Martin looked totally bewildered. “Children? I don’t…and what is that in your head Frank?”
Frank smiled as he gently touched the thing which Martin referred too, the thing which was now living in the centre of his brain – the thing which had fused itself to his synapses, his electrical nervous system, the thing which both powered and controlled him now…not that he fought against it. To him it had always made perfect sense. Fusion on that higher sentient level – the thing…the half breed human / machine wriggled as he tickled it.
“You will understand in due course my friend, I promise you that.”
“What?” Martin started but then turned his head…the leaves rustled, the branches bent...there was movement within the tank.
“Please, there is no need to be shy,” Frank called. At first Martin thought his friend was addressing him but he wasn’t…he was talking to…
“…oh shit, no…no…you’ve got to be fucking kidding me…” He dropped Mathilde on the floor, not that that mattered, she was dead…he began to crawl, he had to get out of this place and quickly…but where, Frank was there with the knife in his hand ready to pounce…that thing…fuck…there wasn’t just one of those things…there were three, four…no five of them.
What the fuck were they?
Well, whatever they were…they were approaching. Their limbs stunted, deformed, a screeching sound emanating from what he assumed was their mouths – yes…a tooth inside or too, extended tongues…one of them grabbed Mathilde, retreated back into the tank dragging her remains with them.
“Please, please…” Martin cried. Tears poured from his eyes. They were close to him, he could smell them…he looked towards Frank for help, for safety, but none was forthcoming. Frank was excited, his penis was erect; he was frothing at the mouth…his hand was at his neck and the knife…Jesus, what was he doing to himself…
…Martin didn’t have time to comprehend that for the first thing, that first…worm...a combination of human, of creature…of android…reached out and touched Martin and Martin, well, he had no choice but to scream…
Cracked Concrete
by Bryn Fortey
If the abandoned industrial complex had been nearer shopping facilities, then Mike Hutton might have considered moving there on a permanent basis. As it was he arrived at 9.00am and left at 5.00pm, Mondays to Fridays, and 9.00am to 12.00noon on Saturdays, always riding his 750cc Suzuki motorcycle. Once he had removed the helmet, which was an obvious giveaway, the leather flying jacket and goggles made him look like a pilot, he thought: World War Two, Battle of Britain variety.
Hutton had found the complex within days of leaving his last proper employment, and the redundancy cheque they had given him meant he was under no immediate pressure to find another job. The decaying site consisted of five units, or had done, all of which he had explored before settling upon a former Warehouse as his main base.
The office, which he had taken over, was to the side of the roller door entrance and exits, above both locker and mess rooms, and provided a full view of the whole building. It even had a beat-up old desk that nobody had considered worth the effort of taking when the place had closed. Hutton had brought a chair from home, which was a flat above a newsagents shop, two turnings away from the High Street back in town.
A cat colony occupied the site and he had worked hard to clear them from his chosen headquarters. The animals, for their part, seemed to accept Hutton’s occupancy of that one building. An occasional cat might wander in, as if checking his tenancy, but by and large they left him alone.
***
Agnes Clifton sat on her bed, hunched forward at an awkward angle, forearms resting on her thighs. “You were lucky to find another job so quickly,” she said, a throwaway remark, or one that could mask low key probing. Hutton had found it easier to explain the regular hours of his coming and going with fictitious employment.
He grunted an uncommitted response, preferring to concentrate on the helicopters flying overhead. Her semi-detached seemed to be below what had become a regular flight path as the skies took over as the transport system of choice for many. Street gangs, dog packs, even marauding urban foxes; all had combined to promote the ever expanding taxicopter companies.
At least it left the roads freer for people like Hutton. Trouble was always a possibility, but speed limits no longer applied and his Suzuki had so far seen him whizz clear of any bother.
Reaching out, he cupped his hand around the darkened areola of her nearest nipple. It was a Sunday morning and both, having just risen, were naked. The overhead roar of the helicopters excited him and Hutton could imagine himself thrusting into Agnes, in time with the rhythm of their engines.
“It’s early yet,” he murmured, and they returned to the warmth of entwined bodies and rumpled quilts.
***
The electrics supplying the aging complex had long been disconnected, but Hutton had reassembled a backup procedure and was able to open and shut the roller doors through a circular chain and cog system. It was both tiring and lengthy, but beneficial in improving his upper body strength. There was a concrete parking area outside, where lorries would have waited their turn to either load or unload, cracked in places now, as was the internal floor of the Warehouse itself.
One warm July afternoon he had brought his chair down to sit at the entrance, sunning himself lazily and sipping lemonade. A few of the cat population were also stretched out on the concrete, napping. All was quiet and peaceful until suddenly, without warning, a fox appeared as if from nowhere. The cats scattered in a flash, bar one, slower than the others; old maybe, or infirm. Whatever the reason, the fox pounced.
Hutton was half out of his chair, thinking to try and distract or scare the predator into releasing its prey, maybe by waving his arms and shouting, but he wasn’t needed. A feline army, so it seemed – meowing, spitting, snarling – raced at the fox; biting, scratching, hitting. Old Reynard soon dropped its victim, becoming more intent upon defending itself. Blood and fur flew before the fox, realising itself to be vastly outnumbered, managed to turn tail and run.
