by Tim Lebbon
he thought. Got to get everything right! Got to get the order of things right. There’s always order in things – the right order, and the wrong – and if I get this wrong now then I’ll be caught, and there’s no way my story will be believed. I’ve got a bloodied gun, my dead wife, a child’s corpse and this pistol-whipped killer lying in a country lane. What story could the police concoct from this? And what about the Army, or whoever it was this bastard worked for? Got to get this right. Jo, in the car. Mister Wolf, beside the car. Then Natasha’s chains. Then Mister Wolf again.
Then the gun.
Dragging the man across the road was harder than he had expected. Whatever strength had come to him had drizzled away again, and he grunted and huffed as he pulled Mister Wolf by the legs. The man mumbled something as they approached the ruined car, and Tom stood over him again with the gun pointing at his face. But the mumbling stopped, the breathing became harsh and uneven, and Tom lifted him into a sitting position against the car.
That done, he returned to the BMW and started rooting through the spilled tools. All the time he kept an ear open for any approaching vehicles, wondering just what he could do if someone came along now. There was surely some believable story he could come up with given time, but right now he was not in the mood for creating stories. Right now, he simply wanted to leave.
He found a pair of bolt croppers. They were old and rusty, but still the blades had been kept sharp and oiled, and the action was smooth. He leaned into the car, uncovered Natasha and got to work on the chains. He wanted to cut them as little as possible, because he had need of them. It took four broken links before he was able to unwrap the chains totally from Natasha, taking care not to pull off parts of her body as he extracted a few sections that were buried deep within her rotten clothing. Finally the last length came away. “You’re free,” he said, and from somewhere far away he heard a sigh.
Mister Wolf was still leaning against the ruined car, unconscious. His chin rested on his chest, dribble darkened his shirt, and blood dripped from the wound at his temple. Tom thought he saw him breathing, but he did not want to move close enough to see for sure.
It was time to find out whether his plan would really work.
The chain was long enough to wrap twice around the man’s head and the steering column of Tom’s wrecked car. Tom joined the chain at the base of Mister Wolf’s neck with two of the broken links, using the bolt croppers to squeeze the snipped ends together. He supposed that the man would be able to work the chain around and perhaps pry the snapped links apart, but he would not be able to see what he was doing, and it should take a long time.
Someone would have found him by then.
Lastly, the gun. Tom cleaned it as well as he could with his shirt, found the button that ejected the magazine, then placed the unloaded weapon on the ground beside Mister Wolf. He pocketed the magazine, then stood back to survey his work, frowning. He knelt again, grabbed the gun, lifted the man’s hand and curled his finger into the trigger guard, laying it onto the trigger.
Shit, he had no idea what he was doing! In the movies this would work, but this was not a bloody movie. He was not quite sure whether it was real life, either, but whatever it was he had to get going. Whatever he had done here would be found soon enough, and while Mister Wolf answered questions with the police, he and Natasha would be gone.
“Gone for Steven,” Tom said, standing, glancing into the car at his dead wife, remembering the birth of their son. Jo had been screaming, and Tom had been crying so much that he could barely see. “Gone for Steven, Jo.” Damn. She had died without even knowing there might still be a chance.
Something touched his crotch.
“Move and you lose them.”
Tom dropped the bolt croppers and looked down. Mister Wolf had raised his head, lifted the gun, and now he was pressing it into Tom’s scrotum.
“No bullets,” Tom said, revealing the tip of the magazine in his pocket. But something prevented him from moving; he had never touched a gun before, and he had no idea how they really worked.
“Always keep one in the hole,” Mister Wolf said.
Tom bit his lip. Learning all the time.
“I’m going to shoot you now.”
“What’s your name?” Tom asked.
“Huh?”
“Your name? What’s your name?” Tom looked down. The man was frowning, right eye swollen half-shut and thick with blood, face pale, and his head was swaying from side to side as if it hurt to hold it up.
“Cole.”
“I’m Tom.”
“You’re dead.”
“I’m Tom!” He had no idea what he was doing. Stalling for time? Trying to start a conversation with this killer pressing a gun into his balls?
“Huh?” Cole looked woozy, and his head dipped down to his chest, then up again. The gun never moved a millimetre. “Shut the fuck up, Tom,” he said. His voice sounded stronger. His left eye focussed on Tom’s face and stayed focussed. “Where is she?”
“I told you, I hid her back—”
“I’m tied up with her chains, shithead.”
Damn! Tom pursed his lips and looked along the road. Please come now, please come now, someone, anyone, please please I don’t want to die like this, with my balls blown off for the birds to come and take away . . .
And then Natasha woke up.
* * *
Tom squeezed his eyes shut as he felt her worm inside his mind, her presence fresh and seemingly renewed. She rooted around, finding things. She felt vibrant and . . . alive!
Only one bullet to dodge, Daddy? she asked. Well then, he’s in pain, dizzy, and I’ll be able to give you one chance.
“What . . .?” Tom said, but Cole suddenly cried out in pain and pushed the gun harder into Tom’s balls. Here it comes, he thought.
