Prayers to Broken Stone ((The Meddler VI/Allison Castiel))

[Allison Castiel]

"Dear Doctor,

Have you ever heard of the 'Butterfly Effect'? I expect you have, being as brilliant as you are. It was a common scientific theory on Earth once, back before it all went wrong. The idea that small causes can have large effects – such as a butterfly beating its wings, and causing a hurricane somewhere in the world. I have to admit, it wasn't something I'd ever thought much about. I was too busy trying to keep my antiques business afloat; too busy living my life, never realising how fragile everything was that I took for granted.

Ironically, though, in the end, it wasn't a butterfly that destroyed everything. It was a wasp. Specifically, the Glyptapanteles wasp. A tiny little thing, black with lacy wings, and a fearsome sting. An endoparasitoid, so they told us, long afterwards, when it was too late.

Somehow, somewhere in the heart of the Amazon, the Glyptapanteles wasp managed to mutate and it became a monster. They never could explain how it happened, all those important scientists and world leaders and government officials. Just that it did. And that the mutation spread at an exponential rate. Within days, the rainforest was crawling with vast insectoid creatures, an immense swarm, each individual measuring over one hundred metres in length, with wings resembling metal shields. Within two weeks, the Amazon was gone. Within two months, the entire continents of North and South America were overrun. Billions of people died. The humans tried to fight back, but it was impossible. There were too many of them and they were too strong. Artillery left not even a dent in their armoured carapaces. Any energy directed at them was simply absorbed, and merely to touch one was fatal. Within a year, they were everywhere.  They drained our planet of its plants, nutrients, minerals and micro-organisms, leaving nothing but dust in their wake.

I kept thinking you would turn up. Every day, when things got worse and worse, when the newsreaders got more and more frantic, when the fighting was at its peak, when the death toll climbed higher and higher. I screamed inside my head, hoping that you would magically hear me; I lay awake at night and prayed to see your face, your smile, that shock of spiky hair, those silly glasses you don't even really need... just to hear your voice, saying my name, telling me you were here to save us all. But you never came.

What was left of the human race took to hiding underground, desperately conserving our food and water, fleeing from the monsters. There were rumours of an undying man, in a long military coat, who led the resistance to the very end. Him and his offsider, who the legends described as tall and thin, with messy brown hair and grey eyes, chain-smoking and wearing a leather jacket. I always told myself that it was Fitz. I don't know how I knew that, because I never saw him again. But the description fit and he always was a trouble-magnet. Helping to fight back against the Glyptapanteles just seemed like the sort of thing he would do. The two of them vanished one day and have never been heard of since. If it WAS Fitz and he died... I hope he died well. A hero. He would have liked that.

At the very last, the scientists figured it out. They mapped the DNA of the creatures and developed a pesticide known as GK-50. Once unleashed, it killed the wasp-monsters stone dead. You can still see them, out there in the wilderness, enormous ghostly exo-skeletons, all that's left of them, rotting right where they fell. At night, the wind blows through the hollow carapaces, and it makes an eerie humming sound, that's enough to make your hair stand on end. They all died, as suddenly as they had come.

But by then, it was already too late. The biosphere was utterly destroyed and the human race close to extinction. There's just a few groups left, still living underground, even though there's nothing left to prey on us now, except for each other. I'm living in what used to be the tube station at Chiswick Park. There's hardly any food, even less water. People murder each other over a tin can of rotten meat. Day by day, we eke out an existence, knowing that there is no hope, and that all we're really doing is waiting to die.

I still believe that you'll come back one day, and that's why I'm writing this down. Because maybe you'll come to look for me. And maybe you'll wonder what happened here.

So this is it, Doctor. This is how the world ended. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

I wish I could have seen you one last time.

Your friend always,

Allison."

---

Very carefully, she placed the ragged scrap of paper underneath the battered old silver cash register, in the middle of the rubble that had once been her antiques store. The roof was gone now, torn away to reveal the leaden sky, the walls crumbling into oblivion. If he ever did come... if he was able, if he wasn't dead himself... she knew this was where the Doctor would look for her.

“C'mon, Castiel, get a move on. It'll be dark soon. There'll be Raiders about.”

Allie glanced over at her companion, a man with a tangle of dark hair, wearing a ragged khaki jacket. He was scanning the surrounding area intently, sighting down the long barrel of a rifle, as he covered her back.

“It's all right, Danny,” she replied, getting to her feet, and shouldering her own rifle. “I'm finished now.”

As tiny as ever, she barely reached the man's shoulder. Her blonde hair was long now, reaching down her back in a dirty tangle. Instead of the pretty dresses that had once been her usual attire, she now wore a torn black tank top and some filthy cut-off shorts, with a pair of sturdy combat boots. Water was so scarce these days that there was none to spare for washing. Beneath the ragged cloth, she was little more than skin and bone, her body malnourished and gaunt, her brown eyes huge in her thin face.

“Then let's go.”

She glanced back one more time, at the silver cash register, a relic from bygone days, a life that now seemed like a dream. The Doctor would hardly recognise her any more, she thought, as she tightened her grip on the gun and followed Danny out the door, into the apocalyptic twilight landscape that had once been London.

And perhaps, under the circumstances, that was just as well.

[Rob "the Meddler" Goodfellow]

Lightning struck, out of a clear blue sky, lashing the broken remains of Nelson's Column in the detritus-strewn landscape that had once been Trafalgar Square. For a moment it seemed that the column had been rebuilt in electricity, branchings lashing out to strike the corners where stone lions had crouched. The observant, however, would have noted that it was not genuine lightning. Genuine - terrestrial - lightning is rarely shot through with ameythist and amber. Terrestrial lightning also creates a clap of thunder, and it never leaves a restored column and stone lions in its wake.

It also never leaves behind a figure that was not there before the lightning stuck.

