by Paul Kane
“Over my dead body,” Rachael told it.
“But my dear, don’t you see? That’s the whole point! You’re already dead. You’re just too stubborn to admit it. Too afraid.”
Rachael’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m not afraid of anything. Not anymore!” And with that she hefted the axe, ran at the wolf and took a swing.
It pulled back, like it was doing the limbo, and the blade missed the thing completely. Rachael was pulled left, dragged sideways by the weight of the weapon. The creature chuckled. “You could always change, you know—if you wanted to. You have it in you. Make this an even match.”
Rachael ignored it, dragging the axe back round for another swing. This time, the wolf grabbed it by the stem with one hand—tugged at it and brought Rachael towards itself. The other clawed hand was up and ready to come down, to rip into her face. Rachael let go of the handle, falling backwards as the claws descended and missed her by millimetres. But not only did she tumble backwards, the creature did as well, tripping over the broken bed and pitching sideways, the axe embedding itself in its chest as it did so.
The roar that followed, full of pain and frustration, filled the motel room. By the time Rachael was raising herself up onto one elbow, the creature was already on one knee. It glared at her with glowing red eyes as it tugged out the axe, casting it to one side out of reach. Blood poured freely from the wound, but it didn’t stop the thing rising and setting off after Rachael.
She flipped over onto her stomach, began crawling away. But the wolf caught her by her feet first, digging its claws in and causing her to wail. Then it yanked her back, grabbing her shoulders and flipping her over again onto her back. Curling its hand around her neck so that the points of the claws intersected at the base of her skull.
The next thing she knew, Rachael was being lifted. It must have taken incredible strength on the thing’s part, incredible willpower considering its wounds, but nevertheless it lifted her and turned around so that its back was facing the door.
All it would take now, Rachael knew, was a click as the wolf snapped her neck (then you’d die for the second time in a week, a voice inside her said). Her feet dangled, toes wriggling. It studied her, as if trying to see into her very core—as if trying to work out why she wouldn’t change.
Then, as she began to pass out from lack of oxygen, Rachael thought she saw something ... a shadow behind the wolf.
Next there was gunfire, and she was dropped—landing awkwardly, but out of harm’s way. She looked up to see the wolf being riddled with silver bullets. It appeared surprised—no, amazed—red eyes opening wide. But not half as surprised as Rachael was when it staggered a couple of steps, then fell sideways with a crash.
Rachael gazed up to find out who her saviour was and saw a young PC with an acne-covered face in the doorway, holding Tom’s discarded rifle. Blood was pouring from his own temple and he wobbled slightly as he made his way inside the room, but he kept that rifle trained on the beast as he kicked it with one toe, checking it wasn’t moving.
The furry lump twitched, perhaps in the throes of death, perhaps about to get up and attack, but it didn’t matter because the policeman pumped it full of more bullets. Didn’t stop in fact until he was out of ammunition and the animal was a mess of hair and redness.
Rachael let out the breath she’d been holding, then remembered Tom. She turned, scrabbling around and searching for him at the back of the room. There she found his prone form, also covered in blood. Rachael struggled to lift him onto her knees, cradling him and stroking his hair as she cried freely. Begging for him not to be dead.
Then he too twitched, blinked open his eyes and took a breath. “R ... Rachael ... I knew ... knew it wasn’t you ...” He managed, smiling. “Knew ... It’s ... it’s okay ... I ...” Tom’s eyes rolled back into his skull and he went limp.
Already dead. Just too stubborn to admit it.
Rachael threw her head back and let out a wail that was almost, but not quite, a howl. Was still wailing as the policeman came over to her, covering her nakedness with his jacket, offering sympathies and reassuring words she wasn’t listening to.
Indeed, Rachael was still wailing as the sound of sirens filled the air outside: joining in the chorus. She was crying like the little girl she felt inside. Alone, confused.
And so very, very afraid.
EPILOGUE
Tilly’s speedy recovery had impressed everyone.
Not just the nurses and doctors, but fellow patients as well. Her wounds had healed in record time, so fast that they were talking about letting her go home inside of a week.
