Six Days, Six Hours, Six Minutes

by Alex Smith

  It was only when Julia called his name that he stopped, turning to her. Only a whisper of moonlight fell on them, enough to see the outline of her face. Her eyes were two pools of liquid silver, blinking.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  He helped her lie down on her side, her knees curling to her chest like she meant to simply disappear. He knelt beside her, holding Connor close. The kid had exhausted himself, his sobs just gasping, hitching breaths.

  “It’s bad,” Julia said. “I can feel how bad it is.”

  “What do I do?” he asked.

  She groaned and he reached for her in the dark. Laying Connor on the soft needles of the forest floor, he peeled off his shirt, balling it up and pressing it on the wound. He heard her bite down on her hand to muffle the scream. He took the sling and straightened it, tying it tight around his wife’s body to keep the makeshift dressing in place.

  “What do I do?” he asked again.

  The only answer was a shout from the direction of the house. They were coming into the woods.

  “You need a hospital,” Blake said. “If we keep going we can double round, get to—”

  Her trembling fingers brushed his cheek, moved to his lips. They tasted of copper and iron. He took her hand and held it there, kissing her fingertips.

  “Blake, you need to get him out of here,” she said. “Our son, he’s all that matters.”

  “No, Julia.”

  “Take him, go,” she coughed, grunting with pain. “Please. I need to know he’s safe.”

  He picked up Connor again, rubbing the boy’s back. His son said something wordless and full of grief, as if he knew what had happened to his mum.

  “If I go now, if I leave you, if we don’t finish this, he’ll never be safe,” he said.

  She didn’t answer, she snatched in short, painful breaths. Blake held her, held his son, looking up through the century-old branches of the trees. The moon peered back, studying him. The skies had cleared, he realised.

  “It’s stopped raining,” he said.

  A branch cracked underfoot, somewhere close by.

  He felt Julia’s hand move, felt her take Connor’s weight. He let go of his son and wished he could see him, see them both, in the darkness of the forest.

  “My pocket,” she said.

  He felt for her leg, working his way to her pocket. Everything was soaked, sticky. There was something in there and he worked it free—one of the hypodermics. There was a knife, too, the smallest blade from their kitchen, barely bigger than his pinkie. It wasn’t much, but it would do.

  “I love you,” he whispered. And he wondered if it would be the last time he said it.

  “I love you too, Blake,” she replied, just a voice in the dark, lost in the woods. “Go finish this.”

  Sixty

  He pushed himself up, lurching between the trees like a pinball. He didn’t look back, because he knew that if he did he would have to return to them, those lumps of shadow in the dark. Twigs snapped and popped beneath his feet, but he didn’t care about the noise. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered. The only thing left in this place was death.

  Their deaths, the devil and his disciples.

  One of the men called out his name, the sound muffled by the needled trees but still clear enough. Blake cut to the side, keeping the distant light of the house to his left. Only when he was far enough from Julia did he open his mouth and call back.

  “Hey!”

  It was all he could manage. His weak voice echoed off the trunks, fading slowly, like a trapped bird trying to escape through the canopy. It was answered by a whooping call, a burst of laughter. A blade of light cut through the trees and Blake moved away from it as fast as he dared without being able to see. He had no idea where he was going, no idea where Julia and Connor were. The trees did their best to hold him prisoner—their roots tripping him, their fingers scratching at his chest and arms. Twice he smacked his head on low branches. But he kept moving, calling out to whoever chased him. If nothing else, at least he was leading them away from Julia and Connor.

  He pushed out of the treeline on the other side of the garden, hugging the rough bark of a trunk. With the clouds gone, the moon had become a prison spotlight, blazing down, seeking him out. There was nobody else in sight, no sign of the devil or the delivery guy or the last disciple.

  Blake sniffed, smelling smoke. He thought it might have been on his skin, in his hair, until he looked at the house. One of boards over the top floor windows was glowing orange, breathing out smoke like a dragon. The fire must have spread.

