The Downfall

Chapter One

How much more can the world take?

This is the question I’ve been asking myself recently, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.

How many more mass shootings, how many more bombings, how many more attacks in the name of one god or another are we going to have to suffer before we can’t suffer anymore?

What will be the last straw? How can we defend ourselves when there’s nothing left to defend? And how can we fight back if we don’t want to fight in the first place?

If more and more people are completely hell-bent on killing each other, when will it end? And how will it end?

I’d like to think that there’s still some humanity left in the world; still some hope for the future – at least some people who want to save this planet rather than destroy it – but with each day that goes by, that kind of idealism seems less and less likely.

How much more can the world take?

Honestly, I’m not sure anymore.

But I don’t think we’ve got long before we find out.

‘Scarlett!’

I looked up from my tablet screen to see everyone – and I mean everyone – staring at me. My friend Seth was nudging me in the ribs as he whispered my name. I had no idea how long he’d been trying to get my attention for.

‘Are you quite finished?’ asked Mrs Spear – our intimidating head teacher – from the front of the school hall, glaring at me as though I’d just killed her first born.

‘Yep,’ I replied, lowering my tablet onto my lap. I could feel my face burning, and I lowered my eyes as well so I wouldn’t have to look at any of my fellow sixth form students.

I’d been caught either writing or checking my blog in school before, but not in quite such a public fashion – not when there were several hundred other people in the room.

It was our weekly assembly that took place in the big, bland school hall, something I pretty much dreaded every single week. The seemingly endless rows of black plastic chairs that greeted us when we arrived always made me die a little inside, especially as we usually had guest speakers that lectured us on what our future should or shouldn’t be.

Of course, I’d take a boring lecture over social humiliation any day of the week.

‘Right,’ said Mrs Spear, clapping her hands together to focus everyone’s attention back on her, ‘I’d like to use this assembly to make an announcement, and it’s a rather exciting one as it involves us doing something together as a school.’

The groans that greeted this statement were loud and immediate.

‘Several London schools in the area are taking part in a writing competition, and Warvale is going to be no exception. For the contest you need to write a short story, and the winners will be published in an anthology.’

There was some interest at these words, more than I thought there would be – the students at Warvale Road High School weren’t generally the most enthusiastic bunch of people in the world – and to be honest, my interest had been piqued as well.

After all, writing was kind of my thing.

‘The topic for the short story competition is ‘dystopian worlds’,’ continued Mrs Spear. ‘There is a 5,000 word limit but apart from that, there are no rules. This is a great genre to write fantasy for, but you can also say a lot about how communities work and about the world in general. So get thinking. The deadline is a month from today.’

There was mumbling from the crowd then, the low murmur of quiet enthusiasm.

Mrs Spear walked over to the window, gazing out at the view of a sunny autumn day in London. ‘In literary terms, the word ‘dystopia’ should conjure up many wonderfully atmospheric impressions,’ she continued. ‘Dark, dingy streets where terror lurks in the shadows, people reduced to slaves or merely numbers as they go about their daily toil, communities being ruled by evil dictators, power and corruption the only things on their minds. It’s bleak and it’s frightening and it makes a great setting for a novel. Just think of the worst thing you could possibly imagine happening to us as a country, as a community, and then try and imagine how that would affect the population.’

For once the room was silent, as if people actually were imagining it, instead of thinking about their usual traumas – who was wearing the coolest clothes, who was going out with who, who was doing what on various social networks. You know, the usual high school crap.

Mrs Spear cleared her throat. ‘Now, as we have no guest speaker today, I suggest we use the time to get going on some of those ideas.’ She paused while a few more groans met her ears. ‘The competition isn’t compulsory, but it will look good on your university applications.’ She glanced at the clock above the big stage. ‘You have twenty minutes, so make the most of it. You’ll be allowed to use your phones and other devices to make notes or start on research.’

