Category : Books-Fiction

Sub Category : Science Fiction

1.
It was just another mundane night at Tranquillity Hotel. There was nothing too special, nor out of the ordinary, happening on this lazy Sunday evening. The disco lights were flashing at the bar where most of the residents resided at the end of each day, telling tales of the wasteland and wondering what the old world was like 200 years before. In the background the ‘Stones played, singing songs of satisfaction and sticky fingers. It was all rather underwhelming; the dulled lights casting haggard shadows on a room of aging survivors.
The walls were a dusty beige colour, dotted here and there with torn pictures of sunny landscapes and trees. Pools of sticky alcohol covered the chessboard chequered linoleum floor. Dirty red velvet curtains hung in the windows, obscuring the glare of the setting sun outside. An abandoned cigarette machine stood in the corner, its wood faded and its rubber feet torn. Occasionally someone would try to force a few seeds into the coin slot, but to no avail.
The actual bar, which had seen better days, attracted the most attention; mostly of old men, wearing patched together clothes and swigging the hotel’s home brew. Every now and then somebody would cough harshly, prompting the bartender to whip out a bucket just in case they threw up. In some ways, the whole place resembled the dingy tap-houses of the old world; the sort that were only occupied by alcoholics drinking away their woes.
But there was an exception. Sat at the far end of the bar away from everyone, was a young lady, head in one hand and slowly sipping a drink with the other. Her skin was dirty, track lines beneath her eyes from where tears had ran. She wore a crude, yet oddly classy, red dress that caressed her dainty figure. Her hair was of the darkest silk, flowing over her shoulders in a casual but gorgeous manner. She was like a single rose surrounded by a field of weeds.
Given half a chance, the men would have tried something with her; but they were all too clever for that. They all knew whose property she was. In this era, women were scarce, to the point they’d became a form of currency themselves. Mankind needed to repopulate, but to do so there must be 2 parts to the jigsaw puzzle. And that’s what the concierge had known when he purchased this woman from a travelling scavenger a few months ago. Quick on the draw, you might say.
“Hey Marcy, do you want another one?” The bar tender called to her as she finished the dregs of her drink with a flick of her wrist. Sweat shined on his forehead and stained his greying patchwork shirt. He looked like a cloth that had been over used a hundred times.
She shook her head, careful to not make eye contact. “No thanks Al, I’m out of seeds.”
“Alright, you know where I am if you change your mind. And ‘course I’ll do a discount for you.” He finished with a dirty wink, before turning away and pulling out a bucket as someone started coughing again. 
Yeah I bet you will. Dirty bastard, she thought to herself as she got up and started toward the lobby. The men at her home place hadn’t been perfect, but they had at least respected her – unlike the filthy pigs that lived in this cess-pit. She hated the people, she hated the booze and dried food, Christ, she even hated the bland walls that were everywhere in this place. No other colours but the occasional black, red and disgusting beige.
The coughing continued, followed by a guttural retching and the sound of a stool falling over. 
“Fuck sake Jez, you gotta get that looked at! Hold his head up!”
All Marcy wanted right now was to sit outside, on some hill, and gaze at the darkening sky; watching the sun descend upon the horizon, its dying rays painting the land in a deep amber glow. That’s how she’d spent her nights at home, not sitting in some muggy room with a load of dirty old men.
“It’ll be okay.” She muttered to herself as she made her way to her room, gently stroking the flat of her growing stomach. Love comes in all shapes and sizes, she reminded herself.
2
The showers at her old home had been something to be desired, to say the least. Consisting of nothing but a crude pipe connected to a manual water pump, the design was not exactly luxurious. But growing up in the wasteland, where there could be periods of severe drought, the fact they’d had one was a god-send. Albeit, at times, not very practical.
Here, the showers were something else entirely. A small pipe connected to a funny nozzle device that was shiny, circular and peppered with holes; like those alien spaceships she’d seen on the posters plastered throughout the city. They called them MOVIE posters at one time, although she wasn’t sure what a MOVIE was. Maybe it was some kind of ride. Her Papa had mentioned that people in the old world used to like going on rides to get scared. This always confused her, as she hated being scared, and when she questioned him about it he said it must be right because the old-world books said so.
