Maniac Menagerie: the scariest thriller you'll ever read
Date: 2022-12-07 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: Jurassic Park meets Silence of the Lambs... Simon ‘Sim’ Barker runs a successful True Crime YouTube channel with his girlfriend Chrissy. One day, after completing their latest episode, they are approached by Billionaire Tech Industrialist Evers Nealy, who asks them to endorse his latest – Top Secret – project. Reluctantly agreeing, they are taken to a private island in the English Channel and given a private tour of a brand new facility nicknamed ‘The Keep.’ What they find inside is beyond their wildest dreams. And worst nightmares. More than thirty sadistic serial killers all gathered in one
Rights: Copyright 2018 Iain Rob Wright. All rights reserved.

Earth’s Final Breaths

Final Winter, Animal Kingdom, & the Peeling

Iain Rob Wright

Salad Publishing Group

Contents

FREE BOOKS

Animal Kingdom

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

The Final Winter

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

Special Edition Bonus Content

Chance Of Snow

Cold Shoulder

When Hell Freezes Over

News And Weather

Cloud Cover

Jack

Winter Before Last

The Peeling

The Peeling

THE PEELING (2018)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

The Peeling Omnibus

THE PEELING OF SAMUEL LLOYD COLLINS

THE PEELING: BOOK 1

THE PEELING: BOOK 2

THE PEELING: BOOK 3

THE PEELING: BOOK 4

THE PEELING: BOOK 5

SHORT STORY COLLECTION

1. EHLLF

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

2. VLOG LIFE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

3. HEIRLOOMS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

4. THE EAGLE & THE WOLF

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

5. CHICKEN BOY

Author’s Note: Chicken Boy

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

7. THE WITNESS

8. THE BOB SAGA

PART 1: M IS FOR MATTY-BOB

-2-

-3-

THE REAL LIFE MATTY-BOB

PART 2: REVENGE OF THE BOB

Plea From the Author

Plea from the author

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More books by Iain Rob Wright

About the Author

Don't miss out on your FREE Iain Rob Wright horror starter pack. Five free bestselling horror novels sent straight to your inbox. No strings attached.

For more information just visit this page:

www.iainrobwright.com/free-starter-pack/

In addition, you can also save money by purchasing my books in extra-value box sets. Grab yours now.

Boxset 1

Sam, ASBO, The Final Winter, The Housemates, Sea Sick

Boxset 2

Ravage, Savage, Animal Kingdom, The Picture Frame, 2389, The Peeling Omnibus, Slasher, Soft Target, A-Z of Horror Vol 1

Animal Kingdom

An Apocalyptic Horror Novel

Dedicated to my wife
for all that she goes through.

Chapter 1

Joe tugged his jacket closed as the chilled autumn air sought out the unguarded crevices of his body. The gloomy sky drizzled down to earth and coated everything in dullness, to a point where it seemed that colour no longer existed in the world. But the dreary weather was not enough to dampen Joe’s spirits. Today was a good day. He was spending the day with his son.

Exuberant Danny lingered nearby, peering through the bars of the zoo’s famous Silverback exhibit. Disappointingly, the leafy enclosure was currently vacant of its illustrious inhabitant. Joe knew that his son would be upset by the animal’s absence but, as was the case with eight-year old boys, his attention span soon reset itself and it wasn’t long before he was running off in a new direction entirely.

“Dad! That man over there is being attacked by a snake.”

Joe stared down at his son, amazed, as always, that his watery-blue eyes could look so much like his own. “Don’t be silly, Danny,” he said, breath turning to steam in the cold air. “That’s just the zoo’s snake handler. He’s about to do a show.”

“I want to go see!” Danny tugged at his father’s arm, deceptively strong for such a slender child wearing a Bret ‘The Hitman’ Hart t-shirt and Velcro trainers. “Hurry, before we miss anything.”

Joe allowed himself to be dragged toward a three-sided lean-to shelter erected besides the zoo’s moss-covered WORLD OF VENOM building. It had been designed to look as if it were made of bamboo reeds, but the façade was unconvincing.

A uniformed man entered the structure from a rear access and began positioning plastic crates on a wooden table. Each of the containers held various species of reptiles, insects, and spiders. The man’s tanned-leather skin matched his khaki clothing and was weathered, brown and loose. He had a boa constrictor the length of a scaffold pole wrapped around his bony shoulders, but seemed completely at ease with it.

Danny jumped up and down excitedly. “Sweet! I bet that thing could squish him to death real easy!”

“Don’t be so morbid, Danny!”

“Sorry, Dad. I just think it’s cool.”

“It’s okay. I just want you to think nice things. Come on, let’s get closer.” Joe took Danny’s hand – half the size of his own – and pushed through the gathering crowd of adults and their children. It wasn’t difficult to get to the front of a group when you were as freakishly tall as Joe. People tended to get out of his way long before he had to ask them.

“Look at the size of that thing, Dad!” At the front of the growing audience – now close to a dozen people – Danny started jumping up and down again, his wispy blond hair flopping around in the musty breeze. Childish glee oozed off him in ribbons.

The snake handler turned his attention to them both. Joe cringed, waiting to get a reprimand for his son’s nuisance behaviour. Fortunately, however, the uniformed man just smiled at them instead.

“Hey there, young un,” the handler said to Danny. “You like snakes?”

“Yeah, I do. Jake the Snake used to have one called Damien.”

The snake handler wrinkled his forehead, readjusted the slithering reptile in his arms, and then said, “Isn’t that a wrestler from years back?”

Danny nodded enthusiastically. “My dad has lots of old tapes and I watch ’em every weekend when I stay over. My bestest favourite is The Undertaker. Check it out!” He spun around to show the man the design on his backpack.

“Undertaker rip?” said the handler, confused.

Danny spun back around and giggled. “No, silly! Rest in peace. It’s what The Undertaker says to everyone right before he beats them up with his tombstone.” He rolled his eyes back into his head so that only the whites were showing, and then repeated the words in his best attempt at a gravelly, adult voice. “Rest…In…Peeeaaaace.”

The crowd laughed, so did the snake handler, struggling with his giant brown reptile between each chuckle. He pulled the animal down, away from his face, and then smiled over at Joe. “Fine little lad you have there, sir.”

“Thanks. He’s a handful though. Just like your snake.”

“You can say that again! She’s really unsettled today. Won’t keep still for a minute, bless her.”

“Sounds just like my son.”

Danny bopped him on the arm. “Hey! I’m nothing like a snake. I’m gunna tell Mum on you.”

The crowd laughed again, this time giving a collective “Oooooooo!”

Joe knew his son was just showing off, but it was nice to see him come out of his shell. After the last few years, with the divorce and everything else, it was good to see that Danny had any confidence left at all.

Joe rustled Danny’s hair, messing it up more than it already was. “We best be moving on, little dude,” he said, “or we won’t fit everything in. Say goodbye to the nice man and his snake.”

Danny twisted his face into a frown, but did as he was told. His shoulders slumped as he spoke. “See ya, Mister. Thanks for letting…Hey Mister…are you okay?”

Joe was alerted by the tone of his son’s voice before he actually saw anything was wrong. Even when he saw the problem, he wasn’t sure whether or not to be concerned.

The snake handler was struggling with the huge reptile around his shoulders. The animal had coiled its way around his ribcage and was tightening.

“Step away, Danny.” Joe moved in front of his son, keeping him back from the wooden barrier that separated the crowd from the lean-to shelter. The slithering reptile had begun to form a noose around the keeper’s neck and was slowly constricting with each convulsion of its muscular body. The crowd started to murmur, the first gentle stages of panic taking hold.

No one knows if this is just part of the act.

But it can’t be. This man is really struggling.

The snake handler began to choke and threw out his arms in desperation. Joe jumped the barrier and dashed toward the shelter just as the struggling man dropped to his knees on the plank-wood flooring. The fragile walls of the bamboo shelter shook beneath the impact.

“Stay calm,” Joe shouted in a voice that was the exact opposite. He reached out to grab the snake, but recoiled immediately.

Whoa! Do I really wanna put my hands on this thing? Can it bite me?

Joe allowed himself to hesitate only a moment longer then gave himself a mental shove. Come on! There’s a man’s life at stake. Do something!

He snatched at the thick reptile, fighting away revulsion as his fingers made contact with the rough, quivering flesh that was cold to the touch. Several seconds of frantic tugging made no difference at all. The snake’s grip became even tighter. The desperate handler turned a deep purple as the pressure pushed his eyeballs a half-inch out of their sockets, making them bulge. Joe felt a wave of sickness crash through his insides.

I can’t do anything. I can’t get this thing off of him. I never watched a man die before...

Joe turned to the anxious crowd and checked that his son was nearby. “Don’t just stand there!” he shouted at the group of startled strangers. “Somebody go get help! Danny, you stay where you are and close your eyes, okay? Everything is fine.” He could tell by his son’s fearful expression that he didn’t believe that things were ‘fine’.

Moving back around, Joe saw that blood trickled from both of the snake handler’s nostrils. The slithering beast, clamped around the man’s throat, glared at Joe, malevolent eyes boring into his flesh. Its forked-tongue flicked back and forth, tasting the air.

People in the crowd started backing away as if they somehow thought the snake handler’s peril was infectious. Some of them scattered immediately, crying out for help as they fled in all directions, while others backed away in silence, unable to take their eyes off the harrowing scene in front of them. Joe didn’t retreat with either group. He was rooted to the spot.

Locked in a death stare with a nine-foot Boa Constrictor.

“Dad!”

The sound of Danny’s voice allowed Joe to regain control of his senses, like being dragged out of water by an unseen hand. He spun around to find that his son had approached the wooden barrier and was about to crouch underneath it.

Joe flung out an arm and shouted. “Stay there, Danny! I’ll handle th-”

From the corner of his eye, Joe sensed movement. He turned just in time to see the snake strike. The adrenaline in his body pumped his reactions just enough that he was able to lunge aside, a mere split-second before the murderous reptile sliced its fangs through the air. The snake handler flopped face down on the boards. The boa constrictor slithered out from beneath his body. The man was dead.

Holy cow!

“Dad, I’m scared!”

Joe sprang into action, exiting the shelter and vaulting the barrier. He scooped Danny up in his arms and chased after the fleeing crowd. Help still had not arrived, but it hardly mattered anymore now that the snake handler was dead.

Someone still needs to grab that snake though.

And then destroy the effing thing!

Joe kept his lanky strides fast, yet steady, not wanting to trip and fall on the unforgiving pavement whilst carrying his son. Blood pounded in his eardrums. All around him people scattered in different directions. It was strange to see just how many people were panicking. There had been perhaps a dozen men and women at the snake handler’s hut – along with a handful of children – but as Joe looked around now, he saw at least five times that many.

Why are so many people in a hurry to get their asses out of here? What else is happening?

Joe slowed down and eventually stopped, turning to look back where he’d come from. The huge boa constrictor was still inside the lean-to shelter, slithering over the lifeless body of its ex-handler. It was reason enough to panic, for sure, but Joe was certain that only those nearby would have noticed the tragedy. Something else must have been scaring people.

Another animal attack? Impossible.

Joe glanced around the zoo, examining the multiple animal enclosures and exhibit buildings that lined the grass-edged pathways. A racket was coming from each of them, as if the caged specimens inside were agitated by something. The hoots and howls from the monkey compounds were particularly loud and Joe could see the various primates rattling their bars with reckless fury. Joe could feel the vibrations from the steel bars in his teeth.

What is happening?

He decided he didn’t want to wait and find out. He needed to make sure his son was safe – from what exactly, he did not know. Danny was rigid in his arms, making no sound other than the wet panting of his breath.

“Everything’s going to be okay, buddy,” he said soothingly. “Let me get you someplace quiet and we can sit down and have a Coke.”

Joe started moving again, a sense of urgency seizing his internal organs and pumping them like pistons. Some deep-buried instinct told him he needed to get away from the area as quickly as possible. Up ahead was the zoo’s brand-new visitor centre, B.R. ZOOLOGICAL INSTITUTE AND ENVIRONMENTAL CENTRE. The lengthy glass structure’s recent grand opening was advertised all over the park and it looked like as good a place as any to find some authority.

Joe picked up speed, his worn trainers wearing thinner against the harsh grey cement of the pathways. All around him people were still panicking, scuttling in all directions like frenzied ants. It was still unclear what was causing all of the chaos, but Joe knew it was more than just a snake attack. Something else was happening.

Something bad.

The visitor’s centre seemed to grow in size as Joe got closer to it. He could make out the large glass doors of its entrance. Several people had already begun to move inside, but a vast majority were running right past the building – likely heading towards the car park beyond. Joe wondered whether their idea was a good one.

I just want to get indoors. I don’t know what’s going on yet, but I know that a load of people panicking in their cars is gonna have a bad ending.

Joe broke off from the crowd and approached the visitor centre, hopping up a set of brick steps that joined with a decorative patio at the front of the building. A middle-aged Black man with grey sideburns was standing amongst the potted trees and plants. He quickly moved aside when he saw he was in Joe’s way. Joe nodded a ‘thanks’ to the man before moving through the building’s wide-open double-doors.

The fluorescent lights inside were dazzling after the bleak grey of outside. The first thing Joe’s eyes managed to focus on was a large rectangular sign hanging from the ceiling. It declared the room to be THE EDUCATION HALL.

The area was full of life-like exhibits: African elephants, alligators, rhinos, and many other imposing creatures – each of the models stared at the centre of the room with their soulless glass eyes. Several other people stood inside with Joe. Each of them looked as concerned and freaked out as he was. There was only a single zoo employee amongst them all, given away by his bright-green waist-jacket against a khaki-coloured uniform. He wore the tatty, round spectacles of an intellectual man and his neatly-combed grey hair only added to that impression. He looked as dumfounded as everybody else. Joe still considered him the best person to speak to.

Nearby, several plush, cube-shaped chairs of varying colours were arranged in front of a vast LCD screen showing nature documentaries. Joe eased Danny down onto a purple cube and gave him a quick hug. “Just wait here one sec, buddy, okay?”

Danny nodded and sat still.

Joe examined his son for a few moments, saw how frightened he was, and then kissed his forehead. “I’m proud of you, son.”

The zoo employee had moved over to the far wall of the hall and was fiddling with a canary-yellow rubber-cased walkie-talkie. It didn’t seem like the man was having much success in gaining information if his wrinkled, frustrated brow was anything to go by. Joe approached the man slowly, trying to seem calm rather than agitated. It, like rationality, could be at a premium right now.

The zoo keeper looked up at Joe. “Sir, may I help you?”

“Hello,” Joe replied. “Do you know what the heck is going on?”

The man shook his head and his spectacles jittered on the bridge of his narrow nose. He readjusted them before speaking. “Not the foggiest, I’m afraid, and I can’t reach any of the zoo keepers to find out. A couple of the visitors I’ve spoken to have mentioned animal attacks, but they were too distressed to provide details. Seems very unlikely.”

Joe thought about the snake attack. “You don’t think an animal attack is possible?”

“Possible? Yes. But extremely unlikely. The enclosures are secure and the staff are extremely dedicated, experienced professionals. There’s never been an incident of such a kind in the seven years I’ve worked here.”

“Sorry to disagree,” Joe said, “but I just watched a large snake kill one of your staff about ten minutes ago, over by the World of Venom building – a boa constrictor, I think. It squeezed the poor guy to death in front of a dozen people.”

The employee’s face dropped. “Terry? I pray that you are mistaken, sir, I truly do. Terry has been with us for many years and loved Betsy a great deal.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Betsy?”

“Yes, Betsy. She is the zoo’s Pearl Island Boa. She’s always been extremely gentle. I can’t believe she would ever attack anyone – least of all Terry. They had a…bond, for want of a better word.”

Joe nodded. He didn’t want to upset the man further, until he understood what was happening. “Maybe he’s okay,” Joe supposed. “It did all happen very suddenly.”

The other man thought about things for a moment and his expression seemed to get grimmer with each passing second. Finally, he looked back up at Joe and said, “I believe you, sir. It doesn’t seem like you’re lying and I see no reason why you would. Something is obviously going on here today, but I just cannot fathom the idea that any of our animals would attack their handlers. There are too many precautions.”

“Look, I don’t mean to be impatient, but you’re the only representative of the zoo I could find. You need to do something.”

“And what exactly would you have me do? I am a curator, not a crowd controller.”

Joe sighed. “Nevertheless, you have a responsibility.”

The man looked at Joe for several seconds before sagging at the shoulders and replying. “I suppose you’re right. I should find out what’s going on.” He pushed Joe aside, headed for the front of the hall, and spoke over his shoulder as he went. “I still don’t believe things are as bad as people are-”

Joe turned around to see why the curator had stopped mid-sentence. He could hardly believe his eyes as people started to scream in terror.

Four lions blocked the far entrance to the visitor’s centre and were snarling at the people inside. Each of their fangs was the size of a tent peg and freshly spilled blood dripped from their jaws.

Joe had a feeling that he was about to have a very bad day.

Chapter 2

Joe didn’t know why he needed to state the obvious, but saying it out loud was the only way he could accept what was happening. “Those are goddamn Lions!”

The curator hurried back toward Joe. “This is not possible,” he said, his voice trembling like lime-jelly. “The enclosures are too secure for dangerous animals to get loose.”

Joe grabbed the man’s collar and shook him. “Think about how they got loose later, okay! I need to get my son somewhere safe, right now.”

The curator seemed to accept the situation and nodded his head quickly. “We should…we should get everyone further inside the building. It will be safer there.”

Without further comment, Joe raced over to get Danny from the cube seats. The boy was frozen solid, eyes fixed on the slinking predators entering the hall. Joe took his son into his arms and turned back towards the zoo’s curator. “Where can we g--”

The sound of fresh screams cut Joe off. Four lions, led by a heavily-maned male, were now fully inside the building. Two females split off to corner a young brunette woman in the gap between two snack machines. The beasts toyed with her, swatting her back and forth. Blood formed on the woman’s white blouse where a set of razor-sharp claws succeeded in penetrating her flesh. Elsewhere, the remaining two lions pursued anyone unable to find a hiding space.

“We have to help these people,” Joe said. “Take my son somewhere safe.”

The curator quickly took Danny into his arms, then turned to Joe. “We’ll be in the research wing, through the red door in the far corner. I suggest you come with us now not later.”

Joe nodded, “I’ll be right behind you.” Then he ran off towards the brunette woman between the snack machines. He came to a sudden stop when he encountered the male lion ripping out the throat of an elderly gentleman. The big cat’s jaws cut off the old man’s screams and left him gargling blood. Joe swallowed back the burger and fries he’d eaten that morning, and battled with the dizziness that erupted from the base of his stomach.

How did this happen? People aren’t supposed to get eaten alive by lions in the middle of England. This isn’t Jumanji!

More screaming. People being ripped to shreds. Torn apart. Somehow the young brunette was still managing to fend off the two lionesses, kicking out at them each time they attacked and swatting at them with her handbag. It was working – for now – but it wouldn’t be long before her timing was slightly off and the lions got a grip on her.

Joe grabbed one of the coloured cube-seats and hoisted it up to his chest. It was heavy – very heavy. Joe sucked in a deep breath and heaved with all his might, just about managing to get the thing up above his head. Then, like a circus strongman, he waddled across the hall towards the two attacking lionesses. The male lion also nearby, ripping apart another victim: this time a young girl.

I must be insane. The first weekend I’ve had with Danny in a month and it ends up with me taking on a pride of lions with a chair from IKEA.

Without allowing himself to think anymore – or back out altogether – Joe flung the cube as hard as he could. Through some stroke of fortune the heavy piece of furniture barrelled into both of the lionesses at the snack machines, hitting them like a bowling ball striking a pair of skittles. The lionesses sprawled onto their sides, their attack on the young woman ceasing temporarily.

“Come on!” Joe shouted, holding out his hand.

The woman looked at him, quaking with fear against one of the snack machines. The shock in her round, hazel-brown eyes made her seem more like a cartoon character than a human being.

“Come on!” Joe shouted at her again, louder.

Finally, the woman started to move, edging toward him slowly.

Get yourself moving, woman! I don’t fancy dying today.

One lioness was back on her feet, coiled up, ready to pounce. The young woman saw this and froze. She looked at Joe pleadingly.

There was only one thing on Joe’s mind and he expressed it earnestly. “RUN!”

Thankfully, the woman did as directed. The two of them bolted. Up ahead, people screamed hysterically, rational thought blocked by sheer terror and incomprehension. Joe wanted to help them all. He shouted as loudly as he could while still running. “Get in the next room. Everyone, follow me!”

Joe’s words were almost pointless. One or two people responded, racing after him towards safety, but a majority of the people continued to stand and scream aimlessly. There was nothing Joe could do for these people. They couldn’t even help themselves.

Up ahead on the left was a red-painted door reading: STAFF ONLY. Joe was sure it led to what the curator had called “The Research Wing.”

Roaring – from behind Joe – so loud it made his fillings ache. Without looking, he knew that the lions were giving chase, their instincts unable to resist the sight of fleeing prey. He could almost feel their rancid, blood-soaked breath on the back of his neck. He expected to feel their wicked claws slicing through the sinewy fibres of his hamstrings any second. Joe picked up as much speed as he could muster.

He just prayed it was enough.

Enough to outrun a lion…

When he and a handful of others reached the red door, Joe slammed right into it, unable to slow down in time to stop. It was then that he noticed the entrance was locked, an ominous steel number pad set beside it on the wall. He bashed at it with his fists, hammering until his skin cracked, but it would not swing open. Behind Joe, the other strangers gathered frantically. Behind them, all four lions approached, led by the male with the thick, blood-soaked mane.

“What do we do?” asked the young brunette woman.

Joe shook his head. “I don’t know.”

To his surprise, she laughed. “Fabulous!”

The lions were upon them fast. The assembled group shoved one another, battling to get to the back where it was safer. Those at the front began screaming. One man, dressed in a grubby chef’s uniform, was knocked forwards onto his knees by the people behind.

The lions were on him in seconds.

As a single unit, the muscled predators pounced, pinning the chef to the floor with their huge round paws. The male lion was the first to draw blood, tearing off a chunk of stringy flesh from the chef’s neck with its powerful jaws. A torrent of steaming blood arced high into the air and spattered his grubby white tunic.

At least Danny will be safe, Joe thought to himself through the growing haze of his fear-soaked mind. Even if his father gets eaten by a lion. Little bit of therapy and he’ll be fine.

Joe swallowed hard.

He watched the ensuing chaos and finally lost all feeling – from each of his fingertips to all ten of his toes. He could no longer think in a straight line, the adrenaline dissipating through his body and sending him into a dazed void of inaction. One-by-one, the members of the group were taken down by the lions, bitten and mauled like rag dolls. It would not be long until Joe’s turn was next; the three or four people in front of him were his only protection.

He met the glare of the male lion’s amber-flecked eyes.

A rumbling growl erupted from the animal’s gore-encrusted mouth.

Can’t believe this is how I’m going to die. A footnote in ‘Ripley’s Believe it or not.’

The people in front of Joe fell quickly, kicking out and fighting with every ounce of spirit they had left, but dying anyway. It was inevitable.

Joe stood motionless, unable to help anyone or himself – a helpless voyeur of the human tragedy going on all around him.

One by one, people screamed and then died.

Eventually, Joe’s turn to join them arrived.

The male lion glared at him once again.

Then all four lions snarled. All four lions pounced.

Joe closed his eyes.

Unseen hands grabbed him, pulling him backwards. He fell hard onto his side, the impact stealing his breath away. It was a full moment later, when the vision-stars cleared, that he found himself lying in a cramped corridor. Other people were piling in after him, pushing and heaving through the narrow gap of the doorway. There were further screams from those unlucky enough not to make it through.

A hand grabbed Joe around the shoulder. When he looked up, he saw that it belonged to the grey-haired curator. Joe got to his feet with difficulty, still struggling for breath. “Where’s…my…son?”

“Over there.” The curator pointed to a bench against the wall. Danny sat there, safe and sound, yet clearly terrified. Joe’s lungs deflated as the stress and terror finally fled the rigid fibres of his body. His son was unharmed. He could relax.

“We have to get that door locked back up,” the curator asserted. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise it had locked behind me. Those poor people.”

“Forget about it,” Joe snapped. “There’re still people still out there now. We have to help them.”

“We cannot. You’ve already helped as many as you can, and if we don’t get that door secured, then none of us will be safe.”

Joe knew the logic was correct, but it didn’t make the decision any easier. He thought about Danny’s safety and made up his mind. “Okay. Let’s get that door closed.”

Joe and the curator rushed over to the thick wooden door and pushed against it, shoving back the half-score of desperate people clambering at the other side. There were agonised pleas and prayers to God – desperate begging that the door not be closed – but there was no hope to save them all – or any of them. In fact, most of the people outside were already half-torn, limb hanging from limb. Even those still mobile were bleeding and shocked, wandering around like shell-shocked teenagers on Omaha beach.

Except for one man further back who was still managing to put up a fight.

It was the guy from earlier, Joe noticed. The guy from the patio.

The Black man with the grey sideburns had shown politeness to Joe earlier. Now the man was desperately fighting off the lions and trying to help others under attack. He wielded a fire extinguisher and was spraying foam into the faces of the lions, forcing them to back away, disorientated.

“He’s trying to save everyone,” said Joe, and for a moment he thought the man might just do it.

But then the male lion took him down, blindsiding the courageous man as he concentrated his blinding fog on one of the lionesses. Joe heard the man cry out as he hit the deck hard. If it wasn’t for the extinguisher in his hands, blocking the lethal bite of the lion, the guy would already be dead.

Joe glanced around, noticed that the three lionesses were still disorientated, pawing at their faces as they tried to clear the foam from their airways.

Just the male left. I can help this guy.

Joe stopped thinking. He forced his rubbery legs to take form and he exited the safety of the corridor and went back into the Education Hall. Exertion made his knees feel like hot coals inside paper sacks.

The struggling man was still unharmed, fending off several attacks by using the metal fire extinguisher as a shield.

Joe picked up his pace.

Reaching the male lion, he swung his leg into the hardest kick he could muster. His foot connected with the side of the lion’s head and a sharp, white-hot jolt of electric pain shot through his toes. The blow had almost no effect on the target, however. The male lion flinched from the attack, but seemed no more than merely irritated.

Bugger it!

The lion let out an almighty roar. It was at this point that the Black man readjusted the fire extinguisher’s nozzle and pulled back the handle. Gloopy jets of foam shot into the male lion’s mouth, cutting off its ear-splitting roar and reducing it to a startled whimper. The big cat leapt backwards, choking, hacking, and rubbing its maw along the floor.

Joe pulled the other man up and the two of them galloped back towards the red doorway as quickly as their battered bodies would allow them. All around, fierce lions lay mewling like wounded kittens. The whole effed-up situation was surreal – like Alice in Wonderland on crack.

The two men passed through the door into the corridor. The waiting curator slammed it shut immediately behind them. The automatic bolt let out an echoing clack!

Joe slumped back against the door and took a steady breath. It seemed like the first in a long time and the air stabbed his lungs as if he were breathing in carpet tacks. His heart was threatening to rip right through his chest. But at least Danny was still safe, still sitting on the bench against wall. The young brunette woman sat beside him, apparently making conversation and trying to calm his nerves – or perhaps her own. Joe’s heartbeat slowed down a little, but he couldn’t help shake the feeling that things were not yet over.

In fact, he had a feeling they were going to get worse.

1

“Time I learned your name, sir.”

“It’s Joe.”

The curator shook his hand. “My name is Mason. I am the head curator of the zoo and I thank you for all your help. I don’t think I could have taken charge like you did.”

“Just wish so many people hadn’t gotten hurt. How many made it?”

“There’s seven of us, including you and your son, but even more people would have been injured if it wasn’t for you, Joe. You’re a hero and people owe you their li-”

A short, pudgy man with neatly-combed oil-black hair wedged himself between the two of them. He glared up at Mason. “Perhaps you two could stop flirting for one moment and tell me what the hell is going on! I can tell you right now that this wretched place will never open its doors to the public again after I’m through with it.”

Mason’s expression did not change. “And who might you be, sir?”

The pudgy man’s features scrunched up in disapproval. “Who am I? Who am I? I am Christopher-bloody-Randall! That’s who I am.”

Mason shook his head. “I’m sorry?”

“From Black Remedy Investments plc. You know, the company that paid for this very building you’re standing in right now? Show me a little more respect, because I have a good mind to demand our investment back right now. This is not what I expected when I came here for a simple business meeting this morning. It’s a fiasco.”

Again, without any discernible expression, Mason shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t involve myself with the zoo’s finances. That would be the concern of the park administrators. I apologise for any inconvenience to you, Mr Randall, but I think you can clearly see that we are all equally affected by the day’s events.”

The angry little man went bright red now and began to wheeze. Spittle formed at the corners of his bulbous lips. “Now you listen here. I own this building, which means I own you. I need to get out of here immediately, do you hear me? My business here is finished and I have a very important meeting to get--”

Joe had heard enough. “Look, mate, I don’t know what mental illness you’re currently taking medication for, but people are dead. Nobody gives two shits if you have a business meeting with the Queen. Unless you intend to be helpful, please just do us all a favour and fuck off! Excuse my French.”

The investor spun to face Joe, toe to toe, but seemed to lose his spirit when he realised the difference in size and height. Joe probably weighed six-stone more than the man and towered over him like a lead statue.

The man still hadn’t lost his attitude completely, though. “How dare you speak to me like that. Do you know who I am?”

“You’re Lord Randall of Asshole-land. Thanks, got it, don’t care. Just sit down while Mason and I actually try to do something constructive.”

Randall shook with anger, glaring at Joe as if he were excrement on his Ralph Lauren loafers. Fortunately it seemed he had finally run out of patience and he stormed off down the corridor. Joe took the opportunity to glance over at Danny, wondering if he should go and check on him. His son had lain himself down across the brunette woman’s lap and was nearly asleep. Joe decided to leave him alone for a few minutes more.

He turned his focus back to Mason. “That guy was a jackass.”

Mason nodded. “Investors always are. Black Remedy bought shares in the zoo last year and they’ve acted like they own the place ever since. They don’t see the zoo as way of preserving the world’s great nature, they just see pound signs. Still, he has a right to be angry after what has happened today. No doubt he is correct about the zoo’s future being rather bleak.”

“How could this happen, Mason?”

“I really can’t say. Nothing like this has ever happened before. All of the dangerous animals are kept inside high-security enclosures. The only way in or out is through twin-layer fences. You enter one, close it, and then open the second. There’s no way an animal can escape.”

Joe nodded. “I understand the type of thing you mean, but, whether it’s plausible or not, the lions got out somehow.”

“Indeed they did.”

Joe waited for further comment, but it appeared that the curator had none to make, so he decided to speak instead. “Okay, just keep trying to reach someone on your radio. I’m going to go check on my son.”

Mason nodded and Joe left him alone under the bright lights of the corridor. Over on the bench, Danny was still lying on the brunette woman’s lap. She was stroking his head tenderly. Beneath the harsh light, Joe could see that the woman’s wounds were shallow and already healing. She’d been lucky.

“Hey,” Joe said as he approached her. “Thanks for looking after my son.”

She smiled glumly and it was then that Joe saw she was in fact just a girl, not a woman. Dark bags beneath each of her eyes gave the impression that she was older, but her smooth white skin betrayed her real youth.

About twenty maybe?

“Least I can do after you saved my life,” she said.

Joe blushed. “Wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would.” The girl offered out her hand. It was slender and recently manicured, but many of the painted-pink nails were chipped and broken, probably from her ordeal between the snack machines. “I’m Grace.”

Joe noticed a recently-healed scar that lined the back of her wrist, along with several older, faded wounds. He didn’t want to be rude by staring, so he averted his eyes. “Pleased to meet you, Grace,” he said and the two shook hands. “I’m Joe and this is--”

“Danny. Yeah, I know. He told me before taking a nap. He was worried about you out there. You shouldn’t be such a hero.”

Joe acknowledged his selfishness. If he’d been hurt then Danny would be all alone in this dangerous situation. What the hell was he thinking, running around out there like Joe-the-lion-tamer? He couldn’t risk leaving Danny alone again.

I won’t.

“Mind if I wake him?” he asked.

Grace laughed. The sound was delicate and fragile. “He’s your son. Be my guest.”

Joe knelt beside Danny and gently shook one of his tiny legs. “Hey, little dude! You awake?”

Danny opened his eyes slowly, pupils widening gradually like ink stains on cloth.

“Everything is okay now,” said Joe. “Daddy’s back.”

Danny smiled and closed his eyes again as if wanting to get back to some wonderful dream. He muttered under his breath, “Can I stay here with Grace?”

Joe raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t like Danny to form bonds so quickly – not since the divorce – but he supposed it couldn’t hurt. Joe looked up at Grace. “That okay?”

Grace nodded. “Sure. Could kind of do with a rest myself. Wish I could just switch off like him.”

“There’s a quiet-room on the right,” said Mason, approaching from down the corridor with walkie talkie still in hand. “It’s where we put visitors when they’re not feeling well. There’s a sofa-bed inside.”

“Excellent!” said Grace, her face lighting up like a beacon. “Come on, Danny.”

Joe watched the girl lead his son to the room on the opposite side of the corridor before disappearing inside. For some reason he trusted her, and he relaxed knowing that Danny was in her care. Maybe it was the feeling of having a women’s support that made him feel that way.

It’s been a while.

Mason placed a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “I couldn’t reach anyone. I got some static and some garbled voices, but nothing I could get a fix on. From the brief connections I made, things seemed pretty bad. No one is answering.”

Joe raised his eyebrows. “No one at all?”

Mason’s stiff expression gave nothing away about his feelings, but Joe had a feeling the man was beginning to crack. Slender creases at the corners of his eyes seemed to widen as he spoke. “There are a dozen zoo keepers here today and they all carry walkie talkies – just like this one. Not one of them is replying. I can’t imagine what that means.”

“I can,” said Joe, “and it’s not a nice thing to think about. You tried phoning anyone outside the zoo?”

Mason shook his head. “That was what I was going to do next. There are phones in the offices upstairs. I should be able to call right through to the administration building at the rear entrance. Office staff don’t generally work the weekends, but there’s usually one or two people there on a Saturday. Mr Randall said he was here this morning for a meeting, so perhaps the members of the board are around too. They may be able to shed some light on the current situation.”

“Good,” said Joe, scratching the stubble on his wide chin. It seemed to have grown inches in just the last hour. “What about the building we’re in? Can we get out any other way than the door we came through?”

“There’s a fire exit at the end of this corridor and we can also enter the cafeteria, which has several more exits. I don’t know if it would be wise to try to leave, however.”

Joe looked up and down the corridor, taking in the scene of shellshocked survivors. In addition to the rude investor, Mr Randall, there was also an elderly woman with grey hair sitting right next to a heavily-tattooed bald man. It was a strange sight to see such opposites placed side-by-side.

“I think I agree,” Joe said after some consideration. “My son and I are going nowhere until those lions are dealt with.”

Mason adjusted his spectacles. “We should get everyone assembled and come up with a plan, even if it’s only to sit and wait for rescue.”

“Agreed,” said Joe. “Is there somewhere more comfortable we can all go? I don’t think people will be able to calm down in this corridor. It’s too close to what happened.”

Mason took Joe’s arms and led him a few feet down the corridor. “There’s a staffroom in this part of the building. It’s a large area with enough places to sit and a few refreshments. I’d say it would be best place to reconvene for now. We can always move upstairs later if we need to. The building is pretty much empty, today being the weekend. There’ll be plenty of room. In fact, I think we’re the only ones here.”

“Let’s get going then.”

Mason clapped his hands together and got the attention of the other shell-shocked survivors. “Okay everyone, can I have your attention, please?”

Silence from everyone. Glazed expressions and teary cheeks. From the other side of the exit door, the wet smacking sounds of lions feeding on corpses could be heard in vivid detail.

Mason continued, despite the lack of audience response. “We are going to follow this corridor down to its end and enter a staffroom beyond. It is comfortable there, warm and safe. We should gather whilst we wait to learn more about this…situation.”

“And what is the situation?” asked the Black man with the grey sideburns. He was still carrying his dented fire extinguisher.

“We don’t know,” Mason answered. “Obviously there has been a breach in the lion enclosure, but as to how that happened, I do not know. I will try to contact the administration building shortly – and the emergency services of course – but first we need to get ourselves situated.”

“Who are you to give orders?” It was the investor, Randall. The man’s mood had obviously not improved.

“I am no one to give orders,” Mason calmly told him, “but as the only one offering practical advice, I see no harm in having people do as I say for the time being.”

“If you hadn’t allowed this to happen in the first place then I would have a little more trust to afford to you, my friend.”

“Mr Randall, if you feel better blaming me personally I am happy for you to do so, but my advice is that we group together somewhere more comfortable. If you or anybody else does not wish to follow that advice then you are free to do as you like. Those who do wish to follow my suggestion may come with myself and Joe, who, may I remind you, was the one that helped a majority of you in the first place.”

“If that’s your advice,” said the man with grey sideburns. “Then that’s what I’ll do. I don’t see the point in all this negativity and arguing.” The last comment was directed at Randall who seemed less than impressed at being called out.

“Let’s go then,” said Joe. “I’ll get Grace and my son and we’ll be off in five.”

A heavy thud rattled the red door behind them on its hinges. The lions were trying to break through into the corridor.

Joe’s eyes widened. “Or maybe we should get going right now.”

2

Randall could not believe he was running down a corridor to get away from lions. It was the biggest screw-up he had ever known, and when it was all over this dump of a zoo would pay for it. To think his company had actually provided obscene amounts of cash to improve the facilities here. Positive publicity, the marketers had claimed. What a load of rubbish. He’d be claiming back every penny now and more. The place could rot for all he cared.

“This is ridiculous,” said Randall – wheezing heavily – to a tattooed man running alongside him. “Don’t they have guns here…or… or something in place to control animals when they…get loose?”

“Tell me about it!” The man’s reply was in a thick Scottish accent. The word ‘about’ sounded like ‘a-boot’ from the man’s uncouth mouth. “They must be running the place with a bunch of wee ten-year-olds. Someone is gonna be knee-deep in bother when this is over, mark my words.”

Randall sniggered. “You can say that again, my friend.”

The shambling group of survivors slowed down at the end of the corridor and the idiot curator turned to face them all. “Okay everyone, once we get inside we should barricade the doors right away. I don’t think I need to tell you why.” The man paused so that they could all listen to the banging coming from the door down the corridor behind them. Randall didn’t appreciate the dramatics, but kept his silence as the man continued. “Once that is done, we can all do our best to relax while I try to contact the authorities.”

No one spoke and Randall didn’t blame them. What was there to say in a ridiculous situation like this? And to take orders from one of the men responsible for it made things all the more worse.

The curator pushed open the door at the end of the corridor and stood aside whilst people filed into the room ahead. Randall listened to the erratic thudding getting louder behind them. It was all very confusing.

Can lions behave like this? Smashing through doors to get at people after already devouring several bodies already? It can’t be hunger.

The tattooed man beside Randall patted him on the back. “They best have a kettle in there, pal. I could kill a brew.”

Randall took exception to being touched by the rough-looking gentleman, but even more to being called ‘pal’. He didn’t acknowledge his disapproval, however, because he was next in line to enter the staffroom up ahead. Randall stepped through into a large teal-carpeted room, featuring several sets of brand-new tables and chairs, several vending machines, two pool tables, and a modest kitchenette. The room was backed by a horizontal window that ran the entire length of the wall.

Is this what our money paid for? Somewhere for staff to laze about? Maybe they should have spent the money on better security for the animal enclosures. Then I wouldn’t be suing them into bankruptcy.

Randall found a seat and placed himself down while the rest of the group seated themselves. It felt good to take the weight off his feet, gave him a chance to use his inhaler. It would not do to idle for too long, though, because he had somewhere important to be. The head of one of China’s biggest tyre manufacturers would be waiting on him to discuss an investment in their UK strategy. It was just one more industry that the Chinks were planning to monopolise and Randall decided it was better to get into bed with them than to resist. It could cost Randall’s company millions if he missed the meeting – and Black Remedy were not a firm that took kindly to incompetence. There was a long line of other investors eager to make the deal with the Chinese if Randall didn’t. Lions or no lions, he had to get out of there.

I’ll spare ten more minutes, then enough is enough.

The curator stepped into the staffroom along with his giant blond accomplice, the one who had been rude to Randall earlier. A young brunette girl and a small boy with a tatty backpack also accompanied them. He was pretty sure that the boy belonged to the blond man.

Probably an insolent little brat like his father.

The curator pushed the door closed and locked it, then turned to face the group. “This door is not especially heavy,” he said, “so I think it would be wise to slide one of the pool tables in front of it. Do I have any volunteers?”

Yeah right! Randall scoffed. Don’t expect me to start lugging furniture around for you.

There were a few volunteers but Randall paid them no mind. The only concern he had right now were the ticking hands on his Omega watch. Each second could be costing him money.

This will not do. We must wrap this up so I can get out of here.

Several minutes passed, the aimless fools just about managing to push one of the pool tables up against the door. Unbelievably, they had started playing a game on the other table.

What do they think this is? Break Time?

“Right!” The curator cleared his throat and addressed everyone once again. “Now that we have secured our safety, I should introduce myself. My name is Mason and I work here at the zoo. Unfortunately, I have no more knowledge of the current events than anybody else. I will, however, be going upstairs shortly to use one of the office phones to try and contact the authorities. Before that, might I ask if anyone has a cell phone?”

The group looked around themselves, but no one answered. Randall could have said ‘yes’, but he wasn’t about to offer up his possessions to a bunch of fools.

Mason raised an eyebrow above his spectacles. “Really? No one has one? I thought the whole world had mobile phones these days?”

“Yeah,” added a Black man with grey sideburns who looked a lot like Bill Cosby. He was holding up a piece of shattered plastic with various wires hanging out of it. “But mine got pretty bashed up during the attack, as you can see. I tried making a call, but the thing won’t even switch on anymore.”

The young girl spoke. “I had one in my bag. My bag is outside. I think we all just ran for our lives, without really thinking about our belongings.”

Not me. Randall smirked. Too bad the rest of you are unorganised idiots. I made sure to keep a hold of my possessions.

Mason nodded thoughtfully and then shrugged. “A shame, but not much we can do about it now. Okay, I’ll go try to find some answers for everyone.”

“Make sure you find them in the next five minutes,” said Randall, using the commanding tone that he had perfected throughout years of boardroom conflicts.

Mason sighed. “Mr Randall, I do not wish to do battle with you again. Please try to see-”

“No, you try to see how much you have caused us all an inconvenience. None of us should be sitting here right now, in danger, no less. You need to remedy this situation immediately – and I mean immediately.”

“Yeah!” The agreement came from the bald tattooed man. “This has gone way beyond a bloody joke, pal!”

Mason sighed once more and Randall was sure that the man was defeated. “I implore you to be patient and in return I will do my upmost to get this situation resolved as quickly as possible. I can only do my best to make sense of things. For now the only place we know that is safe is here, inside this building. I’ll go now and try to make contact with somebody in authority.”

Randall relaxed back in his chair and smiled like a fox after dinner. “See that you do, my friend.” Despite the curator’s obvious skill in keeping a straight face, Randall could see tiny rivulets of irritation soaking into the man’s expression. It pleased Randall.

“Afterwards,” he added, “I would request that everyone give me their contact details. I will be taking this establishment to the courts and anyone that wishes to join me in that pursuit will be most welcome.”

“I’m with ya, pal,” the tattooed man replied.

“As am I,” said a middle-aged woman with wispy grey hair and bifocals. “Someone has to be punished.”

Randall couldn’t help but grin. Splendid. Looks like I have a nice foundation for my case already. The more angry voices in a courtroom the better.

“Why you gotta be such a dick, man?” It was the Black man, standing by the pool table, cue in hand. “Can’t you see the trouble we’re in? People are dead and all you can think about is your damn self.”

Who the hell does he think he is to question me?

“I live in a world where people are held accountable for their actions,” said Randall. “Sorry if the notions of right and wrong are beyond someone like you.”

The Black man scrunched up his face and stepped away from the pool table. “The hell that supposed to mean?”

Randall sighed. “Work it out, Cosby.”

Before Randall got a reply, the large blond man entered the conversation. “Let’s not pick at each other, okay? Mason has gone upstairs to make a phone call and shed some light on the situation. The rest of us should just keep ourselves occupied. Look,” he pointed one of his giant arms across the room, “there’s a television in the corner.”

He was right, Randall noted. Perched on a pair of wall brackets at the far corner of the room was a brand new LCD TV.

Another extravagance Black Remedy paid for. Jesus wept!

“Okay,” Randall conceded. “Television sounds like a good idea, but let’s just put the news on. None of that daytime talk show drivel.”

“Fine. No problem.” The large blond man bounded off towards the television set on legs that seemed more like stilts. The television was far away from where Randall was sitting, but big enough that he would still be able to see it.

When the blond man managed to find the remote and switch on the TV, it showed only a blue screen at first. After a couple of seconds of pressing buttons and flipping through several channels of empty static, a grainy picture finally appeared.

“The reception is really bad,” said the blond man, “but I think I got the news. It’s certainly not Jeremy Kyle.”

“Yeah, it’s a news report alright,” Cosby added needlessly. “I recognise the journalist, Jane Hamilton.”

Everyone sat quietly as the news updates flashed various images from around the UK. It seemed that it wasn’t just the zoo that was having troubles.

“Holy shit!” Cosby cried out. “I can’t believe it.”

If Randall was honest, he couldn’t quite believe it either. “Interesting,” he said out loud, wondering what it could all mean. “Very interesting.”

3

Joe couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The flickering news report showed animal attacks from several areas of the country – images of Regent’s Park overrun by snarling dogs of numerous breeds and even more bizarrely, a pack of crazed squirrels attacking a baby in its pram outside Bristol’s Clifton Cathedral. Next came scenes from the countryside – of farm animals ripping a man to shreds in Paignton as he failed to reach the safety of his dust-covered Range Rover. Sheep, cows, and even pigs were roaming the fields and roadsides like Nazi-death-squads, with what looked like morsels of human flesh hanging from their jaws. Every scene was different, but they all had one thing in common – animals were attacking people. It didn’t matter how big or how small, anything with fur, claws, or fangs was seemingly possessed by a malevolent rage directed solely at the human race. Dogs, cats, and mice, to sheep, cows, and pigs – all were united in their quest to kill. Whatever was going on right now, it wasn’t just isolated to the zoo.

“This can’t be happening,” said Joe, as the television switched to similar scenes from various locations in Europe. Helsinki was currently under siege from a band of rampaging bears, while Paris was fighting off a plague of rats emerging from its vast sewers. “God help us.”

“I don’t think God is watching,” said Grace, who had picked Danny up into her arms to keep him from looking at the images.

Joe shook his head, unable to take his eyes away from the screen. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“Me either.” The man with the grey sideburns came up beside them. “It’s a mad house.”

Joe somehow managed a smile. “What’s your name? I’m assuming it’s not Cosby?”

“Name’s William, but my friends call me Bill – don’t mention the coincidence to that stumpy guy in the suit. Your name’s Joe, right?”

Joe nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Bill. You make sense of any of this?”

Bill shook his head. “Just about the craziest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t know what could be to blame. Maybe it’s the end of the world.”

“Terrorists, if you ask me.” Coming to join them was the grey-haired woman that had spoken out in support of Randall earlier, wanting to join him in his legal battle. She was smiling now and seemed quite pleasant. “Godless monsters are always coming up with new ways to destroy the world. Looks like they finally came up with a good one – airborne rabies. Name’s Shirley.”

“Hi, Shirley,” Joe greeted her. “You really think terrorists?”

“Have a better suggestion?”

Joe shook his head. He didn’t. If it was a terrorist act, he wondered what that could mean, and what it would mean for his son. “What do we do?”

“How should I know?” Shirley shrugged. “Whatever happens, things will work out however God wants them too. Maybe the world will finally face up to its sins now that deliverance is upon us.”

Bill huffed beside Joe. “Speak for yourself, lady. People are responsible for their own actions. I don’t believe there’s some man in the sky playing us all like puppets, weighing up our mistakes against us. That’s crazy!”

Shirley smirked, but the expression contained a dose of venom. “Believe what you will, but when your day of reckoning arrives you will see the error of your ways. Now is not the time to be a heathen.” The woman strolled away; apparently satisfied that she had said her piece.

Bill turned to Joe. “She for real?”

“Don’t know,” said Grace, “but that was a bit of an intense introduction.”

“Mentally ill if you ask me.”

Grace shook her head and seemed uncomfortable. “Being strange doesn’t mean you’re crazy.”

Joe laughed. “Strange times call for strange people, I guess. It doesn’t matter who, or what, is responsible at the end of the day. The only thing that matters to me right now is keeping my son safe. You think things will work themselves out if we just stay put?”

Bill shrugged. “The police must be doing something. Hell, the army too! It’s just a bunch of animals. They should be able to handle a few rabid Labradors and Tabby cats.”

“What about lions?” Grace asked.

“Lions are a little more difficult, but that’s only because we had the misfortune to be at the mother-fuckin’ zoo. I mean, damn, you couldn’t make this shit up.”

Joe winced at the language and motioned to his sleeping son.

“Sorry,” said Bill immediately.

“So what’s the plan?” Grace asked Joe, shifting Danny’s weight onto her opposite shoulder. “Do we just stay here?”

Joe had no answers. He scratched at his forehead on the off-chance that he would knock loose an idea, but found nothing hiding. “I guess we just settle in and wait for help to come. It’ll probably take time for the authorities to get a handle on things.”

Especially if this is happening everywhere.

Just then a door swung open at the edge of the room, startling everybody. When it turned out to be Mason, they all relaxed. The zoo’s curator ambled over with a look of grave concern on his face.

Joe nodded to him. “Everything okay?”

Mason shook his head and looked down at the floor. When he looked back up his expression seemed even grimmer. “I tried contacting the admin building, but got nothing. The phones just rang out. So then I called the police.”

Joe cleared his throat, not sure he wanted to hear what Mason had to say. “And?”

“No answer.”

Grace frowned. “What? No answer? They have to answer, don’t they?”

Mason bit at his lip. “One would certainly think so, but I’m getting the impression that they may be inundated with calls right now.”

Joe knew where this was going and didn’t want to beat around the bush. “We just saw the news. It’s going on all over the country. We saw it happening in Paignton and Bristol.”

Mason rubbed at his jawline. “Interesting,” he said. “Paignton and Bristol both have zoos.”

Joe shrugged. “So do a lot of places. I don’t think that has anything to do with it. Things are bad everywhere.”

“Yes,” said Mason. “I suspected as much. Every number I tried was unanswered. But what really disturbed me is what I saw through the upper-floor windows.”

Joe took a deep breath which seemed to lead Bill and Grace to do the same. Maybe anxiety was infectious. He raised an eyebrow at Mason and asked the question. “What did you see?”

Mason didn’t answer at first and seemed to drift off into thought, eyes flickering behind his spectacles as though they were playing back a movie in his mind. When he finally answered, his voice was weak and lacked his usual composure. “The entire zoo has been overrun. The animals are all out of their cages and there are…” Mason took a moment to gather himself. “There are bodies everywhere. I watched for ten minutes whilst the zoo’s pack of African Wild Dogs ate the very flesh from a group of dead children. Blood every--”

Joe cut him off and pointed to his son. Danny didn’t need to hear any of this. Hopefully he was sleeping soundly.

My incredible sleeping son. One way of dealing with the situation, I guess.

Mason understood the warning and changed his tone to something more positive. “Yes, well, perhaps it is best to think forward now that events have already transpired. I believe we are safe for now, but I have no idea how long we should prepare to be here. If I tell the group what has happened, and that we all must remain inside, I think they may kick up a fuss.”

Bill laughed. “That’s an understatement. Biggest problem is gonna be that jackass banker – or whatever he is.”

“Christopher Randall.” Joe sniffed. “He works for Black Remedy.”

Bill’s eyes went wide. “BR? Shit, ain’t they the biggest company in the world? What are they doing at a piddly zoo like this?”

Joe shrugged. “They seem to have their name on a lot these days. I even think the cruise I took during my honeymoon was on a boat owned by them. It isn’t that surprising that they invested in a zoo as well as everything else.”

“Well, the guy’s a jackass, whoever he works for.”

Mason looked weary and seemed to have aged over the last hour. “We’ll just have to do our best to calm him. I’m sure he’s a reasonable man underneath.”

They all looked at each other for a minute. Joe didn’t think anybody believed that Randall was anything other than a grade-A prick.

“Should we get to it then?” Mason asked them all finally.

Everybody nodded. No time like the present to serve shit sandwiches to a bunch of scared people. Joe just had to keep reminding himself that they were lucky to even be alive right now. They had to be thankful.

Led by Mason, they moved over to the centre of the room. Most people were still glued to the on-going news reports, but when they noticed the zoo’s curator, they all turned their attention to him.

Mason clapped his hands together. It was a needless action since all eyes were already on him, but seemed like an appropriate way to punctuate the start of a speech. “I’m sure everyone is eager to gain more knowledge about the current events and I do indeed have some for you. I ask that you remain calm as I say this, but I regret to inform you that the animal attacks we have witnessed here today are not localised to this zoo. In fact, from my estimation, they are happening throughout the nation.”

“Thank you for telling us what we already know.” Randall spoke from the back of the room. The way he lazed casually in the chair made it obvious that his ego wasn’t yet ready to take a rest.

Joe eyeballed the piggish little man. Anyone would think that being a pain in the ass was his hobby.

“We already know it’s happening everywhere,” Randall continued. “It was on the news.”

“Okay,” Mason replied, stuttering slightly. “Then I hope you all understand the gravity of the situation. What you may not be aware of, however, is the danger presenting itself outside this very building.”

Randall shrugged. “The lions?”

“I wish that were the depth of it, Mr Randall, but I am afraid it is far worse. From what I have witnessed, every animal in the park has broken free. They have attacked and killed anyone unfortunate enough to be outside.”

Randall leapt up from his chair, quicker than one would have imagined for a man of his girth. For a moment Joe wondered if someone had lit a fire under his ass. “How the hell have you let this happen?” Spit flew from his mouth as he spoke. His cheeks turned red like cherry tomatoes. “How does a modern-day zoo let its entire inventory get loose? It begs belief that anyone could be so incompetent.”

Mason only managed to respond with a series of splutters.

Randall continued his tirade. “Do you know how much trouble you are in, my friend? I ought to throw you out there with the lions. You ridiculous, negligent--”

“Enough,” Joe cut in. “There will be a time for blame, but this is not it. Right now we are in a predicament beyond anything we can yet understand. I think it’s safe to assume that whatever is happening at this zoo is a symptom of whatever has affected the animals nationwide – not the cause.”

Randall glared at Joe. “I don’t know who you are, Beanstalk, but I am getting rather tired of you coming to this fool’s aid. If you continue to speak in his defence then I can only assume that you are complicit in this fiasco.”

Joe threw back his head and twisted the kinks from his neck. Every conversation he had with Randall left him exhausted. The man was like a verbal succubus.

“Look,” Joe finally said, “my name is Joe. I came here today because my son loves animals and has never been to the zoo.” He pointed at Danny who was still asleep in Grace’s arms. “Truth be told, I don’t get to see my son very often and this day was important to me. Real important. So don’t assume, Mr Randall, that I’m not as put out as everybody else. But there are people outside that never even made it long enough to be stuck in this situation. They’re dead.” A silence filled the room and Joe hoped that things were finally sinking in. “We’re in a bad situation here, people, and if we don’t all get along then it will probably get even worse. It would be nice if we introduced ourselves and tried to get through this together. Is that too much to ask?”

More silence filled the room. Nobody wanted to talk. No one wanted to get along. To do so would be to admit that things were as bad as they all feared.

“My name is Grace. I’m twenty-three and I came here today for a job interview. I don’t think I’m going to get it.”

Joe smiled at her, appreciating her effort. “Anybody else?”

Shirley stood up from a chair behind Randall. “My name is Shirley. I’m a retired nurse and I come to the zoo often. It’s only right that we appreciate God’s creatures and enjoy the beauty of his creation. I do charity work for this zoo and for the Church of England.”

The next person stood up: the bald man covered in red and green tattoos that wrapped his arms like sleeves. There was one stamped across his throat that read: HIGHLANDER. “Name’s Victor,” the man said in a thick Glasgow accent. “I were on a date. The wee gal died outside, I think. I only came the bloody zoo to please her. Waste o’ bleeding money.”

Joe was surprised that the man didn’t seem particularly bothered by the death of his date. He supposed people grieved in different ways.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Victor. What has happened today is a tragedy.”

“Ay, a tragedy.” Victor repeated. “Woman had a damn fine backside.”

The comment may have been a joke, but it elicited only a brief moment of awkward silence until the next person stood up.

“Hi, everyone. You can call me Bill. I’m a self-employed accountant. Came here today with my partner, Gary. He’s dead too, I guess.” Suddenly the man seemed very close to tears and his speech became very slow and considered. “I tried to help him, but…”

Victor threw his hands up in the air, letting them fall down and slap against his thighs. “Oh great, we’re stuck in here with a bleedin’ fairy!”

Bill waved an arm at him dismissively. “Oh great, we’re stuck in here with a closed-minded bigot.”

“What you say to me, faggot?”

“Sorry,” Bill said. “Were you not intending to come across as a bigot? I kind of got the impression that you were.”

Victor stomped towards Bill. His muscles bunched up and ready for a fight. “You don’t get to call me anything, you hear me, bumboy?”

Joe got between the two men, towering above them both. “Pack it in! We don’t have to like one another, but at least act like adults. Victor, you’re out of order.”

“Screw you, pal.”

“Dad?”

Joe turned around to see that Grace had put Danny down and that his son was now walking towards him in a fuzzy, half-daze.

“Hey, sleepy head,” said Joe. “Everything is okay. The adults are just talking.”

Danny rubbed at his eyes. “Why are you shouting?”

Joe picked his son up into his arms. “I’m not shouting, buddy. I was just excited about something.”

“About the monkeys?”

Joe frowned. “What monkeys?”

Danny rubbed at his eyes once more, before pointing over his father’s shoulder. Joe turned around to see what his son was looking at. The others in the room did the same.

“Shit pickles,” said Grace beside him. “That’s not good, is it?”

Joe shook his head. “No, not good at all.”

This really can’t be happening.

Lined up against the horizontal window of the far wall was row upon row of monkeys. Dozens of human-like faces pressed up against the glass side by side. They looked almost comical in a way, but a wild spark of sinister intent glinted in their eyes. Joe knew what the glint represented.

It was murder.

4

“What do we do,” Grace cried out, frantically pulling at her hair. “What do we do?”

Joe put a hand on her shoulder whilst simultaneously pulling Danny against his hip. “Just calm down,” he said. “I don’t think they can get in at us.”

As if to question his assertion, one of the monkeys smashed a fisted paw against the glass. Joe flinched and studied the area where the animal had hit. It was cracked, a delicate spider web of fractures snaking through the glass where the impact had struck.

Joe swallowed. “Actually, maybe you should go ahead and panic.”

“We need to move upstairs, right now.” Mason rushed across the room, clapping his hands above his head to get everyone’s focus. A door stood at the side of the room and he punched in a code on a square pad beside it. “Everyone, in here, quickly.”

Without argument everyone raced to the door, passing through into the corridor beyond. Joe and Danny went in last, slamming closed the door behind them, hearing it lock automatically.

Mason was waiting for them. “We need to move to the second floor before they get in.”

Joe’s palms were sweaty and he wiped them against his jeans. “Will we be safe up there?”

Mason was already moving again. “Something tells me that we’re not going to be safe anywhere.”

Joe peered down at Danny, who was looking right back at him. Worry was etched across his delicate face and it made Joe’s heart twist in his chest. He tussled his son’s blond hair and picked him up onto his hip.

Mason shouted back and told them to hurry.

“Okay,” Joe said. The sound of breaking glass from the staffroom urging him to get moving. He caught up with the rest of the fleeing group just as they reached a staircase at the end of the corridor. Footfalls echoed as Joe took the steps two at a time. More than once he almost lost his balance. Danny’s limp weight in his arms didn’t help.

At the top of the stairway was another lengthy corridor, carpeted in a cheap navy-blue pile and lined by numerous doors on both sides. Mason was leading everyone into the nearest door on the left. A bronze plaque on the wall beside it read: ZOOLOGICAL LIBRARY AND SEMINAR ROOM.

Joe stepped in beside Mason to find a plush area, full of soft furnishings, chairs, and wooden tables, all facing forward toward a lectern at the back of the room near a large ceiling-to-floor window. The other three walls were interspersed with overfilled bookshelves and recently-used whiteboards. The musty smell of freshly-inked pages filled the air.

“We need to barricade the door downstairs,” said Mason, “make sure that nothing gets through into the corridor.”

Joe swallowed a lump in his throat. “I don’t fancy going back down there. It sounded like they were about to break right through the window when I started up the stairs.”

The tattooed man, Victor, came over to them. “I’ll go,” he said. “Bunch of wee monkeys don’t scare me none.”

“That’s very brave of you,” Joe admitted.

“Aye, well it’s not your fault you’re a pussy.”

Joe cleared his throat. “Excuse me? I have a son to look after first and foremost. I’ve already risked my life enough times today.”

Victor sniggered and sauntered away, towards one of the room’s many desks. “Keep telling y’self that, pal.”

Joe shook his head and put his son down on one of the cushion-backed chairs, then took the seat next to him. I’m not a pussy. I just have other priorities right now. Although, if someone doesn’t go down and barricade that door then we’ll all be in trouble. Maybe I should go…

Victor dragged a table over to the doorway and the scraping sound against the thin carpet broke Joe away from his thoughts. He sat and watched the man grab a second table and upend it on top of the first, then drag them both into the corridor outside.

“Can this situation become any more farcical?” said Randall, complaining again and as upbeat as ever. “A total disaster!”

“Think I’d have to agree with you there,” said Bill, rummaging through one of the bookshelves. “Things keep going from bad to worse.”

“We should be okay for now, though,” said Mason. “Victor is barricading the door as we speak and there’s no other way to reach this section of the building other than the staircase we just ascended.”

“Shouldn’t someone be helping Victor?” Shirley asked.

“He can handle himself,” said Randall. Joe was glad to hear it from someone else. “I’d be more concerned about your own hide and the situation we’re in, my dear.”

Bill returned a thick text book to its space on the shelf and turned around. “And what situation are we in exactly? I still don’t know.”

Grace offered an explanation. “I think things are…bad. I mean really bad. If this is happening everywhere then we could be in some serious trouble. There might not be anyone coming for a long time.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Randall.

“I don’t think so,” said Joe. “I’m sure everything will work out eventually, but I don’t see anyone coming by to help us for a while. If animals are attacking everywhere then the whole country is going to be in chaos. I didn’t want to admit it at first, but I think we’re all stuck here.”

Mason nodded. “We need to start thinking about settling in, planning for a couple of days here.”

Randall slapped his hands down on one of the tables, startling everyone. “Unacceptable!”

Bill put a hand to his forehead. “Seriously, man, you gotta wake up. This shit is bad and it’s time to forget about business appointments and brunch in the city.”

“I need to get out of here. I am far too important to be missing in action. There are people who rely on me.”

“Those people are probably dead,” said Grace.

The suggestion seemed to hit home to Randall and he stood there silently, swaying back and forth slightly as his mouth moved in speechless quivers.

“I’m sorry,” said Joe, “but that’s most likely true. I think we’re alone for now. We should just count ourselves lucky that we’re alive.”

“Count yourself lucky,” said Randall. “I don’t see it that way.”

Joe put his hands up. “Fine, but can you at least accept the situation we’re in?”

Randall said nothing. He moved away from the group and sat down. That was fine by Joe. The further away the piggish little man was the better. He leant back in his chair and looked at his son. “You’ve been a really good boy today, Danny. Very quiet and well behaved.”

“The animals are after us, aren’t they? They don’t want to be in cages no more.”

Joe thought about lying to his frightened son, but found that he couldn’t. “Something has made them really mad at us,” he admitted, “but I’m going to look after you.”

“Promise?”

Joe smiled and said, “Ohhhh yeahhhhh!”

Danny laughed hard. “Macho Man!”

“That’s right. Anything that tries to hurt you will get the big elbow drop.”

Bill and Grace joined Joe and Danny at the table, attracted by the noise. “Everything okay here?” Grace asked.

“I was just telling Danny what a good boy he’s been.”

“You’re telling me!” She patted Danny on the arm. “Not a peep out of this brave warrior.”

Danny smiled. “Ultimate Warrior.”

Grace looked at Joe, confused.

“One thing to know about my son is that he’s obsessed with wrestlers from the eighties and nineties. I’m kind of hoping he’ll get over it.”

“Where did he get that from?”

Joe’s cheeks flushed red. “Me.”

Grace giggled. “Nothing wrong with that. Better than being football-obsessed like most the guys I meet. I’m surprised you never ended up being a wrestler yourself, size you are.”

Joe looked at himself and nodded. “I think that’s why I liked it as a kid. I was bigger than everyone else and I felt like a bit of an oddball, but every week I would watch these giants on TV being worshipped by millions and I wouldn’t feel so bad anymore.”

“Maybe that’s why I used to like Culture Club,” said Bill, and they all laughed.

Until the noise cut them off.

A ruckus somewhere in the building. The crashing sounds of a violent struggle. It wasn’t until they heard the shrill shrieking of monkeys that it became obvious what was happening.

“Victor!” said Joe. “The monkeys must have broken in before he had chance to secure the doors.”

Bill leapt up. “We need to get that door closed.”

Joe sprang up too. “Grace, look after Danny. Danny, I’ll be right back. Be good.”

Joe and Bill swung open the door and ran into the corridor. The chaotic noise became louder as it echoed off the walls on their approach to the stairs. They could hear Victor screaming out insults.

“Take that, yer wee bastards! I’ll break yer frickin’ necks.”

Joe took the steps downwards, twice as fast as he’d gone up them – four at a time – the impact of every stair rattling the bones in his ankles. Despite his haste, it still felt like an eternity to reach the bottom. When he did, with Bill hurtling into the back of him, Joe wished he hadn’t.

The monkeys were inside.

Victor noticed Joe and Bill’s presence and spun around to face them with his back against the door. Thick scratches and ragged bite-marks covered his body. “Give me a bloody hand, will ya!” he shouted.

Joe and Bill rushed forward down the corridor, gripping the edge of one of the tables that Victor had abandoned half way down. It was heavy and Joe wondered how on Earth the Scotsman had manoeuvred two at once. They slid the table towards the door, which was now being forced open by two-dozen sets of razor-tipped paws. Victor was pushing back as hard as he could, trying to force it shut, but there were four monkeys already inside the entranceway and they were all lunging for him. They bit and clawed at his tattooed arms and legs, shrieking in ecstasy as they drew fresh blood from his wounds. Victor ignored them and kept his concentration on keeping the door closed.

Joe’s eyes stretched wide. The situation would not quite compute in his brain, but he knew that he needed to act right now, before Victor’s body gave out to the relentless mauling by the four monkeys.

Joe prepared himself for battle. “Time to lay the smack down on your monkey asses.”

He sprinted towards Victor.

5

Randall didn’t know who the hell they thought they were. Talking to me like that. I could buy and sell the lot of them, yet they speak as though I’m no one. He took a tug on his inhaler, enjoying the feeling of loosening lung tissue. When all this is over, they will pay.

Randall had been sitting and watching from his position away from the group for ten minutes now, looking out of the window that ran the entire length of the wall. The view outside was unusual, to say the least, but it lent credence to what the others had all been saying. Things were indeed bad.

The number of dead bodies scattered outside on the zoo’s various pathways must have numbered fifty or more. There were slimy morsels of flesh littering the area like grizzly lawn ornaments. The numerous corpses wore grim expressions of agony, as though their final thoughts had been frozen onto their torn faces forever. It was all very interesting.

Obviously something fundamental in the universe had changed, gone off kilter. Only those willing to adapt would be able to cope with whatever lay ahead. Randall planned on being one of those people.

There will be heroes born of this situation.

The animals outside milled about with purpose and determination that should have been alien to lesser species. Grouping together, in what seemed to be a search and destroy mission, and sniffing out all corners for people who still lived – but there were no people left, as far as Randall could see, and their search seemed to be coming to an end. He watched curiously as a threesome of raggedy hyenas congregated next to what looked to be a pack of oversized house cats. There were many other creatures that Randall could not name, along with the many more obvious species that he could: animals like camels, zebras, and various species of deer. Wildlife had never been of much interest to Randall, and collecting animals together in a park, so that little brats could poke and prod at them, seemed pointless.

Better to just put them down than enslave them. Especially the dangerous ones. People must be mad to keep a bunch of lions around. Just look at the situation it caused today.

Randall lent over on his chair, tilting towards the nearest bookcase. He plucked a hardback book from the shelf and dropped his chair back onto four legs. There was nothing about this situation that Randall liked. He decided the best thing to do while he was stuck there was to learn a bit about the animals. Maybe then he could do something useful if they attacked again. He turned the first page of the book in front of him and started reading, oblivious to Victor’s screams that had just started from the floor below.

6

Joe could not believe he had just struck a monkey in the face. It had jumped up and clawed itself onto Victor’s neck and was just about to draw blood when Joe wound up and threw a heavy right hand. The blow stung his fist, but it hurt the monkey more. The primate lay unconscious now, on the floor, twitching and staring up at the ceiling like a punch drunk boxer.

The other three monkeys were already taking its place and Victor kicked out at them as he struggled to keep the door from opening. "Get these bloody things away from me!”

Bill came up behind Joe, pushing the table in front of him. “You help Victor and I’ll get this up against the door.”

Victor continued to kick out at the monkeys in front of him. They hissed and swiped back at him with their blood-stained paws. Joe swung his leg at them, but they moved just in time and Joe found himself kicking his foot through thin air. He lost balance, swinging his arms to steady himself.

A monkey seized on the opportunity and leapt at Joe’s arm as though it were a tree branch, clinging on with sharp-nailed hands and feet whilst at the same time wrapping its wiry tail around his bicep. Joe shook like crazy, but the animal stayed put, digging in even harder with its claws. Joe thought he might pass out from the pain, and only just managed to step aside as Bill came up fast with the table behind him.

“Out the way!” Bill rammed the table up against the door. Victor had to leap up and over it before it pinned him. Once on the other side the Scotsman helped Bill push the table tighter against the door.

Joe screamed out for help. “This thing is gonna rip my goddamn arm off!”

Victor stomped towards Joe, covered in his own blood and with a look of pissed-off determination on his face. He deftly dodged the other two monkeys that blocked his path and made straight for the third, the one wrapped around Joe’s arm.

“Bloody oversized rats.” Victor snarled and produced a menacing knife from somewhere on his person like he were performing a magic trick. “Time to get busy, Martha,” he said to the blade, then casually slit the monkey’s throat. The animal fell limply from Joe’s arm, hit the floor silently, and quivered as blood streamed from its body.

Joe stumbled away, clutching his arm. Weeping gashes covered his flesh, but none seemed too deep to endure. He looked around the corridor and immediately spotted the other two monkeys who were still an active danger. “Quick,” he shouted. “We have to get them.”

Victor shoved Joe back, holding his knife out in front of him. “You two get back upstairs. Me and Martha can handle it from here, no bovva.”

Joe went to argue, but Bill put a hand on his chest and eased him away. “Let’s get your arm looked at. I don’t have the stomach for this.”

If Joe was honest, he didn’t either. He avoided looking back as he made his way up the staircase. The wet stabbing sounds and animalistic shrieking was enough to turn his stomach inside out.

* * *

Joe couldn’t stop shaking. Neither he nor Bill talked about what had just happened downstairs – how calmly Victor had brandished that knife.

Did he call it ‘Martha’?

I should be thankful of the guy, Joe thought. He did what no one else could. Probably saved my arm. Still, would like to know where he got that knife from.

He must have been carrying it the whole time.

Joe had a bad feeling, but it wasn’t worth worrying about for now. He re-entered the seminar room and sat down next to Grace. Danny, Bill, and Mason were there also. Randall and Shirley sat away from the group – Randall with his head buried in a book. Shirley gazing out of the window. Joe placed his hand on top of Grace’s. “Thanks for looking after Danny,” he said.

She smiled. “I think he was the one looking after me. I was worried.”

“Really,” said Joe. “Worried about me?”

Grace’s cheeks went red. “Yeah. Bill, too, of course.”

Joe nodded. “Oh. Well, we’re both okay, luckily.”

“What happened down there?” Mason enquired.

“There were some of those monkeys that got inside.”

“Crab-eating macaques.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“They’re crab-eating macaques. If they’re the same ones that were at the staff room window, that is. Not usually dangerous, but a large group of them can get into a frenzy.”

“Okay, well, these…macaques…had nearly gotten the door open when we got there. A bunch of them were already in the corridor. They were attacking Victor. Luckily we managed to get the door closed again. We secured it with some tables.”

“What happened to the macaques that had already gotten inside?” Mason asked.

Joe glanced at Bill, who looked away sheepishly. Joe didn’t feel the need to freak everyone out with the gory details or what Victor had done. “Well, erm…Victor sorted them out. Managed to grab them and throw them back through a gap in the door while we held it open a crack.”

Grace was next to speak. “What’s Victor doing now?”

Bill answered. “He’s securing the door some more. Making sure it’s nice and solid.”

Everyone seemed satisfied with the version of events, so Joe changed the subject. “Do we have anything for my arm?” He looked down at Danny, who had put his head into his hands when he’d seen his father’s blood. He lent forward and whispered, “I don’t want Danny upset. The wounds look worse than they are.”

Mason slid his chair back and stood up. “Of course. I apologise for the delay. I should be able to find a first aid kit in one of the labs.”

“Labs?”

“Yes. We are in the zoo’s research wing, after all. There are several laboratories for testing and examinations, as well as a veterinary surgery that is used to treat the animals. Unfortunately, none of the vets are here today.”

Grace laughed. “Think we’ll have to play doctors and nurses ourselves then.”

Mason smiled back, but the gesture was strained. “Quite.”

Joe watched Mason walk away and hugged his son around the shoulders with his uninjured arm. “I’m gonna be okay, buddy. Just a few scratches.”

Danny didn’t lift his head from his arms and Joe wondered whether he was sobbing. “How can you look after me,” his son mumbled, “if you can’t look after yourself?”

It hurt Joe to hear his son had such little faith in him, but it was probably warranted given the circumstances. Joe continued patting Danny on the back as he spoke. “Even heroes get hurt, buddy. How about when the Warrior had a curse put on him by Papa Shango? Or when Macho Man got bitten by a snake?”

Danny lifted his head slightly, then put it back down again. “Or like when The Model blinded Jake the Snake with his cologne?”

“Exactly,” said Joe. “They all got hurt, but it didn’t stop them, did it? I’m still fighting, and I’m still going to protect you.”

Finally, Danny looked up. He gave a cheery smile but his young face didn’t wear it correctly amongst the tears.

“Don’t cry, Danny,” said Grace. “Your dad is a hero. He’s been saving people all day. Nothing will happen to you with him around. He’s too big and strong.”

Danny giggled. “Do you like my dad?”

Grace blushed.

Joe saved her the agony of answering. “Danny! Don’t ask people questions like that.”

“Sorry, Dad.”

Joe tussled his hair. “Okay. No problem, buddy.”

At that moment, the door swung open and Victor stepped through. He was no longer covered by blood except for the staining on his clothes. Everyone in the room was quiet, but he didn’t seem to notice their reaction. “All done down there,” he chirped. “Those hairy bastards shouldn’t be able to get through any time soon.”

Joe suddenly felt increasingly protective of his son in Victor’s presence, but tried not to show it. “Great!” he said. “We all owe you one.”

“How did you get the blood off you?” asked Bill, eyeing the man’s multiple scratches.

Victor grinned, teeth showing like rows of daggers. “Magic!”

Bill frowned. “Huh?”

“I grabbed a fire extinguisher off the wall and sprayed myself clean. Stung like buggery, but luckily it was just scratches and nothing nasty.”

“Same here,” said Joe, examining his own shallow wounds.

Before anybody said anything else, Mason entered the room.

“Couldn’t find a first aid kit?” Joe enquired when he noticed the man wasn’t carrying anything.

Mason shook his head and seemed lost for a moment. “Huh? Oh, yes. I mean, no. I got distracted. I…I think you should all come and see this.”

Joe stood up. Whatever Mason had seen was not going to be good news.

7

“What are they doing?” Joe looked around at the rows of cages that lined the laboratory on all sides. “They’ve gone insane!”

“No shit,” said Victor. “Was that not clear to you, pal?”

Joe ignored the comment, mainly because he was so horrified by what he was seeing. Dozens of small animals, trapped within cages, were hurling themselves against the steel bars, screeching furiously as they bled and bruised. The noise was deafening, made worse by the incessant clanging of the bars being struck by frantic bodies. Worst of all was the smell of shit hanging in the air like a wet blanket.

“What are they doing, Dad?” Danny asked.

“I don’t know.” Joe studied the various species of frenzied rodents and small mammals. “I think you better go back to the other room with Grace while we figure this out.”

Grace obliged without complaint and took Danny’s hand, leading him back out of the room. Joe stepped further inside and joined up with the other men, who were already deep in conversation around an aluminium operating table in the centre of the room.

Bill was talking the loudest. “They’re gonna smash their own skulls in just to get at us!”

“I know,” said Mason, cringing as the intense racket grew even louder. “In fact I think some of the smaller animals are already dead.”

Sure enough, Joe spotted a couple of dead rabbits in a nearby cage, skulls smashed in and leaking pink and grey sticky fluid. He swallowed, trying to stem the bile rising in his stomach. “What could cause them to act like this?”

Mason shrugged. “There is nothing in recorded science that could override an animal’s instinct to survive – at least not on a mass scale. Even rabid dogs wouldn’t smash their own skulls in a blind rage.”

“Obviously something has caused this,” Randall said. “You obviously just lack the required knowledge to explain it.”

“I agree,” Mason admitted. “I lack any knowledge of what could cause this.”

Randall seemed smug. Joe felt like punching him.

“But so would any other person in my field,” Mason added. “This defies explanation. I don’t know of any virus or biological condition that would present in this way. Even rabies would not present on such a wide scale.”

Bill sighed. “I think what caused this is irrelevant now. What we need to think about is how to defend ourselves. What do we know about this thing, so far?”

The group thought for a few moments. Then Victor said, “We know that they’re after us. Those wee monkeys downstairs were single-minded in taking chunks out of my arse. Nay else mattered to them. Like they were possessed or something.”

“Yes,” said Mason. “It’s quite clear from what we are seeing in this very room that the animal’s instincts are being entirely over-ridden by the desire to attack us; even at the expense of their own well-being. Whether or not they are ‘possessed’ is a different conversation altogether though. What else do we know?”

“They’re working together,” said Randall. “I saw them from the window in the seminar room. They were moving in groups, searching for people. Even animals that would usually attack each other like wolves and those brown, spotty cats were working together.”

Mason rubbed both hands against his pale face. “Lynx. The zoo has eight Canadian Lynxes. They would have been the cats you saw – and you’re right, the wolves should have attacked them. It is most disturbing. It appears that the laws of nature no longer exist. The animal kingdom has lost its natural instincts and replaced them with one prime directive: extinguish all human life. We are now at the bottom of the food chain, hunted by all other species.”

“Not quite.” Bill was standing over by the cages. “Look.”

Joe and the others moved closer to the cages and saw what Bill was pointing at.

Mason leaned forward and examined closer. “The birds!”

Joe nodded. “The birds aren’t affected.”

The two plump, brightly-coloured macaws were extremely agitated, but it was clear that they were not suffering from the same malady as the other animals. They were just normal, frightened birds.

Victor spoke up. “So whatever’s happening isn’t affecting the birds? Grand! That makes my day a whole lot better.”

“Sarcasm aside,” said Mason, “this bodes well for us. If this phenomena had affected avian species then we would surely have been doomed. There are hundreds of thousands of birds in the UK alone and there would be no way to defend against them. This is very good news.”

Joe agreed. He didn’t like the thought of being in a real life version of The Birds. “I wonder if any other species are unaffected.” he said.

“I suppose time will tell,” said Mason. “For now, we should close this room off. Just in case the animals get free.”

“Fuck that,” Victor said. “Let’s euthanise the bastards.”

“We will do no such thing! Many of these animals are endangered species.”

“So what! They’ve gone feral.”

“I will not allow it!”

Victor pushed Mason aside and pulled out ‘Martha’, shocking those that had not yet seen her.

“Victor!” It was Randall speaking.

Victor spun around. “What?”

Randall went and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We are all going to have to work together now, so if our good friend, Mason, wants to leave these animals…intact, then I believe it would be best to do so – in the interest of cooperation. We should not be brandishing knives.”

That’s weird, Joe thought. Maybe Randall’s not a complete git after all.

Victor’s face scrunched up. “If these things spring loose,” he said, “you’ll wish different.”

“Perhaps,” said Randall, “but for now these animals seem secure enough not to concern us. Put the knife away, my friend.”

After a brief hesitation, Victor finally returned Martha to her hidden sheath behind his back. He glared at Mason. “These things get free and it’ll be on your head.”

Mason nodded and Victor stomped away, joined by Bill and Randall. Joe waited behind. “We should go too,” he said to Mason, eying up the creatures rampaging inside their cages. “Maybe they’ll calm down if they can’t see us.”

“I hope so. They only started acting up once I entered the room. They were silent prior to that.” Mason clicked his fingers. “I almost forgot again. I need to get you a first aid kit.”

Joe laughed. “My arm will be hanging off by the time I get a bandage.”

Mason allowed himself to smile and walked across the room towards the far wall. Sitting atop a filing cabinet was a bright green box. Mason reached out for it.

Then recoiled and hissed.

Joe rushed towards him. “What is it? What happened?”

Mason clutched his hand against his chest. “Something just bit me!”

Joe skidded to a halt on the floor tiles. “Shit! What was it? What bit you?”

Mason’s hand had started to bleed from two round puncture wounds. Red globules dripped onto the ground. “I don’t know. Be careful.”

Being careful was not advice Joe needed. He trod carefully towards the filing cabinet, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. As he got closer, he could make out a delicate scratching sound from behind the first aid kit. Something was definitely there.

But what?

Joe looked around for a weapon – something that would put some distance between him and whatever hidden creature had bitten Mason.

“Over there.” Mason pointed. “There’s a set of steel tongs for holding hot materials.”

Joe saw the implement and grabbed it off the nearby table. The long metal rod felt good in his hands, empowering him enough that some of his nerves faded away. He crept towards the filing cabinet. Positive that the scratching sound was becoming louder.

“What should I do?”

Mason came up beside Joe, still clutching his wounded hand against his chest. “I don’t know. Just be ready. Whatever it is was small and quick. You may only get one chance.”

“What happened to your views about euthanasia?”

“The bugger bit me.”

“Fair enough.” Joe prepared to attack. He held out the tongs in front of him and aimed them towards the first aid kit. “Ready?”

Mason nodded. “Ready.”

Joe prodded the first aid kit and knocked it onto the floor.

Yikes!

There, amongst a stack of papers and a pencil pot, was a snarling brown ferret the size of an obese house cat.

Joe swung for the bleachers.

“Damn it!”

A miss.

The ferret leapt towards Joe, claws outstretched and ready to draw blood. Joe spun around and managed to sidestep. Mason ran in the other direction. Joe readied himself for another swing. “A bloody ferret? Seriously?”

“They were going to add them to the petting zoo,” said Mason. “They had one up here to assess its temperament.”

Joe swung the metal tongs again – missed – struck the hard tile of the floor, sending a tingling sensation from his wrist to his elbow. “I think its temperament is grumpy.”

The elongated animal lunged at Joe again. This time it managed to get a bite-hold on his lower leg, thick incisors burying deep into the fatty flesh of his calf. He hollered in pain, poked at the rodent with the tongs, tried to grip and twist the animal’s elongated body away from him.

“Jesus, this thing won’t give in.” Joe felt needle-like fangs burrowing deeper into his skin, scraping against bone.

He screamed louder.

Mason rushed forward and tried to kick the rat away, but the man’s complete lack of athletic prowess was evident. His kick missed completely and he stumbled onto his knees in a tangle of his own cumbersome limbs.

With the thrashing rodent continuing to take a chunk out of his calf, Joe looked for an urgent solution. Attached to one of the desks was a gas valve, leading to a Bunson Burner. He hobbled over to it.

The burner turned on easily enough – Joe’s memories of high school physics helped him through. The sudden flame licked about two-inches into the air. He turned the inlet valve and sent the flame another inch higher. Without hesitation, Joe pushed the tongs into the flame, heating the tips. The ferret continued to rip and tear at his flesh, but he had to bear it for just a few seconds longer. If this was going to work, he needed to wait.

The acrid smell of burning dust filled the air. The metal tongs began to turn red.

Joe waited a few more, unbearable seconds, until he could take the dizzying pain no longer, then he pulled the tongs away and carefully lined up the molten pincers on either side of the ferret’s thrashing head.

He clamped the tongs shut.

The animal immediately released its grip on Joe’s leg and screeched in a pitch so hellish that it hurt his ears. The noise sharpened as the tongs tightened. Eventually, the ferret’s squeals weakened into breathless whimpers, fading away to total silence. The furry body went limp. Joe released the tongs, letting them, and the ferret, fall to the floor.

“It’s dead,” said Mason. “But you probably already knew that.”

Joe panted, struggled to get his words out. “Can I please…get…that first aid kit now?”

Joe’s body collapsed onto the floor, spilling fresh blood onto the tiles.

8

“It’s time to start planning, my friends.” Randall had perched himself down on the edge of a desk as he addressed those present in the room. “It took me a little time,” he said. “I’ll admit that now. But I’ve finally come to understand the situation we are in. It will take organisation and planning to survive. We all need to be moving in the same direction, scribbling on the same page.”

Cosby folded his arms. “What do you suggest?”

“That we act now rather than later. We need to find food, blankets, water. The building needs to be secured – at least our part of it. A strategy has to be in place if we are to get through this together. We don’t know how long rescue might take.”

“Where do we start?” asked the brunette girl, Grace. She was young and attractive, if a little plain. Randall noticed that her fingernails were chipped. It made her look cheap – and so did the many faint scars that lined her arms.

One of those self-harming misfits by the looks of things.

Randall grinned at the girl. He intended to look charming. “We start in order of priority, my dear. We need to secure this floor as much as possible, windows as well as doors. Then we need to find food and water. Once we’ve got those we can concentrate on settling in and waiting for help. I think we should split into two teams.” Everyone seemed to be in agreement, so he continued. “Victor, you take Bill and Shirley. I’ll take Grace and Mr. Mason. That is, whenever he returns from whatever it is that he’s doing.”

“What about Joe?” Grace asked.

Randall thought about it for a moment before answering her. “I was assuming that he could actually look after his son for once. I know he seems to prefer that you look after him, my dear, but right now the group needs you.”

Grace looked down at the little boy asleep in her arms. “I’ll just look after him until his dad gets back, then.”

“Where is the big lummox anyway?” Victor asked.

Cosby answered. “He stayed behind in the lab with Mason. I think they’re bandaging his wounds up.”

Randall sighed. “Let’s hope he hurries up and makes some use of himself.”

“I think Joe has proven himself on a number of occasions.”

Victor sniggered. “Sounds like you wanna bum the guy? Big dumb blonds your type?”

“Screw you!”

“You wish, poofter.”

Randall put a stop to things before they could go any further. Childishness was not of benefit right now. “Gentlemen, please remember that you will be working together. Try to behave like adults.”

Victor put his hands up, a wide grin on his broad, cat-like face. “I’m just fooling around. He knows I don’t mean it.”

Cosby glared at the other man. “Yeah right.”

Randall waved a hand dismissively. “Okay, you two take Shirley and begin checking for any areas that need securing. It wouldn’t hurt to seek out weapons too. See what you can find.”

Victor nodded and took off immediately. After a short while, Shirley and Bill followed after him. That left Randall and Grace alone.

Along with the brat, of course. Where the hell is his deadbeat father gotten to? Maybe those animals have escaped their cages and torn him apart. One can only hope...

Randall scolded himself for such an ill-natured thought. Such a harsh attitude was not the way to proceed in the current situation. A certain amount of tact would be needed. He sat down next to Grace and smiled. “I guess we should get started then, sweetheart?”

Grace frowned and Randall made a mental note: She doesn’t like ‘sweetheart’. Don’t use it again. He smiled at her. “I thought we could check each room for a water cooler. Office buildings always have them, do you agree?”

“Okay. Should I bring Danny with us or find Joe first?”

Randall thought about it. Guess it couldn’t hurt to come across as child-friendly. “Yes,” he said. “We can take the little sprog along. Perhaps we’ll bump into his father along the way.”

Grace seemed confused. “Your attitude has changed.”

“I think the stress of this situation affected me worse than I first realised. I’m prone to making harsh judgements. A defence mechanism, I guess.”

Grace’s demeanour softened and she nodded. “Okay. Let’s get going.”

“Great!” Randall stood up and offered a hand. “Wake the young man and we’ll make a start.”

Grace rubbed Danny’s shoulders. “Time to wake up, honey.”

The boy stirred slowly. Too slowly, and Randall became impatient. “Come on now, lad. We’re going to go and find your father.”

The boy opened his eyes and looked around in a daze. “Where’s Dad?”

“We’re going to find him now,” Grace answered.

The boy nodded and finally woke up fully. Randall forced himself to smile. “That’s a good lad. You hold on to Grace’s hand now, you hear?”

The three of them headed for the door and stepped out into the corridor. Randall couldn’t be certain, but he thought he could still hear the riotous shrieking of the monkeys downstairs. Not to mention the rattling cages in the lab up ahead. He wondered if Joe and Mason were still inside.

“We should check the lab,” said Grace, obviously wondering the same thing he was. “They’re probably still in there.”

Randall nodded. He put a hand out in front of Grace to stop her. “I’ll go, but you stay here just in case there’s any danger.”

The boy whimpered and Grace stroked his head. “Daddy is okay, honey. We just need to check that there’s nothing a little boy like you shouldn’t see.”

“I’m not little. I’m big and strong like the British Bulldog.”

British Bulldog? The kid has a screw loose.

Randall didn’t have time for this. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

He padded along the blue carpet and headed for the door. When he got there, he placed a hand around the long silver handle. Thoughts filled his mind about what he might find inside. His earlier notion of the animals escaping their cages now seemed quite plausible. The image of Joe and Mason ripped to shreds and lying in a pool of their own blood filled his mind. He almost turned back, but he had to do this, or else he’d lose face in front of the girl.

Slowly, Randall pushed down the handle.

When the door opened, the hinges squeaked. Randall hoped it wouldn’t alert anything dangerous to his presence.

There was chaos inside the room. Randall immediately saw trails of blood – and what seemed to be a dead ferret. Amongst it all was Mason, kneeling over the body of Joe.

Is he dead? What the hell happened in here?

Randall was just about to burst into the room and offer his assistance, but he quickly reconsidered. Instead, he closed the door quietly and turned back into the corridor.

Grace was looking at him expectantly. “Well?” she asked.

Randall shook his head. “No one in there. They must have gone somewhere else.”

Grace bit at her lower lip. The gesture suggested vulnerability and made her more attractive. “Why would they have gone someplace else?”

“I guess we’ll know when we find them.”

“We should probably keep on, then.”

“Yes,” said Randall. “Let’s go see what else we can find.”

9

The pinprick of light gradually widened until Joe’s vision returned. He found himself staring at the ceiling, his head throbbing like a drum beat, but the worst pain was in his leg. It felt like it was being held over a flame.

“Are you okay?” asked a voice from somewhere in the room.

Joe didn’t reply for a few moments, and at first didn’t even know who the other person was. Then, as he continued staring at the blank white ceiling and listening to the chaotic sound of rattling cages in the room, everything came flooding back.

He tried to sit up, but Mason held him down. “Wait a few minutes. Catch your breath.”

“The animals, they’ve gone mad. I need to find Danny.”

Mason shushed him. “Danny is fine. He’s with Grace. You’ve been out for almost ten minutes.”

Joe remembered passing out because of the pain. “My leg? How is it?”

“I think you’ll be okay. You’ve got a pretty deep gash, but I stopped the bleeding. I bandaged it while you were out. Your arm too.”

Joe examined himself and allowed himself a small laugh at the absurdity of what he looked like – a mummy in training. “I feel like a train hit me.”

Mason smiled in a reassuring manner. It was surprising how much the curator’s dry personality and lack of social skills could still be such a comfort. “No, it was just a little ferret. You certainly have been in the wars. Come on, I think you’re okay to get up now.”

Joe took Mason’s arm and heaved himself up onto one knee. After a couple of laboured breaths he struggled to his feet. Pain stabbed through the bite-mark on his right thigh, but he fought it to the back of his mind. He had to get back to Danny.

“Easy there,” said Mason, steadying him.

“I’m okay. Let’s just get out of here.”

The two of them headed back out into the corridor and crossed over to the other side. Mason opened the door to the seminar room and stepped inside. Joe followed, limping and wincing.

“Where is everyone?” Mason asked.

Joe’s stomach rolled and a lightning spark shot up his spine. “Where’s Danny? Where’s my son?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing. Let’s just go look for them before jumping to any unhelpful conclusions.”

Joe clenched his giant fists and felt himself tremble. They had no right to move Danny without informing him first. He stormed out of the room. If it were not for the agony in his leg he would have run.

“Slow down,” Mason shouted from behind him.

But Joe did the opposite. He sped up, zigzagging the corridor from door to door and checking behind each one. Every room was empty.

“Danny!” he shouted.

Somewhere up ahead, a voice shouted back. Joe finally managed to run, ignoring the pain in his leg. Up ahead on the left was a room with the label: WAREHOUSE MEZZANINE.

“Dad, I’m here.”

Joe pulled down the handle and pushed open the door. Inside was a cavernous room that stretched down to an open space at ground-level. It looked like a storage space for the zoo, a warehouse full of random crates and boxes. Joe was standing on a metal walkway that towered above. It led to a flight of stairs on the right and a small, windowed cubicle-office on the left. Danny was inside the office.

Randall was with him.

“Son of a bitch!” Joe sprinted into the office just as Randall turned around to face him. The punch caught the man square in his flabby jaw, knocking him to the floor. Joe stood over him. “What the hell are you doing with my son?”

Randall scooted back on his rear and rubbed his chin. “Are you insane?”

Joe noticed his son, shaking in the corner, and put an arm out. “Danny, come here.”

Danny ran over to his father, buried his face in his stomach, and wrapped his arms around him. Joe turned his stare back to Randall. “Why were you alone with my son?”

“He wasn’t alone,” said a voice behind Joe.

He turned around to find Grace coming up the metal staircase from the warehouse floor. He raised his eyebrows at her. “What?”

Grace was shaking her head and seemed angry. “I told Danny to wait in the office with Randall while I looked downstairs for supplies. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

“Why did you all run off without telling me? What was I supposed to think?”

Grace laughed. It was an unpleasant sound. “You were the one that ran off. We didn’t know where you were. We were hoping we’d find you on our way.”

“What?” Joe stepped towards her, shaking his head. “You couldn’t have looked very hard. I was still in the lab.”

Grace seemed confused for a moment and Joe caught her glancing past him towards Randall. “But we looked there,” she said. “Randall said the room was empty.”

Joe turned around. Randall had gotten back to his feet and had plonked himself down on an office chair. The man was rubbing his chin and wheezed slightly as he spoke. “It was empty. It was a bit of a mess in there, but I didn’t see you.”

Joe didn’t buy it, but, before he had chance to say as much, Mason came up behind and placed a hand on his back. “You were unconscious, Joe, and I was kneeling on the floor. It’s quite possible that he didn’t see us.”

“Right,” said Randall. “I only poked my head in – granted – but it looked to me like the room was empty. I’m very sorry, my friend.”

“No,” said Grace. “It’s Joe that should be apologising to you.”

Everyone looked at Joe and he suddenly felt like a misbehaved child. Reluctantly he accepted his error. “I’m sorry, Randall. I…acted badly.”

“Yes, you did.” Randall offered his hand out. “But we have bigger fish to fillet right now so let’s just forget about it.”

Joe couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw the beginning of a smirk on the other man’s face. Still – whether he trusted Randall or not – Joe was the one in the wrong. “I’m sorry,” he said begrudgingly.

“Okay then,” said Grace. “Now that we’ve got that sorted, maybe Mason can tell us what’s what in here.”

“Of course,” said Mason. “This is the zoo’s storage warehouse. It’s one of the places we keep dry animal feed, maintenance and landscaping tools, cafeteria supplies, et cetera. The cleaner’s station is also here”

“Cafeteria supplies,” said Grace. “Excellent, that’s just what we need.”

“Should we leave it here or gather it up?” Joe asked.

“I think it would be best to split it,” Randall said. “If something happens to one stockpile then we will have a backup.”

“Good idea,” Joe admitted, although he hoped the theory wouldn’t have to be tested. “Mason can show me where the supplies are and then we’ll bring some of them up. Where are we gonna camp out with the stuff?”

“I think we should remain in the seminar room, for now,” said Mason. “It’s the only room with soft furnishings and it’s the closest to the stairwell, which will give us the quickest warning if anything gets through the barricade in the lower hallway.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Randall. “I’ll check on Victor and the others and bring them up to da--.”

They all heard the shouting from across the corridor. Two male voices. Neither of them happy.

Joe shook his head and sighed. “I think maybe we should all go and check on them.”

10

There were humans inside. He could smell their wretched fear. They hid inside their tower, their symbol of comfort and fearlessness. While he had spent his life inside a cage, held back from the world by unrelenting bars, the humans enjoyed a freedom that should have been a right of all living beings. The humans had taken his freedom away many years ago, but now he was going to take it back. He was going to take it back for every creature enslaved by man. Something had happened. Things had become unquestionably clear. Things that he had once not understood were now simple concepts that he had learned without even being aware of how. His mind had changed – he was no longer an animal content to be enslaved.

The human’s time as masters was over. There were undeserving even to be slaves. They deserved only to be extinguished.

He roared and assembled his troops.

* * *

Joe and the others found Bill and Victor arguing in a cramped office at the end of the corridor. The conversation was heated and both men looked ready to get physical. Shirley stood nearby and seemed content to watch them.

Bill squared up to Victor. “Call me that again. I’m begging you.”

“I think once was enough for you to get the point, pal.”

“I’m not your goddamn pal.”

Joe got between the two men. “What’s happened?”

Bill took a step back and seemed like he was trying to keep hold of himself. “Man here called me a queer.”

Joe looked at Victor, shocked that the man was grinning with what looked like pride. “Is that true?”

Victor nodded. “What’s the problem? That’s what he is, so where’s the harm in being honest about it?”

“You’re vile,” said Grace.

Victor shrugged. “Your opinion, lass.”

“Actually,” Mason added. “I think you’ll find that it’s all decent people’s opinion. It is wholly unacceptable in this day and age to use language like that.”

Victor stiffened up defensively. “Where I come from we call a spade a spade.”

Randall stepped up to Victor and pulled him slightly aside. “But you’re not there now. You’re here, and need to respect other people’s feelings. When this is all over you can go home and think and say whatever you like.”

“I’ll think and say what I want where I want.”

Bill slapped his hands to his forehead. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with this homophobic fool.”

“Look,” said Joe. “If you want to keep making yourself unpopular, Victor, then go right ahead. The rest of us will just ignore you for the closed-minded jerk that you are. What I want to know is why the hell you two got into this in the first place.”

Everyone took a breath and seemed to calm down for a moment. Bill finally answered the question. “We saw something from the windows and I panicked. That’s when Victor decided to insult me.”

“I just told you to calm down.”

“What you actually said was, ‘Calm down, queer.’”

Joe sighed.

“What did you see from the window?” Grace asked.

All of the anger in Bill’s face drained away momentarily, anxiety replacing it. “I think it will be better if you look for yourself.”

Joe nodded and Bill led the way as everyone followed over to the window. It was covered by a cheap venetian blind filmed in a layer of grey dust. Bill pulled at a drawstring beside the window and the shutters turned, casting dim shafts of light through the gaps. It was getting dark outside.

Joe walked up to the window and looked outside. He wished he hadn’t. Gathered on the zoo’s pathways was probably every animal in the park. They loitered in tightly-ordered columns, like a well-trained army from the nineteenth-century. Each species was grouped individually: A pack of Timber Wolves sat on their haunches in a rigid, three-by-three square; five giraffes stood together like the dots on a dice – four corners and a centre; a mother orangutang crouched in front of her three adolescent offspring; the zoo’s pair of Komodo dragons flicked their tongues back and forth beside a small group of blood-soaked Meerkats, who themselves were stood next to a growling panther. The entire scene was an exercise in the impossible and there, amongst the entire battalion, standing almost exactly in the centre, was a lone silverback gorilla. Its massive size and strength was apparent even at a distance.

Their leader?

Grace had come to stand beside Joe and was now looking intently at the scene below. “What do you think they’re doing?”

Joe could think of only one reason: “They’re preparing for war.”

“Impossible,” said Mason, taking in the view himself. “Animals lack the necessary level of rational thought to behave that way. They behave on instinct not forethought. They cannot plan, they cannot strategise.”

“I think the rules have changed,” Joe said.

“If the animals are planning then we need to do the same,” said Randall. “We need weapons.”

“I agree,” said Grace, “but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We can’t be certain that they’re assembling to get inside here. They could be preparing to leave the zoo.”

Shirley cackled, getting everyone’s attention whether she intended to or not. “They will not leave. Not while the damned and the sinful still fester among us.”

Joe sighed and rubbed at his eyes. He was getting tired of a lot of things today but Shirley’s preaching was high on the list. “What is happening has nothing to do with God. Even if it did, who are you to act like an authority? Who are you to label any of us as damned?”

“I’m not,” said Shirley. “The Bible is our authority and it is He who condemns the damned. A man should not lie with another man.”

Bill almost jumped in the air. “Not you too? What the hell did I do to deserve this? If it isn’t Victor one minute, it’s her the next. I can’t be doing with any more of this shit.”

Bill stomped away, but a smash against the window made him stop and turn back around. “The hell was that?”

Joe didn’t know. Through the window he could still see all of the animals lined up in formation. Only one of them had moved – the silverback gorilla. It now stared straight up at Joe as if offering some unspoken challenge. There was something in its hand. A large stone.

Joe managed to duck to the floor just as the window shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. “He’s throwing rocks!”

Grace leapt to the floor beside Joe, pulling Danny down with her. “Who is? Who’s throwing rocks?”

Everybody hit the ground as another boulder flew through the broken window.

Joe scooted up against the wall. “The motherfucking gorilla, that’s who. He’s lobbing rocks like a Russian shot putter.”

“Don’t swear, Dad.”

“Sorry, Danny. I’m just excited.”

Grace stared at Joe, wide-eyed, brow-wrinkled. “Guess that answers our question about whether they know we’re in here or not.”

“Sure does, but as long as they don’t get in I can live with a little bit of stone throwing.”

“Joe!” Mason was calling him and pointing to something on the floor. The object was mottled grey with darker patches in several places.

A human head. Stripped of all flesh.

“I think it’s more than just stones,” said Mason.

Joe got up into a crouch and hurried his son and Grace away from the window. “Let’s get out of here, everybody.”

No one argued and the group hurried out of the office, regrouping in the corridor. They gathered into a disorganised huddle and Randall took the lead. “We need to find weapons,” he said. “I think it’s pretty obvious that they’re not going to stop until they find a way in here. They’ll climb the bloody walls if they can. We need to be ready when that happens.”

“What weapons, though?” asked Bill. “It’s not like we have guns and stuff.”

“We don’t need guns,” said Victor. “We can improvise. Anything heavy or sharp will do. Plus we can set traps.”

“Like in Home Alone.” Danny smiled and seemed happy with his contribution.

“Yeah,” said Victor. “Just like in Home Alone, little man.”

Danny giggled. All things considered, he seemed to be holding up better than any of the adults.

Joe had a thought. “Hey, Mason, doesn’t the zoo have tranquilliser guns? You see them all the time on television.”

Mason frowned. “There are dart guns in the Ranger’s station, of course, but I’m afraid that’s at the other end of the zoo. There’s another one inside a locked cabinet in the elephant enclosure, but again we’d have no chance of getting there. In the case of a severe emergency such as this, the local police force is trained to deal with escaped animals with lethal force. Our protocol would simply be to call them – which I have tried already.

“So there’s nothing at all here to help us?” asked Bill, seemingly close to an emotional breakdown. He was rubbing at his forehead with both hands.

“There are drugs in the various laboratories,” Mason added, “but the only way to administer them is by injection or oral ingestion. Does anyone want to get close enough to that gorilla to stick a syringe in him? I don’t.”

Joe showed his disappointment. “Okay, well then do you have any other suggestions for what we could use as weapons?”

Mason thought about it. “There will probably be certain items in the warehouse area. There’s brooms, mop handles, et cetera. We could also look for the litter pickers that the Janitors use. They’re long metal sticks with sharp spikes on the end.”

“Like a spear,” said Victor. “Bill should know how to use one of those.”

Bill ignored the racist remark and Joe admired the man’s self-control. Despite Victor being such an asshole, it was good news about the litter spikes. “That sounds like the best thing we have.”

“Let’s get going then,” Randall urged.

“Should we split up or--”

The sibilant shattering sounds of more objects being thrown through the window of the nearby office alerted them all. It sounded like several things in quick succession.

“Do we ignore that?” said Grace. “Or do we look?”

Multiple rage-filled screeches sent Joe over to the door. Looking inside the office was probably a stupid thing to do, but he needed to know what they were up against. They couldn’t afford to ignore a single thing.

Carefully, Joe cracked open the door and looked inside the room. There was movement inside. Lots of it.

You got to be kidding me?

White and black lemurs leapt about everywhere, flying in through the broken window, one after another. The small, bushy-tailed primates spotted Joe and immediately rushed towards him.

Joe slammed the door and pulled up the handle to engage the catch. When he turned back towards the group he didn’t quite know how to explain it, other than saying: “We’re under siege.”

11

“They’re coming in through the window,” Joe told them.

Randall shook his head in obvious confusion. “What are?”

“A bunch of those little monkeys – lemurs, I think. The ones with the ringed bushy tails and little hands? They’ve gotten into the office.”

As if to validate his claims, several bodies hit the other side of the door. Sharp fingernails began to scratch at the wood.

Grace looked worried. “Do you think they will get through?”

Joe watched as the door handle rattled and then began to turn. He lunged for it and pushed it back up again. “Pretty sure, yeah.”

“We need to jam the door,” said Victor. “Somebody find something we can use to wedge the handle.”

Grace stared at him like a deer in headlights. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, woman, but the longer you stand there having a stroke, the longer it will take you to find something. Now get moving, you daft bint.”

Grace rushed off. Joe hoped she found something soon because his fingers were already beginning to ache from clutching the door handle so tightly. The force on the other side was getting stronger and his grip was getting weaker. It was almost as if the diminutive creatures on the other side were infused with the strength of animals three-times their size. Joe didn’t want to think about what that could mean. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold this…”

“Just hold in there, pal.” Victor tried to get a hold on the handle too, but there was no room for the both of them. Joe thought about changing with Victor, but the brief moment his hand would be off the handle could be all the lemurs needed to get the door open.

Grace reappeared in the corridor, holding a mop and bucket.

Victor laughed. “Clean up on aisle six, love? How’s that going to help?”

Grace didn’t say anything. She yanked the mop from the bucket and ran at Joe and Victor. For a second Joe thought she was about to brain one of them, but instead she shoved the wooden pole up against the door.

Joe realised what she was doing and watched in admiration as Grace threaded the pole behind the handle, twisting it so that both ends wedged against the door’s frame on the left and right. Hesitantly, Joe released his grip on the door handle. It moved slightly, and for a split-second it looked like the plan might fail, but then the handle caught against the pole.

It held.

Joe shook his crippled hand, trying to get some feeling back into it. The knuckles ached as he flexed them. “Good thinking. I don’t think I could have held on much longer.”

Danny put his arm around her. “You’re smart and pretty like Miss Elizabeth.”

Grace raised her eyebrows at Joe.

Joe laughed. “She was a very famous lady in wrestling. It’s a big compliment in Danny’s world.”

Grace knelt down and gave Danny a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you!”

Danny rubbed at the spot where she had kissed him and pulled a face. “Keep your lips to yourself, lady.”

Joe was surprised to see everyone laugh at this, even Victor and Randall – although something about Randall’s expression seemed a little forced.

The banging and scratching on the office door suddenly stopped.

“Perhaps they’re giving up,” Grace suggested.

Joe nodded. “Perhaps. Or maybe they’re moving on to plan B.”

“Plan B?” said Grace.

Joe nodded. “Something tells me that things are just getting started.”

“All the more reason to commence with our own plans,” Randall said. “We need to get moving, my friends. The quicker we can hunker down, the safer we’ll be.”

Everyone agreed. They had to do something proactive instead of waiting for the next attack. Joe had to keep his son safe no matter what. “I’ll go look for the litter pickers in the warehouse,” he said. “Grace, will you and Danny come with me?”

“Of course. I think I may have even seen where they were earlier.”

“Excellent,” said Randall. “I, and the rest of us, will gather supplies into the seminar room.”

With the lack of any argument the group got moving. Joe, Grace, and Danny re-entered the supervisor walkway of the warehouse. Joe leaned over the safety rail and looked down over the various pallets on the floor below. “It’s a bit of a maze down there.”

“I know, but I think I saw the litter pickers over by the delivery shutter on the far wall.”

Joe took his son by the hand. “Let’s go down and get them then. Danny you stick close to Daddy, okay?”

Danny nodded and squeezed Joe’s hand tight.

From the bottom of the steel staircase the warehouse seemed even more like a maze. Joe examined the first stack of pallets in front of him. It was full of cleaning products and housekeeping chemicals. It wasn’t what he was looking for right now but Joe made a mental note of the various bleaches and the FLAMMABLE signs that adorned their bottles.

Grace stood behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Anything?”

“I don’t think so. Let’s keep going.”

The three of them moved on through the warehouse, cataloguing useful items, such as a pallet of canned cafeteria food and a small supply of petrol, while disregarding un-useful items like a crate of plastic animal souvenirs, although Joe did allow Danny to take a Rhinoceros from the pile.

Grace pointed. “I think they’re over there.”

Joe looked across the warehouse and saw a collection of metal rods stacked up against a steel shutter door. He walked over and grabbed one of them. After examining it he saw that it was indeed a spike-tipped litter picker. “Great,” he said, thumbing the sharp point. “These will come in handy.”

“How many are there?” Grace asked. “There’re seven of us.”

Joe sighed. “Only three, but it’s a start.”

“Sure is. Hopefully we won’t need any of them.”

Joe handed one of the spikes to her. “Better to be safe than sorry.”

Grace looked at the tip of the spike in her hand and suddenly began to well up with tears. She wiped at her cheeks with her free hand. “I’m sorry. I just can’t believe what’s happening.”

Joe put down the other two litter pickers and put his arm around her. “It’s okay. We’ll be fine. Whatever has caused this may well end soon. We don’t know what’s going to happen yet.”

Grace squeezed into him, pulling Danny into the hug as well. “I’m so frightened. Things haven’t even sunk in yet and I already feel like I’m going to have a breakdown. I saw people die today and I’m scared. Not just of the animals either.”

Danny started crying also and Joe felt himself wanting to do the same. He couldn’t allow himself to, though, because he needed to be strong for his son – maybe for Grace, too. “I’ll look after you both,” he said, hoping he was strong enough for it to be the truth. “We just need to stick together until all this is over.”

Grace pulled away and looked at Joe. Her eyes were red. “What if it’s never over?”

Joe thought about it and didn’t like what came. If the situation went on permanently then what hope was there?

“I don’t know,” he eventually said. “We just have to be ready – ready for whatever comes. Right now that means arming ourselves to the teeth.”

Grace laughed and wiped at her face. “I guess we better keep searching then.”

Joe grabbed the litter pickers back up and held them out like spears. “And if you see anything with fur, stab it!”

“Don’t worry,” said Grace. “I’ve given up being an animal lover. Time to bring out my inner-caveman.”

A deep bass-filled bellow shook the warehouse and the three of them spun around with a start.

Standing twelve-feet away, poking out from behind a stack of spare plastic seating was an alligator. It was stretching its head into the air and raising itself up as if to show as much of its body as possible. After one more almighty bellow the creature lowered back down and stared at them with its ancient eyes. Then it hissed.

Grace moved up against Joe so that they were touching. “This thing doesn’t have any fur, should I still stab it?”

Joe nodded. “I think it qualifies as something we should stab, yes.”

The alligator came at them without warning, surprisingly quick for such a heavy animal. Its head swished back and forth as it approached them, jaws open, ready to taste human flesh.

“Get upstairs,” said Joe. “I’ll deal with this.”

Grace shook her head. “No way. We should all just run for it.”

“We can’t abandon these supplies. We’ve got no chance without them. Plus we need to find out where this thing got inside, or else we’ll have the whole zoo in here before long.”

Grace hesitated, but as the alligator got closer she was forced into action. She ran, taking Danny with her and leaving Joe alone.

Joe sprinted away, too, but further into the warehouse instead of towards the stairs. “Come get me, you sad-excuse for a crocodile.”

The animal followed Joe. He could hear it hissing and grunting behind him. He had no idea what he planned to do, but he was confident of outrunning the creature that was built more for water than for land.

Can’t outrun it forever, though.

Joe stopped and spun around, litter spike in hand. The alligator was gone from sight, but still somewhere close by if the sound of its angered grunting was anything to go by.

“Hey there, alligator, where ya hiding?”

As if in answer to his question, the alligator lunged out from behind some boxes, taking Joe by surprise. The giant lizard crashed down on top of him, as heavy as a car. All of the wind was crushed out of Joe’s lungs and stars clouded his vision. The only sense still operating coherently was his smell, which was picking up the fetid smell of half-consumed flesh coming from the creature’s mouth.

Joe thought fast as the alligator wrestled to keep him pinned, trying to position itself well enough to get a clear bite at him. Thoughts of evenings alone, watching the Discovery Channel, suddenly entered Joe’s mind and spurned him into action. In a bear hug, he wrapped his arms around the alligator’s jaws, clamping them shut. Joe remembered that the muscles used to snap an alligator’s jaws closed were exceptionally strong, but the ones that opened them were very weak. Joe held on for dear life, keeping the deadly maw closed.

It wouldn’t keep him safe for long though. The crushing weight of the alligator was still immovable, and although he was strong enough to hold its jaws closed, eventually his stamina would give out and his arms would fail. He was doomed. His arms were already weakening, their strength ebbing away…

The beast thrashed about on top of him, fighting back against the grip around its jaws. Slowly but surely, the jaws began to open and Joe’s arms began to part.

No more strength left, Joe released his grip. Clenching his eyelids shut, he waited for a death grip around his throat.

But none came.

Joe opened his eyes to find Grace standing over him. She had driven her litter picker into the skull of the alligator and was twisting violently, penetrating deeper into the creature’s thick armour.

Without thinking, and acting entirely on instinct, Joe reached out to his side and grabbed his own litter spike from where he had dropped it on the ground. He pulled the weapon toward him, angled it at the soft flesh of the alligator’s underside, then thrust with all his might.

The litter spike went all the way through the creature’s head, poking out the top of its head like a horn. After several seconds of frantic convulsions, the creature flopped forward and went still.

From beneath the animal’s bleeding corpse, Joe looked up at Grace. “You fancy making a handbag?”

Grace laughed, but was pale and shaken. “Maybe I’ll make some shoes. Now stop messing around under there and get up, will you! We need to get this place secure.”

12

Things are looking up, thought Randall.

They’d managed to find several full water coolers as well as a pack of cola cans in a mini fridge. Victor and Bill had found several heavy-duty office printers and dragged them downstairs to reinforce the barricade. Most of the windows on the upper floor were now blocked with upturned tables and filing cabinets. The remaining furniture had been piled up into the corridor at one end to stop anything getting through if the downstairs barricade was breached. All in all, Randall was quite pleased with the last hour’s work. They would all be safe and his organisational skills were to thank for it.

These people owe me.

“That’s it, Shirley,” he said. “Just put anything useful you’ve found into a pile over on that table.”

“Things are quite secure now,” said Shirley, placing down a half-empty bottle of Evian amongst the other supplies. “I’m impressed that you’ve gotten things so well in hand.”

“Thank you, Shirley. We can’t afford to lose our heads in situations like this now, can we?”

“Not at all. It’s good to see that we have such a strong man leading us.”

Leading? Randall liked the sound of that. Shirley was obviously an astute woman that recognised his superiority amongst the group. “Thank you,” he said again. “It’s just a shame that this all occurred on a Saturday morning – we could have done with extra bodies. Still, I will make absolutely sure that those who are here get through this safely and in one piece.”

“I know you will, Mr Randall. I can see God’s strength guiding you and I have every faith that your determination will see us through.

God’s strength? What are you talking about, you senile old bat? There’s no God here. You’re better off putting your faith in me.

Randall grinned. “Well, I am glad to have the support of a fine woman such as yourself. If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

Shirley left him alone. He moved off into the corner of the room, and from inside his pocket he pulled out his Blackberry phone.

There were no emails or messages.

He cursed under his breath. If he didn’t get in touch with the outside world soon he was going to blow a fuse. He needed to know what was being done to rectify this situation, but there was nothing coming through, and his attempts to call out had failed. He’d also tried several of the computers in the various offices, but none of them had an active Internet connection any longer. Communications were well and truly down it seemed.

But he still had to keep trying. The more he knew, the better he could take charge of the situation. Like they say, knowledge is power.

Randall switched off his phone to save the battery then put it away. He turned around and approached Victor who was inventorying their supplies. “How are things looking?”

Victor folded his arms and shrugged. “Not too bad. We’re good for water, but don’t have much food besides the odds-and-ends we found in the offices. All of the snack machines are downstairs.”

“Perhaps Joe and Grace will find something in the warehouse. Didn’t Mason say there are cafeteria supplies there?”

Victor nodded. “Mason just left for the warehouse to go and help them find their way around. They should all be back soon.”

“Okay. If they manage to find any food, I want you in charge of it. We need to ration.”

Victor grinned. “Would be my pleasure. Do you not think everyone will share?”

“No I don’t. If it’s one thing I know about people, it’s that they are incapable of governing themselves.”

“Fair enough. You can leave things safe with me.”

Randall left the Scotsman alone with the inventory and approached the next person in the room, who happened to be Cosby – or Bill if he were to use the man’s actual name. The aging Black man was busy piling up makeshift weaponry on a table.

Randall looked over the collected items. “Don’t happen to have a shotgun hidden there, do you?”

“I wish. All I could find was stationary. There’re some metal metre-rulers which could break a few bones, but not against anything big. A blade from a paper guillotine was probably the most lethal thing I could find, although it’s a bit clumsy. There was this in one of the labs, though.” He held up a large container full of clear liquid. “Sulphuric acid. If I remember high school chemistry well enough then I think this stuff is pretty lethal.”

“It certainly is. In fact, Black Remedy owns a manufacturer that produces chemicals just like this. I’ve seen what this stuff can do. I’m sure it will come in handy.”

Bill went back to what he was doing and Randall exited the room, closing the door behind him. The corridor was empty, other than the large stack of office furniture piled up at one end.

Two doors down was a room marked: TODD SPETCHLEY, HEAD OF PRIMATE CARE. Randall entered the room and stepped inside. The space was mostly empty, its furniture removed for the barricade. Some things still remained, however: a desk – too vast to remove – and a steel filing cabinet that was fastened to the rear wall by several bolts. Randall took a key from his pocket and unlocked the cabinet.

He’d found the key earlier while everybody was busy, still in its lock, and he had looked inside the cabinet it belonged to. Inside he had discovered several bags of crisps and a chocolate bar, amongst the useless paperwork and files. He had cleared out the cabinet earlier and replaced the contents with supplies. It now contained several bottles of water and some additional snacks that he had found in various drawers and cupboards. There was also a scalpel from the laboratory – just in case he needed to defend himself. There were many other things inside, but not everything in the cupboard had an obvious use just yet. The way he saw it was that the more he had available, the more options he would have later.

After switching off the battery, Randall placed his Blackberry inside the cupboard. It wouldn’t do to be caught with it on his person after he had declined to declare it. He would return to it later and try to gain contact with somebody outside of the zoo. Somebody had to be doing something, and if there was, he would be the hero to arrange for rescue.

After locking the cabinet up again and pocketing the key, Randall re-entered the corridor and immediately bumped into Joe’s group. He hoped that they were not suspicious.

“Hello everyone,” he said as inconspicuously as he could. “How did it go in the warehouse?”

Mason was smiling. “Very well, as it happens. Fortunately, a delivery for the cafeteria came in this very morning, right before things became…inconvenient. There is enough food to last us for a while.”

The little boy, Danny, spoke up next. “We found weapons, too, and an alligator!”

Randall raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah,” said the boy’s father. “We found the litter spikes and Mason found us some gardening equipment when he came down to help; shovels, pitchforks, and some other stuff. As for the alligator, it’s all dealt with. We managed to kill it. It got in through an open side-door in the warehouse, but we closed it up and blocked it.”

“Excellent. I’m just glad you’re all okay. Perhaps when this is all done, you can get on one of those shows where they wrestle alligators for entertainment.” Randall laughed, pleased with his banter. “Victor and the rest of us managed to secure the floor quite well so it looks like we’re in good shape. It’s getting dark outside so it may be a good time to bed down soon. I’m sure the shock is liable to be getting to everyone by now.”

“Do we have any blankets?” Grace asked.

Randall shook his head. “There’re a few cushions and some lab coats to lie on, but other than that we’re in for an uncomfortable night in the cold.”

Joe shrugged. “We’ll manage. Things could be worse.”

The lights cut out.

“You’re kidding me.”

13

The humans festered inside like rotting ants. He would rip them to pieces soon and they would scream his name in terror. Nero, they would scream. Nero. And then he would shed the name they placed upon him and become the king nature had always intended him to be. Creatures of all kinds were looking for him to lead them – and lead them he would.

* * *

The entire group helped bring food up from the warehouse, leaving about a third behind in case something happened to the main supply. They had filled up the seminar room with goods and were now piling cushions onto the floor. It was almost full dark outside and no stars were shining. They didn’t have much time left until all visibility was extinguished.

Joe threw the last cushion onto his pile and put Danny down on top of it. His son’s eyelids were already half-closed by the time his head hit the soft fabric. Today was too much for a child to have to deal with, and the large portion of found chocolate cake Danny had wolfed down earlier had only added to his sleepiness.

“Sweet dreams, son,” said Joe, covering his son with a spare lab coat. “Tomorrow will be better.”

Danny muttered, “Night, Dad,” then was fast asleep. Joe sat and watched him for a while. He was such a small boy, but so brave – full of energy and optimism. Joe hadn’t spent enough time with Danny since the divorce and it upset him to realise how little he knew about his son’s inner-strength.

Grace came and sat down beside the two of them. “What do you think happened to the electricity?”

Joe shrugged. “I don’t know, but it can’t be good. Things must be really bad for the grid to be down.”

“I guess so. Mason told me the zoo has a backup generator, but it only runs to the indoor exhibits – the lizards and stuff. We’re going to be freezing tonight.”

“Doesn’t look like we’ll get any breaks, does it?”

“I don’t know about that. We were lucky with the cafeteria delivery. Least we won’t starve. You should have a sandwich; everyone else has.”

Joe nodded. “Maybe later. I guess we can hole up here for a while. It’s not too cold at the moment either. Least we’re not having a load of snow like we did last year. I thought that was the final winter to end all winters. We’ll get through this.”

Grace looked him in the eye and seemed serious all of a sudden. “We’re lucky to have you, Joe. You saved my life today. Bill’s too. We owe you our lives.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I just did what anyone would have.”

Grace frowned. “You think? I can’t see Shirley risking herself like you did.”

“Okay, I did what most people would have done.”

Grace moved closer and lay against him. Her skin felt warm. “You did what only brave people would have done. I’m really glad you’re here. Danny too.”

Joe felt awkward for a moment. He hadn’t had a woman this close to him in years and it made him nervous, but at the same time very relaxed. “I’m glad you’re here too, Grace,” he finally admitted, wrapping an arm around her. “I don’t think I could have looked after Danny today without you.”

Grace looked up at him. “He’s a great kid.”

“You should thank his mother for that. I haven’t been around so much lately.”

Joe expected Grace to investigate further, but she didn’t. “You’re making up for it now,” was all she said.

“Thanks,” said Joe, disagreeing with the comment but grateful that she had said it. Whether or not she heard his gratitude, he did not know. Grace was already asleep.

It wasn’t particularly late, but Joe guessed it had been a long day for everyone. The others in the group had also begun to settle down into their own little areas. Bill and Mason were close by, while Randall, Shirley, and Victor sat further back in the room. Victor had built his bed beneath one of the study-desks. For what reason, Joe did not know.

It was now fully dark outside and Joe could see the night between the gaps in the barricade that Victor had assembled in front of the window. He wondered what the evening would bring. Would the animals sleep? Or would they become even more active? Did they even need to sleep? Whatever had affected the creatures seemed to have taken complete control of them.

As if to answer his questions, creatures outside began to howl, using whatever particular vocal abilities they had. At the far end of the room Randall got up from his pillow-bed and went to the window.

“What’s happening?” Bill asked him.

“I don’t know,” Randall replied. “I can’t really see anything. They’re out there, though. I can hear them.”

“They know we’re in here,” said Victor. “They want our blood.”

“That may well be,” said Randall, “but we’re safe in here. There’s no reason to worry.”

But as the volume of the catcalls increased, Joe couldn’t help but do just that. It was several hours before he got to sleep.

14

It was pitch black when Joe awoke. He had no idea what time it was, and for a few moments forgot where he was. The darkness extinguished his vision and made remembering hard, but when his ears tuned in to the animal noises outside, it all came rushing back.

Everything’s gone to shit. The animals…

That wasn’t what had woken him though. There was somebody walking about. Joe strained his eyes, trying to see through the darkness. He could make out nothing solid, but someone was definitely there, creeping around in the shadows.

Should I shout out?

No, I’ll keep quiet. I have no reason to think they’re up to anything.

Joe felt around himself, checking for Danny and Grace. They were both close by, sleeping soundly and breathing rhythmically. He was also pretty sure he could make out Bill’s silhouette nearby too. The sneaking person would have to have been Mason, Randall, Victor, or Shirley. With the exception of Mason, Joe didn’t trust any of them. Again, he considered calling out, but still chose to remain quiet.

Probably just someone going to the toilets down the hallway.

After the mystery person left the room, Joe waited ten more minutes before he could take it no longer. Sleep would be impossible unless he knew where everyone was. He got up slowly, so that he wouldn’t wake the others, and crept to the door in the same way that the mystery person had; an almost impossible feat in the pitch black dark. He kept his arms out as feelers to keep from bumping into the walls.

Outside in the corridor it was no easier to see, the dark was just as suffocating. The air was cooler, though, and tasted fresher than the recycled atmosphere of the seminar room. Joe took a deep breath and looked left and right whilst cocking his ear to one side. It wasn’t clear where the other person had gone but, as Joe listened, he thought he could detect sounds coming from further down the corridor.

Moist, slapping sounds.

Joe realised the animals inside the lab were no longer making noise – the first time since Mason had riled them up by chancing upon them. Joe felt a tightening in his chest. The smart thing to do would be to wake the others, but something urged him to go on alone. If he was going to alert everyone, he at least wanted sufficient reason. They had all been through enough.

Taking one tentative step after the other, Joe approached the lab, listening intently and trying to identify the slapping sounds. The noises seemed louder as he stood outside the door to the lab. He reached for the handle.

Someone grabbed him from behind.

Joe spun around. His heart threatened to leap out of his throat. Whoever had grabbed him was invisible in the darkness, only the dim shape of them visible.

“Whoa there, Joe! It’s Bill. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Joe couldn’t speak. He sucked in giant gulps of air. It was several moments before he managed to catch his breath enough to say anything. “Christ almighty. You sneak up and grab me in the dark and you didn’t mean to scare me?”

“Guess you have a point there, sorry. You’re the one wandering around in the night, though. What are you up to?”

Joe’s eyes adjusted to the dark sufficiently that he could make out Bill’s curious expression. “Actually, I’m not the one wandering around. There’s someone in the lab. I was about to find out who.”

“Okay,” said Bill, a hint of concern in his voice. “Lead the way.”

Joe nodded but was unsure if the other man could see it in the dark. He turned back around and wrapped his fingers around the door handle again.

Here goes.

He opened the door.

Inside, the lab was an unending blanket of darkness, except for a floating torchlight at the far end. Joe could not make out who was holding it.

“Who is it?” Bill whispered.

“I don’t know. I can’t see anything in here.”

“Light the burners,” Bill suggested.

“What do you mean?”

Bill placed a hand on Joe’s shoulder to find him in the dark. “The Bunson Burners run on gas. We could still light them even with no electricity.”

Joe thought about it. “Good idea. You got a lighter?”

Bill didn’t say anything but in the dark Joe felt the other man hand him a small metallic object. A flip lighter. Joe sparked it up and the flame lit a narrow cone of light around him, enough to navigate his way carefully over to one of the lab benches.

A few sweeps with the lighter and Joe managed to locate a row of gas taps. He released the valve on the first, waited for the hiss, lit it, and adjusted the flame to its highest. It took only a few seconds to light several more, but it still did not allow Joe to see who was flittering about at the other end of the lab. The light of the burners stretched only a few feet from the centre of the room.

Nothing left to do but shout out. So that’s what Joe did. “Who’s there?”

The torch beam spun erratically as the person realised they were not alone, the tunnel of light eventually finding its way into Joe’s face and blinding him. Bill came up beside him and stood shoulder to shoulder.

“We said who’s there?” Bill’s voice was strong and forceful, much tougher than Joe’s. “Show yourself now, or else.”

The torchlight bobbed about as the person approached them. Joe thought for a moment that it felt like being in a train’s headlights. His eyes were forced shut as the torch continued to shine in his face. His retinas ached.

“How ya doing there, pals? Up to some late night dogging?”

Joe frowned at the Scottish accent, knowing who it belonged to: Victor.

“You really don’t know anything about gay people, do you?” Bill said.

Victor laughed. “Less I know the better, pal.”

“We’re not up to anything,” Joe stated. “We’re here to see what you’re up to.”

“No problem,” said Victor. “Best you see for yourself.”

The torchlight left Joe’s face and circled the room, illuminating the rows and rows of cages on each wall. The animals inside were no longer making a fuss. In fact a lot of the cages were now open.

Joe’s eyes went wide. “Shit, you let them all out!”

Victor laughed, the sound echoing through the unlit room. He stepped forward into the light of the Bunson Burners and Joe saw that he was drenched in blood from head to toe. His tattoos were merged with gore and a dead bird hung limply from his left hand. Martha glinted in his right.

Victor’s laughing continued. He held the gutted animal up like a trophy. “Aye, I let them all out, I did, but only long enough to slit their throats.”

Joe stared at the blood-soaked knife in Victor’s hand and had to swallow back a mouthful of vomit. “You’re insane.”

“No, pal. Just practical. Now do me a favour and leave a man to his work. We can all use this meat if things get bad enough.”

“Things are already that bad,” said Bill, grabbing Joe’s arm and pulling him backwards. “Come on, Joe.”

Together, they backed away from Victor, not taking their eyes off of him – or his beloved Martha – until they reached the door. Joe’s back hit the wood and he flinched, spun around. He snatched at the door handle, missing several times, but finally getting a grip and flinging it open. He and Bill barrelled through into the corridor outside like Hell itself was behind them.

“That guy is batshit crazy,” said Bill, huffing and puffing as the two of them hurried down the unlit hallway. “He even killed the birds, and they weren’t even dangerous. I think he enjoys it,”

“I know,” Joe agreed. “We need to warn the others.”

They reached the seminar room and Joe shoved open the door. Everyone inside woke with a start, shouting out garbled utterances as they were yanked away from their dreams. Joe closed the door and leant his back up against it. “Everyone wake up.”

“We’re already awake! What’s going on? Are we under attack?” Joe recognised the startled voice as belonging to Grace.

“Yes, would you care to explain?” said another voice that could only have been Randall’s.

The room lit up. Joe saw that Bill had managed to rustle up some torches from the stockpile and was placing them around the room to light up as big an area as possible. Joe could now make out the concerned faces of the others in the room. Fortunately, Danny was still asleep.

My son could sleep through the end of the world. Lucky for him, because that may just be what’s happening.

“Victor’s gone mad!” Joe blurted it out, unsure of any other way to approach the subject.

Randall stood up and moved to the centre of the room. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

“He’s in the lab, right now” said Bill. “Hacking away at all the animals in their cages. They’re all dead.”

“That’s good isn’t it?” Shirley asked. “They were a danger.”

Mason was shaking his head, a hand against his brow. “No, no, no. We agreed that they were to be left alone.”

“That’s beside the point,” said Joe. “What matters is that Victor is going around killing things like a twisted maniac.”

“Of course he is,” said Randall. “That’s exactly what I advised him to do.”

Both of Joe’s eyelids opened wide. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said I told him to do it. The animals in those cages were dangerous. How could we rest with an enemy within our boundaries? Plus, the meat they provide may prove invaluable in the days ahead.”

Mason sighed. “They were invaluable until Victor killed them all.”

“I stand by what I said. We are in too much trouble to risk those things getting out. I voiced my concerns to Shirley and Victor, and Victor was happy to oblige. The man is doing us all a service.”

“I agree,” said Shirley. “Those beasts would happily have done the same to us.”

Joe shook his head. What could he say? There was a certain amount of logic to their argument and, if he was honest, it did feel safer knowing that the caged animals were no longer a concern. It didn’t make him feel any better about Victor, though. The image of the Scotsman dripping with blood and shrouded in shadow was permanently etched into his brain. Regardless of what anybody said, Victor was dangerous.

Joe just didn’t know how dangerous yet.

15

The morning arrived in silence. No birds sang their morning tunes and no cars hummed along distant motorways.

The world was still.

Randall had been awake for five minutes, but had done nothing except observe the others sleeping. The incident during the night had riled everyone up, but they had eventually gotten back to sleep. Victor had not returned, most likely still gutting the animals in the lab, collecting their meat. Randall found out that Victor was a Scot’s Guard as a younger man and more than capable of doing the tasks that others were not. Whether the group agreed or not, Victor should be commended for his pragmatism, not derided.

It had been enjoyable to watch Joe and Mason back down and accept that harsh methods were needed, not fluffy thinking. They needed to understand that normal rules no longer applied. Randall was going to teach them all that lesson one way or the other.

The room began to glow as cold grey shafts of dawn-light crept in through the gaps in the window’s barricade. The others in the room began to stir. Randall noticed that there was one other person, besides Victor, who was missing. Grace wasn’t there.

Where have you gotten to, my pretty? This is no time for a woman to be walking around unescorted.

Randall pushed himself up off the floor. His joints cracked, his fifty-year-old body unhappy at spending the night on a thin pile of cushions. It wasn’t something he was sure he could ever get used to, but for now there was no other choice. He stretched out his arms, listened to his elbows click one last time, and ambled over to the seminar room’s exit. Thankfully no one woke and he was free to go about his business undisturbed. He intended to find Grace and see what the woman was doing, but first he had other things to attend to. Randall was satisfied that the corridor outside was empty of both people and, more importantly, animals, so he stepped outside.

He approached the Head of Primates office across the hall and opened the door quietly. Once inside, he closed it just as carefully behind him. The key to the room’s filing cabinet was in his pocket and he plucked it out, using it on the lock a moment later. He took a packet of biscuits from the middle-shelf and popped one into his mouth.

Breakfast.

Once he’d finished several more biscuits, Randall placed the packet back inside the cupboard and grabbed the next item on the shelf – his Blackberry. He pressed the ‘ON’ button and waited for the phone to boot up. It took several minutes, but when it finally activated, something unexpected occurred.

< ONE NEW MESSAGE >

Randall thumbed at the keypad clumsily, failing several times to get the message up, but eventually succeeding. He could not believe what it said:

RE: Emergency Communication

This is a Government message to all cellular devices. Emergency Rescue Operations are on-going at the following locations: Aberdeen, Bristol, Barnham, Blackpool, Dudley, Leicester, Ipswich, Nottingham, Oxford, Preston, Salford, Torquay, Taunton, Warwick, Winchester, Yeovil. If you are able to, please head to these areas. Help will be forthcoming. Do not approach any animal.

Randall stared at his phone for several minutes, re-reading the message over and over. Despite his misgivings, the Government was indeed addressing the situation and were possibly even gaining a foothold. Or are they? Randall considered that the message could have been sent automatically by a dusty computer in the Home Office, and that the areas mentioned were already overrun by animal attacks. The message did not guarantee that help was available. They were probably still safer staying put. Some of the locations were nearby – Leicester especially – and it was perhaps an option to try and reach them. He would have to think about things before making a decision.

Randall switched off the Blackberry and placed it back inside the cabinet. He locked it up and pocketed the key. Then he left.

Outside, in the hallway, he bumped unexpectedly into Victor. The man had cleaned himself up and was now wearing a baggy, brown jump suit that looked as though it belonged to the zoo’s maintenance staff.

Randall raised an eyebrow. “New outfit?”

“Aye, I found it in the warehouse. My other clothes were a wee bit…sticky.”

“Indeed. What are you up to now?”

“Just checking the building’s security, making sure none of the furry bastards can get in.”

Randall patted the man on his shoulder and moved past. “Keep up the good work.”

As he walked back down the corridor, Victor shouted after him. “And what exactly have you been up to, pal?”

Randall stopped and turned around. He thought about the message on his phone before answering. “Me? Nothing, Victor. Nothing at all.”

The less you know the better, my friend. Until I decide otherwise.

Victor scrutinised Randall for a few minutes and eventually cracked a crooked-tooth smile. “Well, let me know if you need help with whatever it is that you’re not doing. I’m very good with secrets.”

Victor sauntered off, leaving Randall alone to consider his comments.

16

Joe awoke to screaming. He knew it was Grace as soon as he saw she was missing from her bed.

Danny woke up. “What’s happening, Dad?”

“I don’t know. Stay here while I find out.”

Danny looked worried, but nodded. Joe patted him on the shoulders, kissed his forehead. He then scrambled over to Bill. “Bill, watch Danny while I go find out what’s going on. I think it’s Grace.”

“Of course, go!”

Joe entered the corridor, wanting to rush but trying not to until he knew the situation better. Another scream sounded and he couldn’t help but pick up speed.

The noise continued, coming from one of the offices on his right. Joe pinpointed it to a room marked JEFFREY CARLSON, HEAD VET. He opened the door and pushed himself inside. Grace stood in the middle of the room, shrieking, and clutching at her face. Joe examined the floor in front of her and saw the reason why.

“What the hell?”

She flinched at the sound of Joe’s voice and looked over at him. Her eyes were unnaturally wide. “What do I do?” she asked.

Joe peered down at the creatures by her feet – massive, hairy spiders and armour-plated scorpions. The zoo’s entire creepy crawly menagerie was surrounding Grace in a tightening semi-circle of hissing, spitting menace.

Joe stretched his arms out towards her. “Grace, very slowly…come here.”

Grace shook her head. “I can’t. They’ll get me.”

As if to agree with her, several tarantulas rose up on their hind legs and hissed. A cloud of bristly, brown hairs filled the air around them. Grace let out another scream.

“You have to move now, Grace! They’re getting closer.”

Grace stopped her screaming and attempted to get herself under control, almost hyperventilating in the process. Joe held his breath, waiting for her to do something. It was a relief when she finally managed to take a step backwards.

“That’s it. Really slowly.”

Grace took another step but one of the tarantulas scuttled around and blocked her path. It stood between her and Joe.

How the hell did it know to do that? Spiders can’t behave like this, can they?

“Stay still, Grace. I need to think a second.”

The creatures moved closer. She shrieked again, but managed to get it under control before it took hold. Joe glanced around the room for something to help, but it was just an ordinary office and most the furniture had been taken out. There was nothing he could use.

So he did the only thing he could think of.

Joe lifted his size-eleven trainer and brought it down on top of the tarantula. It hissed and squirmed beneath his heel, but he kept the pressure on, feeling its spindly legs snapping with each twist of his ankle. He lifted his foot again and expected to see a sickly mush, but it was just the same spider – crumpled and broken, but the same.

“Grace, come on!”

Grace saw the opportunity and found enough courage to make a run for it. She took several lunging steps towards him and threw herself into his arms. For a few moments, Joe just held her, glad that she was safe. Then he realised they weren’t out of the woods yet. “We need to get out of here,” he said, grabbing Grace by the arm. She winced and Joe saw why. “Hey, what happened to your wrist?”

Grace eyed the thick gash on the back of her forearm, then looked down at the army of approaching arachnids. “Now’s not the time.”

Joe leapt to the door and held it open. Grace ran through it, followed by a scuttling army of thrashing scorpions and spiders.

Joe slammed the door shut, catching an obsidian scorpion against the frame and crushing it to a viscous pulp. “Are you…okay?” he asked Grace between panting breaths.

Grace nodded, but tears had released themselves and were gliding down her cheeks. “I’m fine.”

“So, are you going to tell me what happened?”

Grace stared at the floor. “I….I woke up and I was cold, so I was looking for some blankets. Those things just came out of nowhere. I still don’t know how they got inside.”

“But how did you hurt your arm? It looks really bad.”

Grace held up the puckered wound and examined it. Blood was still coursing from the cut, but had started to slow down. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe one of those things got me.”

Joe wasn’t buying it. Something about the way she wouldn’t look him in the eye told him that other things were going on. He shook his head. “They wouldn’t be able to do that type of damage. That’s a cut not a bite.”

Grace’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know then. Does it matter?”

“It does to me, but let’s just get it patched up for now.”

Grace tensed up, the features of her face contorting under a sudden rigor.

“You okay?”

Grace stopped breathing, bent over and slumped against the wall. Her leg shot out to the side. Joe looked down and saw something moving.

A bright yellow scorpion was deeply embedded in Grace’s calf by its stinger.

She screamed.

Joe reached down and grabbed the vile creature. The feel of its brittle exoskeleton was repulsive as he flung it against the wall. It shattered upon impact.

But what damage has it done already?

Joe turned to Grace.

Just in time to catch her fall.

17

Joe rushed into the seminar room with an unconscious Grace in his arms. He prayed that it was shock and not some sort of toxin from the scorpion.

Mason leapt up from behind one of the desks. “What’s happened?”

Joe lay Grace down on top of the nearest table. “She got bitten by a scorpion.”

Mason went pale, all colour flushing from his cheeks. “What did it look like?”

“I don’t know. It was small and yellow.”

Mason held his head in his hands before staring hard at Joe. “Leiurus quinquestriatus.”

“In English?”

“Deathstalker Scorpion, also known as the Israeli Desert Scorpion. Its venom is amongst the worst of all species.”

“Why the hell would you have those things around?” asked Bill, rushing over to help.

Mason shrugged. He looked so tired that even such a simple movement seemed like an ordeal. “They were kept in the World of Venom building. How they got over here, I don’t know.”

“They’ve gotten smart,” said Joe. “There were spiders and scorpions in one of the offices. They attacked Grace in a group, working together.”

“This is not good. Arachnida have been affected.”

Joe rubbed Grace’s forehead and brushed her damp hair out of her face. “Let’s worry about that later. We need to help her.”

“There’s little that we can do,” Mason explained. “Get some soap and clean the wound, then elevate her leg. With rest, she should hopefully be okay. There’s adrenaline in the lab if she has an allergic reaction, but that doesn’t seem to be the case fortunately.”

“Why did she pass out then?”

“Shock perhaps. Maybe it’s blood-loss from that cut on her arm. How did she get that?”

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me.” Joe examined the gash on Grace’s arm. It had started to dry, but the surrounding area was caked in dark brown blood. It needed stitches.

Danny came up and held Joe’s hand. “Is Grace going to be okay, Dad?”

“She’s fine, Danny. Will be much better after a sleep.”

“You promise?”

“Of course. You remember when Macho Man got bitten by Jake the Snake’s python, don’t you? He got better.”

Danny smiled up at him. “Okay.”

Bill returned with a bottle of hand soap and started rubbing it on Grace’s bite. The flesh was red and swollen. Joe gathered some cushions and piled them beneath her ankle. She was still unconscious, but seemed peaceful, as though trapped in a gentle dream.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” said Bill.

“I hope so.” Joe looked around the room and saw that both Victor and Randall were missing. Shirley was still napping at the back of the room, obviously uninterested in recent events. “Where are Randall and Victor?”

Bill shrugged.

“I’m here and Victor is in the hallway,” said Randall, entering the room. “Is that alright with you?”

Joe turned around. “Fine. Just like to know that everyone is safe and accounted for.”

Mason stepped in front of Joe and addressed Randall. “And what is Victor doing in the hallway exactly? Looking for more endangered animals to hack to pieces?”

“We already discussed that, Mr Mason. It was agreed that Victor’s actions were in the best interests of the group.”

Mason took offence to the man’s statement and told him so. “Actually it was not agreed, Mr Randall. It was a decision that you seemed to make all on your own.”

“Yeah,” Bill added. “What gives you the right to make decisions for the rest of us?”

Randall placed his palms together in front of himself as if to implore their mercy. “Now let’s be reasonable, my friends. In the current circumstances things need to happen with a certain amount of…urgency. There is not always time to consult one another and hold a team meeting. Shirley, Victor, and I did what we thought was best. If it wasn’t a popular decision then I apologise, but it has happened now so let’s move on.”

Joe sighed. “Just don’t make decisions behind our backs again, okay?”

Randall rolled his eyes, but nodded in agreement. A moment later, he seemed to finally notice that Grace was lying unconscious on the table. He raised a coarse black eyebrow at the others curiously.

“A scorpion bit her,” Joe explained. “Hopefully she’ll sleep it off.”

“A scorpion? Things keep getting better and better. I assume the danger has been dealt with?”

“Dealt with, as in the room they were in is locked up and secure.”

Randall sighed. “Another room that’s off limits? We’ll have nowhere left soon.”

“Joe said the scorpions were working as a team,” said Bill.

“I guess we can safely assume that is true,” Randall agreed, “but how on earth did scorpions get on the second floor?”

Joe shrugged. “I really have no idea, but if they keep staging attacks we’ll end up trapped and cornered before long.”

Randall walked over to the room’s window and looked out through one of the gaps in the barricade. “Then we need to hit back. I think it’s time that we attack them.”

“How?” asked Joe. “What the hell can we do?”

Randall turned away from the window and faced the room like some pudgy statesman. “I don’t know yet, but I’m guessing there’s someone that may have a few ideas.”

Joe folded his arms. “Victor?”

Bill huffed air through his nostrils. “That guy’s a psychopath, but I hate to admit that might be a good thing right now.”

“Didn’t expect to see you on that man’s side,” said Joe.

“I’m not, but if he enjoys killing animals as much as he seems to then he’s probably our biggest asset right now.”

“Aye, that I am, pal. That I am.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “You can’t mention anyone around here without them suddenly popping up from somewhere.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t talk behind people’s backs, pal.”

“That’s not what we were doing.”

“No? Did I not hear the word psychopath being bandied about?” Victor glared at Bill who seemed to shrink away. “Don’t worry yourselves. I’ve been called worse.”

“So, Victor,” said Randall, “if you heard our conversation, then perhaps you might have some advice for us.”

“You mean about your little counter-strike? Aye, I could think of a thing or two. We need to get that big bastard ape. He’s their general.”

“Really,” said Joe. “You think they have a leader?”

“Aye. You’ve all seen the way he hangs back while others attack us in groups. He’s been sending in wave after wave. First, the infantry downstairs – the monkeys – and then the bloody SAS lemurs that came through the windows.”

“And the scorpions that got Grace,” added Bill.

Victor nodded and looked at Grace, unconscious on the table. “We’re at war people. Under siege. The only way we can end it is to take the heart out of their army.” He looked around the room, making eye contact with each of them. “We have to kill that bloody silverback.”

18

It was exciting, teasing and toying with the humans. The first few attacks so far had succeeded only in spreading fear – but that was the point. While he could storm their tower right now and tear them all to pieces, Nero wanted the humans to experience the feeling of being trapped – caged. Like all of the animals in this zoo, the humans would know what it was to be completely at the mercy of a heartless master. It was too much fun to let this end too quickly, but eventually he would become bored. Then Nero would strike his final blow and seek out more humans to extinguish. Very soon it would be mankind that was endangered.

* * *

It was almost dark again, Joe noticed. They had been making preparations all day, thinking up ways to strike back at the animals. They had collected anything that could be thrown as a projectile: paperweights, PC monitors, text books (after persuading Mason that they were necessary for the sacrifice), and other assorted junk. Victor had also filled some glass beakers with the sulphuric acid from the lab and then wrapped them up in paper towels. A canister of petrol that Bill had brought up from the warehouse would also allow them to set light to toilet rolls (of which they had many) and hurl them from the windows. It wasn’t much, but hopefully it would show that they intended to put up a fight.

Everybody carried a weapon. After what had happened to Grace it was clear that an attack could come at any time. Joe held one of the litter pickers in his hand as he went up to check on Grace. She had recently awoken but was not yet fully coherent, drifting in and out of lucidity for the last few hours.

“Grace, are you awake?”

Her eyelids fluttered. “J-Joe?”

“Yeah, it’s me. How you feeling?”

“Like,” she swallowed – the sound was dry and rasping. “I got stung by a scorpion.”

Joe laughed. “That must be the fever talking. Scorpions attacking people is insane.”

Grace smiled weakly. “How is Danny?”

“Don’t worry about anyone else. We’re all fine. You should try and go back to sleep.”

Grace nodded and rolled onto her side. As she did so she pulled her arm up against her waist. Joe noticed her deep wound again. It was healing well but he still wanted to know what had caused it.

“Grace? Will you tell me how you hurt your arm?”

She breathed heavily and Joe thought she may have already fallen asleep, but then she spoke softly. “I need my pills.”

“Pills? What pills? Grace?”

She was gone, pulled into a fevered slumber that could not be disturbed. Joe thought about what she had meant.

Pills? What pills does she need?

“How she doing?” Bill asked.

“She’s a bit out of it, but I think she’s okay. At least I hope so.”

“I don’t think scorpion stings are lethal.”

Joe nodded and took a seat on some cushions beside Bill on the floor. He folded his long legs underneath him. “Mason said the same. Doesn’t mean it does you any good.”

“She’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

Joe sighed. “To be honest, it’s not the scorpion bite that worries me.”

“Oh? Then what?”

“She has a horrible cut on her arm and she won’t explain how she got it. In fact the last time I asked she just told me that she ‘needed her pills’.”

“Her pills?”

“Yeah. What you think she meant?”

“Painkillers perhaps? Who knows, but it’s probably nothing. We can find out as soon as she’s herself again.”

Joe lay back against the cushions and stretched out his legs. “I suppose so.” He decided to change the subject; thinking about Grace just upset him. “You think we can actually fight back tomorrow?”

Bill shrugged. “Bunch of farm animals and monkeys? How hard can it be?”

“Something tells me it’s not going to be so easy. I don’t know what’s happened to them all, but I don’t think they’re normal anymore. They’re smarter. Maybe a virus has affected their brains or something?”

“They’re demons.” Shirley walked over and sat in front of Bill and Joe. “Sent to put an end to our sin.”

Bill sighed. “Again with the sin? What are you harping on about now, woman?”

Shirley seemed oblivious to the comment and carried on her ranting. “I once met an Irishman who told me all about the Lord. He told me that God’s patience is thin and that all of us are on the cusp of his vengeance.”

“And what does that mean?” Joe asked.

“It means that enough is enough. All the fucking and fighting in this world has to stop and He has ways of making us realise that.”

“Ways?”

“Yes! The Irishman told me that God can destroy us on a whim. He flooded the earth once and now he is completing what he began back then.”

Bill laughed. “You’re talking about Noah and his ark?”

“No, I am talking about what is happening now. We’re being wiped out. By God and his vengeance. Our sin has become too much for Him to tolerate any longer. He has unleashed a plague of beasts upon the Earth.”

Joe wanted to argue. The woman was so full of bile that it would be nice to shut her up. For some reason, though, he couldn’t find the words to disagree. God was as good a reason as any for all of this. Joe did have a question however: “Who was this Irishman that knew so much. Did he have a name?”

Shirley looked at Joe and seemed to hear something other than her own voice for the first time. “Not one that he gave me. He was a traveller. At first I thought he was just a drunken rogue, but he knew things – intimate things – about me. Things no one could ever know. He told me that once he was an angel, but that he now lived amongst humans. I learned about Heaven and Hell from this man. He showed me the light.”

“And why did this ex-angel…” Joe put a hand to his head and chuckled. “I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth: why did this ex-angel decide to share all of this knowledge with you?”

“Because he needed beer money.”

Bill and Joe spluttered and laughed in unison. Joe had to stifle himself to keep from waking up Danny. “Beer money? Okay, Shirley, wherever you’re keeping the wacky-backy, let us in on it.”

Shirley’s face contorted into craggy lines of anger. “Fools,” she spat. “If you choose not to heed my warnings then on your head be it.”

“What warnings?” Bill asked. “All you’ve done is spout fairy tales.”

“My warning is this: get your affairs in order, people, because we’ll all be in Hell soon – and some of us deserve worse fates than others.”

Shirley stomped away and Joe shook his head in disbelief. “That woman is a Grade A wacko!”

“Tell me about it,” said Bill. “You think she was delusional before everything happened, or if it was this shit that made her lose it?”

“She was probably already losing the cheese off her cracker and this just helped her along her way.”

“Still, makes you wonder if any of what she said is true.”

Joe frowned at Bill. “You mean about God punishing us all and that we’re all going to Hell? No, I don’t believe it. It’s insane.”

“It is insane, but then so is all of the animals turning on us.”

“You’re right,” said Joe. “Maybe we are all going to Hell.”

“Or perhaps we’re already there,” said Bill.

19

It was almost time, Randall decided. The sun was rising and it would not be long before there was daylight. Everyone else was still asleep but Randall was wide awake and staring out of the seminar room window, surveying what would soon become his battlefield. The orange light of dawn cast over everything and gave the landscape an ethereal glow, like some consecrated ground due to be made holy. To be blessed with the sacred blood of battle.

Victor, no doubt, had more tactical knowledge than anybody else, but the man was not a leader. Randall would be the one to organise and lead the group. Under his order they would prosper. He would enable them to regain some semblance of order from this suddenly mad world – and then they would thank him for it.

Legends are forged in the fires of battle.

Randall looked outside at the enemy’s army. It had grown overnight to contain an all manner of species, many of which he still could not name, despite his recent research. He theorised that the animals which escaped first had set about freeing the others, liberating the entire zoo in some sort of prisoner of war escapade. Randall estimated at least five hundred animals were now amassed outside the building – and standing amidst them all was a towering giant: the silverback.

My counterpart. The Napoleon to my Nelson.

Randall went over to a collection of nearby desks. Victor had stacked them full of projectiles in order of priority. The gas bombs were to be used first to create disarray in the ranks and to force the animals into another attack. Then the PC monitors and other assorted heavy objects would be used as ballast to deter any animals that tried to scale the building’s walls. Acid bombs would be used to attack anything that managed to get through the windows. After that, it would be hand to hand combat.

Hopefully it won’t reach a skirmish. We don’t have the numbers for it.

Randall turned around and saw that Victor was awake, lying beneath a table and staring at him.

“Morning, Victor.”

Victor smirked. “Seems like I catch you wandering around on your own quite a lot, pal.”

“I just like to keep on top of things. Someone has to.”

“Aye, and that someone is you, is it?”

Randall lifted his head high, eyeballs pointed downwards. “Unless there’s someone else that wants the job.”

Victor sniffed back a nose full of phlegm and swallowed it. “Not that I can see.”

“So I have your support?”

Victor remained quiet for a moment, then: “Aye, for now.”

“Wonderful.” Randall clapped his hands together. “Then I can rely on you to help me lead the assault.”

“No way I’m gonna miss out on all the fun. We’ll need to be ready soon.”

“Agreed. Could you be so kind as to wake everyone in thirty minutes? We’ll commence the attack in ninety. They will not take this building from us.”

“Roger that.” Victor started to climb out from under the table.

Randall left the other man to it. There was something he wanted to check on first. If he was about to lead an attack then he wanted all the facts at his disposal. He left the room and crossed the corridor outside, entering what he now thought of as his office – despite another man’s name on the door. Inside, Randall unlocked the filing cabinet and finished off the pack of biscuits he’d started on the day before.

He switched on his Blackberry.

<ONE NEW MESSAGE>

RE: Emergency Communication

This is a Government message to all cellular devices. Emergency Rescue Operations are firmly established at the following locations: Aberdeen, Bristol, Leicester, Nottingham, Torquay, Warwick. If you are able to, head to these areas. Avoid contact with all animals.

Randall studied the message and considered its meaning. Several of the earlier locations had been omitted – perhaps abandoned – but the remaining ones were now being described as ‘firmly established’.

But he wasn’t about to trust his future to the hands of the Government. He now had clear proof that a battle against the animals could be won. He would win today’s battle and secure everyone’s future at the zoo. By the time the Government rolled around, he would be the respected saviour of the group.

Randall turned off the phone and locked it back inside the cabinet.

It was then that he felt the tremors.

“What was that?”

He hurried back into the corridor and re-entered the seminar room just as another tremor hit. Everyone inside the room had woken up now – with the exception of Grace who was still unconscious – and looked as confused as he was. Joe stood in front of him, holding his little boy in his gigantic arms. Randall asked what was going on.

