1

Highway to Hell

Highway to Hell

By Alex Laybourne

Published by Alex Laybourne

Highway to Hell by Alex Laybourne is licensed under a

Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0

Unported License.Based on a work at www.alexlaybourne.com

All Rights Reserved

License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

If you would like to share this book with another person,

please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you‘re

reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not

purchased for your use only, then please return to

Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for

respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,

organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the

product of the author‘s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise,

events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Highway to Hell

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Highway to Hell

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I first wrote Highway to Hell close to seven years ago. Since

then it has gone through several editions, through publishers

and self-published endeavours. Much like the characters that

you will meet in the coming pages, this book will not quit. It

will not lie down and roll over. So here it is again, ready for the

world. This was the first book I ever wrote, it holds a special

place in my heart, and I hope you all enjoy reading it.

DEDICATION

This is for my wife Patty, and our wonderful children; James,

Logan, Ashleigh, Damon, and Riley

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Highway to Hell

Table of Contents

Chapter 1....................................................................................... 8

Chapter 2..................................................................................... 28

Chapter 3..................................................................................... 46

Chapter 4..................................................................................... 54

Chapter 5..................................................................................... 64

Chapter 6..................................................................................... 82

Chapter 7................................................................................... 100

Chapter 8................................................................................... 114

Chapter 9................................................................................... 128

Chapter 10................................................................................. 142

Chapter 11................................................................................. 164

Chapter 12................................................................................. 174

Chapter 13................................................................................. 190

Chapter 14................................................................................. 199

Chapter 15................................................................................. 203

Chapter 16................................................................................. 207

Chapter 17................................................................................. 211

Chapter 18................................................................................. 224

Chapter 19................................................................................. 241

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Highway to Hell

Chapter 20................................................................................. 246

Chapter 21................................................................................. 252

Chapter 22................................................................................. 266

Chapter 23................................................................................. 279

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Highway to Hell

PART I

DEATH

To sad humanity alone, (Creation's triumph

ultimate). The grimness of the grave is known. The dusty

destiny await…Oh bird and beast, with joy, elance

effulgently your ingorance! Oh man, previsioning the

hearse, with fortitude accept your curse!

Dark Truth by Robert Service

7

Chapter 1

Marcus (Plus One)

Marcus Fielding looked at his watch; he was halfway

through his shift, the last one of his current rotation, not

to mention the last shift before his three-week vacation.

It was a sort of second honeymoon. He and his wife had

been together twenty years the previous April, yet had

never been away just the two of them. They had always

had at least one kid tagging along; first it was the twins,

Erica and Bryony, then Roger, and finally little Marcus

Jr. Not that Marcus cared. His kids were his life, and he

would do anything for them.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand

before replacing his cap. It was the middle of July and the

temperature had been stuck in the low thirties for over

two weeks already. While the heat was welcome, the new

bulletproof vests the force had just issued made the

officers who wore them lose fluid quicker than they could

consume it. All in the name of safety, the duty sergeant

had said. ―Easy for him to say‖, Marcus had grumbled

along with all the others in his section at the end of their

first shift wearing the new vests. He remembered that

there had been a queue of people by the toilets waiting to

wring their shirts out before putting them in their bags.

―I‘ll make one more round and then head back to the

car. I‘ll meet you there,‖ he spoke into his radio using

another recent addition – the covert earpiece and

microphone.

―Okay, I‘m done up here anyway. There‘s

nobody…it‘s too hot. Everybody‘s down at the beach,‖ a

young voice answered him; optimistic as ever, his love for

the job still passionate and unbridled.

Simon Dillings had been on the force for three

months and was the lucky protégé of Marcus. The only

problem Marcus and every other officer he knew had

with tutoring a rookie was the foot patrol. Although it did

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Alex Laybourne

bump him up over quota, not to mention it was a tried

and tested method of breaking in the new guys, showing

them it‘s not always gunfights and car chases like you see

in the movies.

―Lucky them. Well we‘ll head in for some grub and

then you can impress me with your paperwork skills

again. How‘s that sound?‖ Marcus asked, grinning as he

pictured Simon‘s face drop, his glasses slip down his

nose, and his mouth screw up, pursing his lips together in

a way that made him look constipated. Marcus liked the

kid. He was a good, honest guy, and he would go a long

way. ―Boy, sounds like a party. You sure do know how to

spoil a man,‖ the voice answered back, a little bit of

attitude finally beginning to crack the ‗good-boy‘ rookie

shell.

The town center was quiet, with the age demographic

definitely favoring the slow moving older citizens whose

idea of causing trouble ended with whispering about

someone at the local bingo hall or bridge club meeting.

Deciding to cut his route short, Marcus turned left at the

midway point of the high street and entered the covered

shopping arcade. It had just been renovated a couple of

weeks before, but the local youths had already managed

to tag two walls with vibrant paint and even more

colorful language. Truth be told, Marcus was surprised it

had taken them that long. The town wasn‘t known for

being the most picturesque place in the country, and with

an unemployment rate that never seemed get any lower,

benefit claimants flocked to the town in droves; which in

turn had led to council estates springing up wherever

there had once been a bit of green ground where the kids

could play.

Unlike Simon, Marcus had lived in the town his

whole life and had watched as it made the transition from

a small coastal English town to a place the size of a small

city. Now it was on the cusp of linking up with the three

surrounding towns, all of which were suffering the same

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Alex Laybourne

fate. Marcus knew it would only be a matter of time

before someone would raise the idea of combining them

all. Easterton had once been nothing more than a proud

and well-respected fishing village which grew as the

industry it housed did. Then, overnight, the fishing

moved away…taking the majority of the jobs with it. Yet

the people had stayed; they were settled, had families,

and so the next generation of employment arrived.

Factories rolled into town offering short-lived salvation

to the locals. But the eternal quest for cheaper labor

played its part and they all watched as, once again, their

industry was taken away, this time to make room for the

immigrants who were not only willing to work, but more

than happy to do so for a much lower remuneration.

Marcus knew firsthand what a crappy place the world

was, and that was in part why he decided to join the

police. He wanted to be able to say the neighborhood that

his kids would grow up in was safe. It was a losing battle,

he knew that, but he had never been one to just cover up

and take the abuse.

Marcus noticed that three shops had decided not to

open at all today. Each had signs in their windows

advising potential customers that the temporary closure

was a result of the near unbearable hot weather. They

were small, family run establishments. One dealt in

leather bags, and another sold handmade cards for all

occasions – or so the sign in the window claimed. The

last was a craft shop, its window filled with knitting

patterns; wool of every color imaginable lined the back

wall as if it were where God had made his Technicolor

Dreamcoat.

None of them would see the end of the year. It was a

sad fact of small town life that no small business could

compete with the bigger corporations, many of which

were part of international consortiums and so not

dependent on the locals to survive.

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Alex Laybourne

Stopping, Marcus bent down and grabbed an empty

cola can and threw it in the bin that was about half a

meter away. ‗Preservation of Public Image‘ had been the

session that asked every officer to stop and pick up litter

while on duty. Marcus and his colleagues had another

name for it, but complied nonetheless. He whistled to

himself as he moved further along; not a song, but just a

jaunty tune that seemed to grow in his head.

Marcus‘s stomach growled. He had skipped breakfast

that morning, and now he would be made to be made to

regret it. He patted his trousers and the pockets of his

vest and then the pockets of his sweat-soaked shirt.

Nothing. Then he saw it: his wallet, on the table beside

the front door. Sitting, waiting for him to grab it – only

he had gone out the back that morning.

―Damn it,‖ he muttered under his breath.

He looked at his watch, annoyed with himself. In

truth it wasn‘t the fact that he forgot his wallet, or even

his grumbling stomach that made Marcus frustrated. He

had just learned over the years that something always

went wrong when he was unprepared.

Before joining the force, Marcus had been a boxer; a

light heavyweight, and one with a lot of potential if the

people back then were to be believed. He had a record of

21-0 with 18 knockouts when his manager Walter

Whitney had first promised him a title fight. Walter had

been a small, reptilian-looking man with the cold beady

eyes of a shark and a temper to match. He had been

Marcus‘s manager from the beginning, ever since he had

first spotted him sparring at the local fitness center. He

had been big and fast, and even as a youngster had had

the power to stop most of the other fighters in his gym.

He had been described as the perfect mix of George

Foreman and Joe Frazier with his raw power yet graceful

style.

But it had all begun to crumble around his ankles one

afternoon, a matter of days after he had knocked out the

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Alex Laybourne

number one contender for the WBO title at the start of

the fifth.

He remembered it like it was yesterday, a fact helped

by his regular repetition of the tale at the many

gatherings he attended. It had become his trademark

party tale, one that could be rehashed as often as

required without getting stale. Of course his children had

also loved it, still did – or at least so they told him.

He had only come into the gym to pick up his

running shoes, but he had gotten to chatting with some of

the other fighters who had been milling around waiting

to start training. Big Joe – one of the trainers – had

spotted him, and came across, telling him that Walter

wanted to see him up in the office. He looked up and saw

Walter‘s shadow looking down on them from behind the

dirty glass. He wasn‘t alone; someone else was up there.

Marcus had no idea who it was; his mind wasn‘t thinking

about his next fight, let alone a shot at the champ, Virgil

Hill. Despite the strange feeling that rumbled in his gut,

Marcus ran up the stairs, taking them two or three at a

time. He buzzed past the dusty photos that lined every

wall in the gym. They were nothing more than a random

collection of old pictures and newspaper clippings of

boxing events and fellow pugilists, going back to the days

of bare knuckle fights held on the fishing docks. He had

spent years staring at them, reading them all while he

waited for his time in the ring or a spare heavy bag .

Marcus stopped himself just outside Walter's office,

running his fingers through his then thick and bushy

hair. He hadn‘t shaved for a week, and the coarse stubble

threatened to become a beard. Bracing himself, Marcus

rapped on the office door three times and then walked in

without waiting for an invite.

Inside, Walter's office was as run down as the rest of

the gym. The walls hadn‘t seen a lick of paint in years;

not since before Walter had bought the place. The lone

light, nothing more than a bare bulb, hung from the

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Alex Laybourne

ceiling, its fixture long since vanished. A thick, gray-

green cloud hung in the air from the constant stream of

cheap cigars that Walter insisted on smoking. Lighting

one was the first thing he did each morning, and the

glowing ember never left his mouth until he went to sleep

at night.

He had died of lung cancer at the age of sixty-three,

an age that everybody who knew him was amazed he ever

reached at all.

The eyes in the room turned to face Marcus, and the

bad feeling (which, until his last days on earth, continued

to creep over him every time a bad call came over the

radio) rumbled his stomach again, louder this time.

There were three men in the room, and none of them

were on Hill‘s payroll. Walter ushered him inside and

offered him a seat. The three strangers all wore expensive

suits which hugged their giant, steroid-enhanced

muscular frames as if made of Spandex.

―Listen, kid, you fight well, but to get the champ, you

gotta let him think he can win. D‘ya understand?‖ Walter

croaked. His voice was deep and scratchy from a lifetime

of tobacco.

Marcus was young then, a real talent in the boxing

world, but naïve to the workings of the real one. He had

nodded; what he heard made sense. He just hadn‘t heard

what they were asking of him. There and then plans were

drawn up for him to fight Aleksander Papp, a young

German fighter, who had a good reputation but who was

not regarded as a title fighter because of his nationality

and the fact his trainer was a Russian defector.

Everything moved at lightning speed, and before Marcus

knew it, his hand was clutched in the sweaty, powerful

grip of all three strangers in turn. The fight had been

arranged and dates confirmed. Many years later Marcus

would realize that it had all been done before he had even

arrived, and his presence was a matter of unimportant

coincidence.

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Alex Laybourne

Tensions had begun to rise in Marcus‘s camp eight

weeks out from the fight. He felt as though he wasn‘t

being put through his paces enough. This had led to

several heated arguments, and he started to work out

himself in the garage of his flat. Walter kept telling him

that the fight was more of an exhibition, just to get the

champ‘s teeth chomping. Marcus, who was foolish and

young, had believed him.

It wasn‘t until three days before the fight that Marcus

began to get a feeling that something wasn‘t quite right.

He cornered Big Joe one day after training. It was at the

end of the day, and everybody had already gone home.

Joe was about forty kilos overweight and would break

into a sweat just climbing into the ring. Yet, despite his

name and appearance, he was one of the kindest men

Marcus had even known. He bred racing pigeons and

enjoyed tending to his own allotment whenever he had

the chance.

Joe had crumbled like a baby before Marcus had

even started to ask him any real questions. He told him

that he was being undertrained in order to make the fight

harder for him; to make him have to work hard for the

win. Joe had started to sob when he confessed to

knowing what was happening, and between repeated

apologies he said that they were trapped in something

much bigger than they could understand. Some big time

mobsters from London had already bribed the referee to

make sure that the German won no matter what he had

to do.

Marcus stopped in his tracks. His heart pounded as

he looked around the shopping arcade. He could have

sworn he heard something, but he still got worked up

when he remembered that incident. It had robbed him of

his future, and he would never forgive Walter, not even if

that simple act was all that stood between him and the

fires of Hell. It wasn‘t about being the champ, but that

they were taking away from him the thing that he loved.

Boxing made the world a simple place: you were given an

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Alex Laybourne

opponent, you trained hard, looked after yourself and

then you either won or lost. Or so Marcus had always

thought.

Once Big Joe had finished apologizing and offering

promises of redemption that included all the fresh

vegetables he could eat, Marcus stormed straight into the

local bar where he found Walter in the lap of some local

woman for hire. Marcus ripped the fresh cigar from his

manager‘s mouth and, after pulling him to his feet, struck

him with a lightning fast jab/right cross combination that

sent Walter flying into the table behind him, snapping it

in two and upsetting the two large tattooed men who had

been the occupants.

Marcus had walked away and never spoken to Walter

again. He had turned up to the fight, determined to do it

on his own.

―Fuck the consequences,‖ he had told Big Joe in the

dressing room.

Walter hadn‘t been foolish enough to show his face.

His nose had been broken and a further slapping from

the bikers he had upset put him under self-imposed

house arrest for several weeks.

The fight began and Marcus knew from the first jab

that his German opponent was clearly up to speed with

what was planned, so Marcus just came out swinging.

Marcus survived the first few rounds with little

damage. It was obvious to him that while his opponent

was a good fighter, he wasn‘t a killer. He lacked the look

in his eye and the ruthlessness in his gut to move in and

pile on the hurt if his man refused to fall from the heavy

blows.

Marcus‘s long-term girlfriend was ringside; he looked

over to her for inspiration at the end of every round. It

was the beginning of the seventh when the realization of

where he had seen the two large, shaven-headed

gentlemen (who now flanked his girlfriend) before. They

had been present at the pre-fight weigh in, whispering

with Papp's trainer and management team.

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Alex Laybourne

By the end of the eight round, Marcus saw the two

men stand and walk away. His future wife was in tears,

her caramel colored face had paled, and she looked like

she was about to faint. Her lips had blended in shade and

disappeared from her face, while her eyes were

expressionless. He looked at her with his left eye

beginning to swell shut from a well-placed series of

blows, but she wouldn‘t look at him. She simply sat

staring straight ahead; her expression one similar to the

abused women Marcus would later take statements from

on a regular basis. She cried; he had never seen her cry

before, but she had tears welling up that just couldn‘t be

held back any longer.

