The BIG Horror Pack 2

by Iain Rob Wright

  The base in Leicester was one of only a few successes in this war. When the armed forces had first mobilised, they had intended to launch rescue operations in several dozen locations. Less than ten had managed to gain a permanent foothold and establish a rescue operation.

  There was currently a platoon of twenty out looking for survivors, while just fewer than eighty bodies remained behind to defend the outpost – less than half of those were trained soldiers. In a city of tens of thousands, a handful of souls were all that was left.

  Nick had joined the army to fight terror – to fight evil. Now he found himself fighting for existence – not just for himself but for the whole of humanity. This was the end of days, for sure. The result of some failed experiment or man-made disease had doomed the entire planet. The latest Intel suggested that biological attacks had struck worldwide zoos simultaneously. This whole thing may have been the work of a mad man with an agenda. Such a fickle cause of the apocalypse just made things worse. At least God’s wraith would have had some higher purpose.

  The meek shall inherit the world. But who would have thought that the meek would be the animals, willing to be enslaved no longer?

  “You wanna play cards?” Collins asked, but Nick ignored the request. Too many of his comrades had died carelessly because they had not taken their enemy seriously. He would not do that – could not, in fact. Feckless soldiers like Collins would get people killed. Nick would not allow any blood to be on his own hands.

  He took aim and dropped another cat. They would attack again soon, Nick felt it. The cats were just the eyes in the sky, sent to gather information, and to identify the base’s weak spots. Nick hoped there weren’t any. But the animals had gotten smart. They would find a way in, one way or another.

  With careful aim, he dropped another cat.

  Sanctuary

  Caroline was bleeding. From where, she could no longer tell. Her arm ached from a dog bite and she was pretty sure that some of the tender bones of her wrist had broken. There was also agony in her legs from a dozen different rat attacks, where the dirty rodents had drawn blood with their malicious fangs. Yet, somehow, she was still standing.

  Walking down the middle of the road, Caroline felt woozy enough to lie down and sleep, but she could not. Her blood would entice any animals nearby and she was no doubt being tracked as it was. If only she could take a car, she would feel much safer, but that was no longer an option. Crumpled vehicles littered the streets and made driving impossible. Walking was the only mode of transportation left, but one almost certain to lead to death.

  There had been a group of more than thirty when Caroline had started her journey, over a week ago, for an army base in Leicester. They had hope of rescue and thoughts that there would be somewhere secure to wait this whole thing out. For every member of that group, except her, all hope had come to nothing.

  Yet, she still moved on, stepping over the corpses of both animals and human beings – from guinea pigs to dogs, from children to the elderly. The Earth was now a warzone.

  The base must be near – God how she prayed for it to be near. Caroline’s legs would not carry her much further, but she had passed through the outskirts of the city of Leicester some time ago. She must be getting closer.

  Up ahead was a mass of more bodies, only this one contained solely animals. Perhaps that explained the lack of curs, tabbies, does, badgers, and cows on this stretch of road – someone had killed them all or scared them all away. Someone like a group of soldiers.

  Caroline did what she could to go faster, limping along on two bad legs, swinging around her useless left arm. She imagined she looked just like a zombie from one of those hokey old movies. The thought almost made her laugh, but that, most likely, would have just caused more pain.

  She reached the pile of dead animals and examined them in detail. Although it was mostly a bloody mess, Caroline could see dozens of apple-sized wounds – bullet holes from high-powered weapons.

  Caroline’s hopes lifted as she became certain that sanctuary was within reach. The area had been cleared of threats by an organised force.

  Caroline broke into a staggering run, heading down the road without knowing for sure where she would end up. For the first time in a week, she felt safe. She was going to live.

  She rounded a bend in the road and found herself faced with a wonderful sight. At the end of the street was a barricade made from parked vehicles and bits of recovered masonry. It looked just like the entrance to an army base would in these circumstances.

