by Stephen Laws
But for now, we needn’t fear it. Not for a long, long time anyway.
Because it’s gone.
Lisa felt it first.
She brought us to the edge, just here, shortly after we returned. We stood in a line, holding hands—and we knew, just knew, that the Vorla had been destroyed. Her parents had drummed religious education into her head when she was a kid; managed to put her off for life. But she still remembers a lot of those verses; knew what the Vorla was trying to do when it made us see its false Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. She used one of the verses then, as we looked down into the abyss and knew that the Vorla had been destroyed. From Revelations.
“Then I saw what seemed to be a sea of glass mixed with fire. I also saw those who had won victory over the beast and its image. And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea.”
Hundreds, maybe thousands of tons of burning fuel spewed out from that petrol plant and down into the Chasm. We saw great waves of the Vorla screaming and burning like tar. The liquid fire that gushed down there must have ignited the Black Stuff, burned it out, scoured it from the Chasm. It can’t rise out of the abyss again to attack us; can’t further its plans to create its obscene New Society; can’t torture or maim or inflict agonies on the survivors here.
But that doesn’t mean we’re free of it for ever.
It took thousands, maybe millions of years for the Vorla to grow to that size; took it all that time to form what Lisa calls a hideous “collective consciousness”. And the process won’t stop now. Somewhere deep down in the Chasm, maybe the first glistening-black pools of it are forming again. With each murder, each rape, each violent crime, another thin trickle of Black Stuff will be dripping in the darkness. With each act of malice, each act of greed, or envy, or ill-will, perhaps those thin streams will be reaching out for each other in the cracks of the cliff-face. How many hundreds of years before it begins its task again? How many thousands of years before it regains its first glimmerings of “collective consciousness” once more?
Maybe everyone will have a change of heart in the “real world”?
Maybe they’ll all start being kind to each other; maybe there’ll be a spiritual revolution and they’ll be able to eradicate all evil acts for ever; maybe that evil energy will just stop coming over here, and won’t be dumped down there in the Chasm any more?
Big maybe.
Or maybe we’ll be the new caretakers of the Vorla. Maybe we’ll find a way to stop it growing down there. Maybe…just maybe…we’ll even find a way to send it back where it comes from.
In the meantime, we’ve got the chance of a new beginning here. No threat from the Chasm, and no Caffneys trying to build a new society for the Vorla. The first task is a big one. There are other survivors out there somewhere on the peaks and crags of New Edmonville. If the Caffneys could build bridges between those plateaus, then we can do it as well. I’m hoping that those kids managed to survive the petrol-plant fire. I’ve a feeling that most of them did, and they’re still out there. We’ve got to find them, show them how wrong the Vorla was; help them make a new start. There’s one kid in particular who I’ve just got to find.
I have to find Paulie, the Crying Kid.
He’s been on my mind a lot, from the very beginning. He saved my life when the Caffneys threw me into the Chasm, and I can still see his face up there on the wooden platform as I fell into the pit; that face getting smaller and smaller as the darkness swallowed me up. I can’t get rid of the feeling that he’s so like me when I was a kid. Some secret part of me still wonders if the Crying Kid is me, when I was younger. I know that doesn’t make sense, but I can’t get rid of the feeling. I need to find him again; need to make sure he’s okay. Just how he ended up on the other side of the city, with the Caffneys, is anybody’s guess. Lots of mysteries out there, all waiting to be tied up. It’s up to us now; all down to us to create that new society, our way.
No sign of Gordon since our return.
He must still be in that in-between place, with the Cherubim. Maybe he doesn’t know that we’re back. Or perhaps he’s just biding his time; getting more answers to the great mysteries that are all around us in the Realm of the Chasm. Who knows? Maybe he’s finding out the Meaning of Life. One day soon, he’ll be back. I know it. When he does, we’ll…
“Jay?”
“Oh…Juliet.” “
“What are you doing?”
“You mean this? It’s a dictating machine. I’ve been using it these past few weeks, talking to it, getting my head around everything that we’ve been through.”
“Have you got any of the answers?”
“One big answer to my problems. She’s standing here with me now, right on the edge of the Chasm. How are the others?”
“They’re good. Better than good. I’ve got great good news.”
“There’s a fleet of rescue helicopters on the way, after all?”
“Better than that. Candy’s pregnant.”
“God…she’s sure?”
“Definite.”
“Damon’s, or Alex’s?”
“She doesn’t know.”
“How is Alex taking it?”
“He says he doesn’t care. I’ve never seen them like this before, Jay. They look so…so damned happy.”
“So we’re going to have a first-born in New Edmonville? The first real new citizen of our new society.”
“We should change the name. This isn’t Edmonville, or New Edmonville.”
“So what should we call it?”
“Eden.”
“Eden? You mean like in the Bible?”
“Yes, except we’ve already thrown the serpent out of this garden.”
“And maybe we can keep it out.”
“I’m sorry…I interrupted you. With the tape, I mean.”
