Long before the world ended, a man named John Lennon declared that love is real. A popular cartoon showed two cherubic children above the words Love is...

Many a song was written about love and happiness.

Love, announced a man named Ryan Adams, is Hell.

A man named Anton Alfred Newcombe penned a song called Anenome, and the song captured the very essence of a beautiful heart breaking. Many a track was written about lost loves and sadness. These songs were listened to, memorised by those who had loved and lost.

In the end, love is but a feeling that will destroy you.

* * *

The two men were forced to kneel in the mud, their hands tied behind their backs. Around them grew walls of wheat.

'You stand accused,' said Gareth McCall—his voice permanently scarred into a sound that he was only just recognising as his own, 'of plotting to kill a good man named Combes. You stand accused of wishing to kill every good man who has regained order. How do you plead?'

'Order?' one of the men whimpered. 'There's no order here!'

'And that is your crime,' Gareth said as he reached behind his back and pulled the handgun from under his belt. 'This is my justice.'

Two shots rang out into the night air. Gareth walked back to the manor. It was not his job to bury the dead.

In the two months that Gareth had spent at the manor, there had been plenty of changes. Combes now had a total of thirty men at hand and another twenty searching the country for the lone pipe that supplied all of the oil. A lone pipe long lost but always remembered. A lone pipe that could give much power to those who possessed it. But Gareth did not think of the oil and all that it promised. He thought only of Mischa and wondered why so many strangers had begun to flock towards Combes so suddenly, all offering their services. Combes himself believed that it was all down to Gareth, who now used the name Jeremy. Word about this efficient killer had spread across the country like wildfire.

Gareth stood in the shower—water pouring onto his badly scarred arms. It had not been so long ago that he took sandpaper to the ink that had once decorated them, and walked into a lake as he bled. His wounds had healed all but for the scar tissue that remained. He turned off the taps—wondered what time in the day it was. It was of no real importance; there would still be food laid out for his consumption. The small army of Combes feared him, and rightly so.

'Jeremy,' a voice said as he walked out of the bathroom and across the landing with a towel wrapped around his waist. He turned to see Loz—one of the most recent men to join the order of the manor, and possibly the biggest.

'Loz.'

'I was told that you killed two men last night.'

'Yes, I did. They came to kill Combes and anybody who tried to get in their way.'

'But they didn't?' Loz smiled.

'You're safe here, Loz,' Gareth assured him.

'You talk differently around Combes and Miss Mischa. Have you noticed that?'

'What do you mean?'

'When you're with us, you talk normal. With them, you talk like... Do you remember the superhero comic, Thor? He spoke all thou and thee. That's what you go like.'

'You can't help it.'

'I can,' shrugged Loz. 'I don't forget who I am.'

The remark angered Gareth, had him enquire, 'Is there something you want to say to me?'

'No,' replied Loz as he turned to walk away. 'But if you don't remember why you're here, you might as well leave.'

Mischa, he thought. He remained here to protect her and to be near her. But when had he last seen her? How had he so willingly turned into somebody else?

Music began to play from one of the upper floors—PJ Harvey's Good Fortune. The record on which it can be found was playing when Gareth had first arrived. That may have been the day that he departed, but now he had returned. Now he had his purpose. Mischa was not going to carry the heir of Combes. Mischa would soon be away from this place entirely.

Combes sat alone at a table built for a dozen, eating a chicken that had been killed just hours ago whilst two armed men stood sentry within the room. The sudden knock at the closed door displeased him, so he took his time chewing the most recent mouthful of roasted flesh before calling, 'You may enter.'

Gareth entered the room, fully clothed and his head held high. He stood as a General amongst Privates.

'Ga—' Combes began before immediately correcting himself as he stood, arms held out with pleasure. 'Jeremy! One was beginning to believe that you had turned into a vampire.'

'It is the nights,' Gareth explained as he approached him. 'One must sleep well during the day to be vigilant in the twilight.'

'Of course. And you do know how I appreciate your loyalty? Now—what can I do for you? Was it the smell of chicken? Eat, my friend, eat.'

'I have eaten, thank you. My reason for being here is down to what I can do for Miss Mischa.'

'My Lady? Whatever do you mean?'

