"You remember when I predicted that you'd win the village tourney this year, but then Eofric beat you by twenty points?"
"I do, yes."
"See? My prophecy didn't come to pass. Anti-prophet. And there's more: I told Hengest he'd win over Brunhild, and she slapped him."
"I don't think that counts."
"Or last week when I was absolutely certain it wouldn't rain on Friday, then we nearly drowned?"
"Alright, enough. Let's say you are an 'anti-prophet', what good is that?"
"You must use your imagination, Geoffrey! Say you want a good harvest. You could engage a normal prophet and see what fate has in store - but if you asked me, I could tell you that the whole crop will be ruined by harvest-time."
"How would that help?"
"Well, it can't come true, see? Now you can be safely assured that your crop will survive the season! It's very practical."
"Oh, I see, or you could tell a merchant that their ship will sink, that sort of thing?"
"Now you're getting it."
"I suppose that would be useful."
"I figure I'll charge folk a few shillings, wave my hands around a bit, give 'em a show. Even check your chickens if the occasion calls for it."
"Mind you, you'll have a lot of competition. There's prophets, diviners and soothsayers all over the county. Place gets lousy with them in the summer."
"That's why I nicked this crossbow from the armoury."
She felt the vibrations in the water as the ship's magazine ignited, exploding outwards in splintered timber, frayed rope and burning cloth. The sounds of their cannons had drawn many to the wreck, and now Ouara and her kin circled in the water strewn with the blood of dying sailors.
The lucky ones drowned first. Others clung to fragmented boards and kicked against the cold waves until they became too weary to keep hungry jaws and prying claws at bay.
Some went for the flesh. Others hunted for the shining coin or mysterious objects that accompanied the land-dwelling trespassers wherever they sailed. Ouara fed on a hapless one, dead before he hit the water, taking mouthfuls from the bone before leaving the rest to the sharks.
She surfaced for a moment and was enraptured by the dancing colours of flame, smoke and spray against the dark sky. Already the victorious ship was sailing away, not daring to remain in these waters.
Ouara then heard a cry that cut through the wails and screams of the dying sailors. There, in the wreckage of the forecastle, was one sailor that stood out from the rest. It had long hair, tied back in braids. It had a chest like hers, bright eyes like hers, strong arms like hers, fighting a losing battle against the rushing water and the hungry seas.
When the sailor at last fell into the water, Ouara was there. Her sisters stayed away, content with their feast. Ouara watched the unusual sailor struggle, but they were caught in the ropes and pulled down by the eddies.
Ouara swam down after them. She caught the sailor in her arms, and saw for a moment not one of the trespassers, but a beautiful sister. A slowing stream of bubbles escaped the limp form, and Ouara chose to act quickly.
With the sailor's knife, she cut slits into the neck. With her own scales she clothed her. She cut free the braided hair, which swirled in the water like a halo around them both.
She embraced her sister, and kissed her. Breath and life flowed from one to the other.
Alissa awoke. Her world was now water and the dark.
Mark's jaw hung slack as the server repeated: "Do you want ketchup or brown sauce with that?" After a few seconds, Carl elbowed him in the ribs.
"Uh, ketchup."
"Right, that comes to £19.95."
Mark and Carl looked at Barry. He grunted and tapped his card on the pay machine. Carl carried the tray to the scuffed plastic table, and they sat there in silence, dividing up the chicken pieces while festive strains warbled over the speakers.
"We ain't gonna make it tonight, are we?" Barry opened, looking over at Mark, who was staring at his phone and soundlessly moving his lips.
"Says the toll's closed 'cos of a lorry fire. We'll have to go the long way."
Barry and Carl groaned.
"I told you to take the day off today so we could get on the road early, you git," Carl added, jabbing a chicken dipper in Mark's direction. He bristled.
"I couldn't find anyone to cover my shift. Anyway, Barry's the one that delayed us, looking for that perfume."
"Fuck off, I know she likes it," Barry retorted around a mouthful of chips.
"It fucking smells like death, mate," Carl replied.
Barry gave Carl the finger and carried on eating. The three went quiet as they refuelled. Once finished, Mark and Barry absently wandered through the newsagents while Carl relieved himself. Barry picked up a packet of wine gums, and Mark groaned as he looked at the weather forecast.