As he rose for the eighth round, Marcus knew what

was happening, but he didn‘t know what to do. Marcus

didn‘t know what to think as he walked out for what he

knew would be the last few rounds of his career. He

would go down swinging: win, lose or draw, the kraut

would have to beat him. He told himself this and believed

it at that moment. He believed it in the aftermath of it all,

and deep down he believed it to his dying day.

His wife never told him what they had whispered to

her. She simply said that he didn‘t need to know, he had

retired and it was all in the past. They had planned on

moving away, to start a new life together away from the

corrupt nature of the sport that no matter what length of

retirement was put in the middle, Marcus would continue

to love and miss. None of them ever spoke about it, but

both knew that had he been single, Marcus would have

carried on fighting, not because it was manly or because

he wanted the fame and fortune it offered, but simply

because he loved it.

Marcy, whose real name was Michaela, had been the

one who suggested to Marcus that he should try for the

police. She was five years older than he was and had

already been on the force for three years. Her father had

been a cop, and she had always wanted to follow in his

footsteps – to make him proud of her. She had succeeded

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Alex Laybourne

the moment she was accepted and he had told her exactly

that every chance he got.

Marcus applied and was accepted before he had

completed the application form. He passed the physical

test with flying colors, breaking the course record in the

sprint and number of pushups he completed in one

minute. A ‗staggering seventy‘, the instructor had dubbed

it that night over drinks in the training center bar. The

actual number had been closer to eighty, but the name

sounded good and so stuck.

Marcus loved the force. Even on the hot summer

days. Yet he could never fully forget the thrill of the fight

either; it was part of him, and he knew it would haunt his

dreams for the rest of his days.

For years Marcus was plagued by a recurring dream;

he was back in the ring, back fighting Papp. The

German‘s face was broken open and bleeding, his nose

shattered, left cheek swollen so badly that his left eye

looked as if it had simply been erased from his features.

They were in the last round, and he was pummeling the

German who would (always) raise his hands up to cover

his face, leaving his body open. Marcus had him trapped

in the ropes and he was about to fall. Marcus would

glance over at the clock and see he still had just under a

minute to knock the guy out. He knew he wouldn‘t get up,

and so planned on taking his time. Then out of nowhere

the bell began to sound: it rang and rang. Marcus stopped

punching and looked around…and that was when the

German unleashed his lucky shot. Just as the punch hit

Marcus would wake, his heart racing. The ringside bell

would melt away and become the howling impatient cry

of a baby woken from sleep. His blood would be

pumping, his whole body tense. He would jump out of

bed in a state of confusion each time, his mind lost until

it all slotted back into place one piece at a time.

He hadn‘t realized how deep he had been in the

daydream, not until the ear-piercing cry of a young baby

finally pushed its way through the image. It sounded like

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Alex Laybourne

someone scraping their fingers down a blackboard it was

so shrill.

Marcus turned around; a small crowd had gathered

inside the covered promenade – predominantly elderly

couples, sitting hand-in-hand on the various benches that

were scattered at random intervals. He scanned the

center, his brow once again plastered with sweat. His

eyes stung, and he felt his pulse increase without

warning. His stomach lightened, butterflies spread their

wings inside his organs and began to take flight. He felt

his stance change; he came up onto the balls of his feet,

ready to move, ready to rumble. It was instinctive; he

hadn‘t even thought about it. Marcus could sense it; his

instincts as a fighter able to evolve from sensing where a

punch was coming from into a danger detector that was

more often than not correct.

Marcus reached for his radio to alert his protégé, but

stopped his hand halfway. By the time Dillings got there,

even with his rookie over-enthusiasm, Marcus would

have taken care of it.

He looked around and saw the couple that were

responsible for the scene he was about to join. A young

woman, too skinny for her height…for any height. Marcus

guessed from first glance that she was around 5‘10‖,

although she stood with her back to him. Her strawberry-

blond hair fell greasily against her shoulders, and she

wore a tank top that showed bony shoulders covered by a

tribal tattoo that traced a spiral path down her left arm.

Its design was somewhat distorted; an obvious side effect

to the weight she had lost since its initial application. Her

outfit was completed by a denim skirt that was only just

long enough to cover her hipless waist, revealing skinny

legs that were bruised and covered with veins that, by the

time she hit forty, would resemble a detailed road map of

the British Isles. She tottered on a pair of high heels that

made her even taller, and off to one side stood a rough

looking pram, which rocked from side to side as the

occupant continued to scream.

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Marcus looked at the pram, wondering why neither

the mother nor the person she was with was responding.

Then he saw her head snap backwards, twisting to the

left, and he understood it all. The woman fell backwards.

She stumbled on her heels and fell to the floor, turning as

she did. Marcus saw blood; her lips were broken, her left

eye swollen shut. Yet the worst thing was the look on her

face; it told him this was part of her everyday life.

Her skin looked dead, stretched taut over her rake-

thin frame. Her large breasts swung unrestrained

beneath her yellow summer-inspired tank top, and their

size in relation to the rest of her frame and their lack of

gravity defiance told Marcus two things: One, the baby in

the pram was hungry; and two, it was young…a matter of

weeks old. This thought was confirmed by the sagging

post-labor stomach which took a while to recover, and on

most women doesn‘t look unusual. However, on a frame

as malnourished as hers, it shone out like a distress flare

on a clear night at sea. The other clear giveaway with

regards to the age of the child were the two large, wet

stains on the point of each breast, where milk leaked

from her nutritious teats.

―Hey!‖ Marcus heard himself shout, announcing his

presence while letting others know that something had

happened and that they should keep back. All thought of

calling his partner was gone. He would never get there in

time.

The lady – who Marcus saw when he was close to

her, was younger than he had presumed; early twenties at

best – was crying. She cradled her right arm on which she

had fallen. The man backed up half a step when he saw

Marcus stride towards him. His head immediately began

to look around for an escape route. He was a large guy,

about the same size as Marcus himself although less

muscular and wirier. He had a lean, quick look about

him, and was just as black. In fact, had he been in

possession of a large afro, Marcus would have believed he

was looking back through time at a younger version of

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Alex Laybourne

himself. Or rather what he would have been had boxing

not rescued him from the trouble-filled neighborhood

and social circle that had taken so many of his childhood

friends.

\The one problem about growing up in a small

fishing town was that there was remarkably little in the

way of entertainment, and so Marcus had turned to the

streets, hanging around with the kids from school.

During his years on the force, he had busted a great

number of them.

The man in question was bald, his head shaved

unlike Marcus‘s own natural look. He wore a white tank

top that showed his muscle covered body. His arms were

decorated with all manner of tattoos, which wound from

his wrists up to his shoulders, and, judging by the

patterns, continued beneath his clothing onto his chest

and neck. He had a flat face; his nose showed signs of

being broken more times than was healthy, while his

forehead had a long horizontal scar that, when it had first

been inflicted, doubtlessly bled like a broken fire hydrant.

His eyes were cold, emotionless – even in the bright light

of day. They looked black, like a shark. His jaw was

clenched, face painted with anger so thick it couldn‘t have

simply been because this girl said something

disagreeable.

Marcus bent down to the girl. The man stood far

enough back to not pose an immediate threat, and his

unclenched fists hung loose at his sides. Something about

him still made Marcus feel uneasy, but it was too late to

change his mind now. The course of fate had been set on

its way and they were all but pawns caught in its

undercurrent.

―Are you okay?‖ Marcus asked, reaching out to the

young woman.

She trembled with a mixture of fear and withdrawal

and had an odor about her that Marcus knew all too well;

it was the stench of addiction. Her arms were filled with

track marks and bruises from where she had taken

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Alex Laybourne

several hits at the same time. Her nose, upon closer

inspection, was red and sore, and her teeth were yellow

and looked like they hadn‘t been cleaned in a long time.

She looked up at him, her eyes bloodshot with tears.

Her face was desperate, and it physically pained Marcus

to look at her. She nodded at him, a small movement, but

she averted her eyes; she couldn‘t look at him, and he

knew why. He looked over her outfit again and it all

becomes clear to him. They weren‘t a young

dysfunctional couple in love. Far from it: she was a young

girl trapped in a mistake she had made and was unable to

find her way back home.

―Hey, pig, get the fuck away from my girl, alright?‖ a

powerful voice boomed from behind him.

Marcus rose and turned, ready to face the man, but

was more than a little surprised when he saw how close

they were. Standing nose-to-nose, the hot, acrid breath

filled Marcus‘s face and made him want to gag. The man

was high, Marcus could see that. His eyes were

unfocused, moving from place to place as if only

moments before each had been given a double espresso.

―Listen, I don‘t want any trouble, so please, take a

step back and tell me what the problem is.‖ Marcus

remained calm and looked the man in the eyes.

He tried to talk through the drugs, through the rage

that brought the red curtain down on the show, trying to

reach the person who was buried deep down inside

somewhere. No matter who it was, or what they had

done, conversing with a clean mind was easier than

trying to reason with the unpredictable nature of a

drugged one. Behind him, Marcus could see the girl

trying to stand, reaching desperately for her baby.

―Yeah, well stay outta my face, leave the woman

alone and get out ‗fore you get into trouble, pig.‖ Anger

flashed in the man‘s eyes. He gnashed his teeth and

began to sway from side to side, shifting his weight from

one to the other. Marcus took a step back. It was

apparent the man would not be doing so.

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The man moved, tracing Marcus‘s movements, and it

was enough to put him on edge. He was nervous, but in

too tight a spot to reach for his radio. He knew then that

it would turn physical.

The man‘s eyes and face changed; the shark-like

features were gone, and in their place was a twisted

featured ghoul, the skin a pale green-gray. It looked

waxy. The eyes were large round discs of black, its nose

squashed flat against its face like a Persian cat, and the

mouth was cocked in a wry smile that revealed black

teeth and a rotten tongue that darted out to taste the air

like a snake.

Marcus closed his eyes and shook his head like

fighter getting up from a sneaky knockdown and the

image was gone. The man had advanced, his stance

changed to a more bladed one, and his breathing had

become much shallower. He found reassurance in all of

the signs he was reading, because although the man was

big, Marcus knew he could take him if it came to

fisticuffs.

―Hey, bitch, I told you to stay on the fucking floor.‖

The man strode forward, no longer focused on Marcus,

but rather, the girl. He struck fast, pushing the girl back

to the floor and lashing out with a heavy work boot.

Marcus jumped between them, manhandling the

agressor, pulling him away from the injured girl. The kick

had split her lips, opening up a deep slice that sent rich,

dark blood pouring onto the tiled floor.

―Right, you‘re under arrest,‖ Marcus began, pushing

the man back with enough force to give himself time and

space to reach for his cuffs and whatever else he may

need.

A small crowd had gathered now, mostly elderly

people, although a few of the employees of the open

shops in the arcade had come out to see what caused

such a commotion. They positioned themselves far

enough back so that they would not be looked upon to

help, but close enough to not miss a beat.

22

Alex Laybourne

Marcus moved with a speed that defied his age,

grabbing the man and twisting his arm behind his back.

―You don‘t have to say anything, but anything you do

say…‖ Marcus had the cuff wrapped around the muscular

wrist and reached for the second when the man threw his

head back. It didn‘t catch Marcus fully because he wasn‘t

standing square on, but it gave the man an angle and he

wrenched his arm free, and with one quick mov ement

spun around and punched Marcus in the stomach.

Marcus caught the shot right in the small area between

the bottom of the safety vest and his belt, an area that

was exposed by design so that mobility wasn‘t an issue

while wearing the bulky uniform. Marcus stumbled

backwards, doubled over the by the blow. It was the girl

that screamed first, her voice becoming instantly

hysterical, her cries nothing more than nonsensical

babblings from a mind teetering on the edge of oblivion.

Marcus felt faint and nauseous, his stomach

throbbed, and when he pulled his hands away to grab the

man – who was also under arrest for assaulting a police

officer – he saw why. Marcus wasn‘t sure which he saw

first: the red, dripping blade that the man held in a club-

like grip, or the copious amounts of blood that covered

his own hands and lower arms. Where did he get that?

He never had a knife, Marcus asked himself. It‟s a

flicker; look at the blade.

As Marcus looked at the blade, he realized that it

must have been hidden in the man‘s belt. Damn. He

exhaled. His mind began to leave the state of clear

thinking, and as a deep-seated pulsing began in the

center of his abdomen Marcus realized with a stark

clarity what had happened.

―Y-you…s-s-s-son of a bitch,‖ Marcus said, his world

getting hazy, his legs losing their strength just as if he

had been stung on the jaw in the ring. He reached out to

get something for support but found nothing. He fell

backwards, tumbling to the floor while everybody looked

23

Alex Laybourne

on, mumbling and gossiping with each other, but not

doing anything about it.

―Shoulda stayed out, pig. Fucking cops.‖ The man

was bouncing around from foot to foot with a nervous

energy. Beside him, Marcus heard the young woman

scream.

―Please, don‘t hurt my baby. I‘ll do what you want. I‘ll

go back out there tonight. I‘ll give you all of it, just

please…don‘t hurt my baby,‖ she pleaded and sniffled,

choking on the words that spewed from her mouth in a

constant stream.

―What, oh now you wanna work? Well who‘s gonna

want to fuck you now? You‘re a bigger mess than usual,

Becky. Jesus!‖ he snorted at her.

Marcus felt groggier by the second, his body numb

now, the blood pooling around him like a warm bath –

yet for the first time in several weeks, Marcus shivered

with cold.

―No, I can work, I promise, I‘ll give them all

something special, get extra cash from ‗em, please, come

on, baby, please.‖ The girl, Becky, was now on her knees,

begging in the street like a woman who had run out of

options; through it all, the baby continued to scream.

―You really care so much about this fucking brat. I

mean, it does nothing but fucking scream and cry. I mean

how often do you need to slap that thing on your tits

every day? Just do it once and leave the fucker; maybe

you‘ll be looking normal again one day this century. I

mean look at it. Have you ever looked at your kid?‖ he

asked her with sudden seriousness.

―Yes, please don‘t hurt my baby. Somebody,

help…please,‖ she appealed to the audience who were –

the younger ones at least – beginning to reach for their

cell phones.

―Really, ‗cos I don‘t think anyone could love a thing

like this. Father‘s looks and your brains or something, I

mean.‖ He stopped then and began to reach into the

pram. The baby cried harder instantly.

24

Alex Laybourne

―Hey, you leave her alone!‖ a young male voice called

out from the crowd. Marcus had no idea who it was, his

eyes were closed – or at least he thought they were,

because he could no longer see anything.

There were sounds of a struggle, grappling, followed

by a clattering sound as the knife was dropped. Marcus

tried to move; he had to try and stop the man. He was a

cop after all. He dragged himself somehow, fumbling on

the ground, but just couldn‘t go any further. The

newcomer cried out in pain. A hard thumping sound – no

doubt a fist and some other body part colliding –

followed this as the man fell to the floor.

While this skirmish went on Becky rose to her feet

and made a beeline for her child. She grabbed at the

pram and tried to run away.

―Where you going, baby? We ain‘t finished talking

here.‖ The black man reached out and grabbed hold of

the fleeing Becky‘s hair. It wasn‘t a solid grip, but the

swift tug he gave it still created enough backward

momentum to pull her to the floor. The pram came

rolling back, the child inside hysterical, as was its mother.

―Shut that monster up, woman,‖ he snapped, losing

control now.

His head was thumping, voices singing out to him in

a chorus of song that had been driving him mad for years.

He clamped his hands to the side of his head and began

to claw at his ears, as if trying to pull out the noise. Becky

rose to her feet once again, but she didn‘t run away. She

watched in dumbfounded horror as her pimp, Deejay

Afité, drew blood scratching away the inside of his ears

and the side of his head where they were attached.