'She is always indoors,' Gareth noted. 'Locked away for her safety, yes. But I would like the honour of taking her out for an hour or so.'

'Jeremy, I am afraid that I do not feel that what you request is a good idea.'

'She will be perfectly safe with me. We will not be seen, and if we are, we would not be recognised.'

Combes thought about it and suggested, 'If she would like to go out, I will send a small team of men with you.'

'And then if we are seen, it would signify her importance. That would put her at risk. Two lone riders are of no interest to anybody.'

'Perhaps you are right. You may have an hour, if she so wants to venture out.'

'I thank you, Sir Combes. I shall ask Miss Mischa immediately.'

'I can't see why she would want to.' Combes smiled. 'It's not as if she could see the beautiful scenery. You could just hold flowers under her nose and blow on her a little—tell her she's in a field!'

Gareth swallowed his building anger and smiled politely. 'Of course. I will ask her regardless, Sir Combes.'

'You are a fine executioner, Jeremy. Do not have me regret this.'

* * *

The horse went along at a slow, leisurely pace with Gareth gently holding onto the reins while Mischa kept her hands at his waist. In the cool, warm air he wondered if the sweet smell that he sensed was of flowers blooming in the sun or Mischa's soft skin. Mischa: always the love, always his greatest shame. But he was glad that she had agreed to come out with him for an hour—even if she could not see the pleasant scenery.

'Jeremy,' she said, 'I do feel that this is a most wonderful day.'

'Don't talk like that.'

'Excuse me?' she chuckled.

'As if we're from the 16th century or something. I know that it's easy to pick up from Combes, but when he isn't around there isn't any excuse.'

Mischa was quiet for a moment and then she laughed. 'You're right. I've been around him for so long, I was bound to pick it up.'

'How'd you two meet?'

'A man found me—after I'd lost my eyes,' she began, and her answer drove a knife deep into his very soul because he knew that he was to blame, 'and he looked after me for a while. We left the city behind because he thought that the country would be safer and then we met Combes and he took us in.'

'What happened to the other man?'

'He left,' she said simply. 'I don't know where to or why. Are we near a stream? I can hear water.'

He cocked his head to the side and on spotting water running behind tall grass he answered, 'We are, Miss Mischa.'

'Could you take me to it?' she asked excitedly. 'Could I put my hands in it?'

'Sure,' he said, and he slowly climbed down from the horse and helped Mischa to the ground before guiding her to the water, her hand in his. 'Just here,' he said on reaching it. 'Kneel down and you just have to reach out.'

He kept a hand on her shoulder to keep her steady as she kneeled and slowly reached out, her hand slowly sinking into the steady stream. 'It's so cold,' she laughed. 'It feels so clean.'

Gareth smiled and looked to the left. A decomposing body lay on the bank, a swollen and pale face visible beneath the water. He was surprised that they had not been able to smell it.

'Let's go,' he sighed. 'We'd best get back to the manor.'

'Already?' she asked. 'Have we been gone for that long?'

'Afraid so. We'd better be making tracks.'

* * *

As they approached the manor, one of Combes's armed guards ran out to them and Gareth wondered if they had been out longer than he had promised. He thought that they had returned with plenty of time to spare.

'Jeremy,' the man panted, 'Combes needs to see you, right away!' He glanced momentarily before adding, 'Nothing serious,' although his eyes revealed that this was a lie. 'I'll guide the horse back and you can see the big man. He's in the attic room.'

'Okay,' Gareth said as he climbed down from the horse. 'I'll see you soon, Miss Mischa.'

'Goodbye, Jeremy.'

He ran back to the manor as quickly as he could. The faces of those that he passed told him that something bad had happened.

* * *

'One of those small planes used for spraying the crops,' Combes hissed to Gareth as they stood in the highest room in the manor—armed guards waiting outside, a dead man covered in oil lying on a bed with once white sheets now black and wet, 'swooped down from the sky and he was pushed out.'

'Do you recognise him?'

'Yes. Mark Gable. He was in one of the teams that were sent out looking for the oil pipe. He said that he was the only survivor of that team.'

'He was alive?'