She eventually figured out that this strange contraption was the shower, and the water came out of the weird nozzle. What took her a little time to work out was the counter on the wall beside it; in digital numbers it counted down from 05:00 to 00:00 before the water stopped. She mentioned this to Al at one point, and he explained this was a timer that counted her water usage. Apparently you only get 5 minutes worth of free water a day.
Now, stood in that very shower, she watched her life washing away with the running water. She’d been taken from her family and sold to the slimy owner of this hotel. And to make matters worse, he’d gone and got her pregnant. 23 years of age, no life ahead of her, and yet she was expected to bring another life into this decaying world?
What’s worse; living out there or in here? That was a question she struggled to answer. Yes there was water and yes there was food and electricity in this place, but it was run with an iron grip by the concierge. The air smelt strangely of charred brick, and the people that lived here were less than trustworthy. Some days she would rather risk being eaten alive by the Carrion Wolves than sit in that god awful bar.
TAP-A-TAP TAP
A brisk knock at her door brought her from her trance. She went to shut off the shower, only to realise the water had already stopped. 
“Coming!” she wrapped her towel around her body, hair still dripping, and hurried over to the door. She was greeted by the grey-blue eyes of the concierge.
“Evening petal, may I come inside?” In other words; Let me in.
“Ok. Just a minute.” She unlatched the door and hurried over to her clothes drawer, quickly pulling on a night gown. Even now, she could still feel her skin crawl from the first time he had kissed her hand.
He entered the room and observed her nervousness, dismissing it with a casual tap of his foot. A tight postured man, dressed in a deep purple suit and black bow tie. The material was dusty and slightly frayed at the edges, the black inner lining peeping through the loosening seams. Wherever he went he left the faint aroma of whisky that was almost hidden by the sickly stench of perfume. It was the same stench you would find whilst wandering the wastelands; the smell of the native carnivorous wildflowers that grew there. Above his top lip sat a thin strip of black hair; the infamous moustache that would curl up at one end whenever he would begin to lose his temper.
She turned to him, trying not to look nervous and looking more so in the process. Please don’t touch me, please.
He gestured to one of the chairs at her dinner table. “Please, take a seat.”
She did as she was told, cowering like a beaten dog. He took the chair on the other side of the table, opposite her. A mere stretch of gouged wood between them, but she sure as hell was glad he hadn’t sat next to her. As he reached into his breast pocket and brought out a rusty tin of mints, the door’s auto-close system kicked in; slamming the room shut. He never jumped, only regarded the cloud of dust that fell from above with a raised eyebrow.
“I should really get those auto-shut features fixed. One day they’ll bring down the walls.”
He regarded her with a long look, as if expecting a reaction from this, only breaking off to take a mint from the tin. Using one thin hand he placed it back in his pocket, popping the mint into his mouth with the other. His teeth were whiter than the mint itself. He smiled, an ugly look of arrogance and contempt, showing those pristine teeth again.
“There’s… something we need to discuss - my child.”
There was a brief silence as the abruptness of what he’d said sank in. 
“You mean our child.” She replied. Her voice was sharper than intended. She knew who was supposed to be the mouse in this game, but that didn’t stop the irritation rising up her nape.
His smile only widened. “Ah petal, it seems you’re mistaken. I bought you off that grotty scavenger. And since you’re my property, and you’re on my property-“
“No, you’re wrong, I-“
“And since you’re on my property, that child is mine,” he raised his voice to cut her off. “Did you honestly think I’d let you keep it? I bought you so everything that comes out of you is mine. Your sweat, your snot, your silly breath.”
His smile was gone now, and he leaned over the table toward her, legs crossed and one hand sitting in the middle of the table. His slicked black hair shone in the light above and his eyes danced with a look both tempered and condescending; Don’t fuck with me lady.
“Besides, who do you think would be best to rear that child? You? Some dirty wasteland girl with no backbone, no self respect, no meaningful life? Or me; a successful hotel concierge with all the security, water and electrical power of the wasteland at his disposal?” he sat back, tossing the mint around in his mouth. A smug smile was creeping back onto his face.
