A couple of times he risked glancing back, and felt a fragile seed of optimism germinate: they couldn’t swim. Their thrashing and tumbling was even more chaotic and directionless than his own. Contrary to all his expectations, he was pulling clear of them. Focusing all his energy on suppressing the panic, Alex tried to slow his wild movement, lending it some sort of rhythm, and soon there was clear daylight between him and his pursuers.
It was just as he began to think that maybe they were going to be alright after all that Alex realised the folly in his plan. In his terror he hadn’t even thought to consider which direction the river was flowing. It hadn’t been important then.
Now, watching in horror as Rothbury loomed closer, it suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world. At least until the river grew malevolent, and sent him crashing into a low-hanging branch, and Alex was yanked to painful halt as though someone had pulled the handbrake.
His eyes widened in fright.
Over his shoulder, in the blind spot the branch that had snared him would not allow Alex to twist and see, he heard a noise grow distinct from the roar of the water, getting closer. A noise that made him rage hopelessly against his restraints, as he had so often before.
Snarling.
*
The rain began almost apologetically, as though it were somehow embarrassed to be returning to Wales yet again. A few drops at first, like warning shots, and then the heavens opened, the pregnant clouds above finally delivering, and the downpour began in earnest.
It fell on the small group of people making their way carefully along the road between St. Davids and Aberystwyth, plastering their clothes to their skin, washing away the blood and the filth accumulated across several days of sweat and terror. They trudged on, grateful for the noise the weather provided, for the way it masked their passage.
Across the fields and forests, over empty farms and emptied villages, the rain poured, running in rivulets that became streams, as though nature itself was trying to cleanse the earth of the horrors unleashed upon it.
All across the land, the sightless creatures lifted their faces to the heavens, the thrumming of the cold rain on their faces a mystery that they could not solve, and when the sky cracked, and a deafening peal of thunder shook the countryside, the creatures, as one, clapped their blood-stained palms to their ears and shrieked in agony.
*
The rain fell on Jason like a cooling balm, but it did nothing to wash away his confusion. The others couldn’t see his mother, and that only made her presence there more terrifying.
Rachel had never had quite the same connection with their mother, hadn’t needed it he supposed, she was strong enough to walk alone. Always closer to their father. But Jason, big, fragile Jason, he had always needed the security his mother provided.
So it was comforting in some ways to see her walking alongside them, but frightening that she was naked from the waist up, and that her eyes had been gouged out, and of course that she had a piece of roof tile jutting from her forehead like an accusation.
She hadn’t said anything to him, hadn’t done anything other than walk alongside him, but Jason was relieved in some ways that she was there. Glad he hadn’t killed her, though he knew she must be pretty pissed off with him: that tile looked painful.
He avoided looking at her wrinkled sagging body, her blood-stained breasts. They made feelings of shame and embarrassment squirm through him, and an overwhelming sense of sorrow: his mother was a proud woman. The thought that the residents of St. Davids would see her walking around in such a state would leave her mortified.
Jason had motioned to her to cover herself up a couple of times, figuring that maybe she wasn’t aware for some reason that she was walking around half naked, but on each occasion the empty holes in her face had simply glared back at him balefully, until he had averted his eyes.
When Jason had been small – or at least when he had been young – his mother had found him one day alone in his bedroom, sobbing. He hadn’t wanted to tell her, felt ashamed of the fact that he was being mercilessly bullied by kids half his size, but his mother’s talent for extracting information was legendary around the town, and when she brought her skills to bear on his young resolve, he had crumbled in short order.
The bullying wasn’t physical of course: Jason towered above everyone in his class, and even the most short-sighted among his peers understood that if they moved him to genuine anger they stood little chance of emerging from a confrontation unscathed. No, it was psychological; insidious, leaving a far more indelible mark on him.
When his mother got the details she had marched to the school and straight into the head teacher’s office. The children in the corridors looked on, astonished, for Mr Meredith was a scowling, ominous presence that hovered over the school like a malignant tumour, spreading fear throughout. His office was the scariest place of all: the lion’s den.
To Paula Roberts, Jim Meredith was simply the man she had once observed buying a pornographic magazine in a quiet newsagent’s on the outskirts of town. She had made her presence known to him, and left him in no doubts about what she had seen when she glanced knowingly at the plain brown paper bag he clutched to his chest tightly. Information was power, and power was of no use unless the people you wished to affect knew you held it.
So when Mrs Roberts had marched into Meredith’s office, it was the domineering head teacher whose face turned a sickly shade of green.
The children cowering outside couldn’t hear what she said to him, for she kept her tone low, crushed under the weight of the force she exerted on the words. They heard Mr Meredith stammering and whimpering though, and when she stormed out of his office, the lucky few that saw through the door before it closed reported that Mr Meredith had officially ‘shit his pants’.
She was a formidable woman in life. In death, she became something altogether more intimidating.
