A Gathering of Twine

by Martin Adil-Smith

  “I... I really don’t know. It’s not likely.”

  “But not impossible. That’s what you’re saying, though? It’s not impossible?” John interjected.

  “John, nothing is impossible. Highly improbable maybe...”

  John looked to Murphy who was trying to hoist his camera up.

  “Want to go on the record? You’ll be on the one o’clock!”

  “What? No!” Lionel said, taking a step back, offended that he had been led on like this. “I’m really not allowed to. All this stuff has to go through our press office. You... you don’t have my consent!”

  “Hey, chill out,” said John, turning his back and making the cut sign to Murphy.

  It had been worth a shot.

  “If there was a second belt, would there be an evidence of it? On the ground?”

  Lionel was still rattled. “Err... not visibly. Your monitors would pick something up. Depending on the concentration, you might get a little heat from the soil.”

  “Can you get us to the blast site?” John was as keen as Murphy now.

  “Are you kidding? No!”

  “Come on. You must have some sway with the police. Just say that we’re your assistants.”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “Alright, can you show us a way in?” John produced the map the officer had given him. “Everything inside the red circle is evacuated and closed off.”

  Lionel sighed. “I went to school just up the road – there’s a shortcut. See this here? Swakelys Road. That line of trees going north to south – that’s the River Pinn. It’s not on your map, but there is a footpath. Actually, there are two. The one on the west side of the river will bring you out in Swakelys Park. The one on the east side will bring you out three-quarters of the way down The Avenue, next to the tennis courts. You’ll be about a hundred yards from the blast site. I’ve not been down there. My lot have just been monitoring the readings they give us. But they say that these flats here and here” he indicated on the map “have been completely destroyed. It’s a straight run from the footpath. Best guess is that your badges won’t pick anything up until you’re nearly on top of the source. If nothing else, you’ll be able to get a great view of... whatever that light display is.

  “If you’re lucky, the Police Commander won’t be local, and he won’t know about either of these footpaths. If not, you’ll probably be arrested on the spot. This lot don’t have much of a sense of humour today, so expect it to be rough.”

  “How far is it from here?”

  “A two-minute drive. Not even that. You can probably park up at either Stedman Close or Irwin. You’ll have to cross the dual carriageway if you park at Irwin.”

  “Thanks,” John said absently, not really meaning it. His mind was already galloping ahead.

  *

  Ten minutes later, Murphy, had the van packed up, and they both sat silently in the front seats.

  “What do you reckon?” Murphy said.

  “I think we should do it. If whatever it is, is genuinely cycling down then we probably don’t have much time. It could be completely gone in an hour. We can come back and do the old biddy interviews later.”

  “What if the Law catches us?”

  “Blag it. Worse case we spend a couple of hours in a cell before Will springs us. We’ve been there before.”

  John was referring to an incident a few years ago when they had ‘accidentally’ wandered onto an army training range. They had been trying to film evidence of bullying and abuse and had some good footage before they were caught. The Army had not been pleased but had eventually agreed to let them go in return for their signatures on Non-Disclosure Agreements that were so water tight they made a ducks arse look like a sieve. Their footage had not been returned.

  Those few hours in an army cell had been less than comfortable.

  “And what if the site is radioactive?”

  “You heard what Lionel said. It’s probably not. And even if it is it won’t be strong. We can get on, shoot a bit, and then get out. Pad it out with some shots around the village. Leafy avenues, that kind of stuff.”

  “What about if it’s more than a little bit radioactive? What if it really is some freaky prototype the Americans put up there, and now it’s coming back down?”

  John shrugged. “Like Will said, our balls will probably drop off, and my wife will thank him for it. Are you up for it? If not, just say and I’ll take one of the units...”

  “The hell you will. You’ve already broken one of my babies. I’m not letting you touch another.”

  John could have objected, but he had deliberately pushed Murphy’s button. And now he had him along for the ride.

  A few minutes later they were parking up in Stedman Close. John could not see any police presence in the immediate area, but all the same, he had to chivvy Murphy along. They came out onto Swakelys Road and made their way along to the bridge that was flanked by thick trees on either side.

  There was a small wrought iron gate that had once upon a time been black. John put his hand on it to push through and was disappointed that it did not squeak.

  “It’s the other one,” said Murphy behind him. He was struggling to balance with the camera in its new heavier housing.

  “What?”

  “It’s the next one. That is the west gate.”

  “Are you sure?” John pulled the map from his pocket.

  “Yup.”

  Murphy was right.

  They carried on to the next gate and made their way through. The waist-high ironmongery did squeak this time, but not enough for John’s liking. It was a gate that lacked passion. Being December, there was hardly any leaf cover, and the branches reached out over them like so many skeletal fingers grasping out towards a sun that had forsaken them long ago.

  The density of trees was not so much that they could not see through, but enough that what they saw was only glimpses. According to the map, it should not be more than three hundred yards to the tennis courts. The path was well used but narrow and they made their way along as quietly as possible.

  “Are you on?” John said, turning to Murphy.

  “Power’s good. VT is good. Sound good. Green lights across the board.”

  “Tried recording?”

  “I did in the van. Looked ok.”