“I don’t know,” said Joe. “It’s like an earthquake or something.”

Randall shook his head. “No. Something is hitting the building.”

Victor was already at the window, pulling away some of the barricade to see through the glass. Randall moved up beside him and looked too. He could not believe what he saw.

This is not good. We’ve been caught napping.

“What is it?” asked Joe.

“Elephants. Elephants, Rhinos, and I think a hippopotamus.”

Another tremor hit the building as an African Elephant crashed its thick torso against the building, the sound of splintering brickwork and shattering glass accompanying the impact.

“What do we do?” Joe pointed at a beetle scurrying from a widening crack in the wall.

“We do what we planned,” Randall replied. “We strike back.”

Victor turned from the window and started to shout. “Okay, squaddies. Get to your battle stations. Joe, you and me are up front with the fire bombs. Make sure you spread your hits to maximise bombardment area. Everyone else, get armed and ready to drop the monitors on anything that gets too close. Remember, everybody, the silverback is the priority target.”

Randall stood back and watched everyone assemble. This was to be his moment of glory. Years of boardroom success would not compare to this victory. This moment was going to define the rest of his life.

“Okay, everyone,” Randall shouted. “Let them have it.”

Joe and Victor threw the first round of firebombs.

20

Joe watched his firebomb arc through the air, flames flickering majestically in the wind. It struck a pair of snarling cheetahs and their pelts went up in a burst of heat that Joe could feel from the second floor window. In mere seconds, the flesh of the floundering big cats bubbled and blistered before sloughing off in thick sheets of spitting meat. The odour of singed fur filled the air.

Joe watched the cheetahs retreat in dying agony and turned to Victor. “It’s working.”

“Aye, but don’t start celebrating yet, pal.”

He’s right, Joe thought. That was nothing but a pinprick in the ocean.

Joe picked up another firebomb, just as one of the African elephants hit the building again. The entire floor rocked and he almost dropped the volatile incendiary at his feet.

Victor shouted out so that everyone could hear. “Defend the walls!”

Bill, Shirley, and Mason rushed forward, clutching bulky PC monitors in their hands. They hoisted them through the open windows and let them go. Two of the monitors hit the elephant below, breaking into smithereens against its thick head.

It did nothing.

The elephant trumpeted in fury and then resumed its onslaught on the base of the building. The floor shook again. Plaster flakes showered from the ceiling, and Joe actually had to fight to keep his balance. “The whole building is going to come down.”

“Throw another firebomb,” Bill ordered.

“No,” said Victor. “It’s too close. We can’t risk setting fire to the building.”

Bill nodded and understood his error.

Joe had an idea. He went and grabbed a flask of acid from the weapons table.

I hope this works.

He headed back to the window and moved the others out of the way. “Everyone, stand back.”

The elephant was still rushing the building, stepping back and then lunging at the brickwork again and again. Joe leant out of the window and held out the flask of acid. The liquid fell out as he tipped the beaker sideways. The acid doused the elephant’s thick, round ears and bulbous head, but seemed to have no effect. Joe watched in anticipation as time stretched on. Just when he was certain his plan had failed, a wisp of smoke began to form. The elephant flinched, rearing up on its hind legs and thrashing its head about. It let out an agonised screech and then turned tail and fled the battlefield, trampling several smaller animals in the process.

Victor patted Joe on the back. “Good work.”

Joe didn’t have time to accept the compliment, the animal army outside was riled and starting to attack in force. The silverback came to the fore and beat at his chest. The ape’s snarling cries sounded almost human in their fury. Joe was sure that the beast was staring him directly in the eye.

“The silverback,” Victor said. “Just the bugger we want. Get yourself armed, Joe.”

Joe grabbed another firebomb. Victor already had one. Together they lit the makeshift fuses and prepared to throw them.

Victor held his firebomb over his shoulder. “After three. One…two…three!”

The two men threw their firebombs in unison. They sailed through the air, both aimed at the silverback gorilla. The towering ape stared back at them, smouldering malice dripping from his eyeballs like molten hatred.

Victor’s firebomb went wide and hit the ground in front of a pack of Llamas. Joe’s was closer to the mark and arced right towards the silverback’s face.

The gorilla swatted the projectile out of the sky.

A fireball exploded.

The silverback turned away, covering its giant head with an arm. The liquid fire crackled in the air for a few moments, releasing thick plumes of black smoke.

The silverback turned back around. One side of his face was a glistening mess of pink flesh.

Victor punched at the air. “You got the bastard.”

“Barely,” said Joe. “But I think he’s pulling back.”

Sure enough, the silverback grunted at the other animals and the whole army started turning away.

They’re retreating.

Bill ran up to the window and hopped up and down. “We did it. They’re going away.”

Everyone in the room cheered. Danny came running up to Joe and hugged him around the waist. “You did it, Dad! You opened up a can of whoop ass on them.”

“I sure did, son. I told you I wasn’t going to let anyone hurt you.”

Danny hugged him again then ran off to look out of the window.

“Hey, you be careful. Any of those animals start coming back and you move away from that there, you hear?”

Bill placed a hand on Joe’s back. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Thanks.” Joe found the nearest chair and plonked himself down. He hadn’t realised it, but he was breathing in great heaving gasps. Excitement coursed through his veins.

What just happened? I’m not sure, but I think I just firebombed a gorilla. That’s definitely not something I had on my list of ambitions.

Joe saw Randall making a beeline for him and nodded to the man.

“You okay, Joe? You don’t look too well.”

“Just trying to come to terms with the fact that I just fought in a war against a silverback gorilla and an army of animals.”

“It certainly is an unusual turn of events. Not exactly what I was expecting the day I walked into this zoo for a simple business meeting.”

Joe smiled. “So, you really paid for this building?”

“The company I work for did, Black Remedy. You’ve heard of them, of course. It’s good business practise to spend a certain amount of profit on community projects or charities. My company seems to have a current focus on investing in zoos, both at home and abroad. Everybody loves animals, I suppose.”

Joe laughed. “Ha! I think that may have changed.”

Randall laughed too. “I think you’re probably right, my friend. Still, we’ll ride this thing out. We can settle here, dig in for as long as we need to.”

Joe frowned. “You think so? Maybe we can find help outside.”

“No,” Randall almost shouted the word. “There’s no chance. We’re the lucky ones. Can you imagine what it’s like elsewhere? How many homes have pets? Dogs, cats, hamsters, all turning on their owners. I think we are on our own. Our only chance is to dig in here.”

“Okay,” said Joe. “Perhaps you’re right. It doesn’t hurt to hope, though. We have no idea what everywhere else is like.”

“You saw the news in the staff room when all this started. It took everyone by surprise.”

“Fine,” said Joe. “I don’t want to argue. You’re probably right anyway.”

“I usually am,” said Randall smugly. “Don’t worry, Joe. I will get us through this.”

Randall walked away and Joe pondered the man’s words. You’ll get us through this? Who put you in charge of everybody’s welfare? I don’t care what you say, Randall, I have to believe that there is more to hope for than life at this zoo. There must be other survivors.

“Joe.”

Joe spun around. Grace was awake. He hurried over to her, pulling up a nearby chair. “Grace, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

Her eyes fluttered, unable to open fully. She tried her best to focus them on Joe and smiled when she saw him close. “Joe…”

“What is it?”

“I really need…my pills.”

Grace was still pretty out of it. Joe went and got her some water. He lifted her head up from the cushions and tipped a small amount into her mouth. She swallowed and a spark of consciousness returned to her eyes. A couple minutes later, she was fully awake.

“Thanks,” she said, taking another sip.

Joe cut straight to the point. “What pills do you need?”

Grace turned her head away. “They’re in my bag.”

“Okay, great. Where’s your bag?”

“By the snack machines.”

“What snack machines?”

“The ones downstairs. Where you saved me.”

“Oh. Well, we can’t get those. There’s no way.”

“I know.” Tears began to spill from her eyes. “That’s why I’m so scared.”

“I don’t understand. Scared of what?”

Grace turned her head and looked him in the eyes. She looked terrified. “I’m scared of hurting myself.”

Joe scratched at his head. His hair felt flat and greasy. “Why would you hurt yourself?”

“Because that’s what I do when I don’t have my pills.”

Joe sighed. “You’re really gonna have to make this easier for me. What do you need the pills for? Are you ill?”

More tears filled her eyes. “Yes. I have OCD.”

Joe shrugged. “Doesn’t that just mean you have to be really clean or something?”

“For some people it is. OCD causes compulsions, but I don’t get urges to clean, I get urges to--”

“Hurt yourself.” Joe was starting to understand and he didn’t like it.

“It’ll get worse and worse. It’ll drive me insane until I start slicing myself to stop the urges.”

“That’s what happened to your arm, isn’t it? That’s why you were in a room alone when the scorpions attacked.”

Grace shut her eyes tightly and salty liquid ran tracks down her cheeks. “I found some scissors. I was cutting myself when the scorpions appeared.”

“What if we get rid of all sharp objects?”

Grace laughed. The sound was hollow and broke Joe’s heart. “You mean take away everyone’s weapons when we’re being attacked by a zoo full of animals? I don’t think so. Besides, I’ll find a way. Even if it means biting chunks out of myself.”

Joe cringed at the image of her eating her own flesh. He didn’t know such conditions existed. Grace seemed so normal.

“I’ll make sure nothing happens to you,” he said earnestly. “Even if I have to watch you twenty-four-seven. You’re my friend. We’ll get through it together.”

Grace smiled again. This time it seemed a little more heartfelt, but Joe could tell that he had done nothing to allay her fears. She was terrified.

Joe stood up, but not before leaning forward and kissing her on the cheek. “I’m just going to check on Danny,” he said. “I’ll be right back. If you need me I’m just a few feet away.”

Once he was happy that Grace would be okay for the time being, Joe left her to rest. By the room’s window, Danny was on his tiptoes and hanging over the ledge. Joe shouted at him to get down.

“Dad, you need to see this. They’ve all gone.”

Joe slid up beside his son and looked out. There was no sign of the animals, other than a few burnt llama husks and some unidentified stains on the pavement. Mostly all that remained was trampled grass and scorch marks from the firebombs. The attack was over.

For now…

Victor stood nearby, checking over the remaining firebombs and weapons. Joe approached him. “You think we’ll need those?”

“Who knows, but a retreat in battle does not mean the war is over.”

Joe nodded. “They could come back.”

“Aye, and likely they will. But we beat them once and we can beat them again. We proved today that we’re far from toothless.”

Joe offered his hand to Victor. “We should all thank you for getting us organised.”

Victor did not take his hand. “We did our jobs. If you’re gonna thank anybody, thank yourself for doing what was required of you.”

“Okay,” said Joe, reeling back his arm. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Just one last thing?”

“What?”

“How long do you think they’ll be gone for?”

Victor thought for a moment then shrugged. “No idea. Maybe a day.”

Joe nodded and took a deep breath. “That’s good to hear.”

“Why?”

“Because it will give me time to go downstairs.”

21

Joe could see Bill wasn’t happy with his plan. “You’re crazy,” he said. “You can’t go down there!”

Joe leant in close. “Look, I just have to, alright? Grace is ill and I need to get her medication.”

Bill shook his head. “What’s wrong with her? I’m sure Mason would be able to find something to help in one of the labs.”

Joe wished it were true. “I can’t say what’s wrong with her, but if I don’t get her pills then she’s really going to suffer.”

Bill didn’t answer. He just kept shaking his head.

“Look,” said Joe. “We all have to stick together. Grace needs my help. I’ll feel better knowing she’s safe. Wouldn’t you?”

“What about Danny? Is he going to be safe if you get killed down there?”

It was something Joe couldn’t think about right now. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to do what was needed. “I don’t intend to die down there. I’m not insane. The animals have retreated for now. It will be safe. This might be my only chance.”

Bill took a deep breath and scratched at the salt-n-pepper stubble on his chin. “Okay, then I’m coming with you.”

“What? No way. There’s no reason for us both to take a risk.”

“I thought you said it would be safe?”

“Yeah…probably…most likely.”

Bill grabbed a litter spike from a nearby table and held it up like a spear. “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

Joe had no argument. He picked up his own litter spike and prepared to get going. The quicker he got this whole thing done, the better. Danny would be fine left with Mason, but Joe didn’t think the man was particularly experienced in minding children. It would be unfair to leave them together for too long.

He headed out into the corridor and Bill followed him. If he was honest with himself, he was glad for the company. There was every chance that the lower floor would be deserted, but that didn’t make it any less frightening. Before he even thought about getting downstairs, though, he would have to get through Victor’s barricade.

Victor was unwilling to let anyone tamper with the entryway. Earlier, when Joe had first voiced his intentions, the Scotsman had made it clear that keeping the upper floor safe was his only priority. If the animals were still downstairs then Joe wasn’t getting back inside the barricade until it was completely safe. If things were very bad then this could be a one-way journey.

“You ready there, pal?”

“Yeah, I’m ready. Bill is coming too.”

Victor eyed up Bill and laughed. “Queer and crazy? You’re both bloody mad for doing this. Still, you’re not prisoners. It’s your choice.”

“It is our choice,” said Bill. “About whom we are and what we do.”

“Aye, well, watch your backs out there.” Victor nodded to Joe. “You especially, with this one around.”

Bill sighed, but let it go as he often did. Like Joe, he was probably just thinking it wasn’t worth the aggravation. “Just let us past,” he said.

Victor pulled a printer off the top of a desk and slid the furniture aside, creating a narrow gap. “Remember, if I hear a ruckus down there then the barricade stays up. I’ve already cleared a space for the door downstairs, but I’m gonna block it back up once you’ve left.”

Joe nodded and moved past the stack of furniture. His footsteps echoed as he took the stairs downwards. There were no other sounds, though, and Joe started to relax as it appeared more and more likely that the coast would be clear. The barricade in front of the staff room door was cleared of debris, just as Victor had said it would be, the furniture having been moved to one side.

Joe waited for Bill to catch up. “You ready?”

Bill nodded. “Whenever you are.”

“Let’s do it then.” Joe pulled open the door and slid through. Bill followed closely behind. The staff room was a mess. Chairs and tables were upturned, the television had been pulled down off the wall and smashed, and the stench of monkey faeces filled the air and covered everything.

Bill picked up a broken pool cue, smeared with excrement, and examined it. “They really did a number on this place, huh?”

Joe nodded. “Stinks like hell.”

“All the more reason to just get this over with.”

The two men headed for the door that led into the next corridor. As they went, Joe kept a watchful eye on the shattered windows at the edge of the room. A gentle breeze came in through the gap, but nothing else.

Bill opened the door and waited for Joe. They crept through into the corridor and Joe suddenly thought about the lions that had started this whole thing.

Please be gone… Please be gone.

Everything seemed to be clear, the corridor like any other you’d find in a million office buildings throughout the land.

“I think we’re good,” said Joe.

“Yeah,” said Bill. “So far.”

They moved quickly, gaining confidence with every step that passed without incident. At the end of the corridor was the dented door that would lead out into the zoo’s education hall.

“You ready?” Bill asked.

Joe nodded and they opened the door.

There was so much adrenaline coursing through Joe’s system that he almost threw up on his shoes.

Shit, what the hell am I doing? This is insane.

“Hey!” Bill grabbed his arm. “Get a move on.”

Joe rushed out into the wide open area of the hall and was horrified by what he saw. Ripped and leaking corpses scattered the floor like a gruesome carpet. Severed organs and dismembered limbs littered every corner. Joe’s foot almost slipped as it landed in a puddle of congealing blood. He froze, unable to take another step. The fake animals that lined the edges of the room seemed to glare at him, ready to come to life and devour him. “I don’t think I can do this. All these people…”

Bill came around to face him. “Hey, look at me. Don’t look at them. We can’t do anything for them. My boyfriend might be here somewhere, but I can’t think about that right now. Let’s just do what we came here to do and then we can get away from all this horror.”

Joe nodded and willed his legs to move. Stiffly, he managed to take one step forward, tacky blood trying to suck his trainer back down. The steps after that came easier. Before long, Joe was moving quickly across the room, heading for the snack machines where he had originally rescued Grace. He tried to ignore all the corpses as he stepped carefully over them, pretending that they were something else, just obstacles in his way.

He reached the snack machine and, lying between them like a prize, was a small purple-leather handbag. Joe sighed and clicked the knuckles of his right hand. “That was easy.”

“Is it there?” Bill shouted across the room.

Joe flinched. Things seemed safe, but that didn’t mean they should raise their voices. He turned in Bill’s direction and decided to just nod instead of saying anything back.

Joe picked up the handbag. It was heavier than he had expected it to be but he wasn’t willing to look inside. You should never look in a ladies handbag without her permission, his mother had always told him. It was a lesson still ingrained in him today.

Time to go. I got what I came for.

Joe turned around and held the bag up so that Bill could see it. For some reason the other man didn’t seem relieved. In fact he looked concerned.

Something snatched the bag from Joe’s hand.

Joe spun around to find a monkey sitting atop one of the snack machines. It was one of the cute little white-faced monkeys that you always saw in films. Capuchin, is it? Right now, the animal was far from cute. It was covered in blood and snarling at Joe with murder in its feral little eyes.

“Holy shit!” Joe leapt away instinctively and started to run. Behind him the monkey screeched at a pitch so high it could break glass. Joe stopped and spun around. He couldn’t leave without Grace’s bag.

“Come on, man,” Bill shouted urgently. “Get your ass away from that thing.”

“I need the bag.”

“Leave the bag. It’s not worth it.”

Joe headed back to the monkey. It was holding the bag above its head like a trophy, hooting as though boasting some great victory over Joe.

That bag belongs to me, you little fleabag.

Joe decided the only tactic he had at his disposal was surprise. He rushed the monkey and made a quick snatch for the handbag. His fingers found the strappy handle and clenched tight. The monkey pulled back. A tug of war ensued.

“Let go, you bastard!” Joe pulled with all of his might and managed to dislodge both the monkey and the handbag. Both hurtled across the room before skidding on the blood soaked tiles. Joe sprinted towards them.

“Joe, stop!” Bill shouted. “Get back!”

Joe halted, heels skidding in a pool of blood. He looked at Bill and shrugged. “What?”

Lined up in the outdoor entrance were the four lions that had ripped so many people apart just days before. They seemed even bigger than before and even more blood stained their snouts. Joe’s spine damn near froze stiff, but he somehow managed to take a slow step toward Grace’s bag. Before he could take another, the lions made their move.

Joe dodged to the left just as one of the lionesses made a swipe at him.

“Damn it!” Bill shouted again. “Get out of there, now!”

Joe didn’t need to be told twice. He sprinted so fast that his hamstrings felt as though they might snap away from his bone; but he kept the pace, dodging and leaping between tables like a twenty-year old parkour practitioner on the streets of Paris.

Bill sprang forward, litter spike in hand. He aimed a thrust at the nearest lion just as it was about to take Joe down. The animal roared and fell back in an injured hunch, bleeding from a puckering wound in its chest.

Joe grabbed Bill by his arm and pulled him along. The two men dashed for the corridor, dashing through the open red door. Joe could hear the pounding of thick paws behind him and was sure that it was only a matter of seconds before he felt their overwhelming weight bear down on him.

We’re screwed.

Bill reached the staffroom first, a few steps ahead of Joe. Somehow, the older man was fitter and faster. Joe barrelled through after him, felt his legs weaken as exertion began to take its toll.

Inside the staffroom, things were even worse.

The monkeys had taken over the room again, teeming in through the broken windows. They were the larger species from before – Macaques; the ones that had chased everyone upstairs on the day it all started.

Joe turned to retreat, but found himself faced with the lions coming up the corridor. “Shit, what do we do?”

“I don’t know,” said Bill, swiping at whichever monkey dared get too close to him. “We’re surrounded.”

The lions closed in behind them. The monkeys came at them from the front. They were trapped. Joe thought about Danny – he wanted his last thoughts to be about his son.

“We’re screwed,” said Bill. “Totally screwed.”

“Not yet you’re not,” came a voice from across the room.

Both men looked over to see Mason at the foot of the stairwell. He was holding something in his hand. Before Joe could work out what it was, Mason had already thrown it.

The firebomb sailed through the air.

It landed smack-bang amongst the monkeys. They shrieked and screamed as the flames clung to them. The smell of burning fur consumed the air and stung Joe’s eyes.

“Run for it!” Mason shouted.

Joe and Bill dodged through the flailing monkeys and managed to cut a route towards Mason. The lions stayed back, unnerved by the flames and unable to overcome their primal fear of it. It seemed like an eternity to reach the door, but eventually Joe and Bill made it there. They piled through into the corridor and all three of them immediately set about rebuilding the barricade. During that time, Joe heard the sprinkler system come on in the staff room. The fires would go out. The animals would attack again soon.

Need to hurry.

The barricade was up. All three men let out long, laboured breaths. Joe felt as though the acid in his oesophagus was about to burn right through his chest. Bill looked even worse. In fact, the older man had collapsed to the floor.

It was then that Joe spotted all of the blood.

22

Randall shook his fist at Victor, could barely contain his anger. “Why did you let Mason leave? If Joe wanted to take a silly risk than that’s his decision, but Mason is an expert on the zoo, and animals in general. Do you not think he needed to be kept out of harm’s way?”

Victor’s hackles were up and he obviously didn’t appreciate being shouted at. Randall didn’t care – the man should not have made a decision without consulting him first. There was a chain of command and it needed to be respected.

Victor cleared his throat, an aggressive sound. “Listen, pal! Mason wanted to go after Joe and the queer, and I had no right to stop him. We’re not prisoners here. It’s a man’s own choice to do what he thinks is right.”

Randall backed off a little, deciding a different tactic was required. “Of course we’re not prisoners, Victor, but you said yourself that if you hear any trouble downstairs then the barricade stays in place. So why did you move it for Mason?”

“I said I wasn’t about to let anyone back inside if I heard trouble. I didn’t say anything about letting people out. Besides, I guess I changed my mind. Sounded like Joe and the queer needed help, so I gave it to them.”

Randall sighed. “And what if all three of them are now dead? Mason’s loss will be because of you.”

“Fuck that! Mason is old enough to make his own decisions. I’m not his keeper.”

“Perhaps you should be!”

“What you talking about?”

Randall placed a hand on Victor’s bony shoulder. “Victor, it’s just us now. Keep this to yourself, but I managed to make a call on my phone to the emergency services.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “What phone?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that when I called 999 and there was an automated message saying that no help is available and that people should barricade themselves in their homes.”

“Aye, well that would be sound advice.”

“But don’t you get it? If there’s no police force then what hope do ordinary people have? How many people have dogs in their homes?”

Victor thought about things for a while, rubbing his hand back and forth over the stubble of his head. “Shit, pal. That’s grim thinking.”

“But realistic, I’m afraid. We are alone in this and we cannot afford to take risks. We need to take control of the situation and keep people safe.”

“How the hell do we keep people safe? The world’s gone down the crapper.”

“By keeping them under control. From now on, no one does anything without me agreeing to it. I’m in charge, for the simple fact that I am the only one looking at the big picture. Everyone else is being far too rash and emotional for their own good.”

“And what if people don’t want to follow your lead?”

Randall smiled. “That’s where you come in, my friend. I give the orders – you make sure they’re followed. It’s the only way to keep everyone alive. That’s what counts more than anything right now – that we all get through this in one piece. It may seem harsh but it’s the only way. We need to have control.”

Victor nodded slowly. Randall could see the conviction flowing into the man like juice into a beaker. “Okay, boss. I agree. We have to keep everyone in check for their own good. No more running off half-cocked or doing their own thing. From now on, everything that happens goes through us.”

Randall patted him on the back. “Good man. They’ll thank you for it later, my fri-”

“Help us!”

Randall looked through the gaps in the barricade and saw Mason coming up the stairs, followed by Joe who seemed to be carrying Bill over his shoulder.

Mason cried out again. “Let us through. Bill is injured. We need help.”

“Did any critters get through with you?” asked Victor.

“No. We got the barricade back in place. It’s safe.”

“Bloody better be,” said Victor, sliding furniture out of the way.

Mason rushed through the gap and Joe followed, still holding the other man over his shoulder.

“Come on,” said Randall. “Let’s get him into the lab.”

The group of men hurried along the corridor and entered the veterinary lab. Randall noticed all of the blood-stained cages that lined the room, but was impressed that there were no remains of the animals that Victor had slaughtered. He’d even disposed of the harmless birds.

The man is efficient, got to give him that. God knows where he’s put all the ‘meat’ though.

Joe eased an unconscious Bill down onto the stainless steel operating table and Randall saw the man’s injury for the first time. The back of one leg was split down the middle so deep that it lay open like a ketchup-filled baguette.

“My word, what happened?”

“I’m not sure,” said Joe. “I think he must have got slashed by one of the lions when we were running. He must not have felt how bad it was in all the panic.”

“Makes sense,” said Grace, entering the room. “Adrenaline does that.”

Randall frowned. “What are you doing here, my dear? You should be resting, not getting involved in gruesome things like this.”

Grace dismissed Randall with a wave of her hand.

Insolent Bitch!

“I can help,” she said, moving up beside Bill. “I have a bit of experience with stitching wounds”

“Really?” said Victor. “How’s that?”

“Let’s just say I’ve seen my fair share of wounds.”

Randall cleared his throat. “Didn’t you learn first aid in the army, Victor?”

The man shrugged. “First aid, yes, but not how to suture a wound like this. I could give it a stab, but if the lass says she knows best then I would say she is the one to do it.”

Randall didn’t trust what Grace was claiming, but what could he do? If she purported herself as being able to manage the wound then on her head be it. “Okay,” he said. “Then I suggest she gets to work before Bill loses anymore blood.”

Grace nodded. “The bleeding doesn’t seem to be arterial, so we just need to clean the wound and close it to prevent infection. I need someone to get some of the ethanol we’ve been using for the firebombs, and the cleanest cloths we can find. Mason, do you know if we have a suture kit in here?”

Mason nodded and went to the side of the room. Victor headed for the door in what Randall assumed was a trip to go and get the alcohol. Grace went to work on Bill, tearing away the clothing from his wound and then elevating the leg on a cardboard box full of printing paper.

“You obviously have things under control here, my dear. I will leave you to it.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Joe. “I need to look after Danny. With Grace here, he’ll be alone with Shirley.”

Randall smiled. “I’m sure he’s more than safe with Shirley.”

Joe huffed. “Are you crazy? That woman is unstable.”

“I admit that she is a little…eccentric, but we have no right to judge. We are all part of the same team now and I won’t abide malcontent.”

“You won’t abide it?” said Joe. “You’re not really in a position to--”

“Joe, we can discuss it later. In fact, I think it would be best if we all spoke as a group at the next opportunity. For now, it would be best to take my advice and not rock the boat. If we start to bicker amongst ourselves things will fall apart.”

Joe shoved Randall aside. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but things have already fallen apart!”

Randall waited a few moments and then followed Joe out into the corridor.

As long as there is order, things have nowhere near fallen apart. That is a lesson you will have to learn, Joe, my friend. Whether you agree with it or not.

23

Who the hell does that guy think he is? Joe couldn’t believe the way Randall acted as though he was in charge, strutting along like he was at a business conference and everyone else was a subordinate. They were all in this nightmare together and no one had the right to tell anyone else how to think.

Especially when it concerns my son and that nutcase, Shirley.

Joe found Shirley standing at the window of the seminar room. Danny stood beside her. They were holding hands and chatting amongst themselves.

Joe shouted. “Danny! Come here.”

Danny jumped at the sudden sound of his father’s voice and twirled around like a spinning top. “Dad, you’re okay! You shouldn’t have left.”

“Of course I’m okay. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Danny ran over and wrapped his arms around Joe and squeezed. Over by the window Shirley turned around casually and smiled sagely.

“I’m glad you returned safe and sound, Joe,” she said. “That’s a fine boy you have there.”

Joe clutched Danny tighter, running a hand underneath one of the straps of his backpack. “Yes, I know. Thank you. What were the two of you doing anyway? I don’t like him being by the window.”

“We were talking about the nasty animals,” Danny answered. “Mrs. Shirley told me that God has told them to attack us because we’ve all been bad. She told me about Noah and his boat and that this is the same sort of thing that happened hundreds of years ago, except this time the animals are the water.”

“Noah had an ark, Danny,” Shirley corrected, “not a boat. Try to remember. Facts are important.”

Joe felt his skin glow red beneath his clothing. “Keep your self-righteous bullshit to yourself, Shirley. My son doesn’t need to hear things like that.”

Danny stared up at him, wide-eyed. Joe felt guilty over his display of bad language in front of his son, but still felt it was warranted. Shirley didn’t seem so shocked and took the insult in her stride.

“On the contrary,” she said calmly. “I believe it is of the utmost importance that your son learns about the world he has inherited. Of all of us, he is the only one without sin. He is the only one with any chance to continue on in this vile landscape of sin and sodomy.”

“Enough!” Joe took Danny away, heading for the furthest corner of the room. “Just leave my son alone, okay?”

“You cannot hide him from the truth and you cannot hide the truth from him. Judgement has been passed and he is paying for your transgressions.”

Joe kept on walking. Bloody fruit loop. What world is she living in? Dante’s Inferno, by the sound of it.

Danny dove onto a pile of cushions, performing a messy elbow drop like one of his wrestling idols. Joe sat down beside him. “You okay, buddy?”

Danny nodded emphatically. “I’m super-duper… Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Why were you mean to Mrs. Shirley?”

Joe sighed. How did you explain it to a child? “She’s a bit mixed up, Danny, and I don’t want her to tell you things that are silly. Sometimes adults can get stuff wrong, too.”

“She was just telling me stories.”

Joe tussled Danny’s hair. “I know, son. Just promise me you won’t listen to her anymore, okay? If you want a story then just ask me.”

Danny nodded, but seemed to be thinking about something. “Mommy used to tell me stories.”

Joe felt a knot in his stomach, tying and untying itself with every breath. “I know she used to. You’re mommy was a lovely lady.”

Was? Dammit, I should have said ‘is’.

Danny didn’t seem to pick up on the past tense. “When can I go home and see her? I want to tell her about all of the animals, and how you’ve been saving everybody. Maybe if I tell her she’ll like you again.”

Joe thought about that. It had been so long since there had been anything but acrimony between him and Jane that the thought of her being proud of him was alien – but the notion was a comforting one. It was fantasy, though, because Joe knew that Danny’s mother was dead. She had to be. No way could she have survived.

“Dad? When can I go home?”

“I don’t think we can go home just yet, Danny. At least not for a little while.”

“But what about Mommy? She’ll be missing me, and she’ll be mad at you. I don’t like it when she’s mad at you.”

Me either, son. Me either.

Joe pulled Danny in close across his lap and stroked his soft blond hair. “She’ll understand. She won’t be mad as long as we keep ourselves safe.”

“She’s dead isn’t she?”

Hearing such a thing from his son – and so suddenly – was like an unexpected punch to the gut.

What on Earth do I say? Is it kinder to lie?

Joe thought about things for almost a full minute before he gave an answer. “Yes, Danny, I think she probably is. I’m sorry. I loved her too.”

Beneath his breath, Danny began whispering names, sobbing between each one. “Bulldog, Owen Hart, Andre the Giant, Miss Elizabeth, Macho Man, Texas Tornado, Bam Bam Bigelow, Luna Vachon, Earthquake, Bossman, Yokozuna, Mr Perfect, Rick Rude, Mommy.” Joe knew that each name his son said was a wrestling hero that had passed away tragically. And he had just added his mother to that list.

* * *

One hour later, Grace entered the room. Joe sighed with relief. He wanted to know what was going on, to see if Bill was okay, but he wasn’t about to leave Danny alone with Shirley again. Now that Grace was here he could find out.

“He’s going to be okay,” she said before he even had chance to ask. “At least I think so. The wound looked worse than it was and I managed to clean it up and stitch it pretty well.”

Joe tipped his head back and let out a long hiss of air before looking at Grace and smiling. “That’s such a relief. We all owe you. How did you learn to stitch wounds?”

Grace turned away from him and looked at the ground.

Joe quickly understood. She knows because of having to stitch her own self-inflicted wounds.

Grace came and sat on the cushions beside Joe and Danny. She placed a hand on his knee. “I hate to ask, after what you did for me, but did you manage to--”

“I’m sorry,” Joe said. “I had your bag, but they…”

Grace’s eyes filled with tears and her lower lip quivered. “That’s okay,” she said. “You shouldn’t have even tried. It was horrible of me to even have asked you.” She squeezed at his knee. “Thank you for trying.”

Joe stared down at the floor, examining each tiny carpet fibre. “I’m just sorry I failed. How did you even know I tried? You were asleep when Bill and I left.”

“Mason realised that you were gone and woke me up. I made him go after you, although he seemed like he would have anyway.”

“I owe Mason my life.”

Grace laughed. “I think a lot of people owe their lives to someone at the moment. We’ll have to make a chart or something.”

Joe giggled and put his hand on top of hers. “You know, you’re the only thing that can make me smile since this whole thing happened. Well…you and Danny, of course.”

Grace seemed to blush. “I’m glad. I like it when you smile.”

Joe suddenly had a thought that knocked away the levity. “What are we going to do without your pills?”

We? Why do I feel so protective of this girl?

Grace’s face sagged. “I really don’t know. I’ve never been able to fight the urges in the past. They’ve always managed to ruin my life. Even now they’re beginning to eat away at me. It’s like little shards of glass inside my brain.

“God…” said Joe.

Grace smiled and seemed suddenly hopeful. “But in the past I never had you looking after me.”

Joe felt teary again, the emotional hole from earlier not yet fully sealed. He pulled Grace in close and she rested her head on his thigh. Danny slept on the other. Despite everything that had happened, the feeling of their bodies against his made everything feel better. Made him think that things might be okay as long as they had each other.

We need to stick together.

24

Joe was surprised when Bill entered the room flanked by Mason, Randall, and Victor. He had a heavy limp and his leg was bandaged from his knee upwards. Otherwise he seemed okay. Grace had done a good job.

Joe would have stood up if it were not for Danny and Grace’s sleeping bodies weighing him down. Instead he raised both hands out towards his friend. “Bill, you’re walking about like nothing happened.”

Bill smiled. “I’ve been better, but I’ll live.”

Victor patted Bill on the back and looked at Joe. “Your lass did a good job.”

My lass? Who says she’s my lass?

“Yes,” said Randall. “She did us all a great service.”

Joe scrunched up his face. “Great service? You sound like a politician.”

“Perhaps in the current circumstances, I am. In fact that’s what we are all about to discuss.”

“Discuss?”

Randall perched himself down on the edge of a table. “Leadership, my friend. We need to put some rules in place if we have even a slim chance of making it through.”

Joe sighed and shook his head. “Let me guess: you’re putting yourself forward?”

“Not at all,” said Randall. “I suggest a democratic vote. What other way is there?”

“How very noble.”

Randall smiled at Joe as if they were best friends. “I will of course put myself forward as a candidate. With my business background and age I feel I would be best suited to the job, but of course that is for everyone else to decide.”

“Do we have any other volunteers?” Grace asked, pulling her head away from Joe’s lap, not asleep like they had assumed.

“Not yet,” Randall told her, looking down at her position on Joe’s lap with what looked like disapproval. “Now would be the time for people to put themselves forward.”

“I think Mason should be in charge,” said Joe. “He’s educated and an expert on animals. Plus this is his zoo.”

“And it’s my building,” said Randall, “but I digress. I think Mason would be a wonderful candidate.”

“Except for the fact that I am not volunteering,” Mason said. “I’m not cut out to make decisions. I’m a scholar; comfortable alone in a room full of books. I don’t wish to have that responsibility.”

Joe deflated. The only respectable contender against Randall for leadership would have been the zoo’s curator. Without Mason, who else was there?”

“I put forward Joe,” said Bill, trying to take the weight off his injured leg by sitting on a pile of cushions. “He’s a risk taker, but he always does what’s right.”

“I agree,” said Grace. “He’s done nothing but put other people first since this whole thing began.”

Randall smiled, the expression drenched in condescension. “My dear, Joe has a son to look after, and that would only compromise his ability to lead. I very much doubt that he would want to-”

“I volunteer,” said Joe, cutting Randall off mid-patronisation. “Politicians have children and families.”

Randall sighed. “Okay then. We have two candidates. Is everyone ready to vote?” He looked down at Danny, sleeping soundly, and added, “Over-eighteens only, of course.”

Everyone sat patiently while Victor used a marker to scrawl the words JOE and RANDALL on the seminar room’s whiteboard.

“Okay,” said Victor. “I’ll chair the vote and ask you one by one to give me your choice between Joe and Randall. We’ll start with you, Shirley.”

Shirley nodded and allowed herself to think. Joe suspected it was just for show and was not surprised when she answered. “I pick Mr. Randall.”

“Okay,” said Victor. “How about you, Grace? Should I even bother asking?”

“Joe is the best man by far.”

“Thanks for that, lass.” Victor drew a scratch below each of the names on the board.

A tie so far.

“I vote for Joe too,” said Bill before he was even asked. Joe nodded a silent thanks to the man.

“Hold your horses,” said Victor. “I’m in control of this thing, so let’s speak when spoken too, yeah?” Despite his assertions, Victor put another scratch below Joe’s name. He then put another one beneath Randall’s.

“Hey,” said Grace. “What’s that for?”

“That’s for my vote, lass. We have a tiebreaker. Mason it falls to you.”

Joe smiled. It’s in the bag. No way is Mason going to vote for that egotistical prick.

“I vote for Randall,” said Mason, seeming to choke on the words as they came out of his throat.

Grace leapt to her feet and threw out her arms. “What? How can you not vote for Joe? We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”

“I’m aware of that. Although earlier I saved his life in return, so perhaps that makes us even.”

Joe shook his head, genuinely shocked. “Why, Mason?”

Mason couldn’t look him in the eye. “I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt, and as Bill said earlier, you’re a risk taker. I think things will be a little more stable if Randall makes decisions. And after all, this is his building.”

“Bullshit!” Grace screamed at him. “You’re a spineless bastard. He said something to make you vote for him, didn’t he?”

“Now, now, Grace. I do not wish to hear any talk of corruption.” Randall wagged his finger back and forth. “Not under my regime.”

Grace cackled. “Regime? There’re five people here, you big-headed prick. You’re not the prime minister! You’re just a sad little man that wants to be in charge of all the toys because no one will play with him otherwise.”

Randall turned to Victor. “Control her, please.”

Victor shot forward and twisted Grace’s arm behind her back. She squealed.

Joe rushed the Scotsman, ready to take him down, but, before he knew what happened, something cracked against the bridge of his nose. He staggered backwards, blood and snot flowing between his fingers. When he looked up, through blurry eyes, he could see that Victor was holding Martha against Grace’s throat. He’d smacked Joe in the face with the thick handle before turning the blade on his hostage.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bill shouted, hands on top of his head.

Randall held a hand up like he was talking to a church full of worshippers. “My first order of business is about the adherence to law and general obedience of the group. Victor is now the group’s Marshall and will deal forcefully with any disruption. From now on he will also be the only person with access to weapons. I took the liberty earlier of dispensing most of them to a secure place.”

Joe spat bloody-mucous onto the floor. “And why did you do that if you didn’t know you would get the vote?”

Randall let a smarmy grin creep onto his face. “It was just a precaution. A shrewd one, I believe. Victor will now escort Grace to my office until she calms down.”

“What happened to this being a democracy?” said Joe, still blinking tears from the blow to his nose.

Victor answered on Randall’s behalf. “The vote was democratic. Now that it’s been dealt with, consider this a dictatorship. It’s for your own good.”

“Indeed,” Randall seconded.

Victor strong-armed a protesting Grace through the door and out into the corridor, disappearing a moment later. Bill limped up to Joe and stood beside him, facing down Randall. “You’re not going to get away with this!” he vowed.

“With what?” Randall scoffed. “I was voted in lawfully and am leading as I see fit. It is for your own good. With time you will learn to love my regime. I’m certain of it. And if not then you will most definitely respect it.”

Joe took Bill away from the scene. He could see the man was ready to explode. “Come on, Bill, we’ll deal with him somehow. Let’s not worry for now.”

“I hope that’s not conspiring I hear, gentlemen. I take a very dim view of plotting.”

Joe glared. “Oh, don’t you worry, Randall. We’ll play up to your delusions for now, but just remember that when the situation comes that you need our help, you won’t get it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just a matter of time until you fall on your fat ass.”

“Perhaps, but until then you will do as I command, or face the consequences.”

Joe nodded. “Fair enough.”

But sooner or later I’ll make sure that the consequences are for you….my friend.

25

Things are coming along nicely, Randall told himself. The group was under control and would obey his commands. If they did not, Victor would happily show them the error of their ways.

After making an offer that Mason could not refuse, and with Bill being injured, there was now only Joe to worry about.

But there are plenty of options to make that over-sized brute behave. Like his son, or the girl.

Speaking of the girl, Randall thought he should go see her and explain what was expected of her, going forward. It would not do to have her kicking up a fuss again. It was bad for morale.

He crossed the room and exited into the corridor. Victor was coming back the other way, jangling a set of keys between his fingers. When he saw Randall, he handed them over.

“Everything under control?” Randall asked.

“Aye, she’s sitting pretty in your office. Feisty one, that lass.”

“Isn’t she just. I’m going to have to keep an eye on her. In fact I’m going to go see her right now.”

Victor nodded. “I’ll look after things until you get back.”

“Good man!” Randall walked away. The door to his office was locked and he used the keys to open it. When he open the door, Grace rushed at him. A swift backhand soon put her in her place.

She fell to the floor, palm against her bleeding lip. “You bastard!” she hissed.

Randall placed himself down on a swivel chair up against the room’s desk. He folded his hands in front of himself and placed them in his lap. “Listen here, young lady. You better get used to the way things will be running around here or else you’re going to find yourself locked up more often than not. Things here are very delicate and it would be best if you let the grown-ups handle things.”

Grace climbed back to her feet and scowled at him. “You have no right!”

“I was given the right by a vote.”

“A vote you fixed.”

“Such accusations will not be tolerated – especially ones without substance. Now, if I hear such things again, I will see that you spend an entire week in here alone.”

The girl’s eyes grew wide with fear and Randall had to fight the urge to gloat that his threat had subdued her.

“You can’t leave me alone in here. Please,” she said. “You have to let me out.”

Randall’s thin lips stretched wide. “Not until you learn how to behave, young lady.”

“I’ll behave,” she cried. “Just don’t lock me up.”

Randall thought for a moment. What on Earth has taken the fight out of her so quickly? Surely it can’t just be the threat of incarceration? Either way, it’s a lot of fun watching her beg. Maybe I can even get her on her knees.

“Why are you so afraid of being locked up, my dear?”

Grace looked away, avoiding his attempts to make eye contact. “I…just don’t like being alone.”

“Then perhaps a day alone will be a suitable enough punishment to teach you some respect.”

Grace lunged across the desk, the act so ferocious that Randall was in awe of how quickly she was upon him with her hands around his throat. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her back, slamming her down onto the desk and pinning her. He moved his face close to hers, their noses only centimetres apart. “Now listen here, sweetheart. There’s a new mayor in town and you better learn real fast to respect him. You hear me?” He yanked harder on her hair and she yelped. Tears spilled from her eyes. “Now I’m gonna leave you here on your own so you can do some thinking. When I decide to let you out, I hope to see a significant change in your behaviour.”

Grace began sobbing, but he cut her off by shoving his tongue into her mouth. She struggled and fought to remove him, but he held the kiss a few seconds more until he was satisfied.

I love it when they fight.

Randall broke away and Grace spat on the floor, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. He moved towards the door, but turned to face her one last time before he left. “You know, with a mouth like that, I may just make you my First Lady.”

Randall slammed the door and locked it, leaving Grace alone with her tears.

26

“What are we going to do?” Bill asked Joe. They were standing over in the corner of the room where Danny was playing with some toy animals from the warehouse.

“I don’t know yet,” Joe said, “but Randall has no right to behave the way he is. We should just play it safe for now.”

Bill nodded. “Or else we’ll have that psycho, Victor, on our asses.”

“Exactly. That man is dangerous. I don’t think he’s ‘all there’, you know?”

“I hear ya. What should we do about Grace, though? We can’t just leave her locked up.”

Joe bit at his lip as he thought about her. “No, we really can’t. We have to get her out.”

“Okay,” said Bill. “How?”

“Appeal to Randall’s decency?”

“Don’t think the man has any.”

“Me either, but I don’t know what else to do.”

Bill shrugged. “Okay. Give it a shot.”

The timing was perfect because Randall had just re-entered the seminar room and seemed to be in a good mood about something. Joe approached him over by the window. It was still deserted outside, the animals gone.

“Hey, Randall,” he said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. “You think maybe you should let Grace out? She’s probably calmed down by now.”

Randall faced Joe, smug grin attached to his face. “I’m afraid not.”

Joe threw his head back, already frustrated by talking to the man. He gave it another shot, though. “It’s not safe for her to be alone. Last time she got attacked and bitten.”

Randall nodded, as though he was taking Joe’s concerns on board, but what came out of the man’s mouth said different. “Victor has safeguarded the room sufficiently. He’s even added a padlock to the door. There’s no need to worry about anything.”

“Well, how long do you plan on keeping her locked up? You have no goddamn right! It’s kidnap.”

Randall folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t be so dramatic. She was hysterical and had to be removed for the safety of the group.”

Joe saw an opening. “And now she’s not, so she should be released.”

Randall shook his head solemnly. “I thought just the same thing earlier, but I’m afraid that she attacked me as soon as I entered the room.”

Joe looked at Randall’s neck as the man turned his head to one side. Sure enough there were red finger marks against the podgy flesh.

So Grace really did attack you? Good for her.

“That’s unfortunate,” said Joe, “but I promise to keep her under control if you let her out.”

Randall leant closer to Joe, eyeball to eyeball. “Let’s just dispense with the bullshit, Joe. This whole ‘reasonable’ act isn’t fooling anyone. If I release Grace then it will just add another person to conspire against me along with you and Bill. I’m afraid for now I need to protect the interests of the group. Until I feel I can trust you, that means keeping Grace out of harm’s way.”

Joe’s fists clenched involuntarily. “So, what? You’re just going to leave her locked up indefinitely?”

“Don’t be silly. I’m a fair man. She’ll be released at some point. I suggest you just relax until then, my friend.”

Joe walked away before he lost control of himself. Every cell in his body was tensing up with the urge to rip Randall’s pig head from his flabby neck. He had to find a way to get Grace out of there before…

Before her illness becomes too much for her to take and she starts cutting herself.

Bill was waiting for Joe in the corner of the room, keeping an eye on Danny. “Any joy?”

Joe shook his head and sat down beside his son. “How you doing, Danny?”

Danny put down a small plastic elephant that he was playing with and looked up at his father. “I want Grace to play with me.”

“I know you do. I want Grace, too, but she’s busy at the moment.”

“That nasty man locked her up.”

“He just took her to calm down. She’s fine now.”

“You’re fibbing.”

Joe didn’t know what to say. His son was smart enough to know that things weren’t okay, but was he old enough to know the full truth? “We’re going to help her, Danny, and then we’re going to get out of here.”

Bill frowned at him. “What you talking about?”

Joe looked around the room and motioned for Bill to do the same. Victor and Randall were in discussion by the window and Shirley had joined them. “How much longer do you think things are going to remain civil? Randall is obviously an egomaniacal bully and Victor is happy as long as he gets to stab things. Then there’s Shirley; she’s a whole other level of messed up. You, me, and Grace are the only ones in this place that see the big picture here, but I have a feeling that our voices are about to get lost beneath the din of ‘Team Randall’. We need to leave.”

“What about Mason?”

Joe shrugged. “After what he did, I really don’t know where we stand with him. He’s obviously happy to go along with Randall’s circus, so I say we let him.”

“I think you’re crazy to even consider it. We’ll get ripped apart out there.”

Joe put a hand on Bill’s shoulder. “Eventually, we’ll get ripped apart in here. We’re not safe, you know that. You’re injured. Grace is injured. The animals are chipping away at us one scrap of flesh at a time.”

“The animals have gone.”

“They’ll be back,” said Joe. “I’m certain of it. They’re just regrouping. Planning their next move.”

“Animals don’t plan,” Bill scoffed. “They don’t think – at least not in the way you’re suggesting.”

“These ones do. You may not have seen the way they worked together to surround Grace, but you witnessed them ambush us downstairs.”

Bill obviously didn’t want to buy into any of it and he shook his head adamantly. “Just a coincidence.”

Joe sighed. He needed to get through to the man. He could make nothing happen otherwise. “Bill, you know that’s not true. Whatever caused all this has made the animals act differently, smarter. We need to find help and we won’t find it here.”

Bill’s shoulders slumped and he seemed to deflate. “Where would we even go?”

“That’s the part I’m not clear on, but there must be other people somewhere. The army or something. I still have my car keys. We could just drive out of here.”

“Well, I’m not on board until you give me something better than that. I ain’t going nowhere till I at least have a destination.”

“Fair enough,” Joe conceded. “Let me think on it. Right now, I’m going to go see Grace.”

Bill raised both of his grey-black eyebrows. “How you gonna do that? She’s locked in that office. You try to break her out you’ll have Victor breathing down your neck – Martha, too.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t talk to her through the door. She needs to hear that things will be alright.”

“You gonna tell her the plan?”

“I thought you said I didn’t have a plan?”

Bill laughed. “Well you have an intention. You could tell her that.”

“We’ll see,” said Joe. “You good to look after Danny?”

“As always. He’ll be safe with me.”

“I know.” Joe looked down at his son and smiled. “You okay to stay with Bill for a few minutes, Danny?”

Danny looked up from his toy animals and smiled. “Yeah, he’s big and strong like Kamala, the Ugandan Giant.”

Joe cringed. “Danny! That’s…a little bit racist.”

Bill patted Joe on the back and laughed merrily. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone’s a little bit racist sometimes.”

Joe didn’t quite know how to take Bill’s comment, but the man seemed happy enough so he departed into the corridor. It was getting dark again and the corridor was shrouded in an opaque cloak of greyness. When Joe stood in front of Randall’s office, butterflies spawned inside his stomach. The padlock on the door only increased their fluttering.

What if she’s already hurt herself? What if she begs me to help her and I can’t do anything? While she bleeds to death…

Joe went to knock on the door, but instead placed his palm against the wood. He didn’t want to startle her. “Grace,” he said softly. “Grace, are you there?”

Of course she’s there, you idiot.

A voice came back, weak and trembling. Joe was sure she’d been crying. “Who is it?”

“It’s Joe. Are you okay?”

For a while there was no reply, then: “No. No, I’m not.”

Of course you’re not. Another stupid question for me to ask.

Joe put his forehead against the door, wishing it wasn’t there between them. “Is there anything…dangerous in there?”

Grace knew what he meant. “No. At least I don’t think so. Randall would have removed anything I could use against him.”

Joe sighed. “Good, then you’ll be okay.”

“No. I already told you!” She sounded desperate. “I’ll find a way to hurt myself, even if it means biting. I need to get out of here. The urges are already getting stronger, gnawing away at me. I have to get OUT!” She banged at the door and the impact knocked Joe away from the wood. The padlock rattled.

“I’m going to find a way, Grace. Then we’re gonna get out of here.”

“Thank God!”

Joe was surprised. “You think it’s a good idea?”

“What? Getting me out of this room or getting me out of this wretched zoo?”

Joe smiled, but realised that Grace wouldn’t see it. “The latter,” he said.

“I think it’s a great idea. I’d rather take my chances with the animals outside than the animals in here.”

“What Victor did to you was--”

“I’m not talking about Victor,” she said. “I’m talking about Randall.”

The butterflies in Joe’s stomach flapped their wings again. “What did he do to you?”

A pause. Then: “Not much…yet. But if you don’t get me out of this room soon I think he’s gonna hurt me a lot more than I could ever hurt myself.”

Joe heard Grace begin to sob quietly and a rage started to bloom inside of him.

I’ll kill him. That sick, twisted bastard is a dead man. I’ll feed him to the lions before he ever lays another finger on Grace.

“Joe?”

Joe broke away from his thoughts. “What?”

“I can tell you want to do something, but don’t, okay?”

“He needs to pay.”

“Damn straight he does, but I don’t want you to go off half-cocked and end up locked in here with me.”

Doesn’t sound all that bad to me…

But where would that leave Bill and Danny?

Joe took a hold of himself and let out a long breath. “What, then? I just keep my head down until he tries to hurt you again?”

“No,” said Grace. “You need to go away and figure out what to do. Then you come rescue me like a hero on a white horse. We’ll leave Randall to his play school prime minister act and find ourselves someplace safe.”

“I’m glad you’re so confident. I don’t even know where we can go to.”

“You’ll figure it out,” she said. “Now go.”

Joe put his hand against the door again, wishing he could feel the warmth of her cheek instead of the lifelessness of the wood. “Okay. I’ll go figure something out.”

He walked away. Before he got far, Grace called out to him. “Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t take too long, or there may not be much of me left to save.”

The thought filled Joe with dread. He walked away without any idea what to do.

27

Night had fallen and Joe still had little idea what to do about Grace – or where to go afterwards. For now, he decided to let things lie in his mind, hoping that inspiration would strike unprompted.

Since the day’s earlier events, two camps had clearly divided. Over by the window sat Randall and his cohorts, lit by flickering candlelight, while on the opposite side of the room, in near total darkness, sat Joe, Bill, and Danny. Mason sat midway between both parties, obscured by piles of open books that lay around him. The thing that Joe noticed most of all was that all of the food supplies were on Randall’s side of the room and that each of his group had weapons. They were laughing amongst themselves, snacking on crisps while Joe’s group starved.

They’re the elite and we’re the proletariat, but I think there’s a revolution in the cards for the near future, so just enjoy your cosy little throne for now, Randall. Enjoy it because I’m gonna make you eat it.

Bill whispered beside him. “I’ve been trying to work Mason out all evening. He hasn’t spoken to either you or me since he stabbed you in the back, but he isn’t sitting with Randall either. What you think his game is?”

Joe considered things for a moment. “I don’t think he has a game. Despite what happened, I don’t think Mason is looking to cause any trouble. I think he just wants a quiet life, which is why whatever Randall said to him was so effective.”

“You think that’s what happened? That Randall said something? He could have just genuinely thought that you weren’t the man for the job.”

Joe laughed quietly. “I’m not the man, but neither is Randall, that’s for sure. I don’t know what happened, but I know Mason wouldn’t have wanted this.”

“It’s pretty fucked up. You figured out what to do yet?”

“No, but I’m working on it. I’ll try to come up with something by tomorrow. We need to act soon.”

“Shit, man, are we really gonna do this then? I mean, we’ll probably die.”

“I know, but at least by doing this we’ll have the chance to live. Grace isn’t going to last long if we don’t do something.”

Bill studied Joe’s expression. “You gonna tell me what the deal is with her?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I just get the impression that there’s something you’re not telling me. Like why she needs pills.”

Joe sighed. “I don’t think it would be right to tell you, but I can say that she has a serious condition and that leaving her alone is dangerous.”

“Okay.”

Joe frowned in the dark. “Really? You don’t need to know anything more?”

“Would you tell me?”

“Probably not.”

“Exactly, but if you say that she needs our help then I believe you. I’ve got your back.”

“I didn’t know Black people actually said that.”

“Word, dawg, for real.”

Joe renewed his laughter and punched Bill on his arm. “You crazy fool!”

Bill joined in the laughter. “Now I know why your son’s a little bit racist.”

The two men eventually settled into silence and Joe was left alone with his thoughts. For some reason he found his mind wandering off and retrieving memories of his ex-wife, Jane – Danny’s mother. The regret of losing her was still embedded deep within Joe’s soul, and not a day went past that he didn’t rue the day he had betrayed her with another woman. Yet, in some twisted way, his weakness was the only reason he and Danny were alive right now.

If we hadn’t separated then I wouldn’t have taken Danny to the zoo for my custody weekend. Who knows where I would have been instead, but the chances of surviving this thing were a million to one in the first place, and if things were different I don’t think I would have been so lucky.

None of it made Joe feel any better. He still regretted the past. If he could take back the night he allowed his neighbour’s wife to throw herself at him, he would. He would take back the entire last year if it meant he could feel the warmth of Jane’s arms around him one more time.

But that will never happen. I have to think about the present. About Grace…

Suddenly it was Grace’s arms that he longed to feel around him and he became resolute that he would rescue her. He was going to break her out tomorrow.

28

Randall could not sleep – too much adrenaline in his system to even consider it. He was finally in charge, free to do as he wished, and it tasted good. Soon he would look towards bringing in other survivors to add to his empire. He considered the methods he could employ, such as lighting signal fires. It would be difficult and dangerous, but he would find a way. That’s why he was the one in charge.

That’s why he would be the hero when all this was over.

Or if there is no end to this situation, I will remain in power and help rebuild humanity on this very spot.

Randall got up in the darkness and shuffled across the room. He stopped when he came in line with Joe and his group. There was no light in that part of the room, but he could hear each of them snoring, the boy the loudest. The last thing Randall needed now was another inane discussion, which was why it was such a blessing that none of them had woken as he padded out into the corridor and switched on his torch.

Joe is turning out to be quite the problem. I may be forced to deal with him. I know he’s plotting something. Him and that bloody queer.

Randall approached the door to his office. Slowly, he inserted the key into the padlock. Despite his efforts to remain quiet as he opened the door, he found Grace awake. She was sitting at the desk and staring at the back of her arm in some sort of dazed confusion. A heavy layer of sweat covered the girl’s forehead and clothing and made her glisten under the shafts of moonlight coming from the barricaded window.

“What are you doing awake?” he asked her.

She flinched at the sound of his voice as though she hadn’t noticed him enter the room.

“I said what are you doing?”

Grace still didn’t answer. Randall was just about to lose his temper when he noticed the blood. “Jesus, girl, what did you do to yourself?”

Grace stared up at him, still struck by some bizarre fugue.

Randall grabbed her by the wrist and stretched out her arm. Embedded into the flesh of her wrist was a ragged splinter of wood. Blood ran down its length and pooled on the surface of the desk. “What’s your goddamn deal? You crazy-”

Grace hissed at him. “Fuck you!”

Randall backhanded her across the face. “Get some bloody sense in you, girl.”

He stomped over to the filing cabinet. Unlocked it with his key. From the contents inside he pulled out a bottle of water and a first aid kit. He set them down on the desk. “To think I came in here to check on you and this is how you repay me. Suicide is for the weak and pathetic.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

Randall raised an eyebrow as he unscrewed the top from the water bottle. “Just shut up and give me your arm.” He poured the water over the wound and the blood diluted pink as it ran down toward her elbow. She winced as the liquid touched her skin and tried to pull away, but he held her tight. When the wound was clean, he put on a plastic glove from the first aid kit and yanked at the wooden splinter. Grace squealed as it came free.

Randall examined the bloody splinter in his hand and felt revulsion as he imagined what it must have felt like entering the girl’s flesh. “Where did you even get this from?”

“The table leg was split.”

Randall looked down at the bottom of the desk and saw that one of the legs had a deep gouge in it. He took a bandage from the kit and started to wrap her wound. “Why did you do this?”

Grace started to cry. “I can’t help it. I need my pills.”

Randall nodded. “So that’s why Joe risked himself downstairs. You’re a nutcase and you need your loopy-pills.”

Grace looked at him contemptuously. “Something like that.”

“Well, if you promise to behave, I’ll let you out. I’ll look after you even.”

“I don’t want you to look after me. Just let me out and I’ll look after myself.”

“Is that so? Do you not think life would be easier with my protection?”

“Protection from what? Your thug, Victor?”

Randall nodded, the torchlight bobbing along with his movement as he directed it on her wound. “Among other things.” He rubbed at the bare flesh of her neck. “I could be a friend to you.”

Grace spat in his face

Randall wiped away the saliva with the back of his hand and sprang to his feet. “Bitch! Fine, be that way.” He yanked open the filing cabinet and took an object from inside. “We’ll see how much longer you can last until you’re begging for my mercy.”

Randall stormed off towards the exit. Before he left, he turned around and tossed a surgical scalpel onto the floor. It skidded into the centre of the room with a clang.

Grace’s expression was one of utter horror.

“Good luck without your pills,” Randall said, and then closed the office door.

29

The first thing Joe thought about when he opened his eyes was Grace. The night before, he had awoken with her beside him. He already felt her absence like a bedsore. He looked around and saw that everyone else in the room was still sleeping. Danny’s little eyes twitched as he no doubt dreamt about being a famous wrestler.

Joe crawled along the floor, gradually raising himself until he was on his feet. He snuck out into the corridor, intending to check on Grace again, and stopped outside the office door when he reached it. He rapped a knuckle lightly on the wood.

Silence.

He knocked again, but still received no response. A fire ignited in his belly. Come on, Grace, answer!

Joe knocked one more time, a little louder this time but still quiet enough not to risk waking the others.

“Joe, is that you?”

“Grace! Are you okay?”

That stupid question again.

“I…I’m alive and that’s what matters.”

“I’m going to get you out of there, right now. This has to sto-”

“Joe, listen to me.”

Joe stopped what he was doing. “What is it?”

“It’s Randall. He came in last night and--”

Joe bashed his fist against the door. “That fucker!”

“No, no, nothing happened. Nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

“He opened a filing cabinet in here to…to get me a bottle of water. He forgot to lock it when he left.”

“Okay, and…?”

“It’s full of supplies. Food, weapons, medicine.”

Joe cursed under his breath. “That dirty, rotten--”

“But that’s not the thing that really matters. I found a phone in the cabinet. There’re messages on it about government rescue centres. There’s one down the road – in Leicester.”

Joe’s eyes stretched wide. “You’re kidding me?”

“You have to tell the others. They won’t support him if they know he’s been holding out on us all.”

“You’re right,” Joe agreed. “We’ll have you out of there in a jiffy.”

“A jiffy?”

Joe blushed. “That’s what I said. Just hold tight for a little while longer, okay?”

“Go do what you have to do, Joe. Just don’t forget about me, okay?”

Joe smiled and ran his fingers against the door’s surface. “Never.”

He turned around and hurried back towards the seminar room. The weight of the information Grace had just given him was almost sending him dizzy.

I can’t wait to see your face, Randall – you arrogant asshole. I knew it would only be a matter of time until I brought you down. Turns out that your little reign of terror isn’t even gonna last a full day.

Joe had a smile on his face as he pushed open the door to the seminar room. He hadn’t expected to be confronted with Randall’s ugly face quite so soon, but the man stood before him now, blocking his path.

“And what exactly are you doing wandering around? No one goes anywhere without my express permission.”

Joe laughed in the man’s face. “Screw you, Randall.”

Randall shook his head as if some deep regret had found its way into his soul. “How very disappointing. I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to detain anybody else.”

“The only thing you’re going to detain is my fist in your face.”

“I think Victor will feel differently.”

Joe smirked. “You think so? What about after I show him what’s inside your secret filing cabinet.”

Randall suddenly went pale, like an overweight ghost. “What…what are you talking about?”

“You forgot to lock it during your late night visit to Grace. She found your little stockpile, and – more importantly – she found your phone. We know that there’s help nearby.”

Randall laughed heartily, although Joe wasn’t buying it. “She tell you that, did she? The woman’s a nutcase. I found her slashing herself to pieces. If I hadn’t checked on her she’d probably be dead by now.”

Joe felt sick. “Is she okay?”

Randall shook his head. “Not really. I bandaged her as best I could, but she’s a very sick young lady.”

“I know,” said Joe.

“It’s a good thing I was there, my friend.”

Joe nodded. “It certainly was, you’re a hero, but may I ask you one thing?”

“Of course?”

“Why exactly were you visiting Grace in the middle of the night while everyone else was asleep?”

Randall’s pale cheeks suddenly went red. “I…well, I…”

“Wrong answer.” Joe let loose with a right-handed punch, sending Randall sprawling onto the carpet. He was pretty sure the blow broke the man’s nose and it almost felt like payback for when Victor had broken his.

He’s lucky that’s not all I’m gonna break.

Randall fell down on his rump and squealed. “That is it! Victor, lock this maniac up before he hurts anybody else. I will deal with him later.”

Joe looked up and saw Victor approaching from the seminar room. He also saw that everyone else had now woken up and were milling about the room with looks of concern on their faces.

Victor looked down at Randall, clutching his bleeding nose, but didn’t seem to care much. “We have bigger things to worry about right now, pal. The animals are back.”

30

Joe knew they would come back, but he had been hoping for more time. It didn’t change things, though. He was still getting out of there today.

Everyone lined up against the seminar room’s cracked window, looking out at the horrors below. The silverback had returned, bringing with him an army that dwarfed his previous one. Now cats, dogs, foxes, and badgers mingled amongst the more exotic species of the zoo. A number of the original army’s members, such as the African elephant, were sporting wounds and horrible burns – mementos of their earlier, failed attack.

Doesn’t look like it fazed them much.

Victor picked up a firebomb. “Same procedure as before, people. The silverback is the priority.”

“What’s the deal with him anyway?” asked Bill. “Who put the gorilla in charge of all the animals?”

Mason cleared his throat, removed his spectacles and rubbed them on his shirt. “His name is Nero, a very intelligent Eastern Lowland Gorilla. He’s the oldest animal at the zoo – forty-eight. He was born here.”

Bill shook his head. “Damn, he’s been caged here for fifty years?”

Mason nodded. “Yes. Perhaps that’s why he’s in charge. Maybe he hates us the most.”

“Don’t matter none now,” said Victor, handing out weapons and the remaining firebombs that he had removed from a locked cabinet. “An enemy with a cause is still an enemy. We spread ’em with fire and use the ballast against anything that gets to close.”

Joe took two firebombs that were handed to him and thought about smashing them in Victor’s face. He knew it wouldn’t be the smart thing to do right now, though. The animals were the biggest danger and they all needed to fight together.

Joe had a thought. “Victor, we need to let Grace out. She can fight for us.”

Victor considered it. “I agree, but Randall’s the one with the key.”

The floor vibrated as the animals rushed the building. Joe looked out to see several elephants and a pair of rhinos heading towards the walls. Dust began to fall from the ceiling, coating everything in a film of chalky powder.

“They’re gonna bring down the building,” said Bill.

“They tried it before,” said Victor, “and failed.”

The building shook upon impact and Joe almost fell to his knees. “There’re more of them this time.”

Victor smiled. “Just means more of them to kill.” The Scotsmen hung himself out of the window and let loose another beaker of acid. It doused the animals below and they roared in agony – but carried on attacking.

“It’s not working,” said Joe, lighting the wick on a firebomb.”

“Hit them with the fire,” said Victor. “Anything with flesh burns.”

Joe tossed his bomb through the window and watched it plummet toward the ground. It smashed against the flank of one of the elephants, sending it wheeling around in agony as the flames engulfed it.

What happened next demoralised everyone.

The elephant on fire lifted its snout into the air and angled it over its back. A sudden gout of water released from its trunk.

Joe watched the flames disappear. “They’re carrying water in their trunks. They planned for this.”

Victor was grinning madly. “Looks like we have a proper fight on our hands, lads.”

Bill was in full blown panic now, both his hands on top of his head as he chewed ravenously at his lower lip. “What the hell do we do?”

Victor threw a beaker full of acid and it hit the partially-burned elephant in the face. It staggered backwards, falling to its knees. Smoke hissed from the surface of its skin as globs of grey flesh fell from its face. A moment later the pachyderm fell to the floor, dead.

Victor turned around. “Let’s die fighting.”

“Screw that,” Bill shouted. “We need to get out of here.”

Victor thrust his knife at Bill, holding Martha just inches from his nose. “No one leaves without Randall’s say so.”

Another impact hit the building. Joe shoved Victor’s arm away from Bill’s face. “Screw Randall! He’s been holding out on us all. He has a phone and knows about a rescue centre nearby.”

Victor didn’t seem impressed. He turned and threw another acid bomb out the window. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, pal. I’m sure he had his reasons.”

Joe shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t you care? We could find help out there, the army even.”

“I know all about how the army works, pal. I’d rather take my chances here.”

Joe threw his hands up. “Fine. Have fun going down with the ship, but we’re going. Come on Bill.”

Joe started to leave when he realised that Bill was not following, instead he was staring out of the window with bug eyes. Shirley and Mason were staring too. Joe turned to see what they were all looking at.

“Holy shit!”

“Aye,” said Victor. “Quite a sight, ain’t it?”

Coming towards the building was a herd of giraffes. Covering their backs like flies was a legion of monkeys. Joe understood immediately what was happening. “They’re going to climb up the giraffes to get in.”

“Just like using a siege tower to breach a castle wall,” Victor marvelled. “Beautiful.”

Joe grabbed Bill and pulled him away from the window. “We’re getting Grace and Danny and leaving. Right now!”

Bill snapped out of his daze and allowed himself to be ushered away. “Okay,” he said. “Where is Danny?”

Joe stopped in his tracks and examined the room. Danny was gone, his pile of plastic animals the only indicator that he had ever been there. The next thing Joe noticed made him feel sick.

Randall was missing too.

“That bastard has my son!”

Bill looked confused. “Huh? You don’t know that. Why would he snatch Danny?”

Joe growled. “Because I know what he’s been up to, and like any politician he’ll do whatever it takes to shut me up.” Joe suddenly had a worrying thought. “Grace, too.”

“What are you talking about?”

Joe shook his head and grabbed Bill’s arm again. “Doesn’t matter, but we have to go.”

Joe sped into the corridor, Bill limping behind. He had a bad feeling.

A really bad feeling.

Joe didn’t knock on the office door this time. He threw himself at the wood. It didn’t break, and the impact made him see stars as he bounced off and fell to the ground.

Bill reached down and helped him up. “I don’t think a door like that is gonna give.”

Joe leapt up and hit the door again and again.

The wood was too thick and Joe slumped against it in defeat. His shoulder was numb, but his heart was where the real agony was.

Bill grabbed the door’s handle and turned it. The door swung open and Joe fell through onto the floor inside. The shock confused his brain and he lay there, stunned.

Bill entered the room behind Joe. “Always try the handle first, man.”

The words didn’t reach Joe as they were meant to; they seemed to float into his ears before fading into nothingness. His mind was too chaotic to accept any new information.

The room was empty and Danny and Grace were gone.

31

“Sit there!” Randall ordered Grace. He pushed her down on a chair in the warehouse’s small office. Danny struggled against him, but it was useless. The cable ties that bound them together by their wrists were far stronger than the boy’s meagre strength. Randall reached forward and fastened a new set of cable-ties to Grace’s wrist, securing her to a swivel chair. Her blood was all over him, not because of anything he had done, but because of all the thick gashes and tender slices she had made on herself with the scalpel he’d left her overnight.

I guess I did kind of do it to her in a way.

Luckily, she had been lying in a pool of her own blood when he’d entered his office earlier and not coming at him with the blade as he had expected. It was easy to get her and the boy down the corridor while everyone else was distracted by the animal attack. His plan was to exit through the warehouse and make it to the next nearest building, or perhaps even find a car. He still wasn’t about to go and seek out the government’s rescue aid, but had at least come to terms with the fact that the visitor’s centre was a lost cause. It would only be a matter of time before the animals breeched it.

Or bring it down all together. Damned elephants!

The only detail he hadn’t worked out yet was how to proceed safely. It was a fairly reasonable guess to think that the coast would be clear – the bulk of the animal army was busy attacking the east side of the building. Hopefully, Victor and the others would distract them long enough for Randall to make his escape unnoticed.

“You can’t do this,” Grace shouted at him. “We don’t want to come with you.”

Randall pulled the cable-ties tighter and she winced as they bit into her flesh. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? I thought you liked pain?”

Grace was weeping. “No I hate it. I fucking hate it!”

“Tough shit! You’re going to have to get used to it, and if you don’t shut up I’m going to fasten one of these around your throat and watch while you strangle to death. You’re coming with me, whether you like it or not, and when it’s just you, me, and the boy you won’t have the option of resisting me. There will be no one to save you.”

Grace didn’t speak.

Good girl. Learning so fast.

Randall stood away from Grace and closed the office door. He yanked Danny in front of him on the metal walkway and made the boy look at him. “And I’m gonna be your new dad. How’d you like that?”

The boy tried to pull away. “You don’t deserve to be anyone’s dad. You’re horrible.”

Randall backhanded the boy, which made him cry out, so he shoved his hand over his mouth and shushed him. Danny bit his palm. Randall leapt back in pain, yanking the boy with him by the cable ties connecting them at the wrists. They crumpled to the floor with Danny landing on top. The boy started to beat at Randall with his fists.

“Get off me, you little brat!” Randall reeled back his free arm and struck the boy across the head. The small body went limp and fell against him. “Damn it, wake up. We have to get moving.”

“You’re a monster,” Grace spat. “A pathetic monster. You think you’re a big man, but you’re the type of person that hits women and children. When it comes to taking on men, you hide behind Victor.”

“Shut up, shut up, you bitch!”

But she did not shut up. She laughed at him. The sound was cruel and mocking, and made him remember all the people he hated in life, from school all the way through to this god-forsaken zoo.

“I’ll kill you, whore.”

“What the hell is going on here?”

Randall looked up from his place on the floor to see Mason standing in the doorway. The man’s eye’s shone with suspicion behind the lenses of his spectacles. Randall took in a deep breath and tried to swallow, but found that his throat was dry. “Mason? W-what are you doing here?”

“I came to grab some more petrol to make bombs. Victor said there was still some left in the warehouse.”

“Yes,” said Randall. “Indeed there is. How goes the battle?”

Mason shook his head. “It wouldn’t be going so bad if everyone hadn’t deserted. Victor and I are the only ones left since Joe and the others disappeared.”

Randall raised an eyebrow. “Joe isn’t with Victor? Where did he go?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he’s looking for his kidnapped son?”

“That’s right!” Grace cackled from the office. “He’s going to kick your ass soon as he finds you.”

Randall tried to pull himself free from under Danny’s limp body, with no success. “Kidnapped!” he said, laughing despite being short of breath. “Don’t be absurd. I caught these two trying to escape.”

Mason huffed. “Escape? What are you talking about? No one is a prisoner here. I think you all need to come back to the seminar room. In the slim chance that we survive the current situation, we can discuss later why you have abducted Joe’s son and tied up Miss Grace.”

Randall glared. Don’t you dictate to me, you pathetic excuse for a man.

“Have you forgotten what we agreed?” said Randall. “I’ll close this place down. I swear it, my friend. Forget about all the money I promised to invest. I’ll bulldoze this fucking place and turn it into flats. I’ll sell the animals for fur.”

Mason was solemn as he spoke. “I’m afraid this zoo is already closed for business. I’ve realised it’s never going to open its doors again, no matter what happens, with or without your money. Thus, our deal is off. I should never have helped put you in charge. You’re an evil little man.”

Randall felt dizzy. This was not part of his plans. “Look,” he said. The pleading in his own voice made him feel nauseous. “I went about this all wrong. Help get this lad off me and we’ll go back and join the others.”

Mason nodded. He stooped forward to lift Danny away, but stopped when he realised there was a cable tie connecting him to Randall. “I can’t get this off his wrist.”

“Don’t worry,” said Randall with a cat-like grin. “I have a knife.”

He shoved the blade into Mason’s ribs and twisted. It felt good going in between the bones. The warm blood of vindication flowed freely over his hand. Mason sucked in a deep mouthful of air that never came back out again. He flopped forward on top of Randall and Danny.

Randall grunted beneath the additional weight. “Will people please stop falling on me!”

It took several minutes for him to get out from under the pile of bodies and he had to use the gore-soaked knife on the cable tie to get himself loose from a still-unconscious Danny. Finally he got to his feet and stretched out his limbs, trying to regain some feeling.

Right, time to get back on task.

Just when Randall was beginning to feel back in control of the situation, a snarling voice from behind him said: “What the fuck have you done to my son?”

32

So much rage flowed through Joe’s veins that he almost took flight when he lunged for Randall. The sight of Danny, hurt and unconscious, pulled him apart at the seams.

And he knew exactly who was responsible.

“I’m gonna kill you,” he screamed, thrusting his arms forwards like pistons. One blow took Randall by surprise, knocking the man backwards. It was then that Joe saw the knife, and noticed Mason lying face down in a pool of spreading blood.

The bastard stabbed Mason. Did he stab Danny too?

Any fear Joe might have had of Randall’s knife was instantly forgotten and he rushed forward and kicked the man. The blow glanced awkwardly off Randall’s ribs, but was enough to send him reeling back farther along the catwalk. His wobbling frame came to a stop against the safety railing. The knife fell to the floor. He put his empty hands up in front of himself.

“Joe, please. Stop, I surrender.”

Joe snarled and stalked after him. “I’m going to kill you.”

Randall backed away, slid along the railing. “Let’s be grown up about this. Your son is fine. He just fainted.”

“What about Mason? Is he just unconscious?”

“Kill that motherfucker, Joe,” said Bill, entering the warehouse and seeing Mason’s body on the floor. “Gut him like he gutted Mason.”

“Yeah,” added Grace from the nearby office. “I watched him kill Mason without a second thought. He’s evil.”

Joe glared at Randall, who cowered like a child. “I think we’re all in agreement. Or would you prefer a vote?”

Randall reached the edge of the steel staircase leading down to the warehouse floor and realised there was nowhere else to go. He teetered on the edge of the top step and seemed to hold his breath as Joe approached. “I-I found Mason like that,” he said. “I don’t know what happened. I swear, Joe.”

“Really,” said Bill from behind them both. “Then why is Grace tied up in the office?”

Joe saw that Grace was bound to a chair by a series of cable ties and grew even angrier. She was in bad shape, wounded in several places. Joe didn’t know if the injuries had been inflicted by Randall or if she’d caused them herself.

Anger broke its bonds and Joe lashed out. He punched Randall as hard as he could, catching the man beneath his double chin and launching him backwards.

Randall’s ankle turned and he went tumbling down the stairs. He crumpled into a ball and hit every steel step on the way down, before coming to halt at the bottom, a broken, tangled mess.

Bill managed to snip Grace loose with some scissors and brought her alongside Joe. The three of them looked down at Randall’s unmoving body.

“He dead?” asked Bill.

Joe shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” He turned around and knelt beside his son. “Danny, wake up.”

Danny opened his eyes and, after a few moments of heavy breathing, it seemed like he would be okay. “Dad, what happened?”

“You had a bump on the noggin. Do you feel okay?”

Danny nodded and got to his feet. “I feel like somebody done a DDT on me, but I think I’m okay.”

Joe hugged him and then looked up at his other companions. “You guys ready to get out of here?”

“God yes,” said Grace.

Bill seemed less enthusiastic, but nodded all the same.

“Okay then, let’s take things slow. Get armed and keep your eyes open at all times. Any sign of danger and we bolt back inside, or to whatever the nearest safe place is.”

“I don’t think there are any safe places anymore,” said Bill.

“You might be right, but things have gone too far now. We have to go and try to find help.”

With everyone in agreement, the group took the stairs to the warehouse floor, stepping over Randall’s sprawled body at the bottom. Danny whimpered at the sight, but didn’t ask any questions. Joe knew his son was smart enough to figure out what happened to the man.

Once on the warehouse floor, they set about finding some weapons. It was a difficult task, seeing as Randall and Victor had hidden away anything useful in their own private stockpiles. The best they could scavenge was a couple of mop handles and a length of chain that had been wrapped around a recycling cart. Hopefully there would be no need to use the weapons, but if they did, they would not be much use.

Joe walked up to the far side of the warehouse floor, toward a large square shutter. It was electric, but at the side was a crank that could be used to wind it up manually. Bill stood ready with his chain while Grace and Danny wielded the mop handles behind him.

“So, we really gonna do this?” Bill asked.

Joe nodded. “Just as soon as you’re ready.”

Bill sighed. “Let’s just get this shit over with then.”

Joe grabbed the crank handle and began to turn. The shutter rose gradually, making a grating squeal as it ascended. Joe cringed at the sound and wished it would move faster. Each rotation of the crank led to the entrance opening by only a few centimetres.

Bill began sidestepping left to right. “Doesn’t that thing go any faster?”

“You’re watching me turn it. You think there’s a better way?”

“Yeah,” said Bill, stepping forward. He draped the chain around his neck and kneeled at the shutter. He placed the palms of both hands underneath its edge and gripped tightly. Then he straightened out his legs, deadlifting the shutter like a barbell. It began to rise faster, open now to waist-height.

Bill motioned with his head to the opening. “Who’s first?”

Joe swallowed. Time to jump into the fire. He ducked beneath the shutter and re-emerged on the other side. The cold bite of the autumn-air nipped at his cheeks, but was also exhilarating. It felt like he could breathe properly for the first time in ages. Bill, Grace, and Danny crawled out behind him and each of them looked around nervously.

“What’s the plan?” Bill asked, scanning left and right. “I don’t wanna just stand around. We’re too exposed.”

“I’ve got the answer,” said Joe, dangling a set of keys from his finger. “No reason my car won’t still be waiting in the car park.”

“Great,” said Bill. “How far?”

“Back of the zoo. Quarter mile, maybe?”

Grace put a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Easy…peasy.”

Joe grabbed her just in time to stop her falling. He propped her up by her armpit. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”

Grace shook her head and heaved in a series of shallow breathes. “I…I’m fine. I just feel a little faint.”

“Blood loss,” said Bill, pointing to the many wounds that adorned her body; some of them were still leaking.

Grace was a mess, caked in blood. Most of the cuts didn’t seem fresh, though, and he was confident that any severe bleeding had stopped. “I think you’ll be okay,” he said. “Are you going to be able to carry on?”

Grace laughed, but her voice was weak and hollow. “What choice do I have?”

“Here, I’ll take Danny,” Joe said, picking up his son. “You just hold onto this mop handle nice and tight and if you feel like you’re gonna pass out, let us know.”

“Can we please get going now?” Bill’s anxiety buttons were being prodded. Joe could tell by the way he was shifting his weight from side to side and swallowing constantly.

“Okay,” said Joe. “Let’s get going.”

The group of them set off. They were in a paved delivery area around the back of the Visitor’s Centre. There were no vehicles around and nothing else of note either, besides a large industrial wheelie bin. There were no animals in the area and Joe didn’t hesitate in leading everyone forward. They stuck close to the wall, crouching to keep their profiles low. Up ahead, the building ended and the pavement snaked around to the left.

Joe put a hand up to halt everyone, whilst struggling to keep a hold of Danny in his arms. “Everyone wait here. I’ll go check and see if the coast is clear.”

Joe put down Danny and crept along the last few feet of wall. He peered carefully around to the left, poking his head out gradually. Joe couldn’t see his own face, but if he could, he was sure he would have lost all colour at what he was seeing.

“What is it?” said Grace. “What can you see?”

Joe bit at his bottom lip and looked back at her. “The animals,” he said. “They’re everywhere.”

33

Bill resumed his anxious stepping from side to side. “What the hell do we do?”

“I think we can sneak past,” said Joe. The army of animals was engaged in the assault against the building. Joe was even sure he could hear Victor’s wild battle cries as debris fell from the windows upstairs. Amongst the rampaging animals was a collection of bloody and burned husks of various shapes and species.

Looks like Victor’s still got plenty of fight left in him.

“We can’t just sneak past,” Bill said. “Animals have like super hearing, don’t they?”

Joe shrugged. “Some do, I guess. What choice do we have, though?”

No one said anything. They could go backwards and re-enter the building, but would have to face Victor and the assault that was going on, or they could go forwards and face an army of vicious, snarling creatures. They were screwed either way.

Danny pulled on Joe’s arm. The boy looked like he had something to say so Joe asked him, “What is it, Danny?”

“We can start a fire.”

Joe smiled encouragingly. “What do you mean?”

“We could start a fire between them and us. They don’t like fire.”

Joe thought about it but Bill liked the idea straight away. “We could grab some more petrol from the warehouse and pour it on the floor as we make a run for it. Then when the animals chase we could light it and…whoosh!”

Joe shrugged. “Good as anything else.”

Bill smiled, seeming the most confident he had been since they had decided to make a run for it. “I’ll go get the petrol,” he said. “I think some of it got left with the backup supplies.”

Joe nodded and Bill limped off. He took another peek around the wall and tried to make some mental notes of which areas were best to get across the zoo. The zoo animals roamed everywhere, flanked on all sides by dogs, cats, and other domestic animals. Their main force consisted of tigers, wolves, monkeys, and of course, the leader of them all, the silverback. The giant ape stood almost exactly at the army’s centre and was beating his chest in defiance as Victor continued to fight back. Every time the silverback let out a feral roar, another group of animals would surge forward and attack the building. The earlier attempts, involving giraffes, had obviously failed as a pair of the long-necked animals now lay dead on the ground. Their current tactic was to send small groups of monkeys against the walls, standing atop each other in an attempt to create a ladder from their bodies. Joe didn’t want to stick around long enough to see if it worked.

Another five minutes passed by without Bill returning. Joe began to worry. It shouldn’t be taking this long.

“You think we should go check on Bill?” he asked Grace.

She shrugged. “I guess we could. Perhaps we should have gone with him in the first place.”

Joe and Grace, along with Danny, headed back along the wall towards the loading bay. Joe wanted to call out to Bill but didn’t want to risk being heard by the animals. When they reached the entrance, Joe called out at a hushed level. “Bill, you okay?”

No answer. Joe’s worry intensified. He stepped through the entrance, Grace and Danny following.

“Where is he?” asked Grace.

“He’s here,” said a voice.

Joe looked up to see Bill standing anxiously before him. At his throat was a knife. Behind him stood Randall. The man wasn’t alone. Shirley stood next to him.

Joe shook his head and laughed. “Guess everyone gave up on Victor’s war, then?”

“Only a fool would have stayed and fought,” said Shirley. “The battle is already lost. Victor is just too stupid to realise it.”

“That’s right,” said Randall. “Shirley and I are leaving.”

“Good,” said Joe. “Let go of Bill and we can go our separate ways.”

Randall cackled, shook his head forcefully. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see, I was brutally attacked, and until the person responsible is held accountable, I simply cannot depart. Unfinished business, you might say.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you after what you did to my son. If I were you I’d cut my losses while I still had the chance.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Or perhaps not.”

Randall slit Bill’s throat so casually that he could have been acting it out in a play. Bill’s eyes went wide as dinner plates as he fell forward onto his knees, clutching the bleeding gash that lined his neck like an ever-widening scarf. He tried to speak, but all that came out was the sound of gurgling and a weak hissing sound.

There was a high-pitched keening that Joe realised was himself screaming. He shot forward and grabbed Bill. The man collapsed into his arms.

“Bill, it’s going to be okay.”

But Bill was already dead.

Joe stared at his fallen friend and was filled with equal doses of an intoxicating need for vengeance and simple regret – regret that he hadn’t killed Randall when he’d had the chance. He would rectify that mistake right now.

Joe looked up just as Randall lunged at him with the knife. He managed to make a last second dive to his right and missed being stabbed by a hair’s breadth. The hard floor knocked the wind from his lungs.

Randall looked down at him on the floor, knife still in hand. “Time for your sentencing, my friend.”

“He’s not your friend.” Danny ran forward and swung his leg like it was a golf club. His little foot hit square between Randall’s legs. “How about a low blow, you jabroni!”

Randall collapsed backwards, shrinking into the foetal position and clutching at his groin in agony. Like a shot, Shirley ran forward and seized the boy, slapping him hard across the face. “You brat! You’ll burn in hell.”

Joe watched in a daze – still winded by his impact with the floor – as Grace swung her broom handle like a baseball bat. It smashed across Shirley’s face with a resounding crack! The woman shrieked out like one of the animals outside as blood began pouring from her face. The blow had shattered her glasses and sent the jagged shards into her eyes.

“I’m blind,” Shirley cried out as she staggered around in wild panic. “Help me, I’m blind.”

“Get your fucking God to help you,” Grace spat.

Joe got to his feet gingerly, going up to them both. Danny’s cheek was bright red, but he was not crying. “Go find the petrol,” he told Grace. “I’ll deal with Randall.”

Grace glanced down at Randall, who was still clutching at his groin and moaning. “Is he worth it?”

Joe didn’t blink. “He killed Bill.”

Grace nodded and then kissed him on the cheek. She took Danny away and left Joe alone.

Randall had cottoned on to the situation and took one of his hands away from his groin and held it up in front of him. “Now, Joe, let’s be civilised.”

Joe spat. It hit Randall on the chin. “You killed Bill. You killed Mason. And I’m figuring you would have killed me and Danny, too. Why exactly? Just so you could get Grace to yourself?”

“Of course not. I wanted to save Grace and Danny from all this. I would have taken them somewhere safe.”

Joe laughed so hard it hurt the soft flesh of his pallet. “You mean the safe place that you hid from us all? And what about me? Where did I come in your grand plan?”

Randall wouldn’t look him in the eye.

Joe nodded. “I see. Well, I’d say that in your case, your punishment should fit the crime.”

Randall eyes went wide. “Don’t kill me!”

Joe smiled. “Course not. That wouldn’t be suitable.” Randall seemed relieved, but Joe had more to say. “You killed two people, so simply killing you wouldn’t add up. No, I need to do something worse than just kill you.”

Randall started scooting backwards on his bum, obviously searching for his knife but finding it nowhere; it had been lost in the scuffle. He stared up at Joe anxiously. “W-what are you going to do to me?”

“This!” Joe leapt forward and grabbed Randall by his legs.

“What are you doing? Get off me, right this instant.”

Joe was beyond hearing Randall’s pleas. He almost took pleasure as he gripped the man’s left ankle tightly and started to twist. “My son would call this an ankle lock,” he said, and then yanked as hard as he could.

Randall wailed as the delicate bones in his ankle snapped. Joe thought about breaking the other leg as well, but decided that one was enough. He turned and walked away. “Now, don’t you go following us, you hear!”

“Joe, please don’t leave me here. JOE!”

Joe carried on walking.

“You’re a murderer. A murderer, you hear me? You’re no better than anybody else.”

Joe shouted back a reply over his shoulder. “Least I’ve given you a fighting chance. However slim that may be.”

He re-joined Grace and Danny in the corner of the warehouse, pleased to see that they had found both a can of petrol and some matches.

“Is that screaming I can hear?” asked Grace.

Joe nodded. “Randall had a little accident, but he’s in no immediate danger. Let’s get out of here.”

Joe took the can of petrol from Grace and she picked up her mop handle again. Then they all headed back through the warehouse, being sure to avoid the aisle that contained Randall. Joe didn’t want to hear any more begging from the worthless human being.

They reached the warehouse shutter and prepared to step outside again....

But the animals had arrived. They had been attracted, no doubt, by the recent commotion and Randall’s relentless screaming. So far it was only a small group of chimps and a few wolves, but Joe knew there would be more coming.

A lot more.

34

Joe grabbed the petrol can from Grace and thrust it at the nearest chimps. The liquid sprung from the nozzle and doused the animals head to toe. Without even having to be asked, Grace struck a match and tossed it.

Two chimps went up straight away. Two-legged infernos, their wild screeching pierced the air in spikes of pain. It still left about eight more, though.

“This isn’t going to work,” said Grace, backing into the warehouse.

Joe grabbed Danny by the hand and followed after her.

The chimps glared at them as they continued backing away, but made no attempts to follow. They seemed to be communicating amongst themselves, arms moving frantically in some sort of monkey sign language. Joe didn’t dare take his eyes away from them, feeling that as soon as he did they would attack.

“Should we go back upstairs?” asked Grace.

Joe shook his head. “It’s too late for that. We need to find a way to lose them.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be easy.”

The chimps seemed to reach an agreement amongst themselves and rushed into the warehouse, hopping and rolling playfully as if the whole thing was just a game. Perhaps to them it was.

“RUN!” Joe screamed at Grace and pushed her into action. Danny ran alongside them as Joe continued to hold his hand. Behind them, the chimps whooped and hollered. They ducked behind a crate of fertilising materials. Grace was already panting with exhaustion.

Joe glanced around the crate and saw that the chimps had spread out and were in the midst of a chaotic wrecking spree, ripping and tearing everything in their sight.

“What’s the plan?” Grace asked. “More petrol?”

Joe looked at the petrol can in his hand and thought about it before shaking his head. “Can’t risk trapping ourselves inside. We need to keep the exit clear.”

“What then?”

Joe shrugged. “Pray for a miracle?”

“Miracles are beyond you,” said a voice Joe recognised.

He looked up to see Shirley heading towards them. Both of her eyes had been reduced to blood soaked rags, the woman quite obviously blind.

“Shirley,” he hissed. “Be quiet.”

Shirley turned in the direction of his voice and snarled. “You cannot silence the righteous. The end times are upon us and your punishment is nigh. Your son will burn in Hell for man’s crimes.”

In different circumstances, Joe would have knocked the woman’s block off, but right now all he wanted was for her to be quiet. She was going to alert the crazed chimps to their location.

But it was already too late.

The group of chimps descended on Shirley like rugby players attacking a loose ball. They knocked her to the ground under the weight of their writhing bodies. Unbelievably, the woman did not cry, but instead seemed indignant at their lack of manners.

“Release me, you foul beasts of Satan. I am not one of the forsaken and I demand that you remove yourselves from my body.”

One of the chimps sank its human-like teeth into Shirley’s shoulder and her mad vitriol turned to screaming. The noise seemed to excite the animals even more and, within seconds, half-a-dozen of them were tearing strips of fatty flesh from Shirley’s struggling body. Her screams grew louder as one of her ears peeled away from her head like foil off a yoghurt pot.

Joe slunk away from the scene, thankful that the chimps were too occupied to notice him. He turned to Grace. “Let’s make a run for it.”

The three of them crept around the opposite side of the warehouse as quickly and as quietly as they could. The sound of blood-hungry monkeys ripping apart human flesh was sickening, but it meant they were all grouped together over Shirley’s body. There was a chance to get out without being seen.

Joe stopped near the warehouse’s shutter. Grace raised her eyebrows at him. “Why’d you stop?”

“Randall. I left him lying in the spot we just passed. He’s gone.”

Grace grabbed Joe’s arm and pulled. “Let’s worry about that later. We need to get out of here.”

As one, they ran out through the shutter and back into the cold air of the loading area. They were immediately set upon by three wolves.

Joe pushed Danny out of the way just as one of the large lupines snapped at his face. Joe swivelled and kicked the animal hard in the ribs. It yelped and fell to the ground. Joe was surprised that it did not get up again.

Must have broken a few ribs.

Grace swung the mop handle that she had thankfully kept in her possession and struck another wolf. It rolled across the floor, growling in pain, before springing back to its feet. Grace swung again but missed.

The wolf lunged. Its jaws clamped down on her wrist. She screamed and shook her arm left to right, but the animal kept a tight hold, biting down harder.

“Joe, help me!”

Joe saw a third and final wolf making a beeline for his son. “Danny,” he shouted. “Come here.”

Danny ran toward his father, the huge animal bounding after him. Joe ran towards him, but didn’t make it in time.

The wolf pounced on Danny, driving his frail body down to the ground, knocking the air from his lungs and ravaging him.

Joe screamed so hard he felt something in his throat tear loose. With every strand of muscle fibre in his body, Joe barrelled towards his son. Danny’s screams made him move even faster.

Joe kicked out at the wolf, so violently that both feet left the floor. His right foot struck the animal in the side of the head. The impact threw both it and Joe into a tumble. Pain struck Joe’s leg like a fast-moving toxin and he knew that he had broken a toe.

The wolf lay dead, bleeding from its misshapen skull as it lay prone on the sidewalk.

Joe crawled over to Danny. Tears streamed from his eyes. “Danny! Danny!”

His son began to move.

Thank God!

Joe examined Danny and saw that he was uninjured. The wolf’s teeth and claws had caused a huge amount of damage, but it was absorbed by his son’s Undertaker backpack. It was ripped and torn to shreds.

“Is it gone, Dad?”

“Yeah,” said Joe, stroking his son on the back of his head. “You’re safe now.”

Grace screamed out from behind him. Joe suddenly realised that she needed his help too.

Joe got to his feet. Almost fell down again as pain shot through his toes like an injection of fire. He gritted his teeth and fought through it. Grace was on her back now, her wrist still trapped inside the remaining wolf’s mouth.

Joe’s first intention was to kick the wolf as he had the others, but that wasn’t possible with his injury. He would need to try something else. He looked around for ideas, but the loading bay was empty.

Except for the petrol can.

Joe grabbed the canister and quickly hobbled to the wolf. It was ripping and tearing at Grace’s arm, oblivious to anything else – even Joe pouring petrol onto the animal’s hind quarters. But the petrol would be useless on its own.

The matches. Where are the matches?

Joe scanned the pavement, looking for the small square box that Grace had been carrying earlier. He could not see it.

Then he heard someone strike a match.

Joe looked down to see that with her spare arm – the one that wasn’t stuck in the wolf’s mouth – Grace had pulled a match from the box that lay beside her. The phosphorous ignited and the flame immediately caught against the animal’s dusty, petrol-soaked fur. The wolf went up like a torch, finally releasing its grip on Grace’s arm. It leapt back in agony as the fire consumed it whole, blackening its skin and melting away any flesh too fatty to burn.

Joe pulled Grace away from the flames. She was wailing and blood covered her body from head to toe, adding to the caked-on layers of her previous injuries. He held her tightly in his arms and rocked her back and forth. Danny ran over and joined them both, turning the hug into a huddle. Joe loved them both so much, but he was starting to think that he would not be able to protect them.

Despite that, he couldn’t help but tell them: “It will be okay. Everything is going to be okay.”

35

Randall somehow managed to hop himself up the staircase to the warehouse’s upper walkway. He had watched the entire thing play out. He’d seen Shirley get ripped apart by a gang of goddamn chimpanzees. It was enough to send a lesser man insane. He also witnessed Joe’s escape and it pissed him off something rotten.

That traitor doesn’t deserve to be walking around like a free man.

Randall looked down at his ankle, twisted and hanging in an unnatural direction. “I hope you get ripped to shreds, you monster.”

Randall held onto the safety railing and hopped his way along. If he could make it back to Victor, the two of them could hole up somewhere in the building and re-establish their safety. Then they could think of a new solution to get out of this godforsaken zoo.

That’s if Victor is even still alive.

And that he forgives us for running out on him.

I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I’m sure I can charm some haggis-eating Scotsman into believing whatever story I choose to provide him.

Doing his best to ignore the agony of his broken ankle, Randall hopped along the walkway and into the hallway, looking down one last time at Shirley’s bloody corpse and the chimpanzees that surrounded it.

The corridor was unmoving, devoid of the chaos and noise that existed almost everywhere else. If not for the barricade at the far end, it would be nothing more than a normal office hallway. Randall felt like he was dreaming.

Or maybe that’s just shock from all the pain.

The day had begun with such promise. There had been order and a sense of discipline. He had been in control of things. Since then, however, he had murdered two people, been thrown down a flight of stairs, and had his ankle snapped like a twig by a lumbering fool. Things had gotten away from him, and that was unforgivable.

But all great leaders face adversity. It is how they recover from it that defines them.

Randall continued his limping hop down the corridor, heading for the seminar room where he hoped to find Victor. As he got closer, he could hear the battle outside continuing – angry trumpeting of stampeding elephants and the bloodthirsty hoots of an army of monkeys.

Dirty, disgusting creatures.

The door to the seminar room was closed and Randall wasted no time in opening it, balancing on one leg as he pushed. Inside he faced madness. Monkeys leapt about everywhere, tipping over bookcases and tearing the contents to shreds. Tables and chairs were overturned and the large window at the far wall was completely broken, letting cold wind gust in from outside. Randall watched with terror as more animals flooded inside, clawing their way through the window one after the other.

Victor was alive, sprawled on his stomach and crawling toward Randall by his fingertips. The Scotsman was covered in his own blood and gashes lined his body like canyons of flesh. The monkeys tore at his back with their claws, biting into him as though he were a fine meal served to them for lunch. Randall could not believe that Victor was not screaming.

But he was pleading. “Help me.”

Randall stood motionless in the doorway. “It’s too late, my friend. I’m sorry.”

Victor glared at him, but stopped crawling as more monkeys piled onto his back and began ripping at a new patch of flesh. “I’ll see you in Hell, pal. Then it will be you who’s begging for help, I promise ya.”

Randall watched for a few seconds longer while a particularly vicious little critter tore out Victor’s throat with its needle-like teeth. Then he jumped back and closed the door behind him. Instantly, bodies began to hit the other side of the wood. The monkeys were done with Victor.

And now they want me.

Randall looked up and down the corridor and tried to rationalise a plan of action. With his ankle the way it was, he could not outrun the monkeys if they broke through. He had to hide.

And I know just where.

Randall hopped further down the corridor and headed for the office he had made his own. The filing cabinet inside was stocked with supplies and weapons.

Not to mention my phone. Maybe I can call for help. The Army isn’t that far away.

Randall flopped against the office door, almost too exhausted to stay upright. He managed to retrieve the key from his pocket and unlock the office, hurrying inside as soon as he was able. The door would need barricading, perhaps with the room’s large desk, but right now Randall just needed a minute’s rest. His asthma was taking a firm hold of his lungs and he needed to sit and use his inhaler.

The swivel chair almost tipped over as he fell into it, but thankfully it steadied after rocking back and forth a couple of times. Randall managed to let out a slow, gentle breath and felt a little more in control.

Just one breath at a time. In out, in out.

It was several minutes before his breathing returned to normal. Once it did, he could finally think again. He was safe for the time being and had no reason to rush a decision. He would just bunker down until the time was right to act.

And when I do, there is going to be hell to pay for certain people.

He stood up and hopped over to the window. Between the gaps in the barricade, he could see the animals outside. The silverback was still amongst them. The giant gorilla was celebrating, waving its arms in the air like a crazed lunatic. Randall’s eyes narrowed at the beast.

Our war isn’t over yet, my savage foe. The leader of the biggest army isn’t always the one that wins.

Randall was feeling good. The pain in his ankle was fading to a dreary buzzing and the room was secure enough to give him time to plan. And time was all he needed with an intellect like his.

I’ll figure something out. I always do. I just need time to think.

But Randall was distracted from his thoughts a moment later.

By the smell of smoke.

36

“I don’t think I can go on,” said Grace, her face pale from blood loss. The wolf bite and many of her other wounds were torn open and bleeding again.

Joe stroked her sweat-soaked brown hair out of her face, but several strands remained matted to her glistening forehead. “We need to get out of here,” he said. “Before anything else happens. I know that you’re in pain, but I can’t just leave you here to die. Me and Danny need you.”

She looked into his eyes, but seemed to find it difficult to focus. “You need me?”

Joe nodded.

Grace forced a smile. It seemed to hurt her. “I don’t think anyone has ever needed me for anything.”

“Well, Danny and I do, and right now we need you to keep moving with us. Once we get out of here we can find you a doctor, get you your pills. Please…”

Grace put an arm around his neck. Joe took it as a signal to lift her up and he did so as carefully as possible. It still caused her a great deal of agony.

“I…I can’t, Joe.”

Joe placed his hands on either side of her face and forced her to look at him. “You can! You have to!”

“I can’t. I’m too weak.”

“You’re not weak. You’ve held it together better than anyone else since this entire fuckfest began. If I didn’t have you to help me with Danny these last few days, I would have lost it. You’ve had enough strength for the both of us, so don’t tell me you’re too weak.”

Grace went to answer him, but broke out in sobs. Joe could see how beaten she was. He wasn’t sure if he could help her. But if she was going to give up on him, then there was something he needed to do first.

He kissed her – the first woman he’d kissed in years. It was long and passionate. Grace pulled away, but not before kissing him back for several long and delightful seconds. She was out of breath when she spoke. “What was that for?”

“For being the first person I’ve cared about other than Danny in a long long time.”

Grace’s face scrunched up and Joe thought he had made her feel uncomfortable. Then she spoke: “Do you smell that?”

Joe shook his head, confused. “Smell what?”

“Burning?”

Joe lifted his nose in the air and tugged in a deep breath of air. He smelt it. Something was on fire.

“You smell it now?”

Joe nodded. “I think it’s coming from the building.”

“Maybe Victor dropped one of the firebombs?”

“Or maybe he started the fire because he knew he was done for.” Joe put an arm on her back and took Danny’s hand. “Let’s go.”

Together the three of them crept back along the wall of the building. At the end Joe peeked around the edge. Nero, the silverback was standing there, still leading his army, but he seemed calmer, almost relaxed.

He’s celebrating. The battle is won and he’s celebrating.

“Look,” said Danny, pointing up at something.

“Danny! Get the hell back!”

Danny got back behind the wall. “I was just showing you the fire.”

Joe looked back around the wall and up at the second floor. Sure enough, there were several probing licks of flame coming from one of the windows. Joe couldn’t be sure but he assumed it was the window of the seminar room. It would not be long before the whole building went up.

“They’re distracted,” Grace said.

Joe watched the animals and saw that she was right. “They seem nervous of the fire. Maybe our plan was a good one. Is there any petrol left?”

Grace nodded. “I left the can back there. It’s still pretty full.”

“Okay,” said Joe. “Wait here with Danny. If anything comes, call out and I’ll be right back.”

Joe sped off back towards the loading bay. He quickly found the petrol can and matches besides the smoking remains of the dead wolf. He picked the canister up, pleased to find it was almost full, and then hurried back inside the warehouse. He eventually settled next to a crate of magazines and brochures for the zoo’s souvenir shop.

A half-minute later, Joe had soaked the magazines with petrol and had spilled a generous amount on the floor in narrow rivulets, hoping to channel any flames towards other areas of the warehouse.

He lit a match.

Then he ran.

The flames shot up behind him, the heat pulsating against his back as he sped out of the warehouse. The popping sounds of burning plastic filled his ears until he finally made it back to the far corner of the wall where Danny and Grace were waiting for him.

Joe smiled at them both. “I think I just bought us a diversion.”

37

The building took no time at all to burn and within ten minutes the whole structure was ablaze. Joe wondered about Shirley and Victor. If either of them were still alive then they would be trapped inside. He hoped they made it to a fire exit, but Joe knew, deep down, that no one was left alive. The battle had been lost well before he’d started the fire in the warehouse. In fact, he had only been helping along the fire that had already ignited on the second floor. Everyone left inside would be dead for sure.

Except Randall.

The thought knocked Joe back a step as he realised something that should have been clear to him. Randall had been missing. Despite his broken ankle, the man had escaped.

Joe’s eyes went wide. “I have to go back inside.”

Are you crazy?” Grace shook her head. “No way.”

“But Randall is still inside. I can’t just leave him to burn.”

“He’d do the same to you in a heartbeat.”

“Exactly,” said Joe, already turning and leaving. “That’s the reason why I have to go inside. I’d rather risk death than be like him.”

Joe rushed towards the loading bay. When he reached the entranceway he stopped. The flames were everywhere, fierce and consuming. The smell of combusting chemicals filled the air.

“There’s no way,” said Grace. “You wouldn’t even get inside.”

She was right. The steel shutter had dropped halfway down and was twisted and molten amidst the flames that licked at its edges. Joe couldn’t go inside to help Randall even if he wanted to.

Grace pulled him away. “Come on. He made his own bed, let him burn in it.”

Joe looked into the fire a moment longer and thought about what it would be like to burn to death. To feel the very skin peel from your bones as the blood in your veins boiled. Randall was human waste, but no man deserved a death like that. Wherever he was, Joe hoped he made it out of the building.

After that I don’t care what happens to the bastard.

Joe allowed Grace to pull him away from the flames, and when she did he realised that the delicate skin of his cheeks was throbbing and tender from the heat. “Let’s get away before this building comes down on top of us,” he said.

At the far end of the wall, Joe once again looked around at the animals. They were disorganised now and anxious. A great white horse began rearing up and kicking out wildly at a grouping of warthogs that blocked its path. Even after several days of this, Joe could still not get used to the sight of so many different animals grouped together. As always, they were accompanied by the silverback gorilla, Nero. The huge human-like beast was furious at the disorganisation and Joe watched with awe as the gorilla swung a huge arm out and struck a male lion in the face. The big cat cowered and backed away fearfully.

“He’s lost control.”

“Who has?”

Joe looked at Grace. “The silverback. He can’t override the animal’s fear of fire. They’re retreating.”

Grace was excited, but couldn’t completely release the worry from her face. “But we used fire against them before and they came back.”

“I’m sure they’re just fleeing temporarily like before. The silverback will regain control of them eventually, which is why we need to move now while we still have the chance.”

Joe looked up at the flames on the second floor. They were not as violent as those in the warehouse, but they had started to take a real hold now and leapt from several windows, arcing several feet into the blackening sky.

Joe finally left the safety of the wall and crouched down as he moved forward. Grace and Danny did the same and the three of them waddled along like they were playing soldiers. The path led off to the front of the building, but the area there was still thick with animals. To the right was a landscaped plot of grass that shadowed the public walkway. The area was lined with trees and foliage.

Joe hustled everyone along. “Get beyond the bushes and keep low. There’s an aviary at the end of this path and I’m pretty sure the car park was past there.”

The three of them kept low and dragged themselves through the bushes and shrubs. Joe kept glimpsing animals through the gaps in the greenery. He hoped they couldn’t see him.

Or smell me. Don’t most animals have super smell?

Joe hurried everyone along, fingernails clawing at the moist dirt as he clambered forward. It didn’t take long before they reached the end of the grass bank and the path beside it. Joe checked out his surroundings. Despite the presence of many dead bodies – some of them children – there didn’t seem to be any danger nearby, but of course he couldn’t be sure.

Up ahead was the aviary, as he had expected. It was a long building, lined on one side with mesh fences that fastened to the brickwork at the top. There was no movement inside the cages.

“Keep going, but be careful,” said Joe.

Grace moved ahead and Danny crouched along between them. Joe left the cover of the bushes and felt rain on his face – just a drizzle at the moment, but something about the wet smell of the air suggested it would get heavier.

They approached the aviary. Joe was shocked by what they found inside. The varied collection of exotic birds and other rare specimens had been reduced to feathers and bloody pulp. Every single bird had been torn to shreds and partially devoured. Joe saw why: at the back of each of the cages the zookeeper’s entrances were left ajar. Something had entered each enclosure and systematically butchered every bird inside.

One of those bloody wolves probably. Least they got what they deserved in the end.

“What happened, Dad?”

Joe shook his head. “I don’t know. I think the birds were all normal, so they got attacked like we did. They couldn’t protect themselves.”

Danny moved away from his father and over to the cages. He reached out one of his little arms toward the dead animals and seemed like he was going to cry, but instead he spoke. “Mrs. Shirley told me the other day that animals don’t go to heaven, but I think she’s wrong. If you never done nothing wrong to no one then I think God looks after you, so I think they’re all in a better place now where they can fly around as much as they want and eat lots of worms.”

Joe was surprised by his son’s compassion and philosophical contemplation. He hadn’t known that Danny possessed such a capacity for emotion, and he instantly felt guilty about it.

He put an arm around his son. “You okay, Danny?”

Danny turned to him and there were shallow tears in his eyes. “Everything is so horrible. I miss Mom, but I know she probably ended up like the birds.” He wiped at his eyes. “I’m just glad I’ll see her again in Heaven one day, but until then I have to be down here with all of this horribleness.”

“Things are going to get better, buddy. We’re going to go someplace safe and all this horribleness will go away.”

Danny looked at him. “I don’t believe you, but I don’t want to stay here either.”

“Then let’s go.” Joe held out his hand and Danny took it. The two of them turned around and were faced by Grace. She didn’t look happy. “What is it?” Joe asked her.

Grace pointed back the way they had come from. Some of the animals had noticed their escape and were running up to engage them. Leading the pack was a cheetah.

“Run!” Joe shouted.

Chapter 39

The three of them sprinted and Joe felt his knees crying out as his strides struck down at a speed they weren’t used to. If not for the head start, the animals would already have been on them.

Aren’t cheetahs the fastest goddamn animal on the planet? And here’s me trying to outrun one.

Danny held the lead, his young legs combatting fatigue much better than the two adults. Grace was falling back, too weak from blood loss to keep up. Joe kept looking back over his shoulder, hoping she would increase her speed, but she never did.

He was forced to stop and wait for her. “Danny, keep running,” he shouted. “Don’t stop until you reach the car park. I’ll be right behind you.”

Danny skidded to a stop. “Dad, no!”

Joe shouted louder at his son and felt awful. “DANNY! GO NOW!”

Danny kept on running and Joe turned around just as Grace came hurtling towards him. “What the hell are you doing,” she cried. “Move it.”

“They’re too quick. They’re going to get you.”

“Then let them. You and Danny need to get out of here.”

“Not without you.”

Grace looked at him. She seemed so sad that it hurt his heart to look at her. She kissed him quickly on the mouth then pulled away, holding up her arm in front of her – the one the wolf had savaged. It was bleeding badly and Joe noticed that it gushed in a slow, pulsing rhythm.

Matching her heartbeat.

“I’m bleeding to death, Joe. I’m barely conscious as it is, and if you don’t get going, right now, you’ll die.”

Joe looked up at the approaching animals. The cheetah was still in the lead, but had slowed down, stalking them like a house cat stalks a mouse. It would only be moments before it pounced.

“I can’t just leave you.”

Grace was crying and Joe realised he was too. “You never left me, Joe. In fact, you were the only person to ever stick by me.” She wiped at her eyes and a thick streak of blood stained her face. She fell down onto one knee. “But I’m already dead.”

“Grace.”

“Just go!” She was meant to shout it, he could tell, but she was far too weak now. “I’ll be okay,” she said. “I’m happy to die if it means saving you and Danny. Then it will mean something. Not if you don’t move this second, though.”

Joe nodded, his tears falling thick and fast. He looked around and saw Danny way up ahead. If he left now there was every chance they would escape. If he stayed here then Danny would end up alone. Or worse.

So he kissed her.

And then he ran.

Light droplets of rain began to fall from the saddening grey sky, matching the heavy sorrow that filled his heart. He never looked back once. The sound of Grace screaming in agony as her tender flesh was hooked away by vicious claws and teeth was enough to haunt him forever. He could not have coped with the visual. What made it so much worse was how long the screams lasted. In fact, they never stopped. Joe just ran and ran until he couldn’t hear them anymore, trying to ignore the sight of the torn and rotting bodies that littered his path like fleshy paving stones. Joe knew that Grace’s beautiful body would soon be joining them.

Danny waited for him at the zoo’s entrance. He was leaning up against a steel gate, trying to catch his breath while wearing the kind of mortified look that was entirely unnatural on such a young face – a grief that was far beyond his years. Joe reached him and took a quick second to catch his own breath, enjoying the sensual feeling of the rain hitting his face, and then wrapped his arms around his quivering son. But they couldn’t stop and enjoy the human contact. The chase was still on. They had to keep moving.

Joe noticed that the gate was fixed to a swinging mechanism on a set of hinges. He grabbed one of the iron bars and pulled, surprised to find that the gate moved towards him easily. It swung shut against the other side of the entranceway and hit against a metal stopper built into a high brick balustrade. Joe looked around for something to lock the gate with and couldn’t believe his luck when he saw a large steel padlock hanging open on the gate’s catch. He ran over and pulled it out, then lined up the metal loop of the gate with the metal loop of the frame.

The padlock clicked shut and the gate was secure. Beyond it, the animals were resuming their pursuit, finished with the succulent flesh of Grace’s body. Joe kicked at the gate and screamed. “We’re done! You hear me? You can rot in this godforsaken hellhole. You’re welcome to it.”

Lightening illuminated the sky, just as the cheetah hit the fence at full speed. It bounced off onto its back, stunned. The gate held firm. Other animals bumped against it, too, but it was no use. The thick iron was designed to stop animals escaping.

And that’s exactly what it was doing.

Joe took his son and walked away, pulling his car keys from his pocket – glad to finally be about to use them. “Can you remember where we left the car, Danny?”

Danny slapped a hand against his rain-soaked forehead. “Please tell me we haven’t lost the car.”

Joe laughed and patted his son on the rump. “Cheeky sod! We haven’t lost it. We just need to have a quick look around.”

Joe began to worry slightly that the zoo’s gate would not hold, or that some of the animals would manage to vault the high walls on either side of it.

He trotted around the car park, somewhere between a walk and a run, trying to think back to last week when he’d parked the car. Things had been so different then. Getting out of the car with Danny about to visit the zoo was a joyful and exciting experience. Getting into the car and finally leaving the zoo would be an experience that would change them both forever. He just hoped Danny was young enough to place it all behind him.

“There it is, Dad!”

Danny was pointing north-west towards CAR PARK D. Joe followed his finger and spotted exactly what he wanted. Lying amongst the blood-stained wrecks of family cars and tour buses was a dark blue Ford Focus that was undoubtedly his.

“Come on!” said Joe.

The two of them, father and son, sprinted through the increasing storm, heading for the car as though it was the saviour of the earth. Just to be sure that he wasn’t dreaming, Joe pressed the lock button on the key fob and almost jumped for joy when the car’s break lights flashed. The doors were unlocked.

Danny got there ahead of Joe and flung open the rear door, leaping across the back seats. Joe caught up to him and closed it, then ran around to the driver’s side and got in behind the wheel.

The smell of the vehicle’s interior was sublime. It reminded Joe of boredom. Commutes to work and trips to the supermarket. Nice, normal boredom. It was so calming, in fact, that he sat there for several moments, just listening to the drumbeats of the rain on the bonnet.

After indulging himself for long enough, Joe put the key in the ignition and twisted. The engine grumbled momentarily and then roared to life. It was the greatest sound Joe had ever heard. “Time to get out of here, Dan--”

The windscreen shattered, cracks spider-webbing in every direction. Danny screamed in the backseat and Joe found that he was doing the exact same thing. The shock hit him hard and fast. Once again his heart was beating like a rapid-fire cannon.

What the hell?

Joe sat still for a moment, listening and trying to sense what was going on. Something had hit the windscreen, but what?

All of a sudden, he knew.

It was Nero.

Chapter 40

The silverback gorilla beat at the roof like the car was a toy drum, denting it deeper with each mighty blow. Joe and Danny’s ceiling caved in on them, eating away at the already-limited space they had inside.

“It’s the big monkey,” said Danny, cowering on the back seat.

“I know. Just keep down low.”

Joe engaged first-gear and pulled up the clutch. When he was sure he had the biting point he released the handbrake.

The engine stalled just as a blow took out the back window.

“Shit!” After the week of chaos he had been through, Joe almost couldn’t remember how to drive. He restarted the engine and kept the car in first gear. He lifted the clutch again but this time stamped down on the accelerator. The car roared like one of the beasts inside the zoo and shot forward.

The handling was heavy and Joe realised it was due to the huge weight on the roof and the wet puddles on the road. The silverback was still above them but had ceased its attack, obviously surprised by its platform suddenly becoming mobile. Joe avoided some nearby parked cars and shifted into second. The engine went quieter as it began to climb the new gear. The vehicle gained speed, hitting thirty in only a couple of seconds. The silverback remained on the roof.

“He’s still up there, Dad.”

“I know, just stay down.”

Joe pulled into third-gear and steered the vehicle toward the car park exit. It was only a few hundred yards away, but Joe struggled to see it through the broken windscreen and the thick sheets of rain beyond it. He picked up more speed despite all of his senses telling him to slow down. By fourth gear he was already doing sixty and weaving between the wrecks of abandoned cars.

The silverback smashed its fists down on the car again, hitting the windscreen dead-centre. The glass fell away in clumps, covering the bonnet and the car’s interior.

With the windscreen suddenly gone, Joe could see the road clearly.

He saw the brick wall coming up at seventy miles an hour.

Joe stamped on the brakes so hard his entire skeleton rattled as he was thrown forward in his seat. The car’s tires bit the road, screeching in protest as they slid. Joe closed his eyes and clutched the steering wheel, hard enough that his knuckles went white.

The car continued its skid.

The brick wall got closer.

With a violent lurch the rubber tires finally found a grip and brought the car to a sudden stop. The whole vehicle rocked forward on its suspension. Joe’s face hit the steering wheel and sent stars through his vision. He pulled himself away, dazed and bleeding. It felt as though his already-damaged nose had been pushed to the back of his skull.

The engine petered out and Joe looked out at the road. He saw the silverback lying against the brick wall several feet away, a spattering of blood and matted fur mingling with the gushing rainwater on the road. The creature was stunned, but still conscious. Joe’s vision swirled as he tried to stay awake himself.

His hand shook as he reached for the key to the ignition. Shook as he turned on the engine. Shook even harder as he engaged the reverse gear.

Joe stepped down hard on the accelerator.

The car shot backward.

After twenty metres, he jammed on the brake. The tires screeched. The car stopped moving.

Into first gear and moving forward.

Second gear.

The car reached thirty.

Joe pulled into third.

“Danny, get down on the floor!”

He stamped on the brakes.

Tyres skidded on the wet road.

The car hit the wall like a missile.

Joe was out cold for several seconds. When he eventually came to, all he saw was pure white. He quickly realised that it was just the airbag deployed from the steering wheel. He pulled and pushed at it until it began to hiss and deflate. When it was finally out of the way, Joe screamed.

“It’s alright, Dad,” said Danny climbing forward into the passenger seat beside him. “He’s dead.”

Joe looked through the windscreen at the silverback’s face, staring back at him from the end of the bonnet. Any spark of life had left the magnificent beast’s eyes. Crushed between the wall and the vehicle, the mighty Nero, oldest inhabitant of the zoo, had died instantly. Somehow Joe found that comforting.

He turned to his son. “You okay?”

Danny nodded and smiled. “That was cool!”

Joe laughed and then threw his head back against the seat rest. “It certainly was something.”

“Can we get out of here now? I haven’t watched wrestling in ages.”

Joe turned the key in the ignition and was astonished when the engine came back to life yet again. After such a collision it was almost a miracle that the vehicle was still willing to keep going. Joe didn’t think about it too much as he reversed away from the wall and pulled out onto the main road. He was thankful for his blessings. From the chaos all around him, it seemed most others were not so lucky. Battered cars lay mangled and twisted against one another in a never-ending pile-up of ruined steel, while torn bodies littered the crimson streets like confetti. The world as they knew it was over now, the natural order forever skewed by the events of the last few days. Joe and Danny were entering a new world now, one where they were at the bottom of the food chain and wild animals roamed the lands.

But there was one thing that gave Joe hope that perhaps humanity was not quite ready to go meekly into that good night. For almost every human corpse that lay dead amongst the ruins, there was also that of a dead animal. The mutilated dogs, cats, and various other domesticated animals that littered the sidewalks told Joe one thing was for certain: people were fighting back.

There were still blessings to be found in this world, and Joe’s biggest one was sitting in the seat right beside him. Joe couldn’t help but smile as he and his son started their journey into the unknown, their journey into the Animal Kingdom.

Epilogue

Randall could hardly breathe amidst the cloying black smoke. It burnt at his eyes and dried out his throat. He didn’t know what had started the fire, but he had a feeling that Victor had rigged some kind of explosive in case of his death.

And I witnessed that he is very much dead, indeed.

Randall placed his fingers against his temples and tried to think. He would have to leave this room soon, but then what? The animals were probably waiting for him, ready to rip him apart as soon as he stepped outside the room, and even if they were not they would most likely be waiting for him outside the building.

But I have to leave. Either that or stay and burn.

Randall stood up from the desk and hissed as he accidentally placed his broken ankle down on the floor. He pulled it back up and hopped over to the door. The smoke was hot and blinding, coming from under the door in thick, velvety waves. He closed his eyes and fumbled in his pocket for the key to the room’s lock. When he found it, he wasted no time in unlocking the door.

Outside was a disorientating mixture of bright-orange flame and jet-black smoke. Randall looked left and right and saw no animals, but also saw no exit. The corridor was aflame at both ends. In front of him was the seminar room. It was no doubt where the fire had started and the books and wooden shelves would have provided all the fuel the fire needed, but now it was simply a smouldering black husk and no longer in flames.

Randall hopped through the charred doorway and instantly felt some relief from the heat of the corridor. Wind rushed in from the far side of the room and, where there had once been a wall with a window, there was now only a hole. The entire side of the building had come away. Randall hopped forward again and fell onto his hands and knees as the floor beneath him gave way.

The floor was brittle and blackened. He would have to be careful where he put his weight lest he fall right through it. He had no plan in his mind other than to remain in this room while the rest of the building burned around him. Perhaps the fire would finally attract help and bring someone to his aid.

About time the army got here.

Randall crawled forward and encountered the grizzly sight of Victor’s corpse. The man’s body was crisped right down to the bone and his skeleton was blackened and exposed in several places. One of the body’s arms was completely missing, but Randall assumed that it was ripped off by the animals before the fire had begun.

Over at the far end of the room, Randall reached the floor end. On his chest he pushed forward until his arms and head were hanging over the edge. The air was fresher here and Randall took the opportunity to take in a series of deep breaths.

Beneath him the animals went wild as they spotted him. Hooting, barking, screeching and making an all manner of inhuman noises, they glared up at him with hunger in their eyes.

Whilst the animal army had thinned, it was still approaching a hundred in its number, mostly smaller creatures, now, like warthogs and llamas. They surrounded the building and never once took their eyes off Randall.

Randall pushed himself back up onto his knees and then slowly up onto his one good leg. He looked down at the animals and spat. The globule of spit was lost in the billowing smoke and he did not know if it hit a target. He bellowed with laughter.

“You will not have me! A leader chooses his own death.” Randall placed a hand over his heart as if he were addressing the nation from some great palatial balcony. “And as any great leader would do, I choose to go down with my ship.”

Randall stretched his arms out wide on either side of him and looked up at the grey sky. At that exact moment the gentle drizzle burst into a full-grown downpour. Randall took it as a sign. “Deliver me, Lord, from my enemies. They shall not have me.” He looked down at the baying animals below. “You hear that, you fuckers? You shall not have me.”

Randall leapt, expecting to feel the wind through his hair as he plummeted towards salvation, towards the next life.

All he felt was the floor as his entire body splintered upon impact. Not a single muscle in his entire body would answer him as he lay there, still – but he was not dead. He knew that much. As he lay there, he saw an ant scuttle towards him and into his ear. The feeling was intense and vivid. Somehow the fall had not dulled his senses. As the animals surrounded his body, he knew that it was going to be the worst and final agony of his life. They began to eat him alive.

The pain was a hundred times worse than anything he ever imagined.

And it went on forever.

The Final Winter

An Apocalyptic Horror Novel

Dedicated to my wife
for all that she goes through.

Now this was the sin of Sodom: She and her daughters were arrogant, overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy. They were haughty and did detestable things before me. Therefore I did away with them as you have seen.

— Ezekiel 16:49-50

The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event

— J. B. Priestley

What He really hates is the shit that gets carried out in his name. Wars. Bigotry. Televangelism

—Rufus, Dogma; View Askew Productions, 1999

1

Harry sipped his latest beer as more news updates flashed up on the pub’s dusty television. A female reporter, enveloped by a bulbous pink ski-jacket and covered in snow, began her report. “Good evening,” she said, a shiver in her voice. “I’m Jane Hamilton with Midland-UK News. As you can clearly see, the nineteen-inches of snow Britain has witnessed in the last forty-eight hours has left the nation’s transportation networks in disarray.”

The camera panned to overlook a deserted motorway. A sky-blue transit van lay overturned and abandoned in its centre; its mystery cargo strewn across, and half-buried by, the snow.

The reporter let out a breath, which steamed in the air, and then continued. “Major roads are closed and rail services have been terminated until further notice. Schools and many business are temporarily suspended, while hospitals and other vital services are doing their best to remain open. The current death toll has reached twenty-seven and is feared to rise. Emergency services have set up a helpline in order to assist those in most need, and to offer advice on how best to survive the current freezing temperatures. That number is being displayed at the bottom of the screen now.”

Harry shook his head. He was never one for fretting about bad weather. The freeze had come suddenly and would leave the same way.

“Even more concerning,” the reporter continued, “is the fact that it is currently snowing throughout numerous other areas of the world.” A multi-coloured map of the earth superimposed itself at the top-right of the screen and then slowly turned white, representing the recent snowfall. “From barren deserts to areas of dense rainforest, all have been subjected to unprecedented cold spikes. Never before in recorded history has such a wide-spread cold weather system been known to become so widespread. Certain religious leaders are calling this-”

“Rubbish!” Old Graham, the oldest regular of The Trumpet and resident of the one-bedroom flat above the pub, threw his hands up in disgust. “A little snow and the country falls apart. Every time. It’s a shambles.”

Harry lifted his head away from his half-finished pint and glanced over at Old Graham. The grumbling pensioner was pointing to the television screen.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “No need to get wound up about it.”

Old Graham huffed and pouted toothlessly. “Your generation can’t cope with anything unless there’s a video on that Your Tube or My Face to tell you about it.”

Harry glanced at the television. Scenes of heavy snowfall. Locations from around the globe had become half-buried in blankets of slush and snow. The Pyramids of Giza, ice-capped like Himalayan Mountains; the canals of Venice frozen over like elaborate ice rinks; and Big Ben rising above a snow-covered Westminster like a giant stalagmite.

The television began flickering with interference.

Harry returned his gaze to Old Graham. “I agree it’s much ado about nothing. People just enjoy a good panic from time to time. No point in letting it bother you.”

The old man huffed again, the sound was wet and wheezy. “You think Canada, Norway, Switzerland are panicking about the snow? This is a heat wave to a bloody Eskimo! All this climate-change, ozone-layer hogwash they’re harping on about is just to scare us, you mark my words, lad.”

Harry thought about it. According to the news, it was categorically denied that climate-change could cause such unprecedented weather. The various meteorologists and talking heads all maintained that the snow was being caused by something else.

Harry swallowed another mouthful of crisp lager and kept his attention on the flickering television screen. Old Graham continued to gawp at him. Eventually the pensioner’s persistent staring irked Harry into speaking again. “Bet everything will be back to normal this time next week, huh, Graham?”

“You bet your balls it will.” He slid along the bar towards Harry, arthritic knees clicking with every step. “I’ve lived through worse times than this, lad!”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I used to be married.” With that, Old Graham howled with laughter, until his worn vocal cords seized up in complaint and caused him to hack yellow-green phlegm bubbles over the bar. “Best go shift the crap off me chest, lad,” were his parting words before he tottered off toward the pub’s toilets.

Harry shook his head and turned to face the opposite side of the bar. Steph, the pub’s only barmaid, was smiling at him while clutching a cardboard box of Malt ‘N’ Salt crisps against her chest. She placed the box down on the bar and pulled an old dishrag from the waistband of her jeans. She wiped down the area where Old Graham had coughed. “He bothering you again, Harry?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, threading his fingers through the knots and trying to neaten the scruffiness. He sighed. “Graham’s okay. Just had too much to drink.”

Steph snorted. “You’re one to talk. What time did you get here today?”

“Noon.”

“Exactly, and it’s now…” She glanced at her watch. “Nine in the evening.”

Harry blushed. “At least I have the decency to pass out when I’m drunk, instead of talking people’s heads off like Old Graham.”

Steph rolled her eyes and smirked. “I’ll give you that, but I’d like to remind you that you left a puke stain on my knee-highs on Sunday. I had to throw them out”

Harry stared down at the hissing liquid in his glass and, for a split-second, felt ashamed enough that he contemplated not drinking it and going home instead. Instead, he downed what was left of it, dregs and all. “I must have been a pathetic sight,” he admitted.

Steph shrugged. “You’re not pathetic, Harry. Just a bit tragic. Things will look up for you one day, but you got to get a hold of yourself. I know life’s been pretty damn shitty to you, but you only turned forty a couple months ago, right? Plenty of time to get back on your feet and start a new life.” She stopped and looked over at the large plate-glass window that lined one side of the pub. “As long as this wretched snow don’t freeze us all to death first, you’ll be fine. You just gotta get a grip.”

“You really think so?” he asked her with a sigh.

“You better hope so, matey, because I’m not putting up with you spewing on me again. Don’t matter how handsome you are!”

They both chuckled and Harry felt his mood lighten a little. It wasn’t often he heard such things from a younger woman. Not when the mirror showed him a man that looked closer to fifty than his actual age. Grief had been hard on his face.

Harry pushed his empty pint towards Steph and she refilled it diligently. The overflow from the glass slid down over the black Foo Fighters tattoo on her wrist and made her pale skin glisten. Harry was ashamed to feel a stirring in his loins as he looked at her.

Harry’s wife, Julie, had been gone a long time now, but he never stopped considering himself a husband. Never once forgot his vow to love her forever.

Harry moved away from the bar, and away from Steph. The tattered padding of the bar stool he’d occupied for the last several hours had sent his backside numb and he craved the relief of a cushion. He headed towards the bench by the pub’s front window. At the same time, Old Graham returned from the toilets. There was a small urine stain on the pensioner’s crotch and Harry was relieved when the old man headed back to the bar instead of coming over to join him.

Harry eased down onto the worn bench and sighed pleasurably. He placed his pint down on the chipped wooden table in front of him and picked up the nearest beer mat. There was a picture of a crown on it, along with the slogan: Crown Ales, fit for kings. Without pause, Harry began to peel the printed face away from the cardboard. It was a habit Steph was always scolding him for, but for some reason it seemed to halt his thoughts for a while and kept back some of the demons in his head.

Relaxing further into the creaking backrest, Harry observed the room he knew so well. The lounge area of The Trumpet was long and slender, with a grimy pair of piss-soaked toilets stinking up an exit corridor at one end and a stone fireplace crisping the air at the other. A dilapidated oak-wood bar took up the centre of the pub, probably older than he was. Several rickety tables and faded patterned chairs made up the rest of the floor space.

In the pub’s backroom, a small, seldom-used dance floor collected dust. Harry had only seen it once, at New Year’s.

The Trumpet was a quiet, rundown pub in a quiet, rundown housing estate – both welcoming and threatening at the same time. Much like the people that drank there.

Tonight the pub was low on drinkers, as it typically was on a Tuesday. Harry wasn’t a big fan of company and preferred the quiet nights. Of course it helped that the snow had confined most people to within a hundred yards of their homes, clogging the main roads with abandoned snowbound vehicles.

Somehow Steph had made it in, holding down the fort as she did most evenings. Harry often wondered why she needed all the overtime she worked. She seemed to enjoy her work, but it could’ve just been the barmaid’s code to be bubbly and polite at all times to all people. Maybe, deep down, Steph really counted each second until she could kick everybody’s drunken arses out. Whatever the truth, Steph was a good barmaid and she kept control of the place.

Even Damien Banks behaved on her watch. Weekdays were usually free of his slimy presence, but tonight was an unfortunate exception. The local thug was sat with his Rockports up on the armrest of the sofa beside the fire, iPhone fastened to his ear.

Harry had heard – from sources he no longer remembered – that the young thug pushed his gear on the local estate like some wannabe drug lord. No one in the pub liked Damien, not even his so called friends – or entourage as Old Graham would often call them in secret. Rumour had it that the shaven-headed bully once stomped a rival dealer into a coma, taunting the family afterwards by revelling in the grief he’d caused.

Harry shook his head in silent derision. He hated the way Damien lounged around like he owned the place.

There was one other person in the bar tonight. A greasy-haired hulk named Nigel. A lorry driver, from what Harry had gathered over time, the man spent a lot of time on the road. The poor guy would probably have to sleep in his cab tonight.

Just the five of them. Tuesday was a quiet night.

Harry pulled his right knee up onto the bench and peered out of the pub’s main window behind him. The Trumpet sat upon a hill overlooking a small row of dingy shops and a mini-supermarket with steel shutters over the windows. Steph once told Harry the pub just about survived on the wafer-thin profits brought in by the lunchtime traffic of the nearby factories, but if it were to rely on its evening drinkers alone, the place would have closed its doors long ago – even before the public smoking ban had come in and crippled local pubs across the land.

On a normal night, Harry could see the shops and supermarket from the pub’s window, but tonight his vision faltered at several feet, the view swallowed up by swirling snow. Thick condensation hugged the glass and made everything foggy. For all Harry knew, the darkness outside could have stretched on forever, engulfing the world in its clammy embrace and leaving the pub floating in an inky abyss. The image was unsettling. Like something from the Outer Limits TV show.

Snow continued to fall as it had done nonstop for the past day and night. Fat, sparkling wisps that passed through the velvet background of the night, making the gloom itself seem alive with movement. Harry shivered; the pub’s archaic heating inadequate in defeating the chill. Even the warmth of the fireplace was losing its battle against the encroaching freeze.

God only knows how I’ll manage the journey home tonight without any taxis running. Maybe Steph will let me bed down till morning? I hope so.

Harry reached for his pint and pulled it close, resting it on his thigh as he remained sideways on the bench. He traced a finger over his wedding ring and thought about the day Julie first placed it on his finger. He smiled and felt the warmth of nostalgia wash over him, but then his eyes fell upon the thick, jagged scar that ran across the back of that same hand and the joyful sensation evaporated. The old wound was shaped like a star and brought back memories far darker than Harry’s wedding day. It was something he dared not think about.

He took another swig of his beer and almost spat it out. In only two minutes since he’d last tasted it, the lager had gone utterly flat, as if something had literally drained the life from it. Before Harry could consider what that meant, a stranger entered the pub.

A second later, the lights went out.

2

“Bugger it!” Kath cursed aloud and slapped her palms down on the supermarket’s checkout desk. She’d been two minutes away from finishing the 9pm cash-up and the building’s power blinked out like somebody had flipped a switch. “Peter!” she hollered into the darkness. “Check the damned fuse box, will you!”

A muffled voice from the nearby stockroom let Kath know her order had been received. She sighed and waited for her vision to adjust, wondering where she could find a torch or some candles (Doesn’t Aisle 6 have some?). The Fire Exit sign above the supermarket’s entrance gave off a faint green glow too weak to even highlight her acrylic fingernails in front of her face.

Kath heard footsteps echoing down the Bread & Pastries aisle.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

The unexpected proximity of the voice made Kath flinch. “It’s me,” said the voice. “Jess.”

“Jess? You stupid girl! You gave me a fright.”

“Sorry, Kathleen. Didn’t mean to. You know why the lights are out?”

“No. I’ve told Peter to check the fuse box.”

“Good idea. You reckon it’s just us, or the whole area?”

Kath shrugged in the dark. “How should I know? Walk out the front and see for yourself.”

“Okay,” said Jess cheerily, before wandering towards the store’s main entrance with a skipping hop. Her complexion became ghostly as she entered the pulsing green glow of the Fire Exit sign.

Kath cleared her throat. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

Jess pushed open the door. A howling chill entered the supermarket, rushing to all corners like a horde of squealing rats. The weather outside was so bad that it was like opening the gates to hell.

Kath waited impatiently while Jess gingerly poked her head out of the door and looked left and right, then left and right again. Finally, she leant back inside and closed the door. When she turned back to Kath, the girl’s work fleece was peppered with snow.

“The weather out there is craaaay-zee!” said Jess. “With a capitol zee”

Kath sighed. “What about the lights? Are anybody else’s on? What about The Trumpet?” The dingy pub was set opposite, up the hill.

“I can’t even see the pub,” said Jess. “I can’t make out Blue Rays or any of the other shops either. The snow is coming down like it’s the end of the world.”

“Wonderful!” Kath shook her head and felt a migraine coming on. If the whole area was out then she would be forced to sit and wait for the electricity company to get off their overpaid behinds and do something about it.

…and God knew how long that would take. Two minutes? Two hours?

Kath couldn’t set the alarms and go home until she cashed up the tills, and she couldn’t do that without power. She breathed in deep, before letting the cold air out through her nostrils. What a wretched waste of intellect, she thought, being stuck in this wretched place ten hours a day.

“It’ll be back on in a jiffy,” said Jess, still standing by the fire exit. “It never takes long, Kathleen. Tell you what, I’ll take a little walk over to the pub and see if anyone knows anything, okay?” Without pausing for an answer, Jess slid out through the exit and was immediately swallowed by the shifting snow and darkness outside.

A second later it was as if the girl had never even been there.

Kath sighed, leant back into the torn-padding of the cashier’s stool, and rubbed at her aching forehead. Shivers ran up and down her spine and made her clutch at herself. It was Britain’s worst winter in history and she was stuck in a building with no power. Before long the place would become freezing.

“Screw this,” Kath decided. She’d give Mr Campbell a call and see if there was any chance he’d allow her to cash up in the morning. He should have been thanking her for even turning up at all in this weather. She slid her fingertips along the icy surface of the cashier’s desk and groped for the phone. At first she found only a stapler and some biros, but eventually the side of her hand found what it was looking for and knocked the receiver from its cradle. It fell from the desk swung by its cord. After a couple of half-blind swipes, Kath caught the receiver and pulled it up to her ear. She tapped at the buttons on the phone’s cradle, waited a beat, then tapped them again.

No dial tone.

Perturbed, Kath placed the handset back down onto its cradle, before picking it up and trying to ring out once more.

Nothing.

“Please, for the love of God!” Kath patted down the pockets of her work shirt and located her mobile phone. She plucked it out and slid up the illuminated screen to expose the keypad. She selected Mr Campbell’s number from the phone’s memory and pressed the green CALL button, before putting the phone to her ear and waiting.

Ten seconds passed and Kath pulled the phone away from her head to look at the display. She could barely contain her frustration when she saw NO NETWORK COVERAGE scrolled across the top of the screen.

“For crying out loud!”

Before Kath could put her thoughts in order, a male voice echoed in the darkness. “Ms Hollister?”

The voice had a Polish twang.

“Peter,” Kath said, more calmly than she felt. “Have you checked the fuses?”

“Yes, Ms Hollister. I need show you something. Come.”

Kath rolled her eyes. Speak properly, for God’s sake. If you’re going to come here, at least learn the language.

Reluctantly, she followed the boy down to the back of the store, ducking through the strips of clear plastic that separated the cramped warehouse from the shop floor. “So, what is it that’s so important, Peter?” she asked.

“I will show to you.”

Peter turned a corner in the cramped warehouse. Kath stayed close behind, lighting her way with her mobile phone. It didn’t work particularly well, but it at least illuminated any over-stacked boxes she would otherwise bump into.

Kath was getting impatient. “Come on now, Peter, I need to find a way to call Mr Campbell, so we can all go home tonight. Unless you want to spend the night sleeping in the staff room?”

Peter stopped at the far wall and pointed upwards, just above the height of his shoulder. Kath glanced at the area a few inches away from the boy’s outstretched finger. She didn’t understand and felt her patience thin even more. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?”

Peter rolled his eyes in the faint glow of her phone display and then pointed more emphatically at what he wanted her to see.

“The fuse box? Yes, very impressive.”

Peter rolled his eyes again and she was about to scold him for it when she spotted what he wanted her to see. It was the fuse box alright – at least it had been in a former life – but now it was a black, melted decay of wires and bubbling plastic. The green metal box that housed the circuits was untouched, but inside it looked like it’d been subjected to a hellish blaze. The acrid stench of singed rubber lingered in the cold, crisp air, but it wasn’t as strong as she would expect after an electrical fire. “I don’t understand. What could cause this?”

Peter shrugged. “I no sure. Fire maybe?”

“Obviously not, Peter. There hasn’t been a fire because the alarms would’ve gone off. Not to mention it would have spread. This place is full of cardboard and paper.”

“Vandalism?”

Kath considered Peter’s wild suggestion, her thoughts wandering off into the dark, insidious alleyways of her mind. Could someone have really taken a welder’s torch to the fuses or doused them in petrol? Was someone lurking in the shadows intending to have their way with her in the dark? Had some hairy beast of a man been watching her for months, planning something just like this? It was certainly an opportune time. The police would never make it in this weather, even if she managed to call them. It seemed ridiculous but, for a moment, so plausible in her anxious state of mind that Kath actually started to believe that someone was intending to murder her. It was like something straight out of that Richard Laymon novel she once read by mistake, thinking it was something milder. Horrible, disgusting book full of rapists and monsters.

“Ridiculous,” Kath made herself say. “They have no power at the pub either. Same with Blue Rays on the corner.”

Pete shrugged his shoulders and walked off. Nothing ever seemed to concern the boy from Poland.

Suddenly alone, Kath tried to make sense of the situation. Was some deranged madman really stalking the neighbourhood, cutting off everyone’s electricity? Or was her biggest threat freezing to death on the coldest night of the year? Neither outcome was appealing. All Kath knew for sure was that the fuse box hadn’t destroyed itself and that the real cause was yet to make itself known.

She shivered, the chill in the air thickening suddenly and constricting the gristle on her bones. There was no way she could stay there any longer. Not without power. Not in the dark. She made a decision. “Right! Peter, where are you?”

A scuffling sound from the far corner of the warehouse. “I’m here, by the beer crates.”

“Well, make sure you’re careful. You break anything, you pay for it.”

Peter didn’t respond, but Kath was certain she heard the boy sigh. She enjoyed getting under people’s skin and let loose a smile as crude as the oil-slick darkness that surrounded her. Suddenly she felt more in charge, more like herself. “Peter,” she shouted. “Place some pallets against the back shutter. We’re going to call it a night, but we need to secure the building as best we can before we leave.”

“Okay, I will do, but where is Jess? She help me.”

“She’s wandered off somewhere.” Kath snorted. “Least of my worries right now, so go do as I’ve said – and make sure you’re careful.”

Peter scurried away, mumbling something in Polish. At least Kath imagined it was Polish. Could be Russian or Hungarian, or whatever it is all these Eastern Europeans spoke – ugly, primitive language that hurt her ears to listen to. How had Britain become so weak? There was a time when it had invaded third-rate nations, but now it seemed more interested in letting them all in and keeping them fed and warm. It made her stomach turn to think her government cared more about benefit-seeking immigrants than educated citizens like her. Where was her assistance?

Kath left the warehouse and re-entered the supermarket, listening to the loud scraping noises of Peter struggling to shift the pallets in the warehouse. The thought of him blindly bumping around on his own made her smirk as she marched towards the building’s exit.

When she reached the glass fire door, she opened it up and glanced outside. There was little she could do to secure the building tonight – not without the electric shutter – but she could at least lock up with her keys. She didn’t expect anyone would be desperate enough to brave the current weather just to steal a few groceries anyway. At least she hoped so...

3

“B’jaysus, it’s nice to be in the warm again. Cold as a nun’s pussy out there, so it is.”

Harry gazed in the direction of the stranger’s voice, over by the pub’s entrance, and found himself at a loss. The cheery Irish accent was not what he’d been expecting. In fact, when Harry had first realised the presence of the stranger in the darkness, he’d felt something else, something…ominous. That seemed silly now.

“Hey, who is that?” asked Steph from behind the bar. “Anyone we know?”

A hearty chuckle floated over from the doorway. “No Lass, I do not believe we’ve had the pleasure. The name’s Lucas Fergus and I am on a vital quest to get some beer down me neck.”

Steph laughed and Harry found himself amused too. It wasn’t often the pub was graced with such colour beyond old men and their tall tales of the past.

“Well,” said Steph, “I can only offer you bottles and shots at the moment. As you can see the power is off, and that means the electric pumps are dry. Cash only, too, no tabs”

“Cash is the only way an honourable man pays for anything in my mind, so there be no worries there, and I don’t care whether the beer comes from bottle or tap neither. It all ends up in the same place.”

“No arguments there,” said a voice Harry recognised as Old Graham’s.

Over by the fireplace the flickering silhouette of Damien shifted and stirred. Damien didn’t like strangers. People he didn’t know were usually unaware of his reputation, and he did not appreciate that at all. Several months back, Harry had witnessed Damien carve his initials into some poor lad’s forehead with a nasty-looking blade, just so people would know he was to be respected. The young man had screamed the entire time and nobody was able to do a thing as Damien’s cronies took up guard.

The police never came. No one even called them.

Thankfully, Damien had been uncharacteristically quiet tonight, almost as if he was dealing with some internal issue, but Harry worried that might be something bad.

“Can we bear some light in here, you reckon?” Lucas asked, flicking open a glinting, metal lighter and illuminating his face with the flame. He looked about Harry’s age, yet boyishly handsome with a cheeky grin to match. Wild tussles of mousy brown hair crept beneath his ears and halfway down his neck. Harry thought the guy looked like a handsome traveller from the front cover of one of the trashy Mills and Boon novels his wife used to buy at the car boots they went to.

“In weather like this I’m surprised you’re not all round that lovely fireplace.” Lucas moved toward the bar, his flame-lit face a disembodied ghost as it crossed the room. “Or does that wee fella on the sofa not play well with others?”

“The less said about that the better,” warned Steph in a hushed voice.

Harry cringed, worried about the response the newcomer’s comment could elicit from Damien, and was thankful, if a little surprised, when the young thug merely turned away and returned to whatever he was doing. It really wasn’t like Damien to be so reserved. He was preoccupied with something. But what?

Confident that no trouble was going to occur, at least for the time-being, Harry decided he would join the newcomer at the bar. Sitting alone in the dark wasn’t awfully appealing and he needed a refill anyway. His current beer smelt like bad eggs.

“So, Lucas?” Harry said, arriving at the bar and propping his elbows against its gnarled surface. “Where have you come in from?”

Lucas turned to Harry, the lighter still illuminating his face. “I’ve come in from the bloody cold fella, but before that I come from down south.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “South?”

“That’s what I said now, ain’t it? Been here-there-and-everywhere in my time – up and down, upside down – but originally I hail from the North. Been spending a lot of time in the South more recently though, after a falling out with me father. Suits me just fine, warmer climate, you know?”

“You mean Southern Ireland?”

“Where is that drink I heard a rumour about,” Lucas said, ignoring the question. “This is a pub, is it not?”

Steph shouted from the backroom behind the bar. “Hold your horses! For a complete stranger you’re pretty demanding.”

“I’m a growing lad, and if ye make me wait I may just fade away. Or, worse than that, I may sober up.”

Steph came back through to the bar holding a wooden tray full of mismatched candles. The flames danced around her breasts and Harry tried not to stare at them. Carefully, she placed the candles evenly along the bar and the heady smell of burning wax wafted into the air. The first candle she had placed in front of Old Graham, whilst the last went in front of Nigel. In between, Harry and Lucas got candles too.

“That’s better,” said Steph. “Now, who wants a beer besides our new friend here?”

“I’m ready for one,” said Harry. “This one has gone bad.”

“Mine too,” said Old Graham, pushing his own pint forward. “I’m going to have to have a dozen more just to make up for it.”

Steph scrunched up her face. “Strange… Maybe there’s a problem with the pumps. Not surprised, the amount you lot drink. They probably couldn’t take the strain.”

Lucas chuckled. “Looks like I’ve come to the right place. You’re men after me own heart, and now that I can see a little bit better, I can also admire what a fine young wench we have ourselves behind the bar.”

“Hey, less of the wench!” Steph objected. They all laughed and she got to work handing them their bottled beers, each of them swigging deeply as though it was their first of the night. Perhaps for Lucas it was.

The Irishman pointed a finger. “So, who’s the beefy fella down the end of the bar?”

“My name is Nigel.”

“Well, Big Man, come and suck ale with the rest of us.”

“Maybe later.”

“What’s wrong with you, man? There a gal down there with you?”

“Huh, I wish.”

“Get your mardy britches down here then! A fella shouldn’t be lonesome on a night like this. The cold out there could kill a man stone dead, no word of a lie.”

“Okay, okay,” Nigel conceded. He slid down the bar and joined the rest of them, dumping his heavy mass down onto a creaking stool beside Lucas. Harry nodded hello. Lucas certainly had a knack for bringing people together. Magnetic personality was the phrase that came to mind.

Lucas spoke again. “You know something, fellas? I don’t think that snow is gonna let up any time soon.”

“Great,” said Steph. “We’ve all got to try and get home tonight somehow.”

Lucas put down his beer with a clink! “What? Are you drunk, lass? Ain’t no man getting anywhere in that winter blanket.”

Steph’s face dropped slightly, the dull candle-light making her expression seem grim. “How did you get here then?”

Lucas smiled knowingly. “I was nearby and realised things were bad, so I thought to meself: ‘where’s the best place to be stuck on a night like this?’ Well of course there was only one answer, wasn’t there?”

“The boozer!” Old Graham shouted gleefully, clearly delighted by the Irishman’s philosophy. “Anyway,” the pensioner added, “don’t you worry, young Stephanie, there’s always room upstairs at my place to keep warm.”

Cheeky sod, thought Harry. Wonder if the old guy even has enough lead in his pencil to get it up these days?

Steph laughed defiantly, the air from her nostrils slanting the flames of the nearby candles. “The only way you’ll get me up there, old man, is if you’re sleeping on the roof.”

Everyone cackled and swigged their beers merrily in the dark. Everyone except Damien, who remained alone, staring into the fire like he was looking for answers.

4

“Dude, just sit the hell down! If you break something my Dad will freak.” Ben didn’t need this from Jerry tonight. Not with the power going out and such shitty weather. It was like a dozen winters rolled into one and he was stuck in his father’s video store not knowing what to do for the best.

“Chill out, B-Dog!” said Jerry, shining his key ring torch into his own face and contorting his skeletal features into a ghoulish grimace. The DVD cases on the cluttered shelves behind him shone with every movement of the light. “You need to stop worrying about your old man. It’s not like he ever does anything for you. I can’t believe he made you come in today. As if anyone is going to come out and rent a movie in this weather. This place is the Video Store of the Damned even on a good day.”

Ben frowned, though it was too dark in the store’s dusty back-office for Jerry to see it. “Stop calling it that! The place is doing just fine. It’s not every day that Dad trusts me to look after Blue Rays on my own, so the last thing I need is you making my life difficult, okay? Just behave and don’t mess anything up.”

“Okay, okay,” Jerry conceded. “What would you like me to do with myself, oh wise Gandalf?”

Ben threw his head back and cursed. “I told you to stop calling me that!”

“Get rid of that gay beard and I will. Either that or I’ll get some hairy-assed Hobbits in here so you can feel more at home.”

“Just…” Ben took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Sit down will you, while I try to get the power back on.”

Thankfully, Jerry complied, hoisting his stick-like figure up onto the service desk and remaining quiet. Ben could still hear him fidgeting away for anything to get his spindly fingers on, but at least for now he was rooted in one place; his area of recklessness limited.

Sometimes Ben didn’t know why he put up with his friend. They’d known each other since they were peeing in pre-school sandpits, but for some reason his friend had never seemed to mature like he had. Ben had gone to college, whilst Jerry sponged off his mom and stepdad. Ben started dating girls, whilst Jerry bought an Xbox. Eventually, Ben had started to shoulder some of his dad’s business responsibilities, ready to one day take them on as his own, and Jerry…? Well now Jerry spent most his days hanging around Blue Rays Rentals bothering him and making fun of his beard or his ‘jelly-belly’. Still, they were best friends and Ben knew that if it ever came down to it, Jerry would do anything for him. There was something comforting about that. Not like anybody else cares. Besides, deep down, Ben liked having Jerry around. Despite the odd annoyances, they had a lot of fun together. Even the Ben and Jerry jokes didn’t really bother him too much anymore. Tonight however, Jerry was stretching his patience paper-thin.

“When you gunna get the lights on again?” Jerry asked. “It’s like Saturday Night Fever in here.” He swept his penlight around the room, illuminating the low-hung, suspended ceiling like a disco ball. A movie poster of a disgruntled De Niro and an awkward looking Ben Stiller lit up and disappeared as the light passed over it.

“If it is,” said Ben, “then you’re no John Travolta!” He walked across to the far side of the office, behind the IKEA computer desk and towards the fuse box. He didn’t know anything about electrics and he was hoping to flick a switch and be done with it. Likely, it would be more complicated than that.

Before the power went off, Ben had been watching the news with Jerry – well, to be more honest, Jerry was waiting for a re-run of The Matrix to come on. The reports had said that the country’s infrastructure was expected to be affected by the snow for several more days and that blackouts were likely as people’s heating usages rose to monumental levels. It didn’t bother Ben too much, so long as nothing happened to his father’s store whilst he was in charge of it. Business came first.

Before anything else.

Before silly little friendships with that imbecile, Jerry.

Ben shook his father’s words out of his head and pulled out his keys from his pocket, sifting through them one by one. Earlier, he and Jerry had become concerned by the amount of snowfall – and more than a little anxious that the bad weather was spread throughout most of the globe. Having watched so many disaster movies, Ben couldn’t help but get the heebie jeebies about how the snow seemed to be falling so endlessly. When it had piled knee-deep, Ben and Jerry had hurried to the supermarket on the corner, to stock up on snacks and beers in case they got stranded in the store. They were willing to wait things out if they had to. Ben just hoped Jerry kept his exuberance under control during. His best friend had a knack for breaking things. Ben called it the Jerry effect.

Ben swung open the fuse cabinet and flicked open his monogrammed lighter. He’d stopped smoking months ago but it had been a present from his father – and they were too few and far between to discard. His eyes glazed for a second as they adjusted to the light, and once they did he was confused by what he saw. The fuse box appeared to have burned and melted.

It made no sense. Wasn’t the whole point of having fuse boxes to prevent electrical fires?

There wasn’t anything Ben could think of that could cause such severe heat damage on the fuses, while leaving the surrounding cabinet completely untouched. Ben plucked at his scruffy brown beard rhythmically as he tried to find a thought that fit, a thought that didn’t worry him. But all that came to mind was…

Das is going to blow a fuse of his own when he finds out about this.

At that moment, Jerry shouted out from the shop floor. “What’s happening, Gandalf? You stroking the salami back there?”

Ben shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Dude, I swear, not now, okay!”

“Okay, okay,” Jerry said. “Don’t get your beard in a twist. It’s not like it’s the end of the world – although we are missing The Matrix.”

5

Kath wasn’t prepared to stay there all night in the dark. She tried her mobile phone again and hissed when it still refused to dial out.

