Fragmented Evil

by Craig Wrightson

  A low whispery mist was travelling towards them. Private First Class Joe Carter stood up to stretch his legs. He turned around and looked down the embankment just as Corporal Morris and the trailing Hans came into view. He pulled his hands over his eyes for a clearer look.

  ‘Hey, Sarge, what do you make of these two?’

  An alert Sergeant Cole immediately sprang up. He took out his field glasses and zoomed in to where Private Carter was pointing.

  ‘Jeez, looks like they could be part of those red-eyed Nazi bastards we’ve been hearing about.’

  ‘Hell, I ain’t killed no Nazi devil before. Give me your rifle, Sarge.’

  ‘Like hell I will. You know you can’t shoot for shit. I’m going first.’

  Sergeant Cole picked up his rifle from the jeep, checked the ammunition and lowered himself to the floor.

  He took a deep breath and looked down the sight. With the butt tight against his shoulder he lined up on the target. Slowly exhaling, his finger gently squeezed the trigger and fired.

  Chapter 10

  The bullet whizzed past Corporal Morris’ head and struck Hans in the face. Ricocheting of his nose bone, it deflected squarely into his left eye. His legs fell from under him and he dropped like a stone. His left eye was total destroyed, blood red just like the creatures he had created.

  Corporal Morris carried on with his ascent but he could feel his energy flagging. He prayed that he would make it in time.

  ‘I’m English, I’m English. Please don’t shoot.’

  His voice sounded far away and he doubted that the soldiers on the top of the embankment had heard him.

  An idea occurred to him, the one thing that might possibly save his life. He reached into his smock and pulled out the yellow vial. He waived it in front of him like a lunatic.

  Finally, he could go on no more; he sank to his knees and saw blood flowing freely from his wound.

  A second shot rang out and Corporal Morris felt a burning pain as the bullet travelled through his right shoulder, propelling him backwards down the embankment. He lay staring up into the sky and felt himself slowly fade. He was going to bleed out unless the two soldiers arrived to help him in time. Either way, his fate was going to be decided in the next few precious moments.

  He turned his head and looked back up. The vial of yellow cocktail had been flung free from his grip as he had dropped to the hard floor. Smashing on impact, it had already started to leak from its fragile container.

  As Corporal Morris lay motionless on the floor, bleeding heavily from the gaping entry hole of the bullet in his shoulder, sudden realisation dawned on him that the deadly small stream of yellow fluid was slowly starting to trickle precariously down towards him and was only inches away from his fresh wound.

  ‘Shite,’ he slurred before his eyes finally closed.

  The End

  Specimen One

  Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.

  John Milton, 1667.

  Chapter one

  Lying face down in the gutter, Colin Andrews glanced at his watch.

  8:10 a.m.

  What a sad and boring time to die, he thought to himself.

  In fairness, when he had woken up the previous morning, he had not expected to die twenty-four hours later.

  If truth be told, he had not expected to die any time soon.

  Last week, yes.

  But not now, not after everything that had happened.

  The rain was now torrential, flowing rapidly down the street. Colin watched, bemused, as his blood ran into the stream of the gutter and was washed away in an instant.

  His life force, now diluted to an impoverished pink, was draining rapidly from his body.

  Colin tried to lift his head, mainly to lift his mouth free from the gushing rainwater that he imagined was mixed with stale cigarette butts and sweet wrappers, but also with a faint hope that somebody would be coming to his rescue.

  The street was deserted.

  Sharpness exploded in his skull and his head dropped instantly back onto the cold, wet surface.

  His eyes started fluttering as everything became hazy.

  He glanced at the body of the other man, lying perhaps ten feet away from him. He was curled up in the foetal position, clutching at a small gunshot wound to his stomach. Dead.

  Who the hell was he? thought Colin. And more importantly, why had he just tried to kill me?

  The questioned remained unanswered.

  Two seconds later, the lights went out.

  Chapter two

  Night terrors and vivid flashbacks of his time in Afghanistan had initiated a dark, dark depression which had quickly escalated into sleep deprivation and chronic fatigue.

  The army medical officer had explained that it was PTSD.

  Watching a man, well into his seventies, hunched over, burdened with arthritis, being blown to pieces as he stepped on a hidden land mine while tending to his pitiful plot of land to feed his family that was dependent on his minuscule offerings, tended to do that, even to the most battle-hardened of soldiers.

  Luckily, Colin had been standing far enough back to escape uninjured, but he had still been covered with gloopy blood and fleshy skin. The feel of it dripping down his face, running into his gaping mouth, would haunt him for a lifetime.

  Standing in the sparse medical office back at the regimental barracks, kitted out with a wonky chipped table, two chairs and a rusting examination bed that looked like it dated back to the Cold War, the medical officer went on to enlighten Colin of the causes of PTSD in great detail, how it was the mind’s way of dealing with exposure to a traumatic event.

  What he failed to warn him of, either as an act of neglect or a simple lack of compassion from his side, was the monster he was likely to become if his PTSD went untreated.