She suddenly had the urge to punch it. To grab his stupid mints and ram them down his throat.
“You? The owner of this shitty hotel that stinks of booze and has a moustache like the old-world Hitler? I don’t think so.” She rejoiced slightly at his jolt as the words hit him, catching him off guard. But her triumph soon turned to terror as he whipped out a pistol from within his jacket, pointing it straight between her eyes. The moustache was curled up - his eyes no longer mocking, but eclectic with fury.
“You know nothing of the old world.” He snarled. “He was a visionary, seeing the logical everyone else refused to open their eyes to. Maybe if he’d been successful I wouldn’t have to put up with a little bitch like you.”
“He killed millions of people. Burnt them. The old books don’t lie, not about bastards like you,” her voice shook as the cold barrel stared her in the face, “you’re not having my child.”
“Is that so? You’ve got guts girl, I’ll admit that. But the waver in your voice betrays you.” He grinned and lowered the gun. “I can’t use this because we both know you’re no good to me dead-”
It was then that he leaned right over, so that his mouth was beside her ear. The mixed smell of alcohol and fragrance overpowered her nostrils and churned her stomach. She could feel his heat on her skin.
“-yet.” He whispered, his voice carrying upon the nights that followed after. Like a viral spore caught in a breeze.
3
Marcy had never seen a day as hot as this one. The sun was even more punishing than usual, sat in the sky like a bloated orb of vexation. The air shimmered with heat, various weeds and grasses wilting. She could even see the ground below her begin to sear; worms and underground insects scuttling to the top, writhing in pain.
As usual the workers were out, chipping away at the stone outbuildings that were situated at the back of the Hotel. Since nobody knew what these tiny buildings were for, and that they offered very little room for shelter, the concierge had decided to scavenge them for stone. The workers were paid in seeds to mine them, which they could then trade for booze and extra food at the bar. Not that anyone did buy the food; the dehydrated Wolf meat had the same consistency as sandpaper.
She was sat away from anyone, and any attention. No matter how hard she’d try, she couldn’t stop thinking about what the concierge had said. His soft but deadly words had plagued the following nights; the word yet repeating over and over as she broke into cold sweats. What did it mean? Was he going to kill her? Even worse, does he plan on bringing up her child or using it for something else?
She couldn’t, daren’t, think of what he could use her child for, but a man as sick as him is capable of anything. The thought sent shivers all over her body. How could a world like this be so unfair? She was sure the old world wasn’t as morally incorrect as this one.
There were so many questions whirling around, trailing along her thoughts like lost loose ends. The answers for many before her eyes; glaring like those rusting metal boxes with wheels that littered the streets. What were those boxes? Why were they everywhere? What were those tall metal poles topped with glass that towered above every street in strict regimentary fashion? Too many questions and not enough answers. She was living in a world littered with 200 year old carcasses whose function had been long forgotten. And she supposed she should forget about them as well.
Sighing she rose to her feet, brushing dirt from under her. The workers had all stopped for a break, and she didn’t fancy listening to them waffle on about how much seeds they had or how blunt their pick axes had gotten. Nor did she want to go back into that hotel, where the Child Stealer dwelled.
[“That child is mine.”]
She gazed around her, desperately trying to decide where to go. She could run away; the concierge would never notice until it was too late. By the time he’d realised, she would be miles away, not exactly closer to safety but certainly further away from danger.
The scorched woods that lay to the west beckoned. The horizon shimmered with radioactive haze, but if she avoided the worst parts –
Let’s go for a little walk, she thought to herself and started forward.
4
The bitch was a problem; a very big one indeed. How could she think that child was hers when he owned her? How could someone be so naïve and selfish at the same time? Not only that, he had paternal rights as well – although he knew mothers often had more power over the father when it came to birth rights. He knew this because a few years ago he’d stumbled upon literature from the old world that complained about the in-equality in parental laws. Just because she’s spawning a human being doesn’t mean she owns it. Besides, it’s not as if he intends to bring up this kid. And he doubts she knows what paternal rights are anyway.
