Quake

by Andy Remic

  ‘Who dragged you kicking and screaming back into this universe?’

  ‘I was just thinking.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘About Jam. I know his weakness.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Ahh, now that would be telling. Let’s just say that when we meet the fucker again, let me have a stab at him. We’ll see who’s the fucking daddy then.’

  ‘The only stab you’ll ever get is a nine-inch blade in the back.’

  ‘Your humour is what keeps me alive, O Master,’ chuckled Kade.

  The Comanche flashed low over the sea, heading south- east a couple of miles off the coast of Croatia and then Albania. As they headed over the Ionian Sea to the west of the Greek mainland Carter’s ECube buzzed softly.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Carter, this is The Priest.’

  ‘Long time no see, you religious maniac. What do you want?’

  ‘We need to meet.’

  ‘I’m a little busy.’

  ‘Make time.’

  ‘You’re not listening, Priest. I’m a little fucking busy to be arranging social events with Bible-wielding lunatics - even if they are in charge of the Spiral secret police.’

  ‘Carter, this is important. It involves Spiral, it involves Jam, and it involves Natasha.’

  Carter was silent behind the insect-visor of the HIDSS helmet.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ he said, finally, quietly.

  ‘You are heading for Egypt. The Spiral mainframes have you plotted. Touch down in Crete, coordinates 224.361.762. I will meet you as soon as I am able.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I cannot say. We have just discovered Durell’s game. I will bring you up to speed when we meet.’

  ‘This better be important, Priest.’

  ‘It’s important, Carter. Trust me and trust God.’

  ‘God? I’m pretty sure that fucker has abandoned me.’

  The ECube cut out and Carter was left staring at the silver sea below his humming war machine. He thought back to everything that they had been through; thought back to Feuchter and Durell and the QIII processor and The Priest’s involvement in the events that had almost toppled the world.

  ‘You think he could be a traitor as well?’ asked Kade.

  ‘No ... I don’t know. I find it hard to trust people in, shall we say, the current world climate.’

  ‘Let me kill the fucker,’ said Kade.

  ‘Jesus, don’t you have another fucking tune to play?’

  ‘The day that I die will be the day I stop killing,’ said Kade. ‘And you are the same, my boy, my brother. You are the same. We are as one; peas in the same pod. ‘

  In silence they cruised towards the distant shimmering island of Crete.

  Freddy killed the engine and sat in silence, in the absence of the Honda’s 8600cc rumble. He nodded to himself. Hmm, he thought, this LVA seems to be running a treat! Maybe Charlotte had been right after all?

  He climbed from the cabin and stood in the darkness, hands on hips, and then lit a cigarette. He noticed that his hand was shaking - just a little bit. As the weed touched his lips he could just distinguish badly scrubbed bloodstains on his fingers.

  The ground trembled beneath his boots.

  A gentle caressing.

  A tender warning ...

  The quake singing a soothing grinding lullaby.

  Freddy stood on the moors, filling his lungs with nicotine. He moved around to the boot of the Honda and popped the catch. It slid smoothly upwards to reveal a dark interior.

  And there lay the bin-bag-confined body parts of Charlotte.

  Freddy sighed.

  Why couldn’t you have been normal? he thought.

  He reached in and pulled out a long parcel. It was wrapped very neatly and Freddy prided himself on the tight binding of the silver duct-tape around the seams that made sure that no blood could possibly escape.

  He chuckled to himself as he stepped onto the heather and headed away from the Honda. The heather was wet, springy, sinking a little beneath his footsteps. He carried Charlotte’s leg under one arm and a spade in his free hand.

  It wouldn’t have to be a deep hole.

  Just a shallow grave.

  He found a suitable spot.

  Rain started to drizzle down. As he dropped the parcelled leg on the heather, it made a wet thump. He slammed the spade into the earth, cutting neatly through heather with the sharp edge of the blade. The blade struck four times, creating a square of sliced vegetation and soil - and then Freddy levered the mound free and threw it to one side.

  Slowly, Freddy began to excavate.

  After twenty minutes he was panting hard and his breath was steaming in the light rain. The hole was quite big - almost big enough for the body of his ex-lover, at any rate.