'For about an hour. He said that his team were captured and killed by fucking Italians! Italians! Says that they've located the pipe and have warships coming over! The fucking Vatican's army is over to spread the word of God and I'm one of the people who they're going to make an example of! They're coming for me, Gareth... tonight!'

'Is that all he said?'

'No. He was able to tell me how heavily armed they bloody are!'

Gareth rubbed his eyes as the information began to sink in. 'We've got a lot of people here... not just your men, but the people who have set up camp because they thought they'd be safe on the grounds. How many guns have we got access to?'

'A couple of shotguns and a few handguns, but not enough to arm anybody else. We could hand out a few pitchforks and the likes.'

'I think we'd better leave,' Gareth sighed. 'Tell the recent arrivals to go and then we make our own way out of here... find a place where we won't be recognised, use different names.'

'No!' Combes cried out with rage. 'We are not leaving here! I got order and control here and I'm not having some modern-day Roman Army thinking it can come and take it all away from me!'

'Think about Miss Mischa...'

'They won't let her live,' Combes said. 'If they suspect she's pregnant, they'll kill her to end the bloodline.'

'And that's all the more reason to go!'

'We stay, Gareth! We stay and you think of a way to get us out of this mess or I'll have your bollocks in a jar before the invaders come close to reaching you!'

Gareth closed his eyes and as he scratched the back of his head he asked, 'Can you get me a cigarette?'

* * *

The most recent arrivals had left long before the sun had set and Combes found himself with a much smaller army than he had grown accustomed to. Less than a quarter of them had firearms; those that did had shotguns and rifles with very little ammunition or handguns that were poorly maintained. The rest were forced to make do with knives of various sizes or clubs of wood. They gathered around the main dining table, Mischa told to remain in her bedroom with a guard to prevent her from creeping out onto the landing and listening to the conversation taking place downstairs.

'As you will all know, the oil pipe was located and not by us. We always knew that whoever reached it first would be able to take majority control of this island.'

'Fuck the oil pipe!' a nervous looking man called out. 'What about this army who is coming to get us?'

'Me,' Combes corrected him. 'They're coming for me. There is a chance that the rest of you will live if I'm handed over. But Jeremy here has a plan—don't you, Jeremy?'

'Yes,' Gareth sighed. 'When they arrive, we tell them that Miss Mischa died during childbirth and was cremated along with the stillborn child a few weeks ago. Combes is devastated with grief and sees no point in living, so he hands himself over. Ideally, the conquering army leave with Combes and let the rest of us go on in peace. That's all we've ever wanted, isn't it? Let them maintain order and we stay out of their way. We live by their rules, but at least nobody is fighting anymore.'

'I don't believe it,' another man gasped. 'Combes... you're giving yourself over to them?'

'No,' replied Combes. 'Everything that you had for so long was because of the sacrifices that I made. Don't I get a chance of sitting back without having to worry?' he asked. 'So what I need... what we need... is a volunteer. Somebody who is willing to step forward and say that they are me. Who,' he asked, 'is brave enough to be the last of the great martyrs?'

Silence fell across the room and Combes tried to keep the anger building within him a secret. Finally, Loz raised his hand and stood to say, 'You took me in when I had nowhere to go, Combes. I will gladly take your place and hope that the rest of you will be able to carry on.'

'Are you sure?' Gareth asked. 'You've only been here a couple of weeks.'

'Of course he is sure!' a large man shouted. 'Last in, first out,' he cried, and many of those at the gathering cheered in approval.

'Loz,' said Combes, 'thank you. You're a good man.'

'If what I do brings peace and order,' Loz shrugged, 'it will be more than worth it. It is all that we want, right?'

* * *

A cold wind blew down across the manor, and plans were put into action. Those who had an accuracy above average when it came down to shooting hid themselves in the neighbouring fields—the vegetation hiding them but still giving them a clear view of the roads and the place that they had come to call home. If the invading army did not choose to go in peace once they had captured the man whom they believed to be Combes, then a good number of them would be knocked to the hard ground with a bullet in their back.

By night time, everybody was beginning to feel uneasy—Gareth more than anybody else. If this did not work, Mischa would be killed. He swore to himself that if this night ended without bloodshed and she was truly happy here, he would leave her be and never look back. Yet as he sat in the study on the first floor with Combes and Loz as his only companions, he did wonder if he could really do that.

