The Ruins By Scott Smith Novels & Stories

Even the sand beneath my feet was scorching hot, already turned black and glassy from the intense heat. All I could see in every direction were dead bodies—hundreds of them, thousands maybe. Some were burned beyond recognition, others still had their faces frozen in expressions of terror and agony. The smell of burning flesh was overwhelming, making my stomach heave with nausea. Ashes rained from the sky like snow, covering everything in a gray blanket of death and destruction. I stumbled forward, trying to find some way out of this nightmare, some path through the carnage. My feet splashed through something wet and when I looked down, I realized I was walking through pools of blood.

Ruins worshipped forgotten gods. Ruins decayed on consecrated ground. Ruins would become my nexus. I collapsed knee-first into the dust, eyes white-hot. Sweat traced a jagged line down my cheekbones and sizzled when it fell against the sigil painted in ash at my feet. Twice now I’d painted my flesh with blood sacrifices. Thrice, when my ragged breaths whispered curses against broken teeth like steam curling off a heated blade. That was what it cost you to tether yourself to something.

“They’ve destroyed it.” In an instant Matthew is beside me, also shifted back, his tantalizing scent of vanilla wafting in the breeze. It’s... comforting, but it hardly makes up for my horror at the scene in front of us. The carefully excavated ruins have been torn to shreds, and all that’s left is a giant hole in the ground filled with mud. Matthew wisely says nothing, but he places his hand on the small of my back. Warmth spreads from where his fingers brush gently against my bare skin. For a moment, I close my eyes and bask in the feeling, allowing the comfort to soften the blow of the loss.

Some girls waved and flashed their tits at me to try to get my attention but I didn't look their way twice. I was in no fucking mood tonight and the last thing I wanted was some crazy fucking bimbo clinging to me. The night breeze hit my skin as I stepped out from the building, pulling out a cigarette stick and lighting it, taking a large drag from it and puffing out the smoke. It seemed to calm me down a bit. “Still game for the race with the Locardis tomorrow night?” Rowan asked. “Midnight?” I asked, verifying the time while taking another drag of smoke.

The clinic always felt too quiet in the mornings, as if silence seeped down from the ceiling tiles and settled over everything. Lola Smith could hear the hum of the lights, the slow whir of the automatic doors, even the soft scrape of her own shoes across the polished floor. She didn’t mind the quiet, not really. But on certain days, when her thoughts were too loud, she wished for more noise—anything to drown out the feeling that her life was idling in neutral.

He caught that moan in his mouth and devoured it, punishing me for giving it to him. I wanted more. I wanted everything. I wanted him inside me on the cold rooftop where the world could hear, could see, could know exactly what ruin looked like. And he gave me enough to believe he might: a rough thrust of his hips, a hot scrape of his teeth. Enough to taste what ruin might feel like. The city’s noise went thin around us, like the world had taken off its earrings for a fight and was waiting to see if we would start it. And then—

She felt like a ghost drifting through the ruins of her own life. Some mornings, she made tea for two before remembering she was alone. Some nights, she left the hallway light on. And when twilight bruised the sky, she listened—not for footsteps or traffic. For a knock that hadn’t come. Not yet. She turned toward the door—and he was there. No sound. No knock. Just a figure caught in the spill of hallway light, like a dream stepping over the threshold. She should’ve screamed. She didn’t. He stood there, pale eyes catching the hallway light. Like a dream she’d tried to forget.

“Careful!” Her hand suddenly shoves me lower. “There are cameras there. Get down.” I flatten myself instantly. Ahead sits a maintenance garage filled with damaged vehicles, scrap metal, old machinery, and maintenance materials protected beneath a large zinc-roofed shelter. The place looks abandoned. Which usually means it's hiding something. I crawl after her on my stomach, keeping my gun steady and my eyes moving. “In here,” she grunts. She disappears beneath a broken truck with four flat tires. I'm about to ask why she's crawling under a vehicle when I notice she's moving a massive metal barrier covering what looks like the mouth of a well.

He was stuck in a nightmare. He found himself standing in the center of a towering fire, the heat peeling the skin from his bones just as it had in the safehouse. But this time, he wasn’t alone. Emerged from the smoke was the ghost of his uncle, Luca, his familiar face twisted in a mocking grin. “You think you saved her, little nephew?” Luca’s cold, crooked voice boomed over the roar of the fire. “No, you didn't. You’ve only built them a bigger pyre. Everything you touch, everyone you love... You will lose them. They will all burn!”

The sign still hung crooked, its letters faded and chipped but unmistakable. Matthew stepped off first. I followed slowly, the weight in my chest pressing harder with every step. The second my feet touched the ground, I felt it—the cold, the pressure, the eyes I couldn’t see but knew were watching. We walked through the ruins. Shattered windows. Collapsed roofs. Scorched doorframes. The air smelled like damp ash and rotting wood. Every corner felt haunted. “You okay?” Matthew asked. “Nope,” I said, popping the p. “Not even close.”