by Неизвестный
His people may have been considered evil centuries ago, but it was always an unfair name. They would never have done half of the sins that the ruling race had done and yet all his people were dead now. He was the last of his kind and he was expected to be the deciding factor when the end came. Why? What had he done to deserve this? To move through the ages watching as the Humans destroyed everything and then have to save them.
So now with the end almost upon him and indeed the rest of the world, the vampire was intending to kill himself. This way the Humans would have to fend for themselves and as far as he was concerned, if they survived then they will have earned it as opposed to his bailing them out.
Part of him protested at this, though. He had come all this way, survived all these thousands of years. Surely he wasn’t going to falter now?
The vampire continued to lie on his back enjoying the sun’s warmth, a small pleasure in a world of pain. He intended to stay there wrestling with his thoughts and personal demons until he had reached a decision about whether he would take his own life or make do with what had been expected of him all those thousands of years ago.
The outcome of the Human race was hanging in the balance depending on his decision, as no matter which way the vampire choose, the events of the final vision were only weeks away. The fate of the world was in his hands.
Repeat Chance
by Andrew Males
“Dead?” Max tried to soak in the policeman’s words.
“Yeah – at home, peacefully in his sleep.”
The slight smile that had momentarily appeared on Max’s face was destroyed. “Well, that makes me feel absolutely, totally, one hundred percent better. Thanks a lot.”
“Oh... sorry, Mr Ward. It’s just usually when – ”
“Don’t matter.” Max swilled his beer round in its bottle, shaking his head. “May the bastard burn in hell.”
He finished up with the Inspector, clicked the phone off and slung it on the floor. Slumping in his armchair, he took a large swig of beer and stared at the phone. Holly would have probably said that this news was a good thing, Max thought; she used to always have a way of looking at the bright side of things. The way he saw it right now, every side was a dark, unending chasm of shadow.
Max went to put his legs up on the coffee table, and hesitated; it had been over two months since he’d had a cushion thrown at him for daring such a manoeuvre. He reached out to his right for her picture, eyes transfixed on her beauty, soaking in the scene contained within. She’d seemed more alive than ever on that day in Blackpool: her hair dancing crazily over her face in the wind, cheeks flush from the excitement of a coaster ride, Barbie-pink candyfloss in hand, and that wonderfully innocent smile. So much zest, thought Max, so much future ahead for us. Laying the silver frame on his lap, he stared at her face until it eventually became blurred, and he carefully wiped the wet glass. He closed his tired, grey eyes, rested his hands and tried to indulge in the comfort of the past.
A few minutes passed before he begun to shift uneasily, eyes flickering under his lids. The chair arm began to crumple as uninvited images marched through his mind’s defences, dissecting the calm of her memory. The grey of the pavement next to his cheek; the killer’s face as he held the knife high over Holly; his own arm reaching out to a pool of her blood.
***
Max woke with a jolt to the sound of something to his rear. A blur of an image retreated to some dark corner in his mind, hiding menacingly. Slowly getting up, he rubbed his face with both hands, and gently slapped his cheeks. Avoiding the mirror, he shuffled across to the front door, where he was met by a small, brown packet lying on the mat. The name and address were immaculately printed on a square white label, but more intriguing was the lack of anything else: no postmark, no stamp, no address of the sender. He frowned as he turned the packet carefully in his hands, gently squeezing it. Returning to the front room, he peered out behind his curtain to his cul-de-sac to see who may have delivered the mystery item, but no-one was around.
Carefully opening one end, he looked inside and proceeded to pull out a small object encased in bubble wrap. After unrolling, it was revealed as a black digital watch. Max flapped the bubble wrap, but found no note, instructions or receipt. The more Max inspected it, the more puzzled he became. There was no sign of any make and model, not even on the silver back, itself completely sealed. The strap was a standard, plastic, black affair, but the face just contained what appeared to be a small digital display and a single, over-sized rectangular button underneath it. The display stared back, lifeless. Max took off his current Timex, laid it on the table and slid the new one on; it was a good fit, if a little odd-looking. He raised a finger to try out the button, when he jumped at the sound of the phone ringing.
“Why didn’t tell you me they’d got him?”
Max had been expecting Dan to call. “How did you find out?”
“On the telly, of course. Been on the local news several times already today. You must be chuffed?”
Max sighed. “Chuffed? Carbon-bloody-monoxide poisoning? From a faulty fire?”
“Well, I know, but... at least he’s dead now.” For a few seconds, Dan could hear only Max’s breathing.
“How about the pub tonight? I need to take my mind off of it.”
“Hey, Saturday night, always there. What time?”
Max instinctively turned his wrist to his face. Cradling the phone under his chin, he reached over with his other index finger and decided to press the button to see if it would wake up. A sharp click registered the action... and then suddenly everything changed.
