Epic Session 3.2 (Manic Typing)


Reilly woke pretty early. His sleep had been poor and he’d woken often throughout the night. Through the house’s thin walls he thought he’d heard sobbing, not just from Kiera. He had contemplated going over to comfort her, but decided against it.

The air was heavy in the house that morning as the residents continued to clean and repair the building. The trucks were driven muhch closer to the house and an inventory taken of their contents. The house’s armaments were drastically increased, with several shotguns added, along with a crossbow. In the back of the trucks they found boxes of tinned food, which Reilly helped to carry into one of the barns. In the last truck to be searched, were a few boxes of bottled water. These were taken to one of the barns and locked away, to be rationed for use. The house had run out of bottled water a few weeks before the attack. People had been sent out to the local villages to find liquids, and had returned with a variety of different soft drinks and alcohol, but only limited water. They found that it was getting harder and harder to find food and water; all of the shops and homes in Whitby had been searched and the entire town was now completely devoid of food and water.

Once the trucks were empty, they were driven round the back of the house and parked in a row. The fuel was siphoned out into containers and stored inside the house.

Mason led the group that piled up the corpses out the back of the house. They created two piles, one for the attackers and one for their own. Mason called everyone and they gathered in front of the piles as he worked to light them, using only a small amount of wood. It took a long time for the wood to catch and set the bodies on fire. The bodies stank as they burnt, acrid smoke filling the air, seemingly refusing to move even when the wind blew. Many of the residents cried at their loss. Kiera hugged Reilly, turning her body away from the piles.

The group dispersed, leaving the bodies to pump out black smoke.

Blood was scrubbed from the carpets. Where they couldn’t scrub the stains away, they cut away chunks of the carpet, leaving the floorboards exposed. Someone found a pot of white paint, a thick skin formed over its surface, hidden in a cupboard and they set about painting marks on the walls. The paino was broken up. Kiera watched and cried as the person wrenched it apart, piece by piece, and parts were used to patch up the holes in the walls. The rest was taken and stored with the rest of the firewood; the piano strings were rolled up and stored as well. Someone suggested that they could be used to make snares and other traps; someone else began to say for what animals, but then stopped, deciding not to reduce morale further.

By the time it was time to eat dinner, the entire house was exhausted. The bodies had burnt down and had almost become small piles of ash. Mason made the decision to use some of the tinned food found in the trucks, as well as the group of dead rabbits that had been hanging in the back of one truck, to make a dinner that would improve the house’s morale.

“Friends.” He said, with everybody crowded into the room. As many chairs as possible had been pulled up around the table, and more people stood holding their plates.

“We lost some good people last night. People that gave their lives for us. We must remember them and never forget them. They protected us from a threat and saved us. We are here only because of them. We must live in their honour and live well. It will be hard – it can only get harder. But together we can survive.”

Reilly wasn’t sure whether Mason was expecitng a cheer after his speech, and there wasn’t one, but some of the people nodded. Others wiped their eyes.

Life at the house changed after the attack. People were more wary about travelling out, and there were fewer volunteers for the hunting and scavenging trips. Reilly offered several times, but each time his and Kiera’s requests were vetoed by Maureen and Mason, who said that as the youngest, they must stay. Once, Mason took Reilly aside and said that if he were willing to kill, he would let him go. Reilly refused to say that he was, and was therefore not allowed.

Mason had begun to post guards around the estate, arming them with shotguns and grey flags made from old bedsheets. One person was to be in the highest room in the house at all times, checking each post with the binoculars. If they grey flags were shown it would mean that more attackers had been sighted, and that the house should prepare. In the event of another attack, a plan had been prepared. Wooden beams and panels had been constructed; that in itself had caused a minor argument about whether it was worth it as the firewood regularly ran perilously low. The panels would be put across the windows, and the beams fitted across the doors, preventing attackers from easily entering the property. They drilled handing out the shotguns and dousing the fires, sometimes drilling during the night when everyone was asleep. They became quick at implementing the plan.

Over time people began to talk more freely about the attack, and what they had seen when out hunting. It allowed Reilly to build up a better picture of the world outside the house. From the reports he gathered that there were numerous groups roaming the country, attacking people and taking their resources. Once or twice hunters arrived back, hurt. Sometimes they were close to death. But none of the hunters ever died from their wounds. Someone would always rush to the house’s medical cabinet, withdraw whatever was needed from their ever dwindling stock and administer it. Every time that someone arrived back injured, morale would drop for a few days and people would be more reluctant to talk to one another.

It was several months after the attack that Maureen became ill. Kiera noticed it first. The insistent cough that wouldn’t leave, the cough that only became stronger. It was while Maureen was teaching her how to play the guitar, that she doubled up coughing and coughed up a dark, sticky lump; Maureen told her it was blood. Initially the pair of them kept quiet. Maureen had told Kiera that it wasn’t good and that she shouldn’t tell anyone.

Kiera told Reilly straight away. For days Reilly was torn between whether to tell Mason or not. In the end he didn’t need to. Mason came across Maureen, collapsed outside. He lifted her and helped her walk back to the house. Once inside she explained to him about how she was coughing up blood more and more frequently, and about how her hair was beginning to thin, how she was finding it harder and harder to move and how she was constantly tired. Mason listened and soon realised that she was seriously ill.

Maureen’s condition worsened quickly and she was soon bedridden with radiation sickness. Her skin turned pale and she only let Kiera and Mason see her. The rest of the residents weren’t allowed; her illness scared many of the residents, and some became paranoid, constantly checking their bodies for any signs of tumours.

As Maureen grew more ill, Mason began to become quieter, eventually refusing to talk to anybody. People tried to continue as normal, but organisational problems soon began to appear: dinner became later, hunting trips became more infrequent, firewood stocks dropped. Reilly began to take more command, and people began to listen to him, recognising that Mason trusted him and that they needed someone to tell them what to do.

In the days leading up to Maureen’s death, Reilly took on more and more responsibility, until he was, in effect, running the house. He would ensure that the fires were lit in the morning, that the person stationed in the high room was rotated and that someone would prepare dinner on time. He tried to keep life running as normally as possible.

The day that Maureeen died, Reilly was out in one of the barns, moving stock closer to the door. Over time they had worked through the barn until they reached the piles of stock that laid against the rear wall.

Kiera came running into the barn, tears streaming down her face. Her eyes were red and her lip was quivering. Reilly knew what had happened as soon as he saw her, and he left the barn immediately, charging through the house, up the stairs, into Maureen’s room.

Mason had closed her eyes, and her body lay in her bed. Mason sat next to it, clasping her hand and crying. Reilly hugged Kiera and then walked to Mason. He put his hand on Mason’s shoulder and rubbed it.

“She’s gone.” Mason said.

“I know.” Reilly said.

“Now what?”

“We do what she would have wanted.”

“But how? I’ve lived with her forever.” Mason’s voice sounded tortured, like it was tearing through his throat, ripping it apart. Dark spots on his trousers marked where his tears fell.
“Together. How she would have wanted us to continue.” Mason continued to weep.

Reilly left him, his mind numb as he walked down the stairs with Kiera. He called the rest of the residents together, cramming them all into the living room. Standing on a chair he announced to them all that Maureen had passed away, and that Mason was upstairs grieving. Many of the people burst into tears and held each other.

Footsteps on the corridor outside told them that Mason had come down from Maureen’s room. He opened the door to the living room and walked in. He’d dried his face, but his eyes were sore and he looked distant.

“She’s gone.” He said.

Epic Session 3.1 (Time is running out!)


“Are you the cleaners?” Arthur said.

“No. We leave here. We don’t go up, we aren’t allowed.” Rossi said.
Arthur struggled to process this. They were taught in school that the only people who came into the UnderCity were the cleaners and sometimes the academics.

“How long have you lived here?” Arthur asked.

It looked as though Rossi shrugged, but it was hard to tell because of how contorted his body was; two lumps moved up and down and Arthur assumed that they were Rossi’s shoulders.

“All our lives. I told you, we don’t go up. We are born and we die here. I know that once or twice someone has reached New London but they never return and we always get hurt as punishment.”

Arthur recalled hearing rumours of beasts that roamed New London during the night, crawling out from the darkness and invading homes. But any investigation into the rumours quickly found that they were created by drunks, and the investigations stopped.

“Who hurts you?”

“You do.” Rossi pointed at him. “People like you. The people who live in New London.” He lifted his arm and used his other arm to point at it.

Wobbly pink scars looped round the flesh, the skin pinched and tight. “They wrap rope round our arms really tightly and pull us along. Sometimes they beat us. If they are really angry they kill us.” Rossi said.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur started to pace around the room. “Why haven’t you tried something? Surely if you all came up together people would take notice. We don’t know that you’re down here.” He said.