"Unnh," the figure grunted, then hesitated. "Voice... is... different?" He opened eyes that - just for a moment, before the color drained away - were glossy orbs filled with ink. And then they were pale blue. "Wha-what... what happened?" He stared at his hands, broad strong hands that seemed to have every line and whorl filled with a dull black grime, turning them and examining them from different angles as if he'd never seen them before. The examination rapidly transformed into a probing exploration of his face, fingers running over nose and cheeks and chin as he blinked in surprise.

The examination continued visually as he inspected the sundry collection of black rags that he wore, and the one ancient leather boot that clung to his left foot. He slapped himself all over, a frantic caracature of a man searching his pockets only to lear that he didn't have pockets. In the end, he was able to catalog the full extent of his worldly possessions. ""What's left of a coat and trousers," he muttered. "And one shoe. And..." He examined a thick, battered silver rectangle that fit in one palm before experimentally blowing through it. A loud humming tune filled the air for a moment. "Yeah. A harmonica. I... guess I play? Maybe?"

There was one remaining object. A dense black block, about the size and shape of a cigarette pack. He turned it over and over in his fingers, watching the sunlight reflect on the surface. His fingernails picked at fine cracks in the surface as he experimented to see if it would open. After a minute's exploration he triggered something, mostly by accident, as an image appeared in the air above the box - an auburn-haired man in a grey suit, grinning, with his arms around a red-haired woman dressed in a vaguely piratical fashion. As he stared, a curious and inexplicable sense of loss flooded through him. He reached up to touch the image, and it vanished as soon as his fingers left the box.

"Was... is that... me?" he wondered aloud. Gritting his teeth, he winced as he jerked three strands of hair from his scalp. Rubbing tears from his eyes, he examined them closely. "Uhm... no? Maybe? Doesn't quite look the right shade..." He stared at them for a minute longer, lost in thought, then wiggled his fingers and let the wind carry the hair away. Then he sat a little longer, elbows on knees and chin in his hands, staring across the intact granite lions with a wistful expression on his face.

Eventually, he brought the harmonica to his lips and began to play.

[Allison Castiel]

The unexpected sizzle of lightning did not go unnoticed, even in the further reaches of London. The spectacular blast caught Allie's eye, even as she was climbing into the passenger seat of the battered old lorry her settlement used for scavenging missions.

“Did you see that?” she asked, whirling around to Danny, who was also standing transfixed, staring up at the sky.

“Yeah,” he grunted.

He was a dour, silent sort of man, who would never use two words if one would do. Allie had known him for several years, ever since the onset of the apocalypse, but she couldn't honestly say she understood the way his mind worked now, any better than she had on the day they first met. The expression on his face was uneasy, however, and that was enough to send an anxious shiver up her spine.

“Could it be rain?” The eager hope in her voice was almost pitiful. It had been so long since it had rained. So very long since they'd had any fresh water. She still remembered how it felt to walk outside in a spring shower, to hear the rain drumming on the roof in the night, to smell the freshness after a summer thunderstorm, and it made her want to cry.

Danny shook his head. “Nah. No clouds.”

He was right. The sky, while darkening now into oncoming night, had been clear blue all day, without a cloud in sight.

“But it was something!” she said stubbornly. “We should go and check it out.”

“Castiel, it came from Central London somewhere. That's a half-hour drive from here. We can't justify the fuel and it'll be dark in an hour. Besides, there's rumours that the survivors over at Piccadilly Circus have taken to cannibalism. They eat anyone they can catch from the other settlements.”

“Danny, it could be a ship! What if it's our one chance for salvation, and we miss it, because you're not willing to take a risk!”

The dark-haired man sighed heavily and put a hand on her shoulder. “Look, Castiel, I know what you're hoping for... what you're always hoping for. But it's time you got wise, kiddo. Your Doctor isn't coming. We're on our own. So just let it go, willya?”

“I can't.” Her soft lips were set in a mutinous line. “I've seen things you wouldn't believe, Danny. There's so much more to the universe than just the Earth. And I won't give up, not while there's still a chance we can turn it all around. If you won't come with me, fine, don't. I'll walk.”

She slipped down off the running board of the lorry, grabbing a tattered leather jacket from the front seat and shrugging it on.

“You really mean it, don't you?” he said incredulously. “You'll never make it. You'll end up in someone's bloody cooking pot!”

“Then that's a chance I'll have to take.”

Danny made a snarl of pure exasperation. “God save me from stubborn women! Get in the truck, Castiel. I can't just let you go off and get killed. I'll take you. But we're in and out, right? No messing about.”

She smiled at him, dimples winking in her grimy face, as she climbed back aboard the vehicle. “Thanks, Dan. I'll owe you one.”

He started the ignition, the gears grinding as he thrust them into drive. “Let's just hope I don't live to regret it.”

The journey itself was uneventful, if a bit uncomfortable. Many of the roads had been destroyed during the Apocalypse, and those that were left were in a terrible state, littered with debris, blocked with shattered and rusting vehicles, abandoned when people had tried to evacuate London. Danny had to take quite a few detours before they managed to arrive at what had once been the very heart of the great city, Trafalgar Square. Concealing the lorry in a side street, and with their guns at the ready, they got out to search for the source of the lightning. Behind them, in the west, the sun was rapidly sinking, and their shadows were long and thin on the ground.

“I figure it was around here somewhere,” Danny muttered, as they took cover behind a burned out bus at the eastern edge of the Square. “Remember, Castiel, in and out. This is no place to be after dark.”

“Yeah, I got it,” she replied, staring across the ruined landscape. Were her eyes playing tricks on her? It couldn't be, could it? It wasn't even possible! “Danny... oh my God, Danny... look! Nelson's back!”

“What?” His jaw dropped almost comically, as he craned his neck up and down, staring in disbelief at the beautifully-intact column, topped with its statue, standing tall and strong in the centre of devastation. “I don't even...”

