By the worn-down soles of his shoes and the mud that ran up his trousers, you could tell that Gareth McCall had been walking for a very long time. His hair looked blonde unless you were close enough to see the dark roots that were coming through, and despite the tremendous summer sun, he kept his anorak zipped up to his chin. If the rucksack that he carried over his right shoulder was heavy, he did not acknowledge it. Instead, he continued to walk along with his hands in his trouser pockets.

He paid no attention to the tranquil moors of Yorkshire. He kept his head lowered and walked along the road—the village that had started as a speck on the horizon was just minutes away. The sign that greeted him read Welcome to Sinclair Way and he guessed correctly that the brown smudges against the white backdrop was long dried blood. He past a burnt-out car—the wheels taken and replaced with a pile of bricks. The fact that the vehicle was no longer burning suggested that the people of Sinclair were now civilised, or perhaps deceased.

Houses now ran to the left and right of him. When he noticed the first net curtain twitch, he guessed that it could have been the breeze. When it began to happen again and again, he knew that people were watching him. When he was still approaching this place, he was certain that somebody had been sitting on top of the telegraph pole—looking out for wandering souls and threats. But the figure had disappeared almost as easily at it had first arrived and Gareth suspected that it may have been a trick of the light on his tired eyes.

Now it was clear that they had been expecting him since early morning.

The doors of the houses began to open and faces scarred by the falling of civilisation stared at him as they slowly approached. Some carried knives, some hammers… but they were all armed. Even the young children held small blades and began to approach this intruder. He briefly looked over his shoulder and saw people coming from the houses behind him, the same potential bloodlust in their eyes. The people were forming a tight circle around him and when there must have been just over a foot remaining in each direction, Gareth stopped his marching and dropped his
rucksack to his feet. A boy of eight or so years attempted to crawl between the legs of the person in front of him as if he were desperate to force his penknife into Gareth's soft flesh.

'I mean no harm,' Gareth said clearly as he pulled a disposable lighter and a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit one and pulled back with satisfaction before stating, 'I'm just passing through.'

'What's in the bag then?' a woman who was possibly twenty years younger than she looked inquired, and before he could answer, a feral child dashed across the circle and returned to the other side with the rucksack. The villagers had all braced themselves to attack the pilgrim as soon as he tried to stop the child, but Gareth did not budge.

'Nothing of value,' he replied as he briefly licked his dry lips, but somebody was already pulling his bag open with unnecessary force and looking in with hungry eyes. 'Just a few personal items.'

He watched as his bag was held upside down and shook so everything that it held fell to the ground. A photograph of a girl with chestnut hair danced to the ground in the breeze, but a few torn pieces of clothing and loose change fell without grace. Gareth tried not to show any emotions as an acne-ridden kid snatched at the photograph and held it with a savage grin. The picture of the girl was probably the closest thing to pornography that he had seen in months.

'This your girlfriend?' the teen asked with a sneer.

Gareth swallowed the lump at the back of his throat and answered, 'She was.'

'Look at this!' an elderly looking gentleman cried out in astonishment as he pointed at the loose change on the ground with his scythe. 'We've got us a rich one!'

The circle burst into laughter and one shouted, 'Didn't you hear? Money's no good!'

'I know,' Gareth began, 'but…'

'What should we do with him?' one of them asked. The circle went quiet, but the people continued to smile.

'What you will do,' a voice filled with authority cried out, 'is step aside and allow me to see him.'

The circle began to fall back and those who had formed it made apologies and promised that they had only been joking… of course they had been going to take him to the authorities. The voice had came from a man in his early thirties who was dressed in army fatigues and had a rifle slung over his shoulder. His eyes were grey and piercing and he stared Gareth in the eyes for what felt like hours before he spoke again.

'I am Officer Hewitt. What is your name?'

'Gareth McCall,' he answered and offered his hand. When Hewitt refused to shake it, he lowered it back to his side.

'And what is your business in Sinclair?'

'I'm just… walking,' Gareth sighed. 'I have nowhere to go. I'm just passing through.'

