Blight

  Nobody paid him any heed as he moved silent and unseen amongst them. Any that happened to catch his eye, simply bowed their shaven heads until their chins were resting on their chests and waited patiently until he passed. They were his children; the vagrants and outcasts, the crazy ones, those cast aside by the fable and fallacy of the old world. They had come to him of their own accord and made him their spokesperson without prompt, and as such, he had pledged to do their bidding. As a new order, they would feast on the flesh of the old tyrants and pick their teeth with the bones that were left.

  Eventually, the corridor led him to a thin staircase which he walked down confidently. Back in confines of his own chamber in the basement, Tidus shut the door and lit a candle. This far down, the darkness lay thick against the fabric of the building, filling the corners like freshly poured latex. He quickly removed his clothing, picked up the sharp, ornate blade from the small table against the wall, and stepped into the centre of the room, where some markings had been daubed in black paint on the floor.

  The cold of the concrete bit at his back as he lay down, stretching his arms and legs to either side of him in a star shape. Then, one by one, he relaxed every muscle in his body, starting with the toes on his feet and finishing with his face.

  “Vincit qui se vincit. He conquers who conquers himself,” he muttered, as he drew the blade sharply across his stomach, pushing down hard enough to ensure that it sliced all the way through the skin.

  His abdomen began to throb immediately, burning bright like fire. He closed his eyes, sucking in another deep breath. This time, as he blew out slowly through his mouth, he concentrated on his heart rate, slowing it in time with the palpitations of the cut. The laceration was a big one—he could tell by the amount of blood spilling down his sides—but he had needed it to be. In order to allow him the clarity to channel the energy into firm decipherable communication, he needed to be in a totally submissive state; a complete detachment from his human form. Pain was his guide to that place, the key to the sacred plane. Remnants of the light from the candle pumped behind his eyelids. Thoughts crowded in like people at the scene of an accident, pressing in on all sides, visions of faces, inexplicable beings, but he ignored them, pushing from the centre, clearing the layers one at a time, zoning in on the pain until there was only it and nothing else; nothing but the white flames of the earth and the steady pulse that emanated from the core of his body and the centre of everything else.

  Soon the visions would come. He could feel them swirling in the ground beneath him, pressing into the skin of concrete beneath his back, waiting until the right time to show their faces. He already knew that the blight was coming, and now, he needed to be ready.

  Epilogue

  Juliana frowned as she looked up to the sky. The weather had changed considerably in the previous few days. Having never been out of London, she had only ever heard rumours that the weather turned more shit the farther north you travelled. Well now, it seemed like the rumours were holding true. A constant and steady drizzle of cold rain fell from a sleet-grey sky, leaving her clothing cold and her body wet through to the skin. Low clouds pressed in on the barren landscape causing the air to feel heavy and oppressive. The pressure left her with a dull headache.

  The motorway had given rise to several small towns along the route, but the stopovers had been brief and only out of necessity. Everywhere they went, from one encampment to the next, the atmosphere was always the same: drawn, battle-weary faces from the few survivors that remained told stories of the horrors, hardship, and famine of the new world.

  “There it is,” Tanner said, gesturing to the skyline. He now walked with a slight stoop and one arm hung limply at his side.

  Juliana stopped to wipe the film of rain from her forehead, squinting her eyes against the deluge. Ahead of them lay the outline of the city known to all as the Refuge.

  “I hope this is what you say it is,” she said, looking over the grey outline grimly. From where she was stood now, the entire place looked as dead as a graveyard. No lights or fires could be seen anywhere amongst the shadows. “Because it don’t look like much.”

  Tanner shrugged. “Can’t be any worse than where we’ve just come from.”

  Juliana said nothing as she glanced behind at Doyle who was still pushing the barrow, his head down, steps slow and methodical. He had said little since the prison. On arrival, it had taken all that she could muster even to set a foot inside, but once she had, the feelings of horror soon gave way to something which felt strangely familiar. The three of them had clung together to search through the cells, checking all of the partly eaten and decomposing bodies that they came across. A few of the faces she had recognised, but Doyle must have known them all, and he had been quiet throughout. At the end, there had been no sign of Anabelle, or Sarah, or anybody else of worth for that matter—not alive anyway. The place was a tomb; a mausoleum drenched in blood and shrouded in death, and they had left quickly.

  Looking over the decrepit carcass of the city before them now, Juliana felt only worry. Tanner had sold her on a promise of new beginnings, of untapped opportunities, but every day she struggled to rise to meet his optimism. Her body ached and her heart lay heavily weighted in her chest. She had lost everything: her husband, her boy, her home. All that remained were her two unsuited travelling companions, the clothes on her back, and a few sodden provisions in a home-made barrow; hardly cause for celebration. Even Tanner now was a cripple, having completely lost the use of one arm. If it weren’t so tragic, it would be laughable. The travelling hobos, she called them in her mind; her own dishevelled caravan of circus freaks.

  “Ready?” she said to Doyle as he pulled up next to them both and dropped the handles of the barrow with a grunt.

  The big lad flashed tired eyes with a look that showed a complete lack of care. He nodded, but remained silent, steadily shaking the aches from his hands.

  “Right,” she said with a defiant roll of the shoulders, and without looking back, she strode on in the direction of the Refuge.

  The End

  <<<<>>>>

  Thank you for reading The Human Zoo series. I do hope you’ve enjoyed it so far.

  As a reader, your reviews help to get the books noticed, so if you’ve liked what you’ve read and would care to take the time to go onto the Amazon website and leave me one, it would really be appreciated! (For some reason, in the U.K. the stars at the back of a kindle do not transfer onto the website).

  Kolin