Four Hours Later, 32 Hours Before the Present

  Raindrops echoed as they splattered against the ground, every little puddle and mark shimmering under the dirty orange lighting. Ian tightened the collar of his tartan jacket, the fur lining brushing against his skin. But the cold air continued to seep on through, and so he pulled the hood over. Something lightly blipped the top of his head, earning a huff from Ian. At least the rain’s stopped.

  His boots clattered across the concrete, puddles spluttering as strolled alongside the canal on his left. On the right, old warehouses stood worn but tall. A far cry from the many pictures and broadcasts that he had seen flashing across the television. That, or the digitised remains of the Internet. A good many of the windows were blacked out, but small flickers of light creeped out from the corners of others. Some fluttered, a pulse of air flowing within around the candles. Others still glowed with an almost piercing light, each one highlighting one of the luckier individuals or families who managed to get their hands on a functioning electrical supply, or just a lightbulb.

  The canal he followed was one of many that slithered through the city of Manchester. A blood vessel that led right into a newly revitalised industrial heart. Ian knew that some of those lights in the buildings were flats, homes. But that wasn’t the only purpose of the many buildings surrounding him. Even in the shadow of the night, he could almost taste the soot that seeped into the air. The dull thump of machinery resonated too, gnawing at his ears. Every bang, crack and snip was the sound of something new being made from jumpers and microchips to bullets. And every so often above that, was the whump of one wind turbine amongst hundreds.

  Over two hundred years ago, Manchester had been the birth place of the Industrial Revolution. A beacon of industry starting from humble beginnings of textile manufacturing and onwards to becoming a place that would do something one day, only for the rest of the world to follow it in the next.

  At least, that is what Ian had learnt over the years when he had been in school. By the 1950’s, Manchester had been in decline. Its factories shutting down and supermarkets taking their places. A painful process of deindustrialisation.

  But in the wake of the spread of the Retrovirus, Manchester had to become independent. A new breed of factories was raised over the bones of the old, a new Industrial Revolution that had seen Manchester not only regain its status of an industrious city, but to become one of the power houses of the world.

  What was left of that world anyway. Manchester had once been a second city amongst a few thousand others, many of which possessed far, far longer reach. Now it was one of maybe a hundred, the capital of a not-quite-United Kingdom. Manchester had been one of the lucky ones. Many others could not say the same.

  Ian crossed the canal, headed directly for an old railway bridge, it’s brick and iron framework lit only by the same dull orange lights fitted to the street lamps that had guided his way. He took aim for one of the brick arches that held up the structure. Only, it wasn’t just an arch anymore. Built into the side of the bricked over arches sat metal doors, signs hanging haphazardly above them. Some dark. Others glowing, Neon red, fluorescent green or a familiar orange.

  He set his sights on a brass door at the centre of the archway he was headed for, where hanging above it was a barely lit sign.

  INDUSTRIAL MANCHESTER STEEL CLUB

  Straightening up, he banged on the door.

  A slit slid open to show a pair of brown eyes peering through at him. “Ah Ian!” came a thick Scottish accent, “Welcome…”. He stuttered to a halt, his eyes widening. “Good god lad! You look like shit! You haven’t been in a fire… have you?”

  Ian cast a glance down at himself. The ash and dust had already been brushed or blown away, but his jeans still sported black, crispy marks in the denim.

  “Of a sort.” He replied, raising an eyebrow. “Can you let me in Larry? It’s a little nippy out here.”

  The slit slammed shut and the sound of a half a dozen locks been turned, twisted and unbolted echoed through the metal before with a final click, the door slowly swung back to let him in.

  “So, what wee fire did you get in lad?” inquired Larry as Ian slipped through. He was a short, stocky man with a bushy beard. Grey hair and wrinkles only added to either a hidden wisdom or just his own age.

  “Barge fire.” Ian explained, pulling the hood back. “I was in the workshop when Philippe’s barge started burning. Was small enough for the fire extinguishers but well…” he motioned towards his trousers. “It got a bit hot.”

