The Cold

by Rich Hawkins

Hanso nodded, sipping from his canteen. “We lost some good blokes out there. And back here.”

  “Are you all from the same unit?” Seth asked.

  “Yeah,” Hanso replied. “I’ve known Dahl and Beckwith for a few years. Same with the other lads back at the bunker. We’re all that remains of our battalion, most probably.” He shook his head dismally, his face wan in the lantern light, then put down the canteen.

  The wind screamed outside, harmonising briefly with the creaking of walls and old pipes within the system of the house. It unnerved the men. Seth shivered and shifted in the blankets wrapped around him, trying to ignore the aching of his legs and feet. His bones and joints scraped at the slightest movement, and a shallow pain pressed behind his eyes.

  “You look fucked, Seth,” said Beckwith.

  Seth looked up at the man, who was directly across the room from him. Beckwith’s face was pale, his eyes deep set within his skull.

  “A bit tired, that’s all,” said Seth, trying to appear indifferent but failing.

  “Reckon you can keep going tomorrow?” There was some amusement in Beckwith’s voice. He didn’t even bother to disguise it.

  “Leave him alone, Beckwith,” Dahl said.

  Beckwith made a show of mock surprise. “I’m just making conversation.”

  Dahl shook his head and returned to his book. “Dickhead.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine, Beckwith,” Seth said. “Thanks for your concern.”

  Beckwith gave a slight smile, not entirely without humour. “Good to hear. I’m only messing about with you, mate. Don’t take it seriously like Dahl does; he’s always been sensitive.”

  Dahl tutted but didn’t look up.

  Beckwith regarded Hanso. “What’s the plan tomorrow, Sarge?”

  Hanso exhaled. “We’ll set out at first light and keep walking until we find Moresby.”

  “And then what?” Seth asked.

  “We’ll see what’s waiting for us.”

  “You think Moresby is legit?” asked Beckwith.

  Hanso didn’t answer immediately. “I hope so.”

  “It’ll be full of cannibals,” Dahl said.

  The others looked at him, but he didn’t raise his face from the book. Beckwith laughed bitterly. The sergeant merely sighed.

  “Time to get some kip,” said Hanso. “Dahl, Beckwith and I will take it in turns to be on stag. Four hours each. Dahl, you go first. I’ll take the last watch. Anything comes near the house, you know what to do.”

  “Yes, Sarge,” Dahl and Beckwith said together.

  Hanso turned to Seth. “Get some shut-eye. Big day tomorrow.”

  Seth did as he was told, and settled down in his sleeping bag and blankets.

  The lantern was turned off and all fell to darkness.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Seth dreamed of his old life: the dead end jobs he’d worked and the old girlfriends he’d dumped; nights out with his mates at pubs and clubs in Yeovil; drunken memories viewed through a haze; the disappointment and love of his parents. Then he dreamed about monsters surrounding the house in the night, and woke in the dark, gasping and clawing at his throat because he thought slick tendrils were strangling him.

  He came to his senses with tears in his eyes, shivering in his sleeping bag. He lay there and listened to the low snoring of the soldiers for a while.

  Eventually he closed his eyes again and thought about the dead he’d left behind.

  *

  In the morning, they gathered their things and set out from the house, the snow falling heavy about them through the thick white fog. Utter silence beyond them.

  Beckwith took point, while Seth and Hanso followed no more than ten yards behind. Dahl watched the rear. They returned to the road, Hanso making sure they didn’t spread too thin as they moved.

  Passing through another cluster of abandoned vehicles on the road, Seth noticed an articulated lorry, the trailer of which was open at the back. The doors hung wide, wavering slightly in the wind. He slowed when he heard a faint sound from within the deep shadows.

  Behind him, Dahl whispered, “I hear it, too. Is that crying?”

  They both stopped, and moments later so did Hanso and Beckwith. They gathered beside one of the snow-shrouded cars, watching the trailer. The crying became louder. It was unmistakeable.

  “What the fuck?” said Beckwith.

  “It can’t be a child, can it?” Dahl muttered. “It couldn’t have survived out here.”