“Shhhhh,” Allie said, clapping her small hand over his mouth. “Listen!”

Drifting through the still air was the haunting sound of a harmonica, playing the blues. Peering more closely, Allie could make out a man, sitting alone at the base of the column. He was dressed in tattered black rags, much as they were, but even from this distance she could see that he was only wearing one boot, which struck her as strange. In this new world, footwear was usually an essential priority for the survivors. Without strong boots, you couldn't run. And if you couldn't run, you died.

“He must be a madman,” Danny whispered in amazement. “Sitting out in the open like that, he's just asking for trouble!”

“He's already found it,” Allie answered, her breath catching in her throat. “Los Niños.”

And sure enough, if one looked carefully enough, they would see the small, furtive shadows circling the Column, creeping from cover to cover, drawing ominously ever closer to the harmonica player. Los Niños. The Children. Only, not children that anyone from the old world would recognise. These were the Children of the Apocalypse. Juvenile predators, running in a pack like hungry young wolves. Vicious, ruthless and utterly without mercy. For now, they were hanging back, perhaps fascinated by the novelty of the stranger's music. But it was plain that the reprieve wouldn't last for long.

“Danny, we have to help him. They're going to tear him to pieces!”

[Rob "the Meddler" Goodfellow]

Minutes passed. Nine of them. He could feel them march by, sense them as they slipped past around him without actually seeming to touch him. He didn't mind. Somehow, he knew he had as much time as he needed. So he sat and played the blues, waiting for inspiration to strike. When it did, it struck from an utterly unexpected direction. A whole pack of inspiration, one might say, slowly ringing him and watching with glittering, hungry eyes.

Children.

Well, they were children in form. He glanced up, catching sight of dirty hunched figures in leather and tattered rags, covered with sores and scabs and tangles of hair. They clutched makeshift weapons of rebar and stone, and one or two of the oldest girls had children of their own strapped to stomach or back with bits of twine and cloth and scraps of leather. He watched a lone child, a hunched creature not yet at puberty, edge forward. "Oi, yeh micey gadgie!" he(?) called. "This's our yem yer twockin. Go play up atcha own end!" The others made angry sounds of agreement, shaking their weapons and muttering approval.

He sat back, considering that, and then began playing once more. The children looked from one to the other, confusion writ large on their faces. After a moment, the spokesman crouched and flung a stone at him. It fell short, clattering on the restored stone steps of the Column. "Arken up, doylem!" the child shouted.

"Nick 'im fer fittle!" one of the other children shouted. "Geet walla snap, 'e is!"

"Yeah!" another called. "Ye'll hae it dark, y'will!"

He wasn't sure why, but the general tenor of the words were beginning to make sense. And that sense was none too good. Time to do something. So, calmly, he tucked the harmonica away. They watched as he rose, clearly not intimidated by his greater height. He looked from face to face, watching the hunger and hostility in their gazes, and smiled. "Piss off, you little toerags," he snarled.

---

Five minutes later...

That had not gone according to plan. He wasn't sure if he'd said it according to plan, or if he'd even had a plan. But, far from 'pissing off', they were now chasing him through the wreckage of the city. Really, it hadn't been his finest moment.

Right now, things could have been both better and worse. On the up side, he seemed to have really good wind. He'd been running flat out, leaping and ducking obstacles and missles, without running out of breath. Also, his longer legs were letting him outdistance his wiry little pursuers. on the down side, there were a lot of them. And he only had one shoe, and the broken masonry and concrete underfoot was chewing up the bare sole of his foot. Plus, it was only a matter of time before the rough terrain turned or broke his ankle and then they'd be on him like... well, like a bunch of feral, cannibalistic children.

Then he saw the truck. For some reason, he didn't feel surprised. It was as if he'd known it would be there - which was rubbish, right? still, he didn't break stride as he sprinted towards the vehicle. "Shift it!" he shouted. "There's a bleedin' pack of murder bins after me!"

[Allison Castiel]

“Help him?” Danny growled, hunkering down lower behind the burned out bus, his eyes flickering around everywhere, in case any of the feral children were creeping up on them. “Why the blazes would we wanna do that? He's not one of ours. We don't know anything about him! Why should we risk taking on a pack of blood-thirsty Los Niños for a random stranger?”

“Maybe because he's a another human being and he's going to get massacred if we don't?” Allie argued back fiercely. “It's called compassion! Or have you forgotten what that is?”

In response, he grabbed her by the arm and began hauling her back to the lorry. She was so small and light, her boots barely touched the ground. “We're leaving, Castiel. I should never have agreed to come in the first place.”

Desperately, she tried to dig in her heels. “Oh, come on, Danny! That strange lightning... then Nelson being back... then some guy turns up, calmly playing the harmonica in the middle of Trafalgar Square! Even you can't believe that's all a coincidence! Something really weird is happening and it has to do with him! We need to find out who he is!”

Danny hesitated, glancing back uncertainly at the proud, slender column, silhouetted against the orange sunset sky. The pack of Los Niños were hooting and howling at their prey, screaming threats and insults at him in their own incomprehensible patois. For a moment, Allie thought her friend's better nature had won out, and that she'd convinced him to take on the unenviable role of Good Samaritan.

Suddenly, however, a strong, contemptuous voice rang out across the square, audible even at a distance. "Piss off, you little toerags!"

At the base of the monument, the stranger had risen to his feet, and was addressing the pack of ragged children with disdain, apparently unconcerned by the threat they presented.

“Right, that does it!” Danny snapped, renewing his grip on the collar of Allie's jacket. “He's barking bloody mad. Get in the truck, Castiel. I won't tell you again.”

“No, wait...!”

But he'd made up his mind and there was no arguing with him. Roughly, he thrust her into the passenger seat of the truck, before slamming the rusty door. Behind them, the howling increased in volume, and she realised, to her horror, that the pack was swarming towards them. Out the front, the stranger was sprinting like an Olympic athlete, only just managing to keep ahead of his snarling pursuers.