Hewitt stayed quiet for a full minute before turning to his people and announcing, 'We are not savages. I don't know what you would have done if I had not arrived, but…'

'We weren't going to hurt him!' a lady pleaded. 'We were only…' Her response was cut short as Hewitt slapped her with the back of his hand, hard enough to send her to the ground with a bloodied lip.

The villagers looked at the woman and then back to Hewitt as he said, 'Arrivals are to be detained until an Officer arrives. All arrivals are to be treated with respect.' He noticed the rucksack on the ground and the items that it had carried and ordered, 'I am taking Gareth McCall with me. I want one person—repeat… one person—to return his possessions to his bag and take them to the Lodge.'

Hewitt turned and walked ahead. Gareth stood watching him until an embarrassed looking old lady nudged him and said, 'You're meant to follow him.'

When he caught up with Hewitt he immediately said, 'Thank you. I don't know what would have happened.'

'Do you know who Doctor Emji Nahasapin is?'

'Of course,' Gareth answered. 'He's the one who proved that there's no God.'

'Indeed,' Hewitt answered and Gareth realised that he was leading him to a pub called The White Lodge. The further he got into the town, the more he noticed broken windows and torched vehicles. 'Do you remember how he proved it?'

Gareth thought for a moment before replying, 'It was something to do with radiation and results from other galaxies.'

'Nobody remembers how Nahasapin proved there is no God… they only remember that he did.'

'And then an American who had access to the Nuclear Attack codes got pissed off and fired one at Pakistan,' Gareth recalled as he tossed his cigarette into the gutter.

'The irony being that Nahasapin was from India. As soon as he proved there was no higher power, it was obvious that there would be trouble. The Vatican closed its gates and banned flights to and from all of Italy. An American destroyed Pakistan and the US tried to blame Iran. People just wanted to fight. It was a disaster of Biblical proportions.'

'Last I heard was the Vatican had an army executing people who believed the scientific evidence.'

'I heard that they were burning science books too. Britain… we fell apart too. It started with religious leaders being attacked and people trying to protect them. It's rumoured that some prison wardens released the prisoners because they had sworn on the Bible and now it meant nothing!'

'Yeah,' Gareth said as he lowered his head and they reached the thick double-doors of the White Lodge. He decided that it was in his best interests that Hewitt never knew that he was one of those people who had been released from prison.

Hewitt pulled a key from his belt and turned it in the lock, opening the door. They entered the bar and Gareth heard music for the first time in months. The jukebox was lit up with a CD spinning behind the glass front and two more men in army fatigues sat playing cards. They glanced briefly at the stranger before getting on with their game.

'Help yourself to a drink,' Hewitt said as he locked the door. He turned to the men playing cards and asked, 'Where's Jones?'

'Kitchen,' one of them answered without taking his eyes from his hand.

Gareth eventually found himself in the presence of Jones, a man in his mid-fifties who had gained control of Sinclair and pulled it away from the mindless fighting and destruction that every place of inhabited land had fallen into once news had broken out that we were alive for nothing. The men had referred to him as "Captain" and he had called them "Officers". Sitting across from him with just the two of them in a stale smelling room, Gareth could sense the strong determination of this leader. He had clearly been a high-ranking army official before society crumbled. His orders were not to be questioned.

'Let me tell you something.' Jones smiled as he rolled a cigarette from the thin bundle of tobacco that he had remaining. 'Sinclair turned into Hell. People went to the Reverend for answers and when he couldn't give them the ones that they wanted, they hung him and tore him limb from limb. When news broke out that the Queen had been eaten alive by one of her butlers who suddenly went crazy, we knew that the whole establishment would fall apart. We knew it would happen but we still weren't prepared for it. Former friends charged at one another with weapons. Those who didn't have weapons ran at each other biting… a real gnashing and gnawing of teeth.'

'You seem fine now,' Gareth said softly as Jones lit his cigarette.

'Sure do,' he replied as he exhaled a thin wisp of blue smoke. 'You see, I got four of my trusted friends and we went into the Territorial Army barracks and took all of the guns before anybody else thought of it.'

'Four?' Gareth asked, realising that he had only seen Hewitt and two others.

