666

by Whateley, Michael

  Movement caught his attention. He stared into the distance. Concentrating. Trying to see what had alerted him. It came again. There was a bush twenty feet in front of him. He could hear something. It sounded like laboured breathing, and every now and again, the leaves moved. But there was no wind. His spine tingled. His muscles tensed and his heart beat faster. He inched towards the bush, occasionally glancing behind. He felt exposed. He could see something inside between the leaves. It looked like blood. Summoning up his courage, he moved the branches apart. There was a young man. He was covered from head to toe in blood. Chunks had been bitten out of his arms. Clive shook him, careful to avoid the wounds.

  Clive felt exposed, not wanting to attract unwanted attention. He whispered, ‘Hey, can you hear me?’

  With a frightening burst of speed, the man sat up waving a small knife in Clive's face. ‘Get away from me. Get back!’

  Clive stepped back. “It’s OK. I’m human. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The man blinked, squeezed his eyes to see Clive better, then visibly relaxed, lying back down, gasping. ‘Monsters. Little monsters, everywhere. Scampering. Biting. Monsters.’

  “Slow down,” Clive said. “You're losing blood, try to relax, you’re safe for now. Who are you? How did you get here?”

  “Don’t know. Was just under the bridge, with the usual lot, trying to keep warm. I live there, under the bridge. Went round the corner for a piss. Then flash. I was here. Then the monsters came. Darting from the trees. Scampering, biting. Monsters. Monsters.” The man spoke in gasps.

  The man spasmed, went rigid, then relaxed, and sightless eyes stared back at Clive. Reaching across, Clive closed his eyes. For the first time, he studied the remains of the man. His clothes were threadbare, old and had imbedded stains. He had needle marks between his fingers and he stank of alcohol. He looked homeless. Probably had no one to miss him. Was this sport? Was this how they had their fun? He also noticed the knife and remembered the tracker. He pulled his shirt apart and looked down at his chest, feeling around his neck and stretching the skin. There was a mole. Had he always had it? He couldn’t remember, but it did feel raised, like something was below it.

  He took the knife from the man's lifeless fingers and pressed the blade against the mole. He gritted his teeth, paused, then pressed the blade down. He jerked and moaned as the pain hit, but pressed the blade further, working it around to hook anything inside. He felt scraping on the blade as it made contact with something other than flesh. He angled the knife and hooked the object out. Now he could see it, just proud of the skin. He put the knife down, and grabbed the object with his nails. Millimetre by millimetre he eased it out. Then it was free, a small black sphere, about a millimeter in circumference, with hairlike wires. It had to be the tracker, what else could it be? Clive put it in one of the many cuts covering the homeless man.

  “Sorry for this,’ he said to the man. ‘But at least this way one of us might live.”

  It felt wrong, just walking away. Leaving the man's body to the animals, but what else could he do? He couldn’t bury him. He crossed himself, then moved on without glancing back. He kept the knife in his hand. He was armed and he wasn’t being tracked. He had a chance. What he needed was a way back to his own dimension. He needed some way of communicating. Maybe he could get in contact with John, maybe he could get him off the planet. But how? What was the web address? It didn’t have one, it was unavailable. The video call, did it have a number? Clive couldn’t remember.

  Find some way of communicating, then worry about that.

  He kept walking in the forest. Aimlessly, looking for something, anything that looked worth heading for. He was crouching, trying to remain small and silent. The trees appeared to be thinning out to his right. He headed in that direction, pausing at every unexpected sound. Yes, it was definitely more open. There was something else. He concentrated on it. Every step brought it closer, larger. It looked like a hut. A small wooden hut. What was that doing here? Why would an advanced race have a hut? He stopped. Looking round. Something wasn’t right. He saw blood on the floor. Drips, and pieces of flesh. Following the drips with his eyes, he traced the path. They headed back into the woods. The direction he had come. Is this where the homeless man had been attacked? Was the hut a lure? He heard a hissing, and rustling leaves. He looked left and raised the knife.