Allie watched the race across the Square, her heart in her mouth, as beside her, Danny turned the ignition over. The engine chugged apathetically for a few moments, then died.

Closer and closer, the pack came. The stranger had seen them now, and had adjusted his course, running right for them.

Rrrrrr.... Rrrrrrr.... Still the engine refused to start. Allie brought the rifle up, aimed it out the glassless window. She didn't want to shoot any of the children, but she would if she had to. Out here in the wilderness, it was often a matter of kill, or be killed. Danny swore harshly – short, sharp, frantic bursts of sound, as he wrestled wildly with the recalcitrant vehicle. “C'mon, you piece of shit, c'mon!”

The running man was close enough now for Allie to make out the details of his appearance. Tall, well-built, ginger hair. Oddly, the expression on his face was more annoyed than afraid, despite the fact that the children were literally snapping at his heels. He was shouting loudly at Allie and Danny, "Shift it! There's a bleedin' pack of murder bins after me!"

His voice was nearly drowned by the roar of the engine, as at that moment, Danny finally got the ignition to catch, crunching the gears into reverse. The tyres squealed, the truck flying backwards at speed, ready to swing around and high-tail it out of there.

But Allie couldn't do it. No matter what Danny said, she couldn't leave the stranger to get torn apart by the pack of small, ravenous savages. As the lorry wheeled around, she flung open her door and held out her hand towards him, balancing precariously on the running board.

“Quick! Jump for it, now!!!!”

[Rob "the Meddler" Goodfellow]

“Quick! Jump for it, now!!!!”

He didn't wait for a second invitation. Instead, leaping over a large chunk of broken masonry, he caught the woman's hand and used it to pull himself forward. With a grunt he cleared the back of the truck and slid across the back, banging heavily into a crate. "Shift it!" he barked. "Little bleedin' tins is after me, they is, an' I reckon they ain't too choosy!"

Given the way the truck's engine roared and started to pull away, his shout of encouragement wasn't needed. Still, he watched with breathless anxiety as the children gave chase, shouting abuse and hurling stones. Most of the missiles went wide, but a few clattered off the back and sides of the truck and one even bounced across the back and landed on his lap. He picked it up, the fragmented concrete gritty in his hand, and tossed it back out. "Sod off, y' Mobys!" he shouted back at them, laughing. In response, an impromptu missile struck him in the face.

By the time it reached him, of course, it wasn't traveling hard enough to do more than scrape and bruise. But still, he pitched backwards into the payload rubbing his head. "Note," he mumbled, "make sure you're out of range first, and then taunt." Then, pulling himself back up to a sitting position, he shifted around so that he could look into the cab. "Right decent of you lot to gimme a lift," he said, offering one grimy hand to the driver. "Saved me Hagen Daas, you did, an' I appreciate it. 'Fraid I've gotta 'nother cheesy ta ask, though..."

He looked around, taking in the devastation. Ruined buildings. Cracked and broken streets with grass and even small trees growing through. Rusting heaps of metal and glass that were probably vehicles, once. "Where the bleedin' hell am I?"

The question hung in the air for a moment, and then he chuckled. "Two, actually. Y'ain't gottan oily, have ya? I'm dyin' fer a laugh... which is odd, on account o' how I don't think I used to."

[Allison Castiel]

The man was heavy, but by bracing herself against the momentum of the truck, Allie managed to yank him aboard, and he catapulted himself into the flat-bed tray at the back.

Breathless, she swung herself back into the passenger seat of the cab, snatching the rifle back into her hands, in case any of the swarming children got too close. Cheated of their prey, they were howling like wolves and hurling any missiles they could find after the retreating lorry. She could hear rocks clanging off the roof, and she looked back anxiously, to make sure the stranger had taken cover.

“Shift it!" he barked. "Little bleedin' tins is after me, they is, an' I reckon they ain't too choosy!"

His accent was strong, and it made it a little difficult for her to understand him. Not quite Cockney, not quite Macunian... a hybrid of both, perhaps? He was dancing around in the back of the truck, pelting rocks back at the pursuing children and trading insults with them. Allie had never seen anyone treat the Los Niños with such disregard before. It was almost as if he considered it some kind of game.

Danny gave her a furious glare. “One of these days, you'll learn to follow orders, Castiel. I'm not wearing this one. He's your stray. You can explain it to Jem.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “I will. Does that make you happy?”

He looked back to the road. The sun had all but disappeared by now, making it very difficult to see where they were going. Nevertheless, switching on the headlights would only make them a target for any human predators lurking in the darkness, so he decided to leave them off until it was absolutely necessary.

“No. None of this bloody well makes me happy!”

Then, pulling himself back up to a sitting position, [the stranger] shifted around so that he could look into the cab. "Right decent of you lot to gimme a lift," he said, offering one grimy hand to the driver. "Saved me Hagen Daas, you did, an' I appreciate it.”

Danny didn't look around, or take his hand. “Wasn't my idea, mate,” he grunted in a surly tone. “You can thank her for it. I'd've just left you there.”

From somewhere, Allie managed to muster up a smile, trying to cover for Danny's rudeness. “I'm glad you're okay.  It isn't wise to take on the Los Niños.  There are too many of them.”

“'Fraid I've gotta 'nother cheesy ta ask, though..." He looked around, taking in the devastation. Ruined buildings. Cracked and broken streets with grass and even small trees growing through. Rusting heaps of metal and glass that were probably vehicles, once. "Where the bleedin' hell am I?"

The question hung in the air for a moment, and then he chuckled. "Two, actually. Y'ain't gottan oily, have ya? I'm dyin' fer a laugh... which is odd, on account o' how I don't think I used to."