“We tried once.” Rossi said. “The people spat fire at us.”

“Perhaps I can help.” Arthur said.


“I know of a different network up there, where they men don’t usually go. We could use that to travel around and go to a place where their leader – Reilly – will be.”

Rossi spat when he heard Reilly’s name. “Don’t mention him. He is the one that causes us this pain. He is the one who hates us.”

“Trust me. Reilly is a good leader. He won’t know of this. He wouldn’t allow this to happen.”

Rossi spat again. “What do you want to do?” He said.

“I don’t know yet.” Said Arthur. “I don’ know. How many of you are there?”

“Come see.”

Rossi, Morgan and Swan left the room; Swan held the door open with his hand for Arthur to follow.

He followed them down a dimly lit tunnel. Sound echoed towards them, the voices merging together to create a drone. One side of the tunnel began to drop as the wall fell away. It was replaced by a rough barrier, created from different sized bits of metal. Arthur moved over to it so he could see over it, down to what was below.

People moved around amongst cloth tents, some carrying what looked like rubbish, some empty handed. Others sat at the side playing musical instruments that sounded odd and looked even odder. The tunnel began to descend and turned into a set of stairs that finished in the centre of the noise.

“Trading place.” Said Morgan. “Come here and get new shinies.” He reached into his belt and pulled out what appeared to be a broken watch. “Shiny.” He said and rubbed at the metal strap. The hands on the clock-face didn’t move.

Rossi waved his hand around. “Main trading place. Morgan’s sorta right. We scavenge from what New London throws down here, feed and live off of it.”

People had begun to notice Arthur. They were scuttling around him, calling out cries of “New London, New London,” before scuttling away. None of the people looked the same. Some had large heads, some were short. A couple looked like they came from above, but when they turned to face Arthur, to see who it was that was being called “New London”, he noticed that foreheads were hugged, their facial features shifted to a cluster around their chin. Arthur tried not to stare at any of them, eventually keeping his eyes turned towards the ground.

He felt a hand on his back. Swan pushed him. “Keep walking.” He said and pushed Arthur again. People parted to let them through, some scuttling away on the ground and some walking one two legs; all of them jeered at Arthur. A few held objects and waved them in the air, threatening to throw them at Arthur.

Morgan left them to return to the gate while Rossi and Swan guided Arthur out of the market and into another tunnel. More tunnels sprouted off this one, like a network of roots. Many of the tunnels were empty, although Arthur could hear various noises echoing through them. Dark objects would move over pools of light that appeared in patches down the corridors.

“How’d Morgan see me?” Arthur asked as they walked.

“We can all see in the dark pretty well. Most of us have good smell and hearing too. Some have none. We’re all different.” Said Swan. He held a door open for them to walk through.

“Living.” Rossi said. The room was more of a cavern. Metal struts stretched high into the air, sticking out of the concrete lattice that suspended New London above the UnderCity. Smaller beams stuck out haphazardly, seeking out each other before coming together in a metal web. Wide strips of cloth hung down, one end knotted to a metal bar. A few of the strips were knotted at both end and swung like hammocks. Rossi noticed that Arthur had stopped and was looking up.

“We all sleep up there. Not enough space for us all to have.” He paused, searching for the word. “Beds. They aren’t too uncomfortable, and they adjust for all our different shapes.”

The ground of the cavern was covered in piles of boxes, some open and some shut. People moved through the piles, opening and closing different boxes, moving objects between them.

“Sorting.” Swan said. “We collect as much as we can from the rubbish and then bring it here and sort it out into different uses and values.”

“But if you sort everything, and then have a trading place, how to people buy stuff?” Arthur asked. He was confused. He thought that they might barter and the fact that they called their market a “trading place” strengthened the idea, but he couldn’t help but think that they must have some sort of value system.

“People don’t buy stuff. We trade. Somethings are worth different amounts of other things; you can get the same thing in the trading post for different costs.” Swan said. “These boxes are the stuff we find, plenty of us go out looking ourselves and those things are usually worth more.”

“So why would people collect stuff for you rather than themselves?” Arthur said.

“Because then they get more respect and are able to have a say in how we do things down here.”

They had reached the other side of the cavern; a drop of water, green and foul smelling, fell from one of the metal beams and hit Arthur on the head. The liquid ran down his neck and he shivered. It was the first time that he realised how cool the UnderCity was; the air smelt, but its stillness held the cold like a child a sweet.

Another door was opened. Swan left Arthur with Rossi, claiming that he needed to go and check on the trading post and give them an explanation of why a person from New London was in the UnderCity.
Rossi led Arthur through another series of corridors. Unlike the corridors in New London where the walls were smooth and the corridors stayed an equal width, the corridors in the UnderCity had walls that slanted into the path, forcing those who walked to twist and turn; often the roof of the tunnels was too low for Arthur and he had to duck, sometimes he had to crawl along. Steps and stairs were rare in the Undercity. Instead the corridors became very steep, often turning round corners at the same time. By the time that they reached the next door, Arthur’s arms and legs burnt from overuse.

“Do you guys just scavenge and sleep?” He asked. He thought that the question was a bit ridiculous but he hadn’t seen any evidence that the UnderCity dwellers did anything else.

Rossi laughed; like his shrug, Arthur was unsure whether it was a laugh. “We spend most of our time doing those two things, yes, but we do other things too. Kids get to read and sometimes adults read too. But finding books is hard. You New London people don’t throw them away very often. We managed to steal a few though.”

“They’re hard to find that’s why. We have people like your scavengers who go out of New London to find new things and bring them back.”

The pair stopped and Rossi cocked his head. “What’s New London like?”

“I didn’t think it was too bad, but obviously something is because otherwise I wouldn’t be here.” Arthur said. “I told you, we can change it so you can all come up.”

“Hm. Speaking of that. Behind this door is the room where we decide what happens. I’m supposed to leave you here to be spoken to. I’ll be sitting in the crowd listening.”

“What are they going to ask?” Arthur said.

“Could be anything. Why you’re down here, what you’ve done, what you know about what’s going to happen to us.” Rossi nodded at him and scuttled off down a tunnel that Arthur hadn’t noticed.

Arthur knelt and opened the door.

The door opened to a balcony. The floor, about five metres below, was full of the UnderCity’s residents. They were crushed against each other, talking rapidly. When they noticed that Arthur had entered the room they hushed and some pointed. He scanned through the crowd but couldn’t see Rossi.

Across from him, on another balcony, were a row of benches upon which more dwellers sat. They stood as best they could as he entered and then sat back down. Arthur leant against the barrier. The people opposite were the most dressed UnderCity dwellers he’d seen. They were dressed in a mish-mash of different browns, clearly old clothes thrown away by those who lived in New London. Arthur was surprised. They had been taught to recycle everything they had, that everything was precious and could be re-used with a little effort.

“Arthur.” One of the dwellers opposite said.

“Yes.” Arthur said.

“My name is Train, and I am the leader of the UnderCity. I am the one who has been chosen to speak to you today. Are you here as a leader of New London?”

“No. I am here because I fled New London.”

“Why did you flee New London.”

Arthur was slightly annoyed that he would have to recount his story again and didn’t see why Rossi or Morgan or Swan couldn’t have relayed the story to the people opposite before he entered the room; he realised that it was probably for the benefit of all the people below who hadn’t heard it. He told the story carefully, adding more detail to it than in the previous retellings.

“So you need sanctuary?” Train asked. The people around him nodded.
“No. I want to return, but I can’t.”

“Do you know what they are planning to do with us?” Train asked.

Arhur shook his head vigorously. “No. I didn’t even know that you existed until I was chased and I met Morgan. Most of the people up there don’t know that you exist.” He paused and cleared his throat and then, hesitantly, said “I don’t think Reilly knows that you exist.”

The crowd below erupted and he heard a chorus of spitting. Train and the other people opposite waved for them to be quiet. They ignored them. Even after Train called down at them to be quiet, it took a few minutes before the spitting became sporadic and then stopped completely.

“Go on.” Train said.

“Well. Everything that we are taught about Reilly is that he is a good guy, that he created New London out of dirt and made us live good lives. Everything that we read about him is about seeing the good. It can get rather annoying actually.”

“So you don’t think that Reilly is capable of this? Capable of ordering our extermination?”


“Yes. The last person that came down here killed the person on the gate and left a note saying that we had to leave or we would be exterminated.” Train pointed at another person who sat further down the bench. “We had to send someone up to New London to find out what exterminated meant.”


“Soon. That message was found a while ago. We know that you are all celebrating tonight, and when he was finding out what exterminate meant he heard that Reilly was planning on announcing his new leader tonight. It seems logical to sort us out in time for a new leader.”