  A sigh escaped as Ian slowly shook his head, “The warden came over and went off on a rant. Something about health and safety. Nearly sacked Philippe on the spot until someone found evidence of sabotage in the hold.”

  “Well damn and blast….” Larry hissed. “The rozzers better find the sneezy sod. Send ‘em to Birmingham. Or better yet across the Channel.”

  Ian frowned, “That’s harsh. Even with an investigation.” He rubbed the back of his head, “And last time I checked, France doesn’t exactly exist anymore.”

  “They could throw them right at the Ferals for all I care.”

  Ian stared at him, his arm beginning to shake under the red tartan. What the hell was up with him? Larry had never been one to suggest tossing someone, even a criminal onto the mainland. Larry’s features seemed to soften as if realising this. “Look Ian. It sounds tough. But life is that way in the world.” He waved a floppy hand at the door, “Every damn mistake makes our lives more miserable. What if someone started a fire every time some wood came in? Your boss goes out of business; you get laid off. We lose woodworkers, we can’t make anything that needs wood properly.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “I get it.” Ian groaned, his throat tensing at the words.

  He’s got a point. He grungily admitted to himself, imagining the taste of bile at the back of his mouth.

  Larry merely shrugged, his heavy-set shoulders sagging. “Your friends are in the rec-room as always.” He cast a glance down the younger man. “Should be fine with what you got. You’re not going to be spreading dust around.”

  With a huff, Ian nodded. “Thanks Larry.”

  “Eh, don’t mention it.”

  Turning, Larry strolled through a wooden door, and Ian pushed through after him. He emerged into a large space. Couches, tables and chairs cluttered one side of the room, a short drinks bar dominated the other. Ian didn’t spare the club much more than a glance beyond that. Instead, he strode across the room, uttering apologies as he slipped past the few patrons inside, keeping his eyes set onto another wooden door on the far side.

  He pushed through to find himself within a small, cosy room. The sides were dominated by several shelves and cupboards, loaded with faded books and old dusty bottles. At the far side, a pair of desks were tucked into the corners with a computer each on top of them. In the centre were three old fabric couches, covered in thick throws and cushions. A small coffee table was positioned in between them and paper sheets lay plastered across it with a handful of glasses laid on top to hold them down in place.

  Jack and Liana sat opposite each other on the couches, inspecting the sheets. The former with an almost tired eye, the latter with intense concentration. Behind them, at one of the desks was a dark-skinned man, wearing a simple shirt and a pair of narrow glasses as he tapped away at a bulky laptop. Ian nearly missed the fourth person all together, a pair of legs sprayed out behind Jack’s couch. The neck of a glass bottle just peeked out from around the couch leg. Typical.

  Jack glanced up at Ian, his eyes narrowed as he scanned his clothing, “Evening mate. Tad late?”

  Ian tilted his head, flicking a tuft of brown hair out from his face. “I’ll explain later. I haven’t missed anything?”

  “Not a thing.”

  Liana rose from her seat, swiping up an empty glass. “I try to give some lee-way anyway.”

  Ian huffed in amusement, “Well… thanks Liana.”

  She delivered a wink, and Ian’s head suddenly felt light and out of flux. But he quickly steadied himself, remembering the conversation from earlier in the day. The fire and its aftermath had denied Ian the time he needed to chase up on the supply situation, but he figured that now was the time to check. “By the way, I’m not sure if you guys have heard, but there was a problem with the su-“

  Jack raised a hand, cutting Ian off. “We know. That’s on the agenda.”

  Damn it. Whoever is ripping the people off is moving quick then.

  Deep down, he hoped that Jack and Liana at least had a better idea of what was going on.

  “I’m going to get a fresh round.” Liana declared, “Anyone want one?”

  “That lemonade, if Larry has it.” Ian requested.

  “Same here.” Jack declared, brushing some of his black hair back.

  “Tea, please.” The third man asked, keeping his eyes focused on the computer screen.

  The fourth remained still as a corpse. Jack’s eyes drifted upwards and shook his head with a near silent groan. Oh god give me strength? Ian half chuckled to himself.