* * *
Cole squeezed the trigger. For the first time in his life he was actually looking forward to killing someone. His head hurt like hell, his temple felt weak and mushy, and the headache meant he could barely even open his one good eye. The piece of shit deserved to die.
He squeezed.
“What . . . ?” Tom said.
Natasha came. She erupted from Cole’s subconscious, throwing open the doorways of his deeper mind, gushing up into the foggy streets of his awareness, shouting and screaming and raging like the insane berserker she was. There was no sense or meaning to her outburst, though he read the hatred it contained. He could not make out any single words, but her mockery and derision was obvious in the scream, driving into and filling his waking mind with such loathing that he could only shrink back under its assault. She gave him the violence she had always possessed. He tried to curl into a ball. He dropped the gun and grabbed his head in both hands, ignoring the pain from his temple, feeling the sticky blood there and wishing the wound would vent Natasha from his mind.
“Get out,” he whispered, because he had little strength for anything more.
Get out get out get out! she screeched, whining like a little girl who knew far too much.
“Leave me,” he said.
Leave me leave me . . . Mister Wolf, fuck you, you can suck my ass, fuck you Mister Wolf, you’ll lose, you’ve already lost!
“No,” Cole said. And with a monumental effort, fighting through the agonies of his body and the torture in his mind, he opened his eyes, saw the gun lying next to him and reached for it.
A wavering, fuzzy shape grew smaller in his vision as Roberts fled.
Cole screamed, aimed the gun and fired.
* * *
Cole fell away from Tom, dropped the gun and curled into a ball.
Daddy, it’s time to run, Natasha said, her voice calm and considered. One chance, Daddy. He’s got one round, and you’ve got one chance.
Tom stepped over the groaning man and headed for the BMW. His balls ached, he felt sick, the painful glow radiating up from his groin and stomach almost bending him double.
Quickly! Natasha said.
“Leave me,” Cole said from behind him, and Tom glanced over his shoulder, wondering what she was doing to this killer’s mind. Something horrible, if his expression was anything to go by. Something that gave him pain. Tom was glad.
“No,” Cole said. He raised himself on one elbow and grabbed the gun.
Run Daddy, dodge, fall, he’s going to—
The shot blasted out, startling Natasha deeper into Tom’s mind, and he sensed her own profound shock as something punched him in the back and sent him sprawling across the tarmac.
Shot, he thought, I’ve been shot. There was no pain, no real sensation other than being winded, and he hoped that this was as it had been for Jo, this shocked numbness before death.
Death . . .
“I’m dying,” he said.
Daddy! Natasha gasped, and he could hear her tears. Wait . . . it’s not that bad. Stand up. Stand up now! Her voice changed on those last three words, losing their childish lilt and taking on something of age and experience, something that spoke of power and adaptability. And fury. She was enraged.
Tom groaned, pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, stood. From the BMW he heard the squeak of leather as something moved inside.
* * *
Natasha screamed in his mind, a long, loud, incoherent exhalation of pure rage. Cole had heard this before, years ago when the berserkers were at their fiercest, mad and hungry and craving the feel of living flesh between their teeth. Then they had been contained at Porton Down, and their psychic abilities had never been so strong. Now, Natasha had changed.
He tried to crawl away but could not escape his own mind.
Cole screamed, but he could not hear himself. He fumbled on the ground for the bolt croppers, closed his hand around them and blindly snipped at the chain. The broken links fell away. He crawled across the road and into a ditch, the terrible effect of Natasha’s scream lingering. Instinct drove him on, arm over arm, pushing with his legs.
It seemed like hours before the roar started to fade. But by then Cole was lost to the world, unconscious, prowling the dark places of his mind for somewhere to hide from this monster that pretended to be a little girl.
When darkness found him and took him away, he was glad.
* * *
Tom pulled himself upright against the car, still waiting for the pain to kick in. At least he could stand.
Come here, Natasha said.
He looked into the rear seat and saw the bundle that was Natasha. It seemed to have moved. Her arms had separated slightly from her body, and the face had turned toward him. There was still no expression there – no signs of anything other than the death-mask he had seen before – but her attitude had changed. Whereas before she was a mummified corpse, now she was something that seemed to crave its erstwhile animation. He stared at her face, tried to remember just how he had placed the body on the seat, and then the signs of movement were obvious.
Here, she said again, a young girl’s voice, yet the command impossible to ignore.
Tom leaned into the car, and that was when the pain came. He groaned, froze, hoping that lack of movement would quell the fire that was growing in his lower back. But it did not. Stoked by his spasming muscles the agony roared louder, and Tom thought, I won’t remember this pain, it’s nothing, it’s a signal, the damage is done and there’s nothing worse going on now, it’s a signal that’s all, a signal, and oh fuck it hurts!
Quickly! Natasha said, and though his eyes were closed Tom sensed slight movement again. Lie down beside me.
Tom slumped across the car’s back seat. He felt Natasha’s corpse against his chest and tried to pull back, but he had no strength, and he lay there with Natasha pressed between himself and the seat.
