The Stone Man - A Science Fiction Thriller

by Smitherd, Luke

  Of course (and this, I would realise after more time in his company, was a mark of the man), after a while Paul found the perfect conversational balance. Not glib, not directly addressing the fact that we were, in fact, chasing a man using our newfound psychic abilities and racing a walking statue at the same time. He asked about what we were going to do after it was over. (Of course, we didn’t know that we weren’t even close to it being over.)

  “Listen, this arsehole. Say we find him and he spills his guts, tells us the facts, maybe even how to, you know, shut it down or whatever. Or he knows nothing, and he’s just the destination for whatever reason. If we have answers and a solution, or no answers at all … this might be a stupid question, but do we try to go to the authorities with this? I mean, I know they probably wouldn’t even listen, but do we try to find a way to convince them we have a link to this thing and see if they can do something with it?”

  It occurred to me in that moment that Paul didn’t yet know I was a reporter—not wanting to lie, yet not wanting to make Paul doubt my motives, I’d just said I was a writer when I was giving him my backstory, and he hadn’t pursued it further—and seemed to think I was here purely motivated by the mystery, in a Richard-Dreyfuss-Close-Encounters kind of way. He hadn’t put two and two together and realised that I had my own reasons; career and fortune being the first two (although not necessarily in that order.) My heart sped up a little, but I wasn’t that nervous. Socially awkward I may be, but I have always been a great liar. I think fast. Hooray for me. Either way, I didn’t want to make any promises that I might later regret, or let him know what I was hoping to get out of this. The last thing I wanted was even the thought, at this stage, of getting anyone else involved. Plus, dammit, I was excited, thrilled beyond measure to be on this. I was at the centre of the biggest piece of news in a decade, one that had the potential to be the biggest ever, and not only was that thrilling in itself but it came with the added, major potential to transform my life forever. I didn’t even want to think about a buzzkill, about Big Brother’s possible involvement. We were going to solve this!

  “We’ll play it by ear,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road. We turned onto a dual carriageway, taking us away from the city as we headed further north. Several police cars passed in a convoy going in the opposite direction, their sirens and lights off, moving in a quiet hurry. They were almost the only cars we’d seen on this road so far, and the drivers stared at us as we went past. The evacuations and roadblocks were beginning. “Who knows what might turn up in the meantime? Hell, they might even find out for themselves. I mean, we don’t know what they’ve managed to figure out already. But obviously, if we can help, we’ll help.”

  Paul was silent for a second.

  “I just can’t help thinking … ah, sod it, what the hell would we tell them anyway, right?” said Paul, raising a big hand and turning to me. “It means nothing until we actually have this geezer, and then we can hopefully back up our story. Until then, we’d just be a couple of bloody loonies. I just wish there was a way to let them know now, you know? Get them to believe us. It might mean … well … no more deaths.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said, wanting to avoid this line of conversation. Here was something I hadn’t even considered. Would letting them know they needed to clear a line all the way to Sheffield sooner have saved more lives? Maybe a few, I thought, but human nature would always play a part. The religious element, the rioters … and anyway, as even Paul said, how the hell would I have gotten them to believe me? “People have never seen anything as incredible, as straight-out-of-a-comic-book incredible and … well, magical, if you like, as this in their entire lives, in the entire history of the human race. They’re shocked by this like nothing ever before. And that percentage of the population that are less capable of dealing with it are doing very, very stupid things. I bet there’s been suicides too, right? End of the world stuff? I haven’t seen much news.”

  “Yeah, there’s been three suicides so far, reported ones at least,” said Paul, looking thoughtful.

