Fragmented Evil

by Craig Wrightson

  The noise from below sounded again and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. He looked around one more time, his mind struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. With no idea of what else to do, Colin turned and fled the scene as fast as he could.

  He entered the street at speed and hurried away in the direction of White Hart Lane station without glancing back. If he had, he would have seen the mysterious observer with the peaked cap step out of the shadows, peer through the window of Soliksiks and again speak softly into his hidden transmitter.

  'Specimen One did not terminate himself. I repeat, Specimen One is alive and on the move.'

  Chapter 11

  As Colin sprinted, red hot pain tore through his bowels and stomach like a stabbing poker fresh from the embers. His face was ashen as he desperately looked for somewhere to relieve himself. He tugged at the collar of the shirt, tearing it open as he felt himself burn up.

  Twenty metres before White Hart Lane station Colin spotted a public convenience. Praying that it was open twenty-four hours, he hobbled down the stairway gently holding his stomach.

  Colin recoiled as he dashed inside the toilet cubicle. Yellow droplets of piss shimmered on top of the toilet seat; at the foot of the pedestal, a murky yellowy-brown fluid sloshed underfoot and the acidic wetness soaked into his shoes. Fresh shit was built up at the bottom of the bowl. The toilet was blocked from the previous day thanks to the deluge of toilet roll stuffed down by a previous user. Soggy and congealed, it was barely visible, mainly due to the large number of faeces that had since been uncaringly deposited on top. A bluebottle hummed around the skid marks that were welded to the side of the pan and Colin’s first instinct was to throw up as his stomach lunged and his eyes watered.

  The pains in his stomach, unfortunately, dictated that beggars could not be choosers. He hastily lowered his trousers and hovered precariously over the seat, leaving the minimum of clearance. Things were bad but they weren't that bad. Desperate or not, he didn't fancy the prospect of catching dysentery or something even worse.

  Crouched, the pain became fiercer by the minute, intensified now that he was in the squatting position. Colin fixed his eyes on the door handle in an attempt to block out his surroundings. His arms were outstretched, his palms wedged flat against the walls to take his weight.

  His stomach let out one last gurgle. The pain travelled down towards his sphincter and sweat poured from his forehead as the watery poison erupted from his body like a geyser.

  The relief was instant. Colin felt his body cool down as the toxins finally escaped. He turned around, slowly, almost ashamed to be responsible for the animalistic sight that was guaranteed to greet him. Bile rose to his throat which he quickly swallowed back. He turned his head back rapidly and hurried from the cubicle.

  His slimy faeces had been bright green and had left behind the unmistakable aroma of death.

  Colin careful wiped himself clean in another, fresher cubicle, before washing his hands at the stainless steel sink that was fixed to the wall closest to the exit.

  With no tissues available, Colin wiped his hands on his trousers and left.

  The rain was now falling from the sky in a deluge. Colin welcomed the freshness that it provided. Opening his mouth, he caught a few raindrops and savoured the fluid more than he had ever done with any alcoholic drink.

  Fuzzy headed, Colin leant against the steel railings of the toilet and took deep breaths of air. His nausea began to subside and the pains lessened. He looked up and saw a man leaning against the wall, tucked away from the light cast down by a streetlamp nearby. He was wearing a cap and reading a newspaper which was folded in half.

  Colin leant back against the railing, bending his head to his knees in an attempt to get his circulation flowing again. An alarm bell went off in his head. Who would read a paper in the rain? he thought to himself.

  He lifted up and saw the man approaching him, his folded paper outstretched in front of him. He let the newspaper fall to the floor revealing a small snub-nosed handgun which he fired instantly, the retort of the shot breaking the morning silence.

  Colin felt a stinging blow to his chest and staggered back as if he had been punched in the jaw by a heavyweight champion. Adrenalin pumped through his body. Ignoring the pain, in full combat mode, Colin pulled out his own gun and fired. Bang, bang! A double tap, both shots fired off in such quick succession that they sounded like one.