“Why can’t you go up there? Most of us don’t know that you exist. We’d be against killing you all.” Arthur said.

“We don’t know how to, we’d get caught too quickly. We looked at ways to get out of the UnderCity but we can’t find any. We’re stuck here.”

“How are they going to exterminate you?” Arthur didn’t like asking the question. “I guess that they can’t come charging down here? New London doesn’t have an army.”

“We aren’t sure. We think some sort of gas or something.”

The realisation that the container Arthur had moved that morning was heavier than it should have been, that the painting didn’t weigh nearly enough, made him stumble backward. The weight of the box would have been about right for a canister of compressed gas.

“I think they will have a problem doing that tonight. I think it went missing. I was meant to deliver a package this morning and I was accused of stealing something. I think that it was the gas.”
“So we might be safe for a little while longer?”

“Potentially. But I can’t be completely sure. If you were to show yourselves at the C-Day celebrations, that would definitely give you a little more time, perhaps a lot of time.”

“And you could get us to the C-Day celebrations?” Train’s words were acccompanied by some muttering in the crowd below. The people around him were whispering each other.

“Yes. Most of the corridors will be empty, and we would be avoiding those anyway. We would use the delivery infrastructure. That will definitely be empty. As long as you could get us up to New London; I don’t know how to get there.”

“We can do that easily.”

Train turned and looked at the rest of the people around him. Some were nodding vigorously, some less so, but all were agreeing in some way or another. Train peered over the balcony.

“We are in agreement up here. Raise your hands if you are also in agreement that we should rise to New London. I must tell you that it will be dangerous, but it appears that we have little other choice.”

A wave flowed through the crowd below as hands were raised. Train nodded.

“It appears that we are in agreement.” He looked across at Arthur.

“Thank you.”

A thick, lumpy hand tapped Arthur on his shoulder and he turned. Rossi had come onto the balcony behind him.

“It’s time to leave here. You’ll meet with the leaders and plan our ascension.”

Epic Session 2.2


Poorly fitted brown tiles covered the floor. The walls were covered in hanging fabrics that moved as Lucy and Walt walked past. Lin’s office was the third one down the corridor. They knocked on the door and then tried the handle. The door swung open but the room was empty. Their hearts fell as they wondered whether they would ever find out what had got their friend into so much trouble.

As they turned to leave a voice called down the corridor.

“You there.”

Walt left Lucy in the room and walked back out. A man was approaching from the other end of the corridor. He hobbled as fast as he could, his cane cracking on the tiles.

“What are you doing in Lin’s office.”

Walt didn’t recognise the man and he felt himself get ready to run. He back-pedalled slightly so that he could see Lucy in Lin’s office.

“We are just looking for him.” Walt said hesitantly.

“Why. It’s C-Day someone your age should be out celebrating.” He said.

The man was close now. “Where’s the girl?”

Lucy emerged from the office.

“We need to speak to Lin.” Lucy said.

“He’s at the celebrations, that’s where you should be.” The man looked at them both and waved his cane in the air. “Why aren’t you two there?”

“As she said, we need to speak to Lin. It’s important.”

“What about?”

“We need his advice.”

The man impatiently tapped his cane on the ground. “What for?”

The pair didn’t say anything.

“My name’s William.” The man said. He continued to tap his cane on the ground. “At least tell me your names.”

“Walt and Lucy.”

The three of them stood in silence, staring at each other. Eventually the man turned.

“Come on then. I’ll see if I can help.” Lucy looked at Walt and he shrugged.

William’s office was at the other end of the corridor. Where Lin’s office was meticulously tidy, his was a mess. Paper was piled on every surface except his own chair, and the room smelt faintly of sweat. William placed his cane on his desk and sat down.

“What’s the problem. It must be pretty bad if you are missing the C-Day celebrations?”

Lucy nodded.

“Our friend has gone missing and we thought that Lin might be able to help.”

“Us Academics aren’t much use at the missing people’s game.” William chuckled. “Try the police.”

“It’s a bit complicated.” Walt said. He leant against the wall.

“Arthur was a deliverer like me. He opened a box and saw something. We wondered if Lin could tell us what it was he saw.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of this.” William said. He pushed his chair back and picked up his cane. He knocked a pile of paper from the table and swore under his breath.

“You two should leave.”

“Please.” Lucy said, stepping forward. “Art’s a nice guy. He didn’t mean for this. Something is wrong.”

William frowned and sat down. “Continue. But, if I don’t like it I’m going to get the police.”

“He said the box contained a picture. A picture of an old lady with something on her head. I heard him get questioned by some men and they said that he stole something else from the box. The box came from here.” The words tumbled out of Walt’s mouth.

“A picture of an old lady with something on her head.” William repeated. He frowned again.

“When was the package sent?” William said.

Walt reached into a pocket and pulled out the crumpled manifest. He passed it to William who read through it and grunted.

“It’s possible I guess. How’s your history?”

“Not bad. Lin taught us it.”

“You focused on the extreme past and people then. Not too much modern stuff.” William leant back on his chair and rolled it over to a bookcase. He pulled a book from it.

“Lucky find this. And the trader knew it. Damn expensive.” He opened the book. A faint whiff of vanilla came from the book, and the binding cracked softly as he leafed through.

“I think it was.” William turned more pages. “Yes. I think it was her.”

Walt leant to look at the book.

“Queen Elizabeth the 2nd” He read so Lucy could hear.

“Indeed. The Queen of England.” William said. “The painting was sent to the market, was to be used as part of Reilly’s speech. Strange that they had a deliverer carry it. I thought the intention was to have it taken by one of us straight to Reilly. You say your friend was accussed of stealing it?”

“No. He didn’t steal it. The men said he stole something else. Art’s not a thief.” Walt said.

“I don’t recall that we were going to send anything else with the picture. Perhaps a note of gratitude to Reilly or something; nothing that anybody would notice going missing though.”

William closed the book and looked at them both. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“Who sent the package?” Said Lucy.

“We did.” Said William. “The Academics.”

“No, who specifically. Don’t you keep records of who works on what? Is it possible that.” She stopped speaking, aware that she was about to accuse one of the Academics of theft.

“No idea. I suppose we could take a look.” William stood up from his chair and took his cane. He ushered them out of the room and locked the door. He pointed and said “That way.”

It took a while for them to go back down the stairs, down to the first floor where much of the general administration took place. A thump in the distance suggested that the first barrage of fireworks had been lit. William opened a door to another office, where rows of desks and shelves filled the room. He walked a little way and then sat down at one of the desks. To Walt and Lucy it looked random, but they guessed that William knew what he was doing. It was as William fumbled through a drawer, spilling loose paper all over the ground, that another person entered the office, from a door further down the room.

“Is that William?” The person said.

William turned in the chair and nodded. “Evening Ford. What you doing here this late? We getting any packages?”

Walt realised that this room must have been the equivalent of the foreman’s office and processing rooms, just at the other end of the package’s journey.

“No, just got some paperwork to fill in. Something’s gone a bit awry.”
Ford looked at the Walt and Lucy. He was a tall, broad man. His afro had gone grey and a scar ran down his left forearm. “We got guests?”
“Yeah, they’re with me. We’re trying to sort something out.”

Ford sat at the desk next to William. “What’s your problem?”

“Kid’s gone missing.”

It was as if William had lit a fire underneath Ford. He sprang up from his chair and pointed a finger at Walt and Lucy.

“They friends of the kid?”

William looked at them and then back at Ford. “No.” He said slowly.
“Really William? Why are they here then?”

“They’re my brother’s kids. I’m taking them down to the celebrations once I’ve sorted this.”

Ford put a hand on William’s shoulder. He winced. It looked like hwas gripping it tightly.

“Are you sure.”

“Yes.” William said, but less sure this time. The grip eased and the pained look on William’s face disappeared.

“I don’t like liars.” Ford said.

William tried to change the topic. “What’s the thing you’ve got to fix?” He said. For an Academic he was remarkably stupid, failing to see that the two issues were linked.

“The kid who went missing stole something from a parcel we sent.”
William moved slowly, folding the manifest and slipping it into his pocket. “What he take?”

“It was the box with the Queen drawing. It was something that would help fix the problems that people have been complaining about with the UnderCity.”

William was vaguely aware that some of the cleaners who worked in the UnderCity were getting angry with their working conditions and that they were threatening to strike.

“Oh yeah?” He said. “What they decide to do?”

Ford looked over at Walt and Lucy who were milling around the entrance to the office, trying to pay as little attention as possible to the two men, while listening intently.

“Don’t worry about them.” William said.

“Decided to use some gas down there to calm them down a bit. Should knock ’em back to where they belong.” Ford said.

