by Alec Dunn
They had huddled in a circle around the small flickering fire they had lit to try to keep warm, their backs to the darkness.
They had shared their cigarettes, their drinks and their fears. All they could think about was Natasha, so they had smoked, drunk, and talked about Natasha: how she had gone missing, why she might have gone, what might have happened to her, when it must have happened. They knew she had been with them last – the last people to see her alive? The police had told them that much. They hadn’t even known she was missing till the police had been into the school asking about where she had been, who her friends were, what mood had she been in, who she had been with, who had seen her last, her last known whereabouts.
Natasha hadn’t been at school the day after she had been out drinking with them. Mark had wondered if she had drunk too much – she hadn’t drunk that much, but she wasn’t a drinker. She was a good girl, not used to it – not like some of the others.
He had been looking out for her the next day, had missed her at school. He wondered if her dad had stopped her from going, found out about the smoking and drinking and kept her home. It would be just like him.
Natasha hated her dad. Mark knew because she had told him so. Mark had told her about his dad – Gary – the gambling, the convictions, the drinking and the beatings. He had told her about his mum – everything – and that was when she had told him about her father. He sounded like a bastard – not a violent and unpredictable, slam your face into the table when he’s had a few too many or demand a cuddle, slurring that he loves you before throwing up on the kitchen floor bastard like his own dad – but still a bastard. Her dad was a cold, know all, loveless, computer-logical, middle-class GP bastard. And Mark knew how he would feel about his daughter getting together with the son of Gary, the jobless, wife-beating, gambler.
He took an angry gulp of burning vodka.
He knew his dad was a regular at the doctors. He knew everyone in the village knew his dad – Gary – the bastard. And so he had wondered if her dad had stopped her coming to school. She hadn’t answered his texts, but then, if her dad had taken her phone off her, then she couldn’t, could she?
He hadn’t been worried.
He had thought she would be in tomorrow.
She wasn’t. The day after the police came instead.
There had been a special assembly about how a girl in their year – Natasha Grey – was missing and her father was all panicked – she had gone out to the library and not got home. But then it turns out she had never arrived at the library and Mark knew that was true enough. It was what she would tell her dad so he’d let her out the house and she could meet them in the woods. He knew it was true ‘cos she had said so and then he knew she wasn’t going to come in to school. She was gone. Straight after the assembly, Mark had gone to the head’s office where they based themselves and volunteered to speak to them. He had cried when he was telling them about the last time he saw her. They had asked lots of questions, found out who else was there. They had spoken to the others, asked who had seen her last, asked about his dad even.
For a while he thought he was a suspect. For a while he was. Soon he was in the clear, but that was no relief. It didn’t stop him worrying about Natasha.
They had been getting so close. He had liked her, really liked her. She was beautiful – and now, she was… somebody had… she was probably… he knew it was too late. It had been days now. She must be…
He drank deeply from the bottle, the glass rim clinked drunkenly against his teeth and a trickle ran down his chin.
It was four days since he had seen her, four days since they had sat together, four days since they had shared his cigarettes, four days since he had kissed her.
He had heard that the chances of a missing person surviving plummeted, like rocks thrown into a lake, after the first twenty four hours. He had heard that somewhere and it was true. The cops had said it to him as well. He knew it was true.
Alone in the cold and the dark, he drank from the bottle of vodka. Kill the pain. He thought of the last time he had been here. He thought of Natasha. And she was gone. He knew that. She had disappeared like a rock dropped into a lake, so fast, so silent. One moment she had been there. He had been holding her. She had been real, and then… gone.
He stared at the embers of the small fire and knew it was true.
He thought of his dad, waiting at home or on his way home, drunk or getting drunk, gambling or fighting – Gary the bastard – he would never disappear. He would always be there.
The cold of the night wrapped its arms around him and gripped his heart.
He knew it was true. She was gone and his dad was all there was.