"It's changed again, says there'll be snow now."
"How fucking seasonal," Barry grumbled, "and let me guess, that's going to delay us even more, right?"
Mark flipped his phone case shut and slotted it back into his pocket in a clearly practiced manoeuvre, "I dunno, but there's warnings going up about storms and shit. Where the fuck's Carl? We need to go."
"I'm here you pricks, calm down. Let me grab a Costa and I'll meet you at the car, alright?"
Snow was already beginning to fall, melting away as it hit the ground and refused to settle. Mark and Barry piled into the beaten up old Astra, Carl following shortly after with a steaming coffee in hand. Mark turned the key and the car shuddered and gasped in the cold. It whined as the engine refused to start, and he swore plentifully as he struck the steering wheel with an open palm. After what seemed like an age, the car roared into life and the radio crackled on, continuing where the service station's speakers had left off.
The three rejoined the motorway and thundered northwards as the snow began to stick to roads and fields, and visibility steadily decreased. Overhead signs on the motorway changed by miles to slogans urging caution and sober driving, then to rolling speed limits, and finally announcements of road closures. Barry cursed and fished in the glovebox for the out-of-date road map, directing Mark off the next exit onto the dual carriageway, while Carl checked the traffic alerts for other routes.
Navigating by phone light and half-remembered Scout cartography, the car drove on through a dark and moonless night, surrounded by falling snow. Away from the main roads, there seemed to be no traffic, and the Astra valiantly fought on through the whitening tarmac before disaster struck. As Mark put his foot down to clear a hill, the engine jumped with such a jolt that Carl jettisoned what was left of his coffee all over the back seat. The dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree and the car choked to a halt on the crest of the hill. Mark was clutching the wheel so tightly his knuckles were whiter than the falling flakes. Barry and Carl just sat there, slowly and cynically accepting this new reality.
Mark grasped onto hope.
"I'll just turn her over, it'll be fine."
"No, mate, don't-" Barry started, but too late. Mark turned the key and the engine span, throwing a piston head through the bonnet as smoke began to swirl around the snow.
"Fuck."
Mark and Barry tried to figure out where they were, while Carl got on the phone to any breakdown company he could remember.
"Says they'll be a couple of hours. Lots of pickups tonight," he delivered gloomily after nearly half an hour.
"Well, now we're definitely not going to make it," Mark observed.
"Yes, thanks mate, we'd figured that out," Barry snapped back.
They stood in a huddle to the side of the road, clutching their heavy coats around them, bags full of presents on the floor at their feet. The snowfall continued, covering the car in a soft blanket and chilling their breath. Mark tried and failed to light up a cigarette, while Carl choked them all in a cloud of blackberry-flavoured mist that slowly crystallised as it hit the cold air.
"So what did you get her?" Barry asked Carl, after nearly an hour's silence between them.
"Got a necklace. Mate of mine knows a jeweller, was able to get it on discount. It's nice, I think she'll like it. It's got one of the old pound coins on it, with her birth year. Bit corny, I know. What about your 'eau de death'?"
"It's- look, it's not like that. it's a perfume from some plant she likes. Yeah, smells weird to me too, but I'm not judging. Myrrh, I think?"
"I got her perfume too," Mark chimed in, "some special thing she asked for, made of frankincense and stuff."
"Bit ironic, innit?" chuckled Carl, "Gold, frankincense and myrrh, wouldn't call us kings."
Mark laughed, Barry replied "speak for yourself mate, I'm fucking royal."
"We both know it's 'Royle', mate."
"Eh, close enough."
They went back to waiting in the quiet as the snowfall deafened all the sound around them. Clouds still obscured the night sky, and the lights on the car were beginning to dim as the battery slowly drained. Two hours passed, then three. The group were getting anxious. Mark's phone chimed with a text, which made him draw breath and pace nervously; "Joe says she's gone into labour and they've taken her to the hospital."
"What? I thought she wasn't due until the New Year," Barry replied.
"Oh, yeah, I'm sure the baby knows that, I should just tell Joe to tell it to get back in, should I?" snapped Mark.