  “I don’t know,” said Seth.

  Hanso switched on the small torch attached to the underside of his rifle’s barrel. “Wait here, lads. Cover me.” He moved into position and trained his rifle upon the back of the trailer. Dahl moved a few paces to his left and did the same, clearing a line of fire. Seth could only stand and watch Hanso approach the trailer. His hands tightened on his axe. His mouth tensed.

  The wind died down until it was nothing but a cold breath.

  Hanso stood before the open back of the trailer and raised his rifle. The torchlight speared the darkness within and revealed the insides, encrusted with dried blood and bones. And amidst it all lurked a pale arachnid thing of bulbous flesh and thin crooked limbs. It was as big as a horse. Multiple black eyes squirmed together, glistening and wet, pierced with red pupils. A slavering mouth quivered, mimicking a child’s cry.

  The skin of the creature’s body bristled with thick, white hair.

  “Holy fuck,” Beckwith said.

  The arachnid scuttled towards the open back of the trailer, moving straight for Hanso.

  “Run,” Seth whispered to the sergeant.

  Hanso stepped back and fired his rifle.

  The pale arachnid screeched.

  Hanso reeled away as it darted towards him. And it would have speared him with one of its sharply-tipped front limbs if Dahl and Beckwith hadn’t opened fire with their rifles, expending their magazines in mere moments. The sheer rate of fire sent it fleeing through the clotted ranks of abandoned cars, its skittering limbs working nightmarishly fast and ragged.

  Dahl and Beckwith reloaded. Hanso returned with his rifle aimed at the last place the arachnid had been seen.

  “Well, that was fucked up,” said Beckwith.

  Dahl shrugged. “I never liked spiders. You OK, Sarge?”

  “Almost shat myself,” Hanso said.

  There was stifled laughter from Beckwith, but Hanso silenced him with a stern look.

  The soldiers formed a defensible perimeter between two abandoned cars, sweeping the immediate area with their rifles. Seth stayed in the centre, holding his axe with both hands, feeling immensely foolish for leaving the bunker.

  The sound of a crying child drifted out once more from the white fog and falling snow.

  “Eyes open,” Hanso told them.

  “Yes, Sarge,” said Beckwith and Dahl.

  Seth looked towards the trailer. There was black blood in the snow outside the opened back. “You hurt it.”

  “I should fucking hope so!” said Beckwith. “We put enough rounds into the fucking thing.”

  “Be quiet,” said Hanso, as the thing cried out again. But there was no sign of it. No movement. No glimpse of those black eyes staring back at them. Then the sound stopped. Seth thought he glimpsed a flash of motion off to his right and turned towards it, but there was nothing.

  “Where the fuck is it?” Beckwith whispered, scanning the white fog. Despite the tensing of his body, he gripped his rifle lightly, almost casually. A professional soldier, just like Hanso and Dahl.

  The arachnid leapt towards them from out of the veils of fog and falling snow. The soldiers fired their rifles and scattered. Seth tried to move with them, but in the confusion of the creature’s attack he fell against one of the cars and sagged to his knees, winded and gasping. He heard Beckwith cry out from somewhere nearby, followed by more rifle fire that rang in his ears. He glanced about, panicked, but he couldn’t see the soldiers anywhere. The axe trembled in his hands as he sought better
cover.

  More rifle fire around him. It sounded distant, and suddenly he was terrified that he’d been left behind, alone with the nightmare creature.

  A stray bullet hit the bonnet of the car next to him, only a few feet from his head. “Shit!” he cried, crouching out of sight.

  The spider-thing lunged at him from his left, appearing from behind a black van. He dove to the side. The tip of one of its sharp limbs impacted where he’d just been crouching, kicking up granules of snow. He landed on his backside, shouting for help. The creature’s mouth snapped at him, and he swung his axe, embedding the blade in soft, pulpy flesh. He lost his grip as the arachnid screeched and reared, trying to shake the axe free. Black blood dribbled from the wound in its face. Its crooked legs twitched and stamped.