Allie hesitated a moment, a bit taken aback. He didn't know where he was? She glanced over at Danny, who was rolling his eyes, as if to say that he'd known all along the man was insane.

“Er... we're in London. Or, what's left of it, anyway. It's 2018. I'm Allison Castiel and this is Danny Beckett.”

His second question merely left her even more stumped. “And I'm sorry... but I have no idea what an 'oily' is, Mr...?”

She left the end of the sentence hanging, waiting for him to tell them his name.

[Rob "the Meddler" Goodfellow]

“Er... we're in London. Or, what's left of it, anyway. It's 2018. I'm Allison Castiel and this is Danny Beckett.”

"Jackson Pollocks," he said dismissively, looking around. "I've seen London, I have. In 2018, an' it's nothing like this." He considered that. "Least, I think I have. Why do I think that...?"

Allison's follow-up question interrupted his train of thought. “And I'm sorry... but I have no idea what an 'oily' is, Mr...?”

"Hmmm? Oh. I'm..." He thought about that for a moment, thoughts racing as he tried to answer that. "I'm..." There was an unaccountable void in his mind, a terrible feeling that he didn't have a name, that somehow he'd lost it or had it taken from him. But that was ridiculous. You couldn't have a name taken away. Could you?

"I'm... uhm..." Meddler dragged itself briefly into his thoughts, but that wasn't hardly a proper name. Was it? Chuck? No... somehow, that didn't fit. Not any more, whatever that meant. Robert? "Rob... Robin," he finally managed, seizing Allison's hand and shaking it vigorously. "Robin... Goodfellow. Yeah, that sounds right." Meddler. "Call me Rob."

Meddler. Why did that word keep coming to mind?

He leaned back against the cab, looking around. "London? What th' ding dong happened? I mean..." he waved a hand around, "where's Westminster? Or Big Ben? Or even the Eye? It's all rubbish, this is. And London never had packs o' feral kids, not in 2018. Or..." He scratched his scalp. "2018? What reckoning?"

He peered around again. Just for a moment, a trick of the light made it appear that ameythist lightning flickered in his pupils. "Something ain't right," he murmured in a soft voice. "Something ain't right with the bleedin' world."

[Allison Castiel]

"I'm... uhm... Rob... Robin," he finally managed, seizing Allison's hand and shaking it vigorously. "Robin... Goodfellow. Yeah, that sounds right... Call me Rob."

Danny Beckett, although you wouldn't know it to look at him now, had once been a high-powered corporate lawyer, based in London's West End, with a head full of contracts, mergers and acquisitions, tax laws, code compliance, financial reporting and a whole host of other Very Important Facts And Figures. He'd never had time for anything as whimsical as fairytales, and so the name given by the stranger meant nothing to him. He merely grunted an acknowledgement and kept driving.

Allison, however, had always had a deep love of anything old, and that included folklore. To her, that name was very familiar indeed. “Robin Goodfellow?” she echoed, turning to look at him quizzically through the shattered back window of the cab, as he shook her hand. “You mean... as in... Puck? The merry wanderer of the night?”

Puck, she knew, according to Elizabethan folklore, was the faerie, goblin, devil or imp who had served the Fairy King Oberon, and had been immortalised in Shakespeare's plays. He was famous for his shape-shifting abilities, and his mischievous nature, often leading travellers astray in the darkness. Either this was an alias the stranger had chosen for reasons of his own, or his parents had possessed a very strange sense of humour.

He leaned back against the cab, looking around. "London? What th' ding dong happened? I mean..." he waved a hand around, "where's Westminster? Or Big Ben? Or even the Eye? It's all rubbish, this is. And London never had packs o' feral kids, not in 2018. Or..."

Danny interrupted with such an incredulous snort that he nearly swerved the truck off the road. “The bloody Apocalypse happened, mate. Where've you been living, under a rock? The wasp-monsters destroyed all those things years ago, along with the rest of the world.”

“The Los Niños are the children who were orphaned by the invasion. They banded together to survive, formed their own society,” Allie found herself explaining, even though all these details were things he should know. “They adapted very quickly to the new world. Unlike the adults, they had less ingrained memories of civilization. In the five years since the Apocalypse, they've devolved into savagery and cannibalism.”

He scratched his scalp. "2018? What reckoning?"

“What reckoning?” Her voice trembled at little at the strangeness of the question.

It was plain from Danny's white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel that he believed she was bringing back to their settlement another useless mouth to feed. A madman, a drain on their failing resources, with no skills to contribute to their fight for survival. However, Allie had once heard another man talk like this. A man who spoke as if he didn't belong on Earth. A man who'd come from the stars. Robin Goodfellow. Shape-shifter. Could it be possible? Surely not. Surely, if by some miracle, this man had been the Doctor, he would have embraced her by now, called her by name, reassured her that everything was going to be all right.

But if not the Doctor.... then who?

“The Gregorian Calendar,” she replied hesitantly. “Is that what you mean?”

He peered around again. Just for a moment, a trick of the light made it appear that ameythist lightning flickered in his pupils. "Something ain't right," he murmured in a soft voice. "Something ain't right with the bleedin' world."

She saw those twin tongues of lightning, and the breath caught in her throat. For a few seconds, her rational mind tried to convince her that what she'd seen was a reflection of more lightning in the sky. But the night sky was perfectly clear, the bright stars sprinkled across the canopy of darkness, the crescent moon sailing serenely above them.

“Who are you, Robin Goodfellow?” she asked, her hand clenching tightly on the back of the worn, threadbare seat, her brown eyes meeting his bravely. “What are you?”

[Rob "the Meddler" Goodfellow]

Wasp-monsters. Cannibal child gangs. The end of the world. All of it nagged at him, but not in the way he'd expected. Not as a sense of loss. Just a feeling that, well... "Something ain't right," he murmured in a soft voice. "Something ain't right with the bleedin' world."