“That in the box then?”

Ford nodded. “Yeah bloody costly stuff. Took me days to make. Now some kid’s gone and stolen it.”

William continued to rummage through the desk and then he stood up. “It’s no good. I can’t find what I’m looking for. Don’t want the kids to miss out.” He said.

“Later.” Ford said.

Walt and Lucy left the room and William joined them shortly.

“How much did you two get?” He said.

“Most of it. Doesn’t sound good.” Said Walt.

The three of them walked away from the office. When they reached the stairs, William stopped hobbling and leant on his cane.

“I can’t come with you. Just in case.” He said. “Besides, I should probably keep an eye on Ford. I didn’t like any of the suggestions to fix the UnderCity.” He said.

“Just what is the UnderCity?” said Lucy.

William chuckled. “People live underneath us.”

“The cleaners?” asked Walt.

“Not just them. People somebody decided that we didn’t want up here. Funny types. Haven’t met any of them myself, never even been down there. Not my area.” With that, William ended the conversation, hobbling away.

Walt and Lucy went down the stairs.

“You think Art knows?” Lucy said.

“Doubt it. Wouldn’t be suprised if he’s ended up in the UnderCity now. Would be a good place to hide.”


“We need to stop them from using the gas. I doubt many people are even aware that there are people who live in the UnderCity.” Most, like William, thought that the only people who entered the UnderCity were the cleaners and some of the academics.

“To the market hall. Let’s cause some havoc.” Walt said.

Epic Session 2.1


Yellow bulbs glowed in the tunnel. Walt and Lucy walked quickly through the tunnel, Walt guiding Lucy away from the side tunnels; the tunnel curved round through New London.
“You think they’re going to be able to help us?” Lucy said.

“If they believe us.”

“If they don’t?”

The pressure on Lucy’s hand increased as Walt gripped it tighter. “They will.”

It had been a long time since Walt had been to the Academic’s tower. The majority of the deliveries that he was assigned were sent to the more industrial or domestic areas. He had to delve deep into his memory to find the route to the tower and make sure that they were following the right corridors.

“Who’d we talk to?”

Lucy’s question had been playing round Walt’s mind since the foreman had told them to go to the Academics for help; the thought was fighting with the image of the corridor map he’d created in his mind.

“What did you think of Lin?” He asked.

Lin had been the last Academic that had taught them. A slightly overweight man of Chinese descent, who had a good sense of humour and had given both of them extra tuition to make sure that they passed their exams.

“He’s alright I suppose. Will he still be there?”

The idea that Lin might not be at the Academic’s Tower, and instead down in the market hall, celebrating C-Day hadn’t dawned on Walt. His pace slowed as he thought about it.
“I hope so.”

If the only person that they thought they could trust wasn’t at the Tower, then they would have to risk entering the market hall and finding him, pulling him away from the celebrations and speaking to him down there. The men in suits would probably still be in the market hall.

“We can always try someone else.” Lucy said. “Your boss didn’t get angry.”

“It’s risky. But if we have to.”

They turned down a corridor. This one was straight, and slightly thinner than the one before. It marked their turning off the main infrastructure, into one of the tunnels that led directly to a specific tower in New London.

“What was the picture of?” Lucy asked

“Reilly said some old lady with something on her head. He took it to the market hall. He said that he guessed it was some form of decoration for C-Day.”

Neither of them had seen the picture on the wall in the market hall, but the room had been busy and the walls were covered in loads of streamers.

The corridor ended in a door, and they stopped. Walt let go of Lucy’s hand and fumbled in his pocket.

“A light will come on in the office as soon as I unlock this door.” Walt said. To observe how the deliverers worked, the foreman had a simple alarm system built into the infrastructure; it also dissuaded anybody who had heard about the separate infrastructure from using it.

“If the suits are there they will see where we are, and we won’t have long.” He said.

Lucy nodded. “Quick then.”

Walt pulled a skeleton key from his pocket and pushed it into the keyhole. He turned it and there was a click as the bolts moved and he pushed the door open.

The exits of the delivery infrastructure never opened into the main entrances of the Towers. Instead, they were tucked away in little rooms and side corridors, nearer the Tower’s self-contained delivery services. Not all of the parcels that the deliverers moved had to be taken straight to the customer. Many of them were just taken to a sorting room for another worker to take to the customers. It was only the higher priority and confidential packages that were hand delivered.

In order to reach the rest of the tower, they would have to go to the main entrance and go up the central stairs. Rather than turning left towards the post room, Walt turned right and they soon reached another door. They went through and found themselves in the main entrance to the Academic’s Tower.

Sheet metal, adorned with burn lines that cut across the surface in ornate patterns were bolted to the walls. A reception desk curved out from the far wall, quotations from some of the few remaining books that been collected had been scrawled across it’s front. Nobody sat behind the desk and the main entrance was silent, except from a current of wind that slowly tuned some of the statues that sat on revolving podiums. The statues were all created by students at the Academic Tower, people who had worked to create new art for New London. Walt didn’t like many of them; their abstract representations of knowledge were too confusing for him. He preferred art to be clear and obvious.

The Tower’s stairs were at the back of the main entrance. A barrier down their centre was a symbol of the Tower’s order: one side to ascend and one side to descend. A board next to the stairs showed a list of names and floor numbers. They walked to it and looked through the list of names for Lin. Before they had left he had been near the bottom, but that had been two years ago. The list of names was, in effect, a ranking of the Academic’s abilities. As they became more knowledgeable and more respected in the tower, they moved up the list, switching offices with other Academics.

Lin’s name had climbed four spaces: he was now on the fifth floor. The Academic Tower didn’t have a lift. They were keen to show that success was created from hard work and they showed that by making everybody walk hundreds of stairs.

After each flight of stairs, they stopped and rested. Every twenty steps the stairs doubled back, and they could see down into the main entrance. They were getting to the height were thick glass had been forced between metal girders, allowing the Academics to see out across New London. The higher up the Tower they ascended, the clearer the glass became. Each successive floor was built later, and the quality of glass that the workers could make had improved. At the level were Walt and Lucy stood, New London looked foggy and the towers they could see ballooned into odd shapes.

They resumed climbing and reached the sixth floor.

Epic Session 1.4


After several months at the house, during which Reilly and Kiera learnt to shoot, hunt, cook, and build, the weather turned bad. Storms became frequent, blowing across the country in clouds of white ash; rain would fall and turn the ash into snow-like paste, suffocating anything beneath. The ground became hard like metal, the ash reflecting the clouds. Trees began to twist and curl, their leaves blown away; their trunks creaked and cracked as radiation fell across the country. In the course of a week most of the trees that could be seen from the house fell, their trunks snapping and the branches collapsing to the ground. In the gaps between the storms Reilly and others would rush out and chop the wood with their axes, hauling it back to the barns, before they would run back inside to the warmth.

Kiera had used nearly all of the fabric that Maureen could find, making herself a variety of clothes. Reilly grew taller and more muscular, so that he soon fit all of Maureen’s son’s clothes. He finished Machiavelli and worked through many of the other books in the house, favouring the non-fiction. One of the other women, Martha, had begun to teach Kiera the piano, and often in the evening she would sit and play while Reilly read. Sometimes one of the other residents would bring out the chess or backgammon and they would sit and play until the early hours, playing by flickering candlelight.

Twice they’d seen people on the horizon and sent out the truck to find them, but every time they disappeared. The radio message stayed the same, insistent and confident that something would change and someone would rescue them; the house’s inhabitants stopped playing the radio as much, from twice a day to once a week to, by the middle of what they calculated to be as December, less frequently than once a week.

When Christmas came the house came together and ate the last pheasant they had caught, each getting only a small bit of meat and vegetables; canned food filled the rest of their plates. Maureen and Kiera had managed to cook some biscuits on one of the stoves, using the last of the cinnamon.

It was as they all sat in the living room, with people sitting on every chair they could find and others leaning around Kiera as she played the piano, that they heard the explosion.
People crowded round the window, craning over each other’s necks to see what had happened.

Another explosion, closer this time, shook the house. Kiera looked across at Reilly.

Mason clapped his hands and everybody jumped. “Do not worry too much. We don’t know what it is yet, it might be nothing.” Mason began to order people to various places, some to stand guard upstairs, others to extinguish the fires so that smoke wouldn’t come from the chimneys and show they were in the house; others were made to pass round jumpers.

The house grew silent as people waited and more explosions came and went. A shout from upstairs alerted them that trucks had been seen heading towards the house.
Mason charged upstairs and Reilly followed. A man passed Mason a set of binoculars. He swore and passed the binoculars across to Reilly, who also swore.