Jason’s attempts to cling on to the world around him were becoming more strained; he felt as though he was being stretched. He remembered seeing a television show about black holes, and the way it was thought that if you were unlucky enough to be near one you would simply be pulled to pieces, the gravity affecting your feet many times stronger than that affecting your head, stretching your body out like wet dough until it snapped.
The stretching was bad enough when he saw her, the feeling of being slowly pulled into the space around him, like his mind was leaking. But just when he felt as though he might not be able to take anymore, things got considerably worse. She began to speak.
Jasssssssonnnnnn…
*
Claire jumped as the thunder rolled and ricocheted around the town above her, sounding impossibly loud. Her mother had taught her long ago to look for the flash of lightning and to count the seconds until the air began to rumble. One second for each mile to the storm she had said, and the words had comforted Claire, dulling the terror at the howling of the sky, as much by giving her something to focus on as by letting her know that the storm was not right upon her.
This time, locked in the cellar of the pub with the strange old man, Claire could not see the lightning flashing, but she knew the thunder must be close, maybe right above them. Never before had she heard it so loud: even down here, below ground level, the sound was like a furious god, unloading its rage on the sky.
She curled up even tighter, making herself as small as possible.
“Haw! Just a storm young lady, that’ll be the least frightening thing you’ve witnessed today I’d wager!”
Bill gave her a reassuring smile.
She nodded, face whitening with the memory of the morning.
Bill flipped over an empty crate, lowering himself down onto it gently, with a heavy sigh.
“My knees,” he said by way of explanation. “No one ever tells you to enjoy your knees at your age, you know.”
He leaned a little closer.
“Enjoy your knees, girl. Comes a time when you get to hating them, so enjo
y ‘em while you can!”
Claire nodded again. Bill was confusing, but she was gradually warming to the idea that he wasn’t going to cause her any harm. At the very least, he wasn’t going to try to eat her. Which made him the friendliest face she’d seen in nearly a week.
Bill chuckled, low and rumbling, the gravel in his voice twinned with the thunder above.
“Have you been down here since...it started?” Claire asked.
“I started off up there,” Bill said, pointing at the ceiling, “landlord gave up trying to evict me at closing time a while back, so I’m part of the furniture and usually the first customer. He ran outside to see what was going on, I ran down here. You learn some things when you’ve been around as long as I have. Chief among them: don’t run toward danger.”
Bill plucked the ring pull from a can of lager, took a long, deep draught, grimaced.
“Warm. Tell me your name then, girl.”
“I’m Claire,” she replied, her voice small.
“You live close by, Claire?”
Claire nodded.
“And what about your parents?”
“My dad doesn’t live with us, it’s just me and mum. She…became one of those things.”
The cheery demeanour fell from Bill’s face.
“Sorry to hear that, Claire. So you’ve been out there on your own?”
Claire nodded; her expression downcast.
Bill grunted as he placed the beer can on the ground.
“You got nowhere to go?”
She shook her head slowly.
“You know, when I was your age, I found myself out on the streets. War, see. I lived in London then. My old man had been an importer – fabrics and such, until he got called up. Just left one day, never came back. The war didn’t seem real then, seemed like just a load of politicians arguing about this and that, the way they do. Then the bombs started dropping.
“It’s a bit like that out there now, I think, people running around with nowhere to go, death on every corner. Only difference is the bombs ain’t made of metal now, they don’t explode.
“The bombs are things we can’t see. Can’t fight against, can’t run from. All those years ago it was all about who could build the biggest weapon. Now it’s whoever can build the smallest. And it’s all stuff your average man won’t understand: genes this and molecules that. You understand what I mean, Claire?”
Claire shook her head.
“Hah! No, I don’t suppose you do. I probably don’t know what I mean either, but I think whatever is going on out there, it’s nothing to do with nature. It’s not some sickness. It’s us. History has shown it time and time again: when people start dying in their thousands or millions, it is usually other people that caused it.”
He burped, and fixed Claire with a thoughtful gaze.
“Well, come on. I had help in London, so I’ll help you now. Might not be as fun as drinking my way out of this, but I’ll probably rest easier come the end.”
He stood.
“Where are we going?”
“Out of this basement, young lady. Comes a time when you realise there’s no point running from the bombs, not when there’s more important things to do.”
Claire nodded, though she didn’t understand.
“Besides,” he said with a wink, “there’s got to be food up there, and I’m starving.”
He beamed, and threw back the bolt on the door.
*
John didn’t mind the rain. There was something isolating about it, something that meant that even though he walked alongside the three strangers, just a stride apart, each had invisible walls around them. Heads down, eyes blinking out the water that ran from their hair down their faces, the rain gave them all time alone with their thoughts.
He hadn’t mentioned the remembrance of gunfire to the others. Hadn’t mentioned either that the name Victor had resonated in his mind. He’d wanted to ask more questions, but some bone-deep sense of caution held his tongue.