There were men hiding out in the fields, a few more standing in plain sight before the house and three guarding Mischa with their lives. Mayhap it would be better if, come sunrise, he ordered them to shoot him and put him out of his misery?

'You look nervous, Jeremy,' said Loz. 'Shouldn't it be me who's worried?' he asked with a smile.

'Have you had second thoughts?'

'No. It's just that...'

'Shh,' Gareth hissed as he spotted the headlights coming towards the perimeter of the house—two blinding lights attached to the bottom of a blue van, another vehicle following closely behind. Both vehicles came to a halt and Gareth said, 'It looks like they're here,' as he took his handgun from the nearby table and eased it securely behind his waistline. He knew that it was close to being useless; it was only reliable when you were up close and your target was still... but it was all he had.

'How many?' Combes asked. He remained in his seat at the far side of the room, but he managed to ask his question exactly as the doors of the vehicles swung open and the men inside began to pile out, each man possessing a machinegun and holding it in a way that made it easy to see he knew how to use it.

'Hang on,' Gareth said as he checked the number that he had counted two more times before confirming. 'Twelve carrying machineguns and one without.'

'Thirteen?' smirked Combes. 'We've got more than that here! If we hadn't sent the others away, we could have slaughtered them!'

'And then more would have came,' said Gareth. 'I'm willing to bet money that their guns don't jam.'

'Combes,' the unarmed newcomer called out, his identity hidden behind the darkness. 'We have come for Combes.'

'I suppose,' Loz said with a shrug, 'that was my call.'

'Me too,' chuckled Gareth as he reached a hand out to help Loz up from his chair as Combes remained sitting and out of sight. Gareth could only wonder what he had told Mischa about this night. With Loz leading the way, Gareth considered leaving this place without even saying goodbye to her if this plan worked well.

'Good luck, boys,' said Combes.

They walked out of the home and into the open air outside; Combes's loyal men standing with pitiful looking guns pointed at the men who stood at the road with modern weapons to hand. Gareth thought of the others who were hidden all around them and managed a weak smile.

'So,' the unarmed man said as Gareth and Loz drew close enough to see his scarred face, 'is he the one?'

Gareth opened his mouth to answer and was surprised to hear Loz reply, 'Yes. Kill them.'

The unarmed man raised his hands and cried, 'Fire!' and his men did as they were told immediately. The men of Combes who stood at the front of the house were cut down in moments, the windows of the manor exploded alongside them and Gareth screamed out in desperation as he pulled the gun from his waistline and thought of Mischa...

'Don't,' Loz said simply as he forced his elbow into Gareth's nose before taking his gun from him and finally driving his knee into his genitals to send the executioner to the ground. Loz sighed and in turning to the unarmed man, said, 'Into the house. Nobody can remain here.'

'Clean-up!' the unarmed man cried, and his soldiers charged towards the home at once. With a surge of adrenaline telling him that he could still save Mischa from this terrible fate, Gareth went to get to his feet but was kicked back down by Loz.

With his foot pressed down upon Gareth's neck, Loz turned to the unarmed man and said, 'I don't want anybody to lay a finger on him until I say so.'

The world began to fade away and Gareth thought that he may have been dying until he realised that Loz was cutting off his oxygen supply and rendering him unconscious. He saw a small number of men emerging from the fields with machetes in their hands and realised what had happened to the men that he and Combes had sent in there to hide with their guns.

Finally, he saw the manor go up in flames and as he tried to cry out Mischa's name, the darkness took over everything.

* * *

Gareth awoke in the back of a van. He was lying on the floor with a group of men carrying machineguns sat around him—each one of them staring at him with hatred in their eyes. As he heard the sound of the engine hard at work, he was reminded of how he had first been taken to the manor.

And then he remembered Mischa and he wept openly. He thought of Loz travelling up in front of them and hoped that the opportunity would arise where he could kill the man who had betrayed them all.

After many hours of driving, the vehicles stopped and Gareth was dragged out into the street. They were in a city now—but the air was still and silent. No fires burned and no rioters went about causing mayhem. The idea crossed Gareth's mind that the citizens may have successfully wiped themselves out up until he looked back and saw the armed guards that stood at street corners and up upon rooftops.

