Out of Nowhere

by Gerard Whelan

  They’d turned from the gravelled track out on to a small dirt road. Stephen sat in silence for a while, looking out. The countryside did look empty, but then it looked like the kind of land that would be empty at the best of times. Millennia of storms from the Atlantic had washed most of the thin soil from the rocks. He saw why Philip had laughed at his question, this wasn’t crop land, nor even grazing land – it was barren wilderness.

  ‘It must be really weird out here now,’ he said.

  ‘No so much around here,’ Philip said. ‘Or at least no more than usual. Around here it’s always this empty. But it felt very strange in the village we visited. Very strange altogether.’

  ‘Strange?’

  ‘Empty. It was empty. All the houses open, all the peoples’ belongings still there – even their clothes.’

  ‘Their clothes?’

  ‘It looks like they all left in the middle of the night, dressed in whatever they slept in. It’s like they all just … vanished.’

  Once they’d left the steepest, rawest hills behind they did start to pass a few cultivated fields. They even started to see living things apart from birds: a few rough mountain sheep at first and then, as the land improved, cattle. Through the open windows of the little truck Stephen heard a new sound, the first noise he’d heard apart from the sound of the truck itself. It was a strange pained lowing, an uncanny thing. Stephen thought of the old man’s howling the night before.

  ‘That’s the cattle,’ Philip said, seeing his puzzled look. ‘They haven’t been milked for days, and they don’t like it. But there’s nothing we can do for them – there’s just too many and they’re too scattered.’

  They began to pass the occasional house now, small cottages and bungalows, or farmhouses with yards and outbuildings. After a while they turned off the little road on to a larger one. At the junction of the two roads stood several buildings, one of them a pub. The doors of the bar stood wide open to the weather.

  ‘Look at that,’ Philip said. ‘There’s proof that something very strange is going on – what Irish publican would leave his doors open like that?’

  The new road brought them out of the mountains and through a series of dwindling hills. Still the vast emptiness went on. They saw all sorts of animals, but no people.

  ‘It’s weird,’ Stephen said. ‘It’s just … weird. But at the same time it seems almost exciting. You feel you could do anything!’

  ‘Yes,’ Kirsten said. ‘You’re right. But it’s all so scary – the emptiness.’

  Philip smiled.

  ‘Some people in the abbey,’ he said, ‘would think this was an improvement.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Brother Simon, for instance.’

  ‘Simon? But he’s very polite. A bit sour maybe.’ She looked at Stephen. ‘Have you met him yet?’

  Stephen supposed that, since there were only three monks, Simon must be the older monk who’d first found him awake.

  ‘Seen,’ he said. ‘Not met.’

  Philip laughed.

  ‘Just as he’d like it,’ he said. ‘He’s not overly fond of people. Or at least, he doesn’t think much of them. Mind you, he has little cause to.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Kirsten asked.

  Philip thought for a while before answering.

  ‘Do you know anything about our order?’ he asked.

  ‘Only what you’ve told me,’ Kirsten said. ‘That it’s a multi-faith lay order founded after the last world war.’

  ‘Yes. But it’s more than just multi-faith – it’s made up of all faiths and none. We have humanists, agnostics and atheists, the lot. And the order wasn’t just set up after the war, it was set up in large part because of it – as a reaction to its horrors. By now, they have a whole string of monasteries scattered across the emptier parts of Europe, several in America, even a couple in North Africa. They buy old, ruined monasteries when they can and restore them. It’s by no means a poor order, though we all live simply.’

  ‘Where does the money come from?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Bequests and gifts, mainly. Some of the richest European families send their sons to the monks for a few years of the contemplative life before they go “out in the world”, as the order calls it. But what I was going to say is that the order wasn’t always rich. When it was first set up, it was a terrible time in Europe. The whole continent was in ruins, and not just physically. People had found out about the things the Nazis did – the camps, the genocide. Evil, as Paul explained it to me, wasn’t just a word anymore. Evil had a name and a face, and often it was your neighbour’s face, or your brother’s. Our order was founded by people who wanted to think about that, to make sense of it. Men joined for a few years or for a lifetime. When you meet some of the original monks – Simon is one – they’re people who lived through terrible things. Simon was in the Dutch resistance and he had some very nasty exper- iences as a result of his involvement. He was betrayed by his own family, and he was tortured.’

