Jolyon Hallows - The Collapse

So he didn’t know if his first memory was real or whether it had been stuck in his mind by comments from his aunt and uncle or if he had just made the whole thing up. All he did know was that it was part of his history, a seminal event in his life.

“But you like the farm. You had fun there last summer.”

“Don’t wanna go.”

“Darius, your Uncle Rolf and Aunt Helena would love to have you stay with them.”

“That’s right, Darius. We can go fishing. You can help me run the tractor, and we can go to the festival in town. You like that.”

“Why I hafta go?”

“Come on, Darius, it’s good for you to get out of the city. Get some fresh air. Get off the couch and away from the TV.”

“You coming?”

“No, Darius, your mom and I have to work. But we’ll come out around Labour Day and we’ll all go to the fall fair before school starts.”

“Don’t wanna go.”

“Darius, you’re going. Your bag is packed, and your Uncle Rolf has the truck ready. Now go. Have fun. We’ll see you on Labour Day. We love you. Come on, give Daddy and Mommy a hug.”

DARIUS OFTEN THOUGHT of how prescient his five-your-old self had been. His memory wasn’t just of being packed away to the farm for the summer—he had enjoyed it the previous year. It was stained with the terror that he would never see his parents again.

How had he known? Perhaps it was the glances his father and uncle exchanged: desperation rather than the bonds of brothers. Maybe he dreaded that his parents were at risk. He overheard the two men arguing. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, but he knew Uncle Rolf wanted his parents to leave the city because it wasn’t safe.

Or perhaps his fear festered from the way his parents hugged him. Too close, too tight, too long. Not a hug of see-you-later, but the desperate embrace of a final goodbye.

The moon was fading now as it dropped toward the horizon, but the eastern sky was lightening, casting a faded pink over the high clouds, painting the stalks of grass with the pallor that infected his aunt Helena’s friend Clara as she lay dying of tuberculosis. Too many of the people he had met at the farm over the years were buried in the weed-choked cemetery with the lamentation that they died too young. Even Uncle Rolf, the prototype of a sturdy farmer, was starting to cough, flecks of blood staining the rag he used as a handkerchief. He was sixty. Nobody said anything, but everyone knew he wouldn’t make it to sixty-two.

The path split. Darius had a brief impulse to veer right, to the village where Sarah lived. There was no doubt he and Sarah would one day—perhaps soon—be married. His aunt and uncle were not subtle in pushing him in her direction, and her parents were always effusive when he showed up for supper, even unannounced.

Yet he was hesitant. He liked Sarah. He wasn’t sure if he loved her, but he wasn’t sure what it meant to be in love. Maybe love was something that grew. He could see it in his aunt and uncle, in the banter, the jibes, the caresses as they passed close by one another. Had they been in love when they married, or had they learned to love? Or was love something you could learn, like arithmetic or the right time to seed? The thought of being with Sarah, of holding her, of lying beside her at night, excited him, but was that love or youthful lust? All he knew was that whenever his aunt and uncle talked about Sarah, he rebelled at the message that it was time for him to settle down. To grow crops. To start a family.

He didn’t want any of that. His second memory had sealed his life path for him.

Darius wasn’t supposed to watch television shows that his aunt and uncle had not approved, and they didn’t approve of the news. “The boy will have to deal with all the crap in this world when he grows up. For now, let him be a boy.”

But they were busy with chores, and as with most days, his attitude was an unsettling mix of boredom and dread. Labour Day was approaching, but he hadn’t heard from his parents. He didn’t know when they would arrive, and he couldn’t suppress the growing fear they wouldn’t.

He turned on the television set. It was tuned to an all-news channel. An announcer was talking about something Darius couldn’t grasp, but he could see a raging mob carrying signs scrawled onto pieces of cardboard coursing through the street, shattering windows, overturning cars. The announcer was saying, “…smashed through security… fatalities…” The crowd raged in front of a building. Darius sat up in a bolt of panic. He knew that building. He had been there. It was where his father worked. The camera focused on a small group of people dressed in business suits emerging to face the crowd. One of them held a megaphone and started to speak. The mob surged forward overwhelming them, screams of anger in the air. The man holding the megaphone, tumbling under the fury of the mob, was his father. The woman beside him, his mother.

“What are you watching?” Aunt Helena snatched the remote from his hands and turned off the television. “Darius, you know we don’t want you watching that stuff.” Her voice was stern, but her makeup was stained from tears that had escaped her attempts to wipe away.

“The crowd. Mommy and Daddy.”

“Darius, listen. Your parents are fine. I spoke to them earlier today. They love you, but they can’t make it here for Labour Day. They’ll be along soon. Don’t worry.” She stood up, duty squelching agony. “Now come along. Let’s go into town and get something for supper.”

Darius held her hand as they walked out of the house, but he knew she had lied to him. Not about his parents not coming for Labour Day. She lied when she told him they were fine. She lied when she said he’d see them soon. Darius would mature over the years, but this day would be a beacon in his life. Some wild, mindless mob attacked his parents. He didn’t know why. He didn’t care. He knew only that he would spend what time he had in revenge.

DARIUS JOGGED INTO the village just as the sun was starting to warm the spring air. A few people waved at him as he ran into the shack he lived in with his aunt and uncle. He collapsed into bed.

He awoke to a pounding on the door, someone—it sounded like Josiah—calling his name. “Darius, Darius, get out here. I got news.”

He wiped the sleep from his eyes. The door wasn’t locked. None of the houses in the village had locks. That wasn’t because the people were trusting, but over the years, people had lost their keys, and there was no way to make new ones. Still, the custom remained. You don’t enter someone else’s house without an invitation.

Josiah didn’t wait for one. He pushed through the open door, his face stretched in a broad grin. “Darius, you’re not gonna believe this. It’s the greatest news. You’re just not gonna believe it.”

“Josiah, settle down. What won’t I believe?”

“The Peaks. You know how many of ’em you got? No, course you don’t. You spent all night getting back here. Well, Nikolai watched the Peak compound and counted the bodies. Forty-nine. You killed forty-nine of the bastards. Wow. We’ll be talking about this night for the next lifetime.”

“Forty-nine? Is Nikolai sure?”

“Positive. Forty-nine. You’re a miracle worker, man. Come on. You’ve earned a drink. If Mandy’s bar isn’t open, we’ll get her to open it.”

Mandy’s bar was a few tables and chairs in Mandy’s house where she operated a still. Darius had learned that she had been a teacher at a university. Chemistry, whatever that was. The drinks she served were so well known that people would make the trek from other villages rather than endure the swill from their own stills that, rumour had it, would dissolve stomach linings.