A number of cats had suffered injuries, mostly minor, though the original victim was unmoving and appeared dead, something Hutton confirmed later. He had been totally shocked by the cat’s actions, but in retrospect could understand its logic. A successful kill would have marked the site as a plentiful food source for the fox and it would have returned regularly, maybe with others as well, something the cats could not countenance. Their one advantage was in having a vast numerical superiority, and they had made it pay in a similar fashion to the way ants would attack and defeat a much larger beetle.
But cats weren’t ants…
Hutton looked at his feline neighbours with a new respect after that.
***
Colin Clifton had died when a carjacking incident went wrong two years previously. He had rushed from the house to prevent what he had spotted from a window and had been bludgeoned around the head with the crowbar his assailant had been trying to open the car door with.
He had saved the vehicle from being stolen, but at what a price…
Agnes, sterile and therefore childless, had sought employment initially as a form of therapy. An attempt to reintroduce herself into the wider world she had previously relinquished in favour of the private existence she had enjoyed with her husband, and it was while working as a departmental dogsbody that she had first met Mike Hutton, the moody oddball who was now her lover. She had dodged the cull when redundancy volunteers had been called for and then forcibly selected, staying on as part of a reduced work force when Mike and the others had been cut loose.
At thirty-eight she was three years older than Hutton, not enough for it to be problematic, and she sometimes considered whether or not their relationship would benefit if he were to move into her home on a permanent basis, but it was something he never suggested. He came to see her every Wednesday evening, staying the night and leaving on
the Thursday morning; then spending the weekend with her, from Saturday afternoon until Monday morning. On the other nights he slept at his flat, which he showed no signs of wanting to give up.
Colin had died because of laziness, leaving his car on the driveway instead of putting it into their garage. Agnes had naturally been bitter towards the perpetrator, who had never been caught, but her husband had been to blame for putting himself in such danger in the first place. She still had moments of sad joy when she could bask in memories of their time together, but they occurred gradually less often once she got over the guilt of physical sex re-entering her life.
Hutton, for his part, was quite content with their ongoing arrangement. The newsagent he lived over had a secure yard at the rear, where he was able to keep his Suzuki in safety, under a tarpaulin cover. On the nights he spent with Agnes, the motorcycle was locked in her garage. He would definitely not be making the same mistake as her late husband.
His attitude was that he lived at his flat and visited his lover. Their relationship was based on little more than sex which, while admittedly good, was hardly sufficient for a lifetime’s commitment. It was best to let things stay as they were, for now at least.
***
The gradual fragmentation of society, it seemed to Hutton, when thinking of the fox incident, influenced animal behaviour as well as human. As people withdrew, becoming less and less homogeneous, their former four-legged friends had to adapt to new situations.
“They are probably a lot smarter than we give them credit for,” he remarked.
“I had a spaniel once that was really clever,” said Agnes. She hadn’t liked the fox story, Mike having supplied all the gory details, and preferred not to think of what went on outside her own personal bubble.
“I pay more attention to them now,” continued Hutton, “and I can tell you that feral dog packs seem to be better organised and have more purpose than the yobs hanging around street corners, throwing stones at windows.”
“Trudy!”
“Pardon?”
“My spaniel: her name was Trudy.”
Ye Gods, grumbled Hutton to himself. If it wasn’t for the fact that she was so good in bed…
***
After discovering it, Hutton had researched the site to the best of his ability. It had been known as the Foxglove Trading Estate and the Warehouse he had claimed as his own had specialised in tinned foodstuffs. There was an overhead gantry, now rusted and without power, which he would sit in sometimes while imagining what it would have been like as a busy and productive enterprise.
Of the other four units: there had been an engineering machine shop, a skip hire company, a manufacturer of chemical pesticides, and an engine reconditioning workshop. All long gone and the place now bequeathed to him and the cats, with weeds growing from many of the cracks in the disintegrating concrete. The one place completely free from such growths was the former pesticide factory. There were cracks aplenty, as elsewhere, but without any weeds. It seemed more cold and forbidding than the other units and even the cats gave it a wide berth.
At one stage Hutton had planned to tidy the whole site, but ended up concentrating only on the Warehouse he occupied. Sometimes he would map out the floor area: tinned vegetables in aisle (a), fruits in (b), meats in (c), or whatever configurations pleased him on any particular day. At other times he would just sit at his desk and ponder upon the variables of life and the unerring march towards the disintegration of society. Or contemplate more personal issues, such as his relationship with Agnes.
Hutton knew that she wanted him to move into her house permanently. She hadn’t actually put it into words yet, but would do at some point soon. And why wouldn’t she? His staying power was of legendary proportions and multiple orgasms for the partner of his choice was a given.
She knew which side her bread was buttered on.
***
Big Al, they called him. People used his full Christian name at their peril. Big Al Popham had never understood why his parents had called him Alvin. What was he, a bloody chipmunk? He had been away for a spell – ducking and diving, keeping his head down – but now he was back on home turf.