  ‘But what do the monks actually do?’ Stephen asked. ‘Set up abbeys in wild places and … think about evil?’

  ‘Well, yes, basically that’s exactly what we do.’

  ‘And you? Where do you fit into this? Are you the son of a rich family?’

  Philip hesitated.

  ‘No,’ he said finally, ‘no, I’m not. You might say I’m an experiment of Paul’s. I–’

  Suddenly Philip braked hard, throwing the truck into a skid. The trailer slewed violently. When the truck came to a stop, Kirsten and Stephen stared at Philip, whose hands had gone white on the wheel. He, in turn, stared fixedly out of the driver’s side-window.

  ‘What is it?’ Kirsten demanded.

  Philip ignored her. His hand disappeared among the folds of his habit and drew out a big black pistol. Stephen felt the hairs on his neck twitch as he stared at the gun. He could understand that the monks might keep shotguns to frighten off vermin, but this was a weapon that no monk should ever have a use for. It was a tool for killing.

  Philip opened the door of the truck and began to get out. He glanced back at them, his face icy. The change in him was complete.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said tightly. There were no laughs now. He got out, leaving the door open behind him, and set off back down the road. Stephen and Kirsten exchanged a look. Then, without saying a word, they both followed, Stephen hurrying, Kirsten reluctant.

  9. The Victim in the Field

  When Stephen reached Philip he was standing in front of a five-barred wooden gate, staring into the field beyond. The pistol hung forgotten in his hand. When Stephen’s eyes followed the big monk’s stare he saw what Philip’s sharp eyes had spotted in passing – a bright patch of colour on the grass. Stephen had an awful suspicion that he knew what he was looking at. He heard Kirsten’s light footfalls on the roadway behind him.

  ‘Fräulein Herzenweg doesn’t need to see this,’ Philip said quietly. His voice was flat and strained. The patch of colour might have been a bundle of old rags, but it lay in a suspiciously human-looking mound. A white top, jeans and white skin where a face and two hands should be. The bundle was surrounded by a swarming cloud of flies.

  Stephen turned away just as Kirsten reached him. He put himself between her and the gate and grabbed her arms.

  ‘Philip wants us back in the truck,’ he said.

  Kirsten stared over his shoulder into the field. Her face was white and he could feel her trembling.

  ‘That’s a body,’ she said. ‘A person.’

  ‘Come on,’ Stephen said. ‘We can do no good here.’

  She let him lead her slowly back along the road. Kirsten walked like a robot, guided by his arms around her shoulders. He felt goosebumps on her bare arms where his hands touched her skin. She was ice-cold in the summer heat. When they got to the pick-up she got in and sat there, staring straight ahead, hugging her knees, making no sound. Stephen felt he should at least try to say something comforting, but he couldn’t think of anyth
ing. He was sorry about that, he could have used a bit of comfort himself.

  Suddenly, sitting there in the bright sunlight, Stephen wasn’t sure whether any of this was really happening. He no longer knew what was real and what was not. It all seemed impossible. He half-expected the whole scene to disappear, like the image of Kirsten by the well. He reached out and touched the round edges of the dashboard, feeling the smooth plastic surface with his fingertips. It felt dull enough to be real.

  ‘Have you wondered,’ he asked Kirsten, ‘whether you might be dreaming all this?’

  She looked at him. He was embarrassed. It sounded stupid when you said it out loud – though no more stupid, really, than the notion that everyone else in the entire world had somehow just disappeared.