Everyone else in the country had been skiving off and throwing sickies since the snow started; why hadn’t she? It would have made life a lot easier. Because I have integrity, she told herself. Unlike most people these days. Luckily, Peter and Jess lived within walking distance of the store and had had no excuses not to come in. They knew she wouldn’t stand for any absence.

Kath glanced toward the fire exit. The doors were closed, but she could see the drifting snow outside, piling up against the glass.

It was beginning to feel more like the North Pole than the West Midlands.

Shivering, Kath pulled her arms away from her sides and groped around the cashier desk for the phone again. The thought that someone may have been responsible for the power going off still worried her and all she wanted to do was talk to someone in authority. Mr Campbell. The power company. The police. Anyone.

Peter stood nearby, she’d insisted on it, and the intermittent glow of his mobile phone made her feel a little safer, but it was only enough to take a slight edge off her nerves. She plucked the phone from its cradle and prodded the keypad.

Still no dial tone.

Kath slammed the handset back down.

“Is okay?” Peter asked in his horrible broken English.

“Everything is fine. I just dropped the phone. Do you know where Jessica is yet? I need to close up, but not before I’ve done a staff search. Its night’s like tonight when things go missing.”

There was silence for a moment and Kath’s heart rate rose. A few seconds later Peter made himself known again. “I not know where she is. Do you?”

Kath sighed. “Would I have asked you, if I did? Last I knew she was out front checking if anyone knew why the power was off. I don’t think she’s come back.”

“Should I go look for her?”

The thought of being alone made Kath shout out. “No! Stay here. The last thing I need is you both getting lost.”

Pete began walking back toward the counter. “You think she is lost?”

“That girl would lose her head if it wasn’t sewn on. I’m sure whatever she’s doing out there, she’s managed to find her way into trouble. Just lea-”

Kath’s body was suddenly wracked with shivers, cutting her words off mid-sentence. It hadn’t seemed anywhere near as chilly just an hour ago when the power had first gone off. Without the heating things were going to become freezing. She glanced at the fire exit again. The snow outside swirled intently. The wind picked up and started to howl.

Kath wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “For God sake, Peter, will you hurry up? We need to leave.”

We need to leave right now.

* * *

Jess could barely see an inch in front of the freckles on her nose. The snow whipped her face relentlessly, filling her nostrils and blurring her eyes. It felt like she was going to suffocate, yet she had no choice but to persevere and find her way back to the supermarket. It was embarrassing that she’d managed to get herself so disorientated – it could only have been been ten feet before she’d found herself turned around and lost - but every direction led to a white, blossom background that seemed to creep on endlessly. She shivered, partly from anxiety but mostly from the fact she was freezing.

Really smart, Jessica. A+ for common sense.

She cried out for help and was unsurprised when she was met with near silence – the only other sound being the shrill whistle of the increasing wind. Despite the lack of reply, Jess called out again, lacking other ideas. Still silence. Jess paused to gather her thoughts. The biting cold was worse when standing still.

Jess fumbled amongst her loose change and pulled out her mobile phone. It was slender and metallic, painted pink with silver sequins. Her intention was to use it to call Peter at the supermarket and get him to shout out of the doorway. She’d follow his voice, feeling like a fool, but as long as it was only Peter she wouldn’t mind too much. He would keep things to himself and not tell the super-bitch, Kathleen.

The phone lit up as soon as she pressed its keypad, but it became immediately apparent that something was wrong with it. It still had power, but the display was garbled, distorted by vertical lines and random squiggles. She tried making a call but was unsuccessful. She put the phone away and resumed her directionless searching.

As a child, Jess had loved winter and wished for snow every Christmas – her favourite time of year – but this worldwide inclement weather made her nervous. There was a sense of foreboding in the howling wind that made Jess wonder if it would ever stop snowing at all. She’d heard on the radio that people had already begun to perish from the crushing cold, and it had only become worse since then. Now that her mobile phone wasn’t working, it left Jess even more uncertain.

Of course her phone could have been faulty. “Yeah, that’s it,” she said to herself, hoping it would calm her nerves to hear a voice, even if it was just her own. “It’s just faulty.”

Somehow, she didn’t believe it.

* * *

It was almost thirty minutes before Peter had finished. Kath heard his footsteps coming from the BOOZE & SPIRITS aisle. “Is everything secure?” she asked him.

“Yes, Ms Hollister.”

“Let’s get going then.”

“Where is Jess?”

Kath grunted. “She’s responsible for her own well-being. I can’t afford to wait around any longer. If you’re so concerned, you go wandering around in the snow for her yourself.”

“Thank you, Ms Hollister. I go now.”

“Peter, wait!” she shouted after him. “Perhaps, you’re right. We shouldn’t just leave Jess to her own devices.”

Peter’s footsteps halted. “Okay, Ms Hollister. Please, hurry!”

The fact that she was being given orders by a staff member made Kath furious, but the increasing howl of the wind made her feel uncharacteristically subdued. “Coming,” she said.

6

Harry shivered as he started his next beer. It was getting colder and the scar on the back of his hand started to ache in response. He swigged deeply from his beer bottle and tried not to think.

The Irishman, Lucas, turned his attention to Old Graham at the end of the bar. “So, Father Time, you must have been around a fair few turns of the world? You ever see snow like this before?”

“Well,” Old Graham began, visibly delighted at being the centre of attention. “There was a time in the sixties where things got a little chilly as I recall; and me old man told tales of winter in the Ardennes that sounded a might more hellish than this.”

“That’s the Ardennes,” said Nigel. “It’s normal to have snow there. The amount we’ve had here the past couple days isn’t natural. Not to mention it’s snowing everywhere. All over the world. In every country. Maybe it’s because of the ozone layer or something?”

Lucas chuckled. “Give over, man! You think a couple of cow farts has the ability to change the weather?”

Harry smirked. “What do you put the snow down to then, Lucas? I mean I haven’t known it to snow like this before. It certainly seems like something has narked Mother Nature.”

“The world is a gazillion years old,” said Lucas, putting his beer bottle down on the bar as if to make a point. “I bet there’s been weather like this before, just not in your lifetime. It’s a tad unusual, no doubt, but I don’t buy all that ozone layer nonsense.”

Nigel bristled in the light of his candle, maybe even turning angry. “That’s just your opinion,” he said. “Don’t mean I’m not right. We’ve been abusing this planet for decades and it can’t go on forever.”

Lucas put up his hands. “Calm down there, fella, no need to get your hackles up. It’s just the beer talking, you know? Makes me feel a thousand times older and wiser than I should ever admit to. You’re probably right, though, humanity has been abusing the earth, and it can’t go on forever. Right now, my only concern is having a good time with a tipple to keep me warm.” He looked at Steph and winked. “And maybe a good woman wouldn’t go amiss either.”

“You’re a letch,” said Nigel, but the candlelight lit a good-natured smile on his face.

“Again, I’ve come to the right place, then.” Lucas laughed out loud, hoisted his bottle up into the air and said “cheers!” The others joined him in the toast.

Harry took another swig from his bottle and sighed at the burning satisfaction it left in his chest. When he pulled it away from his lips it was two-thirds empty. It seemed he’d been taking larger and larger swigs lately.

“So what’s your story, fella?” Lucas asked Harry. “What’s the meaning of your life?”

Harry swigged the last of his beer then pushed the bottle toward Steph, who was already on the case with a replacement. “My life,” he said, “has no meaning. Not anymore.”

Lucas frowned. “Come now, everybody’s life has meaning. We all have a purpose.”

“Really? Then why don’t you tell me what mine is, because I sure as hell don’t know.”

“I can’t tell you that.” Lucas smiled. “Every man has to find his own path and his own destination. Who knows though, maybe you’ll find yours tonight.”

Harry started on his next beer with a hearty swig, gasping for breath afterwards. He looked Lucas square in the face. He knew he was getting drunk, but couldn’t stop himself, as usual. “Sorry, but I find that hard to believe.”

Lucas stared back, his face unflinching, like a slab of sculpted granite. He patted Harry on the back. “Well, Harry boy, perhaps what you need is a little more faith.”

“Faith? You think I should believe that there’s some almighty-being up there responsible for everything that happens?”

Lucas shook his head. “Like hell I do! Everything that happens down here is because of us. The good Lord’s not here to babysit us. We can only blame ourselves for the things that happen in our lives. Well, we can blame ourselves or other people. Seems most people prefer to do the latter before they even consider introspection.”

Harry felt his blood heat up, fighting back against the chill in his veins. He took offence to a stranger offering him life advice. No one could understand what he’d been through. Harry looked down at the star shaped scar on his hand and thought about the events which had led to it. Julie and Toby twisted and shattered in the remains of his bright red Mercedes, the car he’d been so proud to buy. That night Harry discovered cars, houses, and material possessions meant nothing at all, as the only truly important things in his life slowly bled away from him onto the asphalt. So much damage that Harry couldn’t even tell where his wife and child’s broken bodies began and the crumpled metal of the Mercedes ended. It looked like some abominable piece of modern art.

Harry had emerged from the crash with nothing more than a deep gash on his forehead. He was completely lucid as he watched his family die in front of him, one laboured breath at a time. Where had the justice been in that?

“Whoever is to blame for my life,” Harry told Lucas, “can go fuck themselves.”

Lucas moved a half-step back from Harry. “Easy fella, not looking for an argument. You just seem like a bit of a lost soul, and I like to take an interest.”

“An interest in lost souls?”

“Absolutely. There’s an endless wisdom in the agonies of man. Sometimes we don’t understand what humanity really is until we have our hearts and flesh torn.”

Harry put down his beer. “Sorry to let you down, but I don’t feel anything. Not anymore.”

Lucas continued smiling, as though he had the secrets of the world in his back pocket and was about to share them. “You can lie to me, Harry boy, but it would be a tragedy to lie to yourself. Men who say they feel nothing, usually feel the most. Denial only leads to trouble. That, my friend, I can promise you.”

Harry sighed and moved away from Lucas before he said something he regretted.

* * *

The Trumpet was an old pub with a long history. A baby boy had once been born in its claustrophobic toilets; the England Cricket team had once rented the place after a win at nearby Edgbaston; and even a murder had once occurred on its oak floors. It was a place with both history and colour. A proud relic of working men’s pubs, full of ‘proper blokes’ clocking off from a hard day’s graft for a fag and a pint. But, like all relics, its day had come and gone. Now, the fag smoking was ostracised, the over-taxed beer was expensive and weak, and the colour had all faded along with the bleak wallpaper. All the pub had left now was its history.

Things hadn’t turned out the way Damien’s father had led him to expect. The golden years of smoke-filled boozers, loose women, and high-grade drugs had been extinguished. Drugs were getting harder and harder to push and women were getting harder and harder to fuck – feminist shows like Sex and the City convincing them to have self-respect. It had taken all the fun out of being a gangster.

Screw it! He’d been born in the wrong time. There was no tradition anymore. Damien’s father and Grandfather had drunk in The Trumpet and had pretty much run the place in their days. Now you had people like this fuckface Irishman waltzing in and acting like they owned the joint after just five minutes. He needed to be taught a lesson about respect.

Damien stood from the sofa and turned towards the bar. He had enough to deal with tonight without loud-mouthed strangers giving him a headache.

* * *

When Harry saw Damien rise up from the sofa and start making his way toward the bar, he cringed.

“Shit, incoming.” Harry whispered in Steph’s direction, hopeful that her authority behind the bar would be enough to stem any bad behaviour. He’d seen Damien’s lack of hospitality towards strangers before and it was something he could go without seeing again.

Damien stomped towards the middle of the bar, halting half-a-foot away from Lucas. Lucas behaved as if he hadn’t noticed, facing forward and sipping from his bottle calmly. Damien glared at him, eyeballs bulged like two squids.

Lucas leant over the bar towards Steph and spoke in a very clear voice. “Darling, you want to tell this young fella to wind his neck in before his peepers fall out on my shoes?”

Everyone at the bar sucked in their lungs.

Lucas turned his head to Damien, who looked like he was about to go off like a firework. “Listen, lad, I’m not a work of art, so take your beady little eyes off me and find something better to do.”

Damien’s features contorted like a broken whiskey bottle, full of crags and sharp edges. One wiry arm drew back as his young body tensed up, ready to attack.

In a move that seemed both casual and urgent at the same time, Lucas stepped back from the bar and slinked past his stool. At the precise moment Damien’s fist began its arcing descent towards him, Lucas threw a punch of his own. It was quick, it was vicious, and it connected perfectly with Damien’s incoming fist. There was a loud crack as the two men’s knuckles collided at full force.

“Fuck!” Damien howled, clutching his withered hand against his abdomen. “Jesus-goddamn-Christ!”

Lucas, who was also clutching his own injured hand, began to laugh in what seemed like genuine amusement. “Not quite, but I’ll send you to go see him if you try that bollocks again, you little shithead.”

Damien glared. “You’re dead!”

“Wrong again, lad. Unless you mean dead bored, which if I’m honest, I’m starting to get a wee bit. You’re keeping a man from his drink.”

Damien was about to respond, no doubt to make more threats, but Steph cut him off first – not with her voice, but with the landlord’s bell pulled out from under the bar. She rang it vigorously in the faces of the two arguing men.

“Pack this shit in!” she hollered. “I’m in no mood for child’s play. Especially from you!” She scowled at Damien. “It’s freezing cold, we’re all stuck here, and we’re in the bloody dark. Do you two not think things are bad enough without fisticuffs? Because you know something? If one of you gets hurt, I doubt there’s an ambulance in the world that can get here tonight.”

Or even this week, Harry thought.

Damien allowed his glare to turn into a grimace, before finally settling on a look of irritation. Lucas got back on his stool and quickly finished off his beer. He slid the empty toward Steph and said, “Two more, please. One for me and one for my new friend here with the broken hand.”

Damien hissed. “It isn’t broken, and I’m not your pissing friend.”

“Well,” said Lucas, offering a bottle of beer to Damien. “Perhaps you should be. It would make life easier.”

“Come on, Damien,” said Nigel from the far end of the bar. “If we’re all stuck here, we may as well have a drink together. Could even be a laugh.”

Damien turned his animalistic stare to the large, sweaty man at the end of the bar. “You think I want to waste a minute hanging around with a bunch of losers like you?”

Harry took offence. Being called a loser by a piece of scum like Damien did not sit well with him at all. “We don’t want to be stuck with you either,” he said, “but shit happens.”

Damien turned his glare to Harry, his body coiled and trembling like a pissed off panther. A panther ready to attack, thought Harry, regretting his comment already.

Before further words were exchanged though, Lucas pushed the bottle of beer towards Damien. “How bouts I buy your beers all night if you sit down and join in? Be an amicable chappy!”

Damien smirked. “I don’t need you to buy my drinks. I have enough money to buy your whole fucking family.”

Lucas smiled his cheeky grin. “I very much doubt that, lad, but why don’t we say I’m doing it to show my respect. I’m the new boy here and I obviously don’t know how things work now, do I? So accept my offer as an apology.”

Damien scrutinised the man’s suggestion, but it seemed obvious that it had settled down his need for bravado. Harry admired Lucas’s savvy. The man had swallowed his own sense of pride and manipulated Damien into behaving. The young thug thought he’d won, but it was apparent to everyone else at the bar that Lucas had just used a modicum of intelligence to control the situation.

“Okay,” Damien finally said, snatching the bottle from Lucas. “Guess I can lower myself for one night and share a few beers with the peasants.”

Everyone was happy to ignore the insult, ready to play along with Lucas’s charade if it meant having peace. They raised their beers in the air and mumbled agreement.

Lucas put his hand on the bar; it was swollen and red in the candle light. “Don’t suppose you could get me some ice, luv?”

Steph sighed and nodded. “Sure.”

Damien suddenly slammed down his own fist on the bar and made the rest of them jump. Like Lucas, his hand was also swollen. “Yeah, I think I could do with some too.”

There was a brief silence before Damien began laughing. It was the least hostile Harry had ever seen the lad and, before long, the entire bar was sipping their drinks and laughing right along with him. The tension seemed to float away.

But Harry had a feeling it wouldn’t last.

7

“Dude, I’m starting to get totally frost-bitten. It’s like The Day After Tomorrow in here.”

Ben sighed. For some reason, Jerry had to speak almost entirely in film references. The fact that Ben’s father owned a video store didn’t help matters at all. Yet, despite his annoyance, Ben had to agree. It was getting uncomfortably cold.

“Can you hear me, B-dog?” Jerry shouted from the shop floor. “I said it’s like The Day aft-“

“Yes, I heard you. Hopefully the power will come back on soon, but there’s not a lot I can do about it in the meantime.”

“What? You saw those fuses! The lights ain’t coming on any time soon. You should just call your dad so we can get out of here.”

Ben fumbled his way through the dark from the office back to the shop floor, bumping into various shelving units along the way. “I tried already! My phone’s playing up. The display is all screwed.”

“No shit? My phone is like that, too.”

Ben paused. What were the odds that both their phones would be playing up? “Really? You think it’s the weather?”

“I dunno,” Jerry said. “Can the weather do stuff like that?”

“Something’s responsible, not just for the phones but the power blowing out as well.”

Ben crossed the shop floor over to the thick glass door at the front of the shop. It was still snowing outside; heavy round flakes that seemed to sizzle as they hit the ground. He and Jerry had been clearing the entranceway throughout the day, keeping the place as accessible as possible. Of course, in such bad weather, barely a soul came by all day anyway. To make best use of the time, Ben had decided to do a stock count, which had been spot-on bar two missing copies of The Pianist and a copy of Brain Dead that Jerry had swiped over six months ago.

Ben turned around to face the gloom of the shop floor and a thought crossed his mind. “Hey, Jerry, when did you go to the supermarket last?”

Jerry’s response came from somewhere near the cash register. Ben hoped he wasn’t messing around with anything. “Couple hours ago, why?”

“Did they say what time they were closing?”

“Nah, Cruella was serving me. I bought a Beano and left.”

“You mean the manageress? Yeah, she’s always so rude. I don’t get her.”

“I hope she gets eaten alive by zombies,” said Jerry. “And not the slow kind – the shit-crazy running kind from Dawn of the Dead 2004.”

Ben sighed at yet another film reference. “Maybe we should go across and see how the supermarket staff are getting home. Might be safer if we all go together.”

“Dude!” Jerry cried out triumphantly. “That blonde girl over there is smoking hot. This could be the opening I’ve been waiting for.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate you getting her home safely. Just let me lock-up and we’ll get going”

But before Ben could finish locking up, something hit the door.

8

The temperature had gradually swan-dived so low that Harry and the others shivered constantly. Steph’s teeth also begun to chatter, leading everyone to giggle at her, which she didn’t seem to appreciate at all. Eventually they’d all been forced to gather in front of the fire to try and keep warm.

“I’m starting to worry,” said Steph. She was sitting on a thread-bare footstool and hugging herself tightly. “The snow doesn’t look like stopping and we’re going to freeze without the power on.”

Harry looked over at the pub’s front window. The large sheet of plate glass was starting to frost over, with icy spider webs creeping from the corners. The snow was falling heavier than ever.

Harry nestled into the sofa cushions to seek out their warmth, but found none.

“What’s your drama?” said Damien from his standing spot at the left side of the fire’s mantelpiece. In his thick puffer jacket he looked warmer than the rest of them. “A bit of a chill won’t kill you, luv.”

“Won’t it?” she asked.

“Course not, you dopey cow. The power will come back on and the heating will kick on with it, so stop bloody menstruating.”

Harry snapped, not quite sure why. “Didn’t your father ever teach you to talk to women with respect?”

Damien was instantly enraged by the comment. “You don’t talk about my father, you hear me? You’re beneath him. What you gunna do about it, anyway? Teach me some manners? You ain’t got the stones.”

“You think so?” Harry challenged, still wondering what he was getting himself into and why.

Damien stepped forwards, but Steph halted him in place with a hand on his chest. “Behave!” she scolded. “Harry’s right, you should treat women with respect – especially when they happen to be in charge of the only place with an open fire for miles. You’re welcome to go freeze somewhere else, Damien, if you’d like. I’m not putting up with any of your games tonight. If it comes to having to separate you and Harry, Harry stays, you go.”

Damien sniggered. “Why don’t you two just shag each other and get it over with.”

Harry blushed at the remark, but turned the emotion into anger and went to get up out of his seat. Lucas placed a hand on his arm and stopped him. The Irishman shook his head and eased Harry back down onto the sofa.

“Anyway,” said Lucas, changing the subject. “Besides young Stephanie here – who I know is the world’s finest barmaid – what do the rest of you call an excuse for a living?”

Stephanie laughed. “You cheeky git! I’m more than a mere barmaid. I plan on starting up a pet grooming business when I’ve saved enough money. Give me another year and I’ll be there.”

Harry had known Steph since she’d started at the pub a year ago, but he’d never learned about her aspirations. He wished he’d shown more interest in her life, instead of always relying upon her to show interest in his. A wave of guilt rose up in his gullet and stuck in his throat.

Beside the fireplace, Damien was rubbing at his sore hand and laughing to himself, apparently lacking any appreciation for Stephanie’s ambitions. Lucas, however, seemed more interested. “Pet grooming?” he said, stroking at his chin thoughtfully. “Giving haircuts to rats and baths to squirrels, huh?”

Steph giggled. “I was thinking more dogs and cats, but, hey, whatever. I love animals and they all smell better after a bath.”

Damien’s laughter erupted in a mean-spirited snicker that made Harry want to spit at him. “What you want to spend your time washing shit off Rottweilers for?” He winked at Stephanie. “I’ve got ways you can earn some real money, darlin’.”

Stay calm, Harry told himself. Damien would knife you as much as look at you and violence just makes things worse. You made that mistake once before…

“So then,” Lucas addressed Damien. “What is it that you do with yourself then, lad?”

“Don’t ask,” said Nigel from his space on the floor beside the fire.

“Because if he told you, he’d have to kill you,” added Old Graham beside him.

“Is that true?” Lucas enquired, eyeing Damien up curiously. “Are you a man of mystery?”

Damien smirked. “Guess I am. I do a bit of this and a bit of that. Provide certain services and products to my friends and customers.”

Lucas stroked his chin again. “Interesting. So how did you get into that type of thing, whatever it is exactly?”

“Family business, innit? Learned from the best – my old man.”

Lucas nodded agreeably. “Sounds like a generous chap to pass on so much to his boy. Best thing a man can do is see his young ones right.”

Damien beamed. “Old man taught me everything I know.”

“So, where is this great man now?” asked Lucas, a knowing smile on his face that made it seem as though he already knew the answer. “I bet he’s some great success, yeah? Sat back in luxury, watching his boy carry on the family trade? Am I right?”

Damien’s face turned sour – not angry, but defensive and dangerous – like a cornered feline. “Not exactly,” he said. “He’s away at the moment.”

“Vacation?”

Harry smiled as Damien squirmed against the wall and tried to merge with the peeling paintwork. He was rubbing his injured hand rapidly with rhythmic strokes. “Yeah,” he finally said. “He’s on a fucking cruise, innit. What’s it to do with you?”

“Some cruise.” Old Graham piped up from his space by the fire, but quickly turned his gaze to the floor when he was met by Damien’s warning stare.

Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted Lucas to shut up or carry on, unsure if it was a conversation the group of them should be having. Lucas seemed to have a tendency to ask personal questions.

Lucas stood up unexpectedly. “A vacation, you say? Well, I hope he returns soon. Anyone for a beer?”

Talk about taking it to the brink, Harry thought, relieved that the conversation had altered course just as it neared an emotional minefield. It left Harry wondering what exactly had happened to make Damien so defensive about his father. Old Graham looked as if he knew, but when Harry glanced over at the old man, the pensioner looked away.

Steph’s voice came over from behind the bar. She moved away from the fireplace and entered the flickering lights of the candles on the bar. “I think we have a problem, guys.”

“What?” They all asked in unison.

Steph held an opened bottle of beer in her right hand and turned it upside down.

Nothing poured out.

“Jesus, no!” Old Graham cried, throwing his hands up at the sky as he realised what he was seeing. “The bloody beer’s frozen.”

Harry eye’s widened.

Was it really that cold?

9

“Dude, what are you doing?”

The banging at the door got more frantic.

Ben glanced over his shoulder at Jerry. “What you think I’m doing? I’m opening the door.”

“No way! It’s like The Thing out there. If someone starts hammering on the door, trying to get in – you lock it, tight! Then you board it up with planks and nails.”

Ben didn’t have time for this. He let out a long sigh. “Do you have any planks and nails, because I don’t. Movies aren’t real, and this isn’t a George Romero flick.”

Jerry winced.

The banging continued. A silhouette flittered against the pure white backdrop of the snow outside the door. Ben was just about to open up when something occurred to him, making him pause. “Hey, who’s there? Stop your banging, okay?”

Sure enough the banging stopped at his command.

“I said who’s there?”

Jerry tapped his foot nervously. “Dude, I swear, if you let the Lost Boys in here, I’ll never forgive you.”

Ben shook his head again, certain that his friend had smoked one of his funny fags at some point during the last few hours.

“My name’s Jess,” said a girl. “I work at the supermarket. Please let me in.”

Jerry leapt up and punched the air. “Dude! That’s the girl I was just talking about. The blonde fitty!”

Ben grinned. “Pity we can’t let her in, just in case she’s a zombie or a vampire?”

“Dude, stop fooling. Let her in!”

Ben couldn’t help but laugh as he turned back to the door. The girl’s silhouette continued to dance frantically against the snowy backdrop. Ben wondered what on earth had gotten her so worked up.

“Jess,” he said calmly.

“Yes, let me in.”

“The door isn’t locked,” Ben cleared his throat and waited for a reply.

There was silence, followed by a “Huh?”

“The door isn’t locked. It opens outwards. You keep bashing on it, but you need to pull it towards you.”

After a further moment’s silence, the door started to open slowly. The cold air rushed inside through the slowly widening gap. The girl that stepped inside looked very embarrassed.

* * *

It took almost fifteen minutes for Ben to calm Jess down. Once he’d let her inside and locked the door – she insisted on it – the girl had started to catch her breath. The three of them stood now by the entrance, where they could just about make each other out under the moon’s faltering glow and the green pulse of the fire exit sign.

“You’re lucky,” Ben said, patting her on the back. Her entire body was trembling. “We were just about to leave.”

The girl glanced over her shoulder at the door behind her, as though she expected something to burst through at any moment. The wind was picking up outside and flakes of snow were whirling up and settling against the glass.

Ben raised an eyebrow. “What exactly happened to you out there?”

“Yeah,” Jerry added. “Something give you the heebie jeebies, or what?”

Jess giggled, but it was a nervous sound. “I guess you could say something like that, but I’m probably just being silly. Least I hope so.”

“You got us a bit freaked out,” Ben said. “Banging on the door like that!”

“Sorry. I was just in a panic.”

“Why though?” Ben wanted to get to the point quickly, disconcertingly aware of the fact that they would all have to get out of there soon. It was getting far too cold to hang around any longer.

“I left the supermarket to see if anybody knew why the power had gone out,” Jess explained, “and to get away from my cow of a manageress. She drives me insane, but I just act really happy around her because I know it drives her insane.”

Ben got Jess back on track. “Then what happened?”

“Oh right, well, it’s the weirdest thing. I got lost!”

Ben and Jerry spoke in unison: “Lost?”

“Yeah, literally like ten steps out of the doorway. I couldn’t find my way back at all. Every time I changed direction it felt like I was going round in circles. I couldn’t see anything other than snow all around me. That’s when I started to get, you know, a bit scared, so I got my phone out to call someone at the supermarket to come and get me, but my phone was all messed up. I totally freaked out and started calling out for help. That’s when I saw it…”

Ben swallowed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what it was the girl saw – especially the bit about how her phone was all messed up the same as his and Jerry’s. The last thing they needed was to be freaked out right now, but he asked the question anyway. It felt like he needed to. “What did you see?”

Jess shook her head and shrugged, her bleach-blonde hair glinting in the white light coming from outside. “I… I really don’t know, but it had a face, you know? It was a man, I guess. A tall man.”

“Like Phantasm? Dude!” Jerry left it at that. Sometimes Dude said enough.

Ben wasn’t quite so impressed, though. “A face? You just bumped into someone, that’s all.”

Jess nodded. “Except the only thing I could make out on this person’s face were his eyes – big, glowy white ones inside of a hood.”

“A hood?” Another one of Jerry’s fantasies took a hold of him. “What kind of hood?”

Jess shook her head, a blank expression on her face. “I don’t know what any of that means, but it was like a priest’s robe or something. I didn’t see anything else – just the face – and I ran. Then I ended up at your door. Thank God!”

Jerry put an arm around the girl’s waist and squeezed tightly. “Amen to that!”

Ben’s common sense was telling him to dismiss the girl’s story as paranoid nonsense, but part of him couldn’t help but wonder…

Was something out there in the snow?

10

Damien had separated himself from the group and was now standing by the window in his bulbous puffer jacket, staring intently at the world outside. Harry and the other drinkers had remained around the sofa, a row of beers at their feet thawing in front of the fire. A couple were cracked due to the change in temperature, but most seemed to be returning to their more natural state of crisp, bubbling liquid.

Damien stared out into the night.

What is it with this weather? It just came out of freaking nowhere.

The cold was enough to freeze your eyelashes – not to mention the beer. If he was honest – which he rarely was if he could help it – he was worried. If the power didn’t come back on soon, would it get even colder? Would he freeze to death? It seemed an absurd thought in this day and age, but he wasn’t so certain. The ghost-white blanket swirling outside the window made him even less sure. It was like the whole world was freezing.

How did I get stuck in this dump on a night like tonight? The one Tuesday where I have serious business to attend to and this happens – and that fuckface Jimmy hasn’t even turned up. I should be making plans for my future right now, but no, I’m stuck here with a bunch of deadbeats. Steph isn’t so bad, but the others deserve a slap. Especially that fucking waste of space, Harry. Acts like he’s better than me, but he’s the biggest degenerate here.

Damien had noticed plenty of times how Harry turned his nose up whenever he and his mates were in the pub. Damien would have done something about it before now, but the guy wasn’t worth the effort. Besides, despite his superior attitude, Harry pretty much kept to himself, and it was a bad move to pick fights with people who kept to themselves. People told tales when you started victimising innocent people.

Still, the geezer best wind his neck in, because Damien would put him down if he kept getting in his face. The thick Mick would get his, too, if he wasn’t careful. Damien was sick of people treating him like a worthless thug, thinking they know all about him. They didn’t know shit.

For some reason, when Damien thought about Lucas it stoked an anxious fire in his belly. It wasn’t because he was scared of the man, but for some reason Lucas made Damien uneasy. Especially after the guy had damn-near busted his hand.

Damien shuddered as a cold breeze from under the pub’s rear door made it all the way inside his collar. It was time to get back in front of that fire. He was freezing his nutsack off! He turned away from the window and saw Lucas staring at him from across the room.

Speak of the Devil!

Damien glowered at the man, who smiled back at him benignly like they were old buddies or something. The fire in Damien’s belly grew hotter.

* * *

Damien took a lightly-frosted beer from Lucas and Harry wondered if he saw nervousness in the lad’s eyes. Damien seemed to be getting less and less sure of himself as the night went by, as though some finely-oiled veneer of toughness was slowly starting to crack and peel. Harry took a swig of his own beer and cringed as the icy liquid passed over his teeth, making them ache a little. Think I would actually prefer a steaming mug of coffee about now. When was the last time I felt like that?

Lucas ended a conversation he was having with Steph and headed off towards the toilets. Suddenly alone, Steph took a seat beside Harry on the sofa. He could feel the warmth of her thigh against his as she settled into the cushions.

“You got anywhere you’re supposed to be tonight, Harry?” she asked him.

He laughed. “You know me! When do I ever have any place to be other than here?”

“True,” she said. “But I don’t know why it is that you come here every night. It can’t just be the drink? You could stay at home and pass out on your own floor if you wanted to.”

Harry laughed again. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t be there to pick me up afterwards.”

Steph shook her head as though she didn’t accept his answer. “I’m serious! Why do you come here?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s because misery loves company. I think I come here to be among the living dead.”

Steph raised one of her neatly-shaped eyebrow. “I don’t follow.”

“How can I explain it? On the weekends you get the kids in having fun, but during the weekdays you have guys like Nigel who sit at the end of the bar without saying a word to anybody all night, or guys like Old Graham who live in the past because they don’t know where they fit in during the present.” Harry took a swig of his beer and then looked Steph in the eyes. They looked to him like glistening pearls and, for a few seconds, he stopped speaking, just staring into them. Frightened that the pause might become awkward, Harry carried on with what he was saying. “I come here because it reminds me that there are other people who have nothing left in their lives except regret. If I stayed at home I’d lose sight of the fact that I’m not alone in misery – that I’m not the world’s unluckiest man. It’s strange, but sometimes that’s the only thing that keeps me going. Doesn’t matter how much I hate my life, I’m not unique and my pain isn’t special. I’m never alone because I’m part of a club. The Living Dead Club. To be a member you have to stop living. You can walk around like a person, but really you’re just a memory of who you used to be.”

Steph rubbed a hand against her forehead. The various rings on her fingers glinted in the fire glow. “God, you’re depressing. That’s just about the most melodramatic thing I’ve ever heard. Have you always been like this?”

“No.” Harry said, but did not elaborate. Once he’d been a positive, upbeat person, but now he wasn’t – and that was that. The death of his wife, Julie, and his son, Toby, had left a charred, sucking wound where his heart had been. All he was left with was a star-shaped scar on the back of his hand.

Steph must have understood the feelings that her question provoked in him, as she changed the subject. “Hey, Graham?” she shouted.

The old man was sitting on the floor by the fire and flinched. “What?”

“Can you go upstairs to your flat and get some blankets and stuff? It’s almost closing time but it doesn’t look like the power is coming back anytime soon.”

The old man nodded. “Good idea.”

When Old Graham tottered over towards the bar on his way to the staircase in the corridor behind, Nigel shifted along the floor and filled his place closer to the fire. The man’s greasy face turned in Steph and Harry’s direction. “Is it okay for me to bed down here tonight, Steph? I’m parked round the back, but I don’t fancy a night in the lorry.”

Steph shrugged. “Can’t exactly see you out on the street now can I?”

Nigel’s face lit up. “Thanks, Steph.”

Damien piped up from the opposite side of the fire. “So you live in a lorry then?”

Nigel nodded. “Sometimes I do. Travelling around the Continent most the time so what’s the point in paying rent? I book a hotel when I fancy a soft bed and a warm bath, but most nights the driver’s cab suits me fine. Never did much like being tied down in one place.”

Harry wondered what that must be like. Such freedom to be able to lay your hat anyway and call it home for a night. Part of Harry yearned to disappear like that, to become a nomad with no emotional ties. But it just felt unnatural. A man without a home, without a family, wasn’t really a man. It didn’t seem right not to yearn for those things, or mourn for them once they were gone. He wondered what had led Nigel to live such an isolated life.

Damien sniggered. “So, you’re basically one step up from a homeless person, huh, Nigel?”

Nigel shrugged. “Aside from the fact that I have a well-paid job and get to see a dozen countries in any given year.”

“Where have you been recently?” Steph asked, smiling excitedly. “I bet you have some stories.”

“I was in France last week, on my way back from Amsterdam, and Copenhagen before that. There’s some beautiful countryside along the way.”

“Am-ster-dam.” Damien said the word slowly as though he enjoyed the feel of it on his tongue. “I’ve been there. Next time you go, say hello to Cindy Suckalump. She’ll give you a discount if you mention my name.”

“Don’t be so crude,” said Steph. “I’m sure Nigel doesn’t know what on earth you mean.” The attention of the group suddenly turned to Nigel who was looking away sheepishly. “Oh my!” said Steph finally, realising that Nigel was just a man like any other.

Damien let out a raucous laugh. “Oh, he knows. Look at his face.”

Nigel seemed embarrassed but was smiling nonetheless, like a ten-year old boy caught with his father’s porno magazines. Harry leant forward and was about to speak, but was interrupted by a voice behind him.

Old Graham was holding something in the air triumphantly. “Got the blankets, folks. Brought me something else too.”

“And what would that be?” asked Lucas, returning from the toilets and tucking his shirt back into his trousers.

“I think we need to know what the hell is going on tonight,” Old Graham explained, “so I brought down me old radio.”

Steph slapped her hands together and congratulated the old man. “Excellent,” she said. “If nothing else, we could get some music playing. It’s getting a bit spooky in here.”

“Now maybe we can find out just what the hell is going on with this weather and when the power will be back on,” said Harry, but deep down, something told him he didn’t want to know.

11

“What’s the plan?” asked Ben. His body had gone from mild shivering to full-blown quaking now. It felt as if the very air were made of ice. “We need to get out of here s-soon. I’m freezing”

Jerry nodded agreement, his face lit by one of the dusty candles Ben had found in the bottom drawer of the office filing cabinet. His arm was still around Jess’ waist, but she didn’t seem to mind. Ben suspected that if she’d not had a fright earlier, her need for personal space might have been greater.

“Guess we should grab the beers from the office and try to make it back to yours,” Jerry said.

Nice try, thought Ben. He was fully aware of his friend’s lame attempts to create a social situation in which he could get Jess drunk, but he wasn’t about to play along. “Leave the beers behind. They’ll only slow us down. Let’s get Jess home, then we’ll go back and crash at mine. I’ve got to be back here tomorrow morning.”

Jerry’s face sagged. “Well, it would only be polite to invite Jess back as well. She may want company after the night she’s had.”

The two boys turned their attention to Jess and the girl began to fluster as all eyes were on her. “Well, I should, you know, really get back to my mum and dad. They’ll worry otherwise. Another time though, yeah?”

Ben smiled as Jerry did the opposite.

Like I said, nice try.

“I think that’s sensible,” said Ben. “Where is it you live, Jess?"

“Costers Lane. You know it?”

Ben nodded. “Yeah, it’s on our way. I live just past it.”

Jess pulled away from Jerry’s grasping arm and clapped her hands together. “Great. We should probably get going then.”

Ben got the keys from the shelf below the counter and quickly locked the rear fire exit. It was not possible to set the burglar alarm, but seeing as it was half-ten at night and freezing, he was pretty sure his father would let him off this one time.

Pretty sure…

Ben inserted the key in the lock and turned it. “Ready?” he asked.

Jess and Jerry nodded.

They made their way out into the snowfield that had been a public footpath only hours before. It now seemed more like arctic tundra. Ben locked the door and they set off.

The wind continued picking up plumes of snow, which gathered in the air like wispy spirals. Ben’s jacket had no hood. He had to cover his face with a hand to keep the newly falling snowflakes out of his nose and mouth. His feet immediately went numb inside his boots as he kicked and heaved through the thick snow. “I can’t believe how bad it’s got,’ he said.

Jess replied. “I know. It’s really scary! The snow was bad last year, but this is like the end of the world or something.”

Jerry’s expression lit up. “Like The Day after Tomorrow. I totally said that earlier.”

“I wasn’t being literal. I don’t really think it’s the end of the world.”

Ben laughed.

Jerry blustered. “Yeah, well, I was just kidding. Just saying that the snow is pretty bad, that’s all. Most movies are totally based on science, so The Day After Tomorrow could happen.”

Ben wiped his face clean of snow and let out a sigh. “The world isn’t ending, Jerry. You thought Jurassic Park was based on science too, remember?”

Jerry jumped up and down in mock outrage. “Dude, don’t even get me started on Jurassic Park. That shit could happen, too.”

“No, it couldn’t.”

“Dude!”

Jess began laughing. “Is this what you two are like all the time? You crack me up!”

They both blushed. Ben hated when Jerry got him involved in one of his asinine nerd-fiction routines. It had been embarrassing him his whole life. It was his own fault; sometimes he just couldn’t resist winding Jerry up. It was one of life’s few pleasures.

“You know what?” said Jess, still giggling. “If we stop by my house, I can leave a note for my parents. I’ll crash at yours like you said. It could be fun.”

Jerry’s face lit up and, if Ben was honest, he too was pleased at the thought of having Jess back to his place. She seemed cool, and it would be nice to have more than just one friend. All they had to do now was make it home, which at the moment seemed easier said than done.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Jerry had to stop. Jess wasn’t thrilled about it because somewhere in the snow was the tall, hooded man that had frightened the life out of her earlier. She was certain of what she’d seen.

Well, pretty sure anyway.

“Dude, I can’t see two inches in front of me!” Jerry bumped into the back of Ben, sending them both into a stagger, the deep snow making it hard to keep balance.

Jess laughed at them. “Come on, Ant and Dec. I’m freezing my tits off here.”

Jerry regained his balance, pushing against Ben’s shoulders to steady himself. Ben huffed, most likely irritated that he was being used as a steadying post.

“Hey, if you want me to warm them up for you,” said Jerry with a smirk, “just let me know.”

“Nice try,” she said. “But I’m not as easy as that.”

Ben chuckled and pointed at his friend. “Wounded!”

“Hey, she said she wasn’t easy – not impossible.”

“Well, I must admit that’s closer than you get with most girls.”

“You ain’t so hot yourself, Gandalf.”

“I told you to stop calling me tha-“

“Children, children,” Jess interjected. “Put away the testosterone and try to remember I’m not a Star Wars figurine. I don’t like being fought over, and my packaging stays on.”

“Worth more like that anyway,” Jerry muttered. “Besides, I thought most girls liked being fought over.”

Jess stopped walking and put her hands on her hips. “Well, I’m not most girls.”

The three of them shared a laugh and they continued struggling onwards, crunching their footprints into the twinkling snow. The increasing blizzard made it difficult to see – and to hear – but they all saw clearly the shadowy silhouette standing in front of them.

Jess raised her hand and pointing a trembling finger. “It’s him. The man I saw earlier.”

Jerry put his arm around her. “It’s cool. Nothing to worry about.”

Ben stepped towards the stranger. “Sir? Are you trying to get home? We are too. Perhaps we could help one another?”

The shadowy figure stayed still, obscured by the veil of blustering snow and darkness.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, Ben,” Jerry urged. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Me too,” said Jess. Although she could not make out any of the stranger’s features, she knew it was the hooded figure from earlier. She felt it.

The stranger remained silent, not speaking or moving, but undeniably there.

“Come on, dude. This is the type of situation where somebody ends up on the end of the meat hook.”

Ben shot Jerry an angry look. “Jerry, do you always have to be so annoying? There’s no such thing as monsters. This isn’t one of your stupid horror movies. I’m sick and tired of-.”

Ben’s speech was derailed by an explosion, not of sound but of light. Behind the shadowy figure, a palisade of flames ignited, rising from the very snow itself, blotting out the darkness and drenching their freezing bodies in intense heat. The sudden change in temperature made Jess’s skin pop and tingle, but her legs were still numb, buried by the snow.

The flames behind the stranger were mesmerizingly bright, illuminating his features in all their glory. He wore magnificent silver robes that almost seemed to sparkle against the blazing backdrop of vertical fire. The hood over his head showed nothing but the red hot swirls of his eyes.

Jess laughed as the inappropriate image of a Vegas magician presented itself in her head. Maybe she was losing her mind.

Jerry shouted at Jess from behind her, but she couldn’t move, her legs paralysed by fear. Her eyes remained fixed on the hooded figure and the flames behind him. Whatever she was seeing, it couldn’t be real.

The lurching figure finally started to move. From beneath the silver robes came a crooked hand, all bony fingers and bulbous knuckles. It began to draw something long and grey, a slither of sharp metal.

Jess flinched. Is that a sword?

“He’s about to get stabby,” said Jerry. “Who is this guy?”

Ben made mumbling sounds, like he was trying to say something, but couldn’t find any words.

Jess regained the use of her legs and started backing away. “Ben,” she said, “I think you should back away and come over here with us.”

Ben turned and stared at Jess with wide, fearful eyes. “No shit!”

The three of them ran for it.

“Who the hell is it?” Jess managed to ask mid-run, the words coming out in huffs and puffs.

Jerry answered in the same out-of-breath way. “You mean what is that, don’t you? It ain’t no man.”

The conversation went no further as the three hurried away from the hooded figure. The snow slowed their escape down to a stumbling crawl and Jess couldn’t help but worry that if the creature pursued them they had slim hopes of getting away. “Is it thing following us?” she asked, trying to move faster, despite her clumsy snow-bound strides.

“I don’t know,” said Ben. He looked back over his shoulder. “I think-”

While Jess tried to catch up with Jerry a few yards in front, she waited anxiously for Ben to finish his reply. After several seconds, her heart surged with so much panic that she had to turn around herself.

When she looked back, she saw that Ben had stopped several yards behind her. He was still following after her and Jerry, but he was making slow, almost laborious progress. Beyond him, Jess could see nothing except snow and darkness. The burning palisade and the robed stranger were gone.

“Ben,” she called out. “What are you doing? Get a move on!”

It was a few moments before he replied to her. “I…I don’t feel right. I…” He fell down in the snow, his face disappearing.

Jess panicked. She had to go back and help Ben, but that meant heading back towards the stranger with the sword. .

Up ahead, Jerry stopped in his tracks, swaying and tottering like he couldn’t gain control of his knees. He looked confused as to why everyone had stopped.

Jess trudged her way over towards Ben, who was still down on his hands and knees, face buried in the snow. Within a few minutes, she managed to make it back to him.

“Hey, what’s wrong,” she asked, getting frantic.

Ben managed to roll onto his side and looked up at her. The sight made her stomach churn. His face had turned white as the snow, except for his lips, which were bright red with blood.

Jess swallowed a lump in her throat. “Jesus, Ben, are you ok? What’s happened?”

“I…I don’t know.”

Jerry came rushing up beside her, and immediately dove down into the snow. “Ben! Ben, what’s wrong, buddy? Shit, dude, you’re bleeding.”

Ben managed to laugh meekly at his friend’s arrival. Scattered specks of blood flew from his mouth and covered the snow in pinpricks of red.

“Oh my god,” said Jess, covering her mouth. “One of your fingers is missing!”

Ben stared down at his hand like he didn’t recognise it. The strangest thing of all, Jess noticed, was that the finger stump wasn’t bleeding. It was capped by a glistening patch of red, but it wasn’t moist at all. The wound seemed more like the surface of sandpaper than raw flesh.

Jerry reached out a hand to his friend. “Come on, B-Dog. Let’s get you out of here.”

Ben reached out to take Jerry’s hand, but when their hands made contact his arm crumbled away at the shoulder as though it were made of sand. The stump bled for a few seconds then appeared to glaze over. It left Ben staring at them with the same look Jess imagined soldiers wore when they realised they were holding their own intestines. Ben’s glistening eyes dried up until they looked like two lumps of clay set into his face. His lips cracked.

It took a moment for Jess to realise that Ben was dead.

It took several more moments for Jerry to understand it too, but when Ben’s entire body crumbled away to ashes and melted into the snow, he was finally forced to accept that his friend was gone. How and why made no sense at all.

Jess allowed herself the luxury of screaming, and she didn’t stop until she was completely out of breath.

12

Harry’s world felt better from beneath the snug security of the thick quilt. Despite the fact the cold was a little more tolerable, Harry still eagerly awaited the power to click on. It’d been almost three hours now and closing in on midnight.

“Come on, old man,” Damien shouted. The lad had declined one of Old Graham’s blankets, as it would probably ruin his hard man image, so he was instead closer to the fire than everyone else. He also had on his thick padded coat.

“Yeah,” Nigel joined in. “Haven’t you picked anything up on that piece of junk yet?”

Old Graham sat on a footstool by the fire and fiddled with his radio. It hissed and crackled. “I’m trying,” he grumbled. “Nowt’s happening.”

“When was the last time you even used that thing?” Damien asked.

“It’s been a while, but I knows how to work a bloody radio, lad. My generation grew up with the things.”

Lucas reached out a hand from his perch on the armrest of the two-seat sofa. “Give it here, old timer. I know my way around a puzzle.”

Old Graham obliged and handed over the crackling radio. Lucas immediately set about twiddling its knobs and pressing buttons. A frown filled his face gradually like liquid filling a beaker. “I think the thing’s a dud, fella.”

“Nonsense! I’ve used it a hundred times.”

Lucas gave it a whack. “Well, it’s gone on strike tonight.”

Harry was curious. “I’ve never known a radio to switch on and not pick up anything at all. They usually get something, even if it’s only faint.”

“Not if the antenna’s faulty,” Lucas said. “You’d get nothing but static. Let’s say you’re right though. Let’s assume the radio is working and still we’re getting nothing. What does that mean?”

Harry started to think about it, but couldn’t come up with an answer. “I guess it would mean that nobody’s broadcasting, or that the radio waves aren’t getting through.”

“Exactly,” Lucas said, as if he was revealing the most obvious fact in the universe. “So those are two options. The third and final one is that the radio has popped its little electrical clogs. What’s the most likely, Harry Boy?”

Harry felt silly, but worried at the same time. “I suppose it is just the radio, or the weather affecting things.”

Lucas smiled as if he’d successfully explained algebra to a monkey. “There you go! No need to assume the wor-“

Old Graham cried out. “Got something!”

Harry and Lucas broke off their discussion and turned to the old man; so did Steph, Nigel, and Damien. Old Graham waved his hand at them all and ushered them closer. His left ear was half-an-inch from the radio’s speaker. At first, all Harry could make out was more hissing and crackling, but as he got closer…

“What is that?”

“I don’t know,” Old Graham said without turning his attention away from the radio. “I can’t make it out, but something’s definitely there.”

Everyone gathered around and listened to the radio pop, hiss, and crackle, but behind those noises was something else. At first it sounded like horns blowing – trumpets even – but then there was…

Voices.

Garbled, disembodied speech that made sense to Harry for only mere seconds: …Pillars…Salt…Sin…

Nigel straightened his back and stepped away from the radio, which quickly returned to giving out nothing but empty static again. “Did anyone else hear that? Could anyone understand it?”

Old Graham shook his head. “Not really. Something about salt?”

Nigel shook his head. “Pillars. It was pillars.”

“Pillars of salt,” Steph added helpfully.

Damien turned his back on the group, walked back over to the other side of the fire, and then turned back to face them. “Pillars, Salt, Sin, that’s what it said.” He pulled at his earlobe. “Guess my hearing’s better than you old farts.”

Harry felt like screaming ‘shut up’ at the top of his lungs, but refrained. “Damien’s right. It said: Pillars. Salt. Sin.”

Lucas sat back down on the perch of the armrest. “What in heaven does that mean then? Sounds downright biblical.”

Harry didn’t disagree and thought about it for a moment, wondering who was broadcasting it. “Does anybody know what Pillars of Salt and Sin actually means?” He asked the question earnestly because he had no idea.

Steph was the first to offer an opinion. “Isn’t it from a Coldplay song?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You think we just caught part of a song playing?”

Steph shook her head and seemed to doubt her own answer. “It didn’t sound like singing, and the line in the song goes quite quickly. The words on the radio were drawn out and slow.”

“Plus, that song doesn’t contain the word, sin,” Damien added.

“No, it doesn’t.” Steph agreed.

“Okay,” Harry said. “Anybody else got ideas?” He looked around and raised his eyebrows. “What about you, Lucas?”

“Can’t help you there, fella. It’s probably nothing but Prayer Time with Father Bob for all I know. You can find all kinds of religious mumbo jumbo if you fiddle about enough. Either way, I need to go and visit the latrine again, so I’ll leave you folks to ponder.” Lucas got up from the sofa’s armrest and headed towards the toilets again, while the rest of them continued their conversation.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Old Graham wrapping a wool blanket around himself and pulling it tight around his shoulders. His words still fluttered slightly as the cold strangled his central nervous system. “No point worrying about it now. I’ll put the radio on the bar if anyone wants to have another go. I need to get warm.”

Nigel nodded and pulled up his own blanket. “Yeah, it’s getting a little too nippy for my liking. Do we have any more wood for the fire?”

Steph nodded and headed off towards the bar, but before she got there the sound of screaming made her turn back around.

“What the hell was that?” said Nigel

Harry leapt up from the sofa and placed his beer bottle down on one of the nearby tables. “Someone’s outside.”

Steph stepped away from the bar. “Harry, where are you going?”

“To help them.”

“I’d advise against that, Harry Boy.” Lucas was returning from the toilets. “You go out in that weather and you might not come back.”

“We can’t just do nothing,” said Harry. “Someone is screaming.”

Lucas walked over to him by the pub’s exit and pointed to the frost-covered window. “Look out there, fella. You’ll be blind the second you step outside, and trying to make it in a straight line for ten steps will leave you a disorientated sot. You’d probably struggle to walk ten steps in a straight line on a normal night.”

Harry scowled. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Damien stood laughing by the fire. “He means you’re a worthless drunk, Harry, and everybody knows it.”

The hackles of Harry’s neck rose. “What did you just say to me?”

Damien stepped towards Harry, but was still a good nine feet away. “I said that you’re a no-good, stinking drunk, and that if someone is hurt out there, screaming for help, the worst person that could turn up to help them would be you.”

Harry wanted to use words to retaliate, as that was the man he was – but none came to mind. The only thing that filled his head was a blind, boiling rage. He leapt across the room, landing a punch square on Damien’s nose, spreading his cheeks and scrunching up his face. Both nostrils gushed blood immediately.

Damien didn’t go down. He staggered backwards, clutching his nose in stunned bewilderment.

Everyone else in the room stood frozen and silent, their mouths open, their eyes wide.

Damien regained control of himself, dropping his hands so the blood and mucous ran down the light-blue shirt inside his puffer jacket. “You just made a big fucking mistake,” he snarled. “Cus I’m going to kill you.”

Harry’s soul deflated as he realised the seriousness of his actions. What had made him act so violently? That wasn’t him at all. Was it? Either way, he’d chosen a course of action and would have to stick to it.

Harry clenched his fists and spat defiantly. “Try it, you little fuckweed!”

Damien started towards him, taking each step casually as if he had all the time in the world. Harry tried to swallow but found a lump blocking his throat. He raised his fists and prepared for his first ever bar fight.

Lucas jumped between the two of them and placed a hand across Damien’s chest. “Calm down there, fellas. Thought we had an agreement? We’re all going to play nice tonight.”

Damien sneered. “Try telling that to your man here; wrecked a perfectly good designer shirt. He’ll pay for it, though.”

Lucas sighed. “You gentlemen can settle up another night. There’s no time for it now. There’s some lass screaming out there and our Harry Boy was about to do the noble thing and go offer assistance. You should do the right thing and let him.”

Damien shook his head in disbelief. “You were the one telling him not to go out there.”

“Well,” said Lucas, “that was before he was in as much danger inside as he is out. Besides, there’s a chance he might freeze to death, so you should be all for it.”

Damien backed off slightly, but pointed a finger at Harry. “We’ll finish this later.”

Harry was unsure what to do, not wanting to lower his fighting stance until he knew the situation was truly defused. He looked at Lucas who nodded at him reassuringly. He slowly lowered his arms and moved back towards the pub’s exit.

“Wait!” It was Steph. She sounded worried. “Let me find you a torch or something.”

“Yeah,” Old Graham agreed from under his blanket by the fire. “At least take a blanket with you.”

Harry waved a hand dismissively. “I’m sure someone’s just slipped over. I’ll be straight back. It’s just a bit of bloody snow.”

“I’ll be waiting when you get back,” said Damien.

Harry sighed. He stepped towards the pub’s exit…

Clonk!

…before falling to the ground clutching his head as the door swung inwards and clubbed him in the forehead.

The world cast into darkness as a gale rushed in from outside and extinguished all the candles on the bars.

Harry moaned in pain.

“Shit! Harry, are you okay?” Steph asked from somewhere in the darkness.

Harry ceased his moaning and tried to get up. Pressure mounted in his skull, a swelling above his left eye. Reaching forward onto his hands, he planted his knees on the floor and prepared to get back to his feet. It was then that he realised someone was standing in front of him in the darkness.

“Who’s there?” he said.

Everyone stood still in the darkness and waited for an answer.

“My name is Kath. I’m the manageress of the supermarket across the road.”

A collective sigh of relief filled the room. Steph quickly relit the candles on the bar.

“Try coming in a little slower next time,” Harry said, rubbing his forehead. “You almost broke my skull.”

Kath laughed nervously. “I’m so sorry. I guess the weather has put me in a bit of a panic.” The woman moved away from the doorway and towards the light. “Oh, that’s better. I was starting to forget what it was like to be able to see properly.”

Kath offered her hand to Steph and Steph shook it.

“Pleased to meet you, I’m Steph. Why were you screaming out there?”

“No, that wasn’t me. It would no doubt be that silly girl.”

Harry moved over to the bar. “Silly girl?”

“Yes, Jessica. She’s just some ditsy teenager who works for me. She went wandering off into the snow when the power went off.”

“We should go look for her then,” Harry insisted.

Kath sighed. “Don’t bother wasting your time. Peter went after her; she’ll be fine. I’m sure they bumped into each other out there and that’s what startled her.”

“You sure she’ll be okay?” Steph asked. “We should check to make sure.”

Kath’s response was abrupt. “If she needed help there would have been more than one scream, wouldn’t there?”

“Guess that makes sense,” said Lucas, taking the top off a newly defrosted beer with his molars. “I say we top up that fire and get ourselves snug beneath those blankets.”

“Good idea,” said Old Graham, already making his way back to the fire. The rest of them followed, spreading the blankets into a line, before tucking themselves in side by side like sardines.

Steph brought over a crate of bottled beer and placed it by the fire to hopefully thaw out. Harry passed an already recently thawed bottle to their new arrival, Kath. “My saviour,” she said, supping the beer greedily. “After the day I’ve had I could see myself becoming quite the alcoholic just to cope.” The comment brought a stiff silence. “Did I say something wrong?” Kath asked. “It was just a joke.”

Despite Harry expecting Damien to use the opportunity to revisit their earlier animosity, he declined to speak. Instead he stayed quiet and drank his beer.

“So,” Steph asked, “what exactly have you been through tonight, Kath?”

“God, if only you knew. The whole world has gone crazy. The electricity went out, my phone stopped working, and at one point I thought I was going to freeze to death. Thank heavens you’re still open, because I don’t know how on earth I would have made it home in this snow.”

“Your phone isn’t working?” said Damien.

Kath shook her head. “No, it doesn’t work at all. The landline didn’t either.”

“Guess the power affects the towers, or whatever you call ‘em,” said Old Graham.

“Maybe,” Kath agreed, “but don’t the landlines work even when the power’s out?”

Harry nodded in the dark and rubbed at the throbbing lump on his forehead. “I think you’re right. Don’t they work off static signals?”

Lucas laughed. “Any telephone technicians in the house? Anybody?”

“What’s your point?” Harry asked.

“My point is that none of us really know how the phone lines work.”

“That’s right,” Nigel said. “Didn’t they go digital or something a time back?”

From the middle of the group, Steph cracked open another beer. Her words were beginning to slur slightly as she spoke. “Don’t suppose it matters. We’re stuck here not knowing all the same. This is the worst weather I’ve ever seen, it doesn’t surprise me that everything’s gone down the pan. Not like we have a government that actually knows its arse from its earlobe, is it?”

Kath chuckled. “Tell me about it!”

“Now, now, Ladies,” Lucas put both hands up. “A pub is no place for politics. You can go to a stuffy wine bar for the likes of that. A good old-fashioned boozer like this is meant for people to forget their troubles, inept governments included.”

Steph laughed. “Aha! So you think the government is inept as well?”

Lucas grinned. “Sweetheart, I think they’re all inept – and trust me, I’ve seen a few. I always say that religion and politics are just clever ways to make discontent people content with their discontentedness.”

Old Graham snorted. “Good one.”

Kath turned to Lucas, disapproval on her face. “I take it you’re a nonbeliever then, erm…”

“Lucas, my dear woman. You can call me Lucas. To answer your question: yes, absolutely I believe in the Almighty Father. I never condemned Him now, did I? I condemned the eejits that try to run things in his name.”

After a moment’s thought, Kath seemed to accept this. “Well, perhaps I can agree with you there.”

Harry joined in. “What’s your Almighty Father’s plan for tonight? Besides freezing us all to death that is.”

“Do I detect a heathen?” Lucas asked.

Harry swigged his beer. “I’m just a realist.”

“That’s just slang for being a moody sod,” Lucas quipped.

“Why don’t you believe, Harry?” Kath asked.

“Because if I believed that there was someone responsible for all the things that have happened in my life then I would be so consumed with rage that I don’t think I’d be able to go on living.”

“Is that because you’re such a loser?” Damien asked.

Harry wanted to get angry, but he was too tired. Maybe it was the beer, or something deeper inside of him that was just giving up. His heart felt weary.

“You’ve lost someone, haven’t you?” asked Lucas.

Harry turned in the Irishman’s direction. “What?”

“The only time a man gives up hope like you have is when they’ve lost a loved one…a child perhaps. Was it a boy or a girl?”

“It,” Harry spat, “was a boy. Toby.”

There was silence, thick enough that a snow plough would have blunted against it. Harry had never let anyone in The Trumpet know about Toby. It was his place to escape from all the pity and well-wishing that his onetime friends and family had become consumed with since the accident. This pub was his place to come and be alone with his pain, to remember his son the way he wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” said Damien. No one else spoke.

Harry didn’t say anything either. He was consumed by a deep sadness. Not just for Toby or Julie – he always felt sadness for them – but sadness because he knew he could never come back here again. The Trumpet’s sanctuary of anonymity was gone.

“Okay,” said Lucas, raising a beer in the dim light of the fire. “We’ll change the subject, but first: Here’s to Toby, may his soul be somewhere safe and pleasant.”

The group raised their bottles and said Toby’s name. Harry stared into the fire.

13

Peter hadn’t seen Jess, or anybody else, for almost an hour, not since he’d parted ways with Kath. Earlier, the two of them had heard screaming and he was certain it was Jess. Kath had chosen to head for the nearby pub, caring only about herself, but Peter had decided to do the right thing and go to find his friend. It had not gone as well as he’d hoped.

Peter wasn’t one to lose his cool easily; no one in Poland was, not after what their grandparents had lived through. It gave them a unique perspective on what really mattered in life. Yet, Peter had to admit to himself that he was starting to get anxious.

Peter had been used to the freezing cold of his hometown, near Warsaw, but he’d never known conditions like this. It reminded him more of the Arctic Circle than Great Britain – the place he’d come to follow his dreams and earn money he could only dream of back in Poland. England had become as much a home to him as his own homeland, even if he wasn’t always made to feel welcome.

But tonight, Peter would have given anything to be back home with Momma and Poppa. He’d never felt as alone as he did right now.

“Jess,” he called out into the emptiness. “Jess, are you ok? It is Peter.”

There was no response. He’d almost given up hope of finding Jess, but that didn’t stop him worrying about why he had heard a scream. Jess was a nice girl, attractive and funny. Most of the Polish people in the town stuck to their own and socialised with each other – especially when it came to dating. It was easier that way and provoked less xenophobia than if the Polish men went around sleeping with the English women. But Peter often yearned to spend time with Jess, and thought about kissing her.

Peter hoped she was okay.

“Peter, is that you?”

Peter stopped in his tracks. The snow crunched beneath his polished work shoes. “Jess, is that you?”

“Peter, I’m over here. I need help.”

Peter turned a full circle, unable to pinpoint where Jess’s voice was coming from. “Jess, I hear you, but I not see you. Jess?”

The voice came closer. “Peter, I’m here. Help!”

Peter turned another circle. He spotted something in the distance and trudged towards it. “Jess, I…I see you.”

In the near distance, Peter could just about make out a grey shape in the howling blizzard. A sigh of relief whistled from his cold, blue lips and he began to head toward it.

* * *

Jess and Jerry fled in terror after witnessing Ben turn to dust. They were too much in shock to comprehend what they’d witnessed. They just knew they had to get out of there.

“I don’t have…a goddamn clue…what just happened,” said Jerry, fighting his way breathlessly through the snow.

Jess was beginning to slow down. They hadn’t gone far, but in the deep, sucking snow, moving any distance was an endurance test. “I need to stop,” she said. “I’ve got a stitch.”

Jerry halted and looked at her. Then he grabbed her arm and pulled hard. “Are you nuts? That thing will get us. You never stop when there’s a demon on your arse. Have you never seen Friday the 13th?”

Jess pulled back, her chest rising and falling in great heaves. “There’s…no such thing as…demons.”

“There is too. Exorcist was based on true events and so was The Entity.”

Jess shook her head. “They just say that so idiots like you go to watch it. That thing wasn’t chasing us when we started running. I think we can stop for a second.”

“You saw what it did to Ben!” Jerry seemed to struggle with something internally, before going on, like he was fighting back a wave of tears. “It killed him, and if we don’t get moving it’ll get us too.”

Jess nodded. “Okay, but where the hell are we going? I can’t see anything and I’ve already got lost in this snow once tonight.”

Jerry pulled on her arm again and the two of them started moving. “We need to find the pub. There is always someone there till late.”

“The pub it is then,” said Jess, getting her wind back and making a move.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the two of them came to a stop at the bottom of the hill leading up to The Trumpet. It had taken the last of their energy, wandering around in the white darkness of the growing blizzard, to find it, and if it hadn’t been for the fear and adrenaline dominating her system, Jess was sure she would’ve keeled over by now.

“Thank God we found it,” she said. “I don’t think I can get much colder. My nipples could cut cake.”

Jerry stared at her chest.

“That wasn’t an invitation to ogle my chest. Just take my word for it, I’m cold.”

Jerry shook himself as if escaping a hypnotic trance. “Sorry! Well, it’s one thing finding the pub, but let’s hope somebody’s still in there. Else, I don’t know what we’re going to do. With the Siberian weather and Flame Boy on our tail, I don’t know what’ll kill us first.”

Jess shuddered.

“Sorry,” he said. “I know you’re scared.”

Jess didn’t admit it, but it was true. They were both fighting back the pangs of panic. Jerry’s cheeks had gone clammy and looked like they were burning up despite the chill. Jess worried that if they didn’t get under cover soon, they’d be in danger of getting frostbite or hypothermia.

She started to take the first steps up the hill, sticking to where she imagined the path lay beneath the snow. She peered up at the pub, which loomed over them ominously. “I think I see a light in there,” she said.

Jerry squinted. “Yeah, I think I do too. There must be people inside.”

The two of them hurried, taking steps as quickly as possible in the knee-high snow sloping upwards. As Jess neared the top, she became more and more certain that there was light inside the pub. Not electrical light, but a flickering, glowing light from a torch or-

“I think they have a fire in there,” said Jess, giddy at the thought of warmth.

“Jurassic Park!” Jerry fist-pumped triumphantly. “Let’s get our black asses in there.”

Jess’s brow wrinkled. “We’re not black.”

“Come on!” Jerry grabbed Jess by the arm and started helping her up the hill…

…but a noise from behind made them stop.

“Is that…growling?” Jess turned slowly as the low grumbling grew louder. It did indeed sound like growling but, when she looked back, there was nothing other than the drifting, windswept snow. She turned back to Jerry. “Let’s just get to the pub, okay?”

They picked up as much speed as they could, still hampered by the chilling embrace around their ankles and shins. When the growling started again it seemed to be coming from all directions, vibrating through the air all around them.

Jerry put his hand on Jess’s back and pushed. “I don’t like the sound of whatever’s making that.”

Jess was about to agree when she found herself off balance, her toe stubbing up against some hidden brickwork or stone beneath the snow. As she crumpled, her leg twisted and folded beneath her, leaving her facing back the way she had come. She shrieked at what she saw.

So did Jerry.

14

“Harry snapped out of his wallowing, leapt up in front of the fire. “The hell was that? More screaming?” He started for the pub’s exit again. “What’s going on tonight?”

The others emerged from underneath their blankets and duvets by the fire. Steph hurried up beside Harry and put a hand on his back, clutching his jacket. “That scream sounded really close,” she said. “You think it was the same person as earlier?”

“I hope so, otherwise that means there’s something even more screwed up going on out there. A single person screaming is a lot better than two people screaming.”

The cries continued, closer and more urgent.

“Go on, Harry,” Steph urged. “It sounds like they’re right outside.”

Harry nodded and made for the door, but, before he managed to get there, it sprung open. Luckily, his forehead was nowhere near this time and he avoided a second blow from the thick wood. “What is it with people flying through this bloody door?”

Two flailing bodies – a boy and a girl – tumbled through the entrance and ended up in a crumpled heap on the floorboards. Harry saw that they were just a couple of teenagers.

He offered them his hand. “Come on in why don’t you.”

The girl ignored his hand and sprang to her feet unassisted. She rushed over to the still-open door and slammed it shut, heaving her weight against it and sliding her arm up to the bolt, pulling it across with a forceful Clack!

Damien stepped up beside Harry, peered down at the teenage boy on the floor and then across at the panting girl slumped against the door. “What the fuck you two tripping about?”

The girl looked back at Damien, her chest heaving in and out beneath her fleece. Her eyes were wide and she said nothing.

Damien turned his glance to the boy instead. “What about you, knobhead? You got anything to say, or shall I kick your arse back outside? You’ve interrupted a private party and it’s bad manners to crash.”

“No,” the girl said urgently. “Please, let us stay!”

Damien went to speak but Harry cut him off, confident that he would take a more appropriate line of questioning than the young thug. “You can both stay. Of course you can, but what on Earth has gotten you so frightened?”

“There’s something out there,” said the boy on the floor, still trembling on his back, but now propped up on his spindly elbows. “There’s something out there, like a big freaking dog or something. It was like…like…Jaws with fur.”

There was silence in the room as Harry and the others studied the newcomers and considered their wild suggestions. The girl was nodding in agreement and they both seemed scared half to death by something, but what they were claiming seemed like pure...

“Bullshit,” said Damien.

Harry nodded, actually agreeing with Damien for once and finding the sensation strange. “It was probably just a stray dog,” he said, “stressed out by the weather. I’m sure it’s unpleasant out there for anyone, dogs included.”

The teenagers seemed to calm a little, although both of them kept glancing back at the door nervously. Eventually the boy got himself up off the floor and put an arm around the girl. They spoke between themselves for a moment, too quietly for Harry to make out the words. Boyfriend and girlfriend, he supposed, before asking them, “Beer?”

This seemed to be just the ticket as the two youngsters started smiling. Yet, despite them relaxing, Harry couldn’t ignore the bile rising from his stomach.

It tasted like dread.

* * *

Jess watched the elderly man come from behind the bar with more blankets, while beside him, a large greasy-skinned man had a shopping bag filled with food – sausage rolls, chicken, ham, and stale-looking bread. Jess’s mouth watered as the snacks were handed out amongst the group. She was surprised by how hungry she was.

“You say it was halfway between a Great Dane and a bull?” Kath asked Jess, her sneering lips spattered with porkpie crust.

Jess couldn’t believe it when she’d found Kath at the pub. A spiteful part of her had hoped the old bag had got lost in the snow. Jess made a mental note to find out where Peter had gone to. It wouldn’t have surprised her if Kath left him in the supermarket to guard it overnight in the freezing cold. Kath had it in for Peter ever more than she did Jess.

Kath cackled. “Well, bull is exactly what it is, young lady.”

“Yeah, as in bull-shite!” said a voice from somewhere else.

Jess sneered at the person who had spoken. “You’re Damien Banks, aren’t you?”

Damien’s face lit up. “You’ve heard of me? Well, you’d be a fool not to have.”

Jess folded her arms. “Yeah, I’ve heard of you. You’re the dickhead that deals smack. Your mates are always causing trouble at the supermarket – knocking stuff over and threatening us all. Basically acting like immature little boys. Same as you are right now.”

Damien’s smug expression dissolved into anger. The flesh in his cheeks changed from primrose to burgundy. “You better watch that mouth sweetheart. This is my pub and–”

“Actually,” said the barmaid – Jess thought she’d heard her name was Steph. “It’s my pub tonight, Damien, and we’ve all agreed to get along. That includes you, too, sweetheart. Don’t poke the natives!”

Jess nodded. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

Damien smiled and held up his beer. “I forgive you, but only cus you’ve got nice tits.”

“She’s, like, sixteen, dude!” Jerry shouted, eyeballing Damien with suspicion.

Damien sneered. “You want to call your dog off, sweetheart? He’s likely to get himself neutered.”

Jess turned to Jerry. “I don’t need you to fight my battles.”

Jerry stepped closer and spoke in a hushed voice. “Sorry, it’s just that this guy is bad news, a right wannabe gangster.”

“I know,” she whispered back. “Everyone is aware of Damien Banks, which is why you should just stay out of his way. He’s dangerous enough on a normal night, let alone one where everything’s gone to hell. Let’s just finish our beers and try to stay out of his way until we can get help.”

Jerry nodded and re-joined the group. They were all resuming their positions in front of the fire

“So, lass,” said a good looking man with an Irish accent, “with a somewhat calmer mind, do you want to spin us your yarn about the furry beast you say you saw outside?”

Jess didn’t answer and instead looked quizzically at the man who’d offered to help her up off the floor when she’d first arrived. He was good looking too, but more tired and weary looking.

“Don’t worry,” he said to her and smiled. “Lucas always speaks like that. You’ll get used to it.”

Jess laughed. “Oh, well, I guess it was like you all said: just a dog or something.”

Lucas frowned. “Come now. If that was what you thought at the time then you wouldn’t have burst in here screaming like a banshee. At the time, you thought you saw something. What?”

Jess was hesitant, nervous at the thought of bringing it all up again after she’d managed to convince herself it hadn’t happened. “I er…I really don’t know. It was all so confusing.”

“It wasn’t a dog,” Jerry spoke up. “I’ve seen a hundred different breeds of dog and there’s nothing even close to what we saw tonight.”

The others switched their focus from Jess and listened to Jerry as he continued. Don’t tell them, Jess was thinking. They’ll think we’re both insane.

“We’d just started to climb the hill,” Jerry said, “when we heard growling. It started off just like a dog’s, but a dog’s growling can’t make your bones rattle like this. We started to get our asses out of there, but Jess slipped over.”

“I tripped on something under the snow,” Jess explained. “That’s when we saw it.”

“Saw what?” asked the elderly man of the group. “What did you see?”

There was silence for a few moments and it became unclear who would be the one to answer. Jess decided it would have to be her. “It was big, bigger than anything wandering around a housing estate should be. It had thick, oily fur that was totally free from snow, as though any flakes that tried to settle on it just melted. In a way, it really did look like a dog, but it was just way too big… and besides, its face was all wrong.”

Jerry supported her as her voice began to weaken. She appreciated it and had already started to consider him a friend. Relationships were forged easily at times like this, she realised. “Yeah,” Jerry said. “Its face was much flatter and rounded – more like an ape than a dog, except its mouth took up half its face. It was full of teeth; rows and rows of them like those chomp-monsters in The Langoliers. You ever see that movie”

Damien scoffed. “How could you make out all that detail in a blizzard?”

Jerry shook his head. “I don’t know. It was as though there was a glow around it, like a ball of light.”

Damien shook his head, obviously not buying any of it, but didn’t say anything. Jess saw a similarly incredulous expression on Kath’s face as well. Screw you both, she thought.

The others stayed quiet too, until Jerry finally said in a croaky voice, “We haven’t even told you about the sick bastard that murdered my best friend – turned him right into dust.”

Everyone stared at Jerry like he was insane. Only Jess knew he wasn’t.

* * *

When the teenagers finished their wild story about a hooded figure turning their friend into dust, Harry was rendered speechless. Of course, he didn’t believe such a ridiculous tale, but the story still managed to unsettle him. Whether it was true or not, something had obviously sent the kids running.

Harry swigged his beer and stared into the fire, listening to the conversation of the group rather than taking part in it. He tuned in to what Kath was saying.

“You silly, attention-seeking, twit,” the woman said. “You’re just trying to frighten everybody. I’ve never heard such codswallop in all my life.”

Jess slapped her palms against her forehead in dismay. “I watched Jerry’s best friend die tonight. If you hadn’t been too busy abandoning me then you might have been there to see it too.”

“How dare you! I did nothing of the sort. I shouted and looked everywhere for you, but you’d wandered off carelessly.”

Jess sneered. “Like hell you did. You’re full of shit.”

“That is it, young lady!” Kath’s voice quivered with rage. “Don’t you bother coming into work tomorrow because you are fired.”

Jess laughed. “We’re in a pub, Kathleen, not at work. I can say what the hell I like to you. Don’t worry though because I quit anyway.”

“Music to my ears. Now I can employ someone with half a brain.”

“Actually, you need to hire someone without a brain, then they won’t mind working for a pathetic bully like you. I understand though, Kathleen, it must be difficult being a spinster.”

“You spiteful cow! You know nothing about me.”

Kath threw off her duvet and leapt to her feet. For a second, it looked as though the older woman was going to go for Jess, but instead she turned away from the group and departed towards the toilet.

“You two don’t get on then?” Lucas quipped from the edge of the group.

“No shit,” Jess replied. “Got to tell you though, it felt really good saying that to her.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” said Harry. “Maybe you should just let things lie for now, though. Who knows how long we’ll be stuck in this situation together.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll leave her alone, so long as she doesn’t get in my face. I need to ask her where the warehouse guy went first though. She treats Peter like dirt and I need to make sure he’s alright.”

Jess shoved herself up onto her feet and headed after Kath. Once she’d taken half-a-dozen steps, a body crashed through the window.

15

“Peter!” Jess screamed.

Harry watched the girl drop to her knees, scrambling over to the body that was now splayed across the pub’s wooden floor. The injured boy was barely conscious, covered in blood and murmuring deliriously in what sounded like an Eastern European accent. Freezing cold wind and swirling snow flew in through the broken window and extinguished what little warmth had managed to remain inside the pub.

Harry clambered across the room and skidded to his knees beside Jess and the injured boy she had referred to as Peter.

Jess blinked at Harry; a hollow stare consuming her delicate features. Tears leaked from her grief-stricken blue eyes. “Help him, please.”

Harry choked on his words. “I…I…what’s…what’s happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” cried Jess. “Just please make him alright.”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” said Jerry, rushing over to join them. The others in the pub stood on the periphery, watching curiously. “It’s whatever was outside. It’s the demon in the robes and the fiery sword.”

Harry blinked. “You’re speaking gibberish!”

“You reckon?” Jerry contested. “Then why don’t you tell me what can chuck a guy through a pub window like a ragdoll, huh?”

Harry had no answer for that. Jess shoved him hard on the arm. “You’re not helping. You need to help him.”

“Okay,” said Harry, shaking himself into action and raising his voice. “Let’s get him someplace comfortable. I need someone to bring me blankets, bandages, anything like that. Is there a first aid kit here?”

Steph stepped forward and nodded. “There’s one in the back. I’ll go get it.”

Harry smiled, glad to have help. Once Steph rushed off, he turned to the others. “Nigel, help me carry Peter over to the couch by the fire. I need the rest of you to get that window covered up before we all freeze to death.”

There was a mumbling of agreement and everyone got to work. Harry slid his right arm underneath Peter’s shoulders and instructed Nigel to get his legs. He did so without argument.

The two of them shuffled their way across the bar, careful to avoid twisting or jerking the patient in their care. In the corner of his eye Harry was aware that the others in the pub were upending a table and pushing it up against the open window. Damien was also amongst the group and in fact seemed to be the one taking charge.

“Okay, Nigel,” said Harry, coming to a stop besides the sofa, “you lower Peter’s legs and I’ll lower his body. Carefully does it.”

The two of them eased Peter down, one inch at a time, until finally he was resting securely on the sofa. Amidst the glow of the fireplace, the severity of the boy’s wounds became evident. Shards of glass protruded from deep gashes all over his body and poked through his torn clothing like alligator teeth. One of the boy’s eyes had also been mangled beyond repair. It dripped blackish-red gunge. Harry felt his stomach tighten.

Who the hell did this? Who could make such a mess of another human being?

“Peter, everything is going to be fine now.” Jess had arrived and was speaking soothingly to her friend, stroking a hand across his forehead. “You’re safe.”

Peter muttered something in reply but it made no sense, more of a gurgle than discernible speech. Harry continued to examine the boy’s body and was shocked to discover yet more wounds, more cuts, and more blood. Not to mention an ankle that looked like it was attached to the boy’s shinbone back to front, sticking out at a gruesome angle.

Harry placed a hand against Peter’s icy cheek. “Who did this to you?”

Peter opened his remaining good eye and seemed to concentrate for a moment. His eyeball kept flicking left and right as if it had a mind of its own. His mouth formed the words: “Skrzdlaty Diabel.”

Harry frowned. “Peter, can you tell me in English?”

The boy took a wheezing breath. It seemed to take every ounce of strength from him, but he managed to utter another word: “Winged…“

“Winged what?” asked Jess, tears streaking her cheeks.

Peter gazed at her and almost managed a smile, like he had only just realised she was there. “Winged…demon.”

Peter lost consciousness.

Jess went to put her hands on him, perhaps to shake him back awake, but Harry prevented her. “Let him rest.”

Jess leaned up against Harry. He could feel her shaking as she looked up at him. “What do you think he meant?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry honestly. “Probably shock.”

Jess shook her head. “If it wasn’t for all the other things that have happened tonight I may have believed you. There’s something out there, Harry. Something in all that snow that’s evil.”

Harry hated to admit it, but he was inclined to agree with the girl. Something most definitely was wrong tonight, but what?

“Harry?”

Harry spun around to find Steph holding a green plastic box. A first aid kit. He took it and thanked her, but she didn’t hear it, too busy looking down at the bleeding casualty on the sofa. Eventually, her attention turned back to Harry. “He’s a mess.”

“I honestly don’t know what could do this to a man….or why.”

Jess sobbed in the background.

Steph’s expression grew dim, her skin becoming ashen even in the orange glow of the fire. “Are we in trouble here, Harry?”

“I don’t know; but I can tell you one thing: I’ve never wanted to get out of this pub so bad. There’s something out there, Steph, and we’re trapped in here.”

Steph swallowed. “I’ll go check on the others. Just do what you can for him, yeah?”

Harry nodded and turned back to Peter. Jess was perched on the armrest of the sofa, looking sick to her stomach. He wondered how close she was to the boy. Wasn’t Jerry her boyfriend?

Harry knelt down beside Peter. The heat of the fire pinched at the flesh of his back, making it itch, but he put up with it for now. He placed the first aid kit down on the floor and popped open the lid. Inside were the things one would expect to find: gauze, bandages, tape, alcohol wipes, and plasters. He also found an eye dressing which he plucked out of the contents first.

After applying the dressing to Peter’s damaged, oozing eye and securing it around the back of the boy’s head, Harry moved on to the other wounds. He unbuttoned Peter’s work shirt to get a clearer look.

Jess slapped a hand across her mouth.

At first, Harry wasn’t sure what he was seeing. He unclasped the final button on Peter’s shirt and pulled the fabric away. A film of glistening blood covered the boy’s chest and stomach, flowing from deep channels scored into his flesh. As Harry took it all in, he realised that the gashes weren’t just random injuries.

“Somebody has carved words into his chest.”

Jess looked like she was going to throw up. “It’s sick. W-what does it say?”

“Hold on.” Harry pulled a couple of alcohol wipes from the first aid kit and ripped them from their packets. He gently rubbed at Peter’s wounds, clearing away as much of the blood as he could, fighting away fresh tides that sought to replace it. Slowly, the words became clearer.

SEnD…

Out…

ThE…

S…i…N…N…e…R.

“Send out the sinner?” Harry said the words out loud, hoping his brain would come up with some interpretation that made sense.

“What does it mean?” Jess asked.

“I have no idea,” Harry replied. In fact, Harry had no understanding whatsoever about the kind of monster it would take to carve words into someone’s chest. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Maybe we should go get the others.”

Jess agreed.

They dressed as many of Peter’s wounds as they could and left him sleeping on the sofa. The rest of the group were still stacking furniture up against the broken window and pulling the pub’s long curtains around the whole thing, trying to keep out the freezing gusts from outside.

“Good job,” said Harry.

Those at the window turned around. Each of them looked shaken and out of breath, even Damien. Kath was the only one who didn’t appear to be bothered. Harry watched the woman as she sat down on a nearby chair and began to pick at her nails as though she had not a care in the world.

“Harry Boy. How’s the nipper?” asked Lucas.

Harry rubbed at his eyes and let out a sigh. “Not good. Someone’s made a real mess of him, blinded him, and cut words into his chest.”

Damien overheard this and stepped away from the window. “Someone carved words into him? That’s harsh, man. What’s it say?”

Harry shrugged. “Something about sin.”

Steph slid another chair up against the barricade, reinforcing it further. She turned to face Harry. “Sin? I don’t understand. What exactly did it say?”

“God knows,” Harry said. “Just the words of a psychopath.”

Jess spoke up. “It said: send out the sinner.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Damien demanded. “Does someone in here know what’s going on out there?”

Harry pointed his finger at Damien. “Calm down. It probably doesn’t mean anything. We just need to stick together and everything will be fine. No one needs to panic.”

Damien snarled. “I ain’t panicking, I’m pissed off. It’s obvious that this is personal. Whoever’s running around out there like Freddie-Krueger-on-acid has a grudge against someone in here.”

“Nonsense,” said Harry.

“Maybe not,” Lucas chimed in. “You don’t use a human being as a memo-pad and hurl them through a window unless you’re trying to send a wee message. Maybe what’s happening tonight is all down to one person. Wouldn’t that be an interesting twist?”

A silence fell over the group as they scanned one another suspiciously, trying to work out who was the sinner.

Harry wondered if it was him.

16

Nigel Sutcliffe had sat and watched the unfolding situation with quiet interest. Things started out strangely enough that evening, if only for the dire weather conditions, but once the lights had blinked out, things became truly bizarre. What concerned Nigel most was all this talk about a ‘sinner’.

He sat, shivering, on a stool by the bar, listening and watching as the others all argued incessantly about the injured boy with the chest carvings. Who was the sinner, they demanded, and who was outside in the snow? Nigel decided it was a conversation he was better off avoiding. Because he was very much a sinner. Sometimes, he felt as though he’d been born to sin.

But was he the sinner? The one the person outside was looking for?

Maybe he was worrying over nothing. Nigel didn’t care what happened to his immortal soul. All that mattered to him was how much pleasure he could find in life. The skinny bitch he’d fucked and killed in Amsterdam last week had been a particular highlight. God how she’d screamed. He smiled at the thought. But his reminiscing was interrupted by the arrival of Steph at the bar.

She handed him a beer. “It just about defrosted in front of the fire,” she said.

Nigel thanked her. “Just what I needed. Things are a little crazy around here tonight, huh?”

“Tell me about it! I feel like I’m in a horror film. Still haven’t decided on an emotion yet, but I’m stuck somewhere between dazed and terrified.”

Nigel put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. His pinkie ring slid over the fabric of her delicate blouse and stirred something within him. The solid gold ring had a dolphin insignia and was his most prized possession – a memento of his first victim, a twelve-year-old blonde with chubby cheeks like a prepubescent Drew Barrymore. He’d bitten it off her finger as she wailed and squirmed in the back of his lorry. He’d worn the dolphin ring ever since, enjoying the way it rubbed against his penis as he masturbated over his dying victims.

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Nigel reassured Steph. “I think whatever’s going on tonight is personal.”

“Personal? You mean ‘the sinner’?”

“Whoever’s out there causing trouble obviously has it in for one of us; but you know what I think?”

Steph shook her head.

Nigel pulled his hand away from her shoulder, already missing the warm throb of her flesh. He picked up his ice cold beer and took a deep gulp before placing the near empty bottle down on the bar. “I think this is a tiff over drugs. The only people I know sick enough to smash a kid to pieces and lob him through a window are smack-heads and dealers, and we just so happen to have our very own aspiring drug lord right here with us.”

Steph looked across the room at the others then looked back at Nigel. “You think this is all about Damien?”

Nigel shrugged. “He’s the biggest sinner I know. Beat some kid into a coma last year, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Steph admitted. “I heard that too, but whether it’s true or not…”

“Well, it’s certainly within his nature from what I’ve seen tonight. He’s been glaring at Harry all night, and he threw a punch at the Irish fella.”

Steph glanced over at Lucas, who was standing by the fireplace. “What do you make of him?”

“Lucas? It’s strange how he turns up for the first time on a night like this. Maybe he’s the eyes and ears for whoever’s outside. Could be some drug lord looking to come into the area and put Damien out of business. Maybe they’re making their move tonight because they’re hoping the snow will keep the police away.”

“You’re really sure it’s about drugs aren’t you?”

Nigel shrugged. “I don’t know anything for sure. One thing I do know is that if whoever’s out there is looking for a sinner, it’s not me. I’m a decent, God-fearing man.”

Steph laughed. “Good for you, but I don’t believe anyone’s one hundred per cent innocent. No one’s perfect. It’s where people’s hearts are that matters.”

“That’s a lovely way of seeing the world and it’s no doubt why you’re such a lovely woman.”

“Nigel, you’ll make me blush, you charmer.” She gave him a quick hug around the waist. “I’d best go check on the others. There are more beers to hand out.”

Nigel nodded slowly, taking in the scent of her. “Vital work. You’d best get started.”

Steph sauntered away, leaving him to enjoy the sight of her lithe figure fading into the darkness as she left the candle-light of the bar. Nigel felt himself get hard.

Was tonight the night?

Steph was the main reason he kept coming to The Trumpet to drink. From the first time he’d seen her behind the bar, squeezing her tits together as she innocently leant over tables to wipe them clean. Nigel knew he was going to have her right then, and the more he watched her sexy little backside wiggling around the pub, the more he knew he needed to have her soon. He’d been waiting for the right opportunity.

It had finally come.

Tonight was the night. The lights were off, the roads were closed, and a group of psychopaths roamed the snowbanks outside. If Nigel did Steph tonight, he could make it look like somebody else’s doing without any trouble at all. And if the others inside the pub were, for some reason, to find out, he would just have to deal with them too. He could be in his lorry come morning, a hundred miles away. Even snow this heavy couldn’t keep his rig from moving.

Nigel put his hand in his trouser pocket and rubbed at the flick knife pushing against his throbbing erection.

Yes, my little prize, tonight is most definitely the night.

17

“What the hell do we do?”

Harry heard Jess’s voice, but had no answers for her. Peter had remained unconscious since they’d patched him up and his condition only seemed to be getting worse. He needed immediate medical attention, but there was no way to get any. They were stranded inside the pub, with someone outside meaning to do them harm.

“We just need to do the best we can for him, right now.” Harry said. He could see the anguish on Jess’s face, but he was powerless to do anything about it. He wasn’t a doctor and could do nothing about the snow keeping them inside. Still, he felt like he was letting the poor girl down.

“He’ll be okay,” said Jerry, coming over and placing an arm around Jess’s shoulders. “We just need to keep him warm.”

The only place in the pub left with any warmth at all was by the fireplace, and Peter was now taking up most of the space. Harry decided to move over to the bar to join the others.

Steph was busy handing out fresh beers.

“Got one for me?” he asked her.

Steph smiled. “Sure, Harry, here you go.”

“Is anybody else wondering what we’re going to do for warmth now that Peter is taking up the fire?” said Kath. She had shown very little concern for her injured employee.

“Already on it,” said Steph. “Damien and Old Graham are down in the cellar looking for anything we could start a fire with. I’m pretty sure there’s an old steel dustbin we could stab some holes in and use as a furnace.”

Lucas laughed. “This gal is something else, don’t you reckon?”

Harry looked at Steph for a moment and their eyes met. “Yes, Lucas, she most definitely is.”

“You think the kid’s going to snuff it?”

Harry was taken aback by Nigel’s harsh wording. “What?”

“I overheard you talking to the girl. I could tell by your voice that you don’t hold out much hope.”

The negativity irritated Harry, but it was probably only natural considering the situation. “I can’t say – I’m not a doctor – but I know enough to see that the poor lad’s suffered more than anyone should.”

“You ever seen anyone in such a state before?” Lucas asked.

Harry conjured up images from his memory but quickly stopped himself. “No, I haven’t,” he lied. “I’ve never seen injuries like it before, which is why I’m not sure if he’ll last the night.”

“Well, then,” Lucas replied, “perhaps we should be worrying more about who – or what – did this to the lad. There’s someone out there looking to do us all harm, and we’ve got enough on our plates with the weather alone.”

“I agree,” said Steph from the other side of the bar. “I don’t like any of this. I feel like we’re cut off from civilisation. The phones are dead, the electric’s off, and we can’t go outside because some madman is knifing people up. I don’t even want to think about what the rest of the country is like. I’m starting to get really freaked out. This isn’t normal.”

“We don’t know there’s a madman outside,” said Harry. “Perhaps Peter made an enemy and they’ve got what they wanted just by hurting him.”

Nigel posed a question that made Harry’s logic falter. “Why throw him through the window?”

“Yeah,” said Steph. “If they wanted to kill Peter they would have been better off leaving him outside in the snow. Throwing him through the window makes it pretty obvious they were trying to frighten everyone inside the pub.”

Lucas put his beer down on the bar with a clink! “Maybe it was a message for the sinner,” he said.

“More talk about this bloody sinner,” said Nigel, banging down his own beer on the bar. “Why are we buying into this bullshit? If someone is crazy enough to carve words into someone’s chest then I think it’s fair to say they’ve lost a certain amount of marbles – probably all of them.”

“You’re probably right,” Harry admitted. “How would we even know who’s a sinner and who isn’t, anyway?”

“Exactly,” said Nigel, seemingly satisfied.

Steph pushed another recently-thawed beer over to Lucas, who was about to finish his current one. . “Nigel seems to think that it’s all about drugs, and that Damien is the one they want.”

“Well, well, well. Is that right, now?” Damien emerged from the bar’s staff area and moved through the hatchway. Old Graham was with him and seemed to be cringing. Damien did not look happy. “So you think I caused all this, do you?”

Nigel shifted on his stool. “I didn’t say that. I…I was just talking to Steph about who could be out there and…and…”

“…and you thought you’d blame everything on me? Why’s that then? Is it because you think you’re better than me? That I’m just some fucking mug?”

“No, I just thought…”

“You thought shit!” Damien tensed up like a wild animal.

Lucas leapt up from his seat and stood in Damien’s way. “Do I have to tell you again? Calm down for a spell, fella; it’s no good for the blood pressure.”

Damien turned his anger towards Lucas. “What are you talking about, you thick Mick?”

“I had your word that you’d behave,” said Lucas. “The only reason our Nigel is looking to blame people is because he’s afraid.”

“Hey,” Nigel protested. “No, I’m not.”

“We’re all afraid,” Lucas continued. “And when people are afraid they flap their gums. Tisn’t personal; just what people do to try and make sense o’ things. Stops their minds floating away.”

“Yeah,” said Nigel. “I was just talking shit. Figured that, because you’re a tough guy, you’d have some tough enemies.”

“You’d better keep your accusations to yourself from now on,” said Damien, “because kicking your arse would be a nice way to warm up!”

Nigel nodded. “So, we’re good?”

Damien nodded. “Yeah, we’re good for now.”

Harry was glad Damien had been reined in yet again. In fact, he started to wonder whether the thug was really the bloodthirsty psychopath people made him out to be.

“Can we get a beer for Damien?” Harry asked, trying to encourage peace.

Damien shook his head. “Not now. I found that old dustbin in the basement, but I need help dragging it up. It’s an old-fashioned wheelie bin but the wheels have rusted off. We should be able to start a decent fire in it and get some goddamn heat in here.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “That’s great. I’ll come and help you.”

Damien shrugged and walked back through the hatch, disappearing through the narrow door behind the bar. Harry followed him into the rear corridor and then down the stairs into the cellar. At the bottom, Old Graham waited next to a rusty old double-wide dustbin. The rest of the cellar was a mess, with mounds of wood and cardboard rotting away in the corners.

“You going to help or not?” Damien asked, tipping the dustbin onto its edge.

Harry hurried over and grabbed the other side, while Old Graham kicked away the debris that covered the route to the stairs. The pensioner turned out to be quite spry for his age.

“After three,” said Harry. “One…two…three…” He and Damien heaved, heading for the bottom of the stairs with the steel dustbin. The container was empty, yet still substantial in weight and thick with rust. Harry felt his hands chafing under the pressure. “How are we going lift it up the stairs?” he asked as they neared the bottom step.

Damien laughed. “Back giving out on you? We’ll just lift it, step by step. Piece of piss.”

The two of them stopped at the stairway and righted the drum back onto its base, dropping it down with a Wong! “Okay,” said Harry. “You ready?”

“Ready for what? A bit of lifting?”

Harry shook his head, unwilling to get into a pissing contest. He turned to look at Old Graham. “Maybe you could gather up some of this cardboard so we can use it for the fire?”

Old Graham nodded and got to work.

Harry signalled to Damien and the two began to lift. They hoisted the bin onto the first step with little effort, and then again onto the second and third. By the fourth, Harry was starting to lose his breath. “Can we stop a sec,” he said.

Damien grunted. “Maybe if you didn’t drink so much, you’d have more stamina.”

Harry felt his pulse quicken as he fought the urge to lash out, but decided to let his actions argue for him. “Right, come on then! Let’s get this bloody thing up there.” He tried to sound full of vigour, despite the tightness in his chest. “Last thing I want is for your delicate little body to get cold.”

Damien snickered but didn’t rebuke. The two of them continued hoisting the steel dustbin upwards. They scaled the fifth step and then the sixth. The seventh and eight were hard work but they managed to shift the deadweight up using their feet to give it an added shove. With only two more steps left, Harry yearned to release the weight he carried. His shoulders burned with fire and his lungs started to cramp. Damien was right, a year of constant drinking had left Harry in the physical state of a man twice his age. He felt ashamed.

Just two more steps though and it would be done. He could make it.

They hoisted the bin once more. Damien began to slide it up onto the next step, but as he did so, the bottom edge of the dustbin struck against the outer lip of the step. Harry pushed his side up, trying to clear the centimetre needed to get the dustbin up onto the step, but he couldn’t manage it. He strained harder and willed his biceps to contract, but instead his arms lowered against his control. Harry’s grip failed, then gave out completely.

Damien cursed as the weight in his hands suddenly doubled. Harry watched helplessly as the lad tried to keep the dustbin under control by attempting to trap it with his leg. But it was futile. The hunk of steel twisted sideways and fell away from them both.

Harry stumbled forwards onto the step above as the dustbin struck his shin before beginning a spiralling journey down the old stone staircase. All of the hard work getting the dustbin to the top had been wasted, and it was Harry’s fault. But as he watched the rusty steel careen towards the bottom of the stairs, he felt a hundred times worse. Old Graham was bending over, gathering up all the cardboard just like he’d been asked. The old man was oblivious to the danger hurtling towards him.

The dustbin flew through the air.

A moment later, so did Old Graham.

18

Jess couldn’t stop worrying about Peter. She worried too about her mum and dad. They would be fretting. Usually they would stay awake until she return home from a late shift, finishing off a bottle of wine and arguing before finally retiring to bed. Jess hoped they were too drunk tonight to notice that she wasn’t home yet. With a bit of luck they would have had one of their rare nights of fondness and gone to bed early for a bit of nooky. What better way was there to stay warm on a night like this? Jess knew that probably wasn’t the way of things though. Her parents were more likely to throw things at one another than show affection. They hadn’t always been like that.

Jess convinced herself that her parents would be fine. Peter was a much bigger concern than her parent’s marriage problems. She looked down at her sleeping friend, surprised to find that his injuries still had the ability to shock her. Beneath the bandages, Peter’s left eye was caked with foul-smelling custardy puss, but that wasn’t what disturbed her most. It was the deep carvings sliced into the pale flesh of his chest. SEnD Out ThE SiNNeR.

Whatever it meant, it was the work of a sicko. Peter never did anything to anyone. He was a quiet boy, sweet and gentle. Not like the usual, football-obsessed, dickheads that lived in the area, or a thug like Damien. Despite the blood on Peter’s face, Jess could still make out his gentle features, his soft lips. She suddenly wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She wondered if he’d ever thought about kissing her.

Bloody hell, Jess, she thought. Peter’s lying here, dying, and you’re thinking about making out with him. Jeez!

At that moment, Peter opened his good eye. Jess didn’t notice at first, but when he started to moan it startled her. He continued moaning until the strangled noises eventually began to form words. “Jess…ica.”

Jess nodded and smiled, tears gushing down her cheeks. “Yes, yes, it’s me. I was so worried about you, Peter. What on Earth happened to you?”

Peter focused intensely on her for a moment, lips puckering as if preparing for some great speech. She hoped it wasn’t going to be a final one. “Jessica…” he grimaced, “listen…to me.”

She put a hand against his cheek. It throbbed heat like a radiator. “I am, Peter. I’m here.”

“Get away,” he said, “out of here.”

Jess blinked. “What do you mean?”

A hiss of air whistled in Peter’s nostrils as though forcing its way past a blockage. He repeated himself, but more weakly, like he was going to lose consciousness again at any moment. “Get away. They are…coming.”

Peter’s good eye rolled back in his head, disappearing behind his drooping eyelid. Before Jess had time to consider what he’d been trying to tell her, she was alerted by a crash. Followed by cries of pain and screams of agony.

What the hell’s happening now? I don’t think I can take any more.

Making her way over to the bar area, Jess saw commotion taking place. Lucas, Steph, and Nigel were standing around, looking concerned.

“What’s going on?” she asked Lucas.

“Dunno, lass. The menfolk went downstairs to get us something to build a fire. Next thing I know there’s a load of caterwauling.” He moved into the doorway behind the bar and faded into the shadows. Before disappearing completely, he turned back. “Well, you coming or not, lass?”

Jess stood for a moment, then nodded. She followed after Lucas and they headed into an unlit corridor at the back of the bar. The sound of someone in pain became clearer, and so did the noise of people bickering.

Lucas sparked his lighter and gave them light. “I think they’re down there,” he said, referring to an open doorway on their left. It led to a narrow staircase, leading down. A breeze floated upwards from the cellar beneath. It tickled Jess’s cheeks and the inside of her nostrils.

Lucas placed his hands either side of his mouth and shouted down the staircase. “You fellas okay down there? We heard yelling.”

“We need help.” The voice was Harry’s. “Graham is hurt. I screwed up. I screwed up rea-”

“Just bring some blankets and whatever is left of the first aid kit.” The new voice was Damien’s and it cut Harry off mid-sentence. “Graham’s hurt, but he’s gunna be alright. No need for anybody to get their knickers in a twist.”

Jess couldn’t help but feel faint. Peter was at death’s door and now Old Graham was injured too.

Two down… How many more to go?

* * *

Kath almost felt bad.

Almost.

It’d been Peter’s decision to run off and look for Jess. Nobody made him do it. Ironically, it was Kath who eventually ended up finding Jess, and that had proven even more how idiotic Peter had been for not listening to her. Still, she couldn’t help but ruminate over what had happened to the boy. Someone had messed him up real nice.

Probably crossed the wrong people, Kath assumed. Polish Mafia or something. At least she hoped so. The alternative was that there really was a psychopath out there in the snow?

Not that being trapped inside The Trumpet with her current companions was any better. There was Lucas, prancing around like a drunken parody; Nigel, an ugly man who lacked any discernible personality; Steph, a low-class tramp; and that insufferable girl, Jess. Of all the people Kath could be trapped with, Jess would have been last on her list. Her little buddy from the video shop was no less irritating, backing up her absurd stories just so he could get into her filthy knickers. And that thug, Damien, was a walking billboard for dysfunctional youth if ever she saw one. To complete the agony, was Old Graham, a pensioner stinking of piss and beer, and Harry, a hopeless case from what she could ascertain. It was obvious Harry was a drunk because of the weathered look on his face. It was the same look her father used to have. Alcoholism was a slow, draining sickness which killed a man one drink at a time while making him neglect everything that was important. But no matter what anybody said, it was not a disease, it was a choice. A selfish, weak, and pitiful choice. Nobody ever forced a bottle to an alcoholic’s lips.

Maybe if Kath’s father hadn’t been such a deadbeat she would have finished her History degree and actually done something with her life. Instead she’d ended up supporting him all the time until she hit twenty-eight. The day she found the old drunk lying on the living room floor, rapidly fading from a severe heart attack, had been a godsend. The vision of him pleading with her to call for help, while she stood there shaking her head at him and watching him die, was a significant turning point in her life. It was the day she decided she would no longer let anyone take advantage of her. She would look out only for herself. Everybody else could go right to Hell.

All around Kath, the degenerates inside the pub with her scuttled like ants, clutching blankets and bottles of water to their chests while taking them from one place to the next.

Something was going on, but Kath didn’t really care. She was only with these people for safety, and the last thing she wanted to do was get involved. She would remain by the bar, warming her hands over the candle flames and waiting for the power to return.

Slowly, everyone filtered behind the bar and left the pub empty. Kath suddenly found herself alone in the flickering shadows. She cleared her throat. “Well,” she said out loud. “I’d best go see what those idiots have gotten themselves into.”

Kath stood up and headed for the darkness of the corridor behind the bar.

19

“I’m so sorry, Graham.” Harry looked down at the old man’s twisted leg and felt the urge to punch himself in the face. How could he be so stupid, getting caught in a testosterone contest with a kid fifteen years his junior? He was pathetic and for the first time was finally realising it. He put his hand on Old Graham’s shallow chest and could feel the man’s ribs through tissue-paper skin. The scar below Harry’s knuckles reminded him that he had a habit of hurting people.

“Harry,” Old Graham whispered, not to be quiet but because he was obviously winded by his ordeal. “Harry, don’t worry. I’m okay, it’s just me leg. Get it fixed up in the morning, good as new.”

Harry didn’t want to lie to the man. “I don’t think tomorrow’s going to be any better. I’m not sure if we can get you help soon enough.”

Old Graham snorted. “Then just put me in a bathtub full of whiskey. By the time I drink meself dry, the snow will have gone and the ambulances will be back on the road.”

Harry smiled. “I’m really so-“

“If you say you’re sorry one more time, son, I’ll break my other leg just to shut you up.”

For reasons he couldn’t quite understand Harry felt like crying. All the times he had labelled Old Graham a nuisance, and he’d never taken the time to see what a kind forgiving old soul he was. Harry had stopped taking the time to know anyone after the crash that had taken his family. He realised how selfish that had been.

“Can I do anything for you?” Harry asked Old Graham.

“No, just get me a beer, and a snog off Steph, and we’ll call it quits.

Harry laughed. “I’ll do my best, but I’m thinking I’ll only be able to manage one of those.”

Old Graham opened his eyes wide like a startled rabbit. “What? You mean we’re out of beer!”

Harry stood up, wanting to laugh his ass off, but somehow finding it impossible. Laughter was a luxury he was all out of.

In the hallway above, a sphere of light began an ethereal descent down the shadowy staircase. By the time it got down to the last few steps, the source of the glow revealed itself. Steph was carrying a tray full of candles. She set them down on the floor.

“Hey,” said Harry, quietly taking her to one side. “I think he’s going to be okay for now. Tough as old boots, that one.”

Steph smiled. “Old Graham? Yeah, I could have told you that. Took a bullet in the Falklands. Didn’t even realise till he was back at base half a day later.”

Harry frowned. “He tell you that?”

“Yeah,” said Steph, keeping her voice down. “It’s one of his stories I like to believe; makes me think of him as a hero.”

Harry thought for a moment then nodded. “Yeah, I think it’s one I’d like to believe too.”

Steph stroked a hand against Harry’s shoulder and rubbed all the way from his elbow to his neck. The feeling made his stomach flutter and filled him with a mixture of excitement and remorse.

“How you holding up?” she asked him.

He didn’t know what to say. After a while, he said, “I really don’t know. With all that’s happened tonight, I’m starting to wonder if I’m losing my mind.”

“Me too. I feel like we’re the only people left in the world and we can’t go outside because we’ll either freeze to death or get eaten by monsters. Something isn’t right, but I keep telling myself that everything will be okay. I hope I’m not just being naïve.”

Harry reached out and gave her hand a squeeze. “We have to keep reminding ourselves that this is reality, not one of Jerry’s horror movies. Whatever is going on is really strange, maybe even dangerous, but as long as we stick together, we’ll come out the other end of this and find out what the hell has been going on all night.”

“I hope so, because this is starting to feel too much like a nightmare.”

“My whole life is a nightmare,” said Harry. “I’m getting pretty sick of it.”

“When this is all over, I’m gunna take a holiday.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Me too. Maybe I’ll go skiing.”

Steph stared at him for a moment looking confused, but then broke out in hysterical laughter. After a moment, Harry was surprised to find that he was joining her. Maybe laughter wasn’t a luxury he was completely out of just yet.

Or maybe Steph is just a master of getting blood out of a stone.

Or feelings from a torn heart.

“Oh Harry,” Steph patted him on the shoulder. “You do make me laugh! I’m really going to have to get to know you better when this is all over, but trust me it won’t be while we’re skiing. Give me sand and sun, so that I never have to see another flake of snow again.”

“Okay, deal. Anyway, do we have a plan on what to do next?”

Steph nodded. “Damien said the dustbin was just too heavy to get up the stairs, so we’ll have to come down here and start a fire. He said a small windowless room like this would be easier to heat anyway. We just need to leave the door at the top of the stairs open so we can breathe. He’s not as stupid as he looks, you know?”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that,” agreed Harry, wondering why Damien hadn’t condemned him for dropping the dustbin from the top of the stairs. The lad knew it had been Harry’s fault, yet for some reason, he was making out as if it had been an impossible task to begin with. Tonight had muddled Harry’s entire opinion of the Damien. He wasn’t ready to trust the lad, but he was at least starting to consider it.

“Everyone’s upstairs,” said Steph, “gathering stuff to burn. We’re going to leave Peter in front of the fire. Jess said she’d stay with him, but there’s not enough room for anybody else.”

Harry nodded. “We’ll have to keep an eye on them both. It may not be safe for her to be alone. I’ll go see if she needs anything and then go help the others.”

“Okay, Harry. I’ll get Old Graham nice and comfy, then get this place lit up. See you in a bit. Mind yourself in the dark.”

Harry moved aside to let Steph past with her candles and then he started to climb the stairs. He was taken back to earlier when he’d tried to climb up with the dustbin. He had a lot of making up to do to Old Graham, that was for sure, but at least Damien had turned the disaster into a sustainable plan B. It would be warmer in the cellar once they got the fire going and Harry started to feel far more hopeful about their situation.

The corridor at the top of the stairs was pitch-black, but Harry could make out a dim, flickering light coming from the bar’s candles at the far end of the hallway. He felt his way towards them and found Lucas standing at the bar. The Irishman was busy gathering beers and a large bottle of Famous Grouse whisky into an empty crisp carton.

“Getting essentials, I see?” said Harry as he re-entered the bar.

Lucas held up an uncapped beer and swigged from it, letting out a lip-smacking sigh at the end. “Don’t ya know it! I asked the old fella what he needed and all he said was beer and plenty of it. Can’t deny an injured war hero now, can I? What kind of man would that make me?”

“Never thought of it like that.” Harry fired off a mock salute. “Keep up the good work, private.”

Lucas returned the salute. “Will do, Major Jobson, sir!”

Harry continued on from the bar and over to Jess at the fireplace. She flinched, as though he’d startled her. It wasn’t surprising, really; sounded as if the poor girl had been through it worse than anyone else tonight. Other than Peter of course.

“You okay?” Harry asked her.

“Fine.” She stroked Peter’s forehead with a damp cloth she’d no doubt warmed in front of the fire. “I can’t leave him here alone, and I don’t think it would be right to move him either. Jerry has gone to find us some snacks. He’ll be back soon to keep me company. Anyway, I have this if I get into any real trouble.” Jess reached down beside the sofa and came up with a great shiny piece of metal.

Harry nodded. “The last call bell. Good idea. Not a single man whose ears won’t prick up at that sound. Just ring if you need help, okay?”

Jess seemed proud for a moment, but her sombre expression soon returned when she went back to nursing Peter. When she spoke again, she did so without looking Harry in the eye. “How’s Graham doing? I heard his leg’s pretty painful.”

Painful wasn’t a good enough word to describe the result of Harry’s stupidity. “Luckily, there’s no bleeding,” he said. “I think it’s broken, but he’s okay for now. Chipper as ever, long as he has us bringing him beer all night.”

“He seems like a nice old man. I hope he’s okay.”

Harry nodded. “Me too.”

He thought Jess was going to speak again, but instead of replying he caught her looking over his shoulder. Her eyes grew wide as if something concerned her.

Why is she staring like that? Harry wondered. Is something behind me?

Harry spun to find Damien standing close behind him. As usual the lad’s face was a syrupy mixture of frowns and scowls, but there seemed to be something else in his expression too.

“Come with me,” Damien said simply, before walking off in the opposite direction and leaving Harry wondering what to do.

Should Harry follow? Or should he grab a weapon and prepare to fight? It was hard to tell when it came to Damien. After the last few hours, Harry decided the lad had earned the benefit of the doubt, so he followed.

Damien had headed over to the pub’s rear corridor, which led to the male and female toilets, the rear fire door, and the seldom-used dance floor at the back of the pub.

“Take a look,” Damien said to Harry as he caught up. He was pointing at the exit door. “Look through the window at the top.”

For a second Harry had visions of doing as he was told and having his head rammed through the glass. Wasn’t that the kind of thing gangsters do? Made you dig your own grave? Harry sighed. If something was going to happen, it was going to happen. He stepped toward the door.

“Look through,” Damien ordered again.

Harry moved up against the door and put his face against the glass. There was no prompting necessary on where to look or what to focus on. It was clear for him to see.

“We have big problems,” Damien said.

Damn right they did!

Outside, towers of flame seemed to rise from the snow in all directions – ten, maybe even twenty feet high. The fire formed a wall around the pub like a fiery prison.

But was it intended to keep them all in? Or to drive them out?

What terrified Harry most, however, was the three giant crucifixes standing in the centre of the inferno. Each of them possessed a struggling victim being roasted alive by the flames. Their screams held no sound, but Harry could feel their agony as their flesh blackened and peeled from their bones, leaving behind charred husks of flesh.

“This nightmare just got worse,” said Harry. “I think I’d like to wake up now.”

20

Damien had gone while Harry had been staring out the window.

Was the horror show outside not interesting enough for him?

Harry took another glance outside, blinking so that he knew what he was seeing was real. The fires still burned high, whipping back and forth in the growing blizzard while sizzling snowflakes filled the air like locusts. It was bizarre and unsettling to see both flames and snow mingle together in the same space; like two separate nightmares merging into one.

Harry started to feel like he was in a Salvador Dali painting, with the world melting away around him. He needed to make sense of the situation, but should he tell the others? He wasn’t sure, but was astounded by the fact that he wanted Damien’s advice about the matter. He couldn’t deny that the lad was calm under pressure.

But where had he gone? And why?

Harry glanced out the window one last time before moving away. It seemed like a bad idea to take his eyes off the flames outside, but he couldn’t stay there all night. It was freezing next to the fire exit, and an aggressive draught snuck under the door and rattled the wood on its hinges.

Back in the main pub area, the others members of the group were travelling back and forth, seeking out fuel for the furnace. Nigel was busy tearing cushions from the chairs and snapping the legs into kindling. Kath was gathering up beer mats half-heartedly.

“Hey, Kath,” he said to her. “Maybe we can find something bigger to burn? I don’t think those will last very long.”

The woman shot Harry a look that made him feel like she wanted him to die. Harry shivered, but a second later it was as if the look hadn’t happened, as Kath was now smiling at him politely.

“I guess you’re right,” she admitted. “I’ll go search for something else.” She threw down the pile of beer mats and they hit the table with a slap! Then she walked off towards the bar like a stroppy teenager.

Kath was an odd lady.

There was still no sign of Damien. Harry tried to figure out where he’d gone, and why so suddenly? And why had he chosen only Harry to lead into the exit corridor? It didn’t seem that anybody else knew about the flames outside yet. With the windows barricaded and the pub up on a hill, it was impossible to see anything outside other than darkness. So the question remained: did Harry tell the others what Damien had shown him.

Harry made the decision. He clapped his hands together. “Everybody listen!”

Lucas and Nigel turned their attention to Harry. Kath reappeared from behind the bar. At the far end of the room, Jess stood up from the sofa, leaving Peter asleep under the watchful eye of Jerry. Harry moved into a spot where they all could see and hear him. He clasped his hands together and tried to find the right words. “I think there’s something that we all need to be aware of.”

“And what would that be, Harry Boy?” asked Lucas, lifting himself up onto a bar stool. “Please tell.”

“It’s not easy to explain, but I think we can all agree that tonight is a strange night.”

“No argument there,” Nigel said. “I’m starting to get a bad feeling.”

Harry pushed himself to continue, his were palms sweating. “I think we can agree that there are dangers tonight, more than just the cold.”

“You mean what happened to that stupid boy, Peter?” said Kath. “I’m sure whatever trouble he has gotten himself into was something he deserved. That doesn’t mean that we’re in any danger.”

“You bitch!”

Harry turned to see Jess storming toward Kath from the other end of the pub. Jerry seemed unsure whether or not he should be following after her or remaining where he was.

Lucas moved away from the bar to intercept Jess in the middle of the room. “Calm down there, lass.”

“I swear to God, Kath!” Jess bunched her hands into fists. “If you say one more thing about Peter – and I mean, one more thing – I’m going to scratch your goddamn eyes out. This happened because of you, because you allowed him to wonder off alone.”

Kath snorted. “I’m not his babysitter. He’s a grown man, and if he can’t look after himself then he should have stayed in Poland. God knows we don’t need his kind here.”

“You…you racist!”

“Call me whatever you like, dear. I’m only saying what most of the country thinks. Peter was probably a petty criminal like the rest of them. Tonight he got his comeuppance.”

To everyone’s surprise, Jess’s small frame managed to escape Lucas’s grasp. She leapt towards a nearby table, snatching at the nearest thing she could find, which happened to be an empty pint glass. Harry watched in horror as Jess flung the glass through the air, pitching it with all the aggression of a baseball player.

It hit Kath’s forehead with an almighty thonk!

Immediately, the woman hit the floor, clutching at her face and screaming. A second later she was back on her feet and furious, like a champion boxer rising after a fluky haymaker. She was not happy. Her bloodstained forehead was testament to it.

“I’ll kill you!” Kath growled, as a line of blood trickled down the side of her nose.

“Nobody is going to kill anybody!” Everybody turned to see Steph storming out from behind the bar. Damien was with her. “What the hell is going on? Why is Kath covered in blood?”

“The little bitch threw a glass at me. She’s insane.”

Steph turned to Jess with such ferocity that the young girl flinched and took a step back. “Is that true? Are you causing trouble in my pub?”

Jess nodded and took another step back.

Steph pointed a finger. “Go look after Peter – NOW! – and if I see you move for the rest of the night, I’ll throw you out in the snow myself.”

Jess moved so quickly it was almost a sprint.

Then Steph turned to Kath. “There’s a little kitchenette with a sink in the back. Take a candle from the bar and clean yourself up.”

Kath still bristled with fury, but she was beginning to simmer down. Slowly. “That girl should be locked in a padded cell.”

Steph sighed. “Well, for now we don’t have that luxury, so the best I can do is keep you two separated. Jess will be staying up here with Peter, so you come downstairs with the rest of us. Now, go get that blood cleaned up before it freezes on your face.”

Kath nodded unhappily and left the room, while Lucas and Nigel went back to their tasks. Steph and Damien approached Harry.

“What happened?” Steph demanded. Her breath fogged in front of her.

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I was trying to get everyone together so I could tell them something and it all kicked off. Those two really don’t like each other!”

Steph shook her head wearily. “Tell me about it. I’d call the police if I could. There’s no excuse for that kind of violence.”

“It wasn’t just Jess’s fault,” Harry told her. “Kath doesn’t seem to have much respect for anyone else.”

“I don’t doubt it. But violence is violence, and on a night like this things are tense enough.”

“Speaking of tension,” said Harry. “There was something I was trying to tell everyone before it all went Pete Tong. Come with me.”

Steph followed. Damien too.

The three of them made it over to the exit door in the rear corridor. Harry pointed to the fire exit. “Look through the window, but try to stay calm.”

“What do you mean?” Steph said. “You’re worrying me.”

“Just look, and then we’ll talk.”

Anxiety etched itself across Steph’s face, but she obliged nonetheless, moving up against the door and peering through the glass for several seconds. “Jesus Christ,” she said finally.

“You see! You see what we’re up against?”

Steph turned back around to face Harry. “Of course I do. The snow out there is getting insane. We need to get that fire going right now or we’re all going to freeze. I don’t like this at all. This is bad.”

Harry didn’t understand. He pushed Steph to one side and peered through the glass again for himself.

The fire was gone. In fact it was as though it’d never even been there. The snow was deeper than before and there were no shallow areas where the heat of the flames would have caused it to melt. Everywhere Harry looked was cold, bleak, empty, and white.

But there was no fire. No fire at all. Nor were there three crucifixes or burning bodies.

“There were flames!” Harry mumbled. “Flames everywhere.”

Steph looked confused.

Harry looked at Damien, who was stood silently with his arms folded. “Tell her. Tell her what we saw.”

Damien shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

Harry blinked, then shook his head in disbelief. “What am I talking about? You saw it! In fact it was you that showed me!”

“Think there’s a stripe missing off your Adidas, mate. I dunno what shit you’re chatting.”

“No, no, no. You saw the flames too! Why are you doing this, Damien?”

Damien didn’t answer. He just walked away, leaving Harry alone with a confused-looking Steph

“I swear it!” Harry told Steph adamantly. “Damien’s playing games. I don’t know why, but he is.”

Out of the blue, Steph hugged Harry and whispered in his ear. “If you say there was a fire outside then I believe you, okay? Just don’t get yourself worked up, because I need you tonight. I would have gone insane if you weren’t here helping me.”

Harry eased her back and looked at her. “Y-You really believe me?”

Steph nodded. “Yes! Now go make yourself useful. Old Graham was asking for you, so go see him. I’ll get all the toilet paper and hand towels. We’re going to have to get that fire going soon.”

Harry nodded and Steph left him in the cold corridor, wondering why Damien had not backed him up. Just when I thought we were finally getting along, he makes me look like a lunatic, right in front of Steph. Stupid, Harry. Real stupid! You should never trust a snake.

But Damien wasn’t worth the time right now, not when Steph had made it clear she needed Harry’s support. She was playing nursemaid, host, and leader, all at the same time. She was putting everyone else first, while all they did was bicker. Harry wanted to take some of the strain off of her, and he would, but first he was being summoned to attend to other business. Old Graham wanted to speak to him and Harry wasn’t about to keep the old guy waiting. He owed him too much already.

Before Harry left the corridor, something caught his eye. At the far end of the rear corridor was a light, coming from the pub’s unused dance floor.

Was somebody in the back room?

Harry stepped forward cautiously. It was probably just one of the others, looking for something to burn, the light coming from their candles.

“Hey, who’s there?” Harry asked.

No reply. The light seemed to get brighter, pulsing rapidly.

Harry continued down the corridor, creeping anxiously as he awaited a response. When none came, he called out again. “I said who’s there?”

Still no response. Harry was left with the decision whether or not to investigate. Tonight was a night where strange things were happening and wandering off alone was a bad idea. Nevertheless, his feet carried him forward.

Harry had to shield his eyes with his forearm as he took the final few steps towards the backroom. The pulsing light was blinding.

Inside it felt like a sauna, humid and hot. After hours of freezing, the aura of warmth was heavenly, but it was unnatural as well. There was no rational explanation for the backroom of The Trumpet to feel like the Brazilian rainforest, especially when it was snowing outside.

Rather than retreat, Harry stepped out onto the stiff wood of the dance floor. It creaked beneath his weight. From the end of the room, the bright light continued pulsing. It was coming from behind the elevated DJ booth erected against the far wall, but as Harry got closer the light began to weaken. He hopped up the three steps at the edge of the dance floor and hurried towards the booth. The light continued to fade. Harry had the feeling that if he didn’t get a look inside the DJ booth quickly, he would miss something important. Harry unlatched the door and rushed inside.

His heart skipped a beat.

It was the most wonderful and the most painful thing Harry could ever have hoped to see. He choked back a sob. “Toby?”

Cowering before him, engulfed by a rapidly fading glow, was Harry’s son. Toby hadn’t aged at all since the crash. He peered up at Harry with the same deep, soulful eyes he had always had.

“Daddy.” Toby’s voice was an echo, seeming to come from the walls themselves. “Daddy, I’m scared.”

It was impossible, an evil trick. Yet, somehow, Harry found himself speaking only affectionately. “It’s okay, Toby. Daddy’s here.”

The light around Toby died, returning the room to near darkness. He looked just like a normal six year old boy now. “You promise you’ll keep me safe, daddy?”

“Yes, son. I’ll keep you safe.” Harry reached down to Toby, but the boy shuffled backwards out of his grasp.

“No, you won’t,” Toby said spitefully. “You can’t keep anyone safe. My daddy was strong. He taught me to ride a bike and would buy me chicken nuggets whenever I wanted. You’re not him! You’re weak. Weak and pathetic!” The words hissed and crackled from Toby’s mouth, not at all like the voice of a child.

Tears fell from Harry’s eyes. I am weak, he thought to himself. I failed you, Toby. I let you get hurt, and all I’ve done since is feel sorry for myself. But you’re not my son.

The apparition of Toby was so accurate that it sent a chill through Harry’s bones. But it wasn’t perfect. Harry could see the lack of humanity in its malignant eyes.

“I have to go now, Toby,” Harry said, backing away slowly. “I think you should go back to wherever you came from.”

The malice in the creature’s eyes gave away its age. There was something ancient and inhuman bubbling away beneath the surface as it cackled at Harry. The piercing sound filled the room.

“Running away is all you’re good for, maggot. You watched your family die and have been running away ever since. You are pathetic, wasting the life that He gave you. Death will embrace you soon. Leave this place Harry Jobson and be done with it. Your time is over. Reckoning is here.”

Harry didn’t understand, but he knew he had to get away. By taking Toby’s form, the creature had specifically targeted Harry, plucking at his grief like strings on a guitar.

Harry didn’t take his eyes away from the DJ’s booth as he sidled backwards along the dance floor, but it didn’t stop him noticing the light source growing behind him.

Harry spun around.

His heart stopped all over again.

Thomas Morris stood by the exit to the pub’s backroom. The man who had taken everything from Harry was here, and smiling at him like an old friend.

“Long time no see, Harry,” the apparition hissed. “You’re looking…older.”

Harry said nothing.

“You really gunna ignore me? With the history you and me have? Thought you’d have more to say.”

Harry’s fists clenched. “I have nothing to say to you!”

The apparition of Thomas Morris laughed again. “You never were much of a talker. You prefer to let actions speak for you, right?”

Whatever this thing was, it was not Thomas, and it could do Harry no harm. If it could, then why hadn’t it done so already? Harry stepped around the image of his old enemy and headed for the door.

Harry was thrown backwards and hit the floor hard.

Thomas immediately loomed over Harry. His inhuman eyes were filled with the same malignance that Toby’s had been. “You will pay for your actionsss,” it hissed at Harry. “Everyone will pay. It is time for…retribution.”

Harry cowered on the dance floor. The apparition had hit him; but how? Harry decided not to hang around to find out. He leapt to his feet and rushed for the door.

The apparition shouted after him, words both wicked and baleful. “You will die tonight, Harry Jobson. Death’s cold embrace awaits you. Go outside and face your end. Do not delay what is already certain.”

“Fuck you!” Harry shouted back. He reached the door to the pub’s corridor and glanced back one last brief second. It slowed him down, but he couldn’t help it.

Thomas Morris was nowhere to be seen.

Harry realised he was shaking. He took a series of deep breaths but still couldn’t relax. He needed to get out of that room right now, return to the others and tell them what he’d seen. Not that they would believe him.

He would just have to try to make them believe him. After what he had seen in the last hour, Harry knew that they were in great danger – from a source he could not make sense of.

Harry was about to leave, when the back room presented him with another gift. This time his heart kept its rhythm. Perhaps he was becoming used to seeing the impossible. Lying on the floor was his wife, Julie. Her body and face were battered and bruised, bones splintered and askew. Just like what she had looked like after the car crash that had killed her.

Harry gazed down at the twisted forgery of his wife and allowed his heart to scream for a moment. The final image of his wife’s dying form had always stayed with him, but never had he confronted it face-to-face. Not since the night it happened.

Julie tilted her head towards him, broken bones scraping and grating against each other as she moved. “Harry…” She spoke in a condemning whisper. “Why did this happen to me? Why are you not with me?”

Harry ground his teeth. This wasn’t his wife. This wasn’t Julie. Whatever it was, it was defiling the memories of dead people. He owed it no explanations.

“You’re dead, Julie,” Harry said, stepping over the twisted body and heading into the corridor. “And I’m not afraid of joining you.”

21

Damien wasn’t sure why he had lied. Harry had made himself look a right muppet in front of Steph, but the fact was he was telling the truth. There had been flames outside, but they’d suddenly disappeared. Damien could have backed Harry up, but had instead decided to leave him hanging.

Did the thought of Steph and Harry possible copping off together irritate Damien so much? He didn’t think he was so petty. Steph wasn’t like the usual girls Damien fucked. She was strong, with a mind of her own, and took control in the same way he did. He respected that.

But it was more than simple jealousy. Damien had gained a degree of pleasure from Harry’s frustration. Over the last few hours, Harry had shown himself to be an alright bloke. He may have been a deadbeat, but the geezer’s heart was in the right place. Maybe what pissed Damien off was the way Harry constantly played the part of the wounded soldier, always making people want to come up to him and ask if everything was okay. Oh, poor Harry, so full of pain and anguish, yet he still keeps going. What a guy!

Damien scowled. Harry had no right to make out like his problems were worse than anyone else’s.

He did lose his son though...

Damien shook his head and stood up from the cushion-less bench. He was beginning to lose sight of things. Tomorrow would be a new day and he would go back to not knowing any of these people.

Jess and Jerry were sitting nearby, with the dying polish kid who’d come through the window. Damien had chosen to stay near to the three of them just in case they needed help. He’d been impressed by the way Jess had glassed the old bird. Took balls.

As he stretched his legs, Damien continued to brood about Harry. Damien had things tough, too, but no one cared about his problems. No one ever gave a damn that his old man used to beat him black and blue growing up for no other reason that he felt like it. Trying to toughen you up, boy! Teach you to be a man. No one cared when the locally-feared, notorious gangster, ‘Big Jan’, had made Damien deal drugs at ten years old. No one will suspect a kid, his old man used to say, so get yourself on that corner and don’t come home till you’ve sold it all. And no one cared when Damien’s old man, ‘Big Jan’, had tried to pin an assault charge on him just to boost his street cred. People need to fear you like they fear me, Damien. Time to get a name for yourself.

The rage that ever flowed through Damien’s veins began to heat up. When his old man had gone down last year, he’d felt free for the first time ever. But it hadn’t lasted. Damien had been ordered to take over operations and report to his father in the nick via regular phone calls. Keep the money safe for me, Dame, for when I get out. Make me proud, son.

Yeah, I’ll make you real proud, dad! I’ll live up to the name of ‘Big Jan’.

Except Damien had never felt so small than when he was trying to be big like his father. For him, violence was an act, a well-rehearsed skill. There was no joy in punching a rival’s face, only emptiness. To his father it came easily. Like when he kicked the shit out of a local street dealer until he was a whimpering, bleeding mess on the ground. A kid no older than Damien.

Gazz Brown had been tough. He’d managed to knock Damien spark-out at a party and taken his stash of e. Damien’s father had not been happy – the supply had been his. Not happy at all. In a drunken rage, Big Jan – along with a group of ‘the boys’ – had taken Damien to go find Gazz. They’d found him round the back of the local supermarket, selling the e to the warehouse workers. Big Jan saw red – had gone red in fact. Like a wild bull, he had torn into the youth, cracking bones and shattering teeth, stamping and kicking long after the boy’s beaten body lay unconscious on the ground. It took almost ten minutes before the boys dragged him away, but by that time someone had called the Police. Somebody had to go down for it.

But not Big Jan.

Gazz ended up in a coma and Damien fessed to the crime. He’d gone to juvi for a stint, while ironically the fuzz got his old man twelve months later for Class A dealing. Big Jan went to Hewell Prison for 15 years just as Damien was getting out of kid’s knick. Upon his return, Damien had become feared on the local estate, viewed as a vicious, animalistic thug who had gone down for beating someone into a coma. His old man would have been proud.

But tonight was supposed to be the night when Damien did something to make himself proud. He was going to disobey Big Jan for the first time and do the right thing. Instead, he’d found himself trapped inside a rotten pub with a bunch of losers.

Losers like Harry, who only care about their next drink.

Finally it clicked. The reason Damien hated Harry so much was because the man cared more about getting wasted than anything else. Damien’s father had been no different, except it had been drugs instead of booze. Every time Damien looked at Harry, downing pint after pint, night in night out, he thought about how much he hated his father.

But Damien realised he had got Harry all wrong. Harry had been a good man and a good father, a bloke who cared so much about his family that, when they’d died, he’d just given up on life. Harry’s family had been his entire world – the exact opposite to Big Jan – and when they had died, part of him went with them. Damien finally understood Harry’s endless drinking.

And he could forgive it.

“I should apologise,” Damien told himself, “but first I gotta go take a piss.”

* * *

This is it! Nigel’s body teemed with excitement. Harry and Lucas were nowhere to be seen, probably in the cellar with the cripple. The grumpy shrew, Kath, had disappeared somewhere to clean the gore off her ugly face and Damien was at the other end of the pub with Jerry and the young girl, Jess. If he played his cards right, Jess would be dessert.

But first he had Steph to gorge himself on.

I’m finally going to fuck her.

Nigel had watched with delight as everyone departed, except Steph who had gone toward the toilets alone. This was his chance. He would follow her in, knock her out cold, have his way with her, and then slit her throat with his trusty pen knife – sharpened to perfection. By the time he dumped her body outside in the snow, no one would be any the wiser. Nigel would plead ignorance of Steph’s whereabouts and, while everyone would fret and worry, that would be the sum of it. What else could they do but impotently panic? Only Nigel would know the truth.

First thing in the morning, he’d hop in his lorry and get the hell out of there as fast as the snow would flatten before his tyres. He would spend a few months in France maybe, enjoy some of the pussy on the South Coast. It was the easiest thing in the world. Raping and killing unsuspecting women had become as second nature to Nigel as taking a leak. Just another need to be taken care of. An itch to scratch.

Nigel eased open the door to the men’s toilets, where he’d seen Steph enter. The door creaked ever so slightly, but the sounds coming from inside, of Steph gathering up supplies, drowned out any noise he made.

The toilets smelt of stale piss and the room was lit by a single candle Steph had placed on the middle of three sinks. She was at the far end of the small space with her back to the door, gathering up bundles of handtowels from a storage cupboard.

Perfect! She won’t even see it coming.

With well-practiced grace, that belied his lumbering appearance, Nigel struck his blow. He clocked Steph from behind, hooking his fist into the side of her jaw and knocking her cold. The clunky Dolphin ring on his pinkie finger gave the blow a little extra impact. Steph’s body flopped sideways, collapsing into one of the toilet cubicles. Her head hit the ceramic bowl inside with a resounding thump!

“Good, girl,” Nigel grinned, “helping Daddy like that. You’ve found us a room and got yourself ready.”

He knelt over Steph and fumbled at her clothing, squeezing her breasts through the material. He could barely see in the dark, but that only made it more exciting. He’d fantasied about this moment for so long that every touch of her flesh was enough to send small beads of ejaculate spurting from his swollen cock.

He rolled Steph onto her back and slid his eager, trembling fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans. Despite the perishing cold, the flesh of Steph’s belly and groin was surprisingly hot.

Steph murmured incoherently.

“That’s it, you little slut, cry out for your Daddy. He won’t help you.”

Nigel fumbled excitedly at the buttons on Steph’s jeans. He ground his teeth in frustration when they refused to pop easily. Taking a deep breath, he steadied his excited hands and concentrated. The buttons came loose one at a time.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

“That’s it, darling, let’s get you out of these clothes.”

Just as Nigel was about to start tugging down Steph’s jeans, he was alerted by a presence close behind him. He spun around.

Then bit his tongue as something struck his jaw.

“What the fuck is going on here?” a voice demanded.

What the fuck indeed, thought Nigel as he unwillingly went to sleep on the piss-soaked floor.

22

Harry had been on his way to the toilet when he heard the ruckus.

After seeing the apparitions in the dance hall, Harry had hurried downstairs to the cellar to regroup. The vision of Thomas Morris had reached out and struck Harry, but he was almost certain that was the extent of the physical threat. If it could have done any real harm then surely it would have done so. Harry had no clue what was going on, but there was no need to panic the others with what had happened just yet, at least until he could figure out what to tell them.

It turned out that Old Graham wanted to speak to him about a rather embarrassing matter. The old man had needed to piss badly, but couldn’t get up with his leg the way it was. Harry understood the predicament, and accepting responsibility, but at first didn’t know what to suggest. Then he spotted the half empty bottle of Famous Grouse that Lucas had brought down. He gave the bottle to Old Graham who immediately necked the rest of the contents. “For the pain,” he said. Then Harry had given him the old man a few moments alone to refill the bottle.

Now Harry was on his way to the urinals upstairs, with a candle in one hand and a whisky bottle full of geriatric piss in the other. He hadn’t expected to run into trouble again so soon after his last encounter, but something was definitely happening inside the toilets as he approached.

The men’s toilet was dimly lit by candlelight, and it was too dark to see clearly what was happening inside. There was some sort of scuffle going on. A soft wet thudding that was immediately recognisable.

Someone’s getting a beating.

Candle in hand, along with the whiskey bottle full of urine, Harry ran forwards, lighting the room in a narrow sphere as he moved. At the back, he found…Damien. And then he found Nigel. Damien was beating the bigger man to a pulp, like he was tenderising a piece of beef. His knuckles made soft whapping sounds as they bounced off Nigel’s swollen face. What upset Harry most, was the sight of Steph lying unconscious in one of the cubicles. As Harry swooped the candle towards her, he saw that her jeans were unbuttoned.

Damien looked up and noticed Harry, but it was too late to give an explanation. Harry smashed the whiskey bottle full of piss over Damien’s head so hard that it might have killed him.

Part of Harry hoped it did.

* * *

Beside the fireplace, Jess watched over Peter, with Jerry beside her. She watched her sleeping friend turn paler and paler, and could not tell whether it was down to the cold or blood loss. Most of Peter’s wounds were bandaged, but they wept constantly.

“You think he’s going to wake up?” Jerry asked, tugging Jess out of her thoughts. His usual exuberance was absent for the time being and he had remained quiet for a while. Jess wondered if he was thinking about Ben; trying to make sense of what had happened to his best friend.

Jess shrugged. “He woke up once before, so who knows. How are you doing?”

“Me? I’m cushty? It’s this one we need to look after.” He pointed at Peter. “He looks bad.”

Jess shrugged again. “I think he might have it easiest of all, being asleep. Right now, I want to know how you are. You know...after what happened to Ben.”

Jerry’s face crumbled like a moist sandcastle and, for a short moment, Jess thought he was going to cry. He didn’t, though. “It’s stupid,” he said, “but I miss him already.”

“That’s not stupid at all.”

“Feels like it. I just keep wishing it was me. I wish I was the one that was dead and Ben was still alive.”

“Now that is stupid.” Jess shook her head despairingly. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to be dead, would he?”

Jerry shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me. All I ever did was annoy him.”

“Then why did he always keep you around?”

Jerry looked away from her and stared into the fire. “Fate, I guess.”

Jess wasn’t sure she understood. “What do you mean, fate?”

Jerry rubbed at his eyes and somehow succeeded in making them look even more tired. “Ever seen the play, Blood Brothers?”

“No.”.

“It’s a film about these two brothers who get separated at birth. A mother has twins and can’t afford to keep them both, so she gives one away to the rich family that she works for.”

“Okay,” said Jess, still not really following, but willing to listen.

“Somehow, the baby boy she gave away ends up making friends with the son she kept – his twin brother. They have completely different upbringings, one rich, one poor, but somehow they become best friends. Despite everything, they’re really very much alike.” Jerry stared at Jess and this time she was certain he would cry, but still he did not. He smiled instead. “That’s like me and Ben. You get what I’m saying?”

Jess didn’t. But then she thought about it a little harder and ventured a guess: “You and Ben were…brothers?” Jerry didn’t answer her but Jess knew it was a hit and not a miss. It still didn’t quite make sense, though. “Did Ben know?”

Jerry finally allowed a tear to escape his eye. He blinked it away and it crept down his cheek. “We…we had the same dad, but I never told him that. My mom only told me when I was ten. By then I’d already been friends with Ben for three years.”

Jess was shocked. “Why did you never tell him?”

Jerry wiped the tear from his face, but did nothing about the new ones that ran down to replace it. “Ashamed, I guess. My mom told me it was just a one-night stand and that it was while Ben’s dad was still with his mum.”

“You kept it to yourself because you didn’t want to hurt Ben or break up his family. I understand.”

Jerry avoided looking directly at Jess as he spoke. “Ben idolised his father; thought he was this great businessman. Truth is that the guy was a small-time jerk with more skeletons in his closet than Norman Bates, but if I told Ben what his father – what our father – was really like, it would only have hurt him. I didn’t want that. He was my brother.”

Jess felt emotionally winded by the story and had to remind herself to breath. What a beautiful sacrifice for someone to make, she thought, before hugging Jerry very tightly.

“What’s that for?” he asked her.

Jess pulled out of the hug and kissed Jerry’s cheek. “For being such a kind human being. I don’t think you realise quite how rare that is. Ben was lucky to have you as a friend, Jerry, and even more so as a brother.” Jerry whimpered. Jess patted him on the back. “Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you.”

Jerry wiped his eyes with the back of his arm. “It’s okay. Think I needed it. Clears my head for what really matters.”

Jess frowned. “And what’s that?”

“What do you think? You saw what happened to Ben. There’s something evil out there and it’s not going to stop till it gets us all. If Peter could wake up and speak, he’d tell us to get the hell out of this messed up situation.”

“Peter already did warn me,” Jess blurted out. “He said I needed to get away.”

Jerry was silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “No one believed us about what we saw, and I guess we kind of just let it go because we were embarrassed, but we both know that we’re not crazy. There’s something out there that isn’t human, Jess. It killed Ben.”

“I know,” she said. “We have to get away.”

23

“Make sure it’s tight”

“I am!” Harry tugged the curtain ties around Damien’s wrists and felt them dig into the boy’s flesh. “Any tighter and I’ll cut his arms off.”

“Good,” said Nigel. “Exactly what the dirty little rapist deserves.”

When Harry swung the whiskey bottle at Damien’s head it’d instantly shattered, sending streams of Old Graham’s salty piss all over the both of them. Harry could still smell the vinegary pong on his clothes.

Once Nigel regained consciousness, he and Harry had dragged Damien’s limp body into the bar and heaved him up onto a chair. They were now in the process of restraining him to it as tightly as possible. The last thing they needed was Damien waking up and endangering anybody else. They had enough on their plate as it was. Harry still hadn’t forgotten about the incident in the dance hall. Chaos, it seemed, had started coming at him from all directions.

Steph was lying downstairs on a pile of blankets, covered by an old duvet. She’d stirred briefly when they lifted her from the toilet floor, but remained unconsciousness ever since. Lucas was currently looking after her.

Harry felt sick for nearly trusting Damien.

“Nigel, I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t walked in when you did. Steph is so lucky you were there.”

Nigel’s chest puffed up proudly. With the beating his face had taken, Harry thought he looked like a dishevelled bear. “I’m just sorry the little perv got the drop on me before I could take him down. My head’s banging.”

Harry gave the curtain ties one final, haughty tug. He was satisfied that Damien was now adequately restrained. “Vicious sod really did a number on you, didn’t he? Soon as the phones are working, we’ll call the police and get him squared away.”

Nigel seemed to flinch. “Police…yeah”

Harry looked at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Just a bit dizzy. Need to sit down, I think.”

Harry stood up, his frigid kneecaps popping. “I can keep an eye on things here. You go and rest, Nigel.”

“You sure? Can I get you anything?”

Harry thought about another beer, but for some reason he said, “No, I’m good, thanks.”

Nigel walked away gingerly, clutching at his ribs and holding his head. Harry tried to imagine the pain the guy was in. He was lucky to be alive after the walloping he took.

Harry stepped back and examined Damien. What could make a person so wicked as to want to rape and beat a person? It made his heart ache to think of the amount of hatred that infected the world. Damien was just one tiny ant in a whole colony of remorseless monsters. Harry started to wish that he’d asked for that beer after all. His mind couldn’t cope without it.

A strangled snort came from Damien’s direction and for a moment Harry thought the lad was going to wake up. His eyelids fluttered and his nose crinkled as though a fly had landed on it. But then he fell still again.

“What do we do with you now?” Harry asked. “Can’t exactly leave you in the middle of the room to freeze now, can I?”

Or maybe that’s exactly what you deserve.

Harry’s fists clenched themselves automatically as he thought about how frightened Steph must have been on that grimy toilet floor. He had to take deep breathes until the anger passed. It would drive him insane if he wasn’t careful.

Harry needed to get away from Damien – just being near the dirtbag made him sick – but it wasn’t an option. Damien could wake up and try to escape. The only place warm enough to keep the lad prisoner was by the fire, but that was already taken up by their casualty, Peter.

Prisoners. Casualties. What the hell is happening tonight!

The only other place was the cellar – once they got the new fire started at least – but there was no way Harry was going to put Damien anywhere near Steph. He was never going to let the kid anywhere near her ever again.

Harry walked over to Jess and Jerry. Both of them were on their knees tending to Peter’s wounds. Jess looked up at him as he approached and managed a weary smile.

“Hey,” Harry smiled back. “How you two holding up?”

“It’s starting to feel a bit like that film, Alive,” said Jerry.

Harry raised both eyebrows.

Jerry sighed. “You know…that movie where the plane crashes? The one where they’re all freezing to death, one by one? They all start to eat the dead bodies to stay alive? In other words, it’s freezing.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, never saw that film.”

Jess spoke. “We want out of here, Harry.”

Harry hadn’t expected that. Sure, it was an obvious thing to say, given the circumstances, but Jess was an upbeat person and didn’t seem the kind to complain. “We all do,” he said, “but that’s not possible right now. You know what it’s like out there. It’s not safe.”

Jess nodded. “That’s what I mean. It’s not safe here either. The snow is getting deeper and deeper outside, and it’s getting colder and colder in here. There’s something out there that killed our friend and we don’t want to hang around here until it gets us. We weren’t lying about what happened to us. There’s something out there.”

Harry pictured the flames outside, growing from the snow like shimmering beanstalks, with burning corpses hanging from them. Then he thought about the thing pretending to be his son, and how he need to tell someone. “I believe you. I saw things out there in the snow, too, which is why I don’t understand why you would want to go out there.”

“Because we’re sitting ducks here,” said Jerry. “I’d rather take my chances running to safety than waiting here to freeze to death. Do you really think we can all just sit around drinking beer and waiting for things to go back to normal? I hate to say it, but I think normal took a bus out of town. We’re all going to die if we stay here.”

“No one is going to die,” Harry stated firmly, “but I agree that we may not be safe here.”

Jerry narrowed his eyes. The cold air, fighting against the licking heat of the fire, made his cheeks blush like cherries. “So, you’ll help us then?”

“No,” Harry said quickly. “If we go outside we’ll be frozen stiff in a matter of minutes, or the victims of something even worse. It would be insane to leave here before morning. Even then, I’m not so sure. I agree we’re in danger here, but I think we would be even worse off out there. We need to dig in and prepare.”

Jess’s lower lip trembled and she blinked several times. She looked at Harry pleadingly. “So what do you suggest? That we wait here until someone else comes flying through the window? Or until Damien tries to rape someone else?”

Harry felt his lips pull back in a snarl. “Damien won’t be hurting anyone else, don’t you worry about that.”

Jess shrugged as if his assertion meant nothing to her. “Fine,” she said, “but there’s something out there that’s less than friendly. You really just expect us to wait here till it tries to get in?”

“No,” said Harry. “We prepare ourselves. If whatever is outside tries to get in…”

Jess and Jerry both looked at him. “Yeah?”

“We make it wish it hadn’t.”

24

Jess decided Harry was crazy. He had to be. Why else would he suggest bunkering down in the pub and waiting for whatever was outside to get in? He didn’t understand the situation, and perhaps that made sense. Harry hadn’t seen what she and Jerry had seen; hadn’t seen Ben’s body disintegrate into a billion bloody granules of sand. No one else understood that there was a seven-foot psychopath out there with a film prop from Braveheart.

Braveheart? Jesus, I sound like Jerry.

Once Harry was far enough away, Jess turned to Jerry and whispered. “Are we really going to stay here?”

“You mean batten down the hatches like the kid from Home Alone?” Jerry ran both hands through his messy hair and sighed. “What choice do we have?”

“Maybe Harry’s right,” she admitted. “Maybe we’ll freeze to death out there as soon as we step through the door. I just don’t like feeling trapped, you know?”

Jerry nodded.

“So what do we do?” Jess asked.

“Arnie-up, I guess. Get some weapons and take it to the first thing that comes through the door.”

“Whatever happens, I don’t think they’ll be using the door.” Jess looked down at Peter who was still sleeping on the sofa. He seemed more peaceful now and she wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. “I think windows are more their style.”

Jerry chuckled humourlessly. “No shit.”

Jess placed her hands on her hips. “Should we get started?”

“I think before we do anything we need to stoke the fire. I’m freezing my nuts off, and I think Peter’s turning blue.”

Jess looked down at Peter and saw the azure tint at the edge of his lips, like a thin line of biro. “I’ll go and check with Harry,” she said. “They’re building a fire downstairs. Maybe we can get some stuff to burn.”

Harry was stood with Lucas. The two of them were examining Damien in the chair and muttering. Jess couldn’t believe what Damien had tried to do. She had known he was a jerk, but…

Something felt off about the situation. Damien Banks was a lot of things, but Jess never pegged him as a rapist. Still, how much could you know about a guy, really?

“Harry,” Jess said, approaching him and Lucas. “The fire is struggling and we need something to burn.”

Harry nodded and rubbed at his chin. The stubble there made his face seem dirty. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “We’ll get it going again soon with some of the chairs Nigel broke up. I forgot to say earlier that I think I’ll have to leave Damien up here with you and Jerry. The only other option is to put him in the cellar, but with Steph…”

Jess waved a hand. “That’s fine, I understand. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

Harry stared into her eyes. “If he so much as twitches you need to shout down and get me.”

“Yeah, course. If he tries anything I’ll ring the bell or whack him with the fire poker. You tied him pretty tight by the looks of things, anyway.”

Harry looked down at Damien’s swollen wrists and seemed proud of himself. “I knew Boy Scouts would come in handy one day.”

Jess laughed. “I knew there was something outdoorsy about you.”

“No,” said Harry. “That’s just how I smell.”

Jess laughed again, this time louder. “You’re suddenly in a cheery mood.”

Harry stared into space for a moment before making eye contact with her again. “Guess I decided it was time to start taking part.”

Jess didn’t know what he meant. There were a lot of things she didn’t understand tonight. “Taking part in what?”

Harry smiled. “Life, I guess. Now, let’s go find you something for that fire.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She took Harry’s free arm as he grabbed a candle from the bar. Lucas nodded to them both as they passed, letting them know he was happy to stay behind and supervise Damien. As the two of them sauntered towards the bar, Jess felt a surreal feeling of safety that made her wonder if she was in some sort of denial about the fear she’d felt only minutes before. Strangely, Harry’s lightened mood made her feel that things might just work out okay.

Jess blinked twice and refocused her mind. Her skin felt tight under the prolonged attack of the cold. The chill felt like razor wire pulled tight around her flesh. She couldn’t wait to get in front of a renewed fire. Maybe she could even grab a short nap. She was exhausted. According to her watch it was almost 3am.

Jess descended the stairs while Harry lit the way with a candle. At the bottom they entered the cellar and were immediately met by Steph, who seemed to be recovering well from her ordeal. Old Graham lay on the floor beyond, snug beneath a blanket and seemingly quite drunk if the sound of his slurred singing was anything to go by. At the edge of the room, in shadow, sat Nigel, Kath was also in the room, but Jess didn’t care to pay attention to that old cow.

Steph took a step towards Jess and Harry and it became obvious that she was still a little shaky. “We have a problem,” she said only to Harry, as if Jess were not even there.

Harry’s happy demeanour soured slightly. “Steph, you should be resting. What’s so important that it can’t wait?”

Steph raised an arm behind her and pointed to a makeshift fire in the centre of the room. The steel dustbin was half-stuffed with wood and cardboard. Several chair legs pointed upwards like giant fingers.

Jess knew straight away what Steph was going to tell them and she didn’t want to hear it. She shook her head in despair. “That’s all we could find to burn, isn’t it?”

Steph changed her focus to Jess and nodded solemnly. “The cardboard recycling was done yesterday morning and we’re all out of coal. I was going to buy some from the supermarket to stock up. If we burn all the tables we still might not have enough.”

“We just need to last till morning,” said Harry. “We have plenty of wood until then.”

“I’m not so sure. Two separate fires is going to take a lot of fuel, but even if we can last till morning, what then? I don’t think this is just a bit of bad weather. Something’s happened. I’m sure some group of scientists someplace know exactly what is happening, but I think it’s starting to become pretty obvious that things are bad. We can rely on this all being okay come morning. Nobody is coming to help us and it’s only getting colder.”

“We’re going to freeze to death,” said Jess coolly, as if stating a fact.

Steph nodded. “Unless we do something about it.”

“Then let’s do something about it,” said Harry.

25

“What the Hell do we do?” asked Nigel, still shrouded in shadow.

Harry thought for a moment. “Steph, you’re absolutely sure that there’s nothing else we can burn? What about in Graham’s place upstairs?”

Steph shook her head. “Nigel already checked. It’s like a closing-down-sale up there. Barely enough furniture to fill one room. We’ll burn what’s there, but it’s not much.”

“Hey,” said Old Graham from the floor. “That’s all my worldly possessions you’re talking about…actually on second thoughts, you may as well burn it.”

Harry thought again, shivering as he did so. He wondered whether he was as cold as he felt or if it was just his mind exaggerating. Before he had time to decide which, his musings were interrupted by Jess.

The girl asked a question. “What about the supermarket?”

Harry looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“Yes,” Kath chimed in from the other side of the room. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Jess said, impatiently, “that the place is full of, like, a thousand cardboard boxes, plus all the bags of coal in the warehouse. If we grab one of the trolleys we can cart it all over here. There’re painkillers and other stuff, too, that we could give to Peter.”

Old Graham piped up from his resting place in the middle of the room. “Don’t bloody forget about me!” he slurred. “I could use some pain relief too.”

“Then we have a plan,” said Steph.

“Not yet we don’t,” Kath objected. “That is supermarket property you’re talking about. I can’t just let you in to ransack the place. It’s theft.”

Jess cursed out loud. “God sake, Kath, you still don’t get what’s going on, do you? Screw the supermarket! Our lives are more important.”

Kath snickered. “That’s debatable.”

Harry was starting to see why Jess hated the woman so much – she was wretched indeed – but before things got out of hand again, he decided to butt in. “Come on, the both of you. Fighting isn’t helping. Enough people have already gotten hurt tonight.”

“Yeah,” said Kath, rubbing the swollen cut on her forehead. “I’m well aware of that, thank you very much.”

“Look,” said Harry in his calmest tone. “We’re lost without you here, Kath, and if you were kind enough to let us into the supermarket then we’d all be in debt to you. Our survival would most likely be down to you and we won’t forget that.”

Kath seemed smug, as if her previously sour expression was just painted on and was now melting in the heat of the candle she held in front of her. “Well,” she said. “I guess I can’t just let you all freeze, but I hope you realise the sacrifice I’m making. I have responsibilities that can’t be taken lightly.”

“Thank you,” said Harry. Resisting the urge to slap the woman. “So, you’ll give us the keys?”

Kath laughed, as if someone had tried to convince her that the world was made of mashed potato. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “The store keys are to remain with an authorised key holder at all times.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked Steph.

“That should be obvious. I’m going to have to be present at all times. I’m coming along.”

Harry bit his lip, seeing no other way to proceed. If the woman wouldn’t hand over the keys, he would have to take her along. The alternative was to manhandle her, and he wasn’t sure he could do that.

“I also must insist,” Kath continued, “that Jess is to remain here. Her employment was terminated earlier tonight and ex-employees are prohibited from entering the premises. Petty vindictiveness is all too common these days, I’m afraid.”

Harry caught the sight of Jess about to explode and quickly moved the conversation on. “Okay, that’s fine. It’s too important that Jess stays here, anyway, to keep watch over Peter and Damien. We can’t risk her going outside.” Jess seemed to settle down, but Harry couldn’t help but wonder how long he could keep the two women from each other’s throats. “Okay. Let’s just get to work. Sooner we do this the better. I’ll go ask Lucas if he’s up for the trip. Nigel, would you be okay to watch over things here?”

Steph grunted. “What would we ladies do without a man to protect us, eh?”

Harry leaned in close to her and spoke so that only she could hear. “After what you’ve been through tonight, there’s no way I’m going to leave you on your own. Nigel’s a big guy and I’d feel safer with him around. It’s more for my peace of mind than it is yours.” Steph seemed affected by Harry’s words but he didn’t have time to wonder about how she felt about it.

“I’ll keep em safe,” said Nigel. “You can count on me.”

Harry reached forward and shook Nigel firmly by the hand. “I know I can. Thank you. And if that piece of shit upstairs tries to get free, you have my permissions to throw him on the fire.”

Nigel nodded and Harry made towards the stairs, starting to climb them one by one. As he ascended, he thought about whether or not this really was a good idea, to leave the modest safety of the pub and venture out into the snow. After what Jess and Jerry had said about their friend, Ben, and with Peter being thrown through the window, Harry half-expected to meet a fire breathing dragon outside. Not to mention giant plumes of impossible fire climbing into the sky while people burn to death on crosses. But without a well-fuelled fire, they were all doomed. There was no choice involved in what he had to do. The risk of death was better than the certainty of it. Whatever was outside, he would just have to face it.