As he walked, he pondered his new-found friends. The woman was interesting: petite and attractive, and yet something about her was steely and sharp. The big guy was a worry: he radiated menace, and when John looked at his eyes, he saw nothing looking back. Jason was troubled, he was sure of it, he had probably seen some terrible things to corrupt him in such a manner, but his troubles were no concern of John’s. Right now the guy was an angry, starving bulldog. Sooner or later, such an animal was always likely to turn. He resolved to keep a close eye on Jason.
The two siblings clearly looked to Michael for guidance and leadership, despite his impaired body. John liked him instinctively, liked the easy manner and the way he seemed able to find humour – no matter how bleak – in their situation. If anybody was going to make it through to the other side of whatever was happening in South Wales mentally unscathed, John’s money was on the policeman.
Former policeman. The thought hung in John’s mind like a cloud. Everything seemed to be former now. Again frustration reared up in his mind, and he willed himself to remember. There were fragments of feelings there, colourless shards of memory that refused to resolve themselves into a meaningful picture.
John had been as surprised as anyone by the way he leapt up to fight their attackers at the cliff top. He certainly hadn’t picked himself as military, or as the type who would rush to heroic deeds. In fact, when he thought about the military, a feeling he could only describe as disdain bubbled away in his psyche.
Maybe that meant he wasn’t ex-army. Maybe, he acknowledged to himself, it meant he was.
“You look like you have a lot on your mind.”
Michael’s voice. John was trudging along behind Jason, easy to forget the giant had a man strapped to his back, watching the rear.
“Or maybe not enough,” he responded with a grim smile.
“Nothing coming back to you?” Michael asked.
“Uh…no, nothing,” John said, and pointed over Jason’s shoulder. “There’s a farm over there by the looks of it, reckon we should get out of this weather for a while? Looks like it’ll be getting dark soon.”
Michael twisted his neck. The farm looked old: solid stone walls, very small windows. Not quite a fortress but as close as they were likely to get. He nodded, and waved to catch Rachel’s attention. She followed the direction of his gesture, and gave him a thumbs-up.
The four of them left the road, making for the farm warily.
Michael kept a watchful gaze on John, his eyes narrow with suspicion.
Ahead of them, the road left the thickest of the forest behind, giving way to rolling fields and wide open spaces. The farm stood in isolation, battered by the elements, darkened and still, like a watchful sentry.
Chapter 5
The south-western tip of Wales had a higher than usual number of artists per capita: painters, writers and photographers were drawn to the area by the stillness, the silence, the isolation. St. Davids and the surrounding area had long been a muse to many, inspiring poetry with its harsh, empty landscape; all rocky cliffs and forbidding forests and swaying grassland. The epic scale of nature was writ large in the area, drawing in soulful spirits.
Lloyd Thomas had been one such artist; a landscape photographer, who specialised in the sea and the sky, his visions illustrating the enormity of nature that crowded around the insignificant dwellings of humans. His work had been gathering momentum: there had even been a little interest in showcasing his photography in a small gallery in London. Even better, he had met and fallen in love with a wonderful woman, Lucy, who supported him completely and provided him with a second muse, lending his work a touch of optimism and romance that it had always lacked, but all of that changed the day he ate her.
He didn’t know it of course: he left the Lloyd that had existed before behind the moment the blood in his veins began to boil and the synapses that his brain had spent a lifetime building were suddenly snapped and violently remade. His eyes, on which he had relied for so long, the eyes that were uni
que and saw the world at unusual angles, became two poisonous infections, sending daggers of pain into his new mind, until he ripped them out.
Lloyd never got to see Lucy’s eyes widening in fright and confusion as he dragged her to the floor and sank his teeth into the soft flesh of her long, elegant neck, finding her jugular vein and tearing it from her.
He felt it though: felt the warmth of her blood as it flowed freely over his mouth and torso, felt her trembling body go limp. By then she was just one more of them, one of the alien presences that provoked deep, consuming rage inside him. The sudden absence of her, as her life pooled on the patio, made him feel like howling in triumph. Suddenly the world felt alive, and he was aware of it in every glorious nuance: the wind washing over his bare forearms, the scents clamouring for attention in his nostrils…and the noise. Suddenly the thing that Lloyd Thomas became didn’t just hear sound; he saw it; felt it.
The world was vivid, overpowering, making his body jangle like the infusion of a powerful drug.
He stumbled from the garden, never to return, and made his way into the open, delighting in the feel of the kindred spirits being born all around him and snarling at the presence of the others. He didn’t understand that he could have given Lucy this wondrous gift had he inflicted a less serious injury upon her; but it mattered little. Lucy would never again cross his mind.
His progress was slow at first, faltering, but he grew in confidence, each experience new and wonderful and fresh. He had, after all, only just been born.
There was no conscious thought behind the killing: it was a biological imperative. As he walked through the suddenly unfamiliar streets, he found the alien presences darting away from him, their shrieks smashing into his delicate ear drums, making his head hurt. The only way to stop the pain was to change them, to transform them with his teeth, and to make them his own, and if that failed, to remove them altogether. It wasn’t something he knew, or something he thought. It was something he was.
Psychosis (Wildfire Chronicles Vol. 3) Page 6