Her dad – that was it – her dad. He was the one to blame. Drove her to lie, didn’t he? To say she was at the library – the cops had said that had wasted a lot of time – don’t tell us any more lies, son, not if you want to help her. So it was her dad that killed her.
He pulled on the bottle to numb the cold and the thoughts.
They were all bastards.
He stared at the dying embers of the fire and hated all of them, all the useless dads who had ever lived, telling him what to do, hitting him, putting him down, giving him a bottle of vodka – here you go, lad, this’ll keep you warm – but it didn’t, it didn’t keep the cold out, it didn’t make him numb.
He slumped to the cold floor, drunkenly splaying sideways and feeling the cold damp leaves and mud beneath him. The bottle of vodka remained clutched in his hand.
He lay there, looking at the faint luminescence of the sky against which the black of the trees and their twisted branches spread like a macabre spider web.
He lay in the cold and filth and pain and he could feel the world turning like a hideous fairground carousel and he wanted to cry and his thoughts were cloudy and unwanted, like water that’s had rocks dropped into it. And the world span – scream if you want to go faster – and span – stop the world, I want to get off – and span – we’re all of us in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars…
And he heard the noise. It was the noise of feet through leaves, a loud noise, close.
He clumsily pulled himself around and sat upright, aware that he was sitting in cold mud, but too drunk to care. He didn’t want to be seen like this.
The weak embers of the fire gave no light.
He could see the silver glow of the moonlight against some branches and tree trunks.
He could see the black shadows of the night.
He could hear the cold dead leaves being trodden down and crushed and pushed out the way.
He could see the white trainers, stepping through the leaves. He knew those trainers.
He didn’t realise how broken and erratic the steps were.
He looked at the jeans and the top and he remembered them as well. They seemed to stand out in the darkness.
He didn’t realise how the jeans that once pulled tightly around the curves of Natasha’s hips and legs hung loosely. He didn’t notice that the top, once filled and rounded by her curving body, flapped emptily.
His drunken careering mind tried to pull the spinning world together and focus on a single spot.
Here.
Now.
“Natassha?” he slurred the words and it sounded to Mark like his dad was speaking, not him. “Nastasha, ss’tha you?”
He stared stupidly into the darkness. He could see the bright trainers and top and even the jeans, but he strained harder to see her, his Natasha.
She had been gone, like a rock…
And now, she was back. She was here, with him.
He saw her step forward, stagger, and his drunken mind and the nights shadows filled in her beautiful face, her flowing hair and curving body. He saw her, beautiful, as he saw her in his memory and imagination, before he truly saw her.
As the broken, shrivelled version of Natasha wretchedly lurched towards him from the shadow of the woods, he finally saw her for what she had become
. He saw the grey, withered flesh, the sunken hollow cheeks, the lank, filth encrusted hair, the clothing hanging loose about the wretched and pathetic frame. He saw the thin mottled limbs of arms and legs that looked like they were patched with lichen and beneath which sinews twisted and gnarled bone protruded. He saw the mechanical movement, the jerking, uncontrolled flailing of limbs as the hands reached out to him. He saw the fear and desperation in her shrunken, jaundiced eyes. He saw that she looked dead, but was still alive and her eyes were filled with need and instinctive cravings. He heard the rustling noise of the leaves as she rapidly approached, but realised that the noise was also coming from the thing: a sussurating, gagging, whimpering noise like an animal. He saw the mouth opening to speak and the strands of saliva and frothy spittle that burst out. He saw the jutting row of elongated, needle sharp teeth and heard the keening animal noise and he knew that his Natasha had not returned to him.
He knew that Natasha had gone, disappeared forever.
The thing dropped onto all four shrivelled, thin limbs, scurrying like a giant insect, moving horribly fast. And he knew that this thing had once been Natasha.
He was too drunk and shocked to think and tried to crawl backwards. He ended up sitting deeper in the cold mud, watching the unnatural movements approach with curiosity.