"I'm just going to give the AA another call," muttered Carl, knowing it wouldn't make any difference, but then he saw something through the swirling snowflakes: a bright and piercing light down the road. The three cheered as the light got nearer, and soon they could see it was the pickup truck's floodlights, slicing through the gloom. To the freezing trio, the lit-up old pickup with faded livery reading 'Gabe's Haulage - Don't Worry, We're Here' brought more cheer than any town and city lights they'd seen on the way. It pulled up, and out leapt a white-haired, older gent with 'Michał' on a faded nametag sewn into his overalls. He took one look under the bonnet, tutted and muttered in a language the three didn't know (which was anything except English), and in a thick accent loudly declared the whole car a write-off. Mark stammered in protest, but one direct glare from the stern-faced mechanic and he shut up entirely.
They let him work as he swiftly hitched the Astra's lifeless remains to the back of the truck, then invited them into the cabin. They squeezed side-by-side, thankful to be out of the cold, and Carl pointed out their destination to Michał.
The group drove on, back onto the motorway as the snow finally let up. Alone on the roads, the truck sped northwards, cutting tracks in the salty slush that covered the lanes. The radio babbled away in whatever language Michał apparently spoke, and from time to time he would tut in disagreement, utter a brief rebuttal to the uncaring broadcaster, then go back to stony silence. The trio slowly fell asleep to the background noise of the radio and the thrum of the diesel engine.
It must have been nearly dawn by the time Michał jolted them awake, and although the sun hadn't yet crested the horizon, the sky was slowly growing brighter and the clouds had parted. The fleeing stars highlighted the white lines and practical decor of Bethel Hospital. Mark, Carl and Barry climbed down from the truck and Michał sped off, taking the Astra away to the nearest garage. Barry spoke quickly with the receptionist, and the three were soon through the doors of the Maternity Ward and at the end of their journey.
Mark greeted his sister: "Hey, Mary. Sorry we're late. How're you doing?"
"You look like shit," Carl added, grinning. Barry barged him in the shoulder.
"Could say the same for you three," Mary chuckled, stifling a yawn, "I'm alright. Don't remember much of the delivery, honestly, kinda drifted in and out of it. Joe's next door with the baby and the midwife."
"We all got you something, guess they're joint birthday, Christmas and congratulations presents now," Barry said, smiling as he laid his gift on the bed. Mark and Carl followed suit. From the door of the room, Joe raised his voice in greeting.
"Finally got here, did you? Merry Christmas, lads. Come in and see the kid, they've got him in a cot. I'll stay here with Mary."
Mark, Carl and Barry hugged Mary in turn, clapped Joe on the back, and followed the midwife into the next room. There lay the baby, quiet and sleeping peacefully, presumably tired out from the ordeal of being born. A crisp card attached to the side of the cot read 'Joshua Davies, born 25/12'.
The skiff ploughed through the acidic waters, cutting a wake nearly a metre high as all cylinders roared, speeding the pirates towards the shoreline.
Another barrage of shots fell wide, impacting the water and churning great clouds of toxic silt as they erupted. Cheap cannon. Sado Zaibatsu was getting sloppy.
Seconds from shore. Kofi cut the engine and hollered for the crew to brace. They needed no reminding. The skiff impacted the glassy sand with the reinforced point of the bow, slicing into the beach as momentum dragged the boat out of the water, shuddering and shaking all the while.
Even before stopping, Kofi and others had leapt off and positioned long rifles in the sand, taking pot shots at their pursuers and giving the rest of the crew cover.
Kofi counted every second. Sado would have radioed ahead, they had only minutes until they were surrounded by cars and more guns. The patrol boat pulled to starboard as a heavy slug holed its hull. The gunners whooped and cheered.
While precious seconds ticked away, the remaining crew working at the skiff with wrenches and hammers. Panels came flying off, axles were thrust into place. The ship, laden with stolen cargo, lurched as jacks hoisted it into the air. Broad-tracked wheels were bolted on by drill-wielding sailors with the efficiency of a professional pit crew.
Kofi whistled, the gunners picked up their pieces and ran back to the boat. The engine was reconnected and choked back into life, pouring noxious fumes from twin exhausts.
