by Chris Harris
III
Cell block D was currently out of use, but the cleaner was still required to clean there, in case of new patients. At the moment, at 10:30PM, it was in darkness and locked away behind a solid steel door, carefully hidden away from the outside world. There were two words scribbled hastily upon the door that fooled no-one:
BOyLER ROoM
However, the secretive nature of Cell block D meant that the patients kept well away from it. Rumours were a dangerous thing in a place with paranoid delusions being as common as darkness falling at night, but still, rumours managed to emerge that there was something up there. Not a
boiler room, the misspelling ensured that being a certainty. The rumours gave details of shrieking sound every morning. One of the previous cleaners, who was now committed in the asylum under the fact that he "Heard The Ghosts", had gone into great detail about it, only to be dragged away, kicking and screaming by the brutal new guards. The new management, headed by Ross Wilson, wasn't helping, either, ignoring claims of the patients, dismissing them as delusions. The old management at least looked into the more sane claims.
The night cleaner, taking over from Jack, whistled softly to himself as he dragged his legs up the steel-rimmed stairs. He was heading towards the supplies closet, located on the fourth floor. The same as Cell block D. The night cleaner, or Matt, took out a heavy ring of keys. This ring contained a key for every single cell in the asylum and every single door aside from the one that led to the BOyLER ROoM. With a loud rattling sound of metal on metal, he found the right key for the cupboard door and pushed it into the lock and turned it. The lock gave a satisfying click, before he placed a hand on the cold, metal handle, realising that something was disturbing him. He shrugged it off for now: the asylum was pretty creepy in itself, without the potentially dangerous patients. But then, he knew that before he signed up to work here, didn't he? He had recently began to doubt that he ever knew what he was getting himself in for truly.
He pulled a red Henry hoover from the cupboard, barely recognisable as most of the paint had chipped off over the last year. Its smile had been turned into two jagged fangs, standing out from the blood-red plastic that surrounded it. Searching for a plug for the hoover, he noticed an ajar door. He looked up at the heavy steel door. It said BOyLER ROoM.
Now he knew what was worrying him. When he was on the morning shift, he heard some of the things the previous cleaner had said about block D. The ghosts, he had said. Howling every night. Admittedly, Matt had heard strange sounds most nights, but had put it down to bad winds or the piping around the exterior. He edged inside the room and saw, to his expectations and perhaps fears, that the room was not a boiler room at all, but a room filled with strange symbols drawn on the walls in a red...well, he hoped it was paint.
He prayed it was paint.
Clank.
Footsteps. Matt turned, heart pounding. Something had escaped. something deranged and perhaps dangerous that was not on any records. Matt made for the door, thinking of hiding in the supply cupboard, but he saw a shadow on the top stair and realised he had no chance of making it. There was only one way now: fight. He bent down to the Henry hoover and dismantled the suction pipe, giving him a metal pole to defend himself with. Seeing a corner near the door, he ran towards it and hid in the darkness, the only thing giving him away was his shallow breathing.
Clang.
The heavy metal door sung shut and was locked from the outside. The outside? Matt thought The thing had help.
Matt stepped out from his corner and yelled for help, hoping that the unknown assailant had a conscience, but all Matt heard was hurrying footsteps. Matt looked at The Resident and realised, as it drew closer, that he had no chance. It loomed at him. Matt's hands shook and the pipe fell to the floor with a clatter. The thing reached out a hand and in its palm sat, covered in blood, a knife. A thick, eight inch bladed knife, quite capable of easily carving through human flesh.
The Resident swung its blade as Darkness fell once more...
IV
The exterior of the asylum was basically a rough cube, with five towers emerging from the main body of the vast building. Four of the towers housed on a corner each, with one in the centre of the front two and was slightly shorter than the other four. The towers located in the corners were designed to be watchtowers that overlooked the wide courtyard and each had floodlights on, which could easily be activated by the security room on the fourth floor at any time of need.
The fifth tower was merely a clock tower, displaying a clock not dissimilar to those on churches, and even appeared to be as worn. The large hand joined the small hand and the bells started to ring. Midnight struck. The bells were loud and woke a few patients from their slumber, but also scattered the crows sitting atop the rooftops. Lightning struck again; the storm showed no signs of slowing, only gradually increasing in power and frequency of the bolts of lightning. The rain kept coming, hammering on the few windows of the building, pushing them to breaking point.
The large, minute hand moved forward ever so slightly, marking it one minute past midnight.
On the twenty third of December, two thousand and twelve.
The final day of the Mayan calendar.
