The door was slightly ajar and crooked where the top hinges were smashed and he barged it open with his shoulder. Four children cowered in the furthest corner, huddled together in the dark and shaking with fear.
“It’s alright,” said Sam. “They’re gone now.”
The children just looked up at him with their frightened eyes, pupils wide against the dark. Sam was torn. His prey were close and every part of him wanted to run into the night and hunt them down, but the children needed his help. He looked at them, and then at the door. “Go,” he said. “Follow the road and don’t look back.”
They stayed where they were, staring.
Sam’s frustration was growing and his insides were seething with a lust to spill blood. Just for a moment his mask slipped, and at the same time he raised his voice. “I said go.”
Two of the children screamed and grabbed the smaller ones by the wrists, hauling them to their feet. Sam stepped to one side to let them pass as they bolted from the door. He stayed a moment longer, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm himself before he followed them outside, pausing to watch them run off down the road, before he left the village behind and continued his journey north.
37
Not far past the village the road petered out into a muddy single track, snaking across a gently undulating upland bog where heather and stunted shrubs grew in abundance from out of thick, black mud. In places, he was forced to walk on springy vegetation to avoid the sucking puddles of ooze and to prevent himself from sinking. The wind blew unchecked across the hilltop while above, clouds were building and thickening, obscuring the moon and leaving only a silver halo as a clue to its presence. Soon, this too was gone, leaving the night dark and wild.
Specks of snow started to fly past his face; only one or two at first but steadily increasing in size and number until the air became a blizzard of white. Had his flesh been warm and pink, as it naturally should, the snow would have felt like a million icy darts biting into his skin but as it was, he relished the feeling. Only an unconsciously remembered instinct caused him to pull his hood tight to protect his face. It too was soon encrusted white with ice.
A plump bird squawked and flapped noisily to get airborne when Sam almost stood on its nest, perfectly camouflaged in dense heather. It wasn’t quick enough to evade the bony fingers which shot out to grab it by the wing in an icy grip of death.
Without hesitation, Sam bit off its head and spat it to the ground before drinking deeply from the open neck. He savoured the warm life trickling down his throat, giving him strength, before plucking out its feathers and eating greedily. One bird did not quite satisfy his appetite, leaving him hungry for more but in the bleak wilderness he was grateful for what he could get.
Despite his supernatural gift of vision, Sam was blind in the white-out of the storm. He could sense the new day approaching but held little hope of finding a dark place to sleep in the barren landscape. Frustrated that he hadn’t caught up with those he was pursuing, he stepped off the track and pushed himself as far beneath the thick heather as he could and wormed his way into the mud.
He awoke completely encapsulated in a tomb of snow, which broke with a crack when he pushed his way out into the crisp cold air. The wind had eased and overhead, the stars were shining. After brushing himself down and having a moment of quiet contemplation, he set off, leaving behind impressions of his bare feet in the snow. He hadn’t travelled far before coming across tracks other than his own and he paused, crouching to sniff the ground before straightening himself up and following them.
The gradient started to head downhill again and the bog once more gave way to shale and rock. Water, which seeped out of the bog near the summit, formed sheets of ice on the hillside and halfway down the slope the tracks veered off to follow a less treacherous route. On the valley floor, far below, a fire was burning on the banks of a small and winding river. As he neared he saw that surrounding the fire was a collection of tents and he worked his way stealthily toward them.
Raised voices and laughter drifted up to him from the camp and Sam could sense joviality and drunkenness. The ale flowed freely and most of the people gathered were in fine spirits. Slowly, he made his way down the remainder of the hill to the edge of the camp, sure-footed even on the loose shale. The landscape provided little in the way of cover but he knew he would not be seen. Darkness was his friend and he was but one shadow amongst many.
For a while Sam watched and waited, keeping his urges in check until he was ready. One of the men rose from his place by the fire, staggered slightly to one side and turned around before taking big, careful, drunken steps out of the light. Sam stayed perfectly motionless while the man approached, staggered a bit more and unbuttoned his trousers.
He was mid-stream when Sam rushed in from behind, clamping one hand firmly over his mouth to mute any screams before scoring one of his elongated fingernails up the curve of the man’s spine. It ripped easily through leather and skin alike before Sam reached into the wound and gripped bone.
A section of three or four vertebrae separated from the rest and came out in Sam’s clenched fist. The man twisted and slumped face up on the wiry grass, twitching while his breath escaped in a bloody rattle. He was still alive when Sam stood over him, drooling, but died quickly as his blood leaked away into a dark pool, stark against the snow.
The ghoulish and contorted figure of Sam crouched near the body, waiting for the inevitable search party. Impatient, he kept looking to the dead man on the floor, battling with hunger pangs and tasting blood in the air.
With dawn fast approaching, no one had come looking for their missing comrade, all too drunk to think anything amiss. Disappointed, Sam made his way back into the hills, backtracking the way he’d come and being careful to stay in the footprints already laid in the snow. Although he doubted they’d come looking, he didn’t want to take any chances and so made haste to travel far from the camp. He spent the day beneath a thick cover of heather and half buried in snow, dreaming of bony fingers trying to drag him into the void.