The driver - Danny - gave a disgusted snort at that. But Allison responded by shifting to get a better look at him. “Who are you, Robin Goodfellow?” she asked, her hand clenching tightly on the back of the worn, threadbare seat, her brown eyes meeting his bravely. “What are you?”

No idea. So he grinned. "Thou speak’st aright," he quipped, the words coming easily to his tongue. "I am that merry wanderer of the night..." Then he laughed. "Actually, God's babe here, I got no idea. First thing I remember, I was sittin' on that column back there," he made a gesture back towards Lord Nelson's Column, "wonderin' where the bleedin' gypsy I was. Never even really occurred to me to wonder who I was, not seriously, until you asked."

He settled back and closed his eyes, letting himself concentrate on the vibrations of the engine as the truck wove through the ruined streets. "Rob Goodfellow's jes' a name that sounded familiar. Maybe I was an actor? Bill always said I'd be good at it, after all. But that ain't even the only one in me loaf, jus' th' only one what sounds right. So if th' world's all gone t' English, mebbe it's why I can't remember. Mebbe somethin' bad happened, an' I just don't wanna, you know?"

He opened his eyes again. "Sometimes it's easier to cope, when you pretend nothing's wrong. Right?"

With that he leaned forward and peered over Danny's shoulder. "So, where are we goin'? An' any hope o' me gettin' a pair o' pants when we get there? My current kit's a bit drafty."

[Allison Castiel]

“Thou speak’st aright," he quipped, the words coming easily to his tongue. "I am that merry wanderer of the night..."

Despite all that had happened – despite the fact that they were threading their way through a blasted, apocalyptic wasteland in the darkness, being chased by cannibal children – Allie couldn't help returning his grin. His good humour was somehow infectious. And it had been so long since she'd heard anyone quote Shakespeare. Even though she'd always been fairly rubbish at English at school, she'd always loved the plays. There was a lilt to the words that was like music. And 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' had always been one of her favourites.

Puck had always been one to make things happen. He'd been a catalyst for so much in that play, working behind the scenes, meddling in the lives of the other characters. She couldn't shake the feeling that she'd somehow been meant to meet this Robin Goodfellow.

“Give me your hands, if we be friends,” she murmured softly, thinking back to his firm and enthusiastic handshake. “And Robin shall restore amends.”

Then he laughed. "Actually, God's babe here, I got no idea. First thing I remember, I was sittin' on that column back there," he made a gesture back towards Lord Nelson's Column, "wonderin' where the bleedin' gypsy I was. Never even really occurred to me to wonder who I was, not seriously, until you asked."

“'Course not,” Danny grunted sarcastically. “Why would it?”

"Rob Goodfellow's jes' a name that sounded familiar. Maybe I was an actor? Bill always said I'd be good at it, after all. But that ain't even the only one in me loaf, jus' th' only one what sounds right. So if th' world's all gone t' English, mebbe it's why I can't remember. Mebbe somethin' bad happened, an' I just don't wanna, you know?"

He opened his eyes again. "Sometimes it's easier to cope, when you pretend nothing's wrong. Right?"

Bill? Allison stared at him, trying to puzzle him out. Surely he couldn't mean... no, it must just be a coincidence of name. A friend of his, perhaps. A single fragment of his past still clear in his troubled mind.

Danny took a sharp swerve around what looked in the moonlight to be a burned out military tank, abandoned in the middle of the road. Left over from the final assault, Allison supposed, when all the armies of the world had come forth to do battle against the wasp-monsters. A battle they had lost, despite all the advanced military technologies their leaders had been so proud of.

“Around here, mate, the only thing that kind of thinking will get you is dead,” Danny said flatly. “We've got no time for acting or any of your other nonsense. We need all our energy to survive.”

[The stranger] leaned forward and peered over Danny's shoulder. "So, where are we goin'? An' any hope o' me gettin' a pair o' pants when we get there? My current kit's a bit drafty."

"That will be for Jem to decide.” The man gave Allison a long, grim glare. “And I don't like your chances.”

“Leave it, Danny. I told you, I'll sort it,” she said irritably. She turned back to the newcomer. “Don't worry, Rob, it'll be fine. We're taking you back to our settlement.” She nodded towards a circular brick and concrete structure that was looming just ahead of them. “We live in what used to be the Chiswick Park tube station. We're nearly there now.”

The cantilevered concrete canopy of the west-bound platform, which had once abutted the circular ticket hall, and the square brick tower holding the 'Underground' sign, had been completely destroyed during the fighting. But apart from the shattered panels of clerestory windows, which had since been boarded up, the rest of the structure was in surprisingly good shape. Most of their settlement, however, was located in the tunnels underground, where they lived like a colony of ants, only emerging to scavenge for food and other supplies.

Allison had no sooner spoken when a harsh voice barked out, “HALT!”

Danny slammed on the brakes, and out of the darkness emerged several ragged-looking men, each of them heavily armed, each of them with a gun pointed at the lorry.

“It's okay,” Allison whispered urgently through the back window to Rob. “It's only a security check-point. Just let Danny do the talking.”

[Rob "the Meddler" Goodfellow]

He opened his eyes again. "Sometimes it's easier to cope, when you pretend nothing's wrong. Right?"

Danny swerved the car around a tank (a Challenger 2, his spotty memory provided). “Around here, mate, the only thing that kind of thinking will get you is dead." The man's voice was flat and irritated. “We've got no time for acting or any of your other nonsense. We need all our energy to survive.”

"And yet," Rob replied, "you'll notice I'm still alive. Could be there's somethin' to say for acting and other nonsense." With that he leaned forward and peered over Danny's shoulder. "So, where are we goin'? An' any hope o' me gettin' a pair o' pants when we get there? My current kit's a bit drafty."

"That will be for Jem to decide.” The man gave Allison a long, grim glare. “And I don't like your chances.”