She felt strong, confident—young again.
But she also felt strange. And it wasn’t until they were pushing her out of the hospital in a wheelchair, passing window after window, that she realised why. The reflection being thrown back at her now wasn’t her own. It was that of the beast, grinning at her—until she realised it was her grinning all along. Not only that, she was starting to feel hungry. Starting to crave meat, blood ...
Steph, alone in her room at the psychiatric facility, was beginning to feel those selfsame cravings. She’d escaped from the monster that had been her friend, but not without cost. The wounds that had been inflicted had healed quickly, yet they’d left something behind. Something that, without checks or warning, had spread. A shadow ... a reflection of the thing that had attacked her.
She’d already decided, the next time anyone set foot through that door—whether it was the orderly come to change her bed, or a visit from her sister—she would bite out their throat, eat the flesh and bathe in the blood.
Then, and only then, would she take their form.
It was something she realised she could do now; she didn’t question it or ask how she knew—who would she ask anyway?—Steph simply embraced it.
A skill she didn’t even know she had. Hadn’t had, actually, until that night a week ago or more in Rachael’s flat.
And she realised then she hadn’t escaped at all, not really. The beast had lived on inside her, dormant until now; it was something to do with revenge. One final parting shot. Steph didn’t fully understand it herself, just knew that when she craned her neck as far as her bonds would allow, to glance over at that mirror in the corner ... what she saw staring back wasn’t even remotely human.
Wasn’t her at all.
But she still accepted it. Accepted it, because, in the end, that was really all she could do.
* * *
Peel had suspected it all along.
Secret government agencies, cover-ups—it had all been real. Everything swept under the carpet, the people involved either dead or paid off. He’d been a hero, a genuine bloody hero ... for all of five minutes. Then it had been, “What animal?” “What girl?” And suddenly he was trying to explain himself in front of a disciplinary board with no success. Had been out on his ear with no explanation or pay. To make matters worse, there was now a stain on his employment record which made it all but impossible to get work. An embarrassment to his family; to the good name of his cousin.
Lesser men might have taken their own lives at that point. And, yes, he did think about that, usually when he’d had a few too many and crawled back to that stinking flea-ridden apartment of his in a city very far from home.
But then it came to him like a bolt out of the blue. The one thing he’d proved he was good at, maybe the one thing he’d been put on earth to do (putting himself in the right place, at the right time). There were more of those bastard things out there, he knew that. Peel would get himself some weapons—he’d made a few contacts in his time on the force. Maybe even get himself a shiny axe like that girl had been wielding when he managed to crawl out of the wreckage of his patrol car.
Animal control ...
It would be rough, and he’d laugh a little at that—but only a little. H
e’d hunt them. He’d kill them. Have his revenge.
Accept what he was because, in the end, that was really all he could do.
* * *
Rachael had to accept it, because that’s all she could do.
Her waters had broken, here in this lousy hotel room so far from home. She couldn’t call an ambulance, couldn’t risk anyone finding her. Couldn’t risk them trying to take her away again—she’d only just gotten free from them the last time.
No, she had to handle this on her own. Face the fact that the baby was on its way. Tom’s baby, the little piece of him he’d left behind. All she had left of the night they’d spent together. Leaving her in what the creature had called this ‘condition’ although she hadn’t known what it meant at the time. Didn’t like to think too hard about half of what that thing had said ...
But now something was wrong, even she could tell. Not only was she still nauseous, no matter how much raw meat she ate—a silly craving, Rachael thought ... Not only was the baby premature, but the pain it was causing was incredible; almost unbearable. In spite of this, Rachael tried to keep quiet: even bit into the pillows. And she pushed. Rachael pushed and pushed, until the water turned crimson, flooding the clean sheets of the bed.
Eventually, the baby emerged, splashing out onto the mattress like some caught fish on a boat. There it lay, purple and lifeless until Rachael found the energy to reach forward and take it in her arms.
She was feeling woozy, light-headed, yet couldn’t help smiling when the tiny thing she was holding began to cry. It was a survivor, this one. Now she realised what her mother had felt all those years, even when they were apart, because she was a mother as well. Knew that she would do absolutely anything to keep this little one safe, in spite of itself.