I reached down to turn my tablet screen back on, but before I could even start making notes for my short story, Mrs Spear’s voice floated over to me.

‘Scarlett, can I have a word please?’ she shouted over the sound of the students talking.

‘Of course,’ I replied sweetly, as Seth tried – and failed – to cover up his laughter.

What can I say about Seth Winchester? He was quite the sight to behold: physically intimidating due to his obsession with all things athletic, he also had an open, honest face, his sparkling blue eyes and cheeky grin making him the object of affection for most female students at Warvale. His hair was naturally blond, though he often dyed it different colours – whatever he felt like at the time. Right now it was dark brown, pretty mundane compared to what he’d had in the past.

His entourage – a big group of guys who followed him around – were currently sitting on his other side, with Seth in the middle, acting as a sort of buffer between us.

I usually avoided all that macho BS as much as possible, but I’d lived next door to Seth since I was two years old, and once you’d seen someone in superhero pyjamas, you tended to view them in a different light to everyone else.

Of course, things had changed a little since then; now he was wearing navy blue jeans, bright red trainers, and a checked red and blue shirt. It made a change from his usual gym gear.

‘Looks like Steele’s in trouble,’ said his friend John, a huge bulk of a guy who thought he was God’s gift to… well, everyone, really. ‘I bet it’s to do with her stupid website again.’

I ignored him, though Seth hit his friend on the arm for his comment.

I was used to the abuse I got at school for pouring my heart and soul out on the internet – you don’t run a blog called ‘Truth Not Terror’ and not become a target – but sometimes I wished they’d just let it go. I mean, I’d been doing it for years; surely they could find something else to obsess about?

I made my way out of my row, trying not to step on people’s feet as I went, then walked up to the head teacher who was now standing at the side of the stage. I could feel hundreds of sets of eyes on me, watching my every move. Great.

I groaned as I looked at the piece of paper Mrs Spear was holding up – my own words staring back at me, accusing me just like she was. Like she always did.

‘How much more can the world take? I see you’ve been writing again.’ Mrs Spear’s gaze flickered briefly to my wrist, to the purple wristband I always wore.

I nodded, trying to keep my cool with everyone watching me. At least most of them wouldn’t be able to hear what we were saying. ‘It’s what I do.’

She stared at me for a moment, obviously trying to think which hand to play this time. I honestly didn’t know why she still bothered; we’d gone through all of her strategies by this point, and none of them ever worked – at least, not how she hoped they would. ‘Can you tell me why you think this,’ she brandished the printed blog post at me, ‘is appropriate content for high school students?’

‘Well,’ I said, leaning forward and taking the printout from her, ‘I think it’s entirely appropriate for high school students, and primary school students, and whoever else you can think of. This kind of thing needs to be addressed by everyone.’

Mrs Spear rolled her eyes; she’d heard all this before. ‘Scarlett, you’re really shooting yourself in the foot. The more time you spend on this… ‘blog’ of yours, the more your school work is suffering. With some of your marks, you’ll be lucky if any university ends up accepting you.’

Ah, the speech. I wondered how long it would take Mrs Spear to start planning my future for me. ‘Actually, I’m not going to university.’

She jerked her head back as if she’d been slapped. ‘But you want to be a journalist, don’t you? You’ll need a degree.’

I shrugged. ‘Not really; I’d rather be out there, getting experience and reporting on things as they happen.’

‘For whom?’ she responded, her steely grey eyes staring at me, unblinking. ‘If you’ve got no qualifications, no one’s going to take you on.’

‘I don’t need anyone to take me on; I’ll work for myself.’

Mrs Spear laughed, her tight grey curls bouncing up and down on her head as it shook. ‘And what if that doesn’t work out?’

‘Look,’ I said, before she could protest any further. ‘I know a university education is a good thing to have, but it’s not the only path I can take. And I’ll make it work out, don’t worry.’

