by Paul A. Rice
Ken said, ‘That looks really good, I doubt you’ll be able to see it in a couple of years, yeah, they’ve done a really neat job.’
With that, his friend turned and showed Ken his bare stomach. Below his sternum was a large triangular scar. The wound, although very neat, did have a certain thickness around some of the edges, and looked as though the flesh had been torn slightly before being repaired. The pointed end of the scar touched the base of Mike’s breastbone and then flared downwards so the two lower edges were about three inches below his nipples. All-in-all it was about the size of a man’s clenched fist. The scar was in exactly the same shape as the one Ken had on his cheekbone – it had the same shimmering, green metallic appearance, and looked exactly like a triangular spearhead. Ken blinked at the sight and then looked up at his friend’s face.
Mike grinned. ‘Now, that’s an exit-wound for you!’ he said, jokingly, and looked down at his own stomach again.
Ken laughed, shook his head and absently fingered his own little souvenir. Mike asked him how he’d been left with the scar on his cheek, and also about what else he knew. Ken explained about being trapped in the container and the subsequent adventure he’d been on, he kept it brief and didn’t elaborate too much as he was more concerned about the fact that Mike had been shot, terribly injured, and yet somehow was now back with a seemingly miraculous recovery. When he heard of the chaos and complete lack of people on the base, Mike paled and took a long drink as he listened to Ken’s edited story. Upon finishing, Ken said, ‘Pretty tame compared to your story, though, eh, Mikey?’
Mike looked at him sternly. ‘All things are relative, Kenneth…’ he said.
Ken was just about to get up and run, when, with a mischievous glint in his eye, Mike said, ‘Call me George, my boy – call me George!’ and then cracked up, his burst of hysterical laughter reverberating through the room.
Ken joined his friend’s mirthful noises, but only half-heartedly. The joke was a bit close to the bone for his liking, far too close. Waiting until Mike had stopped laughing, he asked if his friend knew about the writing in the Dutch Church, and was surprised to learn that the Australian had no memory of those events.
Ken told him about the painting and the hole in the floor, and also of his strange ‘hotel’ room. He finished his tale and then looked at Mike with the light of madness in his eyes, shaking his head in utter disbelief as he did so – sometimes the madness was just too real.
Mike, looking equally insane, said, ‘And what’s with all this stuff from your past, you’re a bit of a dark horse aren’t you? I mean, fuck me sideways, have you killed enough people, or what?’
Ken shrugged. ‘What’s there to say?’ he said, with a sigh.
Mike shook his head. ‘You never mentioned any of that before,’ and then, almost like an afterthought, said, ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about it, mate. It’ll be cool, you’ll see.’
Ken shrugged again, saying: ‘I have no idea what he wants me for; George said something about me being a ‘Hunter’. What the hell does that mean?’
Mike shrugged and shook his head.
Ken said, ‘Whatever it is, I’ve got a feeling that it’s not gonna be good for somebody, and I hope that it’s not me who gets the bad news…’ He leaned forward and took a decent swallow of his latest beer, before continuing. ‘What I find most strange of all,’ he murmured, ‘is how we have almost come to terms with this, I mean, ask yourself this – we’ve been told that the entire population of Earth has been annihilated, yes?’ He looked at Mike, waiting to see if his friend was catching his drift.
Mike had definitely caught the drift, he nodded vigorously, saying: ‘Yeah, except for about two hundred or so, according to George.’
‘Yeah, exactly that!’ Ken exclaimed. ‘Then, well...then there’s the fact that we’ve both seen a dream, a dream that would’ve sent most people nuts. I mean, listen: I had a meal that the fucking wall served to me! If I thought about having a coffee, then the bloody stuff just appeared, I don’t know how that worked, but it did! These things are happening – they are!’ Looking back, Ken was aghast by how crazy the situation was.
Mike acknowledged those bizarre facts with a raise of the eyebrows
Ken continued, saying: ‘How the hell have we dealt with all of this without going over the edge? Look at what’s happened to you, you said that you were hit bad, you said you saw your own guts! It’s totally weird because I feel as though I understand this, inside my head I understand about the Hyenas, I can see the logic behind his story, and I know what he means about this fuel-crisis stuff and all the bullshit the ‘Greenies’ come out with – somehow I just know that it makes sense…’ He paused to gather his words. Mike’s face beckoned him to continue, as if searching for some release for his own thoughts.
