by Mike Revell
“I don’t know,” Seth muttered, “but we need to move. We’ve got to find another patch.” He pointed again, and I could just make out the dark shape of the radio tower silhouetted against the swirling storm. It was high on a hill, the tallest thing around for miles. “That’s where we take up the road. If we’re lucky, we can follow the lights until—”
Another roar, much closer this time.
Something lunged out of the gloom and Tyler fell, stumbling back. One of his illuminators cracked, and the light leaked out, pooling on the floor like the dead glowroot.
“Dreamless!” Seth cried.
My heart in my throat, I stared at the thing as it lurched out of the gloom. It wasn’t a man, although it was man shaped. Its skin was pasty, rippled with burn marks. In the illuminator light bouncing off its face, I could see its mouth frothing. It snorted and sprang at us again even as the Darkness renewed its frenzied shrieking and sped down, down, down, getting too close to us, getting way too close—
A scream ripped the air all around me and at first I thought it was the Darkness, but then I realized my mouth hung open and my lungs burned, and the sound, the long, drawn-out sound, was coming from me.
I forced my mouth shut and swallowed to ease my throat. My legs buckled and I fell to the ground, every part of my body wracked with stabbing pain.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was in my head. I could see it, like a distant photo getting closer and closer.
No, don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.
But I couldn’t stop it. The memory was there now. It was in my head and I couldn’t get rid of it. I was in a park, surrounded by green trees. The sun was high in the sky and the birds were singing and I could hear the gentle murmur of the River Cam.
No . . .
It used to be a happy place. We fed the ducks all the time. We ripped up bread and stuffed it in a sandwich bag and waited for them to waddle over.
But not this time.
I knew what was coming. I shook my head, trying to fight it, but I couldn’t.
Mum appeared out of the fog, walking alongside me . . .
I’ve got something I need to tell you, she said. I got really excited. I thought we were going to get sweets. I thought she was going to say, “Let’s go to the shop.” But when she turned toward me, she didn’t say that at all.
She was crying.
We were supposed to be having fun but she turned to me with wobbling lips and wet cheeks and I didn’t understand why.
I’m afraid . . . she said, I’m afraid it’s . . . it’s bad news.
And that was when the tears stopped trickling down her cheeks and flooded more freely. She didn’t even try to wipe them away. She just cried and cried.
I wish I didn’t have to tell you this. But, darling, I’ve got . . . I’ve got—
LA-LA-LA.
Stop thinking about it, stop thinking about it, stop thinking about it.
Something gripped my ankle. I struggled against it. I twisted and turned, yelped and kicked out, but instead of frothy snarling I was met with—
“Ow!”
The dry earth scratched my skin as I got dragged back, back into the meadow-light. When I looked up, it wasn’t a Dreamless leering down at me. The adrenaline had worn off now, and the pain kicked in again. I clenched my eyes tight shut, but my head still burned.
Iris held me steady, wafting one of her arms through the air above us, sending illuminator-light stabbing up into the sky. Seth rushed over, and pushed us in the direction of the tunnel.
“Run!” he yelled. “Get back to the camp!”
He turned and helped Tyler to his feet, staggering under his weight.
The Darkness peeled away, chittering madly, but the Dreamless was still close—I could smell it. A dank smell. A putrid smell, like rotten fish.
The storm whirled above us, getting closer and closer, testing the protection of the ethereal light. And as it did, something rang in my ears. Not the screeching. It was Mum’s voice, calling out, whispering—
“Owen,” she said.
“I’ve got . . . I’ve got leukemia.”
“Go!” Seth yelled again.
Tyler regained his footing. He broke away, dashing toward the tunnel just as another roar rumbled somewhere nearby. With every ounce of strength I could summon, I turned and ran, pulse pounding, back through the storm toward camp.
16
A car horn blared.
There was a flash of blinding light. Adrenaline surged through me and I scrambled out of the road just as the car thundered past.
I fell to my knees and closed my eyes, trying to shut everything out.
Where am I? Am I still in the story?
All my thoughts clouded together. When you were on your own, it was easy to hear yourself in your mind. But right then it wasn’t just myself I heard. There was another voice too. Growing smaller and smaller all the time, but definitely there in the back of my mind.
Images flashed up, memories of the dead world, and at first it was impossible to find me, to find my name and my memories and my life. I tried to fight through the noise.
And something rose up out of the jumbled rush . . .
The West Essex Rovers. We played them in the school cup last year and I got hacked on the edge of the box. I took the free kick, but I was so worked up that the shot went wide. For the rest of the game, the kid who fouled me kept jeering. I wanted to shut him up by playing the best I could, but every time I tried to do something good I messed up. I just got worse and worse. It was like I was playing in quicksand.
That was how this felt. Like there was nothing I could do. Like I was drowning.
“Are you all right, mate?” said a voice beside me.
I jumped in surprise, staggering back into a wall—
My head rang. I clutched my stomach, trying not to throw up. I checked my hands. They were mine again. I could tell by my little finger. It was crooked where it’d got broken by a cricket ball in PE.
