June 21st, the year of the apocalypse

Denise McArthur, anchor for CNN, took a deep breath as the red light came back on, and the teleprompter began to scroll. 

“The global stock exchange remains closed this morning after an emergency meeting of the UN forced an unprecedented freeze on the markets. The city of London’s financial sector accounts for 2.3% of the world’s global economy, and the British Pound Sterling is the world’s fifth largest reserve currency. With the closing of the UK borders and the complete cutoff in communication with the outside world, economists are predicting a minimum of a five per cent shrinkage of the global GDP overnight. This is the largest market drop in one day in economic history. With the current economic downturn, this would plunge the world into the deepest recession ever recorded. The world is still reeling from the economic implications of what’s being called Britain’s World Exit, or Wexit for short.”

June 27th, the year of the apocalypse

Anthony Daniels smoothed his hands across the NBC news desk as he faced the camera. 

“It has been a week since the total isolation of Britain and the appearance of the impenetrable and scientifically advanced dome surrounding the island. With no communication from Britain’s government, the UN has agreed that the British Navy and other foreign state outposts will be absorbed by NATO’s security forces, with Ireland, Spain, and Argentina opposed to the decision, lobbying for political annexation of the British territories by the closest nation-state.”

July 20th, the year of the apocalypse

A month later, the anchor for BBC World News, based in Holland, stared numbly ahead as he waited for the broadcast to start. His hands shook as he clasped them together. 

“In the month since the dome appeared around Britain, top scientists from around the world have examined the structure, but as of yet have not been able to identify what it is made of, or how to reach those inside. I am sorry to all those who have loved ones within the dome that they are unable to contact. We wish that we, at what remains of the BBC, could continue to bring you updates on the crisis, but this will be the network’s last broadcast. All production has been paused with the liquidation of what remains of the British state.”

August 1st, the year of the apocalypse

The Football Pundits regarded one another. The atmosphere in the studio was tense.

“Enough of the economy, what does it mean for football!?” the retired star cried. “Most of the best players in the sport were attached to British clubs. Thoughts and prayers with them, of course.” He paused, the ‘but’ hanging in the air. “But–the Premier League was the largest league in the world. UEFA’s in real trouble here. This could sink European football.”

The man next to him lifted a finger. “Saudi Arabia is talking about expanding their state football program.”

The third pundit smiled. “The MLS mentioned the possibility of increasing the wage cap on their players, or removing it entirely, to attract young European players.”

October 10th, the year of the apocalypse

The video stream stuttered, repeating the preacher’s last words in a horrible scramble until it stabilised.

“You back with us?” the Fox News anchor asked.

“Well, Steve, we were expecting it, you know,” the preacher continued, unaware his video had lagged. “We told ya. We’ve been telling y’all for years the end of the world was coming. We just thought the apocalypse would start in Kansas.”

December 22nd, 07:45, The Winter Solstice, Dawn, Bristol, England

Two years, six months and two days after the apocalypse

Shyla knew what she was doing was wrong. The control panel lay before her, with access to every door and security system the base had. The demons were waiting. All she had to do was open the doors. 

She was shaking. Conditioning had been tough—hours and hours of sweat and pain and glorified torture had led her to this moment. She rubbed at the brand on her arm. The scar showed the world what she was—a coward. Worse, a traitor to her species, a demon sympathiser; a Court Thrall. The drill sergeant had called her all those things and more. But she wasn’t just a Court Thrall anymore; she was a part of what remained of the British Army, a member of the Last Battalion.

“Damn it.” Shyla unclenched her fists and rubbed a hand over her face, letting out a shaky breath. It had to be today, the winter solstice. “You made a deal.” It wasn’t one she could go back on. 

Her fingers closed over the brand on her arm. Her number. Her name when she’d been a Thrall. The brand was indelible, a compact, and an insurance policy in case she went back on her word. 

“What are you doing?” 

Shyla spun to see Corporal Hurst standing in the doorway, knowing suspicion in her expression. 

“I—”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be in here.” 

This wasn’t something she could come back from.

“I’m sorry,” Shyla wanted to cry, but it was far too late for tears. “I… I made a deal… I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to die.” 

Her voice dropped as she spoke the word laden with the demon’s power. The word he’d locked in her throat. 

“Open.” 

Corporal Hurst reached for her gun, but it was already too late. The lights in the room exploded, the screens fizzled and cut to black, and darkness consumed the base. Every lock clicked, every door opened, and the distant, constant hum of the furnace powering the generators died to nothing. 

Hurst opened fire. Shyla barely ducked under a thick metal table, the bullets ricocheting off somewhere in the darkness. 

“You traitor,” Hurst growled. “I’ll kill you!”

An inhuman hiss responded from the darkness. “Sss—soldier, soldier.” 

Shyla crouched lower under the table, her shoulders shaking as a Flame appeared in the dark, stepping into the room as if it had always been there. 

“Little soldier…” It was Nalian, one of the Gralls of the Horde.