  His attacker dropped like a stone. His cap fell from his head as he crashed to the pavement and his gun slipped from his grip, landing on the wet floor close to the discarded newspaper which was now a soggy mess.

  His attacker looked confused as he lay on the floor clutching his stomach. His eyes squinted with pain. He tried to speak but no words came. Blood appeared at his mouth, slowly dribbling onto his chin. His eyes became grey and slowly closed.

  Colin felt exhausted. He wavered for a few moments before reaching out to the railings for support. The metal felt cold and clammy in his grip and he was unable to prevent his legs from sliding away. He slithered to the floor, blood seeping from the bullet wound he had received to the chest. Behind him, the blood flowed more ferociously from the gaping exit wound as the bullet had torn through his lungs and skin.

  Chapter 12

  Now

  The live streaming from the huge screen came to an end, and the lights came on in the cramped control room secretly located underground, beneath the bustling streets of central London.

  Charlotte leant forwards looking at her own smaller monitor, which was also paused. Her screen showed the two fallen men, now both lying still.

  She opened up her phone and placed a call which was immediately answered on the first ring.

  ‘We are going to need a clean-up squad.’

  Squinting at the monitor, she repeated the coordinates of the location and hung up.

  Charlotte rose from her seat and addressed the assembled team, who were now gazing in her direction, eagerly waiting for her feedback and response.

  Charlotte looked resplendent, dressed in a powerful looking business suit. The only give away that she had not slept for over twenty-four hours was the heavy bags visible under her dark eyes.

  Collectively they all wanted to know if she had deemed the operation a success, and more importantly, they wanted to know if she was going to give them the green light for the clandestine work that they had all devoted a year of their lives to, to continue.

  ‘OK, gather round, time is of the essence,’ Charlotte called out, her voice dry from the hours spent underground.

  ‘You saw it all for yourself, just like me. There are some positive and negative points to be taken from tonight’s operation.’

  With the team’s full attention directed towards her and the room deathly silent, Charlotte continued.

  ‘Sadly, we lost one of our own. Sad, I know, but at this moment all I can think is that he dropped his guard and underestimated Specimen One.’

  Thinking aloud, Charlotte shook her head.

  ‘With regards to our specimen, something wasn’t right; he didn’t look in good shape towards the end. There is definitely a problem somewhere. We will know more after we have performed an autopsy on his body and after our lab guys play around for a bit.’

  Tring to inject some positives into the room, which had in recent moments closed in even further, Charlotte paused, straightened her spine and lifted her head up high. Taking the time to look each member of the team in the eye, she brought her speech to a close.

  ‘The one huge positive that you can all take away from this is that we completed our primary objective of removing Dimitri Chilov from the streets. You are all aware of the magnitude of evil this guy was involved with. So I congratulate you all. The streets of London are that little bit safer because of your hard work tonight and determination over the last year.’

  Tiredness swept over Charlotte and she felt the urge to taste fresh air. She picked up her phone an
d keys and hurried towards the small exit at the back of the room before she was asked any further questions.

  A small man came running up behind her wearing steel-rimmed glasses. He was balding on top and had done nothing to hide the fact. He wore a white lab coat and was, in fact, the chief scientist who had been involved with virtually everything since the idea had been conceived.

  He caught her at the door, tugging at her sleeves gently. Charlotte turned around; she looked the most exhausted he had ever seen her.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked in a hushed voice, not wanting the others to hear their discussion.

  ‘Explosive diarrhoea. We didn’t plan for that side effect. Our specimen looked wasted after that.

  ‘Do you want to put a hold on our trials?’

  Anger flashed in Charlotte's eyes. Could the fools not see what they had achieved in such a short time.

  ‘Hell, no. We are nearly at the breakthrough point.’

  ‘What do you suggest then?’

