White and Other Tales of Ruin

It was the start of the Ruin. The Sickness was still to come, lying in wait in some distant African cave like the ghost of a wronged nation ready to exact a chilling, relentless revenge. The first nukes had fallen in the Middle East, and money markets across the globe had crashed the previous month. Britain was already threatening a worldwide ban on trade, import or export. In some areas of the country, martial law had been declared. It was rumoured that people were being shot. In London, the army was hanging looters they caught pillaging the pickings of the Numb-Skull plague in the streets; their bloated bodies became home to fattened, less homely pigeons than those that adorned Nelson’s column.

Della shrugged, rolled her eyes skyward. “Well, you heard them, kiddo, telling everyone how good it would be. The Lord Ships are mighty fine and high, ready, they say, to restore to us all that we’ve lost over the last few years: justice; law; peace; even food. In the process, where do you think the Lords live? What do you reckon they eat?”

“I don’t know.”

“Somewhere nicer and something better than you, that’s where and what.” She flinched as her nail caught a fold of skin and opened a cut. A tear of blood formed on the stump and I watched, fascinated, as it grew, swelled and then dropped like a folded petal to the ground. When I looked up, I saw that Della had been watching me watching her.

“But don’t you think it’ll all work out for us?” I asked, naive and blindly trusting. “They say it’s the answer. ‘Government from afar’, they say.”

“I think the Lord Ships will last a long time,” she mused. She sat back in her chair and stopped worrying her absent legs. I knew the signs — she was warming to the subject, not only because she loved sharing her wisdom with me, but also because it meant she did not hurt herself. At least, for a time.

“At the end of that long time,” she continued, “there’re going to be a lot less people in the world. I think the Lords’ll rule adequately, considering, but they’ll also reap any rewards of their labours before anyone else even knows they’re there. The worst thing is …” She trailed off. This was something that Della never did, she had an angle on everything, an opinion for anyone who would listen. She stared up at the moon where it was emerging from the azure blue of a summer sky. I’m sure that for those few moments she was alone, and she had forgotten how different life had become.

“What’s the worst thing, Della?” I asked. Each time we spoke, I remembered her every word, repeated them to myself like a mantra as I drifted off to sleep. They were precious to me, in a way priceless. Some people — a few — still read the Bible. My bible was the lake of words I remembered from Della.

“The worst thing, kiddo, is that they’re going to be gods.”

Della sent me away then, complaining about her stumps, saying her legs were aching and she could only ever put the ghosts to sleep when she was alone. I knew what she meant, but sometimes I lay awake at night, imagining a pair of discorporated limbs stumbling unconnected down a straight, dusty road.

I left Della to her thoughts, knowing that I would benefit from them the next time we met. Della was a treasure.

II

I wake in the night and hear the distant sounds of engines, protesting as if hauling a huge weight up a steep slope. Disembodied lights climb the darkness in the distance, pause for a while and then continue on their journey. Jade does not hear them, or if she does she pays no attention.

I think of the massacre, of the bodies cooling in the night, providing food for whatever wild creatures remained. I huddle closer to Jade, but sleep eludes me. The darkness is haunted by the silvery twinkle of stars, their brightness distracting and surprising at this altitude. Sometime in the night, just before the darkness flees and there is a brief lull in nature to greet the dawn, I hear a faint sound from the south. A wailing, but possessed of many voices; a calling, like the tortured grind of metal on stone. I sit up and listen harder, but then the birds start singing and their song drowns the noise. I am glad.

When Jade wakes up I tell her, but she merely shrugs and smiles. “Another Lord Ship over the town.”

“But I didn’t hear it coming.”

“Sometimes they just drift in from over the sea, then out again. Sometimes, they’re as consistent as the tides.”

I shake my head. “But they’re not manned anymore. The Lords died, or fled.”

Jade shrugs. When she has no answer, she shrugs.

She begins to prepare breakfast — a thick, stodgy gruel made from a paste in her bag and powdered milk, a few drops of water added to lighten the load on our stomachs. She looks tired, as if she was the one kept awake by the night, not me.

“I heard engines last night,” I say, watching for a reaction. She raises her eyebrows, but she does not look at me. I wonder whether she is beginning to regret her offer of help. I wonder how sane she can really be.