  “Start it properly from now and we’ll edit as we need to.”

  Murphy pressed the record button. “We’re good.”

  John nodded and pressed on. The cool breeze of the winter day had begun to pick up. Heavier darker clouds were now skidding across the sky, like elemental bombers threatening to dump their frozen payloads.

  The path began to narrow, and the mossy tree trunks clustered in like penguins in a blizzard. Ahead, John could hear a rhythmical thoc-thoc-thoc.

  He turned back to Murphy. “Does that sound like someone playing tennis?” has asked incredulously.

  Murphy nodded. “Yeah. Kinda does. Aren’t the tennis courts supposed to be closed as well?”

  “You would have thought. Still, this area is full of retired Majors who have been having their Monday morning constitutional since the ark.”

  “HEY!” There was a shout. Both men snapped their heads to the right. They could just make out a figure on the other side of the river, and he was in a police uniform.

  “Come on!” John pulled Murphy forward. The officer would have to wade across the river or run to the top where the bridge was and back down their side to catch them. At best they could get a minute or so of footage from the blast site.

  Both men made their way forward quickly. John a little ahead, Murphy struggling with the heavy camera. The wind picked up again, and the trees began to creak around them. John knew there was little danger of them coming down, but the noise added to his sense of urgency.

  John felt his ears pop. He could see the end of the path ahead, and pushed forward. The thoc-thoc-thoc was louder now. They were almost there...

  Both men ran through the end of the
path and stopped dead.

  For a moment neither one of them said anything. They barely dared to breathe. In front of them was not the suburban ideal they were expecting. No whitewashed houses. No tennis court. No tree lined avenue. And no demolished buildings.

  They were about a third of the way up a gentle hill. Behind them, where they had just come from, was a thin copse of trees that thickened the further back they went. In front of them was a vision that would remain with them for what remained of their lives.

  Thoc-thoc-thoc

  The air was heavy, thick, as though pressing on their chests. For a moment, with the shock, their breathing struggled to adapt, and they felt the pressure of the atmosphere against the soft flesh of their eyes and ears, pushing in.

  In the distance was a sea, black and choppy, casting sludgy dark grey spray high into the air. The vast sky was reminiscent of home, although the sunlight, such as it was, was weaker. Sicklier. Dark heavy purple-black clouds boiled and rolled high over them, like a pantheon of unseen gods mocking the insignificance and irrelevance of all mortality. That all must be purged of their sins before being washed away like grains of sand.

  Thoc-thoc-thoc

  For a moment, John thought he saw movement in the clouds. A thing. A colossal eye? No, some sort of arm of pure muscle. Thick and hundreds of miles across. And then the clouds swirled again and whatever half fancied outline he thought he saw disappeared back into the gathering vortex.

  The spiteful wind bore down from the coast, bringing with it an acrid bitter tang that was familiar to both men, but that neither could place. It was more than a smell. It was a taste, and it hung at the back of their throats with a distant thought of pending vomit.

  Thoc-thoc-thoc

  Against the burgeoning ocean was the outline of a monstrous and distorted city. The part closest to them reminded John of a medieval castle, and he fancied he could make out the silhouette of a keep and a tower. But it seemed to act as a gateway to something so sinister then he did not want to look at it, and his mind recoiled as a hand may grasp for a hot saucepan handle, again and again, flinching from it each time.

  The city was in darkness save for an occasional bonfire, giving an impression of a single solid stone from which the entirety had been carved. Thick black towers reached skyward, and from one, John could pick out an ethereal light against the darkening horizon, its highest spire lightly caressing the bottom layer of cloud.

  Thoc-thoc-thoc

  The domes and the minarets were all equally colossal in scale, and yet each one seemed deformed, mutated and curling at grotesque angles, as though they were reflections of some nightmare house of mirrors.

  Despite this vision of perversion and the absurd horror of their situation, it was not these sights that had frozen them. In the immediate foreground, not more than a few hundred yards in front of them seemed to be some kind of rally. There were no seats, no stadium. Instead, thousands of what John assumed to be uniformed troops, stood silently in formation, as the steady rhythm beat out…

  Thoc-thoc-thoc

  The soldiers, if that is what they were, seemed to be dressed in dark grey close fitting slashed jerkins, and similar colour loose shirt and trousers. All had shoulder length jet black hair, and in their right hands held what looked like a stave or pole some five feet long. Some wore a short cloak or shawl that fluttered in the strengthening winds.

  They were all standing to unmoving attention.

  Looking down from the slight rise on the hill, the scene reminded John of the Nazi addresses given by Hitler. Badly made flags fluttered in the wind, and all eyes appeared to be facing away from them, towards the castle monstrosity, where there seemed to be a slightly elevated platform and some kind of pulpit. John could just make out a figure on the podium, which was flanked by another five individuals on each side. He was too far away to make out their features, but all looked as if they were dressed in the same uniform.

  Thoc-thoc-thoc

  It stopped. John and Murphy held their breath. The figure in the pulpit stood, raising his hands to the boiling sky. The soldiers began to rhythmically drum their staves on the ground, the beat rising like a crescendo against the increasing wind. A low chant came from the assembled masses.