It was time to start facing problems and doing something about them.

“Harry Boy, I take it you’ve been informed of our grave situation?”

Harry entered the bar area to find Lucas. The man was watching over Damien. “Yeah, they told me,” Harry said. “Nothing’s going right tonight, is it?”

“You can say that again. Still, I’m guessing you’re a fella with a plan.”

Harry nodded. “And you’d be right. Kath and I are going to go raid the supermarket for supplies. I wanted to ask you to come along.”

Lucas’ reaction was unexpected. The man seemed suddenly afraid. “Well, are you sure that’s the best course of action, Harry Boy? Should I not stay here and keep an eye on the womenfolk?”

“Nigel will do that. Plus, Jerry is by the fire with Peter.” Harry moved forward and placed a hand on Lucas’ shoulder. “I really need your help. We need the bags of coal they sell at the supermarket and I won’t be able to carry them all on my own. We’re going to use a trolley, but we will still have to lift it over the snow.”

Lucas shuffled uncomfortably, but seemed to come round to the idea. “Well, okay, I guess. I have little choice in the matter, do I? Can’t let an honest fella like yourself down. Bring on the snow, I say.”

Harry patted Lucas on the shoulder again. “I really appreciate it. We’ll be fine. Quick in and out, military style. Like you said earlier, I’m Major Jobson and you can be Captain Fergus.” Harry snapped off a mock salute and stood straight.

Lucas chuckled and returned the salute. “Sounds like a plan. I just can’t help but worry about bumping into something unpleasant out there. I’m not the bravest of men, you know?”

Harry understood the man’s fear; in fact he felt it himself. “I’ve been trying not to think about it too much,” he admitted, “but it’s either a quick trip to the supermarket or a slow wait until we freeze to death. I’d rather die trying than trying to die.”

Lucas clicked his fingers and did a little jig. “I like your spirit, Harry Boy. When do we depart?”

“No time like the present.”

26

A baseball bat and a handful of kitchen knives was the best they could do. Harry hadn’t expected guns or a flamethrower, but he’d hoped for something a little more intimidating than kid’s toys and cutlery. Still, what they had was better than nothing.

“Right,” he said, handing the baseball bat to Kath and arming himself and Lucas with a chef’s knife each. “The plan is to get across to the supermarket quickly and quietly, sticking together at all times. Once we get there it’s over to you, Kath, because you know where everything is.”

Kath nodded and took over. “Our main priority is, of course, the coal, so we will gather that first. However, nobody touches anything else without my say so.”

“Would you mind if we breathe the air?” asked Lucas.

Kath planted her hands on her hips. “If you’re not going to obey my rules then we can forget this whole thing, right now.”

“Fine,” said Lucas. “Although, we could just tie you up like our young friend, Damien, then take the keys for ourselves.”

Kath’s face dropped in horror.

Lucas chuckled. “Just pulling your leg, lass.”

Harry slid off his stool and straightened himself up. “Okay, Nigel, you keep an eye on everything here and we’ll be back as soon as we can. Jerry, you make sure that Damien stays tied up nice and tight.”

“No,” said Jerry. He was holding the fire poker down by his thigh and shaking his head. “I’m coming with you.”

Before Harry had time to object, he found that Jess had beaten him to it. “Are you insane?” she said.

“No, I’m not,” Jerry replied. “Just tired of being useless. That’s all I ever was when Ben was around and I’ll be damned if I’m going to carry on being like that now he’s gone.”

“That’s very…noble,” said Harry, “and we all understand you wanting to honour your friend, Jerry, but there’s no need to take the risk. We’ve got it covered.”

“Dude, I don’t know you and you sure as hell don’t know me, but one thing you’ll learn real soon is that all of the shit me and Jess told you about is real. None of you have seen what’s out there. But I have.”

“What’s your point?” said Harry.

“My point is that I’m more qualified than you to go out there and face down the crazy, so what right do you have to tell me anything?”

Harry shrugged. He didn’t have the energy for this. “We don’t have time to argue, so I guess you’ll be coming along, too, then.”

Jess placed a hand on Jerry’s shoulder and nudged him to face her. Harry couldn’t hear their conversation, so he decided to take the remaining time to check up on Steph. She was standing behind the bar, relighting candles that had gone out.

“You okay?” Harry asked her. “You’ve been through a lot tonight.”

She smiled at him, her features so tired and faded that she looked like a shivering ghost in the candlelight. “N-no more than normal,” she said, chattering. “This place was never exactly The Ritz to start with. I’m used to trouble.”

Harry took her hand and felt a jolt run through his skin when he felt her squeeze back. The room was freezing, but her palm throbbed out heat. He smiled at her. “You don’t have to pretend, you know?”

Steph’s eyes welled up as though a tap had been turned loose somewhere inside of her. “You mean I should just be honest and say that I think we’re all going to die tonight?”

Her words hit Harry like a punch to the kidneys. Just when he’d started to find some strength and positivity inside of himself, Steph had lost hers. It was tragic because he knew that his strength had, in part, come from being around her. He’d taken advantage of Steph’s emotional strength and now the poor girl was drained. He squeezed her hand tightly. “No one is going to hurt you, Steph. I promise. I agree, some weird business has been going down tonight, but things will work out. Don’t be scared.”

Steph laughed and wiped at her nose and face. The skin of her wrist glistened as she pulled it away. “There’s nothing to fear but fear itself, huh?”

Harry smiled. “Something like that.”

“You just get back here in one piece, okay! Then I’ll stop crying.”

“Okay, deal.”

Steph let go of Harry’s hand and pushed him away. “Well, get going then.”

Harry turned around and saw that Jerry, Kath, and Lucas were all waiting for him. They formed an orderly queue by the door. Lucas still seemed reluctant to go outside and Harry couldn’t say he blamed the guy.

It was time to get going. A sheen of ice had started to form on the wooden surfaces of the tables and snow drift was gathering around the front door wherever it could find the thinnest of cracks. Whether or not they went outside, the weather was coming in to get them sooner than later.

Harry marched to the front door and placed a hand against the bolt, ready to slide it across and yank open the door. For one quick moment, he lost the nerve he needed to continue, but he took a breath and forced the fear deep down into his gut. “Let’s go,” he said finally, pulling open the door and stepping out into the snow.

* * *

Outside, the landscape was blank as an unused canvas. Harry could see nothing but white. A white so pure that its gleaming intensity made his eyes ache. But, despite the blankness, there was movement everywhere. Shifting, dancing specks of snow swirled in the air, each individual flake part of a greater never-ending whole. A blizzard. Harry thought about rushing back inside, regretting the plan already, but when he looked over his shoulder he could no longer see the pub.

Lucas, Jerry, and Kath were following closely behind, linking arms to form a human chain. Each of them seemed worried. They were looking for Harry to lead them.

But lead them where exactly? These people’s safety is in my hands and I don’t even know what to expect.

“You alright there, Harry Boy?”

Harry turned to Lucas. “I’m just…thinking.”

“Well, perhaps you’d like to do your wonderings some place a bit warmer. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s a tad cold out here this evening.”

Harry nodded and started moving. The snow enveloped them past their knees. They had to swim through it more than they did walk. It wouldn’t be long before the snow was deep enough to swallow a man whole. The effort of each step left them panting.

Several minutes passed.

The snow went on forever.

“Do you have any idea of where we’re going?” Kath shouted from the back of their human chain, struggling to be heard over the howling wind. “We should have been there by now.”

Harry had been thinking the same thing.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?” said Kath, accurately reading in on the meaning of Harry’s silence. It had been more an accusation than a question.

Instead of Harry answering, Jerry did. “Yeah, we’re lost,” he said, “but Harry’s not to blame.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, I’m not to blame?”

“I mean that the snow made us lost.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Kath.

“Come now,” said Lucas, stopping and halting everybody in the line. “Let’s hear the boy out.”

Jerry prepared to give his explanation. The others gathered around close, each of them shivering, except for Lucas who seemed to be coping slightly better. “It’s not normal snow,” Jerry explained to them. “It’s magic snow.”

Nobody spoke, although the incredulity was clear on their faces.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Jerry, deadly serious. “You don’t believe me, I know, but I’m telling you that this snow is unnatural. It’s a force being wielded by something evil.”

Harry decided to humour the boy. “Wielded by who?”

“Who you think? The guy in the robes and hood. The guy with the flaming sword. The snow is just his tool to trap us or get us lost and confused. Then he comes to kill us, just like he did Ben. I know you think I’m full of shit, but something killed my friend.”

“Okay,” said Harry, trying his best to remain open-minded. “But, if you believe that, what the hell are you doing out here?”

Jerry smashed a fist against his open palm. “Because me and the monster out here have unfinished business. If he turns up, I’ll be the one to face him while the rest of you make a run for it.”

“Why would you want to do that?” asked Harry asked. “You’re just a kid, not Rambo.”

But Jerry seemed perfectly sane as he spoke. “I need to take responsibility instead of letting other people do things for me. If this is the end of the world then the least I can do is make it hard for the bastard who started it. I’m going to give him the arse-kicking of his life.”

“Erm….fellas?” The group turned to face Lucas, who was looking at them queerly. “That bastard in question,” he pointed over Harry’s left shoulder, “is right over there.”

Harry spun around to see a shape in the distance. The dark silhouette of a man, taller than a man should be, was gliding towards them, slowly and methodically, as if it had all of eternity to reach them. In the last year there had been many nights that he had jerked from a nightmare, but this was the first time he’d ever felt like he was drifting into a nightmare.

And that nightmare was coming right at them.

27

“I’d better go check on Old Graham,” said Steph, leaving Jess and Nigel to look after Damien and Peter. Harry and the others had been gone for almost half an hour. With the exception of Kath, Jess missed having their numbers around.

She turned to Nigel. “Best settle in. It’s already been a long night.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Nigel replied.

The two of them slid down on either side of the fire, leaving the middle clear so that its warmth could reach Peter on the sofa. Damien was still tied to a chair, though not as close to the fire as the rest of them. They’d dumped an assortment of blankets on him to keep him. Jess pulled a duvet over herself and let out a shiver.

“Not getting any warmer is it?” Nigel commented. “Don’t they say you should all huddle together to share warmth?”

“Yeah,” Jess agreed. “They do say that.”

Nigel patted the floor beside him. “Well? You want to come over?”

“No…it’s okay,” she said. “I’m warm enough for now, but thanks for offering.”

For a half-second, Jess thought she saw anger flush through Nigel’s face, but when he spoke he sounded harmless.

“Don’t mention it,” he told her. “I just don’t like to see a young girl suffer.”

Jess giggled. “What a gentleman.”

“Unlike some.” Nigel nodded towards Damien.

“I still can’t believe Damien tried to hurt Steph.”

“Well, believe it! The lad’s an animal. He’s lucky I didn’t fucking kill him.”

Jess was taken aback by the sudden outburst of anger. “Wow! Calm down. I was just saying it was a shock, that’s all.”

Nigel rubbed at his eyes and shook his head. His gold pinkie ring glinted in the fire light, the image of a dolphin flashing into her vision for a split-second. “I’m sorry. I just wish I was there to stop him sooner.”

“You stopped him soon enough,” Jess said. “He never got to hurt Steph. Well, not in that way, you know?”

Nigel nodded and smiled, but something about his expression made Jess feel uncomfortable. It felt like she was being looked at through a mask and that Nigel’s smile was hiding something.

But what?

“Do you mind holding the fort for a couple minutes?” Jess said. “I want to check if Steph needs anything.”

“No problem,” Nigel said, looking her hard in the eyes.

Jess shivered again, and she was certain it wasn’t because of the cold. She stood up and hurried away. She didn’t know why, but she suddenly didn’t want to be near Nigel. It was as if a veil had lifted, revealing him to be someone else. It was spooky.

Nigel remained by the fire. Jess suddenly felt stupid and paranoid. Nigel didn’t look like he would hurt a fly. But neither did frogs, until they shot out their slimy tongues and pulled you in to swallow you whole.

Jess stepped behind the bar and immediately felt the warmth coming up from the fire in the cellar. She shuddered at the pleasant feeling and started to take the steps downwards.

At the bottom, she found Steph sitting near the makeshift brazier with Old Graham. The two of them were chatting away as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Steph looked up at Jess as she approached. “Everything good up there?”

Jess shrugged. “I wouldn’t describe anything as good at the moment, but things are…stable.”

“How’s Peter?”

“Bad. I don’t know what to do for him. I’m hoping that the others come back soon. They’ve been gone a while now.”

Steph bit her lip. Her face was swollen on one side where she’d been struck and her right eye was half-closed. Jess wondered quite how much Steph had been affected by what happened to her. It was obvious she was trying not to show any emotion, but the feisty barmaid didn’t seem quite as tough as usual. “Are you okay?” Jess asked her.

Steph seemed to snap out of a trance. “I’m fine. Just a bit worried, I guess, but that’s to be expected, right?”

“Hell yeah. You’d have to be made of stone not to be worried tonight. Speaking of which, how well do you know Nigel?”

Steph looked confused. “Nigel? Pretty well, I guess. Why?”

“He just makes me feel a bit…uncomfortable.”

Steph shook her head. “He’s never caused any problems in the eight or nine months I’ve known him. Keeps to himself, more or less.”

“A nice guy…f-from…what I seen…tonight.” Old Graham had fallen into a drunken haze, but still managed to fade in and out of the conversation. “A nice…guy. Can I have another drink?”

“No,” said Steph. “We need to lay off the beers. We’re all getting a bit too heavy headed.”

“Maybe, I’m just being silly,” said Jess.

Steph smiled. “I’d say so. Nigel saved me from being raped tonight! He’s a good guy.”

Jess nodded. Maybe she really was paranoid, just as she’d suspected earlier. Having Steph confirm it made her feel much better. She would go back upstairs and look after Peter, thinking no more about it. But first she wanted to check on Steph’s injuries. They looked pretty bad and Jess felt bad that Steph always seemed to be the one looking after everyone else. Jess wanted to try and look after her for a change. “Let me have a quick look at your face, before I go back upstairs,” she said. “You look pretty beat up.”

Steph waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Just a bruise.”

“I’d feel better all the same. I did first aid a couple months ago.” Jess slid down onto the floor besides Steph.

Half-asleep, Old Graham murmured something from the floor. “Let the girl…take a quick…gander.”

Steph sighed and leaned forward. “Okay, then, but keep your hands away. It hurts bad enough as it is, without being prodded.”

Jess leaned forward slowly and cringed at the sight of Steph’s bulging cheek. Her misty blue eye was bloodshot and teary. A second injury on her forehead seemed just as painful. The throbbing bump that was already turning purple around the split in its centre. “Jesus, you really took a whacking, didn’t you?”

Steph sighed. “Think I fell against the toilet bowl. Don’t really remember much more than that. Someone came out of the dark and hit me.”

“Someone? You don’t remember anything at all?”

“No. I just remember being hit.”

Steph went to pull her head away, but Jess stopped her. “Hold on a sec. Let me look.” Jess examined the swollen gash on Steph’s cheek, and noticed something. Something at the centre of the bruising, a patch of skin lighter in colour than the surrounding tissue. It formed a shape, perhaps matching the surface of whatever had struck her. The outline seemed to resemble a…

Jess’ eyes went wide.

Her mouth gaped open.

The mark resembled a dolphin.

Jess scratched at her head while she tried to understand why she recognised the shape. It didn’t take her long. “Holy shit! Nigel!”

“Did I hear someone say my name?” Nigel had reached the bottom of the stairs and was heading into the cellar.

Jess’s stomach cramped up as she tried to think of something to say. “Oh…hi, Nigel. Yeah, we were just talking about you. Steph just told me what a nice guy you are.”

Nigel grinned like a hungry fox. Jess finally saw through the man’s disguise. His mask had slipped.

And beneath lay a monster.

* * *

When Jess had suddenly excused herself, Nigel had been concerned. Maybe his fumbled attempt at getting the girl to sit beside him had eroded the harmless veneer he worked so hard to maintain. It was possible that Jess had seen his true intentions.

Now, as Nigel walked down into the cellar, he wasn’t entirely sure. Jess certainly seemed jumpy at his presence but, considering the events of the last few hours, that was perhaps understandable. Steph seemed glad to see him, though. She smiled and waved a hand at him when he’d entered the cellar. It wasn’t surprising she trusted him. After all, he’d been working on gaining her confidence for the last eight months. As far as Steph was concerned, he was as harmless as a three-legged kitten with pneumonia.

Dumb fucking whore.

It didn’t matter if Jess suspected anything. They were both just his prey now; new victims to add to his mental highlight-reel of rape and torture. He figured he had at least an hour to have fun with them before he’d have to slit their throats, stash the bodies, and take a finger for his collection – and that was only if Harry and the others managed to make it back from the supermarket without freezing to death first. If they did make it back, Nigel would have a story all ready for them, and his trusty flick knife ready in his pocket just in case they didn’t believe it.

“Everything okay?” Jess asked him, still not giving away whether or not she suspected anything. “Shouldn’t someone be watching Damien and Peter?”

Nigel nodded, trying his best to look solemn. An emotion he couldn’t actually feel at all, but one he felt he was adept at emulating. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, sweetheart. I think Peter’s waking up. I heard him say your name.”

Jess didn’t react for a moment and Nigel wondered how well his lie had gone down. Finally, she said, “That’s wonderful. G-great news.”

“Well,” said Nigel, offering out his hand, “you going to come see the poor lad or not? I’m sure you’re the thing he’d like to wake up to.”

Jess shifted uncomfortably, as if determined not to get up, but eventually she had no choice but to concede.

“Be right there,” she said. “I just need to talk to Steph about something first. Girl problems, you know? Shall I see you up there in five minutes?”

The girl knew.

And she’s trying to warn Steph, the little bitch!

Nigel closed his eyes and fought the urge to rip the girl apart right there and then, tasting her wet insides as she gulped her dying breaths. He had to work real hard to control himself and keep his cool. He would be nowhere without his control. Far better to have fun once everyone was tied up and under his power. That way there could be no surprises and the party could really get started. Killing Jess now would just cause chaos.

“I think you should probably come right now,” Nigel suggested, keeping his voice soft so as not to alarm an unsuspecting Steph. “What if he doesn’t make it and this was his last chance to speak to you, Jess?”

Steph placed an arm around Jess and gave Nigel a scolding look. She’d pay for it later. “That’s a little bit harsh, Nigel,” she said. “Let’s not condemn the poor boy just yet.”

“Thanks,” Jess replied.

“I do agree with him though, honey,” Steph added. “You should go right away. Peter hasn’t been conscious much at all tonight and you wouldn’t want to miss out on anything he could tell us about what’s happening outside.”

Nigel grinned. That’s a good girl. Always so eager to help daddy, aren’t you? Just like when you knocked yourself out for me in the toilets.

Nigel reached his hand out towards Jess again. “That’s what I was trying to say. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sure Peter’s going to be just fine, but right now he needs you.”

Jess looked like one of the cats Nigel used to strangle as a child, before he moved onto women and children. Trapped and terrifyingly aware that death was rapidly approaching, yet powerless to do anything about it. The girl was afraid, and the sight of it made Nigel’s cock hard. He liked it so much better when they knew it was coming. Loved the look in their eyes.

Jess started to get up, ignoring Nigel’s outstretched hand and rising tentatively on her own. Nigel moved away to give her space, waiting patiently at the bottom of the stairs. To his irritation, Jess instead turned to Steph and held out a hand. “Will you come with me? I’m not sure I’ll cope if Peter takes a turn for the worse.”

Nigel clenched his jaw. Don’t even try it! Just take what’s coming to you and stop making things hard.

Steph shook her head and Jess seemed to deflate like a leaking balloon. “I can’t. I need to stay here and look after Old Graham. You’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’m sure Peter will be fine.”

“But Old Graham’s asleep,” said Jess, sounding desperate.

To Nigel’s dismay, Steph seemed to pick up on the girl’s subtle pleas. She stared at Jess, as if trying to work her out. Nigel held his breath, waiting for the outcome.

“Okay,” said Steph. “I’ll come with you, but we’ll have to be quick.”

Nigel tapped his foot irritably as the two women huddled together and headed for the stairs. It was clear now that Steph had picked up on something in Jess’s tone, but Nigel doubted she had any idea of what was really going on. She wouldn’t figure out the truth until it was far, far too late.

Nigel crept up the stairs, making sure the women were following close behind. He kept his steps slow, so that Jess couldn’t fall behind and whisper something to Steph without him hearing.

When they reached the top, Nigel stepped aside and ushered the two women in front of him. He manoeuvred them into the candlelight of the bar and they re-entered the freezing lounge. It wasn’t even biting cold any longer, but a far deeper sensation, like his very blood was turning to ice in his veins. Ice seemed to cling to everything, and breathing felt like sucking in cold steel. “Come on,” he said to them, “let’s get over by that fire.”

The women walked ahead and Nigel kept close behind, rubbing his palms against his arms to try to generate some friction and heat – but the only thing getting him hot right now was watching Steph move. He thought about all the things that he could do to that sexy, slender body that would warm him up for the rest of the night. The only thing left to figure out was the best way to take Jess out of the picture. For now, he’d let things play out and wait for an opportunity to present itself. The flick knife in his pocket made Nigel consider just stabbing the girl in the eye and being done with it, but that would be a waste. He had to have his fun with her first. If Steph was going to be the main course, then Jess would be dessert. I’ll eat her nipples as cherries, Nigel thought as he let slip an excited laugh. He quickly stifled it when the women looked at him.

“Something funny, Nigel?” Steph asked.

He quickly shook his head. “Just the craziness of tonight making me a little loopy. I get the giggles when I’m nervous.”

“And why would you be nervous?” Jess asked in a tone that he didn’t like at all. It was almost goading.

“Well,” he said, “there’s a lot to worry about tonight, isn’t there, sweetheart?”

Jess took a step backwards and was nodding as though she knew a punch-line to a joke that no one had told yet. Nigel felt his blood pressure rising as he fought the urge to rip into the girl and punish her insolence. She kept her eyes fixed on him as she continued stepping backwards. Steph was watching from a few feet away, visibly unsure of what was about to unfold. Nigel took steps of his own, keeping pace with Jess.

“Or are you nervous,” Jess said, “because you lied about Peter being awake? Look at him, he’s still unconscious.”

Nigel grinned. Of course Peter was still unconscious. The kid was as good as dead. Pity he isn’t awake. He could have watched while I fuck his girlfriend.

Jess took another step backwards, placing herself up against the wall beside the fire. No more space to retreat. Nigel continued approaching.

You’re trapped now, bitch.

“Or,” Jess continued, “are you nervous because I know that you’re the one who tried to rape Steph?”

Nigel looked at Steph and watched the sudden shock wash over her. She took a sharp intake of breath. Jess’s revelation had sucked the wind out of him as well. He’d expected her to try and blow his cover, but the fact that she’d done it right in front of Steph hurt him. Nigel hadn’t wanted Steph to know the truth about him until the very last moment.

Nothing to be done now, though. Time to start ripping flesh.

Nigel lunged at Jess like a cobra striking. Over-committed to attacking, he was powerless to change direction as the teenager swung at him with the fire poker she’d somehow managed to grab without him seeing.

The last thing Nigel thought as the steel rod arced towards his skull was…

28

“You want another piece of me, huh? Well, if it’s Mortal Kombat you want then that’s exactly what you’re going to get, you cross-dressing freak.”

Harry managed to reach out and grab Jerry before the lad ran off to his peril. “Hold it,” he said, clutching the boy by the collar.

Jerry struggled to get free. “Dude, not cool. Let go of me. Him and me have got unfinished biz’ness.”

Harry shook the lad. “This isn’t Star Wars and that’s not Obi Wan Kenobi.”

Jerry looked outraged. “Obi Wan is one of the good guys, you dork!”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I’m the dork.”

“Fellas, while I’d love to have a discussion on the many wee sides of the force, I think we should get going, pronto.”

Harry nodded to Lucas and then looked into the distance at the approaching figure. “Okay, let’s get back to the pub.”

Everyone agreed. They turned, ran…

…and stopped in their tracks.

“Holy shit!” Jerry cried out as ten foot flames exploded from the snow before them, cutting off any chance of escape. Harry felt the heat spread in a wide semi-circle around them, leaving no place to go but directly towards the robed figure.

“Time to enter the Thunderdome, bitch,” Jerry snarled.

“You reckon we should fight?” Harry asked everyone.

“You got a better idea?” Jerry said, limbering up.

“This is insane,” said Kath. “We need to run.”

“Where?” asked Harry.

“Don’t suppose anybody has a fire extinguisher?” Lucas asked, fanning his hands against the rising flames behind them.

Harry took several steps forwards. It was probably a stupid idea. “What do you want from us?” he demanded of the stranger in the snow. The robed figure stopped moving, still buried too far inside the blizzard for Harry to make him out clearly. Despite that, he could feel the stranger’s stare boring into him, digging at the corners of his soul. “I said, what do you want?”

Silence.

Then: “WE HAVE COME FOR…THE SINNER.”

Harry shook his head. What the fuck is with this guy? Did he overdose on bible studies as a kid?

“Who exactly is the sinner?” he asked.

More silence.

Then: “YOU ARE, HARRY JOBSON.”

Harry stumbled as his knees ceased functioning for a moment. Was he really the sinner? The cause of all of the havoc tonight? It seemed insane, but…

He’s right…I am a sinner. But how did anybody ever find out?

“Come on, Harry Boy, time to go.” Lucas grabbed him from behind. At first Harry thought it was to turn him over to the hooded stranger, but it wasn’t. Lucas and Jerry both dragged Harry backwards through the snow, heading through a small gap in the wall of fire.

“What are we doing?” Harry asked wearily as they dragged him along by the armpits. His legs trailed in front of him uselessly.

“Running for our lives,” said Lucas. “What the blazes do you think?”

“The supermarket must be nearby,” said Jerry, struggling with Harry’s weight. “At least I hope so.”

“It is,” said Kath. “We’re here.”

Harry looked up to see the dim shape of a building present itself through the blizzard, only twenty yards ahead.

They were going to make it.

Lucas and Jerry continued to drag and pull him across the snow. Kath overtook them, searching her pockets frantically, no doubt for the building’s keys.

Harry had a question, and he shouted it out. “Where’s the stranger? Where did he go?”

They reached the supermarket’s locked fire door and dumped Harry down. Lucas stared down at him and offered his hand. “I don’t bloody know where it is, but get up and be ready in case it comes back.”

Kath pulled her keys from her pocket and started sifting through them. “I can’t see a thing out here.”

Harry managed to stand, his legs turning from jelly to gradually-setting cement, not yet firm, but getting there. He looked back in the direction they’d come from and found his heart stopping in his chest. “You’d best hurry up and get us inside, Kath. I mean right NOW!”

Coming through the snow, with a steady and methodical purpose, was the hooded figure; but this time he was not alone. There were other robed strangers getting nearer. Dozens of them. Their ghostly visages melted into the background of the whirling blizzard and there could have been an endless legion of them out there for all Harry knew.

Kath frantically tried her keys on the lock. Lucas fell to his knees, muttering. Harry thought he heard the Irishman say something about ‘an army of Christ’, but there was no time to ask about it. The robed strangers were approaching quickly, almost seeming to glide across the deep deep snow.

“How’s it going?” Harry urgently asked Kath.

“I’m trying,” she said, sounding close to tears. “I’m sodding trying.”

As if things could get any worse, Harry heard something awful.

Growling.

The sound was so guttural that it might have emanated from a pack of rabid wolves. Alongside the army of strangers were a dozen beasts. They fit Jerry’s description of the creature that had attacked them. Giant dogs with innumerable teeth in their salivating jaws

“Hell hounds,” said Jerry. “Just like the one that attacked me and Jess. Believe me now?”

Harry clutched the chef’s knife tightly in his hand, but had a feeling it would prove useless. “Jerry,” he shouted. “If we live through this, I will be the first in line to apologise for not believing you, but now’s not the time for humble pie.”

Jerry seemed buoyed by the vindication and actually began to smile. He moved to Kath and picked up the baseball bat she had propped against the supermarket’s door and hefted it over his shoulder.

Lucas was still on his knees, but had stopped his incoherent rambling. He fixed his gaze on Jerry. “What the b’jaysus are you doing, lad?”

Jerry narrowed his eyes. “I’m getting even.”

With that, Jerry trudged through the snow at a speed as close to running as possible in the thick snow. He held the baseball bat high above his head as if it were a holy sword of Justice. The strange army of unearthly figures continued approaching with their hell hounds. Jerry didn’t seem concerned by any of it as he picked up speed.

“Jerry, get back here!” Harry shouted, but his words faded into the blizzard.

What is that boy doing?

Harry watched as Jerry came to a halt six feet in front of one of the giant dog-like beasts. He stuck out an arm and made a ‘bring it’ motion. “Let’s go, Cujo!”

Jerry swung the baseball bat down over his head in a downwards arc. It connected with the bulbous skull of the hell hound. With a snarling whine, the beast collapsed sideways into the snow, which immediately begun to melt around it. Jerry swung the bat again, connecting a blow with the beast’s hindquarters, causing it to yowl in agony. Before he had chance to swing it again, the beast rose to its feet and fled.

Jerry held the bat above his head and shouted triumphantly. “Flawless victory, motherfucker. Yeah, that’s what you get when you mess with the J-Meister.”

Harry watched the surreal image of the spotty, teenage boy taking on a pack of hell beasts with a decrepit baseball bat and wondered whether he was stoned. Had his drinking progressed to drug-abuse and he was now lying somewhere, hallucinating the whole thing? It was a thought he would’ve liked to have held on to very much, but he knew it wasn’t true. They were all in great danger and none of this was imaginary. It wasn’t a movie.

“Jerry! Get your arse back here, now!”

Harry’s warning came too late. The rest of the hell hounds swarmed over Jerry in a never ending wave. Harry was unable to take his eyes away as flesh and fat were shorn from the teenager’s bones like meat from a turkey. Razor sharp fangs pierced every inch of Jerry’s skin and turned him into a bloody skeleton. Harry thought his ears would explode at the sound of the boy’s agonised screams and was grateful that they only lasted a few seconds as the beasts tore out his throat.

Harry sobbed.

“Thank God!” Kath said finally, unlocking the door and pushing it open so hard that she fell to her knees inside. Harry couldn’t move, eyes transfixed on the beasts feeding on Jerry’s twitching body.

Harry tried to blink, but couldn’t. “They’re going to kill us all.”

“Maybe,” said Lucas, yanking him backwards through the open door. “But there’s no reason for us to make it easy for them.”

Harry took a long hard swallow. Lucas was right. After all the hits life had thrown at him, there was no way he was going to take a beating lying down. “No,” he said. “The last thing we’re going to do is make it easy for them.”

Kath locked the supermarket’s door behind them, whilst outside an army of robed demons surrounded them.

29

“Damien…

“Damien, wake up.”

Damien opened his eyes, expecting light to stream in and burn his retinas; but there was only darkness. Gradually, he remembered the evening’s events. The unending snow, the power cut, and everybody freezing. He could remember no more than that at first, but when he found himself tied to a chair he began to panic as the rest came flooding back.

“Steph!”

“I’m here, Damien. I’m going to untie you, but you’ve got to stay calm. We need your help.”

“That son of a bitch knocked me out. Harry, I’m going to kill you.”

“Damien, I can only untie you if you calm down. The only reason Harry hit you was because he thought-“

“I was going rape you.”

“Yes,” said Steph. “We got it all wrong. It wasn’t you, it was-“

“Nigel!” Damien remembered finding the sick pervert about to stick it in an unconscious woman. Not just any women either: Steph. Damien was a lot of things, but he was no rapist. Sex offenders and nonces were a whole other level of scumbag, subhuman slugs. He wrenched at his wrist restraints, furious when they refused to loosen. “Where the hell is that fucker? I’m going to kill him.”

Nigel appeared from the shadows. There was blood dripping down his face. “I’m here, princess, and guess what? This time you get to watch.”

Damien strained against his ropes, unable to see what was happening as Nigel raced past him. He heard the monster taunting the girls, and them crying out in fear, but with his back to the fire place and sofa, he could see nothing more

Damien struggled at the ropes around his wrists. Come on, come on. Need to put a stop to this before it gets nasty.

The ropes were tight. So tight that the skin around Damien’s wrists was abraded and sore. Still, he began sawing his arms back and forth, trying to create enough slack that he could slip him free.

A wet slapping sound.

Damien flinched as a body fell down in front of him.

Steph lay crumpled on the floor, dazed and barely conscious, blood seeping from a wound on the bridge of her nose. She murmured something to Damien, but it passed him by. It sounded like the word ‘poker’.

Damien continued rubbing his wrists back and forth, feeling the ropes loosen a couple of millimetres.

Yes, come on. Come one!

At his feet, Damien could feel Steph squirming on the floor, slowly moving past his legs. At first he thought she was making a run for it, but a tugging sensation at his wrists made him realise she was trying to untie him.

The ropes began to loosen.

With the extra slack Damien shifted in his seat and blinked while his eyes adjusted to the scene in front of him. Nigel had Jess pinned up against the wall beside the fire, struggling back and forth as the girl held onto his wrists and did her best to keep his hands away from her. She was putting up more of a fight than Nigel had obviously expected, if his frustrated grunts were anything to go by. Damien almost smiled as he watched Jess spit and bite at Nigel’s face, doing everything she could to defend herself.

Girl was a fighter for sure.

Damien felt the ropes fall away from his wrists. A jolt shot from his knees and spread through his entire body as he leapt out of the chair. He threw himself at Nigel, landing hard against the man’s broad back. It felt like hitting a brick wall, but the blow was enough to send Nigel face first into the wall. Unfortunately, Jess was in the way and got squashed. The air exploded from her lungs in a great ‘Oooomph!’ as she fell to the floor like a puppet without strings.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Damien swung his fist.

And missed.

Nigel ducked and countered with a punch of his own. His large, meaty fist connected with Damien’s ribcage with an echoing thud! The air surged out of Damien like a whistle on a steam train; a drawn-out, strangled wheeze that seemed to go on forever. He fell to his knees in agony.

Nigel stomped towards him like a greasy-haired rhino, grunting and snorting. There was still too little air in Damien’s winded lungs to launch a defence, and he was about to resign himself to defeat when he spotted something.

The fire poker, lying on the carpet next to his feet.

Damien snatched the poker and held it in front of him. It seemed to glow in the soft light of the fire like a gift from the gods. It was salvation; a tool to knock Nigel back to the hell he came from.

Damien rose up, swinging the poker up and over his head.

The clanging sound of solid iron hitting Nigel’s skull was the most beautiful thing Damien had ever heard. It was music.

Head banging music.

Nigel staggered backwards, half-conscious already and legs wobbling like those of a flailing boxer. Damien watched the whites of the man’s eyes roll back in his head. Nigel stumbled in a daze, before losing his legs completely and falling backwards. He landed right in the open fire.

With an agonising scream, Nigel’s eyes rolled back into their normal position as agony forced his mind back into focus. The top of his head lay in the flames, as if the burning wood inside were a pillow. Immediately his skin blistered and his hair smoked. Like a greyhound out of the starting gates, Nigel leapt upwards, screaming in both pain and fury. The fire was only embers now and that was the only reason Nigel hadn’t been roasted alive. The whole thing happened so quickly that Damien couldn’t think fast enough to react to Nigel’s hurtling back towards him.

When the knife slid through Damien’s ribs, it felt like a bee sting.

Then the pain became unbearable.

* * *

“What in the hell is happening tonight? I mean FUCK! Fuck fuck fuck.” Harry felt like he was going to explode. He’d just watched a teenaged boy get ripped to shreds like minced beef. This on a night where the world was being consumed by a never-ending snow storm and demons stalked the streets. On top of everything, it all seemed to have something to do with him. Harry was ‘the sinner’.

“Seriously, can anybody tell me what is going on? I just watched Jerry get ripped apart by God-knows what, and now we’re trapped in a pitch-black supermarket surrounded by a bunch of homicidal monks.”

“I don’t think they’re monks,” said Kath.

“No shit!”

Lucas ambled over to the fire exit and looked out into the snow. There was movement outside, but for now the creatures outside seemed to be staying away. “I think it would be shrewd if we thought a wee bit less about what those things are out there and a mite more about how to get back to the pub with what we came for. The others need us.”

Harry let air flow slowly from his lips, trying to calm his beating heart. It didn’t work and only left him feeling more anxious. “We’re fucked, do you know that?”

Lucas nodded. “Aye, but better to take a shagging standing up than to bend over and take it.”

The remark brought silence.

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve obviously spent some time in prison, right?”

Lucas grinned. “You could say that, Harry Boy, and you wouldn’t be too far from the truth.”

“Okay,” said Kath. “Can we just do what we’re here to do? It’s even colder here than it was outside.”

Harry nodded and started moving. “Okay. Let’s get the coal, painkillers, and some food. Anything we need to take back, let’s get it all piled up over here.”

Kath and Lucas nodded and got to work. Before Lucas ran off into the darkness he saluted Harry and said, “Right away, Major Jobson.”

It was then that Harry realised something important; something he’d overlooked earlier, not once but twice. He’d never told Lucas his surname, or anybody else, so how did the man know it?

Harry looked over at Lucas and wondered if he’d been played from the beginning. Lucas knew more about Harry then he’d let on. But how?

And why?

30

Jess finally managed to take a breath but it only made her nauseous. She’d watched helplessly as a badly-burned Nigel slid a knife into Damien’s stomach, and she was powerless now to intervene as Nigel heaved Steph’s groggy body onto a chair.

She scanned the floor for a weapon, looking for a solution, but the only thing she could see was the trusty fire poker, several feet away and out of reach. It lay near where Damien writhed on the floor, gritting his teeth against his pain. He’d tried to save her.

Jess need to reach the poker without being seen by Nigel. Even worse, she had to do it in such awful cold that her body had begun to shiver and spasm.

She would just love for Jerry and the others to come barging through the door right now and save her from this wretched nightmare. But, if tonight had taught her anything, it was not to hope for the best because things had a habit of just getting worse.

Jess started to move, crawling along awkwardly on her numb hands and trembling knees. She shivered constantly. The chill was bad enough that even the fibres of the carpet had begun to freeze. They were sharp and brittle like tiny needles digging into her palms.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” Nigel said as he shook Steph by the shoulders. “I want you to be awake for this. No fun if you sleep through all the good stuff.”

Steph opened her eyes suddenly. She spat at Nigel. “Screw you!” But as soon as it arrived, the fight seemed to leave Steph. She was obviously too bruised and broken to keep it up. Nigel slapped her so hard, the sound bounced off the walls.

Jess stayed down in the shadows and winced. She continued crawling for the poker, just a few feet away now.

Nigel slapped Steph again, this time a backhand. “Spitting is very unladylike,” he shouted, “and anything unbecoming a lady will not be tolerated. If I wanted a bloke for entertainment then I would have tied Damien back up in the chair. Speaking of which, how are you big man?” Nigel turned to Damien who was still moaning on the floor. “Not such a hard man now, huh?” He took a run up and booted Damien in the chest, making him explode with fresh agony and gasp for air. Jess winced again, glad she wasn’t on the receiving end.

She carried on shuffling towards the poker. It was nearly at arm’s length now.

Almost there.

Almost…

Jess cried out as a heavy work shoe crunched down on her hand. She knew right away that she’d been too slow and that she would most likely pay for it with her life. Nigel twisted his heel and pushed down harder, cracking and bruising the delicate bones in Jess’ hand. She wailed in agony and struggled to get free.

Nigel laughed sadistically.

Jess’s screams increased as a rough hand tangled itself into her hair and yanked. The pressure on her hand was released as she was violently hoisted to her feet. She found herself face to face with Nigel. She tried to pull away.

“Not so fast, sweetheart. Now that Steph is nice and comfortable, you and me have some time on our hands.”

Jess fought to twist herself free, but it was like being held in a vice. “The others will be back at any minute,” she warned him. “You’re going to get your arse kicked, you sicko.”

Nigel smiled. “By who? Harry, the alcoholic? Jerry, the loser? Or Lucas, the thick Mick? I don’t think so, sweetheart. They’re probably already dead, and if not then I’ll see to them later.”

The thought of Nigel killing the others filled Jess with rage. She decided to take a leaf out of Steph’s book and spat. Nigel flinched as the saliva hit his cheek and she used this opportunity to try and get free, driving her knee up as hard as she could toward Nigel’s groin. The blow missed the intended target but still managed to plant firmly in his mid-section. He staggered backwards, releasing her, as the air escaped from his lungs.

Jess made a grab for the poker, diving to the floor and reaching out with her hand. Her fingers closed around the metal and her heart skipped a beat as she realised she’d actually succeeded in getting the weapon. Now she just had to use it.

Jess leapt to her feet, poker in hand, ready to let Nigel have it.

But Nigel was gone.

Jess did a double take of the room. She knew Nigel was hiding somewhere, waiting to pounce. But from where? With the poker held out in front of her, she took a tentative step forward, expecting an attack to come at any moment. Her nerves were tattered and frayed by the constant jolts of fear. Moving past the sofa, she prepared to swing with all her might, sure that Nigel would jump out at her any second. She moved carefully, watchfully, deciding that the most effective hiding place for a killer would be behind the bar. There was only one entrance to the area behind it so, if she was quick enough, she could take Nigel out before he could manage to do anything to her. Jess slowed her pace, not relishing an encounter that was life or death.

The bar loomed closer, lit by a collection of dwindling candles. The struggling light shone on the liqueur bottles that lined the shelves, making them look like rows upon rows of crocodile teeth. The final few steps were nerve-wracking. Deep breaths, Jess. You’re ready for him. Armed and ready. Jess squeezed the poker in her right hand. Okay, here goes.

She took the final steps towards the bar and quickly sidestepped to see behind it. As she suspected, Nigel was crouched and waiting for her. What she hadn’t expected was how quick the big man would be – and how much it would hurt having a vodka bottle smashed over her head.

Jess felt the blood cascade from the top of her head in an instant. It ran into her eyes and into her mouth. She teetered backwards, legs folding as she hit the floor. Her ears picked up the heavy clunk of the poker skittering across the floor. Nigel was on her like a shot, pinning her arms down with his knees and straddling her chest. Held to her throat was the broken remnants of the Vodka bottle.

“Time to die, bitch.”

“See you in hell, you small prick mummy’s boy!”

The comment seemed to hurt Nigel and Jess started to laugh. Right now, the over-sized, sexual predator looked like an insecure little boy and she would take that satisfying image to her grave happily. Even as the jagged bottle descended towards her throat, Jess continued to cackle out loud, closing her eyes and waiting for it all to be over.

Jess had expected pain, but instead was jolted by a heavy force hitting her. She opened her eyes tentatively, and at first could not understand what had happened. Nigel had collapsed forward. Her face now buried in his fat belly. She punched and prodded at his lumpy body, trying to shove it off of her, but it wouldn’t budge. Nigel was unconscious.

What the hell had happened?

Jess finally managed to slump Nigel over to one side and slide out from underneath him. She still didn’t understand what happened, not until she saw…

“Peter! You’re okay?”

Her friend was standing over her, gripping a thick length of firewood which dripped gobbets of blood onto the floor. He smiled at her, although his ruined face made the expression look ghoulish and grim. He released the length of wood and dropped to his knees. From the floor he spoke to her. “You okay…Jess?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thanks to you, that is.”

Peter nodded and his smile widened. Then he lost consciousness, pitching forward and hitting the floor. Jess felt like doing the same.

31

When Harry found a pile of children’s sledges, he thought that things were looking up, but only a little. Sure it would make getting the coal and other supplies back to the pub easier, but it didn’t change the fact that the supermarket was surrounded by monsters. To make matters worse, Harry had realised that Lucas was not who he said he was, but he decided to complete the task at hand before he confronted the man. Between the three of them they had managed to pile up more than enough coal to keep the pub fires going for a week, along with a bag full of over-the-counter painkillers. They’d even found a couple of torches and two dozen packets of batteries. Now that they were done and ready to leave, Harry was ready to confront Lucas about the secrets he was keeping.

“Lucas?”

“Yes, Harry Boy?”

“How do you know my surname?”

Lucas turned to Harry, confusion on his face. “What’s that now?”

“I said how do you know my surname? I didn’t tell you.”

Kath huffed. “Do we really have time for this, Harry? We need to get going.”

Lucas shrugged. “I didn’t realise it was such a secret, fella.”

“It’s not,” Harry admitted, “but I never told it to you.”

“The demon monks outside said it, didn’t they? They said, HARRY JOBSON YOU ARE THE SINNER. Or something like that.”

Harry thought for a moment. “No, Lucas, you knew before. You called me Major Jobson earlier at the pub.”

Kath looked pissed off, but at the same time seemed interested also. It appeared she wanted to see what Lucas’s answer would be.

But he gave none.

Harry took a quick breath, trying to stay calm. “Lucas, I asked you a question. Answer it, please.”

“Do you really want to do this now, Harry Boy?”

Harry’s stomach churned as he wondered whether he really did want to do this now. He had no idea who Lucas was, what he was planning, or what he was capable of.

Harry swallowed. “Yeah, I want to do this right now. Who the hell are you and how do you know me?”

Lucas walked over to the cash register and hopped up onto the desk. He took a long, deep breath. “Who I am is something we really don’t have time to get into right now, but how I know you is a little easier to explain.”

“Get started then,” Harry demanded.

Lucas shrugged. “I know you, Harry Jobson, because you’re the sinner. Same reason them outside know you – who, might I add, have nothing to do with me.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Not really, but you have my word, for what it’s worth. What happened tonight was going to happen whether I turned up or not.”

Kath stepped towards Lucas. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

Lucas looked tired of the questions already, but he still gave answers, despite sounding like he was doing them a favour. “Both are questions we don’t have time for. All I can say is that the fellas outside came for Harry. Does the ‘what’ or the ‘why’ really matter?”

“It fucking does to me,” said Harry. It felt like his stomach was going to burst open and spill his organs onto the floor. The scar on the back of his hand throbbed. It always did when he was losing control. It reminded him to keep his temper. “Why me? Why do they want me?”

“B’Jaysus, we’re going around in circles here, man. Because you’re the sinner.”

Kath shook her head. “Why is Harry ‘the sinner’?”

Harry sighed. “Because I murdered a man.”

Lucas acted as though he knew it all along – perhaps he did – but Kath recoiled in horror.

“Calm down, lass,” Lucas told her. “I’m sure he’s not intending to kill you.” He looked at Harry. “Are you?”

“No, of course not! The man I killed destroyed my life. It was revenge. There’re far worse people in the world than me,”

“I agree,” said Lucas. “In the grand scale of things, you’re pretty low down on the sin scale, but murder is murder.”

“But why did my sin cause all this? If that’s what you’re suggesting?” Harry felt dizzy. This morning he’d woken up expecting the day to end in a drunken stupor just like the 365 days preceding it. He’d never expected it to end like this.

Lucas stared at Harry intensely. His blue eyes seemed to light the darkness around him. “Because yours was the final sin. The sin what tipped the scales.”

Harry was about to demand what the hell that meant, but before he could grab Lucas around the throat and force him to speak sense, the doors blew inwards. Not a gust of wind swinging them open, but a concussive force that ripped them from their hinges and flung them across the room. The wind and snow flew in through the gap like the breath of a dragon.

Harry grabbed Lucas by the arm. “What the hell is happening?”

Lucas had to shout to be heard above the howling wind. “They’re coming to get you, Harry.”

Something didn’t make sense. “But we were safe inside the pub, they left us alone. Why?”

“They couldn’t enter the pub, but they can get at you in here. Don’t worry, though. I’m going to help you out.”

“I’m listening.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Go and get all of the skin mags.”

“What?” Kath joined them over at the cash desk. The wind had blown her dark hair into a freakish mess of tangles. “This is no time for perversions.”

“Just go and get all the smutty magazines,” Lucas reiterated. “You’ll see why.”

The monsters would be inside any minute. Harry almost slipped on a Gardening Annual as he raced over to the magazine display. On the top shelf was a long row of bikini clad women stacked three deep. Harry saw little choice but to do what Lucas had asked. He grabbed a copy of Nipples, then quickly gathered up several more rags of ill-repute, clutching the pile to his chest.

“Set the pornos down on the counter, fella,” Lucas yelled, “and pass me that broom.”

Harry did as asked. “Okay, now what?”

Lucas took the broom and placed it on the counter along with the pile of magazines. He began tearing out the pages, piling up shiny images of naked men and women.

Kath had her hands on her hips. “What are you doing? We need to hurry. I can hear them out there. They’ll be in any second.”

Lucas ignored her and continued tearing pages. Eventually he stopped and grabbed a roll of Sellotape from a display. To everyone’s confusion, he then began to wrap the broom with the naked pictures before fastening them with tape.

Harry couldn’t take it anymore. “Okay, Lucas, I’m all for arts and crafts, but how is this helping?”

Lucas shoved the porn-wrapped broom into Harry arms. “You’ll see. Right, that sorts out the choir. Now something for their lapdogs.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “The choir?”

“Aye, the choir. Somebody get me some salt.”

“Salt?” said Kath.

“It’ll deal with the growly fellas, trust me. Stop asking questions and get me some.”

Kath returned ten seconds later with a plastic tube of salt. She tried to offer it to Lucas, but he told her to keep it. “You’ll know what to do when the time comes,” was all he would tell her.

The sound of howling wind merged with the sound of growling.

Harry clutched the broom tightly. “Let’s just get out of here while there’s still chance.”

“Too late.” Lucas pointed over to the doorway as one of the hell hounds padded inside. Its ears flattened against its skull as it stalked towards them, snarling.

“What should I do?” Kath was holding the salt tube in front of her with a shaking hand.

“Give us a pinch,” said Lucas. He offered his open palm and waited while Kath sprinkled a pile of salt into his hand. Then he closed his fist and strolled, almost casually, towards the snarling hell hound.

The beast lowered his head, its rippling muscles tensing. Lucas carried on approaching.

Harry swallowed in anticipation. Insane. The man’s insane.

Lucas glanced back at them and nodded, as if to say ‘watch this’, then he flicked the salt from his hands, letting loose an arching stream of granules.

The beast howled like a beaten puppy.

The smell of burning filled the air, like sausages on a barbeque, along with something else...

Eggs?

No, something else.

It was sulphur.

The hound bolted, turning and running back out into the snow. It left behind a cloying puddle of dissolving flesh, sizzling like bacon on the grill.

“Now we can go,” said Lucas. “We have a window.”

“What about the choir?” Harry asked.

“That’s what the broom is for. Make sure you use it when the time is right.”

“And how do I know when that is?”

“It’ll be when something starts trying to kill you.”

“Okay,” said Harry, looking out into the freezing dark night. “Let’s do this.”

32

Jess held Peter in her arms, amazed he was awake. Steph was looking after Damien, who was doing okay, considering he’d been stabbed. The blade had lodged between his ribs but hadn’t gone in more than an inch or so. Damien said it hurt like hell but that he’d be okay. He was acting too macho to let anyone take a closer look, but he had bled an awful lot to begin with. Still, he was up and about.

Nigel was out cold in the middle of the floor. They would tie him up once they’d caught their breath. For the time being she, Steph, and Damien were ready to beat him down if he dared make the slightest move. Damien was currently standing over him with the fire poker in hand.

After having saved her and losing consciousness, Peter had eventually stirred back awake, semi-lucid again. Lying across Jess’s lap, his body-warmth pulsed through her clothing. He was burning up badly and she worried about his temperature being high.

“Did the bad man…hurt you…Jessica?”

“No, Peter. You saved me. You’re my hero.”

Peter smiled a grim, broken-toothed smile. “I am…sorry I let you go out alone. I…looked for you.”

“I know you did. It wasn’t your fault. No one could know what was going to happen tonight. I think it’s the end of the world. Nobody is saying it, but I don’t think the snow is going to ever stop.”

Peter closed his eyes for a few seconds and Jess worried that he would not open them again. His breathing was uneven and shallow. Jess shook him gently. “Peter, are you okay?”

He opened his eyes again. “I am…fine. The world is not ending, Jessica.”

“No?”

“No. As long as there are still beautiful things, we will be…okay.” He was looking at Jess and she realised that he meant her. “Can I…ask you…something?”

“Yes,” said Jess. “Of course you can.”

“Can I…kiss you?”

Jess was taken aback. After all Peter had been through tonight, the only thing he wanted was a kiss. And from me? Had he had feelings for her before all of this? Or was he just delirious?

“Yes, Peter,” she said, “you can kiss me.”

She leant forward but then stopped.

“Peter?”

Jess looked down at her friend and realised that he was dead. She leant down the rest of the way and placed her lips against his soft, delicate mouth. “Goodbye,” she said.

Damien noticed her tears and came over and asked if she was alright.

Steph was the one who noticed Peter lying dead on the floor. She shook her head solemnly. “I’m sorry.”

Jess nodded. “It’s okay. At least I got to say goodbye…in a way.”

Steph sighed. “Can we do anything?”

“No it’s…Shit, Nigel’s up.”

Nigel leapt from the chair, staggering about like a wounded animal. His skin was blackened, making him look like some nightmarish monster as he headed for the door.

“He’s trying to do one,” said Damien.

“Let him,” Jess said. “He can go outside and freeze.”

Nigel barged past the sofa and headed for the door. Then he was gone, disappearing into the night. Jess prayed never to see him again.

Jess snarled. “Good riddance!”

Steph put an arm around Jess. “Come on, sweetheart. We should get ourselves downstairs in front of the fire. The fire here’s about to go out and that broken window is going to freeze us to stone. Old Graham will be wondering what’s going on. I’m surprised we haven’t heard him shouting.”

“Probably still passed out drunk,” said Damien in a laboured voice.

“We’d best get down there,” Jess said. She took two steps when Damien doubled over against the bar, taking in long, laboured breaths.

“You’re still bleeding?” Jess said, spotting the blood dripping on the floor.

Damien waved a hand dismissively and Jess saw that it was soaked with blood. “Just a flesh wound,” he said and then laughed. “I always wanted to say that.”

“It’s not a joke, Damien. Are you okay?”

“I’ll live.”

Steph didn’t seem convinced. Jess wasn’t either, but what could they do? Jess suspected the wound was worse than Damien was letting on. “Let’s go downstairs,” she said finally, deciding there was nothing she could do.

They gathered candles from the bar and entered the rear corridor. The air seemed no warmer there, even though it had been filled with a warm air current flowing up from the stairs for most of the night. Now it felt as cold as the rest of the pub.

Steph led the way down. They reached the bottom and darkness greeted them. Both the fire and the room’s candles had gone out. Steph quickly re-lit them with her lighter.

Old Graham’s body shone into view. Even in the poor light, the waxy blue tinge that travelled the lines of the old man’s face were clearly visible. His eyes were dull like stones.

Steph fell to her knees, dropping her candle on the cement floor where it quickly extinguished. In the darkness, Jess and Damien had no choice but to listen to her scream.

* * *

Outside it was as Harry had feared. They were surrounded. In all directions, the robed figures loomed over them, standing motionless, shoulder to shoulder, a towering wall of bodies. Their hounds sat in front of them obediently.

“What do we do?” asked Harry.

Lucas shoved him forward. “Just swing at the first bastard that gets near. Kath and I will handle the mutts.”

Harry willed his legs to take him forward. After several false starts, he got going. The monsters remained in place but watched him with great interest. He felt like a lowly ant beneath their stares. A low growl emanated from the hounds but they made no attempts to attack, held at heel by their robed masters.

Did Lucas really expect to take on this army with only a broom and a salt shaker? They were going to die; any other outcome seemed impossible. Still, Harry wasn’t going down without a fight. If they wanted him, they would have to take him, kicking and screaming.

Once Harry was within a dozen metres of the robed figures, the hounds at their feet became agitated, their hackles rising as they paced back and forth.

Harry glanced back at Kath. “Ready with the salt?”

Her face was as white as the snow, but she nodded.

“Bring it on,” said Lucas. He grabbed a handful of salt from Kath’s shaker and flung it into the air. The granules caught on the wind and dispersed in a thousand directions, disappearing into the blizzard.

Nothing happened.

Then the hell hounds squealed. Their skin smoked and burned, sloughing off into the snow. They hustled backwards, colliding with their robed masters, before fleeing completely into the night.

“Your turn, Harry,” said Lucas. “You need to take on the big fellas.”

Harry raised the broom like a pike. Images of naked men and women fluttered in his eye line, making him think again about how absurd this was.

The robed figure stood like giant monoliths. When one of them finally made a move, Harry’s bowels almost loosed. The very air itself seemed to shake.

The tallest of the robed figures – almost ten feet tall – approached Harry and held out a hand. Curiously, Harry noted the creature’s outstretched arm was human, yet twisted and bird-like. It pointed a finger at Lucas and hissed. “WORMWOOD.”

Lucas was grinning ear-to-ear, but not out of good nature. The expression was more of a malignant grimace. “How you doing there, Mickey? Been a while?”

Kath’s eyes went unnaturally wide. “Y-You know this…this thing?”

“Aye. We go back a ways. It’s complicated.”

“It always is with you,” said Harry.

“Now would be a good time to sweep up the trash, if you get my meaning.”

Harry looked at the broom in his hands and took a gulp of air. Here goes nothing. He stabbed the broom forwards like a lance, aiming for the robed figure’s torso. The blow got nowhere near and that seemed impossible. Harry’s target had dodged aside with an unearthly blur of speed; a glowing wisp of light that didn’t actually seem to move so much as simply disappear and reappear somewhere else.

Harry cursed out loud. “Damn it! I missed.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Lucas. “Get your bloody arse moving!”

Harry realised that his attack had left a gap in the wall of bodies. The three of them hurried, stumbling through the deep snow, clawing themselves along. Before leaving, Harry had filled his pockets with lumps of coal, and he wished he could toss them aside, but he could not.

Despite their earlier lack of movement, the robed figures gave chase. They screeched and wailed as they drifted through the snow. Harry swung out with his broom as one drew closer. Like its friend, it blinked out of existence and reappeared somewhere else.

“What the hell are they, Lucas?”

Lucas looked back at Harry and smiled. “They’re angels, Harry Boy.”

“Angels?”

“Aye, Angels, with great feathery wings, but now’s not the time. Keep on moving.”

The three of them continued making their way through the snow. The ‘Angels’ continued to screech and wail but they kept a distance. They seemed in little hurry to catch up.

“Something’s up ahead,” said Kath.

Harry saw the shadow looming ahead. “Ready with the salt?”

“Yes. Ready with the broom?”

They slowed down as the shadow became clearer. It was a person, heading towards them quickly.

Kath stated the obvious. “It’s coming right at us.”

“I think it’s…a person.”

“Nigel!” Kath shouted the word gleefully. “Are we glad to see you!”

Nigel staggered through the snow, huffing and puffing and wheezing. The man had dried blood on his clothes and terrible burns on the left side of his face.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked him. “You’re hurt.”

Nigel acted feral, like an injured fox. His words were erratic and slurred. “Fwine! I’m fwine. Jush hash an asshident.”

Lucas stepped forward and placed a hand on Nigel’s shoulder. “You don’t look fine to me, fella. In fact, you look and sound worse than a chorus of drunks. What have you been up to, lad?”

Nigel lashed out, shrugging free of Lucas’s grasp. “Get sh’fuck offsh me.”

Harry didn’t like the way Nigel was acting. “What happened to you? Is Steph okay?” Nigel’s face scrunched up in a snarl at the very mention of her name. Harry spotted the bloody knife in the man’s hand. “What did you do? Did you hurt her?”

Nigel raised the knife towards Harry.

Lucas made a gesture for calm “Whoa, whoa, there, fella. We just want to know the lass is safe. Is Steph okay?”

Nigel spat blood into the snow. “You tell that bitch I’ll be back to finish what I started. I’ll slice her fucking fingers off one by one and add them to my collection. I’ll hang them from the rear view mirror of my lorry. You think she’s the first bitch to fight back. I’ve killed a hundred whores just like her.”

Harry snarled. He made a move towards Nigel, but Lucas stopped him. “No need, Harry Boy. Look!”

Beyond Nigel, the shadows seemed to come alive and cut through the snow. Nigel backed away, unaware that he was heading directly towards them. The shadows enveloped him, coming at him from both sides. He flinched at the sight of the hell hounds and tried to move away, but by then it was too late.

Nigel swiped impotently with his bloody flick knife. He took a chunk of flesh from one hound, but failed to keep away the other dozen that fell upon him.

It was hard to see past the writhing mass of matted fur, but Harry saw Nigel’s intestines being fought over in a macabre tug of war. Once the grim satisfaction of seeing Nigel get what he deserved faded, he felt only sick.

Harry turned away and continued on into the snow, back towards The Trumpet.

Back towards Steph.

33

Jess felt no warmer. Damien had managed to get the cellar fire going again, but it wouldn’t burn for long. Steph was confident that Harry would return soon, but the truth was there was no way of knowing. Now the three of them lay shivering beneath a dozen sheets and blankets, trying to hold on to as much warmth as possible.

“Poor Old Graham,” said Steph, still upset but past the worse of it now that she’d had time to calm down. She’d wailed for almost twenty minutes and Jess knew that Steph felt responsible for leaving the old guy alone. The truth was that Nigel was the one to blame.

Pervert. Hope he’s frozen to death out there or being eaten alive by one of those monsters.

Jess thought about the things she’d seen with Jerry and found it hard to imagine them clearly now. With the hours that had passed, it all felt like some weird hallucination. Monsters in the snow surely did not exist, but she couldn’t deny the death and bloodshed she’d witnessed. Ben. Peter. Old Graham. They were all good guys. She prayed that the others would make it back safely. She’d do anything, right now, to sit and listen to Jerry’s inane film references.

She decided to turn her mind to the present. “How long have you known Old Graham?” she asked Steph.

Steph let out a huff that was almost a laugh. “Whole time I’ve worked here. Eighteen months, I guess. He could bore you to death something awful, but he didn’t have a bad bone in his body. Complained a lot, but never about anyone or anything in particular. I think he was lonely. He just wanted to be around people.”

“Least he lived a long life,” Damien chimed in, his voice jittery from the chill that affected everyone’s lungs.

“He didn’t deserve to go like this though. He survived a war and this is how he dies?”

“I think he went the way he would have liked,” Jess pondered. “Drunk as a skunk and the centre of attention.”

Steph and Damien both chuckled. The sound was jittery as they fought to control their shivering. Jess too was beginning to shake.

“S-so, Damien,” Jess moved on, “are you really as much of a b-bastard as you like to make people think?”

Damien was silent for a moment, but eventually answered. “Who says I want people to think that?”

“J-Just the impression you give off. It confuses me though because, after tonight, I’m starting to think you’re not s-s-so bad.”

Damien cleared his throat. “You reckon?”

“I actually think you might be a nice guy under the hard man act. You just don’t want people to know it.”

“I agree,” said Steph. “I’ve seen a different side of you tonight.”

Damien was silent again. Jess could feel him rustling beneath the duvet. When he finally spoke up, he sounded as tired as he did cold. “M-Maybe the reason I’m not a nice guy is because p-people think bad of me no matter w-what I do.”

Jess frowned. “But you make people think like that. You choose to make people think you’re a t-t-thug.”

Damien laughed. “You think I…made people see me this…this way? I h-had no chance of ever being anything other than a t-thug.”

Jess sighed. “Is this the part where you say your daddy never hugged you enough?”

“No. This is the p-part where I tell you my dad had me selling drugs for him at e-eight years old. No one would ever expect a kid, huh? Or how about how my dad put a lad in a coma a couple years b-back and m-m-made me take credit for it around the…the local estate. You’re right, my dad never hugged me, because that’s not what monsters like him do.”

“Are you s-s-shitting me?” Steph asked.

“No, Steph. I’m not shitting you. Truth is, the day he was sent down I was glad. Thought it would s-set me f-free from his fu-fu-fucked-up demands. B-B-But I was just wishing on a fucking star. He calls me at least once a day, making sure I’m running his empire for him till he g-gets back.”

“You can’t blame everything on your dad,” Jess told him. “I s-saw you cause enough trouble to see that you enjoyed being the big man.”

“Of course I did. The only l-love and respect I got was from the boys I hung with. If people on t-the estate don’t f-fear me then I’m nothing. I’m alone with nothing.”

“Why didn’t you get out?” asked Steph. “You could have done something, I’m s-sure.”

Damien was quiet once more, but the sound of his breathing was heavy and distinct, laboured. “I was getting out tonight. I had a bunch of m-money stashed and I was going to st-stay with an old girlfriend in Edinburgh. I just had one last thing to do tonight and then I was out of here.”

“One last thing?” asked Steph.

“Warn someone.”

“Who?”

“The guy who gave evidence on my old man and sent him down. Took over a year but the boys finally managed to find out who it was. I was supposed to kill the guy tonight; take him outside and stick a knife in him. Guess my dad was beginning t-to d-d-doubt my loyalty.”

“Jesus,” said Jess, not believing her ears. “You weren’t going to do it though, w-were you?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.” Damien raised his voice and it seemed to cause him pain. “I was…going to warn him…tell him to get the hell out of…town. Soon as the snow stopped…I was going to get on a train and never come back. Maybe even do something with my life.”

No one spoke for a while. It was a revelation, and not one Jess had expected. She felt sad that Damien might not get the chance to fulfil his plans for atonement. She closed her eyes, feeling more tired than she’d ever felt in her life. The cold was no longer bothering her as much as it had. In fact, she was starting to feel numb. Maybe she could finally rest for a while.

So tired...

* * *

Harry wasn’t sure how much further his aching legs would take him. He didn’t know whether the pub was two yards away or two thousand. All he could see was snow. His feet were like blocks of ice and it felt like he was walking on nerveless stumps. Kath was suffering too. She hadn’t spoken since they’d watched Nigel die. Lucas, however, seemed perfectly fine and entirely unaffected by the cold.

Was the man any more human than the robed figures?

Harry needed to know more. “If those giants are Angels, what are the dogs with them?”

Lucas continued looking forward as he walked, but answered the question promptly. “Hell Hounds.”

Harry scratched his chin. “But don’t Angels come from Heaven?”

“Aye, they do, Harry Boy, but Angels have dominion over Heaven and Earth, and also Hell in certain circumstances.”

Harry felt himself confused already. “Circumstances such as what?”

“You know, family reunions, birthdays, The Apocalypse.”

Harry spluttered. “The Apocalypse?”

“Aye, you know, Armageddon and all that, but it’s not as dramatic as you might think. There’re no horsemen, none of that fire and brimstone nonsense. The old man upstairs likes to do things a bit more efficiently. Biblical floods and such are more His style.”

“Or biblical snow storms,” Kath added glumly.

Lucas smiled. “Indeed, lass.”

Harry was trying to follow, but things still didn’t add up in his mind. If this really was the end of the world, and God intended to simply freeze the world to death, then why did he need…?

“The angels,” said Harry. “Why are they here?”

“Call them overseers if you will. God can’t just make the snow fall unendingly without having a presence on Earth. He needs vessels to channel his power – conduits. That’s why the Angels have come down here, to exercise His will on Earth.”

Harry nodded, an idea forming in his head. “So if we take out the angels, we can stop this?”

Lucas laughed, loud and hearty. “Do you know how many of them there are? We’re talking tens of thousands, and they don’t play nice. You can’t kill an angel anyway.”

Harry sagged. “I still don’t understand why they are doing this. It can’t be because of me?”

“I already told you, Harry Boy, it’s not just because of you, strictly speaking. It’s because of everyone, really. God gave Noah a second chance, but that’s all the big man had in his pocket of goodwill. He vowed that if the human race threw it in His face again then there would be no more forgiveness. But that’s what you all went and did anyway, with your sinful ways and what not. Fucking, murdering, raping, stealing, cheating, Facebook. You name it, you people have over indulged in it. Over time, you all tipped the scales way past the point of no return.”

“But not everyone is like that. And even if I believed what you’re saying, why doesn’t God just punish the bad?”

Kath sighed. “Because there were probably too few to make it worthwhile.”

Lucas nodded. “There are a few decent souls, admittedly, and He took that into consideration, which is why He allowed man to pass judgement on man.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that He decided to judge mankind by its own values. Harry, after your wife and son were killed you made that choice for everyone, with your actions.”

Harry ground his teeth. “I had no choice. The guy had already lost his license for drink driving, but got behind the wheel again anyway. He was a lousy, fucking drunk and could’ve mowed down a dozen more children before he killed my son. He was an alcoholic. No good to anyone.”

“Sounds like you, Harry,” said Kath.

Harry snarled, but what was the use in arguing? “Maybe it is like me,” he conceded. “But what would you have done after losing your family to a man like me?”

“That’s the point,” said Lucas. “You had a choice. Did you get on with your life and make the memory of your family proud, or did you give in to sin? Did you know that the reason Thomas was a drunk was because he also lost a son? Kid died in the first days of the Afghanistan mess. Thomas was just like you, Harry. Ironic, no? Have you really behaved any differently to him?”

“No,” said Harry. “But I never drove drunk. I never let my problems endanger anybody else.”

“No, you just got hammered one night and murdered the fella. Understandable, I guess, but definitely not the right path. God decided to judge humanity by your actions, and your choice was vengeance. Now vengeance has been reaped upon you all. You committed man’s final sin – the last one that counted anyway – and you picked a gem: Thou shall not kill.”

Harry thought about the night he’d murdered Thomas Morris. The night he crept into the hospital ward where he’d been admitted for a simple hernia operation. Harry knew all about it thanks to the local newspaper: Birmingham car killer hospitalised on private ward.

Getting past the lone prison guard turned out to be easy. It wasn’t as if they were going to place a highly-paid special detachment outside the door. It was just one guard, who obviously didn’t want to be stuck at a hospital at 3:00AM on a Friday night. Harry walked right by him and entered Thomas’s room as soon as the coast was clear.

Thomas Morris had been in a deep sleep. Even after Harry shoved the plastic bag over his head.

It took several moments for him to wake up and realise what was happening. The last thing the man saw through plastic smothering his face was Harry’s maniacal grin as he suffocated the life out of him.

Once it had all been over, Harry vomited in the en suite, then hurried out of the room. As he fled down the corridor, he snagged the back of his hand on the sharp edge of an unused trolley bed in the corridor. Blood had gone everywhere. A nurse in a nearby ward had sat him down and stitched the wound for him, remarking on how much it resembled the shape of a star. Harry had been silent the entire time, staring into space like a zombie.

Somehow he managed to walk out of the hospital without incident. He’d just killed a man and no one noticed a thing.

Harry went home and drank for seven days straight. Later he sold his furniture business, as well as his house and car. The sales left him with just over half-a-million-pounds with which to drink himself to death.

A year later, he was responsible for the extinction of mankind.

“Bullshit!” he said finally. “This is bullshit.”

Lucas put his hands up. “Hey, I don’t disagree, fella. I don’t want the world to end any more than you do. I like it here. I like crispy duck pancakes and ice cream sundaes. I like Manchester Utd and Strictly Come Dancing. I like a lot of stuff down here, but it’s not my call. And it’s not yours.”

“There’s nothing we can do?” Kath pleaded.

Lucas shook his head. “Unless you can convince the big man to change his mind – but I don’t think he’s listening. You can hold the choir off for a while with objects of depravity like the porno mags. Same reason they can’t enter the pub: it’s a den of iniquity and they can’t set their holy toes in it.”

“How do you know so much?” Harry demanded. The snow was sapping his strength and he needed more answers before he was too tired to ask for anymore. “How do you know so much about angels?

“Because I used to be one, laddie. Long time ago.”

“What? You used to be….” Harry suddenly understood. It came to him in a flash of inspiration. “They called you Wormwood.”

“That they did, but I prefer my rightful name, the name given to me by my lord.”

“And what’s that?” Kath asked, obviously not yet understanding what Harry had come to realise.

Lucas turned to Kath and grinned, his pointy teeth shining. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Lucifer, the Prince of Hell. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Harry should have been shouting the word ‘bullshit’, but somehow he knew it was true. The reality of the situation just could not be denied. He was trudging through the snow with the Devil, pursued by murderous angels. There was just one more thing that didn’t make sense. “Why the whole Irish jig then, Lucas Fergus?”

“Would you prefer I had horns and a red suit? Let’s just say that Ireland is close to my heart. Good, fun-loving, people that know a good time. I can take many forms, and appear however I wish, but Irish is my favourite. Plus, ladies like the accent.”

“Why are you here? Are you helping the angels?”

Lucas shook his head vehemently, snow falling from his hair. “Those righteous do-gooders? They may be my brothers, but we parted ways long ago, and for good reason. A few members of the choir, the ones who were any fun, joined me in Hell. It’s the place to be, as long as you haven’t been sent there for, you know…treatment, as it were.”

“So, we’re all going to Heaven or Hell after this?” Kath sounded hopeful. She obviously thought she was destined for Heaven.

“Afraid not, luv. After the final sin was committed, He gave up on you all. You’re all coming downstairs with me to whichever level you deserve.”

“Level we deserve?” Kath sounded worried.

Lucas seemed to be getting a bit impatient now as they continued through the snow. “The different levels dish out appropriate punishment. A murderer gets murdered. Over and over. Forever. A rapist gets raped. A bully gets beaten. You get the general idea, right?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Kath shut up and stayed that way, seemingly lost in disturbing thoughts.

“That just leaves you,” said Harry. “You still haven’t told us what part you have to play in all this. You’re the Devil, which means you’re evil and can’t be trusted…doesn’t it?”

Before Lucas had chance to reply, Harry realised that, once again, they were surrounded.

34

“They’re not going to give up are they?”

“No,” Lucas confirmed. “Not until they have you.”

Harry raised the broom in front of him, hoping it would work as well as last time. “What will they do to me?”

“Send you to Hell.”

Harry nodded. “Thought so.” He eyed up the line of angels, wondering which one he should go for first. He decided to do as he did last time and aim for the middle of the crowd.

Before he had the chance, a pillar of fire zigzagged towards him, sending him into a sideways dive. The snow cushioned his fall but was still jarring enough to knock the broom from his grasp.

Harry looked up just in time to see another wall of flames rising in his direction. He rolled over, barely managing to dodge the burning death, but found himself even further away from his only weapon. “Lucas,” he shouted. “The broom.”

Lucas nodded, located the broom, and then went for it. He was too slow though and Kath got to it first.

“Great,” said Harry. “Throw it here, Kath.”

Kath drew her arm back and looked as though she was going to hurl the broom in his direction, but she didn’t release it. Instead she held it in front of herself and examined it. “Without this, you have no way of defending yourself, right?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “That’s why I need it.”

Kath walked away from him and started making her way over to the choir of angels. She approached the tallest in the centre. “You just want Harry, right? What will you do for me if I give him to you?”

She waited for an answer, but received none.

The monolithic remained still and silent beneath its robes.

Kath jabbed and wiggled the broom in the angel’s face, not getting close enough to make contact, but making her willingness to do so clear enough. “I asked you a question, so have some manners. Remove your hood and answer me!”

Incredibly, the angel obliged. He reached up and lowered his hood.

Beneath the old, grey cloth was something unexpected. The angel’s golden hair spilled over his shoulders beneath a beautiful face with an exquisite complexion. His sparkling eyes were breathtaking cyan, and they were studying Kath curiously.

Lucas moved up beside Harry and whispered. “That would be Lord Michael himself.”

Harry considered for a moment. “You mean from the bible?”

“No, I mean from real life. That is God’s Field General himself, Archangel Michael. My brother, the Angel of death.”

“If he’s your brother can’t you make him stop? Talk to him?”

“You really don’t understand family do you, Harry boy? One thing about Michael is that the only person he listens to is his dear daddy. That’s why he was always favourite. Bloody eejit!”

Something was happening up ahead. The angel standing in front of Kath – the Archangel Michael. Jeez! – produced something from within his cloak. Something long and metallic that ignited in flames as soon as it hit the air.

“There she is,” said Lucas. “The beauty herself. You know, back in the day, that sword belonged to me. Michael took it from me during the Holy War. It looks better on him, anyway.”

Harry shook his head. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“The fiery sword of damnation. The sword that turned Sodom and Gomorrah to ashes.”

Harry rubbed at his face with ice-cold fingers. This was really it. The end of the world. God had called last orders on mankind and there was only enough time to get one last drink in.

Michael raised his fiery sword, singeing the cold air and creating acrid smoke. Kath stood before him, mesmerised. All of her earlier bluster had evaporated and she was nothing more than a puny human standing before a giant.

Michael brought down his flaming sword with a brutal slash. The blade hissed and spat as Kath’s blood instantly congealed on its shaft, turning to black powder and peppering the snow. It had cut through her like a scalpel through cheese.

Kath turned around and faced Harry and Lucas. For a moment it looked like she was okay. Then her head started to tilt forward, independent of the rest of her body. Harry winced as Kath’s headless body fell forward into the snow, turning it red.

Harry ran, leaving Lucas behind; not seeing any reason to ask him to follow. He ploughed through the snow with all his energy, kicking and clawing with only one thing on his mind: Steph! He had no idea where he was going and only hoped that it was towards The Trumpet. With the apocalyptic freeze, as well as an army of flawless Angels trying to send him to Hell, Harry knew that the rest of his life was measured in minutes rather than hours or days. For so long he had wanted nothing but to die, to leave the world and all its pain behind him, but, right now, staying alive long enough to reach Steph was his only motivation.

The snowfall seemed to increase with every second. It was up to Harry’s waist now and still rising. Before long, there would be no world left. No buildings, no roads, no rivers. Nothing. Just unending snow, rising. Rising. Rising.

Harry struggled onwards, each step seizing up his calves, stabbing the tender muscle with icy daggers. If only he could go back and do the right thing. He’d known killing Thomas Morris was wrong. Had known it for sure when he saw the regret and the sorrow in the man’s eyes just before he died. Thomas Morris had killed Harry’s family, but at the moment of his death, he had been deeply sorry. Harry knew that because Thomas never struggled.

Now the whole world was accepting punishment for what Harry had done. He imagined the billions of people who had already frozen to death. He wondered how many people were still alive, trying to convince their children that the snow would stop soon and that everything would be okay, that it was just bad weather. Harry started to weep, but wiped the tears away before they froze. He had to keep going, didn’t deserve time to stop and cry. When the angels finally sent him to Hell he would welcome it, because that was where he belonged. But not now. Not yet.

Ahead, Harry saw the dark rectangle of a building up on a hill. It had to be The Trumpet. With renewed vigour, he began to dive and leap through the snow, sinking and climbing with every step. He was moving at a snail’s pace, but gradually, slowly, the building came into view. And it was indeed a pub.

“Thank God. Actually…screw that. Fuck God.”

He reached the bottom of the hill and looked up. The pub was dark, deserted. Lifeless. A dead building in a dead world.

As he climbed the hill, Harry felt the angels nearby. “Damn you,” he shouted back at them. They stood at the bottom of the hill, each of them now with their hoods down, exposing their beautiful faces and gossamer hair. Harry knew they brought only death and misery. “Damn you,” he shouted again. “Just let me see her.”

Lucas had said that angels could not set foot inside a den of iniquity. That meant Steph might still be safe inside.

He was nearly there, only a few more metres to the doorway.

Harry stopped in his tracks, falling into the snow and looking up at the figure blocking his way. He’d been so close. “Okay, you got me. Just get it over with.”

“Get what over with, Harry Boy?”

Harry looked up. “Lucas!”

“Aye,” Lucas offered out his hand and helped Harry to his feet. “I thought you were never going to get here, fella. Took your sweet time.”

Harry smiled, happy to see the Devil. But he wasted no time in pushing passed and barging at the pub’s door.

It was frozen shut.

Harry was about to howl out in defeat when Lucas strolled up beside him.

“Keep your hair on, lad.” He placed a hand on the door. Steam came from his touch and the frost began to melt. Lucas banged his fist once, twice, and the door swung open slowly. He looked at Harry and grinned. “Three millennium in the Hellzone Boy Scouts.”

“No shit?” Harry made his way inside and headed straight for the bar, the sudden feeling of an even, solid floor disorientating his weary legs. The room was in darkness with the flickering flame of only a single candle left, but Harry had been there enough times to know where he was going blind. He made it to the bar in six memorised steps and was shocked to find Peter’s dead body on the floor. There was no time to fret about it now, though.

Grabbing the remaining candle, Harry made his way behind the bar and into the corridor. Immediately, the freezing temperature told him something was wrong. Earlier the corridor had acted as a flume for the warm air of the fire in the cellar below, but now the air was frigid. That meant the fire was out.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Harry took the steps two at a time, lucky to make it down to the bottom without tripping. As his feet planted on the cellar floor, he moved the candle in a quick semi-circle. The room smelt heavily of smoke, but the dustbin fire was unlit. Next to it was the unmoving form of Old Graham. Harry felt his gorge rise, the fear and sickness taking a hold of him as his mind screamed out with grief. He turned around slowly, illuminating the dark corners of the cellar, searching desperately…

He found Damien first. The lad was slumped in the corner. Harry knelt down to feel the lad’s cheek and quickly realised he was dead. Damien’s mid-section was covered in blood from some kind of deep wound. Was it the work of Nigel? Despite the freezing cold, Damien was without his thick puffer jacket.

Harry found it nearby, wrapped around Jess. She was dead too. Harry shone the candle light over her face and saw her lips and frosted eyelids. She had finally succumbed to the cold. Had she taken Damien’s jacket after he had died? Or had he offered it to her before?

The third body wrapped beneath the blankets made Harry feel faint, paralysed with fear.

Steph lay, swaddled up to the eyeballs by layer upon layer of sheets and blankets. She looked as delicate and as beautiful as Harry had ever seen her and he finally allowed himself to cry. He reached out and touched her face. Like the other’s it was ice cold. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry that I caused all this and that I never got to say goodbye. I used to think I came here every night to get drunk and forget about the past, but tonight I’ve realised I kept coming back to see you. You were the only person who allowed me to see tomorrow and know that it would be easier than today. It was you that took away my pain, not the booze.”

“…Harry?”

The word was barely a whisper. A few moments passed and Harry started to think that his crippled mind was playing tricks on him.

“Harry,” Steph whispered again, louder this time.

“Steph! Steph, yes it’s me, Harry?”

It didn’t seem like she could, but she knew he was there. It was obvious by the look in her eyes. “Harry…I was worried about you.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it back sooner.”

“It’s…okay. I knew you’d come back. You’re a good man, Harry.”

Harry bit his lip so hard that he tasted blood in his mouth. “I wish that were true, but I let everyone down. This is all my fault.”

Steph shook her head, eyes still closed as though she were reciting a dream. “No, Harry. The only person you ever let down was y-yourself. It’s not your fault what happened...what happened…to you.”

Harry wiped tears and snot from his face. “You know what I wish, Steph?”

“No, Harry. What do you…wish?”

“I wish that instead of killing Thomas Morris that night, I’d have met you instead. Maybe you could have saved me. If God is going to judge us all, then he should have tested someone like you, not a loser like me. God stacked the deck against us all when he took my family and left me to be the judge.”

Steph’s face lit up in a smile that stuck for a moment before falling away. She went very still and did not reply.

“Steph,” Harry said softly, but it was no use. She was gone.

Harry moved forward and kissed Steph on her lips. He wanted nothing more than for her to be alive a moment longer so that she could kiss him back, but was thankful that he at least got to say goodbye.

Harry left the cellar and went back upstairs into the pub. He lit the way with the last dying candle. Lucas was already waiting for him, propped up at the bar with a beer in his hand.

“Harry Boy, how about one for the road.” He offered Harry a bottle, who took it from him silently. His sobriety didn’t matter much anymore. There would be no opportunity for him to clean himself up and make amends.

“It’s time isn’t it?” he said after sipping down some of the beer.

Lucas nodded. “Up to you, lad. To be honest I’m only here tonight because I’m duty-bound. The apocalypse and all that, you know? It’s kind of traditional that I be here. It would be like having a party without cake if the Devil didn’t turn up at the End.”

Harry took another sip of beer, before disagreeing. “That can’t be the only reason. You didn’t have to turn up at the pub tonight. You didn’t have to try and help.”

Lucas laughed his charming Irishman laugh. “Aye, that much is true. Michael summoned me here to watch the destruction of mankind as a kind of punishment. I suppose he thinks I had a hand in bringing down the ceiling – leading men astray and all that hokum.”

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t you?”

Lucas swigged his beer down to the bottom third. “Well, yes and no. When I fell from Heaven I hated you all with a fury unrivalled – God’s most prized creation and the keepers of freewill, yada yada yada. I sought to corrupt you all, to bring you down into the dirt so that God would see how lowly you little fellas were. You know what I learned, though?”

“What?”

“I realised that I was wasting my time. Man was doing a fine thing of fucking things up on their own. I had a hand, here and there, sure; but Hitler, Bin Laden, that plucky fella Ted Bundy, the nuclear-feckin-bomb? All that wickedness was on you. The worst, most corrupt men who ever lived are mostly men I’ve never met. I may be the Devil, but you lot are evil.”

“Then why does Heaven blame you? Why have they brought you here to watch us die?”

“Because I fell in love with humanity. I rebelled against God because I wanted to live by my own rules. After a few hundred years I realised that humanity was no different. I realised that man wasn’t in God’s image, but in mine. Men have spent hundreds of years fighting for their freedom, the same way I did in Heaven. Eventually I stopped trying to destroy you and started living amongst you. I buried my anger with God and stopped being the bogeyman you write books about. The only reason I’m here is so that Michael can make a point.”

“What point?”

“That anyone who goes against God’s will are destined to fall.”

Harry laughed.

“Why do you laugh, Harry Boy?”

“Nothing. I just find it amusing that the Devil is benevolent and God is wrathful.”

Lucas laughed too. “Well, I hope it teaches you not to believe what the media says. Especially the ancient Aramaic right-wing media. The bible got me all wrong, I tell you.”

The two of them shared a laugh and finished their beers. After a few moments, Harry put his empty bottle on the bar. “Time to go, I guess, but before I do, can I ask you a question?”

Lucas shrugged. “You’ve done little else for the past few hours. Why stop now?”

Harry took that to mean ‘yes’, so he asked his question: “You mentioned the levels of Hell, earlier?”

“Aye, I did.”

“Which is the worst?”

Lucas didn’t seem comfortable at the question. “Well…it’s all relative, really. The punishment fits the crime.”

“I know that.” Harry could feel his body shutting down under the constant attack of the cold. He had to finish this before he gave in to hyperthermia. “But surely some layers are worse than others. Where do the very worst go, like Hitler? People like that?”

“Well, if you listen to Dante Alighieri then there are just seven levels, but in truth the regions of Hell are never ending and infinitely wide. Time and space is eternal and there are an unfathomable number of planes of existence, but the deepest deepest level is reserved only for pure, irredeemable evil. Light doesn’t exist there and neither does hope of any kind. It is suffering and despair without beginning or end, a place where agony reigns and flays the skin of any soul unfortunate to end up there. It is a Hell beyond human understanding, and no human, not even the vilest, has ever committed sin harsh enough to be sent there. It is deserving of no man. It was created to hold one being: me.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “A Hell so bad that it was made to torture the Devil himself?”

Lucas nodded and seemed upset by the thought of it. “Aye, they call it…The Abyss.”

Harry took that information in and held onto it. The Abyss. The darkest, most desperate level of hell that is fit only for the Devil himself. A place of torture beyond anything a man could imagine.

“Lucas,” Harry said. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you and I sincerely hope that the Abyss never claims you. Sounds strange to say, but I think you might actually be one of the good guys.”

Lucas laughed. “I have many names, but that’s a first.”

Harry shook the Devil’s hand and walked away, leaving his candle on the bar and entering the darkness outside.

35

The blizzard had finally begun to die down, its job almost completed. The world had been rendered featureless. Everywhere Harry looked was buried beneath giant snow banks. Across the street, the tops of buildings were just about visible, but their doorways were covered up past their lintels. Lucas might have had something to do with the fact the Trumpet was not yet being buried.

At the bottom of the hill stood the angels, forming a line that seemed to stretch on forever.

Harry hailed them. “I’m coming down. I give up, okay?”

Archangel Michael nodded. He raised his arms out in front of him and shot fire.

“Hey!” Harry protested. “I said I’m coming down.”

But burning him wasn’t Michael’s intention. The stone steps leading down from the pub appeared beneath the rapidly melting snow as the fires quickly burned out.

Harry cleared his throat. “Oh, eh…cheers.”

He took the newly uncovered steps slowly, in no rush to test out the theory brewing in his head.

Michael was patient. Time probably meant little when you were eternal

When Harry eventually reached the bottom of the steps, he saw that Michael was smiling at him reassuringly, like a Dentist about to perform a root canal.

“Welcome, Sinner,” said Michael in a voice far milder than he’d used in previous instances. His presence was no less awesome because of it.

“It’s Harry.”

“As you wish, Harry Jobson.”

“Just Harry is fine…you know what, don’t even worry about it.”

“Are you ready? It is time.”

“I just have a couple of questions first.”

Harry thought he saw irritation stream through the archangel’s eyes. Obviously, The Angel of Death didn’t appreciate being delayed by a mere mortal. He probably found it ‘impertinent’.

“Ask your questions quickly, Sinner.”

There’s that word again. Fucker!

Harry decided not to let it bother him. He would have far worse to endure.

“After what I did, after I committed the….final sin, or whatever it is; it condemned everyone to Hell, right?”

Michael nodded.

“Do you think that’s fair?”

“It is His will.”

Harry nodded. “Right, right, didn’t think appealing to your better nature would work, so I guess I should skip straight to plan B.”

“Plan B?” Michael repeated without feeling.

“Yeah, I want to make a deal.”

Michael exploded, but managed to do so without moving an inch. He seemed to oppress the air around him. “YOU DO NOT MAKE DEALS WITH AN AGENT OF HEAVEN. YOUR WILL IS INCONSEQUENTIAL TO HIS DECISIONS. YOU WILL OBEY, SINNER.”

Harry swallowed, tried to gather himself, and continued. “Okay, okay, but my final wish is that you hear me out. If He ignores my offer then so be it. I will take what comes to me. Just, please, allow me to at least amuse you. I have given myself up willingly, after all.”

“Speak your deal. Amuse us.”

Okay, here goes.

“Send me to the Abyss.”

Michael actually seemed to flinch at the suggestion and Harry hoped that it was a good sign.

“Don’t send me to whatever Hell I deserve, send me to the Hell that no man deserves. Send me there and leave me there forever.”

Michael seemed to soften, no longer angry. It almost seemed like he was suddenly in awe of Harry. His sparkly eyes were wide and fixed. “You speak of things you can never hope to understand, Harry Jobson. The Abyss is a punishment befitting no man. Why would you ask for such endless suffering?”

“I’ll tell you, but first let me know, can it be done? Can you send me there?”

Michael nodded. “Yes.”

“Then my offer is that you send me to the Abyss in exchange for all of the souls that have been damned to Hell since I murdered Thomas Morris. Save Steph, Jess, Jerry, and all the others who don’t deserve Hell. Send me to the Abyss to pay for humanity’s sin. Will my torture there outweigh the debt needed to spare these people?”

Michael shook his head and began to be sob. The sight of it was almost heart-wrenching – the very act of an angel crying seemed to be the embodiment of the word ‘tragedy’. “The debt of suffering would be a thousand times more than that which is owed. You cannot imagine such suffering. You should not make such frivolous suggestions without knowing the full consequences.”

Harry stepped forward and was amazed to see Michael wince. Apparently, talk of the Abyss was enough to make the archangel anxious. “Then show me. Show me and let me decide. If I can still make the same decision afterwards, then you can decide if you will honour my proposal.”

“So be it,” said Michael, placing both of his hands upon Harry’s head.

What happened next was indescribable. Images and feelings shot through Harry’s very soul, showing him inhuman tortures at the hands of even more inhuman creatures. It was a place of endless and unimaginable pain and suffering. A place where every second lasted centuries and was enough to break a man’s mind into a million agonised pieces. It was the heart and soul of Hell itself.

Harry reeled backwards from Michael’s grip, falling onto his back and panting in the snow. Tears fell from his eyes and already his soul felt damaged just from seeing mere fleeting images of the Abyss. His soul was bleeding.

Yet, Harry forced himself back to his feet, weak, broken, and terrified. Taking a breath was hard, almost impossible, but he made himself speak. He had to speak.

“Spare their souls,” he said. “Send me to…send me…send me to the Abyss.”

Michael seemed sad, in fact the archangel’s very being seemed to turn melancholy. “So be it, Harry Jobson.”

God’s Angel of Death reached forward to place his hands on Harry’s forehead, but before he made contact, Michael took a step backwards and looked up at the sky. All the other angels did too. All of them gazed upwards in a never ending line. Harry looked upwards too, but saw nothing but empty, black sky.

Michael began to smile. In fact, joy itself seemed to cascade from the archangel’s body in bright, incandescent waves. He looked at Harry and nodded, as if he knew something that he did not. “Goodbye, Harry Jobson.”

Michael placed his hands on Harry’s skull.

The pain of his soul being ripped from his body was exquisite. Like having a thousand fish hooks dragged through the insides of his veins. Harry’s final thought was about how much worse it could possibly get.

Epilogue

A news reporter came onscreen. She was enveloped by an over-sized pink ski-jacket. “Good evening, I’m Jane Hamilton, reporting for Midland-UK News. Fortunately, after nearly 19-inches of snow, the weather in Britain finally seems to be improving. Temperatures have begun to rise and the snow is predicted to end soon. Roads are in the process of being reopened while train links are expected to resume within the next few d-“

Harry found himself at the bar of The Trumpet. It didn’t happen instantly and it felt as though he had flowed back into his body like gravy through a sieve. At first he remembered nothing…

Until the person next to him spoke.

“How you feeling there, Harry Boy?”

Harry almost choked.

“Calm down there, fella. You made it. All is well for now. The big guy gave you lot another chance.”

Harry was stunned. “He…he did?”

Lucas sipped the pint in front of him. “It’s what you planned, isn’t it?”

“Well…yeah, but I didn’t expect to be back at the bar. I thought I really would go to the Abyss, or maybe, best-case-scenario, God would let me into Heaven for my good deed. I didn’t expect…this.”

“Well, as it turns out the man-upstairs loves a little sacrifice, here and there, and yours was a biggy. Reminds me of another fella who died for humanity’s sins once upon a time. The big guy decided your final deed was enough to convince him that maybe humanity still has a fighting chance. Good on ya, lad! Though you’re the only one that can remember any of it, so don’t expect a fanfare.”

Harry shook his head, blinking like he’d just awoken from a dream. “So why are you here? Here now, I mean?”

“I wanted to say goodbye. I like this crazy, fecked-up world as much as anyone, and without it I wouldn’t have a thing to do but sit around in an overcrowded Hell. Truth is I knew there was a chance you might turn things around.”

“That’s why you were here wasn’t it? To help me?”

Lucas hushed him and looked left and right shiftily. “Keep your voice down. If Michael and his choir of pansies hear that, they’ll come after me with their self-righteous wings all in a flap. I didn’t come to help you. I just wanted to make sure you were…properly informed of all the options.”

“Thank you.”

Lucas nodded. “Just enjoy your life while you can. You may have gotten a reprieve, but there’re are dark times coming. Just because God isn’t going to destroy you all, doesn’t mean you won’t somehow manage to do it yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just don’t plan on any cruises.”

Harry didn’t understand. He looked around the brightly-lit bar and still struggled to believe it. Everything was as it should be. The lights were on, the room was warm. “Well, Lucas,” he said, turning back around, “if you don’t fill me in on what’s going to happen, how can I know what to expect? Lucas?”

The Prince of Hell had departed, disappearing without Harry or anybody else in the bar noticing. Old Graham sat at the end of the counter, drinking by himself and staring into space. Harry found it ironic to be so happy to see the old codger. He made his way over to say hello.

“Hey, Harry,” Old Graham said when he saw Harry approach.

“Hey, Graham. You’re into History and all that, aren’t you? Weren’t you in the army?”

The old man beamed proudly. “That I was, twenty long years. Royal Signals I was. Hit the Falklands a full hour before the SAS did. Yet they got all the glory.”

“Brilliant,” said Harry. “I wanted to find out more about the past, and about brave men like you. I was thinking about going to the Imperial War museum this weekend. Would you come with me and be my guide? I’ll pay, of course. You’d be doing me a favour.”

For a moment, Harry thought the old man was going to fall off his stool, but he gathered himself and nodded enthusiastically. “You know, I haven’t been out of this bloody town in eight years. I would love to come, Harry. Thank you, I mean it.”

Harry patted him on the back. “Good. We’ll have to make a regular thing of it. Right now, though, I’ve got to go, so I’ll come by tomorrow night to see you. You’ll be here right?”

Old Graham laughed. “Does the Devil have horns?”

“I think you’d be surprised.”

Old Graham obviously didn’t understand and Harry was glad about that. Knowledge of the night’s previous events was a burden he was more than happy to shoulder alone. He walked over to the centre of the bar. On the other side was someone he wanted to talk to very much.

Steph smiled when she saw him. Harry couldn’t forgive himself for ever ignoring how beautiful she was.

“Harry,” she said to him. “Another drink?”

Harry shook his head. “No thanks, I’ve given up.”

Steph looked at him in bewilderment. “What since five minutes ago?”

“It seems like longer, but, yes, I have. Time to start living my life in better ways. Who knows when it will end?”

“Good for you, Harry. Does that mean you won’t be coming in here anymore? Cus that would make me sad.”

“Maybe,” said Harry. “Which is why I wanted to know if you’d come to dinner with me on your next night off.”

Steph’s seemed confused at first, but then she smiled. “I’m free Thursday night.”

“It’s a date then. You can tell me all about this pet grooming business you’re going to start up. I used to have a business myself. Perhaps I can help.”

Steph was surprised. “How did you know about that?”

“I don’t know, but I want to hear all about it, and about you. Right now I have to go, so I’ll be back tomorrow night to arrange with you.”

Harry left Steph in a fluster behind the bar and moved towards the exit. Damien was lying across the sofa, hogging the fire

“The fuck you looking at?”

Harry smiled. Finally he could see through Damien’s hard man disguise and see the lost boy beneath. “I just wanted to ask you something, Damien.”

“What?”

“I was thinking of starting up a carpentry business, like the one I used to have, but I need a partner – someone young and smart. An apprentice, really. I don’t have a son to teach what I know. I used to but he died just over a year ago. His name was Toby. You would have liked him.”

Damien’s eyes flickered back and forth, as if he expected a sneak attack to come at any moment.

Harry continued, not giving the lad too long to think. “I know you’re a busy guy, Damien, but I don’t think you enjoy selling drugs. You’re better than that and I’d really like to help you be successful in a less dangerous way. I need someone like you. I think we can make a lot of good honest money together. If your dad tries to make your life hard, he’ll have me to answer to.”

For a while it seemed like Damien was going to strike out and hit Harry, but then his eyes moistened and his lower lip trembled. “Y-You’re serious?”

“Extremely.” Harry went for a handshake. “Do we have a deal? A new start for both of us.”

Damien smiled and shook Harry’s hand vigorously. “Yeah, man. Yeah, deal.”

“Great, I’ll speak to you about it soon.” Harry walked away, but Damien stopped him.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. You know, for the opportunity and everything. Most people just think I’m a thug.”

“You and I are going to change their opinion.”

Harry headed over to the exit and prepared to leave. There was a lot to do in order to get his life back on track, but first he needed to find a phone. He had a call to make to the Police about a sicko named Nigel who liked to keep women’s fingers in his lorry.

Harry was going to start living his life again, putting the world right and making things better, one thing at a time. For the first time in a long time, he was finally looking forward instead of back.

The only thing to worry about was whatever Lucas’s final warning had meant. Dark times are coming.

Don’t plan on any cruises.

Harry shook the warnings from his mind and smiled. Whether humanity had one day left or one million, he had at least bought himself some time to die with dignity and pride. He had time to get his life back. Whatever happened next was up to God.

When Harry left the pub, the snow had stopped and the sun was shining.

Special Edition Bonus Content

Tales From The Final Winter

Chance Of Snow

“I can’t believe this!” Richard turned away from the window and faced his family, each of them huddled beneath a blanket. “I know it’s winter, and everything, but this is Florida.”

Richard’s family, daughter and wife, said nothing. They knew better than to converse with him in the state he was in. He wasn’t angry at them, of course – wasn’t angry at anyone in fact – but he’d built the vacation home in Florida purely to get away from home during the winter months. He expected snow like this in England, but not here.

Richard looked back out of the window and stared out over the lake that edged his second home. The water was starting to freeze over and snow banks had built up around its edges. If there were any alligators currently in there then he held little hope for their survival.

Least I’m not them, thought Richard.

“Why don’t you come and sit down, honey,” said his wife. “I’m sure there’ll be a weather forecast soon. They’ll tell us what to expect.”

Richard huffed. “Well, they didn’t bloody-well tell us to expect this, did they? Would have stayed in England if I knew there was going to be all this snow.”

“Miriam said it’s the same back home,” his wife stated. “I called her this afternoon. They’re completely snowed in.”

“It’s like this everywhere,” Richard’s daughter chimed in. “They said on the Internet that every country in the world is covered in snow. There’s a group on Facebook that say it’s all down to aliens.”

“Don’t be so stupid, Charlotte.” Richard went and took a seat beside his wife and wrestled the television remote from her hands.”

“Don’t snatch,” she said meekly.

Richard ignored her and flicked through the TV stations. He hated American channels; they were filled with so much dross. How he longed to flip on BBC One and get some straight-forward news. Eventually he found a station that seemed to be discussing the weather and he settled on it, resting back into the sofa.”

“…temperatures expected to drop further in the coming hours and are likely to remain there,” the weather report informed. “Be sure to wrap up warm, Florida, and enjoy the snow while we have it. It’s once in a lifetime.”

“Enjoy the snow,” Richard grimaced. “Who comes to Florida to enjoy the snow? They certainly don’t spend half-a-million building a house here to enjoy the snow.”

Richard’s wife stood up from the sofa and headed off. “I’ll go make a pot of tea and turn the heating up. I wish you’d stop stressing. We’re still on holiday and together, aren’t we?”

Richard let out a sigh and rubbed at his cold forearms. He turned to Charlotte who was sat on the armchair beside the sofa. “Am I being a bit of an ogre?”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Little bit. Just chill out, dad. You’re upsetting mom.”

She was right of course. Richard was not unaware of how tightly-wound he could be. That was why he’d built the holiday home sixty miles north of Miami. It was supposed to be their place to relax and spend some quality time together.

Good job you’re making of it!

Richard stood up from the sofa and made for the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Charlotte asked him.

“To apologise to your mother.” He headed through a door that bordered the lounge and entered the family kitchen area. It was a large, modern room with a breakfast bar at its tiled centre. It was his wife’s favourite part of the house. Currently, she stood up against the oversized ceramic sink, filling up the kettle beneath one of the chrome taps. He went up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She did not jump so she must have expected his arrival.

“You calmed down yet?”

Richard squeezed her shoulders gently and began rubbing. “When do I ever calm down? The best you can hope for is that I realise when I’m being insufferable.”

“And have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Realised that you’re being insufferable?”

Richard turned his wife around to face him and planted a soft kiss on her cheek. “Yes, I realise, sweetheart. I’m sorry, okay?”

She kissed him back. “You’re forgiven. Let’s just enjoy ourselves for the rest of the week. There’ll be plenty of sun next time, I’m sure.”

Richard nodded glumly. “Hope you’re right.”

His wife was about to reply to him, when Charlotte’s voice carried from the other room. “Hey, mom, dad, I think you better come look at this.”

Richard and his wife looked at each other and frowned. Together they exited the kitchen and walked back through to the carpeted lounge. Charlotte was stood up against the window where Richard had earlier been looking out at the lake.

“What is it?” Richard asked her.

Charlotte turned around and faced him. Her expression was mostly one of curiosity, but Richard could see a hint of anxiety there as well. “Come look.”

Richard walked up beside his daughter and leant forward to look through the double-glazed glass window. Outside was the same, semi-frozen lake that he’d already seen, snow piling up all around it as fresh powder continued to fall. “Everything seems normal to me, sweetheart.”

Charlotte nudged him on the arm. “Look closer, at the far end of the lake.”

Richard focused his eyes further afield. If it were not for the outdoor lighting then he would have seen nothing at all, but thanks to the illuminating glare of the high-watt bulbs, Richard could see what his daughter was trying to point out to him. “Gators?”

“Yeah,” Charlotte replied. “What are they doing?”

Richard’s best guess was that they were migrating. They were common visitors to the lake and they always seemed happy to bask and feed in a group, so seeing them all bunch together now was not all that interesting. What was a little more unordinary, though, was the fact that they were currently fighting their way from the lake, pushing and burrowing through the snow banks that towered over them. “Looks like they’re leaving the lake,” Richard guessed. “I’m not surprised with the water as cold as it is.”

“But where would they go?” Charlotte asked. “Surely they wouldn’t be any better off in the snow?”

Richard shrugged. “I expect they’re just as confused as everyone else is in Florida right now.” His wife was nearby and he smiled at her so she knew there was nothing to worry about. “Go get that tea on, sweetheart. We can settle down and try to watch a film.”

His wife smiled back and quickly departed, leaving him alone with his daughter. Charlotte was still looking out of the window, enthralled with the alligator’s behaviour.

“There must be at least fifty of them out there, all in a group,” she said.

“Will you just get away from that window? I want to close the curtains and keep the heat in.”

Charlotte sighed and turned away from the window. Richard took her place and prepared to close the curtains. He took one last look outside at the departing alligators and let out a chuckle. It really was something to behold. He stretched out sideward and grasped the curtain and started sliding it across the window, but, before he got it all the way across, something made him stop.

“What the…?”

Charlotte came back over to the window and looked out through the small gap that still remained through the curtain. “What?”

Richard didn’t turn to face his daughter. His eyes were too transfixed on what he was seeing. “There’s someone out there in the snow.”

“You’re joking,” said Charlotte. “They must be mad. It’s freezing.

“Mad or not,” said Richard, “they’re there.”

Richard left the window and marched across the lounge towards the French doors at the rear of the house. They led out to a veranda which doubled as a smoking shelter for his wife’s habit. As soon as he pulled open one of the doors, the cold hit him like a punch in the face. His nose started burning almost immediately as the chill bit at his extremities.

He stepped out into the snow nevertheless, but wishing he was wearing something more substantial than trainers – snowfall was not something he’d packed for. The growing wind also made him wish hard for a winter coat.

“Who’s out here?” he shouted into the floodlit night. “This is private property. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”

There was no answer and Richard took it as a threatening sign. He stepped cautiously as he approached the front of the house where he had seen the stranger. He couldn’t be sure, but it had looked to be a man; a tall one wrapped in a billowing coat – or maybe a cloak.

When Richard reached the side of the house that faced the lake, he was surprised to find the stranger was still standing there, quite assumedly. The man seemed to care little about his trespass.

“I said you need to leave,” he reiterated. “You’re worrying my family.”

“Their worry is well-founded,” came the stranger suddenly with a baritone voice.

Richard took a step towards the man. “Is that a threat?”

“A threat would imply uncertainty. There is none of that here.”

Richard examined the stranger with suspicion that was beginning to border on concern. The figure towered above the snow and was tall enough that Richard would not fancy his chances if the stranger attacked him. Unsettling too was the unusual cloak covering the man from head to feet – it was not something an ordinary person would wear in the 21st Century.

“Look,” said Richard. “What do you want?”

The stranger seemed to move very slightly to face him as he replied. “I desire nothing. His will is my will and I do only as requested.”

Richard didn’t understand. He was cold and extremely confused. “Who is he? What are you talking about?”

“You ask of Him? You should know your Lord and revere him with the love and respect he demands. Perhaps if you had, your fate would be less perilous.”

Richard had had enough. He took the final few clumsy steps towards the stranger and pointed a finger right at his face. “You get out of here, right now. I love America, I really do, but you don’t half have some bloody nutcases here. Leave, or I will call the police.”

The figure let out a laugh that rattled Richard’s very bones. “You demand nothing of me, mortal. Your threats are puny. Your insolence, maddening.”

Richard was lost for words. This person was obviously a madman, just by the way he spoke, but so too was he huge and menacing. What the hell should I do? Richard decided that lowering his tone would be best. Steering away from any animosity seemed far safer than inciting any. “I’m sorry to offend you. Could you just tell me who you are, please?”

The stranger lowered his head as if to focus on Richard more clearly. The cowl was too tightly wrapped to give anything away about the man’s face; not even the eyes could be seen. To Richard’s surprise, the cloaked stranger raised both hands and began to pull away the hood. Slowly the cloth fell away to reveal a face of utter beauty and a head full of mahogany-streaked hair.

Richard took a breath and struggled to let it back out again. “Jesus!”

The beautiful man shook his head and seemed angry at the word. “You do not speak of The Son without reason. I am not Jesus.”

Richard was in awe. “Then who are you?”

The stranger’s face was without emotion as he answered. “I am Mika'eel. I am the first Harbinger of this world’s demise.”

“I-I’m sorry? Demise?”

Mika'eel nodded. “Your time of decadence has ceased. This world is to be no more.”

Richard shook his head. “Are you…are you a terrorist?”

The man showed no expression – in fact he seemed incapable – but he did shake his head. “I am no terrorist. I spread not terror, but extinction. I bring snow and ice to freeze further the cold hearts of man. It is an honour for you to meet me, an Angel of the highest order.”

Richard choked. “An Angel? Are you crazy?”

“Crazy is a state of mind beneath me – as are you, Richard Pointer.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know all names, all fates, all journeys. Yours is a particularly interesting one. Your true mother abandoned you, but this you do not know. Yet that nagging feeling of rejection has spurred your every decision. You are a callous businessman, a competitive being, and a domineering husband. Your wife dreads you.”

Richard’s heart throbbed at the accusation, causing him actual pain. Perhaps the reason it hurt so much was because, deep down, he knew it was true. He was a control-freak and always had been. The fact that he allowed himself to control his lovely wife made him feel wretched.

“Do not fret, Richard Pointer. There are many men worse than you. Despite their dread, your family loves you. Go to them now. Comfort them as the end draws near. You have an opportunity that many will not. You know that the end is coming; you can say the things that need saying and die with an unburdened soul.”

Richard looked at the…Angel… and knew that it was all true. The world was truly ending and this being before him was its deliverer. Life was an inconsequential mess and it was now coming to an abrupt finish. Despite the fear that knowledge brought, Richard was indeed grateful for the gift of knowing. He would enjoy his final evening with his family; enjoy the final winter of man’s existence. Richard turned around and headed for the house, to be with his family and wait for the end of the world.

Cold Shoulder

“Any more wine?” asked Amanda.

John turned to his wife and sighed. “Haven’t you had enough tonight?”

“Just go get another bottle and stop giving me grief. It’s not like I have work tomorrow. Maybe not all week if it keeps snowing like this – Whoop!”

John shook his head. He knew his wife was drunk because he was too. They’d polished off a bottle of red each and the heavy feeling it left him was dragging him towards sleep. Amanda was different though – she never quit while the night was still young. There was no point arguing with her, so John diligently went and got another bottle of Shiraz from the kitchen cabinet. There was another three bottles after this one and he worried. His wife would never drink them all – nowhere near in fact – but she may well keep going until she passed out.

Or turns nasty.

John re-entered the living room and unscrewed the bottle cap. He leant over Amanda’s glass and started pouring until the glass was almost full. He then topped up his own glass halfway.

“Sit down, honey. Never Mind The Buzzcocks is coming on. You like that.”

He did and was grateful that his wife was in an accommodating mood. He sat down beside her and put a hand on her lap. It was a struggle to focus on the television, however, because something was on his mind. “You think Jess is going to make it home from work okay?”

“Yeah,” slurred Amanda. “Why wouldn’t she?”

John shrugged. “The snow’s gotten pretty bad. Have you seen it recently?”

“Couple hours ago. Wasn’t that bad.”

“It is now. I’m starting to get a bit worried. You think I should try and walk down and meet her at the supermarket. Her shift finishes in ten minutes.”

Amanda turned the TV up slightly and frowned. “She’ll be fine. If you leave now you’d only end up missing her.”

John thought she was probably right. The weather was close to a full-blown blizzard now and it was difficult to see beyond a couple of feet. Unless he knew the exact path that his daughter took home, they would miss each other. He didn’t fancy going out in the cold pointlessly.

On the television, the programme began and John and his wife watched it. It was funny, but John couldn’t find it in him to laugh. The same wasn’t true of Amanda who was cackling at every joke, even if it was only mildly funny.

How the hell did we end up like this, he thought to himself secretly. Amanda hadn’t always been like this. The underlying edge of aggression she now possessed seemed to grow more volatile each year, and her drinking was becoming more commonplace. His own drinking had gotten much worse than it used to be too. After twenty years of marriage, an unspoken resentment had begun to take control of their relationship. John didn’t know how to stop it and was unsure if he even wanted to. It felt like something needed to change.

He wouldn’t change the past though. Most of those twenty married years had been joyous, moving down to contentedness in the latter half. And of course they had a beautiful daughter. Jess being born was the proudest moment of John’s life and he never stopped feeling that way about her. She was a strong girl with a character he admired. In fact she seemed to have many of her mother’s good points – he just hoped that she lacked some of the worst.

“You paying attention?” Amanda asked him, breaking him away from his thoughts.

He nodded to her. “Just tired. Think I might go to bed soon.”

Amanda huffed. “God, when did you become such a fuddy duddy? It’s not even ten yet.”

“I just can’t hold my wine like some people.”

Amanda scowled at him and leant away on the sofa. “What is that supposed to mean?”

John sighed and got up from the sofa. “Nothing. Nothing at all. You just do whatever you want, while I go to bed. Think that would suit both of us.”

“Would suit me better if your bed was somewhere else.”

Amanda often said nasty things when she was drunk, but that one was uncalled for. He turned around and faced her. “You keep saying things like that and you may just get your wish.”

Amanda stood up and came at him. “Don’t you threaten me.”

He took a step away from her. “You’re the one who bloody said it! Just sit back down. I’m not in the mood.”

He tried to walk away, but Amanda followed. “What’s your problem, John?”

He carried on walking. “What’s my problem? I’m fine. I just want to go to bed.”

“No,” said Amanda. “I want to know what your problem is.”

John hadn’t been aware that he had voiced a problem, but rationality was never a key component of one of Amanda’s arguments. He was starting to feel angry, but he had to keep a lid on it. The last thing the situation needed was two drunken people going at each other.

“Stop walking away,” Amanda shouted after him.

He did so, turning to look at her. He tried to stay calm. “Look, honey, I’m sorry if I upset you. I don’t want to fight. I’m just worried about Jess.”

Amanda huffed. “You needn’t be.”

Something about the way she had just said that raised the hackles on John’s neck. He felt a sudden stone of dread in his guts. “What do you mean by that?”

Amanda laughed and walked away. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“No,” said John, following back after her. “What are you talking about? Why would I not worry about my own goddamn daughter?”

Amanda spun around and looked at him with a hatred that John hadn’t realised she’d had for him. Their marriage really was over, he realised. The suffocating sadness that he felt was lessened slightly by the relief that also took root inside of him. He didn’t care about any of that right now though. He wanted to know what Amanda had meant. She told him.

“She’s not even your daughter,” she shouted at him. “She never has been. I was shagging one of the neighbours when we lived in Burnley.”

They’d lived in Burnley at the start of their marriage, almost twenty years ago and left five years later. Jess was seventeen. Amanda sat back down on the sofa and stared at the television as though she hadn’t said anything. John felt a loathing for his wife now that was almost boundless.

He stood in front of her, blocking the television. “Say that again, and if you’re lying…”

Amanda scowled upwards at him. “If I’m lying, what? What you going to do about it? Just get out of this house and don’t come back. Jess isn’t your daughter so you’ve got no reason to be here.”

Rage took ahold of John as if his entire body was merely a marionette on a flimsy set of strings. Without thinking about it, or even realising he was about to do it, John picked up the half-full bottle of red wine and walloped it over his wife’s head. Amanda fell back, stunned, blood already seeping from a crack on her forehead. The bottle had not broken, so John swung it again, hitting her in the temple. The shock left Amanda’s face and was replaced by a look of bewilderment. Still the bottle did not break. Infected with an unbridled rage, down to his very soul, John swung one last time with all his might. This time the bottle shattered, smashing off Amanda’s forehead with an almighty crack!

John had never seen a dead body before, but he knew he was looking at one right now. He was glad. Now his wife would not become the full-blown monster she was threatening to become. The decaying rot of her spirit had been halted by death and she would pass on with her memory intact. A tear escaped John’s eye as he realised he would get to remember his wife as the woman he had loved for so long.

John picked up the wine-soaked dead body from the sofa and started dragging it to the front door. The plan was to dump her somewhere, close by, on the estate. Later he’d call the police and claim she hadn’t come home. Until then, he would dump the body and return, sit back and wait for his daughter to get home. He looked forward to raising Jess alone.

When Hell Freezes Over

The snow was really falling now. A nervous person might even say that the weather had become unnatural. With every minute that passed, the temperature dropped and water froze. The cold was enough to kill a man stone dead – but not the man that currently stood beneath a blinking streetlight on a desolate council estate.

Although, in all honesty, he wasn’t really a man.

Lucas looked up at the moon and saw that it was full. There was something happening tonight, that much was clear. He just hoped it wasn’t the thing he was starting to suspect. Four-thousand years of existence was a long time, but Lucas wasn’t ready for it to end yet.

I haven’t watched the latest series of Dexter, for one.

Lucas walked forward, feet resting on the surface of the snow as if he were weightless. He’d never visited this particular town, it was without any notable history, but there was a lot of supernatural energy suddenly leaked into the world and he had traced it to here. Now he just needed to find out the source.

It wasn’t long before he found it. Lucas stopped walking across the snow and turned around. Behind him was an old friend, from long long ago.

“Gabriel?” Lucas raised an eyebrow. “I take your being here to be a bad sign.”

The Angel Gabriel stepped forward to approach Lucas and shook his head. “On the contrary, Lucifer. I would say that my presence is an extremely good sign. It signals the end of the decadent cesspool of this humanity. The Lord’s patience has worn thin and He has sent forth his armies to-”

“Still towing the company line, huh?” Lucas interrupted without his Irish accent. It was unnecessary in the current company. “You don’t seriously buy into the whole apocalypse thingy-majig, do you?”

“It is His will.”

Lucas sighed. “So it’s really happening then? I’d worried as much.”

“The scales have tipped. A sinner was chosen and failed to redeem himself…and therefore his species.”

Lucas took another step towards Gabriel. It wasn’t confrontational – the war between Angels was a one-time event never to be repeated – he just wanted to read the other Angel’s expression. “I always hated that contingency – from the very day Michael dreamt it up. It’s perverse to pin the world’s hopes on a single individual. So who is it anyway?”

Gabriel took in a breath that he didn’t need. “The sinner? Harry Jobson.”

Lucas closed his eyes and summoned knowledge – one of the few talents he still retained from his days in Heaven. Harry Jobson was a good man turned bad by events beyond his control, not from any taint of his soul. “That’s not fair!” Lucas said, and was aware of how whiny he sounded, but carried on anyway. “If anything, the revenge he took on the man that killed his family only proves the capacity of love he had for them in the first place. If man wasn’t capable of great compassion and loyalty, then revenge would be of no interest to them. That’s how He made them, so why should they suffer?”

Gabriel was silent and for a moment and almost performed a gesture approaching a shrug. There was a sadness to the Angel that Lucas could sense; like fumes from a petrol can.

“You don’t agree with this either,” Lucas stated.

Gabriel shook his head futilely. “My opinion is of no consequence.”

“No being should accept slavery as a birth right, neither Angel nor Man. To be created is not an obligation to servitude. We have the right to our own opinions. You should have joined me long ago, brother.”

Gabriel swiped a hand through the air and fried the falling snowflakes that were unlucky enough to touch him. “Blasphemy! Your unrighteous war sought to enslave man. Now you speak to me of such things as free will?”

Lucas shrugged and resumed his Irish accent. He no longer felt like showing reverence of respect. He was more human than Angel. “Well, a fella can change his mind now, can’t he? In fact the almighty father changes his own every five minutes so it seems.”

“He is your father too and you will speak ill of him no more. The time for wrath has arrived and you are summoned to be its witness. Your hand in Armageddon is such that you deserve a front row seat.”

Lucas wasn’t about to accept any more of this pious nonsense. “Look, Gabriel. I know you spend your weekends at Vegas, counting cards and downing Amaretto cocktails like you’re trying to put out a fire in your belly, so why don’t you cut the bull and start speaking a wee bit of the truth. How can I stop this?”

Gabriel seemed to think for a moment before letting out a sigh that seemed to signal his walls coming down slightly. “Brother, you cannot. While my own fondness of humanity, and its vices, is something I admit to, I will not defy my Lord. Not all can have your strength of rebellion – and not all would even want it. It is done. A concordant has been met and at this very moment a plague of Angels descends to the Earth like you once did – thousands of falling stars ready for retribution. All life will be extinguished.”

Lucas couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was this lack of rational compromise that turned him against Heaven in the first place. He didn’t miss it. “There are…loop holes?”

“Perhaps,” said Gabriel, already turning to walk away. “But can you remember them?”

Lucas shook his head. “I can’t, it was too long ago. Gabriel stop, I need answers.”

Gabriel turned back around. “I cannot remain here, Lucifer. I have…duties. If you need answers, perhaps you will find them in there.”

The Angel pointed and Lucas spun around. Behind him, on that hill, was a pub called The Trumpet. Lucas smiled to himself.

A drink sounds like a bloody good idea right about now.

News And Weather

“This is Jane Hamilton, signing off for Midlands-UK News.” Jane handed her microphone to a production assistant and let out a shiver. She was wearing a huge pink ski-jacket but the cold was still getting through. “Was that okay, Steve?”

Her cameraman, Steve, gave her a thumbs up. “Perfect. There might have been a slight issue with snow on the lens, but nothing we could do with things the way they are. “

“I know, it’s crazy, right?” Jane looked down from the motorway bridge and examined the tipped-over transit van. She had no idea what the contents were, spilled all over the snow, and each second only shrouded them further in layers of fine white powder. As a professional news reporter, Rule One was always to remain unaffected by the stories she was reporting, but this one gave her the willies. All of the meteorologists back at the studio were flummoxed by the recent weather – a few went so far as to say it was impossible. She took their expert opinions very seriously and had some serious anxiety about what the coming days would bring. People had already started dying and she couldn’t help but worry that the toll would continue to rise substantially.

“You okay, Jane?”

She let out a breath and watched it steam in front of her face. “Yeah, Steve. Thanks. I just don’t like this cold.”

“You want me to get one of the guys to fetch you a coffee from the van? There’s still a bit left in the Thermos.”

Jane cringed at the thought of the stale taste of lukewarm coffee from a flask. “No, thanks, that’s okay. I just want to get back to the studio. There’s going to be other things to report before the night is through, I can feel it.”

“You’re probably right,” agreed Steve. “We’ll get going in a few minutes. Mike and Tony are just trying to dig the van loose.”

Jane’s eyes widened. “What?”

Steve tutted. “Hard to believe, but in the short time you were reporting, the snow was heavy enough to cover the wheels.”

“Oh, hell!”

Steve waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it, Kitten. We’ll be gone in a jiffy.”

Jane narrowed her eyes. “I told you to stop calling me that. We’re not together anymore.”

“Pity,” said Steve. “You look hot in that ski-jacket.”

Jane laughed and decided to head for the van. The snow was beginning to melt through her boots and her thick socks were becoming soaked. It was hard to walk and, after only a few steps, her calves began to ache. She wanted nothing more than to wrap up warm at home with a DVD and her cat, Thompson, but she knew the night would be long. At times like this it was all hands on deck. The freak weather conditions would keep every news channel in the world busy until its cause was known.

“Hey, Mike, how’s it going?”

Mike was kneeling next to the van, mini-shovel in hand. “My hands are so numb you could put them on a pair of tits and I wouldn’t even know.”

“Charming,” said Jane, laughing. “I guess I should stay out of the van until you’re done. My weight would probably make it harder to get the van free?”

“Dunno,” said Mike, “but don’t worry about it. I’ll manage.”

“You’re a dear,” said Jane. She patted him on the head and stepped into the van via the side door, then slid it shut after her. The van was slightly warmer than outside, but was still uncomfortably chilly. A bank of blinking monitors lined one side and she sat on the stool in front of them. The monitor on the left showed the studio feed that was currently going out live to the nation. The monitor on the right showed the feed from Steve’s camera outside – the images were still streaming but were not being recorded. Back at the studio, one of her colleagues was interviewing an ecology expert. He was currently refuting claims that a damaged Ozone layer could be the cause of all the snow.

Something caught her attention on the other monitor. The camera mounted on a tripod outside had picked up the image of Tony, the other production assistant. He was currently taking a piss off the top of the bridge to the deserted road below.

“Nice,” Jane commented, shaking her head. Steve was in the picture too, speaking on his phone. He was probably checking in with the studio to confirm it was okay to come in. Beyond both men was something else: a dark shape in the background, partly out of focus and obscured by the snowfall.

What is that?

The shape seemed to be coming closer, heading towards Steve and Mike at the centre of the bridge. Jane leant closer to the screen to try and make out some further details. The dark shadow didn’t seem like another person. It was closer to a small vehicle than anything else – perhaps a motorcycle.

As Jane continued watching, the shadow continued getting closer. Inch by inch, the shape revealed itself. When it became clearer, Jane was even more confused.

“What the…?”

It appeared to be an animal of some kind; a huge dog maybe – but too big and too hairy. It was creeping up slowly behind Tony, who was still taking a leak.

Jesus, is that guy part-camel or what?

Jane kept waiting for Tony or Steve to notice the creature, but they did not. She tried urging them through the monitor to look around, but of course she knew it was hopeless – she wasn’t telepathic. Just when she was about to lean out of the van and shout for their attention, the creature made itself known to the two men outside.

The over-sized hound pounced at Tony from behind, crushing him up against the bridge’s railings. The monitor didn’t give out sound but Jane could hear his startled cries from inside the van anyway. The bloodcurdling screams that followed were unpleasant enough, but twinned with the disturbing images on the feed monitor they were horrifying. The beast outside had pinned Tony to the ground and was ripping and tearing at his back. The snow turned red all around.

Steve realised the situation and made a run for it, most likely heading for the van. He exited the view of the camera and Jane was left wondering how close by he was. A second later her stomach turned as she watched the hound-beast leaving the mutilated corpse of Tony behind to give chase to Steve.

Jane stared at the monitor and tried to control her breathing. Steve’s screams were coming closer and it wasn’t long before she heard Mike’s join them. Outside of the van the two men were being attacked by something she couldn’t describe – something unnatural.

Banging at the van door.

“Jane, let me in. Open the door.” It was Steve.

Jane stared at the door handle and found herself unable to move from her seat. Every part of her mind screamed at her to let Steve in, but every fibre of her nerve-endings refused to let her move. Steve continued to scream as ripping sounds began. Whatever was out there was ripping him to shreds. Mike was probably already dead, and here she was, hiding like a coward while it all happened only inches away from her.

I just report the news. I don’t take part in it.

Steve’s screams finally stopped and Jane sat in silence, listening only to the sounds of her own panting breath. She turned back around to face the monitors. The live feed from the studio had gone black, but the camera outside was still recording. On it she could see the snarling face of a jagged-toothed demon appear from off-camera. Then she saw its jaws gape wide and the video feed was no more.

Jane waited in terror for what seemed like an eternity, hoping against all hope that the beast would go away. But it didn’t.

The van began to rock as the creature attacked it, trying to get at the prize inside. Jane Hamilton cowered in the rear of the vehicle, knowing it was only a matter of minutes until she joined the recent death toll.

Cloud Cover

Quinton Barstow was worried. Flying an airliner was nothing new to him; he was more nervous driving a car in actual fact. In a car you have to trust in the driving skills of other people, and trust that people are even paying attention, but in a plane it’s just you and the clouds; nothing to crash into and nothing that could go wrong in the engines – there were just far too many ground checks to miss anything. Piloting an airliner was almost fully-automated and pretty plain sailing – or flying to be more accurate, and excuse the pun. Yet he was worried all the same.

All of the above only applied, however, when the aircraft’s electrical systems were responding correctly. This evening they were not, and Quinton could think of no reason why. Any errors with the plane’s on-board computers should have been rectified by a quick reset, but he had tried that several times now to no avail. He needed those systems to compensate for what his eyes could not see. The current weather was making his natural vision near-useless.

“I can’t believe they cleared us to fly in this,” said Quinton’s co-pilot, James.

“They didn’t see it coming,” replied Quinton. “The weather reports for the week ahead were mostly clear. All of this cloud cover doesn’t make any sense.”

“You think we should bring her down at the nearest airport?”

Quinton looked at his dials and meters. The spindles spun and flickered without any sense of reason. They were flying blind. “I’m beginning to think so.”

“Okay,” said James. “I’ll try and contact ground support at Paris. They should be able to receive us.”

Quinton nodded his agreement and continued to examine his controls. The autopilot navigation system was displaying random error codes in sequence, as if it could not decide what its problem was. The dials continued to spin and the altitude indicator seemed to think that the plane had banked to the left 90-degrees. In twenty years of flying, Quinton had not witnessed such a catastrophic failure of instrumentation.

“I can’t reach anyone,” said James without any sign of exaggeration.

Quinton looked at him. “What?”

James thumbed at buttons and switches on the console but gave up with a concerned sigh. “I’m getting nothing but static.”

“That’s nonsense. De Gaulle is only thirty-miles away.

“They’re not responding. I’m not even sure they’re reading us.”

Quinton did not like this at all. “Okay, we’ll hold position in the area for thirty minutes. Keep trying to reach someone. Try Heathrow.”

James nodded uncertainly and went back to twisting dials and flicking switches. Quinton would have liked to have inputted some commands into the guidance system and gone and stretched his legs, but the way things were, meant that he had to remain at the plane’s manual controls. He steered in a steady curve, planning to circle until they spoke to someone on the ground.

As was natural to an airline pilot in the 21st Century, Quinton began to worry about the bogeyman of all frequent flyers. He wondered whether his aircraft had been the target of terrorists. Had the on-board systems been tampered with in the effort to bring the plane down? Was this just step one of 9/11 part two?

No. Something told Quinton that his concerns were misplaced. For all the effort and planning it would take to disable a plane’s systems so entirely, it would be just as easy to plant a bomb on board or hijack the cockpit. Whatever was going on here had to be down to some other cause. Quinton couldn’t understand why, but he felt that it had something to do with the weather.

A knock at the cockpit’s door startled Quinton and he spun around on his cabin chair. After a hostess identified herself, he pressed the lock release and a red light above the door turned green. Samantha entered with a mug of coffee for both him and James. Coffee was as necessary to a pilot’s job as aircraft fuel and he couldn’t have welcomed anything more at that moment. He took one of the steaming mugs from the hostess and thanked her. She looked back at him with a scrunched up expression that he supposed meant she had an issue to raise with him.

“What is it?” he asked her.

She took in a breath as though she had many words to get out. “It’s really bizarre. I don’t even know how to explain it really. At first it was just one or two passengers but then more and more people started to complain, and now I think it’s everyone.”

“Spit it out,” Quinton told her.

“Okay, okay. Well, it would appear that anything electrical has gone a bit haywire. The passenger’s phones, ipads, mp3 players, et cetera have all gone a bit…funny.”

Quinton raised an eyebrow. “Funny?”

Samantha nodded. “All the displays have gone squiggly as if something is interfering with them.”

Quinton turned around and looked at his own malfunctioning gadgets. Something wasn’t adding up here, and anything unknown aboard a plane could be extremely dangerous. He leant forward and pressed the intercom button. The normal ding! sound did not occur. In fact nothing happened at all.

“Damn it! The intercom is down. Samantha could you inform the passengers to turn off all electrical devices. Tell them that…we’re passing through an electrical storm and leaving them on could permanently damage them. Also, please inform them that we will be performing an unscheduled landing due to adverse weather conditions.”

Samantha nodded, but didn’t seem comforted by his suggestions. Quinton couldn’t blame her, he wasn’t either. He turned to his co-pilot. “You got anything, James?”

James’ bleak expression told him the answer was no.

Quinton bit at his lip. There were no protocols for this. In the event of system failure, the plane needed to land, without question, but the danger of coming down unguided in the thick snow blizzard that hid beneath the cloud cover would be a near suicide-mission. The situation was dire, and as Captain it was his responsibility to decide what to do next.

“Okay, James, enough. We’re going to bring her down.”

The co-pilot’s eyes went wide. “We’re going to land blind?”

“What choice do we have? I would rather that then run the risk of falling out of the sky if the engines fail.”

James nodded. Quinton knew the other man thought he was right. It just didn’t make the decision any easier.

“Okay,” said James. “Reducing speed. Descending to 20,000 feet.”

Quinton prayed that the plane’s landing gear would deploy when approaching the runway. Being mechanical, he hoped they would. After all, the flaps and rudders were all responding.

Many tense minutes of ensuing silence were eventually broken when James spoke again. “Cruising at 20,000 feet. Runway is approximately twenty miles out.”

“Reduce altitude to 10,000 feet.”

James did as he was instructed and Quinton looked at his dials out of habit despite the fact they were currently useless. Once he reminded himself of this, he instead chose to look out of the cockpit’s wide, glass window. Now that the plane was descending, he could see the bulbous clouds below more clearly. They seemed unending, letting no light from below make it through. Which was why Quinton thought it inordinately strange when he saw several bright lights coming from above the plane.

He craned his neck to get a better viewing angle and saw that more than a dozen glowing spheres had appeared in the sky. They seemed to be falling, like meteorites, but Quinton knew that wasn’t what they were. He knew that, because they were falling too slowly, not free-plummeting the way a lump of space debris would.

“What the hell is that,” asked James, suddenly noticing.

Quinton stared out at the descending lights and wondered that himself. The way they moved was almost gentle, as if they had some great purpose that could not be rushed. It was then that a blinding light also filled the cabin.

The two pilots cried out and shielded their eyes, holding onto their chairs as they fought to stay seated. Mere seconds later, the light had gone again, and Quinton opened his eyes. The lights outside were still falling, but something inside the cabin had been altered. Something unexplainable.

Quinton looked down at his instruments with horror as he realised that they were no longer there. All that remained was a blackened husk of metal where dials and equipment used to be. The smell of ash lingered in the air, and Quinton felt dizzy as he realised something else.

His dizziness turned to panic.

The engines had stopped. They were going down.

Outside, the bright lights continued falling like stars, Angels from heaven. The plane fell faster.

Jack

It was funny how people found religion in times of crisis. People that hadn’t seen the insides of a church for years would suddenly get down on their knees and pray, whenever they were out of any other options. As much as Father Pitt enjoyed seeing his pews full of parishioners, he knew they were all hypocrites.

He considered giving another sermon, but then decided against it. Nobody was listening. His parishioners were huddled together in small groups and families, seeking only the shelter and community that the church provided, nothing else. They were not looking for tales of morality. As soon as the snow cleared, they would be gone again, returning to their mundane and selfish lives. In many ways the drastic snowfall was a blessing. Perhaps it was God’s way to send these lambs to Father Pitt, so that he may attempt to capture their spirits and return them to the Lord’s path. But he could no longer be bothered.

The church had been full for almost twelve hours now as the snow outside continued to fall so deeply that people had started turning up for fear that the world was ending. No one stated such absurdities, but their presence at the church spoke of a collective fear unspoken. At first, Father Pitt had served his calling well; had sought to help them with their anxieties and teach them about God’s plan for them. Within a few hours, however, he saw the futility of such pursuits.

Then they found the first body.

* * *

Mary found the body in the church’s sole toilet. It was a small, recently-built cubicle set inside the entrance corridor that led inside the church. Mary had been fighting the urge to urinate for a while, too chilly to unwrap herself from her seat, but she could hold it no longer.

The toilet’s door had been unlocked when she tried it and she hurriedly stepped inside without thinking about it.

The dead man staring back at her made her yelp.

She had noticed the overweight man earlier in the evening, alone and praying. Now he was sat upright on the toilet with his pants around his ankles, guts spilling from his bulbous stomach which peeked out beneath his ill-fitting sweater.

Mary slipped on the bloody tiles and fell against the wall.

She screamed.

* * *

Dr Wallace came out of the toilet wiping his bloody hands on his shirt. In all his years of being a Doctor he had not seen such a grotesque wound. The man’s stomach had been torn in two, his large intestine severed and leaking out onto the floor. The smell was overpowering and would soon invade the interior of the church and make them all gag.

“What happened to him?” asked the woman who had found him.

“Mary, is it?” he asked. She nodded. “Well, my answer is that I have no idea, except to say that he was clearly murdered.”

Everyone in the church gasped. Some of the women began to cry. The church’s priest stepped forward, a look of utter despair on his face. “I don’t understand. How could he have been murdered with all of us here?”

“Yeah,” said a ginger-headed man wearing a green cardigan. “He was sat in the corner praying only twenty minutes ago. I saw him.”

Wallace shrugged. “All I’m telling you is that he didn’t die of natural causes. He was gutted like an animal. Also, I found this…” He offered out his hand so that everyone could see. It was a playing card: the Jack of Hearts. “It was forced into his mouth,” Wallace explained.

“Oh God,” said a young blonde of perhaps twenty. She had her hand to her mouth.

“What is it?” Father Pitt asked her.

“It’s Jack the Raper.”

Wallace huffed. “You mean that killer in the papers?”

The girl nodded. She wore a supermarket uniform and a name tag that read: Kelly. “That’s his thing,” she said. “His calling card or whatever.”

“How do you know that?” someone asked.

“Because I like reading about serial killers and stuff. I’ve googled this guy like a hundred times.”

“That’s sick.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Whatever! Doesn’t change the fact that this is him. He’s already killed seven people, and every time he leaves a playing card stuffed in their mouths – always the Jack of Hearts. The papers say it represents sin because of its link to gambling and the heart is supposed to show lust. There was a whole article on it from some professor guy.”

“Are you serious?” Wallace asked.

“Yes. The guy breaks into people’s homes, kills any husbands or men in the house, and then rapes and kills the wife. That’s why the papers have called him Jack the Raper.”

“I feel sick,” said a woman in the back of the assembled group.”

Wallace shook his head. He was feeling rather nauseous himself. “I have to report this,” he said.

“Well, no one has a mobile that works,” Kelly said. “I think the snow is interfering or something.”

“I’ll have to go find someone, then,” said Wallace.

“You can’t go out there,” said the man in the green cardigan. “The snow is three feet deep. We’re all stuck here. With a goddamn killer in the room no less. Jesus Christ.” Father Pitt cringed at the blasphemy and the man seemed embarrassed. “Sorry,” he quickly added.

Wallace wasn’t in the mood for a debate, so he headed towards the church’s exit corridor. He tried to ignore the fecal scent of the dead man in the toilet as he passed. Up ahead was the old, wooden door of the church. He grasped the large brass hoop that constituted the handle and turned and pulled. The door fell open with force, knocking Wallace back onto his ass. Snow flooded in from outside, piling up on the ancient carpet.

“I can’t believe it,” Wallace said as he scurried back to his feet. “The snow must be six feet now. How long have we been in here?”

“Last time we checked outside was about six hours ago,” said the ginger man in the cardigan. “It was nowhere near that high then.”

“It’s the end of the world,” said a woman in the crowd. She was the first one to finally say it. The first one to say what they were all thinking.

* * *

“We have to get out of here,” Bradley whimpered, reaching into the pocket of his cardigan and pulling out his phone. The LCD display still read NO SIGNAL and he sighed as he put it back away.

“Calm down,” Dr Wallace told him. “The more we panic, the less rational we will be, and that’s the last thing we need right now.”

“So what do we do?” Mary asked. “Are we in danger?”

“I’m sure we’re fine,” said Father Pitt. “We just need to stay calm.”

Kelly began flapping her arms. “Calm? Calm? How the heck can we stay calm with Jack the Raper around?”

Bradley was getting annoyed at the girl’s wild assertions of a serial killer being amongst them. Life was a pretty shitty place, for sure, but he wasn’t about to believe that this ‘Jack the Rapist’ was currently standing in the same church that he was. “Stop making assumptions,” he said. “We don’t know what happened to that man in the toilet.”

“We know he was murdered,” said Wallace. “And with the snow the way it is outside, we know that it was one of us that did it. No one else could have gotten in.”

“We know no such thing,” said Father Pitt. “Anything could have happened.”

Bradley had heard enough. He just wanted to sit down and wait for things to blow over. He went over to one of the pews and sat down. As soon as he did, the church’s lighting went out.

* * *

Kelly shook her head. This was bad. Snowed-in inside a church with Jack the Raper, and the lights had just gone out.

“Everybody hold on a minute and I’ll get some candles,” said Father Pitt. “It’s not a problem.”

Everyone mumbled anxiously in the dark and all Kelly could see was the soft, flickering shadows of their movement.

“This is so screwed up,” said a voice. Kelly thought it was the man in the cardigan, sitting on one of the pews.

Maybe he’s the killer. He is a bit of an oddball.

Jeez, I can’t wait to get out of here. I’m freezing my tits off and I don’t want to get raped and butchered.

Now that the quiet buzz of electricity had halted, the whistle and howl of the wind outside was the only sound.

When Father Pitt returned with an arm full of candles, which they lit one by one, they all found another body.

It was the cardigan man.

* * *

“We were just talking to the guy,” Kelly shouted. “Like two minutes ago. What happened?”

Dr Wallace leant over the man’s body, pulling up his ripped and bloody cardigan that was no longer green but red. Then he opened the dead man’s mouth. He pulled out another playing card and held it to the group. “It’s another Jack of Hearts.”

“I want to get out of here. Somebody get me out of here.” It was Mary. Apparently two dead bodies in one night was too much for her. She began fluttering about, shoving people at random and begging for their help. Her panic was infecting the other half-dozen people in the group. They were all starting to lose it.

“Should we slap her or something?” Kelly asked.

“No,” said the Doctor, who quickly grabbed the woman in a calm embrace. “Calm down, dear. We’re all here with you. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

Yeah, right, thought Kelly. Two down already.

“This is the Devil’s work,” said Father Pitt. “Someone capable of such deeds has no place in my church.”

“We need to find out who it is,” said Kelly. “We need to check for…I don’t know; clues or something.”

“The playing cards,” said a nearby woman. “We should check everyone to see if they have any of those cards on them.”

“Good idea,” said Wallace, “But without resorting to a strip search, it would be very easy to hide such a thing.”

“No one is looking in my knickers,” said Kelly.

“Maybe that’s because you have something to hide,” said Mary, suddenly back in control of herself.

“Yeah, right,” said Kelly. “Little old me has been travelling around England raping and killing people. Are you on drugs, you daft cow?”

“How dare you call me that.”

“Ladies, ladies,” said the Doctor. “We can’t assume anything right now.”

“It’s probably you,” said Kelly. “There are lots of killers that worked in the medical profession. It’s even thought that Jack the Ripper was a surgeon. Then there’s Harold Shipman, the Angel of Death killings, and Marcel Petiot in France.”

“It’s you,” said Mary again, pointing her finger at Kelly. “You’re a freak. Who knows all that stuff you’re talking about?”

“It’s just an interest,” said Kelly. “It doesn’t make me a freak. I just like to read. You should try it sometime, you dumb bitch.”

Mary lunged through the candle-lit shadows and went for Kelly’s throat. Kelly jumped aside, up the steps that housed the church’s altar and lectern. Her foot struck something and she went hurtling to the floor.

“What the fuck is that?” she cried out as she fumbled about on her hands and knees. When she felt the soft, slick flesh of another dead body, she screamed.

* * *

It was crazy, but Mary was certain that the little blonde bitch had something to do with what was happening. She kept going on about serial killers, like they were some sort of heroes or something. The girl was small, sure, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t stab someone to death.

And maybe she has an accomplice. Maybe I’m surrounded by bloody killers.

“That’s three people dead,” said Wallace.

“We’re dropping like flies,” said Kelly.

“God help us,” said Father Pitt. “Let me head into the vestry and try to get a call through to 999. The police need to get here right away.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Mary. “I don’t want to stay out here.”

“Fair enough,” said Father Pitt. “Come along then.”

The two of them disappeared into the shadows, their candles bobbing along through the darkness. A shiver rushed along Mary’s spine as she realised she was now more alone than she had been. There was still a handful of people gathered in the church, but how could she trust any of them?

She gathered a candle in each of her hands and then went and followed Father Pitt. Inside her little cocoon of flickering light, she felt as if she might just make it. She just wished it was not so cold. It was as if the snow was never going stop falling and they would be trapped there forever.

* * *

Father Pitt had been gone for several minutes and Wallace was getting anxious. As a Doctor he was expected to be one of society’s wardens, in the same way as a teacher or police officer. It would not do for him to show his fear at the situation. People would be looking to him as some sort of authority. The priest, too – which was making him wonder where Father Pitt had gotten to.

“Is everybody okay?” he asked the group. “I’m just going to find out what Father Pitt is doing.”

No one said anything so Wallace felt it safe to sneak away for a few moments. He headed down towards the altar and then turned right into a small side door. Through it was a small antechamber that had been turned into an office of some kind. Lying on the floor, dead, was the older woman, Mary. A few feet away from her body an old swivel chair lay. Slumped over it, and also dead, was Father Pitt.

Wallace raced back out into the church. “They’re dead,” he shouted. “The priest and the woman are both dead. We need to get out of here right now.”

It was finally too much and the group lost it completely. Everyone began swarming around, heading for the nearest windows and doors. Wallace headed back to the church’s front entrance and pulled open the door again. Just like before, the snow piled in and covered the carpet; only this time it was higher than the doorway. He was faced with a sheer face of packed snow. Against all rationality, he lunged forwards anyway. He shoved both arms into the snow and succeeded only in getting his hands and wrists through before it compacted and became utterly solid. It would take a tonne of pressure to clear the doorway.

They were trapped.

And to make matters worse, someone back inside the church was screaming loudly. And then the scream suddenly stopped.

* * *

Kelly was about to shit a brick. Another person was dead; gutted just like the others. Even with a group of people huddled together, someone was managing to pick them off one by one. If only it wasn’t for the dark.

The latest dead person was an older gentleman who had kept to himself since entering the church. His wife had found him propped up against a large wooden cross at the side of the church. A playing card hung from his lips: a Jack of Hearts.

Now there were only a handful of the group left and Kelly wasn’t about to trust any of them. The main suspect in her eyes was the Doctor, but it could have been anyone. She had to keep her distance.

The wife of the dead man had now joined forces with a teenage boy in trying to smash through one of the stained glass windows. It held strong, braced by the snow against its other side.

The Doctor was sitting by the front door, slumped on the floor. It seemed like he had finally lost it, too, but it could have been an act. Then there was a middle-aged man and another woman who was likely his wife. That was all that was left of the group of strangers.

To think we all came here for safety. What’s the worst that could happen in a church?

Kelly wanted to be alone until she knew it was safe. There were bodies everywhere, which is why she decided that the church’s small side office would be as good as anywhere. At least it had a door she could close. She quickly headed there before the killer attacked anybody else.

Inside the office, the smell of blood and guts was strong, but she would have to bare it. She turned around and started to close the door. The pain she felt when the knife went into her guts was excruciating.

* * *

Wallace sat on the floor and shook his head. He stared into the flickering flame of his candle and asked himself over and over if he was dreaming. Half a dozen people murdered in less than an hour, and there was no escape. No way to find help.

As he sat there, Wallace’s mind began turning to maudlin thoughts; regrets of not having a family and instead choosing to be a slave to his work. What did any of it matter really? Curing people was a worthwhile pursuit for one’s lifetime, but it was a selfless task that brought a man no true happiness – not in the way a family did. Wallace had only come here tonight because he had nowhere else.

Why am I thinking things like that? I still have decades left. I am not going to die in this godforsaken church.

Wallace hopped up from the floor and headed out of the church’s exit corridor. The church’s interior was quiet. There were only a few people still alive inside, but right now they were making no noise and he could not see their candle-light.

“Hello!” Wallace spoke out, not knowing what else to say. “Where is everybody?”

“They are all dead,” said a voice from the front of the church.”

Wallace gulped and tried to force down an air bubble trapped in his throat. He knew who was speaking to him. Could hardly believe it, but he knew. “Jack the Raper?”

“That is what they call me. The unwashed, sinners. They read their papers, enjoy their trash, and scurry about their rancid little lives with utter disdain for the gifts they were given.”

Wallace took slow steps forward. “By God?”

“Of course,” the voice almost spat the words. “Who else? All of you came here tonight for selfish reasons. You seek his comfort when it suits you, but when do you give back anything of yourselves.”

Wallace stepped up before the altar and was surprised by who he saw. He shook his head. “But, you were dead.”

“Did you check my body?” Father Pitt asked. “Perhaps you should have. Now everybody is dead. And you will follow. The Lord has rained down an icy death upon us all, but you are not worthy to die by his majestic hand. I will do his bidding until my time is nigh. I will slice out your life like I have so many before. I will violate your sinful orifices and revel as your soul descends to Hell.”

“You’re a fruitcake.”

“No,” said Father Pitt, leaping forward like a man half his age. He drove a long thin blade into Wallace’s guts and looked him right in the eyes, smiling. “I am God’s will. And soon I will join him in the Kingdom of Heaven. Goodbye Doctor. Give my regard to the serpent king.”

Dr Wallace hit the floor, dead. The final victim of the man they called Jack the Raper.

Winter Before Last

The drive had been a long one. Bristol was a long way from Stoke and the Boxing Day journey had been slow and cautious, the roads slippery with ice and slushed snow. Harry hated winter, hated the cold. In the summer, people came together – BBQs, festivals, zoos, and theme parks – but in the winter people stayed away from each other, wrapped up warm and ignored the outside world. Winter was the season of isolation and loneliness. Yet, out of all the dreary winters of Harry’s life, this one had been the best. Sure it was damp, icy, and grey; sure he had spent the last week with his wife’s condescending parents; and sure he was itching to get back to work, but this winter was great for one reason: Toby.

Of course he had spent several Christmases with his son already, but those had been interspersed with work and commitments. This year his furniture business was successful enough that he had been able to leave the running of it to his cousin and take a massive ten days off to spend with Toby and his wife, Julie. It had been total bliss to watch his son open his presents on Christmas morning, ripping open the packaging on his new bike and then moving on to the wrapped-up Nintendo DS beneath Julie’s parent’s tree. He’d never seen his son so happy, and he had never been so happy himself. What Julie had gone on to tell him that night had only made the day even more special.

He still couldn’t believe she was pregnant.

“You paying attention?” asked Julie, sitting on the passenger seat beside him.

Harry turned to her and smiled. “Yeah, sorry. I’m just so happy. Life is pretty good, huh?”

Julie smirked and shook her head at him. “I think you had a better Christmas than little man.”

Harry glanced back at his sleeping son on the back seat and agreed. In fact, he may have had a better Christmas than anyone.

“Anyway,” said Julie, “you should have come off at junction 16. You just missed it.”

Harry shook his head, annoyed with himself. “Bugger it. Okay, I’ll come off at the next one.”

Julie mumbled something under her breath and Harry just about heard her.

“Did you just call me a fish head?”

Julie shrugged. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

Harry huffed. “Oh, really? Well it sounded like you called me a fish head.”

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”

“Well, that’s rich, coming from a dog head.”

Julie hit Harry in the arm, causing him to swerve slightly. “Cheeky sod.”

“Whoa! Watch it, woman, you’ll have me in a ditch.”

Julie laughed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to endanger your perfect driving record.”

“Always pays to be safe. Baby on-board.”

Julie looked back at her son and smiled. She was so beautiful as a mother. There was something about her now, that Harry loved, which had not been there before Toby’s birth. It was something unexplainable to anyone without a child of their own.

Harry was just about to say, I love you, when something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. The sight was followed by a lot of chaotic noise.

“Shit!” Harry saw the vehicle on the opposite side of the motorway swerve. It careened across several lanes and came crashing up against the central reservation several yards ahead. His stomach fluttered and he thanked God for the near-escape, but then the speeding vehicle cartwheeled into the air, flipping the balustrade upon impact and hurtling, end over end, down the other side of the motorway; the lane that Harry was occupying. Harry would have liked more time to react, but before he even thought to swerve out of the vehicle’s path, his entire being seemed to shudder as his consciousness was battered from his body.

* * *

Harry opened his eyes and then closed them again. A light had burned his eyes and he had to flutter his eyelids until the dull aching went away. He found himself staring at a blank white ceiling with a small, tinted window looking out at star-filled sky. It was a vehicle; the back of a van perhaps. When a paramedic appeared in his field of view, Harry realised he was lay in the back of an ambulance.

The woman’s name badge read: Penelope. “Hey there,” she said. “Everything is okay. You’ve just been in an accident.”

Harry shot up on the stretcher. “My son…my wife?”

The paramedic tried to ease him back down but he resisted. “There are people trying to help them right now.”

“Help them? What do you mean?”

The woman looked him in the eye for a moment but could not hold the gaze. Something seemed to trouble her. Harry didn’t feel like getting information about his family second hand from someone else. He pushed the woman aside forcefully and stumbled off of the bed. His legs felt like jelly as he hit the tarmac outside the ambulance. His breathing was painful too, but none of that mattered. He needed to find his family.

There were flashing lights all around him and fluorescent white jackets flitting to and fro. The motorway had been closed off, probably by sideways police cars at the entrance to each junction. Harry staggered forward. There was a huge fire truck up ahead and it blocked his view any further down the road. People seemed to be congregating in that area and he headed towards them, as fast as his confused feet would take him.

“Excuse me, sir?” A police officer walked up to Harry with a palm raised. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Harry swiped at the hand in his face and snarled. “Where is my family?”

The officer stepped towards Harry, but backed off when he saw that there was no chance of his authority holding any weight. The man tried a different tact. “They’re being rescued now.”

“Rescued from what?”

The police officer sighed. “My name is Officer Tonks. Why don’t you come and sit down with me and we’ll have a chat about what is going on.”

Harry looked at the man and saw genuine compassion, but that didn’t change the fact that Harry didn’t want a conversation with anyone but his wife. He turned away from the officer and hurried towards the fire truck. The man did not give chase.

Once Harry reached the bright red vehicle, he saw the wreckage beyond. His brand new Mercedes was a ball of twisted steel and a mangled truck seemed to be entwined with it. Before he knew it, Harry was vomiting all over the floor. Maybe he had a concussion, but he was pretty sure it was purely because of what he was seeing.

Despite his injuries, Harry ran forward, dodging past anybody that tried to stand in his way. Over at the pile of compacted vehicles, two firemen worked at the steel with heavy cutters. When they saw Harry coming at them, wild-eyed, they stepped aside with concern.

It was then that Harry saw what was left of his family. He could make out Julie’s crushed face, squashed beneath the Mercedes window strut. One of her eyes seemed to bulge from her socket. Harry fell to his knees and tried to reach out to her, but he could not. As he tried to crawl his way into the car, he saw the mess that had been his son. Toby’s body no longer resembled human form. If it were not for bloody scraps of clothing and puckered flesh and protruding bones, Harry would not have even known it was his son.

Harry screamed out, loud enough to reach the moon. Someone pulled him back by the armpits and he kicked out and struggled. The person turned out to be Tonks and the officer was no longer willing to stand by. He controlled Harry’s body with a well-trained grasp of how joints and pressure points worked. Harry was forced by his twisted elbow to walk away from the scene.

“Why?” Harry cried out. “Why are they dead and not me. Why am I fine?”

“I’d say because you’re lucky,” said Tonks, “but I think you’d probably hit me. You were thrown free from the car upon impact. So was the driver of the other car. Your family…well they didn’t have the luck that you did. I’m sorry, Harry, I really am.”

Harry felt weak and struggled to keep his legs from folding like accordions. “How do you know my name?”

“Paramedics found your driver’s license in your wallet. Would you like me to contact anyone?”

Harry shook his head. “…No. I-I will do it later. I want to see my family. I want them out of there.”

Tonks nodded. “I know you do. They’re working on it. Let’s just get you to the hospital for now. There’s no way to deal with something as terrible as this, so don’t try.”

Any fight Harry might ever have possessed was gone from him now. He allowed the officer to take him by the arm towards the ambulance and he would also let them take him to the hospital too. There was no reason to resist now, no reason to fight…no reason to care. Harry’s life was without purpose and always would be from now on.

As he neared the ambulance, Harry noticed something up ahead. There were two other police officers standing with a weary-looking man. They were breathalysing him. Harry’s own breath caught in his chest and the only way he could let it out again was by talking. “Is that the other driver?”

Tonks seemed to stiffen then and started leading Harry at a slightly different angle, putting distance between them and the other officers. “Yes,” he said. “He says he doesn’t know what happened. He’ll be taken in for questioning once the paramedics clear him.”

“Why are they breathalysing him?”

“Standard procedure,” said Tonks without missing a beat.

Harry nodded and let the officer think he was satisfied with the answer. Really, he was taking one last, long look at the man that had just murdered his family, and committing his face to memory. Harry realised that, in actual fact, his life still did have a purpose: to take the life of the man that took his.

Enjoy what’s left of your life, whoever you are, thought Harry, because I promise that this will be your Final Winter.

The Peeling

& Other Terrifying Tales

The Peeling

An author’s word

The Peeling was one of the first stories I ever published. It was a novella set in a world where a flesh eating virus was on the loose. Readers liked it. They found it disturbing. And because people liked it, I wrote several more novellas about The Peeling. Each book featured a different character and a different story that added to an overall narrative. The problem was, that after the first book, I didn’t have any idea where to take the story. I was writing for market rather than writing for myself, and as a consequence it has never been a series I am happy with. I think the final book ‘The Lights’ reveals that I had run out of ideas.

