The Fury

by Alexander Gordon Smith

The girl looked down at her, scowling. She took a deep, shuddering breath that appeared like a thought bubble. Daisy could almost read it, the emotions there packed tight – fear and anger and a great deal of confusion. She felt sorry for her.

  ‘Look,’ said Cal. ‘The truth is we don’t know any more than you. I don’t think so anyway. Let’s go outside, get some air, some sunlight. We can talk about it there. Yeah?’

  They all shivered through another moment of awkward silence, and in it Daisy saw an ice cube vision float through her brain, the same one she’d seen last night only now much clearer. This one was full of fire, so real that she felt like putting her hands to it, thawing them out on its heat. But there was something bad about it, something she didn’t quite understand. The image shifted, melting, and Daisy thought she saw the park, Fursville, lost inside the flames. And the girl, too, in the centre of the inferno. Then the images split apart, fading into the guttering candlelight of the restaurant.

  ‘Okay,’ said the girl. She tucked the tablecloths around her brother’s neck and whispered something into his ear before looking at Cal. ‘Lead the way.’

  Cal walked from the room, the girl following, then Brick. Daisy trotted after them, wondering if it was safe to leave the boy here swaddled in cloth next to half a dozen candles. It wasn’t that which was making her uneasy, though. The ice cubes had gone but they’d left something unpleasant in her head, a feeling that she couldn’t quite shake even as she left the darkness of the restaurant and stepped into the brightness of the foyer.

  The new girl was dangerous.

  Rilke

  Fursville, 6.37 a.m.

  They sat on the roof of the pavilion, eating crisps and bread and taking turns to tell their stories.

  The tall ginger boy went first, stuttering through his tale involving a psychotic girlfriend and an attack in a nearby garage. He was the one who had found this place, Fursville, and he was reluctant to share it. That didn’t come across so much in his words as in the pauses between his words, slight hesitations in which Rilke seemed to be able to peer inside that copper dome of his and get a sense of what he was really thinking. Of course it was probably a hallucination brought on by exhaustion – she’d been awake for well over twenty-four hours now. If that was the case, though, then what was it that made her lean forward when he had finished speaking and say:

  ‘Your girlfriend, she’s still here.’

  The boy’s mouth dropped open, his cheeks blazing, his fist crumpling up the slice of bread he was holding.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he muttered. ‘Of course she’s not.’

  She didn’t have to read his thoughts to know that was a lie.

  The sun had hauled its lazy bulk up from the horizon and daylight splashed across the roof, giving the four of them long, thin shadows that spilled over the edge. It was filthy up here, the spaces between the ventilation stacks and air conditioning units and aerials covered in bird mess and rotting debris. But there were comfy moth-eaten director’s chairs that the park’s staff had long ago dragged up here and the view wasn’t bad. If you looked to the left, that was, over the crests of the fake waves and across the flat, featureless land all the way to a distant factory. In the other direction lay the sea, the same one Rilke had spent all night on. She didn’t want to look at it ever again.

  Still, at least it was warm, and getting hotter by the minute. It occurred to her that they should fetch Schiller and leave him out in the sun, but it would be safer inside, at least until they knew what was going on. Out here the world seemed too big. Anything could happen.

  ‘What’s your story, anyway?’ The ginger one asked, aggression in his voice.

  ‘Hang on,’ said the other kid, the one wearing tracksuit trousers. He was conventionally good looking, but beneath his messy hair his face was featureless and bland. He’s soft, thought Rilke. He’s a pushover. He wiped crisp crumbs from his lips, saying, ‘Let’s stay friendly, okay? My name is Cal, Callum. This is Daisy. She’s, what, eleven?’

  ‘Nearly thirteen,’ corrected Daisy. ‘I just look younger, that’s all.’ The girl offered a nervous smile and Rilke returned it.

  ‘And that’s Brick,’ Cal went on, nodding at the ginger kid.

  ‘Why Brick?’ Rilke asked. She took another piece of bread from the open bag, tearing off a sliver and putting it in her mouth. She felt like she was literally starving, but she didn’t want to show weakness by scoffing down half a loaf.