In all honesty, I was so used to Mrs Spear giving me a good talking to that I kind of enjoyed the whole thing now – in a weird way, I knew it’d be one of the main things I’d miss once I’d left school. The way I saw it, if you put yourself out there for something you feel passionate about, and if someone’s telling you – on a daily basis, no less – that you’re doing something wrong, it usually means you’re doing something right.

Mrs Spear’s lack of approval was surprisingly encouraging.

‘I suppose you won’t be taking part in the story competition either.’

‘Actually, I will. I think it’s a great idea.’

She waited for me to carry on, as if expecting me to make some sarcastic comment. ‘Really?’

I nodded, catching a brief glimpse of myself in the mirror on the wall behind Mrs Spear, at my long brown hair, my pale face that always made me look washed out, and my favourite feature: my green eyes. I usually tried to emphasise these by adding some green accessories into the mix, not that I was really that fashion conscious; today I was wearing skinny black jeans, a white V-neck t-shirt, and a long navy blue cardigan. My pumps were a bright forest green, matching the colour of my canvas shoulder bag.

It was my facial expression that had caught my eye, however: I actually looked enthusiastic about something to do with school – well, I supposed there was a first time for everything.

‘Really. I think I might get started on it this weekend.’

Mrs Spear smiled at me – a real, genuine smile that made her look several years younger. ‘That’s great to hear. I look forward to reading your entry.’

I smiled back, amazed at her encouragement.

As it turned out, I didn’t get to work on my story that weekend. In fact, I didn’t get to work on anything that weekend. Nor did anyone else.

No, it was not my destiny to become the most famous journalist in the UK, nor was it my fate to win a Nobel Peace Prize or a Pulitzer. Mainly because before long, none of those things would matter. None of those things would exist.

When I look back, that day began so normally, so typically, so completely conventionally…

But that was the start of everything, at least for me.

That was the day of The Broadcast.

That’s what they called it, both in London and all over the UK – The Broadcast. Sounds harmless enough, doesn’t it? At the time, that’s what I thought too.

Now I know different.

That was the day Adriana took over the airwaves.

That was the day she made me sit up and take notice.

That was the day everything changed.

I was about to reply to Mrs Spear when the image of a woman flickered to life on the huge projector screen set up on the stage.

She was staring at the camera, her eyes wide as she gazed out of the lens.

A shiver ran up my spine.

The hall fell silent.

The Broadcast was beginning.

Chapter Two

In that moment, I knew something big was about to happen.

A weird hush had descended over the room, like the calm before the storm – no one spoke, no one whispered, no one coughed or shifted their weight in their chair. There was no rustling of papers, no scratching of pens against notebooks, nothing.

By the looks of it, the woman on the screen was in her late teens or early twenties, her long black hair falling down around her pale, slightly pointed face while her deep brown eyes – almost black – stared into the camera. It was quite the combination.

The picture was pretty monochrome; she was wearing all black and standing in front of a plain white wall. The shot was unsteady, the lens too close to her face, and from the slanted angle, it was obvious she was holding the camera herself.

Another shiver ran up my spine – it was the sensation I always got whenever I heard breaking news about a shooting or a bombing, or whenever I started delving into the details of a story online, digging down into the depths of the horror. That shiver, that tiny tingle up my back, told me something important was happening, something that I wanted to pay attention to. As if I could do anything else.

Before Mrs Spear could even make it halfway over to the projector box, the woman on the screen started talking, her tone urgent.

‘Citizens of the UK, I need your help.’

Her voice was unlike anything I’d ever heard before. She was speaking English, and she sounded relatively posh, but there was just something about it, like a twang when she pronounced certain letters, or a weird intonation that slipped in here and there… it was as though she were trying to hide her true accent, but in her excitement – or her fear, I wasn’t sure which – it came through anyway.

‘The world is in danger. I repeat: the world is in danger!’