One man, dressed totally in white edged slowly out of the asylum doors and glanced up the seemingly infinite amount of stone before the clock came into view. He sighed in what seemed relief and walked back inside. He believed, in the deepest, darkest pits of his mind, that the world was somehow going to end today. Today at 22:11.
But, here and now, at 00:01, known very clearly to this man, three people's world's had already ended prematurely. The man in white had left nothing behind in his nonchalant walk but one thing:
A footprint marked clearly in blood.
V
Block C was the psychiatrist's nightmare. This was the deranged and potentially dangerous ward, filled with those who had at least killed one, those who spent their waking days in straitjackets and their sleeping nights tied to the bed. Psychiatrists were not allowed to disturb them at night due to their potential, yet waning, danger and derangement. A guard patrolled this floor, a new one tonight: the last one had left in suspicious circumstances. He was of quite a bulky build and towered about six and a half foot tall, much taller than most of the patients. He wore a uniform consisting of a white shirt, black trousers and a blue blazer with a name tag on. On his belt sat a ring of keys, a walkie-talkie, a truncheon and a taser. In his right hand was a torch, while his left was constantly on the taser's handle.
He was on his very first patrol and throughout the shift, he felt like the other guards did not want him. They looked down their noses at him, sneered at him. He felt before that he was no different to them, just wanting an easy job, but they quickly assigned him to the most dangerous floor and told him that they would be watching via the CCTV. He shook his head and continued his cyclical walk around the block, the torch illuminating the way for him. He glanced around, pointing the torch in his line of vision. The concrete stairs glared back at him, they're sudden darkness illuminated, yet contrasted with the torchlight somehow. He turned the torch away: the stairs were a no-go for him. As he did so,he became aware of a huffing sound nearby.
Heavy breathing.
What was someone doing up here at this time? The heavy breathing was certainly close. Footsteps came from the stairwell. He twisted around, torch following his turn just in time to see a hem of white disappear up the stairs. He grabbed the walkie talkie from his belt. "Sec-Room. There is an intruder in block C, approaching block D. Am beginning pursuit. Over."
He waited a second for a response. When there was none, he edged slowly and carefully up the stairs, not wanting to give the intruder any impression that he there. Pointing the torch downwards, he minimized the light escaping from his figure. with his free hand, he carefully slipped the taser out of its holster, holding it in a ready position. He edged around the corner to see a white-clad figure fiddling with the lock on the BOyLER ROoM door.
"He's on the stairs. Over."
The guard, Jackson, stopped. Heart racing, he knew now that the other guards certainly had not accepted him. The man in white turned and gave him a smile, before opening the door to the BOyLER ROoM and flinging it wide open. Something stirred in the room's depths. Large, flat footsteps could be heard from inside, getting louder and louder.
Closer and closer.
Jackson aimed the taser at the man's midriff. "Stop this now." he warned, his voice gravelly and harsh.
The man in white did nothing, so Jackson pulled the trigger on the taser, shocking him into unconsciousness.
The thing-it couldn't be human-got closer to the doorway, but Jackson didn't let his shaking hands and beating heart put him off. He ran up to the door and grasped the handle, before slamming the door closed once more, his body running on pure adrenaline released by his fight or flight reactions. The key was still in the door, so he turned it in the lock, sealing it shut, before sliding the key off of the hook and placing it in his pocket: it was obvious that only the white-clad man had the key as Jackson only had keys for all the Blocks bar D.
He sat on the stone floor and closed his eyes in relief and fear. His bosses had gave away his position and potentially threatened his life. He knew he couldn't stay here, not with them knowing that he knew what he did.
He had to run.
VI
In Block B, Jared Gibbs slept with his pillow over his head, blocking out the sounds. The sounds could be any number of things from birdsong to whispers, but mostly they were bloody shrieks which formulated themselves into the never-welcome sound of a Siren's scream: one that repulsed the mind but attracted curiosity, one that you know you cannot resist, yet know that your shitting yourself deep inside.
Jared dared to resist.
Sometimes he could see blood drip from the ventilation duct on the ceiling. Only at night could he see it: the thick red substance oozing through the ceiling and pooling onto the floor with a drip as constant as the swinging of a pendulum, a metronome of death boring deep into Jared's mind and leaving only a hollow, twisted husk as the remains.
He never got the chance to show the pool of blood to anyone. He went down to breakfast, and by the time he returned, the pool was gone.
Jared Gibbs was delusional, they said. They said he was crazy, but he was sure that the cleaning cupboard was always ajar when he returned.
He knew as he was the cleaner.
The previous cleaner.
Because he was crazy.
