End of the End Read online

  An Abaddon Books™ Publication

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  [email protected]

  This omnibus first published 2016 by Abaddon Books™, Rebellion Publishing Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.

  Editor-in Chief: Jonathan Oliver

  Commissioning Editor: David Moore

  Cover Art and Original Series Cover Art: Sam Gretton

  Design: Sam Gretton & Oz Osborne

  Marketing and PR: Rob Power

  Head of Books and Comics Publishing: Ben Smith

  Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley

  Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley

  The Afterblight Chronicles™ created by Simon Spurrier & Andy Boot

  Fall Out copyright © 2015 Rebellion.

  Children of the Cull Copyright © 2016 Rebellion.

  Flaming Arrow and “A Dream of Sherwood”

  copyright © 2015 Rebellion.

  All rights reserved.

  The Afterblight Chronicles™, Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Publishing Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-78618-036-0

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  THE AFTERBLIGHT CHRONICLES

  PAUL KANE • SIMON GUERRIER • CAVAN SCOTT

  ABADDONBOOKS.COM

  The Afterblight Chronicles

  The Culled

  Simon Spurrier

  Kill Or Cure

  Rebecca Levene

  Dawn Over Doomsday

  Jasper Bark

  Death Got No Mercy

  Al Ewing

  Blood Ocean

  Weston Ochse

  Arrowhead

  Broken Arrow

  Arrowland

  Paul Kane

  School’s Out

  Operation Motherland

  Children’s Crusade

  Scott K. Andrews

  Journal of the Plague Year

  Malcolm Cross, CB Harvey and Adrian Tchaikovsky

  End of the End

  Paul Kane, Cavan Scott and Simon Guerrier

  OMNIBUS EDITIONS

  America

  School’s Out Forever

  Hooded Man

  CONTENTS

  Introduction by David Thomas Moore

  Fall Out, by Simon Guerrier

  Children of the Cull, by Cavan Scott

  Flaming Arrow, by Paul Kane

  “A Dream of Sherwood”, by Paul Kane

  Also by Abaddon Books

  INTRODUCTION

  ON REFLECTION, PERHAPS I should have called it Beginning of the End of the End.

  It’s been a long old journey thus far. The Culled was Abaddon Books’ very first title, hitting the shelves back in the summer of 2006, after a dizzying year of setting up the imprint, finding talent, commissioning work, marketing, setting up distribution links and all the thousand small tasks that go into starting a new publishing imprint. Yr hmbl crspndnt wasn’t even a gleam in Jonathan Oliver’s eye at that point, still wrestling as I was with an unsatisfying back office job in London’s financial district.

  Si Spurrier was a 2000 AD writer at the time, with several years and a great many mad, brilliant stories under his belt, along with a number of tie-in novels for Black Flame. His pitch for the first book for Jon’s Afterblight Chronicles series of post-apocalypse thrillers was simple and stark: a British spec-ops soldier, hiding away from the horrors of the Cull, receives evidence that his girlfriend is still alive and makes his way to America to try and find her, killing everyone in his way and almost incidentally toppling an exploitative, child-snatching pseudo-Christian cult on the way.

  It was a brilliant book: breathlessly fast, savagely violent, witty and tough, with an unexpected spiritualism, and themes of defiance and duty, faith and skepticism, civilisation and barbarism that have informed the series ever since. Amid the guns and the gangs and the push to survive, it also provided moments of absurdity: odd characters, peculiar practices and bizarre beliefs that provided stark relief for the book’s darker moments. It showed us what the series—and to an extent, our whole imprint—should look like, and following Si’s example, Afterblight has gone on to be one of our longest-running, most successful worlds.

  The Culled’s sequel, Rebecca Levene’s Kill or Cure, came next, in 2007, turning Si’s story over and following the soldier’s girlfriend, Jasmine, as she desperately searched for a cure to the Cull and discovered too late the terrible cost of using it. Haunted by the Cure—by the voice in her head, driving her to callous, brutal selfishness—she became caught up in the schemes of others, reacting and adapting and turning people’s manipulations to her advantage. The tension between the compassionate person she once was and the monster she was becoming provided a complexity and danger to the book, and the final showdown with her old colleague, who had thrown himself into the darkness Jasmine struggled against, was ultimately a battle for her own soul as much as for the lives of the innocents around her.

  Scott K. Andrews’ School’s Out was the third Afterblight book, coming out of our very first open-submissions period, and hugely expanded the political and philosophical underpinnings of the world. Heavily inspired by William Golding’s Lord of the Flies, it looks at the challenges facing children in an apocalyptic world, the many people who seek to exploit, abuse or hurt them and what it costs them to fight back. The story invoked child soldiers in bush conflicts in the real world and addressed intergenerational tension and the loss of innocence. The School’s Out books are probably my favourite in the Afterblight universe: punky, defiant and bleak.

