The Culled Part 39

He sighed. Looked down.

"b.u.mmed your way around. Attached yourself to people. Yeah? Did the bare f.u.c.king minimum to make yourself useful. Got taken care of."

He wouldn't look me in the eye.

"Same as later on. You told me so yourself. The Clergy showed up, offered you a job. Nice and cosy, safe as houses. And who cared if the job was ferrying kiddies to get themselves sucked-dry? Huh? Who cared? You just pretend like you don't know."

The look in his eye told me: he knew.

"Oh, and there was the smack, too. You forgot to mention that. You told me you got clean back in London. Maybe you did, for a while. Must've been too good an opportunity, right? When these robe-wearing p.r.i.c.ks showed up with all the skag you can shoot?

"Bare minimum effort, maximum reward. Easy life."

"L-look. It's... it's not like..."

"It was the same when I showed up. s.h.i.t, Nate, don't look at me like that. I know. You see this psycho Brit, all fired-up - who cares about what? - and he can make sure you don't get dead, and he can lead you back to the supply, and all you've gotta do in return is patch him up when he needs or wait for him to die."

"Don't you gimme that," he hissed, real anger in his voice. "Don't you act like I used you. You done the same! You lied to all them scavs. You had yourself a goal, same as me, and you used any motherf.u.c.ker you had to to get it."

"That's true, Nate. Thank you for that." I smiled, cold fury doing something sharp to my belly. "I'm not a very nice piece of work either."

He nodded. Like he'd scored a point. "Well then."

"Except, the thing is, Nate... Responsibilities."

"What?"

"We've all got them. Don't always benefit us, but they're there. You think I gave a s.h.i.t if John-Paul lived or died? Had nothing to do with me. Just got mixed-up in this. But I tell you what, Nate: I finished it. Too many people died on the way not to. Too much at stake."

"Make your point Limey."

"The point." I worked my jaw. Sighed deep. Saw Bella's face. "The point's name, Nate, was Shayla."

He stopped breathing.

Looked up.

"H-how... how did you..."

"She would've been, what? One, when you ran. s.h.i.t, you even left a note... 'Couldn't handle the responsibility', Bella said. Rare moment of honesty there, Nate."

"You... you know B-bella..?"

"You latched onto her too, didn't you? Nice young thing, bright as a b.u.t.ton, rich family. I mean... there's you, out on the streets, no place to live, and here's this stupid kid. What an opportunity..."

"Y-you... you shut the f.u.c.k up, now..."

"Made her love you, right? Used her money. Got her hooked on s.h.i.t and right up the duff. Then just when the cons outweigh the pros, just when there's a kid in the picture, off you toddle. Off to the Choirboys, waiting with their job. Off to the U-S of A. Something like that?"

He was glaring, now. Wondering whether to run or punch me.

"Malice kept wondering," I said, "why you wouldn't stop staring at her kid.

"Guilt, right?"

The gun was heavy in my hand. I sighed.

"Bella helped me get here." I said, voice tighter than I'd expected. There was something like a choke rising in my throat. "She's dead now."

"How long have you known who I was?" Nate said, quietly.

"I think..." I scowled, looking inwards. "I think from the beginning. Heh. Maybe I am like you, Nate. Maybe I ignored it because you were useful. Was only just now, sitting here, that it all clicked.

"'Claystone,' Bella called you. Nathaniel Ca.s.sius 'Clay' Waterstone. Small world."

"Small world." He muttered. Almost a whisper. Then: "How's... How's the girl?"

My jaw clenched.

"That's just it, Nate. That's what I meant about responsibilities. Y'see, that girl, that little Shayla... she turned five last year."

Nate's eyes bulged. He saw it coming.

"They raped her mummy and dragged her away, screaming, to an airport just outside London."

"Oh... oh G.o.d..."

"They loaded her onto a plane with a dozen more, all crying, and shipped them to a s.h.i.tty little airport outside the Big Apple."

He moaned, knees giving way.

"And you'll never guess who was waiting for them, with a kind word and a silly costume, to ferry them off to see a nice old man."

"...no no no no no..."