  A Sanguini was speeding towards him, on all fours, like a dog. No. Not like a dog, more like a monkey. Its mouth was wide, and a small, red tongue flicked out between its lips. It leaped over him, biting a chunk out of his neck as it flew by. Clive rolled on his back, flailing the knife, trying to ward off any fresh attack. Another Sanguini bit at his leg, then ran off. Another attacked his arm. How many were there? Clive writhed about, trying to get to a tree. His whole mind focussed on that one goal. He could hear rustling all around him. It sounded like there were hundreds. Faces come into view, over him, lots of faces. They leapt on him and starting biting.

  Clive screamed, but it turned into a gurgle as a Sanguini raised its head, holding a gristly, bloody chunk of Clive’s throat.

  The End.

  Subterranean

  “It’s getting dark, Simon,” Jayne said.

  “I know, it’s not much further. This is the last hill. Promise.”

  “I thought the last hill was the last one.”

  Simon turned and winked at her. He was having too much fun to stop now. He loved camping, and he loved hiking. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the smell of the heather. The hills around Castleton were some of the most picturesque in England. He had walked here at least once a month with his dad, in his younger days. Now, he wanted to share that experience with Jayne. He looked at her again. Face set, striding purposefully. He would share it with her, even if she didn’t appreciate it.

  “Where’s the campsite? Can’t see anywhere you could put one.” Jayne said.

  “It’s not a campsite as such.”

  Jayne stopped and sat. ‘What do you mean? I’m not going another step till you tell me.’

  “Well. It’s a site, and I camp there. But it’s not a camp site.”

  “You mean we’re walking all this way, then just camping under a tree? I thought that was illegal?”

  “It’s just some silly law the Victorians made up to stop the plebs plotting.” Simon laughed. “No one takes it seriously. But that’s why we’re putting the tent up in the dark, and taking it down before the sun gets up too high. No one takes it seriously, but there’s no point taking the mick. Come on. Up you get.”

  Jayne stood, pulling a face at Simon. She loved him, but at times like this, she wasn’t sure if she loved him enough. He was having a good time. She rarely saw him this animated and happy. She wished she could feel like that. But nothing would make her happier than being curled up on the settee at home, with a good book.

  “You’re smiling. I knew you’d get it eventually.”

  She stuck her tongue out. ‘I wasn’t smiling about this, I was imagining life without you.’

  “Harsh. Very harsh.” Simon laughed.

  He turned to walk on. His leg kept going down, not making contact with the ground. He looked down, panic rising. There was no floor, just blackness. He waved his arms, trying to regain balance. Then the world turned upside down as he fell, hitting his head against a rock as he did.

  Jayne stopped. Simon had gone, swallowed up by the darkness. She walked forward looking down.

  “Simon!”

  There was a hole in the ground, about two feet across. She lay down and crawled forward till she could see down. It was too dark, she could only see three foot.

  “Simon, are you all right.”

  There was a groan, then a weak voice replied. “Bloody hell. I’m all right, hit my head, but I’m ok. Have you got a torch?”

  “In the car. Sorry, didn’t think.”

  “I think there’s something down here. I can hear something.”

  “It�
�s probably rats, Simon. Can you climb out?” She waited. “Simon?” She could hear the noise now. Like scraping. It reminded her of her childhood. Walking along dragging her feet, her parents telling her to pick them up.

  There was a shout, a scream, and always the scraping.

  “Simon! Oh, thank god. You had me worried.”

  A hand was visible in the gloom of the hole. She reached down to grab hold and pull him out. It was like pulling a tree, no movement, no give. Then it pulled back. Jayne tried to dig her feet in, to arrest her slide towards the hole.

  “No. Simon. What are you doing?”

