The road they stepped on to was dark and uneven. There was a vague whiff of sulphur. ‘Street lamps not working?’ Wal looked up and down the road and pulled his jacket around him. ‘Bloody hell, where’s that warmth you promised?’
‘Feel the tarmac.’
Wal bent down. ‘It’s warm! But it’s snowing!’ In the dusky grey opacity, there were white flakes landing on their hair and shoulders.
‘Not snow; ash,’ Ruby said. Downhill, the charred embers of a city stood raw and desolate against a colourless horizon. Uphill, stark limbless trees stretched away on every side.
‘Where are the people? I thought you said Utopia.’
‘That was you.’
In the grudging light that passed for day, the bulky roadside shapes became more distinct, skeletons, ligaments dried taut as wires, teeth like yellowed palings.
Wal grabbed her arm and searched for words. ‘What… who… an accident? War? An attack?’
‘Look. Up ahead.’ Ruby pointed to a man and a boy, both stooped and shrouded in blankets. They were pushing a supermarket trolley with lumpy shapes under a tarpaulin. ‘Ask them.’
But as they approached, the man whirled round and levelled a pistol at Wal.
‘Run!’ Ruby whispered. ‘There’s a barn. Over there.’ She seized the book from his hand as he turned and thundered away among the charred tree stumps to the outhouse that Ruby remembered from page 16, where a boar-hide was nailed to the door. Ratty. Wisp of a tail. Inside the barn three bodies hung from the rafters, dried and dusty among the wan slants of light.
Ruby exited the scene through the portal, back into the bus. Serves him right, dirty old paedo. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her trousers and turned the key in the ignition. She put the bus into gear and peered at the road ahead. But she had to squint in the brightness after the paltry light of The Road. Some of that ash had got into her eyes, blurring her vision. The bus veered off the road and hit a kerb. As it lurched, books came tumbling off the shelves to land higgledy-piggledy on the floor. Glancing over her shoulder to assess the damage, Ruby missed the road completely, and the bus ground to a halt among sand dunes. The engine spluttered and died. Ruby tried the ignition again and again. Nada. Nicht. Must’ve got sand in the works.
Shit. She needed a different portal. One with a mechanic. Time for a Tiger would do, if only Nabby Adams were sober for once. Ah, Anthony Burgess, geographer, politician, traveller, fount of all knowledge…
Ruby looked around. The beach was deserted. Ha – a desert! Where was she? Some sort of chick-lit? A Richard-and-Judy summer read? She inhaled, hoping for the holiday aroma of salt water, hot sand and sun lotion. She was disappointed. Instead there was a suggestion of something rotting.
Wafting to her on a light breeze was a song. She walked towards the sound, but beyond the dunes was a camp fire and – oh sacrilege! They were burning books! Ruby seized a stick and began to knock the books away, to rescue them from the fire. Among them were titles she knew very well. Shit and double shit. There was Oryx and Crake. She kicked it out of the flames.
Just coming into view was a group of smooth-skinned, grass-eating humanoids – Crakers – created by Crake in his company RejoovenEsence. What were they singing? What were they looking at? Ah, there was Jimmy – Snowman (why did he choose that stupid nickname?) – and he was naked and limping markedly. Must be near the end of the book, then. After the BlyssPluss pill pandemic. Now their distant song became distinct. ‘Snowman, oh Snowman…’
Time to go.
Gingerly, she picked up Oryx and Crake. It was cool enough, but there was nothing left. Nothing but the cover. Not a line of print to make eye contact with.
Curses upon you, Margaret Atwood. May the pigoons harry you, the snats bite you and the wolvogs devour you.
the end About the author
Helen Parker loves languages. She studied French and German at school (many years ago!) and is currently learning Italian and Modern Greek. She taught English to speakers of other languages for sixteen years in Edinburgh, Cyprus and Cairo, and returned to Edinburgh in 2014. She later completed an MA in Creative Writing with Manchester Metropolitan University. The course introduced her to novels in an inspiring variety of styles and genres. Her final dissertation, a novel entitled ‘Reluctant Phoenix’(Lulu Publishing and Amazon) is about two young Scottish women whose personalities are very different, but whose lives are derailed by personal bereavement, family upheavals and a loss of career direction. But even bigger questions are at stake: one family hides a secret whose unveiling will change both women’s lives exponentially.
DAMNED IF YOU DO…
Alan Paine
Death by ice or death by fire, that is the question. Having the life sucked out of you by freezing water is hardly a walk in the park but there are no words to describe the agony of being burnt to death. The piteous screams of someone having their body eaten away by flames stays with the listener forever. But everything has its compensations, thought Galen, and he didn’t have to think for very long before coming to his decision.
He closed his eyes, ‘OK, fire please.’
When he opened them, he was standing beside a swimming pool in a tropical forest as the sun rose through a gap in the trees. The patio next to the pool extended into a small wooden house simply but artistically decorated in a Southeast Asian style. A beautiful dark-haired young woman swimming languidly in the pool smiled and waved to him.
Another wearing a short cotton dress and apparently nothing else came out of the house. ‘Hello Galen, my name is Rose. Would you like something to drink? We have a very good champagne on ice or would you prefer a beer?’
‘Champagne please.’ Galen settled down on a lounger. The temperature and humidity were perfect. It was luxuriously warm without being oppressive. Rose came out of the house, handed him a very large glass of champagne, peeled off her dress and lay down naked on the lounger beside him. The other woman stood up in the water and rested her breasts on the pool edge.
‘I’m Amethyst, Galen, but you can call me Amy. When you’ve had your drink why not take your clothes off and come for a swim and then if you like we could give you a massage.’
‘I’d like that,’ he said. ‘Afterwards, would we have time for some fun?’
‘Of course, you can do whatever you like. Relax and enjoy yourself but we only have until this afternoon.’ She said this with a cheery tone and no hint that anything unpleasant was going to happen. Galen was dimly aware that there was a flaw in this perfect world but was unable to think what it was.
Any lingering doubts he had were smoothed away by Amy massaging his head and shoulders while Rose worked on his legs and back. After an everlasting moment of blissful relaxation Galen heard Amy say, ‘Would you like some of that fun we were talking about earlier? Who’s it going to be or would you like both of us at the same time?’
‘Could I have some time with you, Amy,’ he said, ‘and then see you later Rose. If that’s OK.’
‘Fine with me,’ said Rose. ‘I get turned on by the anticipation.’
‘I’m ready for you now,’ said Amy. ‘What would you like, the bedroom or outside on the patio?’
When the sun was high overhead, Rose brought lunch from the house as if there was a Cordon Bleu chef somehow hiding in there although all Galen could see was a small corner kitchen from which Rose was producing all manner of goodies as if by magic. Then they swam and played together in the pool laughing and joking with each other as if the day was never going to end.