  ‘Right now I wish that I was,’ she said. ‘But we can’t both be dreaming it. If I’m dreaming it then none of you are real. And if you’re dreaming it …’

  She stopped short.

  ‘That could have been me in that field!’ she burst out. ‘Or you!’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It’s too crazy!’ she said. ‘It’s all too crazy!’

  She buried her head in her knees and started to sob. Her shoulders shook. It was hard to believe that this terrified child was the same happy girl who’d set out so excitedly this morning. Then she’d been hungry to see what might be out here in this brave new world. Now she’d seen it. She had seen that the new world had teeth and claws, and used them.

  ‘Maybe it was an accident or something,’ Stephen said weakly.

  Kirsten shook her head without raising it.

  ‘You know that’s not so,’ her muffled voice said. ‘Something is out here. Something dangerous. And we’re out here, too.’

  Stephen felt he should put his arm around her or something – try to comfort her somehow. But he felt shy about doing it, and he couldn’t think of anything comforting to say that wouldn’t be a barefaced lie. So they both sat there, miserably. After a while, Kirsten stopped crying.

  ‘I’m being childish,’ she said firmly. ‘Whatever is happening, crying won’t help. We have to be sensible.’

  She dried her eyes with a big, white handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve.

  Philip returned and called Stephen. He looked dazed and appalled. There was no sign of the big pistol now. Philip brought Stephen to the back of the truck and spoke in low tones that Kirsten couldn’t hear.

  ‘I may as well tell you now,’ he said. ‘It was a man. He’s been killed.’

  ‘By animals?’

  ‘You could say that, but they walked on two legs. They were human – after their fashion.’

  Stephen looked at him.

  ‘We can’t just leave him lying there,’ Philip said. ‘We need to bury him. We have shovels here in the truck. But I’ll be all day digging a proper grave on my own.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Good man. I hoped you’d offer. But I have to warn you, he’s not a pretty sight. Whoever killed him enjoyed the work. They liked hurting people.’

  Stephen felt his stomach churning.

  ‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I’ll still do it. It’s like you say – we can’t just leave him there.’

  Philip looked at him steadily, then nodded again.

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  There was a recessed handle in the floor of the pick-up truck. Philip pulled it up to reveal a storage compartment for tools. He took out two broad-bladed shovels and handed one to Stephen.

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ he said, ‘before we lose our nerve.’

  But it didn’t come to that – at least, not in the way Philip meant. What happened instead was, if possible, even more unnerving.

  When they got to the gate Stephen avoided looking into the field. He was afraid of what he’d see. He knew he’d have to look at it, but he didn’t want to see it any sooner than he had to.

  Philip started to climb over the gate, but then stopped.

  ‘God almighty,’ he breathed.

  In spite of himself, Stephen looked. There was nothing to see. The place where the body had been was empty. Philip jumped down inside the field and ran to the spot, with Stephen following. Philip stared around, wild-eyed, unable to speak. The long grass should at least have been crushed where the body had lain, but it wasn’t. There was no sign that anything heavier than the air had pressed it down. Even the flies were gone. Philip let out a long, hissing breath between his teeth. He whimpered like a child. His eyes rolled, frightened and frightening, in his head. He was a terrified man. Stephen knew exactly how he felt.

  ‘Oh my sweet saviour!’ Philip hissed. ‘What devil’s work is this?’

  10. Agents on the Road

  My friend and I followed the mountain track down through the hills. After a while we came to a crossroads where the track joined a wider, paved road. There was a house there, a prosperous-looking bungalow with a gravelled yard surrounded by a low stone wall. The front door of the house was open, and there was a car parked in the yard.

  ‘There you go,’ my friend said. ‘Transport. Dirty old things, cars, but they have their uses.’

  He vaulted the low wall and landed on the gravel in the yard. I followed him. The car was unlocked and we went into the house to look for the ignition keys. In the livingroom a half-grown cat howled at us hungrily. My friend invited it into the kitchen to look for some food. I searched for the keys and found them in the bedroom, on a locker beside the rumpled bed. I went back to the kitchen, where the cat was twining itself around my friend’s legs. He’d found a can of food with a picture of a cat on its label, and was trying to figure out how to operate the ring-pull.