  Seth could only sit on his arse and stare at the monstrous thing until a hand grasped his shoulder and began pulling him away through the snow. He glanced back at Dahl, who merely nodded at him. Hanso and Beckwith appeared with their rifles aimed at the wailing monster.

  The roar of gunfire was deafening. Dahl let go of Seth, and he climbed awkwardly to his feet to watch. The beast sagged, bleeding and broken, legs twisted and crumpled.

  Finally, it stilled.

  The men stood staring at the fallen monster until Hanso got them moving again. The din would attract attention, and other things would soon arrive to scavenge the monster’s corpse.

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  The snow was falling quicker, heavy and hindering. The fog had closed in. Seth trampled on the spot to keep warm, arms wrapped around his chest. Exhaustion made a heavy weight upon his mind and body. The blood felt slow inside his veins and arteries.

  Hanso took point and led them down a straight road until they reached some tall iron gates set in a high wall that stretched away to either side. The gates were secured by a wrapped chain and padlock. The snow had been recently cleared from the entrance by the looks of it.

  They exchanged uncertain glances at this apparent welcome. Beckwith and Dahl kept their rifles ready, watching their flanks, while Hanso and Seth went up to the gates and peered between the black railings. The shapes of houses and parked cars were dark and muddled in the encroaching fog. Gardens were buried in snow. The gangly forms of tall trees at the sides of the avenue led away from them into whiteness.

  Hanso took off his goggles and left them hanging around his neck. He squinted past the gates.

  “What do you think?” Seth asked him.

  “Looks deserted.”

  “But someone obviously cleared the snow from the gate.”

  “I know. Shouldn’t there be a bell to ring or something?”

  “What we doing, Sarge? What we gonna do?” Beckwith said from behind them. Dahl sighed at Beckwith’s impatience.

  Hanso opened his mouth to answer, when a lone figure emerged from the fog. A woman. She was tall, thin, and clad in a long coat. Her face, initially obscured within the furred hood, was only revealed when she came closer to the gates. It was gaunt, pallid. She halted, held her hands together at her waist, and smiled at the men. It was a welcoming smile, almost matronly, but the edges of it trembled and looked damp. There was a sort of hopefulness in her eyes. She appeared to be in her forties or early fifties. She reminded Seth of his Aunt Jane, and then he realised he was smiling back at her.

  “I’m so glad you made it,” she said. “You must have heard me over the airwaves. You answered my call. Thank you so much.”

  Hanso looked at Seth then back to the woman. “Who are you? What is this place?”

  Her smile never faded as she took a key from her coat pocket. “My name is Eve. Welcome to Moresby. I hope you’ll feel at home here.”

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  Eve gave them entrance through the gates and led them along the main road into the gated community. Hanso and Seth walked either side of her. Dahl and Beckwith followed several paces behind. They trudged through the snow, past houses and cars, all abandoned and shrouded in powdery white. Darkened windows full of shadows looked out at them.

  “It’s just me and a few others here,” Eve said.

  “How many others?” asked Seth.

  “Six others, aside from myself. There around here somewhere.”

  Seth and the soldiers glanced around. “That’s all there are?”

  The sense of disappointment was obvious amongst the men. Beckwith looked glum. Dahl’s face was impassive.

  “We thought there was a community here,” said Hanso, casting his eyes about at the empty places. “We hoped there’d be more survivors.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Eve told them. “There were more of us, but they went away.”

  “Where did they go?”

  She looked towards the sky, but only for a second. “I can’t remember. Things are different out here.”

  “Do you have electricity?”

  “We’ve been transmitting through a battery-powered short wave radio set. We’re on the last lot of batteries.”

  They approached the centre of Moresby. The snow seemed to fall heavier here, where the silent houses lined the street. And it all felt oppressive and hostile to Seth, as if he and the soldiers were encroaching on enemy territory. He shook his head to dispel the notion, tried his best to drag up some hope in his heart, but there was only the cold inside him, spreading, taking him over.

  “Where are the other survivors?” Seth whispered to Hanso, who just stared straight ahead and raised his rifle. The sergeant was the first to see the towering creature that appeared out of the white fog ahead of them. Something black and colossal, as big as a mountain and tall enough that its massive form continued up into the clouds.