―Shut up. Shut the fuck up!‖ he called out, turning

towards the pram, his eyes wide with rage.

In one strong movement he grabbed it by the base

and threw it through the air, flipping it over, spilling the

well-wrapped child onto the floor. Deejay collapsed down

onto his haunches as if trying to catch his breath. He

clapped his hands against the side of his head and began

25

Alex Laybourne

to drive the fingernails of each digit into his skull,

pushing and then scratching with all of his strength as

the voices continued to scream inside him. Then, as

always, they left just as sudden as they arrived, leaving

Deejay with a pounding head and a serious need for a fix.

Everybody gasped, and now people came running to

help. Marcus heard it all, clearer and clearer as his heart

began to slow, the heavy pulsating rhythm becoming

irregular and weak.

Becky watched her child fall in slow motion; her own

movements slowed from the years of mistreating her

body, yet spurred on by the empowering forces of

motherhood. She leapt for the baby, crawling over the

floor to get to it.

―Leave it be, bitch. I want to see what the little fucker

does,‖ the man snapped, but Becky ignored him; she kept

crawling, or so Marcus pictured. He heard the man bark

at her to get up, to save being on her hands and knees for

later.

Marcus‘s final credits began to roll, scored by the

sound of the police sirens as they approached the

shopping arcade. Marcus took his last deep breath and

forced his mind back, away from the nightmare scene

that had snuck up on him and pictured his wife and his

kids. He pictured the holiday they had taken about seven

years ago. They had gone to the beach for a day and had

run around in the surf, played football and Frisbee and

all manner of beach games. The day had ended with a

barbecue in the sand before heading back to their small

rented cottage just a couple of miles up the road. It was a

sickeningly perfect day, one which had Marcus not been

there to experience firsthand, he would have argued was

only possible in movies.

By the time the police and resulting ambulance

arrived, Afité had fled, although he was caught a few

miles up the road, covered in blood, still brandishing the

knife that he had remembered to pick up from the floor.

He left behind him one dead police officer, a severely

26

Alex Laybourne

injured infant and a critically injured young woman who

bled to death as soon as the ambulance crew rolled her

onto the trolley. Her face had been trampled on and half

crushed, along with her ribcage. The resulting post

mortem showed investigators that she had died from

massive internal bleeding, and the CCTV footage told the

story sufficiently to sentence the killer even without the

eyewitness reports that all confirmed how the young lady

had begged for her life as Deejay Afité stomped on her

chest and head. Even in her dying moments she had

begged him to leave her baby alone. She had shielded the

infant with her body as best she could, but was unable to

keep it safe from every steel toed blow that was rained

down upon her.

The two bodies were stored together in the mortuary,

the only occupants that day; they were buried on the

same day, too; one drawing a big crowd, the other just a

handful of mourners who turned up on call to see an

unnamed woman committed to the earth. Nobody could

even hope to understand why they had died, or what an

impact it would have on everything.

27

Chapter 2

Richard

―Hi, Richard. I heard about you and Amanda. If you

need to talk, well, I‘ll be upstairs between your sheets,‖ a

stunning, long-legged blond whispered in Richard

Hamilton‘s ear, running her finger along the contour of

his jaw as she walked away.

He barely heard her above the music or through his

alcohol-fueled high. He watched her walk away,

nevertheless, seeing her make her way sultrily through

the crowd, a short skirt barely clinging to the curve of her

rear and revealing well-tanned flesh above the waistband

until the thin material of her shirt began. She stopped

and turned to look at him once more before the crowd

swallowed her, enveloping her like the silk sheets in his

bedroom. She smiled at him. Was there a wink there?

Richard wasn‘t sure, but he knew he would follow her in

any case. He had dumped his long-term girlfriend of six

weeks that morning, and since then he had been on the

prowl. He was nineteen years old and richer than all the

rest of the people at the party put together. There was no

way that Richard would ever turn down a long legged

twenty-two-year-old

who

was

hornier

than

a

nymphomaniac at a Sexaholics Anonymous session.

She wasn‘t perfect, he would admit that. Compared

to most of the women he had been with, she wasn‘t much

more than average, but she would do for the night.

Besides, he knew damn well that there were others more

attractive than him within his line of sight. Sure, he was a

good looking guy, but he wasn‘t buff. Toned maybe, but

lingering scars from a bad case of acne in his early teens

were still visible in the light of day. Thankfully he had

found that money and intelligence was an effective

combination when it came to getting laid.

He smiled to himself as his own arousal began to take

control of him. He could feel it change him, like a beast.

28

Alex Laybourne

He could hear his heart pumping, the background noise

dull, and soon all he could think about was the ways he

would ravage her. Exploring every cleft of her naked

body, massaging her breasts as his tongue lapped

between her legs. He could feel the delicate sheets

running over their naked flesh and it made him shiver.

―Who was that, man?‖ Damien Wilders asked him.

Richard and Damien had been friends for years. They

both came from rich families through unrelated

endeavors and they had had the misfortune to be thrown

into the same hellhole of a boarding school together.

They had been the only two who, by the time they left

school at seventeen, hadn‘t been raped at one end or the

other by the prefects who had governed their dorm rooms

each night.

―I‘ve got no idea, but I‘ll tell you in the morning.‖

Richard smiled at his friend, the only real one he had,

nudging him in the ribs with his elbow before downing

his beer and heading towards the stairs. It was his party,

his house—but then again, there was always a party at his

house.

Nobody even noticed he was gone.

***

―Wake up… Hey, wake up,‖ Richard commanded,

shaking the sleeping naked beauty that lay next to him.

She was a picture of perfection, her hair still

immaculate even after the wild night of lovemaking they

had shared; her face just as flawless without the make-up

as it had been with it. Richard grabbed her bare shoulder.

The warmth of her creamy skin felt silky against his

hand. He let it linger; and then, after a slight pause, as if

contemplating his impending action, he squeezed and

shook her harder until her eyes fluttered open. They were

light aquamarine and sparkled with or without the

sunlight. She looked at him, her brain at first not

registering where she was. She looked around without

29

Alex Laybourne

moving her head and realized immediately that she was

not home: the bed covers were lighter and crisper than

her own, plus the walls here were a deep blue and dotted

with various posters, while her own room was a mix of

cream and red. Also the window was on the wrong side of

the room, which was twice the size of hers. Realising

whose place it was always seemed important to her as it

allowed her to decide whose responsibility it was to make

the first move.

Turning her gaze back towards her Romeo, she

smiled as her memories of the previous night came

flooding back in the same way the pleasure had surged

through her body, curling her toes in the most literal of

ways.

―Good morning,‖ she said as if she had been with the

man forever.

―Hi, listen, it‘s getting late…you‘ve gotta go.‖

Richard‘s words were blunt and cold. He jumped out of

the bed as he spoke, and she realized then that something

was wrong; Richard had been laying on top of the

bedcovers and was fully clothed.

―What?‖ she asked, sleep still fogging her mind.

―You gotta go. I‘ve got things to do, and you can‘t

stay.‖

Richard didn‘t even look at her, but rather grabbed

her discarded clothes and stuffed them into an expensive

looking sports bag that he had found in his cupboard. He

bent down, gathered the underwear, a silky red bra and

delicate thong that he feigned to place in the bag but

instead slipped into one of the knee level side pockets on

his trousers. Another memento of a good night he

couldn‘t quite remember the finer points of, although he

may well refresh his memory a little later on—if the

camera had worked. He had been trying to get the angle

right for months now but had not been able to find that

perfect spot.

―You‘re kicking me out? What about last night? What

about the things we said?‖ she asked, completely

30

Alex Laybourne

shocked; not by the rejection from this rich playboy

whose reputation she knew about, but simply from the

blunt force of it and the suddenness with which is arose.

―Yeah, like I said, I‘ve got stuff to do, places to go,

people to see. You know how it is. So please, get out of my

bed. I‘ve laid out some clothes for you to get you home;

something fresh that I had picked out for you.‖ Without

saying another word he turned and left the room, leaving

the door open as he went, walking down the long, rather

gothic looking hallway without looking back or even

slowing his gait to wait for her.

She threw the lavish sheets from the bed, not even

feeling the cool morning air brush against her skin,

ignoring the tingles of arousal as her nipples hardened in

the cold light of day. Her thighs were still sticky with

their lovemaking, but she pulled on the designer brand

jeans and tailored shirt without even thinking about her

underwear. Rage assumed control of her emotions. Shoes

pulled onto bare feet she burst from the room onto the

landing, which seemed neverending. The thick carpet was

a burgundy color and caught her footsteps before her full

body weight was even applied. She ran down the hallway

without even pausing to look or even consider what was

behind the many doors that she saw, nor did she stop to

glance at the artwork that adorned the walls of this once

regal home that was now, after an unfortunate accident,

completely at the mercy of the orphaned heir of an oil

fortune built up through generations of hard work.

All of Richard‘s ancestors had worked to make their

mark on the company. His great-grandfather had started

it all, before handing it down to his eldest son. The

following two generations produced only one child each,

and so the company was passed down through the

generations, but Richard had broken the mold.

He chose not to work for the company, not to begin

at the bottom of the ladder and learn his craft and the

science that was the oil business. Nor did he choose to go

through life sitting in the boardroom. Instead he had

31

Alex Laybourne

been drawn by the silver screen: acting, directing, he

wanted to do it all, and if some circles were to be

believed, he had a talent that would have been near

impossible to hold back had he been committed enough.

He had sold the company off not long after he

received his inheritance and ensured that the Hamilton

name would be taken care of long after he was dead and

buried. Like most young children who come into great

riches, the idea of Hollywood was put on the back burner,

replaced by partying, celebrating, and witlessly throwing

his money around without thought of the future—his own

or that of his guests. “Tomorrow was a lifetime away.”

That was one of his favorite lines with the ladies. At least

with the ones who weren‘t too drunk to forget it in the

morning.

She found the stairs and ran down them in as

controlled a manner as she could while all along rage

bubbled away under her skin. It felt as if the speckling of

necessary fat that covered her body was boiling, ready to

split her skin open and spew forth, engulfing everything

it touched with a hot, fiery anger that would destroy the

entire household if it wasn‘t gotten under control.

―Just who do you think you are?‖ she screamed

across the large hallway. Her voice echoed around the

now empty space. Richard stood by the door, holding her

coat draped over on extended arm, bent at the elbow like

a butler awaiting further instruction.

―I think I‘m a busy man, I told you that. Here is your

coat. You‘ve got your things. It was fun, but now,

please…run along.‖ Richard swept his arm through the

open door as if showing her the way, his words void of

feeling

―You PIG!‖ she spat at him, the fire rising from her

belly. ―How dare you, just because y ou‘ve got money—‖

she started.

―Hey, love, you wanted the goods last night and you

got them. Believe me, I gave you the good stuff. Now be a

good girl and don‘t cause a scene or embarrass yourself

32

Alex Laybourne

any further. What did you think would happen?‖ Richard

choked back a laugh but couldn‘t stop a small cough-like

sound from escaping.

The noise was small, but it was enough to push the

girl over the edge. She may have only been seventeen and

in high school herself, and yes, she had lied to him, but

she was no joke, and he had no right to laugh at her. Her

anger boiled over, and she lashed out. With fingers curled

at the tips, she slapped him hard across his face. Her

nails dug through the soft surface of his well-cared-for

skin, gouging deep tracts from his ear diagonally across

his face to his mouth. She screamed at him, but all that

came out was a random jumble of all the hateful words

she knew.

―You bitch!‖ Richard screamed, striking out with one

hand, his intention not to hit, but rather to keep a

distance between them while the other clamped against

the burning, stinging flesh of his face. His strike caught

her in the face, striking her square on as she lunged for

him again. He felt her nose move, the cartilage cracking

under the forceful impact of their opposing momentums.

She cried out, blood immediately spurting from both

nostrils. Her lips also absorbed some of the blow, but

they remained unblemished. She fell backwards and

tripped over the threshold. She wheeled her arms as she

tumbled into the early morning air, trying to stay on her

feet before tripping down the steps. She managed to keep

her balance until the last moment, whereupon she fell

into the graveled earth. Sobs sent tears streaming down

her face to mix with the free flowing blood. They stung

her face and burned in her nose. A few moments later,

her bag landed in the gravel behind her, hurled from the

doorway, not with anger, but with frustration. Richard

stood staring down at her, his eyes wide with shock while

his lips were thin and pulled back over his teeth in a

snarl.

The door slammed shut behind her as she dragged

herself back to her feet, and when she turned to look back

33

Alex Laybourne

up the steps, the house was once again quiet. It looked

much colder in the light of day, without the noise of

mingling guests, dance beats and free flowing liquor.

Even in her pain, her instant resentment and hated of the

rich man that had given her so much pleasure only to

take it away with so much pain was put to one side, and

she considered how lonely Richard must be.

Once the door was closed, Richard stormed away,

stomping up the stairs like a toddler having a tantrum,

kicking anything that came within range, acting out of

pure frustration. His face didn‘t hurt anymore, but he

could feel it pounding away in rhythm with his heart and

felt the skin tightening as it began to swell. He threw the

door to the main bathroom open, denting the wall with

the force of it.

―Fucking bitch!‖ he screamed at that room, hearing

his rage echo around, bouncing off the pristine fixtures

and fittings as he fumbled through one of the many fully

stocked medicine cabinets in the house in desperate

search for some iodine.

He found the bottle and grabbed a large wad of

gauze, not bothering to separate the sheets from each

other, choosing to tape whatever he had in his hand to his

face. He placed the gauze on the sink and closed the

cabinet doors. He jumped when he saw his reflection: the

four gouges that ran down his face were deep, the groove

in each one clearly visible. Blood began to bubble to the

surface again, and wiping it away didn‘t serve much of a

purpose. The rage was there, and it rattled the door of the

cage in which Richard had it locked. Every day, it grew a

bit harder to control, to keep hidden.

Richard fumbled with the cap of the iodine bottle, his

face beginning to sting more and more with each

ineffective rotation the cap made in his hands, before

finally, in another fit of rage, he launched the bottle

across the room. Throwing it full force like a baseball

pitcher in the bottom of the ninth with two out and the

bases loaded. It passed through the frosted glass door of

34

Alex Laybourne

the power shower, leaving a cartoon-style hole the exact

shape of the bottle before the rest of the glass crumbled

away in a motion that was so slow it only added to the

rage Richard felt. It seemed that time itself had started to

mock him.

He taped nearly an inch-thick pad of gauze to his face

and went back downstairs. It was only 10:45, but he went

straight to the liquor cabinet and grabbed the first bottle

he saw: vodka. Removing the cap, Richard drank directly

from the bottle; he coughed and choked as his lungs

burnt with a warming fire. He took a glass and filled it to

the brim before he walked through to the kitchen. He had

a cleaning lady and a cook who looked after him and the

house; Lisa Atkins. She had been his nanny (for lack of a

better word) since he was a young boy. She had become

part of the family long before his parents died; but it was

Sunday, and so Richard was left to fend for himself.

Despite knowing his way around the kitchen with a

good degree of competency, Richard‘s breakfast consisted

of vodka and little else. The left side of his face throbbed

and burnt, keeping the rage he felt at the forefront of his

mind with common sense and self-control locked away

somewhere in the basement.

―Fucking cunt!‖ he snapped aloud, swallowing the

last third of the glass in one cavernous gulp.