  Snap.

  Too close. A muffled giggle, like a child playing hide and seek. Blake slid behind the huge body of a tree, his heartbeat detonating in his ears. The torch swept through the forest, scattering shadows like frightened birds. He heard feet scuffing the ground, he heard somebody sniff. He could smell him, too, that faecal, rotten stench clawing into his nose.

  “Blake Barton!” the delivery guy called out, sniggering to himself. “I know you’re here. I know you’re close. Did you like it when I shot your wife? Did I hit your brat too? Are they dead? Are they dead, Blake? Are you sad?”

  The guy stepped out from behind a tree, the torch in one hand and a rusted crowbar in the other. He used the back of his hand to wipe his nose, sweeping the torch from left to right. Blake moved out of his line of sight. He’d wait until the prick walked past then tackle him from behind. He pulled the tiny kitchen knife from his pocket.

  Come on.

  The torchlight was still, the guy simply standing there. Blake waited, counting to ten before edging out to see what he was doing.

  The torch sat on a branch, wedged there.

  The man had gone.

  “Boo.”

  The voice was right in his ear, and Blake twisted around in time to see the delivery guy behind him. The crowbar was already arcing down, crunching into Blake’s shoulder, into the knife wounds. The pain was like a demolition ball to his mind and reality sputtered into darkness.

  Blake staggered away, jabbing his blade into nothing. He couldn’t see, his vision sparking, his ears full of white noise. The back of his heel caught a root and he stumbled out of the treeline into the back garden, rolling onto his front to try to get up.

  “Found you,” said the guy.

  The crowbar thudded into the back of his right foot and he screamed, feeling like his heel bone had been shattered. He clawed himself across the lawn but the guy grabbed his ankle, hauling him back, flipping him over like a butcher with a carcass.

  Blake thrust the knife at him but he darted back, too quick. He brought the crowbar down again and it bounced off Blake’s knee with a crack that sounded louder than a cannon blast. Blake couldn’t even scream this time, the pain filling him from head to toe. The delivery guy laughed.

  “No need to fuck off just yet,” he said, moonlight glinting off his grin, off his big, wet, mad eyes. “We’re just getting started.”

  Blake lifted his hand, the one with the knife, but he couldn’t find the strength to do anything with it. The guy knocked it away with the crowbar, the blade tumbling into the grass. He stood on Blake’s arm, grinning down at him.

  “I’ve got him!” he hollered. “I’ve got him right here!”

  Nobody answered, but Blake knew the devil must have heard the call. He craned his neck, trying to look back at the house. He would be striding across the garden right now, he knew. He’d pick Blake up and drag him back into the woods, and he would make him watch as he finished off Julia, as he killed his son. Why hadn’t he run? Why hadn’t he just carried Connor into the forest and kept going?

  “Please,” he said, grabbing the guy’s leg with his free hand, clutching the oily denim of his jeans. “Please, just let them go.”

  The delivery guy laughed again, the kind of noise that belonged inside Bedlam. He pressed the tip of the crowbar into Blake’s shoulder, grinding it into the severed flesh. The world burned and whistled like it was disint
egrating inside a storm.

  “You think I’d listen to you?” he said. “You think I’d dare disobey him.”

  The words were almost lost behind the new rush of agony, the sensation that his whole body was made of shifting, slicing razors. He tried to move but the guy dropped down onto his chest, his knee against Blake’s throat.

  “He’s not…” Blake tried, but he couldn’t find air. The delivery guy was too heavy, his windpipe was being crushed. He made a noise that wasn’t a word, that was barely human.

  “Oh, but he is,” the guy said, reading Blake’s mind. “Can’t you see it? He is exactly what he says he is. He is the devil, he is our devil, the darkness inside all of us, the night that swallows the day.”

  More laughter spilled from his lips and he pushed his knee further into Blake’s throat.

  “We are his, and we are legion. You can’t kill us, Blake, because he will bring us back. You’ll see. You’ll see tonight what he is capable of. He will kill your wife, your kid, and he’ll bring our dead back.”