***
A short, blinding light forced Max to flinch and close his eyes tight. When he opened them again, he found himself standing in the doorway looking into a dreary, badly-lit room. His heart beat quickly as he stood motionless, as if frozen on the edge of another universe. Slightly in front of him, pointing into the room, was a long, tatty sofa with a high back. From his angle, he couldn’t see if anyone occupied it, but no obvious movement came from within the room. A small, beige table lamp gave the room its only light and vague curry aromas lingered in the still air. The only sound came from a small gas fire on the opposite wall. Max breathed out for the first time. Confused, he turned around and looked behind him, vaguely hoping he would see his front room, however bizarre an outcome that may have been. Instead, he saw a closed red door with a window. “Where the heck am I?” he said out loud. Remembering his last action, he looked down at the watch again. A blank face reflected a dull, puzzled expression. He pressed the button, but this time nothing happened. A few more taps, but still he remained stuck in this strange place. Behind him, he heard a noise.
“What the hell are YOU doing here?” said a voice Max recognised only too well from memory.
Spinning round as if he had heard the devil himself, he found that he was now facing a dead man.
He recoiled, totally in shock at this impossible vision in front of him. Holly’s killer: alive and only a few feet away.
“Are you stupid? Do you think you could just break in here and... what? Sort me out?” The killer laughed and edged closer.
“What the – but you’re... DEAD,” Max stuttered.
“Dead?” he moved a bit closer and spread out his arms. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I think I’m still very much alive.” A sneer spread across his face, “Unlike your FIANCEE, eh?”
Max’s body went cold. The sound of this despicable, twisted man mentioning Holly was enough to free Max from his shocked trance. “You bastard!!” he yelled, and flung himself hard at the killer, every ounce of him fuelled with rage. A partial side step avoided most of the contact, but it was enough to knock them both to the floor, smashing the lamp in the process, scattering light in different directions. Max had landed badly on his side on the thin carpet, but managed to swing his arm towards the killer’s face. A dull pain in his knuckles and a primeval grunt from its target told him it had hit home, but any hint of pleasure this
may have brought Max was quickly snuffed out as the killer lashed out a heavy foot, landing squarely in his stomach. Struggling to catch his breath, his sight filled with colour as a searing pain shuttled around his abdomen. He heard his opponent get up and distance himself, but as normal vision returned, he saw a looming figure towering above him, holding a long, sharp blade.
“I should’ve finished you off before, you loser,” the killer taunted as Max lay helpless. “Guess I was too busy at the time with your woman to care.”
Max felt her blood again on his hand, and hatred swept through his body.
“See this?” the killer nodded at the knife, “Same knife I used to cut her open. Did you see how much she bled?!” he said, before letting out a guttural laugh. Max watched as the smiling face turned into a twisted, evil grimace, blade pulled back, ready to end his misery. As the arm started its descent towards him, with all his remaining strength Max shot out his right leg and caught the killer in a sweeping motion, just below his ankles. The grin was replaced with a horrified look of surprise as the blow connected, spinning him round off balance causing him to lose grip of the knife. Max flinched as the knife spun crazily in his direction, before landing harmlessly sideways on his chest. In an instant, he grabbed the handle and thrust it upwards, just as the killer tumbled down onto him, front first. Looking up, just centimetres above, the surprised look faded and Max felt his hands go warm. Five seconds later, he was back at his home.
***
“Max? I said what time?” Dan’s voice leapt into his ear again. The phone fell from under his chin and thudded onto the carpet as he jerked back to the realisation of his return. He snatched at his trembling hands and inspected his white teeshirt, but found no blood. His body was also no longer reporting multiple explosions in his stomach; a welcome, if still disturbing fact. He stared at the watch, but it remained blank. Hearing muffled shouting from the earpiece, he picked up the phone from the floor.
“What’s going on? You all right, Max?”
“Um, yeah. I...I just dropped the phone, that’s all”
“Don’t fall apart on me yet, mate! So, what you reckon?”
Max stalled, hands shaking. “Actually, can we make it another time? I had few beers in last night and I think I’m still suffering.”
“It’s old age,” Dan laughed, “then again, you always were a bit of a girl at drinking!”
Making an excuse to go, he hung up the phone and just stood there lifelessly. He studied the watch again, examining his reflection, looking at his troubled eyes, before undoing the tight strap and placing it onto the table.
***
It was too dark for Max to see it, but the clock had moved on several hours past midnight as he lay on the sofa, staring into nothing. He could feel pressure on his full bladder, but decided not to venture to the bathroom; he couldn’t face the smell of sick at the moment. The events – if they indeed really had happened – of the afternoon had shaken him to his core, and an uneasy feeling swamped the air around. The murderous face had never left Max’s mind for a single day since her death, but today’s encounter had now burned deep into his every thought. He reviewed the scene over and over for hours, but still nothing made sense. He had nervously eyed the phone for some time after, but still the news reported the original death. The voice of reason, egged on by alcohol and passing time, had concluded that the only explanations were a dream, or a stress-induced episode of some kind. Behind that thought, however, lay another hiding in the shadowy recesses. As the first glimmer of the coming dawn played in the small gap between his curtains, Max gave the slightest of smiles.
***
Most of Sunday’s paper lay scattered on the floor, as one by one Max went through the numerous sections that had been shoved through the letter box hours before he’d woken. Even the gardening section had warranted a few minutes of his time. A small white plate sat on the floor with an uncut, uneaten ham sandwich. He flicked his eyes across to the table and the watch, before continuing on the advice on what petunias to plant in the spring. Holly had always wanted a big garden; a nice water feature, maybe a pagoda, lots of colour, and this was the year that they would sort it out. He looked again at the watch.
