her unmasked behaviour had been terrifying, the violence verging on inhuman.
I don’t fight the urge to climb back up the hill for a last look at my former home. The Slavers’ airship has gone, but two thin threads of smoke still rise skyward. Somewhere nearby, close to where she met her brutal end, my sister lies alone in a shallow grave. It reminds me of returning from the Capital to see the Flood’s devastating aftermath; my City sunk beneath the waves. As with that first home, I’ve now had to abandon Newtown.
A juddering wave wracks my body as the tears well up once more. Will this death and destruction never end? Vengeance doesn’t seem enough to help restart my life yet again, nor how often I repeat Newtown’s enduring mantra – or whose company I’m in. For now, I’m comfortable just rocking back and forth, clutching the photo and repeating the names of those I’ve lost.
I don’t want to talk, even with someone who can consume my thoughts like no other.
Paysha finds me with my arms still wrapped around my knees. I don’t want to talk, even with someone who can consume my thoughts like no other. She seems to understand, and her arm encircles my shoulders and squeezes me tight in mutual silence. Her warmth seeps into me, helping to push the agonies which haunt me back into their dark recesses.
After a while, she teases the photo from my hand. Behind the smiling faces is Newtown’s clifftop entrance, the first to be cut into the chalk to help start our Remainer community. It was a place to foster hope, happiness and new lives. It should have endured, not invaded by monstrous evil.
“Doc…was she always your mother?” Paysha asks, her soft tone so different from yesterday.
“No,” I reply. “Juliana and Florian only adopted us after the Flood.”
“Oh.” There’s a pause. Her voice cracks as she asks, “So Linda wasn’t her daughter?”
I can only nod in reply before sniffing. “We still treated each other like brother and sister. We were together for…for almost three years.” My vision blurs with more tears as Paysha hands back the photo, her eyes also damp. “It’s not fair, is it, Archie?”
Here question doesn’t need any reply. Instead, I lay my head on her shoulder and her arm slips down to my waist as my hands find hers. I don’t want this tragedy to end our still fragile bond. But it’s still too soon to hope it might strengthen it. Why carry on when men continue to fight, maim and destroy our world? As the last wisps of smoke fade above Newtown, everything inside me is dying, except for my feelings for the woman beside me.
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That's a lovely little scene, that one.
I also really love that top image. Is that an Unsplash one?