Squat, broad, and very powerful, a Neanderthal looking individual, he’d run with the gangs when younger and kept up loose affiliations since because it made sense, but he preferred doing things solo. He felt best on his own, with no concerns about other people’s baggage.
Street corner etiquette had prompted him to announce his return to the current Head Honcho, a spotty-faced kid Big Al could have crushed with no bother, but for the fact that these punks had it over him numerically. He would help them out whenever they had a need of genuine muscle, and for the rest of the time the territory was his to patrol.
Big Al Popham was back! Watch out, one and all.
***
Agnes had noticed the tan and black coloured German shepherd a few times before, usually with other dogs but occasionally alone. It was sat on the pavement opposite her house, staring across the road, and though she had stepped back from the window she felt the animal could see her and was noting her movements.
“Damn dog,” she muttered, stepping back further into the room.
What was it Mike had been rabbiting on about? Something about cats getting smarter? Ha! Rabbits and cats! She smiled to herself, proud of her little quip, but maybe he had been on to something. That dog outside could almost be said to be studying her, which smacked of intelligence. It was a breed that had always made her feel nervous. Maybe because they were so wolf-like in appearance.
Another helicopter flew overhead, the drone of its engine getting louder, then receding.
She had laughed at the news item about a man being attacked by a goat. It brought to mind cartoons she had seen of someone bending down and being struck on the backside by a goat, or a ram; anything with horns, really. It wasn’t so funny though, when it turned out the man was dead, killed by the animal.
Cows, too! Agnes could remember a number of incidents where someone had been trampled by cattle. And now this wolfish dog was watching her home. Maybe Mike was right. Maybe it was the beginning of Orwell’s Animal Farm.
And here comes another, she thought crossly, as yet another engine roar grew, hit a peak, then faded as it passed overhead. Mike liked them. Well, he would, wouldn’t he! Agnes thought he secretly pictured himself as a helicopter pilot; the romance of the air, and all that nonsense. She just wished they would fly in a different direction.
***
Hutton rode to his Foxglove Trading Estate hideout at maximum speed and in a foul mood. The newsagent’s proprietor, his landlord, had been waiting for him when he went to get his Suzuki from the yard at the back of the shop. Hashim al-Hafiz was a refugee success story, someone who came to this country, worked hard, prospered, but had now had enough. There had been an attempted burglary at the shop the previous week, the fourth that year. Physical threats were commonplace and shoplifting on the increase.
Mr al-Hafiz was putting the business up for sale so would need the upstairs flat to be vacant. Mike had been a good tenant, and none of this was his fault, but life was hard. Would he please start looking for alternative living arrangements.
The flesh impact of various crash scenarios scorched through his mind as he weaved his motorcycle through the relatively thin traffic. If he hadn’t been so angry, Hutton might have imagined himself piloting a Spitfire in a Battle of Britain dogfight, a popular dreamscape when he was speeding. Why did life have to intrude? Why couldn’t he be allowed to withdraw in orderly fashion?
Hutton guessed that he would have to give serious consideration to moving in with Agnes fulltime, but he didn’t really want to. Maybe he should just cut and run. He had given thought to moving into Foxglove permanently when he first found the place. He should have been bolder, he thought now, but was a hermit’s life what he wanted? The solitude would be no problem, but to go without regular sex…
***
It had been one of those days at work! One of the managers, a married man with little or no concern for the sanctity of his vows, had pestered her for a date. He tried it on every now and then, ignoring the fact that she always turned him down, but it was stressful and trying.
Home at last! It wasn’t one of Mike’s evenings and Agnes wished she wasn’t going in to an empty house, but she would survive, and it was certainly a relief to get away from work.
Turning from the garage door after parking the car, she couldn’t suppress an unexpected moment of fear. There, on the drive, actually within the boundaries of her property, was that German shepherd. Sat, looking at her.
“Shoo!” she called, trying to sound braver than she felt.
The dog cocked its head, still maintaining unnerving eye contact.
Agnes backed slowly towards her front door, and as she did so the animal stood and matched her speed in moving up the drive towards her. “Go away!” she shouted, her voice ragged and high as she gave way to a feeling of real terror. “Go away!”
Then, just as it started to move faster in her direction, a half house brick came flying through the air, striking the dog’s muzzle. It yelped, stopped, spun around and fled, splashing blood from a gash along nose and mouth.
Agnes felt quite disorientated, even unsteady, but a firm hand gripped her elbow and held her while she recovered.
***
Maybe it was unwise of him to hang around here, but Big Al Popham just couldn’t keep away from this particular house. He had unfinished business with it, and the bloody place owed him!
That stupid bugger, Clifton! What was his first name? Colin? Yes, that was it, Colin Clifton, dashing out and trying to play the hero. All for a piece of junk he couldn’t be bothered to put into a garage. Nutter! A couple of smashes with the jemmy and his brains were dribbling out onto the driveway.
Big Al had the initial worry as to whether the dickhead cops would link him with the killing, and when that didn’t happen he still had to stay out of sight, drawing no attention to himself until the case slid onto the back burner. Two years he’d stayed away, two bloody years, until it seemed safe to assume it had been filed as unsolved and left to rot.
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