A few laughs escaped from some of the students then, and I had to admit, I smiled at those words: ‘the world is in danger’? I mean, of course the world was in danger… but we already knew that.

Every time a building got bombed or a student got stabbed in the street, we were one step closer to the human race losing its humanity… but there was something about this girl, something about the desperation in her voice that made me want to hear what she had to say.

I vaguely noticed Seth out the corner of my eye, his face turned towards me from the third row of chairs, but I couldn’t have returned his stare even if I wanted to; I was completely transfixed by the woman on the screen.

‘If you think you can help me, I need to meet with you straight away,’ she continued.

Even not taking into account the words she was saying, there was just something about her – her appearance, the clothes she wore, the way she constantly looked beyond the camera, as if picturing someone, or thinking of something in her past. The very way she moved was almost exotic; I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

‘The human race is heading for a fall – a big one – and I’m the only person who can stop it. You have to believe me.’

‘Is this some kind of media studies project?’ asked one of the girls in the front row.

Mrs Spear shrugged, and she was just about to turn the projector off when it happened.

At first I thought it was just my tablet, still in my hand from when I’d been checking my latest blog post, but then I realised that everyone else in the room was doing the same thing – picking up phones, looking down at tablets… basically staring in amazement at anything they owned with a screen.

The girl was everywhere, her face peering out from devices all around me, creating a sea of identical images across the entire length of the hall.

Even a couple of old TVs that had been pushed to the back of the room had come to life, projecting the girl’s image out of their dusty screens.

I gawped at the scene in front of me – it was so surreal, so unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Just what the hell was going on?

My focus on the mysterious woman was momentarily interrupted by Mrs Spear opening the door and running off down the corridor.

Once she was gone, Seth stood up and made his way over to me. ‘How is she doing this?’

‘I have no idea,’ I replied automatically, looking back at the girl on the screen. If people hadn’t been taking her seriously before, they sure were now. This wasn’t just some prank being pulled on the teachers of Warvale Road High School; this was big. Potentially huge.

Everyone in the room started talking at the same time, the silent spell temporarily broken, but when the woman carried on speaking, that eerie hush fell over the hall once more.

‘I can’t tell you how I know,’ she continued, her voice now amplified thanks to the sheer amount of devices it was coming from, ‘not yet, but if I don’t get help right now, you’ll be shockingly aware of the consequences, very, very soon. Peace will prevail, but only if we let it.’

I stopped breathing for a second, her words ringing in my ears. Had she just said peace will prevail? And before that… shockingly aware… it could have been nothing, but… I took a deep breath, waiting for her to carry on.

‘You need to listen to me,’ she continued. ‘We need to look at the truth of the matter, and leave the terror behind.’

There it was again! I glanced at Seth, seeing if he was having any reaction to the very specific words the girl was using, but he was just staring at the screen on the stage, his mouth open slightly. Knowing Seth, he was probably focusing more on the girl’s pretty face than on what she was saying.

‘The world is ours to save, and we can save it together.’

OK, that was it – I definitely wasn’t reading too much into this. The words she was using… well, they had a particular meaning. Probably not to most of the people in this room, but they did to me. I held my breath as my mind raced.

‘If you want to help, if you want to save the soil of this planet, then I need you to get in touch.’

Mrs Spear came back in then, walking straight over to the projector and pressing the power button. Of course, that did no good at all when everyone could just look at their phones.

The head teacher sighed in exasperation as she glanced over at me, her next words causing a full-on shudder to run through my body. ‘It’s not just in here.’

With my tablet still in my hand, I grabbed Seth’s arm as I pushed open the door, heading into the corridor. Our sixth form assembly was technically period three in the school day, and everyone in the lower years were in their usual classes. We were currently in the history department, and as I half-ran, half-walked down the hallway, I glanced in at the classrooms as I went.

What I saw wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it was by no means normal.