He wandered aimlessly around his room, needlessly moving objects about and cursing under his breath. A concierge of a hotel that, for the first time ever, feels constricted by the very empire he’s building. He doesn’t need her alive, in fact he doesn’t even need the child alive. But if he kills her in cold blood the residents will start asking questions, and questions lead to curiosity – and curiosity could jeopardise the whole project. He couldn’t risk anyone discovering what was in the basement. If they did, not only would this place crumble but he would be turned upon, losing any hold he had. The place was off limits for a reason.
The beautiful people needed him. And he needed them out of his hotel.
What had mother said? Curiosity killed the cat?
Damn! How could he get rid of her without anyone noticing?
He sat down at his desk, a vintage oak structure polished and sleek looking beneath the over-head light. On the desk was an antiquated pre 90’s computer monitor connected to an equally clunky tower that purred away like a tiny chainsaw. The screen was split up into mini squares, each one an image of a room in the hotel. Here the concierge could observe every part of the hotel; even the bathrooms had hidden cameras. In an age where the only law was martial law, he felt it important to keep tabs on everyone at all times. That being said, the old world cameras were so unreliable only half were working at any given point – he was sure poor Parker was sick of constantly fixing them.
They’d fallen on hard times of late, which he was sure contributed to his diminishing temper. In the past they would purchase scraps and supplies off a steady stream of travelling scavengers he called ‘The Starlight Express’. They often came under the cover of darkness, hence their name, but recently the flow had trickled right down to only one or two. And when he had asked one of them (an ancient looking woman with sunburn scars all over her face) she’d said the surrounding area was filling up with packs of Carrion Wolves, and that most scavengers were unwilling to pass through.
It was no surprise that the hotel was starting to fall into disrepair with the limited supply of scrap. But what could he do?
I could just let people leave on their own terms. It’d cut down on the food and water. Plus, I could get rid of the more irritating guests without anyone batting an eyelid – 
{“You’re not having my child.”}
more irritating guests – 
on their own terms – 
And that was when it all slotted into place; the final piece to the jigsaw puzzle clicking together finally.
He slammed his fist onto the desk in triumph and grinned that ghastly smile. How had he not thought of this before? It was infallible, bound to work! And nobody would even question it, because nobody would see. It was the perfect plan for a perfect crime. Even the thought of it made him want to wet himself in excitement.
Nobody got the better of him; he was the concierge, the god of this hotel and everyone obeyed him – one way or the other. And those that didn’t… well they must be disposed of. Swiftly and quickly, with little commotion.
The sound of axes clinking away blew through his open window as the miners finished their break and resumed work. Now that the burden had been lifted the world started coming into focus again. A thin sliver of sweat ran down his forehead.
He stood up and made his way over to the liquor cabinet that he left for special occasions. Whisky was a rarity in this age, but the epiphany he’d just had called for a glass of the old Tennessee gold. Maybe a bit of cocaine as well - he would have to see what that old piss-bucket, Jez, had to offer.
Pouring the whisky from the crystal decanter into a chipped glass, he started humming, his eyes dancing jovially; coming to a stop on the old wall mounted .50 rifle.
5

It had been a while since she’d seen anything as beautiful. The steeple, that was. She had travelled only a few miles at most, and for most of the journey the slender tip of the steeple’s spire had poked above the dead trees like a heavenly shard. It was pristine white, cracked and gnarled in places, but mostly intact. Dried rose vines crawled up its sides, entwining with the curved architecture in a glorious symbiosis. The cross upon the top had been blown
completely off, buried in the ground at the church’s entrance like a grave stone, and the setting sun painted the whole building in a golden-orange hue. Her mouth had started salivating as she realised it looked like it was covered in a syrup glaze. 
Oh wow, it looks gorgeous, like in those old fairytales.
And then she had seen the wall behind it and the illusion shattered.
Lurking behind the church was a gargantuan wall. It was an ugly brick behemoth, splattered in white paint, stretching the whole length of the churchyard, coming to an abrupt stop at either end. The mortar holding the bricks together had started to disintegrate, and the far right side had given way completely and collapsed to the floor.