  Finally, the medical officer delivered the news that he had been dreading the most – that Colin was no longer fit to serve. Half expecting the outcome, Colin had still been rocked by this devastating blow and had left the medical office minutes later in silence with dropped shoulders.

  Before he knew it, he had found himself being ushered out of the army with great haste by his senior officers who were all too keen to wash their hands of him.

  The days following his diagnosis had been a blur as his exit paperwork had been fast-tracked through the system. Colin soon found himself back on Civvy Street with twelve years of service and loyalty to Queen and country behind him, but with no idea of what lay ahead. Abandoned, alone and bitter, very bitter.

  No one had prepared him for what was to come and for the battle he was to face, of which Colin would be far more terrified than the combat that he had trained hard for and recently faced on the desperate and remote frontline of Afghanistan.

  Chapter Three

  By the time Colin had waited six weeks for his GP to arrange an assessment by a psychiatrist, the damage had been done.

  His girlfriend, the cold, heartless bitch, had been quick to show him the door.

  She was already pissed off with his constant mood swings and recurring nightmares. The nightmares were becoming more frequent, leaving both Colin and the bedding drenched in sweat, needing to be constantly washed and changed every day. All this needed to be done before she could head off to do a full day’s work. The extra strain had become tiring. Her employer had noticed the change in her and she knew she had to act soon.

  Her resolve had finally buckled when she returned home from work one night already tired after weeks of broken sleep, to find Colin collapsed, comatose on the lounge carpet with an empty whiskey bottle lying by his side, after having smashed every single mirror in the house with his bare fists. The whiskey had been a good one, a ten-year-old malt that she had been saving for a special occasion. Blood had stained the carpet from his burst knuckles, and the room smelt like a brewery.

  As she looked down on him in his drunken stupor, totally oblivious to
everything, Colin coughed, coughed again and then coughed and farted at the same time.

  With a look of disgust, she had turned her back on him and thrown what little clothes and possessions he had into his old army bergen and thrown him out the moment he opened his eyes.

  With not a tear in sight, she thrust one hundred pounds into his hand and slammed the door firmly shut in his face.

  Having spent many a night sleeping exposed on remote Norwegian mountains as part of his survival training, and his time spent recently sleeping on the pebbly floor in the deserts of Afghanistan, where temperatures could plummet in minutes, Colin was not too daunted by the prospect of sleeping rough for a few nights.

  Even though life had dealt Colin a bitter blow leaving him weakened both mentally and physically, the one thing that still remained in his make up was his strength and determination. He would use that determination, the same determination that had seen him pass SAS selection as others, much younger and fitter than himself had fallen by the wayside, to see him through the coming weeks.

  Chapter Four

  His first night outdoors had been spent sleeping down by the embankment where he had sought protection against the inevitable cold and rain from the concrete arches above, with only a sleeping bag for warmth.

  It was on his second night that he met Old Jock, another ex-serviceman forced out on to the streets by a failing system. Old Jock was perhaps in his mid-forties. It was hard for Colin to gauge his true age due to the grizzly white beard peppered with nicotine stains that covered every square inch of his bedraggled face. He and Old Jock had spent the night swapping stories, and Colin had felt an instant bond with the older drunk.

  The following night, walking back to the embankment from the nearest off-license, Colin had been forced to step in and defuse a dangerous-looking situation. He had turned the final corner of his approach and stumbled upon Old Jock in confrontation with a man and his wife. Old Jock had somehow offended the woman as they walked past, some fleeting comment intended as a joke. Unfortunately, the pair had not seen the funny side to Old Jock’s poor attempt at humour and now the man, enraged, was keen to prove his bravado in front of his affronted wife.

  Colin was sure that in his younger days, Old Jock would have been capable of handling the situation, but standing now, disheveled, Colin was not so sure.

  A word into the man’s ear and a grovelling apology to them both was all it had taken and the couple had ambled away, with the man casting the occasional angry backwards stare for the benefit of his wife.

  After he had spent a few moments calming down the confused and upset Old Jock, his new friend pulled out a bottle of Buckfast that he had shoplifted earlier in the day and unscrewed the cap.

  Buckfast was a notorious tonic wine, consumed by the gallon in Scotland. Often referred to as ‘smash the hoose juice’ or ‘commotion lotion’, it was so potent that if it had been around in 1298, it would have easily repelled the English invaders at Hadrian’s Wall.

  Old Jock swigged heavily from the bottle before passing it to Colin.

  ‘Fill ya boots, young man.’

  Chapter Five

  It wasn’t until three days later that Colin finally came to on a park bench in an area that he was not familiar with. He had no recollection of what had gone on since he had taken that first mouthful of Buckfast. Old Jock was nowhere to be seen.

  Colin straightened up on the bench and ran his hands through his unkempt hair. A mother walked past, hurriedly dragging her small boy behind. It was obvious from the look on her face and the pace at which she was moving that she did not want her son to see the state Colin was in. As she passed, she looked at Colin and shook her head in disgust.