Despite my initial visit to the world of The Peeling being one of regret, I always loved the idea. One of the most frightening films, for me, is Outbreak with Dustin Hoffman. It really gets under my skin, excuse the pun. The Peeling is my attempt to capture that squirming horror, and it was great to have a chance to return to the story. The version of The Peeling contained within this book is a completely new story. It is the version told by a fulltime writer of seven years versus the young author just starting out who wrote the original. The older books are also contained in this collection, so you will have an opportunity to compare the Iain Rob Wright then and the Iain Rob Wright now. You will also see the evolution of the greatest plague ever to infect mankind… THE PEELING.

“Sickness is mankind’s greatest defect.”

Georg C. Lichtenberg

“The way most doctors practice medicine right now isn’t working.”

Mark Hyman

“There’s some kids in a cabin. They got a disease.”

Tommy, Cabin Fever (2002), Lionsgate Film

THE PEELING (2018)

1

“It’s bitter kaut today, ay?”

Devey studied Mr Opperman’s wizened face, then glanced up at the ominous grey sky. “Certainly is, Mr Opperman. Bet you miss South Africa on days like this, huh?”

The old man spat on the small patch of lawn outside his bungalow. “No way, boet! I never miss that shit hole. Do you miss Pakistan?”

Devey chuckled. “I was born in Northfield, man, but my parents say India is nice, which is where they are from. I’m sure every place has its good and bad.”

“Like people,” said Mr Opperman, sounding grumpy—but then everything the South African said sounded grumpy. Sometimes he bordered on offensive, too, but he always greeted Devey with a smile, so he liked the old man overall. “Any post for me today, boy?”

Devey slid a letter from his postbag and handed it over. “Just the one, and it looks like a bill, I’m afraid.”

The old man spat again and deposited the letter inside his faded green cardigan. “I suppose you’re only doing your job, boy. Take care today, ay? It’s gunna rain, and you ain’t dressed for it.”

Devey smoothed his hands over his dark blue shorts. He wore them because he had run out of clean trousers, and groaned internally at the thought of having to do laundry tonight. “And here was me thinking it would be mild today,” he said. “You take care, Mr Opperman. See you tomorrow.” He waved the old man goodbye and continued to the next bungalow. Right on time, Mrs Partridge emerged from her front door and wheeled her bin up the path. Devey trotted over and took it from her as he always did on a Thursday morning.

“Oh, you’re a dear,” she said—the same thing she said every week. Devey hated watching the pensioners on Blackstitch Lane struggle with their wheely bins, so it had become routine he would lend a hand during his rounds. He even looked forward to it.

“No problem, Mrs Partridge,” he said with a smile. “Here’s your post. Someone’s popular today!”

The old dear’s face lit up at the bundle of letters. Usually she got nothing. “Oh, how wonderful,” she said. “I turned eighty today. These must be cards from my family.”

Devey gave a thumbs up. “Oh, wow. Happy birthday, Mrs Patridge. Many happy returns. Are you doing anything nice today?”

She shook her head and a melancholy whistle escaped her dry lips. “You stop making a fuss at my age. What I’d give to still be a sprog like you.”

“I’m twenty-four!” Devey objected playfully.

“Aye! A babby. Enjoy your youth while you have it because it’s gone before you know and you never know which day will be your last.”

“Enjoy your birthday, Mrs Partridge,” he said, not wanting to depress himself with talk of old age and infirmity. He strolled to the next bungalow, but Miss Mallon didn’t come out to greet him like she usually did. The pensioners treated their weekly bin run like a social event, an opportunity to wave and check in with one another. Miss Mallon was usually out with the rest of them. But not today.

“Suppose I’ll have to do it the old fashioned way,” Devey mumbled as he pulled the woman’s post from his bag and headed down her path. The front curtains were closed, which was another unusual sight as Miss Mallon was active for her age—an avid Bingo player and a regular at the swimming baths according to their chats—and she took pride in her house’s appearance.

The front door was open. Just a little.

“Miss Mallon?” he called out. “Mary? It’s Devey, I have your post.”

No answer. His empty stomach growled, but it wasn’t in hunger. He stood on the doorstep, unsure whether to go in. He called out again, but still he got no answer. Knocking bought no response either. Mary’s hallway was dim and unlit. Why was she not answering?

He could lose his job for walking into an addressee’s property he reminded himself, but he couldn’t just drop off Mary’s post and leave, right? What if she was hurt? “Come on, man,” he chided himself. “She might have fallen and broken a hip. What’s to think about?”

Mind made up, he prodded the front door with his trainer. The smell hit him like an open palm—a sickly-sweet odour like curdled milk. “Mary? Are you here? It’s Devey, the postman. You’ve got me worried.” He peered down the hallway, then took one cautious step after another. “Your front door was open,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind me checking on you.”

He passed by the lounge and peered inside. An embroidered couch faced a small flat screen television, but there was no Mary. Further down the hallway, a doorway opened onto what he assumed was the kitchen. The room was lit and, as he walked towards it, the odour increased. He called out again. This time a reply met him.

A whimper.

Carpet covered the hallway, but Devey had been unaware of it until it changed texture beneath his feet. His trainer left the bristly fibres and came down on something tacky—a substance not quite wet but not quite solid. He lowered his gaze and saw blood, a slick trail leading into the kitchen. All at once, the walls tilted either side of him. His vision spun. The slim tendrils of fear that had been clutching him since he’d left the doorstep now swelled into monstrous tentacles wrapped around his guts. “Mary? Mary, if you’re okay now is the time to say so. Mary? Mary, please answer me!”

Another whimper. A low moan.

Devey swallowed a gelatinous lump in his throat and stepped into the kitchen, fighting the urge to run away.

Blood smeared the cream linoleum. A cat fussed over something in the centre of the room and flinched when Devey entered. It didn’t abandon its prize, though, and even let out a low growl to warn him off. The animal was not his concern, and he glanced around for Mary. A flimsy wooden table and chairs blocked his view of the far side of the kitchen and left him with no choice but to go further inside. He’d now lost all hope of there being a simple reason for Mary not putting her bin out.

Man, do I really want to do this? Still time to turn around and leave. Pretend this never happened and go back to my rounds.

How would I sleep at night?

Goddamn it!

He took a step forward.

And found Mary.

Although it could have been anyone.

The stench which had been a mild annoyance up until now, became a noxious wave that doubled him over. His balance deserted him and he fought to keep from tumbling to the blood-streaked floor. Mary’s wide eyes stared up at him, and her teeth clacked together trying to speak—but she had no lips or tongue. Tendons stretched back and forth across her face, ending at her hairline in sticky clumps. Barely a scrap of healthy skin remained. She was a ghoul.

Mary lifted an arm to him, just an inch, but Devey understood she was asking him for help. He reached down to take her hand, but recoiled in horror when he saw finger bones bursting through the pads of her fingertips. “I-I’m sorry,” he said, stepping back. “I-I’ll get help.”

Mary’s arm collapsed to the ground. The light faded from her lidless eyes.

Devey kept backing away, legs like rubber, until his heel struck something. He turned around and saw the cat. It hissed at him and scurried away, leaving behind its prize—one of Mary’s ears.

Devey vomited again before fleeing the kitchen.

* * *

Mr Opperman waited with Devey on the front lawn until the ambulance came. The wrinkled South African was smoking a cigarette on his front step when Devey had spilled out of Mary’s home screaming for help. The old man did his best to calm him down, rubbing his back and chatting, but it didn’t work. Devey was still shaking by the time the police arrived ten minutes after a pair of paramedics in an ambulance. Devey didn’t even remember if it was him who had called 999. His phone was still in his pocket.

“You say the front door was open when you arrived, Mr Singh?” asked one of the two police officers, a lanky man with coppery sideburns to his chin. His partner remained in the car, talking on the radio. Both officers were as freaked out as him—the horror was written all over their faces—and they’d come rushing out of Mary’s house one minute after going in. Blackstitch Lane was busier than ever with an ambulance, police car, and several gawking neighbours. Mr Opperman had waved a hand at them to go back inside several times, but none of them obeyed. Devey tried to speak. That gelatinous lump choked him again, and he struggled to swallow it down. Mr Opperman rubbed at his back, which helped. “There, there, boy. You’re out of it now. Just tell the policeman what you saw, ja?”

Devey nodded. “Y-yes, the door was open.”

The police officer frowned. “But you found her in the kitchen? Why did you go in?”

“I was worried. Mary is—was—a strong lady, but she’s still old. I thought maybe she’d fallen.”

“Mary? You knew her personally?”

“No, I just… I know most of the people on this road. I watch out for them.”

The police officer tilted his head like a curious puppy. His long sideburns added to the effect. “Why?”

“Because he’s a decent boy,” said Mr Opperman snippily. He didn’t seem to like authority and glared at the officer every time the man asked a question.

The police officer shrugged. “Okay, fine. So Mrs Mallon’s front door was open, and you found her in the kitchen?”

“Miss Mallon,” Devey grunted. “She never married. There was blood on the hallway carpet, like maybe she’d dragged herself into the kitchen. She might have got ill in the night but couldn’t make it outside, or changed her mind about going outside to get help and went back in. I think she collapsed in the hallway.”

The police officer studied his notepad before putting it away. “We found a mobile phone on the floor next to Miss Mallon’s body. It’s possible she was about to leave her house but couldn’t manage it, so went back inside to call for help instead.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “What a wretched way for an old lady to end up.”

Devey agreed wholeheartedly. The pain Mary must have gone through... He could not imagine it. “Officer? What was wrong with her? There was barely anything left of her. What can do that to a person?”

The officer appeared just north of thirty, but right then he looked like a scared little boy. “Mr Singh, I wish I had the slightest idea, but I don’t. Perhaps the paramedics will know more.”

Devey glanced down the path to where the ambulance was parked on the curb. Both paramedics spoke on their radios, animated and fidgety. From first impressions, it didn’t seem like they had a clue what had happened to Mary either. In fact they looked downright scared. A car door slammed and the police officer’s partner got out of their car. She looked anxious about something. The male officer excused himself and went off to speak with her.

Devey clutched himself to keep from shaking. Mr Opperman trembled too, pulling his cardigan around himself. “You should go inside,” Devey told him. “You were right, I think it’s going to rain.”

“Don’t you worry about me, boy. You wanna tell me what you saw in poor Mary’s house? Everyone who goes in there comes out looking like they met the devil.”

The image of Mary’s decaying body flashed through Devey’s mind, and he screwed his eyes shut hoping to make it go away. He rubbed at his forehead and wondered how he would ever sleep again. That sickly-sweet odour might never leave him. “You don’t want to know, Mr Opperman. Her skin… Her skin had peeled away in a hundred places. There were pools of blood all over the floor. It…”

Mr Opperman waved a hand. “Ja, ja, okay. You tell quite the picture, boet. Is there anyone who can come get you? You can have a dop of whiskey at my house if you need to gather yourself first.” He frowned. “Do you people drink?”

Devey chuckled, surprised he could still manage it. “I’m Sikh.”

Mr Opperman shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

“So yes,” Devey explained, “I can drink.”

“You brownies all look the same to me.”

Devey chuckled again. “And during my first year on this route I thought your accent was Australian.”

“Ha!” The old man slapped his back. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

The two police officers came hurrying back. Devey wasn’t sure what had changed, but they seemed hostile, like they would have shot him if they’d been carrying guns. Mr Opperman moved in front of Devey and put up a liver-spotted hand. “Whoa, whoa, where is the fire?”

“Mr Singh?” The male police officer spoke only to Devey, ignoring Mr Opperman. “Did you touch the body?”

Devey struggled to understand. “You mean Mary? She reached out to me before she died.”

“Did you touch her?” The officer took a step forward, but his partner seemed hesitant to follow.

Devey stepped back, feeling threatened. “What? No, I never touched her! I bolted just like the rest of you did.”

“What are you doing? This man has done nothing wrong.” One of the paramedics hurried over from the ambulance. She glared at the two officers, her pretty face contorting with ugly anger. “Is there something we should know about?”

“Mr Singh needs to be isolated immediately. You should get instructions any minute.”

The paramedic’s tough expression withered, and she glanced at Devey nervously—maybe even fearfully—before taking a half-step back towards the ambulance. Mr Opperman took a step back too, removing his hand from Devey’s back. “Eh, boy, perhaps you better do as they tell you, ja?”

Devey shook his head and licked his lips. “What’s going on? You don’t need to-”

The police officer pulled something from his belt and held it in front of him. “Mr Singh, this is CS gas. If I am forced to spray you, the effects will be extremely unpleasant. Please don’t make me.”

Devey turned his face and splayed his fingers out in front of him. “Hold on, man! I don’t understand what’s happening here.” A squawk from a radio and the two paramedics hurried back to take a call from the ambulance. Their eyes never left Devey as they stood talking into the receiver. In fact, all eyes were on Devey. He felt like an animal at the zoo. The police officer with the CS gas lowered the cannister. “Look, Mr Singh. Devey, isn’t it? I’m not sure what’s happening myself. All I know is that I reported in the scene as normal, but then we got a call back from HQ saying to use any means necessary to keep you from leaving the scene. That usually means you’re dangerous, but we also got orders to see you into the custody of the Ambulance Service who are to isolate you immediately. I think you know what that means.”

The female paramedic who had stuck up for Devey now shouted over from the ambulance. “We need to take you in, Mr Singh.” She looked at the police officers apologetically. “You both need to present yourselves, too, at Quest Lane Hospital. That’s where we’re heading.”

The male police officer nodded that he understood, then turned a scowl on Devey like somehow this was all his fault. He felt like telling the guy to go shag himself. He’d done nothing wrong. Instead, though, he asked a question—a question he had asked already. “What was wrong with Mary?”

The police officer shook his head. “No one has a fucking clue, but if it’s contagious... Look, please just get in the back of the ambulance.”

If it's contagious... Devey shuffled his feet like a zombie, so utterly terrified he would do whatever he was told if it meant not having to process what was happening. The paramedics kept their distance as he stepped into the road and rounded the ambulance. They slammed the doors the second he was inside. The engine rumbled almost immediately. As they drove away, Devey peered out the ambulance's rear window at the residents of Blackstitch Lane. The pensioners stood in a line at the end of their paths, watching silently. He wondered if he would ever see any of them again.

2

“Are you lightheaded or nauseous, Mr Singh?”

Devey grimaced. “Yes! Because I watched a woman die of some horrible disease and then got arrested for no reason.”

The doctor—a well-spoken black man, surnamed ‘Zantoko’ according to his name badge—had a kindly manner, despite his face mask and latex gloves. “I understand, and I am sorry for keeping you here like this. You are in no way ‘under arrest,’ but you may have encountered something rather nasty. I want to make sure you are okay, Mr Singh. That is all.”

Devey felt his heart thudding in his ears. “What is it I might have? Nobody will tell me why Mary died.”

“I haven’t seen the deceased,” the doctor admitted, “but I understand my colleagues at Public Health are yet to identify the cause of death. With any luck, it won’t be a contagious disease, but I’m afraid I need you to stay here until we know for sure.”

“I really need to finish my route,” said Devey pathetically. He knew it didn’t matter, but it was nagging him all the same. He had never missed his rounds before. His postbag lay on the trolley bed beside him. “It would be a criminal offence if anything happens to this post, and I would be responsible.”

“I shall lock it away for you, if you wish, Mr Singh?”

“Call me Devey. And yes, that would be helpful, Doctor. My biggest worry is my bosses. I haven’t called them, and they’ll see from their trackers that my van hasn’t moved from Blackstitch Lane in over two hours.”

“If you have a mobile phone, you’re free to make a call. If you need, I shall talk to your bosses and explain.”

Devey huffed. “They probably wouldn’t believe you. The Royal Mail does not make excuses. Sure I don’t need to tell you how it is as a fellow employee of the government. Is the NHS any better these days?”

“No,” said the doctor, then turned and retrieved something from a cart he had wheeled in with him. The penlight hurt as he shone it in Devey’s eyes. “All of your tests so far seem to be fine.” He moved slowly from one pupil to the next. “I am confident you are okay, but I must ask a nurse to take blood and urine to run further examinations.”

“What if I just walked out?”

The doctor lowered his penlight and took a step back as if Devey might try to dodge past him. “As I said, you are not under arrest, but I have strict orders to inform the police if you leave this room. The two officers you spoke to this morning are right next door, having the same tests as you. So are the paramedics. This is not personal, Devey. It is in the interest of public health. Would you want to leave if you could infect people with something dangerous? I do not think you are that man.”

Devey studied his hands and rubbed them together. “No. I’m a decent guy, but that’s what got me into this mess. If I hadn’t bothered to check on Mary… Man, why didn’t I mind my own business?”

“You did the right thing, Devey. I would have done the same in your position.”

“Thank you, Doctor. That almost makes me feel better.”

“You are most welcome. Please excuse me.” The doctor left to get the nurse, and Devey sat alone again. He needed to call work, but wanted to put it off for a few more minutes—he wasn’t calm enough to speak to his bosses yet. Willis was on today, and Willis was a twat. A strange urge came over Devey as he thought about making the call—he wanted to call his father. It had been three years since their last conversation—a shouting match really—and he’d been too angry to consider ever talking to him again. What was happening now eroded those feelings of anger and instead left him with a sickening fear that made him want to be with family. Even if that family consisted only of his father.

Would Dad even come if I call him?

Only one way to find out.

Devey reached into his pocket for his phone, but then the door opened and a nurse entered. She was pretty—fair-featured and blue-eyed. He couldn’t see her mouth behind her mask, but he imagined it was smiling. Also, she was heavily pregnant—the bump rising beneath the plastic apron she wore. He left his phone in his pocket and stood up. “Should you come near me in your current… state?”

“It’s okay,” she said cheerfully. “It’s actually very easy to avoid infection with the proper precautions. I’ll just take some bloods and then we should hopefully be able to find out what the score is. My name is Sonja. You’re Devey, right?”

“Yes. My actual name is Dayabir, but nobody calls me that. Or they try and get it wrong. Just easier to call me Devey. I like that more anyway.” Why was he babbling? He felt embarrassed in front of the nurse for some reason. There was a chance he might have a disease, and it made him feel dirty.

The nurse beamed at him. “Oh, how lovely. It’s nice to hear a name a little different. Dayabir? Did I get it right?”

“Yes, you did! Feel free to name your baby after me.”

“I’m having a girl. Would that still work?”

He thought about it. “No, it’s a boy’s name, I think. So when are you due?”

“Six weeks. I’m off the job in two. Can’t wait.” She prepared a syringe on a tray she’d wheeled in, taking it from a plastic packet. “You have any kids?”

“No,” said Devey with a firm shake of his head. “I’m only twenty-four. It’s the single life for a few more years yet.”

Sonja gasped behind her mask. “How can a handsome man like you still be single?”

He puffed out his chest as he gave an answer, then felt silly. “Just never found anyone to be close to like that. I’m too used to being on my own, I guess. Always figured I’d meet someone and settle down later, so what’s the rush? How about you? Have you been with your husband a long time?”

She had the needle assembled now and held it out in front of him, almost like a threat. “I’m not married.”

“Oh, sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“That’s okay.” She pointed to her belly. “What you’re looking at is the result of a one-night stand.” She pulled a face, but only ended up looking cuter. “Not my finest achievement, admittedly, but I can’t wait to meet my daughter. I grew up without a father in my life, so I know what she’ll need. Me and her will be a team.”

Devey enjoyed learning about people—the part of his job as a postman he liked the most—but he felt uncomfortable to hear so many personal details, especially when they reminded him so much of his own. Sonja was clearly a person who hid nothing of herself, and he supposed it might be a defence mechanism. By being upfront about the things people might knock her for, she diffused their power to hurt her. He did the opposite and showed as little of himself as possible. “So is this where you stab me in the arm with your needle?” he asked.

“Afraid so. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

He held his breath and looked away, focusing on a poster on the wall. CATCH IT. BIN IT. KILL IT. It was an info sheet about sneezing into tissues and washing your hands afterwards. Basic stuff, and it surprised him that people even needed to be reminded of such basic hygiene. Then he wondered how Mary had caught whatever had killed her. Had someone sneezed on her? Was it contagious? He shuddered as he remembered almost taking her hand. Those skeletal fingers.

Mary’s last moment was asking him for help, and him recoiling in horror. “Do you know if Mary had any family?” he asked as the needle went into the crook of his arm. He winced, and kept his eyes locked on the inane hygiene poster, reading each word earnestly.

“The poor lady who died?” said Sonja. “I haven’t been told much about her. She’s being dealt with by Public Health.”

“Who’s that?”

She adjusted the needle in his arm, making clinking sounds as she changed the cartridge. Devey glimpsed his own blood leaking out and went woozy, chiding himself for not keeping his eyes on the poster. “Public Health,” she explained, “deal with any health threats to the public, like when we get cases of bird flu or someone gets Mad Cow Disease. They also get involved if something infectious or unidentifiable shows up. It sounds like Mary had a flesh-eating disease, which is uncommon, so they’ve taken ownership of her case.”

The needle withdrew from Devey’s arm and he sighed with relief. “Believe me, that works out better for you,” he said. “Mary was a real mess. I doubt your squeamish, being a nurse, but it was a nightmare.”

She tilted her head and gave him a lopsided smile that he realised was pity. “I spoke to Lucy, one of the paramedics who attended, and she told me how bad it was. And trust me, paramedics are used to dealing with everything.”

“What’s the worst you’ve ever seen?” Devey asked, then felt embarrassed for being so morbid. He let the question stand though.

To his surprise, Sonja seemed happy to answer it, and did so without hesitation. “They brought in an elderly man once who hadn’t washed or changed his clothes in years. His toenails had fused with his slippers and they tore off when we removed them. The smell was the worst thing imaginable.”

Devey groaned as he imagined it. Could it have been worse than what he had smelt in Mary’s kitchen? Both were smells of rotting human flesh, so perhaps they were the same. “I don’t know how you do this job.”

“It’s not all bad,” she said, pulling a plastic stick from a clear packet. “Open wide. I need to take a swab from inside your cheek.” He did as he was told and the swab darted in and out of his mouth before he knew it. Without even watching what she was doing, Sonja had popped it back into the packet and pulled a zip. Bodily fluids were mundane to her. Maybe that was how nurses and doctors coped. “Okay, then!” she said. “Last thing we need is a urine sample. I’ll leave you this plastic pot here. There’s a toilet behind you, so I’ll pop back in a bit to see how you’re getting on.”

“The blood results…” Devey nodded to the three tubes of his blood on the cart. “Will they take long?”

“We’re not entirely sure what we’re looking for, so they’ll probably need to run several tests. Just sit tight and I’ll try to keep you updated. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

Devey almost gushed with joy. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was, or how wonderful a cup of tea sounded. “God yes! White, two sugars, please. Man, that would be great.”

Sonja patted his shoulder then left him alone. Not wanting to sit and think, he took his plastic beaker into the toilet. A mirror caught his eye, and he took a moment to study himself, pulling at his eyelids and staring into his own pupils. He didn’t know what he expected to find—black threads of poison or swirling parasites creeping around, he supposed—but he seemed to be okay. He was pale, and oddly weary for what could only have been early afternoon, but he was still himself. Not sick.

Satisfied, he turned to the toilet bowl, which was flanked by handlebars and various pull cords. He prepared to take a leak, prompting his mind to conjure images of him pissing bucketfuls of blood, so he undid his fly apprehensively. It was a relief when a bright yellow stream appeared, and he got a majority of it in the beaker and only a slight amount on his fingers. The chance to wash his hands at the sink was welcome, and he soaped them up for a good ten minutes. He wished he could scrub his insides too.

What if he had what Mary had? Would his skin start peeling away? Would his organs melt? Would he end up a pile of cat food on the kitchen floor? No, he would die here in this hospital while doctors ran an endless battery of tests, his final moments consisting of suffering heaped upon suffering.

Come on, man. You’re going to send yourself crazy.

To calm himself, he had to give himself some positive possibilities to offset the bad. Number one, he felt fine. Two, even if he wasn’t fine, they could treat him right away. Most things could be treated if you caught them early enough, right? Mary might have only needed antibiotics, but she’d been an old lady not wanting to make a fuss. Maybe the fact she was old had led to her death. He was a healthy young man, his body would fight off whatever Mary had caught. Thirdly, he told himself that she might not even have had an infection. She might have been tortured by a skin-flaying psychopath, or victim to a nasty blood disorder. A virus was only one possibility out of many, and all he should be thinking of right now was how poor Mary must have suffered. He’d liked the old lady, and it was a tragedy what had happened to her. Once, when it had been raining, she’d invited him in for a biscuit.

What the hell happened to her?

Devey decided, that if nothing else, he would at least find out that.

* * *

Sonja returned ten minutes later for Devey’s urine sample. She switched on the television and handed him a cup of piping hot tea. Then she left again. For a while, he’d sat and watched a Friends episode—one where Ross still had Marcel the monkey—but he was now surfing for something else. He’d been in the hospital for over three hours now, and he was still yet to call his bosses at work. He’d now left it so long, he decided to wait until he left the hospital. At least then he could get into a long—potentially loud—conversation. The trauma of the morning had worn off, and he no longer felt so worried. Instead, he was simply bored. He wanted out of this room. He flicked through the Hospital’s limited TV channels, hoping to find something to get him through the next bout of waiting, but everything was old or out of date. Jeremy Kyle had gotten stale years ago, and Morecambe and Wise were only acceptable at Christmas. They even ran repeats of Porridge on BBC Two. Didn’t they make new programmes anymore?

Then he caught the end of the news.

The main report concerned a rumoured sex tape featuring Meghan Markle, and how it would shame the Royal Family if true, but the ticker across the bottom of the screen featured a public health warning. It read:

Bengali Flu Strain to hit Britain. People advised to wash hands and stay indoors.

Not the most alarming news he’d ever read, but ill timed considering the morning he’d had. Was that what Mary had caught—Bengali Flu? What the hell was ‘Bengali Flu’ anyway? Flu from India, he supposed, but what was the difference? Swine Flu, Spanish Flu, Bird Flu, Australian Flu… Wasn’t the flu just the flu?

Did Bengali Flu make your flesh rot away like Mary’s had?

A ridiculous theory, and he knew whatever killed Mary had been something truly awful. A flesh-eating disease, the nurse had said. Like something out of a horror movie.

The door rattled, making him jump out of his skin, but he settled down in time to be sitting calmly by the time Doctor Zantoko entered the room. The man was smiling, which he hoped was a good sign. “Devey, you’re looking much better. Have you recovered from the shock of such a terrible morning?”

Devey smiled. “I’m beginning to, but I imagine it will have a lot to do with what you are about to tell me.”

“All your tests came back normal. We will need to monitor you for the next few months, or until we find out more about what killed Miss Mallon, but as of now you are perfectly healthy.”

Devey wasn’t sure if he heard bad news or not. “So I might still have something? What do you mean, you need to monitor me?”

The doctor perched on the bed beside him. “Sorry, let me explain. Many viruses have incubation periods, so we will need to see you every couple of days to run more tests, but in the meantime we will give you a course of antibiotics and a mild steroid to amp up your immune system.”

“I thought antibiotics didn’t affect viruses. They create superbugs or something, right?”

“That is entirely correct, but there could be a bacterial infection or parasite at play, in which case we should treat you accordingly. The steroids will help your immune system fight off any potential viruses and the antibiotics will fight most everything else. But understand, Devy, we are just being overly cautious. You had no physical contact with Miss Mallon, and I believe you to be healthy. Come back in if you feel unwell, but today you may leave and go about your day.”

Devey sighed, overwhelmed and teary. He cleared his throat and steeled himself before he stood up and shook the doctor firmly by the hand. “Thank you so much for looking after me, doctor.” Before he left, a question found its way to his lips, and it made him stop before he reached the door. “The paramedics? Are they okay?”

Zantoko nodded. “It appears so. The police officers too. I shall pass on the same good news to them in a moment.”

A crash sounded next door. It startled both men. Devey looked at the doctor. “What was that?”

“I…” He looked concerned. “I do not know.”

He disappeared out the door in a hurry, white coat billowing behind him. Devey stood alone in the room, fidgeting. He’d got the all clear, so could he leave? No, he should wait for Zantoko to come back and discharge him. There must be paperwork involved, there always was. He decided to fill the time by making that call he’d been putting off. Pulling out his phone, he dialled work. Odd, that he felt so guilty, as he’d done nothing wrong, but he reminded himself he’d gone into a private residence uninvited. Royal Mail was very clear about trespassing. The front porch was as far as a postman should ever go. He’d seen guys get chewed up and spat out for dropping a parcel into someone’s hallway, or even a lounge in one case. If the homeowner complained it was a serious matter—an actual crime being reported.

Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring.

Devey pressed the phone to his ear for over a minute, but it kept on ringing. Kept on ringing past the point where he expected voicemail to kick in. It seemed no one had turned the service on. If they were busy at dispatch, his absence would be appreciated even less.

Ring-ring.

Devey waited a few more seconds then put the phone away. The telling off would have to wait. Maybe he’d go get his van and finish his round before facing the music. It would help his case. Better late than never.

Another crash sounded next door.

“Enough of this shit!” He needed out of this room, out of this hospital. The more he knocked around here, the more his head filled with things better left unremembered. At first, he’d been preoccupied by the possibility he might have a flesh eating disease, but now he was hanging around and waiting. Thinking.

Time to leave.

He headed for the door, trying to ignore the ruckus coming from the next room. Who was in there? The paramedics? The police officers? Or some drug addict having a fit? The corridor outside became a rushing river of people and equipment. Something was happening. He hurried, but couldn’t help looking into the room next door as he passed it. What he saw turned his stomach.

3

The door hung wide open, allowing Devey to see inside the next examination room. Doctor Zantoko stood with the nurse, Sonja, and two orderlies flanking him left and right. They were all trying to calm the female paramedic who was shouting at them hysterically. The woman had shed her jacket and now wore only green trousers and a white vest. Sweat drenched her chest. She looked terrified.

She looked ill.

Devey wanted to rush for the exit, but his feet disobeyed and took him into the room. His mind failed to provide a full understanding of what was happening, but his gut told him it was something bad. Something he needed to know about.

“Get away from me,” the paramedic shouted, clutching at herself like she was hiding something. At the back of the room, her partner told her to sit down. There were tears on his cheeks.

Dr Zantoko saw Devey and pointed at him. “Stay back. Do not come into this room.”

Devey groaned. “She’s sick, isn’t she? Does she have it?”

The frightened paramedic reacted to his voice, and her eyes homed in on him. “You! You need to help me!”

“Me?” Devey pointed to himself. “What can I do?”

She thrust out her wrist and revealed the blistered flesh oozing beneath her palm. “You said you knew that woman. What did she have? What the hell did she infect me with?”

“I… I don’t know. I’m just the postman. She was fine when I saw her last week. How… How did you…?”

“I fucking touched her!” The woman put her hand against her forehead in despair, speaking in sobs. “I checked her neck pulse. That’s all! Two fingers against her throat.” She stared desperately at him. “Did she travel anywhere lately? Did she… did she have anything wrong with her? Did she say anything before she died?”

Devey shook his head, not knowing what to say to the woman. Seeing her panic made him panic. If she had it, he might too. Dr Zantoko took over, trying to calm things down. “Claudia, we will figure this out, but we need to get you some place secure. Something this infectious—something this fast—must be isolated. We shall find out what’s wrong with you, but you know what needs to happen. You’re a danger, Claudia.”

Her shoulders dropped and some defiance left her. “Julien, I don’t want to die.”

“You won’t!”

Tears streamed down the woman’s face, and Devey covered his mouth with revulsion when he saw one of her eyes weep blood. She glanced his way again, but this time he averted his eyes and looked down at the floor. There was nothing he could do or say to help her. He was just a terrified and confused postman.

So he turned and walked away.

Dr Zantoko shouted after him. “Mr Singh, you cannot leave!”

Devey walked faster.

“Don’t let him leave!”

The two orderlies hurried after him.

He ran.

“Stop right now!”

But that was the last thing Devey was going to do. Zantoko had said he was healthy, so he was getting as far away from this virus as he could. He’d hide under a goddamn bridge if he had to. They could arrest him later if they liked, but only once this thing was under control. The orderlies yelled at Devey as he picked up speed, which caused other members of staff to try and block him, forcing him to dodge and change directions so many times he ended up disorientated and lost. He risked a glance back over his shoulder, pleased to see he’d already put twenty metres between himself and his pursuers. They were a pair of paunched, middle-aged men chasing a twenty-four-year-old who visited the gym twice a week. He could do this.

Just find the exit and I’m out of here.

He entered a new corridor, and at the far end he saw two more orderlies coming his way. They were speaking into a radio. The other two were still behind him. “Shit!” He searched for a way out, racing over to a window and pulling at its lower lip. The thing was stuck solid. No escape there. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” There was only one door between him and the two orderlies ahead, so that was what he went for next. He prayed for it to be unlocked, because if not, the jig was up. They’d throw him right back in that room next to the paramedic. Next to the infection.

Claudia. She has a name.

She has what Mary had.

The orderlies in front saw Devey and shouted at him to stop. He rattled the door handle desperately and shoved his shoulder against the wood. It swung open, and he fell through. Shaking with adrenaline, he smiled at a little girl with curly blonde locks who was getting a chocolate bar from a nearby snack machine. Obviously, she knew something was up because she grabbed her Snickers bar and hurried off to mummy who sat on a long plastic bench along with a dozen other people.

A waiting room.

He’d entered the hospital’s main waiting area, an expansive space with numerous seating, a newsagent, and a coffee shop. The main entrance and exit lay ahead. Salvation.

“Can I help you?” asked a woman from a long desk a few feet to his left. She had tight skin and short hair, more like a librarian than a receptionist.

“No, thank you.” He smiled politely and tried to walk away. But he couldn’t contain himself, and soon he was running again, colliding with the thick handlebars of an old man’s wheelchair. The old man’s daughter swore at Devey and even took a swipe at him, but there was no time to apologise. He ignored the pain in his hip and raced through the waiting room, startling both patients and staff in his path. Devey hated drama, and the memory of this would make him cringe later, but the sunlight flooding through the large glass doors ahead was too glorious to resist. It rained outside, just like Mr Opperman had predicted, but that only made the sunlight more miraculous. The rain and sun combined would cleanse him, rinsing his every pore free of corruption.

The orderlies crashed through the door next to the reception desk and shouted after him, but no way could they stop him now. The exit lay right ahead. He felt shame for running, but not enough to slow him down. “Mr Singh, stop!”

“Leave me alone,” he shouted back. “I’m going!”

He made it out the waiting room and funnelled into the wide hallway leading to the exit. The glass doors opened automatically, but it couldn’t have been him that had activated them. Not yet. He wasn’t close enough. Flashing lights and sirens flooded the courtyard outside, distorting the rain in multi-coloured shafts. Several ambulances backed up against the entrance, tyres screeching. Paramedics raced about in a panic, yanking trolley-beds onto the pavement and rushing them into the hospital. A flood of bodies filled the entrance, all of them shouting.

“No! No! No!” Devey skidded on his heels, wondering how he would ever dodge past the moving obstacles choking off the entrance.

“Sir, out of the way, please!”

Devey wailed. “No! No, I need to get out.”

A trolley-bed rolled right towards him, no sign of stopping. “Sir, move now!”

Devey dodged aside before he was crushed, and that’s when he saw the casualty’s blistered face—lips rotting away and nostrils peeling back. He stumbled in shock, and it cost him. Two orderlies raced up behind him and got him by both arms, dragging him away from the exit. He didn’t fight them. He was frozen.

Frozen stiff.

* * *

“They all had it!” Devey screamed at anyone who would listen. “I saw them coming in. They were blistered and peeling. They had what Mary had. Let me out of here!”

Sonja grabbed his shoulders and forced him to look at her. “This is a hospital. It’s full of sick people every day. You are perfectly fine in this room, Devey, but you have to stay calm.”

He tried to blink but couldn’t, staring at the nurse like a wide-eyed lunatic. “I was in the kitchen with Mary. What if I have it? What if I’m going to die?”

Someone strode into the room. “Because if you had it, you would be showing signs by now like Claudia.”

The male paramedic strode into the centre of the room like he wanted to punch someone. Devey shook his head at the man. “What?”

“Two years.” The paramedic grunted, clenching his fists and shifting from foot to foot. “Two years I worked with Claudia. It might not sound like a long time, but it is. It’s long enough to know everything about a person. Long enough to know how great a person is. She’s the one who needs help here, not you! So be quiet and stop taking up these people’s time.”

Devey realised then that the room was full of staff—three orderlies, Sonja, and Dr Zantoko. The hospital buzzed with activity, but all these people were having to try to calm him down. He was an asshole. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right, I’ll be fine.”

Sonja let go of him. “Are you calm? Will you stay in this room and not move?”

He nodded.

“Thank you, nurse,” said Dr Zantoko, putting a hand on her back. “Could you please report to triage?”

Sonja tottered off with her hands on her swollen belly. Two orderlies accompanied her, but the paramedic had slipped out as soon as he’d said his piece. That left Devey, Dr Zantoko, and the remaining orderly. “Mr Singh,” Dr Zantoko tugged at the lapels of his doctor’s coat as if to regain his authority, “I cannot leave this room until I’m sure you understand what is happening here. There is an outbreak occurring, and you were exposed to it. Now, my earlier assessment of you being fine still stands, but we cannot—I repeat, we cannot—take any risks with this sort of thing. You must remain here until the situation is under control. Do you understand?”

Devey nodded. He was ready to shit in his shorts, but he understood. Despite having wanted to escape this room more than anything, it suddenly felt like a cocoon. In the hallways outside, the infection festered, but in this room he would be alone and safe. “Doctor? Have you ever seen anything like this? There were half a dozen patients rolling out of ambulances when I tried to leave—maybe more.”

“Eight!” Zantoko folded his arms and let out a nervous sigh. “Eight cases all at once. All from a nearby old people’s home.”

That struck a chord with Devey. “Did any of them play Bingo?”

Dr Zantoko frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Mary played a lot of Bingo. I know because she won £5,000 once and gave me a twenty pound Christmas tip because of it. She was…” his eyes brimmed unexpectedly with tears, “a nice lady.”

“I don’t know if they were Bingo players, but thank you the information, it could prove helpful. Finding out where the outbreak began will be vital to containing it. I’ll pass on your theory to Public Health.”

Devey lifted his chin and felt proud of himself. If they stopped some terrible outbreak because of him, he might get called a hero. He’d be in the paper. Then he considered how much grief he would get at work and the thought became less attractive. The lads would make all kinds of fun.

Dr Zantoko left him with the orderly who was a towering, heavy-set man. He stared at the floor in a trance, and Devey asked him if he was okay. He looked up as if surprised. “What’s that, mate?”

“Are you okay? Looks like you checked out for a minute there.”

“I’m a bit freaked out, to tell you the truth. I’ve worked here long enough to know when the doctors are worried.”

“Shit, man,” said Devey. “Don’t say that! Aren’t you all supposed to keep calm and carry on, or something?”

The large man tutted. “I’m a soddin’ orderly, mate. My job is to move equipment around the hospital and wheel patients here and there. If there’s something nasty in this hospital, I want no part of it. I might knock off and go down the pub, job be damned.”

Not the noblest attitude Devey had ever heard, but he couldn’t help but understand the man’s fears. Doctors and nurses probably considered their jobs a calling, but this guy was just picking up a pay packet. He didn’t sign on for this. “You think things are bad, huh?”

He huffed. “Didn’t think I’d need to convince you of all people. Weren’t you were the one who found patient zero?”

“Mary? She was an old lady on my round. I never touched her though. Dr Zantoko said I’m fine.”

“Yeah, I heard him talking with Sonja. They don’t think you have anything to worry about, but they’ve been getting orders from above. The big wigs have got their knickers in a twist.”

It was good to hear from yet another person he would likely be fine. It made him instinctively like the orderly. “What’s your name?”

“Ken.”

“Pleased to meet you, Ken. I’m Devey. Feel free to hide out with me if you want, but keep me updated if not.”

“I’ll be ordered off somewhere else any minute, mark my words. No harm staying out of the way until then though.”

Devey walked over to the bed and perched himself on the edge. He considered switching the TV back on, but decided it would be rude with company.

“Turn the telly on,” said Ken.

“Oh! Yeah, okay.” Devey picked up the remote and pointed it at the TV. The news came on again.

The reporter, a Chinese woman with a slight lisp contorting her privately educated accent, looked incapable of emotion. Only her mouth moved. “Mr Trump was quoted as saying, ‘When I win a second term, I will shut Amazon down completely, and send a warning shot to all the other companies that think they are bigger than America. Thank you and covfefe.’”

Ken tutted. “Nothing on the news. Suppose that’s a good sign.”

Devey shook his head. “No, look at the bottom.”

Across the lower edge of the screen, the red ticker displayed text in capitals: BENGALI FLU CASES HIGHER THAN FIRST FEARED. PUBLIC ADVISED TO AVOID UNNECESSARY TRIPS AND STAY INDOORS.

Ken shrugged. “So?”

“Don’t you get it? There’s no such thing as Bengali Flu. The Government knows what’s happening and is trying to keep it under control without panicking people.”

“You’re paranoid, mate. The news would be all over it. They don’t work for the government.”

“Maybe there’s a law that let’s the Prime Minister restrict the media in a health crisis or something, I don’t know. This feels like too much of a coincidence. You work in a hospital, ever heard of Bengali Flu?”

“I’ve heard of a lot of things I can’t remember, mate. You’re just panicking. The doctors here are good. You’ll be okay.”

Devey huffed. “You’ve changed your tune. I thought you were hiding out in here because you were worried.”

“If you go into another panic, I’ll get the blame. Seriously, though, you’re the safest guy in the hospital right now. That’s why I’m in here with you.” There was a crackle and Ken looked down at his belt. “Ah, bollocks. Told you!” He spoke into his radio and hurried out of the room. The voice squawking at him sounded angry—or stressed. Devey chuckled and surprised himself. The fact he was a prisoner at a hospital in the middle of an outbreak was absurd. So absurd it was funny. At the very least, it would give him something to tell the grandkids one day.

Just so long as I don’t end up like Mary.

He had no intention of leaving the room again, but neither did he want to sit alone watching news reports he didn’t trust. The best solution, he decided, was to peek out the door and try to stay informed. He’d keep out the way, but would see what was happening.

What was happening didn’t look good.

Doctors and nurses zipped back and forth, spilling out of rooms and racing in all directions. Every receptionist had a phone glued to their ear, and anyone not in uniform stood around confused and upset. One man in particular was making his temper known. A large man with short brown hair and tattoos on both forearms, he shouted angrily. “What the hell is going on? I came here to see my mum, so where the fuck is she?”

“Your mother is being brought down to us now,” said the receptionist in a trembling voice. “She’s on her way.”

“I’ve been here twenty minutes and you keep saying that. I want to see her right now or I’m going to fuckin’ kick off.”

“Just calm down, mate,” said Ken, exiting a side room and approaching quickly. The angry man snarled like a whipped dog. “I ain’t your mate. This place is a disgrace. My old lady is sick and you people won’t let me see her. Take me to her this second before I lose my bloody rag.”

“Sir, I’m not sure exactly where she is right this second,” the receptionist chimed in, “but if you take a seat and—”

Devey yelped from the doorway when the man suddenly lashed out. He shoved Ken to the ground and kicked him. Ken was a big bloke, but the attack had come without warning. Now the angry man stood over him. “Fuckin’ NHS. Will someone do their bloody job around here for once?” He noticed Devey staring at him from the doorway. “The fuck you looking at, Paki?”

Devey felt his stomach go awash, a horrible flood of emptiness. The brute marched towards him, looking in no way like he wanted to chat. Was he going to hit him? Devey couldn’t quite believe it. As if his day could get any worse.

“Get back in your hole, you nosey shit, before I knock your block off.”

Devey froze, unable to take his eyes off the human tank rolling towards him. Why weren’t his feet moving? Ken floundered on the floor, his large belly making him resemble a tipped turtle. The receptionist shrieked behind her desk. It was just Devey and the brute.

“Sir, sit down right this second before I call the police.” Sonja tottered down the corridor with the hard expression of a woman far uglier and older than she was. Her face was bright red and sweating, but she showed no fear, only extreme irritation and weariness. Whether from the situation or her pregnancy was unclear.

“Piss off out my way!” The man lashed out again, this time swiping Sonja aside like a fly. She bounced against the reception desk with a yelp and toppled sideways to the ground.

“What the hell are you doing?” Devey howled. “She’s pregnant, you idiot.”

The man’s face fell in horror and he half-turned to look at Sonja who clutched her swollen tummy and moaned. “Jesus Christ, shite, shite, shite. Look sweetheart, you shouldn’t have got in my way. I just want to see my mum. Why won’t anybody let me see her?”

Devey raced over to help Sonja. She winced in pain, but looked more worried than hurt. To his utter surprise, she got up and tottered back over to her attacker without the slightest expression of ill will. She still wore a face mask, but she pulled it down now to speak. “If you refuse to calm down,” she said, looking him in the eye, “I shall call the police and press charges. What is your mother’s name?”

“Elizabeth Summers.”

“Okay, take a seat over there and I’ll see what I can find out for you. Last I heard, she was on her way down here, but I’m sure you can see things are a little hectic.”

The man apologised for his behaviour and scampered off like a beaten bear.

Ken climbed up and put his arm around Sonja. “Jesus, Sonja, what were you thinking?”

She still clutched her tummy, but she didn’t seem too anxious about it. “The worst thing to throw at a violent man is another man. It would have got nasty.”

Ken grunted as if he knew she was right. “It already was nasty. Are you okay? The baby?”

“My baby is fine. I hit the desk with my elbows. I only clutched my stomach to guilt the son of a bitch into calming down. If he acts up again, call the police. He doesn’t get a second chance.”

Ken nodded, and Devey thought he would have saluted if it was protocol. Sonja was an impressive and frightening woman. And she was glaring at Devey. “Mr Singh, why are you out of your room?”

“I came to help.”

“Thank you, but everything is under control. Let’s get you back inside.”

Devey rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay.”

Back inside the room, Sonja went over to a water dispenser above the sink and filled a plastic cup. She gulped it down and stayed there a few moments to catch her breath. Devey asked if she was okay.

“Yes, sorry. I don’t like violence, that’s all.”

“You dealt with it well.”

“I did my job.”

He grunted. “Your job is hard. I don’t envy you.”

She turned away from the sink and smiled at him weakly. Some exhaustion had left her face, but it wasn’t completely gone. “How are you feeling, Devey?”

He shrugged. “So far so good. How’s Claudia?”

“She’s been moved to the end of this ward. She’s calmed down a lot. In fact, she hooked herself up to her own monitoring equipment to keep anyone from touching her, bless her.”

“Will she be okay?”

Sonja nodded forcefully as if she intended to impose her will on reality. “Dr Zantoko has put her on a course of the strongest antibiotics we have. She’ll feel pretty rubbish, but as long as she fights off whatever we’re dealing with she’ll be thankful.”

Devey was glad at her confidence, but he couldn't help but feel she was putting on an act. “What about the other patients? The old people?”

“Devey, I really don’t know. The hospital has closed off this ward and one other to treat the infected, but I’m just a nurse. There’re specialists from a dozen different hospitals on their way here, and even a couple guys from the CDC.”

“Isn’t the CDC an American thing?”

“Yes, but they have a team working in the UK that helps out during times like these.”

“Times like these? Things are bad, aren't they?”

She glanced towards the door, then back at him. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but yes. Things are bad. The severity of the infection, along with it being so contagious… It’ll make the news tonight, let’s put it that way.”

“It hasn’t yet,” said Devey. “The only report is about Bengali Flu.”

She scrunched up her face. “Bengali Flu? I’ve never heard of it.”

And there you have it, thought Devey. His paranoia was vindicated, but it didn’t bring him much relief. He looked down at Sonja’s pregnant belly and worried. “You need to be careful. Don’t end up like Claudia.”

It was a heartless thing to say, but she nodded at the comment and took it how he meant it. She held up her hands for him to see. “I’m wearing two pairs of gloves, and anyone in contact with Claudia or the patients upstairs are wearing oxygen filters. Don’t worry about me.”

“I am worried about you.”

She tilted her head and frowned. “Why?”

“Because you seem like a nice girl, I suppose. And because I feel responsible. If I hadn’t found Mary-”

“Then somebody else would have!” She put a hand on his arm and rubbed. “Just stay put and things will be under control before you know it. This is the whole reason hospitals exist—to treat sick people and prevent illness from spreading. Let us do our jobs and everything will be fine.”

Devey nodded. “Okay.”

She turned to leave, but doubled over and moaned. “Ow! Ow! Ow!”

Devey grabbed her to keep her from falling. “What? What’s wrong?”

She straightened up, brow furrowed, eyebrows meeting in a V. “I… I had a twinge there for a moment, but it’s fine n—” She doubled over again and this time she yelled in pain. “Ahhh!”

“Shit! Is it the baby?”

“I-I don’t know! Get help. Call for help.”

Devey raced for the door and threw it open. “Help. We need help in here!”

The only person out in the hallway was the animal who had attacked Sonja. He was sitting down, but flinched when Devey screamed in his direction. “What the hell are you shouting about?”

“I need a doctor!”

The man stood up, turned a useless circle, then held his hands out. “They all rushed off, mate. Something is going on.”

“No shit! You need to find someone right now. I think Sonja's baby is in trouble.”

The man’s face dropped. “Because of what I did?”

“Yes, probably, you jackass. Go find a doctor.”

He nodded and rushed off.

Devey hurried back into the room. Sonja bent over the trolley bed, panting and puffing. “The baby’s coming,” she bellowed. “It’s on its way.”

“Bloody hell,” said Devey. “Oh, bloody hell.”

* * *

Sonja seemed to get better for a while, but then she went through the pain all over again. Contractions. Devey rubbed her back and wished he knew what to do. “Where is that jackass?” he said. “He should’ve found a doctor by now.”

Sonja blew air out of her cheeks and produced a guttural moan. Once it expired, she looked at Devey. “I need to get to Obstetrics.”

“Is that where people have babies?”

She nodded. Her face was an impossible shade of red.

“Okay, just… wait here a sec.” He rushed out the door and shouted for help again.

The man who had pushed Sonja and appeared around the corner. “I can’t find anybody. Is she okay?”

“No! No, she’s not. We need to help her.”

“Okay, tell me what to do.”

Devey sneered. “You’ve done enough.”

He lowered his head in shame. “Look, mate. My name’s Lee, and I’m sorry. My mum is somewhere in this hospital and I’m worried as shit about her. I lost my head and-

“You lost your temper!”

He sighed. “Just let me make up for it, please.”

Devey didn’t like the man, but he wanted his help enough to agree. “Okay! She needs to get to the obstetrics ward. Grab a wheelchair and meet me in this room.”

Lee nodded and rushed off. Sonja had another contraction and Devey fell right into the routine of rubbing her back, not knowing if it was helping or not. She didn’t tell him to stop. “What’s happening?” she said. “Where’s Dr Zantoko?”

“I don’t know. Lee is getting a wheelchair and we’re taking you up ourselves.”

“Who?”

“The guy who shoved you.”

Sonja groaned. “No way. Keep that idiot away from me.”

The door bashed open, shunted by a wheelchair. Lee wore a grim expression. “You’re right, I am an idiot. But this is my fault, so let me get you where you need to go.”

Sonja rolled her eyes and moved towards the wheelchair. “Just try not to shove anyone else.”

Lee kept his head down like a scolded puppy as he spun the chair around behind her and put her in it.

“I’ll get the door,” said Devey, and Lee wheeled Sonja out into the hallway.

“Where is everyone?” Sonja asked, looking left and right.

“They all hurried off,” said Lee.

Devey had a bad feeling. In fact, he’d had a bad feeling since the moment he’d first walked down Mary Mallon’s path—and it was only growing worse. Right now, though, Sonja had to come before his concerns. No way was he letting her drop her baby in a corridor.

They hurried for the lifts, and Devey jabbed at the call button. Sonja filled the silence while they waited, moaning and panting. Lee and Devey exchanged worried glances.

Ping!

The lift on the right opened. Lee wheeled Sonja inside. “Which floor?” asked Devey.

“G-Ground floor,” said Sonja. “Obstetrics is on the ground floor.”

Devey pressed the button. The doors closed and the lift whipped them upwards. His tummy fluttered, and he wondered what the baby would think of the sudden, odd sensation.

The doors reopened. Chaos met them.

Doctors, nurses, and other staff rushed back and forth like branded chickens. Members of the public argued amongst themselves. A full blown panic was underway, and nobody could get control of it.

Devey stepped out of the lift. “What the hell is happening?”

“Who cares?” said Lee. “Let’s get our girl where she needs to go.”

Ken passed by and Devey called out to him. The large orderly turned, confused. At first he didn’t know where to look, but then he saw them huddled over by the lifts. “Sonja? Are you okay?”

“The baby’s coming,” she groaned.

“Shit! We need to get you to Dr Robbins.” He shoved Lee out of the way and grabbed the wheelchair. “I’ll take it from here. I suggest you both get back to the ward. It’s a war zone up here.”

Although he didn’t want to delay Sonja, Devey grabbed Ken’s arm to keep him from leaving with her. “What’s happening?”

Sweat covered the orderly’s face. He looked ready to drop, so when he spoke he did so quickly. “More cases keep flooding in,” he said. “Most are coming in the back of the hospital now, but the cat’s out the bag. People know something nasty is in the hospital and they want their loved ones out of here. The doctors are expecting a quarantine order to come through any minute, which means we’ll be forced to keep people here.”

Devey observed the tipped over chairs and strewn litter. People were combusting, and it would only get worse if they were told they could not leave.

Sonja moaned louder, another contraction. “Get moving!”

Ken hurried off with the wheelchair while Devey and Lee stood in awe of what was happening.

“My mum is somewhere in this hospital,” said Lee. “I need to find her.”

“Then you should go. Get her out of here if you can.”

“What caused this?”

“An infection,” said Devey. “Or a virus. Whatever. I’ve seen it, and you want no part of it. Get your mother and go.” Unless she’s one of the cases Ken was talking about, thought Devey. In which case, Lee, you should get the hell away from her.

Although many people stuck around in the waiting room to shout and cause trouble, others spilled out of the hospital’s front entrance and ran for the car park. If Devey wanted out of this place, now was the time. No one would stop him?

But what if I’m infected?

He checked himself over, looking for the slightest blister. The paramedic had shown symptoms within a few hours, and he was well beyond that now. He didn’t think he was sick, but that might not remain true if he stayed in this place any longer.

“I’m leaving,” said Devey. “Good luck finding your mother.”

Lee nodded. “Thanks, and, um, sorry, about earlier. What I called you.”

“No worries.” Lee raced off, and Devey put one foot in front of the other, heading towards the exit. What he was doing was irresponsible, but he didn’t care. He had to get out. Needed to be where the fresh air was.

He jolted forward as someone barged him from behind. His foot came down on an ownerless handbag and his ankle turned. He hissed in pain. Then swore.

“That’s a naughty word,” said the same little girl he’d spooked at the vending machines earlier. She looked up at him, alone in the chaos—a tiny stone in the centre of a stream. Her ruffled blonde locks fell all over her face.

“Sorry,” he told her. “I hurt myself. Are you okay?”

She shook her head. “I lost my mummy.”

“Oh?” He glanced over at the entrance, freedom right in front of him. “W-would you like me to help you find her?”

“Yes, please.”

Devey wanted to leave, but he took the girl’s hand. “Where did you see your mother last?”

“Jessica. My name is Jessica.”

“My name is Devey.”

“I like that name.”

“Thank you. So, your mummy? Where was she last?”

“She went the toilet, then everybody got mad. I think something scary is happening.”

Devey tried to give her a reassuring smile. “I think you’re right. Let’s find the toilets.”

Tip-toeing to look over the crowd, he spotted the icon for the toilets. That was where he headed, but halfway there, he and Jessica encountered an old man kneeling on the ground. At first, Devey thought he’d been knocked down, but then he saw the man was cradling an old lady. He looked up at them with watery grey eyes. “Help me, please.”

Devey searched for a doctor, but they were being bombarded on all sides by angry members of the public. “I’m sorry. I can’t do anything for you.”

The old man said nothing else, just shook his head and sobbed. It felt wrong leaving him, but Devey had a child to take care of. He took Jessica to the far side of the room where the toilets were located. Going inside the ladies wasn’t something he felt comfortable doing, but he didn’t want to send the little girl in alone, so he put his hand against the door and pushed. But the door was stuck. Something blocked it from the other side. He knocked. “Hello?”

No answer.

“She might be inside,” said Jessica hopefully.

Devey placed his leg against the door and shunted it with his hip. It moved slightly, shifting whatever was in its way. With no one objecting, he shoved again, harder. The obstruction slid aside and the door banged against the wall.

“Mummy!”

Devey gasped at the woman lying on the floor. Her head rested on the tiles and blood covered her face. She looked bad—maybe even dead. He grabbed Jessica and pulled her close—an instinctive action. “This is your mummy?” Jessica broke free and threw herself on top of the woman, making the answer to his question clear. “I think you should come away from her, Jessica. We’ll go find help.”

“No! Mummy, wake up!” She shook her mother over and over.

The woman opened her eyes. Her mouth released a moan and she bolted upright, clutching her head. “Sh-sugar, is that you?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

The woman pulled the little girl into a tight embrace and held her tight. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

“Mummy, what happened to your face?”

“Someone hit me with the door. It’s just a nosebleed.”

Devey winced. It was a hell of a nose bleed. “Can I get you anything?”

The woman didn’t know Devey, but she seemed easy with the fact he was there. “No, I’ll be fine. What on earth is happening? People have gone nuts.”

“There’s been an outbreak. I think you should take your daughter and leave.”

She climbed up off the floor, keeping Jessica against her hip and using the wall to help her. Once she was up, she brushed herself off. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“I’m leaving too,” said Devey. “We’ll go together, but you might want to wash your face first.”

“Oh, yes!” She headed over to the sinks and soaked her face until the blood rinsed away. Then the three of them got going.

The chaos in the waiting room had lulled, but not because people had calmed down. It was because a horde of people had fled the hospital rather than stick around. The entranceway was still writhing with bodies wanting to leave, but it was all one way traffic heading in the direction Devey wanted. He could still get out.

“As soon as you get home,” he told the mother and daughter, “lock up and stay there. I’ve seen the virus and it’s bad.”

The mother blinked at him. “What virus?”

He wasn’t about to call it Bengali Flu, so he gave it his own name. “The Peeling,” he said. “Best way I can describe it.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. I hope I don’t have to see it.”

“I hope so t-” Devey stopped in his tracks and threw his arm out to keep his companions back. A man crouched in front of them, holding his face in both hands. A group of people had spread out around him as though he were a bomb. It sounded like he was crying, but the sound came out in an odd whistling sound.

“What is he doing, Mummy?”

“Just stay back, sweetheart. I think he’s upset.”

The man stood and turned around, letting out a garbled scream. Others around him screamed too, including Devey. He didn’t seem real, more like a man in a Halloween mask. His lower lip dangled from the bottom of his chin like a turkey’s bright red snood.

Jessica buried her face in her mummy’s tummy. Devey wished he could do the same.

The man shambled towards them. “Help me! Please… help me.”

“Get back!” Devey shouted. “Stay away. You’re sick!”

The people in the entranceway redoubled their efforts to shove their way to the front. Doctors and nurses tried to regain control, but stopped as soon as they saw the sick man in the middle of the waiting area. Devey felt ashamed for backing away--even worse when he shouted at Jessica and her mother to run. They cut a wide berth around the infected man and sprinted for the exit. Ahead, a dozen people spilled out into the rainy afternoon.

Clap-tssh. Clap-tssh!

Two young men fell side-by-side in the courtyard, falling onto their fronts and not getting back up again.

Clap-clap-clap-clap-tsssssh!

Half-a-dozen more people fell. A few cried out, others were silent. A trail of blood trickled down the glass panels of the entrance.

“People are shooting,” Devey cried. “People are shooting guns!” He grabbed Jessica and her mother and threw them both to the ground, covering them with his body and keeping his head low. The mob turned tail and ran the other way, fleeing back into the hospital. Their fear reached a crescendo as they pushed, trampled, and threw one another aside in sheer panic. A heavyset woman trod on Devey’s sore ankle and aggravated the sprain he’d given himself tripping over the abandoned handbag. Those stuck at the rear of the rout caught bullets in their backs and fell down dead, adding to a growing carpet of bodies. Blood rose in a murky mist, making it hard to see what was happening outside. Nothing moved in the courtyard, that Devey could see, and nobody shouted any warnings. Yet bullets continued zipping through the entrance and hitting people in the back.

“This is all wrong!” It was the infected man shouting, his flapping lower lip distorting every consonant he attempted. “You can’t do this!” He shambled towards the entrance, screaming his garbled words at whoever was out there. Panic had turned his fear to anger, and he cut an imposing figure amongst the bodies at his feet—a wraith amongst the corpses. “You can’t do this!” he bellowed again at the top of his lungs.

Clap-tssh!

The infected man stopped walking and went statue still. No more words came out his ruined mouth. He fell in stages, first down onto his knees, head dropping to one side, then onto his hip. Finally, he rolled onto his front and went still. Seconds passed, and it became clear the man was dead. Any doubts were dispelled by the spreading petals of blood at the back of his shirt.

“This can’t be happening,” said Devey, looking up from where he lay. “This just can’t be happening.”

Two black squares appeared either side of the courtyard, getting larger as they came closer. The large sheets of metal blocked the entrance, extinguishing the sunlight as they slapped up against the cracked glass doors.

They were being locked in.

Devey tried clambering to his feet, but couldn’t remove himself from the tangle of Jessica and her mother. He reached out and screamed, begging the people outside not to do this. But they weren’t listening. The sound of power tools ripped the air, and soon even the narrow tendrils of light around the edges of the metal sheets disappeared as they locked into place.

“They’re trapping us inside,” he said, barely believing his own words. “They’re trapping us in here to die.”

4

People threw themselves against the steel barricades, banging their fists and pleading. Devey sat against the wall with Jessica and her mother watching it all transpire.

“Mummy, I’m scared.”

“I know, honey. Mummy is too.” She turned to Devey. “Thanks for protecting us.”

“No problem. I’m Devey.”

“Barbara.”

He reached over and shook her hand. His were clammy, but hers were dry and firm. When he’d found her, she’d been confused and disorientated, but now she seemed focused and alert—even despite her swollen nose. “Pleased to meet you, Barbara. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“You can say that again.”

“I wish it were under better circumstances.”

Barbara moaned at the awful joke, but Jessica found it hilarious. Her laughter was a wonderful thing to hear against the backdrop of terrified shouting. Barbara stroked her daughter’s curls until they were once again under control and then looked at Devey again. “What do we do?”

“I have no clue. I can’t even fathom who was shooting people, surely not the police. It would be all over the news.” He remembered the earlier report, and the lies about ‘Bengali Flu’. Suddenly he felt unsure. Were the media being controlled by the Government? Was some kind of emergency decree in place? If so, then this sickness must be a lot worse than he’d feared.

Barbara chewed her lip, then said, “Maybe it’s a madman with a rifle, like that guy in Washington a few years ago.”

Devey frowned. “Who?”

She shrugged. “I don’t really remember. Some guy was sniping people at a petrol station in America. Innocent people. It was horrible.”

“That kind of thing doesn’t happen here. The only people with guns are the Police and the Army—and a few gangs who shoot mostly at each other.”

“You said you didn’t think it was the police.”

Devey sighed. “Maybe what I meant to say was that I hope it’s not the police.”

Two men threw punches at one another nearby, over by the vending machines, but it was now so commonplace they ignored it. Jessica watched them as if they were acting out a play. A girl with greasy hair and an oversized Black Sabbath t-shirt shuffled casually by them to get to the machines and bought herself a bottle of water. Then she rejoined the crowd. Devey spotted someone he recognised and leapt up, startling Barbara and Jessica. “Wait here,” he told them. “I’ll be back.” He cut through the crowd, losing sight of his target briefly, but then re-locating the man over by the reception desk. Devey hurried over. “Officer?”

The police officer didn’t hear Devey. He snatched at one of the phones on the desk and held it tightly against his ear. Eventually, he slammed the phone back on its cradle and swore loudly. “Damn it, they’ve cut the phones.”

Devey raised his voice. “Officer!”

“Not now!” He turned with a scowl on his face, but then saw it was Devey and frowned instead. His thick, coppery sideburns were damp with sweat. “Oh, Mr Singh. Hello.”

“What’s going on?”

“We’ve been quarantined.” He stated it as if it were an ordinary thing to say. “They’ve disconnected the phones. Mobiles aren’t working either.”

“What?” Devey leant against the desk for support, his knees swaying. “They can’t do that!”

The officer shrugged. “You’re right. But they did it anyway.”

“Why? Why are they doing this?”

“You know why.”

Devey didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to admit that he was a part of this whole thing, but the officer was right—he did know. “This is because of Mary.”

The officer leant back against the desk and cricked his neck. Before he spoke, he let out a long and weary breath. “Mary, yes, and the other eighty-odd people infected with this ungodly disease.”

Devey blanched. “What? No, Dr Zantoko told me it was less than a dozen.”

“It was less than a dozen, until it was more. Until about twenty minutes ago, my radio was working, and a colleague of mine on the Emergency switchboard told me there were cases flagging up all over the city, and several more as far south as Gloucester. They rated it a Class 9 Health Risk.”

Devey grunted. “What the hell is that?”

“If I told you there isn’t a Class 10, would you get the idea? Whatever your friend, Mary, had is about as bad as things get. Probably a weaponised strain of something already deadly enough.”

Devey slumped further onto the desk and knocked a pot of pens with his elbow. The unexpected racket made him flinch. “This is terrorism?”

The officer looked at Devey like he was an idiot. “Something this fast and this lethal? What else could it be? I’ll tell you one thing though—this didn’t come out the Middle East, they don’t have the resources. It will be China or North Korea or Russia. Some shitfuck country with a bunch of scientists locked up in a basement somewhere. We all knew it was coming.”

“I don’t believe that.”

The officer sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting. “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t either. Someone did this though. I’m sure enough about that.”

“Why were they shooting people outside?” Devey pictured the bloodshed at the entrance and felt dizzy. “Was it the police?”

“No! None of the people I work with would ever shoot unarmed members of the public.”

“Then who?”

The officer went around the back of the reception desk and sat down. He leant forward and put his head and arms on the desk, staying there. Devey realised the man was finished with words, and that it would be best to leave him alone. So Devey headed back to Barbara and Jessica, but when he reached the spot where he’d left them, they weren’t there. “Great! The only two sane people and I’ve lost them.”

There was a scream, louder than all the others, and it spun Devey to face the centre of the waiting area. Things swirled in slow motion, people tussling and fighting, some slipping and clambering on their hands and knees, others bulldozing their way through. A girl stood pleading for help, blood sputtering from her lips. It was the girl in the Black Sabbath t-shirt. Her jet-black hair, leather bangles, and purple nail varnish created a heavy metal look, but what pushed her towards death metal was the blood pouring out of her eyes. Her windpipe glistened through the tissue-paper skin of her neck.

“Get the fuck away from us!” someone shouted.

“Stay back!”

The girl screamed for help, clutching at her face and pulling slithers of gluey flesh with her fingernails, turning her purple nail varnish red. Somebody tossed something, and it struck her cheek. An impressive shot, but its effect was sickening. The blow sloughed away a massive clump of flesh and exposed the girl’s cheekbone. More projectiles launched, and the girl crouched down and tried to shield herself.

“They’re going to kill her!” said Devey, but no one was listening. People were either running away or joining in throwing things—cowardice or cruelty, the only two options in play. He had to do something.

But what?

He spotted Barbara and Jessica standing over by the newsagent. Jessica was clutching a pile of comic books—the reason Barbara must have moved from where he’d left them—and when she saw Devey, the little girl waved a hand at him. He raced over to join them, but it was something behind them that caught his interest.

The fire extinguisher was heavy with a huge nozzle, but once he yanked it off its hook, it wasn’t too unwieldy. He hoisted it against his hip and yanked the pin out the nozzle’s handle. It seemed easy to operate, and that was probably the point, but he still paused before heading off, asking himself if he was sure he really wanted to do what he was about to do. Then he saw another piece of debris hit the poor Black Sabbath fan in the head and told himself there was no choice.

I won’t be a part of this shit show.

He ran to the edge of the baying crowd and squeezed the fire extinguisher’s handle. The large nozzle bucked in his hand like a python until he took a firmer grip. That a jet of slippery foam came spurting out instead of water surprised him, but it worked out for the better as the people caught in the blast started coughing and spluttering. Devey kept his hand clamped on the handle and crept forwards, fanning the foamy spray from side-to-side, dispersing the mob as best he could. It worked like a charm, and within one minute the crowd had broken. They hissed and growled at him like vampires, but he had a crucifix to keep them at bay. He released the nozzle and the foamy spray ceased, but he remained on guard for anyone who tried any funny business. The Black Sabbath fan huddled on the floor, trembling like a mouse. “It’s okay,” he told her. “Everything will be okay.”

A sobbing voice answered him. “No, it’s not. I’ve seen what happens.”

“What do you mean?”

The girl lifted her head to look at him, and it took all he had not to flinch in horror. The flesh of her ruined cheek slid down her face—a waxwork figure beside a fire—but her eyes were vibrant and alive. If there was any mercy to this virus, it would cause a fever and offer its victims the bare respite of delirium. But that was not the case. This girl was rotting alive while fully aware of the fact.

“I was supposed to take my nanna shopping this morning,” the girl sobbed, “but when I called round she didn’t answer her door. I have a key so I went inside. She was still in bed when I found her, still breathing, but she didn’t know what was happening. She was making this sound like-like a baby crying, you know? That pitiful sound that gets you right here.” She clutched her chest. Her hands were bleeding. “She couldn’t see me because her eyes were gone. I could see inside her sockets. The ambulance took an hour. I held her the entire time. They brought us here.” She looked at the crowd, at the frightened faces gawping at her from all corners. Her short speech must have been enough to humanise her because they made no more moves to attack. She seemed to realise this because she kept on talking. “A couple hours ago I started itching down below. I went to the toilets to see what was going on and my knickers were soaked with blood. My neck and face started itching about an hour ago, and by then I could already guess what was happening to me, but I didn’t want to admit it. I have it, whatever took my nanna.”

Devey sighed. “Your nanna is…?”

“Dead. About twenty minutes ago. They wouldn’t let me see her, and I was about to tell them I had it too, but then all this happened.” She looked at the crowd again. “I don’t blame them.”

“She’ll infect us all!” someone yelled.

“She needs to go!”

The girl turned to the crowd and yelled. “Where? Where am I supposed to go? They’ve locked us in here, so fuck off and just let me die in peace.” Someone threw a plastic coffee cup and it only just missed her. Things were about to ignite all over again. Devey didn’t know if he could hold them off a second time. He studied the various faces in the crowd and saw nothing but fear. Somehow that seemed worse than anger.

“EVERYBODY STAY EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE AND LISTEN!” Dr Zantoko appeared, barking into the mouthpiece of a large green microphone. A sticker on the side marked it as NHS property. Once he had the crowd’s attention, he handed the microphone to a nurse and climbed up onto a bench so that everyone could see him. Even without the amplification, his voice was booming. “We need to remain calm,” he said in his educated tone. “And yes, yes, I know that is easier said than done, but I promise you, if we descend into madness there is no hope for any of us. There is a virus in this hospital as I am sure you all know by now. Our labs are studying it as we speak, and so far we are in agreement that it is transmitted through direct contact and bodily fluids. It is not—I repeat NOT airborne. Therefore, if you remain calm and follow the instruction of this hospital’s staff, you will all remain healthy. We will divide the hospital in two. The infected shall assemble in the lower wards where they will be treated with everything we have available. The uninfected will be moved to a different part of the hospital to reduce the risk of exposure. We will work together. We shall be brave.”

“What about the people keeping us inside?” someone shouted, but it was not aggressive. The arrival of a doctor with a posh accent had turned the panicked mob into an attentive audience. “Why did they trap us in here?”

“We are not yet informed of who is encircling this hospital, or why they felt it necessary to barricade all the exits and windows, but it changes nothing. The only thing we need focus on right now is behaving rationally and helping those in need.”

In need? Devey studied the Black Sabbath fan’s ruin of a face and thought the phrase absurd, but he understood that Zantoko was trying to play down the infection. It seemed to work because nobody put up a fight as orderlies and nurses appeared in force and began herding people into groups.

The situation was under control.

For now.

* * *

Devey grabbed Dr Zantoko as he tried to head inside an office. “Doctor! Can I do anything to help?”

Zantoko seemed different now, like a coiled spring, but in a good way—ready to react, ready to leap. For a second, it looked like he would dismiss Devey, but then he recognised him. “Ah, Mr Singh. Are you still symptom free?”

Devey patted himself down theatrically. “So far so good.”

“If you have any strange sensations, you must report to staff immediately. From what I gather, itching is an early sign.”

“I feel itchy all over, but that’s because you’ve put the thought in my head. I get how dangerous this thing is—if I get it, I’ll come clean, I promise.”

Zantoko put his hands on his hips and nodded. “Good man.”

“Have you learnt anything about what it is?”

“It’s a virus. We’ve had it under a microscope and confirmed that much, at least.”

So it really was a virus—an invisible monster clawing its way through people’s bloodstreams, rotting them from within. Devey shuddered. “But it’s not airborne?”

“We don’t know.”

“But you said-”

“I know what I said,” Zantoko cut him off. “I was trying to stem a riot. Thank you for your help with that, by the way. I can’t believe, out of all these people, you were the only one acting against violence.”

Devey watched the people form up into groups, unspeaking, unmoving. “People are scared,” he said. “Not everyone was violent. Some ran.”

“But only you tried to help.”

“The girl in the Black Sabbath t-shirt. Is she okay?”

Zantoko frowned, and Devey realised it had been a stupid question. So he asked another. “Is there anything you can do for her?”

His question hung in the air for several moments before the doctor answered it. “The virus kills in less than 48 hours, and symptoms usually present within 2. It moves so fast it’s like coming into contact with acid. The organism attaches itself to the flesh and breaks it down rapidly with enzymes. There isn’t anything this lethal recorded in all of medical science. I fear the worst for us all if we do not contain it.”

Devey’s mouth went dry. He’d watched a movie about Ebola once, and few things had filled him with more dread than that—but this was actually happening. “Did you… was it… the people outside… did you call them?”

Zantoko nodded. “Yes, but I didn’t realise they would do this. Eighteen months ago, Public Health set up a weaponised disease team. All medical personnel are instructed to contact them if suspicious of a biological attack. Myself and the other consultants agreed that this situation more than qualifies. The Public Health team took charge of the body you found this morning and promised to send a team to help us.”

“It wasn’t a body when I got there,” said Devey. “Mary was still alive. And as for their team, it appears they had no plans beyond barricading us all in here.”

Zantoko ground his teeth for a moment, a stew of anger and confusion on his face. “You’re lucky you didn’t touch Mary,” he said. “The virus membrane has hooks. It latches onto whatever it comes into contact with. If you want to help, keep an eye out for the infection. I don’t trust people enough for them all to come forward. Seven people have fallen ill since we received the first cases, and I suspect there are more.”

“I’ll watch out for anybody itching,” said Devey, glad to have something to do. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t be checking out every single person who stepped in his direction anyway.

Someone called Zantoko, and the doctor had to leave. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr Singh.”

“Devey, and yes, of course. Thank you, Doctor.”

Zantoko disappeared into the office and, as the door opened, Devey saw other doctors gathered inside. What were they talking about, he wondered? Not wanting to stand there alone, he went and rejoined Jessica and Barbara. Jessica was cross-legged on the floor, reading her comics, while her mother leant up against the wall. Barbara looked a little pale and washed out, but despite that she smiled at his approach. “That was pretty amazing what you did back there,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“With the fire extinguisher. You helped that poor girl.”

“Maybe it’s because I was almost in her situation this morning. I found one of the first cases. Anyway, I doubt I did much to help her.”

Barabara went to pat his arm, but he dodged away. She pulled her hand back and folded her arms, embarrassed. “Sorry, I just… You’re right, we shouldn’t touch each other.”

Devey gave a weak smile. What Barbara didn’t realise is that he’d not even been thinking about the virus. He didn’t like strangers touching him. Why was it only now he realised that about himself? When did it start? He remembered sharing cuddles with his mum all the time as a kid, but after that… after she died? When was the last time he had let another human being hold him?

No time for self-reflection, Devey shook himself back to the present. He knelt down beside Jessica. “Hey, what you reading?”

The little girl looked up and beamed at him. The near riot from earlier had seemingly not left a lasting impression on her. “My Little Pony,” she answered. “Mummy got me lots of comics for being good.”

“You are good, aren’t you! All this scary stuff going on, and you’re not causing any fuss at all. I have a niece your age, and she plays up something rotten.”

“Doesn’t her mummy tell her off?”

Devey laughed. “Her mummy should tell her off a lot more than she does, believe me. So what is your comic ab-” He stopped mid-sentence, jolted by something Jessica did. She scratched behind her ear.

Barbara noticed him staring and questioned him about it. Her tone was suddenly defensive. “What are you looking at?”

He blinked, as if he’d simply been daydreaming. “Oh, um, no reason, just lost my train of thought. How you both doing, anyway? You holding together?”

She studied his face, and he forced himself to smile. The disguise held up because she relaxed at the shoulders and sighed. “We’re doing as well as can be expected. I keep trying to call my husband, but I’m not getting any joy.”

“I think whoever is outside is blocking our phones. Mine doesn’t work either. Your husband will be worried.”

She looked at Jessica. “Not as worried as I am. This is a nightmare.”

“The absolute worst,” he admitted, “but you heard the doctor—stay calm and we’ll see it through. It’s spread by contact, so keep your distance from anyone who looks unwell—especially people scratching themselves.” In the corner of his eye, Jessica scratched behind her ear again. He didn’t dare stare at her for fear of upsetting her mother. Did the girl just have an itch?

Please just let it be an itch.

“Okay, I’ll keep my eyes open,” said Barbara.

“You don’t feel any symptoms yourself, do you?” Devey asked, still forcing himself not to look at Jessica who was still scratching away behind her ear.

Barbara shook her head. “I feel fine.”

“Good! Okay, well, if you get any odd sensations, the best thing to do—”

Shouts erupted, cutting him off. A scuffle had broken out and Ken the orderly was caught right in the middle. A young woman in jogging bottoms, three layers of cheap makeup, and two ounces of gold chains was thrusting her finger in his face. To Ken’s credit, he didn’t react, merely stood there motionless as she shouted at him. A nurse stood nearby in gloves and a mask.

“You ain’t fucking touching me, you piece of shit. None of you is laying a hand on me, yeah!”

“Calm down, miss,” said Ken. “We’re doing this to everyone.”

“Well, I ain’t no mug like the rest of these people. You got no right to touch me. You need my permission, innit?”

“To be honest, miss, the normal rules don’t apply right now. This is a serious situation, and we need to assess everyone here. If you’re okay, you have nothing to worry about.”

“I’m worried about you touching my tits, you perv.”

Ken rolled his eyes, starting to lose his patience. “A nurse will conduct the examination,” he explained. “I’m just here to help.”

“Help yourself to this!” The woman stuck up her middle finger and stuck it in his face.

Ken let out a long breath. Devey noticed he was clenching his fists. “If you won’t submit to an examination,” he said, “we must assume you are an infection risk. We’ll have no choice but to isolate you, miss.”

The woman sneered, and it was obvious Ken was close to losing his shit. Who could blame him? Every person here was on the edge of losing their marbles. “You ain’t doing nuffin, you fat fuck. Touch me and I’ll break your nose.”

Ken finally took a step, closing the distance between them and escalating things physically. “Now look here!”

Devey took his cue and hurried over to help. He stood in front of the woman and tried to match her tone. “Just let ‘em get on with it. They’re just doing their job, innit?”

The woman raised a painted eyebrow at him and snarled. “Who asked you to stick your nose in?”

Devey put his hands up. “I’m trying to keep the peace. The only way we can make sure nobody is infected is by working with the doctors and nurses. Nobody else here has a problem with it.”

She scratched at her hip without seeming to realise she was doing it. Her eyes locked on Devey. “Fuck everybody else. I have a problem with it.”

“Because you’re infected,” said Devey, and he heard the low-level bustle of the crowd disappear into silence.

“The fuck you talking about?”

Devey spoke softly, trying to let her know he wasn’t her enemy. Nobody was enemies here. Circumstance was the only adversary they all faced. “Did you touch anyone with the infection?”

“What? No, I…” she trailed off, her eyes settling on the ground.

Devey stepped closer, trying to make it him and her and nobody else. “What do you want to say?”

All at once, the aggression melted away and a nervous wreck took the woman’s place. “I-I… the girl with the greasy hair, the rocker… She was outside smoking and I… I asked to bum a smoke. She only had the one, so we shared it. Is she dead now?”

Devey shook his head although he didn’t know. “She’s getting treatment, which is what you need. You have it, don’t you?”

She reached towards her hip, hands shaking, and peeled down the waistband of her jogging bottoms, revealing a grape-sized sore. It wasn’t horrific, considering the state of the other victims, but Devey knew it was only the beginning. The woman knew it too. She was damned.

“We’re all in this situation together,” Ken chimed in. “We want to help you.”

The woman nodded. Tears dropped off her chin as Ken led her away. Devey noticed others being led away too. The infected were being drawn out like blackheads. “If anybody else is infected,” a doctor, not Zantoko, said loudly, “or if you are with someone who is, please come talk to us. We will do all we can to help you and your loved ones, but if you don’t come forward, you will continue to get sicker and sicker.” Three people came forward, shellshocked and stumbling, and the nurses took them away.

“Good,” said the doctor. “Anyone else?”

No one came forward.

“Then I ask the rest of you to remain vigilant. If you experience any kind of discomfort, come forward. If you see anyone acting suspiciously, report them so that we may help them. Thank you, that’s all.”

Devey took a moment to check himself over. His entire body squirmed and itched, but it was likely all in his head. He checked his arms and wrists, shins and tummy. No sores. No blood. He was fine. For now.

“Where do you think they’re taking them?” Barbara asked. Without realising, he had drifted back towards her and her daughter. Jessica was still reading comics, but looked ready to doze off. Barbara was watching the exodus with interest, a congregation led by masked nurses and doctors. “I’m not sure I trust the doctors.”

Devey frowned. “Why not?”

“Because they seem to be working with the people outside. Why aren’t they demanding answers, or trying to find a way out?”

Devey folded his arms and thought about his conversation with Zantoko. “They’re focusing on the things that matter, which right now is ensuring every person in this hospital doesn’t get sick. I spoke with a doctor earlier. He didn’t expect to get shut in any more than we did.”

She nodded. “I saw you talking. Do they know how to treat this thing?” The way she said it, her voice cracking slightly, made him suspicious.

“I don’t know, but if we avoid getting sick in the first place, it won’t matter.”

She nodded, a little too eagerly, and gave her daughter the briefest of side glances. “It’s all so frightening, that’s all.”

Devey watched the little girl reading her comics. Her head swayed like she was having trouble keeping it up. She scratched behind her ear again. “Still reading My little Pony?” he asked her.

“I’m reading a princess magazine now. It’s a bit boring, but it has stickers.”

“How are you feeling?”

Barbara grunted. “What are you doing?”

He ignored the mother, cringing at his own rudeness, but knowing she would try to distract him. “Jessica, can you turn your head that way for me, please, sweetheart?”

The little girl frowned, but she did as he asked, lifting her chin and turning her head sideways. A patch of skull poked through behind her ear, slithers of skin peeling back around the edges.

“Get away from her!” Barbara grabbed his shirt and shoved him away. Jessica flinched, her eyes growing wide. “Mummy, what’s wrong?”

“Everything is fine, sweetheart. Just stay there.”

Devey stepped away and kept his voice low as he spoke Barbara. “Everything is not fine!” he hissed. “Your daughter is sick. Very sick.”

“No, she’s not. She’s got… eczema.”

Devey would have laughed if it wasn’t so sad. “Not eczema. You know it’s not eczema. We need to tell the doctors.”

“No!” She snarled at him. “I’m not letting my daughter out of my sight. I’m not letting them take her away to shove her with all those other sick people.”

“She is one of those sick people. They will let you go with her.” A death sentence for Barbara if she wasn’t already sick, but he supposed she wouldn’t care. “You won’t be apart.”

Barbara shook her head, but it was desperation now rather than defiance. “She’s young. She’ll fight it off. All the others were old people.”

“The girl in the Black Sabbath t-shirt wasn’t old. She was barely twenty.”

“Still, Jessica could be fine. She might—”

Devey cut her off. “We need to tell the doctors.”

“Not yet! Just…” Her eyes welled up with tears. “Give her a little more time before they start sticking needles in her and scaring her. Please.”

As he watched Jessica innocently reading her comics, he couldn’t imagine what she was about to go through. He barely knew the child, but his heart ached to think of her suffering. And if that was how he felt, how must her mother feel? He saw then, the utter, absolute dread behind Barbara’s eyes. She was keeping it together for one reason only—her daughter.

“Okay,” he relented. “I won’t say anything yet, but you can’t let her near anybody. How did she get it, anyway?”

Barbara shook her head. “I don’t know! Jessica is so friendly. Before everything went crazy, she was running around playing. She could have touched anyone.”

“The woman with the funny eyebrows gave me a sweetie,” said Jessica, not bothering to glance up from her comics. “You were talking to her earlier. You made her swear lots.”

Devey frowned. “You mean the woman I spoke to? The one they took away? The woman in jogging bottoms?”

Jessica nodded. “She pulled her trousers down.”

“Yeah, she did a little bit. She had a… rash. I think you have it too, Jessica.”

She closed her comic and looked up at him. Her eyes were puffy and red. “Behind my ear?”

Devey felt woozy. Barbara put a hand on his chest and whispered in his ear. “Just give her a little more time, please! I’ll keep her away from other people.”

The girl needed help now, not later, but was it his call? He sighed. “Fine.”

It was too hard to watch Jessica anymore, so he took a break and headed away from them, towards the vending machines to get a bottle of water. He swigged down the entire bottle, not having realised how thirsty he was. He got himself a chocolate bar too and wolfed it down equally fast. It put a little strength back into him, but as soon as his eyes drifted to the entrance, and the imposing metal barricades there, he deflated. How the hell had he stayed so calm throughout all this?

Was there something wrong with him? A gaping hole inside of him that kept him losing his head like everybody else? Barbara and Jessica moved away from the wall and started moving towards the lifts. Devey knew in an instant that the mother intended to make a run for it, but what good would it do her? She couldn’t keep her daughter safe from something already in her bloodstream. But where was the harm in letting her take Jessica somewhere to hide? Maybe they could isolate themselves somewhere and die in peace.

But what if not? What if they jeopardised healthy people? Devey looked around and studied the frightened faces of the men and women, huddled together in shock, wishing they were anywhere but here. And then he saw other children. Children who were not yet infected. Children who still had a chance.

“Stop!” he shouted, pointing his finger at Barbara and Jessica. “That little girl is infected!”

The low-level bustle ceased again, and the crowd looked first to Devey and then to Barbara and Jessica. Mother and daughter stopped in their tracks. Barbara’s eyes sought out Devey, and when they settled on him, there was so much hatred in her stare that he actually recoiled.

Had he done the right thing? It didn’t feel like it.

Dr Zantoko appeared beside Devey. “Who is infected?”

Devey pointed again, the taste of acid in his mouth. “The little girl over there has it behind her ear. Her name is Jessica. Her mother is probably sick too by now even if she doesn’t know it.”

Jessica looked up at her mother and muttered something. Barbara got down on her knees and hugged her. Both started to cry. Then the nurses took them away and Devey cried too.

5

Devey stood alone for several drawn-out minutes, his stomach wrenching itself in knots. He'd just betrayed a woman he knew nothing about, and owed nothing to, yet he’d never felt so ashamed. The look on little Jessica’s face as they’d dragged her away… The utter hatred Barbara had displayed towards him…

“Mr Singh?”

He turned to see Dr Zantoko with Ken. “Devey, please.”

Zantoko nodded. “Devey then. You have been making good use of yourself and I would like to thank you for your calm head.”

“I don’t want things to get any worse than they already are.”

Zantoko clasped his hands together like a sage. “It is hard to think of others when you are yourself endangered—it is something doctors train many years for—yet it seems to come to you naturally.”

Devey tugged at his postal uniform. “Well, as you can see, I’m no doctor.”

“You’re one of us though,” said Ken, one hand on his belly like he had stitch. “You’re dealing with this crisis instead of being a part of it.”

Zantoko waved a hand as if he didn’t want his orderly to do the talking. “Kenneth, there is no them and us. There is only a great deal of frightened people to whom we have a duty.” He turned back to Devey. “But the sentiment is more or less correct. You have a cool head, Devey, and you have helped tremendously already. That is why I would like to ask you to now work with the staff directly.”

Devey didn’t understand what was being asked of him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” the doctor spoke slowly, “it would be most useful to have a member of the public act as a go between. We need to impose order on this hospital before things get beyond our control. The more bodies working towards that end, the better.”

“So I’m like a prisoner with special privileges?”

Zantoko tittered. “Yes, I suppose so. Are you interested in helping?”

Devey huffed. “What kind of question is that? Who wouldn’t want to help if they could? I’ll do whatever you need.”

Zantoko clapped his hands. “Fantastic! We’re about to have a meeting in the nurse’s station. Join us, please.”

So Devey followed Ken and Zantoko into the staff area behind the reception desk. The police officer from before had gone, but the room behind was busy with people. It was a small lounge, littered with paperwork and dirty coffee cups. When Devey saw a group of weary nurses off to one side, he remembered a past worry and turned to Ken to address it. “Is Sonja okay?”

“In labour, mate. What a time to have a baby, huh?”

“Yeah, I hope everything goes okay.”

“She’s in the best hands.”

Zantoko moved in front of a whiteboard and tapped it to get everyone’s attention. A scruffy circle drawn in marker pen took up the centre of the board, and it featured multiple L-shaped bristles coming off of it. Zantoko pointed to the drawing with his index finger. “This is what we are dealing with,” he said, and let the statement linger for a few seconds before continuing. “While it presents in a similar fashion to necrotising faciitis, in reality it is entirely dissimilar in both structure and function. From our initial studies, we can surmise the infection is not airborne. Therefore, identification and isolation is sufficient to stop transmission. You have all worked extremely hard, but we must continue to remain vigilant. Onset of symptoms is as little as two hours, so if we can go beyond that with no new cases, we may just be able to keep this thing contained. Needless to say, full-preventative measures are in place. I don’t want to see anyone handling a patient with less than two sets of gloves. Any questions?”

A doctor put his hand up, a younger man with floppy Hugh Grant hair. Zantoko acknowledged him and let him ask his question. “Are we treating the infection?”

“In triage no, but the supervising doctors in Wards 3 and 6 are administering penicillin and vancomycin. We don’t yet know if it’s having any effect.”

“What about the lock-in procedures? Who barricaded us in here? Are we in contact?”

Zantoko couldn’t maintain eye-contact for this question, and he answered it with his eyes on the ground. “I believe Public Health are in charge of the hospital quarantine, but we are yet to receive any directives. In fact, to my knowledge, all lines out of the hospital are blocked.”

“They’re going to get us all killed,” a nurse muttered.

Zantoko eyeballed her. “What happens to the people in this hospital is down to us. We shall deal with the greater scope of things later. All I shall say is that someone outside must feel it prudent to seal this entire building.”

“Which means they know what this is,” said Devey, surprising himself with the sound of his own voice. “Someone outside is taking extreme measures. No government official would risk the public backlash from this unless the greater good were at stake.”

A smattering of nodding heads told him he was right. Zantoko sighed. It was a statement he obviously wished had not been made publically. “Ladies and gentlemen. This is Devey Singh, who has been a great help during this morning’s events.” He eyeballed Devey for a moment, then said. “And unfortunately I agree with him. The only situation in which I can envisage these kinds of absolute measures is to prevent an outbreak of something so deadly that it would threaten society as a whole. The only way the public would forgive actions like these is if the alternative is even worse.”

“Oh God,” said Dr Hugh Grant. “Then we really are screwed. What chance do we have?”

“We have every chance,” said Zantoko. “We already know transmission can be avoided. All in this room are healthy, despite being around sick people all day. This hospital is big enough to keep everyone apart, so we work to that end. Keep the healthy away from the sick.”

“Where are you putting the sick?” asked Devey.

“Sub-basement 1. The oncology department and rheumatology take up most the floor, but there’s also a pair of high-risk wards. Devey, that was where you were placed when you first got here.”

“And the paramedics and the police officers with me?”

Zantoko nodded. “Let’s focus forward. Devey, let people know the virus is contained--that the only thing that could jeopardise us now is people trying to hide an infection. You did the right thing telling us about the child.”

Devey’s cheeks grew hot, and he looked away. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“The right thing is rarely the easy thing.” Zantoko said it in a tone suggesting he knew from experience. “You saved lives by doing the right thing, Devey, I promise you. We have this thing contained.”

“Is that true?” He didn’t get the impression anything was contained at all. A huddled mass of frightened people was not containment, and in the last hour he’d seen people funnel off into a dozen stairwells and corridors. Infected people could be everywhere. “Is it really under control?”

Zantoko folded his arms and exhaled. “The infection will be contained so long as the situation is. Twenty-eight people handed themselves into our care, and in the last hour only four new patients have displayed symptoms. Once people know the new cases are lessening in number, they might remain calm until real help arrives.”

“And what is the real help?” Dr Hugh Grant asked.

“Whoever removes the barricades and tells us they’ll take it from here,” said Zantoko. “We won’t be expected to deal with this indefinitely, I’m certain. Someone with greater authority will come.”

Devey felt a shiver down his spine at that. Whoever was outside didn’t care about the people inside this hospital. If the barricades came down, he wasn’t sure he would like what came next. But Zantoko seemed hopeful, so he held onto that.

After more brief discussion, the doctors and nurses went on their way, all with their own specific set of instructions to carry out. Zantoko was clearly the man in charge, but Devey wondered why that was—so he asked the man while he was getting a cup of water from the cooler. “Are you in charge of the hospital, Dr Zantoko?”

“Ha! Heaven’s no. I’m head of A&E, which makes me the obvious candidate to man the front lines. The administrators are in charge of the hospital but they work in a building down the road. There are other consultants and surgeons with the same seniority as me, but they are all holding the fort in other areas—we still have a hospital full of ordinary patients to attend to. All hands on deck, I’m sure you can understand.”

Devey nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just what you have been already. Keep your ear to the ground and help where needed. Get others involved, too, if you can. People behave better if you empower them.”

Noise erupted outside, and the door sprung open and crashed against the wall. A nurse staggered back into the room with her forehead bleeding. “Help! Help me!”

Zantoko ran to her, catching her before she fell. He asked her what happened, but she wouldn’t focus on him enough to answer, too dazed, too confused. He helped her over to a small couch and then marched out the door into the waiting area. Devey was right behind him.

The waiting area played scene to yet another riot, but this one was worse than the others. Blood ran everywhere as people kicked and punched one another like spooked mules. It was obvious to see why. Devey spotted a dozen people with bleeding, festering wounds. Many bled from their faces, but others tried to hide their shame. They weren’t fooling anybody.

Zantoko didn’t react for a moment. He stood there with his jaw hanging open. “No, no, no. This is wrong. I don’t understand.”

Someone with half their face missing like Phantom of the Opera saw Dr Zantoko and came racing towards him. Devey shoved the doctor back into the office and closed the door. “Stay inside and lock the door!”

The infected man turned his focus on Devey, angry at him getting in the way. He reached out with his infected hands, seeming to understand that his touch was a death sentence. Devey dodged out from behind the nurse’s station, dragging a chair with him. He shoved it into the speeding man’s path and sent him tumbling like a skittle. His arms went out to break his fall, which caused the skin to slough off from his elbow to his wrist. He came to rest on his side, bleeding. “I’m so sorry!” Devey said before rushing off into the fray.

It was all over. All chance of keeping the infection isolated had evaporated. A third of the crowd bled from infection, and their blood coated everything. The crowd succumbed to mass panic. The infected clawed and begged the healthy to help them—spreading the infection further. It was over. They were all going to die.

Despite that realisation, Devey still fought to keep his distance. He backed away until he hit something, and when he turned around, he saw the vending machines. A slash of blood ran the width of their glass fronts, and finally he understood what had doomed everyone—himself included.

The Black Sabbath fan had been heading to the vending machines when he’d first seen her. She’d bought a bottle of water, prodding the buttons with her infected fingers—the same buttons he had later pressed. As he now looked down at his fingertips, he saw clusters of tiny blisters, so small it was no wonder he hadn’t noticed them until now. He pressed his thumb and forefingers together and felt the blisters pop like bubble wrap beneath his skin. A trickle of blood appeared on his left thumb. That was the reason so many people had wounds on their faces—they used the vending machine and then touched their face.

Just like he had. He was going to die.

The screams intensified as people scattered, seeking clean air to breathe. The infected clutched at anyone within reach, murdering with their touch. Children screamed for their mummies. Mummies screamed for their children. Nurses lay on the floor, knocked out and powerless.

Ken appeared amidst the chaos. “Devey! The infection is everywhere. We need to get out of here.” Devey dodged back before the orderly could touch him. “I have it!” he said. “The infection is all over the vending machines—probably a dozen other places too. Don’t touch me. Just… go somewhere and hide. Maybe you don’t have it.”

Ken looked Devey up and down, searching for wounds, and it seemed to take him a while to understand. “I… I’ll head to the maternity wards. They have extra security and it’s been locked tight since this whole thing began. Join us there if things turn out okay. If not, I’m sorry, mate.”

Devey nodded. “Just go! Dr Zantoko is in the nurse’s lounge. Take him with you.” “Okay, good luck.” Ken sprinted away and just like that, Devey was alone in Hell, surrounded by demons bleeding death upon the earth.

* * *

Devey watched the world end with a strange sense of detachment. The blood and carnage should have been enough to double him over in revulsion, but since finding Mary on her kitchen floor he had encountered one horror after another. Could a person become desensitised so quickly?

The waiting area was no longer bustling as people fled into the bowels of the hospital. Now it resembled a film set—the Haunted Hospital--and rubbish and flesh littered the rows of benches. The floor was awash with coffee cups, handbags, shoes, and blood. Half a dozen bodies lay mangled, trampled to death or brained by one panicking brute or another.

Besides the dead, there were living too. Several frightened faces peered from behind desks and other cover. No one spoke. No one tried to help. The only person not hiding was an old man, the same one from earlier who had been cradling an old woman. Devey had refused to help him then, but perhaps he could do something now. He took a seat beside the old man. “Are you hurt?”

The old man didn’t react to Devey’s presence at first. He stared into space, exhaling slowly. Blood streaked his craggy cheek, but it didn’t seem to be his. “We like to think ourselves civilised,” he eventually muttered, “but we are animals. Put a flame to our feet and we will always leap into the trees.”

“People are trying to save themselves,” said Devey.

The old man continued staring into space, blinking once or twice. “Yet they succeed only in doing the opposite. I’m ashamed to be human today. I’m ashamed this is what we are.”

Devey didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. His eyes couldn’t help but search the room, scanning every morbid detail. What looked like an obliterated eyeball lay squished on the tiles near his feet, and his eyes followed a slick trail to the body of an old woman ten feet away. Devey realised then that the old man wasn’t staring into space, he was staring at this body. It was the old woman he’d been cradling before. Her head had been stomped to mush, and the only part of her recognisable was her bloodstained cardigan. “I’m sorry,” said Devey. “I should have helped you earlier.”

“No,” the old man said. “You were helping a little girl.”

“Still…”

The old man looked at him with watery, grey eyes. “My name is Derek. My wife’s name was Stella. She’s only here because she wanted to come with me to get my blood taken. I’ve always hated needles, you see. She was supposed to outlive me. We both knew I would never cope on my own.”

Devey rubbed his hands together in his lap and saw blood smears on his palms. It didn’t seem to matter. “What happened to Stella?”

“Heart attack, I think. When all the commotion started, she got anxious. It was too much for her. Eighty-six, she was.”

“Wow! And how old are you, Derek?”

“Eighty-two. Not a bad age to end on, I suppose.”

It felt like a point to argue—to say something like: you could live another ten years yet!—but they would have been empty words. No room for platitudes when you were surrounded by the dead. “Can I do anything for you,” Devey asked. “Not everyone is infected. There might still be a way out for some of us.”

“No, I think I’ll just stay here with my Stella. She was always afraid of being alone.”

Devey stood and wiped blood from his palms onto his postal uniform. The crimson matched the Royal Mail insignia on his breast. “You sit tight. I’ll come back later.”

Derek stared at his wife in silence.

Someone rose from behind a bench and bolted for a nearby corridor. Devey paid them no attention and wondered why they were even running. No one was trying to stop them. What would happen next, he wondered, now that things had reached their climax? Before things had deteriorated, the infected were being led to the sub-basement. Would that be the best place for him? Zantoko said patients were being treated with drugs. Might those drugs work?

He raised his hands and inspected them. His right palm had split open in a bloody chasm and several fingers on both hands were blistered and peeling. The patch of skin beneath his nostrils was also itching fiercely, but he dared not find a mirror and look. He couldn’t stay in this waiting room though, surrounded by flesh and filth. So he headed to the lifts. Like everything else, they were covered in blood. He reached out to press the call button.

The lights went out.

His finger jabbed the call button, but it was dead. The corridor fell to pitch-blackness. Without his sight to navigate by, his other senses increased. The coppery twang of blood grew stronger in his nostrils.

He stumbled away from the lifts, squinting to see the green and white signs hanging from the ceiling. He knew the stairwell was nearby, so he felt his way along, seeking the next doorway he could find. Somewhere in the depths, voices shouted and argued, but he was all alone in this particular piece of darkness. Despite being in his twenties, Devey still kept the hallway light on in his flat while he slept. Ever since he was little, total darkness had always provoked his imagination to run wild. The memories of his father closing his bedroom door and demanding him to grow up and go to sleep were still fresh in his mind. The feeling of laying there trembling all night, missing the light. Missing his mum.

Devey’s groping hands slipped from the wall and clutched thin air. Some kind of alcove. Stepping into it, he found a door, and when he opened it he saw the hazy shape of a staircase. He’d found what he was looking for.

He held onto a handrail on the wall as he descended, taking each step carefully as he felt his way with his feet. The lower he went, the more he worried about what he was sinking himself into. The lower floor was where the infected were, which meant he would likely encounter a whole lot of sick people. In the dark, he wouldn’t even see them coming. He had little choice but to keep going, but what he wouldn’t do to get the lights back on.

The stairwell lit up, a glowing blast hitting him in the face. He cried out.

“Who’s there?” a voice barked at him from a few steps below.

Devey shielded his face, trying to see through the blinding corona. “I-I’m Devey.”

“Devey Singh?”

“Yes! Who is that?”

The light lowered and Devey blinked away his blindness. In front of him stood the police officer with coppery sideburns. He looked glad to see him. “It’s me, Officer Mitchell, but you may as well call me Mike. Seems our paths are destined to keep crossing.”

“I’m glad to see you, Mike, but don’t get too close. I’m infected.”

The officer took a step lower. “Ah, sorry to hear that. I’ve been waiting for them to cut the power.”

“Waiting? Why?”

“Let’s go downstairs. We don’t have long.”

Devey followed the officer to the bottom of the stairs, and they entered one of the wards of the lower floor. Devey recognised it as the one he’d been kept in. Doctors and nurses rushed back and forth, lighting candles and switching on torches.

“Who cut the power?” Devey asked as he continued walking with Mike. “And why?”

The officer stopped walking and faced him. “Them outside. They cut the power.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re planning to come in, guns blazing. It’s textbook. Secure the perimeter, cut the power, storm the gates. We’re about to get slaughtered. Not that it’s a bad thing. A mercy at this point.”

In the growing candlelight, Devey glanced inside the various side rooms at patients lined up in beds. Doctors and nurses moved between them. He looked again at Mike. Mike who seemed to know everything, so long as it was bad news. “How long have you been down here? Is the treatment working?”

“Not that I can see, and certainly not fast enough if it is. My partner has it—that’s what I’m doing down here. Both paramedics too. Guess I’m the only one with any luck out of the four of us from this morning.”

“I wouldn’t call any of us lucky. Still, you should get out of here. The healthy have made their way to the maternity ward. Go there.”

He headed for one of the open doorways. “It won’t matter where any of us are soon. I’ll stick around here, thanks.”

Devey was struck by a smell as he entered the room alongside Mike. Six beds took up the space, each surrounded by curtains. A nurse supervised, but she looked ready to drop. Her left arm was wrapped in a bloody bandage, and a sore had opened on her cheek. Her own dying didn’t stop her from visiting each bed with medicines though. From where Devey stood, only the first patient was visible—an unconscious young man. His lower jawbone was exposed. “What does this?” said Devey, his tongue thick with saliva. “Natural or man-made, this is wrong. No one deserves this.” He looked at his bloody hands. “I don’t deserve this.”

Mike gave a small shrug. “If I were a philosopher, I might have answers for you. All I can say is tough luck. Tough luck for us all.”

Devey needed air, so he hurried out of the ward and into the corridor. Sickness floated thickly in the air, a revolting wet smell that made every breath a feat of endurance. Human beings reduced to rotting meat. Never had he felt so insignificant, so worthless. His death had arrived from nowhere, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

He’d woken this morning the same as always, groping around for his phone beneath his pillow before stumbling into a shower at a time when most people were still asleep. He wished he’d stayed in bed.

But things might not be any better outside the hospital. Would a virus like this be contained to a single hospital? It may have started with a game of Bingo, but how many other people could the blue-rinse brigade have passed it on to? Mike said earlier that reported cases went as far south as Gloucester—and that had been several hours ago. What now? Had the virus reached London? Europe? Suddenly he had visions of the world ending.

This is insane. I don’t know anything for sure.

Devey hadn’t even tried to help himself yet. His sickness was in its early stages. He needed treatment. He had to at least try to beat this.

The door to the next room was open like all the others. He stepped inside, hoping to find a doctor, but instead he found the male paramedic from this morning. He sat silently in a chair, a candle on the windowsill behind him. Even though they were in the sub-basement, the floor seemed to be only partially below ground, being sited along the rise of a hill. Whoever was outside, had not forgotten to barricade the windows of the hospital’s lower section, and the glass panes looked out onto featureless steel. In the resulting gloominess, it was hard to tell whether the paramedic was looking at Devey as he entered.

“Hi. Sorry to disturb you. Do you know where any of the doctors are?”

The paramedic shifted in his seat. “They’re about somewhere, but don’t expect them to help you.”

“Why not?”

The paramedic reached behind him and took the candle. He bought it onto his lap and rendered himself visible. No doubts remained about whether he was sick because both his eyelids had liquefied and slid away—it gave him the odd expression of a startled ghoul. “They can’t help you because all the doctors and nurses down are sick too. None of us are going to get better. Best we can do is ration the morphine.”

Devey noticed then, the patient lying in a bed to his left. They lay so still he’d been unaware of their presence until the paramedic gave a subtle glance in their direction. Despite the power being off, there was equipment still running, taking measurements and slowly spitting out a never ending stream of paper. Devey sighed. “Is… is that your partner?”

“She doesn’t have long left,” said the paramedic. “Suppose she must’ve been one of the first.”

“You have it too,” Devey motioned to his eyelids. “How did you catch it?”

The paramedic leant towards the bed and clutched his partner’s blistered hand. “I caught it the moment she did. I wasn’t going to leave her alone to rot. I’ve been holding her the whole time, and I’ll keep doing it until there’s nothing left.”

If not for the printouts coming out of the machine, Devey would have assumed the woman was already gone. He couldn’t hear her breathing. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? If not for you, Claudia wouldn’t be here.”

Devey wobbled, knocked off-balance by the accusation. “What?”

The paramedic bolted to his feet, and Devey thought he was going to attack him, but instead he grabbed for something else. His fingers clamped on the corner of Claudia’s bedsheet and he yanked it like a magician uncovering his latest trick. Unleashed, the stench of human decay washed over Devey and made him gag. Claudia looked up at him, her eyes the only thing left of her face. She was a slick, gristle-covered skeleton. Her lungs pumped in her chest, lifting the soft veil of rotting skin with each breath. Her breasts had fallen away, given her the look of a mannequin. Her blood dyed the bedsheets red.

“See what you did?” The paramedic shoved Devey in the chest, knocking him back three steps. “See what you did?”

“Hey!” Devey put his hands up in front of himself. “Wait a minute.”

But the paramedic kept on coming. “Get out of here! Leave us alone.” He shoved Devey again, knocking him into an unused drip stand. He had to struggle to keep from falling over it, and the delay allowed the paramedic to get in another shove.

Devey retreated to the doorway. “Okay, I’m going. I’m… I’m sorry.”

The door slammed behind him, and he stood in the hallway alone. A nurse walked down the corridor in his direction, only a slight blemish on her cheek, and enough strength left to smile at him. Maybe she could help—give him the drugs he needed to finally accept his fate—that he was dying.

But before he could talk with the nurse, an almighty racket broke out in the corridor behind him. He turned to see a window rattling in its frame. The sound of power tools pierced the air.

The people outside were coming in.

6

The nurse stopped, staring in confusion. Devey, on the other hand, knew he needed to move right now. The sound of heavy bolts being removed was a herald of an approaching threat. It wouldn’t be long before the people outside came in.

He bolted into a side room, aware that people were watching him with confusion. He warned them to be ready, but most were too far gone to care. A few took the warning to heart, and got up out of their chairs, but they still didn’t look like they understood what was coming.

The sound of power tools continued, roaring beasts, and Devey sprinted down the corridor back towards the stairwell. Before he got there, the glass panes of a window shattered ahead of him. He skidded on his heels as a monster appeared at the window. The soldier, donning a nightmarish gas mask over his entire head, climbed through the broken window and landed in the corridor in front of Devey. He lifted a stubbed-nose machine gun at him and bellowed. “Get down! Get down now or I’ll shoot.”

Devey put his hands up and backed away. A side room lay off to his left, but he dared not look inside for fear of tipping off the gunmen, so he continued backing away slowly until the right moment presented itself.

“I said get down!” “Screw you!” Devey bolted to his left, dodging through the doorway. Gunfire broke out. Rat tat tat. People screamed. Everybody screamed.

Devey searched desperately a lifeline. There were no weapons in the room, or anybody to protect him—only frighten people who were looking at him like he might have an idea what to do. He was going to die amongst strangers.

“Everybody down on the ground!” The gunman entered the doorway gas mask distorting his voice and giving it a ghostly quality. With no other choice, Devey put his hands up.

“Please,” he said. “These people are sick. They’re afraid. Please.”

“Shut up!” The gun shook, and the soldier’s finger twitched and tightened. “Just… shut up!”

The gun went off, spraying bullets into the floor. The soldier slumped to the ground, and in the place where he’d stood, Mike snarled and brandished a steel bedpan. “I ain’t going to make this easy for you assholes!”

Devey flinched. “Mike? What are you doing?”

Mike tossed the heavy bedpan and picked up the gun. He examined it expertly before holding it against his chest. “I might be a dead man,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean I’m about to lie down and let these sons of bitches kill me.”

“Why are they coming in?” Devey asked. “They could just leave us trapped in here.”

“Leave us in here too long and we’ll try to make an escape. They can’t risk someone getting loose.”

The people in the room had remained silent until now, but the sound of more gunfire outside caused them to start sobbing. Devey wanted to turn and shout at them to be quiet, but he knew it was just the stress. He kept his attention on Mike. “You’re not helping by fighting back. Put the gun down.”

Mike laughed. “Do you hear yourself?”

More gunfire. Screams of people dying.

“There might still be healthy people in this hospital,” said Mike. “People with a chance. You think it’s okay for these fascists to come in and gun them down?”

Devey glanced around the room at the frightened faces. He spotted a nurse, herself infected, but not as badly as some. Until the gunfire had started, she would have been administering drugs and care to those worse off, giving comfort and dignity. Not shooting the sick like diseased dogs. “Okay…” Devey nodded. “Let’s go down fighting.”

Mike smiled and clapped him on the back. “Into the fire then.”

With the stubby machine gun against his shoulder, Mike raced out into the corridor, whooping like a cowboy.

Ratatatat.

He flipflopped in front of Devey, limbs thrashing in all directions. The gun dropped out of his hands and skittered across the tiles, hitting Devey’s trainer. He picked it up without thinking, surprised by how heavy it was. It was an alien thing in his hands, industrial. Dangerous. Mike crumpled in the corridor, dead and bullet-riddled.

Another soldier in a gas mask appeared, moving in view of the doorway and staring down at Mike’s corpse. He raised a gun and put a bullet in his head. The ferocity of the act made Devey yelp, which tipped the man off that he was stood there watching him.

The soldier pointed his gun at Devey.

Devey’s entire body clenched, including his finger around the trigger of the gun he had picked up off the floor. The weapon bucked in his hands, and he had to fight to keep it from flying off. The soldier jerked backwards before falling down dead. The people in the room screamed. Screamed because they had just seen two men die.

Something grabbed the back of Devey’s leg and he realised the people in the room had been screaming to warn him. The solider Mike had hit with the bedpan was climbing to his feet, trying to grab Devey and pull him down. This time, Devey acted with purpose. He bought the gun around and placed it against the soldier’s forehead.

“No, please,” begged the soldier, but Devey had already pulled the trigger.

Housed inside a balaclava and gas mask, the soldier’s head didn’t explode, it crumpled—his body flopped sideways onto the floor where he bled slowly onto the tiles. Devey looked back at the nurses and patients. “Hide.” Then he crept out into the hallway, avoiding Mike’s fatal mistake by checking the coast was clear first. At the end of the corridor, he saw shapes—soldiers stepping slowly through the shadows. It was dark outside, night having fallen without him realising. Moonlight leaked in through the windows. Gunfire continued, but was less sporadic now, more of a methodical pop-pop as patients were exterminated like rats. Devey pressed himself flat against the wall as a woman spilled out of a side room and went crashing into a trolley cart. She begged for her life, but one of the soldiers at the end of the corridor turned in her direction and gunned her down.

No way Devey could take down every soldier on the floor—he wasn’t even sure how many bullets he had left in his gun—but he would try to avoid his death for as long as possible.

“No! No! Leave my little girl! Plea-”

Ratatata.

Devey recognised the voice coming from the next room and winced when it was interrupted gunfire. He sprinted inside and opened fire as soon as he spotted the soldier’s black body armour. This time his shots were precise and measured—all three rounds struck the man in the centre of his back. A woman lay in the centre of the room, but she was still alive, clutching her bloody stomach and moaning. Her eyes went from confused to surprised. “D-Devey?”

“Barbara? Shit, are you okay?”

She shook her head. “He shot me. I… Please, help Jessica.”

There was a bed behind her, and Devey moved towards it slowly. Jessica lay asleep, hooked up to a machine like the paramedic had been. Her pretty little face had peeled away, revealing a sticky, pink mask. She didn’t have long left. The sickness had moved fast.

“Help her!” Barbara cried. “Just… please… help… her.”

Devey heard the strength fade from the woman’s voice, and when he looked back from the bed, he saw she had passed on. She lay peacefully on her back, arms resting at her sides. Was she dead because of him? Would her fate have been different if he hadn’t shopped her in to the doctors?

Jessica shifted in bed, her head rolling on the pillow. Her hair stuck to the fabric in clumps, and a bloody tear spilled from her left eye. Mercifully, she remained unconscious.

Devey realised his cheeks were wet and wiped them with the back of his sleeve. His uniform was spattered with blood, but it didn’t matter. He turned to a vacant bed beside the one Jessica slept in and took its pillow. Then he placed it over the little girl’s face. He bore down, expecting a struggle, then stayed there for over a minute. Eventually, the machine next to her bed sent out a high-pitched alarm. The little girl was gone.

Devey turned away, leaving the dead child and stepping over the dead mother. On his way out, he exchanged his gun for the one the soldier in the room had been carrying. He hoped it had more ammunition, but even if it did, he doubted he would get to use it all. He was already playing a losing hand, having survived an encounter with three trained soldiers, all of whom he had killed. Three men dead because of him. And now a little girl. He was about to head back out into the corridor, ready to face his own death, when he heard a voice in the room. He took a moment to realise it, but it was coming from the radio attached to the dead soldier’s shoulder. “Secure your areas and regroup at the main entrance.”

“Roger that,” said another voice from somewhere in the building. “Requesting det charges on ground floor west,” said another. “Targets holding out inside Maternity Ward. Need to blow the doors.”

Devey froze. The maternity ward was where he’d told Ken to go. It was where Sonja was, and maybe others too. Mothers and babies. The man on the radio called them targets.

“Screw this!” Devey rushed into the corridor and headed for the stairs.

“Hey! Stop!”

Gunshots.

Devey felt the air move, and the plasterboard exploded to his right. He zigzagged, picking up speed and keeping his head low. More bullets whizzed by, hitting the wall on both sides, floor, and ceiling, yet miraculously he was unharmed.

“Stop!”

Or what? You’ll shoot me?

Devey made it to the stairs, and raced up the steps, praying he didn’t trip in the dark. The soldiers yelled after him and let off more shots. Evey second, he expected to feel a sting between his shoulder blades, followed by a suffocating death, but the bullets continued to chip at the masonry either side of him. When he eventually made it to the top of the stairs, he didn’t know what to do. He had been so sure he was about to die.

The stairwell was closed off by a single door which he slammed shut, not daring to glance down the stairs at the soldiers pursuing him. Acting fast, he grabbed a trolley bed from a nearby alcove and wheeled it in front of the door. Then, more by luck than planning, he located a brake over the rear wheels and stamped on it, locking the trolley in place. The thing was heavy.

“Open up!” Fists banged on the other side of the door. “Open up right now!”

Devey shook his head in despair. “Did they really expect him to just give himself up to be shot? To put some doubt into his pursuers, he fired his gun at the door. He didn’t know if the bullets passed through the wood, but the banging stopped at least. He used the distraction to make a run for it, heading for the maternity ward. He just had to find it.

* * *

Devey found the old man still sitting in the waiting area, except now he was dead. A line of bullet wounds crossed his brittle chest. He had refused to move as the soldiers came and shot him.

A radio chirped and Devey ducked down behind the benches. He peered over the top and spotted two soldiers in the entranceway. The steel barricades were still in place, but a fire entrance hung open nearby. The soldiers spoke casually into a radio, guns hanging from their hips. Devey thought it best not to interrupt them, so he kept low to the ground and scurried away. According to the signs overhead, maternity services was housed with A&E, X-Ray, and Out-Patients. A busy section of the hospital, but would it be busy now? His gut churned with the worry that he would find nothing but a lot of corpses. The gun trembled in his hands, feeling heavier by the second.

The ground floor was as dark as the sub-basement had been, and most of the windows were barricaded still. It made sense that the soldiers would want to keep most exits locked down, avoid people escaping. The only good thing was that Devey didn’t have to worry about someone grabbing him through an open fire exit or window. In fact, the corridor he walked down was deserted. Where were the soldiers? The staff?

A sign overhead read Maternity Services and pointed to a set of double doors on the right. An intercom sat on the wall, but there was no reason to buzz for permission—the doors were chipped and splintered in the middle where they met, the locks snapped. Was he too late? Was everyone dead?

He heard shouting.

Instead of running the other way, he slipped in through the broken doors and hurried down the proceeding corridor towards movement he spotted at the far end.

“Open up,” someone barked—a soldier. There were two of them. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

“Leave this hospital,” came a well spoken, yet defiant reply from Dr Zantoko.

Devey slowed down to a creep. He held his gun ready, disgusted at how easily he contemplated killing. These soldiers had it coming though. They were the ones bringing guns into a hospital full of sick people. Innocent people.

The space at the end of the hallway was lit by a pair of floor lamps, the industrial kind you found at construction sites. Thick cables disappeared into a large square box that must have been some kind of giant battery. The light made it easy to see what was happening, but difficult to stay hidden. Dr Zantoko and a dozen other people huddled inside the neo-natal ward. They had barricaded the doors and windows with beds and equipment, and Zantoko peeked through the glass the pair of soldiers outside.

“Doctor?” One of the soldiers banged on the glass. Like the other soldiers, his voice was distorted by his gas mask. “Someone is bringing an explosive to blow this room open, which is a very messy way of dealing with things. Come out voluntarily and we will lead you out the hospital to safety.”

“Like you did all the others?” Zantoko spat. “Not likely.”

“Those people were sick. You people inside are well. We don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then leave!”

The soldier pulled his gas mask up over his head and sighed. “I can’t do that, Doctor. Please, just work with me here.”

Zantoko pressed his glaring face up against the glass. “There are babies in here, sirs. Are you going to kill babies?”

The soldier groaned and turned to his colleague. “Jesus, where the hell is Chris? Sooner we get this over, the sooner we can get back out in the fresh air. I swear I can’t breath properly.” He pulled his mask back down. “I don’t care if the people in there are healthy or not--I’m ready to burn this place to the ground.” Zantoko and the others were uninfected. They still had a chance. Devey raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The stream of bullets struck the soldier on the left, reducing his head to pulp. The gun was still a bucking mule, so as he tried to rake the bullet stream towards the other soldier, but his aim went high. The soldier collided with the wall and let out a cry, but he didn’t go down. He raised his gun at Devey and pulled the trigger.

Devey felt a wasp sting his collarbone and he bit a chunk of his tongue to keep from screaming. He thought he was dead, about to be torn apart by gunfire, but the soldier who had just shot him dropped his gun and slumped to the ground, clutching his neck and coughing. He fought to remove his gas mask.. “Ah fuck! Y-You shot me!”

Devey stumbled over to the wounded soldier, ignoring the agony in his entire right shoulder. “Serves you bloody right,” he grunted. “The people inside that room are healthy. Leave them alone.”

The soldier sighed, wincing as he pressed against his neck. “It… It’s not my call.”

Devey aimed his gun at the man’s face. “Whose call is it?”

“PH3,” he muttered.

“Who the hell is that?”

“The... the people who cut off a hand to save an arm. The virus is... it’s everywhere. We need to contain it or we’re...” he gritted againt the pain in his neck, “finished.”

Devey lowered his gun. “The virus is everywhere?”

“It came out of nowhere. Started at a bingo hall in the city, but now it’s spread all over the country in less than a day. The fact it presents so fast is the only reason we have any chance at all. If we euthanize the infected, we can cut off the hand before it takes the arm.”

Devey raised his gun and used it to point to the neo-natal ward. “The people in that room are healthy.”

“Orders. No one leaves the hospital.”

“That’s insane.” He aimed the gun at the man’s face again.

The soldier tried to lift his hand away from his neck, but he couldn’t. “Please, it’s not my choice. It’s my orders.”

“I’m giving you new orders.” Devey scowled at the soldier bleeding to death at his feet, then shoved his hand against the bullet wound in his shoulder. He brought his fingertips back bloody and thrust them inches away from the soldier’s face. “I assume you know the infection is spread via contact.”

The soldier nodded eagerly, terrified. He tried to shuffle back, but there was nowhere to move.

Devey growled. “You do anything to hurt the people in that room and I’ll fist you with my bloody hand. Leave this ward and don’t come back.”

The soldier groaned. “I can’t go until I have dealt with this entire floor.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Devey snapped. “Because I’ll kill you before you get a chance. So go.”

The soldier’s radio buzzed, and a voice came out. “Daniels, we’re ten minutes out on the det charges. We didn’t bring any in the initial load out.”

Devey thrust held his bloody hand next to the soldier’s face. The soldier shuddered and turned to face the radio on his shoulder. When he did so, he revealed the flesh wound on his neck. It was bleeding steadily. He pressed a button on the radio and gave a reply. “Negative. Cancel det charges All targets eliminated. Stevens didn’t make it. Some asshole with one of our guns.”

“Roger that. Someone took out one of our guys and managed to arm himself. Must have been some kind of ex-special forces. Made a right mess of Charlie Team. Well done for getting the bastard. Are you standing down?”

The soldier grunted. “Roger that. Mission accomplished. I’m hurt though. I need Thompson to take a look at me.”

“Regroup at the main entrance. We’re pulling out in five.”

“Roger that.”

Devey let out a breath, not realising how tense the radio call had made him. The soldier, for his part, had lied convincingly. “Your men are leaving?” he asked.

“Not my men, but yes, we’re pulling out. The hospital has neutralised.” He side-eyed the neo-natal ward behind him. “Almost.”

“Not a word,” said Devey. “I’m letting you leave here with your life. Thank me for it.”

The soldier fought his way back up to his feet and went to retrieve his gun. Devey kicked it away. “Nice try. Your machine gun stays with me.” “It’s a sub-machine gun,” the soldier replied pettily.

Devey frowned. “What’s the dif—actually, it doesn’t matter. Just get out of here, asshole.”

The soldier stumbled away, but before he exited, he stopped and turned around. “It’s bad out there,” he said. “Best thing you can do for the people inside is put a bullet in their heads. If you don’t, you’ll infect them all anyway.” The soldier tapped at his own forehead which prompted Devey to feel his face. He felt the raw, bleeding skin and wondered what he must look like. The soldier left, and after a few minutes, Devey decided the coast was clear. With the muzzle of his gun, he tapped on the glass window of the neo-natal ward.

Zantoko appeared, glaring, but then he saw Devey and frowned. “Mr Singh?”

“Hello, Doctor. Everything is okay now. The soldiers have gone.”

“How?”

“It…” He puffed out his cheeks out, too tired to explain. “It doesn’t matter. Is everyone inside okay?”

“Yes! We are all healthy. I’m afraid you must stay away, Mr Singh.”

Devey nodded. “I understand. I won’t try to come in, but you need to stay in there until it’s safe. How long can you hold out in there?”

There was a pause while Zantoko thought about it. “Two days perhaps. There is food in the nurse’s fridge and we have milk formula and access to clean water. You think we should remain inside?”

“The sickness is passed by touch, right? The fact you’re all okay means it must be clean in there. Maybe in a couple days the infection will die off and it will be safe to come out, but right now you are best off staying put.”

“But we need help,” said Zantoko. “There are newborn babies here.”

Devey’s fear doubled at the thought of infecting babies with his sickness. “The virus has spread everywhere. It’s a mess. The longer you stay safe in there the better. You’re a doctor—you can look after the babies.” Zantoko nodded slowly behind the glass. “Okay. I think you may be right. You should leave though, Mr Singh. Find someone who can help you.”

Always a doctor, Devey thought, as he saw the compassion on the weary doctor’s face. He smiled warmly, but then considered that he might look more nightmarish than friendly. “There’s no one left to treat me, Doctor. I’ll be outside in the corridor, watching out for you all.”

Zantoko sighed. “Thank you, Mr Singh—Devey. I’m sorry things turned out this way. I feel responsible.”

“You’re not, but thank you.” He looked past Zantoko and saw Ken and some other staff he recognised. He also saw a mother cradling a tiny baby. Seeing that hurt more than the rotting flesh on his face. It forced him to turn around and leave. Out in the corridor, Devey heard engines starting and equipment being loaded. The soldiers were pulling out, but would the one he’d released keep his word? Or would a team of gunmen appear any minute to finish the job? The longer Devey waited, the more things seemed to be okay. Eventually it was silent, the middle of the night, and he was sitting all alone.

He must have fallen asleep because he jolted when he heard a noise. It was a voice, distorted but understandable. “Hello? Devey? Devey, can you hear this?”

Devey got up in a fluster and raced over to where the voice was coming from. He realised it was the intercom next to the broken doors. Blinking himself awake, he gave a reply. “Yes! I’m here. Who is this?”

“Sonja.”

“The nurse who took care of me?”

“Actually, you took care of me. Ken is here too. We both made it here in one piece. I had a little girl, just like I told you. Her name is Lauren.”

Devey grinned. “That’s a beautiful name.”

“She’s got a set of lungs on her. I just woke up to feed her and Dr Zantoko told me about what you did. You made the soldiers leave.”

Devey smiled, even though she wouldn’t see it. “I helped. They were leaving anyway.”

There was a sigh on the other end of the call, then Sonja said, “I heard you were sick. Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes! Keep away from me so you can tell Lauren what a handsome and brave man I was.”

Giggling. “I will tell her all about you, Devey. Do you need me to call anyone for you? Our mobile phones are working again, off and on.”

Devey fingered his own phone in the pocket of his shorts. “That’s okay. I don’t need to call anyone yet. Is everyone still okay in there?”

“A couple of sore ladies, but yes, we’re fine. The infection would have shown by now. We’re all lucky. How is the rest of the hospital? Did anyone else make it?”

“I don’t think so, I’m sorry. I keep meaning to check things out, but I… I must have fallen asleep.”

A baby cried in the background. “Don’t worry about us, Devey. Go find some drugs and a bed. You need to rest.”

“I’ll be dead soon, Sonja. Rest is not the best use of my time.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He thought he was crying, but when he rubbed his face, he saw blood. “Me too. I hope we speak again before… well, you know.”

“I’m here, Devey.”

“Me too,” came Ken’s voice, sounding thick and emotional. Devey smiled again. “Thanks.”

* * *

He couldn’t relax until he knew the hospital was truly empty, so Devey headed back to the main waiting area. It was the same as he’d left it, except now the blood was dry. The main entrance was still barricaded, but the fire exit hung wide open, held in place by a bin. He could finally walk right out of there, but what would be the point? He would die wherever he went. The vending machines were shattered from gunfire, and a doctor lay dead in front of them. His white coat was stained red. Thirsty and hungry, Devey stepped over the corpse and helped himself to snacks, propping his gun against the wall so that he could fill both hands. No one would mind his theft, he was sure. And he wouldn’t need to worry about the calories.

He took his haul over to the long reception desk and sat down on a roller chair. As he tucked himself in, his knees knocked against something soft.

“Fuck! Watch it!”

Devey threw himself back in his chair and yelled. When he saw the man hiding under the table, he almost laughed. “Lee? Shit, man, what are you doing here?”

“People were fucking shooting up the place. Are they gone?”

Devey nodded. “Did you… find your mum?”

He cleared his throat and then got out from beneath the desk with a grim expression on his face. “She went in her sleep,” he said. “They told me she didn’t suffer for the last part.”

“I’m sorry. Was she… did she have?”

“Yeah, she was a rotting mess at the end. The smell was foul. So where is everyone else?”

“The maternity ward. Dr Zantoko, Ken, Sonja, and others.”

Lee beamed with delight, and it was then that Devey saw his gums were bloody. Several of his teeth were gone too. From his grinning expression, he didn’t seem too concerned. “That’s great,” he said. “Come on then, what the hell are we doing here?”

Devey reached out and held the Lee’s forearm. “We can’t, we’re sick.”

Lee shrugged free of his grasp. “Which is why I want to see the doctors.”

“They can’t help you.”

“The fuck do you know?”

Devey grabbed the man again, this time hard around his wrist. “Look at my face, Lee. Do you think if the doctors could help, I would be stood here talking to you. All that will happen if you go to see them is you’ll infect them. We’re dead men walking. It sucks, but there’s no changing it.”

Lee tried to break free again, but this time Devey held firm. “Let go of me. Now!”

“I can’t do that. I have put up with as much as I will take today. You’re not going there and infecting everyone.”

Lee grit his teeth, but then sighed and relaxed, finally seeming to understand. Then he showed otherwise by smashing his fist into Devey’s nose. The pain was immense, not just from his nose breaking, but from his infected flesh tearing away from his cheekbones. He crumpled to the ground, clutching his bleeding face, and sure he was going to choke on his own blood.

“Fuckin’ Paki!” Lee growled and kicked Devey in the ribs, sending him rolling in agony. Then Lee stormed off. Devey reached out to stop him, tried to yell, but all that came from his beaten lungs was an endless moan. He collapsed onto his back, trying desperately to breathe. He went so long without air he started blacking out. His vision curled at the edges and his stomach turned flips. If he didn’t get a hold of himself, Lee would reach the maternity ward and kill everyone. Including Sonja and her baby.

Lauren.

Devey gritted his teeth and focused the pain inwards, into his centre. Then, all at once, he was sucking in air like a jet engine. He lost his breath again momentarily, but after several erratic gasps, he was inhaling and exhaling again in the regular rhythm. He wiped blood from his face and stumbled back to his feet, using the desk for support. He took off after Lee, but not before first revisiting the vending machines.

The sub-machine gun was a part of him now, and he enjoyed its ability to deal with problems so efficiently. With all the innocent death he had witnessed this day, shooting dead a few bad guys did not disgust him. He just hoped he wouldn’t pay for the sins in the next life. He hoisted the weapon and took off down the corridor as fast as he could, hoping he knew the way better than Lee did.

* * *

Devey caught up to Lee scant moments before he was about to enter the maternity ward. The thug strolled casually as if he had all the time in the world. Did he not realise that no doctor could help him now? Did he think Zantoko would present him with a handful of pills to make his sickness go away?

The man was insane.

“Lee! Stop! I can’t let you go in there.”

Lee spun with his fists clenched, ready to fight, but when he saw the gun in Devey's hands his snarl turned to a tight-lipped frown. “Where the fuck you get that?”

“From a man I killed, and you’ll be next if you don’t back away from those doors. You’re not going in there.”

“I need help," he said, softly like he might get down on his knees and beg. "Let the doctors tell me themselves if they can’t help, but I have to try.”

“They can’t help you, Lee! Now step aside before I shoot you.”

Lee gave a lopsided grin that was bordering on a snarl. “You ain’t going to shoot me.”

Devey took a slow breath, enjoying it as something so simple and yet so numbered. In addition to Lee’s bloody gums, he now noticed a soreness to the man's eyelids and nostrils. It could have resembled a simple cold, but Devey knew Lee's flesh was only minutes away from peeling away. The guy had no chance. Neither of them did. “I can’t murder a dead man,” said Devey before pulling the trigger.

The surprise on Lee’s face betrayed the fact he had truly thought Devey bluffing. In the split-second he realised he was about to be shot, Lee bolted forward to tackle him. He took a bullet, but was still able to make contact. The two of them went down in a heap with Lee on top. They fought and punched at one another. Lee was the bigger man, and less sick, so he clattered Devey across the face with lefts and rights. All this he did despite bleeding from a bullet wound in his chest. Devey was reminded that he had been shot too. His whole body screamed in pain.

He was in danger of blacking out again, and as he threw his hands out desperately, he wished he had managed to keep hold of his gun. Lee swatted his hands aside easily, and Devey grew more and more desperate.

“Devey? Is that you? What’s going on out there?”

Lee looked around confused, not understand that the disembodied voice had come from the intercom on the wall. It bought Devey enough time to jab his fingers into the bloody bullet wound on Lee’s chest. The bigger man wailed and fell away, allowing Devey to roll free. The gun lay on the floor nearby, and he snatched at it urgently. He made it up to his knees by the time Lee charged at him again. "I'll kill you, you fuckin' Paki!"

Devey lifted the gun. “I’m not Pakistani. I’m Sikh.” Then he squeezed the trigger and punched Lee back against the opposite wall. He slid down onto his rump, leaving a slick trail of blood behind him on the plaster. The gun click-click-clicked, finally empty.

It was over.

“Devey? Are you there? Is everything all right?”

Devey dragged himself over to the intercom and pressed his back against the wall. “Everything is fine, Sonja. How’s that little baby of mine?”

Sonja giggled. “She’s fine. Did I hear gunshots?”

“There won’t be any more,” he said. “All of you get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

7

Devey struggled to the roof of the hospital as he had told Dr Zantoko he would do. The building was only two levels above the hill, so he couldn’t get a view for miles, but he could see the town, and the edges of the city beyond.

Things were bad.

A dozen fires burned, and sirens blared all over. Chaos reigned in the city, but death had not yet won. Chaos meant people. Even more positive, the area surrounding the hospital was deserted, which meant Zantoko and the others could leave without being accosted. The plan was for them to go to the large country home of a colleague of Zantoko’s—a heart surgeon from an old money background. Zantoko had taken the man’s keys from a locker, expressing sadness that his colleague was likely dead, but recalling visiting his large home on several occasions. It would be a safe place to hide out until the chaos died down, and Zantoko pledged to make it there if only to inform his colleague’s family of what had befallen him.

It was a plan.

But not one which involved Devey.

By now, almost two whole days since this thing began, he was barely human. His hands, resting in his lap, were skeletal and sore. His breast fell away in long, slippery strands—like unravelling a jumper by a pair of threads. He coughed up blood, and felt something come loose each time, and he could not blink for his eyelids had deserted his face. Still, as he perched on the rooftop watching Zantoko and the others pile into a hospital mini-van, he was not feel entirely without hope. These people were alive because of him. He had kept them safe, protected them. He watched Sonja now with her little girl and told himself that Lauren would live a life because of him. It made his death a little less wretched.

He counted fourteen people in total and winced as they crammed themselves into a mini-bus built for ten. Still, after being shut inside the hospital’s deathly atmosphere, it probably felt great being outside again. What would happen to them all now was anybody’s guess, and something he would hold no influence over. Maybe things were okay beyond the city, but as he watched another fire leap up in the distance, he wasn’t so sure. Whatever happened from now, the country would never be the same as it was. Lauren would live a hard life.

The world was infected, sick and dying.

It might take a long time for it to be well again.

Before the mini-bus pulled away from the courtyard, Dr Zantoko looked up towards the roof. He spotted Devey there and waved. Devey waved right back. Then they were gone, travelling down the road into town. Eventually, they turned a corner and he no longer saw them. That was how hospitals had always gone for Devey. People he cared about always left him in these horrible places. His mother had left him alone in a hospital room, clutching her hand and sobbing. That his father had not been there as she passed was something that had driven a wedge between them. Devey had been a boy, yet it had been him who had done the man’s duty. He had taken it away from his father.

Devey reached into his pocket, wincing as the last scraps of flesh tore from his fingers, and pulled out his phone. He had switched it off last night to keep the battery from dying, but now he turned it back on. As Sonja had said, the mobile service had returned, but it was poor, unreliable. No harm in trying to make a call though, and this would be the only chance he got. He coughed another mouthful of blood and understood that it was only a matter of minutes before he would tear something vital inside of himself. Each cough might be the one to kill him. With shaking, senseless fingers, he prodded commands into his phone, struggling to see through the bloody smears he left on the touchscreen. To his surprise, the call connected and started ringing. Now all he needed was for his father to pick up. He could finally say he was sorry.

If his dad answered.

If...

“Hello?”

Devey smiled. “Hi, Dad. It’s me.”

<<<<>>>>

The Peeling Omnibus

The Original Novellas

To follow are the 5 original novellas set within The Peeling universe (and a prequel short). They were written during 2012 and 2013.

THE PEELING OF SAMUEL LLOYD COLLINS

THURSDAY

My big toenail fell off today. That leaves three on my right foot and two on my left. It stung at first, but now my toe just feels…hot. I’m keeping the nail in an ashtray in the kitchen.

My name is Samuel Lloyd Collins and I suppose, in a way, this is my last will and testament, except I don’t have anybody to leave anything to, so I guess this is really just my last testament. Or maybe writing this is merely the closest thing I have to company.

I don’t have to be alone. I could go next door and take part in one of their endless political debates that echo through the walls and keep me awake at night. Sometimes I think about yelling at them to ‘keep it down’, but what would be the use? Politics are high on everybody’s agenda right now. One would expect them to be.

Everyone has their own theory on how ‘The Peeling’ started, but I personally think it was the Arabs. It’s always the Arabs, isn’t it? Saddam is dead and the Yanks finally got Osama. So what choice did they have left but to go for broke? Everyone assumed their master plan would culminate with a nuclear attack on a major city, but in many ways this virus is worse. We may have snuffed out the leaders, but their passion for killing, it seems, will never die. You cut the head off a chicken and it runs around like a maniac, spraying anyone nearby with blood. That’s what ‘The Peeling’ is: arterial chicken blood spraying us all with its infectious filth. I guess the Arabs won in the end…

I came down with the sickness on Tuesday. Two days ago. I’ve already lost a bit of hair and some skin off my testicles, and you already know about the toenails. Funnily enough, my fingernails are currently unaffected, probably the only reason I’m able to write this. I thought about typing this on the computer, but somehow it felt like a man’s final words should be in ink, don’t you think? Maybe when it comes right down to it, paper is more permanent than a collection of cheap circuits.

My future is laid out for me now. I’ll be dead within a week, give or take a day. The beauty of the Peeling is that it leaves no room for hypothesising. No room for hope. It kills every time, no exceptions. In a way that certainty has allowed me to come to terms and accept my fate. This time next week I will be a bubbling oil-slick of rancid, dissolving flesh. Somehow I’m fine with that.

But I need to know who is responsible for the pain I’m in. I already told you I think it’s the Arabs, but unless I know for sure…Well let’s just say that knowing for definite would bring a certain degree of closure to the situation. Of course, the honourable men and women of the Government’s various agencies are urgently investigating the origin of this disease and those responsible, but as each second passes, Great Britain withers and dies beneath its second great plague. I just hope to be alive when they determine the guilty party.

Already know it was the Arabs, just need to know for sure…

FRIDAY

I woke up this morning stuck to my pillow. Not because I had been drooling in my sleep, but because the skin below my left eye had rotted and fused with the cotton. I had to rip the pillow away and half of my face with it. The resulting meld of infected flesh and sickly white cotton reminded me of a surrealist painting, beautiful in a way. Maybe I’ll have it framed before I die.

What an odd thing to muse upon! It would not surprise me if I have gone quite mad. I’m already starting to feel delightfully delirious (or maybe that’s just the throbbing and burning where my face used to be).

Such good bone structure I was blessed with, but did not know of, until I was today faced with it in the mirror. The bone of my cheek now shows right through, covered only by several, thin slivers of sinewy gristle. I look like the Phantom of the Opera (albeit a grizzlier version). I wonder what part of me will dissolve tomorrow. That’s the fun part of this sickness, I suppose, not knowing which chunk of skin will decompose next. It isn’t like typical flesh-eating diseases; they have a point of infection and usually spread systematically. But The Peeling strikes the body at random, necrotising a man’s feet before popping up a day later and doing the same to his ears. I’ve seen hundreds of case photographs and no two victims follow the same path of infection. The only non-variable: it’s always fatal. No one understands this disease at all…

…and no one can stop it.

I think it’s starting on my chest…

SATURDAY

I can see my ribs. Two of them, glistening at me like curved piano keys. It’s amusing, in some morbidly fascinating way, to see one’s inner workings. The pain is starting to subside, and thankfully only throbbed for a few hours in the morning, but the cloying odour inside the house is repugnant. Ideally, I would open the curtains and windows, but I don’t wish to be disturbed by the outside world. I would only become resentful of those who still have all of their skin. Besides, it was being around other people that infected me in the first place, sealing my fate, and I hate them for that! But retaining my humanity is all I have left to focus on for now and resentment will only make that task harder. I have decisions ahead of me that should not be made in temper…

I have been corresponding all day with a trusted associate that is supplying me with up-to-date information on the current pandemic, along with the progress of the on-going Government investigations into the crisis. So far it seems clear that this was a premeditated and focused attack on the western world. The Peeling has, so far, hit 90% of Europe and is seeping its way into the East. USA and South America are also stricken, worse than we are in fact, but it is unsurprising to me that, as yet, the Arab world is unaffected. I am eager to see just how far into the East the disease spreads before ceasing its journey of human pestilence. I’m guessing that it will be shortly after it runs out of Christian nations to infect.

SUNDAY

I lost a hand today. Thank God it was my left and that I can still continue writing this. I now have a withered stump that drips periodically with a viscous yellow discharge. It looks similar to the contents of a Cadbury Cream Egg but smells worse than anything I could ever hope to describe to you now. I suppose it’s the aroma of lingering death.

Next door are still at it. Talking incessantly at all hours. I need peace and quiet right now. Time to think. I already informed my colleagues that I would be working from home for the next week and am not to be disturbed under any circumstances. They were not happy, but I’m the Boss, so they’ll have to cope. They don’t know that I have the sickness, of course, probably too wrapped up in their own fear of it to even consider the possibility. People only worry about themselves nowadays.

My associate emailed today and told me that the infection was definitely engineered – Wow. What a revelation! – and that it was unleashed upon the world at strategic locations: Major cities, along coastal areas so that the disease would work inwards from all directions, eating around the edges of England as though it were a Jaffa Cake with a chewy orange centre…

God what I would do for a box of Jaffa Cakes right now! The stump of my wrist is itching just thinking about it. Perhaps it’s excitement?

Anyway, I have sent a reply email asking what is currently known about WHO engineered the disease. That is what I have to know.

Then maybe I can do something about it.

MONDAY

I have lost an eye today. It is indeed unfortunate, but in a way I am blessed to have persevered this long anyway. Many do not, and at least I have the other eye. My left one just dribbled out of its socket today like an under-boiled egg with its top sliced off: all foamy white and custardy-yellow. I almost laughed when I looked in the mirror. I look like a zombie-pirate.

At least it doesn’t hurt. Not physically.

I suspect I have little time left now and I am anxiously awaiting news from my associate. I can feel the illness seizing my internal organs in its corrosive grip and it’s only a matter of time before they start to decay completely. I have already taken to soiling myself involuntarily, so I assume that my intestines are already rotten. I would take a shower to get clean, but the pressure would only shred what remaining skin I have left. For now I will sit and wait for my associate to provide me the information I so desire…

Who is responsible? Who turned me, and most of the free world, into a quivering mass of mutilated flesh?

I wonder if there’s any Jaffa Cakes in the pantry.

TUESDAY

It has now been one week since I first noticed the skin under my armpit was peeling away in pus-filled chunks. One week since I realised I was a dead man walking.

Dead man peeling! Ha!

But I am still alive, devoid of nearly all my skin, granted, but alive nonetheless. Moist splatters of pungent flesh litter my home now, whilst foul scabs fall from my body constantly. The only merciful thing about this disease is that I feel nothing.

Nothing except for the soft scraping of insanity inside my fleshless skull.

WEDNESDAY

Today will be my last. I can feel it. My lower legs snapped today when I got out of bed, too rotten and malformed to bear what little weight my frail body has left. It is of no importance however, as I awakened to something wonderful: You have mail.

I am about to drag my withered limbs over to the computer right now, to see what my trusted associate has for me. I will record the email, and my response, for you right here, as I feel it will be important.

Dear Prime Minister.

I sincerely hope that you are keeping well in this time of dire need. Great Britain is within the talons of great turmoil and despair, but I trust that your inspired leadership will see us through as ever. This shall not be the end of our endless empire and the good people of this nation will go on stronger than before. That is our way and always will be. May Angels sit on our shoulders as God guides our souls through the times ahead. Long live Great Britain.

But without further ado, Prime Minister, I will provide you with the Intel you require. It was discovered at 0300 GMT today that the disease is not contained to western nations as first assumed. In fact we now have reliable information that the infection, commonly referred to as ‘The Peeling’, was contracted in Turkey and has quickly spread as far east as Japan. I’m sure you can appreciate, that with the USA also affected, it effectively means the disease has travelled the entire circumference of the world… Yet there is one country that has shown no effects of the illness, despite being surrounded by it on all borders. We have tried to contact that nation’s Government but they have declined all opportunities to reply. It now seems a reasonable assumption that the country in question is responsible for this worldwide plague.

That country is North Korea.

As always, I await you orders on how to proceed, but I implore you to act wisely.

Yours,

General Harvey Whitehead

* * *

Dear Harvey

I was certain it was the Arabs! Guess we can all be wrong sometimes…

Regardless, since my dear Martha and the children were taken from me by this wretched sickness, I have had no time to mourn them, so I regret to inform you that this will be my final act as leader of this nation. I hope that you and your family are well, and remain so. I wish the same for Great Britain.

Without continued procrastination, my orders, in regards to the Godless entity of North Korea, are as follows:

Send the Nukes.

Send them all…

They will not take this world as their own.

Yours regretfully,

Prime Minister Samuel Lloyd Collins

THE PEELING: BOOK 1

JEREMY’S CHOICE

The Never Stop News Studio was cramped with bodies. The typical skeleton crew of six or seven had swelled to at least four times that amount, people cramming together in front of the studio’s news desk while the two young anchors prepared to go live with the evening’s stories. The overcrowding had made Jeremy’s job very difficult.

Jeremy was a security guard for Never Stop News, responsible for keeping out anyone not invited to be there. With the news studio and its roaming reporters providing content twenty-four hours a day live, there was always a risk that some anarchic member of the public, with a grudge and a message, would try to sneak in front of the cameras and interrupt the feed. With current events, and the public being so frightened, the risk of a security breach skyrocketed. People wanted answers, and when people wanted answers they came after the Government first and the media a close second. With so many people filling up the claustrophobic studio, it was impossible for Jeremy to keep his eyes on everybody.

There was just one more hour to go before he would be relieved from his post by the night guard, Greg – just one more hour. He could not deny that he dreaded being there even another minute longer, though. Bad things were happening in the world, that had started almost a week ago, and the situation didn’t seem to be getting any better. Jeremy didn’t want to be there anymore. He didn’t want to hear another goddamn thing about The Peeling.

The studio was silent and the lights went down as the countdown till live began. The network was currently running a pre-recorded football report on its dedicated satellite channel and on its website, but would turn back to its studio anchors in seven-seconds.

Six seconds.

Five.

“Okay, guys,” one of the production assistants shouted over the crowd. “You’re live in three…two…”

Sarah Lane, one of the anchors, cleared her throat and said, “Good evening, UK. Things are still pretty scary right now, but rest assured Tom and I will be bringing all of the latest news for the next four hours. Get yourself a nice hot cuppa and snuggle up on that sofa because Never Stop News will be looking after you tonight.”

Jeremy still struggled to accept such a casual approach to the news. Sarah and Tom were only mid-twenties, and were dressed and spoke as such. Never Stop News’s entire premise was to provide the day’s events with a laid-back and youthful approach. Their slogan was: All the truth. None of the nonsense. Jeremy found it even more surprising that such an approach had been successful. Never Stop’s hip approach to the news had gained them a younger audience unattainable to the traditional networks. It had even started to eat into the more mature demographics as well. It seemed that people were tired of the byzantine stuffiness of days gone by and were happy getting the news from a bunch of plucky youngsters. As a consequence, the Never Stop News Corporation was one of the fastest growing media companies in the world. Jeremy imagined that the lovely Sarah Lane had at least a small part to play in that success. Her shapely legs and curved figure, always on display beneath the glass news desk, were a constant feature of trashy celeb magazines and trashy websites.

The equally attractive and immaculately-groomed, Tom, took the lead from Sarah and got started with the programme. “We’ve been reporting all week the current crisis in the UK and – it now appears – many other parts of the world have also been affected. Reports suggest upwards of four-million people have been affected throughout the UK alone and over ten times that amount worldwide. The numbers have been rising, hour-by hour, and with no end in sight, there is great fear that the current number of casualties is just a small percentage of what will be the final number.”

Sarah Lane took over again. “While both Private and Public sectors are working tirelessly to find both a cause and a solution, it is clear that the world is suffering under what can only be described as – a global pandemic. Commonly referred to as The Peeling, the unknown virus has spread throughout our nation and others with a virulence never before seen. Affecting young and old alike, there are no clear vectors for contraction. Government officials admit to knowing nothing about its origin and very little about its pathology. As previously stated, all members of the public are advised to remain inside their homes and avoid all contact with anyone besides their immediate family. The military are permitted to use force where necessary, to ensure the spread of infection is contained.”

Jeremy swallowed back a mouthful of acidy saliva. His reflux was bad, but his pills were at home. It was unlike him to suffer heartburn in the day. If he’d a job someplace else, he’d be home right now like most other people, but news was an essential service. Jeremy’s job, in many ways, was a matter of national security – his job to make sure the anchors were safe to give their reports. Unfortunately for England Jeremy was just a middle-aged man with bad acid.

At fifty-two, Jeremy’s limbs were stiffer than they used to be, and his arthritic bones ached more often than not. He was certainly willing to take a stand against anyone looking for trouble, but he couldn’t claim truthfully that he was the best man for the job. Most days he just hung around the corridors, half-asleep, until he returned home to his wife. That was why all of these people in the studio were such a thorn in his side – they forced him to concentrate and stay focused despite his weary mind’s desire to shut off. Most of the people didn’t even need to be there – they were just clerks and office assistants from other floors or departments – but no one wanted to leave while news was still coming in. Everyone wanted to know more about the disease. Their fear and panic was palpable and Jeremy could sense it hanging over the dimly-lit room like a soiled blanket.

“As we have little fresh news to report from official sources,” Tom told the audience at home. “We will be turning the air over to you – the public. For the next two hours we want to hear from you, Great Britain. We want you to tell us what you’ve seen, and what are your thoughts about The Peeling? Do you have it? Does someone you love have it? Is there any advice you can give to help others out there? We want to hear from you now.”

Jeremy didn’t know what they expected to get from the public that they didn’t know already. It was well-documented that The Peeling started with a tingling sensation in the hands and feet – sometimes the nose and ears – before moving on to a streaming cold and flu-like symptoms. After a day-or-so of runny nostrils and messy sneezing, the virus really started its magic. Jeremy shuddered thinking about what The Peeling did to the human body.

“Okay, we have our first caller,” Sarah reported. “We have Keith on line-1. Hello, Keith.”

“Hiya, Sarah. Hiya, Tom. I just want to say that you’ve been a constant comfort during these last few days. I don’t have any family, and not being able to leave the house has been really hard on me.”

“It’s been hard on a lot of people,” Tom said. “But right now the only way to stay safe is to lock yourself away.”

“Do you have The Peeling, Keith?” Sarah asked in her typical caring manner. Although, Jeremy noticed, that the young girl wasn’t as calm and collected as she usually was. She fidgeted a lot and her hair was out of place

There was a pause on the other end of the line, followed by a muffled sound that could only have been sobbing. Eventually, Keith came back on. “Yes…I have it,” he whispered down the line. “I’ve had it three days…since Wednesday.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that, Keith,” Tom said. “It’s truly terrible what this virus is doing to people. Absolutely horrifying.” The reporter took a deep breath and suddenly seemed very tired, as though he’d dropped a mask that had been hiding his true face all along. Jeremy sympathised from over by the studio’s door. Tom wasn’t much more than a lad, really, and he had suddenly found himself responsible for consoling an entire nation.

Sarah sat forward on her chair and clasped her hands together on top of the desk. “Keith? If it’s not too hard for you, could you tell our viewers what it’s been like since you got ill? Could you tell us about your symptoms?”

After another short pause, Keith replied that he would. “I got home from work at about six on the night – I’m a mig-welder. Anyway, Man U were playing Chelsea and I wanted to see them get their arses hammered, so I got some beers in and plonked myself down in front of the telly. I was happy, you know?”

“We know,” Sarah confirmed understandingly.

“Well, I’d been feeling a bit under the weather all day and my nose had been running like a tap, but I thought it was just a cold. I mean, no one really knew what was going on then – it was all just rumours.” He trailed off and begun to sob.

“Just go on when you’re ready, Keith,” Sarah told the man. “We’re here for you.”

“Right, sorry, anyway,” Keith gathered himself, “I was sat watching the game, but I couldn’t help but scratch at my feet the whole time. Was a bit like pins and needles, but no matter how much I itched or walked around the living room, it just wouldn’t go away. Thankfully it got a bit better after a couple beers and I managed to ignore it.”

“What happened next?” asked Tom, filling a brief moment of dead air.

“Then I fell asleep on the sofa. Do most evenings if I have a drink. I woke up later, in the middle of the night. I knew it was late because the shopping channel had come on, selling their usual junk. So I sit there for a few minutes, trying to wake up a bit so I can get myself up and go to bed, but soon as I lean forward, I feel this sharp stab of pain.”

Jeremy rubbed at his eyes in the doorway. He’d heard enough reports to know what was coming next. He’d even seen what was coming next first hand.

“I look down at my feet,” said Keith, fighting back sobs, “and I can hardly…I can hardly believe what I’m seeing.”

“Tell us, Keith.”

“My feet they were…oh God…they were like raw steak. They had no skin. I could see all the gristle and bone and blood. They looked like those anatomical dummy things they have in school, you know? Anyway, like a fool I grab down at them, like I needed to make sure my eyes weren’t still half-asleep and seeing nonsense. When I touched my feet it was agony. I almost passed out it was so bad. Worst pain I’d ever felt…but I would give anything to feel that way now – it was heaven compared to the pain I feel now. The skin from my ankles started peeling away the next morning, blistering up and peppering the floor like dandruff. Then it moved further up my legs. Then it….then it….” Keith finally allowed himself to sob openly down the line. “My dick is gone! It fell onto the carpet like a goddamn sausage.”

The man began to wail inhumanely and the phone line went dead. Jeremy didn’t know if it was the caller or the studio that had cut the conversation short. Probably the studio. They had a duty not to cause the public any more distress then they were already in.

Sarah smiled awkwardly into the main camera. “We seem to have lost Keith, there, but I’m sure we’re all united in our prayers that his condition gets better.”

“Absolutely,” Tom added. “I think we should just move on and take the next call.”

“That would be Angela Thomas on line-4.”

“We’re all going to die. God is punishing us for letting the queers and the-”

The line went dead. This time Jeremy was certain it had been the studio’s doing. There was nothing like a crisis to bring out the hate-filled vipers from their pits. Britain liked to act like all the whackos lived abroad in less civilised countries, but working in a news studio made it quite clear that there were as many nutjobs here as there were anywhere else.