  The force was irresistible. There was nothing she could do. She felt sick, tears stinging her eyes. She was now over the edge, just her waist and legs on solid ground. Then, she was gone.

  ***

  John looked up as he heard his wife, Michaela coming downstairs. “Any change?”

  “No, she’s still not speaking, she’s just sat curled up on the floor. The councillor says we just have to be there for her, give her time, she’ll talk when she’s ready.”

  “It’s been three weeks and we still don’t know what the bloody hell happened. What are the police doing? Bugger all as far as I can see. She’s bruised, battered, cut, bitten, even, and they can’t find who did it.”

  “Calm down, dear, getting angry won’t solve anything. We just have to be patient. Think what Simon’s parents are going through, they’ve not even found him.”

  “That’s another thing. Simon’s the man. He’s supposed to protect her. Did a good job didn’t he? Unless…”

  “Don’t start that again. Simon, wherever he is, is a victim, too. He didn’t do this, John. You’ve known him a long time. He’s not capable of this.”

  “Maybe, but someone's going to pay for hurting my little girl.”

  “Leave it to the police, John.”

  John looked back down at the paper. Michaela realised that there was going to be no more discussion and went into the kitchen. She understood John’s frustration, she shared it. But she was more concerned about the future, not the past. How could she help Jayne now? Her baby was in pain, it broke her heart. She just wanted to make it better. But she didn’t know what to do. She talked to Jayne everyday, trying to bring her daughter back. She cooked her meals, but they were barely touched. The last thing she needed was her husband over reacting. He meant well, he was a good man, but his answer to everything was to find someone to thump. Thumping was not going to bring Jayne back from her personal hell.

  John had to do something. He couldn’t do anything to help his daughter now. That was something Michael was good at. The one thing, the only thing, he could do for his daughter, was closure. When, and he had to believe she would, Jayne recovered; he wanted her to know that the men that did this were behind bars.

  He had been doing some investigation of his own. Asking locals on an online forum about the area. Pretending to be writing an article about local mysteries. One name kept coming up. Arthur Sykes. He was a local gamekeeper, and an unofficial local expert. John had managed to track down a contact number, and called him. They had talked over several calls. John only giving Eric a little information about why he was interested. Eric mentioned local disappearances, going back twenty years. Usually hikers. No one was ever found. The police listed the people as missing, assuming they had absconded from relationships, or debts. Eric was not convinced. On their last call, John had confided in Eric. Told him the real reason for his questions. He had been rewarded. He had been told about the cave. The cave where Jayne had been discovered. It was a place that Eric avoided at night. He had heard things. Disturbing things. Noises that didn’t sound natural.

  About three years ago, Eric had been walking past the cave. It was midnight. There had been poaching. Eric was doing his rounds, checking for traps, or trespassers. The night was foul. It was cold, and the rain was pounding down. He saw a sheep that had been separated from the flock. It went into the cave. Eric had approached with a torch. He had intended to herd the sheep back to the pack. In the cave. In the torch beam, he saw the sheep. It was on its side, its throat ripped out. It was being dragged further into the cave. Eric could not see what was dragging it. It always avoided the beam. But he heard a snarl, or a groan, he wasn’t sure which. But it was too much for him. He had turned tail and ran. The police had not been interested. Foxes, apparently. As if a fox could drag a sheep. Eric had been annoyed at both the police's lack of interest, and his own cowardice. He had been looking for an excuse to go back. He had agreed to do just that. With John. Tonight.

  ***

  John stood outside the cave. He stared into the mouth. This was the place. Whatever Jayne went through, it happened here. He had been worried about how he would feel, when he finally saw it. Would he be angry, sad, confused? He just felt numb. That, he hadn’t expected.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a rumbling. In the distance, bouncing over the rough terrain, came a Land Rover. It was old. The doors, bonnet and bodywork were three different colours. As it got closer, Eric could be seen behind the wheel. He was wearing an old green hunting jacket, and a flat cap. The Land Rover lurched to a stop.

