The Stone Man - A Science Fiction Thriller

by Smitherd, Luke

  My blood rushed in my veins. This was exciting beyond measure (barring the possibility that I was having some sort of mental episode and imagining the whole thing) and in the same moment I realised how long it had been since I was truly, genuinely excited about something before today, let alone to this extent. It had been many years. The thought made me stop for a second.

  Excitement, or lack thereof. That may have been down, to a degree, to the way my brain functioned; but I wondered if that knowledge in itself, that awareness of having a different cognitive function, had become a reason to pursue excitement less and less over the years. For some people, knowing that you were a person who found excitement hard to come by would be reason to seek it even more. It occurred to me right then, stood in Shaun’s kitchen, as I watched the steam drift from my mug on the table and up into nothingness, that whilst I believed very strongly in my own convictions and world view, there were some matters in life that I approached in a deeply, tragically incorrect way; in the same moment I realised that I would never truly understand or experience the correct way either. And with that, the process was complete, and my thoughts moved onto the next practical thing to deal with, the next item on the unending list.

  First things first; leave.

  I closed the atlas, and looked up at Shaun, who was looking at me with a very wary expression. I realised how bizarre the whole experiment I’d just conducted must have looked to him, and briefly made the effort to think of an explanation. I failed.

  “Trying a bit of an idea, experimenting with the … y’know …” I made beaming-in gestures with my hands towards my head, and tried cracking an aren’t-I-daft grin. I thought it was an utterly fruitless attempt at making light of it, but Shaun’s mouth actually curled up a bit at the side, forming a smirk.

  “Yeah? Any joy?”

  “Afraid not, buddy,” I said, quickly swigging a mouthful of tea and then walking to the sink to pour the rest away. “But it was just a crazy idea that I had to try out, then and there, got a bit too excited. Never mind, sorry if I made you jump.” Shaun chuckled slightly at this, and shrugged. I think he could tell that I was preparing to leave. “Anyway,” I said, “I’d best shoot off. Thanks again for putting me up, man, especially when I’d had a skin full. Most people would have brushed their hands of me, but you didn’t, and I needed it. Thank you.” I held out my hand for him to shake, and felt my own words poison my insides a bit. Not just with guilt (although that was still strong) but more at my own two-facedness. If you can’t be true to your own word, then what have you got? Shaun smiled, and stood as he shook my hand.

  “No worries, mate, couldn’t leave you out on the streets, could I? You’re not safe for decent people to be around,” he added with a wink and a grin, as he led me towards the living room and the front door. I picked up my laptop bag, slipped on my shoes, and opened the door. The sun was bright again, and it was already getting hot. The day was going to be another scorcher, and I realised that the clothes I was wearing weren’t at their freshest after all the walking and sweating yesterday. If I had a hangover headache, I didn’t notice; the constant pull in my scalp was now drowning it out in some way. This was a good thing. I stepped out onto the front porch, and turned back to face my host. I hated what I had to say—almost felt as if I was mocking him in some manner—but thought it just looked rude if I didn’t.

  “Tell Laura thanks too, okay? Sorry I missed her this morning.”

  “Will do, buddy,” said Shaun, looking noticeably more relaxed now he knew that he was going to have the house to himself. He probably didn’t get it that often. “Got far to go, have you?” He meant to my fictional mate’s house, and he knew I’d have to walk. I thought about the BMW parked on his drive to my left, and noted that he wasn’t offering a lift. I couldn’t complain—no mistake about that—but it still burned me a little. Normally I’d have tried a little jab to get back at such a slight, but I figured I owed him enough to keep my mouth shut, and far, far more.

  “Nah, besides, I could do with the walk actually. Nice to get out in the sun. What are you gonna do with your day off, grab a beer and sit in the garden?”

  “Mate, if it stays like this, I think a whole six-pack and a barbecue might be in order!” he said, grinning. “The rest of the world can obsess over walking statues and all that shit; I’m gonna be getting quietly pissed for the rest of the day, and relaxing in the sun. Drink off this hangover. Works for me.” I gave him a thumbs-up and threw him a grin of my own, even if it was false. I did hope he had a relaxing day, though.

  “Got it. Do not disturb, eh?”

  “Uh huh. No visitors, it’s Shauny time. Have a good ’un, mate.” He raised his hand, and I returned it as he closed the door. I turned and began to walk up the street, pulling my phone out of my pocket and dialling for a taxi. I hoped (correctly, as it turned out) that I could at least get a cab out here, road restrictions or not. I needed to be taken somewhere for a proper breakfast. I cursed myself for not asking if they’d had an iPhone charger in the house; I was down to half battery. As I listened to the phone ringing on the other end of the line, Shaun’s last words came back to me. No visitors. That was exactly what I thought I was about to become; a visitor. Because I didn’t think that the face in my vision was random, nor did I think that it was anything other than extremely important in terms of finding out more about the Stone Man. I thought that when and if I got to where the Stone Man was heading—whether it was being called or had been sent, whether it was expected or not—I thought that there would be a person waiting on the other end, and that person would be a man with blonde hair. And I was going to do my damnedest to make sure that I reached him first.