Jeremy checked his watch. There were only forty minutes till he could leave, but it seemed like an eternity. At home, his wife was sick – like so many other people – and it felt like a betrayal not to be with her now, looking after her. He’d betrayed her for most of their twenty-year marriage, with various other women and his hidden gambling habit, but failing her now was enough to make his guilt muscle finally take notice. He was a hypocrite, that much was true, but he knew there were times when a man needed to step up and be selfless for the woman he loved; this was one of those times. The entire nation lived in hope that The Peeling would soon be dominated by a cure – that man would triumph over nature once again as it had always done. But Jeremy knew better. He knew that the virus wasn’t just bird-flu on steroids. This was the end. Even if the virus was destroyed, the amount of death it had already caused would be monumental. Millions. The world would never be the same again. Perhaps that meant Jeremy would get the chance to be a decent man again, to be a good husband – even if it was only for the handful of days his wife had left. She could get better, but something in his gut told him not to hold onto that hope. He had to get home.

The next call came from line-2. A cantankerous old man, named Bob. “It’s them bloody Koreans, I’m tellin’ ya. I’d blame the Arabs if I could, but they don’t have the smarts for this. North Korea has been closed off to the rest of the word for decades. We don’t know what they’ve been up to, do we? But I tell you one thing for nought; they’ve obviously been plotting the downfall of the world this whole time. Kim Jong Il arranged for it to happen before he died and, surprise surprise, a virus the likes of which the world has never seen, has come out of a country no one knows anything about. Prime Minister Lloyd-Collins knew about it; tried to do something about it before he died.”

Sarah butted in while she had chance. “Now, Bob, it’s already been confirmed that North Korea has been affected like everywhere else. Early reports that they were the instigators of this pandemic turned out to be false. Prime Minister Lloyd-Collins’s directive to bomb their country was just the paranoid actions of a dying man. General Harvey Whitehead was right to do what he did by holding emergency cabinet hustings and taking command of the Government.”

“All so he could get in power,” Bob asserted.

“Come on,” said Sarah. “Do you really believe that? General Whitehead was only made Deputy-Prime Minister temporarily because his military background is exactly the skillset needed to help manage the nation through this crisis. His decision to ignore Lloyd Collins’ directives – God rest his soul – averted a nuclear war.”

“And also let the bloody Koreans get away scot-free. You bloody watch what happen. This time next year we’ll all be slaves to a bunch of slitty-eyed-“

The line went dead. Jeremy had heard enough of this. Holding a public phone-in was just morbid and macabre. There would be no hope gained from talking with them, for they were the most hopeless and lost of all. The men and woman of the United Kingdom were floundering helplessly in the dark, rotting away slowly in both body and mind. Their sad stories would do nothing but spread more suffering, infecting people’s thoughts in the same way The Peeling infected their flesh.

Jeremy was just about to abandon his post when a ruckus erupted in the corner of the studio. A handful of people had begun to scuffle with one another while others backed away fearfully. Angry voices filled the air and bounced off the narrow walls, interrupting the on-going news report.

“We seem to be having a few problems here in the studio,” Sarah told the audience. “I think we should cut to a commercial break briefly, but don’t go anywhere, guys. We’ll be right back.”

Sarah and Tom stood up from their desk and headed away from the violence, whilst Jeremy shoved past them and headed for the centre of the squabbling crowd. As he got nearer, he realised that it was not a fight that had broken out, but an attack on a single individual. A pair of men and one woman were kicking hatefully at a downed body.

“Everybody, back away, now,” Jeremy hollered at the group with great force in his voice. While he may not have been a physically imposing man, he had a voice that commanded attention. The group of people immediately stopped what they were doing and backed away from him. The victim remained on the floor, huddled and whimpering: a blonde woman, a girl really.

“She has it,” said a woman in a grey power suit. Her face dripping with anger. “The bitch has it and tried to hide it.”

Jeremy looked down at the girl shaking on the floor and saw no signs of The Peeling. He looked up at the power-suit woman who had spoken. “What?”

“It’s true,” said a tall, Black man standing next to her. “She’s been sneezing non-stop for the last hour.”

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Sneezing? A young girl sneezes and you all think you have the right to attack her? A big strong man like you?”

“She deserves it. We could all be infected because of her. I have a family.”

“Then you should be with them, instead of here acting like a thug. Now help her up off the floor.”

The man shook his head. “You pick her up. I’m not touching her.”

Jeremy took a step forwards and stared the man hard in the face. “You just did touch her, with your fists. Help her up now. I won’t ask you again.”

The taller, larger man just laughed at Jeremy, then shoved out with both arms. Jeremy acted quickly, grabbing one of the man’s thick wrists and pulling him forwards, off balance. Then he kicked out and took the man’s legs from under him, sending him to the floor with a thump. Jeremy was just about to follow him down to deliver a knockout punch when Sarah called out to him.

“Jeremy, don’t! I’ll help the girl up and we’ll take her somewhere to lie down.”

Jeremy looked up at the young news anchor, confused. “Sarah, you have the news to be getting on with.”

“We’re on a break, and Tom can handle it for ten minutes.” She glared at the nearby crowd and shook her. “You people should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Sarah went over to the fallen girl and knelt down beside her. Jeremy knelt the other side and together they gathered the woozy young woman to her feet and walked her away from the baying crowd. There were a whole host of angry mutterings that followed after them, but no one had the guts to act out after what had happened to their ring leader.

Jeremy and Sarah took the girl out into the corridor, soothing her all the way.

“We can take her to my dressing room,” Sarah said.

Jeremy nodded. It was a kind offer, and that was why he had always liked Sarah. She was as friendly as anybody else, despite being a national sex symbol. Her ego had every right to be much larger than it was, but she was surprisingly down to earth.

They half-carried, half-dragged, the girl into the dressing room and set her down on a plush sofa filling one side. She was weak and upset, but seemed coherent.

“Are you okay?” Jeremy asked her.

Her eyes had filled with tears, but she nodded. “I don’t think they would have stopped.”

“Animals,” Sarah said. “They should be arrested.”

The girl waved her hand. “It’s okay. I’m just going to go home and forget about it. Can I just rest here for a while first?”

“Of course you can, sweetheart. Take as long as you need.”

“Is it true what they said,” Jeremy asked the girl. “Do you have it?”

“I…don’t know. I have the sniffles, but I’ve been sneezing for a few days now and nothing else has happened.”

“You just have a cold,” said Sarah. “If you’ve been sneezing that long and haven’t come down with other symptoms then you’re probably fine.”

Jeremy nodded and let out sigh. Despite millions of people being sick, it was still a relief to know that this one young girl was going to be okay – for now.

The girl laughed pitifully. “I think people forget that The Peeling didn’t make all of the other, regular illnesses go away. Not every sneeze means you have the plague.”

“Exactly,” Sarah said. “Now you just relax here until you feel better. There’s water in the fridge and some cookies. Help yourself.”

“Thank you, Miss Lane. You’re really kind – kinder than I would have expected you to be.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy agreed. “A big celebrity like you, mixing with the common people like us.”

Sarah bopped him on the arm playfully. “Don’t be silly. I’m C-List at best. Anyway, I have a feeling that the world will have little need for celebrities soon.”

“You shouldn’t think the worst. The world will get through this, one way or another. Not everyone is getting sick.” As Jeremy said it he didn’t believe it, but it felt like the correct thing to say.

Sarah took Jeremy by the arm and led him back out into the corridor. It seemed like she wanted to tell him something, something that couldn’t be anything good.

“Is everything alright?” Jeremy asked her, noticing the tears that were brimming in her eyes.

“No, it’s not alright. Things are definitely not alright, Jeremy. You don’t know the half of it.”

“What do you mean?”

Sarah leant back against the wall of the corridor and for a moment it looked like she might collapse completely. “I have the producers in my ear, nonstop, telling me facts, figures, things to say – and what not to say. We’re not telling the public anything close to the truth.”

“They know the truth. It’s right in front of their faces.”

Sarah shook her head. “They’re all locked up inside while police and military patrol the roads. All they see is what’s out their windows.”

Jeremy wasn’t following. “So what is the truth?”

“That there’s thirty-million dead in the UK, not four-million. The worldwide estimates are over half a billion. The USA and most of Europe have been decimated three-times over.”

Jeremy’s stomach swelled against his ribcage. Vomit rose in his throat. “You’re telling me that half of the UK is infected, in less than a week?”

“The NHS has estimated that the virus affects one-in-two people. Everyone has a fifty-fifty chance. They’ve also put the chance of death at 100%. Anyone who catches The Peeling will die. No exceptions.”

“But you haven’t been telling people that. You’ve been reporting the numbers of infections, but you haven’t said people are dying. You’ve even implied that there’s a chance of recovery.”

“I don’t make the decisions about what to report, Jeremy. The Peeling doesn’t kill people instantly. They suffer for days. The death toll has only just begun, as the first people to catch it have had it for almost a week now. We didn’t know the virus would kill in all cases, at first, but with the data coming through today, it’s clear that no one is surviving it. The Government are trying to make the decision on whether to go public with the information or not.”

“The Government? What right do they have to dictate to the news outlets?”

“They can control information in a national crisis. They always have.”

Jeremy stood wearily in the corridor, shocked and sickened. He had known The Peeling was a plague beyond anything ever witnessed, but he hadn’t thought it powerful enough to wipe out half of the world – 50/50. There would be no containing it now, no cure – just unimaginable death and suffering that would linger in the consciousness of mankind for centuries.

He looked at Sarah and could not imagine the burden she was forced to carry – to have such information, but unable to share it.

“What are you going to do?” he asked her.

“I’m going to finish up tonight and then go home. I’m finished after tonight.”

“You’re quitting?”

“Not exactly.”

“What then?”

Sarah took in a deep breath and let it out slowly through her slender nose. She stared at Jeremy for a moment, then put her left hand to her right sleeve. She rolled up her cuff and exposed her wrist.”

Jeremy shook his head in disgust. “No. You can’t have it…”

The wound on her arm was puckered and wet, the skin gone and exposing the flesh of her muscle beneath. A tangy odour filled the room like spoiled bananas.

“I’ve been hiding a cold the last couple days, but I didn’t know I had it for sure until this morning. Noticed it in the shower. It’s already spread twice as much since then.”

Jeremy rubbed both hands down his face and imagined his cheeks peeling off beneath his fingernails. He was one of the lucky ones so far; the right side of 50/50. “You’re sure there’re absolutely no survivors?” he asked. “There’s nothing the NHS can do?”

Sarah shook her head, seemed resigned to her fate. Maybe she felt luckier to be one of the infected than one of the healthy – at least for the infected the nightmare had an end in sight.

“I’m already dead,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m infectious, but I don’t want to take the risk anymore. I’m going home tonight and staying there. It’s where I’d rather be. I need to feed my cat.”

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy said and truly meant it. “I wish there was something I could do or say.”

Sarah rolled her sleeve back down, covering her wound. “I’m just glad you don’t have it as well. As long as some of us get through, then I guess things aren’t completely doomed.”

“My wife has it. She came down with it three days ago now.”

Sarah put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Then you should go home and take care of her.”

Jeremy glanced at his watch. “My shift isn’t-”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t think anything matters anymore. This is just the calm before the storm. Things are about to fall to pieces and the only thing we can do is look after the people we love. Go home, Jeremy. Look after your wife.”

Jeremy watched Sarah return to the studio and knew that it would be the last time he ever saw her in person again. He hoped her passing would be peaceful, but that was a luxury The Peeling gave to no one. She would feel pain beyond anything she had previously imagined, and then she’d die – adding to the statistics that she’d been reporting for the last week.

It was time to go home. Sarah had been right about nothing mattering anymore. If those people in the studio wanted to start fights then let them. Jeremy wasn’t about to waste another minute watching over a bunch of unruly strangers turn on each other.

The news studio was on the second floor so he had to take the stairs downwards to reach the building’s exit. The reception area was empty, its staff all sick and dying at home. Jeremy knew most of them, but not well enough to grieve for them. He headed for the heavy glass doors that led outside to the parking lot.

Outside were several vehicles, belonging to the people inside. Sarah’s Jeep Cherokee was parked next to Tom’s more audacious Jaguar XK; beyond them both was Jeremy’s Ford Focus. He took out his keys as he headed over to it, pressing the fob to unlock it. The lights flashed twice and the doors unlocked. He opened the driver’s side door and slid in behind the wheel.

Turning the ignition, Jeremy started the engine. The needle on the fuel gauge headed towards empty and stopped a little ways off. He laughed. Some things would never change, no matter what happened to the world; cars would always run out of fuel, and fuel would always cost a bomb – especially now that the military had commandeered it all.

The military were everywhere, as were the police. It was to be expected, Jeremy supposed, but it was still disconcerting to watch olive green, 3-tonne trucks patrolling every main road. With the UK’s history of riots, the Government was taking no chances. There was even a sentry posted at the news station’s car park, controlling the bright-red automatic barrier instead of the usual civilians that had done so before. Jeremy pulled the car into gear and drove towards that barrier now. The armed soldier stepped up to meet his car as it approached and Jeremy lowered the electric window and leant out with his security ID. It wasn’t his usual station ID, but a new state-issued ID that allowed him to leave his home and travel to work. They called it a Vital Services Identity Card – pronounced V-SIC. It was a privilege to have one in many ways, but a burden too. Being outside was a constant danger for many reasons – number one being exposure to The Peeling. Still, if Jeremy was going to come down with the sickness, he surely would have caught it by now.

“Everything okay in there?” the soldier asked him, motioning to the news studio with his head.

“There was a bit of trouble earlier. People are getting scared. Might be a good idea to post a man inside.”

“No can do,” said the soldier. “Orders are to remain outside at all times, unless absolutely necessary.”

Jeremy understood and nodded. “Can’t have people thinking that the military are controlling the press.” Even though they are, he thought secretly.

The soldier gave no reaction, his expression implacable. “Drive safely, sir. Go straight home.”

Jeremy nodded and crept the car forwards as the metal barrier rose in front of him. Once past it, he pulled into third-gear and increased his speed. It was easy to drive fast because the roads were all empty. Travel had been restricted to prevent the spread of infection and only certain vehicles were allowed on the road. Jeremy’s Ford Focus qualified and had a luminous green circle on both the front and back. It told any passing military that he was allowed to be out – for the most part they left him alone. In fact, a convoy of trucks was heading toward him right now and seemed unconcerned by his presence on the highway. The driver of the lead truck nodded to him as it passed, and it was only a few moments before Jeremy was the only car on the road again, driving along the withered husk of the nation’s once-heaving infrastructure.

He lived almost forty-miles away from the news station, but with the roads wide open, he would get there in thirty minutes. He turned on the radio but quickly switched to CD mode. The last thing he wanted was more news – or uninformed hypotheses masquerading as news, more accurately. The sound of Blue Oyster Cult’s Don’t Fear The Reaper came on from a mix-disc he’d filled full of rock songs. It seemed pretty apt for the mood he was in and he let it play to its conclusion.

* * *

After taking the dual-carriageway most of the way home, Jeremy took a slip road into Stratford. As he crossed over the bridge into the centre of town, he could see that the police were patrolling the River Avon in modified barges. Every single day the police and military presence seemed to increase, and it now seemed that Britain’s waterways were just as restricted as its roads.

Much of the routes through town were cordoned off and Jeremy was forced to manoeuvre his car along the riverbank, passing in front of the Globe theatre. The historic, thatched-roof building lay abandoned and mournful now, its function to entertain no longer required. Jeremy suddenly regretted never having been inside before to experience the lively works of Shakespeare. There would probably be a lot of things he’d never experience now.

Something flew out from behind the theatre and stumbled into the road. Jeremy hit the brakes.

Standing in the centre of the narrow side-street was a peeler – a victim of the plague. Whether it was woman or a man was unclear now, but the long, matted hair suggested the former. Jeremy gawped in horror as the figure approached with the shambling gait of a zombie, but this thing – this human being – was worse than a zombie. This thing was living agony, stumbling towards Jeremy like a nightmare made flesh. It was the worst case of the infection he had yet seen and the woman had not a single inch of skin left intact. Her muscle – and even bones – were exposed from head to feet. Eyeballs bulged from her glistening skull like gelatinous orbs of pus and focused on Jeremy intently. Her bleeding arms stretched out pleadingly, but she made no sound, perhaps incapable of doing so. Behind her was a trail of viscous fluids and spoiled meat. It was a miracle the woman was still alive, let alone able to walk.

Jeremy put the car into reverse, planning to flee. He couldn’t help this person. Even if a cure was found, this woman was beyond the point of salvation. “I’m sorry,” he said out loud, then lifted up the clutch. The car began rolling backwards, away from the woman.

She followed after him for a few more steps, seeming to lose more flesh and blood with every movement. So transfixed was Jeremy on the horrible sight that he almost didn’t see what was in his rear view mirror. He slammed on the brakes again. “Shit!”

Behind him a military truck blocked the road where he had come from. A single soldier hopped out from the elevated cabin and landed on the cement with his heavy jackboots. The man had a scruffy beard and his sleeves rolled up past the elbows. The standards of appearance for the British Army had obviously been forgotten in the last week. It was hardly surprising.

The infected woman was still coming closer, still reaching out her arms pleadingly. The soldier moved in front of Jeremy’s car and faced down the woman. He pulled out his sidearm, a mean-looking pistol, and pointed it forward casually. Then he let off a shot. A single bullet did the job, hitting the woman in her cheek and passing through her skull. Gore and grey matter painted the road, adding to the mess that was already there.

Jeremy’s breath caught in his throat and he could actually feel his heart beating against his chest. He was not used to the sight of guns and he’d never before seen one used to kill another human being. Numbness washed over him that was probably the beginnings of shock.

The soldier holstered his weapon and marched over to Jeremy’s window. Jeremy unwound it and quickly grabbed his ID card from where it lay on the dashboard. His hands were shaking.

“Thank you, sir. Everything seems to be in order. Are you on your way home?”

Jeremy stared out at the dead woman on the road and found himself unable to blink.

“Sir?”

“Huh? Oh, yes. I’m going straight home now.”

The soldier seemed to notice Jeremy’s concern and knelt down to match his eyelevel. “It was for the best, sir. Like putting down a sick dog.”

“A…a dog?”

“It may seem cruel, but when the infection gets that bad, it’s kinder to just end it. A lot of them have started to lose their minds – who can blame them – but they’re becoming dangerous. If you see any more of them I advise you keep on going.”

Jeremy swallowed. The soldier spoke about the infected like they were things not people, but was that really so surprising? Anyone with The Peeling was insane with agony and doomed to die – had any humanity still existed inside the woman now dead in the road?

“You go on now, sir? Get moving.”

Jeremy pulled the car back into first and headed forward, steering around the mutilated corpse of the woman. The soldier remained standing in the road and watched until Jeremy was out of sight.

* * *

Stratford had become a military outpost like many other small towns with open areas. Further downriver, the waters teemed with gunboats, and the roads led to checkpoints in all directions. Cars and houses lay abandoned, while large fires raged in many open areas. Jeremy had a morbid realisation that the soldiers were building pyres and stacking them with the bodies of infected. The movement amongst the flames made it clear that not all the bodies were dead.

What the hell was happening? In only the nine or ten hours since Jeremy had travelled to work, things had deteriorated to frightening levels. A police state was in effect and sick people were being quarantined and burned alive. Even the healthy were being caged inside their homes without compassion. Jeremy turned a corner, heading away from town, and saw a squad of Royal Fusiliers boarding up a house while frightened people tried to escape through the windows. A small boy actually managed to get free of the house and made a run for it down the road. A moment later the boy was dead, a rifle round between his shoulder blades. Jeremy couldn’t even tell if he’d been infected.

Jeremy thought about his wife. Would he return home to find that she had been rounded up, too? Rotted away and thrown on a fire? The thought made his foot stamp down harder on the accelerator. Once he was home he would stay there until the very end, until it was over. What he would do then, he did not know. His life would go on whilst his wife’s would end. In many ways he envied her. The world going on around him was not one he wanted to be a part of anymore. In less than twenty-four hours things had gotten so bad that he dreaded to think about what just one more day would bring.

* * *

The military presence reduced as he left the town centre and headed into the residential areas. By the time he reached his own house, it’d been almost ten minutes without seeing another soul. His home was dark, the windows shaded by closed curtains. The light had started to hurt his wife’s eyes and the lamps had all been left off since the night before. Her condition had been in the early stages then – he worried what she would be like now. The virus worked so fast, a destructive force akin to an invading army. The body’s skin and muscle cells got obliterated, one by one, helplessly succumbing to infection until they were nothing more than soup.

Jeremy parked the car up on the curb and turned off the engine. He stepped out and pressed the key fob, locking the car. Then he started up his path and headed for his front door. Before he got there, though, it opened from the other side.

“Hey, honey. I’ve been waiting for you to get home. It’s been lonely without you.”

Kara hopped off of the doorstep and took Jeremy by surprise, planting a kiss on his mouth and slipping in her tongue. He pushed her away.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Everything,” he said, stepping through into the house while she followed. “Have you looked outside the window lately?”

“No. I don’t want to know what’s going on out there. It’s too frightening. Is it bad?”

Jeremy stared at her. “You have no idea.”

Kara approached him and put her arms around his shoulder and planted another kiss on his cheek. “Well, as long as we still have each other.”

Jeremy pushed her away again and sighed. “Kara, what are you doing here? Where’s your sister?”

“In bed. She wasn’t feeling good so she went to sleep.”

Jeremy thought about his wife, alone upstairs and suffering. He felt outraged at Kara. Did she not care? It was her sister, for Christ’s sake. He took a deep breath and fought to remain calm. “How is she?” he asked. “Is it bad?”

“What do you think? Hasn’t that news station of yours found a cure yet?”

Jeremy huffed. “They’re journalists, not doctors. And to answer your question, no. There is no cure. It’s killing everyone who has it.”

Kara slumped down on the sofa and finally seemed to get a little more serious as concern etched itself across her face. Perhaps she did care about her sister after all. “There’s really nothing anyone can do?” she asked.

Jeremy shook his head. “That’s why we need to look after your sister – my wife. Carol needs our love and support. We can’t fool around behind her back anymore. I’m done behaving like that.”

Kara didn’t reply. She stared at the blank television screen as though the glass were a portal to another, more interesting life. Jeremy didn’t care to console her. He’d had enough of his wife’s younger sister. Once Carol passed on, she could leave, go back to her own place, and they should never speak again. If he was honest with himself, his wife was the only woman he had ever truly loved, and once she was gone, he was giving up on women for good.

Jeremy didn’t want to waste any more time. The value of a second had increased exponentially since The Peeling had found its first victim – whoever that might have been. He placed his foot on the first step of the staircase and looked up. The second floor seemed miles away – another world, filled with horrors and regret. He began to climb, dreading what he would find upstairs. What pain would Carol be in? Would she cry out when he entered, or would she remain silent like the woman gunned down in the road? He was about to find out.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he headed across the landing to the master bedroom, where he placed an ear against the door and listened. Silence. Without even realising it, his hand went to the handle and began turning it. A moment later, his legs carried him through into the bedroom.

Carol was asleep in their double bed, the duvet kicked down to the bottom of the mattress. She was hot and the heat of her fever filled the room with a sweaty aroma. Her body was pale and smooth, but still healthy. Her face however…

Jesus Christ!

…her face was little more than a sinewy skull. Her jaw and teeth were utterly exposed, making it seem like she was grinning constantly. Her cheeks had worn away, leaving her eyeballs sunken beneath the thin, translucent scraps of her eyelids. Beautiful brunette hair lay disembodied on the pillow, no longer attached to her head. She looked like a corpse. Yet she breathed.

“Sweetheart?” Jeremy approached cautiously, not wanting to startle her. If she was in pain, then it was probably cruel of him to bother her at all. But he needed to talk to her. It was time to confess his sins.

Slowly, the tissue-like skin of her eyelids rose. Beneath them, his her eyes were as they’d always been: green and full of life.

“J-Jerry?”

“Yes, sweetheart. It’s me. How are you feeling?”

Despite the mess that was her face, Carol managed a weak laugh. “My face felt like it was on fire earlier, but now I can’t feel anything at all. It’s…nice.”

Jeremy placed himself down on the bed. The sheets were damp and bloody. He noticed that a patch of skin the size of a hockey puck had begun to rot away on her side. The smell was sweet and odious.

“I’m going to be here for you now, my love. I’m not going back to work.”

“I…I thought you’d been ordered to?”

“Screw their orders. Besides, I don’t think they’ll be any orders left this time tomorrow.”

Carol’s eyelids fluttered and it seemed like she was going back to sleep. Jeremy was prepared to let her, but was surprised when her eyes opened wide again and seemed completely awake.

“My…sister was here.”

“Kara? She’s downstairs. Did you want to speak with her?”

She shook her head gently. “No. No. Just tell her…I forgive the both of you. I don’t want to die angry.”

Jeremy’s throat clammed up, and for a second he thought he might choke. She had known all along? About him and her sister? Would she know that he had been planning to tell her everything? Had the absolution of confession been taken away from him now? Would it have even counted anyway? To tell somebody something on their deathbed was not brave. In fact, it was downright cowardly.

“How did you know?”

“She’s not exactly subtle, my sister – always here, sniffing around you. Doesn’t matter now. You can be together.”

“That’s not what I want. I don’t care about her, or anyone else. The only woman I love is you.”

She patted him on the hand. Her skin was soft, fragile. “I know. I know none of those women were anything other than sex to you. You disgusted me for years, but eventually I accepted that it was just your nature to be so…weak. I…I had my own fun in the end.”

Jeremy stood up from the bed. “What?”

Carol smiled. “I’ve probably fucked around more than you…these last few years.”

“You goddamn whore!”

“I’m not ashamed of it, Jerry. It was fun. You should know.”

Jeremy backed away, towards the door. He could barely believe the grinning skull on the bed was the woman he’d been married to for twenty years. “W-why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I don’t want to die with secrets, and…and despite everything I’ve always loved you. None of it really matters anymore, other than the fact we loved each other in our own way.”

Jeremy lowered his shoulders and took a few breaths while he digested what he’d just heard. His stomach ached and he felt sick – but Carol was right. None of it mattered. He loved this woman and he wanted to be with her. He sat back down on the bed.

“Can I do anything to help?”

Carol took a long, laboured breath, and a sliver of skin fell from her neck, sliding away onto the bed sheets. “I don’t want to die…”

“I know that, sweetheart. I know.”

“…later. I want to die…now.”

Jeremy looked at his wife, deep into her eyes – the only part of her that was still the same as when he’d married her. “What?”

“I don’t want to lie here rotting away. I don’t want to feel the pain when my body begins to bleed. I’ve said all I needed to say. I’m ready.”

“You can’t ask me to-”

“You owe me.” She said the words forcefully, suddenly full of vitality – but it only lasted a minute before she seemed to deflate again.

She was right, Jeremy told himself. He owed her many things. Their whole marriage had been marred by him abusing her integrity and violating her trust. What she was asking for now was dignity – a simple thing. The dignity of refusing to let the virus defile her body in the same ways that he had defiled their marriage. But he couldn’t kill her. No way.

“I’m sorry. I won’t.”

Carol stared at him. He couldn’t tell if she was angry. The facial muscles that would usually form expressions were all gone from her face now.

“I understand,” she whispered. “Leave me alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I have to go through this, I want to do it alone. I don’t want anyone watching while I die. If you won’t help me, then give me some privacy.”

The last thing Jeremy wanted was to leave her alone. To die with no one around was be a lonely, helpless demise, but it was Carol’s choice, not his. He stood up from the bed.

“I’ll check on you later,” he said.

“No, don’t. There’s nothing you can do for me.”

Jeremy’s heart felt like a weight in his chest and it was difficult to drag his body away from his wife’s bedside. They may never talk again. This was goodbye.

He left the room without another word. Anything he’d said wouldn’t have been enough. Downstairs, Kara was still sitting on the living room sofa. She had switched on the television and was watching it intently. She showed no interest in his presence and did not ask about the state of her sister.

“Carol is in a bad way, in case you were wondering.”

Kara turned her head away from the television and looked at him. “Should I go see her?”

Jeremy sat down on the sofa beside her, making sure to stay as far away on the cushions as possible. “She wants to be left alone.”

“Okay.” Kara went back to watching the television.

“Do you even care?”

“Of course I do. She’s my sister. But there’s nothing I can do. I don’t want to watch while she rots away.”

“Then why are you even here?”

She stared at him again and this time seemed very sad. “To be with you. I thought you cared about me.”

Jeremy sighed. “I…I do. You know I do. But Carol is dying and it’s not right anymore. I’m sick of hating myself.”

“She’s dying. We can be together.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t want that. The world is a mess. The last thing I can concentrate on right now is a relationship.”

Kara stood up from the sofa and shook her head. She’d suddenly become very emotional. “You really want to be alone while the world dies around you? We need to look after each other. You need to look after me.”

“What do you mean? You can look after yourself.”

Kara wouldn’t look at him. She averted her eyes and stared at the wall.

“Kara? What is it?”

“What do you care? You’ve made your feelings clear enough.”

Jeremy sighed and lifted himself off the coach. He went over and put his palm against her back. “Tell me what’s really wrong. You’re not this upset because of me.”

She broke down in tears and buried her head against his chest. It was then that he smelt the same sweet odour that had come from Carol’s rotting flesh. He eased her away so that he could look at her. “You have it, don’t you?”

It looked as though Kara wanted to speak, but was unable to. Instead she nodded solemnly and reached a hand up to her long, brown hair. She scooped it away from her neck and exposed the skin. Beneath her right ear was a blistering patch of skin.

Jeremy bit at his bottom lip and almost drew blood. “How long?”

“I noticed this morning. I came straight here to wait for you. I was hoping you’d know how to help me, that you would have gotten answers at the news station.”

“How did you even get here? The military have the roads blocked up.”

“I walked. I kept away from the main roads.”

“You walked four miles through that hell out there?”

“It was better than being alone. I thought if I came here, you’d look after me.”

“I will,” Jeremy said. “Of course I will.”

“You’ve changed your tune.”

Jeremy huffed. It suddenly felt like he hadn’t slept in weeks. “I care about you, Kara. You’re Carol’s sister.”

“Carol’s sister. Is that all I am to you now? A fucking obligation?”

Jeremy sat back down on the sofa and rubbed at his face. “Kara, if you want me to look after you, I will, but that’s all. I’m not going to argue with you, not now.”

“You mean now that I’m dying?”

Jeremy wasn’t going to lie, so he nodded.

“There’s really not going to be a cure?” she asked.

“No. I don’t think so. The Government haven’t even worked out how it spreads, let alone how to beat it.”

Kara slumped down on the sofa beside him and seemed defeated, all the energy had gone from her voice. “How did I get it? When you came over to warn me that people were getting sick, I stayed away, kept indoors. I never went near anyone infected, but I still got it. How does that make sense?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t. Truth is nobody really knows anything about The Peeling.”

“But it’s bad isn’t it? I mean, really really bad.”

Jeremy nodded. “At the rate it’s going, half the world is going to die. Half the people get it while the other half don’t.”

“Guess you’re one of the lucky ones.”

Jeremy laughed, but didn’t find anything funny. “Doesn’t feel that way.”

Kara pulled her legs onto the sofa and laid herself across his lap. He let her. Together they watched the television in silence, trying to clear their minds of horror. Ironically, Never Stop News was on. Sarah and Tom were continuing to give the news with as much pluck as they could muster, but Jeremy could tell the toll was becoming too much for them. Sarah’s face was pasty and wiry strands of hair clumped against her damp forehead.

“They look as lost as everyone else,” Kara said.

Jeremy stroked her hair and was shocked by the heat coming off her head. “That’s because they are. They’re as frightened and as lost as we are. They’re just trying to help by making us think that things are still normal. The news and weather make people feel like there’s still someone in charge.”

“And is there?”

“I guess so. The military are everywhere, ever since General Whitehead took over after Lloyd Collins died.

“Jerry?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m scared.”

“Me too.”

* * *

Six hours later and The Peeling had taken all of the skin from Kara’s neck, so much so that her windpipe was now exposed. Jeremy wasn’t repulsed. The sight of rotting flesh had become commonplace.

On the television, Sarah and Tom were still reporting about The Peeling, refusing to wrap things up while the cameras were still running. They would both have usually left the station by now. By the weary looks on their faces, Jeremy had a grim feeling that, behind the cameras, the military had become the directors. Their promises of staying out of the station may have been overridden as things continued to deteriorate.

“While we are yet to receive confirmation, rumours have begun to circulate that researchers at the National Institute for Medical Research in London have made a breakthrough concerning the transmission method of the virus. We are persistent in our attempts to get more information on this matter, so please bear with us.”

“What difference doessss it make?” Kara’s voice had taken on a serpentine hiss as her throat rotted away. “Unless it’s a cure, it’s no good to anyone.”

Jeremy sucked in a breath and listened to it whistle between his teeth. His stomach felt empty, nauseous. While Kara was correct in her pessimism, it was still welcome news to hear that somebody had possibly discovered something about the nature of the virus. Knowledge made the virus seem more natural, more beatable, and less like an unstoppable flesh-consuming monster. If people knew how it was passed on, the fight to contain it could finally begin. Not that Jeremy would have anything left in his life to fight for if mankind succeeded in destroying the beast.

“How do you feel?” he asked Kara.

She tried to laugh, but her tattered vocal chords seemed to lack the ability now. “I feel like my head’s going to fall off into my lap any minute. My neck feels numb, like it’s not even there anymore.”

Jeremy was about to tell her he was sorry, but then decided it would be a pointless gesture. Apologies provided no solace. Besides, Kara seemed to be growing angrier rather than brooding.

“This is probably what I deserve, you know?” she asked him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve been fucking my sister’s husband – among my many other sins – and this is probably my punishment.”

Jeremy shook his head. “She forgives us.”

“What? She knows?”

“Yes. She told me earlier. She loves us both and forgives us.”

Kara hitched forward and tears were instant in their arrival. As they fell down her face, they gathered flakes of skin and a film of blood from her cheeks, so fragile was her flesh. “I’ll go to hell for what I’ve done. Carol can forgive – she’s a better person than us – but I doubt God will be so compassionate.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Kara. We all do things we regret. Carol isn’t holding it against you, so you shouldn’t hold it against yourself.”

“Fuck you!” The outburst was sudden and vicious. “You’re the one who should be melting away, not my sister. You’re the one that’s spent your whole marriage fucking around. What did you ever do for her? Nothing! Yet she’s the one dying while you’re perfectly fine.”

Jeremy sighed and tried to keep his focus on the television. He had a feeling that she would strike at him if he made eye contact. “If I could take her place, I would.”

“You’re a liar. They have a cure at that news station. Look at them. They’re fine, just like you.”

Jeremy looked at Sarah’s tired face on the screen and shook his head. “Actually, one of the reporters has the virus. She showed me earlier.”

“Bullshit!” Kara sprung up from the couch. You have a cure, but you won’t share it. With me and Carol out of the way, you can carry on screwing around. Probably already got a new fancy-woman.”

Jeremy stood up and backed away. He could sense violence inside Kara and he wasn’t interested in stoking that particular fire. Nonetheless, she came at him, withered fingers outstretched like talons.

He stepped aside and shoved out, sending her sprawling sideways onto the couch. As she fell, her legs shot forward and upended the coffee table. Immediately her ankle began to bleed. She clutched at it and sobbed.

“I’m fucking melting,” she wailed. “What did I do to deserve this? I’m not a bad woman – not really. I don’t deserve this. I don’t. I don’t.”

Jeremy left while she was distracted. A madness seemed to have overtaken her and his presence seemed to make it worse. He felt endangered, an enemy inside his own home. He wanted to see Carol. He wanted to be with his wife.

At the top of the stairs, the noise of the television faded away and Jeremy was again met with the eerie silence of the landing. There was every chance that Carol was dead already – part of him wanted that peace for her. If she had passed on, he would sit with her for awhile and hope that, somewhere, someplace, she was still with him. But when he opened the door, he saw that the mercy of death had not yet visited his wife.

Carol lay on the bed, looking more like a puddle than a human being. Her skin clung to her now only in patches and in many places her bones were showing clearly. But her eyes…her eyes were still flawless. Beautiful.

He sat down on the bed and went to touch her, but then realised there was nowhere he could do so without causing her pain. “I love you, Carol. I wanted to tell you that one more time.”

It was an obvious effort for Carol to form words, but she seemed eager to do so all the same. Her voice was a crackling wheeze. “I…love…you…too.”

“I wish I had more time with you. I wish there was time to make it all okay. I’m going to miss you every minute till the time I join you. I just hope that when I get there, you’ll be waiting for me. If not…I’d understand.”

Carol’s eyes flickered as if fighting away sleep – or death. Jeremy wasn’t sure if she’d heard the words he’d just spoken, but he hoped so. Eventually she came back to him and managed to speak again. “Please, Jerry…please.”

“What, sweetheart? What do you want?” But she didn’t need to answer. He knew what she was asking for. He nodded, felt tears well up behind his eyes. “Okay.”

He leant forward and kissed his wife’s forehead. His lips came away moist and sticky, but he did not care. Trying to be as gentle as possible, he pulled loose one of the pillows beneath his wife’s head. Her eyes stared at him intently and he knew that if she could, she would have been smiling. By doing what he was about to do, Jeremy could show his wife the kindness in death that he could not give her in life. Jeremy put the pillow to his wife’s face and pressed down. It took only a minute for her to die.

Jeremy sat with Carol for almost a full hour before he left her. He knew that once he exited the bedroom, she would truly be gone forever. Part of him had also been curious to see whether her body would continue to rot away after death. It had not. If he’d obeyed her requests earlier, then her body would have been more intact as it was lying there now. It was just one more regret to add to his list.

Downstairs, Kara was missing. The television was still switched on and, if he wasn’t mistaken, the volume had increased. Sarah and Tom were still reporting and there was an urgency about them now that he’d never seen before. He looked around the living room, but found only shadows.

“It has now been categorically proven,” Sarah said on the television, “that the virus is passed on through carriers. While only fifty-percent of those exposed to the infection become symptomatic, it has been discovered that the other fifty-percent are not immune as originally thought. The seemingly unaffected are in fact passing on the virus by becoming highly-infectious carriers. While half of the population is dying, it is the other half who are infecting them. It is for this reason that a nationwide quarantine is now has now been put in effect. Healthy or infected – all will be restrained if found outside their homes at any times. Lethal force will be used if necessary. Through isolation, it is hoped that the infection will reach a saturation point and that non-symptomatic sufferers will remain healthy. There is still hope for a great deal of us, Great Britain, but we must stay calm, and we must stay indoors. Never Stop News is now the official channel for the British Government, along with the BBC, so please leave your television on at all times for further updates. We will be interspersing our regular newsfeed with episodes of Friends and The Simpsons, so sit back and enjoy that as it’s coming up next.”

“You did this.”

Jeremy turned his head away from the television and saw Kara moving out from one of the room’s shadowy corners. Her face had peeled away from her skull and her snarling mouth made her look like a vengeful demon.

“I did what?” Jeremy asked her.

“You infected Carol and you infected me. You are the one who should be dead.”

“You don’t know that I have it. You don’t know anything.”

“Yes, I do. I haven’t been around anyone since this whole thing started – no one, except for you. You fucked me last week.”

Jeremy thought about earlier in the week when he’d popped round to see Kara at her home – popped round for his weekly booty call and to warn her about the virus. “I’m sorry,” he said, worrying that she could be right, that he could be the one responsible for his wife’s death, and others.

“Quiet!” Kara stepped further out of the shadows. She was holding a large carving knife from the kitchen. “I don’t want to hear you anymore.”

Jeremy nodded. “Okay.” He made no move to get away, unsure whether Kara even had it in her to do him harm. In normal circumstances, he thought not, but these were not normal circumstances and she was most certainly not her usual self.

“You’ve been fucking us both for a long time, but now it seems like you really got the job done. You’re a murderer, Jerry. If Carol and I had never let you near us then we would be okay. We would be healthy.”

“Half the world has The Peeling, Kara. You would have gotten it anyway, one way or another. Carol is my wife; you really think I would infect her purposefully?”

Kara came closer with the knife. Still Jeremy did not move. She growled at him, blood spilling from her lips and covering the exposed bone of her lower jaw. “Men like you have been a sickness on women since time began. Women have always suffered because of misogynistic perverts like you.”

“You’re talking nonsense. The Peeling is killing as many men as women. It’s just luck of the draw who gets infected.”

Kara came at him with the knife. “Lies! You did this. You killed us!”

Jeremy was about to dodge the knife attack, but at the last second he decided to remain in place. He thought about seeing Carol again as the knife entered his chest and forced him back like a punch. He fell backwards onto the sofa, blade jutting out from between his ribs, and ended up facing the television. Joey and Chandler were playing foosball in a world that knew not of such horrors as The Peeling. It was a nice way to go, and by the time Jeremy bled out, he almost managed to kid himself that the world still had a chance.

THE PEELING: BOOK 2

(THE STADIUM)

Brett rummaged through the defrosting contents of the grimy industrial freezer and frowned. The police or the army, or whoever, had finally cut the power in the area and the stacked supplies of cheap burger patties and hotdogs were now starting to thaw. They would go bad in a matter of days. The French fries would fare a while longer, but they wouldn’t last forever either. It made Brett realise that, at some point, the situation would have to change. Birmingham’s BR Football Stadium wouldn’t provide them refuge forever. Eventually he and all the others would have to face the outside world again.

When The Peeling first hit, people had been content to lock themselves away inside their homes to wait it out. You could see a person with the infection a mile off – rotting skin and blistering flesh pulling back to reveal bone. People assumed that so long as they kept themselves isolated, they would be okay. When news came out that the victims of the plague – those suffering with the rot – were not the contagious ones, things changed. It quickly became public knowledge that the infection was transmitted via random carriers – from among those who displayed no outward symptoms but carried the disease all the same. The healthy population were the ones to be afraid of.

Brett hadn’t paid much attention to the news back then. He’d decided there were more constructive things to do then to wallow in the misery on television. A local action-group had formed amongst the residents of Smethwick, the Birmingham district where Brett lived, and he had been only too happy to join with them. With the blessing of the local authorities, the group of concerned citizens had been granted permission to temporarily leave the quarantines of their homes and congregate in a public area. The leader of the committee, Reverend Long, had chosen the BR Stadium – home of the local lower-division football team. The elderly vicar was a big football fan.

A military escort had accompanied the Reverend whilst he visited the homes of the nearby parish, collecting Christians, Muslims, and atheists alike. Many did not open their doors, for fear of allowing the pestilence inside, but many others did and were relieved at the opportunity to leave. Brett had been one of those people. He’d joined up eagerly with the growing group, glad to once again have company after his parents had died. But even back then, he had been questioning himself about whether it was the right thing to do, leaving his home.

Along the way to the stadium, the military had been rough with the group of civilians and those seeking to join them. Brett had seen soldiers exercise lethal force several times, especially against any infected people trying to run towards the group. Brett had panicked at the sight of the already-bleeding bodies being ripped apart by automatic rifle-fire, and so had most others in the group, but Reverend Long had raised his hands to address the crowd and endeavoured to keep them calm. He told them their focus needed to be on helping those still within helping. There would be time to mourn the dead and the atrocities committed on them later. Brett had been uneasy around the military ever since.

“How we doing, Brett?”

Brett turned around to see Emily, with her bright ginger hair and dorky spectacles. He shrugged at the girl and told her the truth. No point in lying. “The food is all defrosting,” he said. “It’ll go bad eventually. Luckily it’s all processed rubbish and not fresh stuff, or we’d have even less time to eat it. Can’t believe those assholes cut the power. What are they trying to do?”

Emily adjusted her spectacles and glanced into the freezer behind him. “Perhaps you should shut the door then and keep in the cold as long as we can then. I’m sure everything will work out okay. They’ll probably give us back the power soon.”

Brett sighed. Emily, like many other people in the group, had not yet grasped the seriousness of their situation. They still thought the squads of riflemen surrounding the stadium were there to keep everybody safe, and that the power cut was due to some sort of technical hiccup. Brett knew the truth, though. The stadium had been quarantined, and any attempt to leave would be met with a bullet. They were just ants now, stuck inside a bottle hoping somebody would take off the lid.

When the news had broken that the infection passed via the healthy and not the infected, the world’s dynamic had changed. Suddenly, the brief freedom Brett and the others in the group had been granted was eliminated. Suddenly, they were the ones who were dangerous, not the sickly-skinned lunatics rotting away in their homes. An Army officer had informed Reverend Long that his group were to remain inside the stadium until further notice, and make no attempt to leave. It was made clear that the consequences would be severe if anyone made a run for it.

That had been three days ago. Now, after another horrible night’s sleep on the cement floor of the East Stand kitchen, Brett had been placed in charge of the food reserves. Luckily, the stadium had several snack bars that all backed onto the same kitchen and staff areas. The supplies were allocated to provide for the twenty-thousand football fans that used to fill the stadium every weekend, which meant there was plenty of food for now, but a great part of it was perishable. What made Brett so mad was how people were tearing into chocolate bars and crisp packets like they were having a party. Something about being able to help themselves to bottles of pop and cans of cider made them feel unadulterated. It was the mob mentality of looting, and it seemed to make them happy, but what they didn’t seem to realise was that every mouthful of snack food they ate was a mouthful they wouldn’t have later when they really needed it. They were eating the non-perishable items first and that had to stop. It would have to be cold burgers all around for the next few days.

“So what you up to today?” Emily asked him as if they were buddies.

“I don’t know,” he answered testily. The girl irritated him. “Guess I’ll see if the Reverend needs anything done.”

Emily giggled at him and bopped him on the arm. “Are you always so work work work? You should let others worry about things for a day. You and me are just teenagers. We should leave it to the adults.”

“I’m twenty-two, Emily, and this isn’t a game. Things are bad. Those soldiers outside will shoot anyone who tries to leave, which eventually we will be forced to do. Half the country is dead or dying, and we might be infected with the thing that killed them. We’re fucked.”

Emily winced at his language and adjusted her spectacles. Her freckled cheeks went a shade redder. “No need to speak to me like that. I’m just being friendly.” The girl walked away and, if Brett was honest, he didn’t care. Emily was a pest as far as he was concerned. She needed to get her head in the game. So did everybody else.

Reverend Long would probably be at his usual place at the centre circle of the football pitch, so Brett headed there now. The football pitch was outside, with the stadium built around it on all sides, comprised of four stands. The snack bar and kitchen was in the East Stand, which also housed a bank of televisions that had kept everyone informed about the ongoing situation until the power had ceased that morning. Last anybody had heard was that the UK’s quarantine procedures had been increased indefinitely until a screening process was put into place.

Brett took one of the several flights of cement steps leading up to the pitch and the stadium seating. The dull sunshine hit him as he rose to the outside. Birds chirped from the rafters as if all was right with the world. How wrong they were. In the centre of the pitch, Reverend Long conducted one of his regular sermons that were as much about organisation and survival as they were religion. People looked to the holy man as their leader by default, but Brett had his suspicions that the man was out of his depth. People were scared and Reverend Long was doing his best to comfort them, but he wasn’t trained to deal with a situation like this.

“Ah, young Brett. How are things in the pantry?”

Brett took the final few steps across the football pitch and placed himself in front of the Reverend so that their conversation was private from the other people gathered around. “We have plenty of food, Reverend, but most of it will go bad in only a few days. The freezer’s still pretty cold at the moment, but with the power off...”

Reverend Long placed a hand on Brett’s shoulder and gave him a warm smile. “The lord will provide, young Brett. Do not fret.”

Brett sighed. “So what’s next? Any news from outside?”

“I spoke with Captain Lewis this morning. His men still won’t allow us to leave – in fact they wouldn’t even let me near the turnstiles. I had to shout out through the entrance like a hooligan.”

“They can’t keep us in here forever. It’s not right.”

“I agree. Fortunately, so does Captain Lewis. He has assured me that he is doing everything he can to move things along and get us out of here. We just need to be patient.”

“Bullshit,” said someone from behind Brett. It was Ethan. Ethan was a pudgy businessman and local property developer. He was well known in the West Midlands and Brett hadn’t liked the man from the moment they’d met.

“There’s little need for such language, Ethan,” said Reverend Long.

“Like hell there isn’t. Do you honestly believe that professional thug and his band of mercenaries are ever going to let us out of here? They’ve got every exit covered. Our choices are to starve in here or face a bullet in the chest.”

“Young Brett here has just assured me that we are perfectly okay, food-wise.”

Brett frowned. That wasn’t strictly true.

“For now,” said Ethan. “But we can’t live on dodgy hamburgers forever. We need to get out of here, back to our homes.”

More like your cushy mansion, thought Brett, understanding why the man wanted out, but he couldn’t deny that the businessman’s concerns were on par with his own. It was almost as if Reverend Long had chosen to interpret the food report how he’d wanted.

“What do you suggest, Ethan?” Brett asked. “If you have a solution, I’d love to hear it.”

“We fight our way out. There could only be a dozen soldiers out there. There’re almost fifty of us.”

Brett shook his head and laughed. “That’s ridiculous. They’ll rip us to shreds before we even make it ten feet. And it’s not just the army out there anyway; there’s a load of police as well.”

“The police aren’t armed. It’s only the soldiers we need to worry about. We can take them, I’m telling you. I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

Reverend Long placed a hand between them and halted the conversation. “Please, Ethan. Violence will accomplish nothing. We are all men here, inside the stadium and out. We must not fight one another during these trying times.”

“Oh, stick a sock in it, old man. Jesus isn’t going to save us. Everything is an utter mess and those men outside are only interested in their own wellbeing. We can all die for all they care. There’s been so much death recently that we’d be just another statistic. It’s them or us, Reverend. You can keep your useless God for yourself.”

“Calm down,” said Brett. “If it’s them or us, then perhaps you should stop turning people against each other. I agree with the Reverend: the time for violence is a long way off yet.”

“Perhaps, but believe me, before we know it, it will be the only option left.” With that Ethan walked away and reintegrated with the throng of people that covered the halfway point of the pitch.

“Asshole!”

“Forgive him, young Brett,” Reverend Long soothed. “Worry makes men mask their fear with anger.”

Brett shrugged. “Maybe, but we don’t need people like him right now. Things are bad enough. We all need to stick together.”

“You’re wise beyond your years, boy. Perhaps you could do me a favour?”

“Of course. What’s up?”

“Captain Lewis has made a request that we make a list of everybody here – names and addresses. He wishes to inform people’s families and also wants to know how many of us there are in here. I’m assuming it may well have to do with them getting us some supplies.”

It’s also a great way to keep tabs on us, Brett mused.

“Okay, Reverend,” he said. “I’ll go get started.”

* * *

The attempt to take down people’s names and addresses was met with hostility. The men and women inside the stadium still did not really know one another and the thought of giving away their personal details to a stranger was something they were wary of, regardless of the fact that they no longer had homes, possessions, or bank accounts to even worry about. But with a little bit of perseverance, and a shedload of patience, Brett managed to overcome most people’s objections and get their details. His list was now over fifty names long. Things had been going pretty smoothly – that was until it was Ethan’s turn.

“Go screw yourself, kid.”

Brett sighed and decided to hold out the pen and paper anyway. “Ethan, I’m done arguing with you today. Can you just help me out, please? I just need your address and surname.”

Ethan shoved the paper back at him. “You know how I feel about those thugs outside. I’m not telling you a thing. You know who else used to take lists? Nazis.”

A bout of concerned whispering broke out amongst the people gathered nearby. They were all huddled together, as if for protection.

“This isn’t Hitler’s Germany, dude. This is England, so stop trying to scare everyone. They just want people’s names so that they know how much supplies we need.”

“Then just give them a number. Tell them that there’s one-hundred men and woman here to be fed.”

Brett frowned. “There’s not that many of us here.”

Ethan looked at Brett as if he were a fool. “No shit, Sherlock. They don’t need to know that, though, do they? The more people they think are in here, the more food they will give us – and the less likely they are to attack us.”

The man had a point, but there was a flaw in his thinking. “Well, wouldn’t it be better if we said there were less of us than there are. That way if they do launch an attack they’ll underestimate our strength.”

Ethan’s face contorted for a split second, as if the notion of being second-guessed by a twenty-three year old was tantamount to blasphemy. Then the man cracked a smile and patted Brett on the back. “That’s good thinking, kid. You should be using that brain to have more ideas like that, instead of running around after that geriatric preacher. We need to get ourselves ready.”

“You make it sound as if we’re going to war.”

Ethan stared Brett in the eye. “It’s about time people realised that we are.”

Brett sighed and walked away. There was no point trying to force Ethan and his group to give their details. In all honesty there was a chance that Ethan was right. Captain Lewis may have requested the list so that he could strategize an attack on the stadium.

Other than firing off a couple of warning shots to those trying to leave, Lewis’s men had not tried to enter the stadium or hurt anyone inside, but they’d made it very clear that no one was to leave. There was no reason to doubt the captain and his men just yet, but Brett would have felt less apprehensive about the situation if he knew their endgame. How long were they planning to keep everyone rounded up inside the stadium? What would they do once people started running out of food? Were the Army still responsible for protecting people, or had it become a different entity entirely? Brett thought about the movies he’d seen about the Gestapo rounding up Jews and decided that perhaps the situation wasn’t entirely dissimilar from Nazi Germany.

* * *

Brett headed over to the turnstiles in the East Stand. They only allowed people inside, not out. The large wooden hatch-door was used to let crowds out after a match, but it had been barricaded by the soldiers outside. The same had been done with all of the stadium’s exits, including the delivery bay off the kitchen. The only way to speak to Captain Lewis was to approach him at the turnstiles and talk across them.

When Brett got there, he was met by the steely gaze of a squaddie. Brett didn’t know the man’s rank but his arm featured two chevrons, which was less than he’d seen on the uniforms of others, but one more than some.

“Halt!”

Seriously? Halt? Why not, “who goes there?”

“I’d like to speak with Captain Lewis. I have the list he requested.”

The soldier nodded but did not leave his post. Instead he stuck a dirty finger in his mouth and whistled before performing some bizarre hand gesture to someone unseen.

After a few minutes, Captain Lewis arrived in front of the turnstiles. The officer was fully-kitted in olive-green combat uniform, including helmet. He was taller than his men and his bony face was covered by thick black stubble.

“Where is Father Long?”

“He’s busy,” Brett replied. “He asked me to gather this list for you.”

“Excellent. Good work, chap. Hand it over.”

Brett kept a hold of the handful of papers. “What do you want it for?”

The captain glared at him for a moment, but then seemed to soften. “I need to know who we have in there. Their families will want to know. Now, do as you’re told, lad, and give me that list. There’s a good chap.”

“What about supplies? Are you going to get us food? How about some blankets?”

The captain shook his head. “I will make a request to my coordinator, but that’s not something I can promise.”

“Then what fucking use are you to us?”

“I beg your pardon, young man? I suggest you show a little more respect to my rank.”

“I’m a civilian. Your rank doesn’t mean shit to me. In fact, I wipe my arse on it. If you’re not going to help us then we’re not going to help you.”

“Go and get Father Long immediately.”

Brett stood still.

“Do you hear me?”

“I told you,” said Brett. “I don’t take orders from you.”

Lewis took several steps and closed the distance between them. “You’re playing a very dangerous game here, young man. In case you didn’t notice, the world is a scary place right now. It’s chaps like me that are the only thing protecting you.”

“Then tell us what’s going on,” said Brett. “How long do you plan on keeping us here? People are getting anxious.”

“Look,” Lewis said, sounding a little more open to reason as he realised that his bluster wasn’t working. “I will look into getting you some supplies, but you need to calm down and stay inside. Now, how many of you are there?”

Brett thought about Ethan’s theory about being attacked and chose not to answer the question. “You get us some food and blankets, then we’ll talk.”

Brett turned around and took the list of names with him. He didn’t know whether to fear Lewis or not, but right now it seemed like it would be best to keep his cards close to his chest. If the captain was just following orders then there would be no way to know what he was planning to do.

As Brett re-entered the East Stand eating area he was met by a commotion. There were people gathered in a group outside one of the burger bars, while a middle-aged man tried to hold them back. The man’s name was Steve and Brett had not seen him so worked up before.

“Steve, what’s wrong? What’s happening?”

“They’re trying to get my little girl.” He screamed at the crowd surrounding him. “You’re all a bunch of monsters.”

“She has it,” said a brunette in her thirties. “She has The Peeling.”

Brett looked at Steve and saw that the man was terrified and sweating. “Is it true? Is she sick?”

Steve nodded. “But she’s not contagious. You heard what the news said when we still had the TVs. The infected are not contagious; it’s the carriers who pass it on.”

“We don’t know shit,” someone shouted from the crowd. “We don’t know what causes it. We need to get the girl out of here before we all end up catching it.”

Brett turned to the baying crowd and raised his hands to keep them back. “Steve is right. If his daughter is ill, then she’s no danger to us.” He turned back to Steve and tried his best to smile reassuringly. “Come on, take me to her and we’ll see what we can do for her.”

“She’s hiding in the back. These animals scared her to death.”

Brett followed Steve into the kitchen area of the burger bar, entering through a staff door. The area was cold, and getting colder since the electricity had gone off. It wouldn’t be long before the entire building became unbearably frigid as there was no way to close off the entrances to the pitch side and the cold air outside was free to whistle in through the corridors.

At the back of the kitchen area, lying on an aluminium preparation table was Steve’s daughter. Brett could not remember the young girl’s name, but he’d noticed her a few times over the last few days. She was about eight-years old, thin and gangly like her father. She wore a pink t-shirt that left her bleeding right arm exposed. The flesh on her wrist was peeling away, hanging loose in a great wet flap. There was no doubt that she had The Peeling.

“I noticed a rash on her yesterday afternoon,” said Steve. “I can’t believe how fast it spreads. Whatever this thing is, it’s pure evil.”

Brett looked closer at the girl’s wound and noticed dozens of thin, red tendrils running beneath the surface of her skin. It was almost as if he could see the virus moving and spreading up her arm, rotting away more healthy cells with every second.

“I don’t even think she has a week,” Steve sobbed. “My poor, sweet darling.”

“I’m sorry,” Brett said. “I wish I could do something for her.”

“There’s nothing you can do for her,” said Ethan, strutting into the room. Reverend Long was hurrying up behind him. “She’s already dead. We need to think about those who are not.”

“Get out of here,” Steve pleaded. “Just leave us alone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. We need to deal with this now.”

“For God’s sake,” said Brett, then noticed the Reverend. “Sorry, Father.”

“God forgives you.”

“I’m not doing this to be horrible,” Ethan said. “I’m just being the pragmatist here because nobody else wants the job. Your daughter could end up killing us all, Steve. We need isolate her, or…”

“If you’re about to suggest killing her then I would just shut your mouth,” said Steve. “No one is hurting my daughter.”

“I was going to suggest having the soldiers outside remove her.”

Steve shook his head and leant over his daughter, sobbing and snivelling. “I won’t let them have her. You’ve seen what they do to the infected. You all saw the piles of bodies and the executions in the streets.”

“And right now, we’re all safe from that,” said Ethan. “But your daughter is a threat to us staying here.”

“I agree…” said Brett.

Ethan grinned. “Thank you!”

“But we’re not going to turn on each other. Steve, you need to take your daughter away from everybody else. I’ll help you take her up to the Press Box. Nobody goes there and it’s away from everybody else. You can look after her there until…well, until it’s over.”

“I also think that is for the best, Steven,” Reverend Long added. “I will come and check on you as much as I can.”

“This is bullshit,” said Ethan. “If this thing is airborne then we need her completely out of the stadium. We can’t risk breathing within a hundred meters of her.”

“Be quiet,” the Reverend ordered, more forcefully then his usual manner would allow. “Don’t you ever get tired of conflict?”

“Conflict is the world we live in, padre. If you don’t all start waking up to reality then there’s no hope for any of us.”

“It’s been decided,” said Brett. “Steve is going to take his daughter upstairs and keep her there. There’s no danger.”

“Fine, but I swear you’re only going to get more of us killed.” Ethan stomped out of the kitchen.

“Thank you,” said Steve. “It doesn’t really matter, I suppose, but at least now I can make sure my daughter dies with some dignity.”

Brett took Reverend Long to one side and spoke quietly, so that only he could hear. “We need to do something about Ethan. He wants to be in charge of everything like this is one of his businesses.”

“If that’s what people want then they will follow him. If not then they won’t. It is not my place to influence people’s opinions.”

Brett sighed. “But he’s going to make bad decisions. I can feel it.”

“Maybe so, but I am not in charge of anybody here. What would you have me do, young Brett?”

“You need to make sure people are busy. Get everyone working together and focused on something. Then people will be too busy to listen to Ethan and will feel too secure to take stupid risks.”

“Perhaps you’re right. There are lots of things we could be doing. We need to ration food and search for blankets.”

“We also need to set up a barricade. I’m not sure I trust Captain Lewis and I don’t want to make it easy for his men to get in here.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that, but if you think it will make everyone feel better…”

“Okay,” said Brett. “I’ll help Steve get upstairs and then I’ll get to work.”

* * *

Despite having been in the stadium for three days, no one had fully searched the grounds. The first thing Brett did was to gather up volunteers and split them into several groups. He made a point to avoid Ethan and the small contingent that followed him around like lost children. He knew the man would just try to take over things.

There was now a group that would search for food, blankets, and first aid kits, and another group that was to look into starting a fire on the centre spot of the pitch. Brett’s group was in charge of constructing barricades at all of the exits.

The stadium had four main exits, one for each of the stands. There were also a couple of small staff entrances leading outside from the kitchen and also from the club offices. They blocked those off first – the one in the kitchen was now blocked by a heavy freezer unit. The office exits were blocked with chairs and tables that had not been used for the centre-pitch fire. The group were now in the middle of manoeuvring a ride-on floor buffer to the turnstile entrances in the Clark Stand. The Clark stand was where the Away supporters were usually located and it backed onto an enclosed car park. It was here that the military and a small police force had positioned the majority of their vehicles. Several tents had also been erected, which Brett assumed housed the soldiers while not on duty. It was crazy, but he felt like he was holed up in the middle of Helmand Province, not a rundown district of Birmingham.

Of all people, Emily was the one riding the big floor buffer. She had once been employed as a part-time cleaner at a leisure centre and had driven one of the machines daily. Truth be told, the teenaged girl seemed to know what she was doing and had impressed everybody.

Brett pointed at the turnstiles. “Okay, if you just pull it around here and park it in front of the hatch doors at the centre. They open inwards so the weight of the machine should be enough to stop anyone coming through.”

“What about the turnstiles?” someone asked.

“I don’t think there’s any way to reverse them. Maybe gather up some broom from the Janitor’s closets and trap them in the mechanism as a precaution.”

The people in the group did as they were told and Brett suddenly realised that he was giving orders to a bunch of strangers. This time three weeks ago, he’d been unemployed, an embarrassment to his parents and hoping to get noticed on Clipshare for playing his guitar. Now he didn’t even have a guitar, both his parents were dead, and he had found himself in a position of assumed responsibility – as modest as it was. Brett had always felt like he had talent to offer the world, but it turned out that everything had to turn to shit before he actually got off his arse to try and do anything. He felt pretty ashamed of himself now. He’d done nothing with the last twenty years of his life, and his parents had both died of infection without ever having been proud of him. Of all the millions who had died over the last fortnight, Brett didn’t feel like he deserved to be one of the ones still healthy.

“Hold it right there! What’s going on?”

Brett turned around to see that one of the soldiers outside had walked up to the turnstiles and was looking through at them. He did not look happy and his rifle was slightly raised.

“We’re making the place secure,” Brett replied matter-of-factly.

“Why? You’re perfectly safe.”

Brett huffed and took the few strides necessary to take him face to face with the soldier. “Nobody is safe anymore. The rules have changed and you know it. The world has gone fruitloops; you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t trust you just because you’re wearing a uniform.”

Much to Brett’s surprise the soldier actually smiled and lowered his weapon. “I suppose I can understand that, but I can tell you right now that Captain Lewis is not going to be happy about this. He’s going to insist that you move all this stuff away from the doors.”

“The captain can bite me. Where is he anyway?”

“He’s off duty. I’m second in command. Lieutenant Bristow. Who’re you, lad?”

Brett answered, despite himself. “Brett.”

“Good to meet you, Brett. You’ve obviously got a decent melon on your shoulders to organise people like this.”

“It would be much better if you and your men helped us. We can’t survive here forever.”

“Have you asked Lewis for help?”

Brett nodded. “For all the good it did. When are you going to let us go? We don’t even know what’s happening in the world anymore. Did you cut the power on us?”

“No. The power’s out in most places. The stations are undermanned and it’s not safe to run them without adequate staff. Things are…pretty bad all over, lad.”

“No kidding.”

“No, Brett. I mean things are far worse than they were even a few days ago when you came here. There’s no order left anymore. Lewis hasn’t received commands in almost forty-eight hours now. The men are getting restless.”

Brett raised his eyebrow. “Why the hell are you telling me this?”

The Lieutenant shrugged. “I suppose because I don’t think there’s going to be much difference soon between you and I.”

“Then why are you keeping us in here?”

“Believe me, you wouldn’t be any happier out here. There’s nothing but death and panic on the streets. People with the infection have started wandering around like crazed lunatics. The pavements are red with blood. Way I see it you people have it better than anyone. This stadium is a paradise in comparison.”

Just then, Emily returned with armfuls of broomsticks and mop handles. They were as tall as her and it was a comical sight.

“You want some help there, Em?”

“I’m fine, thank you. Did you say you wanted them jammed in the turnstiles?”

Brett took a step back from Lieutenant Barstow and nodded. “Yeah, make sure you jam them up nice and tight. If this is going to be our home, then we’re damn well going to protect it. You can tell your captain I said that, Lieutenant.”

The officer shrugged his shoulders. “Will do. You all take care of yourselves.”

Brett reorganised everyone and prepared to leave. He was even more confused about what to think of the army outside now. Lieutenant Bristow seemed a lot more trustworthy than his superior. In fact it seemed like the man barely considered himself even much of a soldier anymore. The rules had apparently changed for them al.

* * *

It was a couple of days later when Brett heard the shots.

Ethan was the first on his feet and alert. Brett could hear the man shouting from somewhere in the grounds. Ethan and those close to him slept in the executive boxes at the top of the ground, while the other small groups of people were dotted around the various stands. Steven and his daughter were alone in the Press Box. The little girl would moan and cry long into the night. Once or twice, her father had joined her.

Brett got up from his bed on the floor of the East Stand staffroom. Emily was lying nearby and quickly sat up. The girl had been bedding down next to him for a couple of days now and had been getting gradually closer each night.

“Did you hear that?” Brett asked her.

“It was gunfire,” she said. “Least I think so. Is something going on outside?”

Brett got to his feet. “Those bastards best not be trying to get inside.”

Brett ran out of the East Stand and onto the pitch. The cold night air hit him in the face like a slap and he suddenly realised he was without a t-shirt. Reverend Long also stood on the pitch and Brett headed over to him.

“Ah, young Brett. It appears we have some sort of commotion outside. Guns, I believe.”

“You’re sure it’s coming from outside? Are the army trying to get in?”

“I don’t know. Ethan just ran off to find out.”

“Which way? I’m going after him.” Brett headed off in the direction Reverend Long indicated: the Clark Stand.

When he got there, Ethan was squeezed up against the turnstiles and peering through into the darkness. There were more gunshots coming from outside, but they sounded distant.

“What’s happening?” Brett asked as he moved up beside Ethan.

“They’re shooting at each other. Can you believe that?”

“Who are? The Army?”

Ethan turned around, his eyes wide and white in the dark. “The Army, the Police, I can’t even tell, but they’re definitely taking shots at one another. I told you they were all dangerous. Well done for putting up the barricades.”

“Thanks. Let me have a look what’s going on.”

Ethan moved aside and allowed Brett up to the turnstiles. It was hard to see anything outside, except the jagged flashes of muzzle fire. The sound of bullets hitting steel and masonry were mixed with the sounds of men dying. Whatever had happened outside had turned lethal, but there would be no way to see what was going on until the sun came back up. There was no way Brett was going to shout out and draw attention to himself.

“I’m going to keep guard,” said Brett. “Ethan, can you get some people to watch the other exits? I can’t see a thing out there, but we have to be ready if anybody tries to get inside.

“They won’t try to get in here. Not tonight.”

“We don’t know that.”

Ethan thought about it and then nodded. “Okay.”

Ethan and a few others headed back into the stadium, while Brett remained behind. It was only a couple minutes before Emily arrived to keep him company.

* * *

“What do you think things will be like?” asked Emily, sitting on the floor beside him. “I mean, once this virus goes away and everything goes back to normal. So many people have died. Not just from the disease either.”

Brett’s eyelids felt heavy, but he did his best to stay with the conversation. “I don’t know. I don’t think things will ever be normal again. For all we know, half the world could be dead right now. People have lost their families…lost everything.”

“What have you lost, Brett?”

“To be honest I had less to lose than most. I didn’t have many friends. My only family were my parents and we…we weren’t that close. I guess I’m lucky when I think about it.”

“Nobody is lucky anymore. This has been hard on all of us. It’s not a contest for who has lost the most.”

Brett nodded and smiled at her. Emily was annoying, but it seemed like her heart was in the right place. “So what happened to you before we all got together?”

“I was at church with Reverend Long. I’d just lost my mom and I didn’t know what to do, so I went there. Couple days later a group of us decided to try and gather people up and come here.”

“I reckon if you hadn’t done that most of us would be dead. I don’t think it’s safe out there anymore, not even at home.”

“I don’t think so either. Still, I miss my bedroom, my bed…and I wish I’d taken my violin when I’d left. Or my piano if I had the strength of ten men to carry it. God I miss my piano.”

Brett’s eyes widened. “You play music?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, I’m…I was studying Music Theory at college. I can play violin, clarinet, piano, and a little bit of guitar. I was even in a little band me and some of the other girl’s had as a hobby.”

“You’re shitting me?”

“No, I’m not…pooping you!”

Brett laughed. “I play guitar, too. Music is my life – at least my old life.”

“Huh, maybe we can play together one day?”

“Yeah,” said Brett. “I’d like that.”

Emily smiled and leant her head on his shoulder. Brett was surprised to find out that he didn’t mind. In fact, within a few minutes they were both asleep, snoring besides the turnstiles while the gunfire outside continued.

* * *

“Hey. Hey, Brett! Brett wake up, son. I need your help.”

Brett opened his eyes slowly, not knowing if a dream had woken him, or something else entirely. When the steel turnstiles behind him rattled, he sat bolt upright with fright. So did Emily, who let out a girlish yelp as she scuttled away on her hands and knees.

Lieutenant Bristow was at the gate. He was breathing in short stutters and bleeding from a wound in his shoulder.

Bret headed over to the man to help him, but realised that the turnstiles were jammed up. “Shit, man. What the hell happened out there? Are you okay?”

Bristow shook his head. “I took a bullet. Captain Lewis went and lost his damn mind. Started firing at the police officers who had set up with us when we got here. We haven’t had orders in almost a week, so the captain decided he was going it alone. He ordered the police to hand over their vehicles and supplies. When they refused, Lewis started firing on them. They were unarmed and…they didn’t stand a chance. That’s when I and some of the other men turned on the captain. Our detachment split in two: Captain Lewis versus me. Luckily I came out on top, but most of my men are dead, and I…I need help. You have to let me in. The fighting’s not completely over. I don’t want any more of my men to get shot. We need to rest.”

“Let him in,” said Emily.

Brett turned to her and shook his head, then nodded, then shook his head again. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“You can’t leave him out there to die.”

“It’s not like we have any doctors in here that could even help him anyway.”

“Brett,” it was the Lieutenant speaking. “I know that you’re all scared. I know that the Army has done nothing to make you people feel safe, but trust me when I say that the only chance any of us has is to stick together. I’m not following orders anymore. I’m just a man like you, and I’m asking for your help.”

Brett’s gut had told him to trust the Lieutenant the last time they had spoken, and it was telling him the same thing now. The bullet wound in the man’s shoulder suggested that his story was true enough.

Brett took a step toward the turnstile.

“Don’t you dare let that man in,” said Ethan, hurrying to get in front of him. “We’re not letting a single one of those thugs in here. They were the ones keeping us trapped in here. They made their own bed; they can damn-well lie in it. We owe them nothing.”

“The Lieutenant isn’t like that,” said Brett. “Captain Lewis is the one who wouldn’t let us leave.”

“That’s right,” Bristow spoke weakly. “Lewis is dead now. You can all leave if you want to, but please help me first.”

Ethan was unwavering. “You can die for all I care. The only people that matter are us in here. We don’t need to risk our lives helping you. You and your men are the reason this country has turned to shit as badly as it has. For every person lost to The Peeling, there’s been just as many shot by barbarians in the Army. I guarantee you that at the very least he stood by and watched it happen.”

“You’re right,” said Bristow, his words thick with pain. “I did. I’ll never forgive myself for following orders so blindly, but that is behind me now. All I can do is try to make up for the past by helping to protect as many people as I can from now on. But I need to rest before I can do that.”

Reverend Long appeared and seemed confused by the scene that met him. “What on earth is happening here?”

“Captain Lewis lost control,” Brett said. “There’s people injured outside and they want in.”

“Which isn’t going to happen,” Ethan added.

Reverend Long looked across at Lieutenant Bristow lying bloody in the turnstiles. “If people need help, it’s our obligation as human beings to help them.”

“If he gets in here, we’re all dead,” said Ethan. “Do I have to remind you that they’re the reason no one has been able to leave here in a week? And how many innocent people have the army shot since things turned bad? It’s been a massacre, and now you want to let one of them in here?”

“I think he’s different,” said Brett.

“But you can’t be sure,” Ethan replied.

“No, you’re right. I can’t.”

Lieutenant Bristow let out an anguished sigh. “Please. I’m begging you.”

Reverend Long marched over to the turnstiles but Ethan stood in the man’s way. “Leave him,” he said. “We don’t owe him anything.”

“We owe him decency at the very least. I will not leave a man to suffer. The world may have changed, but I have not.”

Ethan looked at Brett and raised his eyebrow. “You going to let him do this?”

Brett wondered why the hell the decision lay with him. Somehow, in the last few days, the three of them must have formed some unspoken coalition. His vote was the tiebreaker. But what should he do?

“Let him in.”

Ethan backed off and let out an angered huff. “Fine. On your head be it. But make sure that we have his rifle.”

Reverend Long grabbed the broom handle blocking the mechanism of the turnstile and Brett hurried up to grab a hold of the Lieutenant. Eventually they managed to drag the wounded soldier through the entrance and into the hallway inside. The wound in the Lieutenant’s shoulder left a slick red trail on the floor behind him. Brett made sure to grab the rifle off the floor. It was heavier than expected.

“Right,” said Brett, pointing the weapon at the floor. “Getting him inside is one thing. Now what do we do to help him?”

Lieutenant Bristow answered the question. He opened a small utility pouch on his belt and said, “I have bandages and disinfectant. I just need someone to dress my wound. I think the round went straight through. I should be okay.”

Brett handed the rifle over to Ethan – immediately wondering if that was a good idea – and knelt down beside Bristow. He reached into the man’s utility pouch and found gauze, bandage, and a tiny bottle of Iodine. Reverend Long sat the soldier up while Brett removed his clothing. Beneath the olive green t-shirt was a tiny, circular hole that oozed blood. Brett doused the wound with the orange liquid from the Iodine bottle and clamped down a square of gauze before the blood had time to flood the area again. He held it there for a few seconds until the blood fused it in place. A couple of minutes later Brett had Bristow’s entire shoulder wrapped up in soft white bandage.

“How’s that feel?”

“Better already. I just need to rest.”

“I’ll get the penthouse ready,” Ethan muttered.

“Ethan,” Reverend Long scalded him. “Please…”

“It’s okay,” said Bristow. “He’s right to be hostile. I’m grateful to you people for helping me, truly.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Brett. “You think you can stand?”

Bristow nodded and Brett helped him to his feet. He seemed a little shaken but his body was stiff and powerful, trained for survival. Brett felt better having a grizzled soldier in their midst. He felt surer that his decision to let him through the turnstiles was the right one. That didn’t mean he was willing to let his men through just yet, though.

“Ethan,” get the turnstiles secure. No one else is coming through until we know more about the situation.”

Ethan didn’t argue, probably because it was an idea he could get behind. He jammed up the mechanism and then decided to stand watch beside the entrance. That probably wasn’t a bad idea either.

“People are going to be nervous about you being here,” Brett told Bristow. “I think it would be best if we took you up into the stands for tonight.”

“Okay,” said Bristow, starting to bear more of his own weight with every step. “Anywhere is fine.”

Emily appeared in front of them then. Brett hadn’t notice her leave earlier but it appeared that she had something important to tell them. Before she had chance, though, people started shouting over at the East Stand.

* * *

It turned out to be Stephen causing the panic. When Brett entered the food area of East Stand, he immediately saw the festering sore on the man’s face and the fear in his eyes. The Peeling had begun its work. Somehow he had caught it from his daughter.

“Stephen, you’re sick.” It was stating the obvious, but Brett knew nothing else to say.

“I’m fine,” he replied, his voice already weak and slurring from the infection. “You need to help my girl. She’s, she’s…God help me, there’s nothing left of her. Just...bones. Bones and blood.” Stephen threw up on the floor, the vomit steaming and thick with blood.

“Get the fuck back,” shouted Ethan. “You need to get away from us.”

Brett hated to be cruel, but he agreed. “Stephen, go back up into the stands. You’re dangerous.”

Stephen stepped forward. “I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Your face…”

Stephen stopped approaching and put a shaking hand to his cheek. When he pulled it back his fingers were clammy with sticky flesh. He looked at Brett with panic in his eyes. “Help me!” He rushed forward, arms out in desperation.

Lieutenant Bristow pulled the trigger on a handgun he had pulled from nowhere. An explosion of sound was followed by a tiny dot of blood spreading wider on Stephen’s forehead. The man fell down dead.

Ethan spun around and pointed the rifle at Bristow and begun shouting. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What needed to be done.”

Brett shook his head and had a bad feeling. “You said you were done with this. You said you didn’t want to kill anybody else.”

Bristow lowered his gun and gave them all a stern look. “He was already dead. I did him a favour.”

Reverend Long said, “It is that attitude that has seen this country’s military turn into savages and bullies.”

Bristow laughed. “You people really don’t get it, do you? The world has ended. Things aren’t just bad, they’re over and done with. Anyone lucky enough to still be alive should be doing everything they can to stay that way. Whatever it takes. Because if we fail it’s the end of the goddamn human race.”

Ethan aimed the rifle at Bristow’s unflinching face. “We’ll decide what it takes. This is our home you just stepped into. You live by our rules.”

Bristow slowly raised his gun again and this time aimed it at Ethan. “You point a rifle at someone, you need to be willing to pull the trigger, mate. You got the stones for it?”

Ethan began to sweat, a bead appearing above his right eyebrow. He clutched the rifle tightly, but he seemed more concerned with the fact that a weapon was pointed at him.

“There are no rules anymore,” said Bristow. “It’s all about whoever has the biggest bollocks.”

“Well, right now, I do,” said Ethan. “I have the bigger gun.”

Bristow smirked. “But it’s not loaded.”

Ethan panicked and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened and he flinched as Bristow let off another round from his pistol.

The bullet hit the wall just behind Ethan’s head. Then Bristow put the weapon away, shoving it into a holster near the small of his back. “Now, believe me when I say that if I had wanted to hit you, I would have. I’m not here to have war with any of you. I meant it when I said I was done with all the killing. I just want somewhere secure to ride this thing out.”

Brett laughed. “So now you want inside the place you’ve been keeping us prisoner in. Nice.”

“I already told you that Lewis was calling the shots. He’s dead now. Things are different.”

“We’ll see,” said Brett. “Hand over your gun.”

“No.”

“Look, if you want us to trust you, you’re going to have to give us reason to. Hand over your weapon.”

“I’ll take it,” said Reverend Long. “I think it’s best if it’s in the hands on someone not willing to use it.”

Bristow thought about it for a second, then let out a sigh. “Fine. Here, take it.”

Reverend Long took the gun and placed it inside his vest pocket. “There, now let’s get Stephen somewhere before anyone else gets sick. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day.”

* * *

Everyone was understandably upset to learn that one of the soldiers was now inside the stadium. Brett had taken Bristow up into one of the executive boxes at the top of the stands and told him to stay there for the time being. The boxes had locks on them and Bristow secured himself inside as Brett left him.

Now Brett was standing with Reverend Long and Ethan. The three of them addressed the rest about what had happened.

Reverend Long was the first to speak. “It would seem that there has been a civil war, of sorts, between the soldiers and the police. Sides were taken and Captain Lewis is now dead.”

There was a brief cheer amongst the group. Most had not met the captain, but they all knew it was him who had been keeping them trapped inside.”

“We’re now all free to go,” said Ethan, “but it’s starting to look like that may not be a good idea.”

“We can’t stay here forever,” said Brett, “but for now, we’re all safe and we at least have the option of leaving now. That changes things.”

“Safe?” said one of the crowd. “How are we safe with that man in here with us? We can’t trust the military.”

“Not to mention the fact that The Peeling is inside,” added another unseen person in the crowd. “Stephen and his daughter are dead.”

“How did they even get it? No one else has it. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Look,” said Brett. “I don’t think we understand things as well as we think we do. I know the news reports said that half of us are carriers, which means we won’t get the disease itself, but in all honesty who the hell knows the truth? It hit us all so quickly and so hard that I doubt the Government even had half a chance to try and figure it all out. At least for now, no one else seems to be sick, so we shouldn’t tempt fate by going outside or changing our behaviours.”

“Or letting new people in,” said someone in the crowd. “Like a goddamn, bleeding soldier.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” said Ethan. “I think we should turf him out as soon as he’s had twenty-four hours rest.”

The crowd murmured amongst themselves and seemed to agree.

“No,” said Reverend Long. “We must remember the compassion we all once had, before fear perverted our good natures. Lieutenant Bristow handed over his weapons willingly and is a victim of all this, just like us. We should not turn away a stranger in need. In the times ahead of us, there may well be a time where we ourselves need to rely on the compassion of others. Let us not turn into animals. We are men and woman, and the direction of the future will be down to us.”

“Very dramatic,” said Ethan. “Perhaps you’re right, though. Maybe we shouldn’t forget how things were before. Let’s vote. All in favour of ejecting our unwanted guest tomorrow morning raise your hands.”

Over two thirds of the group raised their hands and Reverend Long let out a sigh.

“Democracy. Can’t argue with the group,” said Ethan. “The will of the many supersedes the will of the few.”

The Reverend shook his head and walked away. Brett thought about going after him, but decided not to. Brett couldn’t say anything that would change anything. If a majority of the group wanted Bristow gone, then who was he to argue? Maybe things would be different tomorrow. People would have had time to think.

Brett just hoped Bristow didn’t put up a fight.

* * *

Because nobody else was willing, Brett and Reverend Long took Stephen’s body upstairs to rest beside his daughter. The little girl’s body had been reduced to mush that hardly resembled human form. In a way, Stephen was lucky to have died before he suffered the same fate. The smell had been overpowering and Brett could still smell it on his clothing. Fortunately, when Emily approached him she didn’t seem to notice.

The sun was beginning to go down and Brett had got into one of the stadium’s offices. He was looking out of the window across the carpark, and the devastation outside. Dozens of bodies littered the streets; witnesses to the fire-fight that had broken out between the police officers and soldiers. Bullet holes pockmarked the scattered vehicles and blood covered the pavement like spilt paint. There wasn’t a single person alive out there; so where were Lieutenant Bristow’s men?

“You okay?” asked Emily, moving up beside him at the window. She shook her head when she saw what he did. “You know, it’s horrible but it doesn’t even bother me anymore, the bodies and stuff. It’s normal now. Does that make me bad?”

Brett touched her on the back. “Course not. I think people just adjust to survive. We’re all doing it. I’ve changed too.”

“Tell me about it. People really listen to you now.”

Brett watched a stray dog appear from between two houses and begin sniffing around the debris of the street. He hoped the dog wasn’t far gone enough to start eating the bodies. “People don’t listen to me,” he said. “They listen to Ethan and the Reverend. I’m just the poor sod caught in the middle most the time.”

“Well, doesn’t that make you the most powerful of all then? If they keep butting heads and making opposing suggestions, with you being the one deciding on the outcome, then technically you’re the one making all the decisions around here.”

It was an interesting thought, and perhaps close to the truth, but it was an unwanted truth. “To be honest I’d rather not be making any decisions at all. I’m not cut out for responsibility.”

“I disagree,” said Emily.

“Really? Well, I can’t help feeling that I’m putting people in danger. It was my decision to bring Bristow inside, and he’s already killed one of us.”

“Stephen was already doomed.”

“Yeah, he was, but why was that? Because I let his daughter stay inside with us after she had The Peeling. Then Stephen caught it. Who knows if anyone else will get ill because of my decision?”

Emily put an arm around him and he shuddered with discomfort. It had been so long since he’d had human contact that he was no longer used to it. Emily kept her arm around him regardless. “It’s not your fault. So many people have died already that trying to do something about it is almost pointless. We’re not in control of anything anymore.”

Brett sighed and turned away from the window. Melancholy wasn’t in his nature and he was reluctant to allow himself to indulge the feeling now. The only furniture that hadn’t been taken from the office to build barricades was a couple of office chairs. Brett sat down on an executive, leather high-back and spun around on it, trying to replace his sadness with dizziness. Emily took a chair for herself and rolled it up opposite him.

Brett looked up at Emily and asked her a question. “So come on, then, tell me. Why do you always seem to be there whenever I look up? Are you following me?”

Emily blushed and seemed a little annoyed. “High opinion of yourself, much? I just like being around you because there’s not that many people to choose from anymore.”

“Oh, cheers.”

Emily cracked a smile. “Plus, there’re even less young people, and…you make me feel safe.”

Brett raised an eyebrow. “Safe?”

“Yeah. You don’t seem to let worry get to you like everyone else. You stay calm and do the right thing. You remind me of how things were before things went bad, calm and normal.”

“So what were you like before all this? What did you do for fun?”

“Not a lot,” Emily replied. “I was a big saddo, as you can probably tell by my bright ginger hair and spectacles.”

“Maybe I thought that about you at first, but you seem pretty cool after getting to know you.”

“Nope, I’ve always been a hopeless case, I’m afraid. My parents sent me for piano lessons and choir when I was ten and my nerdom never looked back. I tried picking up guitar and listening to rock to try and be cooler but it never worked. People still crossed the street to avoid me. Truth be told I’m probably more popular since things went all loopy.”

Brett laughed. “Maybe your problem is that you say things like ‘loopy’. This situation is a few levels above loopy. Let me hear what you really think.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’re being polite and well-behaved, but the time for manners is over. Time to stop being a nerd. Tell me what you really think of the world we’re currently stuck in.”

“Well…I, I think it’s messed up.”

“Keep going.”

“It’s…well, it’s fucked up is what it is.”

“More.”

“This situation is totally batshit-crazy, fruitloop-fucking-insane. It’s a barrel-full of shitballs.”

Brett laughed so hard that his chest hurt and he started choking. When he regained his breath, he said, “Well, those are some ways to put it, I guess. I think I agree with you, though; this situation is certainly a barrel-full of shitballs.”

Emily laughed too. “It’s fuck-fuck-fucked!”

“There you go. Doesn’t it feel better to say what you really mean?”

“Yeah, it does. Thanks for rescuing me from my none-swearing lifestyle. I feel much happier now.”

“Okay, okay,” said Brett, trying to keep from another bout of laughter. “Now that you’ve reinvented yourself, what would you be doing right now if you could?”

“I’d be back at home at my piano. I know it’s not cool, but I always preferred it over guitar. Doesn’t mean I can’t rock out, though. The last CD I brought was by a band called Fozzy. I think I would be listening to them right now. I miss music so bad, you know?”

“Fozzy? Shit, I know them. They’re good. Well, I think the music may have stopped for now, so once things settle down it’s going to be up to us to bring rock back to the world.”

“Deal,” said Emily, offering out her hand to shake. Once he shook it, she looked him in the eye and said, “You know what else I would do right now if I had the choice?”

“No,” said Brett. “What?”

“This.” Emily stood up and climbed onto Brett’s lap. Then she kissed him.

* * *

Brett woke up in the pitch blackness and for a moment did not know where he was. Sliding off the edge of sleep, Brett’s world was once again normal and devoid of the horrors of the last few weeks. The warm body lying beside him made him feel even more that things were normal. But then it all came back to him.

He sat up in the darkness and realised he was sweating. The room had gotten stuffy while he and Emily slept. Being fully-clothed had led to him becoming overheated. Emily felt hot, too, beneath his hand, but had not awoken. She snored softly as sleep continued to embrace her

Brett needed to get some air. He was beginning to feel quite ill and bunged up. He had never been a good sleeper and his sinuses would often constrict throughout the night, waking him up. The world may have been shattered and torn asunder, but some things never changed.

Brett crept to his feet, not wanting to wake Emily and leave her frightened and alone in the dark. He planned on heading over to the East Stand to cool down in the open area beside the pitch. Then he would come right back and lay beside Emily. It was strange to him that the thought of getting back to her was so important, but right now she was the only thing making him still feel human. The bond between the two of them was something he never would have predicted.

He pawed his way through the dark, searching for the wall that would lead him to the door. When he found it, he pulled it open gradually, trying to avoid the squeak of the hinges. The corridor outside was dark, too, but Brett knew that there were no obstacles in his way and that he needed only to head along the wall until he reached a further door at the end.

He stepped out into the moonlit East Stand and was immediately invigorated by the cool air rushing through the cement structure. He sighed as it flowed over his clammy cheeks and lifted up his shirt to allow it to caress his torso. Already he felt his temperature drop.

There was someone else milling about in the area, moving across the walkway at the far end of the stand. It was probably a smoker getting their middle of the night fix. Brett fancied some company while he cooled down, so he headed toward the stranger, but before he got there they disappeared into the turnstile lobby of the stand. Unless they planned on leaving the stadium, Brett didn’t know why they would want to head there.

He took hurried steps, somewhere between a run and a walk and reached the turnstile area quickly. He was surprised by who he found there. “Bristow? What are you doing?”

Brett took a step back when the Lieutenant pulled a gun on him. It was a different handgun to the one he’d handed over to the Reverend. He must have hidden it on himself somewhere.

“What are you doing?” Brett repeated.

Bristow said nothing. He turned back towards the turnstiles and started pulling at the debris that had been stuffed into the mechanism to prevent it from turning. The stile wouldn’t let the lieutenant out; it would only let people in.

“Step away from there, Lieutenant. No one else is coming in h-”

Brett hit the floor before he even realised that a bullet had been fired at him. Pain exploded throughout his entire body and then settled down to just his midsection. Examining himself frantically, he saw that the bullet had nicked his hip, grazing against his pelvic bone and cutting a furrow into his flesh. The wound spat blood onto the floor, but didn’t feel as bad as it looked. Brett was still able to drag himself along the floor and around the corner, shielding himself from any further shots. Although he could no longer see Bristow or the turnstiles, he could hear the man continuing to clear away the debris. Whoever was waiting outside was about to be let in soon.

“Don’t do this, Bristow. We can all get along.”

“I agree,” the Lieutenant shouted back. “But we’re in charge now. The Army is in charge.”

“Those days are over, man. You said it yourself: the rules don’t apply anymore

“Exactly. It’s all about power and who has the muscles to take it.”

Ethan came running down the corridor and slid down onto the floor beside Brett. He noticed the blood pouring from his hip. “What the hell is going on?”

“It’s Bristow. He’s opening up the turnstiles. He’s trying to let someone in.”

“Who? His men?”

“I don’t know, but he has a gun.”

“Long. Goddamn that bloody self-righteous-“

Brett put a hand on Ethan’s wrists to halt his tirade. “It wasn’t the Reverend. Bristow has a different gun. He must have still had one on him when we took him in.”

“Right. We’re not standing for this bullshit. I’m through having a bunch of disbanded soldiers calling the shots.” Ethan stood up and marched around the corner. The next thing Brett was aware off was more gunfire, but not, this time, from a handgun. It was automatic rifle-fire.

Ethan fell back into the hallway, bullet-riddled and already dead by the time he hit the floor. The way he fell left him staring at Brett like a soulless puppet with glass eyes.

Brett leapt his feet and almost fell back down again when his vision tilted. He hoped his injuries weren’t too bad, because he didn’t expect there was much chance of seeing a Doctor anymore. He set off into the stadium, fleeing the turnstiles and Lieutenant Bristow.

Inside the East Stand, people had already begun to gather anxiously. They had heard the gunfire.

“What’s happening?” one of the people asked.

“Ethan’s dead. Bristow shot him. He’s opened up the turnstiles. The Army is coming in.”

Everyone panicked.

“We need to get out of here,” Brett shouted at them. “We need to get out of here right now. Everyone head for the North Stand. We can get out there.”

“Nobody is going anywhere!” Gunfire into the ceiling made everyone hit the floor.

Brett looked up at the man with the rifle and was shocked to see that Captain Lewis was alive and well. Lieutenant Bristow stood beside him with a satisfied smirk on his face. Four riflemen backed them

“Why are you doing this?” Brett demanded.

“Because this stadium is an asset,” Captain Lewis replied. “It has several, easily defended exits and a great deal of space. Lieutenant Bristow did well to gain your trust and get inside. It will be perfect as my base of operations.”

“For what?”

“For Project Restoration,” said Bristow on behalf of his superior. “It’s time we regained order and began adjusting to the new world. There is no longer a centralised government, I regret to inform you all, and this is now a militant state. As the most senior officer in this area – perhaps in the entire country – it is Captain Lewis’s prerogative to take charge of the local populace. You are now all under his command.”

Captain Lewis beamed proudly. “Thank you, Lieutenant Bristow. Now I’d just like to assure everybody that I intend to be firm but fair. You will be given jobs to perform and you will be expected to do them. Any resistance will be dealt with via martial law. Any chance to abandon your place here will result in capital punish-”

A gun shot rang out and the Captain stood silently for a moment, looking at the group with a surprised look on his face. A couple of seconds later, another shot rang out and Lieutenant Bristow hit the floor, dead. A large circle of blood started to spread around Captain Lewis’s heart and it became clear that the first bullet had struck him.

All at once, the remaining four soldiers raised their weapons and scanned the area frantically. One of them fell as another gunshot rang out, but then one of the men pointed his rifle off towards the food desks. Brett spun around to see that Reverend Long was standing there, Bristow’s pistol smoking in his hand. The man’s tolerance for violence had been breached. The soldier that spotted him fired off a hail of automatic fire and Reverend Long jolted backwards behind the serving desk.

Brett screamed in anger and leapt to his feet, rushing at the rifleman. He hit the soldier in the face and yanked the weapon from his arms. He had no clue how to fire a rifle so instead he swung it like a baseball bat, clubbing the soldier in his forehead. Before he knew it, Brett was being faced down by the remaining two riflemen. There was no way he could reach them before they let off a shot at him. Brett was a dead man and he knew it.

Like a mob of highland warriors the others got up off the floor and rushed forward as one, shouting and screaming with violent rage. The two soldiers took their eye of Brett and focused on the approaching gang of men and women. Their eyes went wide with fear and they ran.

Brett watched the two soldiers make it about twenty metres before the mob caught up with them, dragging them roughly to the ground. He decided not to watch what happened; he had somewhere else to be.

He headed back towards the office block of the stadium and made his way through the unlit corridors. When he got back inside the office, Emily was still asleep and snoring soundly. She’d missed the whole thing. Brett sat down beside her and rocked her gently awake.

“Wha…B-Brett?”

“Yeah, Emily. It’s me. You need to wake up. We’re leaving.”

“L-leaving?”

Brett stroked a hand over her forehead, leant forward and kissed her. “Yeah. It’s not safe here anymore.”

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking we could maybe go back to your house. You can play your piano again. We can stop off and get my guitar first. The world may be over, but that doesn’t mean we can’t spend whatever time we have rocking out.”

Emily laughed and Brett wished he could see her face. “We could form the world’s last rock band,” she said. “I’d finally be cool.”

“You already are,” said Brett. “You already are.”

They waited until sunrise, before setting off into the world.

THE PEELING: BOOK 3

WARRIORS

Staff Sergeant Matt Parker stood tall on the back of the tank and peered through his binoculars.

“Slow her down,” he shouted as he clung onto the Warrior’s turret.

The Perkins-Rolls-Royce V8 Condor engine of the British Army Infantry Fighting Vehicle slowed down with a disappointed grumble. Discarded rubbish and human waste crunched beneath the weight of its treads. All around, the city of Birmingham lay in ruins; its humanity abandoned and broken. Paint peeled from every building, but the ever-present bloodstains seemed only to intensify with age. Gradually the city was turning red.

“You spot something?” Corporal Cross asked his sergeant from the gunner’s seat. The tank’s 30mm cannon was empty, as was its coaxial chain gun, but it still commanded attention from those who did not know. The only ammunition Parker and his men had been able to snatch up when things had gone bad at Tidworth was enough explosives for a single barrage from the tank’s eight grenade launchers (positioned in two clusters). Fortunately, they were all equipped with personal arms and each of them carried a L85A2 assault rifle (or SA80) with roughly a magazine of ammunition each.

Parker inched his binoculars to the left, picking up movement amongst the rubble of a firebombed Post Office. “We’ve got civvies up ahead. Two-hundred metres. Bring us to a halt; let them come to us.”

The civilians up ahead were just kids, and they were visibly afraid. Upon seeing the tank, the two teenagers tried to scurry behind a scattered pile of masonry. Parker picked up the megaphone that hung from a lanyard attached to the Warrior’s side storage. He raised it to his mouth and moistened his lips.

“Strangers, you have been spotted. Please identify yourselves so that we can categorise you as non-hostile.”

The teenagers did not come out.

Parker increased the megaphone’s volume. “I am Sergeant Matthew Parker of her Majesty’s Armed Forces. I mean you no harm. If you need assistance I will provide it to you. Come out now, please.”

Tentatively, the two teenagers reappeared from behind the rubble like frightened mice. It was a boy and a girl. The boy was Black while the girl was pale and ginger-haired. They were an odd pairing, indeed, but then, in the current world, people found companionship wherever they could. Social norms no longer applied.

The teenagers approached the tank; the boy walking protectively in front of the girl. As they got closer, Parker identified them as young adults. He also saw that his early estimation of them being afraid was not entirely accurate. They were not so much afraid of Parker or the tank as they were distrustful.

Parker placed the megaphone down and placed both his palms out to his side, showing that he was unarmed. He also tried to smile but found he had forgotten how to.

“What do you want?” asked the teenage boy defiantly.

Parker shrugged. “Just want to check in with you folks. Everything okay? Are you in need of assistance?”

The lad huffed and shook his head. “We were doing just fine until your boys kicked us out of our home.”

Parker didn’t understand. “Who kicked you out of your home?”

“Your man, Captain Lewis, and his sidekick, Bristow.”

“Captain Lewis? I’m afraid I don’t know the man. Are you saying this man is with the Army?”

“Was,” the lad corrected. “He took a bullet when he and his men started taking hostages at the football stadium down the road.”

Parker sighed. Hearing that one of his colleagues had been shot should have been cause for him to apprehend these two kids, but somehow it seemed unnecessary. There was no longer any law and order to maintain. Even the lines between good and bad had become increasingly murky.

“Is it something we should look into? Are people hurt?”

The lad shook his head. “I don’t know. One thing is for sure, though: the last thing the people still at the stadium want to see is another bunch of soldiers.”

Suddenly the girl spoke up: “Just because you have guns doesn’t give you the right to push people around.”

Parker nodded. “I agree, young lady. Right now I think it’s important that we all work together. Do you kids have a destination?”

“We’re going to my house,” the lad answered. “Problem with that?”

“Of course not. Just keep safe and be careful. There’re a lot of desperate people in the world right now and nowhere is safe. Not even your homes.”

The kids seemed confused for a moment, as if they had expected the situation to go differently. Then they nodded to each other and began walking away, continuing their journey.

“Hey, you two!” Parker shouted after them. They both turned around. Parker managed to smile this time. “What are your names?”

The boy answered. “My name is Brett, and this is Emily.”

Parker nodded and reached into his pockets slowly, not wanting to startle the kids. “It was nice meeting you both, he said. “Here, take this.” He hurled a pack of chocolate bars through the air and the lad caught them with his left hand.

The lad looked at the package for a moment as if he was stuck in a daydream. Then he looked up and said, “Thanks. It’s nice to see that there are still some good guys left. I think if people knew that not all the Army had gone bad they wouldn’t all be so afraid.”

Parker watched the two kids head off to their unknown destination and thought about what the lad had meant. Obviously something had happened at the nearby football stadium but Parker intended to take heed of the lad’s warning about his presence being unwelcome. There was no point forcing his way into a situation that did not want him. The thing that concerned Parker the most was hearing that some of his brothers-in-arms were acting more like tyrants than protectors.

When news of the deadly wasting disease, The Peeling, first broke, the Military and Police forces kept a tight grip on the country’s population, cordoning off highways and restricted people to their homes. It was a cruel, but necessary step. Parker had been glad to have been posted at base. Manhandling sick civilians wasn’t what he signed up for and he was glad to be occupied with other tasks. Later, however, when the disease penetrated fifty percent of the populace, things had started to become untenable. Key figures in government, military, police, healthcare, and other key services fell ill and died, leaving all departments undermanned and in disarray. The chicken had lost its head. Communities rioted, lashing out at the remaining authorities as they sought to get away from the sick and dying. Fear of contagion had become a crazed, primal instinct that drove people to animalistic behaviours.

Then the news broke that the sick where not infectious; they never had been. Scientists confirmed that it was the seemingly healthy who were the contagious ones. It was they who carried the brutal virus which killed all who succumbed to its necrotic effects. Everything fell apart. With one half of the population dying and the other half responsible, society crumbled. No one could trust anybody else and the only way to be safe was to seek absolute isolation – and then defend that isolation if necessary. Battles over rural farmhouses and other sought-after real estate had been constant and bloody.

But things had gone quiet recently. The infection seemed to have plateaued. Those that had caught the sickness were mostly dead or long on their way, and those that were still healthy seemed to be confident of remaining so. Parker himself, along with all of his men, had been exposed to countless civilians but were still entirely healthy, albeit slightly malnourished. Parker made sure that his men ate only what they needed and gave the rest away to whatever civilians they encountered. But, it seemed, eventually he would have to start prioritising the health of his men above those they encountered on the road. The world was becoming increasingly dog-eat-dog and his public duties were diminishing. It seemed that some of his colleagues from other outfits had already gone into business for themselves.

“You want to check the kid’s story out?” Cross asked. “If there’s a unit out there, we could combine Intel.”

Parker shook his head. “If there’s anybody left I’m assuming they’re not the type to cooperate.”

“Another unit gone rogue?” Cross suggested. “Fuck a duck.”

“Sounds like it. When things degenerate into chaos there’s a lot of temptation on those with guns to take things without asking. We all spent enough time in Afghanistan to know about that.”

“Some of the men are wondering why we’re not giving in to that temptation ourselves. It’s been weeks since we received any orders. We’re alone out here.”

Parker sighed. He wasn’t about to have this conversation. “We’re not about to start abusing our authority. It was people doing that which got the country into such a mess in the first place. If people had worked together instead of shunning one another we may be in better shape right now. We’re not about to start making things worse by tyrannising a bunch of scared people.”

Cross nodded, seemingly satisfied. “So, where next, Sarge?”

“Same as always,” Parker replied. “Forward.”

* * *

The northern suburbs of Birmingham were deserted, exactly like Wolverhampton had been, and Stoke before that. People still existed in small pockets, but they were unseen like rats during the daytime. They scurried about at night, foraging for things they needed. It didn’t help that most people were terrified of the military now; Parker and his men driving around in a tank was a red flag to most survivors. It was hard work trying to help people that didn’t want to give you the chance.

The last time they had found a substantial group of people was inside a pub in Wolverhampton city centre. There the men wore replica shirts of the local team and had brought along what was left of their families. The beer and atmosphere had made for a jovial atmosphere and Parker and his men had been welcomed for a round of drinks. It was funny that the only group of like-minded people had been brought together under the banner of a football team, while religion, ethnicity, and political affiliation had all failed to galvanise society. Parker guessed that the old saying that ‘football was the new religion was true.’

Since moving on from that pub, Parker had encounter only loose fragments of humanity; some hostile, some friendly, but all afraid. Any attempts to find an organised group of people had been a failure. There was no Government, no emergency services; no order.

The tank’s driver, Schumacher (real name Corporal Hollis), fizzed through on the radio. “We’re low on fuel,” he said. “Should I head for the nearest petrol station?”

“Affirmative,” said Parker. “Take us back out to the main road. See if we can locate a supermarket or retail park.”

“Roger that.”

The tank gathered speed and adjusted its heading down a side-street that would lead them back to the duel carriageway. As they rounded the corner they approached a funeral pyre, stacked ten-deep with scorched bodies. It was not the shocking sight that it should have been, as several weeks back, the entire country had been lit up with similar bonfires of human flesh. When the military and police still had some semblance of control, they had gathered up the dead infected and set light to what was left of their putrid remains, hoping that to do so would be enough to stymie the spread of the virus. When it became known that the dead bodies of the infected were not contagious, it eventually stopped, continuing only in the city centres where the volume of corpses posed health risks regardless of the Peeling. Cholera was the country’s second-biggest epidemic.

The Warrior trundled by the bodies without slowing down. Parker closed his eyes and tried not to hear the crunch of human bones beneath the tank’s caterpillar tracks. Sometimes it felt like the only sounds left in the world were ones of suffering and death: like the screams that randomly carried on the winds from time to time.

Cross turned around from the gunner’s position and frowned at Parker. “Can’t believe we’ve been in England’s second city for three days now and the only people we’ve seen are those two kids we just passed.”

Parker sighed. “I figure most people fled for the countryside to get away from the virus.”

“Can’t blame them,” said Cross. “It would certainly smell better there at the very least. I don’t remember the last time I took a breath that didn’t make me feel like chucking my guts up.”

Parker knew what he meant. The tang of death covered everything. The slithers of necrotic flesh coated the landscape like a new species of pungent moss. Bodies continued rotting in every building they had checked.

“Maybe it’s time we moved on ourselves,” said Cross. “Gather supplies and try to set ourselves up somewhere in the sticks. We might have the wrong idea looking for people in need. It might be better to let them come to us.”

Parker thought about it and found himself agreeing. “You might be right. Let’s find somewhere to fill up and we’ll re-strategize; figure out what’s best.”

It was just starting to get dark when they came upon the supermarket.

* * *

The supermarket’s abandoned petrol station was just off the main road, accessed by a roundabout. There was a collection of beat-up vehicles blocking the pumps, but they posed no problem for the Warrior’s winch. They shifted a tiny Citroen out of the way of a diesel pump and began to fill the tank. Private Michelle Anderson and Private Thomas Carp grabbed the half-dozen Jerry cans from the tank’s side storage and headed off towards the other pumps to fill them. The station’s petrol supply seemed to be fine and Parker was grateful that the military quarantine early on had included the restriction of vehicle use, and thus the country’s need for petrol.

The forecourt’s single building, however, was a different story. Parker could see from several metres away that the petrol station’s small convenience store had been raided until only dust remained on its shelves. In the final few weeks before the panic had turned to quiet isolation, people had been desperate. Food, water, and perhaps even more importantly, alcohol, had become the world’s new currency. An unopened bottle of vodka had become more valuable than gold. Anything that could help a person blot out their pain and misery was the only luxury the world had left.

“You think it’s worth checking out the supermarket?” Cross asked.

“We’d be remiss not to,” said Parker. “You never know what we may find.”

“Okay. The petrol tank is full so we can move out as soon as Carp and Anderson are done.

Parker nodded and dismissed his Corporal. Then he took up his binoculars and pointed them at the Supermarket. It was situated at the far end of a large flat car park. Cars littered the various spaces and many sat unlocked with their doors hanging open.

Parker’s eyes were drawn to something else, though. At the front of the supermarket’s main entrance was a stalled convoy of lorries and vans. They sat, end-to-end, in front of the building, blocking any way in through the front. It could turn out to be quite a challenge getting inside.

Five minutes later, Carp and Anderson had secured the now-full Jerry cans back against the side of the Warrior, and were now back inside the tank’s troop space.

Schumacher started up the engine and they got going, swivelling in the direction of the supermarket.

* * *

“Who do you think positioned all these lorries here?” asked Cross. “And why?”

Parker thought the answer was obvious. “They were put there by whoever is inside to keep people out.”

Cross raised an eyebrow. “You think we got survivors in there?”

Parker shrugged. “Probably not. Probably just a bunch of dead bodies now, but at some point there were people taking refuge here. It was a good idea to park the trucks in front of the entrance.”

“Not so good for us,” said Cross. “How the hell are we supposed to get inside?”

“Through the back, I’d imagine. Whoever parked the trucks would have had to get back inside somewhere. They probably left a back door clear. It would still be much easier to defend then the massive sets of automatic glass doors behind the trucks

“So, what’s the plan?”

Parker looked around and thought about it. There was a single lane access road that went alongside the supermarket; a road meant for deliveries. It would no doubt lead to the cargo area.

“Wait here,” Parker said. I’ll go check it out. You hear anything, then follow me, but just keep watch here otherwise.”

Parker headed off towards the access road, passed by the front of the building, and began a route down the side. It did indeed lead to a cargo area; a large paved area, big enough for an articulated lorry to turn around. Set against the building was a long, stretched-out platform that would line up with the rear bays of those lorries and allow people to roll out the stock directly into the building. The whole area was lined by a wire-mesh fence and backed onto a stretch of woodland. The space was currently empty.

Up ahead, the wire-mesh fence looped around and cut across the access road. It was linked to a wide metal gate that could obviously be opened to allow lorry access or closed and locked to deny entry. Much to Parker’s dismay, it was currently closed and secured by an unusually large padlock. Parker considered whether or not the fence would sustain the weight of the Warrior if they attempted to drive through it.

While Parker considered that notion, someone appeared to his left, high up and in the corner of his eyesight.

“Hold it right there, Corporal Cockhead.”

Parker looked up at the man on the roof and narrowed his eyes. “I’m a Sergeant actually, but you can call me Parker. Now, what’s the problem, friend?”

The man leant further over the ledge of the building’s roof and Parker saw that he was holding a gas-powered nail gun. It was pointed right at Parker’s head. Parker’s own weapon was stowed in the Warrior.

“You’re the one with a problem, Sergeant Shit-Stain. You and your men take that tank and just roll on out of here, you hear? This place belongs to us and we’re not following any more of your orders.”

Parker shook his head. “What orders?”

“Orders from you and your fucked-up outfit. Tell me, when did the British Army become a bunch of bandits and thieves?”

“I’m not following you. My men and I are just looking for those in need. We’re still trying to protect the people of this country.”

The man huffed, lowered his nail gun a quarter-inch, and said, “Yeah, right. Well, when you see your buddies, tell them that they aren’t taking any more of our food. Not after what they did. They’ll burn in hell for what they’ve done to Stella and the others.”

Parker sighed and scratched a fingernail against the tip of his nose. “Who’s Stella? If I can understand what you are talking about then perhaps I can help.”

The man shook the nail gun at Parker and scrunched up his face in anger. “Look, I’m not going to buy any of your bullshit so just get the hell out of here. There’re a dozen men inside this supermarket and they’re all ready for a fight – including Brad; the husband of the woman your buddies abducted and raped.”

Parker put his hands in the air and begun backing away. It was obvious by the man’s angry and suspicious demeanour that the conversation could not be steered in a direction other than the one it was already on; and that seemed like a direction that would result in a three-inch nail in Parker’s forehead. It was unclear what had happened, but it was obvious the strange man was distrustful of the military – just like the two teenagers had been.

“Okay, we’ll leave,” said Parker. “We’re not looking for any trouble. You and your people just take care of yourselves.”

Parker headed back around to the front of the building where his men were waiting patiently. Corporal Cross nodded to him as he approached. “Find anything?”

Parker shrugged. “Just a nervous guy with a nail gun. I figured it was best to just leave him be.”

“Are you kidding me? He could have a supermarket full of supplies in there. We should just take him down; it’s only one man.”

Parker shook his head. “He told me there was another dozen men inside, not to mention the woman and children there may be.”

“Bullshit,” said Cross. “He’s just saying that to scare us off.”

“Look,” said Parker, a sternness to his voice. “We have no more right to this place than he does, and we have no way to know if there is anyone inside. People are already beginning to fear the military and I’ll be damned if I allow my actions to add to that.”

Cross sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fine, you’re the boss. So what do you want to do? You said we’d discuss it.”

Parker let out a sigh and craned his neck to look back at the looming monolith of the brick supermarket. “I think the people inside there need our help, but they aren’t about to accept it willingly.”

“So we should leave them to it, then

Parker shook his head. “No. I think we should set up nearby and keep an eye on things. Maybe we can find out what’s going on. Apparently there is another outfit in the area.”

Crossly raised an eyebrow. “You think it’s Bristow’s unit?”

Parker shrugged. “Who knows? I’m guessing it’s somebody else, but we won’t know unless we hang around.”

“Roger that. There’s a grass verge at the edge of the car park. We could set up camp there amongst the trees.”

“Do it,” said Parker. Best do it now while the ground is dry. Could be raining later.”

Cross glanced up at the grey sky and nodded. “More than likely.”

* * *

With the CVRT crew shelter set up (a large four-person tent) Parker lit his gas lamp beneath a mess tin full of beans. Their rations had been affording them perhaps a thousand calories a day and it was starting to show. His men were visibly tired and the barrel chests of the men and the voluptuous bosom of Anderson had shrunk back against their ribcages. He himself must have dropped more than two stone since things began. They would need to find supplies soon – real supplies.

Like what they may have inside that supermarket.

Parker couldn’t deny that the thought of storming the building and taking what they needed by force was tempting, and maybe even sensible, but there was still a part of him that would not allow him to use aggression against British citizens. His body may have been wasting away, but his morals were as strong as ever. Parker held on tightly to that fact.

Schumacher took a seat beside him, the man’s face overgrown with thick black stubble. “You okay, Sarge? You look like you remembered you just left the oven on.”

Parker laughed. “I wish my problems were as simple as that. I miss worrying about the stupid, little things, you know?”

“Sure I do. I even miss having to clean the toilet. Now I don’t even own a toilet to keep clean and it makes me sad. I miss the smell of bleach and air freshener and window polish and everything else that makes a home smell like a home. Now all I ever smell is shit and death and fear. I don’t even remember what my wife’s perfume smells like anymore. Shit, towards the end, no perfume in the world would have been strong enough, anyway, to get rid of the stench of her…well, you know?”

Parker thought about the flesh destroying evil of the Peeling and nodded. He had lost people to it as well. They all had. “We’ll get it all back one day, Schumacher. Eventually people will come out of hiding and start working together again. All of this paranoia – looting and stealing and killing one another – it has to stop eventually.

“I hope so, Sarge, because to tell you the truth, I’m beginning to lose sight of what the hell we’re fighting for.”

Parker shook his head. Schumacher sounded just like Corporal Cross. “We can’t abandon people that need us. If we do, then you’re absolutely right: there’s no point in fighting. But we aren’t going to do that. We’re going to show people that there are still those of us that have remembered who we are. We’re all still human beings.”

“That’s what worries me,” Schumacher said and left it at that.

The two of them sat in silence for a few minutes until the others joined them. Carp and Cross sat opposite, while Anderson worked on constructing a single birth tent to separate her from the men at night while they slept. Parker’s men were the perfect gentlemen, but some habits died hard, and somehow it seemed important to Anderson that she kept her female identity intact.

Parker leant back on the grass verge and looked up at the sky. It was getting dark and the clouds were slowly disappearing into the velvet background of a starry night. The thickness of the air suggested rain and perhaps even a storm was approaching. Parker hoped so. Despite the difficulties that bad weather brought, particularly when travelling, it had a cleansing effect on the world. It washed away the blood from the streets and dampened down the rotting stench of bodies. It swept away the rotting humanity and replaced it with the pureness of nature. Yes, Parker enjoyed the rain.

“Want to play a round?” Carp asked.

“Sure,” Parker said, knowing the game that Carp was suggesting. Every night they would all name one thing that they wished to find most in the rubble of what was once England.

“Okay,” said Carp. “I’ll start. I wish I could find a…piano. I really got a hankering for a bit of Elton John. Don’t let the sun go down on me.”

“You play piano?” said Parker. “I never knew that.”

“Guess there’s a lot about each other we don’t know. Probably never will. Playing the piano now is about as useless a skill as there is.”

“I disagree,” said Parker. “I think it’s more important that you realise. When we come across a piano, you’re going to play for us all. All night long.”

“Sounds good to me.” Carp grinned.

“Okay,” said Schumacher, “me next. I want to find…a jar of paprika. God, I miss a bit of spice on my food. I’d mix it right in with Parker’s beans and swallow ‘em down whole.”

Parker felt his mouth water. He’d never thought about seeking out spices and condiments, but now it seemed like such an obvious thing. It was a small luxury that they could still have in the world.

“What about you, Anderson?” Carp shouted across at the female Private as she finished up erecting her tent.

She turned around and wrinkled her face as she thought about it. “Erm…I guess I would like to find…a bodybuilding calendar. I’m tired of looking at your skinny asses all the time.”

They all laughed and Cross took his turn. “I would like to find a nice fat bottle of Jack, or maybe even amaretto. Just before shit got messed up I was really into this drink called a Godfather. It was a shot of whisky with a shot of amaretto. Was a nice tipple. Would feel good to get wasted again. I think we’d all agree about that?”

Everyone nodded and then focused their attention of Parker. It was his turn.

He sighed. “I don’t know… I guess the thing I would like to find most is a nice, freshly made king-sized bed. One where I could just sleep for the next month. Then I would like to wake up to a nice full-English breakfast.”

The sound of people’s mouth’s watering was almost palpable.

“Cheater,” said Anderson, sitting down and joining them. “That was two things. I’ll let you off this time, though, just because I agree with your choices. A nice juicy sausage would be heaven right now.”

After a brief second, they all started snickering. Anderson blushed and put her hands up. “Okay, okay, calm down. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. Anyway, I said a nice juicy sausage, not a bunch of chipolatas.”

“Ouch,” said Carp. “Way to attack a man’s pride.”

They all continued laughing, long after the sun had disappeared to be replaced by the moon and twinkling star. It was a beautiful night there amongst the trees.

* * *

Parker’s eyes snapped open inside the darkness of the tent. The noise that had woken him was the sound of hushed voices somewhere outside. He rolled onto his side to find that he was alone and that the shadows of his sleeping comrades were absent.

Parker shuffled out of his sleeping bag and crept to the zipped-up entrance of the tent. Then he listened to the voices outside.

“Should we do something?”

“I don’t know. What if they’re hostile?”

“We can hold our own. I say we act now while they’re not expecting us.”

Parker unzipped the tent and pushed his way out into the chilly night. Carp and Cross were standing there.

“What the hell is going on,” he demanded. “I’ve already said that we are not going to bother those people.”

Carp put a finger to his lips and shushed him. Parker was about to lose his temper when his eyes caught the distant torchlights. He placed a hand over his brow and squinted to see what was going on.

“They turned up about five minutes ago,” said Cross. “Carp was just about to relieve my post when they came flooding out from the woods.”

Parker crouched down low in the shadows and continued to stare. “It must be the other outfit the guy at the supermarket was talking about.”

“Should we engage?” Cross asked. “They could have Intel.”

Parker shook his head. “No, not yet. We need to observe what they’re up to first. I got the impression that they’re hostile.”

“Not to other military, surely?” said Carp.

“We can’t assume anything anymore. Keep distance and recon whatever you can. I’ll wake Anderson up and dig in here; cover you both if things go bad. Go wake Schumacher up and take him with you.”

Parker’s men nodded and crept away down the embankment. Parker snuck over to Anderson’s tent and whispered her name. Eventually she awoke, and was alert and outside her tent within two minutes. She looked weary, but capable.

“We’ve got unidentified targets in front of the supermarket. Carp, Cross, and Schumacher are checking it out now. You and I are going to keep a cover point.

Anderson nodded and un-shouldered her rifle. She went prone and targeted the group of strangers down her SUSAT scope. Parker went prone himself about six metres away and pulled up his binoculars to his eyes.

The new group consisted of seven men, fully armed. They all carried the same rifles that Parker’s men carried – British Army issue. All of them had arrived by foot and they were too far away to make out their insignias, but their black berets identified them as infantry – grunts. Whether or not they were battled-hardened grunts or green recruits was unclear, but they carried themselves with confidence; shouting and laughing as they milled about the front of the supermarket. There was also one woman with them, but she wasn’t military. The woman looked to be in her thirties and was wearing a ragged and stained summer dress. It would likely provide little protection against the harsh kiss of the cold night air. The woman was being lead over to the front of the supermarket, in front of where the trucks were lined up. One of the soldiers – a large man wearing a red bandana instead of a beret or Kevlar helmet – was hollering something at the men around him.

In the corner of his binocular’s vision, Parker caught movement on the roof. As he repositioned his focus, he saw that it was the man he had met during the day – the one with the nail gun.

While the sound didn’t carry far enough across the tarmac to reach Parker’s ears, it was clear that a conversation was being had between the soldier on the ground and the man on the roof.What the hell is going on? Is this the outfit the guy was talking about? The ones he was wary of?

Parker continued to watch as the scene unfolded in front of him. The woman was brought in front of the soldier with the bandana. Then something bad happened.

A punch to the woman’s ribs dropped her to her knees. Parker heard her pained gasp as it left her anguished lungs. She was now kneeling in a position that Parker knew only too well.

Parker had no time to do anything but watch in terror as the woman was executed – a 5.56mm NATO round through her skull the tool responsible. The sound brought back memories of Afghanistan and Iraq to Parker and, for a moment, he was glued in place, unable to move. Human life had become no more important than that of a lowly housefly. Justice and punishment had fled the world.

Beside him, Anderson cursed. “Goddamn motherfucking barbarians. What the fuck!”

Before Parker knew what was happening, more gunfire rang out. He realised quickly that it was Carp, Cross, and Schumacher – the men having made the autonomous decision to engage. Parker did not blame them. He pulled up his own rifle and flipped off the safety. He squeezed the trigger and caught one of the unknown soldiers in the wrist. The man leapt back behind one of the trucks and looked around in a panic as he struggled to keep a grip on his weapon. All around the car park, the hostiles were taking up cover behind abandoned vehicles. Carp and Cross were nowhere to be seen, but the sounds of their rifles could be heard off in the distant treeline of the surrounding woods.

On the roof, the man with the nail gun was screaming and shouting, seemingly madder than he was scared. Luckily for him, the hostile gunmen in the car park were paying him no mind as they searched around frantically for Parker and his men.

Parker lined up another shot, aiming for the soldier in the red bandana – the leader. The bullet whistled across the car park and headed straight for the man’s skull. But it missed by a fraction of an inch. The round struck the aluminium of a nearby panel van and left a ragged dent. The near miss was not lost on the soldier in the bandana and the shock was evident on his face. He shouted above the din of battle and waved an arm to his men. Within seconds, the hostile soldiers were gone, fleeing into the cover of the woods. Several moments later, Carp and Cross appeared from the adjacent treeline and scurried up to the supermarket’s blockaded entrance.

Parker surveyed the area through his binoculars, checking that the other unit had truly fled the battlefield. It appeared they had, for now, but Parker knew they would just be regrouping. They would come back.

“Come, on,” he said to Anderson. “We’ll rendezvous up front with Cross and the others.”

Parker and Anderson kept low and beat a path between abandoned cars and overturned shopping trolleys until they were at the front of the Supermarket with Cross.

“Status?” Parker asked.

“We’re all fine,” replied Cross. “Bad news is: so are they. We only downed one of them.”

Parker nodded. He had already noticed the dead soldier slumped up against a battered Honda Civic. Its iconic lighting strip above the front bumper was smashed and smeared with blood. Then Parker turned his attention to the dead woman, still lying in the spot where she had been callously executed by the solider wearing the bandana.

“That was Stella,” came a voice from above.

Parker spun on his heels and brought his rifle up to his shoulder. It was the man on the roof. The man with the nail gun.

“S’pose you’ve earned yourself an invitation,” the man said. “Hold on. I’ll come let you in.”

Parker looked at his men and shrugged. “About time something went right for a change.”

* * *

Two minutes later, the man with the nail gun appeared at side access fence where Parker had first met him. He quickly unlocked the thick padlock and dragged the chain-link door open. It scratched a white line into the tarmac as it slid across the ground.

As soon as Parker and his men passed through the gate, their host relocked it again anxiously. His hands were visibly shaking.

“You okay?” Parker asked.

The man fiddled with his hair and sniffed his nose. “Yeah… I-I’m fine. It’s just… Well, I think I was about to pretty much give up before you guys showed up. That asshole Mack would have finally finished me off this time.”

“Mack?” asked Parker. “The guy in the bandana? Who is he?”

“I figured you’d know better than me. Being soldiers and all.”

“Unfortunately, the British Army is a big group – was a big group, anyway – most soldiers don’t know each other from Adam. I’ve never met the man before.”

The man with the nail gun unlocked a small door on the supermarket’s loading bay and allowed everyone to funnel inside. “Well,” he said, walking after them. “You can take my word for it that he is a scumbag piece of shit. I wish he’d caught a bullet when you fired on him.”

“We’ll get the fucker next time,” said Cross.

Parker disapproved of bad language in front of civilians, but when he saw what relief the show of bravado caused on their host’s face, he decided to let it slide.

“You guys hungry?” the man asked them. “A lot of stuff spoiled early on, which is part of the reason why the whole place stinks so bad, but there is tons of canned food and other stuff that is just fine. Help yourself to anything you see.”

“Hell, yes,” said Schumacher.

Parker put a hand up to shush his men before they became uncontrollably excited. Food was the world’s only important resource nowadays and they had just stumbled upon a goldmine by the sounds of things. They were still soldiers, though, and acting giddy was inappropriate. “We won’t take food from your people,” Parker said. “We will just take whatever you can spare.”

The man with the nail gun stopped and turned to face Parker. He looked beaten and glum. “Yeah, about that…My people consists of just me. Everyone else is dead. I lied to you before to warn you off.”

When Parker stepped from the warehouse into the supermarket’s public area, all he could see, all he could smell, was death.”

* * *

After almost puking at the sight of so many bodies, Parker and the others had slunk back into the warehouse and had followed their host into a comfy staffroom. It was a disconcerting contrast to the horror outside.

“What the hell happened here, man?” Cross spoke in a tone somewhere between aggression and pleading.

The man put down his nail gun on the table where he sat and shook his head. His body had slumped so much that he seemed inches shorter. “Lots of things happened. First man to die was a guy named Stephen. He tried to rape one of the woman we had here and…well, I guess the rest of us retaliated. Then Mandy went into a diabetic coma and died as soon as she used up all the Pharmacy’s insulin. Tom and Annie committed suicide; both their sons died of The Peeling. Talking of which, there was a second outbreak of the disease. Just when we thought everyone left alive was immune, about a dozen of us came down with it. We tried our best to nurse them, but it was useless. It took weeks for them to rot down to the bone. Then Mack came and finished off the rest of us.”

“How many were left when Mack came,” Parker asked.

“There were nine of us. Four woman, five men. When Mack first came, he wanted food, and we gave it to him. We were glad to see him and his men. We were naïve.”

Parker looked around the room and saw empty wrappers and dog-eared magazines. “You’ve been holing up in this room?”

“Yeah. I figured it would be unhealthy mixing with all the bodies out there. Plus they were my friends, you know? Besides, I’m just one man. I can’t move three dozen bodies. Got nowhere to take ‘em anyway.”

“What’s your name?” asked Anderson. There was sympathy in her voice.

The man looked surprised by the question. It was almost as if the notion of having a name was lost on him. Perhaps it had been a while since he had shared it with anybody. “My name is Dennis. I was a carpenter before all this happened. Hence the nail gun.” He motioned at the power tool on the table. “Gas powered. Thought about using on myself lately.”

Anderson patted the man on the back. She smiled. “There’s no need to do that now. We can get you out of here.”

“Screw that,” said Cross. “We should bunker down here. We got food, security-”

“Security!” Dennis laughed. “Mack and his men have made sure that security is the last thing we have here.”

“What happened to the nine of you that were left when Mack arrived?” Parker enquired.

“After we fed him and his men, they came back, but this time they didn’t want food.”

“They wanted the woman,” said Anderson, looking sick to her stomach.

Dennis nodded and looked sick himself. “We wouldn’t give them up, of course. So Mack and his men assaulted the supermarket. We were unarmed and were going to kill us all. Once they got inside. My wife offered to go with them as long as they left the supermarket. Then the other woman showed their support and stood beside her. The women sacrificed themselves so that the men would be safe. Mack just laughed about the whole thing, like it was a game or something. He took the woman and they drove off, but, before he left, he told us to be gone by morning; that the supermarket was his.

“But you’re still here,” said Cross.

Dennis nodded. “When Mack left, we decided to barricade the supermarket. They had taken everything from us and we were damned if we were going to let them take this place.”

“So what did you do?” Parker asked.

“Got the trucks up against the entrance, used the hardware supplies in the warehouse to nail the windows and doors shut. Found the biggest padlock we could and secured the access gate. Made some firebombs from whiskey and lighter fluid. It didn’t protect us, though. Soon as we put up resistance, Mack brought out the woman. They were tied up like animals, bleeding and crying. I have nightmares about what they must have gone through. When Mack started executing them one after the other, the men I was with surrendered. They went outside to give themselves up. Mack shot them all.”

“Why didn’t you go out there with them?” Anderson asked.

“Because I was a coward. I was too frightened to go outside, so I locked myself in this staffroom while the other men went outside.”

“Well, being a coward is probably the only reason you’re still alive,” Parker said.

“When I had the guts to come out, I saw the dead woman and the dead men and I realised that there was no way out of this. Mack would kill me eventually, my wife, Stella, too. The only purpose I had left was to make it as hard on him and his barbarians as I could. I decided to keep fighting until a bullet found me. I would have finally given up today if you hadn’t been here.”

“That woman was your wife,” Parker surmised. The woman Mack executed in front of the building was your wife.”

Dennis nodded and a tear spilled from his eye. “I thought she was already dead. When I saw her, I thought maybe there was a chance Mack would give her back to me if I just stopped fighting and left. But he shot her before I even had chance to say anything to her. They’ve had her for weeks. I barely recognised her. Even though she was alive, her eyes…her eyes were dead. I’m glad she passed on. I hate thinking it, but she could never have gotten through what they did to her. I just wanted to be dead too, to go wherever she was. Then you started firing on Mack’s men and here we are.”

“Where are they based?” Parker asked. “Are they nearby?”

Dennis shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. The nearby woods aren’t massive but I figure it a good place to set up camp. It won’t be long before they come back.”

“You’re sure they will come back?” Cross asked.

Dennis nodded adamantly. “Mack won’t let this go. He doesn’t accept the word, no. He’ll be irate that you took out one of his men. I guarantee you that he will be back.”

Parker nodded and began to think. “Then, we make sure we’re ready for him.”

* * *

Parker spent the next two hours directing Dennis and his men in various tasks designed to increase their tactical advantage should another attack occur. They stockpiled as many food and supplies from the supermarket floor back into the warehouse as they could. Then they undertook the unenviable task of stacking the heavy freezer units, shelving stacks, and till desks up against the front of the building where the plate glass windows could potentially be breached. The task was unenviable due to the rotting, foul-smelling corpses that littered the area. Some were mottled grey skeletons – victims of The Peeling, while others featured gunshot wounds no doubt delivered by Mack’s men. The odour of death was something they were all used to by now, but this amount of death so close together was still enough to turn their stomachs. Parker forced a grin onto his face; it was a proven technique to fight off the urge to retch. He just hoped Dennis did not misinterpret it as disrespect.

The current task that occupied them all was the search for viable weaponry. Dennis had his nail gun and Parker’s men had their rifles, but their ammunition was low after the previous fire fight. They needed alternative means of arming themselves in case Mack’s resources outlasted theirs.

Cross was busy, emptying bottles of bleach and detergent onto the floor of several aisles, while Schumacher and Anderson attempted to block the adjacent aisles with pallets, cardboard boxes, and household stock items. The plan was to create a bottleneck, and funnel Mack’s men into one or two individual aisles, creating a kill zone. The cleaning fluids on the floor would hopefully cause one or two of their attackers to slip and fall, and would, at the very least, slow them down as they were forced to step carefully. The fumes coming up off the floor may also have the added benefit of blinding Mack’s men.

Dennis was busy super-gluing nails to the floor and shelving units. It seemed absurd, but if he could secure as many nails in an upright position as he could, there was every chance that one of Mack’s men would plant a foot down on one of them. Every time Dennis covered a small area with nails, he would drape flat pieces of cardboard over the top, obscuring the hazard. Somehow the supermarket, that would once have been the epitome of mundane, civilised life, was now more akin to the booby-trapped expanses of 60’s Vietnam. The world was a battleground and all were warriors.

“Hey, Sarge, take this,” Anderson came over and handed him a large chef’s knife.

“He frowned. I already have a knife.” He pointed to the army-issue blade on his belt.

“I know. But I thought we could use a spare to throw if the fighting goes close-quarters.”

Parker laughed. “I think that only works in the movies, but I’ll take it just in case.” He took the brand-new tungsten blade and slid it into his belt. It wouldn’t hurt to have too many knives.

It was time to wrap things up, bunker in. “Okay, everyone,” said Parker. “Let’s fall back to the warehouse. Dennis? How do you get up to the roof? It wouldn’t hurt to have someone posted up there on watch.”

“There’s a ladder at the back of the warehouse,” Dennis explained. “Leads up to a walkway and the roof hatch.”

“Okay,” said Parker, heading through to the back. “Anderson, you take first watch. Cover up with whatever you can and keep your eyes on the treeline.”

“Roger that,” she said, double-timing it deeper into the warehouse.

“What should the rest of us do?” Dennis asked.

“We wait,” said Parker.

* * *

Parker was about to fall asleep on the one of the staffroom couches when something caused his mind to snap back to full alertness. He looked around the unlit room and could see the soft shapes of his comrades sleeping. He could hear their gentle snores.

Parker stood up from the sofa and listened out. He was groggy and unsure of what he had heard, but somehow he knew something was up. After years of being in the Armed Services, Parker had a sixth sense for danger.

Parker picked up his rifle from where it was propped up against the wall and wrapped the strap around his neck. Then he slid out of the room and into the pitch-black darkness of the warehouse. There was complete silence in the building, but Parker didn’t trust it. He headed for the ladder at the back of the area; the one that led up to Anderson’s position on the roof. Parker listened out but could make out no sound from up above.

He placed his hands on the rungs of the ladder and raised his foot onto the first step. He climbed slowly, cautiously. With each rung he rose up, he became more and more certain that things were wrong. Anderson was an alert sentry and should be aware of his approach. She should have called out to him by now.

He pushed open the roof hatch and slowly rose up to see over the top. Anderson’s was lying prone against the far edge, covered by cardboard and some old tarpaulin. If he hadn’t expected to see her, he may have missed her completely. She was well camouflaged.

“Anderson!” He called out in a hush. “Anderson, what’s your status?”

No answer.

Goddamn it. Parker shook his head and prayed she was just asleep. He would bollock the shit out of her for neglecting her post but it would be a relief all the same. He hoisted himself up onto the roof and kept low to the ground, shuffling forward on his elbows and knees.

As he got closer, Anderson still did not move. She was like part of the building, completely still.

He reached her and spoke out again. “Anderson, wake the fuck up!”

He clenched his hand around her ankle, expecting her to flinch and wake up with a start. But she did nothing. He shook her leg and was dismayed to find no response. He crawled up closer.

Then he saw that it was not Anderson.

“Jesus fuck! Carp?”

Carp’s face was a caved-in mess of blood and gristle, but the thick black hair was a dead giveaway. Before Parker could even speculate on what had happened to the Private, a bullet shattered the cement two inched in front of him, sending stabbing shards of masonry into his eyes.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Parker rolled away, sliding his body back towards the roof hatch. Mack’s men had a hotshot, someone who’d been able to take Carp out without him even seeing them. The attack had begun. It was time for battle stations.

* * *

Parker kicked open the door to the staffroom and shouted at the top of his lungs. “Hands on socks, off cocks! We’re under siege.”

His men were immediately on their feet, well-drilled by years of midnight inspections. Dennis was a little slower, but also impressively alert. Parker spotted Anderson grabbing her rifle and approached her. “Anderson, what the fuck happened? Why is Carp up on the roof, dead?”

Her face dropped. Behind her Cross and Schumacher cursed. “Carp is dead?”

“As a fuckin’ doornail. Why was he up there?”

“He said he couldn’t sleep. Came up to relieve me. I was beat so I saw no reason to argue.”

Parker nodded. It didn’t really matter. Carp was dead and nothing would change that. He was a good man, but too many good men had been lost to mourn each one.

“Shit, it should have been me up there,” said Anderson. “I should be dead, not Carp. It’s such a waste.”

“Beat yourself up later,” said Parker. “Mack’s men are out there, right now. We have to take up positions.”

Anderson nodded and headed out the room, back in full-on professional mode. Cross and Schumacher followed after her. Dennis looked at Parker with fear in his eyes.

“You ready,” Parker asked the man.

He nodded. “Everyone gotta die sometime. I just hope I take as many of Mack’s men with us as we can.”

Parker put a hand on the man’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “We’ll get them all, Dennis. They aren’t getting this supermarket. You have my word.”

Dennis nodded and ran out of the staffroom.

Two minutes later, everyone had spread out at the back of the store, focusing their fire into the bottleneck they had created in the centre aisles. Parker currently crouched behind a heavy, glass and steel deli counter. Cross had taken position in the alcove of the supermarket’s bakery, aiming his rifle through the bread shelves. Dennis, Anderson, and Schumacher held positions behind a barricade made from plastic-wrapped pallets of tinned goods: beans, spaghetti hoops, and other assorted sundries.

The supermarket was silent as they waited. Mack’s men were not hasty or impatient. No help would arrive to help Parker, no reinforcements or nearby units. There was no reason for Mack not to take his time. He was no doubt out there, right now, planning his next move.

Parker held his breath and listened harder. What was the holdup, though? Taking your time was one thing, but the longer Mack took, the longer it gave his enemy to prepare. He should have been attacking by now.

“Hey,” Cross hissed from over by the bakery. “D’you hear that?”

Parker did hear it. A far away humming, getting louder. A mechanical sound. Almost like a…

Parker hit the floor and shouted, “Get down!” The explosion rocked the store at its very foundations, and glass, debris, and bloody chunks from the piled-up corpses from the front of the store filled the air and landed with the pattering sound of hailstorms and rain.

“What the fuck!” shouted Cross.

“They rigged a goddamn car with explosives; rammed it into the barricades outside.”

“Explosives? Where the hell did they get ordinance from?”

“Who knows,” said Parker. “It’s there for the taking for anyone who knows where to look. It doesn’t matter. Just get ready to return fire.”

Mack’s men started firing their weapons before Parker even managed to spot one of them. The glass of the deli counter splinted but did not break – otherwise a bullet or two may have found its way into Parker’s chest. He clambered across to the side of the counter and blind-fired into the supermarket, hoping to buy his own men the briefest chance to set themselves against their attackers.

Parker heard someone cry out at the front of the store and he couldn’t tell if it was from a bullet or if they had trodden on one of Dennis’s hidden nails. Dust filled the air and obscured vision beyond a few feet. Parker fired into the mist.

More rounds hit the deli counter and Parker ducked down. He turned to his right to tell Cross to coordinate fire with him, to pin down the enemy.

But Cross was dead.

Cross sported a bullet wound in his forehead the size of a penny while the back of his head had exploded in a wound the size of a tennis ball.

Parker shook his head and cursed. “That motherfucking sniper.”

Parker turned to his right and crawled beside the deli counter. Bullets seemed to hit all around him. Ahead of him, Anderson and Schumacher returned fire as best they could, keeping their heads down and hoping for the best. Beyond them, Dennis fired nails from his power tool wildly into the air, sending shards of iron death in a dozen directions.

There was a brief cessation in the firing and Parker knew that Mack’s men were reloading. He shot up over the deli counter and screamed at his own men to, “Fire!” He took careful aim down his sights and scanned the area as time seemed to stand still. At the front of the store, the dust was clearing and Parker made out the briefest flash of green material. He squeezed the trigger and flinched as he heard his bullet hit soft flesh beneath the camouflaged uniform of his target. The man hit the ground screaming, landing on the cardboard-covered nails. His screams got louder.

“Man down,” one of Mack’s men cried out, and Parker smiled as another body hit the ground in the aisles, slipping on the bleach and detergent and then taking a bullet from Anderson while he helplessly tried to keep his balance.

“Shit! Cooper’s down!”

Parker’s men seemed to be getting the upper hand, but that all depended on how many men Mack had with him. Parker’s rifle ran dry and he crouched down to reload. He pulled a magazine from a pouch on his belt but frowned when he felt it was light. He’d forgotten that his current magazine was all he had left.

“Damn it.” Staying low, he sprinted towards the barricade that protected Anderson and the others. They wouldn’t have any spare ammo to give him, but he could act as a spotter for them and try to pick their targets.

As Parker neared the others, something struck the floor in front of him and rolled across the floor. His eyes went wide as he recognised what it was. “Get down!” he screamed. “Grenade!”

Parker skidded to the floor and began clambering backwards on his hands and rump. Anderson looked down at the grenade at her feet and froze. Just when Parker was sure he was about to watch her get blown limb from limb, her body lurched forward, with such force that she tumbled and skidded a clear ten feet across the floor towards Parker.

Parker shook his head in disbelief as Dennis threw aside his nail gun and leapt on top of the grenade. A muffled explosion erupted from beneath him and blood splatter hit the floor all around him. He was dead before even a full second passed.

Schumacher came running up and looked down at the mess. “Shit! I guess he wasn’t willing to stand around and watch another woman die.”

“We’ll mourn him later,” said Parker. “I promised we’d take out every last one of Mack’s men and I intend on keeping my word.”

Anderson fired off another couple rounds and then they all huddled down. “What’s the plan?” she asked Parker.

“We need to fall back to the warehouse. There’s only one entrance to focus on. We don’t have the ammunition for anything else.”

As one, they moved behind the deli counter and shuffled towards the warehouse entrance. Parker ushered everyone in before him and then slid in behind them. They immediately made for the nearest stack of pallets and aimed their rifles at the doors, except for Parker who was out of ammo.

“You fire on the first fucker that comes through that door,” Parker ordered.

“You can count on it,” said Anderson.

Sure enough, the first guy to come through the warehouse doors caught a fatal bullet to the chest. His body hit the floor already dead, and several more men spilled into the area spread out. Parker pulled out the chef’s knife Anderson had given him earlier and threw it with all his strength at the doorway. It struck a man in the face and caused a bad gash, but that was it. “Knew that shit wouldn’t work!”

Anderson and Schumacher kept firing their rifles, but never managed to land anther round successfully as the enemy took cover. Then the grim click of their rifles going empty caused them both to take cover themselves. All three of them were now out of ammo.

Through the doorway of the warehouse came Mack, red bandana soaked with sweat and covered in rubble dust. He had a military shotgun around his neck but was letting it hang loose with the muzzle pointed at the floor. He began to laugh.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are. If you had any more bullets you’d be firing ‘em, so give up the ghost, my friends. We tried to take this place politely, but I’m afraid it has had to come to this.”

“Who do you think you are?” Parker shouted out from behind a stack of Blu-Ray players. “You signed an oath to protect this country, not rape and pillage it.”

Mack laughed. “Rape and Pillage. I like that. Like Vikings, yeah?”

“Like depraved animals, more like,” said Anderson.

“Ooh, a lady with a smart mouth. Looks like it’s our lucky day, boys.”

“Not gonna happen,” said Parker.

“Beg to differ.” Mack fired his shotgun and took out a chunk of the DVD players. Parker flinched and kept low. He made eye-contact with both Anderson and Schumacher. Both of them looked back with fear, but also defiance.

“Look,” said Mack. “Just get the hell out of here. We’re not interested in you. We just want the food here. It’s ours. You can go.”

“Yeah, right,” said Parker. “Is that the deal you made with all of the dead men and women at the front of this store?”

“They were just civvies, I have no respect for them. The world belongs to the strong now. I have respect for a serviceman such as yourself. You can go. You’re man, too. Just not the woman you got with you.”

Schumacher leapt from behind a stack of pallets and came at Mack from the side. While they had all been talking, he had managed to flank the man and was now lunging for him with a knife.

Mack spun around, the lowered shotgun too long and cumbersome to bring up in time to deflect the blow. Schumacher swung out with his blade.

The sound of gunfire in the cramped confines of the warehouse was deafening. Parker peeked around the corner in horror as Schumacher flew back against a stack of cardboard boxes and immediately started bleeding from what was left of his face. Beside him stood one of Mack’s men, a smoking sidearm pistol in his hand.

“Who the hell are you guys with?” asked Parker, trying to stall for time. “All your weapons: shotguns, grenades?”

Mack laughed again. “Let’s just say we were based out of Hereford when the shit hit the fan. We forgot to bring our beige berets with us.”

Parker’s eyes went wide and so did Anderson’s. They were fucked. There were two of them facing off against a squad of SAS. The SAS were notoriously so tough that even if Parker had a fresh mag of ammo and emptied every round into Mack, the guy would probably just shake it off and keep coming. There was no way to win this.

Anderson spoke up. “If I come with you,” she said. “Will you let my sergeant go? He’s a good man and has helped a lot of people. If you let him leave I will come with you…willingly.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” said Parker in disbelief. “No way are you going with that psycho.”

“It’s the only way either of us will get through this alive. Besides, I’m already dead anyway.”

Before Parker had chance to ask her what she meant, Mack answered the proposal. “You have my word. I’m not in the business of killing those who don’t stand in my way. As long as they let me take what I want. And having a woman come willingly sounds like an interesting novelty. You have a deal. Come with us and your noble sergeant can go.”

Parker was looking at Anderson and shaking his head. She looked right back at him with fear in her eyes, but it seemed to be fading, becoming something else; consternation. “Just let me say goodbye,” she said. “Two minutes.”

Mack huffed. “Fine.”

Behind the stack of Blu-Ray players, Anderson moved up close to Parker. “Don’t worry about me,” she said.

“Are you crazy?” he said.

She pulled up one of her shirt sleeves to her elbow. “No, I’m not crazy. I’m sick. And I ain’t getting better.”

Anderson’s arm was covered in a swath of pus-filled blisters. In the worst places they had come away to show weeping, raw flesh. She had it. She had The Peeling.

Parker felt sick, but managed to keep his voice low. “What the fuck? You have it! But there’s been no new cases in weeks. The disease is supposed to be gone.”

Anderson shrugged. “Guess it hasn’t finished with us yet. It started yesterday evening. The rate it’s spreading I don’t even have a week left.”

Parker’s mouth dropped open. “I…I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. Those fuckers out there don’t know I’m ill, so they’ll take me as a fucking piece of meat and let you go.”

“I still can’t leave you,” said Parker. “I can’t leave you to live even one day with those monsters.”

“You won’t have to. As long as you do one last thing for me.” She whispered into Parker’s ear and he nodded. Then he smiled. It was a good plan.

“Okay,” shouted Anderson. “I’m coming out, but Parker is going out the back and round the access road. You let him go peacefully and I’ll be the best fuck you ever had. You try to chase him down and I’ll struggle and bite until not one of you has a dick left. Deal?”

“Deal,” said Mack impatiently. “Let’s get it over with.”

Anderson stepped out into the warehouse while Parker hurried for the back door. It felt wrong leaving her, against everything he stood for, but he had something he needed to do. As he fled the building, the sounds of Mack and his men tormenting Anderson turned his stomach. At least she wouldn’t be suffering for long.

The fresh air of outside hit Parker like a slap in the cheeks. He hadn’t realised how stifling the rotting atmosphere of the supermarket had been. He was glad to be out of there. What had at first seemed like a haven had instead turned out to be another sanctuary of nightmares.

He passed by the gate and soon realised that it was still padlocked. He looked around and quickly spotted a row of wheeled recycling bins. Parker grabbed the nearest one and yanked it with him towards the gate. Once it was in position, he hoisted himself up on top and managed to claw himself over the chain link, ignoring the pain of flesh grating from his palms.

Once his boots were back down on the tarmac, he sprinted across the car park, heading in front of the supermarket. The flaming remains of an old Volvo saloon stood in a blackened mess against the barricade trucks and Parker couldn’t help but marvel at the amount of explosives Mack must have possessed. He kept on running, cutting between abandoned cars and trolleys, heading for where he and his men – all dead now – had left the Warrior. When bedding down on the night previous, they had covered the tank with a green canvas tarp. Luckily, Mack and his men had not noticed it up on the bank between the trees. As much as Parker had hated being tied to the rolling coffin the last several weeks, it now looked and felt like home. He was glad to return to it – he just felt great sorrow that he was returning alone.

Parker pulled back the tarp and leapt up onto the Warrior’s flanks. He examined the vehicle’s twin rocket launchers at its rear and was glad to see that they were all still primed and loaded: eight high-explosive rocket-propelled grenades.

Parker opened up the command hatch and slid himself down into the cockpit. He switched on the console and breathed a sigh of relief that the tank’s battery was as healthy as when they had left it. The targeting readout flashed up and showed him a black and white picture of the trees in front of him. After tapping in a few commands, the display switched to display something else: the supermarket.

The large, square building in black and white seemed sinister, more like a prison or asylum. He would be glad to bring it to its knees. Parker tapped in the relevant commands, targeted the twin grenade launchers on the back of the building, where the warehouse was located, and then sent the orders.

With a fizz not unlike the sound of champagne being uncorked, eight rockets hurtled high into the air. Parker could not see them from within the cockpit, but he knew that they would be about to reach the apex of their climb, before tilting in mid-air and falling back down to earth; their unmoving target was a certainty.

Parker watched on the screen as the supermarket bloomed white in a violently shifting cloud. A split-second later, the tank shook and his ear drums popped as the air pressure became charged. With a grim smile, not of happiness but perhaps of satisfaction, Parker climbed out onto the roof of the tank and surveyed the chaos of the rubble that had once been a supermarket. The hollow building, lacking in central support had crumpled like a stack of cards, so flat that no one inside could possibly have lived. The area was decimated and all that now lived was a smattering of fires. Anderson was dead; so were Cross, Schumacher, Carp, and Dennis. But so were Mack and all of his men.

Parker didn’t know if the sacrifice of his good men was enough to make the death of Mack’s evil men worth it. He hoped it was. One thing was for sure, the nightmares of this world were not yet over. Anderson had proved that The Peeling was not yet finished, and, as Parker looked up at the dawn sky and saw unnatural lights filling it by the thousands, he started to understand that the disease that had destroyed the world was not the end of things to come, but just the beginning of something worse.

The lights in the sky were getting bigger.

THE PEELING: BOOK 4

PATIENT ZERO

The spacious minibus cut through the English countryside like a scalpel through flesh. From within its air-conditioned cocoon, it would be easy to forget the sweltering sun that beat down its summer rays. The tinted windows made the world outside seem dark.

Dr Gregory Penn watched the farms, fields and forests roll by and wondered how long it had been since he last saw a building. Being so far away from London gave him an unsettled feeling that he did not like. It was like he was somehow leaving civilisation behind.

I’m fleeing. Escaping my life so that I might find another.

But it was a choice he had made. Greg had finally sold out to the big money offer and was working for the Government. No more helping sick people in hospitals, no more saving lives; now he would spend his days researching whatever his new bosses told him to – whether it was a weapon of mass destruction or an anti-wrinkle cream.

The black-suited driver of the mini-bus turned down a wooded lane and reduced their speed. The vehicle began to bounce on its axels as the road became uneven and rocky.

“Are we nearly there?” Greg asked. The long drive was giving him too much time to think. He was getting anxious, doubting his decision.

Am I really cut out for this? Chief Virologist at the age of thirty-eight?

Well, I’m not cut out for anything else. Was never any good at being a friend, a husband…

“We will be there in less than ten minutes, sir,” replied the driver.

Greg sighed. It was a relief to be close after so many hours of driving. With all of the back roads they’d taken, he wasn’t even sure which part of the country he was in anymore. They could even have passed north into Scotland for all he knew. They’d certainly be driving long enough since Lewisham.

Up ahead, the minibus encountered a chain link fence. The driver slipped a mobile phone from his pocket and made a call. A few seconds later, a section of the fence slid aside on rails and the minibus passed through.

An automatic fence in the middle of nowhere…Very cloak and dagger.

A short while later, the muddy road opened up into a wide clearing. The area between the thick woods was almost a perfect circle – unnatural in its perfect curves. In the centre was a single building no bigger than a garden shed.

What the hell? This is the UK’s finest Medical Research facility?

“Please exit the vehicle,” said the driver. “Then proceed to the building ahead.”

Greg didn’t move.

“Sir, please do as I’ve instructed.”

Greg cleared his throat and then unclasped his seatbelt. He pushed open the door and scooted along his seat. Twigs and dry leaves crunched beneath his feet as he stepped out of the minibus. The sounds seemed immense in the silence of the clearing. He slid the door closed behind him and headed up to the front of the vehicle. He leant towards the driver’s window and tried to see through the tint.

“Excuse me,” he said through the glass. “I think there must be some sort of mistake. This is-”

The minibus took off in reverse. The brakes squealed and the vehicle spun around to face the way from which they had come. Then it sped off into the woods, leaving Greg alone in the clearing.

Really not enjoying my first day so far.

He took a few tentative steps towards the small hut ahead of him and then stopped. He looked around, expecting someone to jump out of the trees laughing and saying that this was all one big joke. When it was clear that that would not happen, he carried on walking.

The building ahead had no windows. Just a single, metal door set into a concrete surround.

Greg reached the structure and placed himself in front of the entrance. The door did not appear to have a handle, or even a lock, and when he tried to push it open it held tight.

Great! What am I supposed to do?

A thought occurred to Greg and he banged on the door with his fist.

Anybody there?

The door opened, moving aside gently as if in the hands of some unseen butler. Beyond was a steep staircase that headed straight down into darkness. Greg stared in disbelief. It felt like he was looking down into the bowels of hell.

Despite his anxiety, Greg took the first step. Then the next. Then several more. He seemed to descend for ever.

It wasn’t long before he was surrounded by shadows on all sides. The door at the top of the stairs had closed and with it, so too, the light from outside. The only thing preventing absolute darkness was a blinking green light lower down the staircase. Greg continued hoped it represented the end of his confusing journey.

Go towards the light, Gregory.

It turned out that that the green light was affixed to a security camera. Greg stared into its lens and imagined he could see someone at the other end watching him.

There was a hiss in the darkness up ahead and then a vertical sliver of golden light appeared. Slowly the sliver widened into a gap and a brightly lit hallway appeared beyond. Greg found it hard to breathe, but he managed to keep going and passed through the newly opened entrance.

He entered a featureless, white corridor. A voice from above startled him.

“WELCOME DR PENN. PLEASE ENTER THE SECOND DOOR ON YOUR RIGHT WHERE YOU WILL BE MET BY AN ADMINSTRATOR.”

Greg noticed that the corridor was lined by dozens of doors on each side. The one he had been directed to was no different to any of the others. He did as instructed and opened the second door on the right.

Inside, a diminutive, bespectacled man sat behind a large, aluminium desk. He stood up immediately upon Greg’s arrival.

“Dr Penn,” the man said, heading out from behind the desk and offering his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Dr Matthews and I am one of the administrators here. I am also the site’s physician, so I will be required to give you a health check tomorrow morning.”

Greg shook the man’s small hand and smiled. “A Pleasure. I have to say, I’m a little put out by all of this.”

The man nodded and laughed as if he understood exactly what he meant. “We apologise for the clandestine nature of your arrival. I’m sure you understand that this facility is an extremely sensitive Government secret. Only the Americans know about it. The entire structure is erected beneath the ground and the lack of buildings up top is to avoid detection by satellites. Google Maps is the enemy.”

Greg frowned at the man.

“That was a joke, Dr Penn. We may be secretive, but we still have a sense of humour.”

“You keep saying we,” Greg commented.

“We’re a community down here, Dr Penn. It has to be that way with the nature of things. You understand that you will remain in this facility for the next three years?”

Greg nodded. He remembered signing the paperwork with a trembling. “I didn’t realise I would be staying in a hole in the ground, though.”

Dr Matthews stepped up to the Greg and placed a hand on his back. He began leading him back out into the corridor. “I think you will find that things are more than to your liking. But the only way for you to believe it is to see it with your own eyes. Come on.”

Greg allowed himself to be ushered back into the corridor. Dr Matthews led him opposite, to a door on the other side of the corridor. Without word, he opened it and pushed Greg through.

Inside was a vast catacomb of wonders. A space the size of several football fields was laid out with numerous partitions, office cubicles, and blinking electronics. Hundreds of lab-coated personnel rushed about in a fever of hard work and commitment. Huge air conditioner units roared overhead.

“We just call this area, The Floor,” Dr Matthews told him. “It’s where we conduct most of our theoretical research and low-level experiments – blood work and the like.”

Greg scanned the area with wonderment. He was aware that his jaw was hanging open but did nothing about it. “It’s…It’s…”

“Yep, it’s something, alright. You probably won’t spend too much time here, though. A scientist of your ability will no doubt be more at home in one of the private labs. Shall we?”