“No you didn’t. You’re just in time.”
“For what?”
“Come here, love. Sit beside me. This is nearly done…”
So I’m nearly at the end of this last tape; the batteries are running down.
Since the ’quake, we’ve all had our fair share of death and horror and nightmarish things that should have sent us mad. But we’ve made it through and, as a group, we’re closer than family now. We’ve got a huge task ahead of us. Find the other survivors, find those kids. Begin again, create a new society. Keep a watchful eye on the Chasm. Funny thing. I started out as a caretaker cleaning up other people’s mess. Now I’m doing the same sort of thing here. Me and the others; caretaking the Chasm, watching to make sure that mankind’s mess doesn’t start acting up again. But like I say, we—or whoever comes after us—should worry about that in a thousand years’ time or so.
But do you want to know something? I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad that we didn’t get back. I’m glad that we’ve got a chance for this New Beginning, glad for the chance to start again and avoid all the old ways that have been screwing people up ever since we came out of the trees and started living in caves. We don’t have to make the same old mistakes here. We’ve got the chance to make it so much better.
There’s another reason why I’m glad we’re here.
I had a dream last night.
In the dream, I was back in Edmonville. The earthquake had never happened, and I was on my way to work. I was walking down Wady Street, steeling myself for another day under Stafford the head teacher’s lash; not much else to look forward to but another night of drunken oblivion with Fritzy and the others in The Fallen Oak. There was a woman on the other side of the street, heading in the opposite direction. Long blond hair, dark suit. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. It was Juliet.
She looked at me as we passed, and looked away.
I looked at her, and moved on.
In the sky overhead there was a rumble of thunder.
A little further on, I looked back to watch her figure vanish in the distance. Maybe she had an appointment with
Trevor Blake.
I knew then that in that existence we never met and we never fell in love.
We both went on with our lives, following them through to whatever end fate might have in store for us. Something tells me that they wouldn’t be happy-ever-afters.
Want to know something else? I don’t think that was a dream at all. I think I was seeing something that was really happening in the Edmonville we’d come from.
And that’s why I’m glad I’m here.
Because Juliet and I are together.
Because of it, I know I’m a better man than the other Jay O’Connor in that other existence. I’ve found something here with Juliet that I never could have believed possible in my other life. And each day that passes, I thank my lucky stars for it.
I’m standing now, ready to finish.
Once, I thought I’d keep these tapes as a reminder of how it all began. But we don’t need this record to remind ourselves of the pain and the death and the blood that’s been spilled here in…in Eden. We don’t need to remember the old ways. We just need to go on. Find the survivors, heal the wounds, and make our New Beginning. That’s why, when I’ve finished dictating, I’m going to throw this tape machine and my half-dozen tapes into the Chasm.
Juliet’s pulling at my sleeve…and there’s a look of joy on her face. She’s pointing, and I’m looking and…Christ!
It’s Gordon!
He’s walking across the grass towards us, that guitar over his shoulder. Playing the harmonica and with a smile on his face that says he’s got an awful lot to tell us. There are birds overhead. Birds! No…not birds…they’ve got wings, but they’re not birds. God, I can hardly believe it.
So much to do.
But lots of time to do it.
And by God, this time we’ll try and get it right.
About the Author
Award winning horror author Stephen Laws was born and lives in Newcastle upon Tyne in the North of England. His novels and short stories have been published all over the world to great acclaim. Details can be found on his website – www.stephenlaws.com
Look for these titles by Stephen Laws
Now Available:
Somewhere South of Midnight
Coming Soon:
The Midnight Man
Where true terror lives!
Somewhere South of Midnight
© 1996 Stephen Laws
A hot summer's night on a lonely stretch of highway. Suddenly, just past midnight, the night is filled with blinding light as something unidentified collides head on with the southbound traffic. Eighty-seven people are killed in the hideous carnage. Only seven survive. But the seven who have somehow managed to escape unharmed have also mysteriously acquired a new and awesome power; the power to heal—or destroy—with a single touch.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Somewhere South of Midnight:
George MacGowan took only a brief interest in the car parked on the hard shoulder. The bus flashed past and he had a quick glimpse of the man sitting behind the wheel, head forward. Just some other poor bastard who had broken down. There was never a good time to break down at all, of course, but he didn’t relish the idea of breaking down in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night. He had no idea it was the car that had so recently overtaken him with its horn blaring, had no idea as he passed the car (reciting more dialogue from the jungle movie) that, even now, it was slewing away from the hard shoulder after him, approaching fast from behind.
“That’s why they hired a guy like me,” murmured George, lip-synching with the actor on screen. “They know I got nothin’ to lose...”
The video-screen image wobbled, and in the next instant the picture was gone. Instead there was a hissing snowstorm and an electronic crackling of static. George checked the rear-view mirror. Everyone was asleep. Just as he’d thought, he was the only one paying any attention to the damned thing. Leaning forward, he flipped the video switch.