Three kilometers to outrun Sado, said the map. Less than three minutes until they were surrounded, yelled the radar tech. Sado's vehicles would cut out in the high rad environment they raced toward. They'd be safe in the lead-rich sands.
Kofi opened the throttle and the tires kicked up mud, cadmium red, as the skiff accelerated across the dead dunes. Escape lay ahead. They just had to reach it.
A mix-up at the depot, apparently. That's why I'd been left stranded on a remote station for six months with three crates of Strawberry Flavoured Protein Supplement 5B to eat, and nothing else. Wasn't economically viable to make a second trip, they said. Would just have to put up with it. Might get a compensation in my pay at the end of the term, but wouldn't count on it.
At first I thought it wouldn't be so bad. It tastes good, it's sweet, still got all the necessary nutrients, that sort of thing. After a week I was beginning to get creative, although there's not a whole lot you can do with prepacks. More water, less water, mix it with the coffee or tea, try cooking it over the arc-welder, fry it in the cleaner biodiesel.
After a month I think I'd moved into a sort of defiant madness, determined to do anything to make the stuff taste like something other than strawberries. I'd dedicated a workbench to this mad alchemy: I had some fermenting on the yeast from my own socks, I'd salted another batch with the least toxic chems we had in stock, while a third simmered away in acid awaiting a bleaching. Perhaps, in my mind, I thought that if I completely wrecked my taste buds, that would somehow be victory.
I don't remember much of month three, probably because I spent a lot of it with self-inflicted food poisoning. I pulled myself together after that. Tried other methods, like meditating until I could convince myself it wasn't strawberry. Fat lot of good that did.
Eventually I simply settled on the perverse glee of counting down the remaining packs, chewing through each one (one less!) with a rictus grin. By the time my contract was up, I had developed such a strong adverse reaction to strawberries that even the scent now brings me out in hives. Depot thought it would be funny to give me a punnet of the real thing when they came to pick me up. I don't remember what happened, but they tell me the overseer's still got seeds in his sinuses that ain't coming out.
Anyway, that's why I'm not interested in your free trial.
She held up a box of keepsakes, unearthed from the pile littering the room. I took it reverently, and memories rushed back even as the musty smell tickled my nose. My first tooth. A photo of my mother and me at the beach. A newspaper clipping. Locks of hair. A scrap of school uniform, browned with blood. A bandage. The tip of my finger. The arrest warrant. My written apology. The knife. Her eyes.
"Burn it," I replied, closing the lid with a nostalgic smile.
The statue of the Prophet dominated Temple Square. The sculptor, best in the realm, had dedicated a lifetime of work to capturing the noble brow, the sparkling eyes, the firm hand raised to the heavens, and the prominent birthmark on his cheek.
Gebira stared up at it, as she did every day before morning prayer. Four prayers a day, seven during the Month of Remorse, she walked the length of the square and stood for a moment under the statue of the Prophet.
She wasn't meant to. Women weren't permitted in the Temple. Gebira bound her breasts each morning, in a ritual that was to her just as religious as any of the sacrifices and cleansings that the Teachings decreed. She also kept her hair short; not so short as to draw the ire of women at the market, nor so long that the men saw her for what she was. Each day she wore the breeches and belt of a man, eschewing the women's robes and veil.
She broke over a dozen of the Prophet's commandments each day, so that she could enter the Temple and worship. And each time she passed below that statue, she felt those eyes turn down from the skies and bore into her, reminding her of her sins.
But that morning, as she stopped beneath the statue, someone ran into her. She and the stranger fell to the floor, and Gebira bit back a blistering tirade at their clumsiness as she picked herself up.
However, any remaining anger died when she saw him. A dishevelled figure, wrapped in old and torn clothes, bloodied from a gash in his head. He seemed to float in and out of awareness, barely acknowledging her as she bent over him trying to revive him, keep him steady.
Shouting from behind closed in on them both. A strong hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her off the wounded man. Another swept forward and grabbed the man by his tunic, pulling him roughly to his feet and hurling him into the crowd that had gathered.