  Freddy felt a twinge of guilt then.

  He acknowledged that Charlotte probably hadn’t deserved what she had got. He acknowledged that death and dismemberment were gifts that one shouldn’t really bestow upon one’s girlfriend. And he acknowledged that burial on the moors was perhaps rather savage a punishment for perpetual moaning, whining, bickering and emotional blackmail.

  Freddy smiled.

  His eyes glinted - a little insanely.

  But then ... but but but fucking but!

  He shovelled another spade of earth onto the pile of waterlogged soil. It smelled creamy, rich, musty - like a proper grave on the moors should.

  Something glinted through the rain, distantly, across the heather.

  Voices drifted; the sounds of ghosts.

  ‘Pedal, fat man, pedal!’

  ‘Is this insanity - or fitness training?’

  ‘It must be insanity. We never see any other fucker out in the rain, ice and snow!’

  ‘Fucking warm-weather riders. Bunch of pussies to a man.’

  ‘Yeah, bit of frost and they fanny out! The little girls.’

  Freddy’s head whipped left. His eyes narrowed. Water dripped from the tip of his nose.

  Lights glittered dazzlingly through the rain.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ he muttered.

  Two sets of twin halogen lamps sparkled. Freddy could hear puffing and panting - laughter. Through the increasing downpour came two mountain bikers, their silver titanium full-suss machines sloshing easily through the mud, lamps glittering. The riders were wearing full army combats, wet-proofs, and floppy desert army hats. They splashed to a stop a few feet away, halogens cutting a bright slice from the night and illuminating Freddy, his spade, his hole, and a bin-bag-wrapped leg.

  The two bearded men stared hard at Freddy.

  Then they looked at one another.

  ‘What the fuck is he doing, Ravioli?’

  ‘Fucked if I know, Worzel.’

  They both stared back at Freddy, eyes narrowing to glares as they stepped from the saddles of their mountain bikes and allowed the machines to fall in the mud. They took a step closer, then another. Freddy took a step back.

  ‘What you doing?’ said Ravioli, goatee beard making his tapered face look quite evil in the gloom.

  Freddy shrugged a little, spade loose in one hand.

  ‘Is that a fucking grave?’ spat Worzel, round face, bushy eyebrows and thick black beard glistening in the murk.

  ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this - worse than the time you swallowed that mescal worm and I had to take you to the hospital when the alcohol-infused grub burnt away part of your lip! Hey, and what’s that parcel wrapped up there?’

  They moved forward, curious.

  Again, Freddy backed away - and in a fit of sudden panic, dropped his spade and ran for it. He sprinted across the moors, stumbling across the heather in the darkness, heavy rain obscuring his vision, blind panic filling his soul with a need to get away. He ran and ran, pushing himself to levels of exertion that he had never realised he could reach. Then, suddenly, he splashed to a halt, panting, eyes scanning nervously as he spun around - twice - in circles.


  Where am I?

  Shit.

  Where’s the car?

  Bitch!

  He calmed his breathing, and listened to see if the two men were pursuing him. He whirled in the gloom, twitchy, nervous, mind filled with leaping shadows.

  And he could sense—

  Sense something there.

  Freddy stared as hard as he could into the darkness. He knew that the night could play tricks on you, and places like the moors were renowned for being spooky in the dark. He had been in the habit of coming up here with Charlotte a few years earlier, before they had their own place - the moors had been a good place for covert sex. But many times, even during their soaring passion and Charlotte’s moans for a new toaster, vacuum cleaner or tropical holiday, the light could move in such a way, or the wind moan through the oppressive darkness and you could believe that a knife-wielding maniac was only a few feet away.

  How fucking ironic, he mused bitterly ... as something large and black and moving faster than thought slammed into him. He caught a glimpse of bright gleaming copper and then the pain screamed through him. He gagged and choked on his own blood as a fist like a sword tore open his chest. The dark heather was so cool on his face - it smelled fresh, like that summer’s day when he had first brought Charlotte up to this romantic desolate haven ...