  ***

  Getting hungry. All this talk of sausages and breakfasts is actually bringing my appetite back, as much as I thought I’d never get it back again. There’s a couple of those shortbread biscuits here in a little dish, next to the packets of sugar, tea bags and single-serving mini-tubs of cream. They’ll do for now. I’d like to avoid ringing room service, if possible; the less human contact the better. I really, really want to be on my own right now. Still, it might be unavoidable. I’ve started thinking about bacon.

  I’ve also been eyeing the little bottle of Sambuca here, and realising that I haven’t had any since that first night. Not by choice, just one of those things. I think I’ll start on that one next. You know what the irony of this whole story is? I hate to travel. I find it a real pain in the arse. Some people love it, and to an extent I understand that; new places, new people, new experiences. I get all that, and sometimes I could even go in for it myself. But then I think of the way time slows to a standstill when you’re in the process of the actual travelling itself, that interminable boredom that seems to operate on its own set of laws regarding time and space, and decide I’d rather not bother than go through that. But since the Stone Man came, it sometimes feels like I’ve done nothing else, for one reason or another.

  Gonna keep the next bit brief. Travelling stuff. Boring. Paul comes in after that, so gonna get to it quick. Your bit’s coming up, Paul. This is where I slag you off like I’ve always wanted to. No, no, kidding, kidding.

  ***

  The cab driver had taken me to the nearest McDonald’s, a journey that would normally have taken about five minutes. Today it took twenty. The roads were still crawling, whether due to structural repair and the resulting bottlenecks, or government interference, I didn’t know. I kept my eyes peeled for men in hazmat suits, but the only workers I saw that day were men in high-viz waistcoats, busy in the beginning stages of the rebuilding process. They were there in Coventry though, the government spooks; I found out later. Hell, I met the guy that ran the spooks. A lot of people at the time complained about the extreme protective measures that the government took during this period—shutting down roads and cancelling train travel anywhere within a radius of fifty miles from the Stone Man’s position at any time—but I thought they were right to do so. Nothing like this had b
een seen before; how could they not plan for the worst? The whole country was gripped. Apparently, over seventy-five percent of the country were glued to their sets that Sunday.

  Everyone wanted to know what the hell it was, what the hell it was doing, where it was going, who’d sent it. The radio in the taxi talked about nothing else, in between songs, and there was a constant flow of new information to go with it. You might think not—how much can be said about something just walking?—but there was always another flattened building to report, another avoidable death for the blame game to be played over, another interview with the family of the person who had met with said avoidable death, another international message of support, another theory from a leading physicist, professor of chemistry, religious leader, another rebuttal from a prominent atheist, another vox-pop, studio discussion, analysis of earlier footage, another complaint about transport disruptions, another mini riot in the next town that the government reluctantly announced temporary evacuations from. Flight paths were altered miles away from the same area as the Stone Man, lest some unknown signal disrupt an aircraft’s instruments, causing air traffic chaos and resultant pandemonium at airport terminals up and down the country, organ transplants not reaching destinations on time or at all, more deaths, and so it went on. That’s what people always forget, when they express amazement at the body count that the Stone Man racked up. They think the numbers only meant people crushed in their homes, in cars. They forget about all the ripples it caused, ripples that caused waves that swept so many lives away.

  The dilemma I’d had, on the way to my takeaway breakfast, was deciding the best way to get up to Sheffield and beyond. Trains were a nightmare, so that route was next to impossible. Roads were a better bet, but from the radio traffic reports it was clear that not only would I be looking at extremely lengthy tailbacks—hours, in some cases—but also having to deal with last-minute road closures that might mean getting stuck again in the rush to get back the other way. I needed to be able to ignore traffic if it arose; I needed a motorbike.

  I knew how to ride, and had both my CBT and full motorbike licence, having owned a 750cc cruiser for about four years before I’d realised I just wasn’t using it anymore. Plus, not having a garage meant storing it outside, and it was heartbreaking to see the chrome begin to rust. It had been time to sell. Which left me currently up the creek.

  Long story short, I made a few phone calls to old biking acquaintances I still kept in casual touch with over Facebook. Out of five people, I got no response from three of them, one told me he’d sold his, but Dan (a big, fifty-three-year-old mechanic with permanently dirty hands and a dirtier laugh) had a very small collection, and was happy to take me up on the offer of a hundred sheets to borrow one for two days; the only condition that any damage was ‘coming out of your ass, with interest’, and that all I could have was the 125cc Suzuki Marauder. I wasn’t too surprised. The Marauder had been his son’s, and the other two were a Triumph and a Harley. I didn’t expect to be lent one of those. The Marauder was like a mini version of the Harley in looks—and a micro version in terms of power—but it would do sixty fairly comfortably, and that was all I needed.

  Forty-five minutes later (more than enough time to sort out temporary insurance online via my phone) Dan rode up to the McDonald’s car park on the bike, followed by his wife in the family Hyundai. He’d brought with him his son’s helmet (a little too snug, but it would do) and a leather jacket that was about two sizes too big for me. I thanked him profusely, and asked him to follow me to the nearest cashpoint, but he waved me off.