  Excited, Caroline headed for the barricade, but, after only a few steps, she tripped. Looking down, she examined the road’s surface for the cause. There was a child’s backpack lying near her feet. It was tattered and worn, with a colourful picture of that man from the television. A wrestler, Caroline thought, called the Undertaker.

  Caroline did not want to think why the item was here – it seemed pretty obvious – so she ignored it and continued onwards. The barricade wasn’t far ahead.

  She took more steps, her legs numbing with the constant onslaught of pain. She was almost there now though, only several metres away.

  Caroline cried out as she reached the barrier, throwing herself against the bonnet of a burned-out Escort. “Hello! I need help.”

  There was no reply, only silence. A bitter taste of dread filled her mouth along with saliva. The feeling compelled Caroline to pull herself up from the car bonnet and navigate the barricade. There was a gap between two slabs of concrete and she headed for it.

  When she got there, Caroline noticed the blood that stained the edges of the wall. She followed the crimsons spatters downwards, towards the floor, until she saw the body of a man too young to die.

  The name tag on his shirt read ROBSON, but did not have his first name. Caroline mourned his loss as much as she mourned her own losses. The base was empty of living souls and now any hope she had was gone. The bodies of dead soldiers and mutilated civilians covered the outpost, not one left alive. The amount of deceased animals made it clear that a battle had been fought here – and lost. By the end, the rescuers had needed rescuing themselves.

  Caroline slumped back against the concrete slabs and slid downwards to the floor. It was all over for her. Even if there was someplace else safe to go, she would not be able to make it there. Her wounds had finally gotten the better of her, not of her body, but of her exhausted mind. Caroline was ready to die.

  As a variety of animals emerged from various places, doorways and cars, Caroline did just that. By the time she stopped breathing she wondered if she might well have been the last person left to die.

  BOOK 4 OF 7

  THE PICTURE FRAME

  1

  “Keep it steady, move slowly, or we’ll never find a thing.” Blake watched his son wave the metal detector around like a sword and sighed. Whenever Ricky did anything, he did it fast. The boy did not walk, he ran. He did not eat his dinner, he wolfed it down. Life was not a stroll for Blake’s exuberant ten-year-old, it was a mad, arm-flailing sprint.

  “I’m trying, Dad, but it’s not doing nothing.”

  “Anything. It’s not doing anything.”

  Ricky swatted a greasy strand of brown hair out of his eyes and huffed. “Help me.”

  “Okay, okay.” Blake trudged across the field. It wasn’t Ricky’s fault he was having so much trouble; the thing was old and heavy, as much a relic as anything they hoped to find buried. “There you go,” he said, helping to guide the wand. “Just like that, back and forth. Now you’re getting it.”

  They quickly covered an area about the size of a tennis court—and got nothing. The wand beeped rhythmically the entire time, but never got excited. Blake remembered combing the sea side with his own father and finding loose change galore. He wanted Ricky to feel that same rush of adrenaline upon hearing a metal detector screech. But it had all been one great disappointment. Ricky was clearly growing bored with what he likely considered a waste of a Saturday afternoon.

&nbs
p; It was difficult for a father to entertain his son in the 21st Century. Television and toy companies were the ones in charge, not the parents. Ricky would rather spend his days with grumpy birds on his iPad than in a field looking for buried treasure with his dad. Kids weren’t excited by the thrill of adventure anymore, they wanted instant gratification; and if they could get it while sitting on the sofa, all the better. Blake wouldn’t mind so much, but he wanted his son to grow up into a relaxed, content adult; not another stressed-out consumer, forever reaching for the next rung on the endless ladder of modern affluence. Blake wanted to teach Ricky the things that were actually important.

  Ricky let the metal detector sag to the ground. “Can we go inside now? It’s getting cold.”

  “I suppose we should. I didn’t bring your coat. Didn’t think we’d need it.” Blake placed his hands on his hips. “Okay, let’s head back, then.”