  The light rekindled in Charlotte's eyes and the colour flowed back into her skin. Towering over him, the scientist was reminded once again how powerful Charlotte truly was.

  ‘We continue. Bring the files to my office. Find me a new specimen.’

  The End

  The Calling

  Innocence once lost, can never be regained. Darkness once gazed upon, can never be lost.

  John Milton, 1667.

  Chapter 1

  He could feel the cold starting to penetrate his fragile bones. A clear indication that winter was just around the corner. Another bleak year, another constant struggle, not only with the harshness of the landscape but also with his own inner demons, questioning his beliefs and trying to justify sins of the past.

  He felt it earlier this year. In truth, the old priest did not care. Hopefully, this would be his last year on earth. He had aged rapidly over the previous twelve months and the phlegmy cough from deep down in his chest did not look like leaving him anytime soon. He had observed the occasional speckle of blood in his handkerchief but had chosen to ignore it.

  With his back stooped, he locked the door to the old rectory. Even turning the cold steel key was becoming difficult for him. He placed the key in his cassock which hung from his frail body as if it had been handed down to him from someone much bigger. His shoes crunched on the gravel as he made his way slowly to his cottage at the end of the pathway.

  The old priest had resided in the village of Catton for close to forty years, devoting nearly all of his adult life to St Cuthbert's Church. During this time, he had witnessed many changes. Many were for the good, but now they seemed to be more frequently for the bad. Over the years his congregation had dwindled. Now there were very few houses within the small village that were owned by locals, passed down from family to family. Instead, the younger generation had been quick to line their pockets with the cash offered from the city dreamers who were always looking for second homes. Planning to escape the hustle and bustle of their hectic lifestyles, but in reality, giving up on the dream within months and leaving their properties deserted for most of the year. The priest was grateful if he got more than five parishioners attending his regular services.

  The light was fading fast; out in this remote area of Northumberland the transition from daylight to total darkness could take mere minutes. The old priest quickened his pace. He wanted to be safe at home with a cup of tea and a good book in his hand before the cold got into his body, which he knew, that once embedded, would cause him yet another sleepiness night.

  He reached the end of the stone path and went to open the rotten wooden gate. Sensing that he was nearly home his heartbeat slowed. In the distance, thunder cracked overhead. Shocked, the old priest spun around just as a flash of lightning struck the church spire, which sparked and lit up the blackening skyline like a Catherine Wheel on bonfire night.

  The air froze, and the old priest could feel the oxygen being sucked from his lungs. He reached out, gripping the top of the gate for support. He jumped back as his hand sizzled from hot wood. Falling into the small stone wall that ran the perimeter of St Cuthbert's, he glanced down, feeling faint as he watched the skin redden and blister on his palm.

  Suddenly there was nothing but darkness, total darkness as if a blackened hood had been pulled over the old priest’s head. His body shook and trembled. Not from the cold. No, that had been replaced by an unreserved fear. He was afraid, more afraid than he had ever been in his entire life. He thrust his hands out in front of him, waving them blindly, warning off whatever was out there. He sank further down into the floor and brought his hands up close to his chest in a futile attempt to say one last prayer and to beg for forgiveness.

  After only a few minutes, but what felt like a lifetime to the terrified old priest, the thunder erupted from above for a second time and everything returned to normal, but only for a split second.

  The manifestation, when it appeared, shocked even the old priest who had thought he had witnessed everything imaginable in his lifetime.

  The once hallowed small graveyard, dotted with ageing headstones dating back centuries, momentarily erupted into flames and the air filled with black smoke that the old priest could taste. The flames disappeared leaving patches of scorched earth. Horned gods, draped in cattle skins appeared, dancing around before the priest’s eyes, eagerly singing ‘Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light’.

  From the rear of the group, the leader appeared. He was naked except for a silver horned hat perched on the top of his wizened head. From nowhere, a dagger appeared in his hand; fresh blood dripped from its blade. The leader lifted the blade to his lips and sensually licked the blood. Turning to the old priest, he threw his head back and laughed madly, pointing the blade in his direction.

