private world, the walls of his workshop expanding out. His stomach tightened and fizzed.
It was all really happening. There were people coming to kill them. At first it had been people struggling to survive, fighting over scraps of food. Hunger drove people to do terrible things; there were no judgements to be made when it came to such desperation.
But the famine had passed. Things were getting back to normal.
Yet still they came. They burned, killed, raped, and took what slaves they would, leaving a swathe of destruction in their wake. This wasn’t a fight for survival anymore. The last remnants of the Old World were being exterminated.
That’s why you’re down here , he thought. It’s all too much. And you’re a tinkerer, not a fighter. There’s nothing more you can do.
Still, to think he sat here and played with his toys while what remained of their order scrabbled outside.
“This sucks,” he muttered to his workshop.
His voice went unanswered. He cursed, twiddling the dial, cutting off the message. It gave way to that same unbroken screech. Latif didn’t bother putting the earbuds back in, welcoming the pain, letting it wash over his tired mind and blanket out all the doubt and worry and fear.
Unthinking oblivion was better. He closed his eyes, turning the dial as the screech continued to throb and thrum. Through his hand, it seemed magnified tenfold, his entire body resonating. The strange feeling carried him off, away from the world, and his sleep-deprived mind went gladly. He floated in a dark void where there was only sensation, the air in his lungs. The waves lapped at him like water, and he floated upon them, free of all this terrible reality.
All the while his hand twiddled the dial, back and forth, back and forth, making little corrections for which there seemed no rhyme or reason.
In his half-unconscious state, he frowned.
Am I looking for something?
It certainly seemed so. He was tempted to shake himself out of it and get back to work, but curiosity kept him sitting with eyes closed, letting his hand run on autopilot. For a brief moment it seemed the screech itself directed him, working him like a puppet. Then the screech died again.
He released the dial as a voice once again emerged from the speakers.
What are the chances of finding the Scots’ channel blind? he thought. Must be muscle memory.
Then the voice spoke again, and his eyes flew open. It was different. Loud, jocular, and upbeat. Riddled with static and hopelessly garbled, he caught only the tone, yet there was no mistaking it: it couldn’t have been further from the Scottish plea.
As though to reinforce the point, the voice rang off with a digitised swish , and in its place, music filtered out into the dusty old workshop.
He looked at the dial and saw it wasn’t the same frequency. The needle lay fixed a few megahertz lower than the magic number scrawled on his arm.
No. It can’t be.
Shaking, terrified he was about to destroy some miraculous fluke, he turned the dial slightly, grating his teeth this time when the screech cut in. He paused, took a breath, and turned the dial back with a prayer on his lips.
The scream died. Music again.
God. What’s happening? What did I do?
An immediate answer from elsewhere in his mind: Does it matter?
Latif stumbled from the stool, his legs weak and clumsy from sitting too long. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he ambled towards the door. “The old man is going to crap a goat when he hears this,” he muttered.
VII
Canary Wharf heaved with activity. The walls, over fifteen feet high and composed of reinforced concrete, had held back any would-be attackers for almost a decade. Cutting off the Isle of Dogs on one side, with the Thames flanking the other, and coupled with a contingent of armed guards upon its many catwalks, the encampment had become a fortress. Safe as any place could be after the End.
Had been. Before the siege.
“Nobody feels safe,” Evelyn
It was all really happening. There were people coming to kill them. At first it had been people struggling to survive, fighting over scraps of food. Hunger drove people to do terrible things; there were no judgements to be made when it came to such desperation.
But the famine had passed. Things were getting back to normal.
Yet still they came. They burned, killed, raped, and took what slaves they would, leaving a swathe of destruction in their wake. This wasn’t a fight for survival anymore. The last remnants of the Old World were being exterminated.
That’s why you’re down here , he thought. It’s all too much. And you’re a tinkerer, not a fighter. There’s nothing more you can do.
Still, to think he sat here and played with his toys while what remained of their order scrabbled outside.
“This sucks,” he muttered to his workshop.
His voice went unanswered. He cursed, twiddling the dial, cutting off the message. It gave way to that same unbroken screech. Latif didn’t bother putting the earbuds back in, welcoming the pain, letting it wash over his tired mind and blanket out all the doubt and worry and fear.
Unthinking oblivion was better. He closed his eyes, turning the dial as the screech continued to throb and thrum. Through his hand, it seemed magnified tenfold, his entire body resonating. The strange feeling carried him off, away from the world, and his sleep-deprived mind went gladly. He floated in a dark void where there was only sensation, the air in his lungs. The waves lapped at him like water, and he floated upon them, free of all this terrible reality.
All the while his hand twiddled the dial, back and forth, back and forth, making little corrections for which there seemed no rhyme or reason.
In his half-unconscious state, he frowned.
Am I looking for something?
It certainly seemed so. He was tempted to shake himself out of it and get back to work, but curiosity kept him sitting with eyes closed, letting his hand run on autopilot. For a brief moment it seemed the screech itself directed him, working him like a puppet. Then the screech died again.
He released the dial as a voice once again emerged from the speakers.
What are the chances of finding the Scots’ channel blind? he thought. Must be muscle memory.
Then the voice spoke again, and his eyes flew open. It was different. Loud, jocular, and upbeat. Riddled with static and hopelessly garbled, he caught only the tone, yet there was no mistaking it: it couldn’t have been further from the Scottish plea.
As though to reinforce the point, the voice rang off with a digitised swish , and in its place, music filtered out into the dusty old workshop.
He looked at the dial and saw it wasn’t the same frequency. The needle lay fixed a few megahertz lower than the magic number scrawled on his arm.
No. It can’t be.
Shaking, terrified he was about to destroy some miraculous fluke, he turned the dial slightly, grating his teeth this time when the screech cut in. He paused, took a breath, and turned the dial back with a prayer on his lips.
The scream died. Music again.
God. What’s happening? What did I do?
An immediate answer from elsewhere in his mind: Does it matter?
Latif stumbled from the stool, his legs weak and clumsy from sitting too long. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he ambled towards the door. “The old man is going to crap a goat when he hears this,” he muttered.
VII
Canary Wharf heaved with activity. The walls, over fifteen feet high and composed of reinforced concrete, had held back any would-be attackers for almost a decade. Cutting off the Isle of Dogs on one side, with the Thames flanking the other, and coupled with a contingent of armed guards upon its many catwalks, the encampment had become a fortress. Safe as any place could be after the End.
Had been. Before the siege.
“Nobody feels safe,” Evelyn
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