Wincing at every sound as the twigs below her snapped, she walked over to it, passing the church. The steeple had radiated a sense of safety that she’d felt deep in her bones, but that had long gone, replaced with the feeling of horror as she got ever closer to the wall. Looking closer she could make out the faint, but unmistakable, shapes of handprints. They spanned the whole of its length in various sizes; bulky, slim and delicate. It wasn’t hard to work out the latter was of children.
“All hail Uruqktah, Atropos.”
She quickly wheeled around, fists raised, as a faint voice whispered from behind her. But there was nothing except the twisted trees and the wind. Her skin crawled. She felt like someone, or something, was watching her.
“Hello? Who’s there?” her shouts were only met with the reply of branches swaying in the breeze. A mutated butterfly flew in the distance, its third wing fluttering around uselessly. Still nothing but her, the wind, and that butterfly.
Maybe it’s the wind-
“Touch me Marcy.”
This time the voice came from the wall itself, and it definitely was a voice, faint but distinct. It sounded smothered, as if calling out from inside a box. Turning to the wall she could see nothing different – the white paint was there and peeling like it had been before. But there was a magnetism drawing her toward it, making her want to touch its flaky surface. The only thing she could compare it to was the impulse to pick at a drying scab. The temptation to do something even though you know you really shouldn’t.
It’s only a wall, what’s the worst that could happen?
“You know you want to.”
That was it though; she did and she didn’t. On one hand she knew common sense ruled; she should walk away from this strange place – if the wall can talk, what else can it do? But on the other hand, it was something exciting in this drab and mundane world. More importantly, it was something new, something other than the decaying buildings and scorched grasses. There was a sense of wonder here, and whether or not it was tainted wonder she did not care.
No I’m walking away-
The sudden cold touch of the wall on her hand made her realise she’d already made the decision. 
“Good. Now you will know.”
Everything around her flashed and fell into darkness.
6
July 21st 2405
It was a hot summer’s day and the sun was obscured by thick clouds. The air reverberated with panicked shouts as the Anti-Eternal Youth Militia stormed the church. Crowds of people dressed in white robes were being lined up single file at the wall, the Militia personnel looking on with their rifles and machine guns ready. Expressions of fear were written on every church-goers face; people who had been branded by the Newspapers as ‘disillusioned’ and ‘vile’. They had become known throughout the world as The Beautiful People – practitioners of a mass humanitarian crime that had just been exposed in every nation.
“Hurry you filthy pigs! Up against the wall!”
The leader of the Militia stood barking orders into a megaphone. People dropped to their knees, begging for mercy, only to be beaten and dragged to their feet again. The churchyard was in turmoil, occasionally erupting in gunfire as the captives tried to escape.
Marcy could see everything. She felt ethereal, floating above the ensuing chaos like an angel. She could not move, except for looking around. In the same spot she had just been standing was a young man, his hands placed against the wall, sobbing uncontrollably. The Militia were sorting adult from child, sending the infants to stand in a huddle to the left of everyone. Most had tears running down their cheeks, but those that didn’t only stood there with an eerie stony look on their faces. Almost as if they had shut-down from everything that was happening.
“Tell me, Marcy, what do you see?” that voice again, clear and soft, so close as if it were right behind her.
“It’s awful.” She could feel tears welling as the group of children were led into the church. One boy looked up at her, seemingly seeing her, mouthing ‘Help’ with terror in his eyes. Before she could reply he disappeared into the shadowy depths of the church.
“You have all been charged with the death of British citizens. Your crimes are exposed and the penalty is death. Where is your god now?” 
The adults were all lined up at the wall, each one with their hands out in front planted on the brick. Now that Marcy could see them all, she noticed the skin on some of them was blotchy. It was hard to tell from here, but it was as if some of their flesh had been stitched together. The woman closest to her stifled a cry and suddenly wet herself, her urine flowing down her legs into a pool on the ground. A soldier laughed, pointing it out to the rest of his squad.
The leader walked forward, megaphone to his mouth. His clean black leather coat flapped at his thighs, a ruby red arrow insignia emblazoned on his right arm. 