  “Please,” Blake just about managed.

  “You’re nothing to him,” the guy went on, leaning in. “You’re a speck of shit on his boot, you’re meaningless, you and everyone you love. You’re food. He feeds on you, then he kills you. And then we move on.”

  There was no reasoning with him, he was utterly convinced. Blake almost gave in, almost stopped struggling, until he remembered.

  “Uhn,” he said, wheezing in a breath. He moved his hand, trying to dig into his pocket. The guy saw him and used the crowbar to flick it away.

  “Got something good in there?” he asked, patting Blake down. He reached in and pulled out the syringe, tossing it away. “Naughty boy, Blake. Naughty boy.”

  “More,” Blake grunted. The sky was full of flickering lights, like the stars were dancing. It was almost beautiful. “More.”

  The delivery guy frowned, reaching back inside Blake’s pocket. He came out with a piece of paper pinched between his fingers.

  “Read it,” Blake said, using every iota of strength to take another breath.

  The guy’s grin wavered for a second, like a flickering light bulb, before beaming on again. He looked for a moment like he was going to throw the paper away, then he began to unfold it. The newspaper article tore in his grip, the edges disintegrating. He looked at it, turned it over.

  “One of ours,” he said, seeing the photograph of Daniel Keller. “A traitor. A non-believer. He was punished.”

  “Behind…” Blake tried to say. “Behind him.”

  The guy squinted, his eyes scrolling, stopping. This time, when the grin fell off his face, it didn’t come back.

  “What is this?” he said.

  “He’s lying to you.” Blake choked the words out, his hand feeling in the grass, looking for the knife. The knee in his throat had relaxed, the guy’s attention elsewhere. “He’s not the devil, he’s just a man. Look.”

  The delivery guy laughed softly, weak with uncertainty. Blake’s fingers brushed against something cold and he worked it into his hand.

  “It’s a trick,” the guy said. “It’s what the devil does best, convinces us he doesn’t exist. It was one of his tricks.” He tossed the paper away, speaking through clenched teeth. “Just a—”

  Blake sank the blade into the man’s leg, as hard as he could. The delivery guy’s eyes bulged and he looked down in time to see Blake pull the knife free and slam it into his flank. It grated against a rib, sticking there, the handle too slippery with blood for Blake to free it.

  Incredibly, the man laughed again, a lunatic’s howl. He lifted the crowbar but Blake bucked his body, twisting, throwing him off. He didn’t wait to see where he’d landed, he just ran on all fours like a crab, not trusting his battered legs to hold him. Something glinted in the moonlight and he made for it, grabbing the syringe just as the delivery guy caught up with him.

  Hands on his back, grabbing fistfuls of flesh. Blake turned, flicking the cap off the syringe and aiming for the man’s throat.

  He missed. The end of the hypodermic jabbed into the delivery guy’s cheek and he shrieked wetly. Blake pulled it out and punched it back, the needle sinking into the meat of his eye. He forced it in, feeling the syringe grate against the bone of his eye socket. He compressed it with his free hand, squeezing the bleach inside, then let go.

  The man fell, spasming on his back like he was having a fit. One side of his face was drenched in pink foam, fizzing. His good eye was rolling wildly like it was trying to escape.

  Blake turned away, holding his face in his hands and breathing out a gasping, awful sob. It was too much. Too much. He tried to get up, fell, tried again, the world a ship in a storm, everything moving. He took a halting step away, his heel and his knee feeling like they had been reduced to splinters, and heard the guy behind him howl into the night.

  The crowbar lay by his feet and he scooped it up. It was the same one he had used to threaten Daniel Keller, he realised.

  He turned, scanning the garden to make sure it was empty. The delivery guy was still twitching on his back. One socket looked empty, like the eye had dissolved. The other was bloodshot and blinking. His cries were weaker now, and they shaped a word, one that he spoke again and again.

