Blood Crazy

by Simon Clark

  I found the key to the crypt by my mother’s body.

  Sarah came out and we hung onto one another like children.

  As we walked toward the doors we heard it.

  A low, breathless whistling. Arms around one another we walked down the aisle to where my father lay.

  He looked up at the ceiling, whistling: blood had spread out like a red blanket on which he lay.

  When he saw movement he stopped whistling, and turned his head to look at me.

  Sarah says that’s when he died.

  I say the same. But deep down I know that for a few seconds he was my old dad again. Sane, tranquil, and knowing that I’d still love him and mum until the day I stopped breathing too.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Midnight, the Longest Day

  Del-Coffey’s house. Candles burning.

  My injuries weren’t serious – even so, I wore so many bandages I looked like something from Return Of The Mummy. Sarah sat beside me on the sofa, as the girl brought in the baby.

  ‘Look at him,’ said the girl, staring at the baby in awe, ‘just look at him – the way he sees things. He’s been here before.’

  After the girl had put the baby in Sarah’s arms Del-Coffey ushered her out of the room.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He smiled. ‘You got a lot of talking and … and stuff to catch up on … Give us a shout when you’re ready for bed; the girl will look after the baby tonight.’

  ‘Here you are,’ said Sarah. ‘Your son and heir … He’s four weeks old today. Come on, hold him.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ll drop him.’

  ‘No, you won’t. Hold out your arms … That’s it, support his head with your other hand … There, you look like a natural born father now.’

  In the last ten months I’d never trembled as much as this. He lay there content in my arms, his clear eyes looking from one candle to the next. In that face and those eyes I saw my whole family – John, Uncle Jack, mum and dad, grandparents, and, of course, someone far older, who we’d forgotten was there all along.

  Sarah kissed both of us.

  I whispered, ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind. I called him David. After all, even though Dave Middleton never knew it, he probably saved our lives … He deserves some kind of memorial.’

  I shook my head smiling. ‘I don’t mind at all … Well, young Dave Aten, I’m your dad – not a pretty sight, eh? Never mind, we’ll have plenty of time to get used to one another.’

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  This Is It – the End Bit

  The stream at the bottom of the garden sounded musical and relaxing. David played on a blanket in the shade of a tree. Sarah sat checking sheets of computer printouts.

  The hot August sun gently baked the twelve young men and women as they sat around the table, cold drinks in their hands. The mood was quietly cheerful and there was gentle laughter as well as talk.

  ‘Think of it like this,’ I was saying for the hundredth time since I returned to Eskdale. ‘Imagine a newborn baby is like a new video recorder.’

  Sarah giggled. ‘Can’t you come up with a more picturesque example?’

  I stuck out my tongue and ploughed on. ‘Think back to the days when you could actually buy a video recorder. You know, when we had money and shopping malls and traffic jams. Anyway, the video recorder is the newborn baby’s brain. It comes with a blank tape on which you record your own personal memories, likes and dislikes on. That is YOU. Also, though you don’t know it, it comes with a pre-recorded tape that’s packed with thousands of programs, movies, documentaries – this is the unconscious mind. The trick is to be able to access these pre-recorded programs: if you can do that you can transform your life, be healthier, become anyone you want to be – servant, warrior, scientist, teacher, leader …’

  ‘Tinker, tailor, soldier …’ chipped in Sarah.

  More gentle laughter.

  This dozen were our first school teachers. I looked at them each in turn. ‘Remember, for the sake of the children – we have this conspiracy – we all pretend there is a God … like we pretend there is Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. When they’re old enough, then they learn the truth. That’s when they move into the adult phase of their life. Jewish kids had Bar Mitzvah, we will—’

  ‘Nick. Sorry to interrupt.’

  Del-Coffey loped awkwardly across the lawn, laces eternally trailing.

  Breathless, he sat down and poured himself a lemonade. The bloke is worth his weight in gold.

  It is due to his intellect that we, two thousand of us now, live safely in a territory twenty miles across that’s free from Creosotes. Armed patrols pick them off as they cross the borders.

  It was Del-Coffey who rigged up the wind turbines that give us electricity; and his meticulous organization of scavenging expeditions means we have food stores to keep us going until we learn how to properly farm the land.

  You can read Del-Coffey’s account of what happened from DAY 1 to the present day – it’s scholarly, extremely detailed, big words, maps, photographs, the whole sausage. You’ll find it in the four big leather-bound books in the library, along with the video archive.

  Now, as we get to the end of this, a little bit about me. Yeah, I did become leader – that’s when life really did get tough. Responsibility is the hardest word in the English language.

  After the day we blew the dam we mopped up the last of the Creosotes. Slatter did that virtually singlehanded. He moved amongt them like an avenging angel. An ugly one with a tattooed face and pit boots – but an angel none the less.

  A week after that he left without telling anyone where or why he was going. We’ve not seen him since. One day we’ll name a town or something after him.

  But if he ever came back … Sometimes I wonder. I might reach for the rifle I keep by my desk.