  Da da Danu ha,

  Ka sa Danu ha

  Ma da Danu ha

  The chant began to repeat, increasing in volume, and building to a deafening crescendo.

  Da da Danu ha,

  Ka sa Danu ha

  Ma da Danu ha

  Da da Danu ha,

  Ka sa Danu ha

  Ma da Danu ha

  Finally it reached its frenzied peak

  Zhroma,

  Zhroma!

  ZHROMA!

  The clouds above them boiled like the contents of a cauldron and crackled wildly. Although John could not see any lightning, the clap of thunder that followed told him that the storm was close. Probably immediately overhead.

  The chant fell to absolute silence and for a moment even the howling wind seemed to pause. The figure in the pulpit dropped its arms. As one, eleven huge wooden crucifixion crosses were raised high above the assembled mass.

  Even from this distance, John could see the naked contorted form of a heavily pregnant young woman on each and every one, eyes bulging in pain and fear. Heavy metal spikes had been driven through their wrists and ankles.

  That’s what that heavy knocking sound was, thought John. It was the nails going through into the wood!

  A front line of the soldiers stepped forward so that they were just off centre of the crucifixes. In unison, they held their staves aloft, and in one fluid simultaneous motion lunged forward, smashing them like baseball bats across the legs of the women.

  John winced, hearing the dull crack of breaking bone, and averted his eyes momentarily, as the crucified sank, no longer able to hold themselves up.

  Why are they not screaming? It was then that John noticed that they all had rags stuffed into their mouths. Not like a traditional gag, but cloth actually stuffed down their throats. John could actually see some of them starting to choke on them.

  The front row of soldiers had returned to their position in front of their respective crucifixes. The rest of the legions began to bang their staves on the ground, and once again the low chant struck up

  Da da Danu ha,

  Da da Danu ha,

  Da da Danu ha.

  The front row of soldiers had crouched, both hands clutching their staves as if they were about to pole-vault.

  Da da Danu ha.

  Da da Danu ha!

  DA DA DANU HA!

  At the crescendo, the soldiers lunged forward, driving the end of their staves up towards the exposed genitals of the helpless women.

  The staves penetrated. Ripping and tearing, boring through the soft yielding flesh, the staves erupted in an orgy of blood and entrails from their engorged abdomens and chests.

  Even with the gags, John could hear the screams. Some were still alive. He felt pale and clammy. Murphy vomited, falling to his knees.

  The sky rippled like a sheet. The lightning was clear this time, illuminating distorted and brutal shapes behind the cloud.

  The figure in the pulpit had raised its arms to the sky again. “Now they believe! The Third Twine has failed!” it cried out. It was a man’s voice, thick and frenzied. “Now they believe! NOW THEY BELIEVE!”

  The crowd chanted their strange invocation back.

  DA DA DANU HA!

  DA DA DANU HA!

  DA DA DANU HA!

  The sky crackled and briefly shone again in rapture.

  Murphy vomited again and cried out. John turned to him and helped his colleague up. Blood was mixed in with puke. A lot of blood. Murphy gagged again, doubling over. Dark thick ooze dripped lazily over his lips. His stomach was empty, but this did not stop him continuing to heave.

  John bent with his cameraman, taking his weight. In that instant, he heard a whirring sound. A stave smashed into the tree behind
him, ripping out an enormous chunk of the trunk. It had missed his head by mere inches, and despite the force of its impact, the stave remained intact.

  John jerked his head up. They had been seen.

  Two more staves came whirring towards them, and John had to throw himself and Murphy to ground.

  “We have got to move Murph!”

  “Uh-huh!”

  The two men scrambled to their feet and saw a small group of soldiers running up the hill towards them. Under a hundred yards and closing fast. John turned and sped back along the wooded path. Murph picked up the camera and did likewise.

  Eighty yards.

  Another stave smashed through the undergrowth on John’s left.

  Seventy.

  The two men forgot all thought of pacing themselves and sprinted as hard as they could.

  Under sixty yards.

  John could hear the sound of pounding boots behind him as the soldiers gave chase.

  Fifty yards to intercept.

  Another stave smashed through just missing him. Lower. Around knee height.

  Forty.

  Already his lungs were on fire, and he could feel tears on the edge of his eyes as he powered straight through his burn.

  Thirty.

  Another stave. Inches from his knee.

  Twenty.

  Murphy cried out. An almost child-like shriek.

  John turned to see Murphy falling, a stave through his leg at a sickening angle.

  The camera skidded forward to where John stood.

  TEN YARDS!

  Murphy held a hand up to John. Please!

  John did not even pause to think.

  He reached down. Grabbed the camera. And ran.

  “NO!” The scream was filled with all the rage and terror of the moment and then was silenced with a gurgle.

  For the rest of his life, that scream would haunt John. In the small hours of the mornings, many years from now, he would wake, drenched in sweat, his skin prickling as he played that scream over and over again. A scream that knew that a brutally painful end was mere seconds away, but that also swore unrelenting unyielding undying vengeance.

  It would loop over and over and over in his mind, like a scratched record. Always that scream. That way. Haunting him. Waiting for him.