A row of trucks, clad in black metal, rumbled across the countryside towards the house.

“Doesn’t look good does it.” Mason said. Reilly shook his head. “You ain’t gonna like it Reilly, but I think they aren’t gonna be nice to us.”

They left the man with his binoculars and went downstairs, through the kitchen and opened a cupboard. Shotguns hung against the wall, above a shelf that was covered in faded shell boxes. “You going to take one?” Mason asked.

Reilly shook his head. “I don’t want to kill. If they get too close…” He said.

Mason nodded. “I believe you.” He passed out the rest of the shotguns to other people, almost handing one to Kiera, but catching Reilly’s eye and his faint glare, he didn’t.

“Stay upstairs.” He said.

Reilly took a knife from the kitchen, just in case, and went upstairs with Kiera. They watched from their bedroom as the trucks got closer. Soon they could make out the drivers – People with skin heads, or roughly cut Mohawks, piercings scattered over their faces. The explosions had stopped as the trucks got closer, replaced by the insistent roar of their engines.

The trucks slowed and stopped in a row about a hundred metres from the house. They sat for several minutes, revving their engines. Two of the drivers got out and walked closer. Reilly could see that they clutched shotguns in their tattooed hands. It seemed like it took forever for them to reach the house, and Reilly soon ducked down to avoid being seen.

The people downstairs could hear the drivers talking and joking. Their faces peered through the windows, looking at the rooms inside. One commented that it looked like people were still there, or if they had left they wouldn’t have got far.

The shotgun blast echoed through the house as the front door was blasted open. Another blast shook the house as the bolts held, and a third blast blew the door off it’s hinges. Reilly could hear the drivers wooping as they stormed into the house.

He peeped through the window and saw that more of the drivers had got out and were running towards the house. Reilly and Kiera pushed their beds against the door.
Shouting and screaming broke out beneath them and shotgun blasts echoed throughout the house. Reilly hugged Kiera as some of the screams turned to wails of pain which were cut off by more shotgun blasts. The noise died down and the shotgun blasts stopped.

“What’s happened? Is it safe?” Kiera whispered.

“I don’t know. They know where we are. They’ll come and get us if it is safe.”

Half an hour later, as the sky became completely black, a knock came at the door.

“It’s Mason. We’re safe now.”

Reilly pulled the beds away from the door and motioned for Kiera to stand back, just in case Mason wasn’t alone. He hide the knife behind the door and opened it a crack. Mason stood outside, clutching his arm. He was alone. Kiera ran up behind Reilly.

“How many.” Reilly asked.

“Seven of them. Two of us.” Mason replied. Blood dribbled from his injured shoulder, dripping onto the carpet. Reilly took a deep breath.

“Is it okay to go down?”

Mason nodded. “We’ve moved the worst out. It’s going to need a good redecorating though.”

Holes punched through the walls downstairs, plaster dust mixing with blood in sprays across some of the walls. The carpet was covered in mud and the air stank of gunpowder and cordite. Martha was unscrewing the rest of the front door, a new one leaning against the wall next to her. Splinters stuck out of the walls where the force of the shotgun blasts had embedded them.

“Where are they?” Reilly asked.

“Out the back, we’re putting them in one of the barns overnight and we’ll burn them first thing in the morning.”

“Can’t we bury them?” Kiera asked. “I mean two of them are ours.”

“Ground’s too hard Kiera. Can’t get the shovel into it. We’ll cremate them.” With that Mason turned and walked away. Reilly walked with Kiera down the hall, past the grandfather clock that still ticked, the pendulum swinging left and right, and into the living room.

A round hole blown into the side of the piano, strings splaying out of the hole. Cracks ran down the side of the piano, and when Kiera ran over to look inside, she found that half of the strings had been sliced by the shot. She turned back to Reilly, tears beginning to fall down her face.

“Don’t worry dear.” Maureen said, coming through from the kitchen. Reilly didn’t want to ask what the dark red stains, rapidly turning brown, were that covered her apron. “We’ve got a few other instruments in the loft.”

Reilly walked through to the kitchen. The air smelt different here, more like burnt flesh. A camping stove lay on the floor and he knelt down to pick it up. It was dented, and still warm. His stomach churned. The kitchen window was smashed, little cubes of glass scattered across the sink, and cold air blowing into the kitchen. Reilly walked back through to the hallway where Martha had finished removing the door. He picked up the bottom half and took it through to the kitchen. After finding a hammer and nails, he covered the empty window with the wood.

Someone had started the fires up again and the house soon became warm. Others began to scrub at the carpets and patch up the walls, while a small group, armed with the majority of the shotguns, undertook a brief search of the trucks outside. Once Mason was satisfied that the area surrounding the house was safe, the front door was locked and people began to drift to their rooms; the house became quiet, except for sobs of grief as it’s residents began to come to terms over the deaths of their friends. The shotguns were collected in and then one was taken bat out again as it was decided that someone would stay on guard overnight, as a precaution against any other unwanted visitors.

Kiera and Reilly went to their bedroom and stood and looked out of the window into the darkness. Moonlight glinted off the trucks.

“Do you think more will come?” Kiera said.

“Undoubtedly.” Reilly said. “Whether it’s one person or a group, there’ll be others out there trying to find life and take control of it; others will be seeking help or fleeing from harm. They might come here, and they might their predators here too.”

He put an arm round Kiera. “But these are good people Kiera, they’ve looked after us since we’ve been here and today they proved they’re willing to give their lives.” He felt her nod.

“I wonder who died.” She said.

“They’ll tell us in the morning. I didn’t notice anybody I recognised missing though.”

The amount of people staying at the house had grown in the previous months. Although no one had travelled to the house, some of the hunting groups had come across solitary people trying to live off the land. They brought them back and they were welcomed into the group. Reilly and Kiera hadn’t met all of them.

Reilly lifted his arm and closed the curtains, hiding away the cruel world outside. Kiera slipped into bed and Reilly changed and walked over to the fat candle that sat, dripping wax into the mug in which it stood. Kiera nodded at him and he blew it out.

Epic Session 1.3

The darkness was oppressive. Arthur couldn’t see anything. He fumbled in his bag for a torch and turned it on. He’d landed on a pile of waste bags, thrown into the chute by the cleaners. He knew that those who didn’t do well in Academia and then didn’t do a good job of cleaning were made to work down here, pushing away the waste from the chutes so that they didn’t become blocked. The light from the torch didn’t reach far into the darkness. Arthur stood up and began to walk down the tunnel, away from the chute.

The smell of the waste was disgusting, as if someone had thrown rotting corpses down the chute. He gagged a little. There was no airflow in the tunnel. The ground sucked at his shoes as he walked; he turned the torch’s beam down to the floor. Black gunk with white mould spots covered the floor, sticking on his shoes. By the time he’d walked fifty metres, his shoes were completely black.

Arthur carried on walking, sweeping the torch across his path to check that the tunnel didn’t split. After a while the torch’s beam began to fade and he was soon surrounded by the darkness. As the darkness tightened round him, he slowed and stood for a moment. He put the torch back in his bag and continued walking.

A scuttling to his left made him pause and shrink away from the noise until his back hit the side of the tunnel; more of the black gunk stuck onto the bag. The scuttling came again, moving from his left to his right.

Two white balls appeared in the darkness. Arthur reached a hand into his pocket, feeling for the knife. Hopefully it was just one of the cleaners, coming out to see who had fallen down the chute.

The white balls moved closer and he realised they were eyes. In the quietness of the tunnel he could hear breathing, and it wasn’t his. It was a rasping noise, like water struggling through a pipe.

He flicked the knife open and held it next to him.

“Who are you?” He said, trying to keep his voice steady and as threatening as he could.

The creature didn’t respond other than to move closer. The eyes moved higher as the creature stood.

It was now close enough that Arthur could begin to see it’s vague shape. It was broad, and stood like a human. They eyes got closer and then moved back.

“Who are you.” It said. It’s voice rasped like it’s breathing. The thing elongated it’s words, as though it was struggling to get them out.


“Arthur.” The creature repeated.

Arthur heard a rustling and then bright light lit the tunnel.

He tried not to scream. The man, if it was a man, was covered in red boils. His lips were crooked and his nose was smeared across his face as if it was added as an afterthought. The man’s white eyes popped from his face, sticking out from the crater-like eyesockets. His arms were twisted, coming out of his torso at different heights. His legs were lopsided too. One bulged with muscle and sinew, the other was thin and bone showed through the translucent skin. In his left hand the man held a burning stick.

“Arthur.” The man said again. Arthur glimpsed the man’s teeth, yellow stones that stuck out at all angles from brown gums.It’s eyes turned to the knife.

“Weapon.” It said.