  * * *

  Del-Coffey’s face was pink from the walk in the hot sun. ‘I’ve spent the morning on the radio … Jigsaw and Doc are all right, but their camp took a battering from the Creosotes last night … Don’t worry, they reckon they can hold out. The bad news is two communities have gone down in Florida and France. New tactics. Half a million Creosotes at a time just roll over the camps like a tide … Oh … and I’m getting this weird message from some lady called Bernadette who says she lives on the Ark.’

  I sat up, suddenly tense.

  ‘She’s not broadcasting to any particular community. It’s going out worldwide. She says …’ Del-Coffey read from his clipboard. ‘This message is for Alexander the Great. The time has come to build your empire … Remember December.’ Del-Coffey took a swallow of lemonade. ‘Then the message gets weirder. This Bernadette says, tell Alexander the Great he has a girl child and she has been named Alexandra. Mother and baby are both fine.’

  I said nothing. I picked up my son and walked down to watch the stream bubbling around the rocks. Then, softly, softly, I began to whistle him a tune I learnt a long time ago.

  Ten green bottles hanging on a wall,

  If one green bottle should accidentally fall,

  Then there’ll be nine green bottles hanging on a wall.

  Nine green bottles hanging on a wall,

  If one green bottle should accidentally fall …

  There’s not much more to write. For now, anyway.

  If you’re ever in the area don’t be afraid to call in. Just ask anyone the way to Nick Aten’s house. It’s the yellow one in the middle of the village.

  There’s only one more thing to do before I do the customary author bit and write The End at the bottom of the page. And that is to say: Remember what’s inside your head. You, too, can do wonderful things and have a wonderful life. And whatever happens, you are never alone. DO NOT FORGET THE FRIEND INSIDE.

  THE END.

  End Note – Year Three

  Appended by M. C. Del-Coffey

  Whether you believe Bernadette’s explanation of what happened on DAY 1, and her theory of the u
nconscious mind being the personality ancient people identified as God, is entirely up to you.

  I confess, I did not swallow the theory hook, line and sinker. No one should accept such radical hypotheses without question. Therefore, I ask that you should undertake at least a little corroborative reading of your own.

  First, I recommend you see the following entries in an encyclopaedia:

  DREAMS

  COLLECTIVE UNCONSCIOUS

  SUPER RELEASER

  MYTHOLOGY

  Then if you wish to probe deeper I would suggest an elementary introduction to Psychology followed by a book about Dr C. G. Jung.

  That last day in August, when Nick Aten heard the message from Bernadette beseeching Alexander to wake up and to build an empire, he changed. He became quieter, seemingly preoccupied with a huge problem. At the time I was mystified. However, when I read what you now hold in your hands all became clear.

  Up until he handed me the manuscript he’d kept it under lock and key in his study. I’m sure Sarah is not even aware of its existence. For obvious reasons, as you will appreciate.

  Last November we learned that Cheswold, a small town, twenty miles from Eskdale, was besieged by Family Creosote. Before we had done nothing. We have limited resources. Our own survival was always paramount.

  However, Nick changed all that. He led a force of thirty armed men and women to Cheswold and eradicated the attacking Creosotes. Cheswold is now a protectorate of Eskdale. We have installed schools and a new administrative centre there.

  Ten days ago Nick spoke to Bernadette on the radio. As far as I am aware this is their first direct communication since he left the Ark in the December of YEAR 1. I don’t know what passed between them; however, Nick became yet more introspective and began taking long walks to be alone with his thoughts.

  Three days ago Tug Slatter returned from nowhere. He and Nick talked for hours.

  Perhaps as a result of this conversation, and the one with Bernadette, Nick raised a force of three hundred men and women and announced plans to make his way south liberating every community that is under siege from the affected adults. En route they would take Harmby (Doc and Jigsaw’s community) into our protection.

  Nick Aten’s aim is to travel into the very heart of the territories of the insane adults, find their HQ (if one exists), and destroy it. The ultimate aim being to annihilate all of the affected adults and ensure our country is a safe place to raise our families and begin rebuilding civilization.

  I will keep this book locked in my safe. One day, when Nick Aten returns, I hope to place BLOOD CRAZY where it belongs, in pride of place in our library.

  And, the fates willing, there will be a second volume of his to go alongside this one. That will tell the story of how, after fifty thousand years, we were reunited with the Old Self that resides within our hearts. And that together we fought for the World.

  And together we won.

  A Note on the Author

  Simon Clark is a prolific horror and speculative fiction writer. His short stories have appeared in several magazines and anthologies and he has been nominated for the Bram Stoker Award for Best First Novel and World Fantasy Award for Best Novella. In 2002 he was awarded the British Fantasy Award for The Night of the Triffids.

  Simon Clark lives with his wife and children in Doncaster, South Yorkshire.

  Discover books by Simon Clark published by Bloomsbury Reader at

  www.bloomsbury.com/SimonClark

  Blood Crazy

  Darker

  Nailed by the Heart

  For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book.

  The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.

  This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader

  Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

  First published in Great Britain in 1995 by Hodder and Stoughton

  Copyright © 1995 Simon Clark

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The moral right of the author is asserted.

  eISBN: 9781448214693

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