'Four. Pete Airey got stabbed in the throat and bled to death. God bless his soul. Bastards made a Martyr out of him though.'

'So what happened exactly?'

'It wasn't easy. We went out and we said it'd be a good idea to buckle down again. But plenty of people enjoyed the carnage that had started. Others were scared that if they stopped acting the way they had been, their conscience would return and they'd not know how to go on, because of all the raping and killing that they'd done of late.'

'So what happened?'

'We lined up all of the insurgents and troublemakers that we could find, and took them to the edge of town. With their hands tied behind their backs and a gun pointing at their chests, they found a God to pray to! The public executions showed everybody that in a bad enough situation, everybody still believes in the Almighty.'

'I've come from town to town,' Gareth said, 'and you're not the first to try and regain control. But it only lasts so long. You need to try a new tactic.'

'And maybe I will, in time. Gareth, you can stay here for as long as you want. But if you go out, make sure you go with an Officer.'

'You know the villagers are losing control again, don't you?'

Jones didn't answer the question.

One of the Officers handed Gareth his rucksack as he was retiring to bed in one of the spare rooms of the Lodge. He ran his fingertips down the photograph of his deceased girlfriend as if he were touching her herself. He had loved Mischa with all of his heart, yet he wished that she had never been born—just so she would never have had to suffer the way that she did. When he had been released from prison, the streets were littered with broken glass and blood. Smoke from fires filled the air, sirens cried out but people continued to fight without fear of repercussions. He ran onwards even though his legs became heavy and his lungs were preparing to explode. Nobody seemed to care about him—nobody challenged him. He just ran on as if he were invisible.

When he reached Mischa's house, the door was hanging splintered from the hinges.

He crept up the stairs with the sound of her screams guiding him. He found her in the bedroom, her clothing torn and her face beaten as a group of several men repeatedly raped her. The men never knew that he was there, but his eyes met hers. He saw a flicker of hope in her tear stained eyes before he turned and ran away in the desperation of finding safety.

Gareth wiped the moisture from his eyes and placed the picture on the floor. He stood up wearily and removed his anorak, revealing the torn vest underneath and numerous Swastikas that ran up his arm in ink that was permanently scarred into his skin.

With the rising sun of a new day, Gareth went into the woods with Hewitt. Jones had long ago transferred the sheep from the moors and hidden them amongst the trees to prevent people from neighbouring towns from stealing them if their food supplies became low. The morning air was bitter and crisp. The temperature had hardened the ground around the forest apart from the banks of a deep river that called for Gareth to taste some of her refreshing water as he followed Hewitt onwards.

'So do you do this every morning?' Gareth asked.

'Usually twice a day. Sometimes three. It's important to keep count of the animals.'

'Wait up a moment,' Gareth requested as he turned towards the river. 'I just need a quick drink,' he explained as Hewitt leaned against a tree and waited for him to quench his thirst.

'Of course,' he said as the traveller carefully eased his way down the bank. 'We have walked a fair amount. I'm used to it—but it must be tiring for you.'

'It's not the distance,' Gareth answered as he lowered his hands like a cup into the water. 'It's the way the ground isn't steady. If it was flat, I wouldn't be tired. It's just up and down, up and down.'

He took three handfuls of water to his mouth before standing to turn back. Hewitt saw the look of sudden shock on his face as the mud of the banks moved under his feet and Gareth fell into the icy water, fully submerging into what had recently been the best thing that he had come across in some time!

'Are you okay?' Hewitt asked merrily as he approached the river. The mood soured when Gareth surfaced and brought the body of a dead man with him. The flesh of the deceased was bloated and blue in colour. Both eyes were missing and the lips and surrounding flesh had been removed to reveal a twisted smile.

'Fuck!' Gareth cried as he stumbled up the bank and Hewitt looked at the corpse that skimmed along the edges before drifting away with the current.

'Body must have been at the bottom until you disturbed it,' Hewitt said as he rolled cigarettes for the both of them. 'Must have been killed when everybody was savage.'

'That body could be days old,' Gareth suggested as he pushed his wet hair back from his eyes. 'Whoever it was had taken quite a beating. The water and everything in it wouldn't have helped preserve it.'