Delusional.
War in Shadows
“It shattered all we believed in.”
And they came from the sky...
Space. In all of its suspected infinity, it could only be finite due to physical reasons and clearly the fact that each and every quadrant of said space is occupied by infinity-minus-one ETOs (Extra-Terrestrial Objects) and Terran, or Vaporous, Bodies. At the centre of each galaxy in the known universe, was an AGN, or Active Galactic Nucleus, which was a star with such immense gravitational pull, it had built a terrestrial body around it. These, and hence the galaxies, orbited the what had been dubbed the AUN, Active Universal Nucleus. However, whilst its existence was proven, no-one had ever explored it.
And then He came.
The self-proclaimed king, Xaos.
He claimed to have explored the AUN even before he took his position in the galactic government, yet he offered no proof. Of course, his claims were dismissed when he refused to share his research with the scientific community at large. Whilst many agreed with the decision that he was either lying or delusional, others believed that the research had a more sinister purpose...
I put the Book down for a moment to observe my surroundings. I was seated in a cold, metal chair in the centre of what seemed to be a warzone: debris was strewn everywhere, small or large. Only the winds and movement of small animals disturbed it, giving a somewhat surreal atmosphere where one would move, seemingly without propulsion. There were few buildings in my line of sight, instead only ruins, appearing at first to be ghastly creatures that had burrowed up from their subterranean origins and had finally pierced the surface. Blackened and twisted, the ruins resembled nought of what they had once been. I shook my head. How had it come to this?
I picked the Book back up and continued to read.
At this time, the Universal economy was struggling. Shares in businesses had reached an all-time low, much the recessions on Earth, but on a Universal scale. Faith in the Government was running low: the people had had enough of their feeble attempts and many colonies had fallen into a state of disrepair. The parliament was failing, crime rates were up and the Standard, the main currency of the Universe, was falling.
With the help of some contacts within the vast Government, Xaos had swept in and effectively overthrew the Government. Many believe his power-play to be illegal, but all his so-called “corrupt” contacts had ended up dead shortly after. It turned out that the ministers Xaos had overthrown had murdered them.
I shook my head, as I usually do when reading this bit. Like hell they had.
Xaos had then eliminated the Government completely, putting the Universe back into its “primitive” days, where there had been no organization in the operating of planets. Xaos became King of his own small quadrant of the Universe. However, by this point, his armies had been spread wide across the Universe.
And the wars began...
His machines of war are said to be extremely powerful and dangerous if encountered and almost the entire Universe succumbed to them. No-one knows what they are made of, but many theorists believe that Xaos found something on the AUN. Xaos denies this statement, and claims that the Gods are on his side of the war.
I breathed out heavily, before checking my Watch. An old fashioned digital watch, as opposed to the new “built-in” watches embedded into the brain, it told me the time and the date. Of course, the screen was cracked, which made seeing the hour and date near impossible, but the minutes were clearly visible: thirty two. That meant I only had another eight minutes left with the Book. It reminded me of my grandfather's Kindle device: a device for reading multiple books. Of course, literature was banned now and my grandfather had been executed for his sins long ago.
I shut the memory away, and tapped on the Book's sleek screen at an icon that looked like a parabola. I wondered why at first, but I have been told that it is because of Xaos's crest: twin parabolas, one atop the other in an X-shape. This Book was the only book approved by Xaos and, I had noticed, was hugely biased in his favour and didn't tell the entire truth.
As if to prove this to myself, I pressed the search key and typed in “Earth”.
It took a moment, but when the page had loaded, it said:
Earth is the third planet away from the Star, Solar Nova in the Milky Way Galaxy and is capable of housing many different lifeforms due to a balance between the Solar Nova and the Iced Dwarf, Pluto. Human life exists there, along with polar lifeforms, rodents and a vast variation of Aerial and Aquatic species. The technology there is relatively primitive to planets such as Reva Beta, yet are still more advanced than the Tribes around the Universe.
Before Xaos's war, Earth had re-established its economy at last.
I paused to accept the irony here.
There had been a time of peace and during this time, scientific developments such as a manned mission to Mars, the next planet in orbit to Solar Nova were successful. Mankind were finally exploring the stars.
“When the stars came to us.”
“And they came from the sky...”
That was how my grandfather had told me it happened. The Book went on, claiming how the war was justified under the flag of Xaos. It wasn't. He gave me the details the Book didn't: the massacres of innocents, the “Games” in which men were ma
de to fight to the death, only for the victor to be torn apart by Xaos's Elite. I continued reading with disgust.