  Embarrassed, Colin stood up and made to leave. A pounding in his head and a feeling of nausea made him sit straight back down. His mouth tasted like a sewer, and he fished around in his pocket for his cigarettes. He lit up and bent his head low between his legs as he smoked. Colin cringed. His body reeked, booze and stale sweat seeped through every pore.

  After a few moments, he felt the life in him slightly return. Standing up, defeated and ashamed, he left the park with his head bent low to avoid having to witness any further looks of revulsion.

  For the next few nights, Colin moved back into the centre of London, mooching around the side streets that were laden with theatres and five-star hotels. He never ventured far, always watchful of the vultures who would steal what little possessions he had without a pause or remorse.

  At night, sat in the gutter, looking up at the stars, he was not afforded a second glance by the elite as they strode by. Colin remained where he was, hoping his resolve would pay off. Returning later, faces flushed red from too much red wine and heartburn from rich desserts, the attitudes of the elite had changed. Now they saw themselves as royalty and if Colin was lucky, he was rewarded with the offer of notes instead of coins.

  Of course, this could not last. All too soon Colin found the streets and the magnitude of people jostling around him for space close back in on him. He was frequently asked to move on by ridiculously dressed porters and concierges who despised the homeless with a vengeance.

  Even getting a drink of water was a challenge. Colin was not welcomed. Nobody wanted him around. He was a constant reminder of how easy it was to slip into the abyss of emptiness and that shook the average Mr I’m Alright Jack to the very core.

  He half slept at night, always cautious and alert when strangers approached. Mostly he was ignored, but on rare occasions, kind, understanding strangers would stop and engage with him in conversation, happy to pass the time of day with someone less fortunate than themselves and if he was lucky he would be supplied a hot drink and food which he was always appreciative of.

  Ashamedly, most people who walked past Colin would rather deliver abuse; to them he was the dregs of society. He had witnessed many violent altercations between the general public and his fellow rough sleepers, but luckily, so far, it had not happened to him. Still, it was always wise to keep his guard up.

  Soon he began to move around frequently, never spending more than two nights in the same location. A chance encounter with a stallholder at Bethnal Green Market had resulted in the offer of work. Colin had accepted on the spot, all too aware of the lifeline that had been thrown to him.

  He started work on the market with vigour. The work was backbreaking and the pay was low, but his new boss paid him cash in hand and bought him a hot lunch every day.

  He made a concentrated effort to slow down with his drinking. He had a can of strong lager in the morning to stop the shakes and then battled on throughout his shift until he finished without a further drink. This had been easier than he had anticipated. Colin put it down to feeling needed again, the chance to do something worthwhile, to be a member of society once more and the bottle of whiskey was soon replaced by lesser strength cans of larger.

  Soon he started to save money. A few pounds here and there. Nothing much, the drink still took most of what he earned.

  The growing stash was securely concealed about his body. For once Colin could look to the future.

  He prayed that this time nothing would go wrong that may derail his recovery and his one true chance of returning back to the normality that he deeply craved.

  Sadly, Colin was unaware that discussions had been held and plans were already underfoot that would trigger the most horrific series of events in the coming days, events that would send Colin spiralling back down into the darkness of hell that he had worked so hard to rise from.

  Chapter Six

  After easing himself into a routine of sorts, Colin gradually started to overcome his demons. He was still drinking, but the amount he was drinking now daily was unlikely to kill him anytime soon, which would definitely have been the case if he had not dramatically reduced his intake. Hopefully, any damage to his liver and kidneys would repair itself as he got fitter and stronger on his road to recovery.

  Hard work
, fresh air and at least one hot meal a day allowed Colin to sleep peacefully at night for the first time in months. The nightmares reduced in their ferocity and slowly drifted away. The shift in his mental balance alone was enough to encourage Colin to continue. He was still fearful; a voice in the back of his mind occasionally warned him not to become too complacent, reminding him that the nightmares could return at any time without warning, and who was to say that if they did return, they would not be stronger, more terrifying this time.

  Colin slept in a backstreet alleyway – a single cobbled lane with a small footpath on both sides. Two huge steel bins from a Chinese restaurant provided an ideal windbreak from the cold draught that constantly howled down the street. The kitchen staff came and went all night long until about one a.m. when the restaurant closed. Colin lay twenty metres away from the bins and the kitchen entrance but the staff paid him little notice, lying there tucked up in his sleeping bag with a few layers of cardboard underneath him to prevent the chill from the ground penetrating through. He was working during the day and as long as he kept himself to himself, he was ignored at night. It was a good spot and Colin hoped to stay here for a few more days.

  With his senses always on full alert, Colin was awakened one night by the sound of shuffling feet close by. He cautiously poked his head from his sleeping bag and looked up. The night was still, the side street looked to be deserted. He rolled over and looked towards the entrance to the street.

  Two well-dressed youths were hovering close to one of the steel bins. Bouncing on their toes, one of them pulled out a white wrapper and laid it on the cold surface of the bin. His friend stood and watched as he rolled up a note as tightly as he could. Colin remained silent, hoping the strangers would attend to their business and swiftly leave. One after the other, both men leant over the bin and snorted the white powder, blocking a single nostril with a finger.