  They halted, all of them, staring up towards it. Seth’s breath caught in his throat and he almost dropped the axe.

  “Holy shit,” was all Hanso said.

  From what Seth could see, it was an immense serpent-like beast coiled in inconceivable mounds. It was the biggest thing Seth had seen yet in the cold; maybe the largest creature to ever inhabit the planet. A destroyer of worlds. Seth felt like dust by comparison. He was nothing.

  The beast had made a nest by flattening buildings and digging into the ground to immerse part of its unimaginable bulk. Its head wasn’t visible, hidden higher up by the fog, or tucked away within its black coils, most of which were covered with ridges, spikes and scales. Its slumbering respiration trembled in the ground. Drifts of snow had settled upon the slopes of its coiled form.

  Seth had seen it in his dreams during his last night at the bunker. He remembered them now. His insides crumpled. His hands shook. He felt the urge to run away, out into the wastes beyond Moresby, and let the snow bury him.

  Sergeant Hanso turned to Eve, his face taut with dread and something like awe. “What the fuck is that thing?”

  Eve gazed up at the immense creature in pure adulation. Seth answered for her.

  “The God of the Wasteland.”

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  Seth’s voice was weak in the presence of the God. He winced at the nausea in the back of his mouth. “I saw it in a dream.”

  The soldiers looked at him in utter confusion.

  “He wants you all to worship Him,” Eve said.

  Hanso spat on the ground.

  “That thing?” gaped Beckwith. “Are you fucking mad?”

  Eve pawed absently at her mouth as she stared up at the creature. “Worship or die.”

  Beckwith and Dahl looked to Hanso, hoping he’d take charge, but the sergeant appeared dumbfounded.

  “Will you stay with me?” Eve asked the men. “Won’t you stay?” She glanced at each of them before her gaze settled on Seth.

  “You,” she said to him. “You had the dream. You saw the glory of it all. Do you want to turn your back on the God?”

  “It’s not like that,” Seth said, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. “Maybe you should come back with us?”

  “You dreamt about that thing?” Hanso asked Seth, w
ho only nodded.

  The soldiers looked at him with distrust.

  “I belong here,” said Eve, her face flushing with anger. Her neck muscles twitched. “And so do you all. Those who’ve had the dream will be the acolytes of the God of the Wasteland. We will watch Him devour the infidels.”

  Seth found himself drawn, in some horrid fashion, to Eve’s way of thinking. It was an attractive ideology to weak minds and desperate people. He’d craved acceptance and vindication in his old life, and he still did now, even from insane zealots in the howling wastes. Suddenly he remembered his job interview on the last morning of the old world and gritted his teeth against a sense of seething injustice and self-loathing.

  He was tempted to join Eve, as if her zealotry was contagious, but he suppressed the urge, shaking his head. He looked at her with pleading in his eyes. “Come with us. Leave the God behind. No one should be out here alone with that creature.”

  Eve just stared back at him.

  “You trying to save her?” Beckwith said, glaring at Eve. His hands tightened around his rifle. “We slogged all this way for this bullshit? We should leave her here.”

  “Calm down, Beckwith,” said Dahl. He was the closest to Eve, watching her carefully.

  “Fuck that. Attacked by an overgrown fucking spider and freezing our arses off. Fuck all this. Fuck all that. Fuck this maniac bitch.”

  “Shut up, Beckwith,” Hanso ordered.

  Eve began to tremble and judder with what seemed like rage or grief. Tears welled in her eyes. Despite her frail appearance, she was fast – and before they could react she pulled a short-bladed knife from one sleeve of her coat.

  Her hand rose towards Dahl, and she lunged at him and slashed across his throat. Blood splashed down the front of Dahl’s coat as Eve stepped away with her hands raised in celebration. Dahl slumped to his knees, gasping and choking, clutching the red ruin of his throat. He fell onto his back to stare up at the sky, shuddering as the life leaked from him. Blood pooled around his cooling body.