Through the cacophony of jeers and shouts, Gabira could make out nothing except that the man was hated. Across from her, the crowd parted and a priest of the Temple stepped forward, resplendent in ritual finery. With a thin, lilting voice he quieted the crowd, and once having their attention, decreed that this man - this worm, unfit to draw breath - had stolen from the Temple and attempted to distribute the sacred tithe to the unclean beggars that dogged the city streets. Such an act of defilement was worthy only of death; thus were the words of the Prophet.
So here, before his statue as witness, the crowd took up stones and at the priest's command hurled them at the man. Gebira watched, transfixed in horror, as the first stone struck the man's head, opening up another crimson wound and knocking him to the ground.
She remembered little of the justice that followed save that the condemned man, now she could see him clearly, had a large birthmark across his cheek.
That, and the colour of his blood as it marked the base of the statue.
Amid a murmuring and anxious court, she sat enthroned in a pyramid of silicon and silver, on a seat that coursed with the ebb and flow of intersecting waveforms concentrated - consecrated - by the lens that suspended, yet unsupported, took up the centre of the vast space. Light from unseen stars danced on it, through it, converging in a halo above her brow.
The Circlet hummed in tune to the universe. She gestured through unseen mindscapes in thought alone, selecting a pinpoint of hazy blue-violet in a sea of specks. The lens turned, imperceptible to those who had not spent a lifetime training to see it. The Circlet descended over her forehead, the centre of her clouded eyes meeting the diamond-shaped gap that held all she could see.
And as she breathed deeply of the fragrant, heated air inside that great structure, she opened her eyes and stared into the gap, passing beyond the boundaries of her feeble, cataract-laden flesh and soaring into the cosmos.
She was upon a ridge overlooking a field of churning ice. A violent, violet storm darkened the sky, flinging shards of adamant at speeds that would rip and tear all but the sturdiest stone in minutes. In the power of this storm she felt a presence that had called to her, to be witnessed and to share the horrific, desolate beauty.
It emerged as a dark, swirling cloud, dwarfing all else and reminding her that she, for all her reach, was a frail body in a constructed shell.
It spoke to her in a manner she perceived like the crashing of oceanic ridges or the erosion of mountains. It was ancient, its words spanning centuries and containing millennia of compressed knowledge and meaning. Her mind reeled from the force of them, but they lashed at her still.
It had seen the rise and fall of countless peoples, nations and empires. It had watched planets engulfed by their stars, surfaces scoured clean by radiation, the frigid cold, scorching heat, cataclysm and apocalypse of every kind. In one dilated syllable it turned back the storm and showed her shining cities that spanned hundreds of miles, a civilisation with mastery over their domain, counting the stars and mapping space as their own.
Like all, it had fallen, and was even now only a memory lost to the storms.
With an eye, terrible and blinding as a supernova, it fixed on her, taking up her entire consciousness, burning away all other thought and being.
SO SHALL YOU BE
The Circlet cracked and fell, clattering, around her throne. A fracture cut across the great lens like lightning, and the noise of its breaking echoed, like thunder, throughout the pyramid. She tumbled from her seat, attendants leaping to steady her bent body as she wept with great, heaving sobs. A trickle of blood ran from the centre of her forehead, where a needle-like shard of the Circlet had hit her.
Her court begged for her wisdom. What had she seen? What fate awaited them?
"I'm so sorry, the correct answer was 'blancmange'!"
The noise of a disappointed buzzer rings like a klaxon in my ear. An unseen audience laughs. I squint through the glare of lights pointed directly at my face to try and catch a glimpse of them.
I don't remember how I got here. There is an empty podium beside mine. I lean around and see the name "TREVOR" in an unpractised hand, ringed by garish neon.
The host's grating voice cuts through the maddening hum of lights and wires.
"Alright, Trev, for your next question and five points, the category is 'History'. What is the correct term for a medieval castle's battlements?"
Silence. Seconds pass.
"That's right! Crenellations is the right answer, putting you another five points ahead! But don't worry, John, it's still all to play for."
I realise the host is addressing me. My name isn't John.
"Your next question, and this is a bonus worth twice as many points, is in the category 'Why Are You Here?' Here it is: what is-"
His oiled voice is drowned out by the sound of static. His smile is too wide. His teeth are too bright. I hear the audience laugh again, the same exact sound. The same clip.