  ‘Because my dad’s motto is never hit anyone with your fist when you’ve got a brick,’ he growled.

  ‘Nice,’ she said. Neanderthal.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘Rilke,’ she said. ‘Rilke Bastion. The boy in there is my brother, Schiller.’

  ‘Your parents liked poetry, then,’ said Brick, which threw her. How did a caveman like him know that they were both named after German poets? He smiled smugly. A smile that said, Didn’t expect that now, did you? Daisy coughed politely, diffusing the tension.

  ‘My parents, they . . .’ the smaller girl started, and in that pause Rilke’s brain filled in the gaps. She didn’t see it so much as just feel it, the weight, the awful gravity, of two dead people in a bed. Daisy’s face had crumpled like a paper bag left out in the rain and Rilke had an urge to go to her, to wrap her arms around her. Girls had to look after one another. But Cal beat her to it, and she seemed to find strength in his arms.

  ‘My mum, she didn’t want to hurt me,’ Daisy went on. ‘She was ill anyway, she had . . . cancer in her head. It made her act strange. She . . . she took my dad, then herself, so they wouldn’t hurt me. Then the ambulance people tried to kill me, pushed me out the window.’ The girl looked at the boy who held her. ‘Cal found me. He saved me.’

  ‘Nearly didn’t, though,’ said Cal, giving Daisy a squeeze then letting her go. He told his story more smoothly than the others, as if he’d rehearsed it in his head. When he’d finished he looked at Rilke. They all did. ‘Now you.’

  What could she say? She didn’t have a clue what had happened. The only reason she was so calm about it all, so logical, was that the full force of it hadn’t sunk in yet. None of it felt real. Maybe none of it was real. Maybe they’d got to the party and someone had slipped her some acid, ecstasy. Maybe all this was just a bad trip. She finished her bread then shrugged, more to herself than to the others.

  ‘We got attacked at a party, a rave. Then suddenly we moved, we were in another . . . I don’t know. Anyway, we managed to get away. I heard . . . no, felt you guys speaking to me so I brought my brother here. I thought you would know what was happening. I thought you’d have answers. I thought you’d be able to help us.’

  Out of nowhere it hit her, a tidal wave of panic and fear and utter helplessness that sluiced through her brain. She clamped her teeth together until the feeling washed away. She couldn’t afford to look weak in front of these people. Not now, not ever. It’s too late, she realised, seeing the way Daisy stared at her, as though her thoughts were flashing across her forehead. She got to her feet, turning her back on them. It was starting to get hot, ridiculously so.

  ‘We know what you know,’ said Cal behind her, and for a second she thought he was admitting to the ridiculous notion that they could read minds. ‘That people are going crazy. That they’re filled with . . .’

  ‘The Fury,’ Rilke finished for him, the word not hers. She wondered if maybe it went both ways, if she could steal their thoughts too.

  ‘Yeah, the Fury. It doesn’t seem to affect them unless one of us is close. Then they just go mental, try and kill us. They seriously try and rip us to pieces.’

  ‘But afterwards they just go back to doing whatever they were doing,’ said Brick. ‘They go back to their lives, like nothing has happened. They totally forget that they went psycho. If you can get away from them, if you get out of their radar, then they’ll leave you alone. I think so, anyway.’

  A couple of squabbling gulls flapped onto the roof, ogling the str
angers warily before taking off again. Rilke turned back to the others.

  ‘What about Schill?’ she asked. ‘Why is he so cold? What’s happened to him?’

  They looked at each other, and she could sense the vast, black gulfs in each of their thoughts. They didn’t have a clue. She shook her head, disgusted.

  ‘So why bring me here?’

  ‘Because we’re safer when we’re together,’ said Daisy.

  That’s it? She had to bite her tongue to stop from saying it out loud.

  ‘It’s the only way we’ll find out what’s going on,’ said Cal. ‘The more of us there are, the quicker we’ll find answers.’

  ‘Well I’m here now,’ Rilke snapped back. ‘There are five of us, where are the answers?’

  A memory from the previous night swam back into her thoughts, the image of somebody driving a car, somebody else running through the woods. She shook her head, knocking them loose.

  ‘It’s not just us, is it?’ she said. ‘There are others coming.’