After leaving the kitchen, Richard wandered through

the house holding the vodka bottle in one hand and the

glass in another, taking alternate swigs from both. He

moved across the large hallway. Now void of all furniture,

it was used as the main party hall; it provided easy

entrance and exit for the guests while also keeping them

away from the areas of the house he preferred to keep

private.

Richard stumbled across the hallway; already well on

the way to lunchtime inebriation. There were two doors

ahead of him, and although both gave access to

individual sitting rooms, Richard always chose the one on

the right, closest to the front door. It was well decorated

35

Alex Laybourne

with two plush lounge chairs that took center stage and

faced a modest sized plasma TV against the left hand

wall. The walls were a rich cream color while the floor

was both heated and tiled. A large rug separated the TV

from the chairs, and in days gone by (when there had

been a sofa in the room) there had been a coffee table

pinning the rug in place. There was a window on the wall

opposite the door, although Richard had covered it with

heavy drapes as he tried to eliminate the light in what he

liked to think of as his movie room. Beside the window

and spanning both the wall opposite the door and the one

immediately to the right as you entered was a custom

made L-shaped bookcase, only it was filled with DVDs

rather than books.

Richard would sit for hours in this room. There was

always a movie playing. Most of the time he didn‘t watch

what he played, but he found it comforting. He enjoyed

the classics, sci-fi, horror, comedy, and action. And while

thrillers were his genre of choice, he had certainly been

known (when he was certain that the house was empty)

to watch the occasional romantic comedy.

Pacing the room like a fighter in the locker room, just

waiting for his turn to be called through into the ring,

Richard finally felt his rage begin to subside as alcohol

took over his body. Richard soon grew bored. Even the

idea of a movie didn‘t appeal to him that morning. He left

the room and just stood in the entrance hall for a few

minutes before heading up the main staircase to his right.

The second storey of the building was governed by a

long hallway that spread out in both directions. At the top

of the stairs was the library/study area where he had

always been forced to sit and complete his homework.

The room to the left was the family room, and was

followed by one of the three bathrooms on the floor, and

then Richard‘s room. His was the largest bedroom in the

house, although originally it had been two separate

rooms.

36

Alex Laybourne

The hallway bent at ninety degrees at either end, and

at the end of each ‗wing‘ (Richard would often refer to his

home in terms that were much grander than the reality

suggested) was a guest bedroom, and a small bathroom

where the broken shower door still hung and the shards

of shattered glass glistened in the early morning sun like

small diamonds.

A fresh wave of anger rolled through him; not at the

girl, no, fuck her, the worthless whore that she was, she

had cum before him on each occasion, and he didn‘t like

that: she had been lazy. The rage was his own; it was

deep seated and locked away with a key he could no

longer find, and nor did he wish to, because the idea of

letting it out scared him.

The alcohol surged through his system. The world

had started to spin and his movements had the

unmistakable clumsy flow to them that could only come

from a drunk. He finished the vodka and let the bottle fall

to the plush carpeted floor.

Richard turned and walked back in the direction of

the stairs, towards the other side of the house. It was a

side that he left alone. His parents‘ bedroom was at the

end of the hall, opposite to his own, but theirs had an en-

suite bathroom; and so, while being smaller than his by

some considerable amount, it was still considered to be

the master bedroom of the property. Further down the

hall was the other spare bedroom, which his mother had

claimed for herself, turning it into a painting studio. For

all Richard knew, it was still filled with her half-finished

canvases. His mother had been quite the amateur artist

and had shown several of her pieces in galleries across

the country. The only difference on that side of the house

was that the corridor was a few meters longer; it had

been extended to make space for the room Richard‘s

father had used to conduct his business meetings it. It

wasn‘t accessible through the house and so was invisible

to anybody inside. They had had an extension built not

long after moving in to accommodate Richard‘s father‘s

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business meetings and conference calls. It was a giant

room by all accounts, but Richard had never been inside

it while they were alive, and since their death, he had not

even been able to bring himself to set foot in their side of

the house.

His parents had died two years previously in a car

accident as they drove home from a business meeting in

Canada. They had taken the car and enjoyed a mini-

vacation as they travelled home. Richard had still been in

school and had been (despite his rather inflated ego), for

the most part, just one of the kids in his class. His parents

had decided before he was born that Richard was to

attend public school as his father – a self-made man –

had done. They did this under the belief that it built not

only character, but a determination to succeed on merit

rather than inheritance; a common issue prevalent in

upper class preparatory schools.

The news of their death had been given to Richard by

Lisa Atkins; she had sat him down in the kitchen and

broken the news as gently as she knew how. After which,

she held him for hours as he sobbed, working his way

through things as best as any teenager can do.

The funeral was a busy affair – the church and the

graveyard packed full with mourners, ‗mourners‘ and

television cameras to the point that it looked like a film

set rather than a real funeral. Yet, once the coffins had

been lowered and the somber nature of the occasion

concluded by the man in charge, Richard soon found

himself standing alone. He looked around and saw that

not one single person had remained any longer than was

deemed appropriate, not even the many men who had

worked with his father since he first started the company,

men who were considered not just business

associated…but friends. Men who had given Richard

birthday and Christmas gifts through the years, men who

had offered him advice when his father was unavailable,

men he considered to be the uncles he never had.

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Richard remained by the graves, oblivious to both the

passage of time and the heavy, stormy atmosphere that

had grown in the air. It was only when Lisa put her arm

around him that he came back to himself and snapped

out of the trance he had entered. Together they stood in

silence until the cemetery employees – Richard couldn‘t

bear to use the term ‗grave diggers‘ – returned armed

with shovels to complete the burial. Lisa Atkins took him

home and sat with him the rest of the day, but as the sun

disappeared, set no doubt, and the evening came, even

she had to make her way home to her own family.

Now, stumbling along upper landing, needing to hold

on to the banister to keep from falling over, with his

vision double (triple in areas of poor light), Richard

finally made his way over into the ‗dark side‘ of the

house. It felt colder, and he shuddered as he walked past

the top of the stairs which for so long had been the

marker for the divide he had created.

He stood and looked down at the entrance area from

the upper right-hand side of the landing and it felt

strange to him. He was sure it was just the drink, but it

felt… creepy, as if his skin had been shrunk while his

skeleton remained the same size. He itched all over, and

his forehead was covered with sweat.

The house looked different from up here. He no

longer saw the party arena, but the entrance foyer his

parents had made so welcoming, the large antique table

was back in the center of the room. A large fern-like

flower in a giant, Oriental pot stood proudly on top of it.

There was a writing bureau to the left, between the door

to the sitting (movie) room and entrance to the parlour

that his mother had used to entertain her lady friends

when they came over for drinks in the summer.

He saw the large hat stand which housed his father‘s

many long overcoats, hats, and umbrellas, not to mention

his own Power Rangers rucksack. He hadn‘t seen it since

he was a kid, but now it hung there right before his eyes.

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He saw the doors to the main dining room, a large,

permanently prepared room with a table that could host

more than fifteen people; twenty if you were friendly and

didn‘t mind a few elbows in your plate from time to time.

Richard knew the door had been there, but he hadn‘t

really seen it since the first day he came home to an

empty house. Beside the dining room was the side

hallway that led into the kitchen; a large busy room even

now, despite its more infrequent usage. Coming off from

the kitchen was the family dining room; a jovial, colorful

place decorated with happy, smiling pictures of holidays

past and events celebrated over the years.

For all Richard knew, the stereo was still running,

playing his mother‘s Boyzone album on one continual

repeat. He closed his eyes and he could hear their words

drifting through the dead air. He closed his mind,

wanting desperately to block out the scene, to hold back

the tears, but they always managed to find an escape

route. When Richard opened his eyes again they were red

and burning, not from the vodka, but from the salty tears

he had never cried all of those years ago which had begun

to leak through the dam he had built to hide them.

Richard let go of the banister and pushed himself

backwards. His world seemed to darken, as if an early

and unexpected dusk had fallen.

Richard groaned, his head thumped and his thirst re-

surfaced. All he heard was the same static sound that

lived in the radio waves between stations, or late at night

once the pay-per-view channels he watched so often

finished their broadcast. The house darkened with every

step. The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance, and

to Richard, it felt as though the house itself was scared,

shaking down to its foundations.

Richard was transfixed on the front entrance. He felt

along the wall behind him and when his hands found a

door handle, he knew which room it would lead him into,

but didn‘t care: it would get him away from the vision he

was having, and he knew for a fact that there would be

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something to drink in one of the Edwardian bookcases

that ringed the entire circumference of the room save for

the door and large windows that were opposite the

entrance.

The door opened and a rush of stale air spilled out.

Richard cried out in shock: it burned his skin. Like traps

within an Egyptian tomb, rigged to keep thieves – it

wasn‘t stealing when it was your alcohol – at bay.

Richard walked into his father‘s study and reached

the light switch. The walls felt rough to his touch, made

his fingers burn as if being grated open by the abrasive

surface. It was only when he found the switch and filled

the room with a dull light, emitted from a dust-encrusted

bulb, a single glowing sentry in a chandelier filled with

dead colleagues, that Richard saw the tips of his fingers

were bleeding, cut open as a result of his altercation with

the bathroom mirror.

Now that he was away from the landing, the visions

he had were gone, the house was empty again, and that

room of all of them confirmed this. It was dusty and, well,

empty. As it dawned on him that he had entered this

room, out of all of the rooms in the house, he had broken

his boundaries and chosen that one. Putting it out of his

mind, Richard walked to the locked liquor cabinet, and

without pausing to think, grabbed a thick book from the

shelf and smashed the door‘s glass front. He put the book

down, not even bothering to look at the cover – Dante‟s

Inferno – he grabbed the first bottle he saw, his vision

too blurred to read the label. With the bottle open,

Richard took a long drink. The fine brandy hit the back of

his throat like liquid gold and ran down into his stomach

where it sat floating on a sea of nausea.

―That‘s just the kind of irresponsible bullshit I would

expect from you,‖ a voice boomed out of the darkness.

Richard jumped, screaming, half choking on a

mouthful of brandy. He let the bottle fall from his grip as

he spun around, searching the room for his unexpected

guest. He saw nobody; the room was empty save for him.

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He stood on the right-hand side of the office, facing

the other wall; the door was to his left, and to his right

was the desk and behind it the window. The decor was

dark; the wood red in color and hard. Nothing could put

a dent in his father‘s desk, and the Lord knew how hard

Richard had tried when he was younger. He knew he had

been drinking a while, but it couldn‘t have been much

past noon, yet outside it looked like heavy dusk, the sky a

vivid swirling orange. A strong wind had whipped up out

of nowhere, and the solid house seemed to creak and

groan at every joint.

Behind him, the door to the office slammed shut.

Richard spun around but saw nothing.

―You always were a loser, mooching from my fortune

like you earned the right. Bet you‘re happy now we‘re

gone, hey!‖ a voice said. It was alien…yet familiar. It

spoke from over by the window. Richard turned back but

once again he saw nothing.

When the large leather desk chair that had been

facing the window spun around, Richard screamed, or

tried to, at least – but his throat had swollen shut.

―W-wh-what?‖ Richard stammered. The advanced

state of inebriation he had been in was gone, slapped out

of him with the effectiveness of a cold shower.

―Get out of my study, get out of my house! I worked

my fingers to the bone to support you. To give you the

best chance at life, a head start, and all you do is sit in

here and waste it. You disappoint me once again,

Richard…well done,‖ the corpse of Richard‘s father

scolded him, the final words filled with sarcastic praise.

―No, you can‘t be here. You di-died,‖ Richard said the

words, and then, as if they opened up the old wounds he

had kept sealed, he burst into tears.

His arms outstretched towards his father, who

remained motionless, stoic. Completely unlike he had

been in life, for Roger Hamilton had been a patient man,

a loving, generous man. A man who had loved his son

more than anything else in his life, a man who had

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cancelled numerous business meetings over the years

should they run a risk of interfering with his son‘s soccer

games or other activities.

―You disgust me,‖ the corpse said again as Richard

sank to his knees. ―Look at me,‖ it demanded of him.

Richard raised his eyes from the floor, his body

shaking. He spied the brandy bottle and reached for it

with a trembling hand. He took a long, deep gulp; he

drank until his eyes leaked and his throat burnt.

When he finally lowered the bottle, the image that

was his father stood behind the desk chair. The clothes

on the body were rotten tatters, long since victims to the

natural process of decay. The blackened skin that still

hung to the corpse peeled back like the skin of a roasted

pepper, exposing yellow bone and sticky ligaments. The

face was sunken and withered like that of an ancient

Egyptian mummy, the lips rotten away to leave just the

teeth in a wide, ghoulish smile. The nose hung to one

side, the skin slipping from the cartilage base, making the

corpse push it back up every few seconds like a pair of ill-

fitting glasses.

Richards‘s dad had been a large man, not obese, but

large; ―country strong‖ would have been a term used for

him had he grown up or worked on a farm. But he hadn‘t,

and so large was the word most people chose. Even in

death his frame was impressive: the muscle still clung to

his bones, dried and shrivelled like jerky, but there

nonetheless. His eyes were glassy, the color gone from

them as if they had been whited out, and the entire

eyeball was a milky white color that reminded Richard of

the porridge he ate for breakfast most mornings. A retch

rose in his stomach, and he tried his best to keep it

hidden.

The figure moved, and before Richard realized, it

stood in front of the desk only a few feet away from him.

―You grew up fast, boy. You changed indeed. Now

you wet the bed with a different fluid altogether, but

you‘re still a nothing. Look at you, drunk. You don‘t

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deserve to be here. Now get out!‖ the apparition of his

father roared at Richard, who felt the house vibrate with

anger.

Richard shook as his father‘s rotting corpse walked

towards him; and as he inched closer, his body making

raw wet sounds as it moved, his eyes began to glow a

strange green, vivid – yet dull at the same time. The

corpse began to laugh; a booming, evil laugh taken

straight out of the comic books Richard read as a child; a

laugh he knew well as it had haunted his dreams both

before and after his parents died.

Richard flinched, jumping backwards more from

fright than self-preservation. He jumped over the

threshold of the study and found himself back on the

landing. While twilight still hung in the air outside, inside

the study it was pitch black and quiet. Richard strained to

try and see the movement he knew was there within the

shroud. When it came, however, it was his father rather

than his rotten corpse; his business suit was impeccable,

his hair well styled, his sk in on fire. Flames engulfed his

body as he stood in the doorway. His face contorted in

pain, and as Richard watched in stunned horror, blood

began to spread over his chest until his torso was

drenched in it. His father stood in the doorway,

supporting himself with both arms; he looked exhausted

but managed to raise his head.

―Richard,‖ it said, his father‘s voice said, just before

his eyeballs exploded. Richard felt the burning jelly

splatter his face like the whiteheaded acne swellings of

his youth against the bathroom mirror.

Richard‘s drunken legs failed him and he collapsed.

He tumbled all the way down the faux-marble stairs,

landing in a heap on the cold floor of the empty entrance

hall. His left leg was twisted and stuck beneath him and

his chest felt as if someone had rested a heavy weight on

it; he couldn‘t breathe and strong, hot, metallic tasting

fluid hit the back of his throat. Richard‘s world faded and

he felt a warm puddle spreading around his head and

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neck. Richard looked up and saw the doorway to his

father‘s study. It was open, and it was empty; daylight

flooded the room, filled the entire house. The white walls

of the hallway and the light colored floor reflected every

beam.

Richard felt it rise from his stomach, but couldn‘t

bring himself to roll over: his body was simply no longer

under his control, and for once it had nothing to do with

the alcohol he had consumed. Richard vomited; hot

acidic chunks spilled from his mouth. They covered his

face and mixed with his blood on the floor. As his lungs

filled, panic ravaged his body, for while his mind was

clouded, the synapses inhibited by the excess alcohol, his

survival instinct still attempted to prevail. His one good

leg kicked and thrashed as his breaths began to shallow.