  “There you are. I’m telling you, Paul, that thing is killing some people just by existing. And then there’s the people that will be panicking as soon as the government releases the official predicted path, wanting to make an early move. Frightened for their families, and prepared to kill if necessary, even though they’re hundreds of miles and days of slow statue-walking away. All they’ve seen on the news are ruined buildings and early death tolls, the biggest destruction on UK soil since the Blitz, and the media are doing nothing but fanning the flames.” A beeping horn filled the air as a car full of laughing twenty-somethings passed, heading in the opposite direction, of course. “No, even if we could have let them know the instant that thing showed up, and they’d cleared the path, you’d have had the same effect. They can’t stop it moving, so they can’t stop it destroying, and that means they couldn’t keep it quiet, not with the Internet. People are having to deal with something they can’t comprehend, and even if it came without all the destroyed buildings, I think you’d still have deaths as a result.”

  I believed it. I’d been speaking initially to convince him, but in my stream-of-consciousness speech I’d convinced myself. (I saw things later on that confirmed my thinking was right.) Paul sat silently for a second, mulling it over. “Mmm. Yeah, I see your point. I suppose then, for now at least, it really is just you and me …” He stopped, and rolled his eyes theatrically. “Jesus, that was Hollywood. Sorry, sorry …” I laughed, both amused and glad of the change in mood and subject. Paul settled back in his chair, smiling slightly, then blew out his cheeks. He jabbed at the car stereo, and Radio 2 came on, halfway through the latest middle-of-the-road female singer-songwriter that they were championing. No NonStop Oldies on a Sunday either. I was disappointed. The song finished, and I noticed the DJ talking with a more sombre tone than usual. I remembered when I’d heard something similar before, on 9/11, when Radio 1 ran constant news updates whilst keeping the DJ links very brief, and just played music. All the usual lighthearted talk and bullshit had been gone, and they’d only relayed the latest news with brief explanations and reminders as to why they were doing things differently that day, out of respect. The same thing was happening today.

  The report explained the Stone Man’s latest movements (this was the first time I’d heard the phrase used, and Paul and I looked at each other upon hearing it. We found ourselves referring to the Stone Man by that name from that point on) and that it was now approaching the outskirts of Sheffield. Relevant evacuations were beginning, and roadblocks were being set up, so people outside of the evacuation area were requested to stay in their homes unless members of the police or military came to remove them. Farther south, in the capital, there was apparently a growing religious gathering in Trafalgar Square, which had developed into clashes with the police after other religious denominations had become involved, causing the biggest riot yet. The police’s initial intervention had caused it to escalate, and things were worsening, increasing the growing calls from some quarters for a temporary curfew whilst the Stone Man was walking. Sixteen people hospitalised in the riot so far, one fatality. Paul hissed air through his teeth at this last announcement.

  “Another one,” he said, then pointed at a passing exit sign. “You’re taking this one, right?”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Yeah, I know why, but this will be quicker.”

  “Okay.”

  I indicated, as more police cruised past. As we pulled off down the exit ramp, I heard their sirens start up in the distance. Damien Rice started playing on the radio as we picked up the A road. We didn’t speak for a bit. Paul broke the silence after a while, and when he spoke it sounded as though he’d been thinking deeply.

  “You know what … and this is gonna sound so tarty … but man …” he smiled in an embarrassed way, and actually squirmed a little in his seat. It was the first time I’d seen him look uncomfortable. “If we … you know,
if our friend has something to tell us …” he continued, smiling to himself now, but a little flushed in the face. I knew where he was going. I’d thought the same thing, really. It would be the dream scenario for me, in terms of what I wanted out of this.

  “If we find something out,” Paul continued, “and like, maybe the reason we know is so we can be the guys to … you know … stop this thing …” he looked at me, and raised his eyebrows. “That’s hero stuff. That’s real deal bloody hero stuff, right there. Can you imagine? All the lives we’d … well, that we’d save?” He nodded, checking that I got it, and there it was; that childlike look in his eyes, transforming him from a man most comfortable when holding court, to a boy with a dream. He was trying not to show it, but he was deeply earnest. I didn’t really know how to respond. It made me feel suddenly awkward, to be honest. Maybe he saw it, as the man instantly returned.