I try to speak, but the buzzer roars and the podium turns an ugly red. Another light swivels onto my face. It's so hot.
"Ooh, bad luck, the answer I was looking for was 'gemmatria'. Well, never mind. You'll be able to make up the gap in our next round! That's right, it's time for..."
The host and the audience chant in perfect, practised unison.
"Spin The Wheel!"
The same laughter. There is no wheel. There is no audience. I don't know how I got here.
Living where I do, surrounded by farms, forests and streams that meet and mingle with gentle urban sprawl, almost apologetic to be intruding on each other's space, it can be difficult to keep track of where the roads go.
For example, when looking at a map I am assured that Breedon is south of World's End (a worryingly named village if there ever was one), but drive off the main road and onto the winding threads of tarmac that stitch this weird tapestry together, and you'll swear you've reached the former north-east of the latter.
I've followed roads that ought to form a circle and never crossed my own path. I've found entire villages, resplendent with old churchyards, bridges, curiously named pubs and sleepy post offices that I could not find again on another day, nor locate on a map.
Technology doesn't help. Sometimes my SatNav just gives up in the middle of a single-track lane between two thick hedgerows and I have to trust that if I keep going, I'll eventually find something I recognise. That usually works.
Only a fool would step out of the protective shell of their beaten-up old Nissan Micra to take a pleasant stroll on a late summer's evening, though I have certainly been that fool. I was lucky to find where I had parked, after several hours of panicked searching.
That doesn't even touch on the places between those twee, mysterious villages. The standing stones, fairy mounds or ancient trees that tempt you to stray from the safety of bitumen and asphalt, deep into the places of No Signal Available.
You suspect that people live in these villages. Work these fields. Sometimes you even see them in the pub gardens or driving their tractors through ploughed dirt, but that's not convincing enough for me. I keep driving.
She felt the vibrations in the water as the ship's magazine ignited, exploding outwards in splintered timber, frayed rope and burning cloth. The sounds of their cannons had drawn many to the wreck, and now Ouara and her kin circled in the water strewn with the blood of dying sailors.
The lucky ones drowned first. Others clung to fragmented boards and kicked against the cold waves until they became too weary to keep hungry jaws and prying claws at bay.
Some went for the flesh. Others hunted for the shining coin or mysterious objects that accompanied the land-dwelling trespassers wherever they sailed. Ouara fed on a hapless one, dead before he hit the water, taking mouthfuls from the bone before leaving the rest to the sharks.
She surfaced for a moment and was enraptured by the dancing colours of flame, smoke and spray against the dark sky. Already the victorious ship was sailing away, not daring to remain in these waters.
Ouara then heard a cry that cut through the wails and screams of the dying sailors. There, in the wreckage of the forecastle, was one sailor that stood out from the rest. It had long hair, tied back in braids. It had a chest like hers, bright eyes like hers, strong arms like hers, fighting a losing battle against the rushing water and the hungry seas.
When the sailor at last fell into the water, Ouara was there. Her sisters stayed away, content with their feast. Ouara watched the unusual sailor struggle, but they were caught in the ropes and pulled down by the eddies.
Ouara swam down after them. She caught the sailor in her arms, and saw for a moment not one of the trespassers, but a beautiful sister. A slowing stream of bubbles escaped the limp form, and Ouara chose to act quickly.
With the sailor's knife, she cut slits into the neck. With her own scales she clothed her. She cut free the braided hair, which swirled in the water like a halo around them both.
She embraced her sister, and kissed her. Breath and life flowed from one to the other.
Alissa awoke. Her world was now water and the dark.
"My favourite sort of ghost is the 'unfinished business' type, because they could want anything from completing some impossible task to just being really pissed off that they didn't finish a jigsaw puzzle."
"I like the headless ones. They're less noisy."
"A bit predictable, though."
"I like predictable, especially when it's unearthly undead spirits."
"Fair does. So, what do you think this one's all about?"
A howling scream rattled the locks and chains the pair had wrapped around the door handles. They were sat behind the door, backs to the panels, staring into the small dining room that hadn't been disturbed in two decades. A plate of deviled eggs, hard and dry as bone, still rested on the table, next to the novelty "Happy New Year 2000" glasses.