A shrug. "Never liked chances, much," he replied in a bored tone. "Plans an' certainties are much better."

“Leave it, Danny. I told you, I'll sort it,” she said irritably. She turned back to the newcomer. “Don't worry, Rob, it'll be fine. We're taking you back to our settlement.” She nodded towards a circular brick and concrete structure that was looming just ahead of them. “We live in what used to be the Chiswick Park tube station. We're nearly there now.”

"Chiswick Park?" Intrigued, now, he watched the entrance loom towards them. "Why Chiswick Park, though? I'd have chosen Goodge Street meself - it was good enough for Ike, it was 0 or Clapham Common. No, I tell a lie. Clapham North. I'd have chosen Clapham NOrth, on account of..."

Just then, a voice barked out "HALT!" Danny slammed on the brakes, and out of the darkness emerged several ragged-looking men, each of them heavily armed, each of them with a gun pointed at the lorry.

“It's okay,” Allison whispered urgently through the back window to Rob. “It's only a security check-point. Just let Danny do the talking.”

"ON account of how Zero Carbon Food turned it into a hydroponic farm." How did he know that? "But yeah, it's your show."

Guns. He didn't care for guns, as a general rule - although he had vague memories of having carried a gun, once or twice. Brazil, maybe? But it was clear the men were willing to use them. There was a nervous tension in their frames, the kind of twitchy anxiety that roils the guts of men that had been forced to learn to kill. Most of the firearms were shotguns, but one of them had a L85 and a soldier's bearings. He was probably in charge, of the security at least.

"Fer that matter," he mused to himself, "why not Gunnersbury Park? Plow up the golf course an' start planting."

[Allison Castiel]

Allie wanted to explain to Rob that they couldn't start planting because there were no longer any seeds. Or any animals. Not even any minerals or micro-organisms. The wasp-monsters had turned them all to dust.

But there wasn't any time for more chatter. Captain Langley, the man who had barked out the order to stop, stepped forward, his Sig Pro semi-automatic pistol aimed through the driver's door at Danny. He was a big man, with thinning chestnut hair, a craggy, weathered face, and piercing blue eyes.

“Beckett and Castiel, Sir,” Danny spoke up, very aware of the pistol barrel and being careful not to move a muscle. “Returning from scavenging duty.”

“You're late, Beckett. Curfew was an hour ago.”

“Sorry, Sir, we were waylaid by a gang of Los Niños.”

Langley stiffened and there was a hiss of indrawn breath from the other men. “Los Niños? Around here? Have they located our settlement?”

“No Sir.” Danny looked very uncomfortable now. Allison felt very sorry for him, but couldn't do anything to help him. If she spoke up now, it would just make things worse. Langley was a decent enough guy, but he took his job very seriously, and he didn't appreciate interruptions when he was questioning someone. “We were over in Sector Twelve, in Trafalgar Square.”

A frown carved itself into Langley's forehead. “Sector Twelve's off limits to scavenger patrols. What were you doing over there?”

“Yeah, and who's this?”

One of the other men had worked himself around the side of the lorry and had discovered Robin Goodfellow sitting in the back. Allison's heart sank at the sound of his voice. Oh God, it would have to be Zanniga, wouldn't it? If Langley was a good and decent man, Zanniga was the exact opposite, a bully and a sadist. Before the world had ended, he'd been a 'squaddie', a insignificant corporal in the British Army, based in Northern Ireland. While everyone else had been struggling to adapt to their new lot in life after the Apocalypse, it had given Zanniga everything he ever wanted – a chance to indulge his cruelty, to push people around and hurt them, and in some cases, even to kill them. Allie had always done her best to stay right out of his way.

Right now, however, he had his military rifle aimed directly at Robin Goodfellow's head, his piggy little eyes looking the man over like a piece of meat.

“He was being chased by the Los Niños,” Danny replied flatly, unable to disguise his dislike for Zanniga. “The only humane thing was to rescue him.”

No mention of the fact that none of the risky exercise had been his idea and that, actually, he'd counselled against it. Allie shot him a grateful glance. Dour and taciturn he might be, but if you were Danny's friend, he always backed you to the hilt.

“So you just decided to put us all in danger by bringing him here?” Zanniga sneered, his closely-shaven, bullet-shaped head a shadow in the darkness. “You &@&ing idiot, Beckett!  I don't suppose it occurred to you that the whole thing might be a set-up to lead the Los Niños right here?” He poked Rob with the barrel of his gun, pressing it right into the other man's temple. “Yer a spy, ain't ya?  I'd bet my entire food ration on it!”

Allie couldn't keep quiet at that. “Leave him alone!” she shouted. “He's not a spy. You weren't there, Zanniga. You have no idea what you're talking about!”

Zanniga's head turned towards her and she caught the glitter of his eyes in the torchlight. “Castiel. The little doll off the top of the Christmas tree.  I shoulda known you'd be involved in this mess.”

“That's enough!” Captain Langley's voice was firm and authoritative. “We can't afford to stay out in the open. Zanniga, you take charge of the lorry. Beckett, Castiel, bring the stranger and come with me. Jem will need to decide how to handle this.”

With that, he gestured with his gun for the three of them to disembark and to follow him into the old station terminus.

[Rob "the Meddler" Goodfellow]

Rob - and that name still didn't sound quite right, but what did he know? - sat and listened to Danny and Allison explain where they'd been and what they'd been doing, and fought down the urge to butt in. He didn't know these people, after all, and they didn't know him. No reason to get up their collective noses. Yet.

The place was a wreck. Weathered concrete and exposed steel, rusted to the color of blood. But... no plants. That seemed odd. Given how old and destroyed everything was, he'd have expected to see small trees. Or scrubby grass, at least. But there was nothing. And that didn't sit right, somehow.

“Yeah, and who's this?”