Closer, Natasha whispered. Closer, Daddy. Even through the pain he heard a quiver to her voice.
Eyes squeezed shut – not so much because of the pain now, but because he no longer wanted to see what was happening, what was moving, why he could hear the squeak of leather – he felt a stab of pain in his chest. And then there was slight movement there, as if he were being tickled by a feather, and darkness came to calm his pain.
“Someone will come,” he whispered.
Don’t care, the girl’s voice said in his mind, following him as he sank, turning into an echo and then fading away altogether.
* * *
From the darkness came the sound of the sea, and then its salty smell mixed with the odour of blood, and then he saw the boat. The darkness never went altogether – it was there at the edges, threatening to bleed back in at any instant – but Tom viewed this memory from Natasha’s mind, and try though he might he could not pull away.
* * *
The four of them – Natasha, her brother and their parents – were in the same boat that had brought them to the house. It was powering across the waves, thumping and jarring as it leapt from crest to crest. They sat in the sunken well at its centre, unable to see anything but sky and the occasional splash of spray against the deep blue afternoon. The sun shone bright and aloof overhead.
The deck around their feet was awash with blood. Some of it was their own. They all bore injuries that should have killed them, and yet they seemed more alive than ever. The strange adaptations that had been evident in the house – the elongated limbs, distended jaws, lengthened nails – seemed to have receded, but the bullet holes and stab wounds were still visible. Some of these wept blood, but others already seemed to have stopped bleeding and scabbed over, especially her brother’s. There was a dark spot on his face and two on his neck where bullets had struck home, and now they were little more than heavy bruises. No signs of holes in the skin. No fresh blood. He smiled at Natasha. His pain was palpable, yet in the smile there was an adult knowledge as well, the calm certainty that everything would be alright. Even at this tender age, Peter knew that these wounds would not be the death of him.
of the blood was theirs. But most of it came from what they had brought with them.Some
Huddled between where the berserker family members sat, three naked people cowered on the floor, wallowing in the mess. There were two men and a woman. One of the men had both hands pressed to his throat, trying to stem the tide of blood pumping from a ruptured artery, while the other man and the woman watched wide-eyed, afraid and yet unwilling to help.
Natasha’s little brother – he must have been maybe seven years old – left his seat. He splashed through the blood on hands and knees, and the three captives cowered back, the man without the ruptured throat keening like a pig in pain. Peter paused, growled at the whining man and laughed when he started to cry. Natasha’s mother and father watched with parental fondness, smiling past the pain of their own healing wounds. Peter suddenly darted to the bleeding man, pulled his hands away and took a long, deep draught of the dark red blood. Still on hands and knees he returned to his seat, glancing at the naked woman as he passed by. She remained silent, eyes downcast. Perhaps if she did not see them, they would not see her.
The writhing man grabbed at his wound again, pressing hard, starting to moan now as he felt death’s approach.
“You’re so greedy,” Natasha’s mother said. Her throat was raw from the scream of the hunt and the ravaging of flesh, her voice a knife on bone.
“Yummy,” the boy said, licking his lips and rubbing his stomach. Natasha laughed. Her father smiled at her and his son, then looked down at where the naked woman cowered. She was doing her best to avoid their gaze, legs and arms drawn in to make herself as small as possible. There were terrible bite marks down one side of her body, the skin ragged and torn.
“What’s wrong?” he growled. She ignored him. He kicked out, his heel catching her head and flicking it back. “What’s wrong?”
She looked up at last, defiant. “Fuck you,” she said, and they all laughed, and their laughs were deep and harsh.
Natasha looked down at her own bloodied body and drew her hands over the wounds. Each touch broug
ht pain, but each pain brought comfort, because she would mend. None of them had been using silver bullets or blades. It had been quite a battle, and a good feed, but now she was tired and looking forward to getting back home. At least, thought of it as home. Her mother and father frequently spoke to her in her mind, telling her of another place entirely, and sometimes she dreamed of the darkness and the silence and the places where her kind may one day live in peace, as they had before. They had told her of Home, but there was a huge implied history to their discussions, a deep and rich past, though she had never probed further. She sensed that they were keeping her ignorant of many truths of berserker history for her own good. she The Man seeks to know everything, they often warned, telling her to guard her thoughts. He would know, and he would kill us all, because he’s not like the others. He’s different. He sees the bad without the good, and he sees the differences between us whilst ignoring all the similarities. The Man hates us because we’re not like him. Sometimes, honey, that’s all a man needs to hate.
“We don’t really need to take anything back, do we?” her father croaked.
“There’s plenty for us when we want it at home,” Natasha said. “But still, there’s something exciting in taking it from the hunt.”
“Surely you’re not still hungry?” her mother asked. She was a thin woman, slight, and her skin displayed evidence of at least four healing bullet wounds.
“I’m always hungry,” her father said, glancing above Natasha’s head at something out of sight. He smiled, and even though his teeth were back to normal by now, it still looked like a snarl. “I’m a berserker. Eating people is what we do.”