How Dark The World: A Shadows May Fall Story

December 1917

His stomach rolled again. He reached for the pail at his bedside and held it under his chin, body going tense as his gullet contracted, but nothing came up. He waited another moment and the nausea subsided.

He set the pail back down. After taking a sip of stale water, he settled back against the lumpy pillows and gazed across the aisle. In the bed opposite his, an old man snored with his mouth open. Robbie shook his head and closed his eyes, but he knew he wouldn't go back to sleep.

Maybe I'm slept out.

He'd regained consciousness two days ago. He'd been out since that morning when he'd hung up the pay telephone, tucked up his collar against the chill coming off the harbour, then been blown off his feet and into the freezing water.

His leg was broken in several places and he'd suffered an infection after the bone broke through the skin. The doctor told him he was lucky to be alive. The nurses told him they didn't think he'd pull through his fever. He'd had nothing but water and broth to eat, all of which had been emptied into the pail. His head hadn't stopped throbbing and his bad ear itched so badly he thought he might go mad.

But at least his physical agonies had taken his mind off of the wondering. The infection churning his insides wasn't half as agonizing as the twisting of his guts when he thought about the news that awaited him when his mother arrived.

He'd heard the people talking about the thing that had blown him into the water. An accident, some called it. Sabotage, others insisted. No matter. There were still scores dead, more with nowhere to live, and he was in a hospital sixty miles from where he had been when it happened.

He knew his mother and brother were safe – the catasrophe hadn't reached their affluent neighbourhood in the south like it had the working class neighbourhood in the north – and they would arrive that day.

But there were others. Two others. A girl who had worked for his mother and her younger brother, both of whom lived in a terrible flat not far from where Robbie had been blown away.

He didn't know what happened to them.

If he found the story of the city being blown apart to be incredulous, just looking around him would have set him straight. Men, women and children were covered in bandages. Some were missing limbs. Some had half their faces covered and he couldn't bring himself to imagine what disfigurement lied beneath. He almost felt lucky in comparison. He might have, if he hadn't felt so miserable.

They weren't here. He'd asked the nurse who came in the evening. Morag hadn't found anyone with the last name of Gaston or found anyone who fit the descriptions that Robbie had given him. They could be anywhere.

He didn't think his mother would know when she arrived. How could she know? Dorothy hadn't worked in the house in weeks. His only hope was that Helena or June would have heard something from someone.

His nausea came back with a fury. He barely had a chance to get the pail back on his lap before his broth came back up. His eyes watered and his throats burned as he retched.

Someone placed a cool hand on the back of his neck .When he had finished and was able to take a breath, the same person wiped the tears from his eyes.

Morag spoke softly. "You'll never get that cup of coffee you've been moaning about if you can't keep it down."

She was a sweet woman, motherly in spite of being barely older than his twenty-one years, but her attempt to be funny grated on his skin like barbed wire.

"You say that like it's my fault. You think I want to empty my guts out all day?"

"Don't snarl at me. Is that it?" He sipped the water from the glass she held in front of his mouth, then shoved the pail away and sighed. She left the pail on the floor, and with a smile she perched on the edge of the bed. "Your mother has arrived. I told her I'd make sure you were awake."