His struggles eased as the color drained from his

world…and finally from his dreams.

Richard wasn‘t discovered until the following

morning when Lisa Atkins arrived just as she always

swore she would do. Richard lay on his back, staring up

at the empty house, his eyes wide with terror. The semi-

digested contents of his stomach had dried to his face like

a bizarre spa treatment mask. Lisa Atkins called the

police and washed the body once they were finished. She

dressed him and kissed him goodbye before the coroner‘s

office took away the body of the young man she thought

of as a son. It was the last time she saw him. Lisa opted to

keep the casket closed during Richard‘s funeral; she was,

after all, the only one there.

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Chapter 3

Helen

―You don‘t take sugar do you, Marion?‖ Helen

Attinson asked her three o‘clock appointment.

Thanks to the impending bank holiday weekend,

Marion Dubois was scheduled be her last customer until

Tuesday. Helen loved working in the beauty salon, but

during the past few weeks her mind had been

preoccupied with other things, and she had been looking

forward to the four day break with the same enthusiasm

of a kid in the last week of school before summer. She

had found that her concentration had begun to wane just

a little, and today it had just packed up and left for an

even earlier start to the weekend.

―No, thank you, dear, just a dash of milk,‖ Marion

answered. She came to the salon regularly – at least once

a fortnight, although if she had the time, Marion Dubious

would have been there once a week. Her husband had

died five years earlier of a heart attack at the age of fifty-

seven. He had been an obese man who had treated her

cruelly but at the same time given her everything she

could ever ask. In return she had loved him, and even

now part of her still did, but through his death she had

discovered freedom and life to be a powerful tool in

moving on both emotional and physical levels.

She was dating, not men her own age, but those

somewhat younger. Her years in captivity – as she herself

referred to them – had apparently kept her looking

young, not to mention the home gym she had had built

one summer many years ago when she first hit forty and

wanted to get back into shape; it began as an attempt to

entice her husband back into the same bed as her. Not for

the sex, no – when it came to that she had a better time

on her own anyway – but simply for the company,

especially on those cold winter nights.

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―Okay, I‘ll be back in a second then, but you know the

drill. Got a new magazine shipment in, second drawer

down, same place as always,‖ Helen called as she walked

into the small kitchen area.

She hurriedly grabbed two mugs from the cupboard

and set them down on the counter, creating a clean spot

between all the dirty mugs and plates. She made a mental

note to have a word with Gwen, the young girl who

helped them out in the afternoons after school. It was her

job to keep the kitchen area clean, and recently she just

seemed to have lost her motivation.

Helen scooped two teaspoons of instant coffee and

levelled the scoop for Ms Dubois off with her fingertip –

she knew Marion didn‘t like her coffee too strong. She

sneezed; a rather violent sneeze that caused her head to

whiplash. Her brain hurtled forward and collided with

the front of her skull as if she had slammed the brakes on

without warning.

Rubbing at the sudden pain in her temples,

massaging them both with her index fingers while the

water boiled, Helen took the time to check the mirror.

She gasped when she saw her face. Her skin, although

usually rather pale, was now ashen. Her blue eyes had

lost their normal sparkle and instead looked dusty as if

she hadn‘t used them in years. Crow‘s feet seemed

engraved into the skin around her eyes, and even her

hair, a vibrant auburn, had a sad and worn out look to it.

Good God, take a look at me, she thought, opening her

mouth and sticking out her tongue as far as it would go.

She didn‘t know why she did this; it was a habit she had

picked up in childhood and now, ten years out of high

school, she still couldn‘t take a look at herself in the

mirror without pulling a funny face.

Coffees in hand, Helen walked back into the salon

with a smile spread across her face, her mind once again

wandering from the task at hand, instead focusing on her

big plans for the long weekend.

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Helen sat down behind her station and waited for

Marion to have a drink and replace her cup before she got

down to business. Beside her she had a small gurney,

which made it look as though she was about to perform

surgery; only, in place of gleaming scalpels with blades of

all sizes, Helen‘s was filled with nail files, lotions,

varnishes, polishes of all colors, a drawer filled with all

other manner of small vials filled with liquids she had

learned to pronounce effortlessly over the years without

ever understanding what they were.

She picked up Marion‘s left hand and moved it into

position, leaving the elbow on the table. She pushed the

headache out of her mind; it had subsided to nothing

more than a dull thud anyway. It would pass in a few

moments. With arms positioned as if they were about to

wrestle, Helen slid a support underneath the raised arm

and once Marion‘s arm was settled, she picked up the

first file on the tray and began to work on the nails.

―I tell you, I just can‘t believe how free I feel, my life

has completely changed since I started just having some

fun. I mean, it took me a while to get used to living alone,

of course, but then again you know that, I‘ve said it often

enough. But I mean, really, it‘s such an enlightening

experience to find yourself single and with a city like this

around you. Why anybody ever thinks of settling down is

beyond me,‖ Marion said, the words spewing out of her

mouth as if a locomotive powered them from the tunnel

that was her mouth.

Helen never said much. It was often hard to take a

side because Marion simply ran on and on like a broken

record, rehashing the same arguments time and time

again, often within the same visit – and more often than

not she would revisit a topic from the other viewpoint

anyway.

―Well, I mean, don‘t get me wrong, I do miss having

someone around, somebody to talk to whenever I want,

or to keep me company in that house, but I think I‘m

going to sell it anyway. Move to a more popular area. The

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suburbs were good enough once upon a time, b ut now it‘s

just too far to commute, and I don‘t drive. I think I‘m

going to learn, though,‖ Marion continued, and at the

same time she managed to continue reading the

magazine she had picked out and also acknowledge

Helen, on both personal terms by praising her

workmanship.

Helen liked Marion Dubois, not only because she was

always happy, bubbly, and full of stories that helped to

pass the time, but because she did all the talking. Helen

could just get on with her work, throwing in the

occasional congratulatory phrase or non-committal

thought on something, and that was it. Helen preferred it

that way; she wasn‘t one to brag about things, or to go out

and have crazy, alcohol-fueled adventures with the girls.

She preferred a simple life; working, going home to

her wonderful husband, cooking dinner together, and

then settling down on the sofa to watch a movie. It was a

safe life, a simple one, but she enjoyed it.

Helen finished cleaning the first hand and then

began the process all over again with the second, when

out of nowhere a wave of nausea swept through her,

followed by a dripping sensation in her nose. To her own

surprise as much as Marion‘s, Helen noticed that her

nose was bleeding. The blood was dark, as good as black,

and poured from both nostrils at an alarming rate.

―Excuse me,‖ she said, getting up from behind the

table and half running back into the kitchen area,

pinching her nose with one hand, using the other to keep

stable as she tilted her head back.

Once out of sight, Helen was more panicked in her

movements; she swept with her arms in desperate search

of a cloth or piece of kitchen roll to help try and stem the

bleeding. Once she had tissue stuffed up each nostril

Helen slumped against the wall and rested with her

hands on her knees. Her shirt was soaked through with

blood, and she saw a puddle on the floor that covered

enough of the linoleum to cause her speeding heart to

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skip more than a few beats in her chest. When Helen

stood up, the bleeding had stopped. She stood braced

against the countertop, waiting for the shaking to stop.

Helen took the spare shirt she always had hanging on the

coat stand and headed back out to Marion. She gave

herself a cursory check in the mirror and wiped away the

remaining blood, offered herself a half-hearted snarl; old

habits really do die hard.

The salon was spread over two buildings, joined by a

connecting door, one side dedicated to hairstyling and

facials, while the other section (where Helen was and her

colleagues Rosie Singh and Martina Petrova were all busy

at work on their own final customers) was set up for

manicures, pedicures. The waxing rooms were split two

at the rear of each salon area. Martina and Rosie chatted

to their clients as they worked and didn‘t even look up

when Helen returned. Marion Dubois meanwhile had

moved on to the matter of where she intended to spend

her summer, and with which one of her suitors she was

more likely to choose to take with her for company.

―I‘ll just go for the opaque this time I think, I‘ve got a

busy week planned,‖ Marion said. The stride of her

conversation wasn‘t even broken. Helen considered it a

near certainty that Marion hadn‘t even stopped talking

the entire time that she had been gone.

Helen heard her request, making a mental note on

which of the many small colorful bottles she had lined up

on the metal tray that she needed to use.

―So…Venice, I hear it‘s beautiful there. Mark and I

looked at it for our honeymoon, but we couldn‘t afford

it,‖ Helen answered, feeling distant and generally

strange.

She found out two weeks before that she was

pregnant, she hadn‘t told anybody, not even Mark, her

husband. He worked for a medium-sized insurance

company in the city. It was a low pay job; but given the

current climate, they were both just happy to still have

work at all. She wanted to wait until the time was right

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before she broke the news to him, and she blamed that on

her distracted mind and apparently rebelling body. She

knew he would be happy, there was no question about his

reaction, and they had spoken about having kids at some

length already. Helen was just concerned that their

financial situation wouldn‘t be able to support them.

They still had to pay off Mark‘s student loan, their

wedding, not to mention the mortgage on their recently

purchased house. It all came down to the fact that they

didn‘t have the stability that family life demanded. Helen

was fairly sure that she could pick up some extra shifts in

the salon; one girl had just quit a few weeks before and

had yet to be replaced, but that was only a temporary

solution because, once she gave birth, she would be out of

work for a while. That was when the extra costs would be

noticed most.

―Yes, Venice is always lovely, I love it in February. I

don‘t know why, there is just something about it, and in

the summer it‘s just too hot. Anyway, are you sure you‘re

alright, dear? You don‘t look at all well. Maybe you

should have a lie down.‖ The concern in Marion Dubois‘

voice was genuine. She hadn‘t seen how bad the

nosebleed had been, nor did she notice the change of

clothing, yet the change in Helen‘s appearance, her white

face, cold hands and distant starry eyes was

unmistakable.

Helen didn‘t hear her, however…

All she heard was a deep guttural growl, not unlike

that of a hungry stomach. Helen stopped working and

looked up. She knew she was in the salon, she could see

it, including the hideous piece of modern art that

occupied the majority of the wall opposite both the main

entrance and Helen‘s regular workstation. However,

Marion Dubois was gone. In her place was a shriveled

elderly woman, someone she didn‘t recognize but looked

as though she belonged in a fairytale, possibly offering an

apple. The hag looked at her, and Helen simply stared at

her. She was a witch, complete with a large, hooked nose

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adorned by a large hair-sprouting wart. Her eyes were as

black as coal and they held Helen‘s gaze and she could

feel her skin begin to burn and prickle with heat.

Helen began to sweat, her hands were clammy and

her heart increased to such a tempo that it felt as though

it was pumping in slow motion. Her mouth was dry and

her tongue felt bloated and useless in her mouth. The

witch‘s hand, which she only then remembered she was

holding, tightened around her own. The grip seared her

flesh, while the long, gnarled nails – more like talons –

sliced into the meat of her arm. Delicate tendrils of

smoke rose from her arm, seeping between the witch‘s

fingers as the flesh continued to cook beneath her grip.

The witch continued to speak, her words – vile

guttural sounds. Helen shook her head as the hot,

sulphur-rich breath hit her.

―Helen… Are you sure everything‘s okay, dear? You

really don‘t look very well,‖ Marion asked again,

repeating the question that had, until that moment, gone

unanswered.

Helen rose from the table without saying a word. The

world around her started to burn. The walls of the salon

caught fire and the floor melted away around her feet.

The black and white vinyl floor tiles bubbled while the

fixtures all sank into the floor, giving the entire place a

strange, lopsided, Salvador Dali feel. Helen looked

around. She saw the girls leaving their clients and

rushing towards her. Only their faces had twisted into

something inhuman, their eyes glowing like fire embers.

Ms. Dubois was also there, standing, her arms still held

out as if demanding Helen turn her attention back to the

manicure. Her face was expressionless, her mouth

continuing to open and close like a fish as she (or so

Helen presumed) chatted away, oblivious to the world

around her.

―The baby.‖ Helen dropped her hands to her

stomach, clutching at the belly that was yet to swell as

she said what would prove he be her final words before

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she collapsed. Her life was over before she hit the floor,

her eyes glassed over as if intoxicated. With her last

breath exhaled as she fell, her final words were destined

to remain a mystery.

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Chapter 4

Sammy

―I can‘t believe you, I really can‘t,‖ Mandy Jenkins

snapped, her temper flaring after an evening of drinks

with her friends, most of them fellow students.

―I‘m sorry, babe, I am, but you know I don‘t like it

when people start talking about that sort of stuff. It

annoys me,‖ Sammy Westford answered, never taking his

eyes from the road.

Mandy had woken him and begged Sammy pick her

up from the bar she was in because she had drunk way

too much to drive and didn‘t want to have to take a taxi

back to her place because her roommate would get angry

with her for coming home so late. Mandy had been

unlucky enough to make friends with a devout Christian

called Emma Wilkinson during her freshman year at

university and had never been able to shake her off since.

Although Mandy herself had been raised to be a rather

devout Catholic, her parents to their credit understood

her decision, or simply recognized her stubborn streak

and allowed her to go her own way, find her own path.

That being said, Emma was a good friend, one of the

best Mandy had ever had; even if her strong religious

views and firm standpoint on sex before marriage had

made for some rather interesting conversations when

Sammy and Mandy had first started dating.

―I don‘t want to talk about it, Sammy. You fucking

embarrassed me in there tonight. I mean, Jesus Christ,

would it kill you to try and behave around my friends just

once?‖ She gesticulated with her hands. Sammy didn‘t

have to take his eyes from road to know that she was mad

with him. She was drunk, and therefore, she was mad at

him, although he would admit that on this occasion her

anger, although a little excessive, was justified.

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―I don‘t want to argue, Mand, you‘re a bit drunk, and

those guys took the piss, and only because I don‘t have a

college education or drive a fancy car. I work hard to

make my way, and you above all people should know that

I enjoy what I do. I‘m proud of who I have turned myself

into, so don‘t get angry with me or take their side…not

tonight.‖ Sammy wasn‘t angry with her. Mandy didn‘t go

out often, and seldom did she get drunk, but whenever

she did it was always the same routine. She would call

him up, he would go get her, and then they would argue

about how he was rude to her friends. It was a cycle that

stemmed from the main difference between them; their

backgrounds.

Sammy was a twenty-two-year-old construction

worker; someone who came from a family of borderline

degenerates, someone who was never given much of a

chance in life. His two brothers were petty criminals, and

his sister lived on benefits in a house provided for her

and her four children while she chased child support

payments from the four different fathers.

His parents divorced before he was even born.

Sammy was the baby of the family, the youngest by quite

some way, and it was his conception, in fact, which had

placed the final lid in the coffin of their relationship, with

his father questioning his mother‘s fidelity. The question

was never answered; his father always preferred to pose

such important questions with his fists or other handy

appliances rather that with his tongue. Sammy called him

his father, but in truth he was only the father of Sammy‘s

sister who was conceived while his mother was engaged

to another man (who, for the sake of the record, was not

the father of either of Sammy‘s brothers).

Sammy never knew his own father, and he in turn

escaped his family as soon as he graduated high school.

Although he had the brains for it, he knew with a strange

levelheadedness at an early age that he wouldn‘t benefit

from going to college. He liked the idea of working with

his hands, and so he packed his bags at the first

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opportunity and moved to a different city – away from

his family in Denver – and began a series of cross-

country adventures before finally landing in Baltimore,

where he had been ever since, living just outside of the

main city in the suburb of Edmonson.