The crying grew louder. The baby was wailing, just as she had done back in that motel where her child—her son—had been conceived.
Rachael smiled, but was worried about what would happen now ... as her eyes grew heavy, as they started to close regardless of the fight she was putting up. She blinked them open one last time, looking past her baby.
At the liquid surrounding her, all the precious liquid she’d lost. Marvelling at the colour, at the shade—which was, quite appropriately ...
Blood red.
BIOGRAPHIES
PAUL KANE is an award-winning writer and editor based in Derbyshire, UK. His short story collections include Alone (In the Dark), Touching the Flame, FunnyBones, Peripheral Visions, Shadow Writer, The Adventures of Dalton Quayle, The Butterfly Man and Other Stories, The Spaces Between, GHOSTS and MONSTERS. His novellas include Signs of Life, The Lazarus Condition, RED and Pain Cages. He is the author of such novels as Of Darkness and Light, The Gemini Factor and the bestselling Arrowhead trilogy (Arrowhead, Broken Arrow and Arrowland, gathered together in the sell-out omnibus edition Hooded Man), a post-apocalyptic reworking of the Robin Hood mythology. His latest novels are Lunar (which is set to be turned into a feature film), Sleeper(s) (a modern, horror version of Sleeping Beauty) and the short Y.A. novel The Rainbow Man (as P.B. Kane).
He has also written for comics, most notably for the Dead Roots zombie anthology alongside writers such as James Moran (Torchwood, Cockneys vs. Zombies) and Jason Arnopp (Dr Who, Friday The 13th) and as part of the team turning Clive Barker’s Books of Blood into motion comics for Seraphim/Madefire. Paul is co-editor of the anthology Hellbound Hearts (Simon & Schuster)—stories based around the mythology that spawned Hellraiser—The Mammoth Book of Body Horror (Constable & Robinson/Running Press), featuring the likes of Stephen King and James Herbert, A Carnivàle of Horror (PS) featuring Ray Bradbury and Joe Hill, and Beyond Rue Morgue from Titan, stories based around Poe’s detective, Dupin.
His non-fiction books are The Hellraiser Films and Their Legacy, Voices in the Dark and Shadow Writer—The Non-Fiction. Vol. 1: Reviews and Vol. 2: Articles and Essays, plus his genre journalism has appeared in the likes of SFX, Fangoria, Dreamwatch, Gorezone, Rue Morgue and DeathRay. He has been a Guest at Alt.Fiction five times, was a Guest at the first SFX Weekender, at Thought Bubble in 2011, Derbyshire Literary Festival and Off the Shelf in 2012, Monster Mash and Event Horizon in 2013, Edge-Lit in 2014, plus HorrorCon, Liverpool HorrorFest and Grimm Up North in 2015, as well as being a panellist at FantasyCon and the World Fantasy Convention.
His work has been optioned for film and television, and his zombie story ‘Dead Time’ was turned into an episode of the Lionsgate/NBC TV series Fear Itself, adapted by Steve Niles (30 Days of Night) and directed by Darren Lynn Bousman (SAW II-IV). He also scripted The Opportunity, which premiered at the Cannes Film Festival, Wind Chimes (directed by Brad ‘7th Dimension’ Watson and which sold to TV) and The Weeping Woman—filmed by award-winning director Mark Steensland and starring Tony-nominated actor Stephen Geoffreys (Fright Night). You can find out more at his website www.shadow-writer.co.uk which has featured Guest Writers such as Dean Koontz, Robert Kirkman, Charlaine Harris and Guillermo del Toro.