The TV was showing an old film in which the lead character was someone Max recognised, but couldn’t name. The other less appealing choices were downhill skiing, a celebrity cooking program and what appeared to be the end of a Japanese cartoon that had completely lost him after just ten seconds. Outside, he heard a distant thud of a ball being repeatedly kicked against a wall. It was getting dark, but there were still a few hours before he’d need to get ready for the pub. He poured himself a glass of water from the fridge, and put it on the table. The watch sat there next to it. Before he knew it, he had strapped it on and pressed the button.
Once his eyes had readjusted, Max saw the sofa again. He recognised the sweet smell of the curry; he noticed the lamp sitting intact on the table, casting dull shadows across the room; the carpet offered no stains. The vein in his neck pulsed hard as he slowly leant over, craning to see what was on the sofa. He saw the outline of a black sock and jerked back again, crouching. Could this really be the same? Is the killer – no, his victim – really there again, somehow reborn? He decided to leave the solving of the conundrum to later and concentrated on the now – after all, he knew that yesterday things could have just as well gone the other way. Max went over the actions of the day before, and analysed his current situation. He remembered the knife, and how quickly the killer had got hold of it, so figured that it must be nearby. Listening carefully for any signs of movement, he moved behind the long sofa, gradually crawled to the other end and peered round. There, just a foot away, lay the blade. He eyed it nervously. All that potential harm, waiting to be used. He reached out and took it, ex-amining the sharp, metal blade and black patterned handle, gripping it. It had a nice weight to it, he thought; no wonder it had done so much damage last time he’d held it. His grip suddenly loosened. Holly. This was probably the same knife. He let it fly out of his hands onto the carpet, as her final moments flashed through his mind. Something stirred above him.
***
Back home, the Japanese credits scrolled up the screen as Max began to shout rapid, short breaths of joy. Sitting down, eyes wider than the moon, Max thought back of the killer’s face when he had sprung up in front of him: a wonderful cocktail of emotions ending in sheer terror as he looked down at the knife in his chest. True, Max reasoned with himself, he had never stood a chance, but then again, he didn’t deserve one. It wasn’t a crime – how could it be? The guy was already dead, wasn’t he? It was just a shame he couldn’t stay any longer. Jumping up again, Max went to the fridge and grabbed a beer. Popping it open, he drew it to his mouth and paused, before moving across to Holly’s picture. “That was for you, babes,” he said, as he tipped it towards her and swallowed a few mouthfuls. Looking at the watch, he heard his own laughter for the first time in months.
***
Max sat down at the table, placing the two drinks on the mats.
“Just the half?” Dan said, looking strangely at his friend.
Max had a ready-made reply, “Well, there are a lot of calories in beer, you know.”
“Since when did you worry about that?”
Max just shrugged. Getting drunk was not really a good idea these days, as he almost found to his cost the other week with a close call. The pub was quiet, but not enough to eradicate all privacy; even so, they hadn’t really spoken much. The recent weeks’ conversations of the title race and Dan’s latest mobile phone had dulled Max’s enthusiasm for coming out. Today had dragged like an eternal Christmas Eve, but he had promised himself that he’d wait until late – a reward for patience.
I ought to make this the last time, he thought. Max took a gulp of his beer, nodding at whatever it was he was listening to. The steak knife on his plate glistened from the overhead light, picking out the detail of the serrated edge. Glancing up, he stared at the ol
d farming tools hanging high above on the wall. He brushed off a few crumbs from his meal and, looking down, noticed his own leather belt. He gave it a quick tug to test its strength, smiled, and looked through Dan. He reached for his drink, gripping the glass tight, and thought of the watch lying by his bed, wondering how long the batteries might last.
The Tethered Goat
by Terry John Ward
All along the line our guns were depressed to their lowest elevation, their long, black barrels pointing, like so many admonishing fingers, to where the German infantry crouched in their water-logged trenches. They were waiting for the signal whistles that would impel them towards us across five hundred yards of no-man’s land.
I looked with affection at my gunners. They appeared to be frozen into position, anticipating the command to load.
After interminable delays we had received the very first consignment of war’s latest death dealer, the “Tadcaster” shell. We were extremely proud that our regiment had been selected to demonstrate their effect on the enemy. Exploding at head height the shell’s lethal contents would decimate their ranks, scything them down even more effectively than machine guns, or so the trials had demonstrated.
The sound of distant whistles galvanised me.
“Here they come! Load! Load! Load! My voice mingled with those of the other Battery Commanders as a great phalanx of grey-uniformed figures hauled themselves into view and began a determined approach.
Our teams of accomplished gunners went swiftly through the loading process.
“Ready. Ready. Ready!” they called, as calmly as though they were at Tidworth.
Leaning forwards, the enemy moved like automatons across the shattered landscape. It was easy for me to imagine how the fear of imminent death was constricting their throats because I had to bring myself under control, swallowing hard before I was able to issue the next order