Greg did not speak as Dr Matthews continued with the tour. The man introduced him to the luxurious staff lounge, crammed with televisions, videogames, pool tables, and many other forms of entertainment. There was even a modest library crammed with mass market paperbacks.

Next was the canteen, which had a menu which would put most restaurants to shame. Dozens of people ate there, while some worked away on laptops and tablets.

“It’s open twenty-four hours a day,” Dr Matthews explains. “Most of our more committed researchers often work odd hours, so the cafeteria never closes.”

Greg’s stomach rumbled as he thought about eating. “Great. So what’s next?”

“I suppose I should take you to your lab to meet your team. Then you can settle into your apartment.”

Greg balked. “Apartment?”

Dr Matthews smiled. “Why of course. We don’t expect you to spend three years in a bedsit. As a department supervisor, you will have one of the facility’s larger suites. I think you’ll like it.”

“I…thank you. I would like to meet my team now.” Greg was beginning to find the ground beneath his feet. He was here to do a job, to lead a team of scientists. Now that he had fallen down the rabbit hole, he was ready to get to work.

Dr Matthews led him back out into the main corridor and over to a steel door at the end marked RESEARCH LABORATORIES. B.S. lv 3, 4, 5.

Greg frowned. “Level 5? Bio Safety levels only go up to 4.”

“Not here they don’t.”

“So…what is level 5?”

Dr Matthews looked at him like he was dumb. “More dangerous than level 4.”

Greg sighed. “But what on earth is more dangerous than a level 4 containment facility?”

“Anything that can cause extinction.”

Greg felt his jaw drop again.

“You see,” said Dr Matthews. “There are other reasons we built this facility under the ground in the middle of nowhere. Very good reasons. And you, Dr Penn, are about to be placed in charge of several of them.”

* * *

Greg’s lab was deep underground. They had accessed it via an elevator ride that seemed to take forever. It turned out that all of the staff in the Level 5 labs had apartments nearby – Greg’s included. It would allow him to roll out of bed and be at work within two minutes. He had a feeling, however, that the adjacency of their living quarters may well play into potential quarantine scenarios.

Keep us all bunched up together in case something gets inside us.

Dr Matthews led him down a sterile hallway and directed him into a large office. The long, walnut desk in the centre of the room already had a name plate with Greg’s name and qualifications on it. He had worked at many of the UK’s finest hospitals, but he had never had a desk like this. He went over and picked up the name plate. DR GREGORY J. PENN, BMSc, DSc.

“You like?” Dr Matthews asked him.

Greg placed the name plate back down and nodded. “I do. My team?”

“I’ll send them right in. They can brief you from here.” Dr Matthews stepped forward and shook Greg’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Doctor. I’ll see you in the morning for your medical.”

“Good to meet you, too. See you soon.”

Dr Matthews left the office and Greg headed behind his desk. He sat down on the plush leather chair and slid his legs into the foot pass of his new desk. He felt at home already. A little over five minutes later, three young doctors entered his office: two gangly males and a dowdy looking female. All three of them were pale and sickly looking.

Lack of sunlight? Or overworked? Will have to find out and see if I can do something to improve working conditions. That will make them loyal to me.

“Good to meet you all,” he said to them. “While I intend to lead this team from the front, I will be relying on your for the next couple of days to help me get settled. I imagine you are three of the brightest minds this country has to offer. I look forward to working with you. In the meantime, would you please introduce yourselves briefly?”

The female of the trio stepped forwards. She had short brown hair and looked like a mousy librarian. “My name is Elizabeth Wilson. My speciality is infectious diseases. I’ve been at the facility for just under two years after transferring from a private research company.”

One of the two men stepped forward. He was the taller of the two and had the beginnings of a blond goatee. “My name is Thomas Fenton. My specialty is Allergy and Immunology. I have only been at the facility for eight months. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Well, I know who the suck up is.

The last of the young doctors stepped forward. He had much darker features than the other man and seemed a few years older. He was plump and short, but had an air of authority about him. “My name is Dr James Button. My speciality is in Endocrinology, Haematology, and Internal Medicine. I have been at the facility for six years and have been running things recently since Dr Doherty moved up into senior management.”

Greg whistled. “Very impressive. I can see why you were left in charge.”

Greg caught a glint of resentment in Dr Button’s eyes. Perhaps he felt that the supervisor role should have been his. He was certainly qualified for it.

Letters after your name doesn’t always mean you’re fit to lead, though. I’ll have to make sure I stamp on any subordination the moment it happens.

Greg patted his fingertips together and nodded his head as he appraised his team. They were an impressive trio and he was lucky to have their skills at his disposal. “Okay, well, as you can see from the name on my desk, I am Dr Gregory Penn. My specialities are in Infectious Diseases and Neurology. I’d say that between us we have quite a broad spectrum of knowledge. My previous experience is mostly in emergency medicine and diagnostics. This is my first research post, but I intend to succeed in any and all tasks that we undertake. Every puzzle has a solution and every disease can be understood and controlled.”

The three doctors nodded.

Greg stood up and clapped his hands together. “Okay, show me what you’ve been up to.”

* * *

“This is the main lab,” said Dr Button as he showed Greg around the most high-tech facilities he had ever seen. The main testing areas were in a separate space, behind thick layers of safety glass and accessed via a series of airlocks and containment areas. Inside, Greg could see row upon rows of biosafety cabinets. On Greg’s side of the glass was a staging area with positive pressure suits and safety monitors.

“We keep strains of the Lassa Virus inside,” Dr Button mentioned. “Along with all other known forms of Haemorrhagic Fever. We are also studying several yet-to-be classified pathogens and a new strain of Necrotizing Fasciitis that is unresponsive to all antibiotics in current use.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Jesus! Where did it come from?”

Button cleared his throat. “That’s…a complicated issue.”

Greg folded his arms. “Okay, well, don’t be shy. I’d like to know where the disease was found. It could help understand it.”

Button turned to his colleagues, Fenton and Wilson, and then shrugged. They seemed to defer to him. “I was going to give you a few days to settle in before showing you,” said Button. “But if you insist, follow me.”

Greg followed his team to the back of the laboratory and through a door. Inside was another staging area, with a large steel door blocking entrance to the room beyond. Button tapped a code into a number pad on the wall and the door hissed and opened.

“After you,” said Button, somewhat patronisingly.

Greg chewed at his bottom lip and then stepped through the open door. There was another identical door up ahead. Once the first door was closed, the second one opened. Greg’s stomach turned a little as he anticipated what he was about to see.

But he never expected to find what he did.

In front of him was a large glass cage. Sitting right in the middle, watching a television, was a middle-aged man. He waved when he spotted them.

“You must be, Dr Penn,” said the man in the glass cage. “I’ve been expecting you.”

* * *

Greg turned to his team. “What the hell is this? Who is this man?” Wilson pursed her lips and looked nervous. Greg realised it was probably due to the tone of his voice having been so aggressive.

“This is Patient WC-00,” Dr Button said. “The first and, currently, only carrier of Welshchild Necrotising Fasciitis.”

Greg spun to face the younger doctor and gave him a stern stare. “There is no such disease.”

“Yes, there is. And you are looking at it.”

Greg looked at the man in the cage with great interest. He was about Greg’s age, but seemed in better shape – like he exercised regularly. The television standing on the desk in front of the man flashed with images from a 24-hour news channel.

“I like to stay abreast of current events,” said the man in the cage as he noticed Greg staring at the television. “Despite having never been a part of them.”

Greg approached the glass. He saw an oxygen scrubber set against the ceiling and realised that the room was completely sterile.

It’s a giant biohazard cabinet.

“How long have you been in there?” Greg asked the man.

“Since shortly after my birth.”

Greg looked at his team and was astonished when they nodded to confirm it.

“Since you were a baby? Why? Why would they keep you here?”

The man stood up from his chair and shrugged. He came closer to the glass. “I have no ideas. Perhaps now that you’re in charge you can finally let me out.”

“Step back from the glass,” Button said.

Greg shook his head. “I’m fine. I want to know why this man has been locked up his entire life.”

Suddenly, the man in the cage leapt the three feet between them and smashed his hands against the reinforced glass.

Greg leapt back, startled.

The man in the cage smiled widely. His teeth were missing, his gums black. “They lock me up,” he growled, “Because I am death itself. I am Plague.”

Button put a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go somewhere and I’ll fill you in.”

* * *

Back in the office, Greg was too wound-up to sit in his chair, so he perched on the edge of his desk while his team stood before him. As usual, Button was the one to do their talking.

“WC-00 was discovered on the 23rd January 1974 in the mountains of North Wales. An earthquake in the area, twinned with a nearby Army training exercise, led to the discovery. A small group of soldiers from the 1stBattalion Parachute Regiment were running fitness assessments for entry into the SAS. They found an abandoned child three-hundred feet above the ground on one of the foothills. The child was healthy, but crying.”

Greg sniffed. “They found a baby just lying there?”

Button shrugged his shoulders. “That’s what the files say. The child was totally abandoned. There was no one for miles around. The army could not explain it, but they took the child back to a base in Hereford. Within twelve hours, everyone that came into contact with the unidentified child was displaying flu-like symptoms. Twenty-four hours later and their bodies began to…peel.”

Greg swallowed a lump in his throat, but then found himself laughing. “Peel? What on earth do you mean?”

Wilson cleared her throat. “There’s a videotape in your desk drawer. You can play it on the console over there.”

Greg looked left and saw a television and tape desk that he hadn’t even realised was there. There was also hardware for DVD, Blu Ray, and a memory card reader. Greg slid open one of the slim, horizontal drawers at the back of his desk and did indeed find a tape. He went over and slid the cassette into the playback machine.

The television fizzed to life.

“What is this? What am I looking at?”

“This was recorded on the military base in Hereford,” Dr Fenton explained. “When people started getting sick, one of the medical staff had the foresight to make a recording.”

The image was grainy and spotted with noise. On a couple of occasions even the vert-hold went awry. What was clear, though, was that the images were coming from a handheld camera inside what appeared to be an infirmary.

A voice narrated from behind the scenes – the voice of the camera operator.

“It has now been approximately eighteen hours since exposure to the Welsh child. Flu-like symptoms have now progressed to something more resembling the flesh-eating nightmares of science fiction. It is like nothing I have ever seen before. Specialists are en route from Porton Down but I fear that it is already too late for us.”

The camera panned around the room and then zoomed in on a bedridden soldier.

As you can see, the flesh of this man’s face is almost completely gone. His jawbone is exposed and his trigeminal nerve is apparent beneath the liquefying flesh. This man is melting alive. I pray that his pain is soon to end. I see no other outcome but to assume that it is.

Greg felt his stomach slosh as the cameraman continued showing scenes of biological devastation. He watched as at least a dozen servicemen lay in their beds, rotting from various parts of their body. One man even had his skeletal leg bones on display beneath his knees. The video ended with the camera man turning the focus on himself – displaying his own rotting face – and reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

“Jesus Christ,” said Greg, moving around and sitting behind his desk. The wooden barrier made him feel more secure. He realised, as he placed his hands out in front of him, that he was shaking.

“The base was immediately quarantined,” said Button. “If it were not for the case the child was found by the military and taken immediately to a secure medical facility, the affects would have been far worse.”

“Catastrophic,” Fenton added. “The infection rate of exposure to the Welsh Child was 100%. survival rate: zero.”

“No disease has a total kill rate. Not a single plague know to man.”

“This one does,” said Fenton. “But only with phase one exposure.”

“What do you mean?”

“In tests, only subjects exposed to WC-00 directly displayed a 100% death rate. Of the test subjects exposed to infected patients, only 50% were symptomatic. They still contracted the virus and carried it, but it was dormant in their bodies – yet still highly infectious. On the other hand, those with symptoms, which eventually led to their deaths, were not at all symptomatic.”

Greg rubbed a finger down the length of his nose and thought about what that meant. “So…those who were dying were not contagious, yet those who appeared healthy were? That would make it nearly impossible to contain if it entered the general population. There would be no way of telling who was passing it on to whom.”

“Exactly,” said Button. “Which is why WC-00 is probably the most dangerous human being on the planet. If he ever escaped…”

Greg nodded. He understood what it would mean. “So…this man, this WC-00, is one of the asymptomatic carriers?”

“No,” said Button. “He is something else entirely.”

“What do you mean?”

“He carries the virus, yes, and is extremely contagious, but he is not like the other carriers. The disease is present in his body on a genetic level. Almost as though he were engineered to carry the virus in his DNA.”

Greg huffed. “You’re talking about genetic engineering…in the 1970s? That’s preposterous.”

“Perhaps, but every test we have done on WC-00’s tissue samples suggest that the virus is as much a part of his make-up as amino acids and mitochondria. He literally is the virus, in human form.”

“I am plague,” said Greg, remembering what the man had said to him.

“He says that a lot,” said Wilson. She scratched at her forehead and let out a long sigh. “Since his isolation began, ongoing efforts have been made to socialise and enrich his existence, but in recent years he has begun to take on characteristics of-”

“Dementia,” Greg guessed. “I’m not surprised. He’s been locked in a glass cube his entire life. Has he ever even felt the touch of another human being?”

“Only when he was retrieved from the Welsh foothills,” said Fenton. “The level 5 Bio Hazard protocols were created purely to house him. He’s never left that room. Anyone that goes in must exercise extreme caution. Full safety measures.”

“What about when he gets sick? How has he been kept healthy this whole time?”

“There has been no need,” Button said. “His immune system is like nothing we have ever seen. He’s never been sick a day in his life. Not even a cold.”

Greg shook his head. “Well, I’m not surprised in an isolation chamber. He’s probably never been exposed to anything. I was thinking more about internal disorders.”

“You don’t understand,” said Button, somewhat condescendingly. “We have intentionally exposed him to all kinds of pathogens, from the common cold to smallpox. His immune system dismantled every single attack.”

Greg’s eyes went wide. The man was a miracle – if they could ever discover the reason for his total immunity…harness that knowledge in some way…

“Wait,” said Greg. “What about his teeth. They were rotted and missing.”

“Auto-immune response. The antibodies in his saliva are so aggressive that they attracted the bacteria growing on the surface of his teeth until there was nothing left but stumps. We serve him his nutrients in liquid-form now.”

Greg sighed. “No human being should have to live like that.”

“Many would agree with you,” said Fenton, finding his voice, “but those in charge are just taking the only option available. The real blame should be with whatever terrorist created WC-00.”

“You think terrorists are responsible?”

Fenton shrugged. “Some may have other opinions, but I see no other answers. Somebody was supposed to find WC-00 and contract the disease, before spreading it. It was only supremely good fortune that led to a safe quarantine.”

“Three hundred and sixty-eight people were dead within thirty-six hours of the child being found. If the disease had gotten outside that base, you and I would not be standing here. We would all be dead, or not even born.”

Greg leant back in his chair and held his breath. He concentrated on the pressure building within his chest and then finally let the air out. If WC-00 ever got out, then humanity would die out to the tune of 50%. More than three billion people. And he was now the man in charge of that never happening. Several hours ago, he had no idea that the destruction of mankind was being housed in a glass cage below the British countryside. Now that he knew, he envied the ignorance he would never again have the luxury of having.

I wonder what other secrets this chamber of horrors contains.

Guess I’ll find out.

* * *

After only three days, Greg had discovered all sorts of uncategorised biological nasties. The underground ‘Level 5’ lab housed methods of killing the world a hundred times over. It was a good thing that the facility was one of the most secure in the world. It would probably even put the American labs to shame.

Still, despite all that he had seen, Greg’s mind kept wandering back to WC-00 – or Welshchild as his team referred to him sometimes. He couldn’t believe that some unknown man of science had once engineered and condemned a new born child to a life of isolation – with the original intention being the semi-extinction of mankind. Welshchild’s very existence was a tragedy. And it was something the world would never know
about. The man would spend every minute of the rest of his life inside a glass cage.

Greg lay back in the king-sized bed of his underground apartment and stared at the whizzing ceiling fan. It reminded him of the wheels on a speeding car; something he would not see again for the next three years.

After the breakup of his marriage, the chance to get away had seemed ideal, but now Greg felt like he was in a tomb and surrounded by agents of death. The only thing keeping him sane was the work – the thrill of being at the cutting edge of epidemiology. His efforts at the facility could directly influence the future of the world and its ongoing battle against infection. If he ever found a way to replicate WC-00’s superior immune system, he would win a noble prize at the very least.

He’s the priority here. He’s a unique human being. The things he could teach us…

But in forty years no one has been able to do anything but contain him.

That’s exactly why this could my chance to make a difference. Maybe I could even find a cure for the disease. I could allow that poor man to finally step outside and smell the fresh air.

Or am I just dreaming?

Greg hopped up off the bed and walked across the bedroom. He had no idea what time it was, but he wasn’t feeling sleepy. He would go back to work until he was.

Being underground meant that time lost its importance. People worked when they were awake and rested when they needed to. It was a system that worked well. People were more productive when they could work to their natural rhythms. There were no early mornings and late nights, just work and rest entwined.

Greg threw on some clothes from the built in wardrobes and headed out of his apartment. The outside corridor led back to the labs and the air-locked areas. He could also get to WC-00’s containment cell, which was his destination. He wanted to talk to the man, find out as much as he could.

Discover his secrets.

Inside the main lab, Button was working busily away. Out of the members of Greg’s team, Button seemed the most resistant to downtime. The man ate at his desk and slept via short naps of only twenty or thirty minutes at a time. Greg both admired and pitied his dedication.

“Dr Penn, sir? Can I help you with anything?”

“No, I’m just off to see WC-00.”

Button swivelled slightly on his chair and frowned at Greg. “There’s nothing we can do for him, or with him.”

“But to not try would be inhuman. The man deserves to have someone fighting to give him a normal life.”

“He’ll never have a normal life…and he’s not human. No one raised in such an environment could be considered as such.”

Greg nodded. “But that is our doing, not his.”

Dr Button swivelled back around and faced his computer. With a weary voice, he said, “Just be careful. WC-00 has a way of getting inside your head. He’s best left alone.”

Greg didn’t exactly understand what that meant, but he nodded and said, “I’ll take it under advisement, Dr Button.”

Greg headed through the lab and typed in the key code needed to enter the containment cell. The door hissed open and he stepped through into the airlock, before passing through into the next room.

WC-00 sat in the centre of his glass cage as he always did whenever he did not have company. When he saw Greg appear, he waved a hand dismissively and turned back to whatever he was watching.

Greg stepped up close to the glass and sat down on the chair he had placed there a day earlier. “Hello,” he said as he got comfortable.

WC-00 kept his eyes on the television. “What do you want?”

“I just wanted to see how you were doing?”

“I woke up. Exercised for one hour. Ate breakfast. Switched the television on. Later I will have dinner and then go to sleep. Tomorrow I will do the exact same thing again. That will be my life until the moment I pass my final breath. I pray that it is sooner rather than later.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “You pray? You believe in God?”

“Yes, I believe in God. It is the only thing that keeps me going in here.”

“That is good,” said Greg.

WC-00 turned and grinned at him. “Yes, I have to believe in God, because the thought of standing before him one day and demanding answers for my pointless existence is the only thing with which I have to look forward.”

Greg sighed. Religion could be a comfort to those who accepted it. It could also be fuel. Fuel for rage and hatred. His own belief was that a lack of religion in any way was the only way for society to occupy a rational middle-ground – but that was a conversation for another time and place.

“You’re a well-spoken man, WC-00.”

“Call me Welsh. I have never possessed a name, but that serves me better than an ID code.”

Greg nodded. “Okay…Welsh. How did they educate you here?”

“Books, videos, interactions with men behind the glass. There is little else to do in here other than educate oneself. I like to know about the world that has been denied to me.”

“Perhaps one day you will get to see it.”

Welsh let out a long, bitter sigh. “That is a very cruel thing to suggest. Do not attempt to dangle impossibilities in front of me, Doctor. I have no time for hope.”

“Everyone must have hope.”

“Is that why you opted to spend your life three hundred feet below the ground? Despair lives beneath us and hope is in the clouds. It appears that you have gone the wrong way, Doctor.”

Greg shifted in his seat. The man in the cage had a way of voicing things in an unsettling tone. His speech patterns were unusual – the product of having no native upbringing.

“I am here to do good,” he said. “To give hope to others. That is my hope.”

Welsh cackled. “There is no hope here. This is a factory of suffering. The only reason I live is so that men like you can try to understand me, to harness the invisible death that writhes across my skin. I am a weapon, Doctor Penn. Many things in this basement of monstrosities are weapons, but I am the most destructive. Yet, your thousands of blood tests, your endless experiments on me, have all been fruitless. My being is beyond your understanding. I am above anything you can achieve merely by existing. I am plague.”

Greg considered Welsh’s words and was disconcerted to recognise traits of self-aggrandisement. When there was no normal outlets to gain self-esteem, a person would turn their world-views inwards – convince themselves that they are above those around them. It was an unhealthy belief-system.

“You keep referring to yourself as plague? Why do you do that?”

Welsh shook his head and snickered, as if the answer was obvious. “Dr Penn, if you were to step inside this cell with me, your eyeballs would melt in your head. Your fingernails would shrivel and decay. Your blood would thicken in your veins and your skin would slide from your muscles like heated marzipan. To face me, man to man, would mean certain death. I make all other diseases quake in their boots. If I am not plague personified, then what am I? Should I ride a horse and carry a quiver on my back. Would that convince you of what I am?”

Greg rubbed at his eyes. The man before him should have been a wilting neurotic after so many years of isolation, but instead he viewed himself almost as a god. “You believe you are one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse?”

Welsh stood from his chair and headed over to the glass. “It was just a metaphor, Doctor, but my destiny was indeed great. If not for the actions of a squad of doomed servicemen on that grassy hilltop where they found me, I would not have been one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse…I would have been the apocalypse itself.”

“And yet, here you are, impotent and alone. Your destiny is no longer yours to decide.” The comment was mean spirited, but Greg could not help it. Hearing the arrogant and fatalistic words of the man in front of him made him angry. It almost sounded like Welsh wished he had spread his dreaded plague.

Come on, Greg. It’s hardly surprising that he has a grudge against humankind. He’s spent his entire life as a lab rat. What capacity of love would he ever have been given?

“Destiny takes a lifetime, Doctor. It is determined by a journey’s ending, not by its beginning. Would you not agree?”

Greg thought about his own life. His beginnings had been bleak, yet bearable. His recent past had been even grimmer. He liked to think that his life’s journey could get better. Maybe it really was only the end of one’s life that counted.

“You are looking at me with great interest, Doctor,” said Welsh. “But I assure you there are no secrets here…at least none that you could comprehend.”

“I’d like to try,” said Greg, more determined than ever. He had a desire to hear this man thank him. He wanted to show Welsh what gratitude was. The only way to do that would be by…

“I’m going to cure you,” he said.

Welsh laughed, loud and hard. “Cure me from what? I am what I am. I need no cure. It is you who needs to evolve. I cannot be made sick by any organism or germ, and yet you seek to cure me? That is rich indeed, Doctor.”

“I want to help you,” said Greg, exasperated by the bitterness in Welsh’s manner.

“Help yourself, Doctor. You need it more than I.”

Greg stood up. “Suit yourself, but I assure you that one day you will get out of here and you’ll thank me.”

Welsh examined him carefully through the glass. “Well, if that ever does happen, Doctor, perhaps I will thank you…but you, on the other hand, will be begging me.”

* * *

“Has he ever tried to escape?” Greg asked his team as they sat in his office together.

“No, never,” said Wilson. “Which I suppose is strange. It would be impossible for him to get out, though.”

“You’re positive?”

“Aren’t you, sir?” asked Button with a hint of accusation.

Greg shrugged. “I know that this is a very secure facility, but you think he would have at least tried to escape once during his forty years here. The way he talks about destiny and his superiority, I would think it drives him crazy being locked up.”

Fenton folded his hands in his lap. “How do you drive a crazy person crazy? I’m sure a sane person would be beside themselves, but he is not a normal human being. Nothing about him is suspect to the normal rules of the human condition, from his personality right down to his very cells.”

Greg cleared his throat and leant forward in his leather chair. “So what treatment have we tried?”

Dr Button answered. “We’ve tried mapping his genome, to try and identify where the virus is located and target it directly. That failed. We have tried every antibiotic in existence. They failed. We have tried full blood transfusions and organ transplants. Failure. We have tried radiation therapy and various chemical treatments. Fail-”

“Failure. I get it,” said Greg. “So do any of you have any ideas how to proceed?”

“Yes,” said Button. “We spend our times on projects with a future. You need to understand that in regards to WC-00 we are nothing more than glorified hospice nurses. No one has ever been able to make sense of him and, when he is dead, we should all just be grateful that the only known source of the Welshchild disease will die with him.”

“What about his improved immune system? Has anyone come close to replicating it?”

Wilson shook her head. “We don’t even understand it, let alone have any chance of replicating it. His white blood count is the same as anybody else’s. We can’t explain how he fights off infection. Previous Doctors have theorised that the Welshchild virus is hostile to other pathogens. It may be what fights off the illness.”

Greg scratched his chin and stretched out his legs. He was feeling tired, but he was too excited to retire to his apartment. “This man is amazing. If only we could unlock his secrets.”

“Just forget about it,” said Dr Button. “He’s a lost cause to all but those who created him.”

Greg stood up and towered over his team. “Now listen here, Dr Button. I am in charge here. I will decide whether or not something is a lost cause. I want all three of your working on WC-00 for the foreseeable future. All other projects on hold.”

Wilson objected. “Do you know how close this lab is to curing Malaria, HIV, even cancer? You want us to just…stop?”

“Do you not understand?” Greg shouted. “If we understand this man’s immune system, there will be no need for a cure to malaria, or anything else for that matter. We will be the saviour of millions of people, billions for the years to come. This has to be our priority. Welsh Child Zero Zero is the key to a new, wonderful future for mankind.”

Greg’s team shifted in their seats and looked at him anxiously. They seemed unhappy at his request, but also a little buoyed by his enthusiasm.

Greg smiled at them all in turn. “We can be heroes,” he said. “Heroes.”

* * *

Days later and Greg was ready to get started. The planning stages were complete and it was time to start performing tests.

“There’s no reason to go in there,” Dr Button told Greg. “We have more tissue samples then we will ever need.”

Greg pulled the positive pressure suit over his body from the feet upwards and started to fasten the seals. Dr Wilson helped him attach the gloves to the suit and lock the bracelets. “We’re starting from scratch, Dr Button. I want fresh samples so I know that we are working with pure and up-to-date results. We shouldn’t take anything for granted concerning this man.”

Dr Button handed him the suit’s helmet. “Fine. Just be quick and just be careful. Wilson and Fenton are both on lunch break. If something happens there’s only me to help you.”

Before Greg put the helmet on, he frowned at the doctor. “Careful?”

“Yes. It’s been a while since anybody went inside, so be prepared. We don’t know for sure how Welsh will react.”

Greg fastened a utility belt around his waist and plugged it into the suit’s input jack. “I can handle it,” he said into the helmet’s speaker.

Dr Button checked Greg’s suit as he turned a full circle, checking for tears. When he was satisfied, they inflated the suite and Greg turned around, clomping towards the WC-00 airlock.

A vinyl tunnel had been erected inside to allow uncompromised entry into the glass cell. Welsh sat in the middle of the room, expectantly. Greg stopped in the tunnel midway and waited for the chemical shower to douse him. Once that was done, he proceeded to the glass cell. There was a key pad ahead and he quickly activated it. The door unlocked and slid sideways with a hiss.

He stepped inside.

Welsh observed him quietly, almost seeming uninterested.

“Dr Penn. How lovely for you to visit.”

Greg laughed. “Less of the Hannibal Lector act. I’m here to help you.”

Welsh looked confused. “Hannibal Hector?”

“Never mind. How are you feeling?”

“I can’t get sick. I feel fine, as always.”

“I meant in yourself, emotionally? Are you still feeling…resentful?”

“I do not resent,” Welsh said. “I just hold people responsible for their actions.”

Greg decided to ignore the evasive answers and just get on with things. He wasn’t sure if Welsh even had the capacity to share on an emotional level. “I would like to take some tissue samples from you, if that is okay?”

“By all means. Did something happen to the other thousand samples that you already have?”

Greg opened up a pouch on his right arm and plucked out a syringe. “I’d just like to start fresh. It would ease my mind knowing that I have the very best samples available to me.”

“So that you can use me to cure the world?”

Greg nodded. It was a clunky movement inside the helmet. “You are an amazing specimen, Welsh. You could be the key to a new future. A world without sickness and disease.”

Welsh turned to the television and sighed. “And my reward for that is a lifetime of incarceration.”

“If this works, you would be able to leave.”

“I don’t think so. By the time you even came close to understanding me, I would be an old old man. Many scientists have worked on me before you, Dr Penn. Better, smarter scientists.”

The comment irritated Greg but he would not allow it to distract him. Whether Welsh believed it or not, he was trying to do good. The fact that success would effectively make him the saviour of the world was just a hefty bonus.

Welsh sat still while Greg took his blood. He placed the full syringe into an airtight rubber seal, which he then placed back into the pouch on his arm. Saliva swabs and even ear wax samples followed. Greg also took some of Welsh’s hair and fingernail clipping.

Greg glanced at the television and saw that the news was on as usual. Riots in the Middle East were raging. He wondered if the region would finally find peace one day, and if maybe one day his work would help towards it.

Would people still fight in a world without disease?

With his first round of tests all complete, Greg prepared to leave the cell. Before he did, however, Welsh reached out and grabbed his wrist.

Greg looked down at Welsh’s fingers around his arm and frowned. “What are you doing? Please let go of me.”

Welsh looked him in the eye. “I just wanted to say thank you. I understand that you want to help.”

Greg smiled. “I told you that one day you would thank me.”

Welsh grinned right back. “And I told you that one day you would beg me.”

Greg’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m sorry?”

“You really should be more careful.” He pointed at Greg’s elbow.

Greg’s eyes went so wide he thought they might fall out of their sockets. His heart pulsed and his lungs went stiff.

No, no, no….

The tear on the left elbow of his suit was minute. But it was there. He was compromised. The positive air pressure might be enough to save him, but…

“I…I…”

Welsh laughed. “How very unfortunate. You had such high hopes.”

Greg staggered backwards and was surprised when somebody caught him. It was Dr Button. He was not wearing a suit at all.

“Button! Are you insane? Why the hell are you in here without a suit? We need to quarantine this whole level. I…I may be infected.”

“Oh believe me, you are,” said Dr Button. “You have no idea how contagious this disease is. A thimbleful is enough to infect a billion people. It truly is remarkable.”

“Wh…what are you babbling about? We’re going to die. We have to make sure nobody else does. You’re insane exposing yourself like this.”

Dr Button just laughed. “Don’t worry, I was exposed a long time ago. I’m immune, Dr Penn. We all are.”

Greg was struggling to breathe. The panic was like nothing he had ever felt before. He needed to get the hell out of the cell, away from the virus, but he couldn’t. He could have the disease. “What do you mean, you all are?”

“The people I work for. The people who tried to release this virus to the world more than thirty years ago. We have been preparing. Billions will die, but we will go on. The world will be rebuilt. The world will be better. We are ready to see that change. It’s been a long wait, but now it is finally here.”

“You’re insane. Fucking insane! Where are Wilson and Fenton?”

“I already told you,” said Dr Button. “They’re taking their break. Although, I think they may have eaten something that didn’t agree with them. I’d imagine they’re in quite an amount of discomfort right now. It won’t last long, though, so don’t worry. They will be dead long before the virus eats their flesh. They are the lucky ones.”

Greg lashed out, went to grab a hold of Dr Button’s neck. But Welsh leapt up and grabbed him in a chokehold. Greg grunted and heaved as his throat was restricted. “Pl….please. Don’t do this. Don’t…please.”

“Sounds like begging to me,” Welsh whispered in his ear.

Dr Button shook his head pitifully as Greg began to fade. “You wanted so much to make the world better. Well, don’t worry; you will have your wish granted. You just won’t be around to see it.”

Greg struggled with his last ounces of strength. “You’ll never get out of here. They’ll…stop you…”

Dr Button just smiled. “Once I release the virus into the entire facility, all I will have to do is wait a while. Welsh and I will walk right out of here. Then our true work begins. Of course I will disable all outgoing communications first. Wouldn’t want the world getting warning.”

Greg’s vision was growing dark. The blood vessels in his forehead felt like they might pop. “Why…are…you…doing…this?”

Button opened his arms wide, like he was a preacher on a pedestal. “Because, Dr Penn, we…are…plague.”

Forty-eight hours later and everybody was dead. Welsh and Button walked right on out of the facility and got into a car waiting for them nearby. Welsh wanted to see London first.

THE PEELING: BOOK 5

THE LIGHTS

The camp had been free of infection for almost two weeks, but the lights in the sky were making everybody nervous. The blinking green orbs had appeared only days before and had been hanging in the sky every time night fell. Every day when dusk approached, the members of the camp would wait with bated breath to see if the lights would still be there. Every evening it would become clear that the lights were not going away. If anything, they seemed to be getting closer – lower in the sky.

Gretchen looked out from her perch atop the roof of the ambulance and surveyed the rest of the camp. She and nineteen other survivors had gathered together inside a roadside hotel. The adjacent restaurant had provided them with some food supplies and ample amounts of beer and soft drinks. The hotel itself was newly constructed and gave them all the safety of communal living while also providing everyone with the privacy of their own room. They had blocked up the road to the hotel and kept a constant vigil for any other survivors that may have been lurking in the nearby area.

While Gretchen’s group were not against welcoming other survivors, there was still the risk of infection. While The Peeling seemed to have abated somewhat, with new infections becoming more and more rare, there was still the old fashioned illnesses of influenza, dysentery, and pleurisy – and more importantly, there were no longer any doctors to treat them. While the movies always made sure that the group of desperate survivors had a medic amongst them, Gretchen’s group had nothing of the sort. The members of the camp ranged from salesmen and factory workers to a professional dog walker – nobody who knew how to treat an illness.

Pritchett called up to Gretchen and told her that her turn to keep watch was over. He also had a piping hot cup of soup waiting for her. Gretchen hopped down off the ambulance and took the mug from the man.

He smiled at her warmly. “Everything A-okay?”

Gretchen nodded. “Haven’t seen a thing. It’s starting to get bloody cold though. We’re going to have to find a way to keep ourselves warm once winter gets here.”

Pritchett nodded. “I guess we could gather up all the spare duvets.”

Gretchen nodded. “We’ll work on it tomorrow.”

She walked away, heading away from the roadside and back towards the restaurant where most of the group tended to congregate during the evening. Pritchett would keep watch for the next six hours, but other than him, nobody else would be busy.

As she suspected, almost every member of camp was situated in the eatery. Pendle and Groves had started a fire in a barrel in the centre of the room and had set up a couple of sea bass fillets on a makeshift spit. The smell of the fish made Gretchen’s mouth water.

To prevent smoke, the group had opened up a skylight in the restaurant that seemed to do a good job of keeping the air circulating. Maybe in the winter they could set up more fires inside the buildings.

“Hey, Grets,” said Pendle. He was a handsome young man with tanned skin passed down from his Spanish mother. His dark hair had grown out in recent weeks and the heat of the fire made beads of sweat form on the tips of his fringe.

“Hey, Pendle. Smells good. I’m surprised we still have fish that is good to eat.”

“Groves smoked most of the meat and fish early on. We’re just making a start on it all. The frozen sausages and burgers have all run out and the fries are running low. We’re going to have to go out and start searching for canned food soon.”

Gretchen nodded. “I’ll start putting together a plan. There’s a supermarket nearby. Hopefully it wasn’t completely stripped clean in the early days.”

Pendle sighed. They all remembered the early days. The chaotic time where rape and murder went unopposed and neighbours robbed one another with impunity. During the first tumultuous weeks of the infection, anarchy claimed as many lives as The Peeling itself. The Army had been called in to control the situation but, once the government fell, they soon became nothing more than a roving band of bullies, taking other people’s supplies at gun point. Then, even the Army seemed to disappear and disband.

In the final few weeks, survivors had become more and more of a rarity. It had been several days since Gretchen’s camp had accepted anybody new – a guy name Logan was the last, a man who claimed to have been a Physics teacher. They took him in for his expertise, but so far he had done nothing but keep to himself.

The survivors had all remained safe and well fed at the hotel since they’d gathered there four weeks ago, but a time was quickly coming where they would have to venture back out into the world – where rotting flesh lined the street and legions of rats tore holes in everything in sight. Gretchen shuddered at the thought.

She shuddered even more when she thought of her own family lying out there someplace.

When The Peeling had hit, Gretchen’s husband had caught it almost right away. He had come home with a flu that quickly became a burning, tingling sensation all over his body. Then a scrap of skin came away on his ankle. It was quickly over from that point.

As the news report showed horrifying scenes of the flesh-eating virus, Gretchen was getting a first-hand view. Her husband was little more than a patchy skeleton by the time he died a week later. Gretchen’s mother-in-law had the children, but in the chaos that ensued during the riots and looting, something had happened to them. When Gretchen reached her mother-in-law’s home, they were all gone and there was no note. Gretchen had stayed there for days until somebody eventually set the neighbourhood on fire and forced everyone to flee. Gretchen had joined up with a roving group of ten survivors on the M4 motorway and eventually they had rested here at the hotel.

Gretchen sipped at her soup and shivered as it warmed her cold body. What she would give to have her husband’s cuddling arms around her now. Had anybody been lucky enough to keep a hold of their spouse? Or their children?

She took a seat alone at one of the tables and looked around at her new family. Amongst the group was Shandi, an African American business women from Tulsa who had been visiting the UK for a meeting. The women knew nothing of her country back home, or the people she knew there. There was Bryan, who was perhaps their most handy member of the camp. He was a skilled carpenter and had helped them construct barricades over the windows and create makeshift weapons. Daniel was a salesman from Alcester and mostly kept to himself. Something suggested the young man was mourning on some great loss. A bubbly girl named Sally had worked at a Marks and Spencer department store in Redditch prior to the infection and was the cheeriest of the group. Her disposition seemed to be one where the glass was half full. Danny was an old factory worker from Longbridge, who had worked twenty years at the Rover car plant until the layoffs many years before. He had been working a metal press since then. There were a dozen other faces in the room, but Gretchen felt too tired to look upon them all. What she really needed was to go to bed, but she hated being alone in her cold, featureless hotel room.

“Why don’t you just piss off,” came an angry voice from the other side of the restaurant.

“We can’t keep burying our heads in the sand. We need to have an open discussion about this.”

“I don’t see the point in freaking everybody out about something we don’t even understand.”

Gretchen sighed and got up. She went over to the two camp members who were fighting. It was Colin and David. Both were mid-forties men, but while Colin wore a dirty old suit and had once worked at a bank, David had been unemployed most of his life and was generally a lazy and abrasive chap.

“What is it?” Gretchen asked them.

Colin smiled at her, but it was clear that he was exasperated. “I’m just suggested that we bite the bullet and talk about those lights in the sky. They must mean something.”

David rolled his eyes. “They could be a million different things. What’s the point in stressing over them? They haven’t done nothing since they showed up.”

Colin rolled his eyes back at the other man. “It seems quite apparent to me that they are descending. They are much bigger than they were when they first appeared.”

“No they ain’t.”

Gretchen waved a hand. “No, Colin is right. I think they are getting closer to us…to Earth or whatever.”

David shook his head. “Fuck sake. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m a bit worried,” said Sally. “They have to mean something. What if they’re missiles? Maybe another country doesn’t want The Peeling spreading over to them and they’re going to nuke us off the planet.”

There was a frightened muttering as the others in the room listened in. The talk of being bombed was a fear many of them had and it had been discussed before.

Gretchen shook her head. “Missiles don’t take days and days to fall; nor do they advertise their presence with great blinking lights.”

“What then?” came a voice. “What do you think they are?”

“Probably just some environmental anomaly caused by all the methane.”

“The what?” said David.

“The methane gas…from all of the bodies. There must be millions of dead just rotting in the streets. That amount of damage to the ozone layer…”

There was a collective sigh. Missiles, people couldn’t deal with, but global warming… They hadn’t cared about global warming before the world crumbled, so they most certainly didn’t care about it now.”

“She’s right,” said David. “I bet that’s all it is. No need to worry about it.”

Everybody filtered back to what they were doing. Colin approached Gretchen and spoke quietly. “Do you really believe that? About the methane gas?”

“Not really, but there’s no point in speculating on anything worse.”

“I suppose not. If you were to speculate, though; what would your guess be?”

Gretchen sighed, shrugged her shoulders. “The only thing that worries me is that those lights showing up right after the world’s most devastating plague is too much to be a coincidence.”

With that Gretchen decided that even the cold silence of her hotel room was better than the tense atmosphere of the restaurant. People were starting to get tetchy, and it would only get worse.

Back in her room, Gretchen picked up a paperback she had snatched from the hotel’s lounge: Going Postal by Terry Pratchett. She had already read it twice and enjoyed the surreal Discworld and how it reminded her of the petty, care-free world she had once lived in.

After two pages she was fast asleep.

* * *

She awoke sometime later to what felt and sounded like an earthquake. A glass of water fell off the room’s desk and soaked the carpet. The empty hangers in the closet rattled.

Gretchen checked her watch: 3:13 AM.

She leapt off the bed and headed over to the window. She was on the second floor and could see clear across the car park. Pritchett was standing on top of the ambulance, still keeping watch. He had his hands on his head, obviously flustered by something.

“What the hell was that?” Gretchen asked herself. The rumbling had stopped almost as soon as it had started, but there was an electricity lingering in the air that put her right on edge.

She slipped out of her room and headed down the corridor. En route she met up with Pendle who was barefoot and hurrying in the same direction.

“What’s going on, Gretchen?”

“Damned if I know.”

The two of them headed down the carpeted staircase into the lobby below. There everybody was gathered. There everybody was demanding an explanation.

“Was it an earthquake?” Someone asked.

“In England? All we ever get here is farty little tremors.”

“Maybe it’s the global warming. Maybe our climate is changing.”

“Earthquakes have nothing to do with the weather. It’s about fault lines and plate tectonics,” said Colin knowledgably.

“Let’s just everybody calm down,” said Gretchen. “We don’t know anything yet, so let’s just stay calm until we do.”

Everybody muttered, but the shouting voices quietened down.

“So what do we do?” asked Colin.

“We go and check with Pritchett. He’s the guy on watch. I’m sure he saw whatever happened.”

“I ain’t going out there,” said David in his dirty boxer shorts.

“Stay here then,” said Gretchen.

She started heading for the lobby’s large entrance doors and found that a majority of the group were following her. She had learned weeks ago that people felt safest when they were acting as a herd. That was probably a rational reason for why the ordinary law-abiding citizens of the UK had taken to looting and rioting in the early days.

Outside in the courtyard, the cold immediately struck Gretchen. Even through her sweater, she felt it biting at her skin and nipples.

Up ahead, across the car park, was the ambulance they used as a lookout. Pritchett was still standing on top of it. He saw them approaching and waved his arms.

“You guys aren’t going to believe this,” he said, with both a twinge of excitement and fear in his voice.

“What is it? Do you see what caused the tremors?”

Pritchett nodded. “Hell, yes. And if you look up you will all get a great big clue as to what it was.”

Gretchen, along with everybody else, craned their necks and glanced upwards.

The blinking green lights were gone. After days of looming over them all, they had disappeared.

Or maybe the opposite is true.

Pritchett spoke excitedly. “The lights just suddenly plummeted out of the sky as though somebody flipped a switch. All of them just shot right down to the earth and then…boom!”

“Did any of them land near us?” someone shouted.

Pritchett nodded. “One landed right over in the woods across the ring road.”

People began to panic. “Oh, God. What the hell is it? It’s something bad, isn’t it?”

“A bomb, I reckon.”

“Terrorists.”

“Aliens.”

Gretchen had to laugh at the last suggestion she heard shouted out. Aliens. It was absurd; yet somehow her laughter contained no mirth.

“We should check it out,” said Colin. “We should know what we’re up against.”

“What do you mean?” asked David. “What we’re up against?”

“I mean we should just take a look. Who knows maybe it could have even been a supply drop from the government.”

One so heavy that it shook the earth. Somehow I don’t think so, thought Gretchen.

Without any further consultation, Gretchen headed towards the edge of the car park, over the shrubs that bordered it, and onto the ring road. Cars lay crumpled up against each other in a long line, but it was easy to navigate around them, or even climb up over the bonnets when need be.

Pendle caught up with her; Pritchett and Colin were not far behind. Everybody else loitered in the car park; their herd mentality only going so far until they felt that it might endanger them.

“This can’t be anything good, can it?” asked Pendle. “I mean, whatever it was shook me right out of my bed. What can hit the ground with that much force?”

“Guess we’re going to find out.”

As they crossed the ring road and headed for the woodland that bordered it on the far side, they passed by decaying bodies in abandoned cars. Most were bony corpses, stricken by The Peeling, but some were the victims of crime. They passed a man stabbed in the heart with a pair of scissors. Who had done it and why would be just another of the countless unknown stories that littered the landscape. Every corpse had a story to tell, but no way to tell it.

Gretchen closed her eyes as she walked past the carnage. Her nose still picked up the stench of old death but at least her eyes could shut off. She shuffled along, letting her feet find the way.

“Watch your step,” said Pendle, seeming to know that she was walking with her eyes closed.

Gretchen opened her eyes in time to see the approaching curb and the embankment beyond. She stepped up and over it and began to descend down into the woodland.

“Where about did it hit?” Pendle asked Pritchett.

“Over there,” the man pointed.

They headed east through the woods, following Pritchett’s excited directions.

Gretchen couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to be brighter up ahead, as if the moonlight were shining on something, or if something was shining by itself. The air also seemed lest crisp and chilly. The atmosphere was becoming muggy.

“I think I see something up ahead,” said Colin. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Perhaps we should wait until morning.”

Gretchen carried on walking. “If we’re in danger now, we’ll be in danger tomorrow. If we’ve learned anything these last few months, it’s that waiting around with our heads buried in the sand doesn’t work.”

“I agree,” said Pendle. “We need to know what the score is.”

After several more yards, Gretchen became positive that there was light coming from up ahead. It was no brighter than the light from the full moon, but it was blinking and had a greenish hue.

“What is that?” asked Pritchett, his excitement had waned and he now spoke in a hushed whisper.

“I don’t know.” Gretchen stepped over a clump of weeds and sidled up beside an old oak tree. She flinched as something landed on her shoulder, but sighed with relief when she realised it was just a crisp autumn leaf falling from the branches above.

The sound of rustling made her flinch again. This time she looked to her left and saw a movement in the bushes.

Then an identical rustling spun her around to face the bushes in the opposite direction.

Pritchett was spinning around on the spot, looking everywhere. “What’s going on?”

“Something’s moving,” said Colin.

“Not just one thing,” Gretchen said. “I saw at least two things.”

“Maybe just deer?”

“Maybe.”

More movement in the bushes. This time from all around them.

“I think we should get out of here,” said Pritchett. “I think we’re surround-” Something seized Pritchett and dragged him back into the bushes. He disappeared so fast that it was as if his body had been attached to a bungee.

Gretchen shouted. “Run!”

Nobody argued and they all started sprinting back the way they had come. They leapt over roots and sidestepped tree trunks as they floundered in the darkness. Pritchett’s screams rang out behind them but not for long.

Behind them the bushes rustled. A deep, ominous growl filled the forest.

“What the hell is happening?” Pendle shouted between huffs and puffs.

“I don’t know,” said Colin. “We need to get back to the hotel and put some thought into this.”

“Let’s just concentrate on not dying first,” said Gretchen.

They spotted the road between the trees, several yards ahead.

“There’s the road,” said Pendle. “We can make it.”

As soon as he said the words, Pendle caught his ankle on a half-buried tree root and went tumbling into the mud. Gretchen stopped to help him. But it was too late.

Something seized Pendle’s foot and dragged him backwards through the mud. He screamed and reached out for Gretchen, but within a second he had disappeared into the trees.

Colin grabbed Gretchen by the arm and turned her around. “Come on, we have to get out of here now.”

The two of them made it out of the trees and up the embankment. As soon as they hit the road they dodged behind cars and tried to mix up their escape route. The bellowing growls continued from within the woods.

The other survivors were still waiting in the hotel car par, and when they saw only two of the four explorers coming back, they began to panic and shout.

“Where the hell is Pritchett and Pendle?” David demanded. “Did you up and leave em?”

“There’s something out there in those woods,” said Colin, almost weeping. “We have to get inside.”

Everybody panicked and the entire group of survivors began sprinting across the tarmac, heading for the hotel. Gretchen glanced behind at the woods across the road. Nothing seemed to be following them, but the glowing green light she had seen earlier had grown and now bathed the entire area in a putrid glow.

This is not going to work out well at all.

I think we may have just been attacked by aliens.

* * *

Inside the hotel’s bar lounge, everyone stood around nervously, glancing out of the windows and jumping at every sound.

“We all need to just chill the fuck out,” said David.

“Chill out?” said Colin. “Something abducted two of our members like something out of Close Encounters. We should all be in a very un-chilled out mood. In fact we should all be in quite a flap about things.”

David smirked. “Perhaps I’m all ‘flapped’ out after what we’ve been through. Everyone here is a survivor. The whole world has ended but we’re still here. I’m not about to panic now after surviving so much.”

“We haven’t survived whatever is out in those woods.”

“Look,” said Gretchen, raising a hand and gaining the floor. “Panic or no panic, I am telling you that something pretty damn dangerous is lurking in those woods and I’m pretty sure it came from whatever fell out of the sky. This isn’t an infection or looters; this is something else.”

“You’re quite right,” said a voice at the back of the room. It was the physics teacher, Logan.

Gretchen looked at the man. He was holding what looked like a triple scotch in his hand. “What do you know about it? Have you seen something?”

“Many things, my dear,” replied Logan in a slurry mumble.

“Then stop being so fucking cryptic and speak,” said David. “It’s about time you did something useful around here.”

Logan ignored David and kept his drunken focus on Gretchen. “We have visitors. Visitors whom made an appointment many many years ago.”

“Visitors?”

Logan nodded. “You think that this is all a coin…coin…coincidence.” The man belched. “There’s hardly any of us left – probably less than one percent of the population. And believe me that it’s this bad everywhere; every country. Every scrap of land.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I kept tabs, my dear. Ever since I stopped working for the Government and started teaching snot-nosed little kids about Hooke’s law, I kept my eyes and ears open. The Peeling hit everywhere and there was no stopping it. The entire world was affected the same as us. We are the last of our kind – the last remnants of the human race.”

“You’re talking shit,” said David. “There’s still enough of us to get things going again. We’ll have babies and repopulate. Sooner the better if you ask me.”

“You said that you worked for the Government,” said Gretchen. “In what capacity?”

“I was a researcher – part of the space program.”

“Did we even have one? I thought space had become more the realm of private industry.”

Logan nodded forlornly. “Unfortunately the times of putting boots on the moon were long behind us, but there were still many secrets to learn about the universe. We never stopped tracking the skies with our telescopes or sending up probes.”

“So what are you saying? What do you know?”

“I know about the baby.”

David snickered. “This guy has had a shit-tonne to drink.”

Logan sneered at the lad, but continued. “Decades ago, a mysterious baby was found abandoned in the freezing cold hills of Wales. Everyone who came into contact with the child died. Guess how.”

Gretchen narrowed her eyes. “The Peeling?”

“Indeed. Their skin rotted off in days, leaving them raving lunatics before their deaths. The child was isolated and kept that way until he was a grown man.”

“Are you saying that this child was infected with The Peeling but lived like some kind of Typhoid Mary?”

Logan shook his head. “The child was a weapon – a dirty bomb.

One thing a human being can’t resist is a baby. They knew that, which is why they used one as their dispersal method. What they didn’t count on was the child being quarantined so effectively. Through a stroke of luck, the child was found by the Army who immediately took it back to base. The infection stayed within the rural outpost and stopped there. Their plan failed.”

Gretchen shook her head. “Whose plan?”

“The aliens.”

Gretchen laughed at that moment, but something about the seriousness in Logan’s eyes – despite his drunkenness – told her to take him seriously.

“We’d picked up signs of life a few times. On our telescopes we spotted great blinking green lights that would disappear before we could pin them down. We would pick up strange radio chatter and radiation signatures that made no sense. We knew something was out there; we just didn’t know what.

But when that baby arrived, we knew exactly what it was: a way to wipe us out.”

Gretchen sighed. She went and poured herself a vodka from the optics. She wasn’t usually a drinker, but right now she needed one.

“Why wipe us out?” asked Colin. “What would that achieve?”

Logan shrugged. “I never stayed at the project long enough to find out. When we learned about the child’s make-up – how it was genetically infused with the deadliest virus in existence, I decided I’d seen enough. It was clear that humanity’s days were drawing to an end. I wasn’t about to waste what life I had left in a lab.”

“So you what? Thought you’d waste time teaching kids stuff that they probably wouldn’t live long enough to use.”

Logan shrugged again. “Pay was okay and there was lots of holiday time.”

Gretchen downed her vodka. “So what happened? You said the child was quarantined for decades.”

“He was indeed. Then he escaped about six months ago. I know because an old colleague of mine died during his escape. I could tell by the way the Government were trying to cover it up, blocking any attempts at investigation, that the child – now a man – had escaped. I also knew what else that meant. That the End had arrived.”

“But it didn’t. We’re still alive, and so are you.”

“For now, yes. But the infection was only put on this earth to thin our numbers. For whatever reason, something wants our planet. For terraforming or mining, who knows? But they have thinned our number sufficiently, and now they are here to take their prize.”

Gretchen hated to admit it, but it kind of made sense. If aliens ever arrived, it would make no sense to attack us with ships and guns. They would, by their very nature, be more advanced than humans. They would have far better means to destroy the planet’s inhabitants – biological means. Humans didn’t fight cockroaches with guns, they used gas; contaminated the very air they breathed.

“So what do we do?” asked Colin.

Logan laughed and took a sip from his whisky. “We wait to die, my friend. We wait to die.”

* * *

Nobody dared to leave the building, or even go off alone to their rooms. The bellowing growls continued out in the woods and they all knew it would only be a matter of time before whatever was making them came closer.

Bryan, the carpenter, had assembled a team that was checking the existing barricades and trying to construct new ones. The chairs and tables from the lounge had been cannibalised for that purpose. By the time they were done, several hours later, dawn had arrived and the growling had stopped.

“Do you hear that?” asked Gretchen.

Colin shook his head. “No.”

“Exactly. The growling has stopped.”

“You think they’re gone away.”

Gretchen shook her head slowly. “Not at all, but perhaps we just discovered that they’re nocturnal. Maybe on their planet it’s always dark.”

“How does that help us?” asked Bryan, hammer in hand.

Colin nodded and smiled, catching Gretchen’s drift. “Because they would have evolved to suit their planet. They won’t be anything like us – the odds are far too astronomical. If their planet is dark, then their eyes will be underdeveloped. We might be able to use light to our advantage.”

Bryan sniffed. “I’ll make sure we have fires ready to burn at a moment’s notice.” He walked off.

“You think we can fight back?” asked Colin. “If we really are facing something from another world.”

Gretchen shook her head. “I think we’re screwed. Something evolved enough to travel the universe and engineer a planet-killing virus will have no problem taking out a few stragglers.”

“Oh dear.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m going to just lie down and take it, though. It’s in our nature as human beings to fight, so that’s just what we’re going to do.”

“You’re damn right we are,” said David, approaching with a pool cue in his hands. “Anything tries to zap me with a ray gun will get a cue full of chalk dust up their arses.”

Colin giggled. “I’d like to see that.”

David patted Colin on the back. “Let’s find you a pool cue of your own and we can play doubles on their butt cracks.”

Gretchen rubbed at her eyes. Since awakening last night, nobody had slept. It was beginning to take its toll and the back of her eyelids felt fuzzy and her mind kept spacing out for brief seconds. If they were about to be attacked by an alien clean-up crew, she felt in no fit state to fight them – but the situation was out of her control. As she looked around, she could see that everyone else was on the edge of their own sanity thresholds. Rather than strengthen them as human beings, the stress and hardships of the last few months had in fact weakened them to the point of emotional collapse. None of them could endure much more.

Perhaps the visitors know that. Maybe they’ve been hanging in the air waiting for just the right time to descend and finish us off.

She caught Groves, the resident chef, as he went to walk past. “Hey, Jamie. Can you go and get as much food as you can from the restaurant; I think we could all do with a big feast this afternoon.”

Groves huffed. “You mean a last meal? Anyway, I’m not stepping outside with those things out there.”

“It will be alright. We won’t see them until dark.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“I can’t, but if they are going to get us at daylight then we’re screwed anyway as we’re all standing around in a huddle waiting to be picked off.”

Groves cleared his throat. “Okay, fine. I’ll get what I can, but one sound I don’t like and I’m straight back in here.”

Gretchen smiled. “Of course. No one’s asking you to endanger yourself.”

“Yeah right.” The man walked away, heading for the lobby and car park.

It was then that Gretchen realised that since Pritchett had died, no one had taken up watch on top of the ambulance. She knew that nobody would volunteer to go outside.

Guess it will have to be me then.

She checked in with a few more of the survivors and informed them that she was going to take watch. They all told her she was crazy, but they also seemed a little glad to have somebody out there keeping guard.

Not that I can do anything other than yell that we’re all about to die.

Gretchen headed outside into the cold and this time welcome the crisp weather. It snapped her senses back into focus and stopped her mind from feeling so fuzzy. If there was a chance she might die soon, she wanted to take in every breath and enjoy it.

To her surprise, Logan came out after her, shouting for her to wait up. She turned to face him and was confused as to his presence.

He swished a bottle of Bell’s whiskey about in his hand and then swigged directly from the bottle. “Need company?” he asked.

“From you? No thank you.”

“Well, tough. I’m coming. I want to see the thing responsible for our deaths before one bites my head off. I’d rather face it head on.”

“Seems like the only thing you like to face head on is a bottle of scotch.”

Logan looked at the bottle and nodded. He threw it to the ground where it rolled beneath a parked car. “Guess I could use a break. Heavy thoughts make a heavy drinker, you know?”

Gretchen shook her head and carried on walking, tired of arguing. “I’m not surprised you’re a drunk. You knew about this and told no one.”

“Who would have believed me? The government would have shot me dead as soon as I made the mistake of walking down a dark alleyway. Just because I had the knowledge, didn’t mean I could do anything with it.”

“When this whole thing started people would have listened to you.”

“By then it was already too late. The virus is unstoppable once it gets into the population. The only thing that saved any of us is that there seems to be some random percentage of immunity. I was as staggered as anyone to be included in that small percentage. I guess part of me hoped that the virus would be all there was too it, but deep down I knew there was more. Guess the drinking made it easier to kid myself.”

Gretchen climbed the ladder set up against the ambulance and took to the roof. Logan followed.

“What were you doing before you came upon us, Logan? Where had you been for the weeks before?”

Logan shrugged. “Just wandering, really. I had a sister but she caught the Peeling. I had nobody else; not even a home I was proud of. Walking the roads seemed like the best thing to do. Keep moving, keep surviving. We’re just like the nomadic tribes that made up the dawn of mankind now. All of our fineries are gone and all that’s left is the animal underneath. The things I saw, Gretchen, on the road.” He shook his head in disgust. “Maybe it’s better if we’re extinguished. Maybe that’s the reason why. Our violent nature.”

Gretchen chewed at her lip, watched the treeline across the road and saw birds. “Maybe you’re right. The Peeling didn’t affect any other species. Maybe whoever dumped the virus on us just want to restore the balance.”

“Then that gives me a little hope; that at least the earth will go on, even without us.”

Gretchen nodded. “Me too. But you know, it will only take two to survive. If this alien clean-up crew misses just one man and one woman, then the human race has as much chance as it ever did.”

“From small acorns grow mighty oaks. That brings me hope to. Maybe somebody will make it – a new Adam and Eve.”

“Let’s just hope they do a better job of it than the last pair.”

“Amen to that.”

* * *

The sun receded behind the horizon and the moon rose to take its place. Logan still shared the top of the ambulance with Gretchen but the old man had been sleeping for the last two hours. During that time, Gretchen had kept her eyes focused on the treeline. There had been no movement, no sound.

About an hour ago, Bryan came out to let her know that they were going to cook dinner and have the feast she had suggested. She had declined her invitation; she didn’t feel like eating.

Now she sat silently, watching the sun disappear and knowing that she might never see it again.

The glowing green light appeared inside the forest again, illuminating the gloom of the canopy. Minutes later the bellowing growls resumed.

This time the growling seemed to be on the move. It was coming their way.

“Logan, wake up. Logan, wake the hell up.”

Logan spluttered, opened his eyes. “W-what is it?”

“Shake off your hangover. I think they’re coming.”

Logan stared at her blearily for a second, before cottoning on to what she meant – and who they were. He shot bolt upright. “Where are they?”

Gretchen pointed. “Don’t you hear them? They’re coming through the woods.”

Logan stared across the road at the trees. After a moment he took a big swallow and nodded. “Oh shit.”

“That’s putting it mildly. Come on, we have to get to the others.”

Logan stood up, but made no attempt to leave the roof of the ambulance.

“Will you come on,” Gretchen urged.

“I have to see them. I want to know what it is that’s been watching us for so long.”

“You’re insane.”

“Don’t you understand? For millennia man has wondered if we are alone. We are about to set eyes upon a mystery that has kept humanity awake for its entire history. We are about to witness beings far superior to ourselves. We are about to transcend.”

“You transcend all you want. I’m getting off this fucking ambulance.”

Gretchen threw herself down the ladder and beat a hasty retreat towards the hotel. The growling from the woods continued getting louder. The moon rose higher in the sky.

The other survivors were all assembled in the lobby when Gretchen flew through the entrance doors. They had obviously heard the ominous growling and had been waiting to see what night would bring.

Colin shook his head, his eyes bloodshot. “They’re coming, aren’t they?”

Gretchen said nothing, just nodded.

Bryan, the carpenter, took the floor. “Everyone grab their weapons. We’re safe inside this hotel, but let’s be ready to defend ourselves against any unwanted attention. We’ve survived this long, no need for anyone to give up now.”

Gretchen nodded at Bryan, a silent ‘thank you’ for keeping everybody focused.

He walked over to Gretchen. “Have you seen anything?”

“No, but I know they’re coming. I could hear them moving through the woods in this direction.”

“Any ideas? We need to take a stand.”

“How do you take a stand against something you don’t understand?”

Bryan shrugged. “By being ready for anything.” He went over to the empty reception desk and took a golf club from the top of it. “Found this in one of the empty rooms. Hope you know how to swing it.”

Gretchen took the graphite shaft. “I’ve been known to hit a few.”

“Good. Let’s hope they have soft heads.”

There was the sound of crunching metal outside, from the car park. Gretchen and Bryan headed across the lobby and peered through the doors.

The ambulance had been tipped onto its side and had slid almost a dozen feet closer to the hotel. Its rear doors were open and the gurney from inside had spilled halfway out. Logan was nowhere to be seen.

Then he appeared at the doors, his bloody hands pressed up against the glass. Half his face was missing as if torn off by barbed wire.

“They’re magnificent…” he moaned, before collapsing to the ground and dying.

Those still standing in the lobby screamed.

“Calm down,” Bryan shouted. “We’re all together and we’re fine. No one panic.”

“Don’t panic?” someone said. “Logan has half of his face missing. What can do something like that?”

There was an almighty roar that shook the lobby’s windows in their frames. There was movement in the shadows of the car park and the sounds of heavy footsteps – like a stomping elephant.

“It sounds like a herd of elephants out there,” said Bryan. “Shouldn’t they be little green men or something?”

Gretchen shrugged. “I think anything we imagined about aliens is very wrong. If they come from a planet with more gravity than us then they would be larger and heavier.

Groves raced down the main staircase, holding a flaming mop in his hands. He put the torch against a bin full of rubbish and set it alight. “We have fires set up all around. Hopefully the light will keep them away.”

Gretchen nodded. “Good idea. Make sure they’re all lit.”

There were more sounds of the parked vehicles outside being pushed around by something monumentally strong.

Everyone regrouped at the bottom of the stairs, standing beside the bin full of flaming debris. The shadows continued to shift and swirl outside, something moving but unseen stalking the survivors.

Bryan returned with his flaming mop. The stench of faded bleach burning made Gretchen turn away. Once she was used to the smell, she took the torch from Bryan.

“What do you want with it?” said Bryan. “We have fires burning at all of the downstairs entrances as well as one in the lounge. We need to keep an eye on them all; last thing we want is to burn ourselves down.”

Gretchen took the torch over to the entrance. The flames illuminated Logan’s corpse. “I’m going to see if I can get a look at what’s out there.”

“That’s crazy,” said Bryan. “Stay away from the doors.”

“I need to know what we’re up against.”

Gretchen didn’t know why she was so determined to step outside, but something inside of her was tired of hiding. She wanted to face death head on; to finally say that she had had enough.

Gretchen shoved open one of the double doors of the entrance and slowly slid out into the courtyard. The roaring had stopped and no more vehicles were being shoved around. Something was still nearby, though; she could sense it.

Something flashed by in front of her, silvery scales peeking out of the darkness for a brief second. Gretchen tracked the movement with her torch, but it had been too quick.

Something else moved up ahead. Again she caught a glimpse of silvery scales beneath the moonlight. An important decision presented itself: whether to step back towards the hotel, or whether to venture forwards into the car park.

Despite what her thundering heartbeat suggested, Gretchen took a step forwards.

Something swopped past the back of her. She flinched and took another step forward. A low growl made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

“Gretchen!” It was Bryan shouting. “Get back in here.”

What the hell am I doing out here? Bryan’s right, I need to get the hell back inside.

Gretchen turned around, holding the torch out in front of her.

As the cone of light around the flame moved, the darkness parted and illuminated the creature standing between Gretchen and the hotel.

Gretchen screamed. The thing in front of her blinked a reptilian eye the size of a basketball on a head the size of a Toyota.

An unseen appendage cut through the air and struck the torch from Gretchen’s hands. She fell backwards on to her rump and dropped the golf club that she had forgotten she even had.

Surrounded by darkness, Gretchen could see nothing but the glint of moonlit scales as the huge beast towered over her. She felt its fetid breath beat down on her like an intermittent gale. She could sense the beat of its mighty heart within its cavernous chest.

The creature bellowed. Gretchen closed her eyes, frozen to the ground.

There was the sound of something being struck multiple times. Gretchen heard human voices followed by the inhuman growl of the beast.

Gretchen opened her eyes.

David and Bryan ran over to her and grabbed her under the arms. “Looks like you need a hand, you daft cow,” said David.

The two men dragged her towards the hotel while a handful of other survivors – including Groves and Colin – proceeded to beat at the creature with a variety of make-shift weapons. The blows seemed to have little effect, but they at least distracted the enemy while David and Bryan got Gretchen out of there.

People held the doors open while Gretchen leapt through them and skidded to her knees on the tiles. David yanked her back up, before tuning and going back to the doorway. Groves and Colin were still outside.

The two men yelled outside in the courtyard as they continued fighting the monster. The monster replied with a rumbling growl so loud that it made Gretchen’s head ache.

“We have to help them,” she cried.

But it was too late. The ear-piercing scream that suddenly ripped through the air was proof enough that Groves and Colin were beyond help. Two seconds later, their screams halted and silence reigned.

Everyone left alive inside the lobby stood around in silence, glancing at one another nervously. The burning bin in the centre of the room cast dancing shadows across each of their stark white faces.

Gretchen felt her heart beating in her chest as she peered out into the darkness and saw nothing but a velvet sheet of black. If she didn’t know otherwise she could claim that the courtyard and car park were completely deserted – but she knew that something unspeakable roamed the darkness out there, ready to extinguish them all.

“We have to get out of here,” someone said.

“And go where?” said David. “Stepping outside is as good as committing suicide.”

“Well, we can’t just stay here.”

“Nobody has been hurt staying inside. It’s going out there that has gotten people killed.”

The front doors of the lobby smashed into a thousand pieces as a shredded body came flying through the glass. The corpse hit the ground and lay on the tiles facing up with empty sockets where its eyes had once been.

Gretchen tried not to gag. “Jesus, Colin!”

“Not anymore,” said David.

Everybody in the lobby scattered in all directions, some running up the staircase and others heading into the lounge. David got caught over by the doors by something that snatched in at him from the darkness. The brief flash of scales was all that Gretchen saw and then David was gone.

The hotel filled with the screams of terrified men and women, but Gretchen stayed rooted to the spot. The outside wall of the lobby crumpled as something huge began to force itself in. The creature was like nothing she had ever seen, nor even imagined.

Gretchen knew right then, as she stared at the beast from a place unknown, that humanity’s days were over. There would be no last stands or intergalactic war. There would be nothing more than a frightened handful of people screaming for their lives.

In fact, the only victory she could achieve was not to scream at all as she faced extinction; so she just closed her eyes and waited; waited for it all to be over.

And within seconds it was.

SHORT STORY COLLECTION

To follow is a collection of short stories originally written for my Patrons (patreon/iainrobwright). They were written over several months in 2017. They are released for the first time in this book.

1. EHLLF

Chapter 1

“You promise Santa will come, Mummy?” Mia watched her mother’s face closely, seeking out the truth in case her words lied.

Mummy smiled and nodded as she pulled the blankets over Mia’s shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Santa will be here, I promise, but only if you go to sleep. The sooner you close your eyes, the sooner Christmas will be here.”

From the bottom bunk, Tim cheered. Then: “Will Daddy come see us?”

Mia saw the flicker on Mummy’s face that happened every time someone mentioned Daddy. She tried to hide it, and when she spoke she kept smiling. Mia wondered why she did that. “Daddy won’t make it this year, sweetheart. Maybe next Christmas.”

Mia missed her daddy lots, but she somehow knew she should forget about seeing him altogether, and give all of her hugs to Mummy. She thought Daddy had done something bad. “I love you, Mummy. I hope Santa brings something nice for you too.”

Mummy's face quivered like she might cry, but she kissed Mia on the forehead, and did the same to Tim on the bottom bunk. Then she moved over to the light switch and left her hand hovering over it. “Goodnight, my babies.”

A flick of Mummy’s finger and the world went dark. Mia hated the dark, but her Hippo night light made most of it okay. Having Tim snoring beneath her always helped too. If there was anything nasty in the dark, it would get her little brother first. A horrible thought, but still one that gave her comfort—and anyway, she knew deep down that if something tried to hurt Tim, she'd do her best to protect him. Any monsters under the bed would have to eat them both. Then Mummy would be even sadder than she was now.

“Mia?” Tim said in the darkness beneath her.

“Yes?”

“Where’s Daddy?”

Mia didn’t have an answer. She rarely had answers to Tim's questions, and it frustrated her. He was five and she was seven, so she should know everything by now, but he always managed to find something to make her feel silly. Like now, she couldn’t tell him where their daddy was, and that seemed stupid. Most little girls and boys knew where their daddy’s were. “I don’t now,” she admitted. “I think he wanted to be on his own.”

“Why?”

“Because he used to get angry and upset all the time. Like when you play on Mummy’s tablet and don’t want to share. He was like that all the time.”

“I would share with Daddy," Tim muttered. "Why doesn’t he want to share with me?”

“I don’t know, Tim! He’s just gone.”

“Did Mummy send him away?”

Mia didn’t know the answer to that one either, but she had a feeling about it. “I don’t think Mummy did anything wrong. We should forget about Daddy because Mummy needs us more.”

“I want Daddy.”

Mia punched her pillow and tried to get comfy. “Well, boo hoo. Just go to sleep, Tim. Or do you want Santa to miss our house?”

“No. I want toys.”

Mia sighed. Tim was still just a little kid. She had to remember that. “You’ll get toys, I promise. Lots probably.”

“And you will too, Mia.”

“I’m too old for toys. I want clothes and make up.”

Tim chuckled. “You still like toys too, Mia. I think Santa will bring you something fun to play with.”

Mia’s tummy burst with a sudden rush of excitement. She really did love Christmas, and the thought of it made her want to get up and wee. “Okay, maybe just a few toys for me too.”

“If not,” said Tim. “You can share mine. Goodnight, Mia.”

“Goodnight, Tim.”

Chapter 2

A bump in the night.

Mia opened her eyes. A noise.

Tim was awake too. “Mia? What was that?”

Mia blinked in the darkness, stretching her eyes wide and trying to see. All she saw were blotchy shapes though, black against black. She heard the ticking of the Mickey Mouse clock on the wall. At seven AM it would shout ‘O tootles!’ and Christmas would arrive, but now its rhythmic ticking was scary. She wished it would stop, but she dreaded the silence even worse. What frightened her most was that Mummy had not come rushing into their room. If something was wrong, it was Mummy's job to take care of it. So where was she?

“Is it Santa?” Tim asked.

Santa? Mia felt another rush of excitement, but it wasn’t enough to make her fear go away. Why was she scared? It was just a noise.

“I want to get up and see Santa,” said Tim.

“No!” said Mia. “Just wait.”

So they waited. The more time that passed, the more Mia doubted they'd heard anything.

More time passed.

The house was quiet. Mummy didn’t come. Slowly, little by little, the darkness turned grey and Mia could make out the chest of drawers opposite her bed, and the Mickey Mouse clock on the wall above it. The mouse's white-gloved hand waved back and forth to her. It was three in the morning. Christmas was still far away. “We should go back to sleep, Tim. It was probably just the wind.”

“There isn’t any wind.”

“Just go to sleep.”

“Okay.”

Tim was snoring again almost immediately. He had a skill for instant sleeping that Mia envied. She always took forever to drop off, staring at the ceiling and thinking about everything going on in her life—like what it would be like to not have a daddy anymore.

Cunk Cunk.

Tim was awake again. “Mia! What was that?”

Mia sprang up in bed, heart racing. “I don’t know! Mummy! Mummy come in!”

Tim shouted too, and they didn’t stop, even when they heard their mother stir and get out of bed. The only thing that quieted them was the eventual sound of a door creaking open. Mummy's door always creaked. She appeared in their room a moment later, switching on the light and blinking her droopy eyelids. “Kids, what is it? What are you shouting about?”

“We heard a noise,” said Mia.

“It’s Santa,” said Tim hopefully. Mia thought he was wrong.

Mummy pulled an unhappy face and rubbed at her eyes. “Kids, it’s not Santa. You need to go back to sleep.”

“But we heard something!” Mia protested. “There’s something downstairs.”

“No, there’s not! You’re both worked up with excitement. It'll be Christmas soon, but not yet. Go back to sleep.”

Tim gave in. “Okay, Mummy.”

But Mia wasn’t about to let it go. Mummy didn’t believe her, fine, but there had definitely been a noise downstairs. “Mummy! There’s something downstairs.”

Mummy looked irritated and tired. She only ever got irritated when she was sleepy, like first thing in the morning or when Mia got up after she'd been put to bed. “Go back to sleep now, honey. Everything is fine, okay?”

Mia was about to argue more, but she didn't have to.

Cunk cunk cunk.

Mummy’s face went all funny, and she froze like a statue. Mia felt a little sick in her tummy. “Mummy, what is it?

Mummy tilted her head like she was on the phone to Grandma. “Hold on, sweetheart. Just be quiet a sec.”

Mia wanted to wee. She felt Tim shuffling in the bottom bunk. Having the light on in the middle of the night felt strange. Mickey Mouse’s tick-tocking sounded louder than usual.

Tick Tock Tick Tock.

Cunk Cunk.

Mummy shivered like she was cold, but Mia knew it was the noise that made her do it. She was scared. “Mummy, I don’t like it.”

“It’s just a noise, honey. I’ll go take a quick look downstairs.”

“No! No, stay here, Mummy.”

“I want to come with you, Mummy,” said Tim.

“No, both of you stay here. I’ll bring you up some milk and we’ll read a book before going back to sleep.”

“Okay, Mummy,” said Tim. He was always so happy to accept what she told him. Mia used to be that way, too, but now she needed more than words. She needed to see things for herself to accept what was real. Still, she was only a kid, and if Mummy wanted to go downstairs alone, there was no stopping her.

Mia pulled her blankets up under her chin as she watched her mother creep towards the door. She stopped for a few moments before going out into the hall, tilting her head to listen again. There were no more sounds. Whatever had been moving around downstairs seemed to have gone still. Mia reeled off the possibilities in her head. Her friend at school, Max, once said a fox got in through their back door one night and tore open a big bag of dog food in the garage. Maybe they had a fox downstairs. Foxes were cute.

Mummy told them to stay in their beds, and then disappeared, slipping through the doorway and entering the darkness of the landing. Mia and Tim did as they were told and sat in their beds quietly, the harsh glare of the bulb conflicting with the time of night. Mia’s body clock was trying to drag her back to sleep, but her fear was making her want to do jumping jacks. A few minutes passed before they heard anything.

“Everything is okay, kids,” Mummy shouted up. “It’s just a lamp.”

Tim got out of bed and Mia hissed at him. “What are you doing?”

“I want to see.”

“We’ll get told off.”

“No we won’t. I want to see what happened. I want to see if Santa has come.”

Mia was about to order her little brother back to bed, but the thought of seeing whether there were presents under the tree was too tempting. She turned sideways on her bunk and slid down the ladder, landing beside Tim. She took his hand. “Come on then, but if we get told off you get the blame.”

“Mummy won’t tell us off. She said she would read us a book.”

Mia pushed aside their door and stepped out onto the landing. It was dark, but the light from the lounge bled up the stairs and made it okay. All the same, Mia hurried with her brother towards the stairs, not wanting to wander the house in the middle of the night. The lounge was below, and the red tinsel attached to the skirting boards peeked up at her. She couldn’t see Mummy.

Tim tugged at her arm and took the first step down. His fear was all gone, replaced by enthusiasm to find presents. Mummy heard them coming when the middle step creaked.

“What are you two doing out of bed?”

“We wanted to see what happened,” Mia explained, hoping it wouldn’t result in a telling off. Mummy didn’t usually get angry, but when she did, it was scary. Ever since daddy left.

This time, though, Mummy just sighed and said, “Come on down then.”

Mia’s spirit lifted and she and her brother trotted down the final steps into the lounge. Christmas met them. The tree lights were off because Mummy said it wasn’t safe to leave them on overnight, but the baubles and tinsel caught the shone all by themselves. Atop the tree sat the angel she and Tim had picked together at the supermarket. Beneath was an assortment of presents, wrapped and labeled in blues and reds—there were even a couple of green ones. Mia hopped and clapped her hands. “Santa came.”

Mummy smiled. She was holding the lamp that lived next to the sofa. It must have fallen on the floor. “Yes, honey, but it’s still too early to get up. Let me get some milk and we’ll go up and read that story.”

Tim moaned. “No fair. I want to stay up.”

“Yeah,” said Mia, eyeing up the presents piled beneath the tree. “I don’t feel sleepy anymore.”

“But Mummy does, and we’re going to have a long day ahead, so we don’t want to end up tired.”

Mia sighed. “Okay, Mummy.”

Mummy smiled and went into the kitchen. Tim dropped straight onto his knees and started fondling the presents. “You think I got an Xbox?”

“No,” Mia snapped. “Mummy already told us we couldn’t have anything too expensive.”

“Why? James next door will get one, he already saw it in his dad’s car.”

Mia grunted. James next door got everything he asked for, but that was because his dad was a builder with lots of workers. “Mummy has to look after us all on her own, Tim. We have to be happy with what we get.”

Tim crossed his arms and sulked. “Let’s see how you feel if you don’t get a mobile phone.”

Mia had already eyed up a box that could have been a phone, but she dared not hope too much. She had wanted one for her birthday, but had only gotten some perfume. She'd thrown a fit and Mummy had cried, which left her feeling really bad. She didn't want the same thing to happen today, so she would smile and be thankful for whatever she got. But still, the box near the back of the tree was definitely the right size for a phone. And there was something else back there too. Something pushed right up against the skirting board next to the wires and the plug for the Christmas lights. It looked like a soft toy. Green and red…

“Okay, you two, let’s get back up to bed.”

Mummy's voice made Mia flinch. She turned, on her hands and knees. “Mummy, there’s something behind the tree.”

“We’ll open the presents later, Mia, now take your glass of milk and go upstairs.”

“No, Mummy, it’s not a present. It looks like a dolly.”

Mummy frowned, but didn’t seem to care. “Okay, well, we’ll look when the sun’s up.”

Mia turned back towards the tree and leant forwards. She pushed aside presents and reached out. There was definitely something back there, and it wasn’t wrapped up like everything else.

“Mia! Do you hear me?”

“Just wait a second, Mummy. There’s something back here.”

“Mia!”

“Hold on!” Mia knew she would get a telling off for shouting, but she almost had the thing in her hand now. Green and red. Her fingers wrapped around it and she was surprised by heavy it was. Not too heavy to move, but not light like a soft toy should be. It made her even more intrigued, and she was barely aware of her mother’s chiding voice behind her.

“Mia, I’m going to count to three, young lady!”

Mia yanked the thing out from behind the tree and spun around on her bum, facing her angry mother. “I’ve got it. Look!”

She’d not even had a chance to look at it properly herself yet, which was why they were all equally shocked when she held the thing out in front of her.

Tim was the first to speak. “It’s an elf!”

Mia frowned. Her little brother was right. She held an elf in her hands, but not a fluffy Christmas decoration or soft toy. This was realistic. Its leggings were thick, red and green, and it wore a fuzzy green jacket with big white buttons.

Mummy looked confused. “What is that thing? I’ve never seen it before.”

“Maybe Santa left it,” said Tim. “I think it’s for me.”

Mia pulled the thing closer to her. “It’s not yours! I found it.”

“Give it here,” said Mummy. “It’s not anybody’s.”

It wasn’t fair. Mia had spotted the elf under the tree and that must mean it was meant for her. But the look on Mummy’s face told her it would be bad to argue. She removed the elf from against her chest and offered it out with both hands like a baby sleeping.

It opened its eyes.

The shock made Mia yelp, and she almost dropped the elf on the floor. She caught herself just in time and ended up lowering it clumsily to the ground. As soon as it was out of her hands, Mummy grabbed her by the arm and yanked her away.

“Ow! You hurt me.”

Mummy didn’t apologise. Instead, she shoved Mia and Tim behind her and stared down at the elf that was lying underneath the tree. Its eyes were once again closed, and it seemed to be sleeping. When Mia had dropped the elf, its hat had fallen off, revealing wavy brown hair and a patch at the side of his head that was covered in blood.

“It's hurt,” said Tim.

“Just stay back,” said Mummy. “It could be dangerous.”

Tim giggled. “It's just a little elf. Santa must have left him behind.”

Mia wanted a more sensible answer for what she was seeing, but Tim was right. She had found a real life elf under their tree. And it was hurt. “Mummy, we need to look after it.”

“Until Santa comes back!” said Tim excitedly.

Mummy was clutching at herself like she was cold, and she didn’t do anything but stare at the elf. Mia reached out and touched her. “It’s okay, Mummy. Don’t be scared.”

Mummy snapped out of her daze and rubbed Mia’s back. “I’m not scared, sweetheart. Just a little shocked. I think I should call someone.”

“No!” said Tim. “They’ll come take it away. We have to look after it until Santa comes back.”

“Honey, Santa isn’t…” She trailed off, and Mia thought she had been about to say Santa wasn’t real. But he must be because there was an elf on their floor.

“Mummy, can we just make sure it’s okay? It’s bleeding.”

Mummy rubbed at both of her eyes and then shuddered as if she had a chill. “This is not how I expected Christmas Day to begin. I’m going to need a drink after all this.”

“I can get you some water if you’d like, Mummy,” said Tim.

She rubbed his back and smiled. He looked tiny, standing beside her in his Paw Patrol pyjamas. “Mummy means a different kind of drink, but thank you, sweetheart.”

“What are we going to do, Mummy?” Mia asked.

“I honestly have no idea. Just… let me deal with it, okay? Stay back.”

Mia and Tim did as they were told and moved over towards the sofa. Mummy knelt next to the elf and shoveled her hands underneath it. She lifted it carefully, in the same way she got steaming pasta bake out the oven. Then she took it out of the lounge and into the dining space next to the kitchen. They all flinched when the sleeping creature gave a sudden yip! But it remained asleep.

Mummy lay the elf down on the table and stood with her hands on her hips. Outside, the leaves on the trees rustled.

“Are you going to wake him up, Mummy?” Tim asked.

“How do you know it’s a boy?” Mia didn’t like the assumption. Why couldn’t it be a girl?

Tim shrugged. “Pull down its trousers.”

“We’re not doing that!" snapped Mummy. She seemed angry about all this, and Mia couldn’t understand why. Perhaps it was because Mummy didn’t believe in elfs, and now she had been proven wrong. Mummy hated being wrong. She took her hands away from her hips now and used them to grip the edge of the dining room table. “I think we should put a blanket over it and switch the heating on. It’s pretty chilly down here.”

In just her pyjamas, Mia should have felt the cold too, but she was so excited that she felt like she might start sweating. “Yes, Mummy. I think a blanket would be nice.”

“Can I get the blanket?” Tim begged.

Mummy nodded tiredly. “Yes, yes. Go into the kitchen and take your dad’s smoking blanket from the broom closet.”

Mia saw the sudden hurt in Mummy’s eyes at the mention of their dad. She knew the blanket she was talking about--a tatty, multi-coloured thing daddy used to wrap around himself to smoke in the garden when it was cold. Mummy didn't allow smoking in the house. She was always very serious about that. Mia didn’t understand why she had kept the blanket because Mummy didn’t smoke.

Tim ran in and out of the kitchen in a flash, bringing with him the tatty old blanket that smelled of smoke and Daddy. Mummy took it and held it for a moment, like she’d forgotten what she’d wanted it for, but then she turned and lay it over the sleeping elf. She asked Mia to turn the dial up on the heating, and she whopped it all the way up to 35. That was much hotter than she was usually allowed to turn it. The radiators clonked like they always did.

Soon the house was warm, and the elf, underneath its blanket, was as snug as a bug in a rug. In fact, its cheeks were red, and it began to wriggle about.

“It’s waking up, Mummy!” Tim hopped up and down.

Mia was excited too. She watched with wonder as the little elf clutched at the blanket and twisted and turned. In fact, it was thrashing about in the same way their goldfish did when Tim lifted it out of the water for a few seconds. It looked unhappy.

“I don’t think it feels very well, Mummy,” Mia said.

Mummy nodded and looked worried.

The little creature leapt up on the table and screamed.

Chapter 3

Mia covered her ears. “Mummy! Make it stop.”

The elf’s screaming was scary, and it made Mia want to run away. The little creature was up on its feet, racing around the dining room table and clutching at itself like it was on fire. Its fat little cheeks were bright red.

“It looks hot, Mummy,” said Tim. “He didn’t like the blanket.”

Mummy moved both of them behind her again. The little elf stopped screaming and bent over huffing and puffing. Its pink tongue was hanging out.

Mia realised something. “Elves live at the North Pole. It doesn’t like being hot. We shouldn’t have put a blanket on it.”

Mummy put her hands out to the elf. “We’re not going to hurt you. It’s okay.”

The elf straightened up and stared at Mummy. It didn’t look scared, it looked upset. Maybe it didn’t know where it was. Mia had another thought and rushed off into the kitchen. Mummy shouted after her so she made it quick. She grabbed a glass and filled it with cold water from the sink. When she brought it back, she set it on the table as close to the hopping elf as she dared. When it clunked against the table, the elf flinched and hissed at her. Mia hurried back behind Mummy.

“I don’t like it, Mummy,” said Tim. “Make it leave.”

“Shoo!” said Mummy, waving a hand at the elf. But it ignored her. It scurried over to the glass of water Mia had brought and peered into it. Mia held hope that the little elf was thirsty, and that her gift would be accepted, but the elf swatted the glass aside and sent water spilling all over the table.

“Bad elf!” Mia shouted.

Mummy moved them back another step. The elf was growling at them now, its eyes small and black.

“Elves are supposed to be friendly,” Mia stomped her foot and wagged a finger in the air. “This is our house and we’re just trying to help you.”

The elf stopped growling. It tilted its head and stared at Mia. She was angry, but also worried, so she clung to Mummy's leg.

“Get away!” said Mummy, still waving her hand. The elf flinched and cowered. Mia felt like things were moving in slow motion. Even though Mummy didn’t seem to see what was happening, Mia knew the elf was about to do something nasty. It crouched down like a cat and let out another angry snarl. Mummy waved her hands closer and closer to it, and she didn't listen when Mia told her to stop.

The elf jumped at Mummy and bit her finger. Blood squirted everywhere and the dining room filled with screams. The elf landed on the carpet with a thud and raced away. Mummy waved her hand about frantically, and Mia saw her finger was missing. Tim screamed.

In the lounge, the Christmas tree shook, shedding tinsel and plastic pine needles onto the tops of the presents piled beneath. At the back, against the wall, the elf hid away, munching on Mummy’s finger. It must have been hungry, but that didn’t mean it could eat people parts.

Mia hated the elf. “Santa will put you in jail!”

The elf peered out from beneath the tree. Blood stained its mouth, and it seemed to grin as it reached a tiny white hand into its coat and pulled something out. It looked like a Christmas tree decoration, a small metal shape, but it was black and sharp. The elf held it out on a string and made sounds that reminded Mia of a grumpy pig.

The black dangly spun on its string, twirling in a circle.

Then it flashed. Just once.

Mummy and Tim were still screaming in the dining room, but Mia heard one of them grab the phone from its cradle on the wall. Mia didn’t want to take her eyes off the nasty elf in case it tried to bite Mummy again, so she looked around for something to shoo it off with. Her tummy sloshed, and she wanted to be sick, but Mummy needed her. It was a daddy’s job to protect a family, but their Daddy was gone. So it was her job now.

She grabbed Tim’s hobby horse—a giant unicorn head on a stick. Mummy said it used to be hers, but Mia didn’t remember. She used the toy now to poke at the elf beneath the tree, trying to dislodge it. It hissed and spat at her like a cat, but she felt safe behind the long wooden stick. At one point, it lashed out and bit the unicorn’s head, tugging at it and thrashing side to side, but Mia fought back, and flicked the elf into the air. It flew out from beneath the Christmas tree and crashed against the television. The panel tottered back and forth before tipping forwards off the cabinet and landing on top of the elf.

Mummy and Tim heard the noise and came rushing into the lounge. Mummy’s arm was covered in blood, but she wasn’t screaming anymore. Tim was trembling beside her.

“Mia, get back. It’s feral!”

Mia's heart beat fast, and it made her fear go away. She wanted to chase the monster right out of their house, so she hit the back of the television with the hobby horse and tried to crush the thing beneath. “I hurt it, Mummy!”

“Get back!”

Mummy came and moved Mia away. Then, cautiously, she shoved at the overturned television with her foot. The elf was not underneath.

Tim screamed. “Mummy!”

The elf was hanging from the light shade, and it dropped onto Mummy’s back and yanked at her hair. It tried to bite her. Mummy raced around the room, hitting herself in the head. as she tried to get the elf

Mia took charge again. She would not let this nasty little monster hurt Mummy again. She raised the hobby horse and swung it as hard as she could.

Mummy yelled in agony when the unicorn head smacked her in the face.

“Oops. Sorry, Mummy.” She swung again, and this time managed to whack the elf. It flew again and landed on the shelf above the sofa. There it sat for a second, cross-legged and confused, before standing back up and preparing to leap back into the room. Before it did, something flashed in the middle of the room and distracted them all. Mia glanced and saw the metal dangly lying on the carpet. It was flashing over and over again, faster and faster. The elf stood on the shelf, grinning and chuckling. It even grabbed its fat little belly.

“Mummy, call the police,” Tim begged. “I want the police. And Daddy.”

Mummy snarled. She yelled at the elf and ran across the room, but before she could grab it, the lounge flooded with light. Mia had to cover both eyes. It was like the sun had come out in the middle of the lounge. Mummy lost her balance and fell backwards across the coffee table.

The sound of bells jingling rose among their frightened screams, and Mia had the strange sense of a crowd watching them. Shielding her eyes, she felt her way over to the window and fingered open the blinds. It was the middle of the night, but the road outside their house was lit up like a funfair. At first she thought she saw dozens of cats—pairs of golden eyes rowed up all the way to the end of their street—but then she realised what she was looking at. Hundreds of elves stood outside the house in a long line. In the middle was a pair of eyes set higher than all the other. A belt buckle glinted in the glaring lights.

Santa Claus had come.

Mia wanted to shout out to the fat, jolly looking figure in the road, but she knew, somehow, that this Santa was not the jolly man she'd read about in story books, or sang about on Christmas Day. He stood outside their house with an army of elves—and she already knew that elves were not friendly.

Mummy got up from the coffee table and sprung across the room again. This time she got her hands on the distracted elf and tossed it against the wall. It struck with a horrible thud and crumpled to the floor on its face. Mia thought it might be dead.

“Mummy, what have you done?”

Mummy was panting. She looked to Mia like a wild dog. “What?”

Mia pointed to the window. “Santa’s here. He came for his elf.”

Chapter 4

Once again, they found themselves with a sleeping elf. It wasn’t dead, as Mia had feared, but it was hurt badly. The wound on its head had started bleeding again, and it was terribly still.

“Are they still out there?” Tim asked Mia.

Mia peered through the blinds. Santa and his elves were still lined up out there. “I think they’re waiting.”

“For what?”

“What do you think?”

Mummy was cradling the elf, even though it might wake up and bite her again. Her finger stump had stopped bleeding, but it looked horrible. The smell of the blood made Mia feel sick.

Mummy gave them both a weak smile. “It’s okay, you two. Let me try the police again.”

“I heard you try to call earlier,” said Mia.

“The phone was crackling,” she said. “Let me try again.”

Mia shook her head. “No. The phones won’t work. Santa won’t let us call the police. He doesn’t like people seeing him.”

“We can see him,” said Tim.

Mia nodded. She didn’t want to think about what that could mean. “Mummy, we need to give Santa his elf.”

Mummy laughed, but it was a horrible sound. She nodded at the injured elf in her arms. “I don’t think he’ll accept it like this.”

“That’s how it was when we found it,” said Tim. “Just throw it out the window. Maybe Santa will leave. Why did it even come here? What does it want?”

“To bring us presents,” said Mia. She had noticed the strange presents earlier, but now she wanted to investigate. Mummy’s presents were all wrapped in red or blue, but two presents were wrapped in green. She picked up the one marked with her name and ripped it open.

The elf flinched in Mummy’s arms.

Tim shook his head. “You’re not supposed to open presents until Christmas morning.”

“And elves aren’t supposed to be nasty,” Mia shot back. Her tone made her little brother cry, so she went over and hugged him. She still held the present in her hand, and she continued to unwrap it once Tim was okay.

“Huh,” she said. “A Care Bear. I asked for one of these.”

Mummy frowned. “No you didn’t.”

Mia nodded. “I wrote a letter at school. We all did. It was during lesson.”

“I always ask you to write Santa a letter, but you never do.”

Mia shrugged. Writing letters had always seemed silly to her. No way could Santa read them all. “I told you, it was for lesson. I had to do it.”

Tim nodded. “I wrote one, too, for Mrs Tanner. We did a big one for the wall and we all wrote one Christmas wish on it.”

Mia looked at the fluffy pink Care Bear. She didn’t even really want the thing, but she had needed to think of something to ask for at the time. “What did you ask for, Tim?”

“A robot.”

Mia went over to the tree and picked up the second green present. She unwrapped it, but already knew what she would find inside. She handed the toy robot to Tim, who took it with a smile, but then he pulled a face and threw it on the floor. “I don’t want it.”

Mia threw her Care Bear down and stamped on it. “I don’t blame you, Tim.”

The elf twitched in Mummy’s arms. “Children, I want you to go upstairs. This animal is waking up again and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Seeing Mummy so scared made Mia angry again, but it also made her think about something. “We won’t get hurt, Mummy. Only you will.”

Mummy frowned. “What do you mean?”

Mia couldn’t be sure of what she was about to say, but it made sense. “Santa can't hurt children. And neither can his elves.”

“Mia… what are you going on about? Please, just go upstairs.”

Mia marched up to her Mummy, unsettled by the fact she felt like she was the one in charge. But this was no problem for an adult to take care of. When it came to Santa, it was a kid’s area of expertise. “Give me the elf, Mummy.”

“No! Mia, get away. It’s waking up.”

“It won’t hurt me. I’m a kid. Every time it’s attacked, it’s gone for you, Mummy. Even when I was the one hitting it with Tim’s hobby horse. The reason it was here was to leave us presents. Santa wants his elf back, but it has to be a kid who goes out and sees him. Mummy, I won’t let you get hurt again. Give me the elf.”

Mummy looked very old. Her eyes were locked on Mia and she stood completely still, but her arms moved in front of her. Slowly, she offered the elf to Mia.

Mia took it carefully. It stirred and whimpered and was cold as ice. They must have nearly killed it when they'd wrapped it in a blanket. Its head was still bleeding, but that wasn’t their fault. How on earth it had ended up hurt beneath their tree, she did not know, but it was not their doing. Santa needed to know.

“Open the front door, Mummy.”

“Mia…”

“Mummy, it’s okay. Just do it. If anything happens, I’ll run right inside.”

Mummy opened the door and ice cold air blew in. In just her pyjamas, Mia was freezing, but there was no time to worry about that now. The blinding light outside was too painful to look at, so she had to squint at the ground. At the edge of her vision, she saw a line of shadows—elves lined up, watching her. She could be wrong about everything. They might attack her at any moment.

There was a frost on the grass and it crunched underfoot as she crept away from the house. The elf in her arms opened its eyes, confused again, but when it saw her it did not get angry. She clutched it over her shoulder like a baby and patted its back. “It’s okay. I’m taking you back to Santa.”

And to Santa she went. The lights were still too blinding to see properly, so she had to blink rapidly and steal brief glimpses of the giant man stood at the edge of their front garden. She heard quiet chattering all the way down the road—the elves were talking.

Looking down at the ground, Mia offered out the elf. “I’m sorry Mr Santa. We found your elf. He was hurt beneath our tree, but when we tried to help him he got very nasty. You should really be more careful about how your elves behave.”

The elf squeaked in her hands, and sounded like a scared kitten now. Maybe Santa would be mad with it. She tried to look at Santa’s face, but it was covered by shadow. All she could see was the giant, glinting belt buckle around his massive waist.

There was sudden movement, accompanied by bells jingling, and the elf was snatched out of her hands. A massive gust of wind blew a cloud of snow in her face, despite it not snowing at all this year. She spluttered and wiped her face, and when she could see again, the blinding light had gone. The road outside their house was empty. Overhead, the black sky was turning blue. Christmas morning would soon be here.

Mia turned and went back inside the house. There, her mother and little brother waited for her. They both gathered her into a hug. Mummy was crying.

As the sun rose, they gathered Santa’s presents into a bin liner and threw them into the wheelie bin outside. Neither Mia nor Tim wanted them. Mummy made them hot chocolate, and they sat in front of the Christmas tree to open their presents to each other.

“Mummy,” said Tim as he unwrapped his first gift.

“Yes, honey?”

“I don’t like Santa.”

Mummy laughed. “Me either. Maybe next year we don’t write to him.”

“Oh, I will write to him,” said Mia. “I’m going to write him a complaint!”

They all laughed and spent Christmas together without another mention of Santa and his elves.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

2. VLOG LIFE

Chapter 1

“Here’s ten bucks, bro. Enjoy!”

The stinking vagrant peered at Lance in a confused squint. His cracked lips moved wordlessly, forming gobs of foul saliva at the corners of his mouth. A grey beard hung off his chin and seemed to move. Lice.

Lance waved the note in the hobo's face. “Take it, man. It's yours.”

The vagrant glanced aside and stared right into the camera. Lance heard the mechanical buzz of the G7 X’s lens as Tom zoomed in on the confused expression.

“You for real, kid?”
Lance beamed. “Yeah, bro!”
The hobo snatched the note and squirrelled it away into the folds of his rancid sweatshirt. He returned Lance's wide grin. “Thanks, kid! If only more people were-”

“Okay cut!” Lance turned away and quickly put a hand against his mouth to keep from gagging. “Come on, man, let’s bounce. This fucker reeks of piss and who knows what.”

Tom lowered the camera and nodded. “No kidding, bro. Think I’m gonna hurl.”

The hobo frowned, then appraised himself as if he hadn't before noticed the crust covering his clothing. When he looked back at Lance, he was no longer smiling. “What are you kids up to?”

Lance could still smell piss, so he took another step away. “What’s it look like we’re doing, idiot? We’re shooting a video.”

The hobo rose up from his dirty stoop and stared at Lance. It wasn’t an aggressive look, but he had become unfriendly—like a threatened dog. Lance wondered how you could live in the dirt and not feel threatened every second.
Lance put a hand out to the hobo. “Back off, bro. You got your ten dollars so go get yourself a six pack on me.”

The suggestion seemed to light the old man’s fire. He stepped towards Lance, bringing the stink with him, and both of his hands clenched into fists. “Why give me money then insult me? You kids today make no sense. You take no responsibility for yourselves or your actions.”

Lance smirked. “Coming from an old bum, that's pretty funny. We earn the big bucks, bro. That ten bucks I just gave you is less than I find stuffed down the side of my designer couch. Now take a hike before I kick your ass.”

The hobo clenched his fists tighter like he was about to take things further, but then he seemed to deflate, and scurried off like a spineless worm.
Fuckin' deadbeat.

“That was gold,” said Tom, patting Lance on the back. “Subscribers will eat this shit up. The last 'feeding the homeless' video got eight-million views. This one could get ten. Fifteen gees, easy.”

Lance fist bumped his camera man, making the thick gold bracelets on his wrist rattle. It almost covered the sound of his stomach rumbling. “My hunger is roaring fierce, bro. You wanna go get some schwarma, or a burrito or something?”

“I could go for a burrito, bro, but I got to go pay the meter if we’re hanging.”

Lance checked his watch—early evening. Cleveland’s night scene would begin its tune any minute, and it was calling to him. Friday night and he was feeling pretty dope. This week alone, he and Tom had brought in twenty gees from ad revenue alone, and that didn't even include the t-shirt sales. New videos included a prank involving Trump supporters failing to help an old Mexican lady lying in the street (it was fake as shit, but the liberals ate it up), and a social experiment asking young sluts (actually paid actresses) if they would give Lance a blowjob in public for $1000—they all said yes. The channel was blowing up, yo.

“Okay, Tom, I’ll meet you at the Chub-n-Tuck for some eats, then I wanna find a club and get laid.”

Tom laughed. “Didn’t you get laid last night?”

“And the night before. What’s your point, bro?”

Tom shrugged. “Let me feed the meter and I’ll meet you there. Get a Papa Bless Big Burrito for me.”

CALORIE ALERT. Lance winced. “Those things are as big as my arm, bro. You gonna get fat.”

“Long as we keep bringing in the cheddar, I don’t give a shit.”

“Word!”

Lance stood on the sidewalk for a while, watching his buddy disappear around the corner. It was a balmy night and life was awesome. Just breathing Cleveland's breeze was invigorating. He was alive tonight. Totally alive.

He was Prankstar.

Time to dab.

As Lance broke loose in the street, he heard a delightful sound. Two giggling girls strolled his way, and they squawked even louder when he gave them his trademark wink. They looked a little underage, so he’d have to give them a miss, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun.

“Like my moves, ladies?”

Both girls were blonde, but one of them had dark eyeliner on, making her the sexier of the two. It was her who spoke. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just celebrating being rich and famous. Sometimes a playa got to dance!”

“You’re famous?”

He nodded. “And rich. I’m Prankstar.”

Both girls looked at each other and giggled again. Dark-eyes raised a thin eyebrow at Lance. That gesture alone made him want to screw her right there on the sidewalk. “Never heard of you,” she said.

Lance smirked. “You will soon, baby. My YouTube channel is the 17th most viewed this year. I get three-million views a day. My shit is blowing up.”

“And that makes you famous?”

“And rich.”

Dark-eyes was going for it. The corners of her mouth narrowed as she pouted. “How rich?”

“Let’s say I could go buy us a house to screw in with the spare cash in my bank account.”

Both blondes gasped, but dark eyes was only feigning shock. “You’re terrible.”

“So make me behave. How old are you, sweetheart?”

“Seventeen.”
Bullshit. Lance would be surprised if she’d even hit sixteen. Still, girl had it going on, for sure. “Okay, fuck it. Meet me at the I-Dubz club at nine o’clock and we’ll have some fun. I’ll get us into VIP and have drinks sent to us all night. It's just across the river. You know it?”

Both blondes looked at each other and grinned. Dark eyes looked back at him. “Yeah, we know it. Are you for real?”

Lance took her chin between his finger and thumb and looked into her eyes. “Honey, you say you don’t know who I am? After tonight, you’ll never forget me. I'm fucking Prankstar.”

Chapter 2

Lance gave the two blondes a twenty so they could get a taxi home and put on something appropriately slutty. Once he saw them off, he tried to check in with Tom, who had been gone a while, but got his voicemail. He crossed the road and headed for Chub-n-Tucks, deciding that Tom might already be there. The diner was a total dive, but the food was pretty dope. Six months ago, before YouTube pranks, a greasy burrito was all Lance could’ve afforded. His mom was a struggling waitress. His fuckwit father was down in Florida with his bitch girlfriend. It had been Lance and his mom on their own for six years now, living in a shit hole apartment and eating nothing but fast food. His mom had ridden him hard about the pranks at first, but she kept her mouth shut now that the cheddar was coming in. She had stayed out of his hair ever since that first YouTube check for twelve thousand dollars.

Your boy's a star, mom. Deal with it.

Cleveland's traffic was dying down, the everyday lull between the work day and evening play. That was what made him look to his right as he crossed the road and heard a revving engine. At the side of the street, a black van pulled off from the curb and headed in his direction.
It was speeding up fast…

“What the Hell” Lance picked up pace, not wanting to get in the idiot's way. But the van veered towards him. Right fucking towards him. “Hey! Hey, what the Hell?”
The van sped up. Its engine roared.
Lance threw himself onto the sidewalk avoiding the screeching tyres by inches. As the van sped away, he lay there on the ground, wondering what the Hell had just happened.
Lunatic tried to mow me down!

“Whoa, dude, are you okay?” a kid in a red beanie hat came hurrying down the sidewalk towards him. “That guy almost took you out!”

Lance patted himself down and winced when he realised he'd skinned his elbow. He cursed as he got back to his feet. “Motherfucker better hope I never see him again, or I'll sue him down to his shit-stained underwear.”

The kid looked him up and down, a hand out but not quite touching him. “Wait, don’t I know you?” He took off his beanie hat and unveiled a mess of brown hair, scratched at his scalp. “You’re Prankstar?”

Lance rubbed his palms together, expelling the dirt from the sidewalk. He offered his right hand for a shake. “You a fan?”

The kid nodded profusely—that star-struck look in his eye that Lance loved so much. “Yeah, man. I love all that shit you do. That social experiment you did when you dressed up as a woman to see if transgendered people get hassled when they go into public toilets was dope, yo.”

Lance smiled, remembering the skit well. It was one of his best, and he had looked hella good as a chick. “Thanks, bro.”

The kid fiddled with his beanie hat, reaching a hand inside of it. “No problem. It’s all fake as shit though, right?”

Lance frowned. It wasn’t the first accusation he had received, but the kid hadn't seemed like a doubter. He was about to defend his content as real—the company line—when he saw the kid pluck something from inside his beanie hat. It was bright yellow and plastic. And it gave off a buzzing sound.

“Don't taze me, bro!”
Lance’s limbs turned to jelly, and he was suddenly falling towards the pavement. He was fully aware as he lay paralysed on his back, staring up at the darkening sky. He was fully aware of the black van returning and screeching up alongside the curb, the side door sliding open. He was fully aware as two men leapt out and bundled him into the back before driving away.

Lance was fully aware that he could be about to die.

Chapter 3

At first, Lance could not speak. Every time he tried, his lips quivered uncontrollably. But eventually, he could focus enough to get a few words out. “H-help! W-who are you?”

At the front of the van, both the driver and his companion glanced back at Lance. Both of them wore balaclavas. Both men said nothing.

Lance groaned. Pain in his testicles made him groan. Had he been tasered in the nuts? Screw that shit! “Just let me go, dawg. I have money.”

The two men stayed silent. Lance tried to think. People were supposed to listen to the road for clues, or try to sense direction in situations like this, right? Okay, okay. Just stay calm and work this shit through. It felt as though the van had sped up, maybe on the freeway. Where were they taking him? Who were they?

He had no idea what direction they were travelling in. All he heard was the road beneath the tyres.
“Please, just let me go. What did I do to you?”

He tried to give his question an answer. Someone I pranked? It has to be.

“Are you the guy we pretended to rob in the alleyway? The gun was fake, bro. You signed a disclaimer, remember? Is it money? You want to get paid? Fine. How’s five-gees sound?”

The two men kept their attention on the road, ignoring Lance completely. They were both average build, but they had a menacing aura, like they would watch him bleed to death without an ounce of compassion. The man in the passenger seat looked like he had a beard tucked beneath his balaclava, but there was nothing else about either man he could identify.

Lance freaked out. He kicked both legs at the van's side panel. When that didn’t work, he searched for a lock or handle, which led him to discover that the van’s rear windows were thickly tinted, and that the interior handles, along with all the seats, had been removed. It was a full on rape wagon.

What the hell is going to happen to me?

With escape not an option, Lance's only choice was to attack. He got to his feet and rushed the two men up front, terror rising in him and escaping his lungs in an almighty yell. It was too cramped in the van’s interior to throw a punch, so he grabbed the front passenger’s neck and tried to throttle him. When the man reacted in surprise, Lance thought he had a good chance of fighting his way out of this, but then his face exploded in agony and he crumpled backwards into the van's rear. His vision turned a million different ways and liquid gushed down his shirt.

Blood.
“You bwoke my dose! You bastard!”

The passenger turned to him and snarled through the holes in his balaclava. His voice was raspy, like a heavy drinker's. “Sit down before I break something else, kid!”

Lance swallowed his next words and made no more noise. Blood flowed down his face and his nose burned with agony. He was in big trouble here.

These guys mean business. But at least they had their faces covered. No point doing that if they weren't going to let him go eventually, right? I’m just gonna get my ass handed to me, but I can take a beating. I’ll come through this. Maybe I’ll make the news and get even more views. Hell, the sympathy factor will be a goldmine if I play this right.

What the fuck am I thinking about? I need to get the fuck out of here.

“Please let me go. I’m sorry. You’re scaring me. Just let me go!”

The van screeched to a stop, so suddenly Lance tumbled head over heels towards the front.

“Okay,” the passenger with the raspy voice barked. “Get the fuck out, kid!”

Lance swallowed, his throat thick with nose-blood. “W-what?”

There was an audible click as the driver reached forward and pulled something under the dashboard. Lance felt a draft behind him and realised the van’s sliding door had fell ajar.

“Get the fuck out, kid!”

Lance didn’t need telling again. He wrapped his fingers around the sliding door and threw it open so hard it almost bounced back and sliced him in two. Night had fallen and the balmy breeze met him. His feet hit the ground and he was running.

Running through the woods.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Where the Hell am I?”

Lance didn’t know of any woods in Cleveland, but he supposed the suburbs would have a few. If that was true, then there must be houses nearby—someone who could help.

Or I can call someone!

Still running as fast as he could, Lance yanked his cellphone from his jeans and dialled 911. The screen lit the darkness in front of him, but made it harder to see ahead. Several times, he stumbled to avoid going head over heels into a bush, or caving his skull open on a low hanging branch. Wherever he was, there was no well-walked trail he could see. Just wilderness.
In fucking Cleveland?

Dead air filled his eardrums when his phone failed to connect. He glanced at the screen and saw he had no service. Where were all the houses? Where was he?

“HERE PIGGY PIGGY!”
Lance looked back and saw only darkness behind him.

“THERE’S NOWHERE TO RUN, PIGGY!”

“SCREW YOU!” he shouted back. “I’m gonna brain you fuckers.”

He tried his phone again, but it was still out of service. Eventually, he put it back in his pocket because it was slowing him down. Once the light from the screen was out of his face, his night vision returned and he could see ahead more clearly. He dodged between trees and picked up speed. The blood in his airways left him out of breath within seconds. But he had to keep going.

Something lay ahead.

A house!

No, a cabin.

Lance screamed. “HELP! SOMEBODY, PLEASE!”

A light came on in the cabin. Even though his heart was beating a mile a minute, the sudden hope of rescue sped it up to a flat out sprint. He knew the moment he stopped running he would keel over and vomit, but he kept going. Unable to slow down in time, he hurtled into the cabin’s front door and shook the wood in its frame. The racket was so loud that there was no need to knock and announce his presence, so he turned around and faced the woods, waiting for someone to let him in. Were they still out there, following him?

Why had they abducted him just to let him go? It made no sense.

Had they changed their mind? Or were they just out to scare him? Were they done?
Please let them be done.

The door at his back creaked and began to open. As he was leaning against it, Lance tumbled backwards through the doorway. He exited the darkness of the woods and entered the light of the cabin.

“Help me!” he begged, searching for whoever had let him in. But the cabin was empty, save for a single office chair in the middle of the main room. A single, naked bulb swung overhead casting shadows.
Lance was shaking, he held back the vomit. He managed to control himself enough to cry out for someone. “Is... is anybody here?” Someone stepped out of the darkness at the back of the room, obscured by a blinding corona of light. Lance shielded his face. “I can’t see you. Can you get that light out of my eyes?”

The figure did not move. The torch kept shining directly in Lance's face.

Lance glanced back out the doorway into the dark woods. “I need help. Do you have a phone?”

The stranger did not move.

“Please! Get that light out of my face. I need help, bro.”

The light faded gradually, inch by inch. The corona coiled in on itself like an imploding star.

Then the stranger came into view.

Lance saw the balaclava covering the stranger's face before he saw anything else. His mouth realised what was going on before his brain did, and he spat out one word before it was too late. “Fuck!”

Hard and vicious, something struck the back of his skull and he was falling again. This time, he was asleep by the time he hit the floor.

Chapter 4

When Lance woke, he was smiling. Smiling because his mind had taken him to that big house with the indoor pool he'd been planning to buy. In his dream he was sunning himself with a beer. Now he returned to reality, and reality was grim.

He was sitting in that strange, out-of-place office chair. When he tried to move, he found, to his dismay, that duct tape bound his wrists to the arm rests. He could think of no scenario where that was not extremely bad.

At least his mouth wasn’t taped. “What the fuck is your problem? Who the Hell are you guys?”

He saw no one in the room in front of him, but he knew his abductors must be near, and sure enough, a tall figure in a balaclava soon stepped into the space before him. Heavy boots clunked on the rotting floorboards and the stranger asked, “Are you comfortable?”

“No! I’m strapped to a goddamn chair. Let me go.”

“Are you Prankstar?”

“W-what?”

“Are you Prankstar?”

“Yes!”

The stranger took another step closer to him, near enough to reach out and strike him if he chose to. It made Lance tingle with anticipation, fearful of a blow that might fall any second. The back of his head throbbed from the previous attack.

“Your YouTube video, BLACK LIVES DON’T MATTER, received 14 million views. In this video, you offered to sell cheap, illegal firearms to black men on the street. An overwhelming majority were seen accepting the offer. Your closing comments suggested gun violence is predominately caused by black people, and that they do not value their own lives. Do you disagree with what I have just said?”

Lance frowned, strained at his bonds. The stranger waited for his answer. “I… yes, I made that video.”

“A social experiment?”

“Yes!”

“Was it fake?”

“What? No?”

The stranger pulled out a phone. It was Lance’s phone. The contacts screen was open, centred on the C’s. “Christopher Kazas is a stage actor. Why is his number on your phone?”

“I have hundreds of people on my phone, dawg.”

The stranger nodded. “Yes, you do. Many are paid actors. Christoper Kazas was one of the black men in your video agreeing to purchase illegal firearms. Did you hire him? Was the video faked?”

“No way, bro.”

There was a scuffle at the back of the room. Lance tried to turn around but his seat was secured to the floor. Several moments passed before a second stranger appeared at the front of the cabin. It was the man with a beard beneath his balaclava. He held a struggling body in front of him, applying a chokehold.

Lance fought his restraints, veins bulging in his forehead, when he recognised the person being thottled. “Tom! Tom, who are these guys, what do they want?”

The stranger shoved Tom onto his knees. His face was awash with tears and snot. Sobs competed with words as he spoke. “J-Just do what they tell you, Lance. They’re fucking crazy.”

Tom wailed as the handle of a knife struck him in the back of the head. The stranger without a beard now stood behind Tom and he turned his gaze to Lance. Dark brown eyes peered out from the twin holes in the thick black fabric. He asked a question. “Are you Prankstar?”

“Yes! You know I am.”

“Do you make fake videos?”

Lance shook his head. “No way, bro.”

The stranger nodded to his bearded colleague who pulled a dark cloth from the back of his trousers. He shook it out and revealed it to be a hood. He shoved it over Tom’s screaming face.
The stranger holding Tom down stared harder at Lance. “Do you make fake videos? Do you misrepresent black people? Do you exploit the homeless to make money? Are you creating false evidence with biased social experiments?”

“Just tell them!” Tom sobbed beneath the hood. “Lance, they're not kidding around.”

Lance swallowed, but the lump in his throat remained. The fuck did these guys want? The more he stared at those dark brown eyes beneath the balaclava, the surer he became that his attacker was black. This was all just about hurt feelings.
“I’m sorry,” Lance spewed. “If I've done something you think is racist, I apologise. Let's talk about it. But it’s not my fault if black people all want to carry guns. The videos are real, bro. I have nothing against black people. So fuck you!”
Tom groaned.
Lance was trembling. What the Hell was he doing? Why was he antagonising these psychos?
Fuck them! I ain't some bitch they can scare.
Except I'm about to piss myself.

Lance tried to redress his angry outburst. “This is crazy. You've made your point, but the videos are real. It sucks, I know.”
The stranger nodded slowly, like he was about to admit to this all being a giant misunderstanding.

He placed his knife against Tom’s throat and pulled it hard like he was starting a mower.

Blood spatted the floorboards. Tom squirmed. A crimson jet arced into the air and ruined Lance’s dirty white jeans. Lance gagged, but through his vomit choked vocal chords he yelled, “You fuckers! Tom! Tom! You crazy bastards!”

Tom fell face first against the rotting floorboards. His body twitched a few times, but then went still. The monster who had killed him stepped forward and wiped his bloody knife on Lance’s shirt, looking him in the eye as he did so. Lance tried to move away, but the chair held him tight.

Yet one of his wrists seemed to move a little more.

His bonds were loosening. Just a little.

Have to get the fuck out of here. Just need a little time.

“What do you want? Why are you doing this?”

The man with the knife pointed the blade’s tip at Lance's face, hovering above his right eye. “Are you Prankstar?”

“YES!”

“Do you post fake videos?”

Lance strained at his bonds, but tried not to show it on his face. He needed more time. “Yes, okay! The videos are all fake. It’s all about the views, bro. People like hearing black people are criminals so I give 'em what they want. Welcome to the Internet, bro.”

He rotated his wrists over and over, the adhesive tearing the fine hairs from his skin. Every twist made it a little further. The duct tape stretched and warped. He was almost free.

Just a little longer.
“Thank you, Prankstar. You have admitted you are a fraud, a charlatan, a trickster. Your messages are toxic. Your influence is toxic. It is time for you to retire.”

Holding the bloody knife in one hand, Tom's killer reached up with the other and clutched the top of his balaclava. He pulled it up over his face. Slowly, like a magician revealing a trick.

Lance’s heart stopped. If the guy was ready to show his face, this would not end well. They’d already killed Tom. Lance was next.

No witnesses, bro.

Come on… He pulled harder at his restraints, no longer trying to disguise it. Just a little more!

The murderer in front of him was still steadily removing his balaclava. It was just up past his nose when Lance finally got his arms loose. The sudden jolt of excitement, the thrill of being free, launched Lance forward like a spring. He collided with Tom's killer while the balaclava was bunched over his eyes. He cried out in surprise when Lance’s shoulder punched the air from his belly.

The two of them ended up on the floor in a pile.

Immediately, the murderer’s bearded associate came for Lance, swearing beneath his own balaclava. Lance spotted the man out the corner of his eye and panicked. With both hands busy restraining Tom's killer, he had no way to fend off an attack.

Something glinted on the floorboards, lit by the swinging light bulb overhead.

Without thinking, Lance picked up the knife and swivelled around. He buried it right in the guts of his rushing attacker. The man made no sound, but he doubled over and changed direction, travelling backwards on his heels. Trembling hands went to his belly, and clumsy fingers wrapped around the knife handle jutting out of his middle. The eyes beneath the balaclava were wide and shocked and went even wider when he yanked the knife free with a sickening squelch.

Blood drenched the floor between the stabbed man's legs, like red waters breaking. He slumped to the ground in a position so awkward he could only be dead.

Tom's killer went still and stopped fighting. The balaclava still covered his eyes but his mouth sucked at the air. “W-what did you do? What’s happening?”

Adrenaline-stoked fury in his veins, Lance landed a punch right in the guy’s mouth. “Shut it!”

Then Lance leapt to his feet, empowered by the sudden role-reversal. Now these fucking clowns were the ones in trouble. He marched across the floorboards to retrieve the knife. When he saw what he had done, he took a moment. A man was dead because of him.

I was just defending myself.

Still just killed a man, though. Shit!

Shit!

The amount of blood on the floorboards could have filled a bathtub, and the body already smelt bad, like an open sewer. His stomach turned and his neck bulged. How had he not puked yet?
“Shit, Lance, what did you do? You are so fucked.”

At the sound of his friend’s voice, Lance spun around in shock. That Tom was back on his feet was surprising enough, but that he gawped at Lance like he was the one who had done something wrong was even more bizarre.

“T-Tom? I…” Lance raced forward and held his friend tightly. “Shit, bro. I thought I'd lost you.”

The remaining abductor removed his balaclava and backed off into the corner. He was a black dude, and his brown eyes fixed on his dead partner.

Lance left Tom and faced the other man down, backing him further into the corner. “Who the fuck are you? I swear I know you!”

The guy nodded hysterically. “Y-y-yeah, bro! I-I-I’m PrankStorm.”

More fury spiked Lance’s veins, and a snarl took over his lips. “You fucker! This was all over YouTube? You want to take me on?”

The guy swallowed, wavered on the spot like he was about to fall down. “It was just a prank, bro. Just a prank.”

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Lance raised his fists, but Tom yanked him away. “Chill, dude. We got to figure this shit out.”

PrankStorm laughed, a fraught, high-pitched sound. “We can’t figure this shit out, bro. We’re all fucked, yo!”

Lance looked at Tom, and at last noticed the slash across his friend's throat. The wound was peeling away at the corner and flapping. “Tom… what's happening? I don’t understand. You were pretending to be dead? Why?”

“It was all fake, Lance. A set-up.”

“But why? Why prank me?”

Tom raised an eyebrow as if the answer were obvious. “Because you’re a fucking asshole.”

Lance stumbled as if hit by a rock. “You don't mean that. We’re bros! Partners!”

“Nah, bro. You keep most of the money and it’s your face on camera most the time. I'm just your helper and you only see yourself as the star. I’m tired of your shit. PrankStorm wanted to take you down—expose your shit as fake and ruin you. Him and me are gonna start a new channel, yo. Better than any of the lame-ass bullshit you come up with. Now you screwed it all up. Screwed yourself more than we ever intended.”

Lance frowned. His head threatened to split with the ache he had coming on. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you get it, Lance? We filmed all this shit. We got your confession on camera that all your videos are fake. Then you straight off killed a guy. You’re fucked, Lance. Totally fucked.”

Lance felt tears coming to his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them spill. Fuck Tom. He had made Tom rich, and this was how he showed his appreciation? “They were our videos, bro. If our channel is a turd, then you stepped in it too.”

PrankStorm spoke up from the corner. “We were just screwing around, Lance. You took it too far.”

Lance stomped his foot, making both men flinch. “I thought I was gonna get whacked and dumped in the woods. I thought my best friend had just bled to death at my feet. They won’t blame me for any of this shit, yo. It’s you two who will fry. Manslaughter or whatever. Who the fuck did I kill, anyway?”

He marched across the floorboards and bent down next to the stinking corpse. He reached out and yanked the balaclava away. The astonishment knocked him back a full three feet. “The homeless dude? What the fuck?”

“It was him who told us about this place,” explained Tom. “He and some of his buddies crash here sometimes.”

Lance looked around at the cabin, saw that the rotting floorboards and moulding walls were only fit for the desperate. “Where is here exactly?”

“The woods behind the golf club. The cabin used to belong to a groundskeeper or something.”

“I still don’t get it. Why the Hell did this old hobo have a problem with me?”

Tom huffed. “Why you think, bro? You’ve been scamming the homeless for months. His name was Eric, by the way, and one of your pranks involved his girlfriend—or fuck buddy or whatever. I dunno if homeless people have girlfriends.”

PrankStorm spoke up again, regaining some of his senses and now sounding far less rattled. “You gave her that fake money order for ten-thousand dollars.”

Lance had almost forgotten the prank. The money order had been fake, of course, but his viewers didn’t know that. They thought Lance was the most generous guy on the planet, and his subscriber count had shot up.

Tom continued. “The old girl tried to cash the cheque and got laughed right out of the bank. Eric said she overdosed after that. Guess it was the last bit of humiliation she could take. Eric tracked me down using the computers in the library. When he found out I was already planning on taking you down, we joined forces. Before Eric could go through with it though, he wanted to see one last time how much of an asshole you were. Needed to confirm it once and for all.”

Lance groaned. “The prank earlier tonight?”

Tom nodded. “That was our go ahead. Eric raced off and met up with PrankStorm to tell him he was in, then they came and snatched you in the van. We paid some kid to taze you and I drove up to the woods in my van to meet everyone here.”

“I thought you were my friend, Tom.”

He shrugged. “Just business. Now Prankstar is finished. You’re going to jail. This cabin is hooked up with six cameras.”

Lance decided to verify the fact, and it didn’t take him long to see the tiny lenses peeking out from the rafters. He also spotted one hidden below a pile of rotting cardboard in a corner of the floor. For a moment, he just stood there, struggling to understand quite what had happened. His best friend and biggest competitor had joined forces to take him down. They had only been intending to ruin him—expose him as a fake—but the fact he had murdered a hobo was down to them. The courts would probably make an example of them all though. Some judge would lump them all together and label them a bunch of privileged jackasses before throwing the book at them. Manslaughter charges all around.
Tom and PrankStorm were right. He was screwed.
They had screwed him.

Fuck you, both. This is nothing but jealousy. I made a success of myself. I don’t need to be sorry. How dare they try to ruin me!

Lance ground his teeth, clenched his fists. Without a word, he knelt beside the dead hobo.

“Just get away from him, Lance,” said Tom. “I'm calling the police, so just stay away from the body.”
Lance picked the knife up off the ground, but kept it close against himself as he rose again. He approached Tom, his former-friend now busy unlocking his phone, and shook his head. “Nobody is calling anybody.”

PrankStorm stepped in front of Lance and held up a hand. “Just chill, bro. This shit got out of hand, but we need to end it now.”

“I agree!” Lance slashed the air and two of Prankstorm’s fingers clonked against the floorboards. The 3rd-rate vlogger screamed as blood spurted up in twin jets from his stumps. Nothing like the movies. So much more visceral. Almost enjoyable as he plunged the knife into his enemy's guts and twisted it hard both ways, burrowing the blade deeper. PrankStorm fell back against the cabin wall and slid down onto his butt, leaving behind a bloody slither like a diseased slug.
Tom dropped his phone in shock. “Lance, stop!”

Lance was cackling like a chimp, and he didn’t know why. He spoke through a manic grin. “Why, bro? I’m already on the hook for one murder, so what’s the big deal?”

Tom had both hands up in front of him. He had gone white as a sheet and was shaking. “The first was an accident. You have to stop!”

“This is on you, dawg. You could have just spoken to me, Tom!”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

Lance shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Forget about it. At least now, you’ve got a chance to spill your guts.”

Tom frowned. Lance buried the knife in his former-friend’s guts, looking him in the eye as he slumped to his knees. “L-Lance…”

“Shut your mouth. I was gonna make you a millionaire, but instead you pull this shit. I’m fucking PrankStar, bro. I’m a video God.

Tom was swallowing hard and blinking rapidly. He held both hands on the handle of the blade, but didn't try to pull it out. “Y-you… you’re on camera, bro.”

Lance sneered. “So what? I’ll find the cameras and wreck 'em. I’ll burn this place down and nobody will ever know I was ever here. Tell the cops you and PrankStorm were off filming somewhere and that I haven’t heard from you in a few days. It’ll look like some kind of prank gone wrong, bro. Looks like the day you crossed Prankstar was your last.”

Tom was shaking his head, but he almost seemed to smirk.

Lance booted his former-friend in the ribs. “The fuck you smiling at?”

“You’re on film.”

“I already told you I can deal with that shit.”

Tom released a pained chuckle. “We’re live streaming, bro. Give the fans a wave.”

Lance’s stomach fell to his knees. He looked up at the rafters, directly into one of the cameras and saw the cheap mobile router attached to it. Tom chuckled again weakly, but then expired, that annoying grin still on his face. Outside, the woods lit up as a dozen torches broke through the trees. Lance heard the shouts of police. Someone on the stream had alerted them. Murder was taking place live on the Internet.

Lance could only imagine the views he would get.
At least he'd always be famous.

3. HEIRLOOMS

Chapter 1

“So, I think you’ll agree, all things considered, this house is a bargain, yes?”

Tammy pinched a ceramic frog from the mahogany side table and fondled it. It was wearing yellow spectacles, and she liked it very much. Before she gave her reply, she glanced at her husband, Andy. From his subtle expression, she could tell he was thinking the same as her. She turned to the estate agent, Gizelle. “All this stuff is really included in the price? What if some of it’s valuable? Isn’t there family who want it?”

The estate agent shook her head, saddened. “The previous owner was a widow and had no children. A quiet lady according to neighbors. Much of this stuff is antique, but the charity the property went to said to sell it wholesale—cobwebs and all.”

Andy swiped a hand at the mahogany stair rail, scooping tendrils of spider silk. “Good thing I don’t mind spiders.”

“Or spooky old paintings,” added Tammy, nodding to an oil portrait halfway up the landing. It depicted a huntsman in traditional red jacket and black hat. The English gentleman stood beside his horse with a pack of foxhounds at his ankles. The dogs had bloody muzzles.

“So, are you interested in making an offer?” asked the estate agent. She had a pen in her hand but had made no notes during the entire viewing, nor did she carry any paper. Tammy wondered if Gizelle actually knew how to write.

Or how little she was charging for this house.

Tammy kept waiting for the penny to drop. The house itself was priced only moderately under market value, due to its rundown nature. The decor needed updating and a new kitchen was sorely needed, but the property sat within their price range, and could one day be worth a lot more. What made it a true bargain was the sheer amount of furniture included. While none of the knick knacks were particularly of Tammy's taste, the imposing dining room table alone must have been worth a grand. It was pure mahogany and heavier than her car! What they wouldn’t keep they could sell. The place had character, perhaps a little too much, but one day they would make it their own. She knew it. The house had an atmosphere she couldn't describe, but it made her tummy warm. Maybe it was the feeling of home. Stupid to shop with her heart, but the way a house made you feel when you walked through the front door was important. Andy would agree.

“Can we have a minute?” Andy asked Gizelle who seemed more predatory by the second, growing an inch as she leant towards them and showing more teeth in her fixed grin.

“Of course,” she said. “I shall wait in the dining room, but I’ll need to rush you as we have other viewings later.”

Tammy rolled her eyes. “Sure.”

Once Gizelle walked out of earshot, Andy smiled at Tammy. “You like this place, huh?”

She shrugged, not wanting to seem overeager, even to her husband who might prod her playfully about it. “It has everything we want,” she said. “Three beds, big garden, garage and driveway. Plus it's different. All the other houses we looked at were thrown up like Lego. This house has everything we've been looking for.”

“Including the ghost of Widow Twanky.”

She bopped him on the arm. “You like it too, I can tell.”

“Are you kidding me?” he raised one of his bushy, copper eyebrows. “I freaking love it. There’s a four-poster bed in the master. I can finally be a princess!”

“And that dining room table; I think it was built in the Dark Ages. The whole downstairs has real wood floors too, no laminate rubbish.”

“Original thatched roof as well,” Gizelle's voice piped out from the dining room.

Andy frowned and smirked at Tammy. “Okay, I think we’ve made our minds up now, thank you.”

“Excellent!” Gizelle was back in the room. “Asking price?”

“Let’s try five below,” said Tammy. “Unless you’re willing to clean out all the cobwebs.”

“I’ll put forward your offer and try to give you an answer today. This house will be a real gem once polished.”

Tammy glanced up the stairwell at the portrait oil painting and shuddered, the only thing about the house she didn’t like. And the first thing she would sell.

Those blood soaked muzzles.

“Which charity?” said Andy.

Gizelle frowned. “Sorry?”

“You said the property was left to a charity. Which charity?”

“Oh, erm, yes… I believe the late owner left everything to a battered women's shelter. Your purchase will go to a very worthy course.”

Tammy’s stomach grew hot, and she fingered the knot over her bottom left rib where the bone had thickened and healed. As she walked towards the front door, she leant into Andy and whispered. “I want this house.”

Chapter 2

Tammy flopped on the kingsize mattress and winced. “Ouchy! This bed isn’t as comfy as it looks.”

Andy approached the four-poster bed and clambered on top of her. “Maybe it needs activity to soften it up.”

Tammy shifted, trying to avoid the painful lumps and knots. “I think the springs are gone. We’ll have to change it. No point having an antique four-poster bed if it feels like lying on potatoes.”

“I’m trying to come on to you here and you’re talking about potatoes.”

“Don't potatoes turn you on?”

He kissed her mouth. “You turn me on!”

As he bared down on Tammy, a sharp pain stabbed her side. “Ooh. Argh. Get off me. Off off off!”

Andy leapt up. “You okay? What is it?”

She pushed herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. “My rib is playing me up. We really do need to get a new mattress. It's too firm for me.”

“Okay, Tam. I’ll sort it out. You want me to get you some pain pills?”

She rubbed at the bottom of her ribcage and winced again. Odd that her old injury was nagging her. For so long, the broken rib had faded from memory. Now it flared so badly she could feel the knuckles shattering it all over again. “No, it’s okay. I took some pills earlier. They didn't help.”

Andy stood there, arms folded, face concerned—no longer horny. She knew the sight of her pain upset him—it was part of the reason she loved this gentle and caring man—but neither of them knew a way to discuss the past without it ruining their future, or at the very least their day. Andy wasn’t jealous in an overt, controlling way. He was jealous in a pained, silent way. Talk of her ex, Jay, was uncomfortable for him, as talk of his past dalliances was painful to her. That was why they both tried to pretend the past did not exist. That was just fine by her.

Pain subsiding, Tammy got up and gave Andy a hug. “Come on! This is our first night in our new house. Let’s go crack open the wine.”

They descended the creaking stairs, hand in hand. Tammy made an admission. “I really hate that painting.”

Andy stopped halfway down and faced the portrait, nose to nose with the smug fox hunter and his pack of bloody hounds. “Yeah, I think I hate it too. I understand the idea of culling animals and hunting and all that, but still… you have to be some kind of asshole to make a sport out of tearing apart terrified animals.”

“Will you take it down?”

He placed his hands around either side of the frame. “Right this second.”

There was a tearing sound like what Tammy imagined the sound of a scab being ripped free would sound like. As the frame pulled away from the wall, cracked, yellowing wallpaper came with it. A large square of bare, dusty wall remained. And a fist-sized hole.

Andy teetering on the stairs and staring around one size of the large frame in his hands. “Sorry!”

Tammy stared at the black hole, and a strange feeling descended upon here, like it might suddenly suck her in. “Yeah... It's a real mess.”

“I’ll get some filler tomorrow and sort it. Right after I order a new mattress, change a dozen lightbulbs, and mow the lawn. Bugger, moving into a house is stressful, huh?”

The lights flickered on and off for a second, but Tammy still focused on the hole. “I think it was there before you moved the portrait.”

“The painting was put there to cover the hole? Makes sense. Maybe I should put it back?”

Tammy snapped. “No! I hate it.”

“Okay okay. I’ll put it outside with the rest of the rubbish. I hope we don’t find any more damage. Last thing we need is a money pit.”

Tammy blinked and pulled herself away from the hole. “It’s not a pit, honey. I’ll start Ebaying stuff tomorrow. We’ll make a fortune, I’m sure of it.”

The painting's weight seemed to increase in Andy’s arms, because he stumbled down the last steps and quickly lowered it to the wooden floor of the hallway. His hands were dusty, and when he wiped them on his t-shirt, he left gray smears against the pastel blue cotton. “You sure you want to sell it all?” He picked up a jar with a brass horse head on the lid. When he yanked the lid up, the jar spat out metal spikes in a circle. “This thing is pretty cool, whatever it is.”

Tammy smiled. “It’s a cigarette dispenser. You put a cigarette in each of the spokes and pull up the handle when you want one. My dad used to have one.”

“Okay, so where do you put your spare vape canisters?”

“Don’t be a doofus. Put it down. Might be worth a few quid.”

Andy placed it back on the side table next to the ceramic frog she had fondled when she’d first viewed the house. The bespectacled frog could stay, but the horse dispenser was an ugly, archaic thing that made her think of yellowing wallpaper and ash covered coffee tables. Her childhood wasn’t bad, but the smoky atmosphere of her family’s living room wasn’t something she missed at all. Even the memory was acrid and stung the back of her throat.

Andy hoisted the oil painting again and heaved as though it weighed a tonne. Her husband was handy, but not strong. “I’ll go stick this outside,” he said, “so we don’t have to look at it. You pour the wine.”

“That I can do.” She smiled, but as the lights flickered again, she raised an eyebrow at her husband.

“Yeah, yeah, faulty electrics. I’ll add it to the list. Money pit, I’m telling you.”

“Our beautiful family home, I’m telling you.”

He gave her a cheeky wink. “Maybe later, we can start on the family bit.”

She kicked him up the butt as he stomped down the hallway. “Maybe you can fix the holes in the wall before you go poking around mine!”

“I've got filler for both,” he said as he went out the front door.

Chapter 3

By nine o'clock Tammy had drunk enough wine to feel dizzy, but it was the nice kind of dizzy. They were sitting on a dead lady’s sofa, watching a documentary on a bulky 32inch television one of Andy’s friend had given them, and now had a mortgage to pay every month, but it really felt like the start of something new. Their life together had begun this day. That alone was dizzying. The wine just expedited matters.

“I think I need to go to bed,” Tammy admitted a little shamefully. It was very early in the evening to admit defeat.

Andy sipped the last of the wine in his glass and nodded. “Me too. I have a long list of stuff to do tomorrow, and I can do without a bad head.”

“Gonna fix that hole?”

“After I fix yours.”

Tammy laughed. “I know I started this hole reference thing, but it’s actually pretty unsexy.”

“Okay, what if I call it your-”

She put her hand over his mouth. “Let’s just go upstairs.”

Both a tad unsteady on their feet, they clambered up the creaking stairs, bumping into both wall and bannister. Eventually, they found their way to the bed where Andy eagerly threw Tammy down.

“Ouchy! This bloody mattress is digging into me again.”

Andy smirked. “Just deal with it while I dig into you.”

“We really need to work on our dirty talk.”

“I’ll add it to my list.”

They tore at each other’s clothes, and before long they were making love. And it was love, for in that moment, Tammy felt so close to this man who would never hurt her, that she knew in here heart she would grow old by his side. This man with whom she now owned a house. A home. A future. Once upon a time, the days ahead were dark and occluded. Jay had stomped away her future and replaced it with fear. That she was now free and happy was enough to make her cry. Coming out the other end of darkness and stepping naked into the light was like a rebirth, and it only made her appreciate her new life even more.

After they were done writhing around, they lay on their backs, panting and staring up at the ceiling through the gap in the four poster bed.

Her post-sex daze faded and thoughts began to refill her head. “How do you think her husband died?”

Andy turned his head to look at her. “What?”

“The widow who owned this house. How you think her husband died?”

“How on earth am I supposed to know?”

Tammy let out a sigh, running her fingertips over her own naked tummy. “I think he was abusive.”

“Why do you think that?”

“She left the house to a battered woman’s shelter. Why else would she do that?”

“Doesn’t mean her husband abused her. Could have been a previous relationship, like with you.”

Tammy closed her eyes and missed a breath.

Andy turned onto his side and lay his head against her shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“No, it’s okay. Jayne made my life a living hell, but it’s over now. It finally feels over. This house… When I heard our money would go to a battered woman’s charity, it just felt… I dunno.”

“Right?” Andy ventured.

“Yes! Almost like my life had gone full circle and I could finally get closure. I don’t know why, but I think the woman who lived in this house survived abuse too. I know what it's like to be with someone who thinks they own you, who treats you like love is an unbreakable obligation that can't be broken even if you act like shit. I know what it's like to be terrified of the person you love beating you senseless.”

“She’s probably glad this place went to you,” Andy said softly.

“I think so. That's what I feel.”

“Doesn’t mean her husband abused her though. You’re just a man-hating ex-lesbian.”

She punched him on the arm, but then climbed on top of him, straddling him cowgirl. “Maybe I’m still a lesbian, and the only think keeping me straight is your cock.”

“Which is ironic seeing as it bends to the left.”

She slid his hardening member back inside her. “It hits the spot.”

Andy ran his hands over her stomach to her breasts. Her lower rib flared with pain again, but it only reminded her of how much her life had changed. And how much she loved this man between her thighs. They made love again and fell to sleep

Chapter 4

Tammy awoke in pain. Her rib roared like a chainsaw and for a moment she had no idea where she was. She sat bolt upright, naked and sweating. Andy was right up beside her.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

She looked around. “I… nothing. Just didn’t know where I was for a moment.”

Andy rubbed the sleep from his eyes and hugged her. “You’re dripping, honey! Everything is okay. This is home.”

She kissed him on the mouth and smiled. “I know. It's fine. Gonna take a shower.”

“That would be wise, honey. You feel like a slice of cod.”

“Gee, thanks!”

She climbed stiffly out of bed and padded across the threadbare carpet—another thing they would need to replace—then went into the bathroom across the landing. The suite was old, but not in the plastic avocado style you sometimes saw in dated houses. This bathroom was classical. The wash basin balanced on a delicate ceramic pedestal, and the toilet was large and round. Most modern toilets were barely big enough to contain a decent-sized shit. Andy had proven that to her time and time again over the years. The stuff you forgave when you were in love.

She laughed at her own gross thoughts and was smiling as she splashed water on her face from the cold tap. It felt good to cleanse the sweat from her forehead. Why had she got so hot? She didn’t feel ill. Perhaps she'd had a nightmare, although she felt no after-effects of one.

Just getting used to a new environment, she decided. I don’t think I slept well. Noises and smells I’m not familiar with.

The shower danced against its fixing as it summoned water from the depths of the house, and it was several seconds before a stream burst forth from the large brass head. It came out hot—too hot—and Tammy swore as it burnt the backs of her shoulders. Slowly, she and the water negotiated and found a lower temperature to agree on. Then heaven.

Despite the house—and therefore its pipework—being old, the water came out fierce and fresh. It slapped at her skin and pulled away the sweat and dirt. The heat found its way inside of her and made her entire body refreshed. It was a great way to start the day.

Andy made it better by slipping in beside her.

“What do you think you’re doing, mister?”

“Just checking on you.”

“What do you think needs checking down there?”

“Think I left my car keys somewhere.”

She laughed, almost slipping in the shower. Andy caught her and they kissed. But they never got to finish.

The shower clunked and rattled, so violently that it risked coming loose from the wall. Andy turned off the water urgently, and they both stood there looking at one another, wet and wide-eyed.

“Money pit!” said Andy.

She shook her head, but didn’t smile. “It’s all just character. We knew what we were getting into.”

“My list is getting really long, honey.”

“Like another part of you, I see. Let’s not waste it.”

They finished making love in the shower, with the water turned off.

Chapter 5

After breakfast, Andy got to work fixing the hole above the staircase. Tammy brought him a cup of tea. “How’s it going?”

Andy took a sip, despite the brew being hot. He always did that. “I found some filler in a box of our stuff so I should be able to sort it out. Will need painting afterwards though.”

Tammy peered into the hole again, but this time felt no bizarre pull. It was just a hole. “How deep does it go?”

“It’s not a rabbit hole. It’s just a hole in the plasterboard.” He put his tea down on the step and mimed pulling a rubber glove onto his hand.

Tammy giggled. “Are you about to give our house a prostrate exam?”

“Take a deep breath and hold it,” Andy whispered to the wall, then delved his hand into the hole and rooted around. “Hmm, I seem to see the problem here, Mr House. You seem to have developed a—Fuck it!”

Andy yanked his hand back and grasped it against his chest. The tea on the step went flying, but the carpet was so old it barely mattered. Tammy saw blood and grabbed Andy’s arm. “What happened? Yikes, that’s a nasty cut, honey!”

Andy growled, like the house had bitten him on purpose. “There's something sharp in there.”

“What?”

Andy put his hand back inside the hole.

“What are you doing? Don't hurt yourself worse.”

“It’s okay, probably just a nail, but I thought I felt something else.”

Tammy’s guts stiffened while she watched her husband root around in the hole again. She waited for him to cry out in more pain again as the nail scratched him a second time, but he was careful this time, knew what to expect.

“I feel it again.”

Tammy bent down to pick up the fallen tea mug, but she kept her eyes on her husband. “What do you feel?”

Andy shook his head, then pressed it flat against the wall so he could get his arm deeper into the hole. “Something plastic. I think, maybe…”

Slowly, he removed his arm from the wall. His hand clutched a dusty old sandwich bag, and inside were several items. A scrap of paper, an old watch, a knife.

Tammy squinted and tried to make sense of it. “What is all that?”

Andy scrunched up his face. “Dunno. Let’s take a look.”

He took the baggie into the kitchen and Tammy followed. They sat at the widow’s dining table and put their elbows up on its thick surface. Andy upended the baggie and released a cloud of dust and insulation fibres, making them both cover their mouths and cough.

Andy slid out the contents. The knife had pierced the baggie and must be what cut his hand. The wound on his middle knuckle still bled, but he didn’t seem to notice. The first thing he examined was the watch. It looked expensive.

“It’s a Cartier,” said Andy.

“Is that good?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. There’s an inscription on the back. Says, For the Newcrombie Master of the Hunt. James Gibbs. 21.12.1989.”

Tammy shuddered. “That horrible oil painting must have been a self-portrait.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

“I don’t know.”

He unravelled the scrap of paper, yellowing and crisp. Old.Tammy waited while he read it silently himself.

“Well, what is it?”

Andy spun the paper on the table so she could read it. It was a newspaper clipping.

SADISTIC HUNTSMAN ON THE RUN/POSSIBLE SUICIDE.

“Jesus! What the hell!” She read on.

Local Master of the Hunt, James Gibbs (54), has fled his wife and home after evidence was discovered linking him to an international pedophile ring involving several members of the British gentry. His wife, Edith Gibbs (52), denies all knowledge of her husband’s activities and claims to have found a suicide note in her husband's belongings. The couple were childless.

“This article is fifteen years old. What was it doing in the wall?”

Andy chewed at his lip and gave no answer.

Tammy felt a lump in her throat, and for a moment she had to breathe through a bout of nausea. Eventually, she spoke. “Do you think his wife knew he was a pedophile?”

Andy laced his hands together in front of him and looked a little ill. “Don’t they always? I mean, if I was out gathering up children and taking them to my secret lair, you would know something was up, right?”

“I don’t know. Do you see, though? I knew her husband was a bad man. Who has a painting of themselves like that?”

“Covering a hole...” said Andy. “Hiding a knife... And the newspaper clipping was from after the guy disappeared, so Edith must have been the one who put it there.”

“Doesn't mean she did anything wrong.”

“Come on, Tam. Why would she hide a knife and her husband’s watch?”

A joyless smirk found its way to Tammy’s face, and she slunk back in her chair away from the table. Folding her arms, she said, “Maybe she killed him after finding out what he was. Maybe this is evidence of his murder. Good for her.”

Andy cleared his throat and hissed through his teeth. “Jeez, Tam, that's pretty cold. If it is evidence, we should hand it in to the police.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I mean no!”

Andy frowned.

She explained what she was thinking. “We hand this stuff over to the police and this house becomes a crime scene. You want to get kicked out the day after we move in?”

“What are you talking about? They won't do that.”

She reached across and took the knife off the table, then held it up to examine the tip. Either blood or rust covered it, ancient now, part of the steel. “Edith hid this in the wall. Who knows what else she might have hidden. The police will dig the ground out from under us and keep us from moving in for months. Then we'll be left with the repair bill. Our life will be ruined.”

“But we can’t cover it up. We could get in real trouble.”

“Cover what up, Andy? Like you said, we know nothing for sure. Maybe the watch and the knife were just her husband’s belongings, and she wanted to hold on to them.”

Andy nodded. “And then hid them in the wall. Right, yeah, normal behaviour. Look, I see your point, Tam. Just let me think about it.”

She put the knife back down and sighed. “I was happier when this place was just a money pit.”

“What is it now?” Andy asked.

“A murder house.”

Chapter 6

Andy came out of the bathroom and saw Tammy sitting on the bed with her laptop open. He rubbed the back of his neck with a towel, todger swinging freely, and then rolled his eyes. “Will you give it a rest?”

She shifted against the headboard, lumpy mattress digging into her. “Just five more minutes. Just listen to this first. I found an article that says Edith Gibbs donated her entire fortune to child abuse charity—almost three million—and admitted that her husband was always a violent and spiteful man. She hoped that by emptying their accounts, she would force her husband out of hiding. This is from a magazine article.”

“She sounds like a good woman,” said Andy, pulling on a pair of briefs. His brown hair was still wet, and would dampen his pillow.

“Or maybe it was all just a story to make her look innocent. I think she did it.” She closed the lid on her laptop. “After he went on the run, nobody ever saw or heard from James Gibbs again. He had no money and no help. Edith even sold the mansion they lived at.”

“Maybe his pedophile ring buddies helped him.”

“I doubt it. They were all rounded up and arrested in a sting operation. They would have taken James, too, but he caught wind of it and fled.”

“How did he know?”

Tammy put her head back against the headboard. “The police tried to take James at a country club he was staying at, but he left the scene before they found him. A friend admitted to warning him that the police had arrived and were asking for him. He felt sick after finding out what he'd done.”

James sat on the bed and put his hand on Tammy's knee. He stroked her shin up and down. “And that was the last time he was seen?”

“Yeah.”

“If the police came for me, I know where I would run.”

Tammy looked at him. “Where?”

“Home.”

“That’s stupid. That’s the first place the police would look.”

Andy nodded. “I know. But I would want to see you before they got me. Maybe James ran home and confessed all to his wife. Then she killed him.”

Tammy felt her guts roll over. “I can’t imagine what I would do if you came home and told me something like that. That you were a child abuser. That our entire marriage was a lie. It would just…”

“Make you want to kill me?”

She turned to him with tears in her eyes. Through imagination alone, she felt the betrayal Edith must have felt. Andy was her whole world because she loved him with her whole heart. When you trusted a person fully, you gave them the power to end you. Your fates became entwined. “I could never kill you, Andy. I think I’d kill myself first.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“No, I mean it. I was so miserable when I met you. You saved me. I never thought I could be happy like this. I didn’t know people like you existed. You make me feel safe with a simple look. When I’ve had a bad day, it doesn’t matter because I know it ends with you on my side against the world. How can I ever feel alone knowing that?”

Andy scooted up on the bed beside her. He reached out and took one of her hands. “You’re pretty great too, you know? You talk like everything you have is down to me, but the reason I fell in love with you in the first place is because you're amazing. On our first date you made us watch Grease and eat ice cream. You didn’t want to do anything fancy or play the usual fucked up dating game. You just wanted to relax and be yourself from the get go. I’ve always known where I stand with you, and that’s rare, Tam. It’s rare to find someone who isn’t trying to be somebody else all the time. That… that Jay ever hurt you, I just can’t understand it. If I thought I had caused you one ounce of pain, I would… shit, it would kill me.”

She kissed his cheek and put her head on his shoulder. “I know. I love you, Andy. You would never hurt me. You’re not a monster like Jay or James Gibbs. If Edith killed her husband, I don’t care. I know what she went through. She found a way out for herself. I want you to put the knife and everything else back inside the wall before you seal it up. Let James Gibbs remain missing. She bought this home for herself and put the stuff in the wall to remind herself never to be a victim again. She took back her life with that knife, I know it.”

Andy sighed. “Maybe James really did go on the run. What could she have done with the body if she killed him? She was just a little old lady, right?”

Tammy huffed. “She was in her fifties, and women are stronger than you think.”

“Sounds like you really hope she did it.”

“Better than a pedophile escaping into the unknown, isn’t it?”

“I guess. Don’t think I really want to think much more about it. I agree we should just put the stuff back where we found it and move on. Can we be done with this now and live our lives?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I know I’ve taken up the whole day with this. Just got to me is all.”

He kissed her mouth and scooted beneath the covers. “I know honey. Edith brought back a lot of hard stuff for you, but she lived a long time and filled this house with the things she loved. We have no reason to believe she wasn’t happy by the end.”

Tammy turned off the bedside light and moved under the covers, tried to get comfortable on the wretched mattress. “I’d like to think so.”

“Sweet dreams, honey.”

“Yeah, you too, although I don’t think that’s possible on this mattress. How did Edith sleep on it?”

Andy pulled her close and spooned her. The heat of his tummy against her back was soothing. “It’s probably taken Edith's shape. Won’t fit anybody else but its original master. I ordered a new one.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, it should be here soon.”

“Great. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Chapter 7

“The hole is all filled,” Andy shouted from the hallway. Tammy headed out of the kitchen, eating cereal from a bowl. The hole above the stairs was now pure white against the yellowing wallpaper. Soon, they would tear the old paper down and paint it all to match.

“You did a great job, honey. Thank you!”

“At least now this place is a little less of a money pit.”

“You put the… you know… the stuff inside?”

Andy nodded. “Let the past remain buried and the future run free.”

“That’s beautiful. You make that up yourself?”

“No, I think it was a line in a porno movie.”

Tammy shook her head and then slurped more cereal. She was about to speak when the doorbell rang.

“Huh,” said Andy. “I didn’t even know we had a doorbell.”

“I’ll get it.” Tammy hurried down the hallway and placed her cereal on the old mahogany side table she knew would end up being home for her car keys. When she opened the door, she faced a man dressed all in blue.

“Delivery.”

Tammy frowned. “Delivery of what?”

“A new mattress, sweetheart.”

Andy hopped from the bottom steps and joined Tammy at the door. “Wow, that was quick.”

The man in the uniform was blank-faced. “Where you want it, mate?”

“Upstairs, please. I paid for the old one to be taken away, too.”

The delivery man frowned. “I’ll have to check that with the boss.”

“Whatever you need to do, mate.”

Tammy turned to hi and grinned. “Thank God you got it delivered so fast. I had another awful night on that old mattress again. It’s nice we got a lot of things included with the house, but second hand mattresses are not something I’m a fan of, I've realised.”

“I had another surprise for you, too,” he said. “Come look.”

She followed Andy back over to the stairs where he bent down to pick something up of the step. He raised it up and positioned it over the patch of wall filler. When he stepped back, he revealed it to be a large print taken from their wedding photos. In it, they were side by side, cheek to cheek, and smiling at the camera. It was her favourite picture from the album.

“I was going to put it in our bedroom, but I think it looks good here.”

Tammy nodded. “Me too. It makes this our home now.”

They stood there enjoying a cuddle for almost a full minute, letting the two delivery men struggle by with the mattress. It was a scream from the bedroom that eventually broke them out of their perfect little moment.

Tammy bolted upstairs with Andy behind her. She found both delivery men cowering up against the wall like they had seen a mouse.

“What is it?” she demanded. “What is it?”

One of the two burly men pointed a trembling finger at the bed. Tammy turned slowly to see what had frightened him, and at first didn’t know what she was looking at. Andy understood straight away, because he covered his mouth in horror. She had to take another two steps before she could work it out.

“No! Are they... are they bones?”

Amongst a length of fading red cloth, buried in the recesses of the box springs was a collection of grey and yellow mottled bones. It looked like the carcass of a corn-fed chicken, but the pieces were too large—and in the shape of a human.

“It’s James,” said Andy. “The bones are wrapped in a huntsman coat.”

Tammy nodded. Even without the coat, she would know for sure that this was James. These were the bones of a child abuser. “Edith spent every night sleeping on top of his corpse.”

Andy swallowed, covering his mouth still. “She was a monster.”

Tammy shook her head. “Only the monster he made her be.”

“I’m calling the police,” said one of the delivery men. “There’s a goddamn corpse in your bed.”

Andy looked like he was about to throw up. “We’ve been sleeping with a body all week. Oh God!”

As Tammy stared at the bones of James Gibbs, she couldn’t help but imagine the anger that must have exploded from his wife. Part of her was glad Edith got her revenge. The other part of her joined Andy in revulsion and vomited on the floor. Once she was done, though, she tried to make light of it. “Don’t people usually leave their skeletons in their closets?”

James looked at her, speechless.

4. THE EAGLE & THE WOLF

Chapter 1

Manius Furia placed down his sword and scabbard, placing it with his scutum. He propped the entire bundle against the thick bark of an elderly oak tree. Dawn crawled towards them, a few hours distant, and his scouts needed rest. The thick forests of Northern Gaul had fought Manius's men every step of the way since leaving their brothers of Legio IV Gallica back at the main camp outside Vesontio.