The screen still hissed and buzzed.
He tried again. This master switch should turn off the video cassette and the television itself. But the television was still on. He tried several more times and then finally gave up. If someone complained, he’d have to pull into a lay-by and switch it off manually, at the screen controls.
Only a couple of extra minutes added to the schedule, and they were right on time in any event.
Up ahead, well past his headlight beams, and on the other side of the carriageway, he could see someone else’s headlights heading towards them. They seemed dazzling, much brighter than any of the other headlights he’d occasionally passed.
George checked the video screen again. Still flashing and buzzing.
And then the engine died.
No sputtering out, no sudden warning.
There was power, then suddenly there was none.
In panic, George stamped on the accelerator, trying to get more juice. Nothing. He twisted the ignition key. Nothing.
The car travelling towards them was approaching at top speed. Somehow, its headlights were even brighter than before, dazzling him and adding to his confusion. He felt suddenly sick with horror as the glaring headlights filled his line of vision. In that one instant, in a moment of stark fear, he knew that the lights could not be filling his windscreen like that if the vehicle was on the other side of the road. The lights could only be flaring and blinding for one reason.
The oncoming vehicle was not on the other side of the motorway.
It was on his side of the road.
Heading his way.
Somehow, some stupid idiot had taken a wrong turning from a slip-road—and his or her vehicle was heading the wrong way down the motorway, directly towards them.
The bus was losing speed. George frantically gripped the wheel, twisting to look at the rear-view mirror. But he could see nothing. The flaring headlights were impossibly bright, obscuring the mirror, and the only thing he could do was to swerve from his lane, and get the coach on to the hard shoulder and out of the way.
And then everything happened at once.
George MacGowan pulled the steering wheel hard over to the left, heart hammering, eyes dazzled by the headlights as…
Ellis Burwell, filled with anger, floored his accelerator and began to overtake the coach on the inside lane. His car had just begun to pass the rear of the coach when the entire vehicle swung at him, vast and powerful and shuddering. He jammed his hand down on the horn.
And then the screaming began.
The screaming seemed to be coming out of the light that filled the windscreen, from somewhere beyond the coach, which should already have swung out of the path of the oncoming vehicle. But somehow the glare still filled the windscreen, and as the light grew to an unbearable intensity, it was as if the voices were somehow reaching a new pitch of fear. The sense of imminent impact was horrifying and inevitable. Squinting into the brilliance, fear threatening to rob him of all his strength, George tried to see in the rear-view mirror if it was the passengers behind him who were giving vent to the desperate shrieking. But his brief, terrified glance could see nothing in the mirror, only more of the dazzling brilliance as…
Ellis Burwell’s foot came off the accelerator as the screaming filled the interior of his own car. It was exactly the same sound as George could hear, desperate, shrieking voices. A multitude of screaming people, the pitches varying, rising and falling, all in terror. The sound of it numbed and terrified Ellis. He stamped on the brake, intent on letting the coach carry on, one hand flying from the steering wheel to his ear, trying to blot out the terrifying sounds before his eardrums burst…
George MacGowan frantically shook his head, clinging to the steering wheel, as the screaming went on and on and on…and he knew now, just knew, that those bizarre voices (could they possibly be human voices?) were coming from the source of intense light beyond his screen. And they knew—as did he—that nothing could stop the collision as George dragged the wheel hard over.
The coach swerved
to the left again, towards Burwell’s car.
One second later, and Burwell would have made it as his speed dropped.
But the rear end of the coach clipped his right wing.
Burwell’s other hand flew to his face as his car was slammed from the motorway, spinning end to end. The side windows imploded, showering him with glass. Somehow, the screaming was going on and on — and now Burwell’s own screams were joining the terrifying throng as the car slammed into the hard shoulder, mounted the grassed embankment and came to a shuddering halt. Burwell was screaming in fear and hate. It was as if the terrible screaming voices inside his car belonged to everyone in the world who had ever wanted to put him down or place an obstacle in his path. They belonged to the people who hated him, those who wanted him out of the way. To his mother and father, long dead. To Klark, the blackmailing bastard. He wanted them dead and gone, dead and gone as…
The coach’s windscreen blew apart from an invisible impact. Somehow, the glittering fragments did not explode into the coach, nor out and away into the night. The glass shattered with an almighty, cascading roar and then, suddenly, was gone. As if the impact and the light had shattered and then instantly dissolved it all. The light and the voices filled the cab, and George’s hands flew from the driving wheel towards his face as the light erupted all around him. It was as if some lead sheath had been removed from a nuclear reactor. He tried to scream, but his voice was drowned by the screaming multitude that had now somehow invaded the coach. The shock of the screaming voices and the brilliantly blinding light had brought the coach passengers instantly out of their sleep. Some added their own cries of distress to the maelstrom of noise as they struggled to rise; others clawed at their seats, too shocked to react further. Others froze, too terrified by the insane shrieking noise to say or do anything.