"Millennium Bug?"
"Ah, of course, we're trapped by a computer virus. Makes total sense."
"I'm just saying maybe they didn't turn their PC off and are really angry about all their, I dunno, animated jpegs they lost."
"I guess if I'd died during the days of dialup I might feel pretty pissed."
"If we find an AOL CD we can probably bind it."
"If you can pull off trapping this ghost on a floppy disc I'll submit it for this year's Society prize."
"Deal. How big is a human soul, anyway? One, two megs?"
There wss a time when you could look out of the office window and watch deer skulking past the railway tracks. If the conditions were good, you could see the spire of the Old Wool Church in the distance.
Not anymore, of course - now everything outside was just orange. Dust hung in the air. Crawled into your lungs, if you forgot to clean out the filters on your mask. There weren't deer anymore, they'd been replaced by the other scuttling things that weren't as good to eat. Well, maybe, anyway - Jeff in Accounting had a great recipe for skewers and grilled glands that, apparently, tasted better than venison. Not that you remembered what venison tasted like. Only had it one Christmas, years ago.
The railway is still there, now eighteen parallel tracks that carry freight to and from places you never saw, but that you guessed had to exist. The Old Wool Church got hit by a strike just last month, after the bandits there had got too bold in their highway robbery.
The office remained, of course. You didn't leave it much anymore, after one of the conference rooms had been converted into a hostel. It was just more convenient that way. Plus Sara was just down the hall, and you had a good thing going with her.
The chime from your screen reminds you that there's only one hour of power remaining. You sigh, stop staring at the sepia landscape, and go back to editing "quarterly_report_final_edit2. xlsx".
"Studying," Eve replied, through a mouthful of pizza and surrounded by enough musty tomes to create the most unpleasant smell of 'mildewy-pepperoni' that Gaila had ever experienced (and likely would ever experience).
"For what?" returned Gaila, flatly.
"Chemistry," said Eve, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"They don't look like your course textbooks."
Eve gave an exaggerated and dramatic sigh.
"Look, I tried to draw the reaction series we learned in class and instead I turned my notebook into a small, A4 portal to realms unknown. So I borrowed these from Debbie up the hall."
"That does neatly bring me to my second question about the slithering... thing I saw outside the laundry room."
"Yep, my bad, there's a crossbow and some hazel bolts on the dresser there if you want to go deal with it."
"I do not, thanks."
"Suit yourself."
"Well, when you're done with your eldritch shit I need to borrow that one," Gaila said, pointing at one particular grimoire, "I've got an evocation test on Wednesday."
A frog croaks somewhere outside. The rain is falling again. Milk-white and caustic. They've adapted to it, you see - a lucky chance mutation here or there, a nudge of natural selection and now there's frogs with thick mucus coatings that flop their way through pH 3-or-less rain.
Problem is that their prey hasn't been so lucky, so whenever it rains hard, like today, all you can see outside is a carpet of frogs hungrily looking for a meal. Everything else stays sensibly indoors.
What I've found is that they're incredibly easy to catch, and surprisingly tasty once you've washed the acid and slime off.
I'd always thought the world ending would be sudden and dramatic, the nuclear fireballs and fallout-induced ice age, or a meteor strike, solar flare, that sort of thing.
But it wasn't like that. We didn't even notice it was happening. Bit by bit, the world we knew slipped away until one day, you woke up and strapped on your homemade filters to go forage in the abandoned retail park and you realised that this had just become "normal".
Possibly it's because it wasn't uniform. There wasn't a day when the Internet just shut off for good - it was a trickle. The big platforms vanished, then some domains just stopped working, and your network shrank as the undersea cables fell apart without maintenance. There was a time when you could watch the satellites fall from orbit like shooting stars and track the exact moment they stopped transmitting; another "404" permanently etched into the virtual canvas.
Even then, it depended on where you lived. The rural communities fell off much faster than the cities, and even now there were little network pockets that survived. Tiny clusters joined by thread-like connections, fragile and easily severed - but just as easily repaired, with the right tools.
I looked at the phone I'd kept in good repair all these years and was surprised to find one of those little networks had reached out a finger and lightly tapped my inbox with an email. The first I'd seen in a long time.
