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Chaos Effect
By RaistlinofMetallica
It was the winter of 1998, a cold and merciless winter. A skeletally thin teenager stood in the ruins of a building, looking down over the eerily quiet rubble and blackened shells of once proud townhouses and skyscrapers. Snow fell from the darkened sky, covering the destroyed city in serene whiteness. The teenager sighed, steam from his breath trailing away from his gaunt face. He knew this once-proud city before it fell, in what seemed like ages long past.
These countless miles of ruins used to be London, a little less than two years before. He could remember the great bustling city and the noise, but it was now just a painful memory. Countless battles had been fought here, exploding out of control and staining the ground with blood. They had learned quickly, the muggles, of the destructive capabilities of magic and of the world that had been hidden from them for so long. But, even that wouldn’t save them in the end.
London was only the first to fall as the darkness spread like a malignant tumour through the UK and into Europe. It had spread astonishingly fast, faster than anyone had ever dreamed possible. Millions of people died in less than five months. Millions more would die in the year to come. Those that fought back died quickly; they were the lucky ones. People who couldn’t fight starved to death or succumbed to the elements. If they survived that, there were the patrols, dark creatures and sickness to contend with.
He had survived through that violent first year, when many he loved did not. The memories of their faces still haunted him with their smiles and laughter, but their deaths had inured him to horror and sorrow. There had come a time when he had ceased to bury the dead. He had not the strength to spare for the dead. The dead had found freedom from this nightmare, while the living still suffered on.
Survivors of the war were scattered to the four winds. Some hid out in the ruins, always moving from one spot to the next. He hadn’t seen any of their tell-tale fires or coded marks anywhere. It was safe to assume that the survivors living above ground had finally been wiped out by the patrols. Abandoned buildings above ground were not to be trusted; they were usually trapped. Patrols would descend on the trapped houses and slaughter everyone inside.
Those that remained hid in the sewers and the tunnels of the Underground, where it was harder to find them in the miles of twisting labyrinth under the ruins. He had survived there, under the city. He had avoided people for the longest time, avoiding looking at the coded marks that other survivors had left behind. But, some time ago, food had become scarce and he was desperate. It was of little comfort to be around people again. There was no more pity or sympathy, only the suffering and broken spirits. When he had finally left them three days ago, they were starving to death under the city and the patrols were getting bolder, coming deeper into the tunnels than ever before.
The teenager pulled his tattered and stained cloak tighter around him, shivering from the piercing wind. It was his fault that this had happened. This living nightmare was because he was weak and bitter at those he thought had betrayed him. He let the darkness in and it destroyed everything he held dear. The war merely finished what was left, dragging the whole world into hell.
He reached into a tear in his oversized sleeves, withdrawing a battered wand. It seemed like an eternity since he had used it – since he had used his magic. Nearly two years... It felt like twenty. Days and nights were lost in the Underground and time seemed to slip by in strange ways while he skulked under the ruins.
It was a dream or a memory, possibly both, that brought him back to the surface: a locked door, deep in the earth, with a weapon behind it. There were golden statues, shattered across the floor, and a lift that went down and down into the earth. The weapon was still there, the building lost under the rubble. If he could find it, then maybe he could find redemption before he died.
He would have to hurry, though. He didn’t have much time. His left arm itched, prickling, and he suppressed a shudder of revulsion. The teenager raised the wand and, voice cracking from lack of use, he whispered, “Point me.”
The wand’s tip glowed with light, dimming as he moved it to his left and brightening as he moved it back. A ghost of a smile traced his lips. Slowly, the gaunt teenager started forward, into the heart of the decimated city, his sunken green eyes staring ahead dully.
It had been a long time since he’d seen the Ministry building.
Nearly two years, in fact.
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