“Practitioners and associates of the Eternal Youth Project, I have orders to execute you. Do you have any last words?”
Nobody replied, only continuing to stand there with their heads hung looking at the ground. 
“Why are you showing me this?” Marcy asked the voice, wanting to block it all out with her hands. But she couldn’t, because here she didn’t have any – or a body either.
“This is life in the old-world; mass murder. They killed my people and they still are. I need your help Marcy.”
The soldiers all started moving forward, lining themselves behind each captive. They stood still and stoic, rifles held parallel at their sides. The lack of emotion on their faces was disconcerting. 
A man in the middle suddenly turned around, catching the soldier behind him by surprise. He darted forward, pushing the trooper to floor. He stood facing the leader directly and gestured to the sky above with open arms.
“All hail Uruqktah, the beautiful Atropos!!”
“TROOPS!”
The soldier quickly leapt to his feet, ramming the butt of his gun into the back of the man’s knee. He fell to the floor, tears and snot drooling down his robe. The leader walked over to him and bent, tilting the man’s chin up so he was facing him.
“Your god is dead.”
Marcy watched with horror as the leader then whipped out a knife and slit the man’s throat. He collapsed to the ground, blood bubbling out of his mouth. From the wall someone screamed and started to cry.
“Okay let’s do this.” The leader muttered to himself as he stood up and lit a cigarette. His hands shook slightly. This was the part he hated.
“GUNS READY!”
In unison the soldiers all readied their weapons, pointing their guns directly at the back of each captives head. People started babbling incoherently, chanting to their god for help. 
“READY FOR FIRE!”
There was a loud CLICK as each soldier cocked their rifle. None wavered, their aim coldly still.
The leader took a drag on his cigarette, threw it onto the floor and crushed it with the heel of his boot. He looked to sky and saluted.
“EINS, ZWEI, DREI - FEUER! FIRE!!!”
The world erupted in gunfire. The muzzle of every gun spewed flame. Men and women jerked sickeningly and fell to the floor. Blood splattered up the wall. It only lasted a few seconds, but for Marcy it was forever – the bodies fell to the ground in slow motion, hands flailing as they went limp. 20 guns and 20 seconds later there was nothing but bodies and the smell of gun fire.
The world paused and went black. She was surrounded by an empty nothingness, but in her mind those gunshots repeated over and over. She thought of the leader, and then she thought of the concierge with his grey-blue eyes and sleazy moustache. Her heart jumped.
“Now do you understand?” The voice spoke to her from the darkness, “The British hired this German Militia group to do their disgusting work because they were cowards. They knew it was wrong. What they never knew was that most of these people were innocent.” For the first time the voice showed emotion; a deep longing sadness. And something else; it sounded like the voice a child was putting on.
 “I’m so sorry.” And she meant it, with all her heart. She’d been brought up in a world where there had been nothing. Maybe that had been better than the old-world; since there was nothing, there was no prejudice, no war, no murder. All this time she had complained about life, but now after this it was clear she was lucky. Very lucky indeed.
“I don’t want your sympathy.”
“What do you want?” As the words left her mouth she instantly knew. Why else was she here?
There was a brief silence as the other-worldly being paused, perhaps contemplating what to say next. The emptiness of this plain was suffocating; it reminded Marcy of her dreamless sleep. Her nights before the hotel, before the dastardly concierge and his iron grasp.
And then it spoke, its voice soft and crooning.
“Your child.”
7
“No.” She whispered defiantly to the wall, now back in the present. The sun was almost fully gone, the shadows of night starting to emerge and consume, creeping up the church walls like growing tendrils. In the distance a Carrion Wolf howled. 
“Then your fate is sealed.” And with that the voice was gone, the queer feeling of being watched disappearing with it. She was left alone in the churchyard, standing on the graves of 20 innocent people, nothing but the charred trees for company. 
She pulled away from the wall, and where her hand had been was a print; blood red and harsh against the dirty white.
I need to go back.
She hated the hotel, but the voice’s last words sent shivers down her spine; Your fate is sealed. What did that mean? Did she want to know? All she did know was she wanted to curl up in bed and cry herself to sleep - even if that risked a visit from the concierge.