  Brick smiled without humour, leaning forward in his chair and resting his head in his hands.

  ‘You have no idea.’

  Cal

  Fursville, 10.54 a.m.

  ‘There’s a gap,’ said Cal. He pointed at a battered stretch of fence in the front right-hand corner of the park, almost hidden behind the bulk of the log flume. There were piles and piles of scaffolding back here, rusted poles propped up against the wilting barricade. It reminded him of a bamboo forest, like in all the old martial arts movies, and he could even see a scraggly bird’s nest sitting precariously on the top of one.

  ‘Where?’ Brick asked. The two of them had been scouting the perimeter for the past few hours to make sure the park was secure. It had been Cal’s idea, and when he’d suggested it to Brick the boy had seemed to take it as a personal insult, as though Cal had said, Hey, man, you’re ugly, shall we see what we can do about it? Daisy and the new girl, Rilke, were keeping an eye on Schiller.

  ‘There,’ Cal said, stamping down a clutch of vicious-looking brambles in order to take a step closer to the fence. One corner had come loose from the ground leaving a flap of steel. Behind it was the towering bulk of the laurel hedge which shielded the park from the street. Brick snorted.

  ‘That’s not a gap, who’s going to get through there? A midget?’

  ‘It’s still a problem,’ said Cal. ‘This place needs to be as tight as we can make it. You never know what’s gonna happen.’

  ‘Fine, put it on the list,’ Brick said, waving him away like a bad smell. Cal lifted his notebook – a restaurant order pad – and added ‘log flume, loose panel’ to the two other breaches they’d found.

  ‘I don’t know what your problem is, mate,’ Cal said, running to catch up with the bigger boy. ‘Haven’t you ever seen zombie films? Once one gets in, they all get in, and if you’re overrun then you’re finished, dead meat.’

  ‘These aren’t zombies,’ Brick replied. ‘They’re not dead for one thing.’

  ‘I know they’re not real zombies,’ Cal said as they walked past a couple of carnival stalls, both of which had rotted in the sea air. ‘Duh. But you know what I mean. They swarm. If one comes after you, they all do.’

  Brick grunted, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘Anyway, at least we’re doing something, right?’ Cal went on as they walked up to the small, squat ticket office. ‘Better this than sitting around in the dark twiddling our thumbs.’

  ‘Specially with that girl in there,’ Brick added, whispering even though there was no way she could have heard them. ‘She scares me more than the ferals out there.’

  Cal laughed, the sound floating on the warm air, seeming to fill the whole park for a second, bringing it to life the way laughter had once kept its heart beating.

  ‘You’re not kidding,’ he said, keeping his own voice low and casting a secretive look back at the pavilion. ‘I’m not going to sleep in the same room as her, she might kill me in the middle of the night.’

  Then they were both sniggering into their hands. It felt good. It seemed like years since he’d laughed. It wasn’t years, though, it was yesterday, remember? Yesterday when things were still almost normal. But yesterday was gone. There was just before and after, and before was a million years ago.

  ‘So how well do you know this place?’ Cal asked, walking to the window of the ticket office and peering through the filthy glass. There was light inside, spilling through the massive hole in the roof and revealing a cash register with its tray open and empty, a couple of waterlogged magazines and a lot of dust.

  ‘Like the back of my hand,’ Brick replied. Cal could see him reflected in the window, his hair like fire. He was picking his nose. ‘Spent more time here than I have at home this year. I’ve pretty much been in every building. There’s nothing left but junk.’

  Cal walked down the side of the office, the main gates towering over him. A chain the size of a fire hose was looped around the ornate ironwork and they’d been boarded up to hide the park from the street. There was a brick tower on each side, maybe ten metres tall. A turquoise ladder ran up the left-hand one to the massive sign that straddled the entrance. There were half a dozen more nests lodged in the back-to-front letters.

  ‘That’s a good lookout post,’ Cal said. ‘You can probably see half a mile inland from up there.’

  ‘Yeah, if you want to sit around all day in bird crap,’ Brick said. ‘What do we need a lookout for, anyway? Nobody ever comes out here, I told you.’