'No,' Hewitt said as he handed him a cigarette and took a box of matches from his pocket. 'Nobody would do such a thing. Not now.'

'How do you know whoever that was didn't arrive just a few days before me? You saw the people surrounding me and you heard what they were saying. What would have happened if you hadn't arrived?'

'They were just scaring you,' he snapped as he lit his cigarette. 'Egging each other on.'

'And what if one of them had suggested attacking me? They would have "egged" each other on then, right?'

'No! We gained control! The Middle East no longer exists. There's been no news from America! Rome has separated itself from the world… Everywhere crumbled apart from us! We survived!'

'You lock yourselves in a pub and go on patrols to make sure nobody goes back to mindless violence. Is that really surviving? How long is it going to last?'

'Fuck!' Hewitt screamed and dropped to his knees. In a fraction of a second, he had lost his composure and control and fell forward sobbing. 'We can't control the people! Not for much longer! What the fuck are we going to do?'

'Oppression,' Gareth said simply as he knelt beside Hewitt and tenderly placed his hand on the Officer's shoulder. 'That's what religion was always about. To keep people under control.'

'Well we're fucked, aren't we!' Hewitt laughed as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

'What if I told you that the towns and villages and cities that I've walked from have regained control again with religion?' Gareth asked. 'What if I told you how you could do it yourself? It's worked everywhere else.'

Hewitt wiped a trail of snot from his face and looked at Gareth with bloodshot eyes. 'When the madness began, everybody killed somebody. Tell me the story of your kill.'

'What will that prove?'

'It'll tell me what you've done. Who you were and who you've become.'

'They released me from prison,' Gareth began and his voice was already cracking, his eyes filling with tears. 'I tried to reach my girlfriend to make sure she was okay, but I got there too late. I had to leave her behind.'

'Who did you kill?' he asked again as he handed the traveller the box of matches.

'Mischa was an angel,' he continued as if in a trance as he lit his cigarette. 'I thought there must be a God, because no girl as beautiful as her could have evolved from a chimp!' He chuckled before going silent and lowering his head. 'Mischa died for no reason. Then I saw my sister… a dumb slut who would call you every name under the sun as soon as you were out of hearing distance. It wasn't right that Mischa died and this… bitch had lived! I fucking strangled her to death, and when I realised what had happened, I ran and ran. We need to bring the order back, Hewitt. Life has to be appreciated again!'

'The places that you've been,' Hewitt said as he got to his feet. 'How have they regained control?'

Jones had been right when he had spoke to Gareth that previous night—years before the proof had been finalised, the people knew that there was no God. But that never stopped those facing death or unfortunate circumstances from believing. You will always see somebody who finds it easier to believe in a God than it is to take responsibility for their own actions…

As the sun descended on the small town, the people cheered and sang as Jones was dragged amongst them. They pulled at his clothes and spat at his bloody skin as Hewitt and his men pulled him along. When they finally stopped leading him as if he were but a disobedient animal, he weakly looked up and saw the cross that rested upon the cold ground.

'No!' he screamed with impending realisation. 'No! You can't do this! You can't!'

As the first nail tore through the palm of his hand and embedded itself into the wood behind it, he knew that shock would not kick in and save him with a flood of endorphins. It felt as if lightning bolts were shooting down his arms, and when the cross was made to stand he looked down at the jeering faces who celebrated the freeing of his blood. He knew that he was dying, and the looks upon the cheering faces as the sun set reminded him of a story that he had read some years ago. It even brought a smile to his face and had him say softly:

'Forgive them.'

The words had come out in a near silence, but enough had heard. Soon everybody knew what he had said and those that had celebrated his suffering were now overcome with guilt. The first few began to drop to their knees in prayer and others soon followed until the entire town knelt in the darkness with their heads bowed and their hands clasped.

Gareth McCall walked the dark country roads with his rucksack over his shoulder. The approaching town of Olsen Stock Village was on the horizon and he could see small squares of light made from candles placed behind windows. The moon was high and the light may have been pulling tricks on him, but he was certain that somebody sat atop the distant telegraph pole and watched him approach.