“Stay back.”

It raised both his hands. “No hurt. No hurt. Why here.” It said.

The torch began to falter, the flames shrinking and darkness creeping back. The man took another from his belt and lit it. He dropped the original and the black gunk extinguished it.

“Who are you.” Arthur said. He had wanted to say “what” but thought that might enrage the man.

“Morgan. Friend or hurt?” The man said.

Arthur closed the knife and put it back in his pocket. “Friend.”

Morgan didn’t seem to be armed and he thought if he had to he could stab him with the knife. Arthur pulled himself away from the wall and held out a hand. Part of him hoped that the creature wouldn’t shake it. It didn’t. Instead it flinched back, dropping to the ground.

He retracted his hand. “Friend.” Arthur said. Morgan rose once more.

“Come.” He said, dropping back down to the ground.

While Arthur walked, Morgan crawled along the ground, hopping from his strong arm and leg, only briefly putting his weight on his weaker side.

“Do you work here?” Arthur asked.

“Morgan not work. Morgan live.”

Every few metres they would stop and Morgan would light another torch. After another four torches, Arthur could begin to see light in the distance.
The light grew stronger and soon intermittent bulbs appeared on the sides of the tunnel, and the black gunk began to thin and then disappear from the ground. A gate ended the tunnel and Morgan looked at Arthur.

“Wait.” He said.

He pushed his way through the gate and disappeared for several minutes.

When he returned he wasn’t alone. Another person scuttled along the ground behind him. All of this person’s limbs were thin. They were naked except from a belt around their waist and wispy hair that ran down their back; their breasts sagged down to the ground. They stood up, leaning on Morgan for support.

“Arthur.” They both said.

Arthur nodded. “My name is Arthur.”

“Swan.” Said the new person. “Come.”

The two people fell to the ground and scuttled through the gate, holding it open for Arthur to pass through.

The lights on the wall were far more frequent on this side of the gate, running in strips along the sides of the tunnel; the tunnel itself widened considerably, and more lights dangled from cables that Arthur assumed were embedded in the ceiling, but couldn’t tell because of the darkness that hung above them.

They led him down the tunnel and through another gate, into a small room. They took his bag from him and left him there.

It seemed like an hour before they returned, although it was only minutes. A third person had joined them, and this person walked standing up.

“You must be Arthur.” The person said. Their face hung on their neck, their spine arched and sticking out above their head.


“Rossi. I work at the gate. Why are you here.”

Arthur contemplated lying and saying that he had slipped down the chute. He decided that he would give the truth, but be conservative with it. “I was being chased and needed to get away.” He paused and then asked hesitantly: “Why are you here.”

“We live here.” Said Rossi. “You’ve reached the Undercity.”

Epic Session 1.2

The music pounded in the hall, the floor vibrating slightly. Ripples bounced around the liquid in his glass, the liquid moving up and down in time to the beat of the music. Walt kept looking over his shoulder, his anxiety running high. He didn’t understand why they hadn’t taken him away. Surely they would have thougth that he might tell other people, Arthur’s parents perhaps, that Arthur had been kidnapped? Unless they assumed that he would be too scared to.

The fact that all the men were in suits didn’t help either. If people were at least dressed normally, in their plain brown shirts and trousers, he would have been able to spot the bad guys coming from a distance. As it was, each sip of his drink was accompanied by a glance left or right. He felt a touch on his shoulder and he span round, liquid almost flying out of the top of his glass. His heart jumped in his chest, thumping against his ribcage.

“Wanna dance?” Lucy said. His heart fell back to it’s correct place and his pulse dropped to normal; the wave of adrenaline slowed. He nodded and downed the rest of his drink.

They pushed their way through to the dancefloor and Walt placed his hands on Lucy’s waist. Her dress was stained blue and thin, the fabric feeling cool under his hands. Through the fabric he could feel her hips. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and they began to sway in time to the music. Walt controlled their movements, slowly rotating them so that he could observe the entire hall.

He thought back to when he had met Lucy. She was the daughter of a trader who had visited and made her mother pregnant; she had only seen her father twice. He was killed by Marauders while on a scouting mission outside of New London. The news had taken a long time to reach her. She and her mother had feared the worst, but it wasn’t until her father’s trading partner had arrived at New London and told them that they were sure. Even now he knew that Lucy didn’t accept it entirely. She’d told him just the previous week that she wanted to leave New London and travel the rest of the country to find her Dad. He’d tried to tell her that he was dead. Eventually she admitted it, albeit reluctantly, but insisted that she could still find his corpse and bring him back to New London to be buried in the city.

He’d met Lucy on their first day of school. Their teacher, a thin grey-haired lady whose skin was covered in burn marks, had sat the two of them next to each other. Initially he had been hesitant to talk to her, but after she had snatched his pencil they began to talk; by the end of the first week, the two of them were friends. He’d actually known her longer than he’d known Arthur.

He barely saw Lucy now. Walt’s work at at the warehouse kept him busy, and when he had time off in the evenings he was often too exhausted to go out and find her. It was only when their shifts synchronised and they were both off that the two of them met and wandered through the corridors of New London.

“Walt?” Lucy said, her face inches from his.

“Sorry.” He said.

“Where’s Art?” She repeated.

Walt shrugged as casually as he could with her hands on his shoulders, and trying to hide the truth. “Who knows.” He said.

They carried on dancing. It was as they rotated for what seemed like the hundreth time, that Walt saw a man pushing his way through the crowd with a determined look on his face. His eyes were fixed on Walt.
Walt’s hands dropped from Lucy’s waist, and he grabbed her hand, leading her through the dancers and into the crowd.

“Walt?” She yelped as she staggered through the people.

“I’ll explain in a minute.” Walt said, pushing a kid out of his way. He glanced behind him, past Lucy’s wide eyes and saw the man was gaining on them. He swore again and pushed his way through to a door at the side of the hall.

It was an exit tunnel for the stall owners, an entrance into a seperate infrastructure so that they didn’t have to cart all their belongings through the normal corridors. Although many of hte market stalls stayed in the hall for most of the year – C-Day being the only day that they were dismantled – several hundred other smaller stalls popped up each day, only to be taken down and taken home at night.
The corridor was cold. Almost immediately, Walt pulled Lucy through another door into another corridor. It was as they went through a third door that he heard the man call out into the first tunnel. Walt continued, doubling back through the network of tunnels, back into the market hall. Once they had stepped back into the hall, he put his foot against the door and looked at Lucy.

“Art’s been taken away, he opened a box. I think they’re after me.” He said hurriedly. Lucy nodded.

Some people would have run away, and Walt remembered from his history lessons that pre N-Day manypeople would have turned himover to the authorities. Lucy merely nodded and accepted what he said. She’d known him long enough to trust that he was being honest and had a good reason.

Holding hands, they forced their way back into the crowd, slowly making their way through to the main entrance of the hall. They paused briefly when Art’s parents noticed them and asked if they knew where Art was. Walt had brushed them off and said that they were just going to find him and that they would bring him back. At least it wasn’t a complete lie, Walt reflected as they went out the main entrance. Two of the people who stood at the door frowned at them as they left, but they didn’t seem to concerned. It didn’t seem unreasonable for two young adults to leave a party together.

“Where are we going?” Lucy asked.

“Can’t go to mine. There’re probably already there.” Walt said. “Yours. We’ll get changed at yours and then see if we can find out what was in the box that Art opened.”

“Where’s Art?”

“No idea. He’s gone on the run. He said that he wouldn’t leave New London though. He’ll find us somehow.”

Lucy’s mum owned a large flat. It was high up in their tower, just below the penthouse. Her mother was an Aide, and was in the select few that wouldn’t be at the C-Day celebrations. Instead she would be in their stuffy offices making sure that New London continued to run smoothly.

Lucy went into her room and changed, emerging in her normal brown smock. She looked at Walt and shook her head. “I’ll have something somewhere.” She said. She went into her mother’s room and emerged several minutes later holding a brown shirt and trousers.

“Try these.” She said. Although the cut was wrong, Walt doubted that anybody would notice unless they looked too hard. They left the flat and stood on the corridor.

“Well?” Lucy said.

“The warehouse.” Walt said, trying to sound confident. “If we can find the manifest it should tell us what was in the box.”
He wasn’t sure. The men hadn’t told Arthur what it was he had supposedly stolen, so he doubted that it would be listed on the manifest.


The warehouse was cold and silent. Where piles of boxes usually stood, waiting to be lifted and taken to their destinations, was nothing. The walls were bare, with no daily instructions lifted. For once the Foreman’s podium was empty, and his cries didn’t echoe around the room. Their footsteps did echo as they walked.