The takeover of Earth was quick and efficient, due to the Earthens' primitive technology. Earth, being of no considerable value to Xaos, had its communications cut from the rest of the Universe and is currently a Forbidden Zone.
I snorted slightly. Didn't anyone else think this was odd? The fact that Xaos had spent all that time to conquer Earth and then cast it aside had to mean something. Of course, the fact that he had never actually won the war on Earth was one thing. He had underestimated us, and that costed him. The first wave we thought, we were well aware of, grandfather said. We had then salvaged the machines: they had not been harmed, but thanks to our biological weapons, we had killed the pilots. We were able to pilot them against Xaos, who came back with more and more each time.
I looked at my watch: 38. Only two minutes left with the Book. Curiously, I typed in the name Xaos. I didn't want to read the biased propaganda, just see the magnificent figure he was: even I had to appreciate it.
A treacherous bastard he was, even betraying the entire Human genome with his insane skull implants, going as far as to transplant his limbs with artificial, robotic versions made not of steel, but of the one, truly untarnishable metal: Gold. Supporters said it represented his own immortality, or his legacy's immortality. He looked impressive. There was no other way to put it.
And that, despite my objections, was who I worked for.
My watch beeped forty, and I knew my break was almost over. I turned the Book off and placed it in my breast pocket, although its lies deserved to be cast away from my heart, rather than close to it.
My machine, or Mech as Xaos called it, stood proudly as a biped should, particularly one that is indestructible. Brimming with weaponry, this was fitting for a being such as Xaos himself.
And yet it was mine.
Mine to pilot into the destruction of my own world.
My own people.
Of course, despite the seemingly deceptive nature of my work, I managed to redeem myself slightly. Checking that there was no-one around, I pulled out my communicator. Using a secure channel, I dialled the resistance leader.
“Nathan?” he asked. “Do you have the serial numbers?”
The serial numbers were for my Mech and Xaos's mech. He always battled with his troops. I jogged over to check my own Mech's number: 2471.
“Mine is 2471.” I responded. “Xaos's is 6924. Aim for that one, and we'll win the war.”
“Affirmative.” the leader replied, leaving only radio silence is his wake.
Xaos had finally trusted me to service his personal Mech, after my long hard years of service and trying to pass as a loyal agent. Of course, my heart was pounding now: all I have worked for is in its final stages now: we were to move out at 45. I checked my watch: 43.
It was go time.
Using the lift-crane near the Mech, I was able to get inside quickly and activate it. The chair in here was nearly as uncomfortable as the one in my hangar, but I persevered. Just one last day...
And the Mech moved forth when I slammed the pedal down and joined the masses of Mechs and ground troops awaiting Xaos's command.
“My...warriors.” Xaos hissed over a loud speaker linked to his Mech, “Today, I believe that this war will finally be over. This day is crucial to us, as it is to the resistance. They will fall today.” His voice was as impressive as his figure: loud, deep and with a power supporting it. “We go. Now.”
The gate in front of us opened, and we ran out of Xaos's grounded warship and onto the ruins of London.
I stayed back, knowing the ambush that was set up. As Mechs moved forwards past the ruins...
The ruins exploded into spitters of shrapnel and flames, each flame licking serpent-like at the Mechs, who backed away, when the resistance Mechs came out of nowhere. I stayed still, before firing at either the ground, the sky or where the resistance where not, so as to not harm my comrades.
They didn't seem to feel the same, and my Mech was battered by bullets as they ricochetted off of the tough, armoured exterior. I picked up the communicator and yelled into it “What's going on? Why are you shooting at me?”
The resistance leader answered back. “Mate, we're not. Most of our fire is concentrated on Xaos's Mech.”
An explosion rocked my Mech, and I threw an arm out to steady myself, knocking some of my papers from the control panel.
And then I saw it.
Four numbers glaring back at me.
6924.
My eyes widened with fear, I could tell.
And then I heard Xaos's voice, “Nathan, you fool. Thanks to you, I'll win this war yet!”
And then another explosion rocked the Mech and I fell into darkness.
Dead Time
Time
or no time?
One hour early,
one hour late.
It matters not
because time is
an illusion.
Tick tock
goes the clock.
Tick
Tock
Hands turn
on strings.
Dead hands point,
never wavering,
at dead numbers.
I
V
X
Relics of a time gone past.
A dead time.
Hourcracks
Cracked yet whole
Cracked like a broken hourglass.
Every new crack is
unnoticeable.
The time comes,
and minutes flow away,
but no-one realises that the time has gone
until it's too late.
And cracks are scars;
they cannot heal.