  The old priest did not witness this. It was too late for him. He lay rigid on the ground, his face twisted in terror. His hands were tucked up tight under his chin, clasped together praying for his God to save him.

  Chapter 2

  1 Year Later

  Friday, June the 20th

  The Eve of the Summer Solstice

  Ethan Appleby stood naked in front of his long bedroom mirror holding his mascara brush in one hand. Water dripped from his slim frame and gathered on the oak floor beneath his feet. He was undecided whether to apply it or not; maybe a dab of eyeliner would suffice. He really wanted to, but he also knew deep down that his mother would go crazy again, accusing him of jeopardising his chance of being accepted during this critical weekend. He hesitated, still unsure of what to do. He was OK with his hair, dyed jet black and tufted out into small spikes. The mascara would have to wait, he conceded; things had been tough enough for them all lately, and he had no desire to make them worse.

  Things had been tough. He had been transferred to a new sixth form college halfway through his first term. His mother had lost yet another job, and they had been forced to relocate to Newbiggin-by-the-Sea, an old mining village about thirty minutes north of Newcastle. They had only been here a few weeks and they were both finding it hard to adjust.

  Being a goth hadn't helped Ethan in the slightest. He was very intelligent and polite and had made a small number of friends, but they had soon distanced themselves once they heard his thoughts on the second coming and the end of the world. Sniggering behind his back, tales had travelled quickly about Ethan and he was treated with scorn by the other pupils. A weirdo, best to be avoided at all costs unless you wanted to run the risk of having your precious reputation tarnished. His peers walked around coolly listening to Rap and R&B music, whereas Ethan preferred to have obscure bands like The Sisters of Mercy and Rammstein blaring out at deafening decibels from his headphones.

  Every goth could recount the all-consuming moment when their lives had changed. Fed up with the world and its negative beliefs, they had embraced the one true culture where they felt secure. For some, it was a classic movie such as Donnie Darko, for others their
first punk concert or the first time they heard the lyrics to a song where they felt the instant connection.

  For Ethan Appleby, it was much more straightforward. The day was etched into his brain; it would be there for an eternity and would haunt him in dreams to come.

  It was nearly two years ago, after countless years of fighting off unwanted advances from his creepy uncle. A stray hand onto his thigh, the tight and uncomfortable passings in hallways, and drunken dips of the head to catch a cheeky kiss at family parties.

  It had been Boxing Day. Ethan had been sick with the flu for the whole of the Christmas festivities. Alone in bed, half drugged on Night Nurse, he had woken, shocked to find his uncle inches away from his face. Before he could react, his face had pressed down and their lips locked together. Ethan had gagged on the stale booze and cigarette smell that engulfed his mouth. The weight of his uncle pinned Ethan to his bed, leaving him unable to move. His uncle’s hand roughly sought out his genitals through the thick duvet. Retching further as he felt his uncle trying to force his tongue into his mouth, Ethan had swept out his arms in panic, trying to locate anything that could help or that could be used to raise the alarm. His left arm thrashed into his bedside cabinet. On top was his open pencil case and a number of pens and pencils. Grabbing the first thing that came to hand, a biro, Ethan jabbed his attacker in the neck, spurred on even further when he felt it penetrate through his jowly skin. Once, twice, three times, he repeated the action. Blood spattered onto his prized Marilyn Manson poster that was blu tacked to his bedroom wall and clung to the gloss. He felt his attacker tire and stabbed him a further two times. Eventually his uncle rolled onto the floor, screaming in agony from his wounds.

  His uncle had been ushered out of the room and an ambulance had been called. At the hospital, his injuries were diagnosed as non-life-threatening and he had been discharged the following day. His uncle never returned and, as if the incident had never taken place, the subject was never mentioned again. Two weeks later, his father left the family home. Ethan had not seen or heard from him since.