Walt fumbled briefly with a key and then they were standing inside the warehouse’s main office. Piles of paper were stacked on every surface. The entire rear wall was covered with a large map of New London, with different coloured lines marking the different infrastructures. A long key for the symbols hung from the ceiling, and it fluttered as a current of air flowed around the room as the door was opened. Walt pointed at the far side of the room. “I’ll start there.” He waved at the other side. “You there.”

He walked across the room to a filing cabinet and pulled open the top drawer.

“What’ll it look like.”

“Today’s date, a container number, an origin and a destination at the top, probably have some ticks on it. Green, grey or purple on the corner.”

He ignored most of the paper in the top drawer, pulling out only those with the coloured corners that he had told Lucy to focus on. Each colour denoted a different level of security and importance, with purple being the highest and white the lowest. The colours that you were allowed to deliver marked your progression; he was allowed to deliver up to grey, whereas Art was allowed to deliver anything. Or had been allowed to deliver anything.

The second drawer was emptier, with the papers stacked on top of each other rather than standing up; Walt took out the pile and scanned his eyes down the edge, looking at the colours. All white. He sighed and put them back in the drawer.

He turned from the drawer. Lucy was working through a stack of green cornered paper, glancing at the dates. He shook his head.

“What dates are they?”

“Last month.” She said. She held one out to him. “You guys ever know what’s in the boxes?”

Walt took the paper and looked at it. He stifled a laugh and gave it back. “Not very often. We aren’t allowed. We aren’t allowed to open them either.”

He turned to a pile of papers on one of the desks. He leafed through them, sometimes two at a time as the paper was so thin.

The door creaking open caught their attention and they turned, startled.

The foreman sat in his wheel chair, in the doorway, the door resting against his chair.

“What are you doing.”

Hearing the foreman speak slowly, without his distinctive auctioneer-like rattle surprised Walt. The foreman repeated his words, even slower.



“Art’s gone.” Walt said.

“Gone where? Why are you in here?” The foreman scowled at the pair of them. “Who are you?” He said jabbing a finger towards Lucy.

“Lucy sir.” She said.

“Don’t know. He opened a box and then some men took him away.”

“He opened a box. Which box.” The foreman snarled.

“He said it was the last box. I heard them speak to him and he seemed confused. They said that he took something but he told me and them that there was only one thing in the box.”

The foreman nodded. “If he did open a box he wouldn’t have been taken away, I’d have been told and I would have dealt with him.” He paused. “Why didn’t you tell me if you knew Walt?”

“Didn’t want to get him into trouble.”

“Sounds like he already is.” The foreman looked briefly at the papers that Walt was holding.

“Looking for the manifests? They won’t be in here. This are all old ones.”

The foreman wheeled his chair backwards, out of the room. “Follow me.” He said.

Walt took Lucy’s hand and they followed the foreman out of the office and down through the warehouse.

“The last box?”

“Yeah. Some picture was in it.”

They reached another room and the foreman unlocked the door and went inside. Walt turned the room’s single lightbulb on and it was bathed in a warm yellow glow.

Rows of tables were covered in thin paper. Walt and Lucy waited at the door while the foreman wheeled himself across the room to a desk. He sat their for a minute, sorting through a pile of papers and then took one out and wheeled himself back.

“Says that the only thing in the box was a picture. Hard to believe someone would go after Arthur just because he saw a picture.” He passed Walt the paper. The paper had a purple corner.

“You sure he didn’t take the picture?”

“Positive.” Walt said, scanning the manifest. The foreman was right. According to the paper the manifest only had a picture in. He looked at the origin. It had come from Academia and was to be delivered to the market hall, with the rest of Arthur’s boxes.

“Not really much I can do.” The foreman said. “Perhaps he lied to you and he took the picture and these people who went after him were trying to get the picture back.”

Walt shook his head. “No.” He said insistently. “If that where the case, they wouldn’t have come back and chased after after us.”

“After you?”

“Yeah, me and Lucy were chased in the market hall. We got away and came here to find out what else was in the box.”

“Nothing I can do.” The foreman said. “I suggest you let them find you and tell them that you know nothing. There’s not much they can do, unless they want to get the police involved.”

“I don’t think they will want that.” Lucy said.

“I suppose you’re right.” Said the foreman. He sighed and his face softened. “You’ve got leave here though. I’ll be nice and if they come here looking for you I’ll pretend you didn’t come here. Just don’t mess up.” The foreman said.

The door clicked as the tumblers fell into place. The foreman pulled out the key and put in a pocket. He pointed down the warehouse, into the dark. “Take one of the delivery tunnels. They probably don’t have complete maps of those.” He said.

The maps of the delivery tunnels were only given to the delivery workers, and they were made to memorise them before giving them back. It was another set of infrastructure created to keep the delivery service running at speed. Not all of the workers used them as the infrastructure wasn’t complete and only had main tunnels that lead to the major parts of New London, where they would split off an rejoin the main corridors.

The foreman wheeled himself in the opposite direction, away from Lucy and Walt as they walked into the darkness.

Epic Session 1.1


He awoke to find Kiera standing by the window. She’d pulled the curtains open, letting light stream into the room. Hearing him stir, she turned.

A layer of condensation covered the window, running down the little beaded streams that fell down the glass before working their way across the wooden frame. The window sill looked damp.

“Morning.” She said.

Reilly grunted and rolled out of the bed. The air was chilly. Goosebumps rose on his skin and his hairs curled to trap in heat.
They walked downstairs together. The house was quiet, and when they looked at the clock, they found that they had slept until it was almost midday. They went into the kitchen and helped themselves to food.

Mason returned shortly after they had dressed. After eating, they had returned upstairs and looked for clothes; several of the doors were locked. They assumed they were where the other people slept. The fourth door they tried swung open. Boxes were stacked up against the walls, and a path had been cleared to a battered wardrobe at the back. Kiera had waited by the door and Reilly pushed his way through. There were plenty of clothes inside, although most were slightly too big for Kiera.

They went downstairs to find that Mason was preparing lunch. He asked if they wanted something to eat, they declined, but sat and spoke to him while he ate lunch. Maureen came in from one of the outhouses, wiping grease from her hands. She sat and ate lunch too.

“I’m going out to the barn later.” Maureen said. “Need to check the animals and sort some stuff out, out there.” She looked at Kiera. “Want to come with? Everybody here lends a hand. Would be good to get you learning now.”

Kiera looked at Reilly, silently asking for permission. He nodded slightly, his moving an almost imperceptible amount.

“Ok.” She said hesistantly.

“Super.” Maureen said. “You should get doing something as well.”
“He can come with me. We’ll get him driving.” Mason said.

“Driving?” Reilly said.

“Yeah, get you out there in the truck, show you how to get it moving.”
Once they had cleared the table, Reilly left with Mason, leaving Kiera with Maureen.

It was the car’s seatbelts that stopped Reilly from bouncing off the seat because of the potholes and rough ground; Mason did say that the car’s suspension was almost worn out. Reilly disagreed. He thought it was well past being worn out. His stomach had lurched, rising in his body and dropping with a thud inside him as the car roared over a drop in the ground, the front wheels sinking into the mud and the chassis creaking.

The engine sat ticking idly, cooling in the still air. Reilly and Mason stood outside the car, in the middle of a field just over a mile from the house. They were still high up and, the sky being as clear as it was, could see across to the Abbey; the dark building was silhouetted against the sky.

Reilly climbed into the driver’s seat, leaving the door open so that Mason could talk to him.

“You got the pedals, accelerator, brake, clutch.” Mason said. “Things like indicators I haven’t really used lately.” He chuckled. “There aren’t really many people to tell where you’re going.” Mason shut the car door and got in the other side.

“Turn the key.” He said. Reilly turned the key and felt the engine shudder to life, vibrations coursing up through the seat into his body. Reilly attempted to put the car in gear and pull away and stalled, the car lurching forward. Mason laughed and told him to try again.

After a few more attempts, Reilly managed to get the car in gear and set off. As he didn’t drive as fast as Mason did, the car didn’t bounce as much, although it still rattled. Reilly spent just over an hour driving round the field before Mason asked him to stop. He introduced Reilly to the car’s second gear stick, teaching Reilly about changing the car from two wheel drive to four wheel drive, when it was necessary and when it was useful. Mason directed Reilly out of the field, towards a hill. Reilly moved the stick, switching the car to four wheel drive, and changing the gearing. Gravel and scree crunched as the truck edged up the hill, the wheels turning slowly. Reilly revved the truck and forced it over the final ridge, the front tipping in the air and slamming onto the hilltop. He applied the handbrake and switched the engine off.

“Not bad.” Mason said. “I’d have changed gears at different times, but at least you didn’t stall on the hill.” Mason twisted his wrist to look at his watch. He sighed. “We should probably head back.”

