“But of course he will!”
Julia and I stood in silence for a few moments, taking in the intense preparations. About fifteen people were joining our exodus, and most of them were rushing about, carrying luggage and pushing our three boats out to the sea with shouted commands, muffled over by the shifting of the sea, rhythmic like a heartbeat.
My eyes lingered on Laura on the opposite side of the beach, bothering her long braid, trampling to and fro nervously with the air of a person who would very much like to help but doesn’t quite know how. She had never fully recovered from Finlay’s death. More than a few men had tried making advances towards her, but she had steadfastly refused them all.
“So, you’re heading back to Edinburgh with Mickey and Laura?” I asked Julia absent-mindedly at the sight of her friend, though of course I already knew that to be the case.
“Well, Mickey’s heading to Liverpool, if it’s still there. But yes, back to the good ol’ homeland.”
“Nice.”
The protracted silence that ensued only grew more awkward by the minute. To distract myself, I replayed in my mind all the goodbyes that I had said in the last twenty-four hours. The tears that rolled down Jean-Luc’s withered cheeks, Joshua’s spindly embrace, and Amit’s firm handshake. When I ran out of this particular fodder for my ever-churning mind, I resorted instead to the goodbyes I could not say, most notably to Monika, for fear bordering on certainty that she would have betrayed our imminent departure to her paramour.
As the bustle on the beach gradually subsided, Julia walked over to Russell. He got into one of the boats, swaying precariously as it rocked underneath him, and she handed him the baby before boarding herself.
Einar strode over to me in turn with a beamingly excited smile, relieved no doubt to be at last departing from Santini’s clutches, his hair whipped back from his face into a semblance of a lion’s mane.
“My queen,” he said good-humouredly, taking hold of my hand to lead me forward towards our boat, “your carriage awaits.”
45
CROSSROADS
We sailed on three boats, Kevin steering the one that led our little convoy. The sea was calm, its surface almost flat save for the gentlest of ripples. I sat toward the back, watching Corsica gradually disappear from view until it became nothing but a vague shadow on the horizon.
If our short sea voyage was somewhat uneventful, the same could not be said for our arrival on the mainland. We landed ashore near where Genoa used to be.
“Oh my god,” I gasped as I took in the scene of destruction beyond the shore.
Nothing but grey rubble lay in the stead of colourful seaside houses that once stood there. It had been years since the bombardment, but I would have sworn that I could still detect traces of the explosives’ sulphur-like scent mingled in the smell of mortar dust.
A little further away, skeletons of erstwhile houses still loomed defiantly; their facades crumbled away, their windows shattered, their whole walls torn down. Corroded metal rafters hung limply from their sides, reminiscent of the way the torn rags of their prior clothes hung on the thin, sooty frames of infecteds’ bodies. In places, blackened isolation foam protrudedfrom the mutilated walls, repulsive and vaguely indecent, like the fatal spilling of a person’s guts.
I barely registered Einar’s arm around my thickened waist as he helped me out of the boat.
“I don’t know why I expected to find it restored as if the bombings had never happened,” I said incredulously.
“Behold the graveyard of our civilisation.” The misty veneer of Einar’s eyes betrayed an emotion undistinguishable from his voice alone. “Whatever I imagined pales in comparison ... I wonder if it was worth it. Some human lives saved, perhaps, and not that many, in exchange for centuries of culture. Wouldn’t it have been better to preserve monuments of our bygone era instead?”
His face reddening, Dave opened his mouth to express his disagreement when we all froze as we heard distant gnarls, amplified by the strange acoustics of the desolate place. The rubble moved in places, bodies emerging from it and jerkily stumbling towards us in a way characteristic of long-infected furies, gradually succumbing to their various infections and injuries.
I counted ten, then twenty, thirty. Not too bad, then, we were armed to the teeth after all.
“Remember, we don’t want to attract more of them. So don’t panic and don’t use firearms or explosives unless necessary,” Einar reminded us, readying his own bow.
As the cannibals twitched and scuttled closer, we all fired our arrows. I was the only one who missed. Cursing with frustration, I nocked another arrow. In an effort to improve my imperfect stance, I lost balance entirely, stumbling, and I dropped the arrow to the ground. I nocked another one, aimed, and fired, only to miss again. I felt myself turning violently crimson. All the furies were dead by then, except the one I was aiming for, which shuffled steadily towards me.
“Allow me, love,” Einar said eventually, then marched towards the withered female form, grabbed it by the hair, and cut its throat unceremoniously.
He then washed his weapon and his hands in an antiseptic solution whilst everyone else gathered the arrows. I alone stood there uselessly, frozen in my displeasure.
“Oh, how the tables have turned ...”
Coming within a few steps of me, Dave mocked me until he noted my expression, and then he quickly adjusted his tone. “Oh Renny, don’t worry about it! It’s only to be expected at this stage. You’ll be back to your lethal self in no time ...”
Coming closer yet, I saw his face slacken in genuine concern. “Renny, are you crying? Are you hurt?”
With my immense belly in the way, even Dave’s bear hug was nowhere near as comforting as it used to be. The only thing that remained unchanged was the look of thinly veiled displeasure that Einar shot in our direction before walking a few steps away from us to give us privacy.