"Bella told me... Bella told me it wasn't my problem. I wonder if she knew you'd be waiting there, at the other end?"

Tears oozed out of his eyes, falling in thick blobs to the floor of the corridor.

"I wonder if she knew I'd make it my problem?"

His lips parted.

"Wait. please! Just, w..."

And I shot him in the head, through the centre of the tattoo over his eye, and watched as smoke coiled up from the hole.

Then I stepped into the Comms room with a clear head.

Her diary was there.

The goons had moved it all to one side. Bits of old detritus, files and notes and sheets. Enough paperwork to keep anyone busy for months. They'd swept it all aside and got-on with preparing the place for John-Paul. On the TV above the control board the withered old man died, mid-confession, over and over again. Stuck on a loop.

Her diary was there.

I almost didn't see it. Almost mistook it for just another book of notes, more tedious laboratory results to be communicated back to New York.

I bought her that diary. It was just... just this stupid thing. An idea for Christmas, one year. We gave each other notebooks, wrote down all our thoughts, everything we'd done, all the stuff we'd seen and said... then swapped them back at the end of the year.

Seems daft, now. It's not like I would've been allowed to write down half the stuff I got up to.

But hers... Hers were always full. Fat with notes.

My heart almost exploded. Her handwriting. Neat little letters, unjoined, in neat little columns. Page after page. Different pens, different colours. Dated at the top, and always the same beginning: My darling.

My eyes went fuzzy.

She'd been here. She'd been here once, but how long ago?

My fingers were clumsy, suddenly. Pages stuck together, paper tore. I scrabbled through the tears and shakes to the last pages, blinking at each date in turn.

Towards the end, she'd started using a page per week.

Then per month.

s.p.a.ce was running out, as the back cover nudged closer. I didn't read a word, just let my eyes dance from date to date, not understanding, flicking further and further back.

The last two entries were separated by six months.

The last one- Oh...

-the last one was made three months ago.

I was on the floor, then. Not understanding. Lights in front of my eyes.

Panels clicked and lights flickered on the consoles. My head swam.

This room. This was where she contacted me. This was where the signal started.

This was where my journey began.

And the greatest revelation of all, the one that all the others presupposed, but that somehow took far longer to settle; that blew them out of the water one by one and left me curled in a ball, head in my hands, teeth grating together, choking on dry sobs.

She's alive.

Oh, G.o.d.

She's alive.

Above ground, the Clergy ignored me. In my robe I was just another figure, and they had more than enough to be worrying about.

Wailing and screaming at the death of their master.

Hunting for Iroquois warriors, as their rusting ferry was sabotaged - listing in the water - and distant rumbles shook the island.

Some were taking over-optimistic potshots at the canoes and rowing boats just visible though the smoke, dodging between flaming patches of sc.u.mmy liquid. The rest were just sitting, watching, waiting. They'd all seen the broadcast. They all knew.

It was over.

Soon, I'd swim out to the Iroquois in the boats. Nudging aside fiery drifts and scalding slicks. Maybe the Tadodaho was expecting me. Maybe I'd get medical treatment and food and thanks for my help.

Maybe not. Who cared?

I took the diary and the papers, bound-up neatly in a folded pile. I stepped past arguing clerics and screaming soldiers, and let the world turn-on around me.

She's alive.

The sun was setting. Through the settling QuickSmog it was a distant spotlight, misted and artificial, and by its waning glow I read through the final pages of my lover's life.

Find me. The last page said. Come and find me, my love.

The fires of Lake Eerie burnt around me, and the sky choked-up with smoke and haze, and I flicked through pages and found- Yes. There.

-found where to go. Found where to find her.

And smiled.

Don't you f.u.c.king give up, soldier!

Sir, no sir.

THE END.

Simon Spurrier is an award-winning writer of novels and graphic novel fiction. He's worked extensively for the UK's talent-factory t.i.tle 2000 AD, has published novels with Abaddon, the Black Library and Black Flame, and has won a series of accolades and prizes for screenwriting. He's worked as a cook, a bookseller, a BBC Art Director and a film student. He lives in London because the night sky is a far better shade of green there than anywhere else.