He had moved around a lot, living in rented

accommodation, moving from city to city, working

construction for whatever company was hiring, before he

was finally offered regular work with Whiting-Turner

Construction, whom had now been his employers for

two-and-a-half years.

Mandy Jenkins couldn‘t have been more dissimilar to

Sammy if she tried. Her family were rich; her father a

doctor, head of cardio thoracic surgery at Johns Hopkins

while her mother was a stay-at-home mom, dedicated to

her children, never moaning, always willing to spend her

time aiding them in whatever they needed, from

conversations or advice through to simple transport,

something that would have never crossed Sammy‘s

mother‘s mind. She was too self-obsessed to even notice

Sammy had moved out of the house until three weeks

later. The first phone call to check on his whereabouts

came three weeks after he had left home, just as he was

about to pack up his bags and move for the second time.

Mandy had one brother who, while only in first in his

year at Stanford, had already been headhunted by some

of the largest law firms on both coasts, not to mention a

few from abroad. Mandy herself had chosen to follow her

father into the medical profession, choosing dentistry. It

was in a bar near the University of Maryland where she

just begun her second year that Mandy met Sammy.

Their meeting was unremarkable, although over the

years, as their relationship developed, so did the

embellishments they made to their tale. It went from a

case of being squashed together at the bar trying

desperately to order drinks, only for Sammy to turn

around and sacrifice his turn so that Mandy could order,

to them finding themselves trapped against the bar and

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unable to get back to their respective groups (which was

as close to the truth as the tale ever got), to something far

more interesting – versions of which included Sammy

climbing onto the bar and walking across it, jumping to

the floor only to sweep Mandy into his arms and walk out

of the bar with her.

Their story became a game to them; they took it in

turns to create the most embellished version possible just

to see how many people believed it. The one constant was

the mutual instant attraction.

Despite having next to nothing in common –

different background and varied interests – they made it

work. Sammy was a fan of action movies, particularly

those from the 80s and early 90s, while Mandy was more

interested in the old Hollywood pictures, and of course a

good romantic movie. Sammy read sports magazines and

the occasional comic book, while Mandy had developed a

taste for the classic English authors such as Thomas

Hardy and the entire Brontë family. Yet, despite it all,

something between them clicked. The only thing they

shared was a mutual indifference to any one style of

music.

They had been together just over a year now, and

they had learned everything about each other. Sammy

had been slow to open up, and still hadn‘t told Mandy

everything about his past, or his family, but she knew

that and was happy to wait. Mandy‘s parents had

reserved their judgment of him, listening at first only to

the background tales of his youth; however, after having

met him a few times, they both admitted he was one of

the good guys.

They argued, of course, but most of the time it was

over silly things, as is the case in any relationship. Their

current interaction wasn‘t so much of an argument as

more of a drunken conversation after an incident

between Sammy and Nathan Woodrow, a student friend

of Mandy‘s who was infatuated with her and determined

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to try and score points against Sammy every time they

met. ―Why not tonight, Sammy? What‘s the problem with

having this conversation tonight? Do you think you can

take me home and get some action from the drunk girl?‖

She slurred her words, slashing the air with her hands.

―Listen, Mand, I am sorry. That guy is a cock, and

just the thought of him makes me want to slap him in the

face with a brick. I‘m sorry, but it‘s true. He baits me

every time and I always fall for it, because he‘s an ass,

and he wants you, to take you from me. I don‘t want to

fight about this, so let‘s just go home and we can talk in

the morning when your head has cleared a bit,‖ he

reasoned, staying calm as best he could. Sammy forced

himself to keep his focus on the road, not even allowing

himself the chance to throw her so much as a sly glance.

―That‘s just like you, Sammy…never talk it out, just

let Mandy cool down and she‘ll give it up anyway. You

never want to fight, you never argue back. Well this time

I‘m not letting it go,‖ she snapped, and there was a tone

of pure frustration in her voice that made him believe

her. ―Come on, Mandy, I don‘t like fighting. You know

what I saw my parents go through, not to mention the

string of step-fathers I‘ve had. I‘ve seen what arguments

turn into,‖ he said, trying to steer the conversation in a

new direction.

―Well you can‘t hide from everything, Sammy. You

were happy enough to fight with Nate back there.‖ She

threw back the catalyst that had caused the fight in the

first place, just in case he had forgotten.

―Drop it, Mand…Jesus, just pipe down and let me get

you home alright?‖ Sammy found his patience slipping.

His grip tightened on the steering wheel, and although he

knew he would never hit a woman no matter what the

circumstances, he could still feel rage building deep down

inside him. He forced it down: an argument was the last

thing he wanted, and he would avoid it at all costs.

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―Why, are you gonna ignore me, sleep on the sofa,

wait until morning, and hope it‘s all blown over?‖ She

continued to push, somehow intent on making a big deal

over a snide comment that Sammy made when he arrived

– despite the fact that Nate had been throwing his own

snide remarks around about Sammy the entire evening or

close to it – and his refusal to sit down and have a drink.

―No, I was going to propose, you silly mare. I busted

my balls getting everything set up the way I wanted

before you came home,‖ Sammy blurted it out, unable to

keep his mouth shut any longer.

He had been planning the best moment for several

weeks, the ring purchased a few months before, just in

case the opportune moment arrived early. He had spent

the bonus he had been given by his boss on a bottle of

expensive champagne and a punnet of strawberries,

coupled with scented candles, and a plan for a hot bath

scattered with rose petals. Only for Mandy to call and say

she was going out for drinks instead.

―What?‖ Mandy‘s mouth stopped after that one word,

her mind all of a sudden sober, as if the previous

sentence had blown all of the windows out of the car,

letting the cool night air and steady rainfall wash the

alcohol away.

―That‘s right, I had this whole romantic evening

planned, and everything was perfect until Nathan got in

the way,‖ Sammy began, but stopped himself; he had

finally turned the corner in their disagreement and didn‘t

want to go throwing any more fuel onto the fire.

―You were going to propose?‖ Mandy asked in a

moment of clarity so stark and sudden that it slapped the

remaining haze of her drunkenness and all thoughts of

arguments out of her mind.

―Yeah,‖ Sammy answered her, not certain that an

answer was needed.

―Were,‖ Mandy repeated.

―Am.‖ Sammy finally understood the previous

sentence. He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and

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pulled out a small velvet box. ―I had much bigger and

better plans for this, you know,‖ he said, passing Mandy

the box, which she took with hands that trembled from

nerves.

―This is one hell of a way to win an argument, Sam,‖

Mandy answered, laughing. The smile that was stretched

across her face, even in the darkness of the car, was

answer enough.

―Well, think of all the fights we can have in the

future,‖ Sammy joked.

He took his eyes off the road and looked at her just

for a second. He felt a sudden need to see the sparkle in

her eyes, even if they were bloodshot from a night of

drinking. She still made his heart skip a beat, the delicate

outline of her features, the way she poked her tongue out

between her teeth when she smiled – a real smile, that

was – and the creases around her eyes when she laughed,

her smooth skin, and full lips that gleamed in the halogen

amber haze that was cast down by the streetlamps.

Mandy giggled at him, and turned her head as if

embarrassed, then sensing the weight of his gaze she

turned and looked at Sammy. Her face was youthful, and

Sammy never stopped wondering how he had managed

to keep someone who looked as amazing as Mandy and

had the brains to match. She opened her mouth to speak,

to answer his question at last; despite the certainty of its

affirmation, a yes was still the necessary prerequisite for

the occasion. However, what came out was a blood-

curdling scream better placed in a scary movie.

―Sammy,‖ was the only discernable word that came

out. Her face was frozen in a look that was somewhere

between the height of orgasm and sheer horror, color

drained from her face, as if the blood had packed up and

left before whatever unspeakable event was about to

unfold could occur.

Sammy turned to look and wasted half of his

remaining time with Mandy wondering what the hell she

saw. Part of him thought it was a meteorite, or for longer

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odds, a UFO. The night sky filled with bright orange

sparks that flew across the horizon, tumbling without

grace. It was only when impact was imminent that he

realized what it was. A Mercedes, he wasn‘t sure of the

model – not that it mattered when the car in question

had become a fireball.

―Jesus Christ. Mandy, hold on!‖ he yelled, grabbing

the steering wheel and trying to find the brakes with feet

that felt as though they were glued to the floor. Sammy‘s

leaden left foot rose and tried to find the brake that his

right foot refused to touch, but it was too late. The noise

was tremendous as the Mercedes, having lost control at a

high speed, toppled head over tail towards them,

somersaulting like an obese gymnast.

Instinctively, Sammy reached out trying to grab hold

of Mandy‘s hand. All he could hear was his heart as it

thundered in his chest while his brain failed to function

on a clear or understandable level. Even Mandy‘s

screams were a mere whisper, a distant murmur, as

though she were trapped in another room or at the end of

a long corridor.

The automotive torpedo impacted Sammy‘s car on

the edge of the hood, causing minimal damage. It was the

sudden change in momentum that caused the car to flip

over.

―Shit!‖ Sammy cried out as he felt the car begin to tip

forward.

Despite the speed with which it all occurred,

everything felt as though it happened in slow motion. The

change in the weight of the car, the crunching sound of

the hood, engine and undercarriage being crushed, the

strange, stomach-churning sensation as the car left the

ground, flipping over like a disc in a game of

Tiddlywinks. Beside him, Sammy heard Mandy scream,

her seatbelt forgotten by her intoxicated mind. She fell

forward as the car flipped and she fell into the

windshield, her head hitting hard enough to crack the

glass. As the car continued its first of many cartwheels

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Sammy saw a bloodied smear mark the glass as his

girlfriend‘s head bounced free, her body falling against

the roof as her head then made contact with the

dashboard. Mandy‘s body followed a similar trajectory as

the car, her legs crashing through the glass of the

windscreen as the roof crumpled against the road

surface. Sammy heard something snap; a burning pain

thundered through his body. He didn‘t have any time to

look – not that he could see anything anymore; every

image had blended together, his world awash of darkness

and fire.

The car flipped once more, the roof flattening even

further, and Sammy‘s fastened seatbelt wasn‘t enough to

stop his head from colliding with the driver‘s side

window. His neck whiplashed with a loud crack and a

burst of pain shot into the center of his brain. He tasted

blood in his mouth and couldn‘t breathe; his chest was

crushed, both lungs punctured. He also had a compound

fracture in each leg, the femur protruding at about mid-

thigh level. Finally, the car came to a stop, landing upside

down in the middle of the road, the engine somehow still

revving angrily, the rear wheels spinning, while the

aroma of spilled fuel began to fill the car.

―Mandy,‖ Sammy coughed, blood spurting from his

lips. Looking over to the passenger seat, pain surging

through his body, Sammy tried to find the woman he

loved. Sammy groped desperate to find Mandy, even as

his wheezing breaths began to shallow. He sweated and

shivered simultaneously, and the pain began to dull as

Sammy‘s body shut down. He lost control of his bodily

functions not long after the car began its second rotation.

The seat next to him was empty; Mandy had fallen

out of the tumbling projectile in stages as it had flipped

its way along the road. Her head had been the first to

come away, cut through as the car descended from its

second flip; she had already fallen halfway out of the

window when the road came crashing down again,

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snapping her neck and sending the head rolling down the

road like a gruesome bowling ball.

By the time the car came to a stop, several fingers

and her left arm had been scattered along the road like

the lost items that can be seen lying beside any highway;

a shoe, a book, things you often wonder how is it possible

to lose while within a car. By sheer chance, the rearview

mirror was still in place, and although cracked and

missing several large chunks, Sammy could make out

what was left of Mandy‘s body further down the road, a

fit of spasms racing through her dismembered torso as

the rain pelted down, washing the blood from the road as

if the world were wanted to hide it.

His head grew dizzy, the gargling sounds of his

breathing lessened, and with it the depth of each

inhalation became shallower. Yet Sammy refused to give

up. ―Mandy.‖ He struggled to make any sound, and was

surprised at how strong his voice sounded.

Sammy received no answer to his cries, the still night

air broken only by the steady ticking sound of his car

engine. The summer storm that had been threatening all

day made its move, and the rumbles of thunder drowned

out the emergency service sirens. Lightning cast a stark,

brilliant flash on the horizon, highlighting the blood and

oil covered road, glinting in the open eyes of the head

that lay between the two lanes, boxed inside the dividing

lines. The blond hair that crowned it was fanned out like

a wedding train.

Sammy was long dead by the time anybody arrived at

the scene, his face frozen in a twisted image, as if the last

thing Sammy had seen had been was Death himself as he

leaned in to claim him.

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Chapter 5

Graham

―Who‘s there?‖ Graham Williams sat up in bed –

well, he raised his head as far as he could; his bed was

already set in a semi-seated position; the best thing for

his lungs, or so the doctors had said on their last visit.

Personally, he thought it a pile of fresh bullshit, but there

wasn‘t anything he could do about it. Not anymore.

No answer came back to him, only the echoing

footsteps of the night porter walking the linoleum

hallways, his mind not on the job but rather following

Monday Night Football. The playoff positions were filling

up fast, and his team needed just one victory to clinch

their spot, and with it the chance to gain redemption for

the painful defeat at the end of the previous season.

Despite the lack of an answer, Graham could hear the

intruder, his lumbering footsteps heavy on the cheap

carpet; he knew the sound of heavy boots when he heard

them, unforgiving, uncomfortable. He had been trained

to hear them as they snapped a twig or crunched on a pile

of leaves. It was the smell he didn‘t recognize; a sweet,

meaty aroma, like a cheap butcher‘s workroom in the

heat of summer. He would have retched at the stench,

but his stomach had long ago given up its uses, now

nothing more than a shriveled bag inside his decaying

body, possibly the only organ that the cancer hadn‘t eaten

away.

He hadn‘t drunk anything since Sunday morning, not

that anybody who ‗cared‘ for him would have noticed.

They had all written him off long ago. As soon as the

illness entered what they call end-stage, he had been

moved to a new room at the end of the terminal wing,

where he was then as good as forgotten. Sure, they visited

every now and then, but only to check his pulse. He

hadn‘t had a change of clothes for three days and, while

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he wasn‘t certain, he thought that he had pissed himself

at least once.

Graham opened his mouth to call out again, his

throat dry and scratched raw, his lips paper-thin. He

stuck out his tongue to wet them, but that too was dry,

swollen, and heavy in his mouth. He heard his own

breathing; slow rattling breaths as if his lungs had filled

with water. Yet still he heard the approaching footsteps.

It was as if death himself had come out tonight to claim

him. Not that Graham cared: he was ready to go, had

been ever since his wife died and the government shoved

him into a nursing home. He had been more than capable

of looking after himself, still would have been if not for

the disease – he was only seventy-six, for God‘s sake.

They wanted to sell his home and build some cheap

houses to give to all the fucking foreigners. Graham had

no living relatives and so was an easy target. Within

seven months of entering the home he was confined to

his 8x5 cell, or ‗room‘ as they all called it. It was en suite,

but they insisted on giving him a commode in the corner

to use. He wasn‘t allowed to walk anywhere, instead, they

wheeled him to and from the dining room where frozen

TV dinners were served lukewarm at best. To top it off,

twice a day Graham was transported into the recreation

room, which was a plain whitewashed room with large

windows that overlooked a supposed garden and fish

pond, but looked more like an overgrown wasteland with

a large muddy puddle in the center. There were no fish in

the pond, that was a certainty, and the only thing that

ever dared enter the garden was the occasional bird, but

it wouldn‘t stay long. Nothing ever stayed in Golden

Acres nursing home long.