  “Food for thought, anyway, food for thought,” he said, and looked out of the window. I opened my mouth, unsure whether I was going to agree or change the subject, when I became aware of the pins and needles in my fingers. This was new. Goose bumps broke out on my forearms and I saw Paul sit up in his chair, looking at his hand. He then looked at me, eyes wider than before, and broke into an excited grin.

  “Getting close, eh?” he said, breathing slightly faster. I returned the smile as I felt the goose bumps spread across my chest and shoulders, making the car suddenly feel colder.

  “Northeast, still,” I said, nodding, “We’re still far away enough to keep it that little bit vague, but this is really strong. I know what you mean about the fillings, I only have a few but mine are starting to buzz.” Paul tapped his cheek in response.

  “I got loads, to be honest,” he said. “Fat kid. Probably why I got that sensation early.”

  “Well, I think pretty soon we’ll be getting even more,” I said, and then an unpleasant thought occurred. “It might get painful, you know.” And then another, worse. “Jesus, what if we can only get so close? What if we can’t take it right at the source?” I felt the blood drain from my face, and it wasn’t because of the pull. It was because I realised that I had no idea how high in strength the pull went. I stared at Paul, aghast.

  “All right, Dad’s Army, don’t panic, easy,” said Paul with a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was trying to calm me down, but the idea had clearly rattled him too. “We’ll just have to wait and see. Worst case, we tried, right? Day off wasted. The answers will come out soon enough.”

  I nodded—even though I knew he didn’t mean it at all—but Paul had no idea what I did have to lose. To have the golden ticket for your entire life dangled there to grab, in a way so few people ever get to have, and then have it snatched away … I decided right then and there that I didn’t care if my veins started rupturing, I was going to get to Blondie, on torn knees and scraped knuckles if necessary.

  However, over the course of the next fifteen minutes, the pull did intensify as predicted, and heavily so. You know the feeling you get when you’re on a waltzer, that sense of shift and extra weight as it suddenly changes direction? The way your whole body is drawn along in the previous direction, even your skin? The pull became like that, but in our bones, too. That sounds more painful than it actually was, as pain was not, to my intense relief, yet present. But we were being pulled from the very centre of ourselves now.

  The thing that did become a problem was light-headedness, as A roads became rural B roads and we headed across the eastern side of Barnsley. I found myself having to squint and breathe slowly in order to concentrate on driving; by now I was used to the intensified pull inside, but I was unaccustomed to this new, added difficulty. It made driving tough, to say the least, but roads that would have been quiet at the best of times were now completely abandoned, and I didn’t have to worry about killing anybody but ourselves. I started to perspire heavily as well, the sweat feeling cold on my forehead and leaving a chill on my neck. Paul didn’t sweat, but he constantly gave these goose-over-the-grave shivers, increasing in regularity until they were occurring once every three seconds, as regular as clockwork. We’d stopped talking altogether; not out of awkwardness but out of necessity, trying to focus, and the radio had eventually gone off as well. It was too much of a distraction.

  As we pulled onto what was apparently called Stonyford Road, we saw, through squinted and shaking eyes, a sign that said ‘DARFIELD 1 MILE’. Paul pointed a limp hand as we went past, and I nodded as much as I could. We were only a mile away, I knew, and heading in the right direction. Our man was in Darfield, then. I felt no surge of excitement though; it wasn’t possible. Every nerve ending was already firing away, my heart pounding, my balls already shrivelled and my skin as cold as the grave. I couldn’t be any more wired. I looked at Paul, hunched forward in his seat, eyes squinting and panting like a dog.

  Darfield was small, one of those places that has an odd blend of the rural and the urban, changing suddenly from one to other. Someone’s garden had a horse in it. A few buildings we passed were boarded up, which seemed out of sorts with the pleasant look of rest of the place, but then everywhere has its sad stories. The pull suddenly ratcheted up a small, extra notch, and we both knew that it had peaked. We were going to make it.