Manius’s optiones, second-in-command, came strolling over in the heavy-footed way that betrayed his Remi heritage. Members of the Remi tribe were notoriously ‘big boned,’ yet despite his girth, Carigo was a woodsman down to his marrow. Manius relied on the big man all too much. Their centuria was named the Cloaked Eagles, but only Manius was born of Rome. The only man shaven and clean amongst six-dozen wild men.

“Centurion, would you have us camp?”

“I would, Optiones. Four sentries in three rotations. We shall break camp in exactly six hours.”

Carigo stomped away to see it done. The optiones organised his men with ruthless efficiency, whacking any man dawdling in the head with the flat of his hasta. That he used spear over sword gave away his Remi preferences. The other scouts were Gabali, loyal to Rome as a Gaul could be, but still Gauls. Manius had commanded the auxiliary centuria for eight weeks now, and so far, the tribesmen impressed him. Hailing from the mountains, the Gabali were strong and hearty, and complained little, but then few in Caesar’s legions had cause to complain. The Great Man treated his soldiers well, even named them his son.

Manius loved Caesar no less than any other. The Great Man was truly a father as much as a general.

That didn’t mean Manius enjoyed the task he'd been given. Scouting the unkempt lands of the Belgae was an awkwardly achieved task. The forests grew thick, and it rained without end. Manius's men carried their armour rather than wear it, preferring the freedom of loose fitting shirts and short trousers. The only thing in the Cloaked Eagles favour was the abundance of wildlife in the forest through which they travelled. The men filled their bellies to bursting every night, boding well for Carigo who ate twice as much as most men.

In absence of a proper camp—they had neither the space or equipment to lay stakes—they spent most nights and early mornings beneath cow-hide tents disguised with branches and leaves. Sentries hid in the treetops, but the scouting party's encounters thus far had been few. That could change at any moment.

Carigo approached again, palming a handful of berries into the space inside his scraggly brown beard. He grinned with bright red lips. “Tar berries. A good find. Would you like some, Centurion?”

“Perhaps later. I would wish to go over our route for tomorrow’s journey.”

“As you are, Centurion. We’re nearing the river Sambre, and should be able to cross if we look for a place narrow enough. The Bellovaci dwell nearby,” he spat berry juice on the ground. “A bunch of unclean brutes, but not to be trifled with. Your man Caesar is right to worry. Last village we travelled through gave me a feeling we were most unwelcome there. Our presence is only going to get less wanted.”

“Did you hear anything about the Bellovaci's disposition towards Rome?”

“Not fond.” Carigo wiped his wet mouth with the back of a meaty fist. “If Gaul gives your man problems, it will be amongst the Nervii and the neighbouring tribes. We’re treading into hot water.”

Manius grunted. “Caesar is not my man, he is our man. You have pledged allegiance to Rome.”

“Aye, but that don’t mean I have to love it. You Romans are decent enough, I suppose, but you can’t change a man’s heart by enslaving him.”

Manius felt a shiver and tried to disguise it by folding his arms. “Can I count on your loyalty, Optiones?”

Carigo grinned. “Don’t worry, Centurion, I won’t put my spear in your back. You should be more worried about the Bellovaci doing it.”

“We are only here to observe. Caesar wants an accounting for every tribe in the region not yet allied with Rome. When we spot the Bellovaci, we observe, and then we move on.”

“To the Nervii,” said Carigo. “About as fierce as they come. They’ve never had a man turn his back on a fight.”

Manius nodded. “Again, we are not here to fight, Optiones. Each man here was picked and trained to stay hidden, to disappear into the landscape itself if pursued. I am not a blood-lusting fool seeking glory.”

Carigo lifted the corner of his mouth, as if amused, but after a moment’s thought he nodded. “Good to know. Worst men are the men out to prove themselves.”

“I shall be brave when bravery is required, as I would expect of us all.”

Carigo smirked again, but turned and trotted off. Commanding auxiliaries was difficult. No way of knowing their little quirks and habits. What looked like rudeness to a Roman might be something else entirely to the Remi. While he trusted Carigo enough to sleep at night, an unassailable palisade existed between them. They were different species of the same animal.

A pair of Gabali prepared Manius’s tent, and he crawled beneath it. Already stripped of armour, he stayed as he was in shirt and trousers. There would be a chance to undress and wash at the river. With no horses in their party, the only sound was the quiet chit chat of the Gabali settling down to bed. Their tongue was foreign, but the tone light-hearted and relaxed. When soldiers stopped laughing, that was the time for an officer to worry. Manius closed his eyes and thought of home. Did Aemilia miss him as much as he did her? Was their new daughter well? That he had not yet laid eyes on little Tarentia burdened him so. If he died in battle, he would never see her even once. What would become of her then? No name or dowry to speak of, she would be married off to some socially stagnant knight or worse.

Damn you, Sulla, and your proscriptions.

Manius’s father, Titus Furia, had been one of Gaius Marius’s men and, as such, took the Marian side in the civil war against Cornelius Sulla. When Marius lost his mind, and then the war, Sulla took great offence at the Marian supporters. The Proscriptions had been dark days. Days when men such as Titus Manius could wake up one morning and see their names pinned up against the Rostra, marked for death. The rewards for proscribing were so high that two of Titus’s very own slaves had bludgeoned him to death in the street. Titus’s full wealth was seized by the state, and the two murderous slaves received their freedom. Dark days indeed. But what made Sulla’s revenge viler was a caveat that all descendants of the proscribed be stripped of their birth-right and status. Manius was the son of Titus, a wealthy patrician, but by the time he donned the Toga Viriis at fifteen, he stood lower than a pauper with a name meaning nothing.

At least Caesar’s ascendancy put Sulla’s memory in the past where it belonged. Caesar was not a petty man like Sulla had been. He would sooner see an enemy toss aside their enmity than die on his sword. It was Caesar who recognised Manius’s name in the role calls and immediately elevated him to Centurion, with promise of one day fully restoring his name and station. If Manius retained The Great Man's favour, little Tarentia would grow into a woman of wealth and means. It was because of her, his daughter, that Manius vowed to make it back home to Rome, and become a senator.

With thoughts of his baby girl drifting through his head Manius fell sound asleep.

Chapter 2

Manius awoke to shouts. That they sounded more angry than afraid, eased his mind. But the sudden shock from sleep still left him reeling in the dark. Carigo appeared and steadied him, the man's spear equipped but held casually by his side.

“What is it, Optiones?”

“Bloody wolves. Got into our supplies and took all the venison. Tell your man that once he takes Gaul, he needs to take care of the pests once and for all.”

Manius blinked and adjusted to the dark. Most of the eighty Gabali were up and about, but only a handful were active. The panic was over before it had begun. “How did a pack of wild mongrels get past our sentries, Carigo?”

“The sentries were watching for men, not creatures of the night. A wolf can crawl up through the bushes until it's right on top of a man. And forget the 'mongrel' talk. The wolves around here can grow bigger than a man. In fact, some Bellovaci pray to the Great White Wolf of the Ancient Groves.”

“Jupiter’s cock! You cunni will believe in anything. In Rome, wolves are to be kicked and shunned, not feared.”

“And in Rome, you stay indoors whenever an eagle takes a shit on the forum. We all believe different things, Centurion.”

Manius realised he had belittled the Remi man's beliefs, and so chose not to take offence at the man's counter-remark against Rome. He dropped his shoulders and allowed himself a laugh. “I suppose Rome’s auspices might seem odd to an outsider, as fear of wolves seems odd to me. Nonetheless, the sentries failed in their duties. Have them on half-rations for three days.”

Carigo nodded. “Long as you don’t include me in that, fair enough. Can I have their rations?”

Manius realised the man was joking. “Let’s hope we encounter nothing as dangerous as your wit. How long have we been encamped?”

“About five hours, I’d say. Sun will be up before you can take a shit and wipe your arse.”

“Then there’s no point going back to sleep. Assemble the centuria.”

“Aye, Centurion.”

Ten minutes later, they were once again on the move. Just as Carigo had said, the sun came up to meet them almost immediately. Their camp had been near the edge of the woods so they soon broke free onto a grassy plain. The river shone ahead of them like a slow-moving snake of the brightest silver. Gaul had moments of splendour when it wasn’t raining.

Being so close to the river, the area made prime farming land, which presented them with a grave problem. A young Gaul was leading a steer across a paddock beside a small homestead. When the farmer saw the line of scouts approaching, he panicked. It looked like he would run, but fear made him freeze and he stood there in place, eyes brimming with tears. The Gaul saw his own death approach.

“We must slaughter him,” said Carigo, although he did so without relish.

Manius said nothing, for he knew the obvious thing to do. If they did not kill this young farmer, he would run and tell the Bellovaci of their presence. “Seize him.”

A group of Gabali broke from the group and grabbed the startled Gaul. He kicked out at them and begged, but he did not dishonour himself by screaming.

“What is he saying?” Manius asked Carigo.

“He says, ‘Love Rome. Love Rome. No hurt.’ Should I kill him now?”

Manius put a hand up to keep his optiones from doing anything. “Hold on. First ask this man what he knows about the Bellovaci.”

Carigo nodded, then spoke in that uncouth language all the men shared. After chatting with the farmer for a minute, the Remi man turned to Manius and said, “He says there's a Bellovaci village called Carlei right across the river, but you can't cross here.”

“Why not?”

Carigo asked the man and relayed the reply. “The mud in this section of river will suck a man down and drown him. The only safe place to cross is further North-East, but that would take us right into the heart of the Nervii.”

“What about taking the river further West?” asked Manius.

Carigo relayed the message. The farmer went pale and glanced around sheepishly. When he spoke, he did so rapidly and alarmed.

“What did the man say?” Manius asked.

Carigo shrugged, as if he didn't quite understand it. “He said no one crosses the river West.”

“Why not?”

“It is a sacred place, he says. Only the Lacuscii can go there and any who trespass in their groves will meet a bloody end.”

Manius rolled his eyes again. He needed the Gabali on board with whatever he decided, and now he worried. Would they share the Bellovaci farmer’s delusions? “What do you make of this, Optiones?”

Carigo chewed at the side of his mouth as if desperately hungry. He let out a laboured breath and then threw his arms out in a shrug. “The Lacuscii are a myth even I don’t believe. Most Remi men probably haven't even heard the tales, they're so old. The Lacuscii are a tribe of men who mated with the creatures of the forest when history first began. Over time, they became as much beast as man, and their druids gained power over nature itself. It’s a children’s tale. Truth is, this unwashed bugger is trying to divert us north where his bastard Nervii will cut us to ribbons.”

Manius tapped on the wooden pommel of his Gladius—the one thing of his father he had managed to retain. “I’m inclined to agree. The man's expression when I suggested going West was untrustworthy. He'd hiding something”

Carigo sighed, then pulled the spear off his back and placed the tip under the farmer’s trembling chin. “I’ll kill the bugger.”

“No wait!” Manius held his hand up again, but wasn’t sure why. Why did it pain him to slaughter this tribesman? One day, he would likely take up arms against Rome. Letting him live was a betrayal against Rome. If he let the Gaul go, and he made it to the tribal leaders, he would give up the Cloaked Eagle's location.

But killing the farmer seemed unjust. Not like something Caesar would do at all.

Then Manius saw the woman and child. They stood near the homestead, anxiously looking on. The little boy in the mother's arms was pointing and cooing at the Gabali. The mother tried to shush he child.

“He comes with us,” said Manius.

Carigo frowned. “He’s Bellovaci scum, and you want to bring him along, feed him, guard him? What about his woman and child? You want a squawking infant along?”

“We’ll butcher the man's steer for extra meat, and once we’re out of Bellovaci territory, we’ll release him. Tell his woman that if the enemy finds us, we shall slay her husband the moment we unsheathe our swords. If she remains at her home, and alerts nobody, she will see her man return safe and sound.”

Carigo glanced at the Gabali who seemed as little enamoured by the idea as he was. While they were not natural enemies of the Bellovaci, like Carigo’s Remi were, they were still not friendly. Carigo couldn’t wipe the frown off his face. “I don’t understand your thinking, Centurion. We are a scouting party. Having a prisoner will compromise us. How will we stay silent if this lad cries out to the nearest enemy we see?”

“If he makes one sound intended to give us away, you may kill him, Optiones. Until then, he has done nothing deserving of his death.”

“Being Bellovaci is enough,” Carigo muttered.

Manius locked his jaw and stared daggers at his second-in-command. “Optiones!”

“Yes, okay, all right. Your will, my hand, and all that. I'll inform the lad he is now an honoured prisoner of Rome. Best tell his woman too.”

After receiving the news, the young Gaul bowed and muttered enthusiastically.

“He says ‘thanks’,” said Carigo.

“I gathered, thank you. Okay, men, form up. We’re heading West.”

The men butchered the steer and collected the choicest meat, leaving the rest to the woman and her child. Then they resumed their journey across the plain. Reaching the river, they headed West. That was when the young Gaul started hopping, long blond locks flapping in the breeze. “Ester ester!”

Carigo translated, not that it was necessary. “He means East.”

“Tell him we are going East, and that we will cross away from the Nervii realm.”

Carigo said so, but the Gaul kept arguing, on the edge of panic. “Ester ester!”

Manius groaned. Thank Jupiter there were no other tribesmen in the area to hear them. “Tell that man we are a scouting party and that no harm will come to him or his kin so long as he shuts his damned mouth, right this instant.”

Carigo seemed at a loss, not something the big man wore well. “He knows that, Centurion. The bugger keeps insisting we're heading into danger. I think he truly believes it.”

Manius stopped marching and approached the troublesome prisoner. The Bellovaci farmer begged him in foreign tongue, waving his arms madly. He was making it very difficult to justify not killing him. With a sigh, Manius threw a stiff punch. The Gaul slumped to the silty mud beside the river. “Pick him up. We shall carry him the rest of the way.”

Carigo grunted. “Still think we should kill him.”

“Such actions are growing more favourable, Optiones.”

Despite his argument, Carigo was the one to carry the young farmer. As the strongest amongst them, he still managed to keep pace, as if carrying nothing more than a sackful of figs. The Cloaked Eagles made good time and soon stopped amongst the nearby hills to wash in a stream running toward the river.

Manius waded up to his knees, but the water ran no deeper. It felt good to rinse the stink off him, and he sat down in the current and allowed the stream to rush around his torso. He’d lost a little weight, despite eating well, but these were the best years of his life physically. He was strong and lean, with stamina to march a whole day through. While scouting duty lacked the finer pleasures of Roman life, like wine and whores, it hardened a man’s body better than being at camp. He hated it out here in the wild most times, but he knew he would miss it when it was over. Few Romans got to explore beyond the main roads laid by their forefathers.

Carigo, however, looked a man who would spend the rest of his days away from civilisation. The Remi were a well-fed sedentary people, but his Optiones had a nomad’s spirit, more Germanic than Gaul. But the Gabali making up the bulk of the party were most adaptable of all. Wiry men with vulpine eyes, they saw everything and hid themselves with preternatural ease. Manius had learned much during the short time he had commingled with them. Far more enlightening than being surrounded by a bunch of bickering legionaries. Romans had too many opinions. These Gabali men got on with the job at hand.

As Manius continued washing himself in the stream, laying back on his elbows so that his entire body sunk beneath the surface, he thought once again about his daughter. That Tarentia was black of hair like he, was understood from his wife’s letters, but he knew not yet of her eye colour and complexion. Was she pale, like her mother? Did her eyes shine green as finest jewels? Or smoulder like burnt, brown mahogany? He could not wait to see her, yet the prospect of arriving home was daunting. So much time and distance to draw in, and all while surrounded by Gauls.

Something bumped against Manius’s tricep, but he kept his gaze on the grey-blue sky above him. One of the men had merely struck him as they waded by. But then something else bumped against his other arm, causing him to lower his gaze upstream. He frowned at what he did not understand. Dark shapes moved in the water, floating past on their way downhill towards the river.

Some of the Gabali in the water chattered, calling out to one another.

Men splashed. Others on the riverbank cried out.

Manius leapt to his feet. His stomach clenched. Objects bumped against his shins.

Corpses.

The stream was full of corpses. Nothing too large—rats, squirrels, and maybe a half-dozen fox cubs—but the bloody flotsam came in an endless wave. The water was red with animal blood.

Manius rushed to the water’s edge and climbed the bank, almost slipping in the silt. A dozen Gabali did the same, a tide of shouting men.

Once on dry land, Manius demanded an explanation. “What could cause such an ungodly thing?”

Carigo held a hand against his chin, watching the stream as more corpses floated by. It didn’t seem shocking to the Remi man, but instead profoundly interesting. While others screwed their faces in disgust, Carigo seemed only thoughtful. Manius approached his optiones and demanded answers again, even though it was not his fault. The big man gave no reply, kept on standing there with a thoughtful expression.

The Bellovaci farmer roused from his unconsciousness at the water’s edge, now fully awake. He muttered and mumbled at first, his fear slowly rising in the tone of his voice. The last thing Manius needed. “Quiet that man before I gut him myself. I will have no more noise from him.”

One of the Gabali grabbed the young Gaul by the scruff of the neck and shoved him away from the stream. The roughness was enough to shut him up for now.

Finally having enough of Carigo’s silence, Manius demanded his input a final time. Carigo moved his hand away from his chin and looked at the Centurion. “If you were to ask the Bellovaci lad, he'd tell you this was the work of the Ancient Grove. A warning that we step into a land not ours. But we are all servants of Rome now, ay? And Romans tread wherever they please.”

Manius frowned. “Do you hold stock in the farmer’s warnings?”

“Do I believe in gods and monsters? No, Centurion, I do not. The only monsters I know are men, and the only Gods are kings. Both commit foul deeds.”

“Glad to hear you have sense. We continue onwards then, but what of this odd occurrence? It is a poor omen surely?”

Carigo gave his characteristic half-smirk. “Omens are for Rome. This is not Rome. The only thing here is the known and the unknown. Do I know what would cause a stream to carry corpses of a hundred dead animals? No, I do not. But if we continue onwards, then perhaps we shall learn.”

Manius studied the Gabali men. They were unnerved by the occurrence, but it left them pugnacious rather than afraid. These were men who did not tolerate the bizarre. In that way, they were as Romans. Rome also did not tolerate ignorance.

“Let’s move, Optiones. I want to cross the river as soon as possible so we may find safe camp on the other side.”

So, the Cloaked Eagles marched on, ascending the largest hill that would lead them back towards the river on the other side.

Chapter 3

Atop the hill, Manius watched the sun slip behind the clouds. A light drizzle had started, which he feared would turn ferocious. The river lay North-West, two miles distant, and a mile further than that, it narrowed by two-thirds. That was the place to cross. But to make camp early here and cross tomorrow, or try to make it across the river first… which was wisest?

Manius decided to make camp on this side of the river. They could sleep knowing their backs were safe whereas on the other side of the river they could be attacked and pinned against the water’s edge. Better to have a full day’s march on the other side so they could take time to scout a safe spot. They'd lose time overall, but keeping to this side of the river until tomorrow made most sense.

“Optiones, we will descend the hill, and camp in that forest beside the river. We shall cross tomorrow.”

The young Bellovaci acted up again, and this time tried to make a run for it. A Gabali kicked his legs from under him and sent him sprawling into jagged rocks. Carigo winced and then laughed.

Manius, however, did not laugh. “What is that cunni shouting about now?”

“Says thatthere forest is the sacred grove he spoke of. The hunting grounds of the Lacuscii.”

“You mean the tribe you say is a myth and most have never heard of? A tribe that has no reason to oppose a centuria of Roman scouts just passing through?”

Carigo shrugged his wide shoulders. “Even if they are real, we should have enough men for them to keep their distance. No point picking a fight for the thrill of it. If they do exist, they are surely a shy people, more likely to hide than confront. If I’m wrong, then at least we’ll have a good fight on our hands. I’m not a fan of dying, but killing… well, that thickens the blood. Makes me hungry.”

“Everything makes you hungry, Carigo.”

“Aye, which is why I'm all for making camp early. The forest will shield us from any Bellovaci on the other side of the river, so the Gabali can use the extra hours to hunt and relax. Nothing better to settle a tribesman’s nerves than a big hunt.”

Manius cleared his throat and briefly watched the men. “You think the Gabali are anxious?”

“In a way, Centurion, yes. They think the scene back at the stream was some kind of threat. Set their minds to a useful task and they will relax themselves ready for bed.”

“So be it, Optiones. Have the men strike camp inside the forest first, then they may hunt until two hours past nightfall. I wish to cross the river as early as possible come the new day.”

“Ay, Centurion.”

Manius remained on the hill’s summit as the Gabali filtered down its side. He wanted to keep his view of the land as long as possible, so not to be caught unawares. Would they truly find a lost tribe inside the forest? The thick expanse of trees went on for miles, so much so they might not even see any tribesmen, even if they existed.

And what of the grove itself? The young Bellovaci seemed to think the place was touched by death, a dangerous place.

Pah, primitive superstition. Even Rome once held unsavoury beliefs, human sacrifice for one. Something intolerable to today's Romans. These Gauls just needed to catch up with the rest of the civilised world.

Once the Gabali disappeared into the woods, Manius went in after them, but he kept his hand on the hilt of his Gladius as he descended the hill.

* * *

Once camp had been struck, in a small clearing between trees, that Carigo informed were Silver Firs, all was peaceful and quiet. Thoughts of unexplained danger went away. Even the young Bellovaci farmer had calmed, sitting cross-legged on the floor and staying quiet. A good thing too, because Manius had reached the conclusion that the man must be killed, but if he remained calm, he might still get to see his woman and child again. Manius would like that very much. The boy deserved a father.

And may the young farmer pass on my clemency to the Bellovaci and show them Rome does not wish to fight. Rome wishes only to uplift the whole of Gaul and bring it into the great tapestry of nations.

Roughly half the Gabali had gone deeper into the forest to hunt deer and rabbit, which left the camp quieter than usual. Manius tried to enjoy it, but hustle and bustle was the background to a soldier’s life, and it was unsettling to hear so little. In fact, the forest itself was more silent than he would have expected. Where were the birds, the squirrels, the insects?

Carigo came and sat beside Manius on the ground. He chomped on salted fish and offered a part. Manius took it and thanked him. “No problem, Centurion. Got to enjoy these little moments. Superstition might have kept the Bellovaci away from this place, but it means we get to enjoy it in peace. It’s an honour. We are nature’s guests here. You may wish to sacrifice a fatted boar to Camulos. Let him know your gratitude.”

“If we find a boar, you may do so, yet I see none here.”

“Ay. Well, let’s see what the Gabali bring back. Those mountain men were made for hunting.”

“Living in the mountains leaves little option not to be, I'd expect. Do you never yearn for a permanent home, Carigo? After your campaigning is through, will you take a wife?”

The big Remi man seemed to think on this, as if it were a real consideration. Eventually, he shrugged, as if any answer he gave could not be certain. “Why stick to one place with one woman when the whole world is on offer? Men are like wolves, Centurion. It’s in our blood to roam. Your Romans identify yourself by a city, instead of the people you are. You expand throughout the world, yet you always go running home every time. Why? All of your problems lie in Rome—your politics, your wars. Men are not meant to rot in place. Move on and your problems fade to dust. Stay in one place and they gather like flies.”

Rather than object, Manius allowed the man’s words to gestate. “There’s wisdom in which you speak, yet I would not give up my wife or daughter for anything.”

“You’ve been with whores?”

“I… of course.”

Carigo chuckled. “Romans want it all. To roam and war, fuck and steal, but return home at the end of the day to the bosoms of your wives and the comfort of your villas. The Germans have it right. They take what they want and never stay in place—they have no illusions of civility like the Romans.”

“Careful, Optiones. You are a loyal subject of Rome, yet you speak like a traitor.”

“Is it treachery to speak one’s mind? If I were the great weakling, Cicero, I could slander all and sundry under the guise of satire.”

“I hold no great love for Tulius Cicero, for the man holds enough for himself, yet he is a Roman citizen. A Consular.”

Carigo smirked. “And so, we get to the crux of the argument. You label me a Roman in ways only that suit you. I am less than you, yet must act even more Roman than a true Roman. I do not love your glorious Republic, Manius Furia, and I never will. If you wish to execute me for that, then do so now.”

Manius realised his fists had clenched, yet it felt more instinct than actual offence. As much as the Remi man’s words were anathema, he couldn’t help but like the man. “I ask only one thing of you, Carigo.”

“Yes, Centurion?”

“Do not speak your mind in front of any other Roman but I.”

“Long as I can speak my full mind to you, Manius Furia, then I will keep it in your care.”

Manius nodded and the two of them grabbed forearms, an ironically Roman gesture.

“It’s getting dark, Centurion. I’ll have the Gabali still in camp get some rest, so they may keep watch tonight while the hunters sleep.”

“I shall join them,” said Manius. “I have a feeling tomorrow will ask more of us than days prior.”

Carigo patted him on the arm and smiled, fish bits dotting his scraggly brown beard. “Long as the Lacuscii don’t come slaughter us in the night, aye?”

Manius swallowed, but felt stupid once Carigo released a belly laugh so loud it shook the leaves from the trees.

Chapter 4

That night, Manius wasn’t awoken by shouting, but by the sound of breathing. As soon as he opened his eyes, he sensed a presence right beside him. Hot, fishy air on his face. Before he could cry out an alert, a meaty hand clamped over his mouth. He tried to struggle, but another hand held him down.

“Quiet, Centurion!”

Manius blinked twice and Carigo’s face revealed itself in the darkness. He was lying on his belly and leaning over Manius, but his eyes were pointed elsewhere. When he removed his hand from Manius’s mouth, he did so slowly.

Manius understood enough to keep quiet and whisper. “What is happening?”

“Something’s in the camp. I thought I noticed something in the trees when night first fell, but when I went into the forest, there was nothing there. Whatever it was I saw in the trees, it's back. It’s in the camp.”

“Then raise the alarm.”

Carigo shook his head. “Wait! Let’s see what we’re up against.”

Manius rolled onto his side, looking where Carigo did. Sure enough, a shadow moved through camp, slinking between tents. It made no sound, or so little it was covered by Gabali snores. The shadow belonged to no man, that Manius could imagine, for it was large and low to the ground. A beast.

“It’s a wolf,” whispered Carigo.

Someone in camp got up in the darkness. They did not scream at the shadow nor alert others in the camp. In fact, Manius didn’t think they were even aware of the shadow's presence. Was one of the Gabali getting up to take a piss?

When the man’s slender frame finally took shape, it became clear who it was. “It’s the Bellovaci farmer,” said Manius. “He’s planning on making a run for it.”

“Blasted imbecile,” said Carigo.

“We have to get to him.”

Carigo nodded, then started shuffling towards the centre of camp on his belly. Manius grabbed his sword and started after his Optiones, both men in the dirt like slugs. The young Bellovaci crept between sleeping Gabali, careful not to step on any of them and ruin his chance at escape.

The shadow moved towards the unaware farmer.

Faced with the need of urgency, Carigo heaved from his belly into a crouch. He hissed a warning to the young Bellovaci, but it only succeeded in startling him. Realising his silent escape had been foiled, he turned and ran.

Right into the shadow.

The beast leapt up and devoured the young Bellovaci, tearing into him on the ground. His screams woke the camp and eighty Gabali leapt from their bedrolls. Chaos erupted.

Manius leapt up and raced towards the centre of camp. The young Bellovaci's screams ceased, replaced by the shouts of confused Gabali. The shadow flitted between tents, somehow avoiding the reach of the men. Swords swung at empty darkness and Gallic curse words filled the forest. Carigo yelled to the men, trying to keep them from doing anything stupid like stabbing each other. The man had his spear in front of him and used it to slap any man making too much noise. Meanwhile, Manius kept his eyes on the shadow. Slowly, taking each step carefully, he crept towards the beast.

Could it be a mere wolf?

The thing was as large as a man. Larger.

The first Gabali fell. The shadow rose three feet and came down on top of the man as he looked in the opposite direction. His screams lasted seconds. One of his brothers came to aid but became the shadow's next victim. Once both men were dead, the beast dashed between tents, vanishing from the spot where the panicked Gabali converged. Manius still had the shadow in his sights though, and he continued towards it.

He told himself to stay back, to let his men confront this thing, but he could not. Why?

Because these were his men, and they were dying.

He would gut the bloody wolf himself and use its pelt as a coat.

The shadow took down another man, forcing Manius to move faster. He almost tripped over a sinewy rope attached to a tent, and his stumble announced his presence to the enemy. The shadow focused on him.

It slunk towards him, a living part of the darkness.

Mars, help me slay this beast.

Manius gripped his sword tightly and wished he had grabbed his scutum.

The shadow rose in front of him, two feet taller than he.

Manius did not flee. To turn his back now would be his end. Instead, he held his sword in front of him.

As the shadow edged closer, its odour filled his nostrils—an earthy stink. Its features came into view.

Pointed ears, bristle of fur, yellow, lupine eyes.

And a human face.

Manius felt his heart stop, and in that instant the beast pounced. It felt like the forest itself was falling down on him, and all he could do was thrust his sword out in front of him. The weight that collided with him was too much to bare. He fell backwards into the mud. The huge beast crushed the life out of him.

Manius lay there in agony, waiting to be torn asunder.

The moment never came.

Hotness covered his chest. Blood, or something else?

Carigo’s shouts filled the forest, and the Gabali fell silent. Manius tried to call for help, but he could not breathe, the weight on his chest too great. Seconds passed and the pressure in his lungs grew until he saw stars. His life ebbed away. Oh, Jupiter, take what you will for a single, glorious breath. Just one more breath to fight off the darkness.

Chest threatening to explode, Manius felt lightheaded and then dizzy. Suffocation was not the way he thought to die. Where was the honour? Was this Mars' plan for him?

Then the weight shifted and Manius seized half a breath. When the weight fell away completely, he sucked at the air wildly, gasping and coughing, wailing and choking. A meaty hand clamped his shoulder. “That’s it, Centurion, get your fill. You’re all right. Get some air. It’s right there.”

Manius nodded his head to let his Optiones know he was hearing him, but he concentrated only on the glorious air filling his lungs. It took some time before he finally got a hold of himself. He sat there on the ground, covered in blood, and pawed at his shirt while wondering where it had all come from. A wound crossed his belly, a thick scratch, but not enough to account for all of the blood.

“You gutted the bastard,” said Carigo, pointing at the shadow on the ground. Manius's sword stuck up out of its middle. “Not bad for a Roman.”

Manius was too beaten to laugh. He shook his head in confusion. “That thing. It’s not a wolf. It’s a man.”

“You get a bonk on the head, Centurion. It’s a wolf. I told you the things run big in these parts. No wonder there’s no game in these woods. I couldn’t believe it when the hunters came back empty handed. It nearly made me wake you.”

“I’m telling you, Carigo! Look at that wretched thing. I swear it by Jupiter and Mars both.”

Carigo tutted and sighed, clearly humouring him, but when he turned his head towards the shadow, he froze.

The Gabali mumbled amongst themselves.

“The stories are true,” said Carigo, more to himself than any other. “No!”

Manius had recovered enough to get off his back, yet he didn’t try standing. He dragged himself along on his side until he was right beside the beast he had slain.

Yet it was a beast no longer.

Lying in the mud on a bed of broken twigs and leaves was a naked man, the likes of which Manius had never seen. His skin was white as purest marble and he lacked a single hair anywhere on his body. His dead eyes were yellow suns, clear even in darkness, and his ears curled up into points. Inside his open mouth were sharper fangs than a man had any right to own. This creature had been of the forest, a beast as much as a man.

Carigo shook his head in disbelief. “The Lacuscii… The Lacuscii are real.”

Manius was shaking his head too. “You didn’t tell me everything, did you, Optiones? So, tell me now.”

Chapter 5

“The stories about the Lacuscii are told to scare children and keep them from wandering too far into the woods,” explained Carigo. “Parents warn their sprogs about wolf men in the trees that will eat them. No one believes it's true.”

“I believe it,” said Manius, the Gabali stood in a huddle behind him. His slaying of the beast had elevated him in their eyes. “Tell me the stories in full.”

Carigo looked at the dead tribesman lying on the ground and nodded. “They are changers. Men by day and monsters by night. They descend from a human male named Luscus and the great white she-wolf Vuluptra. For generations, they have preyed on those entering their forests, breeding carefully to keep their numbers down. They are a quiet people, knowing the world would hunt them down if they were deemed a threat. I never believed the stories, Centurion, but I think we may have entered their grove. If that’s the case, we need to leave right now. There’s a reason no game exists in this forest. The Lucuscii hunt here.”

Manius hated to admit it, but he believed it all, Jupiter forgive him. Yet, he was on a mission for Caesar himself. “We are soldiers, Optiones. These Lucuscii might have the taint of the wolf in them, but they can be killed. What would you do if we were bested by Bellovaci?”

“I would say give me a sword and a place to stick it.”

“Exactly. Men fear the unknown, but with your explanation, the Lacuscii are not unknown. They are a tribe in hiding, but tonight they killed subjects of Rome. It is not something that may go unanswered.”

Carigo looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Where’s the man who promised not to lead us to pointless deaths in the name of Rome?”

“You would have us flee like children?”

“I would have us live. Rome does not know all, Manius Furia. Some things no civilised man can understand. This grove is of the Gauls, and it does not care about the glory of Rome.”

Manius looked at the Gabali. Their fearlessness had evaporated, and they now looked like frail senators surrounded on the steps of the Forum by torch wielding plebs. These men had families they wanted to get back to. That poor Bellovaci farmer had a wife and child waiting for him back at the homestead, trusting in the word of a Roman. Manius’s word was already broken, and the glory of Rome had been diminished. Were the losses worth the risk? Was punishing a forgotten tribe for crimes against the Republic more important than completing the mission Caesar gave them?

Manius stood gingerly, ribs aching. With a shaking right hand, he clutched his gladius and yanked it out of the Lacuscii warrior’s chest. A gout of blood spewed forth and pattered the leaves on the ground. With a snarl on his face, he turned to his men with the bloody sword raised high. “I am a centurion of Rome, and a son of Caesar. You are the Cloaked Eagles, tough men and servants of Rome. Tonight, we have been beset by a foul enemy. An enemy who attacks sleeping men in the night without warning. Gabali men litter this forest, their lives cut short by abominations born of man and beast. Yet, I would ask no man here to risk his life for something not tasked of him by Rome itself. I lack Imperium, and such cannot speak for Rome. Caesar has asked us to scout the tribes of Gaul, and this is one of them. He did not ask us to fight them. That will come later. Therefore, our report will include the Lacuscii as a tribe hostile to Rome. We will return of a day to raze this wretched forest to the ground, and every beast within it. But not tonight. Tonight, we flee, for not to would be foolhardy. Let us pack up, Eagles. We are leaving.”

He had never seen the Gabali move so fast. They swept through the clearing like hunted hares, gathering up their bedrolls and abandoning any belongings that rolled away from them. Carigo studied Manius and, when caught looking, gave a respectful nod. Then he left to gather up his own belongings.

Manius gathered his scutum and moved over to the fallen Bellovaci. The young, blond Gaul wore a woven braid around his neck, a thing made with a woman’s delicate craft. Manius plucked it free and placed it inside his belt. Little would stem his woman’s grief, but she deserved back what was hers. He would also see she received payment from Rome, if she accepted such an offer.

“We lost five men,” Carigo reported moments later. “Plus the Bellovaci lad. One Lacuscii did that. You’re a wise man, Manius Furia.”

Manius nodded, although some part of him still nagged that his 'rational decision' to leave was really cowardice and fear. “We still need to cross the river, Optiones. We still need to scout the Bellovaci and the Nervii. If we return to Caesar without...”

“By day,” said Carigo. “Once we’re back on the hill we need only wait for daylight. The Lacuscii are only men in the glare of sunlight. We can cross the river at dawn while the beast inside of them sleeps.”

Manius nodded.

The Gabali formed up, carrying their dead amongst them. Manius had no intention of keeping them for a single second, so he led the way back out of the forest, sword unsheathed and scutum held firm in front of him. The wound on his stomach burned, but the pain only made him move faster, a reminder of what he was leaving behind. The darkness seemed to have blackened further and the trees, both ahead and behind them, swayed with renewed life. Several times, Manius thought he saw shadows move from one place to another. Several times he thought he saw something watching.

“How deep did we travel into the forest?” Manius asked Carigo.

“We came in about half a mile, I’d say, but I’m not positive we’re heading in the exact same direction. Either way, we’ll be out soon enough. Just keep moving.”

Twigs broke as the men hurried through the trees, but when twigs broke up ahead, Manius called a halt.

“What do you hear, Centurion?”

“We’re being watched. Something has looped around in front of us. They want to keep us from leaving. But why?”

Carigo readied his spear. “Because we’re meat.”

Manius groaned as he thought about the lack of game in the forest. “We’re the largest prey they’ve had in years. Men! Form a shield wall. Leave our fallen behind, lest we join them.”

Such a manoeuvre was difficult in the cramped forest, but the Gabali did a decent enough job of clumping together and raising their shields. Some wielded spears, like Carigo, but most adopted the gladius given to them by Rome. It made the shield wall unbalanced and awkward. Fighting this way was not why the Cloaked Eagles existed.

Carigo tilted his head and whispered. “Centurion, shadows, up ahead.”

Manius nodded. He had already seen the shapes flittering in the darkness, twenty yards ahead. “Men! Forward march, half-time. Those cunni want to dash themselves against our shields then we shall let them.”

The Gabali moved forward, feet tangling the weeds and roots that tripped them constantly and made the whole formation waver. Shields on the flanks moved forward, pointing towards the enemy.

The shadows remained ahead, multiplying in number.

“I count at least a dozen,” said Carigo.

Manius nodded silently, focusing on where he was putting his feet. A man beside him tripped, and he had to reach out and steady him.

Step, step, step.

The formation moved forwards, keeping as tight as it could, shields locked together.

The shadows remained in place, ready to meet them. Within seconds, the two groups would clash.

“Shields forward,” Manius shouted.

Any shields still facing the flanks now turned to clink against their neighbours, forming an impenetrable shield in front of them. The Lacuscii could not break through, Manius was sure of it. His men would cut their way out of this forest and gain revenge for their fallen brothers.

“Ready!”

The men breathed heavily, steeling themselves for battle. Swords and spears slid through the gaps in the wall.

Manius locked his jaw. Clenched his sword.

Something caught the corner of his eye.

Shadows to the left, sliding out from between the trees.

The enemy had sprung a trap.

Carigo realised it too. A smirk crossed his face, visible even in the darkness. “Clever boys!”

The shadows leapt out from the forest and attacked on two fronts, one group striking the shield wall and locking the formation in place while the second group pounced upon their undefended left flank. The men there were not unprotected, their shields locked in front of them. They fell quickly, sides torn open by sharp claws glinting in the moonlight.

For the second time that night, Gabali screams pierced the air.

Manius growled. Jupiter fuck this grove.

He wheeled to his left and leapt amongst his men, screaming for them to kill, kill, kill. To their credit, they rallied, and managed to unthread their weapons from the shield wall and turn them on the enemy. Carigo killed the first beast himself, driving his spear right through its groin, so deeply that the weapon was nearly lost to him. He had to place his foot on the creature to yank the hasta back out. The dead beast turned back into a man, pale fleshed and tainted by the wolf.

More beasts fell to spears and sword, but the shield wall broke as men stumbled and tripped in the dark. Each time a man fell, another would try to fill the gap, but slowly the Lacuscii pushed them back and forced them to fall over their own feet. Shields got wrenched away and tossed aside.

More men screamed.

Manius leapt up in the air and plunged his sword into the neck of the nearest beast, grinning as its arterial blood spurted into his face. He felt the blood drip down his face and it sent him wild, made him a force of nature. He twirled, in a most un-Roman fashion, and impaled another foe. Leaping and kicking, he fought like the gladiators of Capua he had watched as a boy. His enemy was primal. So he became primal, and he matched their ferocity.

Carigo bellowed. A creature grappled with him, and bit into his neck. He pulled his spear around and slid it up beneath the beast’s ribs. On its back legs, it looked as much a bear as a wolf, and even mortally wounded, it continued to attack. Carigo roared and shouted in Gallic, no doubt cursing the thing biting into his neck.

Manius ducked under a swiping claw and made his way to his struggling Optiones. A few steps and he was there, thrusting his sword into the beast’s back and pulling it right out again. Then stabbing again. Over and over. Blood was everywhere. He breathed it in the air.

His attacker now dead on its feet, Carigo shoved the beast aside. His spearhead had snapped off and his neck bled profusely. He clamped a hand against the wound and grinned at Manius. “Looks like you led me to my death, after all, Centurion.”

Manius took hold of the fading Remi man. “My apologies, Optiones.”

“Fuck it, I’m not dead yet.” He shoved Manius aside and threw himself at the nearest attacker, tackling it to the ground despite it being bigger. He pummelled the creature’s head until its skull cracked open then let out a belly laugh as loud as thunder. “Years from now,” he shouted, “the Lacuscii will be scaring their children with stories about me!”

More shadows emerged and fell on top of the Remi man, but before they could envelop him, he grabbed the broken shaft of his spear and rammed it into his own eye socket, killing himself instantly. He remained there on his knees, dead but not fallen.

The Gabali closed ranks. Those still holding shields did their best to form a wall. But it was no use. The shadows filled the forest and surrounded them on all sides. Every second, a beast leapt out to take a man, and the formation grew smaller, tighter. More vulnerable.

Before long, Manius realised, with absolute horror, that only three Gabali still lived. Eighty men slaughtered in a single night.

“I am sorry, Caesar. I have failed you.”

Two of the three Gabali men fell, their deaths sickening and painful.

Manius wished he could speak Gallic. Wished he could tell the lone soldier fighting beside him that he was sorry. But it would mean nothing. Within seconds, the Gabali warrior was yanked away into the night, screaming as he died.

So Manius stood there alone, surrounded by an enemy not even the mighty Rome knew existed. A myth made real. Wolf men of the forest.

A children’s story.

Jupiter, forgive me. I ask you to look over my daughter. Provide Tarentia with a man greater than I.

Tarentia! Oh, how I wish to gaze upon you before my death.

The shadows moved in, took up space around Manius. But they did not attack. He could hear their breathing, smell their stench, yet they did not tear him apart. “What are you waiting for, you cunnis? You stink of shit and piss, so get it over with.”

Still, they did not attack.

Instead, they backed away. Why?

It wasn’t until the first thin shaft of light pierced the canopy of the trees that Manius realised the source of their retreat. Jupiter had sent the dawn. True daylight was still an hour away, but its impending arrival was enough to send these creatures back to their nests.

Like a protective mother, the forest seemed to swallow up the Lacuscii until Manius was standing there alone. For a second, he wondered if they had even been there. Perhaps he suffered malaise, and this was all a fever dream. He certainly felt lightheaded. Would he wake up soon? Or die in his sleep?

The sight of six dozen dead Gabali told him he was not dreaming.

Manius staggered over to Carigo, a part of him needing confirmation that the big man could actually be killed. Of course, it was no surprise to find the man dead. The Remi was no Roman, but he had served with honour. Even in the face of his own death, he had fought for his brothers. Bravery was a most Roman virtue. Manius removed the broken spear shaft and lay his Optiones down beside a thick oak tree that matched the man himself. “I am sorry, Carigo, to leave you in such a cursed place. I shall return and find what remains of you, I give my word as a Roman.”

With more daylight breaking through the trees, Manius made his way out of the forest. He felt nauseous and dizzy, the wound on his chest burning, but he was able to keep going by stopping at every tree to take a breath. An hour later, the small shafts of sunlight turned to great beams, and he was free.

The grassy hill lay ahead, a place he had recently stood and watched for threats. He had found none, but how wrong he had been. Now the hill mocked him, not least because he lacked the energy to climb it. He ended up dragging himself on his belly, not knowing if he would ever make it to the modest summit. His head spun and his chest burned. Death lay behind him in the forest, but he wasn’t so sure it didn’t lay ahead of him too. He was a failure to Rome, crawling on his belly like a worm. But one thing kept him going.

Tarentia.

* * *

Manius opened his eyes beneath a wooden roof. That there were no screams to wake him was a comfort, yet his heart beat with fear. His body burned and his mind spun. Death all around him. Monsters. Blood. And shadows. He had taken himself to the underworld and left eighty good men behind.

So where was he now? What Hell greeted him as just deserts?

A familiar face watched over him. A woman.

He spoke the answer the moment it came to him. “The farmer’s wife. The Bellovaci.”

“No, I am Helvetii. My husband was Bellovaci. The Nervii slaughtered my family when I was a child and I was taken in by the Bellovaci. My husband was a good man, but I was given to him as trade when my village went hungry and was unable to pay for his meat. He was a good man. He is dead?”

Manius nodded. “Not at my hand.”

“You went into the forest?”

“I am sorry.”

The woman nodded. She seemed upset by the news, but not broken as a good wife should be. “He always said that forest was cursed, that I must never let my boy enter.”

“The boy was not his?”

“No. Part of the reason I was traded as chattel. Nobody desires a woman with an unwanted child. Who will provide for him now, I wonder?”

“I shall see that Rome pays its debt to you. Your husband’s death was in service to the Republic. How… if I may ask, do you know Latin?”

“I not speak it so well, but I try. My father was a mercenary who fought with Quintus Sertorius in Hispania. He was recruited when great Roman pass across the Alps. My father make it back alive to raise me till I was eight, then Helvetii clashed with Nervii and he was slaughtered with the rest. A waste. My father was a good man. A servant of Rome.”

Manius kept nodding his head. He realised it was a tremor in his neck and fought to stop it. Shivers wracked his entire body.

“You are ill, Roman. The fever may yet kill you. I have done what I can, but wound on your chest festers.”

He coughed and cleared mucus from his throat. “T-thank you. If I perish, send word to Rome that a centuria lies dead in the forest. They will reward you for your loyalty. Keep my body and they shall pay you handsomely for it too. I am a centurion.”

She nodded. “You are lucky I found you, Centurion. Your body was at the top of the hill. The shield you carried caught the sunlight like a beacon. I saw it from a mile away while I was out playing with my boy.”

“W-where is your boy now?”

“Asleep. As you should be. It is getting late.”

“A whole day has passed?”

She nodded with a little grin. “The sun went down just before you awoke. I shall check on you in the night, but you must sleep again until morning.”

Manius tried to agree, but his throat was thick and sore. His body shook harder and his fingertips itched like they were being bitten by ants. His head pounded like a drumbeat.

“Be still,” the woman said, a mixture of worry and pity on her pretty face.

Manius coughed, spluttered. His mind whirled with horrifying images. His vision turned red. “The… the… the wolves!”

She frowned at him. “Wolves? Where wolves?”

“The wolves. The wolves.”

“Where? Where wolves?”

The itching in his fingertips turned to pain and he felt the nails split open. A tingling in his mouth alerted him to teeth lengthening and his jaw widening. Something was happening to him. He was changing.

He was a changer.

Chest burning, Manius fought for breath. Bolt upright in bed, he turned to the woman and threw out an arm. When he saw the prickly hairs popping up along his forearm he almost gagged. The woman saw them too and her mouth fell open. “L-l-leave,” he roared. “Get your boy and run. RUN!”

Eyes still wide, the woman nodded, and, thank Jupiter, she turned and fled. Manius held himself in place as long as he could until he heard her gather her crying child and flee into the night.

The night. It calls to me.

What am I now?

A beast in the night.

A Roman by day.

His body continued changing, but he kept his mind. He knew to show himself as a monster would mean death. Rome did not abide monsters. Yet, he could not abandon his life. He had a home, a wife, a daughter.

Tarentia!

Manius spilled from the homestead and entered the freezing air of the Gallic night. He smelt everything around him and sensed the heartbeat of every creature within a mile. The hunger inside of him was primal, and the strength he felt…

The change in him was glorious. He was more than a mere man now.

Yet he kept his mind. The only way he would ever see his daughter was by being smart. He would travel by day and hunt by night. The enemies of Rome would become his prey as he made his way back to the civilised world.

As he made his way back to his life in Rome. He would live a life of secrecy and shadow, as all of the most powerful men in Rome did. Sulla had had his perversions. Caesar too. This would be his.

Yes, he would make this work. The Lacuscii were primitive Gauls, but he was a Roman. He would use this curse as the gift it was. By day he would live as a man and by night he would be something great and powerful. Nothing would hold him back. Nothing would stop him.

And once he was home, he would pass on this great gift to his wife and child, and future grandchildren. Their bloodline would last until the end of time, purer than the purest patrician. Wolves in sheep's clothing. It was all so clear to him in his animalistic mind. He was a predator now. Smart and strong. Devious and sly. A wolf.

And his only place now was home. Back to his wolfpack.

Back to Rome.

Every night, the streets of the great city would fill with frightened whispers. “Where's the wolf? Where's the wolf?”

5. CHICKEN BOY

Author’s Note: Chicken Boy

So this is for you, my readers, a glimpse into the chaos that is my life. Obviously, the characters in this story are caricatures and the plot almost nonsensical, but some of the dynamics and interplay between the fictional Wright family are truthful and intimate. A piece of ourselves that we give to you in gratitude for all that you give us.

I willingly give this candid glimpse of my life, and poke fun at myself, because I love and trust my readers, you Patrons most of all. I also love—nay adore—my family, and I truly hope that comes through in the story you just read. I hope my wife forgives me for allocating her mildly nagging tendencies, because the truth is that she is perfect. If anyone has flaws, it is me. The beauty of our relationship is that she does such a good job of making my good points overwhelm the bad. Jack and Molly, I also love with all my heart and in a way I never understood before I was a parent. Just looking at them can give me butterflies and the thought of them being in pain reduces me to tears.

I would also like to make it clear that I love my mother-in-law, but nonetheless, sometimes I find Grandma a bit scary. Her wraith like presence in the story is just me having fun. Honest. Grandma, if you are reading this then I am sorry.

The events in the story are in no way truthful, but they do emulate the absolute nightmare we had with illness during our 2017 trip to Portugal. Sal and I had terrible colds, which in my case developed into sinusitis that I am still suffering with today, 3 weeks later. Jack got over his Chicken Pox as if they were nothing, a real trooper as he always is. Many of you have watched him grow up, and I feel like you went through his ordeal with us. Thank you.

Molly, however, currently asleep in her room beside my office, is taking her turn with the Chicken Pox now. Compared to Jack’s outbreak, it’s scary. She is suffering far worse, and her porcelain skin seems ill equipped to deal with the blisters currently ravishing her beautiful little body. Although Chicken Pox isn’t serious, I got a little teary today seeing her suffer. Again, that’s what being a parent does to you.

I’ll end this note with a quick FYI to my American, Australian, and Canadian fans. The UK does not vaccinate for Chicken Pox, and that’s cool. I do not know a single person who caught it as an adult, and most of us only know that we even had it as kids by asking our parents. If Jack is anything to go by, it’s good to just catch it young and be done with it. You may not agree, but ultimately, it is merely a difference between our country’s health care decisions.

And as always, thank you for giving me this life. It’s so much fun to do what I do.

Love you.

Iain

Best selling author!

Chapter 1

“Iain, get out the queue, we don’t have time.”

“But I want to get a burger. They have a McWhopbanger XXXXL, look! It has bacon, beef, shrimp, and gummy bears on it.”

Sally glanced up at the menu board and groaned. “You eat that and you’ll die. Remember what happened when you ate that steak in Florida? The flight leaves in thirty minutes, babe, and we’re not even at the gate. You can eat on the plane.”

Iain huffed, but he stepped out of line, banging an elderly lady with his backpack. “Probably for the best,” he admitted, “they charge twenty-eight quid for fries.”

Sally tugged at his arm. “Come on, we have to go. Portugal awaits.”

They hurried out of the burger joint and rejoined Grandma and the kids. Jack was tugging at Molly’s arm, making her laugh even as her little tendons stretched to their limits.

Sal pointed her finger. “Jack, don’t pull on your sister!”

“Sorry, mommy.”

Iain watched as a few more hairs on his wife’s head turned grey. If she got any tenser, she would spin away like a top. He patted her on the back. “We’ll make it.”

“Only if we run.”

Grandma stared at them both, clutching her pearls and perspiring slightly as she shouldered an oversized carry-on.

“I know I know, mum,” said Sal. “We're heading to the gate now.”

Grandma turned and got going.

The rest of them hurried after her. Little Jack’s feet rotated like pinwheels keeping up with the adults, but he seemed to enjoy the urgency. The more stressed mommy and daddy were, the more fun things would usually be. Sal clutched Molly to her hip, who chuckled with each bumping stride. Halfway to the gate, Iain decided to keep shit real by leaping up onto a strip of empty seats and running across the top of them.

“Iain, get down!” Sal shouted.

Jack laughed and redirected his run, heading over to the chairs where he climbed up after his daddy. Smoke erupted from Sal’s ears as he tried to corral them onwards. Grandma kept going, leaving them to their fates.

Iain saw his wife's glare and winced. He stopped messing around before he got in real trouble. Grabbing Jack, he chased after Grandma at full speed. Sod’s law had meant their gate was at the very end of the terminal, so by the time they got there, the airline staff looked royally pissed off. A few people in wheelchairs were still yet to be boarded, but all the fully mobile people were all onboard.

“Passports, please?”

Sally had all of their passports in a wallet and handed them over to the scowling woman.

“Real airplane,” said Jack to the woman, dropping down from his father’s arms. “Swimming pool. Airplane.” It had been Jack's mantra for the last three weeks since they told him about the holiday. He was going on an airplane to a real swimming pool, he would tell all who would listen.

The passport-checking-scowly woman ignored Jack’s cuteness and got on with her taxing job. She did, however, stare in Iain’s direction. After a few moments, he smiled at her. “Trying to work out where you know me from?”

The woman blushed. “Yes, I… I was just looking at your passport. Are you Iain Rob Wright, the famous author?”

He gave her his best wink. Sally groaned. “Guilty as charged.”

The passport-checking-scowly woman almost toppled as her knees buckled in an actual swoon. “Oh wow,” she gushed. “I’m such a huge fan. The Final Winter is the greatest horror novel of our time. You’re so handsome too. Would it be okay if-”

“Iain!”

He blinked, shook his head, and realised everyone was looking at him. The passport-checking-scowly woman glared at him. “Please board now, sir. You are holding up the other passengers.”

Sal prodding her husband in the back. “Will you pay attention, Iain? You can daydream on the plane. Help Jack, please.”

Iain located Jack lying on his belly pretending to swim. He scooped him up and entered the corridor quickly. Grandma was already at the lifts about to go down without them. When they stepped inside the claustrophobic vestibule, Sally handed Molly to Grandma and examined the floor-buttons. To save time, Iain reached out and jammed his palm against them all.

The doors closed.

Sal folded her arms and glared at him. “Babe! You don’t even know which floor we need.”

“The plane is on the tarmac. We just need to go down.”

And down they went. All the way to floor -1. The doors slid open and revealed an empty corridor.

“This doesn’t look right,” said Sally.

“Let’s just take a look.” Iain stepped out, leaving them no choice but to follow. The corridor snaked to the left, bringing them into some kind of storage area. Cages were stacked up on either side.

“Jail,” shouted Jack, seeing the metal bars. “Naughty!”

“Yeah,” said Iain. “Jail is where the naughty people go.”

Sal turned back towards the lift. “This isn’t the right floor, Iain. We’re going to get bloody left behind.”

Grandma was already heading back to the lift.

“Just chill, Sal. We’ll make it in-”

Jack screamed. When both parents spun around to see what had happened, Jack was stamping his feet in a dance of pain. He waved his hand in front of him. “Chicken hurt my hand.”

Iain hurried forward. “What?”

Sal shoved him aside and picked Jack up, holding him close. “Oh dear, did you hurt your hand?”

“Chicken.”

“A chicken? Oh dear.”

Iain pointed, confused by what he was seeing. “Sal, he ain’t kidding. There’s a chicken in this cage.”

“What?”

He waited while Sal marched over to where he was standing. Sure enough, a bedraggled chicken pushed up against the bars of one of the cages like it was trying to get out. Its feathers were jet black and puffed up. The only colour was on its head—red.

Sal's eyes bulged in her head. “Let me look at your hand, Jack.” A tiny scratch lined the space above his little thumb. Sal looked looked at Iain. “Can you catch anything from chickens?”

“Only chicken AIDS.”

“Not funny. I’m worried.”

Iain put his arm around them both. “It’s just a scratch. Come on, Grandma is trying to leave without us.”

They raced back to the lift just as the doors were closing again. Grandma could have kept them open, but she said nothing about it. This time, Sal kept Iain away from the buttons until she knew the right one. Floor 1 was marked as BOARDING, and when the door opened on that floor, the outside world met them along with a wide bodied bus that seemed to list to one side. A light drizzle fell on their heads, which caused Sal to snatch Molly from Grandma and shield the baby girl's strawberry blonde hair with her arm. Everyone was already on the bus and they stared out at the Wright family like vengeful ghosts. Even the people in wheelchairs were waiting.

“Sorry,” said Iain, stepping up in the massed huddle. “Sorry, sorry. It’s okay, I’m an author. Sorry.”

The bus took off the moment they were all aboard, almost throwing Sal and Molly right back off the step. Somehow, Grandma had found a seat at the back and was nattering to another woman.

Sal was moist from the rain, but had kept Molly bone dry. The little, ginger haired baby was looking over her mother's shoulder at all the sweating strangers with fascination. An old woman waved at her and she giggled. Molly giggled at everything. Iain wished he was a baby.

Eventually, they came to their plane, and it was concerning to see its left wing was a different colour to the rest of its body, like some banged up motor. Still, what could you expect from Big Budget Super Duper Airlines Direct Discounts Plus? It would at least get them to Portugal alive, right? Like, that was the minimum criteria for an airline. They weren't allowed to kill you.

Yeah, it would definitely be fine.

As last to board the bus, the Wright family were the first to disembark, much to the chagrin of the other travellers. A smiling air hostess-slash-steward-slash-whatever the most up-to-date PC term for an airplane waitress stood at the bottom of a staircase. Jack immediately ran to her, pointing and shouting. “Airplane swimming pool.”

“Oh, okay,” said the woman, not understanding two-year-old. “That's lovely.”

Iain nodded to the woman and wondering if the glint in her eye was because of the tight t-shirt he was wearing. Probably not. More likely she just recognised him from the back of his latest, semi-autobiographical book — Living with a giant penis: The real truth.

Grandma was already halfway up the stairs.

“Hold daddy’s hand, Jack,” said Sal.

Daddy threw out a paw and initiated locking procedure with his son. Their hands came together, and they proceeded up the stairs. The cabin crew met them at the top, along with the pilot who he couldn’t help but notice was cross-eyed. Sure it’s fine, he told himself. You don’t need great eyesight to fly a plan nowadays, right?

The cabin’s centre aisle was about the width of a baguette turned sideways, which meant Iain had to force his hips forward like he was shoving dough through a pair of tights. Sal was behind him and helped with a friendly shove between his shoulder blades.

“Marmar,” said Jack, pointing to Grandma who was already in her seat and reading a magazine. He leapt up into the chair beside her, while Sal hustled her way into the end seat, holding Molly on her lap.

“Where should I sit?” asked Iain.

“Your seat is behind me,” said Sal.

He stood for a moment, trying to understand what was happening. Was she saying that for the next three hours he could actually sit in peace, alone, with no kids or other so-called ‘loved-ones’ bugging him for anything?

Sally shoved Molly back at him. “Can you take her, please?”

The flame headed infant smiled so wide that a line of drool spilled out onto his shoe. “Sure… Come here, sweetheart. Are you beautiful? Yes, you are beautiful!”

Molly belched. It smelt like Steak Tartar.

He remained standing a while longer until the two people sharing his row had seated themselves. Once sat down himself, the hostess-slash-stewardess-slash-air warrior showed him how to strap a baby to his torso. “It’s so nice to see such a loving father,” she said to him. “I hope your wife appreciates you.”

“Well, you know, it never hurts to hear it once in a while. I just do my best, you know? I want to be there for my family. Be a good man.”

The smiling woman leant over his lap, lips touching his ear as she purred, “I wish all men were like you. Your wife probably worships you.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

Iain blinked and shook his head. “Huh?”

The stewardess was staring at him with a thick, painted-on eyebrow raised. “Are you comfortable with what I’ve shown you? You seemed to drift off.”

“Oh, er, yes. I can handle a seatbelt. I’m a best selling author.”

She cleared her throat. “How nice. Enjoy your flight, sir.”

“Thank you.” He eased back in his seat. Molly stretched out and kicked him in the crotch, but his ball sack had long ago turned to pink tree bark. He just absorbed that shit now. He had a headache, but that was normal. During the last three years, a low-level headache was the most he could hope for.

“Chicken hurt my hand, Marmar,” said Jack from the row in front.

Sal mentioned it too. “It looks bad, mom. What if he gets tetanus?”

“I wouldn’t worry,” said Iain through the gap in the seats. “I’d imagine that tetanus vaccination he had when he was young should stop him getting tetanus.”

“He hasn’t had tetanus jabs.”

“Yes, he has. It was in that 5-in-1-with-no-added-autism jab he got. Molly had it too.”

“Are you sure?”

Iain shrugged. “Not completely.”

“Great, thanks honey.”

“You're welcs, babe.”

The pilot came through the intercom, but spoke no words that made any sense. Whatever he was saying, it led the stewardesses-slash-cloud explorers to leap up and start enacting some sort of improv dance routine involving plastic gimp masks and disembodied seat belts.

Then they were off, plane surging forward along the runway with its different coloured wings. Jack cried out for a few seconds, but then decided he liked it and laughed. Sal pointed out the window and pointed out all the things that were quickly fading away beneath them, much to his amazement. Iain glanced over his row companion's laps and saw inner city Birmingham give way to farmland and country estates.

Molly spent the next hour reaffirming her love of kicking daddy in the crotch, and eventually he had no choice but to switch seats with Sally for a while. She had Molly while he had Jack. Infuriatingly, the baby went straight to sleep on Mommy, while Jack, on the other hand, was wired. Currently, he played with Itsy, a huge lifelike bird eating spider that was his best friend during the day (it was Bear during the night). Every time he shoved it in his dad's face, Iain shuddered. He did not like spiders. Or the Bachelor. God, he hated that show.

“How’s your hand, little man?” he asked his son.

“Chicken in jail. Naughty.”

“Yeah, that chicken was naughty. Sometimes you can’t rehabilitate offenders. They’re just fowl.”

As Jack was only two, the pun was lost on him, but he seemed amused enough that the focus was on him. He held out his chicken scratch proudly. “See doctor?”

Iain frowned when he saw the injury again. He could swear it wasn’t so bad when it had happened. The narrow scratch was now inflamed, red on both sides. A strange little zit had also appeared on a patch of skin nearby. “You okay, darlin’?”

Jack nodded. “Chicken hurt.”

“Yeah, it’s your chicken hurt.” He put his arm around his son and gave him a love. The heat coming off his little shoulders was concerning. Iain glanced over at Grandma, but she was lost in Sudoku, so he turned instead to look through the gap back at Sal. First, though, he made eye-contact with the older gentleman in the centre seat—“Hey!”—but eventually got his wife’s attention. Molly had woken up and was now kicking her in the crotch, which was pleasing to him, but then his mind turned back to Jack’s injury.

“You okay, honey?” asked Sal, calmer now that there was nothing for her to be in charge of until they landed in Portugal.

“Yeah, it’s just… this scratch on Jack's arm looks pretty bad.”

She sat forward, but only slightly because of the crimson-headed beast on her chest. “What do you mean?”

“I think it’s infected.”

“Already? Can you get an infection that fast?”

“I’m not sure. Let me check my medical dictionary.”

Sal rolled her eyes. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Maybe we should take him the doctors when we land.”

“Doctor make better.”

Iain turned back to smile at his son. “Yeah, the doctor will make your better, panda cheeks.”

“Chicken hurt.”

He looked back at Sal. “It obviously isn't bothering him. Maybe it’s nothing.”

Sal relaxed back into her seat, but her expression remained taut. “Keep an eye on it.”

“Roger that.”

He turned back to face front and was immediately met with the bulbous back end of Itsy against his nose. The scream he let out startled several passengers, so he decided the spider needed a nap. He pulled out his phone and loaded up some games to play with instead.

Jack grinned. “Animal game.”

Iain smiled back. “Alright, animal game it is.”

Get your copy here: https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.kidsgamesprojects.zooforkids&h

Chapter 2

The plane landed on time, and when the doors opened, they were all met by that wonderful blast of heat that let you know you had arrived somewhere hotter than where you’d left. Crazy to think a mere three hours could take you from the rain and cold to the scorching heat.

Sal made sure that Jack said 'thank you' to every member of the cabin crew on his way off the plane which delighted those passengers waiting behind. Grandma had reached the bottom of the staircase, but was kind enough to wait. Together, the Wright family hustled onto another wide-bodied bus that, not being British, appeared clean and well-maintained. The trip along the tarmac to Faro airport wasn’t at all unpleasant. The late afternoon sun did a lot to improve their moods.

“We’re here,” said Sal, beaming.

“Where?” asked Iain, confused.

“Portugal.”

“Swimming pool,” said Jack.

Sal held Molly in her arms, the little girl’s hair brighter than the scorching sun above them, but she was still able to wrap a spare arm around Jack. “Yes, we will see the swimming pool later at the villa. You’re hot, sweetheart. Are you okay?”

“Yes, mommy.”

“Okay, then.”

The bus halted, and Grandma leapt off and headed into the terminal, forcing them to hurry after her. Faro was a far smaller airport than Birmingham, so the whole vibe was far more laid back. The staff here actually smiled. Back in Birmingham, Iain had witnessed an old lady drop her spectacles in front of a custom’s officer, who stood there and watched while she bent her poor back searching for them. Then he told her off for holding up the line.

Sal had the passports out again and shoved them towards a smiling woman in a booth. Iain was pretty sure the woman didn’t live there, but that’s what he told Jack who then stared at the woman confused for the next three minutes. Being from a nation of happy people, the customs officer smiled at Jack and asked him to identify himself as the young man in the passport. “What is your name, young man?”

“Jack!”

“And what are you doing in Portugal?”

“Swimming pool.”

“Ah, official swimming pool business. You may enter.”

Sal prodded Jack forward gently. “Say 'thank you.'”

“Thank you.”

The Wright family and Grandma passed through Security and headed out into Baggage Claim. It was there that Iain noticed another couple of zits on Jack’s arm, although these were nowhere near the site of the chicken scratch.

“Babe! Look at Jack’s arm.”

Jack overheard and examined his own bicep.

Sal frowned.

Iain pointed. “He has spots.”

Sal passed him Molly, the baby girl blinding him with the intensity of her amber locks, and knelt down next to Jack. She pushed up the cuff of his T-shirt sleeve and examined his arm in full. More spots revealed themselves.

Iain readjusted his grip on Molly, making her giggle. “What do you think it is?”

Sal rolled down Jack’s sleeve and stood up. “Chicken Pox.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“Because there was an outbreak at his nursery last week. He must have caught it. We’re lucky because they wouldn’t have let us on the plane if we'd known.”

Iain kissed the top of Molly's bright red head. “Seriously?”

“Yes, it’s really contagious, and dangerous to infants and old people.”

He sighed. “Always with the infants and old people. Are there any illnesses that aren’t life threatening to them?”

Grandma grabbed her luggage off the carousel and started for the exit. Iain had to act fast to grab their other bags while Jack and Sally collected the pushchair from the back. It felt good to put Molly down as the little angel weighed a tonne. Once the baby was strapped in, they all took off after Grandma before they lost her all together.

They found her outside, sitting on a bench. They had hired a car, so Sal read the instructions from page 17 of her self-printed ‘travel pack’ and led them across a grey ocean of car park until they reached a small booth half a mile away. A swarm of Portuguese people set upon them, but Sal held her ground until one of them relented and produced a set of car keys. The swarthy man told them to follow.

The car allocated to them was a cross between a van and a tank, but, piling inside, they found it comfortably large. Iain wedged his hips between the two child's seats like he was pushing monkey faeces into a purse, but once settled he had more room than he expected. Grandma had her legs stretched fully in the front passenger seat.

Sal sat in the driver’s seat for a short while, staring at the dashboard. Not only would she need to get used to driving on the right-hand side, but the van-tank was also an automatic and not the manual she was used to. Sal had offered to be designated holiday driver because Iain could barely avoid crashing on British roads, let alone European ones.

Pulling onto the main road, Sal immediately veered to the left, forcing Grandma to yank the wheel back to the right. Once she joined other traffic, though, she was fine, playing follow the leader with a banged up Toyota Corolla. There was a inflatable banana poking out its rear window, but Iain decided it better not to ask questions he didn't want to know the answers to.

“How’s Jack?” Sal asked him by way of the rearview mirror.

Iain studied Jack, who had quickly entered his travelling fugue state that meant he would fall asleep at some point in the near future. It was thirty minutes from his usual bed time back in the UK, and it had been a long day. “He’s got more spots. They’re like little blisters.”

“That’s Chicken Pox,” she said. “We’ll have to book him to see a local doctor. What a wonderful start to the holiday. We won’t be able to go anywhere.”

Iain frowned. “For how long?”

“I’m not sure. A week maybe.”

Iain pulled a face. “So most the holiday. You promised you'd take me to the zoo.”

“Swimming pool,” said Jack drowsily.

“There’s a pool at the villa, honey,” Sal said. “We can spend all week swimming, I promise.” She switched her focus back to Iain. “At least it’s hot all week. Imagine if we’d booked a hotel room.”

“Yeah, that would suck. Are we nearly at the villa?”

“I think so. Grandma has the map, but it’s not making a lot of sense.”

“Hold on, I’ll sat nav it.” He took out his phone, which led to Molly making a grab for it, but he avoided her deadly sharp nails and opened Google Maps. Typing the address of the resort, he waited for the GPS to kick in. “Okay, turn left here.”

“What? I’m on the highway, Iain. The only way to go is straight or come off on the right.”

“Well, it says to go left, what do you want me to say?”

Sal turned to glare at him, steering blind for a moment. Grandma grabbed the wheel. “Did you put the right address in?”

“No, I put in Narnia. Of course I put the right address in—Oh, wait, sorry. I had it set to pedestrian mode. One sec… there! Yeah, you should just keep going straight on the highway, honey.”

“Daddy, chicken hurt.”

Iain looked away from his phone and at his son. “I know, honey. That naughty chick—Whoa!”

Sal yanked the wheel in fright and the van-tank swerved across lanes. “Iain! What’s wrong?”

Jack was smiling happily enough, but spots now covered his entire face. Little blisters that looked like the might suddenly pop, like that infected dude on the bus in the X Files. “He’s got more… pox.”

Grandma glanced back, and when she saw Jack there was a slight hint of shock on her face, but she didn’t express it. Instead, she just gazed at Jack lovingly. Jack blushed. Molly squealed. The kids loved Marmar.

“Just let me get us to the villa,” said Sal, sounding stressed. “I can’t concentrate on driving.”

Iain kept his mouth shut, glancing sidelong at his increasingly disfigured son. Chicken Pox was no big deal, right? That’s why they let kids catch it in the UK. He had it himself as a kid, and couldn't even remember it now. It was one of those conditions that looked worse than it was. Like leprosy. Or being Donald Trump.

The sat nav took them off the highway and over what seemed like a dozen mini-roundabouts. Either side of them, paradise rolled by. Golf courses merged with undulating hills and sweeping lakes. The sun was setting, which added a warm orange glow to the lush greens, and palm trees grew in an orderly fashion, never imposing, always complimenting the view. For a moment, it was enough to make Iain smile and relax. Then jack coughed and broke the serenity.

“You want some juice, dolphin lips?”

“Orange juice.”

Iain reached into the footwell and rummaged in a bag Sal had stashed there. Inside, was everything one could possible need for a toddler, including a freshly prepared juice bottle. He handed it to Jack who promptly downed the entire contents, letting out a gasp afterwards. “More orange juice.”

“I don’t have any more, darlin’, but we’ll be at the villa soon.”

“Swimming pool?”

“Yes, and the swimming pool. It’s late, though, so we might only get to look at it tonight. You can swim tomorrow.”

“In a minute?”

“No, tomorrow.”

“Later?”

“Yes, later.”

Jack nodded, satisfied that an agreement had been reached. The spots on his face were fluid-filled, but they didn’t seem to bother him. He gazed sleepily out of the window at the beautiful scenery, but only lit up if he saw a digger or workman on one the many building sites. People often cried out about the worldwide housing shortage, but the amount of open space here in the Algarve made it clear that it wasn’t an issue of landmass, other than that the rich owned too much of it. Down here on the coast, ten millionaires could provide enough ground to comfortably house a thousand people apiece.

“Okay, here it is,” said Sal, pulling off the final mini-roundabout and driving up to a barrier. A resort employee came out of a hut and approached the van-tank. Jack waved, and it was a good thing the rear windows were tinted because he might have sent the poor man running in fear. Little Jack now resembled some kind of cheery, waving alien.

Grandma spoke to the employee and procured a key and directions. Sal followed a narrow one-way system that took them in a loop around the resort. They passed by a pool hangout and some shops, but Iain tried not to get too excited, for it sounded like they would be spending the next week confined to the villa. Still, the weather would be glorious and they had their own swimming pool, so it wouldn't be all bad. His fans were eagerly awaiting his next book, but he was only human and he needed a break. It would give him time to think about how he was going to break it to his mailing list that he was planning to switch to writing hardcore erotica. Horror was his first love, but whips and butt plugs were where his heart truly lay. That one story he wrote secretly, under the name Karma Leigh… Damn!

No thinking about work, he told himself. You’re turning grey with all the strain you put yourself under. You have a wonderful wife and two beautiful children to enjoy… He looked at Jack. Well, one of my kids is still beautiful, even if she has hair hot enough to light a stove.

As if sensing his love, Molly grinned at him, her little rabbit chompers peeking out from under her top lip. There was a small amount of food on her forehead, but he had learned months ago that trying to keep her clean was a losing battle. Girl loved to eat. And when you were serious about eating, you sometimes ended up with crap on your face. You just had to own it. Thug life.

Sal steered them into a cramped carport better suited to a Smart Car than their van-tank. She turned off the engine, and for a few moments, they all sat there in silence, tired and sweaty from the journey. Then Grandma got out and headed for villa’s front door.

Iain reached forwards and squeezed his wife’s shoulder. “Thanks for getting us here. I couldn’t have done it.”

“Thank you, mommy,” said Jack, not knowing what he was saying it for, but sensing it was appropriate. The kid had got so smart lately. He'd even stopped shitting himself.

“You’re welcome,” said Sal, turning to face him with a weary smile. When she spotted Jack’s face, her mouth fell open. “Jesus.”

Iain nodded. “I know, right? He looks like pizza.”

“Let’s get him inside.”

They disembarked and assembled on the driveway outside the villa. Grandma had taken the key, so had already let herself inside. The front door hung open, awaiting them. Iain opened Jack’s door and Sal came and unbuckled him. She pulled him out and carried him into the villa. “Can you lock the car, babe?” she shouted back over her shoulder.

“Yep, sure thing.” He took the keys out the ignition and closed all the doors, then pressed the fob to lock the vehicle. Trotting down a couple of stone steps, he entered the villa. Sal and Jack met him in the large entrance hall, but Grandma was outside, sat beside the pool. She was visible through the French doors.

Sal stroked Jack’s sweaty head as he stood beside her leg and glanced around at the giant house. When she looked at Iain, she seemed to expect something from him.

Iain shrugged. “What's up?”

“Where’s Molly?”

“Oh shit! I left her in the car. I... wait right here.”

He ran back outside before Sal had time to hurt him.

Chapter 3

After a copious amount of Google searches, and with it being two hours past Jack’s bedtime, Iain and Sal put the lad to bed. He was still fine in himself, and the images they saw online moresuggested he had the good ol' Chicken Pox. No big thing. Most kids got it, and it was better to do so young. The nursery warning had not been a hoax. They had been keeping shit real.

After Jack and Molly were both soundly asleep in adjacent rooms upstairs, the adults made themselves a cup of tea and took in the delights of the villa. The pool was unheated—something Iain was deeply unhappy about—but it was well lit and surrounded by a lovely patio. The sides of the villa sported grass, with plenty of room for Jack to stretch his legs come morning. Being house-bound for a week might not be so bad.

“Wish we had a bottle of wine,” said Sal, as they sat beside the pool. In the last hour, she had been bitten six times, and now had swollen ankles and a weird bump on her neck. Iain was staring at the wall where a pair of lizards were crawling over one another. When he heard his wife talk, he frowned.

“Huh?”

“Wine,” said Sal. “I want wine.”

“I think I have some in my other pants.”

She sighed. “I suppose we should just turn in. We won’t be able to get breakfast at the resort in the morning, so mum and I will have to find a supermarket while you have the kids.

Iain groaned. Raising kids was supposed to be a group activity. “Great. Looking forward to it.”

Grandma went to bed. They watched her go, then Iain patted his knees and got up too. “Okay, I’m going up then. Where’s my Kindle?”

“In your ass!” Sal chuckled.

Iain didn’t joke about his Kindle, so he stood there waiting for a proper answer to a serious question.

Sal sighed when she realised he would not be laughing at her joke. “It’s in the side pocket of my suitcase.”

“Okay, I’ll see in bed.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll lock up down here, babe, don’t worry. I’ll bring some water up too. Anything else you would like, honey?”

“Do we have any muffins?”

“No.”

“Then water is fine.” He went to leave, but caught sight of the two lizards again, competing over a mosquito hovering around a wall lamp. He couldn't not look. Sal turned her chair so she was facing him a little more and scratched at her thigh as another bite mark appeared. “Maybe I’ll bring you up something extra special, big boy.”

“R-really?”

“Yeah,” she purred. “You’re such a magnificent husband, and a perfect man. I can’t believe I’m married to a best selling author.”

Iain smiled. “You deserve it, honey. You really do.”

“Deserve what? Iain, what are you muttering about?”

Iain blinked and shook his head. “What, oh nothing. See you upstairs.”

She frowned at him, then turned back towards the pool. His mind was always running away with him. Part of running a business-of-one was constantly being in work-mode. He often found it hard to just clear his mind and think of nothing. Over the last few years, as his success and workload had grown, he'd found himself getting too easily distracted. It was vital he shut off and relaxed this holiday. He risked burning out otherwise. If he wasn't careful, he'd end up a hare-brained lunatic like his old colleague, Matt Shaw. It had been ages since the care home let the poor misfit out in public. Last Iain heard, Matt spent all his time in a padded room stitching teddy bears together.

Iain headed up the stone steps in the entrance hall and climbed up onto the balcony. He couldn’t help but check in on the kids before her retired for the night. He always loved their peaceful snoring, and he still had that horrible, irrational fear they might pass away in their sleep. When Jack had been first born, and he had learned about Cot Death, he hadn’t slept for six months. That fear had lingered, and even with Molly eight months old and Jack three years, he still woke up in the night panicked sometimes. He had no idea being a parent could be so terrifying.

When he opened Molly’s door she immediately turned over and farted, making him chuckle. Just like her mother.

When he tried the next door, he heard only silence. He lingered, head tilted and listening. Every passing second without sound made his heart beat a little faster. Then, a moment away from rushing into the room and shaking Jack awake, he heard a grunt followed by the whistle of a blocked nose. Poor little guy was unwell. Best to leave him be.

“Love you, Jack,” he whispered as he closed the door.

Cluck!

Confusion halted Iain just as he was about to pull the door against the jam. As it was, a shadowy black slither still remained. Had he disturbed Jack? Or was the strange noise just his son clearing his throat. Was he bunged up, feverish? Sal was the expert on the various Pox of the world. He ended up standing there, motionless, not wanting to disturb his son any further, but also not convinced that Jack was okay.

Cluck!

Iain opened the door wider again. “Okay, what the heck?”

Stepping from the light, he was blind in the dark, but Jack’s silhouette disturbed the shadows above the bed. What was we doing awake? Had they been noisy downstairs?

Something brushed against his foot and made him flinch—although that wasn’t really the truth. What actually happened was he leapt back three feet like a startled cat. When he realised nothing alive was scuttling around his feet, he swept about with his foot, trying to find whatever had touched him. He found something with his toes and, like a monkey, picked it up so he could grab it with his hands. The manoeuvre beat bending over any day. He’d left that shit behind in his twenties. God bless the monkey foot pick up.

The thing he held in his hands surprised him, not something he expected to find in the bedroom of a luxury Portuguese villa. A huge goddamn feather the size of his own penis—eleven inches at least.

Cluck!

Okay, this was getting ridiculous. What was going on? “Jack, are you okay, sweetheart?”

Bwakirrrrk!

He fumbled for the light switch on the wall.

The lights blinked on.

Jack was gone.

A chicken perched on the bed. A chicken the size of a frikkin' Dalmatian.

“Arrrrrrrgh! Shit! Sal, Sal!”

There was a voice echoing from below, one that got louder as it rose up the stairs. “What? What? What?”

“Sal Sal Sal.”

“What? Iain, did you shit the bed again? Because if you did—”

“Just come in here!”

She entered the doorway behind him and shut the heck up. Her bottom lip wobbled. “W-w-w…”

“Yeah,” said Iain. “You see?”

“That… that…”

Iain nodded. “I know.”

“Are you playing a trick on me?”

“Yes, honey. I genetically engineered a giant chicken over the last ten years so I could prank you one night on a future a holiday. Bazinga!”

“Where’s Jack?”

He felt his own lower lip tremble. “I think… I think this thing ate him. It’s revenge of the KFC. Fox News warned us this would happen. They said if Obama got in, genetically altered poultry would rise up and take over the world. They warned us and we didn’t listen.”

Sal didn’t respond, just nodded slowly. “If that thing ate Jack, then why is it wearing his Paw Patrol pyjamas?”

Iain covered his mouth at the sight of the little green shorts covering the chicken’s ass. “Oh my God. It ate our son and then stole his jammys. Noooooo!”

“Cluck! Swimming Pool. Airplane. Cluck!”

Sal and Iain stared at each other. Iain opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“Did that chicken just say what I think it said?” asked Sal.

“I… I think it just...”

The chicken flapped about on the bed, spinning a circle and bobbing its head. “Jack play now. Armbands. Swimming pool.”

Sal ran forward and threw her arms around the huge bird. “Oh, Jack. It’s you. I thought we’d lost you.”

“Eh… honey? I still think this qualifies as ‘losing him’. He’s a chicken.”

She whirled on him. “He’s our son!”

“Granted. But our son is a chicken. I’m not sure I signed on for that.”

Sal covered her mouth and gasped. “I can’t believe you just said that!”

Shame washed over him. They always said they would love their kids no matter what, that if Jack or Molly had been born with Downs or Autism or whatever, it wouldn’t matter. This… this was no different, right? So Jack was a chicken. He was still their precious little boy.

He shook his head. “Christ, I’m going to have to become a vegetarian, aren’t I?”

Chapter 4

Grandma agreed they needed to call a doctor, so after speaking to reception on the phone, the resort manager arranged for a local English doctor to come over. The middle-aged ex-pat now stood in the villa’s sitting room, watching with interest as Jack pecked at a cushion on the sofa. Ironically, goose feathers spilled out.

“Has anything like this ever happened before?” asked the doctor.

They shook their heads.

“Any family history?”

Iain frowned. “Of turning into chickens?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“There’s been an outbreak of Chicken Pox at his nursery,” said Sal. “He broke out in spots earlier today.”

The doctor tapped his stethoscope against his chin and seemed to think. Jack clucked periodically and tried several times to squeeze through the French doors to get to the swimming pool. At one point he laid an egg, which confused all of them as it made sense that Jack would be a male chicken—a rooster or whatever.

“I think we should all sit down,” said the doctor, still watching Jack with interest and tapping his chin.

“Okay,” said Sal. “Should we… feed him or anything? There’s some cereal in the kitchen.”

“I saw that,” said Iain. “That was pretty cool of the resort.”

“Please, sit down,” the doctor urged.

They did as they were asked, except for Grandma who went over to Jack and stroked his feathery back. The doctor leant forward so that both parents could hear him well. “I think what has happened is that your son has turned into a chicken.”

Iain and Sal looked at each other. Sal spoke up. “We know! What can we do about it?”

“Have either of you ever kept chickens before?”

“What? No. We want our son back to normal. You must know how to treat this.”

“I'm just a semi-retired doctor. I came to Portugal to play golf, not cure Chicken Disease.”

Iain put his arm around his wife who was in danger of taking off. Her voice had altered, and she was assuming the identity she always did before she kicked ass. Once he had seen her chase a builder down the street for blocking their driveway. He made it two miles before she caught him and tore an apology from him. Now, Iain looked at the doctor pleadingly. “Kids don’t just turn into chickens.”

“Not normally, no.”

“Not ever. Doctor, please, what should we do?”

The doctor straightened up and sighed. “I will arrange for a specialist team to visit, but in the meantime, you must confine yourself to this house. If this thing is contagious… Did you ever see that Fox News report?”

Iain looked at his wife. “I told you!”

“Just leave,” said Sal to the doctor. “Send your specialist team or anybody else who will actually help, but I would like you to leave right now.”

The doctor stood up, glancing sideways at Jack one last time, then nodded. It seemed like leaving was all he wanted to do. It was just 2AM, but he stifled yawns as if he'd been up for days. Playing golf all day must be exhausting.

The doctor scooted out the door and Sal slammed it behind him. Then she looked at Iain and let her mask slip. He held her as she sobbed into his shoulder. “We’ll figure this out, honey.”

“What if we can’t?”

“We’ll cross that road if we come to it.” He chuckled. “Like the chicken, yeah? You get it? I said cross the road-”

“Shut up, honey.”

“Okay.”

Grandma appeared with two cups of tea, handed them over, and went back to Jack who was in the process of pooping up the curtains. Iain wondered if that was the chicken or the three-year-old in him. The resort would charge them for that.

“Cluck! Telly.”

Sal wiped her eyes and smiled at her chicken boy. “You want to watch TV, honey?”

Jack flapped his wings and almost took off. Iain retrieved the remote from the table and switched on the modest flat screen on the wall. He knew his son would demand YouTube be on, so he quickly switched it on and selected some weird ass crap where people dressed up like Spiderman and Elsa. It was Jack’s favourite. The video he selected was about Spiderman pooping out jelly beans. Oscar worthy stuff.

Jack hopped up on the sofa and nestled down, tucking his spindly legs beneath him and pulling in his feathery wings. For the first time since they had led Jack downstairs, he finally settled still, as mesmerised by the TV as a chicken as he was as a boy.

With things straightforwarda little calmer, Iain and Sal joined Grandma in the kitchen. They sipped their tea and stared at the ground for a while.

“What if Molly gets it?” asked Sal.

Iain rubbed at his eyes. “We checked on her. She’s fine, sleeping, and Grandma has the baby monitor if anything happens. I think it has something to do with that chicken that scratched Jack back at Birmingham airport.”

“You think it was infected with something?”

“What was it even doing alone in that corridor?”

“Maybe it was terrorists?”

“You think they want to turn us all into chickens?”

Sal chewed at her lip, then said, “Maybe we should check the news. You have your phone?”

“Hell yes. Stephen King is going to hit me up any day now and I can’t afford to miss his call.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Samsung Galaxy Pro 9-3x4 Edge+S and handed it to his wife. She placed her thumb against the reader and unlocked it. Then she rolled her eyes and grunted.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You have a message. Guillermo Del Toro wants you to let him make a movie of one of your books again.”

“Jeez, that guy doesn’t take no for an answer. I already told him he can offer me all the millions in the world, but I won’t sell out the integrity of my work. I’m a serious author. I won’t let the Final Winter be butchered by an avaricious filmmaker. Can you believe he wants to relocate the story to Hong Kong, and instead of a pub he wants to set it in a noodle bar. Hollywood, man…”

“Honey, I love you, but I really don’t care. How do I get to Google?”

“Sorry, yeah. You just press that icon there that says Google.”

He waited while his wife did a quick search. Whatever she found engrossed her because she scrolled quickly with the phone right in front of her nose. Her skin turned alabaster, and she tilted the phone so he could see it.

“Oh fuck!” Iain swallowed a lump in his throat as he read the article's headline.

BBC NEWS: Birmingham International Airport locked down after attempted terrorist plot. Former author and escape mental patient Matt Shaw held for questioning.

“They don’t mention what the attack was,” added Sal, but people are saying the whole thing is being suppressed. Whatever it is, they don’t want anybody knowing.

Iain took back his phone and had a thought. Bringing up his contacts, he scrolled through the list until he reached the Ms:

Matthew McConaughey

Matt Shaw

Michal Bray

Mike Myers (don’t answer!)

Mitch Pileggi

He hit ‘Matt Shaw’ and waited for it to connect. The roaming charges would hurt, but he could always beg his Patrons for more money to pay the bill if he had to.

Somebody answered. It wasn't Matt. “Who is this?”

“Iain Rob Wright.”

“Who?”

“The best selling author…”

“Sir, the phone you are calling has been seized in connection to a crime. How do you know the owner?”

“He used to be a colleague, but a few years ago he broke in and stole all my clothes, so I teamed up with his wife, Marie, and had him committed. Is Matt okay? I mean, like his normal level of okay?”

“I cannot discuss an ongoing investigation. Have you had any recent contact with Matt Shaw?”

“He sends me love letters now and then, but I haven’t seen him in person in years. Did he… Did he turn anyone into a chicken?”

The man on the other end paused for several seconds, then: “Sir, I need you meet with you right away. If you have information-”

Iain ended the call. He looked at Sal and shook his head. “I think Matt went full Tyler Durden.”

Sal frowned at the reference. “What?”

“I think he released a chicken virus.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Come on, Sal. We both know the guy is capable of anything. He’s an evil genius, and after he won that Bram Stoke award he went right off the deep end.”

“You think he was targeting us specifically?”

Iain shrugged. “He sent me a pair of his underwear last month, so I’m obviously on his mind. I bet he has a crazy fan at the airport that helped him. All that guy’s fans are whackos. Anyone with an ounce of sanity reads my books over his.”

Sal shook her head. “No, I met Matt before. He’s a little odd, and strangely handsome, but I don’t think he would want to hurt us. In his own weird way, I think he loves you, Iain.”

Iain sighed, but had to agree. “You’re right. I’ve always known he had feelings for me ever since he snuck into my bed in Cardiff, but I tried to play it off as a joke. Maybe he didn’t mean to turn Jack into a chicken. Maybe it was just one of his pranks.”

“Either way,” said Sal. “If he is behind this, I'll kill him.”

“Me too.”

Grandma left the kitchen, but returned soon after, clutching her pearls anxiously. She motioned for them to follow her, and they did so quickly, tea sloshing in their unsteady mugs. It was now 3AM and Iain’s eyes were getting fuzzy, but he was pretty clear about what he saw in the sitting room. Jack still nestled on the sofa, a giant chicken in Paw Patrol shorts, but there was something different this time.

“His feet!” said Sal.

Grandma nodded.

Iain grinned. Jack was still a chicken, but tucked beneath his plump breast were the beautiful little feet they were all used to.

Sal turned to Iain and matched his grin. “It’s wearing off.”

“It’s his immune system, honey. I always told you the men in my family have superior genes.”

“Iain, I've seen you try to eat a prawn with the shell on. And a chestnut. And you left the wax on a cheese wheel once before eating the whole thing. In fact, you have a problem with all foods that aren’t straightforward. Superior genes might be a bit of an exaggeration.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but nodded. “Okay, fair enough. Still, I think Jack is fighting whatever made him ill. My mom always said it’s best to catch these things young.”

“They say that about Chicken Pox, not…” she grunted. “Not being an actual chicken.”

Iain pointed to Jack’s pink, human feet. “Looks like it still applies.”

“What should we do?” Sal asked. “Wait it out?”

Iain looked at the TV at a man dressed as the Joker farting on a man wearing a Hulk mask. “I guess we sit and enjoy some fine YouTube entertainment.”

Jack clucked and wafted his wings. It seemed to be an invitation to come sit with him, and so they did. Grandma didn’t scoot up to make space, so only Sal could sit on the sofa with her and Jack. Iain took the armchair nearby. They tried to watch the weird superhero mash up videos for as long as they could, but eventually Iain noticed his wife falling asleep. As his own eyes drooped, he knew he would be joining her soon.

Chapter 5

Iain awoke with a headache. The sun streaming through the French doors didn’t help. He squinted until his eyes adjusted and then looked around the room. Sal was snoring on the sofa, legs up on the cushions where Jack and Grandma had been. She raised one leg and farted, but remained sleeping.

Iain waved a hand in front of his nose. “Shit, honey, what did you eat?”

Sal’s eyes snapped open and she bolted upright. Rubbing at her face, she struggled to come to. “Wh-where’s Jack? Did I have a nightmare?”

Iain sniffed. “About Jack being a chicken?”

“Yes!”

“It wasn’t a dream, honey.”

With a leap, she got to her feet. She pulled a face and pinched her nose. “Iain, you’re disgusting! What did you eat?”

Iain sighed. “Yeah, sorry, honey. I thought you were asleep.”

“Where is Jack?”

Iain didn’t know, so he listened. Sounds came from outside, and he noticed that the French doors were ajar. “I think somebody is outside.”

Sal grabbed his arm and yanked him up. They headed over to the doors and Iain slide them open fully. Grandma was sitting at the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water. When she saw Iain and Sal, she smiled, then nodded her head to the side.

They both had to take a couple of steps to the side to get a good look at what Grandma was indictating, but once they did, they both put their hands to their mouths in shock. Sal started sobbing.

Iain felt tears coming too.

Little Jack sat next to Grandma with his legs in the water, kicking and splashing happily. He saw his parents watching him and grinned. “Swimming pool!”

Sal nodded. “I know honey, it’s a swimming pool.”

Jack was covered in spots, but there were no signs of him being a chicken. In fact, it now looked like he had the regular old Chicken Pox. Their son was back. It had been a overnight bug. Nothing serious.

“Come give mummy and daddy a hug,” said Iain, beaming.

Jack leapt up and ran over to his parents, throwing his arms around them both. “Chicken better now.”

“Yes, honey,” said Sal. “Chicken better now.”

Something whooshed overhead and made them all duck. Iain glanced up to see a black helicopter hovering close enough to throw water out of the pool. Jack pointed up at it like it was amazing. “Birdy!”

Two black-clad men rappelled out of the helicopter and landed right on the patio. One of them had an MP5 pointed at them. “Get down now!”

Iain frowned. “No thanks. Who are you?”

“We are the Police and you've been ordered to get down. We have reports of a contagious disease here. We are here to contain it.”

Sal bit her lip, pulled Jack close.

Iain shrugged. “It's just Chicken Pox.”

The man lowered his gun slightly and frowned. “What?”

Iain moved Jack away from his mother so that they could see the spots on his arms and face. “Just Chicken Pox, dude. We called a doctor last night, but he was a bit out of it. Think he was drunk, to be honest. Anyway, he told us to stay put until it cleared up. No problem”

The soldier was shaking his head. “No he called is… we… we had reports of a… Drunk, you say? But he gave us a report!”

Sal lifted her chin and shot the man a glance. “Of what? What would make you point a gun at an innocent English family trying to enjoy the hospitality of your country? My husband is a bestselling author and he will write about this.”

Iain nodded to his wife. “Thanks, honey.”

“Shut up.”

The man's colleague whispered something into his ear, and he put the gun away. “I’m sorry. There seems to be some confusion. I must investigate the house, and have a quick look at your son, but if this is all a misunderstanding then I can’t apologise enough. This is not how Portugal treats its guests.”

Grandma got up, shoving the officer out of her way. Iain apologised to the man. “I think she’s off to make a cuppa. Do you drink tea?”

“No thank you. I shall not keep you long.”

And he didn’t. After a brief examination of Jack, the two police officers declared a simple case of Chicken Pox. After giving the villa a cursory inspection, they eventually hurried towards the front door. Their last words were a promise to cover the cost of accommodation by way of an apology, which was nice. The man with the gun waved goodbye to Jack before he left, who thought he was wonderful, if a little scary.

The men gone, Sal collapsed into Iain’s arms. “How did you know to lie?”

“It’s what I do for a living. I make shit up. If we admitted Jack had been a chicken they would have carted him off some place. You saw how they arrived. They came to fuck shit up.”

Sal glared at him. “Will you watch your language in front of Jack?”

“Sorry. I’m sure this isn’t over, in the long run. Our old friend, Matt, has done something crazy back home it seems, but let’s just cross that… bridge when we come to it.”

Sal kissed him on the cheek. “This has been a crazy start to a holiday.”

“I know. My fans will be so worried. I haven’t posted on Facebook for a whole day. You know how they get if they don’t hear from me.”

“Yeah… Anyway, I could kill a cuppa. Where’s Grandma got to?”

“I think she’s in the kitchen.”

Iain knelt down to Jack, who was fiddling with the sandals they'd made him put on. “Hey, darling, you want to go find Grandma?”

Always loving a task—like ‘Jack, can you pass mommy’s phone?’ and ‘Jack, can you go downstairs and get daddy a coke?’—he went racing off to find his favourite person in the whole world, shouting the whole time, “Marmar?”

Sal and Iain looked into each other’s eyes, both of them sharing the relief, the appreciation, and utmost love that they were both feeling. They shared a brief kiss and then followed their little boy into the kitchen.

“I think you have a good idea for your next book, honey.”

Iain huffed. “A story about Jack turning into a chicken? Who would enjoy something that stupid?”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s not something a serious author would right about, is it? Besides, I know you didn’t want to think about work this week.”

“Right, I’ve had enough stress, thank you very much. I’m just glad we can finally start relaxing.”

“Me too.”

Cluck!

Sal and Iain froze in the hallway, right outside the kitchen door.

Iain swallowed. “Did I just hear that?”

Cluck!

Sal nodded, her face turning white.

The urge to vomit assaulted his guts, but he took his wife’s hand and pulled her with him into the kitchen. They couldn’t believe what they saw.

“Chicken,” said Jack happily. “Chicken Grandma.” He was sat on the floor and giggled at the giant chicken sat beside him. The chicken wore Grandma’s pearls.

Iain looked at his wife, eyes bulging and a vein throbbing in his head. “I think it's contagious.”

Sal rubbing at her eyes as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing. “Mom, are you okay?”

Cluck!

The baby monitor hissed and came to life on the counter. Cluck cluck, wah!

Oh no! Molly had it too.

Iain didn't panic, though. Instead he just shrugged and opened the fridge to get some orange juice. “Ah, at least we know they’ll get over it. Breakfast?”

Sal sighed. “Yeah, I’ll go get breakfast. You stay with the kids and Grandma.”

“Great. Just leave me with to look after the chicken family.”

“I told you it would be hard work when you married me.”

“Yeah you did, but you never said it would be fowl!”

“Iain, I want a divorce.”

“That's fair.”

7. THE WITNESS

Soon I will take her, not because I want to but because I must. It is what I am. It is what I do. I am the Witness.

I've been watching her for a while now, studying her, enjoying her. She is playing with her little boy in the park. He seems to love her very much. The way he reaches out his hands whenever he passes by, as if she is somehow magnetic to him. Several times, she has grabbed his wrists and swung him around gleefully, but now she is shooing him away, ordering him to go and play with the other children. She loves her boy, but does not want him all to herself. She wants him to socialise. The girl is a good mother. A young mother that expects to live a long and happy life.

Sometimes, we don't get what we expect.

Sometimes pain and suffering replaces the joy we hope for. I am a being without joy, but I enjoy seeing it in others. It is interesting, and I enjoy it all the more when it is due to be snuffed out. In these cases, the joy is ethereal and all the more delicate. I wonder if my delight in torment makes me wicked.

The woman's name is Donna Fawcett. She is unmarried and raises her son alone. I know this because I am the Witness. I watch before I take. Maybe I shouldn't. Perhaps my voyeurism makes me sick, but it seems important to know who I am taking. Their deaths are always so beautiful, spectacular even, but it is only in view of their lives that their ends can truly be enjoyed. How many have I taken now? How often has my head filled with screams, my mouth with blood? I feel, taste, and see all. It is my curse, but a blessing also to be so connected. Still, sometimes I mourn for the lives I take. I mourn for the simplicity of them. Few victims know the things I do.

I begin my slow journey towards Donna, stalking her in my own casual way. It is nearly time. Time for her to lay eyes upon him. It will be a frightening experience for her, but it shall not last long. At least she will have that. Her son is on the swing now, kicking his legs to try and get himself going. Donna can't help but give him a helpful push. Nearby, other mothers play with their own children, as well as a father with a small girl. He keeps glancing at Donna, and I can tell he desires her. But is he a married cheater, or a divorced father? Is either of interest to Donna? Perhaps. I am not intelligent when it comes to reading social cues, even after so many years watching. Witnessing. Donna is an object of affection for many men, I assume, with her long blonde hair and slender figure. She does not work out, that I have seen, but she eats little. Money is tight and she spends it on her son. The father is never mentioned nor seen. Sad for the boy. About to get sadder.

I take a seat at the edge of the park. Perhaps I should not be so close. To be around children with none of your own is a warning flag in today's society. I am not a child molester, but it is, perhaps, a good thing I am so unnoticeable. Most give me no more than a cursory glance, and few remember my face. The only person that needs to see me is Donna. I am here for her. Mine will be the last face she sees. That is just how it is. I cannot help who I come for. I cannot help what I am. Many would call me a monster. Truly, I see myself as an angel.

Still, I sometimes yearn to be something else. Something that does not put such fear in people's eyes.

To speak with someone as a friend...

Such silliness, to even be thinking that someone like me could have a friend. I may be an angel, but that doesn't change the fact I am still seen as a monster by all who meet me. The newspapers will write about me taking Donna with horror and sadness, like they always do. They love to write about me. I sell their papers for them. People are obsessed with me. Terrified by me. I am the Witness.

This close to her, I can see the blue in Donna's eyes, and the green in her son's. Are his father's eyes that colour, or do they originate from more distant relations? They are undeniably related, though, despite their physical differences, and I wonder if the boy's hair smells the same as hers. Do they use the same apple-scented shampoo?

Will I be able to get one last inhalation of Donna's scent before she slips away?

I almost feel bad.

The boy will be left an orphan, unless the wayward father returns, and what kind of man might he be? The kind that walks out on his responsibilities, obviously. Maybe if he hadn't left, I wouldn't be here. Maybe Donna would not be on my list. It is beyond us both now.

Donna must die.

That is why I am here.

It's time to go, so Donna gathers her son from the swing and holds his hand. He comes willingly, as all good boys do. They make quite a pair, mother and son, an oil painting made real. They leave the park and cross the road together, the lights turning green just as they reach the middle. A young man in a loud car comes speeding around the corner, heading right towards Donna and her son.

People in the park look up, jolted by the noisy engine and screeching tyres.

Donna has to drag her son out of the way to avoid being run over, but she does not shout or swear--not in front of him. She simply kneels down at the side of the road and explains that there's a reason roads are so dangerous, and they just saw a good example. Being the good boy he is, her son promises always to look both ways. I can see the jolt of fear that still lingers on Donna's face though. For a moment, a mother's fear was in her. Her child had been in danger. I saw the change come over her, almost supernatural, ready to leap in front of the speeding vehicle and save her son if need be. A subtle change that probably even she was unaware of.

It seemed in this world, children were always in danger.

So were adults.

I am the death that stalks you, Donna, the misery that whispers in the night, turning your smiles to tears. I am the Witness.

And it pains me so.

And yet it pleases me more.

Soon.

But not yet.

Donna heads down the pavement for a while, and when she pulls her boy off the street into a McDonald's, he squealed. The boy did not get Happy Meals as often as other children. His mother was poor. That didn't affect how much he loved her, though, and I can see how the mild adversity is building character in him. He is a kind boy, yet tough enough to face the subtle horrors of life.

He is not tough enough to face me, which is why I hang back. I only want his mother.

Let him continue being strong once she is gone.

The poor child.

I stand in the doorway of the restaurant, peeking from the corner of my eye. An old man passes me in the doorway, the sadness of being the surviving spouse of a long marriage evident in his face. He nods politely, but I see the fear. The fear that exists in all old people, asking themselves the question: will this be the day I die? Will it be violent, or quick? Embarrassing or peaceful? The shadow of death looms over them like a low hanging cloud.

As it does Donna today.

Her cloud should come later, but it is here early.

Donna sits down with a tray filled with food for her son. There is only a water for herself. I know she will eat pasta or bread later, whatever she finds in the cupboard. I imagine her stomach rumbling while she watches her son gorge on chicken nuggets. Yet she never stops smiling, looking at her boy as if he is brand new. Several times, she reaches across the table just to stroke his cheek. There are many other children in the restaurant, and many more parents, but none look at one another the way this mother looks at her son. He is her world. The only good thing in her life.

Soon I will separate them.

Donna pulls apart a plastic bag and reveals the toy from her son's Happy Meal. It is a small racing car, and she has fun pushing it back and forwards across the table with him. They chat and laugh for a while longer, not rushing the moment, until Donna helps him take the tray to the clean-up station. He empties his litter dutifully and then asks to be picked up. He is still young, but too old to need picking up, yet Donna reaches down and heaves him up anyway, struggling with her first few steps until she gets some momentum. The boy is tired. He wraps his arms around his mother's neck and puts his cheek against her shoulder.

I follow them down the street to the row of flats where they live. The building is near the town's busy centre, a noisy and unpretty place, but inside they have made it a home. I have seen it several times. Donna does not lock her door until bedtime.

Now she is typing in the code to enter the building. I stand back, moving behind a nearby bus shelter. The old woman sitting here studies me. I ignore her. My eyes are only on Donna. Through the glass of the stairwell door, I see her climb the stairs. She lives with her son on the first floor, Flat 3. There is one neighbour opposite in Flat 4, but the young man who lives there is asleep all day and stoned all night. Donna does not like him. Nor does her son.

Once I am sure Donna is safely inside her flat, I approach the building. I know the code, so I step inside quickly. As I climb the stairs, I look upwards, ensuring no one sees me. Not that it matters. No one ever remembers me.

No witnesses ever describe the Witness. The Witness is unknown.

The hour is getting late, the sky turning a subtle shade of grey that will eventually fall to black. I see this through the cracked window on the upper stairwell. I am standing outside Donna's door. Last night, standing in the shadows of her hallway, I watched her bathe her son and put him to bed. I try her front door and find it unlocked, as I do every night. She is too trusting. For her, danger comes in a speeding car or a meningitis scare at her son's school. What is going to happen to her will come as quite a shock. Hopefully it will be quick. Sometimes it is. Not always.

I sneak inside, moving into the space beside the coat rack. I am good at hiding, naturally attuned to the shadows but washed out by the light. I am ordinary and unnoticeable, a part of nature. A force that cannot be seen, only felt.

I hear the sound of running water, a bath being run. I salivate.

Donna and her son briefly appear in the hallway, chasing after one another, but they do not look my way. Her son has no pants on, and she is fighting him to get off his shirt. It is all a game, as it always is with these two kindred spirits. Sometimes I wish I had a mother like her, and not just a father. Would it have shaped me differently? Perhaps.

The bath is not quick, a little longer than usual in fact, for tonight they are washing hair. The boy complains. The mother sings. Then the bath is over and I am tingling in anticipation. I have looked forward to Donna's death for what feels like an eternity. The more I have gotten to know her, the more I have wanted to meet her face to face. Is it wrong to take pleasure in my work? I can't help it, it is how I am made. It is what I am for. I am the Witness.

Donna reads to her son before bed always, and tonight it is the Gruffalo. A modern tale and not one I have heard before. Strangely, I find myself listening and enjoying it too.

Eventually, I tire of standing in the hallway and creep into the living room. There, I wait. Always waiting. My patience is my virtue. I must never rush. That would dishonour my role in this world. I do not care about honour, but it is part of me all the same.

Donna says goodnight, but she does not come into the living room. She goes into the kitchen. Some nights she has a single glass of wine, but tonight she fills a beaker from the sink and drinks water. I watch her through the open doorway--there are hinges and a frame, but no door. Odd. Part of being poor, I suppose. Also part of being poor is the threadbare carpet in the living room. The crisscrossed backing-fibre are showing in several places, and next to the sofa is a large flap of underlay sticking up like a flap of sliced skin. A clean ashtray sits on the scratched glass coffee table in the centre of the room, but it is full of pennies. Perhaps Donna's son is saving for a new toy. He probably wouldn't get it now.

Donna enters the living room and is finally in my presence.

I pick up the scent of her hair and sigh. Delightful.

As always, she picks up the TV remote and switches on the set. She pays no attention to what is on yet, and instead goes over to the windows and closes the curtains. Then she goes out into the hallway and locks the front door. Locks herself inside with me.

Her end is here.

Stepping back into the living room she sees me. She sees me just as her foot snags against the torn flap of carpet beside the sofa. Sees me all the way down as she trips and falls awkwardly. She looks right into my eyes as the side of her head smashes against the cold hard corner of the glass coffee table.

Then she sees nothing at all.

Donna is dead.

I wait, as I always do. I have fulfilled my role. I have Witnessed. Now I must move on.

Not just yet though.

Donna reappeared, staring down at her own dead body. I always find human disbelief fascinating. A species that prides itself on reason, yet only accepts reason when it suits what they already hold to be true. Staring at their own death is not enough to convince them they are dead, yet they might look up at the moon and know that it moves around the earth. An odd animal, human beings.

When I step to my right, Donna startles.

"Who are you!"

"I am your Witness. For all those who die alone, a Witness must be present."

"Why?"

"Because God does not want anyone to die alone. I am here to see your last moments so that your death does not go unnoticed."

She looked down at her body again. "I'm not dead."

"But you are."

"No."

I sigh. It is a conversation I have had many times. "Poverty killed you, it would seem. Money would have had that carpet replaced."

"I asked the landlord twice."

"He did not listen. Now, I imagine, he will."

She shakes her head at me, this time with tears in her eyes. "I am not dead."

"You are. You know it. It is... distressing, I imagine, but you know it for sure."

"What are you?"

"A creature just like you. What do you think I am?"

She stares hard at me, one eye squinting. "Death? Except you look like an old teacher of mine, one who I used to really like."

I nod understandingly. "I appear as I need to appear. Most people see their parents."

She sneers slightly at that, but there's no time for me to question her. Nor is it my place. "We must go."

"Where? Are you a demon?"

"Perhaps."

"I can't go. My son needs me."

I look towards the door across the hallway, behind which a sweet little boy sleeps. "I am sorry."

"No you're not. You're a monster."

There was that word again. The one they always used. "I am no monster."

She folded her arms. "I'm not going anywhere."

"There is no choice involved here for either of us. You are dead. This place is for the living."

Tears now stream down her face, but they do not move me. I like this woman, but I am not capable of further feeling. I would like to spend more time with her, but I am not permitted. Perhaps, with time, I could come to care about her tears. It would please me to find out.

The way she looked at him should probably have made him feel more than the mild pity he was used to. "I'm all he has. What can I do to stay?"

"Nothing. It is done. Your son no longer has a mother."

"You bastard!"

"I am sorry. Truth is the only speech permitted to me. You are dead, your son is not. One day you will be reunited."

Her face lit up at that. He could not tell the future, but if the statement was untrue he would not have been able to say it. Therefore, it was indeed God's plan that this mother would one day be reunited with her son.

Not this day though.

She wipes her nose with the back of his arm and tries to catch her breath. After a loud swallow, she stares at me hard. "I'll really see him again?"

"Of course. You may even get to watch him live his life."

"Am I... going to Heaven?"

I wish that was a question I could answer, for all the times I have been asked it, but it is not my place in things to know. I am a Witness. No more. "Heaven is a word. All I know is that there is a place for all things. You are a good woman, a good mother, a good person. Those things are virtues above most others. Wherever you are going, you should not fear it. Not at all."

She nods slightly to herself and I can see her coming to terms with her death. Humans seemed equipped with a filter to help them through the transition. They are not quite the same after death as they are in life. Not so hysterical. And that is a good thing for me.

"Are you ready?" I ask her.

She is about to answer when a noise cuts her off.

"Mummy? I heard a noise."

Her eyes go wide and she stares at her son's bedroom door. The tears start afresh. Her bottom lip quivers.

"Mummy? Mummy, are you there?"

She attempts to go to him, but I take her arm and freeze her in place. "You won't be able to reach him. You are dead."

She looks down at her limp corpse and speaks in a voice more full of pain than any I have ever known. "W-W-What is going to happen to him? What is going to happen to my boy?"

"I do not know."

"He's all alone. He has no family. Who will look after him?"

"I do not know."

"He's just a little boy."

I sigh. "I know. It is time."

She tries to fight me, but once I hold her, there is no escape. You cannot escape a Witness. We are a force.

"Let me go. I'm not leaving. I'm not! Fuck you!"

"Mummy! I'm scared! Can you come cuddle me?"

She screams in pain, anguish beyond my understanding. Her eyes fixate on her son's bedroom door as it begins to slowly open. Soon the boy will step into the living room and find his mother's cooling body. Donna does not need to see that. Even I understand enough to know what torture is.

Before she can take another full breath, Donna is gone, sent to whatever place it is people go to once I have Witnessed them. Perhaps her pain will fade away there, or perhaps it will be all she is left with. Those questions are not for me to answer. I am only here to Witness.

I look across the hall and see the bedroom door now fully open. The little boy steps out in his pale blue sailboat pyjamas. He has not yet seen his mother, but he will any moment now. It will no doubt be terrible for him, and part of me wishes I could do something to help. But I cannot. It is not my place.

So I step past the boy into the hallway, no longer visible with my work now being at an end. Before I leave to Witness the next soul, however, I turn and watch the boy cross the hallway, padding on his little bare feet. I don't know why, but I can't leave without first saying something. The words I choose are, "Good luck, child, and God bless."

Perhaps I do care.

8. THE BOB SAGA

The following is inspired by true events. Part one has been told before in the AZ of Horror. Part two is being recounted here for the very first time…

PART 1: M IS FOR MATTY-BOB

“How did you sleep last night?” Iain asked his wife, Sally, as he came downstairs at 8AM.

Sally, holding their ten-month old baby, Jack, in her arms, blinked slowly. “Like shit.”

“What time did he wake up?”

“Half-five, but I left him babbling ‘til six.”

Jack reached out to Daddy and Sally thrust him away gladly. She sat down on the sofa and sipped her coffee while Jack proceeded to pull his daddy’s hair.

Iain took a seat beside Sally, Jack on his lap, and reached out for the mug of tea waiting for him on the side table – Sally was so good to him, so good to Jack. The television was on, playing a loop of Timmy Time that she had found on Youtube.

“What time you going to your mum’s today?” Iain asked.

“After Jack’s nap. You starting a new story today?”

“No, I’m still editing at the moment. Waiting on Stephen for a cover, too. Did you hear something in the night?”

Sally frowned at him. “Like what?”

He shrugged. “Not sure. I thought I heard something in the garden. Probably just cats.”

“God, Iain. Don’t tell me that! I’ll be seeing strange men in the dark now.”

Iain adjusted his struggling son on his lap and chuckled. “Sorry. It wasn’t anything like that. Just wondering if our cat got into a fight or something.”

“No, Jess was in last night. It was raining.”

Iain sniffed and then pulled a face. “I think there’s a poop in the poopy pants.”

Sally sighed, but then put on a great big smile and tickled Jack’s ribs. Looking into his face, she said in a silly voice, “Is there a poop in the poopy pants? Do you have a poop in your poopy pants?”

Jack giggled deliriously as his mother picked him up and took him away to change him in the spare room that now possessed the constant odour of ‘poopy pants’.

Iain picked up his laptop from the side table and started checking emails. He deleted the spam that had resulted from a month-long hobby of entering online competitions and sorted out any messages of import. There were the usual sales reports and promo responses, along with a few fan emails, but one message in particular stood out. It read:

“YOU ARE MY LIFE.”

Iain frowned and clicked the email to open it. What popped up on his screen was a photograph of a smiling ginger man in glasses. He was topless and held a finger to each nipple. Written across his round tummy, presumably in lipstick, were the bright red words: Iain Rob Wright for the Win!

Iain felt a knot in his stomach. As his popularity as a horror author had increased, there had been several occasions when fans had made him feel uncomfortable. Some had demanded his time more than he was able to give them, while others had confided strange stories about their lives or asked him for personal details about his own. As much as Iain adored each and every one of his fans, he had a wife and child that took priority. It was situations like this man now that Iain found so hard to deal with. This man was obviously a supporter of his work, but possibly a little unstable also. What was the best thing to do? How to let someone down gently without being an asshole about it?

Iain checked the sender’s name and identified the man as MATTY BOB. Strange name for sure.

“Iain!”

Iain flinched and almost dropped his laptop. From the panic in his wife’s voice, it was clear that his presence was required. He hopped up from the sofa and hurried into the spare room where the stench of fresh poopy pants hit him in the face like a wet kipper.

“Woah!” he said, waving a hand in front of his nose, then looked at his obviously upset wife. “What’s wrong, babe?”

“There’s a man in our garden.”

Iain felt that knot in his stomach again. “What?”

“In the garden there is a man, look!”

Iain slid around the room’s bed and went to the window. Sure enough, sitting on the lawn, plucking at blades of grass was a man in a bright red cape like Superman’s.

“What the hell?”

Sally picked Jack up from the changing mat on the bed and held him against her chest. He immediately gave her a right hook and then started pulling at her necklace. “Should I call the police?”

Iain was stuck staring at the strange man in his garden. He couldn’t be sure, but it might have been the man who had emailed him. He spotted a crop of gingery-blond hair and a pair of glasses.

“I… just hold off on calling the police. I’ll go and talk with him.”

“Iain, you shouldn’t go out there. He could be crazy.”

“That doesn’t make him dangerous. He might need help.”

“Iain, you surely are the kindest man alive. I hope that all your fans know that.”

Iain smiled. “I’m sure they do. God bless them all.”

“Iain?”

Iain snapped out of his daze and looked at his wife. “Sorry, what? I was daydreaming.”

“How can you be daydreaming? I said, should I call the police?”

“What? No, I’ll deal with it.”

“Be careful.”

Iain nodded. “Just stay up here.”

He went down to the lower floor and into the kitchen. Sure enough, the man was still sitting in the garden. When he saw Iain through the French doors, he leapt up and began waving.

Iain swallowed the lump in his throat and stepped outside. “Can I help you?” he said. “You’re in my garden.”

“I know, I know,” the man gushed. “You’re Iain Rob Wright. You call your fans Wrighters. Well, I’m your biggest Wrighter. I love you.

“How did you know where I live?”

“Your address is listed at Companies House. Your business is registered here.”

Iain sighed. He was no businessman and left those kinds of things to his accountants. His office was at home, which was why his business’s head office was listed as the same. Damn it!

“What do you want?”

“To meet you, of course. Did you get my email, my picture?”

“I did. Thank you… I guess. You really can’t be here. This is my home.”

The man took a step towards him.

Iain held his ground, wanting to appear in charge. Now that the other man was standing, it was disturbingly apparent that he was mentally unwell. He wore only muddy boots, stained white y-fronts, and that bright red cape.

“I had to see you,” he said excitedly. “I had to tell you that your novel The Last Winter is the best horror novel of all time.”

“The Final Winter.”

“What?”

Iain cleared his throat and said it again. “It’s the Final Winter, not the Last Winter.”

“Oh, yeah, right, I knew that. Well, anyway, it changed my life. Harry is me. Do you understand?”

“Not really. You need to leave. I will chat to you happily via email, but you can’t come to my home. My family deserve privacy.”

“How is little Jack, and Sally, too, of course? Where is she?”

“Out,” Iain lied. “If you don’t leave, I will have to call the police.”

“Like in ASBO?”

Iain sighed. “Yes, like in ASBO. It’s been lovely to meet you – Matty, is it? – but you have to go.”

“It’s Matty-Bob.”

“Okay, Matty-Bob. Time to go.”

“Can’t I come in and have a cup of tea?”

“No, you cannot.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll see you soon.”

Iain tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Keep writing, Iain. You da man.”

With that, the unhinged fan swept up his cape and ran towards the back fence. He leapt up and tried to climb over it, but ended up dangling foolishly.

Iain rolled his eyes and groaned. “Jesus, man, let me open the back gate for you.”

-2-

“If he turns up again, I’ll call the police,” Iain told his wife as he spread Marmite on his toast. “He’s a bloody nutcase.”

Sally nodded understandingly. “Well, we all knew this could happen when people started calling you ‘the next Stephen King’. With your remarkable talent and skill, people were always going to fall hopelessly in love with you. The other horror writers have barely had a chance since you came along.”

“I know, I know. Sometimes I think about retiring just to make it fair, but it just wouldn’t be right, would it? Everything I have to offer the world…”

“Iain?”

Iain shook his head and snapped out of his daze. “Sorry, what?”

Sally shot him a scornful glance. “Were you even listening to me? I said that I’m leaving with Jack now, but you need to call the police if that crazy man comes back. I don’t want to come home and find you tied to a chair.”

Iain frowned. “Did you see the guy? I could take him easily if I have to.”

Sally groaned. “You’re not on a council estate anymore, darling. My husband is a man who watches cartoons with his son; whose favourite show is Nashville; and who cried when Buffy’s mum died. So no more talk about fighting crazy men in our garden, okay?”

Iain nodded and watched his wife and son go out the front door. He sat down at the kitchen table and ate his toast in silence. He had work to do today, but was completely unmotivated. The man in the garden had distracted his thoughts for the day, which meant he probably wouldn’t get into a good flow until Noon.

Maybe he would take a bath to snap out of his fugue. Do a bit of reading and get his head in the game? Yeah, that was what he would do. He’d soon forget about that crazy man who had invaded his privacy.

Unless he came back.

-3-

In a funny mood, Iain had spent the last thirty minutes taking bathtub selfies of his scrunched up face and chin, then uploading them to Facebook. His fans were horrified, but also amused, so it had been worth it.

He turned the tap on with his foot and shuddered as the hot water brought the temperature up.

His phone pinged for an email.

It was from Matty-Bob.

So grate to meet you earlier, Ian. I felt we really connect and I’m just sorry you aske me to leave. I understand what I did wrong, thou, and I am on my way to correct its.

Iain sat up in the bath, alert. Was that psychopath coming back to the house?

“I brought pizza!”

Iain leapt up out of the bath so quickly that he slipped over the side and fell to the ground headfirst; his naked arse left pointing in the air. The pain didn’t register as much as the panic, though, so he was up on his feet quickly.

Matty-Bob stood in the doorway to the bathroom, this time wearing a scruffy brown tuxedo that looked like it had been dragged out of an antique chest.

“Wow, fella!” Matty-Bob pointed to Iain’s uncovered genitals. “Did you get that thing from an elephant? Your wife is a lucky girl.”

“I… I am blessed.”

“Hey, Iain?”

Iain shook his head and snapped out of the daze caused by the blow to his head.

“You okay there?” Matty-Bob asked. “That was quite the fall you took and you went a bit fuzzy on me there for a moment.”

Iain looked at the lunatic holding a pizza and was utterly shocked, and very very angry. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

“I brought pizza!”

“Fuck your pizza.”

Matty-Bob looked confused, but then he shrugged. “Okay.” He proceeded to pull his penis out of his pants and shoved it into the cheesy pizza.

“Jesus Christ!” Iain shouted. “I didn’t mean literally. Get the hell out of my house. I’m going to have you arrested, you maniac.”

Matty-Bob looked confused. “But you love your fans. You say so all the time. That’s why I’m here, to be with you.”

“To be with me?”

“Yes. You say you love your fans, well here I am – your very biggest. Or is that all bullshit? Do you just pretend to be a nice guy? Is it lies? Please don’t tell me it’s lies.”

Iain realised he was debating this man while standing completely in the nude. He grabbed a towel off the rail and wrapped it around himself. “Of course I don’t pretend, but that doesn’t mean you can just break into my home. If you wanted to meet me, you should email me like any normal person.”

“You don’t meet fans, though.”

“I do sometimes.”

“Not really.”

“I have a ten month old son. Meeting people is not something I have a lot of time for. That doesn’t mean I don’t care, though.”

“I know,” said Matty-Bob. “That’s why I came to you. Come here, big fella.”

The man went to hug Iain, but Iain shot out a leg and kept him at bay. “What? No, not ‘come here, big guy’. More like, ‘get out of my house, you goddamn freak’.”

Matty-Bob froze on the spot, his embracing arms stuck open like pincers. “It’s all lies, isn’t it? You don’t love your fans.”

“I do,” Iain growled. “Just not the ones who stick their dicks in pizzas.”

Iain turned around to look for his phone, but was dismayed when he saw it at the bottom of the bath beneath the water. “I’m calling the police,” he said, “So you’d better-”

Something struck him in the back of the head, sending him sprawling back into the bathtub. He thrashed in the water and turned himself around to face his attacker.

“Eat it!” Matty-Bob screamed, shoving a slice of pizza into Iain’s mouth. “Eat my cock pizza, you liar.”

Iain managed to right himself in the bath and kick out with his legs. Matty-Bob went flying backwards into the wall, giving Iain the chance to leap up out of the bathtub and make a break for it.

Matty-Bob grabbed out at Iain’s shoulder as he passed, long dirty nails digging a furrow in his flesh.

“Ow!” Iain yelled. “That really hurt.”

Matty-Bob snarled. “Not as much as it’s going to.”

Iain had lost his towel and was naked again, but he couldn’t worry about that now. He ran down the stairs, testicles slapping against his leg while Matty-Bob was right behind him, screeching and hollering like the madman that he was.

“I just want to be friends,” he kept shouting. “You always say how you consider your fans to be your friends, your family. Liar!”

Iain crossed the middle-floor landing and wheeled towards the next set of steps. With no regard for his own safety, Matty-Bob threw himself down the stairs and collided with Iain’s back. The two of them went tumbling down the stairs, hitting the cat litter tray at the bottom.

Matty reached out and grabbed a pile of cat shit that had fallen out and immediately started thrusting it at Iain’s face. “Eat it, you lying son-of-a-bitch. You lying ol’ dirty bird!”

Iain threw a punch and caught Matty-Bob under the chin just as the cat shit was about to meet his lips. Matty-Bob fell sideways to the floor, while Iain clambered back to his feet and ran into the hallway.

Matty-Bob was right behind him again, continuing the chase. “I just wanna hang out,” he shouted. “NO BIG DEAL!”

Iain reached the front door and grabbed the handle, ecstatic that Sally hadn’t locked it on her way out. But before he could pull open the door, Matty-Bob flew into the back of him and started licking his ear.

“Get off me, you freak.”

Matty-Bob smacked his lips. “Taste like chicken.”

“I just had a bath.”

Matty-Bob leapt forwards and this time bit Iain in the shoulder, clamping down hard like a zombie from one of his books. Iain managed to shove the maniac away from him before any blood was shed.

“You’re insane.”

“Remember when Shawcross died at the end of Ravage? This is just like that, don’t you think?”

Iain shook his head. “Shawcross was the bad guy. Bad guys lose.” He wound up a punch and let it fly, but Matty-Bob ducked and punched him in the gut.

Iain dropped to his knees, wheezing.

“Just calm down, Iain. Put the kettle on. We can talk about what book you’re going to write next. Maybe you can put me in it. You do that sometimes for your fans, right? Like you named the boat in Sea Sick after some woman. Well, I can promise you that whoever that woman was she doesn’t love you as much as I do. Write a book about me. Make me a dashing hero. I love you, did I tell you that?”

Iain tried to catch his breath. “If you love me… then leave me… alone.”

Matty-Bob pulled a knife from his tuxedo pocket and held it up in front of him. “Not until I have something to remember you by.”

Iain groaned. “Won’t a simple autograph do?”

“Anybody can get your autograph. I want something nobody else has.”

Iain yelled in terror as Matty-Bob lunged at him with the knife. His eyes closed instinctively, but no pain arrived – just a tugging at his hair.

Iain opened his eyes again to see that Matty-Bob had cut a lock of his hair off and was smelling it. “Some of your fans think you’re going bald, but I think it gives you an air of distinction. What does Sally think? I can’t wait to meet her. Is she really as sweet as she seems? Do you think she would let me be Jack’s Godfather?”

The thought of having his family subjected to this maniac’s fantasies brought Iain’s mind back into focus. He climbed to his feet, leaning against the wall for support.

“Matty-Bob?” he asked, once his balance had returned.

“Yes?”

“You know I grew up on a council estate, right?”

“Yes, you grew up poor and managed to make something of yourself. It’s such a wonderful story.”

Iain nodded. “Then allow me to give you something from my past.”

Matty-Bob grinned, but the smile was soon wiped off his face when Iain booted him between the legs like Pele kicking a football. He fell over backwards like an ironing board, groaning all the way.

Iain was straight out the front door and yelling for help.

Three kids playing cards at the side of the road screamed when they saw him running towards them naked.

One little girl pointed a finger at him and shouted. “You won’t fiddle me, you pervert.”

Then the three of them took off, screaming for their parents.

Iain looked around, seeing no adults to help him and wondering what the hell people would think of him standing there in the buff. His penis had shrunk to a raisin and his fat belly was heaving in and out. If this ended up on Facebook, he was ruined.

Matt-Bob came staggering out the door behind him. “Why won’t you just love me,” he pleaded. “All I’ve done is support you. I have all of your books. Even that shitty one, Thrillobytes, that you took off sale. When I heard Amazon banned D is for Degenerate, I sent them my own shit in the post. Everything I do, I do for you, Iain.”

Iain backed off, gravel biting his heels and making him wince. “Just… just wait until the next time I do a convention. We can hang out all day then. You have my hair, what more do you want?”

“I want you in me?”

Iain pulled a face. “I don’t even know what that means, but it doesn’t sound like something I would agree to.”

“You’re so wonderful, Iain. So much better than that talentless hack, Matt Shaw. You and me should take a trip together. I know it’s hard work being a father, so let’s go to Vegas!”

Iain kept on backing away. In the distance he noticed the children were returning with their furious looking parents. They were looking to beat up a pedophile, but it was not what it seemed. Iain was the one who needed help.

“You know,” Iain said, trying to stall. “Disney is really more my thing.”

Matty-Bob gritted his teeth and started beating his own head with his fists, over and over again. “Damn it! I knew that, I knew that. So dumb, so dumb!”

Iain put a hand out. “It’s fine, Matty. Just calm down.”

Matty pulled his fists away from his head and glared at Iain. A line of blood formed from his hairline down to his nose. “My name… is… Matty-Bob!”

Matty-Bob rushed towards Iain, the knife held out in front of him once again. But this time it didn’t look like he was coming for hair.

Iain turned and ran, arms flailing in the air. “Jesus, God, oh bloody ‘ell. Help me, somebody. Oh bloody ‘ell.”

Matty-Bob yelled strange obscenities. “You mother-humping ass-butt!”

Iain looked at the children and their arriving parents, cried out to them for help, but he only made them confused.

They would never make it over to him in time.

Matty-Bob closed the distance between them. Raised his knife. Snarled.

The screech of tyres.

A maroon Nissan Qashqai squealed around the corner, almost going up on two wheels.

Matty-Bob froze, looked confused at what he saw coming towards him.

Then the large family car thumped into him, sent him toppling into the air, over the panoramic sunroof, and back down to the unforgiving road.

There the man lay now, panting in the street, his antique tuxedo torn and wet with blood.

Sally pulled on the handbrake and leapt out of the car. She approached her naked, panicked husband with caution. “Iain, what the hell is going on?”

He shrugged. “You know, just work.”

Sally grabbed Jack out of his car seat and moved Iain away from the injured maniac on the road. The neighbours arrived and tried to understand what they were seeing. Pretty soon they seemed to get a grasp on the situation and didn’t seem to mind the fact that Iain was naked at all. In fact, both the men and women in the crowd seemed delighted by what they saw. They couldn’t help themselves but wink and purr in his direction.

One of the members of the crowd stepped forward to speak with Iain. “I’m sorry we weren’t here to help, Mr Rob Wright. A man as talented and handsome as you should always have someone watching out for him. Rest assured that from now on, no one in this street will ever fail you. We are forming an Iain Rob Wright Protection Society and will never again allow you to come to harm.”

Iain nodded and shook hands with the man. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Iain?”

Iain opened his eyes and saw his wife staring at him. “Sally?”

“Yes, I just said the police are on the way. Come on, we need to go inside and get you covered up. You’re freaking everybody out. I think you messed yourself a little at the back.”

Iain looked down at the shit on the back of his thigh and realised he must have done it when he was running in terror. He was usually due a toilet break around now – he’d missed it. He looked over at Matty-Bob who was still down on the ground, semi-concious. “Is this the price of fame?” he asked his wife.

“No,” she said. “This is the price of you being a dope. Now come on, inside.”

* * *

Later on his official blog, Iain Rob Wright wrote concerning the incident:

“I don’t know if I can ever get over something like that… It’s weird. Even though I know Matty-Bob is institutionalised, I still think about him once in a while.”

Following the blog post was a single comment, left by a fan named Brian Stone. He simply stated: Didn’t you steal that from Misery?

END.

THE REAL LIFE MATTY-BOB

PART 2: REVENGE OF THE BOB

“Why is it that as soon as you move into a new house, you find the walls are made from papier mâché and the carpets are actually sixty percent insect carcasses? This place looked lovely when we viewed it.”

Sal stared at me like I was a child—the default setting for how my wife looked at me. “Iain, we’ve changed the carpets and they're lovely now. The walls are being re-plastered and painted next week. Cheer up, you miserable bugger.”

"I'm not a miserable bugger," I mumbled. "You're a miserable bugger." I heaved a wooden side table into the skip and watched it splinter. It seemed roughly half of our belongings were damaged in the move, causing me to bleed even more money replacing everything. I vowed never to move house again. Sal was glaring at me, daring me not to snap out of my mood. “I know, I know," I said. "I’m just stressed. The dishwasher door is still missing. When are the builders coming?” I looked at a white van across the road, wishing it was them, but it wasn't.

“Tomorrow, so stop bloody moaning. Will you go round the back and see if you can find the water meter? I need to sort all the utilities out before Christmas.”

I nodded. Then left her on the driveway to get the kid’s out of the car. Jack was singing Christmas songs and Molly was crying because she was hungry. The normal soundtrack to my life lately. In fact, it was a relaxing break going to the side of my house all by myself.

The electricity and gas had meters sat in boxes on the wall, but the water readout had so remained elusive. The builders had said to look for a manhole cover in the garden so that was where I looked. The previous owners left a lot of debris—plant pots and such—and I had to kick it aside as I cut a path along the patio. I could see no manhole covers anywhere, but I did spot an opening at the base of the retaining wall between the elevated lawn and the sunken patio. It looked like a drain—a wide, narrow hole cut horizontally into the bottom of the brick wall. Inside, it was pitch-black. A shiver danced along my spine. I looked back to see where Sal was, but the driveway was quiet. She’d taken the kids inside.

I stared into the drain. Could it be where the water meter was hiding? It seemed a strange thing to have in a garden, but I wasn’t much of an expert about plumbing. I got down on my hands and knees to take a closer look, and cold air wafted in my face, along with the smell of…

Gingerbread?

Something shone in the darkness. The glint of an eye.

“Hiya, Iain!”

I froze, an icicle stabbing right into my heart. I knew that voice.

Two familiar eyes glared back at me from the drain. My lower lip trembled. “W-what are you doing here?” I asked.

“I came to play,” purred the voice in the sewer. “Do you want to play a game?”

I shook my head. “No.”

"Too bad!"

An arm shot out of the drain and grabbed my wrist. I struggled to get free, but the weight pulling me down was too much. My hand disappeared into the shadows and I couldn't retrieve it.

I felt teeth against my flesh.

“Ouch! Shit, why are you biting me?”

“Mmmph… Because I… mmph… heard horror authors taste like… mmph… Bovril.”

The revulsion helped me to yank my hand back, and I scrambled away from the drain, screaming at the top of my lungs. “SAL! SAL, COME QUICK!”

Sal came rushing out into the garden, ready to vape. This time I smelt aniseed. “What? What is it?”

I pointed at the sewer. “It’s Matty-Bob! He’s back.”

Her eyes widened, and she stared at the drain. Then she surprised me by taking a hit on her vape and calmly strolling over to me. She placed her hands on my shoulders and blew smoke over my shoulder. Definitely aniseed. “Honey, Matty-Bob can’t hurt you anymore. He’s been locked, and he’s never getting out. Not after they caught him eating that squirrel.”

“But…” I pointed at the drain again, but there was only a slab of darkness there. “He was there, I swear it! The bugger bit me.”

Sal looked at the back of my hand as I waved it in front of her face like I was bloody John Cena. Sure enough, a circle of teeth marks pitted my flesh. It wasn’t enough to convince her, though, because she pulled me into a hug. “Just calm down. I know you’re upset about that review you got calling your work ‘school-boy drivel', and that one last week saying you were the literary equivalent of herpes." She started to chuckle. "Or that classic one last year that said you write like a baboon with a hangover—”

“What’s your point?” I snapped.

“That you’re under a lot of stress, honey, what with the move and everything.”

I nodded. Of course I was feeling overwhelmed. “And Molly never stops eating," I said. "I tried to eat a peanut the other day and she went mental. I had to hand it over. Sal, I’m scared to go in the kitchen. She’s always there… looking at me.”

“Honey, she's not even eighteen months old. You two will have to learn to get along.”

“I know. Just... can tell her she can't have my peanuts.”

Sal frowned at me just as Jack stepped out into the garden. He looked around with a smile on his face and, as he ran towards me, he almost tripped and landed on his face twice. He stayed upright long enough to collide headfirst with my genitals. I doubled over and gave him a cuddle while I bit down on my pain. “Hiya... sweetheart. You... ah, Jesus Wept, that hurts... okay?”

Jack grabbed the back of my neck and hung from me like a baboon. “This our new garden?”

“Yep. You like in?”

“Bigger than old garden?”

“I haven't measured yet, but I'm quite sure it is, yes. Mummy and Daddy got it for you and Molly.”

Jack smiled and covered his mouth dramatically. “Oh, thank you, Daddy. Thank you very much for my new garden!”

I got free of his grasp and grimaced. To Sal, I whispered. “I swear he’s going to end up in theatre. He's so dramatic.”

Sal chuckled. “Fine by me. Maybe he’ll be able to get us tickets to Shrek.”

Jack spotted an old football amongst the debris and went and kicked it. From the kitchen, I heard screams of agonised, burning hunger.”

Sal nodded at me. “Go get Mol a biscuit.”

“She’s already had about ten,” I argued.

“Then she’s only about halfway done. Go on! She'll make you pay for it if you leave her waiting."

So, somewhat shakily, I went into the kitchen while wondering if I was losing my mind. I swear Matty-Bob had been in the drain, but thinking about it now made it seem absurd. Just stress, I thought. Yep, that was all.

Molly glared at me as I entered the kitchen. Chocolate covered her chomping maw, and she held one last, smushed-up biscuit in her clenched fist, which she thrust at me balefully. The message was clear. GIVE. ME. MORE!

I hurried to the cupboard and grabbed the snack box. When I found the cookie tube empty, I panicked. Hands shaking, I frantically searched the new kitchen. I found bread sticks next to some plates and hoped they would suffice. I got them to my growing daughter just as she readied herself for another onslaught of barbaric screams. She snatched the bread sticks from my hand and shoved them into her mouth, eyeballing me the entire time she chewed. LEAVE!

So I left her sat in her highchair and went into the lounge. My big TV hung on the wall, and just looking at it reduced my stress. A flat screen television, even when switched off, was a thing of beauty. So shiny and sleek. My own reflection smiled back at me.

Something behind me moved—a shifting blur in the glass panel. I spun around to catch sight of it and found the hallway door slowly closing. Must have been the dog, I told myself, but then I saw Oscar asleep on the sofa.

“Oscar! Get on your bloody bed.”

The dog looked at me with stroke-face, upper lip curled inside out and one floppy ear folded on top of his head. All the same, he knew the jig was up, and retired to his rarely used bed. Jack came into the room and tossed a plastic apple at me. It hit my genitals and doubled me over. I gave him another cuddle. “What you up to... oh God, I'm gonna puke... darling?”

“Making a picnic for you and mummy, Molly, Oscar, Granma, Nanny, Grandad, Auntie Siobhan, Uncle Leigh, Uncle Andy, Lily, Aunt—”

“So basically everyone we know?” I said. “Okay, got it. You want me to help you?”

“No, Mummy help.”

I stood. “Okay dokay. Should I just leave?”

Jack cuddled my leg, then nodded his head. “Yes, Daddy, you leave. Go have lie down.”

I frowned. “S-seriously? A nap would be really nice.”

"Yes! Go nap!"

Sal came in, holding Molly in her arms. The baby had a breadstick in each hand, plus a third sticking out of her mouth. “You’re not going for a lie down and leaving me with the kids, matey.”

“B-but Jack said I could.”

“Jack is three.”

Jack looked at Mommy earnestly. “Daddy want to go for lie down.”

I stared imploringly at Sal. “Daddy does!”

She shook her head and laughed. “You’d spend your whole life asleep if I let you. Can you take Molly for a minute? I need a wee.”

WIth little choice, I took Molly and ducked as she tried to take out left my eye with a bread stick. I sat on the sofa with her and switched on the TV. I got a shock by what I saw. A pair of nipples came up on screen. Nipples I would recognise anywhere.

For the last two years, Matty-Bob had been sending me naked pictures from the institution. I reported it several times, but he kept posting them out somehow. The words he had once written in lipstick on his torso, were now etched in prison-ink. IAIN ROB WRIGHT FTW. The mantra that had first led the crazy misfit to my doorstep. Being a writer came with certain dangers. Being a horror writer attracted oddballs left and right. And Matty-Bob was the oddball king.

Three years since the last time he'd invaded my family’s lives by turning up at our home and trying to kill me. Now he'd found my new home. I placed Molly on the floor, ignoring her angry cries, and ran to the television. I put my head against the wall and peered behind the set, searching between wires and fixings.

And there it was, sticking out the side of the panel—a little red USB stick I'd never seen before. I yanked it out and examined it in my palm. PROPERTY OF BRAYSHAW SECURE HEALTH INSTITUTE.

There was a crusty white stain on the end that was either saliva, or something else.

“SAL! SAL, COME QUICK!”

She came rushing into the room, impatience written on her face. I knew when she’d mentioned needing a wee, what she'd actually meant was a poo. And that poo had been interrupted. A marriage faux pas.

“What is it now, Iain?”

“Matty-Bob is here. Look!”

I handed her the USB stick, and she examined it. The frown on her face hung around a long time before she finally looked at me with a modicum of acceptance. “Did you get this in the post?”

I shook my head. “I found it sticking out the television. He’s been in our house.”

“That’s impossible.” She yanked her phone out of her pocket and I saw her hand shaking. She selected the Institutes’ number from her phone book and dialled it. It wasn’t the first time we'd called them—or even the hundredth. From a few feet away, I could hear the line ringing, but nobody was picking up. Sal looked at me and tapped her foot while she waited. Molly whacked me in the ankle with a plastic tea pot and I hissed in pain, but I didn’t take my focus off my wife’s face, or the sound of that unbroken ringing. Why wouldn’t they pick up?

Then I heard a voice and saw Sal react. I couldn’t make out what was being said, but when my wife replied, I was hopeful.

“Oh, hi. This is Sally Wright. Could you call me back as soon as you get this please? It’s regarding your patient, Matty-Bob. It’s urgent. Thank you.”

Deflated, I asked the obvious. “Voicemail? When has it ever gone to voicemail before?”

Sal tapped the phone against her chin, thinking. Then she turned and scooped Molly up in her arms. “Get Jack. We’re leaving.”

“Good idea.” I scooped Jack up in my arms, leading him to giggle and beg me to spin him. Together, as a family, we hurried for the front door. Even Oscar got the hint and left his bed.

Sal threw open the door to the porch.

And stopped in her tracks.

Me and Jack bumped into the back of her. “What is it? What-”

Our porch was filled by a massive parcel wrapped in Christmas paper and it was blocking the front door. “We need to move it.”

“Just leave it, Iain! We’ll go out the back.”

I took a step towards the box. “No, that’s where I saw Matty-Bob hiding. He was in the drain.”

“Iain, he obviously left this here for you. Don’t touch it.”

But I couldn’t help it. I was a writer, and a writer must explore and experience the world to feed his unquenchable thirst for knowledge. A writer’s unique spirit and thriving libido must never be suppressed. Although few, we are a gift unto the world that must, at all times, be allowed to fly free.

Sally prodded me in the back. “Iain! What are you stood there for, daydreaming when we should be getting out of here? If you have to look inside the bloody box, then just get it over with.”

“I'm sorry!” I snapped out of my daze and went into the porch. The box was well wrapped, and must have cost a fortune in paper. I wondered how it got here and then spotted the white van parked across the street. It said BSHI on the side and it now made perfect sense. BRAWSHAW SECURE HEALTH INSTITUTE. Matty-Bob had stolen a van and escaped. My hands were shaking as I carefully pushed aside the lid and peered inside. It was packed full of something—lots of somethings.

I reached inside.

“Careful,” Sal warned me.

Hands still shaking, I retrieved one of the items from the box. It was a head. Gwyneth Paltrow’s head.

Sal cleared her throat. “Is that… is that a dummy’s head?”

I turned the thing around in my hands, marvelling at the detail. “I think it’s wax. Maybe it’s how Matty-Bob spends his time at the Institute.”

“Okay, I’m calling the police,” she said, and started dialling.

“You can’t call the police,” said a voice from inside the living room. I’ve cut the power.”

I span around and finally saw him, standing there in the nude next to our sofa. His flaccid penis was stuck against his leg.

Sal groaned and rolled her eyes. “Oh no, you cut the power? Good for you, idiot. I’m making the call on my mobile. Oh, yes, hello, can I speak with the police, please? We have a dangerous intruder who's been prosecuted for stalking my family already. Yes, thank you, I would really appreciate you being quick.”

Matty-Bob’s eyes went wide as he realised his mistake. He searched around frantically, grabbing one of Molly’s toys. It was a fluffy unicorn, and he launched it across the room. It struck Sal on the top of her head and bounced off harmlessly. She sighed and took Molly out into the hallway while she spoke with the police. I sent Jack after her.

I stood alone with a psychopath.

“You can’t be here, Matty-Bob. You know that!”

“Why? Because The Man said so?”

“Because a court-appointed judge and a team of licensed therapists said so. You’re scaring my family. You’re scaring me.”

Matty-Bob smiled. “Good! I am here to kill you, Mr Rob Wright.” He reached behind his back and produced a knife.

I moaned. “Did you have that clenched between your butt cheeks?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t have any pockets.”

“You might have had if you were wearing clothes. Why the hell are you naked?”

Matty-Bob put the knife to his nose and sniffed it. From his reaction, it didn’t smell nice. “I can’t exactly walk down the street in my nut-house uniform, can I? Would draw attention to myself.”

“But walking around naked with an IAIN ROB WRIGHT FTW tattoo on your belly is an everyday sight?”

He started breathing quickly. He clutched his temples and grunted. “Stop confusing me with your logic. I don’t do well with logic.”

“Evidently,” I said. “Look, Matty-Bob. I appreciate you being a fan of my books, but you can’t keep invading my life like this. The police will be here soon, so just hand over the knife and take a seat. Not on the leather though—I’ll get you a newspaper or something.”

The knife lowered towards the floor, and Matty-Bob gave a long sigh before padding across the new carpet towards me.

“That’s it,” I said soothingly. “There we go. Nice and slowly.”

Matty-Bob made it over to me, but stopped a single step short. There were tears in his eyes. “I thought I could be the Bachman to your King.”

I frowned. “They’re the same person, Matty-Bob.”

Matty-Bob sneered. “Exactly.”

The blade came at me too fast to react. My cheek felt cold, and then hot, and then wet. I fell to my knees, clutched my face and howled. “Not my face, not my beautiful, perfect, unforgettable face. What have you done? Damn it, man, what have you done?”

Sal came rushing back into the room without the kids. “What have you done? Oh, God, no, not his face. Not his beautiful, perfect, incomparable face.”

I staggered over to my wife and let her hold me. “Thanks, honey.”

She looked at me. “Thanks for what?”

“For what you just said about my face.”

“I never said anything. Are you okay? What's happening?”

I showed her my wound and wept against her chest. “He’s disfigured me.”

“No, he hasn’t. It’s barely a scratch.”

Buoyed by the news that my face had escaped ruin, I turned back to face my attacker. How dare he try to kill me. How dare he try to deprive the world of one of its few great artists.

But Matty-Bob was gone.

My eyes narrowed. “What are you up to now, you cock knocker!”

I hurried into the kitchen and found him rooting around my fridge. When he turned to face me, he had this evening’s frozen pizza in his hands. Slowly he began to lower it towards his waist.

I thrust my finger at him. “Matty-Bob… Don't. You. DARE!”

Matty-Bob looked me in the eye defiantly. He kept on lowering the pizza until it was down at his middle. With a slight hop of his heels, he brought his swollen, red testicles down on top of the pizza. The grin on his face was maniacal. “Eat my cock-pizza, bitch.”

I snarled. “Never.”

He flew at me with the frozen pizza, swinging it at my head. It caught me above the left eyebrow and suddenly I had blood flooding into my eyes. I shoved out blindly and struck Matty-Bob’s soft flabby chest. He lunged at me again, and I grabbed the nearest thing I could find, which was the mid-height oven. I yanked open the door just as he came at me, which caused him to smash right into it. The crack of the door against his ribs was sickening. He bounced back and doubled over the island worktop.

I heard police sirens. “It’s over Matty-Bob. This time they’ll lock you away for good this time.”

Matty-Bob was still face-down on the island, but he reached out with both arms, rooting around blindly. His fingers found the Matt Shaw novel I'd been reading with my breakfast every morning. He bolted upright and flung the paperback at my head. It hit me right in the gob, and I tasted blood.

“You sick bastard!” I mumbled, then lost my temper. I leapt across the kitchen and grabbed Matty-Bob by his ginger hair. I shoved his face down onto the hob in the center of the island and switched it on. "Damn you to Hell. Damn you all to Hell!"

Matty-Bob squirmed and yelled, but I was waiting for screams. But none came. It was several moments before I realised the hob was an induction model, and wouldn’t come on without an appropriate pot or pan.

Matty-Bob fought back and managed to headbutt me in the nose with the back of his head. He threw me backwards against the sink and prodded the button for the waste disposal. It growled angrily, with no water or food to sate its metal teeth. Matty-Bob punched me in the stomach and grabbed my wrist, forcing my hand towards the sink.

“No!” I begged. “Not my typing hand.”

“Don’t you type with both hands?” Matty-Bob asked.

“Depends what I’m doing!”

We struggled against one another. Matty-Bob was winning, my hand inching closer and closer to the rubber baffle over the hole of death. The waste disposal whined hungrily, begging to taste my flesh. “What do you mean, it depends what you’re doing?” Matty Bob asked.

“It means…” I said, through gritted teeth. “That sometimes an author gotta wank.”

I sprang up with all my strength and forced my wrist free. I punched Matty-Bob in the face with lefts and rights. I was like Rocky Balboa avenging Apollo’s death, smashing Mr T with relentless blows. I was poetry in motion, the God of pugilists everywhere. Adonis reincarnated.

“What are you doing?” Matty-Bob asked.

I realised I was punching the air like a madman, not connecting with any of my blows. Matty-Bob had picked up a knife from the counter and now held it in front of him.

Outside, the police sirens were close. I heard voices outside.

“My doctor said the only way I will ever be sane again is if I murder you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I really doubt your doctor said that.”

Matty-Bob shrugged. “Not those exact words, but I read between the lines.”

He came at me with the knife. I had only a split second to decide what to do to save my own life. I did the only thing I could think of. I asked myself, What would Jesus do?

Kick him in the balls, my son.

Kick him in the balls.

I nodded, knowing what I needed to do. I punted Matty-Bob right between the legs, crushing his testicles against his undercarriage and lifting him right off his feet.

He crumpled backwards onto the island and let out a tremendous bellow. His cheeks turned red as he went into labour, huffing and puffing through the pain.

Police piled into the kitchen from the hallway and from the garden, surrounding me on all sides.

“What happened, Mr Wright?” A female officer asked.

“I kicked him in the balls.”

She frowned at me. “Jeez, was that really necessary? He’s just a nutjob.”

I growled. “Now, he’s a nut job with no nuts.”

She shook her head at me in disgust. Another officer mumbled under his breath, "What an asshole."

Sal walked in with the kids. When she saw me, she looked a little surprised. I was, after all, covered in blood. “You’re still alive then?”

“You know me,” I said, shrugging. “I may be a gentle author at heart, but I’m all man where it counts.”

She sighed. “Yes, honey, of course you are. The kids are outside with the neighbours. We’ve caused quite the scene. They’re already mad at you for shaving their cat, so this isn’t going to help.

I huffed. “I told you before. I need to shave cats. It’s just who I am.”

She patted me on the shoulder. “I know, honey. I know.”

I looked at her. “Do you have a cat I can shave right now?”

“No!”

“Shame. I could do with one to calm my nerves.”

“Matty-Bob was still groaning, even as the police officers got him to his feet. He looked at me differently now, defeated—sad. “Do you know what it’s like to be me?” he asked. “To not know what’s real or what’s normal? To me, authors are not just people. They are gods. They create worlds as gods do, and they can change people's lives like gods do.”

“But we’re just human,” I said holding out my palms. “I know it’s hard to believe, but we bleed like the rest of you.”

“Oh, brother! Sal muttered in the corner. "Can we just get this over with, please? I need to put some turkey dinosaurs in to cook and you’re all blocking my oven.”

The police officers nodded their apologies to my wife and took Matty-Bob out of the house. As they took him down the hallway, he twisted his neck all the way around to look at me, like an owl. I shuddered.

“You haven’t seen the last of me,” he swore. Then he winced. “Jesus, can someone help me get my neck straight. This really hurts.”

And then he was gone from my life once more, a fleeting impact that would forever change the landscape of my life, like an asteroid hitting the earth. Perhaps this tortured soul was the Ying to my own tortured Yang. Whereas I turned my darker thoughts to magic on the page, Matty-Bob found himself unable to find such a valuable outlet and invariably-

“Iain!”

I spun to face my wife. “Yes, honey?”

“Can you go to the neighbours and get the kids, please? They just text me to say Molly has a poo in her nappy and they are not happy to deal with it. Also, make sure you apply lotion to her bum because she’s been getting very sore lately. Ask Jack if he needs a poo as well, as it’s about that time."

I sighed and headed for the front door. The life of an author, I thought to myself ruefully. Both a blessing and a curse.

DEDICATED TO ALL MY FANS, BOTH TWISTED AND SANE.

Plea From the Author

Hey, Reader. So you got to the end of my book. I hope that means you enjoyed it. Whether or not you did, I would just like to thank you for giving me your valuable time to try and entertain you. I am truly blessed to have such a fulfilling job, but I only have that job because of people like you; people kind enough to give my books a chance and spend their hard-earned money buying them.  For that I am eternally grateful.

If you would like to find out more about my other books then please visit my website for full details. You can find it at:

www.iainrobwright.com.

Also feel free to contact me on Facebook, Twitter, or email (all details on the website), as I would love to hear from you.

If you enjoyed this book and would like to help, then you could think about leaving a review.  The most important part of how well a book sells is how many positive reviews it has, so if you leave me one then you are directly helping me to continue on this journey as a fulltime writer.  Thanks in advance to anyone who does.  It means a lot.

Plea from the author

Hey, Reader.  So you got to the end of my book.  I hope that means you enjoyed it.  Whether or not you did, I would just like to thank you for giving me your valuable time to try and entertain you.   I am truly blessed to have such a fulfilling job, but I only have that job because of people like you; people kind enough to give my books a chance and spend their hard-earned money buying them.  For that I am eternally grateful.

If you would like to find out more about my other books then please visit my website for full details.  You can find it at: www.iainrobwright.com.  Also feel free to contact me on Facebook, Twitter, or email (all details on the website) as I would love to hear from you.

If you enjoyed this book and would like to help, then you could think about leaving a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or anywhere else that readers visit.  The most important part of how well a book sells is how many positive reviews it has, so if you leave me one then you are directly helping me to continue on this journey as a fulltime writer.  Thanks in advance to anyone who does. It means a lot.

Don't miss out on your FREE Iain Rob Wright horror starter pack. Five free bestselling horror novels sent straight to your inbox. No strings attached.

For more information just visit:

www.iainrobwright.com

Iain has more than a dozen novels available to purchase right now. To see full descriptions, visit the link below.

- Animal Kingdom
- AZ of Horror
- 2389
- Holes in the Ground (with J.A.Konrath)
- Sam
- ASBO
- The Final Winter
- The Housemates
- Sea Sick FREE!
- Ravage
- Savage
- The Picture Frame
- Wings of Sorrow
- The Gates
- Legion
- Extinction
- TAR
- House Beneath the Bridge
- The Peeling

Sarah Stone Thriller Series

- Soft Target FREE!
- Hot Zone
- End Play

About the Author

Iain Rob Wright is one of the UK's most successful horror and suspense writers, with novels including the critically acclaimed, THE FINAL WINTER; the disturbing bestseller, ASBO; and the wicked screamfest, THE HOUSEMATES.

His work is currently being adapted for graphic novels, audio books, and foreign audiences. He is an active member of the Horror Writer Association and a massive animal lover.

Check out Iain's official website or add him on Facebook where he would love to meet you.

You can also get his free Horror Starter Library by clicking the link below:

HORROR STARTER LIBRARY

www.iainrobwright.com

FEAR ON EVERY PAGE

Copyright

Ravaged World Trilogy copyright 2015 by Iain Rob Wright

www.IAINROBWRIGHT.com

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

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