apparently the codes that they should use between September and November. Beneath it was a reporter’s notepad upon which was penned Butterfly Code, the codes they should use in times of satellite scrutiny.
He thumbed several pages of The High Tide Symbols; jot a note in its margins, then rubbed his eyes.
He was dumbfounded. He had never known about any of these. His father had never taught him any of it. He had only been interested in showing him the old-world news reels and broadsheets, and telling him how terrifying the governments of the outside world had become.
His grandfather had been concerned with teaching him how the world was nothing but a wasteland of corpses and plague, and yet his father thought it important he should know how the governments of the world were struggling to reclaim it. He wondered if it had anything to do with Red Sawbone. Had his father been trying to keep Semilion afraid of venturing out into the world and bringing Red down upon him?
He saw a note scrawled on one of the pages and he recognised the script as belonging to his father. He thought of him lying on the floor, blood on his lips, as Red held a length of wood over him. Since that day his father had been frightened to do anything that might bring Red back to Mortehoe. Soon after that he had shown Semilion the first of the newsreels.
‘This is the world, boy,’ he would say as he fastened the reel to the projector. He would douse the lights and a bright whirring image would appear across the cracked wall.
‘It’s all like that out there,’ he would murmur throughout the most gruesome broadcasts.
He recalled the first reel showing a street in New York. The reporter wore a thick bodysuit of some shiny material and a gasmask from which protruded black breathing apparatus, and at the bottom of the picture flashed rapid subtitles.
‘ This scene is the same the world over. Dogs, stray or otherwise, have been scouring the streets for several weeks now with a seemingly insatiable lust for prey, seemingly anything that moves. And, uh, don't worry, I’m protected by New York’s finest, here. They reassure me that their military grade carriers can withstand more than a little puppy power. James Eastern, NYNN .’ He stood behind a police carrier, and suddenly the policeman standing beside him braced himself and picked up his battered Perspex shield. The camera fell sideways and rattled across the street as the cameraman, dressed in the same thick material as the reporter, fell into view – a Doberman scrabbling and gnawing at the unprotected area at the neck of his gasmask. The policeman raised his shield as several wild mutts scrambled over the bonnet and roof of the truck, sliding and sprawling in their frenzied charge. The policeman beat with his electrified baton while another, sitting in the driver’s seat, shot a handgun from his awkward position. A dog's head exploded, though the baton was having no affect other than inflaming the dogs ferocity.
When Semilion had wanted to look away his father had forced him to watch. The reporter had been confident he would be saved by the thick protective layer, and stood motionless whilst three dogs mauled at his arms and legs. The policeman protecting him was dragged down, his throat ripped out and the hand in which he held his baton savaged until his fingers hung in bloody tatters from broken bones.
The reporter tried to retreat back to the safety of the police carrier, his screams manic, but the driver inside drove away in a whirl of screeching fumes and crashed forcibly into a bollard. Dogs piled into the truck as the driver fell out the door and tried to run. They were on him in seconds, pulling, ripping, clawing, their bloody teeth sinking into a cadaver that no longer looked human.
The reel ended, yet there was more for Semilion’s young eyes to see, and all the while his father would remind him that this was what the world was like. ‘There’s nothing out there but this,
He thumbed several pages of The High Tide Symbols; jot a note in its margins, then rubbed his eyes.
He was dumbfounded. He had never known about any of these. His father had never taught him any of it. He had only been interested in showing him the old-world news reels and broadsheets, and telling him how terrifying the governments of the outside world had become.
His grandfather had been concerned with teaching him how the world was nothing but a wasteland of corpses and plague, and yet his father thought it important he should know how the governments of the world were struggling to reclaim it. He wondered if it had anything to do with Red Sawbone. Had his father been trying to keep Semilion afraid of venturing out into the world and bringing Red down upon him?
He saw a note scrawled on one of the pages and he recognised the script as belonging to his father. He thought of him lying on the floor, blood on his lips, as Red held a length of wood over him. Since that day his father had been frightened to do anything that might bring Red back to Mortehoe. Soon after that he had shown Semilion the first of the newsreels.
‘This is the world, boy,’ he would say as he fastened the reel to the projector. He would douse the lights and a bright whirring image would appear across the cracked wall.
‘It’s all like that out there,’ he would murmur throughout the most gruesome broadcasts.
He recalled the first reel showing a street in New York. The reporter wore a thick bodysuit of some shiny material and a gasmask from which protruded black breathing apparatus, and at the bottom of the picture flashed rapid subtitles.
‘ This scene is the same the world over. Dogs, stray or otherwise, have been scouring the streets for several weeks now with a seemingly insatiable lust for prey, seemingly anything that moves. And, uh, don't worry, I’m protected by New York’s finest, here. They reassure me that their military grade carriers can withstand more than a little puppy power. James Eastern, NYNN .’ He stood behind a police carrier, and suddenly the policeman standing beside him braced himself and picked up his battered Perspex shield. The camera fell sideways and rattled across the street as the cameraman, dressed in the same thick material as the reporter, fell into view – a Doberman scrabbling and gnawing at the unprotected area at the neck of his gasmask. The policeman raised his shield as several wild mutts scrambled over the bonnet and roof of the truck, sliding and sprawling in their frenzied charge. The policeman beat with his electrified baton while another, sitting in the driver’s seat, shot a handgun from his awkward position. A dog's head exploded, though the baton was having no affect other than inflaming the dogs ferocity.
When Semilion had wanted to look away his father had forced him to watch. The reporter had been confident he would be saved by the thick protective layer, and stood motionless whilst three dogs mauled at his arms and legs. The policeman protecting him was dragged down, his throat ripped out and the hand in which he held his baton savaged until his fingers hung in bloody tatters from broken bones.
The reporter tried to retreat back to the safety of the police carrier, his screams manic, but the driver inside drove away in a whirl of screeching fumes and crashed forcibly into a bollard. Dogs piled into the truck as the driver fell out the door and tried to run. They were on him in seconds, pulling, ripping, clawing, their bloody teeth sinking into a cadaver that no longer looked human.
The reel ended, yet there was more for Semilion’s young eyes to see, and all the while his father would remind him that this was what the world was like. ‘There’s nothing out there but this,
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