There was movement on either side of him and two people were on top of the Natasha insect thing.
Mark watched stupidly as the three figures grappled and wrestled. A tall girl with dark hair and tight knee length boots had got behind the thing and grabbed her – it – around the neck, pulling her head back, pulling her upright. A scruffy boy was still struggling, trying to hold her stick arms and Mark could see the blackened nails of Natasha trying to scratch at him.
“Higher, Lu. Get her upright. Can’t you trap her arms as well?”
The girl was taller than Natasha and pulled her mercilessly higher and higher, her arm locked tightly around her neck until the Natasha thing was off its feet.
“Her arms as well? I’ve got to leave you something to do, sweetie. Now stop playing pat-a-cake and let’s put this thing out its misery.”
“No!” shouted Mark, suddenly afraid for Natasha. What were they doing to her?
The scruffy boy had pulled out a sharpened stick from somewhere and was about to stab her. The Natasha thing suddenly went into full insect mode with both arms and legs raised horizontally and flailing mechanically at the boy. The girl holding Natasha lurched forwards briefly, before steadying herself on her solid looking boots, but the boy had to pause, re-evaluate his thrust, and somewhere among the barrage of flying hands and feet the sharpened stick was knocked out of his hand.
The scruffy boy swore, “Shit!” His hands were busy, holding off the filthy, black, nail claws that were scratching at his eyes and face. His feet were trying to stamp and block the legs that were lashing out towards his body, legs and face.
The girl spoke calmly, pleasantly, “Tristan. If you’re not too busy still hiding behind that tree, would you be a darling and help us, please?”
The voice came from behind him and sounded much more nervous than the girls. “Yeah. Yeah, no problem. What do you want me to do?”
The scruffy boy was holding his own against the relentless thumping and stamping. His feet and hands were a blur. “Pass me the damn stake.” The boy was kicked viciously in the stomach, but didn’t move back an inch. His brutal answer to this blow was a sudden step forward into the range of the scratching claws, but he jerked them up and at the same time stepped onto the foot that had kicked him, trapping it against the ground. His other foot stamped down on the knee and a brittle cracking noise broke through the night. He stepped quickly back out of range of the claws, giving a satisfied nod of his head, “One less to deal with.”
The thin broken leg rose again, the lower part swinging and useless, seemingly attached only by skin and sinew, but the shortened jagged thigh bone was as vigorous as before. The scruffy boy blocked it swiftly with his own leg. There was a spurt of blood as he was stabbed by the broken shard of bone wickedly jabbing out from the thigh.
The scruffy boy swore again, “Shit!”
The girl with black hair sounded no less calm than before, “Smooth move, Max. Now, Tristan, honey, could you hurry up?”
Another boy came cautiously forward, picking up the sharp wooden stick from the mud and leaves where it had been knocked.
The scruffy boy’s leg was stained, the trousers were changing colour, but he fought on without pause, “Tristan, you’re going to have to stake it. Go for the heart. Do it quickly. Make it fast.”
The boy holding the stake moved towards the writhing figures. He seemed to be holding back, hesitant.
“Do it! Now!” the scruffy boy demanded.
There was a moment where he stood, watching, and Mark didn’t know what would happen, didn’t know what he wanted to happen. When the boy moved, he was swift, brutal. The sharpened wooden stick was thrust with force, slamming through the heart of Natasha and raising her whole body momentarily upwards. The girl with her arm locked around Natasha’s neck took a small step back with the blow, still gripping her, holding her in place as her thrashing arms and legs subsided and they sank motionless to her side.
Mark only now gave sound to his sorrow, a heartfelt crying of her name, “Natasha.” He knelt in the mud and the darkness calling her name.
Slowly he became aware of a voice next to him.