He caught up with the group the following night, after they’d followed the river along its winding course out of the hills and set up camp on an open meadow. The snow had been left behind on high ground and flat, open plains spread out ahead. Lookouts had been posted around the camp so they couldn’t fail to miss anyone, or anything, approaching. Sam stayed out of view and dropped low, sniffing the air.
The closest sentry looked a mean giant of a man with a thick, shaggy beard which came halfway down his chest. He sat absent-mindedly sharpening his sword whilst concentrating on the night. On his back he carried a mace. Neither was of help to him when Sam struck, such was the ferocity and speed of his attack and the guard was dead before his sword landed quietly in the grass, blood spraying from the stump where his head used to be. The air filled with the sound of weapons being unsheathed and all eyes turned to where the creature loomed over its prey.
He wanted them to see him and to know they were being hunted. He wanted them afraid. For a moment he stared out from beneath his hood, making sure each and every one of them looked into his eyes before he disappeared back into the night, leaving the warriors to clean up another of their dead.
Hunger ate at him like a giant worm in his belly. He hadn’t eaten yet and the sharp, metallic aroma of blood set his senses alight, filling his nostrils so completely he could taste it. Intoxicated, it encompassed his every thought and excited every atom of his being so he was hardly aware of the saliva he was swallowing. Sam’s intention had been to kill one and then leave them alone for the night, to let fear have its run, but he found himself caught up in a net of instinct and bloodlust.
He knew it was more wrong than anything he could have ever imagined, but the thought of eating their flesh proved too alluring to resist. It was as if some alien consciousness were in control and using his body as a puppet, but Sam found himself more than willing. Part of him, the old Sam, tried to stay where he was, distant from the
people he hunted and safely away from temptation, but the attraction proved too great and he started back toward the camp, slowly at first but gathering pace as restraint fell away.
He loitered in the dark, just out of sight and with superior vision he could see them clearly. The men had formed a tight circle, all of them facing outwards with their weapons drawn. He paced around the camp, aching to taste human meat but agonising over mortal sin. Something in the back of his mind told him that if he took a life for food then something within him would change forever and there’d be no going back. Another part of him knew it already had.
In the early hours, long before the sun crept over the horizon, a mist fell over the plain lending an eerie stillness to the night. Visibility became limited to a few feet. The soldiers were on edge, their breaths shallow and quick and brows furrowed as each and every one of them concentrated on the mist, looking for the enemy.
A cry went up, muted in a blanket of grey, as the ghostly silhouette of a monk was spotted in the fog. Those who saw it were chilled to the bone. Another shout, from the opposite side of the circle, split the silence when the figure was seen again.
For a full hour the apparition circled, sidling in and out of the fog while knuckles turned white on sword hilts and the circle tightened. After a while the shouts and cries ceased and silence reigned supreme while the band of men peered out into the unknown.
All the time he was pacing Sam was trying to resist, battling with urges which if left unsatisfied threatened to send him into madness. He could taste the blood and easily imagine the texture of flesh as it slid down his throat.
In a flurry their circle was broken, as his will crumbled and he dashed in to grab one of the men, yanking him with such force his feet left the ground. None of the others rushed to the aid of their comrade, all of them too afraid to do anything but close the gap left in their defences and call out into the fog. The last they saw of him that night were the soles of his boots, swallowed by the mist as something unseen dragged the body away.
Sam feasted with abandon, not far from the group of men, but knowing he wouldn’t be interrupted. He felt the life flow into him and as the man’s energy filled his being and his cravings were satiated, Sam calmed. He felt strong, alive and sure of himself. Only afterwards, when the sun was edging its way above the horizon and he was curled up in a soggy hollow, where dripping roots overhung the riverbank, did he feel remorse. Guilt hit him in waves and he lay curled on his side, hugging his knees and loathing the monster he’d become.
It was a new night and his cravings were strong. The bandits had tried to set an ambush in a place where lichen covered trees hung low over the river and the path which ran beside it. He sensed them long before they knew he was coming but continued calmly as if oblivious to their trap.
Even as they charged forward from the undergrowth, tightening the net to slash and skewer the monster, Sam vanished before their eyes, or appeared to, such was his speed. Even before their surprise registered one had lost his face, leaving a bloody skull screaming from beneath golden locks as he ran blindly, flailing, until he ran headlong into the forest, bouncing from tree to tree. Another lost a kidney and he didn’t run anywhere.
Sam’s transformation was instant; from the image he presented as a meek man of God, barefoot and covered in robes, to an ancient and primal killer. They needed to pay for their actions and he wanted them to suffer for what they’d done. Like before, he tore through the cluster of warriors with tooth and claw, however, this time he was more precise and not a single one of them died quickly. Sam made sure they stayed alive long enough, writhing in agony on the ground, for him to visit each in turn and say a small prayer, just as he had done for the folk in the last village they’d visited. He wanted them to see his face before they passed and know who'd finished them. He left the faceless man alive to tell the story, thinking that in the days it would take him to die, someone might stumble across him and listen.