Ken obliged him. ‘What I don’t understand is…’ he searched for an explanation, ‘…is how I understand! Do you know what I mean by that, Mikey?’
His friend reached over, patted him on the shoulder and then wriggled back into the flight suit, leaving the zip down. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘all I can say is that I totally know what you mean, and it was the first thing I asked George once I left the hospital. He told me the majority of it was down to the human brain’s ability to cope with extreme circumstances, some of it was down to us two as individuals, and the rest was down to the drugs they’ve given us.’
Ken was genuinely surprised. ‘What do you mean, drugs – what bloody drugs?’ he said, and then, as he spoke Ken thought about all the times he’d been asleep, how long he’d been asleep for, and the weird covering overlaid on top of the cut on his face. It would have been easy for someone to jab him with a mind-altering substance. ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right – they might have slipped a needle into us at any time!’ he said, and looked down at his arms as if expecting to see the countless red puncture wounds appearing.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Ken said, with a sardonic grin spreading across his face, ‘when this is all over, we’re both gonna end up as space-junkies! Yeah, then we’ll spend the rest of our days dossing around the universe trying to get a fix of the ultimate brain-fryer! Oh, yeah, that’s us for sure, Mike and Ken, the frigging Mogadon men!’
Mike started chuckling.
Ken paused, and then, with his voice almost a whisper, added: ‘Bloody marvellous. George never bothered to mention that bit, did he? God, he’s such a dodgy, geriatric old twat!’ He burst out laughing again and his dry humour was so infectious that Mike had no other choice but to join him. They roared with laughter and the tears were soon rolling down the sides of Ken’s nose.
Laughing in childish amusement, Mike did the honours with the refills.
As he waited for his fresh drink, Ken asked: ‘What’s with this geezer with the ponytail, do you think he’s important, I guess he must be?’ he asked, looking across at Mike, who was busy taking a sip of cold lager.
Mike wiped the back of his hand across his lips. ‘At the moment I haven’t figured that one out,’ he said. ‘But, I’ll bet you anything you like that it’s not good, George said something about him knowing about this, about him wanting something...I dunno, but he looks like trouble to me, big trouble!’
Ken agreed. ‘Yeah, that’s what I figured, we’ll have to get George to give us the full story tomorrow, let’s sleep on it a bit, shall we?’ he said, stifling a yawn with his hand.
Mike said he had something to show Ken in the morning. Taking a pinch of the material from the suit in his fingers, he said, ‘This stuff, and the gear it works with, is awesome! Mate, if you think you’ve seen some amazing things so far, wait until you see this stuff!’ When Ken prompted him for more details, Mike shook his head and told him it would have to wait until tomorrow.
Ken let it slide as he was now getting rather inebriated and felt the need for sleep creeping over him. He yawned again and placed his empty glass on the table. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he said, ‘Mikey, I need some kip, I’m gonna hit the sack before I fl
ake out right here.’
Once back in his room, Ken kicked his footwear off and hung his clothes on the back of a chair. He wasn’t even in bed when he heard the sound of Mike’s snore, purring softly through the open door which now joined their rooms. He didn’t plan on being too far behind his cohort in that activity and in seconds he had plunged into the secret world where men go to confront their own Dragons.
Whilst he was there, George took Ken and showed him the future.
He showed him the Darkness.
17
Darkness Revealed
Sometimes there are things that we simply cannot see.
Sometimes we just need to look a little bit more carefully.
Ken dreamt of the ginger-haired man. His name was Red and he was running, running hard. Ken was following him, temples bursting as he screamed at the red giant. ‘Stop...don’t do it...put it down, stop!’ They ran across the desert with its hot sand exploding underfoot, they raced across the violet blue ocean, hearts beating wildly as the shining water foamed beneath their pumping limbs. Ken ran like the Devil, ran as though his very life depended upon it, but no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to catch the other man.