There were a few bright pictures on the far wall,

modern art they called it, but to Graham it looked more

like the artist had farted while painting something else

and that by-product of his misdirected bodily function

had been the better piece. The other occupants of the

recreational room were just as exciting, either parked in

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front of the television, which seemed to broadcast

nothing but old black and white movies – as though

people over a certain age watched nothing else. Graham

couldn‘t remember the last time he had seen the news or

read a newspaper.

It looked and felt, to him at least, not like a

retirement home but a hideaway, a pre-burial storage

compound. Food and water was given and they were just

left to wait for their clock to run down.

Now, lying in the darkness, hearing the footsteps of

an invisible enemy, Graham looked back on it all with no

feelings other than a strange and consoling acceptance. A

readiness, willingness to go with the strange visitor

regardless of what it held in store for a man who had

killed the Germans with a song in his heart, before

teaching children for the majority of his life, including

more than just a few of German descent. He wondered

then, for the first time, if any of them still had their

grandparents at that time, or had he taken them away

from them? Then again, wasn‘t that why he became a

teacher, to educate, to stop kids rushing off and joining

the military simply because it was the easy option, the

safe bet that if you failed in your studies you could still go

away and be the best that you could be?

Something moved in the corner of the room, to the

left of the door. It was his chariot; a worn out wheelchair.

Its rusty wheels creaked, its carriage moved back and

forth as if some hidden weight had taken a seat, testing it

out for after he had passed.

―Who‘s there? I know your there?‖ he croaked, his

body objecting by starting a chain reaction that began

with a violent coughing fit and ended up with a mouthful

of bloody phlegm being spat into a basin positioned on

the floor beside the bed for that very purpose.

―It‘s me, Sarge. Edwards,‖ a scared voice answered

him. It wasn‘t a physical sound, but rather a whisper

carried on a breath of wind. In fact Graham doubted he

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had heard anything at all, only it was that name…

Edwards, why had he heard that name?

Graham couldn‘t speak further; he was too

exhausted, and his body racked with pain. His every

muscle ached as it fought just to take the next breath, to

see a sunrise that he couldn‘t be bothered to see. Ever

since his wife died, Graham had asked for death, begged

for it, yet it was years before the cancer took hold of him,

and now not even his own body listened to him: it just

kept on fighting.

―I think we made it, Sarge. I‘ve been hiding in the

bushes, but I don‘t think the fuckers saw me. It‘s been so

lonely, but now I‘ve got you here... Hey, you want to play

a few hands? I‘ve got a deck in here somewhere. I traded

them with a guy from the Airborne a while back.‖ The

voice set off alarm bells inside Graham‘s head. Triggering

memories he had long since forgotten, or that had simply

been deleted by the grey masses that had now spread

through his body.

There was a small reading lamp on the table beside

his bed – not that he read much anymore. Occasionally

he could make it through a few lines before his eyes gave

up; his glasses were long lost. He fumbled with his

trembling hand, his body covered with a cold sweat that

had soaked his sheets.

Do I really want to turn it on? Graham thought, his

hand recoiling as it reached the switch.

He looked around once more in the darkness, a

comforting place, one that erased the confines of his

room, the lack of decorations; other than the picture of

his wife on the table beside him, the lamp and ceiling

light, there was little in the room. There was a rickety

closet that housed his few meager possessions, a

wheelchair and a cord that could be pulled in

emergencies to call the nurses. Other than that, the room

was bare. His bed was located in the center, in front of

the small, barred window that offered him a view of

either blue sky or cloud. Every now and then an airplane

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would move through his view, giving him something real

to look at; but all too soon, it disappeared from his life

the way everything always seemed to do.

Graham closed his eyes, trying hard to block out the

footsteps that he could hear approach his bed. The room

grew cold. He clamped his eyes shut and focused. He saw

his wife. She was young back then. It was the day of their

wedding, the war was long since won. They were in love,

inseparable. Graham never understood why she stayed

with him. His impotency, brought on by the war –

although, despite it all, they had certainly enjoyed several

passionate moments together – would have pushed many

women away into the arms of another. Not his Marjorie;

no, she stuck by him, through the barren years, though

his nightmares, the childless decades after which old age

approached fast and with it the knowledge that a lonely

and bleak future lay in wait for whoever was the last one

to go.

The image began to flicker. Something somewhere

was hurting. The pain came in waves, distorting the

image like a satellite broadcast being interrupted by some

foreign transmissions, and Graham could make out the

hint of an image underneath but not clear enough to tell

what it was.

He focused harder. Marjorie stood in her wedding

dress, not in the chapel, but outside in the cemetery.

They were in the cemetery of the small, rural church

where they had gotten married. It was a beautiful day, the

odd wisp of cloud in an otherwise deep blue ocean above

their heads. A cool breeze blew, but not hard enough for

them or their small wedding party to feel the need to

reach for their jackets.

Something was wrong with the scene, however. A

muffled sound came from inside the church; a strangled

yet delicate sound. It took several moments for Graham‘s

cancer-ravaged brain to realize it was song; the wedding

party were already inside.

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Praise, my soul the King of Heaven,

To his feet thy tribute bring,

Ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven

Who like me his praise should sing.

It was a hymn that Graham knew well: it had also

been the final hymn sung at his wife‘s funeral. She

requested it just before she died; she said that it

reminded her of the best day of her life. They had been

close to her final words, and when the song began during

the service Graham had broken down in uncontrollable

sorrow.

―We should go inside, love, we don‘t want to miss it,‖

he said; his voice was youthful, deep and commanding.

Both were qualities that it had long since lost. She didn‘t

answer him; the words never reached her ears, rather

they fell dead into the grass as if the cancer had eaten

them the way it had eaten Graham.

They had never stood outside on their wedding day,

not before the service. It was bad luck to see the bride,

and after they had posed for some photographs in the

back of the church, they left relatively soon after.

Marjorie turned towards him, her face streaked with

tears. They reflected the sun, which made the salty liquid

sparkle like the diamond bracelet she had worn to both

her wedding and funeral. It had been a gift from her

mother, which in turn had belonged to her mother and so

forth back through the generations. How it came into her

family‘s possession was shrouded in both mystery and

scandal, the most plausible explanation being that it had

been a gift bestowed upon her great-great-grandmother

by a married dignitary who had taken a shine to her. The

bracelet had been a gift meant to initiate an affair.

Nobody knew what happened thereafter, but the lack of

further jewels in the family line gave way to a rather

uninteresting outcome.

Graham saw then that Marjorie stood before a fresh

covered grave, the earth still wet and dark from its

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churning. Graham looked down. The tombstone was a

simple wooden cross – handmade and held together by

what on first inspection looked like shoelaces. It was

exactly the sort of grave marker seen in any half decent

western. A name had been carved into the horizontal bar,

the penmanship shaky. Another series of cold-sweat

shakes racked Graham as he squinted hard, trying to

make out the name, his eyes failing him. It grew warmer,

or so it felt. The sun burned low in the sky; it was as if it,

too, strained to read the words carved into the wooden

marker.

The name on the tombstone was clear enough to

Graham and it made him stumble backwards. He reached

for Marjorie‘s hand, a loving gentle hand that had helped

him through many bad days and nights during the years,

but it wasn‘t there. It wasn‘t being offered at least, for

Marjorie had turned to face him, her hands on her hips,

her head thrown back in a fit of violent laughter. Her skin

was pale. The veins that ran beneath the surface shone a

bright blue as if injected with phosphorous.

GRAHAM WILLIAMS

R.I.P.

―No,‖ Graham said in an uncertain voice. Not

because of the tombstone, or the old-fashioned, uncared

for approach that had been behind its creation, but more

because he had long ago arranged to be buried in a

shared grave with his wife.

―We should be together, Marjorie.‖ His throat hurt to

speak, as if the words were wrapped in barbed wire, and

each uttered syllable carved deeper chunks of wet flesh

from his mouth.

Marjorie stopped laughing and stared at Graham.

Her eyes were rattled in the sockets, withered like

prunes. Her skin was pulled tight against her face. The

wrinkles of age were gone, replaced by the shriveled

onset of decay, wet rot hard at work peeling the flesh

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from her body in putrescent strips. Marjorie opened her

mouth, and a groaning, screeching sound erupted from

within her bowels. Her skin began to bulge; it stretched

thinner and thinner as if something was trapped inside,

desperate to escape.

Graham watched in stunned silence as his beloved

wife split open, her skin simply pulling apart like a piece

of rotted fruit. A strange black liquid spilled from the slit

that ran vertically down her body – a thin watery

substance blacker than the night. The screeching sound

grew louder and louder – and was joined by a strange

rustling, like feathers beating against themselves.

Graham had been to his uncle‘s chicken farm more than

once in his younger days, helping out around the farm for

some extra cash, and what he then heard coming from

within Marjorie‘s decayed body made him think of just

that place where the birds were cramped together in

pens, separated and ready for the slaughter.

Then it stopped, and Marjorie simply exploded. Her

skin tore open with a dry dripping sound. A deep vertical

gash appeared on her, splitting the wedding dress she

was wearing. A rush of stale, putrescent air came first,

hitting Graham and making his head spin.

Then, out of nowhere, with the same sound of

rustling wings, the frantic scratching of the stiff legs and

the squawking of long silenced beaks, a swarm of

blackbirds exploded from within Marjorie‘s body. The

birds‘ wings were wet with blood; thick clots fell to the

ground as the birds began to spread their wings and fly

away. Thousands of them erupted from her body, and

when it was all over her skin lay in two even piles on the

ground. The birds continued to climb into the air until

the sun was hidden by them; they moved en-mass. They

flew towards it and covered its light, creating an artificial

dusk. Graham watched helplessly; he watched as the

birds ascended into the heavens and on towards the sun.

He could hear their cries as their bodies began to burn

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and singed feathers fell down around them like a

charcoal snow.

Graham fell to the floor, coughing and rasping. A

large ball of dark red, congealed blood hung from the left

arm of the cross like a tear. When he opened his eyes he

was back in his small cell, the ball of blood on the floor

beside the bed. He stared at it as it beat like the aborted

heart of a fetus making its first and last attempt at

creating life. His sheets were soaked with strong smelling

urine that burned on bed sores.

His heart was pounding, or at least going at a normal

healthy speed, which given his condition was a bad sign.

Graham lay still. He swore he could feel the cancer eating

its way deeper and deeper into his body. A tear built in

his eye. Only one; he didn‘t have enough fluid left in his

body to produce more, and even this wasn‘t exactly a

tear, but rather a thick excretion that had simply found

yet another way out of his body.

―Marjorie,‖ Graham whispered under his breath. The

name was heavy on his lips. He looked around, and

things began to clear; the light on the bedside table was

on. Did I do that? he thought. No, I couldn‟t have. Then

who? Graham asked himself, unsure of what had

happened.

He was cold, that was all he really understood. The

pain, the passage of time, from day to night, from

Monday to Tuesday, had become a blur to him. The pain

medication they kept him on ensured that he was only

lucid for a few pain filled moments each day.

―Sarge, you alright? I don‘t think Hendricks made it,

Herman either – Jesus Christ, Sarge. They‘re fucking

everywhere,‖ the same voice – scared now – echoed in

his ears.

Graham turned his head, ignoring both the burning

cough that sat on his lungs and the exploding fireworks

factory that had set up shop inside his skull over the last

few weeks. He wanted to cry, to be startled, but it wasn‘t

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possible: he had progressed beyond that stage now, and

he knew it. The realization of his impending death didn‘t

scare him as much as he had feared it would, and that in

itself terrified him.

He wasn‘t alone in the room; he was, however, the

only living person there. His visitor stood no more than a

few feet away from him, and wore an old, dust covered –

no not dust, but debris, crushed bricks and cement, not

to mention a few fellow soldiers – army uniform. He had

been dead over sixty years; ever since September 21,

1944. He had died in Holland, part of the group of men

going a bridge too far on the march to Arnhem. The

majority of the people Graham knew had died that day,

men he loved like friends, like brothers.

―Hi, Bobby. How you doin‘, kid?‖ Graham choked.

The words felt as sharp as razor blades in his mouth.

―They‘re all dead, Sarge…everybody. It‘s a mess here.

You were lucky to get out,‖ Bobby Edwards stuttered, a

habit he had when nervous. He was only seventeen,

hadn‘t even finished high school, but his father pushed

him into the army the first time a shout went around

about the war effort. Graham had liked the boy; he

himself had only been twenty-one, but he had a wise

head, even back then, and saw a lot of himself in the boy.

Hawkins, Miller and Pearson – Graham could

remember all of their names, see their faces as clearly as

though they had all played poker together the night

before, even in his current state – yet it had been Bobby

Edwards, the youngest of the group, that he had

considered his truest friend. None of them survived the

war. Pearson had been the closest; he had taken a bullet

to the leg and was shipped home minus that one limb,

only to have his boat sink with American soil in sight.

Still, he had been buried in his home town; a real grave

that Graham had been able to visit, unlike the others, all

of them cut down in a strange place with nothing to mark

their passing other than a distant memory in a cancer

riddled brain.

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―I know, kid,‖ Graham said bitterly, as if he resented

the fact that he had gotten home.

Of course, part of him had died in the war, and the

parts that came home were covered in bits of those that

hadn‘t made it. Marjorie had been the one who had kept

him going.

Graham wasn‘t surprised that it was Bobby or one of

the others in his platoon who came to take him. After

Marjorie died he had broken down, been plagued by

nightmares and hallucinations of them all, and now he

understood. They had been calling to him, beckoning him

home.

The young man took a step back from the bed. ―It‘s

not like that, Sarge.‖ He was near tears as he tried to

speak. ―They asked me to come and get you…the boys.

They want me to bring you back; we‘re all still here, and

maybe we can win this time,‖ he said with hopeful tones,

although his eyes were dead and motionless, his skin

pale.

Graham watched as Bobby raised his arms as if

meaning to lift him from the bed – an easy enough task

given Graham‘s current weight. Graham looked at him,

his vision blurred, colors running from his world as if his

eyes had just been exposed to too much light during his

years.

―Did it hurt?‖ he asked Bobby with a sudden burning

curiosity.

―You mean getting shot? Yeah it killed, no pun

intended.‖ The answer was short, definitive, yet Graham

looked into the kid‘s eyes as he spoke, and they said

volumes.

A bout of coughing stopped the conversation.

Graham struggled for breath. His lungs gargled and

crackled like a radio trying to find a signal, and a

wheezing sound escaped his lips. Bobby didn‘t move: he

just stood there, the dull buttons on his jacket reflecting a

dirty light into the room.

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Every time Graham blinked, in that fraction of a

second where your vision is distorted, the calm and

steady face of his old friend disappeared, to be replaced

by a rotting skull. Hair hung in bloodied clumps to strips

of scalp that pulled away from the bone like a peeled

banana. The eyes had disappeared, and maggots filled the

empty sockets; their tiny bodies writhed and ground

against each other in an endless orgy of decay. They had

eaten their way under the skin. Graham could see

numerous bulges under the flesh. One in the center of the

forehead drew particular attention; it bubbled and waved

as the beasts gorged themselves full as they feasted and

partied beneath the cold exterior, gorging their bodies on

the sweet flesh of the dead. While above the shoulders

Bobby still looked every bit the soldier, below them he

looked, simply put, a mess. His jacket was open, the shirt

torn, pierced first by the snipers bullet that had ripped

through his sternum and out of his spine. He had

collapsed instantly, as good as dead.