  Worzel knelt by the package and prodded it gingerly. He glanced up at Ravioli who was staring - a bit aghast, mouth open and nose wrinkled in distaste.

  ‘Open it,’ growled Ravioli.

  Worzel scowled. ‘I ain’t fucking opening it. It might be a body or something.’

  ‘What, the body of a midge?’

  ‘You mean midget.’

  ‘Whatever. Go on, it won’t bite you. If it is a body then it’s obviously dead. But it’ll just be a porn stash or something.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with porn!’

  ‘I never said there was.’

  There was a pause for thought. ‘So why bury it?’

  ‘I don’t fucking know. Are you going to open it or what? Or are you just going to start crying about being the most unpopular man at the party again - just because you have to drink a half-pint of tequila? Like a big pussy?’

  ‘At least I haven’t got a ginger fucking afro!’

  ‘Hey, I had that shaved off a long time ago, so—’

  Something clicked.

  From the gloom, past the dazzling halogen headlights shining across the rainswept moorland and tufts of heather nestling at ground level, came the sound of padding armoured claws.

  A bulky shape stopped in the gloom, tantalisingly hidden by the edges of shadows cast by the bright bike lights.

  Ravioli and Worzel ceased their petty argument.

  A large dark rain-slick triangular head swept towards them. There came a gleam of copper eyes. The ground trembled softly underfoot, and Ravioli and Worzel took a step away from the hole, the spade, and the severed leg. They licked dry lips and swallowed, their throats coarse. They glanced nervously at each other - as if to confirm that this was not a bad moorland night-mirage.

  ‘Nice doggy,’ said Worzel.

  ‘That ain’t a doggy.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that? You think I think it’s a fucking donkey or something?’

  ‘I think we should run.’

  ‘Run or fight?’

  ‘Or ... the third option?’

  Ravioli produced a Mars bar. He took off the wrapper and broke off a chunk of chocolate, stretching strings of soft toffee. Worzel stared hard at his friend.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘I was going to entice it away with chocolate.’ Ravioli looked suddenly a little uncertain.

  The creature ... growled.

  Ravioli and Worzel turned to run - and felt something crash into them with the force of a train smashing into a wall. Claws rent flesh in the darkness, slashing left and right with economical movements. A spray of gore and blood filled the temporary shallow grave. Two bodies rolled away in several separate pieces, skin, bone, intestines and muscle flapping loosely - and blank dead eyes stared up at the heavy downpour.

  The Sleeper turned, its own eyes glowing for an instant like miniature twin suns caught in the beams of the halogen bike-lamps - and from behind the bikes came more shapes, moving through the rain: two, three, five, ten ... twenty ... dark bodies glistening with chitinous exoskeletons. They moved on armoured claws, warily, heavy muscles bunched as the world trembled in the fist of the impending and building quake. Their eyes turned towards the distant lights of the city and the scent of the humans beyond.

  They sprinted into the night.

  And were gone.

  Ivers stared with incredible boredom at the titanium-carbide VII drill bit rotating at high speed within its protective Plas-7 sheath. The platform was solid beneath his feet, his lust for Michelle even stronger as the minutes until their next amorous meeting ticked by ... but something else had wormed its way into his brain—

  A needle.

  A needle of... curiosity.

  ‘Hey, Oldroyd?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Oldroyd was in his late thirties, and although only small in stature he made up for his lack of height with his character. He was chirpy, cheerful - bouncing, some would say. He always had a clever quip, a witty put-down, a humorous piece of pornographic verse: many underestimated Oldroyd, but always to their own cost. With a smile he could destroy a room full of cocktail party guests. With a quip he could decimate a legion of underrated comedians. With a baring of his arse on live TV, he could offend a nation. Which he had done on four occasions in life, thus far.

  ‘You know when that inspectorate team came here, with the guy in the robes?’

  ‘Durell.’

  Ivers met Oldroyd’s look but for once the small man’s humour had evaporated. Ivers waited for the punch line -none came. I suppose there are some things in life which are just not funny, he mused.

  ‘I think they went down the tubes under the Sub-3KM control quarters.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’ Oldroyd’s normally cheeky expression was deadly serious.