Paid For Jesus
I paid for Jesus
with a two pound coin
(Change, thank you very much).
Suffocate him in a plastic bag,
our Lord and Saviour.
Unwrapping his tomb,
his body is found.
Not white bread, like the reverend claimed,
nor brown.
But chocolate
must be in the lost chapters
of the book
we have come to know
and revere.
Five minutes,
and my Jesus is gone for another year.
The Lonely Child
Lonely.
Sitting in a dark void with
no-one around.
Just him in the corner
whispering his own name.
A switch is flicked
click
and the void illuminates.
Names enter, voices SHOUT.
But no one name can drown out
the one he has been whispering all his life.
But its name,
its is close to eclipsing his own.
A friend, who is not a friend.
What is it?
An enemy, who is not an enemy.
A person, who is not a person.
One who is Zero;
a suitable companion for the lonely child.
A switch is flicked
click
The void darkens.
The SHOUTING Wanes.
And the child who is not a child
and the friend who is not a friend
sit in the darkness and whisper.
But the child who is not a child
does not want
a friend who is not a friend,
but a friend who is a friend.
But the not-friend grabs the child,
drags him under
cracks his heart asunder
twists the knife
and ends the child's life.
Ragnarok
The horn screams.
Clouds gather
like lost sheep
on a dark night.
Thunder roars
l
ike a madman's roar
on a dark night.
From the sky
a golden man
from the heavens to save us all
or to damn us all.
Hammer held in hand,
he raises it to the sky
and lightning scorches the earth.
Ground rumbles
like a starved glutton
on a dark night.
Buildings fall
like a man stabbed
on a dark night.
From the ground
a giant serpent
from the hells to damn us all
or to save us all.
Fangs bared and reared
it roars at the sky
and drowns out the thunder.
Serpent and man clash
in both ground and sky.
The horn roars
louder than the thunder,
louder than the Serpent's shouts.
An ancient sound, it echoes
through time and space,
ground and sky
heaven and hell.
On the ground, a man rides,
spear in hand,
on a horse of eight limbs
galloping forth
on a dark night.
Dark red eyes glow,
melting the darkness around them.
A beast on all fours snarls and leaps
on a dark night.
Man and wolf
spear and fang
collide
in a battle of immortals.
Buildings levelled by
lightning and quakes
are scorched by flames
on a dark night.
Mortals, collateral of
spear and fangs
are scorched by flames
on a dark night.
A monstrous being
clad only in flames
burnt the ground beneath it
as it crushed the land underfoot.
One fiery pupil was quenched,
as if something tried to fight.
But it is fruitless.
Serpent against man
Wolf against man
Chaos against man.
Ragnarok.
Dan's Fire
About halfway down the street
I'm surrounded by trees, it's well dark,
I'm bloody lost.
Ah, Shite! I cen't feckin' describe it
The trees givin' me the creeps,
It's well weird.
It's no good;
But I found some good stuff, but,
I saw some freaky shit.
I don't know how I got there,
Because I was tired and drunk
And stumbled off the path.
I came down a hill,
And when I saw the grass at the bottom,
I nearly shit meself,
I look up,
And it's feckin' blindin'
But at least it ent dark.
Well, I hadn't actually shit meself yet
So I thought I was doin' alright; I ent got a clue how though, cus
I managed to get through the night.
There's some guy coughin' his guts up,
Cem from the puddle; I den't know how,
But he looks back at the puddle and stares ;
So did I,
To know what's happenin' with the puddle
Never seen a giza come out of one before.
After a quick stretch,
I carried on walkin',
But my feet are achin'.
Ay Up! I got so far when,
A feckin' black cat ran up to me,
I hate 'em!
And it just stared at me,
And kept getting in me feckin' way,
So I kicked it out me way and down the path.
It was too early for this shite,
Even the sun ent up yet
What time is it anywes?
To be fair, the sun's pretty good;
So I started to feel pretty good,
Especially when I saw the wounded cat,
It's decent time now, and the summer's good;
But not that good; I was right pissed orf
Another feckin' cat was in me weh.
Background Noise
Bombardment.
Sounds everywhere, blinding, deafening.
Floorboards creak and the walls hum
and the machinary whirs and insects,
even the insects tap.
Away, the family are occupied.
Brother, I hear his eyes slide from side to side
the pages turning.
Father, near to the hum of the computer
Mouse clicks like thunderclaps.
Mother, near the TV and the drumbeat
of her favourite soap.
And I, on a soft floor of creaking springs
with a book in one hand
and an overactive imagination in the other.
The Sins of Man