Fisher muttered, her smoker’s lips crinkling into a pained grimace. An icicle of a woman, straight-backed and regal, with eyes that could skewer any seasoned stoic, she had shrivelled to a wisp. Wrapped in her purple shawl, which had for so long swept in her wake and served to frame her in billowing theatricality, she seemed to be wilting. She crossed her arms over her chest, gnarled fingers clutching at her shoulders as she looked through the tower’s plate glass windows into the courtyard below.
Sir Oliver ‘Lincoln’ Farringdon could only watch, both hands planted atop his walking stick. Everything had been said, every mote of encouragement, every spin or shimmer of light poking through the dark sludge of their prospects. But it hadn’t been enough. Hollowed and depleted, the stores of optimism about the camp had bled dry.
“We’re all just waiting,” Evelyn said.
Below, Marek Johnson barked orders at a few nursing volunteers who had erected wash basins in the path of auxiliary power lines. Stunted and muscular, his tireless figure milled back and forth without pause. There was seldom anything left to do, yet Marek had maintained an air of tautness throughout, putting on a show, keeping everybody on edge, for they would have no warning of an attack.
Lincoln bristled. Despite a combined age pushing sixteen decades, he bet he and Evelyn could take any world-weary youth.
No. Such nonsense will not stand. We will not be beaten. I refuse to believe there’s nothing to be said. And to hear dear Evie say such things, such drivel…
Ten storeys up in One Canada Square, a great sparkling jewel that was visible for thirty miles, they could see the whole camp. The figures below moved food stores inside, erected what barricades they could, stocked piles of ammunition close to the walls. They worked tirelessly, yet every move they made and every breath they took seemed charged with hopeless lethargy.
Lincoln had seen it plenty of times in the wilds. When he, Alexander, and the others had been forging the fledgling Alliance, every other sign of habitation they had come across had been laced with it, like a sickness. Like the world was fading, winding down like a bob coming to a stop.
“I’ve failed them,” Evelyn said hollowly. In her reflection, Lincoln watched her blink slowly as though she were in fact far, far away.
I will not be among those our children look back on one day and say, “They were our undoing, through their inaction and cowardice. They chose not to be brave.” I will not , Lincoln thought.
“Get a good grip of yourself, woman!” he barked.
Inwardly, he prepared to cower, but he held his stance as she turned from the window. Yet all he saw was a slab of meat staring back at him, the seat of a great power vacated and bare. No fight. Just a stare.
“No,” he snarled, striding forwards and throwing his walking stick aside. “I will not stand for this. Of all things, I will not allow it! Not you, Evie.” He gripped her shoulders, shook her as he bore down upon her with all the fire he could muster. “We have to be strong. All this time we’ve stood against everything and built all we have, because we’ve stood together. Nothing has changed. We can be strong. We can. We must!”
Her eyelids fluttered. A glimmer of something stirring behind her glazed eyes.
He shook her again. “I will not let you turn your back on yourself. I can’t do this alone.”
She spoke as though from the bottom of a well. “There’s too many, Lincoln…”
He recoiled, stung. “Evie, don’t do this. Of all the horrors of this blasted End, I will not let it take you from me as well.” His voice cracked at the last word, and his frail old heart skipped a beat.
“Stop it,” she muttered.
“No, I can’t,” he said, holding her vice-like between his fingers. He shook her still harder. The younger man in him bade him desist; they were too old for this kind of savagery. But still he shook her and, biting
Sir Oliver ‘Lincoln’ Farringdon could only watch, both hands planted atop his walking stick. Everything had been said, every mote of encouragement, every spin or shimmer of light poking through the dark sludge of their prospects. But it hadn’t been enough. Hollowed and depleted, the stores of optimism about the camp had bled dry.
“We’re all just waiting,” Evelyn said.
Below, Marek Johnson barked orders at a few nursing volunteers who had erected wash basins in the path of auxiliary power lines. Stunted and muscular, his tireless figure milled back and forth without pause. There was seldom anything left to do, yet Marek had maintained an air of tautness throughout, putting on a show, keeping everybody on edge, for they would have no warning of an attack.
Lincoln bristled. Despite a combined age pushing sixteen decades, he bet he and Evelyn could take any world-weary youth.
No. Such nonsense will not stand. We will not be beaten. I refuse to believe there’s nothing to be said. And to hear dear Evie say such things, such drivel…
Ten storeys up in One Canada Square, a great sparkling jewel that was visible for thirty miles, they could see the whole camp. The figures below moved food stores inside, erected what barricades they could, stocked piles of ammunition close to the walls. They worked tirelessly, yet every move they made and every breath they took seemed charged with hopeless lethargy.
Lincoln had seen it plenty of times in the wilds. When he, Alexander, and the others had been forging the fledgling Alliance, every other sign of habitation they had come across had been laced with it, like a sickness. Like the world was fading, winding down like a bob coming to a stop.
“I’ve failed them,” Evelyn said hollowly. In her reflection, Lincoln watched her blink slowly as though she were in fact far, far away.
I will not be among those our children look back on one day and say, “They were our undoing, through their inaction and cowardice. They chose not to be brave.” I will not , Lincoln thought.
“Get a good grip of yourself, woman!” he barked.
Inwardly, he prepared to cower, but he held his stance as she turned from the window. Yet all he saw was a slab of meat staring back at him, the seat of a great power vacated and bare. No fight. Just a stare.
“No,” he snarled, striding forwards and throwing his walking stick aside. “I will not stand for this. Of all things, I will not allow it! Not you, Evie.” He gripped her shoulders, shook her as he bore down upon her with all the fire he could muster. “We have to be strong. All this time we’ve stood against everything and built all we have, because we’ve stood together. Nothing has changed. We can be strong. We can. We must!”
Her eyelids fluttered. A glimmer of something stirring behind her glazed eyes.
He shook her again. “I will not let you turn your back on yourself. I can’t do this alone.”
She spoke as though from the bottom of a well. “There’s too many, Lincoln…”
He recoiled, stung. “Evie, don’t do this. Of all the horrors of this blasted End, I will not let it take you from me as well.” His voice cracked at the last word, and his frail old heart skipped a beat.
“Stop it,” she muttered.
“No, I can’t,” he said, holding her vice-like between his fingers. He shook her still harder. The younger man in him bade him desist; they were too old for this kind of savagery. But still he shook her and, biting
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