  ‘I don’t know ... the equipment looked like it might have been moved.’ Ivers shrugged. ‘Forget it, forget I said anything about it. I’m just fucking imagining things.’

  Oldroyd tutted. ‘Aye lad, you should get yourself a girlfriend.’ He smiled roguishly. ‘That usually cures supernatural imaginings for me.’

  Ivers chuckled, and went back to checking the titanium-carbide VII drill bit. Fantasies played through his head - fantasies of small cars with large engines, his ambition to rebuild and customise a Helix Coupe 6.0 litre, replacing the motor with a 1250 bhp 24-cylinder monster ... and his inherent need to lavish love, care and attention on his most favourite of favourite hobbies: bike racing - preferably on 1296cc Ducatis.

  Kenny’s voice came from the ComChamber, whining a little. ‘Something’s going on. Upstairs.’ ‘Upstairs’ was their nickname for above ground. Away from the drilling sites.

  Ivers frowned. ‘Like what?’

  ‘The order’s come down to shut down the drill bit.’

  ‘What, slow it down?’

  ‘No, shut it down.’

  Ivers shook his head, but Kenny was already punching in the digits. The huge bit slowed to a crawl and, hissing loudly, rolled to a halt. A strange silence seemed to pervade the underground site.

  Ivers glanced upwards, almost nervously.

  He could feel the weight of the world - and it weighed heavy.

  ‘Come on.’ The others were ascending the pressure lifts and Ivers followed, watching his fellow LVA-ENG team members disappear up the tubes. He stumbled just before the tube engaged, fell to one knee on the hardwood deck - and then glanced up.

  Buzzers were sounding across the console.

  Ivers turned and moved swiftly to the hatchway leading to the tube which in turn led under their control deck; it was intended for service personnel and led down towards the bott
om of the shafts to allow deeper servicing of the titanium-carbide VII. He popped the hatch and stared down into the gloom.

  He licked his lips.

  Going down there is a sackable offence, mused his inner voice.

  But he knew. Knew that something was wrong.

  Taking a deep breath, Ivers climbed into the tube and hit the SEND button; he felt his whole body compress and then he stepped out in the tiny alloy work bay.

  It was very dark. But something was glowing - displaying soft blue digits.

  Frowning, Ivers moved forward and stooped, finally dropping to his knees to get a closer look. There was a long thin grey box, with a small alloy cube attached. Digits flickered across the cube, and it was these that glowed.

  ‘What is it?’ he muttered.

  And then he heard a noise - a scuff behind him.

  He whirled - to see the barrel of a gun pointing straight at his face. He blinked, swallowed, and tried to step back. But the alloy wall was there - and he had nowhere to go. No escape. No path to freedom and life.

  The figure was slim, athletic, wearing a body-hugging grey jumpsuit and a balaclava. The eyes glowed like molten copper and burned into Ivers with their fearsome fixed intensity.

  Ivers lifted his hands in front of his face, as if they could halt the bullet.

  ‘No ...’ he whispered.

  The Nex moved forward, gun nudging past Ivers’s defensive fingers until the barrel touched against his forehead, sliding a little against the sudden sweat there. Ivers closed his eyes. He prayed, images flickering like movie scenes through his scattered thoughts ...

  Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  The Nex’s finger tightened imperceptibly on the trigger.

  ‘No ...’ whispered Ivers.

  And then - the unimaginable. The pressure of the gun was released, and Ivers opened his tear-filled eyes. The Nex had tilted its head, its copper-eyed stare still fixed unblinkingly on his face.

  It gestured with the gun.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘It’s your lucky day. Go on. Fuck off.’

  ‘Th— tha—’

  ‘Just go. But first, a word of advice.’ Ivers halted, reluctant to turn his back on the entity with the gun. Those copper eyes made him want to pee his pants - but stinking of urine was not something that filled him with enthusiasm so he contained himself. ‘There are some things that you are destined never to see in life,’ the Nex said softly, its voice asexual. ‘This is one of them. I suggest that you keep your mouth shut. Or I will have to shut it for you.’