  With a hop, skip, and a jump, Ricky started down the sloping field towards home. The mid-century cottage was two miles away from anything else with plumbing. The added solitude had saved Blake’s life. Buying the quaint cottage, with its cobbled stone walls, original fireplaces, and thatched roof, had been a desperate gamble to escape the endless cycle of stress that plagued him. Getting away from the city and grabbing six acres all his own had returned to Blake his freedom, which had previously been eaten up by credit card bills, mortgage statements, noisy neighbours, gas-spewing traffic, cold-callers and, of course—the straw that broke the camel’s back—crazed fans finding his address.

  Being the nation’s most treasured mystery writer since Agatha Christie wasn’t all it had cracked up to be. The money was great and the work was soul-enriching, but the whining editors, greedy publishers, and spiteful critics made life a constant cycle of negativity. Blake was truly blessed for what he did, but that blessing was also a curse. His job and his life had become one. The phone calls, emails, and social media postings never ceased. The publication of his next novel, immediately followed by another, was all anybody cared about. New York Times Bestseller or not, Blake had needs beyond writing books and making money.

  So, three years ago, he’d used the advance money for two of his upcoming releases and purchased the run-down, yet beautiful Poe’s Place cottage. The property was surrounded by an undulating field, while a long, gravelly driveway set it well back from the seldom used B-road that led there. The fresh air brought Blake’s heels back down to earth and reminded him to concentrate on taking one breath at a time.

  “Dad, why do foxes always poop in our field?”

  “Where do you suggest they go?”

  “In the hedges, or something. Not right where I can step in it.”

  “I think they do it to mark their territory.”

  Ricky fiddled with the metal detector’s strap over his shoulder and gave his father a quizzical look. “Mark their territory for who?”

  “Other foxes. If a strange fox comes along and sees droppings, they know to stay clear. It’s how a fox lets other animals know whose turf it is.”

  “But this is our turf. You bought the field and now a fox is shitting in it.”

  Blake pointed at his son. “Language! Your mother hears you swearing, she’ll hit the roof.”

  “I’m ten, not two.”

  “You’re still a new-born as far as she’s concerned, so watch your mouth. Anyway, I kind of like having a fox around the place. Reminds me I’m in the country. Besides, he might have been here before us. Maybe he thinks we’re the intruders.”

  “The country is boring.” Ricky kicked a stone embedded in the dirt and sent it spinning into the air. They both watched it roll down the hill.

  “You’re lucky to grow up in a place like this.” Blake tried to sound enthusiastic. “Better than I had as a boy. I know the country is quiet, but believe me, things are worse in the city.”

  “Why?”

  “They just are. Everything is too busy. Everywhere is cracked, broken, and dirty.”

  “The country is dirty.”

  Blake sighed. “No…no, it’s not. It’s clean, and nothing ever breaks in the country. Nature heals itself. A tree falls down, another grows in its place. Take our cottage, for instance. When we moved in it was broken down and smelt bad, remember? Because nobody had lived in it for so long, weeds had taken root and there were rats and mice. The oak trees along the driveway were all overgrown and it was hard to even see the place from the road, remember?”

  “There were spiders everywhere,” said Ricky, nodding.

  “Yeah, spiders, too. Nature saw nobody was living in Poe’s Place, so it moved in. Nature makes the best of things; it always copes. In the city, things just fall apart. When you’re older you’ll see that.”

  “Maybe, but I still hate all the fox shit.”

  “The city has dog shit, and that stinks a whole lot worse. And mind your language.”

  “Sorry. Hey, when we get back can we have pizza?”

  “The pizza place doesn’t deliver here. I’d have to go out.”

  “Pleeease.”

  Blake sighed. “Okay, let me thi—”

  Whhhhaaaaaoooooooooow!

  Blake looked at his son, who was standing like he had a live grenade in his hand. “Ricky, you’ve got something.”

  “What do I do, what do I do?”

  Wahhhowowowoooooo!

  Blake laughed. He pulled the trowel he had strapped to his belt and held it up. “You dig, silly. Here, take this.”

  Ricky grabbed the trowel from his father and knelt beside the imaginary X spot. The noisy detector swung around his neck like a musician’s guitar.

  “Here, give that to me.” Blake took the metal detector and clicked it off.