  Paul Kane’s Arrowhead, kicking off the Hooded Man series, was the fifth Afterblight book, and brought the spirituality hinted at in Si’s book out into the forefront of the story. A post-apocalyptic retelling of the Robin Hood legend, with a full complement of merry men (and women), the story brings its hooded hero into communion with the spirit of Sherwood Forest, which appears to choose—and perhaps create—champions like him, to act as defenders both of the Forest and of England itself. Painted in the (relatively, for the Afterblight world) clean tones of myth and archetype, Paul’s books were weird, mystical and atmospheric.

  IT’S BEEN TEN years. On the way, we’ve published around a hundred novels in a score of worlds, added the Solaris and Ravenstone imprints to our publishing stable, and made a name for ourselves as one of the publishing world’s pulpiest, smartest and most risk-taking newcomers. We’ve even picked up an award or two. And, of course, I came along, picking up the reins while Jon turned his focus exclusively to Solaris.

  And Afterblight’s been with us all the way. Fully twelve authors have taken up the mantle, both new talents and established favourites, to tell stories of survival, suffering and—above all—courage in the face of horror. We’ve visited Central Europe, Australia, the Pacific Ocean and even the International Space Station, in stories ranging from the outrageously brutal to the nailbitingly tense.

  Two years ago I commissioned Journal of the Plague Year, exploring the first few months of the Cull with three novellas telling of the chaos, confusion and violence of the early days. Last year I suggested we bookend the series, revisiting three of the longest-running and most-loved s
tories in the setting years later, and revisiting old characters. Where are they now? What trials have they met and overcome on the way, and what new problems have arisen to challenge them?

  Scott asked me to get the brilliant Simon Guerrier in to pick up the story of St. Mark’s. In Fall Out, Jack Bedford, the young King of England, is ready to take up his mantle, but there’s a long way to go before he’ll be accepted by the men and women who’ve established themselves as the leaders of Britain since the dust settled. And there are challenges in restoring the old, abandoned infrastructure of the twenty-first century that most people have never imagined (the clue’s in the name).

  Cavan Scott approached me for a gig, and I asked him to put together an outline finally bringing together Si Spurrier’s nameless soldier and Rebecca Levene’s tortured Jasmine; and he delivered beautifully. Children of the Cull is a dark, intense story building up to their reunion—after all these years—with a sort of horrifying inevitability as you gradually realise the happy ending they once dreamed of is almost certainly going to elude them.

  Finally, Paul Kane was only too happy to return to the hero of the Hooded Man books. Flaming Arrow passes on the baton; Rob’s getting old and looking to settle down, and wants to hand over his duties to his protegé, Mark. But there’s tension in England, as power blocs are gradually forming and settling in place, and there are still enemies overseas. And there’s a glimpse of a future darker even than the bloodthirsty present of the Afterblight world.

  ULTIMATELY, IT’S NOT the end of the end. There are still questions unanswered; how does the future Flaming Arrow shows us come about? How, if at all, are Fall Out’s engineers, Children of the Cull’s biologists and Flaming Arrow’s sinister Schaefer linked? There are stories yet to come, of course. But for now, perhaps, End of the End is offering a little closure, a glimpse of futures our earlier books hinted at but never delivered on. Something for you to enjoy until we turn our attention back to the world of the Cull again.

  Cheers!

  David Thomas Moore

  Oxford

  April 2016

  To Scott,

  Who I’ve killed more than anyone else,

  With gratitude

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE SURVIVORS TRUDGED up the old A683 towards her. They were a sorry lot, bent and broken by the long march and the horror they fled. Some didn’t even have shoes, their bare feet bloodied from the ancient grey tarmac. They were a motley collection, a mix of the old and very young. Some carried snivelling children or helped prop up those more wretched than themselves. They stank, too, of blood and sweat and fear.

  Even in their misfortune, they showed deference to the woman on horseback, stumbling off the roadside to allow her to pass. Her hood, her cloak, the bow on her back were all symbols of a power greater than one woman. Even in their plight, they knew not to get in the way of a Ranger.

  “Who was it?” Aamna called down to them, keeping her voice low and stern the way she had been trained. “How many of them?” No one answered her, so she chose a gaunt looking man clinging to a baby. Livid purple bruises clustered round his eyes and on one side of his face. The hands that cradled the baby were dark with bruises, too.

  “Anything you tell me can help,” she told him, kindly. “We’ll sort them out, and we’ll get you all home. You want to go home, don’t you?” He only stared back at her. “They came in from the sea, yes?” she went on. “How many boats? What weapons did they have? Fuck’s sake, give me something. Do it for the baby.”

  His lips trembled. “Fire,” he managed to say. He lifted the baby towards her, to better show what had been done to his hands. Not bruises, but burns. And the baby... What flesh Aamna could see was purple and swollen. It didn’t appear to be breathing.