“You okay?” said the voice again. A boy’s voice.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, glancing across at him. He had school uniform on, but it wasn’t the same as mine. We were at a bus stop, but there was no name on the sign, just a number. “Where are we?”
“Victoria Road,” he said.
“What?” That was forty minutes from my house. Unless I ran. And my legs were too weak for that. My head pounded. My palms were clammy with sweat. How did I get here? I kept thinking about the storm, about us running out into it. We hadn’t got very far at all. We were supposed to get glowroot for the generators in camp. We were supposed to help power the radio tower. But we didn’t get anything. And Mum’s voice . . . I shivered just thinking about it.
“Do you think you should go to the doctor or something?”
“No. No, I’m okay.”
Even though I wasn’t okay. I was far, far from okay. I was miles away from home, and I had no idea how I got there. I leaned against the wall to hide my buckling knees. I tried to think back to what I was doing before I jumped into the dead world, but my thoughts flickered and flashed and popped before I could get to them.
Home. I needed to get home.
I felt for my wallet, but there was only thirty-five pence in there, and there was no way I’d be able to get a bus with that. I dug out my phone and sent a text to Danny.
Can you bike to Victoria Road?
On a bike, the journey’s nothing. He’d be here in ten minutes max, and I could hitch a ride home on the back. I didn’t have to wait long for a reply.
Sod off.
What? I knew it was out of the blue, but if he didn’t want to give me a ride, he only had to say so. Danny was always smiling, always cracking jokes. He’d never replied to me like that before.
Then I noticed the messages above mine. There were loads of them, all from Danny.
Where are you?
Smithy???
Thought you’d like to know we lost. Thanks, mate.
For a second I stood there frowning. What was he going on about? Then it hit me—
No . . .
“What day is it today?” I asked. My stomach writhed again but for a different reason.
“Wednesday.” The boy gave me the kind of look Mrs. Laird gave you when you said you’d forgotten your homework.
“Wednesday? How can it be Wednesday?”
If it was Wednesday, then—
I’d missed the game.
Westfield. We were supposed to play them today.
“Look,” said the boy again, the same worried expression on his face. “Are you sure you’re okay? I don’t mind going to the doctor’s with you if you want? It’s just round the corner.”
“I’m fine,” I snapped.
But right away I felt bad, because it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t done anything.
What am I going to say to Danny? I thought.
What am I going to say to Dad?
Because if I’d missed the football, then I’d missed four days of school as well. I checked the time on my phone. The numbers flashed up: 7:30. The sudden panic made my stomach churn. It was half past seven on Wednesday evening, and the last thing I remembered . . .
The last thing I remembered was going out on Friday morning.
17
The smell was thick in the air before I got to the kitchen. Garlic and mushrooms and cheese. I’d never felt so hungry before. It felt as if a cave had opened up inside my stomach, stretching wider and wider. I could even have eaten a plateful of those corn rounds.
“Owen!” Dad said, blinking when he saw me in the hall. “Sorry—I just cooked for myself. I thought . . .” He shook his head, rubbed his hair. “I thought you were at Danny’s. That’s odd. Why wouldn’t I make anything for you?”
He stared at his food as if expecting to find answers in it.
I waited in the doorway, staring at him. Didn’t he care? I’d missed six whole days of my life, doing what? Either I’d vanished from this world completely, or else I’d been zoned out somewhere. But zoned out for days on end? Surely he would have called the police. Someone would have noticed. Wouldn’t they?
“It’s okay,” I said, just to break the silence. “I’ll grab something from the fridge.”
“No.” Dad shook himself. “No, we’ll share this. Gives us more space for dessert.”
He winked, then gestured to the kitchen table. I sat down as he split the meal over two plates. My stomach rumbled loudly, but even louder than that were the questions clamoring in my mind. I always told Dad when I was going over to Danny’s, and I definitely hadn’t mentioned it the other day. Why would he think I’d gone over there?
“Did anyone from school ring?” I asked, watching him carefully.
He shrugged. He scratched the stubble on his chin.
“No,” he said. “I would have heard. I’ve been in the study all day. Been writing. The words are flowing, Owen. The story’s working.”
“That’s great,” I said, and I really meant it, but I was distracted by a million more questions. Mrs. Willoughby always rang if you weren’t there. If you didn’t let her know you were going to be absent by nine o’clock, she’d keep ringing home until she had proof that you were ill. But she hadn’t called. No one at school had.
A thought bubbled up in the back of my mind.
“What did we do yesterday?” I asked.
Dad frowned. He had been about to eat a forkful of food, but it hung there now, hovering a couple of inches from his mouth. “What do you mean?” he said.
“My mind’s gone blank,” I said. “I’m just trying to remember.”
“Well, you went to school, and when you got back . . .”
“When I got back, what?” I said.
“You . . . er . . .” He chewed his lips, frowning. He rubbed the top of his head, where his hair was getting thinner, and scratched his chin. “You know what? My mind’s gone blank too. Would you believe it? Bunch of old men, we are.” He laughed.