The voice was harsh and accented, and belonged to a burly thug of a man who waved the L85 he'd noticed (how did he know what that was?) like it was an extension of his body. A very particular extension, he decided as he watched. So he gave the man a cheeky grin and offered his grime-embedded right hand as the rifle barrel pointed straight between his eyes. "Rob Goodfellow, me old China."

“He was being chased by the Los Niños,” Danny replied flatly, unable to disguise his dislike for Zanniga. “The only humane thing was to rescue him.”

“So you just decided to put us all in danger by bringing him here?” Zanniga sneered, his closely-shaven, bullet-shaped head a shadow in the darkness. “You &@&ing idiot, Beckett! I don't suppose it occurred to you that the whole thing might be a set-up to lead the Los Niños right here?” He poked Rob with the barrel of his gun, pressing it right into the other man's temple. “Yer a spy, ain't ya? I'd bet my entire food ration on it!”

"Got it in one, me old China," Rob sneered, reaching up and pushing the rifle aside with one finger. "I'm clearly three horrible little dustbins in a clever disguise, one standin' up on top o' the other an tryin' ta fool yeh." He raised his voice, just a little, so that everyone else couldn't help but hear him. "It's a good thing yeh got this'n here to watch out fer you, because..."

Sniggers broke out, and Zanniga responded by jabbing the rifle butt hard into Rob's forehead. "You think you're &*#*ing funny, huh?" he snarled, spittle flying. "I'll..."

“Leave him alone!” Allison shouted. “He's not a spy. You weren't there, Zanniga. You have no idea what you're talking about!”

Zanniga's head turned towards her. “Castiel. The little doll off the top of the Christmas tree. I shoulda known you'd be involved in this mess.”

There was murder in the man's voice. Hell, Rob could see it in his stance. And, somehow, he could see it in his history. Quick impressions of murder and madness and violence. The burly man started to move towards Allison, when a voice rang out. “That's enough! We can't afford to stay out in the open. Zanniga, you take charge of the lorry. Beckett, Castiel, bring the stranger and come with me. Jem will need to decide how to handle this.”

With that, he gestured with his gun for the three of them to disembark and to follow him into the old station terminus.

Rob nodded and climbed out, stumbling as his bare right foot struck the uneven concrete. He staggered forward, colliding with Zanniga. The big man snarled and shoved back, using his rifle in both hands to push him back into the truck. "Don't you touch me!" Zanniga growled. "I'll &*#4ing do for you, you touch me again!" Wide-eyed, Rob nodded his understanding. Seemingly satisfied, Zanniga jerked his rifle back and pushed Rob towards the terminus. "That way, you filth!"

"Yep, sure thing," Rob mumbled, rubbing his throat with his free hand as he jammed the other into the remains of a pocket. He chuckled darkly as he fell in with Allison and Danny. "Lovely bloke, ain't he?"

[Allison Castiel]

[Rob] chuckled darkly as he fell in with Allison and Danny. "Lovely bloke, ain't he?"

They ducked low under a crumbling archway to follow Captain Langley into the dim interior of the old station. The vast circular ticketing hall was lit only by a few scanty solar-powered lamps,which sent long shadows crawling up the walls. The floor was littered with all manner of cast-off detritus, and apart from a few well-trodden paths leading to the lower tunnels, everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. It was grim enough to be reminiscent of an old-fashioned horror movie. Dracula's castle, maybe, Allie always thought. The only thing missing were the sheets of ragged cobweb dangling from the roof. Like all the other insect life on Earth, the spiders hadn't survived the Apocalypse. Allie had never for one second thought that she would grieve for the demise of the loathsome little creepy-crawlies. But oddly, she did. As horrible as they had been, the world didn't seem right without them.

Danny grunted in response to Rob's comment. “He's a f#$%ing c&%,” he said flatly, his tone full of quiet venom. Then, his eyes slipped sideways to Allie, a bit embarrassed, and he added gruffly, “Sorry, Castiel.”

She shook her head, not bothered by the swearing. “It's all right, Danny, he really is.” She raised her voice so that Captain Langley, striding ahead, would be able to hear her clearly. “And I'm going to complain to Jem about him hitting Rob, too. He had no right to do that!”

“Leave it,” Danny advised softly. They were descending deeper now, following what used to be an old escalator leading down to the platforms, now motionless and rusted. “You don't want to make an enemy of him, either of you. He's an A-grade prick, but he's a dangerous guy, and it isn't worth it.”

“Someone should stand up to him,” Allie muttered. “Otherwise we'll all end up as savages, like the Los Niños. They used to be children once, with homes and families. Now look at them.”

“It's too late to save the world, Castiel. It's over. All you can do now is to keep your head down and survive the best way you can.”

With that, Danny reached the foot of the escalator and strode ahead, taking care not to glance to the right or the left as he walked. Allie gave Rob a rueful look and followed, emerging on to what had once been the west-bound platform. Now, it was a virtual shanty town. The concrete space was packed full of people, men, women and children, crammed side-by-side in makeshift dwellings, fighting for the smallest amount of space. They all looked miserable, filthy, ragged and malnourished, clinging defensively to their meagre possessions, their eyes suspicious and wary of the passing newcomers. The floor was heaped with bedding and makeshift cooking equipment, as well as any number of other miscellaneous items. Some of the people had even stuck photographs to the walls, in a pathetic attempt to make the place a bit more homely. The air was hot and stuffy and the smell was indescribable, ripe with the distinctive, earthy smell of unwashed human.

Allie was used to it, of course. She'd lived down here ever since the Apocalypse. But she couldn't help wondering what it looked like to a fresh pair of eyes. Like purgatory, she suspected.

“Home, sweet home,” she murmured, with a bleak little shrug in Rob's direction. “C'mon. Jem's quarters are this way.”

And she trudged away in the direction Captain Langley and Danny had taken, leading Robin Goodfellow through the flotsam and jetsam that was all that was left of humanity.