  Aamna glanced round. The old road cut through wild meadow which had probably been fields and farms in the days before The Cull. There was no sign of burning, or of whoever had attacked these sorry people. The pirates—if that’s what they were—had not dared venture this far inland. But there was something else, too: something wrong. No birds wheeled in the air, no animals stirred the long grass.

  West, towards the coast, clouds hung low and dark. The pirates would not risk putting out to sea again until the storm had passed—they’d still be in the town.

  “Whoever they are,” Aamna told the man, “they’re gonna pay.” The words took a moment to reach through his despair, then he only shook his head—whatever Aamna did, it was too late for him anyway. “Lancaster isn’t far up the road,” she told him, raising her voice for the others to hear. “Get them to send word to my lot. I’m gonna see what we’re up against, and they better get down here quick. All right, get on before it chucks it down.”

  The man glanced back at the clouds churning low in the sky. Then, clinging tight to the dead bundle in his arms, he and the others shuffled away up the road.

  Aamna set her horse in the other direction, riding into the storm.

  SHE MET MORE survivors on the road, with worse burns. There were bodies, too; people who’d succumbed to their injuries. Flies buzzed around open sores. Aamna’s stomach turned. She resisted the urge to stop, to check for signs of life, to help them if she could; the priority was to learn the strength of the enemy.

  She sweated under her cloak, and it was more than apprehension. The air was warm and itchy, eager for the storm to break. Still the rain didn’t come. A bald, scarred woman waved her arms feebly at Aamna and the horse, warning them not to go any further. Aamna had to urge her horse to go on. If she’d not been so thoroughly trained, she would have lifted the bow from her shoulder and had an arrow ready. But it was better not to present a threat until she knew exactly what she was dealing with. Besides, shooting the longbow would only throw her from the horse.

  They crossed a roundabout, and the road passed between the ruined houses on the outskirts of the town. There were no more people now, not living ones. From the gaping window of one terrace sprouted the branches of a tree, nature reclaiming the long-abandoned buildings.

  She rode on, not seeing any signs of life. Surely the pirates had scouts hidden somewhere, watching the road. Her horse’s hooves echoed loudly all around, but still no one came to meet her. They were cowards, burning people with no means to fight back but not daring to step out in front of a Ranger.

  Or letting her walk into a trap.

  At the end of the terrace, the road turned, allowing her a first look down on the harbour. Banks of cloud hung low and oppressive, obscuring the view. No, not cloud—the buildings on the seafront billowed thick black smoke.

  There was no sign of anything Aamna could take for pirates. Perhaps they had already gone back out to sea, hoping to outrun the storm. Or perhaps they were concealed behind the burning buildings. There was only one way to be sure.

  When she prodded her horse, it only snorted. She tried again and this time it bucked, almost throwing her off. “Hey, big lad. You’ll do what you’re told if you want a Polo.”

  The horse—she didn’t know its name, it was just the one she’d been given at the last post house—immediately settled. Aamna couldn’t remember what Polos had been like, but the horses all obviously did. “Just you remember who’s boss, eh? Now...” But the horse still wouldn’t walk on.

  With a sigh, Aamna jumped down to the ground and tethered the horse to a railing. “So,” she said, “you guard our escape route. If you see pirates, try not to let them eat you.”

  SHE KEPT HER bow on her shoulder and walked with her arms slightly out from her sides, making it clear she had nothing in her hands. Still nothing stirred around her.

  The houses were in better condition as Aamna made her way down the hill towards the sea. Some homes had been painted, recently, in bright colours. The gutters and brickwork were all well tended. In front of each house stood a tall, grey wheeled bin. This community had weathered The Cull and put itself back together, bringing back some of the old ways. Several of the houses had i
mmaculate front gardens, though the flowers looked wilted and sickly.

  Her ears rang as she strained to hear anything in the silence. The only sounds were her own footsteps and the beating of her heart. Any moment, she was sure, a pirate would step out in front of her, or open fire from hiding. But she went on, and still no one stopped her.

  It started to rain—no, dust and small fragments drifted softly down from the smoke overhead. She couldn’t help but breathe it in, and it felt hot and prickly. Her eyes and nose started to run.

  Now she could hear fire. Another street, and the coloured houses gave way to a terrace all in black, the windows cracked and yellow from the heat. A splash of vivid blue paint on a wall in the middle. As Aamna got closer she made sense of the shape—the outline of a woman, cowering against the door, her arms raised to protect her face.

  There was no sign of the woman whose body had shielded the paintwork. Perhaps she had been removed, taken by the pirates. Aamna didn’t want to think what for.

  Another street on and the damage was worse. The fronts of a few of the houses had come down. She looked in on charred remains: traces of furnishings, a scrap of curtain at a soot-black window. She thought she saw the contorted remains of a family but she didn’t linger.