The Last Murder at the end of the World

NINETEEN

Emory wakes groaning at 7 a.m., the dawn bell ringing in her thoughts. She’s stiff from lying on concrete all night, and has the watery morning sun in her eyes. Rain is swirling in the humid air, and her yellow dress is sopping wet. Her mouth has a peculiar taste in it, which isn’t surprising considering she didn’t brush her teeth last night.

Black smoke drifts past her body.

Jerking her head towards the gate, she sees huge plumes billowing up from a building behind the barracks.

‘Fire!’ she yells, scrambling to her feet. ‘Fire!’

An unchecked fire is one of the most dangerous things that can befall the village, and they’re taught to get it under control as swiftly as possible.

Sprinting through the gate, she skids to a surprised halt in the exercise yard. The ground is scuffed up, the flower beds trampled, the heads of plants kicked off their stems. Matis’s last statue is on its side, the head rolling loose, the hand holding the apple smashed down to individual fingers.

‘What happened?’ she asks, surveying the damage in shock. It wasn’t like this when she went to sleep.

She takes a step towards the statue, only for a belch of black smoke to drift by, reminding her of what’s important.

She flies around the rear of the barracks, finding one of the warehouses burning, a crown of jagged flames poking through the roof. It’s obviously been ablaze for a few hours, but nobody was awake to tackle it. They’re lucky it started raining. The storm has kept the flames from spreading.

Approaching the door, she finds a solitary sandal in the dirt.

‘Is somebody in there?’ she asks, trying to peer through the smoke.

‘Yes,’ I reply.

Shutters are clattering open across the barracks as people wake up.

‘Fire!’ Emory calls up to them through cupped hands. ‘Somebody get the hose.’

Returning her attention to the warehouse, she tears a strip of linen from her dress and presses it to her mouth, before wading inside.

‘Can anybody hear me?’ she yells, stepping carefully through the debris, as thick, oily smoke drifts past her in tatters.

Rain is pouring through a hole in the ceiling, making a paste out of the ash on the floor, which now coats her feet. The warehouse is groaning ominously, the beams cracking overheard, threatening to collapse.

‘On your left,’ I instruct her. ‘Go carefully.’

A piece of white material catches her eye. Even stained and dirty, it seems impossibly bright amid the shades of black. She goes closer, seeing the hem of a long dress and a pair of dirty legs poking out from beneath a pile of rubble.

‘No!’ she screams, recognising the dress from last night. ‘No, no.’

She drags away bits of the collapsed ceiling, until she uncovers Niema lying in a lifeless heap, a ceiling beam crushing most of her skull.