  ‘It’s terrible to see all these dependent animals,’ he sighed.

  ‘Look on the bright side,’ I said. ‘At least the humans haven’t wiped these ones out too.’

  My friend finally got the can open and poured the food into a bowl.

  ‘I’m not sure how bright a side that is,’ he said. ‘I’d hate to be depending on humans for my survival.’

  We watched the little animal wolf down the food. It growled fiercely as it ate.

  ‘I’ve never understood,’ my friend said, ‘how cats let themselves be fooled by humans. I mean, dogs are born idiots, but you’d think cats would have more sense – or at least more self-respect.’

  Suddenly the cat did one of those reverse feline jumps. It arched its back and its fur stood on end, and it bared its teeth and hissed. It was staring at the window. I looked at my friend. He met my eyes and smiled.

  ‘Bad guys,’ he said. ‘Outside. I felt them too.’ He sighed. ‘Ho hum,’ he said. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

  He led the way to the front door. We went out with the crystals already in our hands. They came at us as soon as we emerged, two young boys as crazed as the one we’d already unshaded. These two, like him, were ragged and dirty. They were just as stupid too. They ran straight at us, screaming and growling and snapping. My friend unshaded both of them without even breaking step.

  ‘So they even attack us,’ he said with mild interest. ‘Things really have got out of hand here, haven’t they?’

  He sighed again.

  ‘Interfering amateurs,’ he said, ‘are a pain in the neck.’

  We left them lying in the yard and drove away.

  ‘Which way?’ my friend asked.

  I stroked my crystal. It was cool now, neutral.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘We’ve a lot of ground to cover. The nearest town first, I suppose. Maybe we can pick up a trail. We have to start somewhere.’

  The fact that we couldn’t trace the people we were looking for wasn’t reassuring. We’d tried everything before coming ourselves. I didn’t want to dwell on the possibilities, so when my friend drove the car out onto the road I concentrated on the scenery. It was pleasant in the car, driving through the heat with open windows, watching the bare hills and fields streaming by. There was a tape-player in the
dash, and after checking aimlessly through some cassettes that were beside it I stuck one at random into the machine and switched it on. The music of the country came softly through the speakers, a wild, sad, lonesome music made by pipes and whistles and stringed things. I listened to it as I enjoyed the view, feeling the breeze wash over the skin of my face. The sun was moving slowly lower in the sky.

  ‘Their music moves me sometimes,’ I said to my friend. ‘It’s hard to believe that it’s made by them at all.’

  He nodded at the tape machine.

  ‘That stuff there,’ he said, ‘comes out of the place itself. They’re just a channel for it.’

  At the next crossroads there was a signpost giving directions and distances. My friend turned in the direction of the closest indicated town. When we reached it, we saw it was hardly worthy of the name. It was a small collection of houses at yet another crossroads. We stopped by a tourist shop, and my friend got out and tried the handle of the door. It wasn’t locked and he went in. I stayed in the car and listened to the lonely music. I didn’t bother keeping watch. The place was deserted – I could feel it in my borrowed bones.

  My friend came back with a large-scale tourist map of the area and spread it out across the warm bonnet of the car. I got out and joined him. He took out a pencil he’d also borrowed, a gaudy thing that said Welcome to Ireland!

  ‘Indeed,’ I thought, reading it.

  With the pencil my friend traced a rough outline of the exclusion zone on the map. Inside the barrier there would be nobody except our kind, broadly speaking. Within the rough circle he’d marked, the map showed half a dozen settlements. None were very big. It was a sparsely populated area – too bare and mountainous to sustain any large communities.

  ‘Do you remember this area at all?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really. Why? Is there something special about it?’

  ‘Oh yes, at least there used to be, a long time ago. Something very special.’