ALISON LITTLEWOOD is the author of A Cold Season, published by Jo Fletcher Books, an imprint of Quercus. The novel was selected for the Richard and Judy Book Club, where it was described as ‘perfect reading for a dark winter’s night.’ The sequel, A Cold Silence, has just been released. Her second novel, Path of Needles, is a dark blend of fairy tales and crime fiction, and her third, The Unquiet House, is a ghost story set in the Yorkshire countryside. Alison’s short stories have been picked for The Best Horror of the Year and The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror anthologies, as well as The Best British Fantasy 2013 and The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10. Other publication credits include the anthologies Terror Tales of the Cotswolds, The Spectral Book of Horror Stories, Where Are We Going? and Never Again. She recently won the Shirley Jackson award for short fiction, and wrote the latest novel in Stephen Jones’ Zombie Apocalypse! series: Acapulcalypse Now. Alison lives in Yorkshire with her partner Fergus, in a house of creaking doors and crooked walls. Visit her at www.alisonlittlewood.co.uk.
DAVE McKEAN was born in Taplow, Berkshire in 1963. He attended Berkshire College of Art and Design from 1982-86 and, before leaving, started working as an illustrator.
In 1986 he met author Neil Gaiman with whom he has collaborated on many projects since. Their first book, Violent Cases (1987), has been printed in many editions worldwide, and adapted for the stage. Since then they have produced Black Orchid (1988), Signal to Noise (1990) for The Face magazine and Mr. Punch (1994). Dave has contributed all the cover illustrations and design for the popular Sandman series of graphic novels, and a collection of this work, Dust Covers, was published in 1998. Arkham Asylum (1989) written by Scottish author/playwright Grant Morrison, still the single most successful graphic novel ever published, was also illustrated by Dave. 1995 saw collaborations with the Rolling Stones (Voodoo Lounge), and Rachel Pollack (The Vertigo Tarot).
Between 1990 and 1996, Dave also wrote and illustrated the 500 page comic novel Cages, which won the Harvey Award for Best new comic and best graphic novel, the Ignatz Award, the International Alph Art award and Italy’s La Pantera Award. His collection of short stories in comics form, Pictures That Tick released in 2000, won the Victoria and Albert Museum Illustrated Book of the Year Award, and several of McKean’s books are in the V&A collection.
In 1995 he produced the image to launch the Sony PlayStation, and in 1996 was one of four photographers chosen by Kodak and Saatchi’s to launch their new colour film with a book, video and global ad package. He has also produced campaigns for Smirnoff, British Telecom, 3dfx Voodoo, BMW/Mini, Nike, the British Government’s Social Work Department, and Eurostar. Dave has contributed many illustrations to The New Yorker, Playboy and other magazines, and promotional work for the films Blade, Alien: Resurrection, The King Is Alive, Dust and Sleepy Hollow. He has also created concept illustrations for the 2nd and 3rd Harry Potter films, and designs for Lars von Trier’s interactive project in
Copenhagen, House of Zoon.
He has won various awards including the international Amid Award for the best album cover of the year (one of over a 150 covers designed, illustrated and photographed since 1990, including recent releases by Michael Nyman, Tori Amos, Real World, Altan, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Bill Laswell, Alice Cooper, Dream Theater, Counting Crows, Front Line Assembly, and Bill Bruford), and the World Fantasy Award for the Sandman covers. In 1996 he composed and performed the music for the BBC Radio adaptation of Signal to Noise with saxophonist Iain Ballamy, with whom he has recently initiated the Feral Records label. Dave’s Hourglass studio and Allen Speigel Fine Arts in California have also co-published three collections of photographs: A Small Book of Black & White Lies, Option: Click and The Particle Tarot which includes an introduction by legendary director and Tarot master Alejandro Jodorowsky.
Dave has exhibited in America and Europe including solo shows at The Four Color Gallery, New York, the Museum of Contemporary Art, Madrid, and The Maritime Museum, Carlisle, and has put together two touring exhibitions with Graphicus Touring; the retrospective show Narcolepsy which continues to show throughout the UK and Europe, and a collection of photography.
In the last few years Dave completed his first children’s books: The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish and The Wolves in the Walls (NY Times Illustrated Book of the Year) both written by Neil Gaiman, and Varjak Paw (Smarties Gold Award) written by SF Said. Also a book with Stephen King (Wizard & Glass), books and TV films with Iain Sinclair (Slow Chocolate Autopsy, Asylum and The Falconer), and designs for the autobiography of John Cale: What’s Welsh for Zen.