  Leaning forward, Jack’s heel flung into the couch foot. The whole sofa shuddered and for a moment, the human legs spasmed in shock. “I’m good! I’m good…” groaned the fourth, shakingly lifting the bottle.

  “Right… I’ll be right back.” Liana replied with a flick of her blonde hair. She flashed another wink at Ian, before she quickly departed the room.

  Still light headed, Ian plopped himself down onto the central couch, catching Jack’s smirk as he sank into the cushions. Not exactly his poker face. “Jack, what?” Ian questioned, raising a brow.

  His friend leaned back, crossing his arms. “You didn’t notice?”

  “Notice what?” he hissed.

  Jack opened his mouth to reply, but then he merely shrugged. “Actually… I better leave you to figure it out.”

  “Jack.” Ian said, leaning forward with a questioning look, “Go on.”

  “Seriously j- “

  “Ah to balls with it!”

  The bottle snapped up into the air behind Jack’s head, swinging wildly enough that it nearly smacked him. “Oh, there’s love in the air!”

  “Ed…” Jack growled, his face screwing up enough for his grey eyes to flash red.

  “Fine, Jeb back me up will you?”

  The soft tapping continued to persist, but the voice quivered. “Don’t look at me. I won’t back up your crude statements.”

  The realisation came forth like a light bulb in his mind, Ian could feel his eyes bulge.

  The winks… that leeway…

  “Wait… you’re not saying that Liana…”

  Jack’s smirk grew, his friend clapping his hands together. The echo rang in Ian’s ears as his body froze.

  “Bullshit.” Ian uttered.

  “No BS.” Jack replied.

  Ian’s neck beat him to the punch with a shake of his head, “I don’t believe it. I’m not even that good looking!”. He could already picture himself in the mirror. His short-mid length brown hair, those blue eyes and his slightly rounded, near featureless face other than the odd dimple on his skin. A pretty average, normal looking twenty-four-year-old man. What more did he have beyond that?

  “Explain the winks then, she doesn’t nearly toss as many my way.” Jack said.

  Ian threw his hands into the air, “I don’t know! She didn’t have a drink, right?”

  “Nothing alcoholic.” Jeb confirmed, eyes still fixed onto the screen.

  Laughter erupted from behind the couch, “Oh she isn’t drunk. She’d be half dead!”

  “What you say doesn’t count.” Jack stated, rolling his eyes.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you’re drunk, dumbass.”

  More laughter rose forth, “Come on… if I was drunk… I wouldn’t be able to do this!”

  A man with long brown hair shot up to his feet, tumbling forward and threatening to fall flat on his face. Only for the bottle to fly out of his hand and sail across the room into a bin with a clunk. Ed sprung back, a mock cheer blaring out his mouth, half buried under a half-strangled mass of stubble.

  “Lucky bast- “, Jack started to utter.

  The door swung open, “Alright, can we… what’s going on?” Liana questioned, holding a small tray with three glasses and a mug mounted on top. Her eyes narrowed as they locked on to Jack and Ed.

  “Nothing.” Jack quickly replied, keeping his own gaze fixed onto the young woman. Ed himself merely shrugged.

  Good timing Liana. Ian figured.

  “Well, can we get started?”

  Ed went to lean against the couch, only to freeze. His face twisted into one of undisguised, borderline comical horror as his eyes flicked between the tray and the now silent bin. “Err… could I…”

  “Nope.” Jack interrupted with a massive smirk written across his face. “We need to get this all done.”

  “But…”

  “Good.” Liana replied, taking a seat on the third couch. “We’ve got a lot here anyway.”

  Ian clamped down onto his tongue to hold back his own chuckle whilst Ed’s eyes once more flickered between the door and the bin. But with a defeated sigh, he leaned back against the couch.

  Still wasn’t quite enough, as Ian managed to barely stifle a cough as resettled himself into his seat. Afterall, with what was likely to come in this meeting, he was going to need that extra comfort.