  Ricky struck the dirt with the trowel and split open the mud. Luckily it had rained that morning and the ground was yielding. Liz wouldn’t be pleased about the grass stains working their way into Ricky’s jeans. She was forever shouting at their cocker spaniel, Bailey, for running mud into the kitchen.

  It wasn’t long before Ricky was puffing with exertion. He’d dug a hole a foot wide and had gone down by about the same. It was wonderful to see him so excited. Blake just hoped it didn’t end in disappointment—like the manhole cover he’d unearthed one day when he was about the same age. Blake had dug for more than forty minutes to get at the shiny chunk of metal, before eventually realising it was nothing fantastical or ancient, but simply a chunk of iron from an old sewer grate.

  “We should’ve brought a shovel,” said Ricky. “What if it’s huge? It’ll take all day if it’s a Roman shield or something.”

  Blake dropped down beside Ricky. “Let me take over,” he said. “We’ll take it in turns.”

  And so they did. For twenty minutes they took turns, digging until their forearms burned. At one stage, Blake double-checked with the metal detector to ensure something was definitely there. The speaker whined deliriously to let them know that indeed there was.

  Five minutes later Blake hit the edge of something with the trowel. It made a clinking sound.

  “Did you hear that?” yelled Ricky.

  “Yeah, I heard it. Here, you do the last part. It was your find.”

  Ricky beamed and took the trowel. “Thanks, Dad.” He dug furiously, his vigour renewed. The soil gave way and the buried object started to reveal itself. Whatever it was, it was covered in some kind of sackcloth. Ricky grabbed an exposed corner and started pulling it up.

  Blake wondered if they should be more delicate. What if they really had found something valuable? The last thing they wanted was to smash it into pieces by being heavy-handed. However, it was too late to say anything because Ricky was already tumbling backwards with the muddy sack clutched securely in his hands.

  “I got it,” he yelled. “I got it!”

  Blake grinned. “Yeah, you got it, son. Let’s take a look.”

  Ricky lay the sack on the ground carefully, brushing its surface and delicately removing any dirt and debris. “What do you think it
is, Dad?”

  “Only one way to find out. Open it.”

  Ricky reached inside the sack.

  Blake suddenly felt a wave of nausea, like he needed to eat. It quickly passed as a light breeze grazed the back of his neck.

  Ricky slid out a black hunk of what looked like aged wood. He examined the item in his hands, turning it over carefully. “It’s…a picture frame.”

  Blake frowned. The solid wood was stained so dark that it was almost black and the edges were finely carved with intricate patterns. An iron stud held a rudimentary stand in place at the back, which must’ve been what’d set off the metal detector. “It looks old,” was all Blake could think to say.

  “Maybe it’s an antick,” said Ricky.

  Blake chuckled. “We’ll have to get it valued. Ha! Perhaps you’ll have enough money to buy your own PlayStation this Christmas. I can use the money I save to buy myself a new writing desk.”

  Ricky pulled a face. “No way! You promised me a PlayStation and you can’t get out of it. Anyway, I don’t want to sell this.”

  Blake folded his arms to shield himself against the cold. “What do you want with a dirty old picture frame?”

  “I dunno. We found it together, buried all the way in the ground. I want to keep it.”

  “Okay, we’ll get it all cleaned up, then.”

  Ricky leapt to his feet, grinning from ear to ear and clutching the frame tightly against his chest. “I can’t wait to show Mum.”

  Blake scooped up the muddy old sackcloth from the ground and straightened it out. “We should check there aren’t any messages inside. Sometimes people bury things hoping they’ll be found years later.”

  “Like a time capsule,” said Ricky.

  Blake nodded. He reached inside the sackcloth and felt a twinge of excitement when his fingers brushed something at the bottom. All of a sudden he was a kid again, scouring the beaches with his own father. Perhaps he and Ricky were about to find out the story behind the mysterious picture frame. Maybe they would find a letter written by an old grandfather a hundred years dead, leaving behind a memento for younger generations to find.