Another wolf howled, this one alarmingly close, causing Marcy to jump. She needed to get out of here, it wasn’t safe. 
The wall had shown her that.
8
The cameras didn’t lie. You can’t fool CCTV. He’d seen her run off – in fact, he’d seen her as she was running off, down past the miners and to the woods in the west. He hadn’t chased after her because by the time he’d have gotten down the stairs she would’ve been long gone. And he also had a feeling she’d be back; those woods were crawling with wolves at night.
And if the wolves didn’t kill her, the radiation would.
No, instead of chasing her, he had called for his most trustworthy guard, Parker. Parker was an ace shot with a rifle, taking down multiple beasts and raiders over the past few years. And most importantly, he never hesitated – ever. The concierge knew he could count on him to carry out the plan and keep his mouth shut. 
And if he didn’t? Well the concierge would simply press a little red button and every cell in Parkers brain would be fried.
You see, he only took others loyalty with a pinch of salt. Every one of the concierge’s guards had a micro chip implant inside their heads. He called it ‘insurance’ but the guards didn’t; they all knew it was a kill switch for if they ever defected against him. Alas it worked, nobody had ever defied him. That he knew of, anyway.
Whilst Marcy had been running through the woods and taking a grim history lesson, the concierge had been busy devising his plan. He had trusted Parker with his own personal .50 rifle from his office, and both of them had lounged outside on the ground floor balcony overlooking the entrance. He was sure she’d come back. But if she didn’t, he’d just have to leave it to the wolves to clean away her body. 
She’ll be back. I bet you.
Oh yes she will. Over the past few hours he felt everything that did happened did for a reason; as if something else was turning the cogs of fate. Things were falling into place, the jigsaw pieces slotting together to make the final picture; The Grand Finale. And, indeed, it would be grand.
The concierge smiles, his teeth glowing in the growing night. Dusk was here, the sun would soon be gone. It didn’t matter though; he was wearing a new fragrance for this special occasion. The smell of victory. 
His radio crackled, tucked into the waistband of his trousers.
He stood with his arms folded in the middle of the miner’s yard, as Marcy emerged from the woods and ran directly towards him.
Hello Petal.
9
She saw him as she came to the outskirts of the miner’s yard, stood stock still with his arms folded, grinning. His teeth were predatory and shining in the dark. She stopped a few yards in front of him panting for breath. A nasty stitch gnawed in her side.
What the-?
“Hello Petal! Fancy seeing you here!” He shouted over to her, his voice calm and almost friendly. He uncrossed his arms and opened them wide as if welcoming her. “It’s a bit late for an evening stroll isn’t it?”
Sweat trickled down her back; the night was warm and she didn’t like this. Not at all. With every second that passed the feeling of unease she’d felt when she’d seen him grew stronger. He had an air of celebration about him, and anything he was celebrating couldn’t be good. She wanted to walk forward but her feet felt cemented to the floor.
[Your fate is sealed]
“Y-yeah, I just wanted some fresh air.”
He walked a couple of steps toward her, that smile still plastered on his face. His body language was relaxed and amicable, but his eyes seethed with fury. A fury so intense she could feel it burning holes in her face.
“Of course, but those woods are out of bounds.” he reached into his pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes. The packaging was crumpled and the tobacco inside stale. He took one out and planted it between his lips, using a petrol lighter to light it up. Taking one drag he inhaled, coughed, and exhaled – the smoke exiting through his nose like a Wyvern preparing to spit fire.
“I quit smoking years ago. There’s enough radiation in this world to give you cancer. I only smoke now when I have to make hard decisions.”
A ball started forming in her throat, making it hard to swallow.
“Hard decisions?”
“Do you know why those woods are out of bounds?” he asked, but they both knew she already knew the answer.
“N-no.”
“Because it’s riddled with radiation. Radiation that is now stuck to your clothes, your hair, even your skin.” His body slumped slightly, as if in disappointment, and he looked away from her to the floor. “You ran into the woods trying to escape me, but realised it’s too dangerous out there. So you came back. But you can’t.”