  “Wasn’t sure if you would actually be here,” Eric said, climbing out.

  John watched him as he took a bag from the passenger seat. “I want to get to the bottom of this. What’s in the bag?”

  Eric took out some rope, a torch, and a shotgun. “I’ve just brought a few essentials.”

  “We don’t need the gun, I want to catch this bloke, not kill him. He’s got to answer for what he did, and he can lead us to Simon.”

  “Not sure what you’re expecting to find, but I’m telling you, it’s no man. I’m not going in there without protection.”

  John took out his own tiny flashlight. It had cost a few pounds from the local hardware shop. Eric’s torch looked military issue. Trying not to be obvious, he put his torch back in his pocket. “If it makes you feel better, just don’t use it. OK?”

  Eric walked into the cave without replying. John shook his head then followed. Features of the cave were captured in the torchlight like moments in time. Bits of police tape on the floor, old evidence markers, footprints. It felt like walking into someone's private moment.

  “I didn’t think the police searched the cave,” John said.

  “They gave it a preliminary look, but decided it wasn’t important. Just somewhere your daughter sheltered. I think she came out of here.” Eric shone his torch on the ground. ‘The thing is, the ground is rock, doesn’t show footprints. There’s isn’t even much bat guano. Which is another strange feature of this cave. You would expect bats to be in here.”

  They walked deeper into the cave. The light from the entrance was just a pin prick in the distance. The tunnel seemed to end in solid rock. John watched as Eric crouched, then seemed to disappear into the wall. He walked forward, perplexed. Near the ground, barely visible in the shadow, was a small hole. It was barely two feet in diameter, and rough round the edges. Eric's legs were just visible beyond it.

  “Come on, John, this is the boundary, between our world, and theirs.”

  John was having second thoughts about his choice of companion. It appeared that Eric was more interested in looking for ghosts and goblins, than the people truly responsible.

  The hole was tight, John had to pull himself through while pushing with his feet. As he stood, the first thing he noticed was the smell, damp, musty, but there was something else, a rotten decaying aroma. It was noticeably colder, too.

  “Have you noticed the walls, John?”

  The colour of the walls was captured in the beam. Much darker than the entrance. Almost black. John ran his fingers over the cold surface. His finger came away black, leaving a white smear on the wall. He rubbed his finger and thumb together. It felt slimy. “It’s like the wall is covered in oil.”

  “These caves were carved out by underwater streams. I think it’s some kind of
mold, or lichen. Whatever it is, it can’t be healthy being down here too long. Let’s get moving.”

  They set off. The ground crunched as they moved, attracting John’s attention. They appeared to be walking on a carpet of small bones. John’s thoughts were interrupted as he walked into Eric, who had stood still.

  “What…”

  “Be quiet. Listen.”

  In the distance, echoing down the passage, came crunching. Something else was walking in the labyrinth.

  “Turn that torch off, we're not alone,” John whispered.

  They both strained to hear. They were in total darkness and had to rely on their hearing alone. It was getting closer. But there was too much noise. More than one set of feet.

  It stopped.

  “I think it’s just in front of us,” Eric said. “Take my torch, turn it on when I tell you.”

  John put his hands forward, finding Eric’s arm, he ran his hands along it until he felt the solidness of the plastic torch.

  “Now!”

  John flicked the button then recoiled. A face was captured in the beam. It was pale, strands of hair on wrinkled head. A hole where the nose should be, a mouth full of rotten, yellow teeth. It was on all fours, almost on its stomach. It snarled, then leapt, almost slithered at them. It moved so fast. John was frozen, too shocked to react. There was a snarl, a flash, then a bang. John dropped the torch. His ears rang, and dots floated in front of his eyes. Something touched his shoulder. He recoiled and pushed against it. Above the ringing, he could hear something. A voice.

  “Calm down, John, it’s me. It’s Eric. Are you all right?”