  Cal didn’t reply, just jotted it down in his notepad. Brick had a way of talking that instantly got your hackles up, but surely it was because of the situation they were in. There was a chance the guy might have always been an asshole, but Cal was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. It was important that they got on – God only knew how long they’d be living here together.

  ‘Gift shop,’ said Brick, nodding towards the building on the other side of the gate. ‘Lost property too. It’s empty, pretty much.’

  Cal walked to it. The windows were boarded over, but one sheet of plywood had been pulled off to reveal a single square, glassless eye. He checked the gap between the building and the fence to make sure it was secure.

  ‘So, you used to work out here or something?’ he asked as he joined Brick again.

  ‘Me? Hell no, this place was in ruins when I was, like, seven or something. How old you think I am?’

  ‘I just thought, with you being so tall and everything . . .’ Cal said, shrugging. ‘Twenty-one maybe?’

  Brick snorted out a laugh. ‘I’m eighteen,’ he said. ‘Same as you, I wouldn’t be surprised. Just had to grow up a bit faster, that’s all.’

  Cal studied him properly for the first time, seeing the freckles, the loose covering of fine ginger stubble. And his eyes – they were squinty and unwelcoming but they were still those of a kid.

  ‘You want to kiss me or something?’ Brick said, taking a step back and holding out his hands. ‘You’re giving me a weird look.’

  ‘Gross,’ said Cal, his cheeks heating. ‘You wish. Plus, I’m seventeen.’

  There was an awkward moment, then they both started laughing again.

  ‘I’m glad we got that out the way,’ Brick said. They walked along the side of the gift shop, entering a pool of jagged shadow thrown by the huge roller coaster on the south-east side of the park. ‘There’s another way in just here. It’s the one I usually use. There’s a gap in the fence that’s hidden by the hedge, easy to sneak in and out of. It’s—’

  Cal froze, grabbing hold of Brick’s arm. The bigger boy carried on speaking for a few more seconds before the words dried up in his throat. Then they both stared in silence at the path that led down between the toilets and the Boo Boo Station, peering into the gloom at the blond-haired, bloodstained boy who stood there.

  He was young, he looked even younger than Daisy. He was wearing a pair of Adidas tracksuit trousers and a Batman T-shirt, both of which were co
ated with plum-coloured grime. His feet were bare and filthy. His near-white hair had been stained pink in places, his face too – the dried blood making his skin look like parchment. He had no expression whatsoever. He looked like a shop-window dummy, his eyes empty pockets.

  ‘It’s one of them,’ Brick hissed, taking a step back. Cal still had him by the arm, refusing to let go when Brick tried to pull away. ‘Cal, come on!’

  ‘Wait,’ Cal said. ‘I think he’s okay. Don’t you feel it?’

  There was something in Cal’s head, that same deafening silence as before. It reminded him of the ocean on a calm day, when the sea was as flat as glass but you could still sense the vast, churning weight of water beneath the surface. Brick relaxed and Cal let him go.

  ‘Hey,’ Cal said, talking to the boy. He took a step towards him, his hands held up to show he didn’t mean any harm. ‘You okay? You hurt?’

  How had he got here? The boy didn’t look like he could punch his way out of a wet paper bag, let alone travel to the armpit of Norfolk. Something definitely wasn’t right with this picture.

  ‘We’re not going to hurt you,’ Cal said, edging closer. He got down on one knee beside him. ‘Just let us know your name, or anything. Just say something so we know you’re not one of them. Yeah?’

  ‘You won’t get the little git to talk.’ The voice came from the hedge, followed by the snapping of branches and the hammer of footsteps. Cal felt his skin grow cold as a double-barrelled shotgun emerged through the broken fence. The guy who was holding it was in his late teens, maybe early twenties, his thin face concealed by a scraggly beard. He was wearing a green farmer’s jacket over a white shirt. He lifted the gun to his shoulder, aiming it right at Cal. ‘Don’t move, or I’ll blow your head off.’

  Cal lifted his hands, backing away. At his side, Brick looked ready to bolt, his body tensing up, then he obviously thought better of it. The man approached, swinging the gun from side to side. He drew level with the young boy, giving him a look that sent him scuttling away.