  “Nah, I trust you,” he said, wagging his sausage finger with a grin. “Plus … I know where you live!” he finished, laughing at his own joke and clapping me on the shoulder. I hadn’t told him that where I lived didn’t exist anymore. He’d obviously missed it in the media frenzy, but regardless, I had every intention of paying him. “Anyway, there’s about twenty quid in the tank, so make sure the fucker comes back with about the same amount in it,” he finished. I assured him that the fucker would.

  “Why you want to be off on that piece of shit anyway?” asked Dan, as he climbed into the driver’s seat of the Hyundai. His wife had already gotten out of it and had been waiting patiently in the passenger seat. There was a woman who was used to playing a certain part in Dan’s life. “History’s on the TV! If there wasn’t a soft hundred quid in it I wouldn’t have moved off the settee. Why pick today of all days to start missing the bike? You’re not one of the end-of-the-world-crowd, are you? Those guys going nuts on TV. More riots!” he cried, waving his hands theatrically above his head and still grinning.

  “Mid-life crisis,” I said. “I’ve already bought the leather trousers. I just needed the bike.” Dan roared with laughter, and got into the car, shutting the door. As I clipped on the helmet, I looked through the Hyundai’s window and could see him repeating the exchange we’d just had to his wife, who was smiling pleasantly. I swung the laptop bag over my shoulder, feeling its weight compress the gap between the too-big jacket and my back, and swung my leg over the Marauder’s leather seat. I found myself enjoying the feel and weight of the bike as I settled onto it, discovering that I’d actually missed it. It was, I realised, perfect for the job in hand; the same riding position as my old bike, which meant that I could get back into the swing of things pretty comfortably, but still small enough to easily wind through endless lines of traffic. Keys in the ignition, I pushed the starter button and the Marauder roared into life, albeit with a less audible roar than I was used to.

  I felt comfortable almost immediately, my feet finding the gears nicely and actually enjoying the experience. It probably helped that the sun was out, as being on a bike is one of the very few things that I personally find are improved by high levels of heat. Try biking on a cold day, with very few layers on. The wind gets around you like an icy fist, but on hot days it creates a delicious breeze.

  I won’t bore you with the journey, as I say; there was a LOT of traffic, more than I’d expected, but thanks to the Marauder I made relatively short work of it, albeit at a fraction of the traffic-free speed I would have liked to have been doing. The one thing I hadn’t expected was the religious element. Large groups were clearly visible in the service station car parks that I passed along the motorway, carrying fluorescent banners proclaiming that it was ‘Time to repent’ and singing songs that I couldn’t hear over the Marauder’s straining engine. Though one Stone Man was hardly enough to bring about Armageddon, I figured they’d seen it as a sign, a harbinger of things to come. These displays were obviously coordinated in some manner, as once I got through the first hour of the journey there was a different group at every service station. A fight had even broken out at one of them, between one of the singers and a guy who looked like a truck driver. Not everyone agreed with their interpretation, it seemed.

  By the time I reached Sheffield it was around one in the afternoon, and I rode into the city centre under the now-blazing sun. The bright light, as it did with Coventry (as it does with anywhere) made the place look glorious, and on a normal sunny Sunday like this there would have been people everywhere, going about their business between the concrete buildings, but today there was hardly anyone. Even though I’d stopped to refuel, when I pulled up in the main train station car park and swung my leg up and over the seat to dismount, my hamstrings twinged heartily to let me know they weren’t happy about being stuck in position for so long. Walking like John Wayne, I shuffled round to the front of the bike and clamped on the disc lock, and took in my surroundings.

  I don’t really know why I’d picked this central point; it just felt to me like a good idea, to get into the heart of the place and then try to feel my way outwards from there. As I looked at Sheaf Square, spreading out in front of me with a handful of people going about their business, it occurred to me that, were I so inclined, I could see an element of providence at work here; my journey beginning in one large concrete public square, and ending at another. I thoug
ht I knew better, though. I already felt that I needed to go farther. That low-level pull was still there, and the closer I’d gotten to Sheffield, the stronger it had become; even now, it was trying to take me somewhere else, merely lacking the strength and the grip to carry me off my feet to wherever it wanted me to go. No, not me. Where it wanted the Stone Man to go.

  I went back to the bike, and after slipping off the ridiculously oversized jacket and pulling my sweat-soaked head out of the helmet, I dumped them on the seat and opened one of the saddlebags. Inside was an atlas of my own that I’d bought when I stopped for fuel, and this one was at least up to date. I’d already started to breathe slowly, to try and relax and prepare my mind for the new trick I’d learned, hoping it would be easier now I’d already performed it once; now, of course, that I was closer to wherever the Stone Man’s exact destination was.

  I was flicking through the index, managing to miss ‘S’ twice in my rush, when I suddenly became aware of something else. A new sensation, one just out of reach. The pull was still there, no doubt, but there was another … something. It was like trying to hear if you’ve left the TV on in another room, without turning off the volume of the one you’re watching; barely there enough to be noticeable, and just when you convince yourself that you’re imagining things, you pick it up again. It was like the pull, felt very similar in fact, just smaller, and different.