Every room I passed – every open door and every pane of glass I looked through – showed the same scene: students sitting in rows, their eyes glued to the phones and tablets in their hands. Several wall-mounted TVs had turned on, projectors coming to life even if there were no screens set up – because of this, the woman’s face was being thrown onto walls and whiteboards, her features distorted by the objects obstructing the projected image.

Teachers were appearing in the doorways, running into each other’s classrooms to see if it was all over the school. Apparently, it was.

But was it just happening in the school? Going by the woman’s ‘Citizens of the UK’ opening line, I guessed not.

‘I can’t do this on my own,’ continued the woman on the screen, the amplified sound of her voice making me jump – not only was it coming from my tablet and the open classrooms around me, it was also being played over the school’s PA system, the girl’s message floating out of the speakers above us and filling up the corridor in creepy surround sound. ‘So I’m asking you to stand with me, shoulder to shoulder. We all have a choice to make, and it’s time to make yours.’

I started running down the corridor then, opening the nearest external doors and bursting out into one of the school’s car parks.

With Seth trailing behind me, I ran out of the school gates and down the nearest street.

There was an office block to my left, and through the ground floor windows I could see maybe a dozen computer screens. The girl’s face was on all of them. The office workers had all backed away from their machines, as if she were actually in the computers herself. As if she were going to reach right out through the monitors and grab them by the throat.

I continued past the office block, coming to a stop outside several of the local businesses, where there was a newsagents, a corner shop, and an electrical store. It was the latter I was staring at, and when Seth caught up with me, he gasped.

There were probably ten or so TVs of various makes and models in the window, and the mysterious woman was staring out at us from every single one of them, her ethereal face multiplied tenfold.

She continued her speech, the sound coming from my tablet and Seth’s smartphone. ‘There are two ways this could end: two outcomes for the Earth.’

I glanced at Seth then, my stomach churning as if it knew what was coming next.

‘But either way, people are going to die.’ She paused, staring at the camera, letting the words linger in the air. ‘So join me, and together we’ll stop The Downfall.’

I had no idea how she was going to follow up that particularly terrifying statement, but we didn’t get to find out; right at that second, the woman on the screen – on all of the screens – disappeared.

The picture didn’t go blank straight away; instead it turned to static, at least for a few seconds before vanishing completely.

I looked at Seth again, his expression of confusion no doubt mirroring mine.

‘What was that?’ he asked, breathless.

I shook my head. I didn’t know.

But I did know one thing: whatever it was, I had to get to the bottom of it.

And as crazy as it sounded, I had a pretty good idea how to start.

Chapter Three

I walked back to school with Seth, and as soon as we got into the history corridor, we were swallowed up by a crowd of students. The bell had obviously gone early due to the morning’s strange events.

I glanced around at the chaotic hallway. People were running over to each other, talking in hushed tones, phoning people up or tapping madly at their smartphone screens. Some were just happy to have left class early, but most students – and teachers – had something else on their minds.

I caught snatches of conversation as people rushed past.

‘That chick was all over the school.’

‘My mate says it happened at his college, too.’

‘Forget the schools. She’s all over London! My dad’s just texted me from his office in Mayfair.’

‘My sister’s workplace in Leeds was taken over too. It’s everywhere.’

‘It’s already on the news – they’re calling it The Broadcast.’

I gestured at Seth to follow me, and walking back towards the main hall, we slipped through a doorway leading to the drama studio.

It was empty, and I closed the door behind us as Seth walked over to the balcony.

The main drama room was on the floor below, though from this level people could look down on rehearsing students from the balconies that spread the length of the room. It was a bit of a strange set up, but I’d spent my fair share of time here, and I was used to it.

This was mainly thanks to the mural.

The mural had been the bane of my life when I’d been roped in to help create it in Year 11. The massive picture covered three entire walls of this level, and we’d attempted to fit in every major event in British history for the past few hundred years, using a single image to represent each occasion.

I walked over to part of it now, glancing briefly at the ship I’d painted to represent