Order had returned.

He was pulled into a small, two-storey book store called Silver Thoughts and led up the stairs. He offered little resistance as they tied him to a chair in the staff room and walked out, locking the door as they went. He looked out of the window and watched as the black sky turned pink and then red; and the colour made him think of the flames that would have devoured his lost love.

Loz was his first visitor, and he closed the door after him to give the two men some privacy.

'You must hate me,' Loz said with a sigh.

'I'm going to fucking annihilate you,' Gareth said without a trace of emotion in his battered voice.

'Will you not let me explain?'

'Say what you want but it won't change a thing.'

'You should know that I am but a General. I have only followed orders but, if I were in charge, things would have still occurred the way that they have. We have brought order to the whole of Europe. Britain is set to follow. People may say that it is a Draconian State, but surely any State is better than none? Can you not appreciate how the cities are now at peace? The cities, Gareth! Even you must have thought that would be impossible... Why else would you leave them behind and visit the small towns of the country?'

'How do you know my name?'

'We know a lot about you. At first, you did so well... regaining order in the name of God! But then you chose to walk away from the true path and yet in doing so, you make yourself a martyr to a noble cause. You will be executed before the people, and before your death—you will ask God for forgiveness. Your words will encourage those that see you to believe and trust in God almighty.'

'Do you think I care about your order? You killed the one person I ever loved!'

'The Bible says that you must love God before anybody else.'

'There is no God!' Gareth snapped. 'It was proven!'

'The Bible says that you must not ask for proof and it says that your faith will be tested. The people are beginning to understand this and I hope that you will too. Your reward will be eternal life in the Kingdom.'

Gareth shook his head and chuckled, 'I won't help you. Your world can burn along with everybody in it. It's what you deserve.'

'One way or another, people will see the power of redemption during your execution.'

Loz casually walked out of the room and left the door open for three men to enter, each one of them wearing leather gloves.

* * *

They tortured him for forty days and forty nights, never hitting the nose or around the eyes. Gareth was to have clear eyes on the day of his death. For the first ten days he remained silent and only opened his mouth when the need presented itself to spit a little blood onto the floor. For the ten days that followed he laughed out loud and challenged his enemies to do better. Another ten days went by and he mocked the notion of God and all those who worshipped Him. For the final ten days he thought of Mischa and sobbed gently, because he knew that he would never see her again.

On the morning of his execution, he was led onto the rooftop with his hands tied behind his back and a noose around his neck. The morning sun temporarily blinded him and when he was able to open his eyes once more, he realised that the other end of the rope had been tied to a wooden post and he was standing near the very edge of the rooftop. The three guards who had tortured him the most stood behind him, a small boy of eight or so years stood beside him and Loz stood at the very edge—looking down at the crowd of people that filled the street and cheered.

'This is Gareth McCall,' cried Loz, 'and he did do the Lord's work until he strayed from the path and committed many sins!' The crowd jeered and booed until Loz held up his hands and the people turned silent. 'We execute him now in the name of the Father, and hope that His love will free Gareth from his mortal crimes.'

The crowd cheered and applauded as the small child stepped before Gareth and with eyes filled with fear and doubt, pulled a hunting knife from his pocket. Gareth tried to make sense of what was occurring and gasped in pain as the child plunged the blade into Gareth's stomach. He staggered forward and would have tumbled off the rooftop—accidentally bringing the child with him—if the guards had not grabbed his shoulders and had him simply drop to his knees. The two were at eye level now and the child—close to tears—dragged the blade up until it hit the bones of his chest. With nowhere else for the blade to go, the boy pulled the knife free and stepped back with wide, startled eyes.

'Boy,' Gareth coughed with his head held low. He noticed the blood all around him—blood from his open wound and blood from his mouth, and hissed, 'I forgive you.'

'He has told the boy that he forgives him!' Loz cried, and the people in the street cheered wildly. 'Is that not proof of redemption and a kind God? Is that not proof that we can all be forgiven, no matter of what we may have done?'

The people continued to cheer and cry with delight as Gareth was pulled up onto his feet. The world was spinning but it would not bother him for much longer. With his stomach cut open and a noose around his neck, Gareth was pushed from the rooftop.