Red was also running...he was the Devil...laughing crazily and looking over his shoulder in madness at Ken. Red, with those oversized clown’s-feet flashing across the mirrored surface of the unfathomable depths below. Red raced on ahead, ponytail whipping across his wide shoulders, twangy voice braying like a rabid donkey. ‘You ain’t gonna catch me, mister, no way, José!’
As Ken watched, he saw a strange darkness, like a shadow, but not quite, oozing from Red’s body. It swirled around his figure, almost seeming to take on a form of its own. It became a thick, oily blackness that hung around his face like a veil. Red didn’t seem to notice as he ran ahead of Ken, taunting him like an oversized, school bully.
Ken saw the blackness take on the shape of an awful, bird-like creature, a horrible, liquid kite. Thin tendrils of substance wisped in strings between it and the body of Red, its host. The thing hung in the air above him for a moment, and then, in a blink of the eye, almost as though it had never been there, it disappeared.
Ken knew what he’d seen, though, it had been there and he knew it had. The wretched fear filling his mind was the only confirmation he needed – he had never been as scared in his entire life, not ever.
Together, Ken and Red ran into a brilliant orb of light, it was beyond light, it was so bright that it blinded them. Rushing darkness swirled about them and the feeling of being pulled apart was almost overwhelming to Ken.
Then the Darkness, the black substance from around Red’s face, came upon them and they were instantly turned into tiny microns of light. Turned to atoms, but still running, running from the Darkness.
One of the last things Ken heard was the sound of Red laughing, the noise of the man’s heavy chuckle was like a bag of rusty nails being dragged across a corrugated-iron roof. He also felt sure he heard the distant sound of another, far more familiar voice. Mike sounded like he was screaming.
18
Disappearing Digits
Ken was busy trying to figure out the intricacies of his tangled dream-world adventures, and the insanity of what George had already shown and told him. Whilst he struggled to catch up with all of these things, someone else was much farther down the line towards completing some selfish goals of their own. It hadn’t been easy and the big man had been forced to lie like a cheap watch – however, he was used to that, and was also an expert in playing charades.
Red was on the verge of getting the one thing he wanted more than anything. The storm was coming and with it would come a change in his fortunes. It was time to play the final card. The plan was an awful one, full of selfish spite and without any thought of its consequences at all.
‘What fukin, con-se-quen-ces?’ he whispered. ‘Fuk all that nonsense, now’s the time to rock and roll, baby!’ The time is here, now is the time to kick some ass!’ He grinned, and with a malicious twisting of the features, said, ‘Yeah, I am gonna kick some ass, all right, kick it real hard!’
Red prowled up to the door and paused, looking around the empty room. The rest of the staff had all done as he’d ordered; the place was deserted, sterile. All of them had scampered away to their billets in preparation for their evacuation flights; some were already in the air. The SD House was empty save for the red giant and several of his cohorts. Oh, plus the two silly old men...Jonathon and that fucking drunk, Wilson...both of whom currently waited, unsuspecting, on the other side of the door that lay in front of Red.
The storm was coming, the wind of change.
With a final glance around, and after giving a confirmatory nod to the two nearest men, Dwayne Tolder stepped up to the door. He stepped up to the plate.
Jonathon looked up in surprise as the door to his office opened with a bang – such was the force it had been flung open with that the door very nearly flew off its hinges. Seeing Red entering, he said, ‘Well, hello, Red! That was quite some entrance! Is there something I…’
The expression on Red’s face silenced him.
Without a word, Red reached over and literally lifted him by the scruff of his neck, dragging the old man across the desk. Jonathon, with his skinny legs flapping helplessly, was then launched like a sack of potatoes into the partition wall. The power in Red’s arm was colossal and the old man flew through the air, smashed into the plasterboard and fell in a crumpled heap onto the concrete floor with dust and plaster raining down upon him.
‘Why are you, ohh…’ was all he had time to utter, just before a huge baseball boot crashed into the side of his head. The last thing he would have seen was a flash of yellow laces as Red’s vicious kick to the head mercifully took him into the dark world of unconsciousness.