When all business was done, the beast feasted on heart and liver.
38
The lights of Riverford glittered like fireflies in the dark and Sam’s heart lurched at the sight. He was home. As he neared, he saw the shanty town clinging to the edge of the wall was much shrunken from what it had been, but looked as if it had recently seen much in the way of activity and rebuilding. Shacks and hovels stood straighter and newer, although the narrow lanes between them still overflowed with filth. On the outskirts and away from the city walls, the ground had been levelled and strewn with debris where sound and solid parts from old homes had been scavenged, leaving worn out and rotten wood discarded. A dog barked at his coming and an old man, sitting smoking on his step, turned his head to follow Sam pass by with no other acknowledgement that he'd seen the young monk.
The city gates stood open and judging by the rusted hinges and weeds growing up around the bottom of them, they had for a long time. There were no guards or sentries and he passed through unchallenged.
If the slums outside Riverford were renewed then the exact opposite could be said for the city inside the walls. The boulevard leading in from the gate was not a happy place. In places roots and weeds pushed up through the cobbles, heaving up sections of pavement and making it uneven. Paint peeled from the facades of exclusive shops which had once sold the latest fashions and luxury goods. Now they were empty, glass storefronts smashed into dirty shards which crunched underfoot. Their insides were empty, looted bare while faded signs creaked as the breeze rocked them on rusted gibbets. Litter blew along the streets and mounds of detritus festered against walls and on street corners. The further into the city he went, the worse the dilapidation seemed to be.
The hour was late and few people were out on the streets, with the notable exception of groups of men and youths who gathered on corners, conspiring. Those few who walked alone moved swiftly with their eyes fixed firmly to the ground. Sam did the same, but for different reasons. He kept his cowl pulled down low over his face to avoid looking at them, as much as to stay hidden. Each time he passed a group he could feel the essence of their villainy tugging at him with an energy which aroused the beast inside, causing it to twitch into life and assert itself. All he desired was to rip out their hearts and eat them raw, bloody and warm.
Sam resisted the urge, although it took every little part of his willpower just to place one foot in front of the other and keep on moving. When he found himself on the bridge, gripping the balustrade, he had no idea how he had got there. He peered down into the swirling water below and thought about last time he stood in the same spot, just after he'd lost his family.
Images came to his mind of Ma, Pa, and his two sisters. Firstly of how they had been in life before the plague. Not always happy but there, with enough smiles and laughs to keep them going. Then he pictured them at the end and winced. Memories of Pa’s suicide were renewed and try as he might, he couldn’t push his father’s betrayal from his thoughts.
He straightened up and slowly walked the rest of the way across the bridge and towards the place he’d once called home. There was no reason to go there but it was a compulsion, almost as strong as his urge to kill.
Even though it all happened so long ago, in a different life, the faint underlying scent of stale bonfire was still unmistakeable amidst the burnt ruins. The destruction he and Joshua had wrought had left hardly a building unscathed. Blackened houses gave way to a charred wasteland where part walls stood like monuments to the dead. Fireweed and poppies grew in abundance, turning brown and mulchy in the face of the coming winter. As Sam picked his way through the devastation, he came across the occasional bone or skull, staring up at him through hollow sockets, half buried in hardened ash.
He was standing in the wreckage of his house and somewhere in the ash and rubble was his sister. For a fleeting moment the house was intact and rats swarmed over Lillian’s corpse. He pushed the flashback aside and crouched to touch the earth where he thought she should be and used his hands to tug out a few weeds, before
scraping away a layer of earth and ash.
Before he dug deeper, a wave of fatigue almost dropped him to his knees and Sam turned his head to see the distant spires glinting as they caught the first rays of morning sun. Daybreak had caught him unawares and panic added to the weakness which weighted his limbs. Once again he was the little boy, lost and alone in a wrecked city.
He didn’t like it and urgently needed to find somewhere dark before the sun came fully over the horizon. Sam didn’t know why his panic was so great at being caught in the sun, it just was, but he frantically searched the ruins of his former house as if his life depended upon it, thinking that if the sun’s rays were to find him then he’d be burned out of existence.
He found what he was looking for. The door was long gone but he unearthed a hole which led down into the cellar. As morning began to fully assert itself, Sam went underground and for a moment he stayed motionless savouring sweet relief.
In the cellar, the fire hadn’t burned so intensely and its destruction was not so complete. Memories of a former life were scattered about the dusty space: toys he hadn’t played with for years; a rocking horse he and his sisters had loved to ride and old tools of his father’s. He thought they should have triggered more of an emotional response than they did. Instead he cleared some old wooden boxes from a corner and curled up into a ball, falling asleep almost immediately, oblivious to the woodlice and centipedes he’d disturbed.
The Dark Stone Page 18