  “Please… please… please…”

  Blake stood over him, the crowbar gripped in his hand. He wondered if the devil was watching them from the dark.

  “You think he’s a devil?” Blake said. “You think he’s going to save you? You think he’s going to bring you back?”

  And now he was the one laughing. It bubbled up inside him, bursting from his mouth before he could stop it. The delivery guy lifted a hand and clutched at Blake’s leg.

  “Please…” he said, blood leaking from his mouth.

  Blake lifted the crowbar above his head, thought of his friend hanging from the ceiling.

  “This is for Adam, you fuck.”

  He brought the crowbar down like an executioner’s blade, and the night fell quiet.

  Sixty-One

  Blake didn’t stop to look for a pulse. He didn’t stop to check whether the delivery guy might be able to piece the fragments of his skull back together. He dropped the crowbar and set off across the garden.

  It looked a hundred times bigger than it had before, a football pitch that stretched right to the horizon. Then he blinked and it was just a garden again, lit by the moon and by the flames that licked from the upstairs windows. The house was going up fast, the damp wood popping as it burned, like there was a gunfight going on inside.

  There was no sign of the devil.

  Maybe he’s gone, Blake thought as he reached the back of the house, feeling his way along it, the roar of the fire like a waterfall overhead. Maybe he found his dead disciples and cut loose while he could.

  He knew he could never be so lucky. The devil was here. Blake could sense him. The night that swallows the day. He was here, and he was looking for blood. And it wasn’t just him, either. He had one disciple left, didn’t he? Or were there more? Blake’s brain couldn’t work it out. All he could see were the dead, his dead—nails in heads, twisted necks, burning flesh, dissolving eyes. He shook his head as if he could physically shake them free.

  Come on, he said to himself, planting his hands on the wall, taking baby steps so that he wouldn’t topple. He had to stop for breath. He looked at his naked shoulder, two of the knife wounds bleeding heavily, the third like a dead man’s mouth, a colourless gash stitched shut. He couldn’t work out where the rest of the pain was coming from, his whole body was just an engine of agony, everything grinding together, everything throbbing.

  Somewhere out in the forest, past the ringing in his ears, he could hear Connor crying. Please don’t be crying because she’s dead, he prayed, looking to the sky, to whatever might be up there, hiding behind the moon. Let her live, please.

  He set off again, the end of the garage a million miles away. He reached it, though, peering around the corner t
o see the collection of vehicles on the drive, drenched in dancing blue lights. He could make out the bodies of the police officers, but there was no sign of anyone else.

  The police.

  Maybe they had weapons. Not that it would do him much good. He’d barely been able to hold the crowbar, let alone a baton.

  He waited a moment more, expecting to see the devil’s face lean out from wherever he was hiding. There was nothing, no sign of him, just those heart-breaking cries from out in the trees.

  “I’m coming,” he said softly. “Just hang on, Conn.”

  He walked to the garage doors and checked the front garden, then moved as fast as he could towards the patrol car. Its flashing blues cut into his vision, night-blinding him. He crashed through the open driver’s door, collapsing on the seat. There was nothing inside. He sucked in a breath then spotted the radio, pulling the handset from its mount.

  “Hello?” he said, remembering the button. “Hello?”

  He let go and the radio crackled, loud enough to be heard from space.

  “Hello,” said a woman’s voice. “Identify yourself, please.”

  “We need help.” Blake looked through the windshield, no sign of life. “My wife, my son, we were attacked. She’s been shot.”

  He let go of the button and static filled the air again, followed by the same voice.

  “What is your location? Are there officers with you?”

  “They’re dead,” Blake said, opening the glove box. There was nothing in there but a couple of notebooks and a first aid kit. He took the kit, placing it on his lap. “We’re in a village just outside of Thetford, an old farm, uh…” He couldn’t remember the address, or the street. “Conifer Farm, I think, it’s the place where the Nevill family were murdered. They killed the constables. He has a gun, a shotgun.”