Two of Red’s men picked up his limp body and dumped him on one of the flimsy, office chairs. Jonathon lolled against the backrest with his head slumped forward onto his chest, to the uninitiated he looked rather like a tramp in the process of enjoying a drunken sleep on his favourite park bench.
Red ran through an adjoining door, when he saw Wilson asleep on his bed with an empty bottle next to him, he simply laughed and then turned on his heel.
He had far better things to be doing, far more entertaining things.
Rushing back into Jonathon’s room, he uttered some words to his helpers. Without question, the two men immediately left the room, closed the door behind them and stood outside with their backs against it. Red reached into his thigh pocket and extracted a pair of stainless-steel wire cutters. He stretched across the desk to his left and grasped a bottle of water. Twisting the cap off with his teeth, he spat it onto the floor and then squeezed the contents of the bottle onto Jonathon’s head. The old man spluttered, coughed and then gagged as he regained some form of consciousness. Red gave him a resounding slap, his massive hand almost as large as the old man’s head.
Jonathon’s eyes cleared as he focused upon Red’s face.
The huge man sneered at him: ‘Welcome to reality, fukwit!’
The twangy drawl shocked the old man into full consciousness. His lips quivered with fear and shock, a small trickle of blood ran from the corner of his left nostril. He sniffed and then spluttered. ‘What...what’s happened, Red? Who hit me? What’s going on?’
Red laughed and it was a terrible sound, a madman’s mirth.
‘I happened, my little old friend,’ he snarled. ‘I fukin happened! You are gonna gimme what I want and you’re gonna gimme it now, or I am gonna happen upside yore fukin head again!’
Jonathon looked at Red, eyes widening in alarm as a massive rush of reality dawned upon him. The old man croaked: ‘What more do you want, I have given you everything possible, we have this under control, we will win. You will all be free!’ He sat, blinking in confusion. ‘Please, I don’t understand, you...we all...I…’ he stuttered. Jonathon was aghast.
Red laughed insanely once more, ‘What planet do
you think that I live on, ya dumb muthafuka? Jesus, you have gone ‘n tried to fuk us, now gimme the keys for that mighty fine lil’ ol’ machine that you have in the safe box!’ He smashed Jonathon across his face once more, the blow rocking the old man’s head like a punch bag. Then, he leaned over and grasped Jonathon’s wrist, jerking it forwards violently. With that awful sneer crossing his face, Red proceeded to encircle one of Jonathon’s little fingers within the menacing jaws of the wire-cutters.
Jonathon looked down at his hand and pleaded: ‘No! Please...what do you want?’ He wriggled the imprisoned hand but his struggle was useless within the vice-like grip of the red-haired giant.
Red laughed again, saying: ‘Gimme the keys to the box, or I will let you have some more o’ this!’
He snapped the cutters shut – their blades meeting with a dull click.
Jonathon’s keyboard skills would never be the same again. He wailed like a child. ‘Ahhh, Ohhh...No, no, no!’ He raised his three-fingered hand up, staring at the stump of the fourth in total horror.
The sound of the old man’s scream sent Red into fits of laughter.
Then he stopped laughing and spoke - orders filled with malice. ‘Gimme what I fukin want, and gimme it NOW!’ Jonathon wailed, the sound of a puppy crying for its mother. Red slapped him. The wailing ceased.
Jonathon took a deep breath and said, ‘No, never, I cannot give you such a thing; it is for one reason only and…’ His words ended with another terrible shriek as Red’s cutters clicked once more. This time the blood squirted onto Jonathon’s legs. He looked down, colour dropping from his face. Complexion deathly white, he sagged forwards against Red’s waist, the position almost obscene. Red shoved the half-conscious man away with a flex of his hips.
His torturer picked up the amputated ring-finger and placed it in his shirt pocket, whereupon a tiny rose of blood began to blossom amongst the material. He took hold of Jonathon by the hair and tilted his face upwards, shaking him back to reality. ‘I ain’t jokin’ old man!’ he said. ‘I’ll cut every one o’ yore fukin fingers off if I have to, now gimme the goddamned code – open the fukin cases, both of ‘em!’ He jerked him upright by the hair and stood holding the old man, whilst looking viciously into his face.