Reilly started the engine and began to turn the wheel. Mason guided him back down the hill, telling him when to apply the brake.

Once at the bottom of the hill, where the ground was only slightly more flat, Robin picked up speed, eventually going almost as fast as Mason had. The truck’s chassis groaned and creaked as it rumbled along.

They arrived just as Kiera and Maureen were emerging from one of the barns. Grass was flattened up against the barn, stretching up its sides; weeds grew talled and tried to pierce the wooden walls. The barn’s roof was uneven, with tiles missing. A plastic gutter hung off one side, one end still attached to the roof, the other plunging into an overgrown bush.

Once more Reilly switched off the engine. He clambered out and walked with Mason across to the two women. Kiera held a bundle of cloth and Maureen was pushing along a barrel.

“How we doing in there?” Mason asked.

Maureen stopped rolling and shrugged. “Not too bad. We’ve taken inventory.” Maureen tapped at her shirt pocket. “I’ll give it to you later.”

“I’ve got some cloth to sew with.” Said Kiera.

Reilly rolled his eyes. “Oh.” He said, putting as much enthusiasm as he could into the small word.

“What you gonna make with that?” Said Mason.

“I’m gonna make myself a dress. Maureen’s gonna show me how.” Kiera said. “I used to make dresses all the time for my dolls.”

“Tell him about your dolls.” Reilly said.

They were round the back of the house, and they could see people moving inside. Reilly had heard Mason the night before, talking about boarding up the windows for added security. Someone – Reilly thought that their name was Julian – said that boarding them up would attract the wrong sort of people because it would suggest that they had something worth hiding, and that the better thing to do would be to deal with problems as they arose.

“I used to have loads of dolls, both boys and girls. They’d go on all sorts of adventures. Dad gave me some of his old toys, these plastic men with guns, and I’d make them all fight and have fun.” She sniffed when she said “Dad”, and then added. “Reilly used to play too.” She smirked at him.

Mason chuckled.

“Did not.” Reilly muttered.

The house was noisy, with people calling at each other in the kitchen as they begun to prepare dinner. More people had come in from hunting, and several pheasants lay on a table. A tall metal billy sat on a camping stove, with several more stoves pointed at the base, their blue flames curling off the metal, blackening it. A brown liquid bubbled at the surface. When the bubbles popped, drops of the liquid would spit out from the billy, evaporating in the flames beneath.

A few of the people nodded at the group as the walked through the kitchen. Mason stopped and stayed, trying a spoonful of the liquid and wincing as it burnt his tongue. Reilly continued while Mason began to talk with some of the cooks.

Reilly sat and read the Macciavelli book until dinner. He found himself continually looking through the dictionary. By the time the dinner call came, he’d read ten pages. In the same time, Kiera had measured and cut some of the fabric, while Maureen had given her the occasional direction and instruction.

“Heard you learnt to drive today.” one of the men at the table said.
“Went up a hill and everything.” Reilly said.

Bowls of soup sat in front of each person, the liquid still steaming, little lumps of meat floating at the surface. The soup was brown and tasted mainly of heat, the lumps only just tasted of meat; some spices had been added but they were already becoming sparse, so each serving only had a tiny bit of flavour. Crusty home-made bread had been torn into pieces and stacked on plates which were placed at intervals down the table. Some of the adults were drinking diluted wine, while everybody else drank water.

“He barely stalled the truck. He’s not bad.” Mason said, chewing on a piece of bread. He washed it down with some wine. “We’ll get him shooting next.”

Reilly shook his head. “No, no shooting.”


“No shooting.” Reilly repeated.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to kill anyone.”

Mason laughed. “Not to kill people, for food.”

“Hm.” Reilly picked up his glass and drank from it. The water tasted strange to him.

“Can I learn too?” Kiera said. Reilly frowned at her.

Mason shrugged. “I don’t see why not. The more the merrier.”

Kiera let out a little woop. Reilly frowned again.

Maureen finished her soup first, wiping out the bowl with a piece of a bread. Once everybody had finished the table was cleared, and Kiera resumed her sewing while Reilly absorbed himself with Macciavelli.

Friday Flash: Makeup

I’ve neglected Friday Flash a little bit this month – NaNoWriMo has taken it’s toll on my writing! However, FF returns today with a short story that I wrote for one of my PGCE assignments, for a Year 7 class. They thought it was funny, and I hope you do too (I’m going to publish the original “horror” version as next week’s FF.)


The mirror wasn’t perfect. It warped Lucy’s face, making her forehead bigger and her chin smaller. A lone spot on her cheek was magnified by the mirror, turning it into a mountain. She squeezed it and yellow liquid splatted onto the mirror.

Around the sink was a range of different makeup in different colours and different shaped bottles. She opened them and begun to apply them to her face.

The makeup was cold on her skin and itched slightly as she smeared it on her face. Lids an bottle tops lay scattered across the sink, the white ceramic becoming painted in various colours as makeup spilt across it.

Lucy sung to herself as she applied the makeup. She did it every day before school, spending an hour in the bathroom covering the spots on her face, lengthening her eyelashes and enhancing her cheekbones.

The makeup got thicker on her face, covering up spot marks. The one she just popped stung a little bit where the makeup had got inside.

She looked down from the mirror and started to clean the sink; she put lids back on the tubs, tubes and bottles. She felt her face harden as the makeup dried and tightened.

Her schoolbag was heavy and it thumped on each stair as she dragged it. Her parents were sitting in the kitchen, and her little brother Johnny was splashing milk over his pyjamas as he ate.

“Morning.” Her Dad said, looking up from his newspaper.

“Morning.” Lucy tried to say. But no sound came out. She tried again, but still no sound came. In fact her mouth wasn’t moving. Her Dad frowned at her.

Lucy tried to open her mouth but the makeup had dried solid. She forced her jaw down and felt the makeup begin to crack, but her jaw sprang shut, as though the makeup was a rubber band.

She touched her face, feeling the makeup as it continued to dry, pulling the skin tight onto her bones. She felt her lips; once soft, they had turned into hard lines.

She tried to scream.


Lucy woke screaming. Johnny sat on the end of her bed, his hands covered in black mascara. Lucy leapt up and ran from her bedroom. She barged into the bathroom and went straight to the mirror.

She screamed again.

It was hard to scream; she could feel the thick layers of makeup cracking as her face moved. Her eyes were dark pools in a turbulent red sea. Her mouth was a gaping hole in a lipstick mess. There was a giggling behind her.

Johnny stood in the doorway. He was pointing at her face and laughing.

“You little cow.” She tried to say, but struggled against the makeup.

Water gurgled from the tap and she rubbed at her face. The makeup didn’t move. Johnny continued to laugh.

Lucy scrubbed harder. The makeup still didn’t move.

“Glue” Johnny said. Lucy turned to look at him.

“Glue.” Johnny repeated. He held out a small tube.

Lucy could only just read the label:


She screamed and lunged at Johnny.

PGCE Update: Writing short stories for the kids

For one of my subject studies assignments (1a2), I had to conduct a little bit of original research to find out what a class of students likes to read. From this data, I had to write a short story which I then had to read to the class. I also had to create a prop that I could bring in that would add to the reading experience.

After some interesting results in the research – the most common favourite book for the girls was Girl Online, but their favourite genre was… horror – I wrote the first draft of my story.

The first draft was very different to the final piece, although the main idea stayed the same: a girl puts on makeup that has disastrous results. However, in the first draft, where it was a horror story, her skin tightens and her lips become translucent, her bones show through, and her teeth rattle and fall out. It was very much inspired by a certain scene in Poltergeist.

But I decided that it was too scary for the Year 7 children (11-12 years old), and I rewrote the entire story as a comedy – that was the second favourite genre.

Once I had written the short story, I began to think about the prop. I had spoken to alumni and other people on the course. Some had used music, some were bringing in physical props, and others dressed up. From the responses on the questionnaire, I thought I could create some illustrations. However I’ve never really practised my drawing, so that wasn’t really feasible.

So I had a brief think about why readers might want illustrations. I decided that a probable reason (I have yet to check The Literature) would be because illustrations support the text and add extra interest.

After another think, I decided to use some sound effects that would play as I read the text. I scoured the web for free sound effects (it’s amazing how many laser beams, machine gun and explosion sounds there are) and then commented on my story where I needed to play the sounds.

Using various features of PowerPoint, I was able to automate the sounds so that they played at the right moment. This was really good, as it meant that I could stand away from the laptop and focus on reading the story.

The kids? They loved it. Or at least they said they did. So that’s good.

If you want to read the the story, check back on Friday as it’s this week’s Friday Flash!