Panic was now creeping in, washing over her body in sickly waves. Was he really going to do this? Was he really going to kick her out?
“I-I’m sorry. Please let me back in. I’ll do anything. Please.”
He sighed, took another drag and looked right at her. His face was painted with a true expression of regret. He genuinely looked sorry for her.
“I can’t Marcy, you’ll contaminate everyone,” he gestured behind him to the hotel and pulled out a radio, “I have my best crack-shot guard over at the hotel, and at this very second a cross hair is pointed at your head.”
The words didn’t sink in at first. She felt dizzy and scared and sick. She could see all those rifles from the vision going off in unison, could smell gun smoke and burnt flesh. She didn’t want to die - she had a life living inside of her. She couldn’t die.
“If you don’t get away from here I will give the order for him to shoot,” he continued, “I didn’t want it to be like this. I really didn’t. I’m sorry Marcy.”
She started toward him, hands reaching out desperately pleading, but stopped as he pulled out a pistol.
“Don’t make me do it Marcy.”
“Please don’t do this! I can’t live out there! I’m sorry, there must be another way.” Tears were streaming down her face, snot starting to bubble out of her nose. The stitch was gone, replaced with a thousand ants that crawled up and down her body. Surely there must be another way? If she took a shower and burnt her clothes-
“I’m sorry,” he threw away his cigarette and brought the radio to his mouth, “you’ve got 10 seconds before I give the order. 10.”
She stared into his eyes and realised he was being serious. The yard around her began to spin, her heat thundering along like a startled horse.
“9.”
She turned tail and ran, ignoring the screeches of her legs that were yelling at her to stop. The woods weren’t that far away, but they never got closer, not matter how fast she ran. Her arms flailed and her hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. In the distance she could still hear the concierge counting down.
“8. 7. 6.”
[Your fate is sealed]
[sealed]
[sealed]
The old-world beings voice repeated over and over like a scratched record, bringing with it images of Neo-Nazi militia soldiers and muzzle flashes. Billions and billions of people had been killed over the ages, and this latest nuclear catastrophe was only a drop in the ocean of death. The deaths of a thousand or so were nothing compared to the death of basic human morality.
My time is not yet. I won’t die. We won’t die. I won’t allow it.
Her last thought was of her child’s name; Clavius.

10
He’d decided the outcome of his plan in advance, but that hadn’t made it any easier to enact. He watched her stumble across the field before him, the last hues of dusk reflecting off her silk dress. The dress he’d given her when they’d first met. It was fitting, then, that it would be the last thing of her he would see.
He took out another cigarette and lit it, dragging away at the acrid tobacco. His eyes welled with tears, but he wasn’t sure if it was the cigarette smoke or loss. It turns out he had feelings for her after all. But there was nothing else he could do now. Love didn’t have a place in this world anymore.
“Parker get ready.” He called into the radio, watching as Marcy got further toward the woods.
“But sir, she’s past the threshold? I thought if she didn’t get past it we’d shoot -”
“Are you questioning me Parker?” His voice was hard, the tears that were once in his eyes now gone. He tapped his foot, starting to get nervous as she got further away.
“No sir.”
“Then get yourself ready and fire on my command.”
For a split second he thought about calling her back, risking the radiation and taking her in his arms. He could abandon the Beautiful People and they would both raise their child and live a happy life, protected by the hotel and his many guards. Life would be easier, simpler, and more crucially happier. Deep down he’d always known he was in love with her, but everything that was happening… the creatures in his basement wouldn’t allow it. They’d rise up and destroy everything he’d built. He had no choice but to help them.
A single tear suddenly appeared and ran down his cheek.
“Fire on one. 3,2-” He took one last look at her, the last surviving angel in this dying world. In his mind he grasped his heart, ripping it from his chest and discarding it away forever.
“1… FIRE!”
A CRACK sounded from far behind him and a few seconds later, Marcy jerked in the distance and fell to the ground like a sack of stones. There was no sound, no wind, no birds, only the crackling of static from his radio.
I’m so sorry. So so sorry.
*