  We were moments away from our goal, we knew, when Paul suddenly sneezed and sent a small spray of his blood up the inside of the windscreen. I whipped my head round to look at him more clearly, but he was already waving me away with one hand, wiping his face with the other. Blood was trickling out of his nose and pooling around his upper lip.

  “Doesn’t hurt,” he said breathily, opening the glove box with a shaking hand and pulling out some tissues. “Bit … bit of a relief, actually. It’s … one of these, isn’t it?” Paul was pointing to a row of houses that began on the corner of East Street, running along the strangely named Nanny Marr Road. In my mild delirium, I thought they’d named it after the guitarist from The Smiths. I then remembered that was Johnny Marr.

  “We’d …” I began, then became slightly more dizzy as I pulled the car to a stop along the kerb. My body wanted to keep moving, my bones still pulling forward as the car slowed. That was probably the worst of it, looking back. I thought I was going to be sick.

  “Take a sec,” said Paul, leaning his own head back on the seat and taking a deep breath. “No rush, no rush. We’ve … got hours yet, I reckon.” He was right, but I’d waited long enough.

  “I was … I was going to say,” I said, struggling to speak. I managed to unbuckle my seat belt after a few unsuccessful attempts to negotiate the clip, “We’d better be … absolutely certain we both have the same house. We can’t show up on the wrong person’s doorstep … looking like this. They’d call the police, and then the whole thing’s … shafted. It’s one of these three houses, but I’m going to hold my hand behind my back with a number of fingers extended. You say which one you … think it is, and if it matches the one I’m thinking of—”

  “The first one,” said Paul, opening his eyes and looking at me with a tired expression. “It’s the first house. You know it, I know it. Let’s not … piss about, eh? Come on. Let’s go and say hello.” He’d picked the same house as me, at least.

  We staggered our way out of the car, me looking drunk and Paul looking like he’d been on the losing end of a fight. As we looked at the house we’d picked, I was glad that it was semi-detached. Only one set of neighbours to worry about. In fact, it was even better than that, with the nearest residential building being about twenty feet away; there was an expanse of grass between the left wall of the house and the row of fenced bungalows that would be its neighbours. Some sort of sheltered housing, perhaps. The house itself wasn’t anything to be embarrassed about, either; a nice little driveway to the left, leading to a garage set back at the rear. The garden had been concreted over, sadly, but either way it didn’t seem to be in too bad an area, and I thought it would have fetched a nice little price at auction. I hadn’t expected this. From the wa
y Blondie had looked in the vision we’d had, I’d been half-expecting some kind of crack den. Paul looked mildly surprised, too.

  “Guess he … bought this round about the same time that broken picture of his was taken,” he said with an effort, sniffing and wiping his still-bloody nose as he echoed my thoughts. “You knocking, or me?” he asked, gesturing towards the door. We were still stood at the edge of the concreted front garden. I looked at the windows, and noted the drawn blinds. It was mid to late afternoon, and the sun was still high in the sky.

  “I’ll do it,” I said, and staggered towards the door, Paul falling into wobbling step. It occurred to me how unnatural the silence was around us; no passing cars, or even the constant, airy drone of distant ones. It’s funny how we never notice that, and even class it as silence. This country is never silent. Even on top of our mountains, there are distant motorways below and passing planes above. The Stone Man had silenced us all with its presence, a nation in awe of how such a thing could be amongst us.

  I reached the doorstep, and as I moved for the brass door knocker I hesitated for a second, the idea that it was electrified in some way flashing across my mind. This wasn’t a premonition, or another manifestation of whatever psychic ability we’d been using; it was just my wired brain being overactive, I knew. Regardless, I chose to knock using my knuckles instead.

  The knock was weak, but loud enough. Even so, there was no response from inside, the only sound being Paul’s laboured breathing as he leant on the wall for support. We waited for another twenty seconds or so, and then I knocked again. Time passed, and still nothing.