It was a new voice, a dry, whispering voice. “Natasha? Was that her name? Well, I am sorry for your loss, my young friend. It goes deeper than you yet know. I see you have been drinking. That will make it easier.” A stale smell invaded his nostrils. The elderly voice became louder, “Lucretia, Max, Tristan, well done, well done, indeed, my disciples. You have done well tonight, all of you. Tonight you have saved a life and prevented evil.
Lucretia, would you patch Max up… again.
Max, good work, but I could swear that you are attempting to invent new ways of injuring yourself.
Tristan, you were to be our eyes, not our hands, but still, well done. It would have been much more… challenging, without you. Take Max back to the car, the first aid kit is in the usual place. Go on. Leave our young charge to my care. I will bring his mind peace and the sleep of forgetfulness.”
“Let’s get that tied up, Max.”
“It’ll stop soon. Stop fussing.”
“Max, honey, it’s pissing blood.”
“When we get to the car.”
“Come on, Max, just a little tourniquet. You look like you’ve wet yourself, sweetie. And I don’t know what you’re smiling at, Tristan, the time you took to get in on the action, I thought you had wet yourself. Honestly, what a way to spend a Saturday night.” The booted girl supported the scruffy boy as they limped off into the shadows with the other boy walking beside them. “I think that might be my first threesome, how about you Max?”
The elderly voice whispered again, talking just to Mark, invading his spiralling mind, “Of course, the real challenge is not just killing the monsters, but killing them without being caught. You cannot just go about decapitating, eviscerating and staking our inhuman brothers and sisters without disposing of the corpses, their mangled and corrupt bodies.
Oh, do forgive me, my young man, I’m being thoughtless. I forgot, you knew her, before she… Well, before she became an abomination and a feeder. I am sorry. But as I was saying it is the, ah, shall we say ‘remains’ that present a problem, and, I barely like to mention it, but the witnesses, of course, quite a problem.
Look at them, though, limping off into the darkness, job half done. They’ve had their fun and off they trot. Why is it that the youngsters never think about tidying up the bodies they leave behind? I suppose they leave their bedrooms a mess too. Is your bedroom a mess? Or are you that rarest of things, a teenager who tidies up after himself?” The stale smell was stronger, clogging his nose and throat, covering the vodka fumes, choking almost. “Getting ri
d of the bodies, now that is the problem they leave me with. And it is not easy, my young friend, not easy. Let me tell you, getting rid of one body is difficult enough, but getting rid of two, well, that takes a talent.”
Thirteen : On the Road to Nowhere
Tristan’s feet pounded the pavement. The steady rhythm of running feet beat down, step after step, road after road. Max ran beside him, a constant presence.
Tristan’s breaths were loud and strained, but still controlled, rhythmical like his feet. Apart from the thud, thud, thud of quickly stepping feet, he couldn’t even hear Max beside him. Tristan could feel the heat of movement and exercise spread warmth through his body. His muscles were relaxed. They felt tuned and ready.
He felt alive.
The strength flowing through his limbs and the regular beat was very different to the first runs Max had forced him on. He could still remember dragging the sorry, unresponsive weight of his own body around the dark morning streets. His runs used to range from weakness to dizziness and all the time he was embarrassed. And then, slowly, hardly noticeably, imperceptibly, each step had become easier. Day after day, week after week, road after road, he had got stronger and fitter. He was leaner and harder. Each painful step had brought him to here, to now, to where he was running, step by step, almost beside Max, almost comfortably, almost as strong as Max. Almost.
They ran through the yawning empty streets in the half light of morning. It was their routine, a ritual of strained breathing – for Tristan – and effort. Each morning Max arrived at his front door, they exchanged few words and started running. They used to run until Tristan thought he could run no more, and then Max had made him run more. Now they ran faster. They ran for longer and Tristan no longer reached the point where his legs felt like wet string and his body felt like a cows stomach filled with wind and pain and vomit.
Now he felt confident, strong. He ran almost level with Max.
He was one of the group now and he knew why he was running.