I smiled back at him, but it wasn’t a proper smile. Because no matter what had happened to me, I’d been gone six days, and Dad didn’t even care enough to notice. I looked down at my plate of food. My stomach was writhing so much that my appetite faded. But I knew how hungry I was. I had to eat. As soon as I started, I scoffed it down. It vanished so fast I barely tasted it, and despite the queasy feeling in my gut, it was the best thing I’d ever eaten. The warmth spread down my throat, into my stomach, and out toward my arms and legs.
“Wow!” Dad said. “They don’t feed you at that school or something? Haven’t seen someone eat like that since your mum was pregnant. Back when you were nothing more than a little bean inside her. She wasn’t just eating for her, she was . . .”
He trailed off, eyes watering. “She was eating for you as well.”
I dropped my fork. Dad wasn’t supposed to cry. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. “Dad, it’s okay.” The words sounded hollow, pointless. “It’s all right,” I said again, because saying it once just didn’t feel good enough.
“Listen, this Artistic Healing stuff. I think it could work. They’re good, there. When I write, everything softens. The world disappears. Does that make sense? I need you to know, I’ll get better. This story—I think it could be a good one.”
I took my plate to the sink, and as I turned back something caught my eye. A flash of white on the dark counter, beside the brown bag and the plastic tubs.
Sometimes when your eyes latched onto a piece of writing, like a newspaper article or a game review or a magazine headline, a word jumped up at you. Even if you didn’t look at it for very long.
I glanced up to make sure Dad wasn’t looking, then moved closer to the counter.
Stormwalker
CHAPTER ONE
Jack ran toward camp, and the Darkness chased him . . .
“I knew it,” I whispered.
Jack. The Darkness. I scanned the page, my breath frozen in my throat.
“I’ll take those,” Dad said, snatching the pages away. “I don’t want you to see it yet. I’ll show you when I’m a bit further in, eh?”
“It sounds scary,” I said, remembering the storm again, the feeling it gave me when it got close. “I didn’t know you wrote horror.”
“Oh, every story has a bit of horror in it,” Dad said. “But it’s more than that. It’s a mystery too. There’s this man called the Marshal, and he’s—”
“He’s what?” I said, suddenly curious.
Dad tapped his nose. “I don’t want to give it away,” he said. “You’ll have to read it. Won’t be long before I’m finished, at this rate. I’m enjoying it. I’ve always wanted to write a story where not everything is as it seems.”
Then he turned around and left me standing alone in the kitchen.
I knew I was right. All those links were so clear now. Cambridge. The storm. The lemon balm. It was impossible. It didn’t make sense. But I was right. I knew I was.
Dad’s words rang again in my mind. The hero’s a lot like you . . .
It wasn’t a dream. I wasn’t imagining it or making it up. I hadn’t teleported to the future. Dad wrote about a boy called Jack living in a world plagued by Darkness. And somehow—
Somehow, I was getting sucked into the pages.
I knew it sounded crazy, but it had to be true. All those days of my life, just snipped away. The back of my neck tingled at the thought of that. Because if I was right . . . if I wasn’t just dreaming and Dad was transporting me into his book, then—
Then what would happen if he wrote again?
18
After a few minutes of standing in the silence, I headed upstairs. I checked my reflection in the mirror, just to be sure. I felt my cheeks, brushed my hair, leaned right up to the glass, blinking.
I was me. I was definitely me.
I stood there for ages, trying to get the story out of my head, the sound of Mum’s voice when the Darkness closed in. It was so l
oud, so close.
But something about the memories of her felt . . . different.
I tried to picture her, forced myself to remember her face, but it was blurry around the edges. And the blurrier it got, the more the other mum snuck in. The ill mum. The mum I didn’t want to remember.
That was when I decided to do something I hadn’t done since before the Longest Day.
I crept out onto the landing, listening for any noise from downstairs.
If Dad caught me doing this, he’d kill me. I hadn’t heard him come up, so he must have been in the study or sitting in the living room.
Nothing. It was so quiet the only sound I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears.
I can’t believe I’m going to do this, I thought, rubbing my clammy hands on my trousers.
I tiptoed across to Dad’s bedroom door. It was open, just a crack. Just enough to see the mess inside. Clothes all over the floor, magazines and books littering the carpet. As I snuck further into the room, my eyes drifted to the photo on the bedside cabinet. It was facedown, but I knew what it was. Mum and Dad and me, smiling together at the beach.
I wanted to go over and take a proper look. That would get rid of the blurriness. But there was something else, something better, and if I didn’t hurry up, I might chicken out.
I took a deep breath and turned toward Mum’s wardrobe.
Three big white doors that slid open in the middle. They hadn’t been touched in three hundred and seventy-one days. I was close enough to open them . . . but just thinking about it made my arms go heavy.
I reached out and touched the handle. It was so cold. I kept thinking that the last person to touch it was Mum. I closed my eyes and pictured her looking inside, and for a second I felt close to her again.
Ever since the Longest Day, it had felt like she was fading. I mean, she was there when I closed my eyes, but every day she’d been there a little bit less.
But standing there, she was clear in my mind.
Taking a deep breath, I opened the wardrobe.
Perfume. That was the first thing I noticed. Tears stung my eyes. I hadn’t expected that. I didn’t know why. She’d been gone for a year, but it smelled like she was in the room.