They grabbed him anyway, pulling him into cover,

but not before another bullet had blown his gut open.

Now here he stood, the gaping holes in his skin

present for all the (under)world to see. His skin was

black, burnt, and putrid around the entry points, curling

backwards like a flower. The wound in his chest was

clean. His heart – now long since liquefied – had been

cut in half by the first bullet: the kill shot. It was the

second shot that had been the mess maker. It had come

from a much higher angle, and had blasted Bobby‘s

malnourished body open, spilling his insides onto the

debris-covered ground.

His dying moments had been spent holding his

intestines and various other unidentifiable organs in his

arms, cradling them like a father holding a newborn

child. He had tried vainly to push them all back inside, as

if that would somehow take care of the problem. Now,

over half a century later, they still hung from the open

wound. They dropped out of the festering hole in

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shriveled strands, black and wet with rot. They had a

putrescent odor emanating from within the black,

decayed gash in the young man‘s body.

Graham watched as a sea of maggots began to spew

from the wound, flowing out on an ocean of pus; an

abscess beneath the surface had swelled and ruptured,

and now it boiled over, looking a lot like oatmeal. The

beasts clung to the dead meat, desperate not to surrender

their bounty, yet many fell to the floor where they lay

blind; some found their way back home, crawling up the

booted feet, beginning their ascent towards their own

decaying paradise. Bobby didn‘t seem to notice.

When Graham‘s body settled, leaving his throat raw

and blood staining his teeth, Graham continued. ―No, not

getting shot, but dying. Did it hurt?‖ Graham asked

again.

It was a question he had been wondering about ever

since they told him the cancer had spread and that the

best they could do now was manage the pain. He had

assumed that it would, simply because living hadn‘t

exactly been pain free for him. He had cursed God every

night since his beloved Marjorie had died. He would close

his eyes, clench his hands and lower his head. ―Dear

God,‖ he would begin. ―Thank you for making me suffer

so. Thank you for leaving me alone. Now it‘s your turn, so

just fuck off and leave me be. Amen.‖ These would be his

favorite words; short and sweet, the use of any more

would—or so he felt—make the gesture seem empty,

lacking a little bit of substance.

―No, it doesn‘t hurt, Sarge. You need to come with

me. You won‘t make it to her...‖

Graham‘s eyes sprang open.

―Marjorie, you won‘t make it to her. There‘s

something coming. You need to come with me, the boys

are waiting for you, Sarge.‖

―What...how do you know? No, I can‘t, Bobby. I‘ve

got to find her. She‘s waiting for me, I know she is,‖

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Graham said, his voice wavering. He could sense how

close he was to the end.

―She is,‖ Bobby answered him. ―But you can‘t get to

her. The roads are blocked, Sarge. There‘s no way anyone

can get through.‖ He said each word carefully, as if there

were some important message behind them.

―It‘s so cold, Bobby,‖ he stammered at the end.

Graham looked at it hands; his fingers had turned blue,

as if he had been out walking in winter without gloves.

He watched as the delicate shade spread onto the palm of

his hand.

He looked up at Bobby. ―Do you have a smoke for a

dying man?‖ he asked.

―Sure thing, Sarge.‖ Bobby didn‘t move, yet before

Graham could realize it, Bobby stood beside the bed

holding a lit match to his mouth. A cigarette rested

between his lips.

Graham took a drag; a long, sweet, choking drag. The

taste he recognized well. It was, in fact, unforgettable...

Chesterfields: the cigarettes that started his lifelong love

affair. He hadn‘t smoked until he got to Europe, but after

a few days of just being close to the war, he had started

puffing like a locomotive and never stopped. Cut down,

sure, but never stopped.

Chesterfields had been his favorite, although as is the

case with war, trades were needed in order to keep your

morale up, and so he had smoked Capstan Full Strength

on the odd occasion. That was a real party; his head

would swoon for hours after a single one of those. How

ironic, he thought, that the brand of smokes that had

started it all would also be the brand of smokes that

would end it. Yet despite his long time love affair with

smokes and strong spirits, it was neither the drink nor

the smokes that had caused the cancer.

―These really were something, hey?‖ Graham smiled

as best he could; his body had begun to slip away from

him. His hands were completely blue. He looked like a

Smurf.

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―Yeah, they won‘t hurt your throat,‖ Bobby offered,

deadpan as ever. ―Or something like that anyway. There

were so many taglines around I get ‗em all confused.‖

Graham took another drag. ―What‘s it like, Bobby?‖

he asked after a while.

The kid looked at him, his eyes showing a glisten of

emotion – or was it just moisture from the decay that had

spread through his body? ―I don‘t know, Sarge. We‘re all

still there. None of us came home. We‘re all still here,

standing around this fucking church. It just never comes

to an end, Sarge. I don‘t think any of us knew why until

recently. It‘s you; until you come back then it can never

end...we hope.‖ The last sentence was whispered, near

inaudible.

―They call these cancer sticks, did you know that?‖

Graham chuckled to himself, offering a bit of modern

wisdom to the kid.

―Cancer, these things gave you that?‖ Bobby asked in

disbelief.

―No, that‘s the funny thing, kid. I smoked my whole

life, drank whiskey straight up, nothing more than a

lump of ice to help guide it down – and yet my lungs and

liver are the two bits of me that ain‘t completely dead

with it.‖ He gasped as he spoke, a gargled rattling sound.

The room began to spin, his head felt light, as if he had

been strapped to a wheel and left to spin for a few hours

before being cut loose. It wasn‘t the Chesterfield, but

something much more permanent.

―Come with me, Sarge, please. Something is coming,

don‘t you hear it?‖ Bobby asked. Once again his dead eyes

gazed at Graham, and now appeared to be pleading to

him.

Graham was about to say no, when outside of his

window the world lit up: an explosion ripped through

everything. Brick and mortar dust fell from the walls,

filling the room with a thick grey cloud.

―We‘re all here for you, Sarge. Just come with us.

Can‘t you feel it? There‘s something coming,‖ Bobby

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pleaded above the din. In the background came the rattle

of automatic gunfire. Graham looked through the dust

and saw a large hole in the wall, and on the other side a

tank – or rather the barrel of one peering through the

building‘s gash like one of the Tripod eyes in War of the

Worlds. Graham didn‘t need to see any more to know

who it was behind the controls. Besides, he could hear

them all calling him, beckoning him and cheering him on

like friends and family waiting at the finishing line of a

marathon.

―You coming, Sarge?‖ Bobby asked, and as Graham

looked over at him he saw Bobby as more of a ghost than

a figure; he could make out the shadow of the door

through him

―No, kid, I‘m heading home to my wife,‖ he

answered.

It was the same answer he had given all those years

ago when the war ended. He had done well in the forces

and they had been all too keen to have him stay on, as an

officer on the path to greatness, one rather poetic solider

said from his risky position behind a desk back home in

the United States. Again, just as the last time he had used

the line, Graham knew that his wife would be waiting to

take him someplace else, or at least he hoped, his resolve

in the final minutes seeming to weaken.

―Good luck, sir,‖ Bobby answered, his shadow

disappearing just as the familiar buzzing sound of an

incoming air attack began to shake Graham‘s bones.

Bobby was gone in an instant, leaving Graham once again

alone in the small cell that had been his world for far too

long.

―Come on, you son of a bitch. Come and get me,‖ he

called aloud to the room, challenging God to come and

claim him with the same finality that he had used on all

of Graham‘s friends and loved ones over the years.

It started; he could feel it. The pain was gone; not

just numbed or forced into temporary hiding from the

chemical concoction of pills had had to swallow several

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times a day, but completely gone. For the first time he

could remember, Graham was pain free. It started in his

feet. It felt like smoke snaking its way through his body.

He breathed a heavy sigh, for death had arrived to take

him home, to those he cared for, and oh how he planned

to have a few choice words with the man upstairs if ever

he got the chance. He raised his head and looked down at

his feet. They were completely numb, and to his eyes they

were gone: everything below his knees had just been

erased.

As a final thought, before he turned his attention to

his wife, two words formed on his lips. ―Forgive me,‖

Graham whispered to the room, talking to Bobby, his

men still out there, somewhere, to the Germans he had

killed or helped to kill, to his wife, to God—just in case.

He wasn‘t sure why he said it, but with nobody around to

hear any real final words, he figured they would have to

do. Death finally took him. Graham‘s heart stopped

beating, an instant moment, no wearing down as often

described in old age: it simply ceased. Calm washed over

him. His lungs cramped, his brain drained itself of

information, and as a smile passed over his face, Graham

closed his eyes and let the darkness envelop him.

As he slipped away, all thoughts of the war were

gone, eradicated. He was in his own garden,

standing…looking at the house that he and his wife had

purchased not long after he came back from Europe. A

new career, a new house, new state...a new start. They

had lived in the house until the end, tended its two

gardens for as long as was possible, planting flowers each

season to keep it cared for, but now Graham stood out

back, knee deep in weeds, the only flowers were the

dandelions and thistles that seemed to rule the roost. The

house was dark; several windows were broken.

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“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a

Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.”

John Milton

Paradise Lost

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Chapter 6

Marcus: An Old Friend Returns

Marcus woke with a jolt. He was surrounded by

darkness, shrouded in it. He tried to move but couldn‘t.

He was restrained.

―Hello?‖ he called out, his voice strained and distant;

sounding like the final repetition of an echo before it

fades away.

His mind was blank; he couldn‘t remember anything.

A few images fluttered in his mind; a woman holding a

baby—his wife? The idea sprang into his mind and

connected with the picture. The baby was his first

daughter. Marcus remembered the day; the entire labor

had taken five hours, which everybody told them was

incredible for a first baby. Then, like the memories of a

drunken night out, various events that surrounded his

demise filtered back into his conscious mind. He

remembered the shopping arcade. The woman and the

man; it was still hazy. He couldn‘t remember what had

happened. Only that he had fallen –tripped? Marcus

didn‘t think so. He could hear a baby crying; constant,

and at a tone which suggested more than a simply case of

hunger or a dirty nappy.

Marcus was hot. Sweat covered his body and soaked

his clothes. He tried to move, but only managed to pull

his bonds tighter, forcing his body against the wall

behind him. It felt like rock – sharp and unforgiving.

Marcus steadied himself and managed to work his bonds

a little looser when a cramp hit his left leg. Just behind

the knee, a knot of pain exploded. It felt as though his

knee was going to twist right off. The lack of visual

stimuli coupled with the solitude of his dark world made

it seem worse than it was, or so Marcus told himself over

and over, repeating it like a mantra. He tried to focus his

attention to the external situation instead. Something

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had been placed over his head. It wasn‘t dark: his face

was simply covered.

Have they taken me somewhere?

―What happened?‖ Marcus asked aloud. His thoughts

stumbled around like a drunk on Friday night.

His body ached. That dull rusty ache you get while

fighting off the flu. His joints swollen with fluid, the skin

stretched taut over them.

Marcus heard something moving. He felt it, no...not

it, but them. Something crawled over the exposed skin of

his forearms. Something tickled his scalp beneath the

mask. Marcus threw his head around as panic started to

tighten its grip on him.

―Get off me!‖ Marcus called out. The light-cancelling

cloth that covered his head stuck to his mouth like

surround wrap clinging to warm leftovers before you put

them in the fridge.

He felt a breeze against his chest, and Marcus

became startlingly aware of his nudity. Something slid

down his chest, descending like a lover‘s kiss, caressing

his skin to just below his navel.

Marcus‘s stomach felt as if it were on fire.

That was when it came back to him. The darkness lit

up and Marcus was back in the shopping arcade. A small

crowd of elderly people and a handful of store employees

had gathered. Marcus looked at them, their faces pale,

mouths motionless circles, like unwanted fish left on a

boat‘s deck to rot in the sun.

The scene changed again, another flash of light;

Marcus was on the floor; his hands were raised before his

eyes. They were covered in blood. Another snapshot.

Standing again, he saw a man and a woman – God, she

looks like a whore, – arguing. The scene changed again.

Marcus now looked down on it. He saw his own body

surrounded by a pool of blood. Not far away lay a woman

– My God, she looks like a whore. She was bleeding. Her

face was also missing: someone had crushed it. What

remained was a bubbling bloody mess. Her body

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twitched, and beneath her was a child. Marcus could see

its arms flying around in blind, panicked movements. He

also saw bloody footprints leading away from them all,

the stride getting longer with each print as whoever it

was picked up the pace of their escape. Another flash, this

one followed by darkness.

―Get this off!‖ Marcus roared, not in fear or panic,

but in anger.

―Now, now, baby. Play nice,‖ a voice said. It cut

through the silence, bringing sounds of life and hope into

his world of endless night. It was a slimy voice; the vocal

chords sounded as though they were drowning – yet

there was something familiar about it.

―Who‘s there? Who said that?‖ Marcus called, trying

to get a bearing on the sound. It wasn‘t in front of him,

no, off the side, his left.

―Just an old friend.‖

Marcus moved his head so that he faced the direction

from which he was sure the voice came.

―You‘re no friend of mine. Take this thing off now.

Let me see who you are,‖ he said with confidence, defiant

to the end. The simple knowledge that there was

someone there, good intentions or bad, gave him a focus

and grounding point for his anger.

―I don‘t think you‘re ready for that yet,‖ the voice

laughed.

―Take this off now. I‘m a police officer. There will be

people looking for me. Trust me. We look after our own,

with an old-fashioned view on justice,‖ Marcus

threatened, hoping the slight wobble in his voice

wouldn‘t give him away. His stomach throbbed, but he

felt calm.

―Poor baby, you still don‘t have any idea, do you?‖

the voice said with kindness. ―You adulterous cock

whore, you‘ll get what you deserve down here. Oh yes,‖ it

snapped, spitting venom-filled words that burnt Marcus‘

chest.

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His skin was on fire. Drops of something seared his

flesh, something other than words. Marcus winced in

pain but couldn‘t move more than a few inches at most.

―What the hell is going on?‖ Marcus called out to the

darkness, when, without warning, the cloth was pulled

from his face. It didn‘t take long for Marcus‘ eyes to

adjust as the darkness was more dusk than midnight.

The first thing Marcus noticed was the discarded

sack that had covered his face wasn‘t a mere hemp sack,

but rather a sack of a different nature. Scrotums. They

had been split open then sewed together, creating what

looked like a magnified version of what they were.

Unsure of how long his captors would give him

before plunging his world back into darkness, Marcus

looked around trying to gauge his location, absorbing as

much information about his whereabouts as he could. He

was in a small windowless room. Despite the lack of

illumination, the dusk never threatened to darken

further. It was the walls; they seemed to cast such an

eerie glow. They were red; a shade so deep that in places

it looked black. Their surface seemed to be moving…

flowing. The ground and roof were separated by a gap of

about three meters, the latter of which had the same

flowing appearance as the wall. The way they swirled was

hypnotic, and after a while Marcus began to feel

nauseous.

I‟m in a cave, Marcus thought deductively. The way

out would be up.

―No you‘re not, lover boy.‖ The voice read his

thoughts. It sent chill up Marcus‘ spine; an avalanche in

reverse. With it came a dawn of realization. The final

pieces of the memory puzzle he had been working on

during his time in the dark fell into place.

―I‘m not dead,‖ he said under his breath – although,

as he spoke, his mind showed him everything he needed

to see. The churchyard, the mourners dressed in either

black or formal police dress. He saw his wife and kids

standing on the edge of the grave. He saw a coffin… his

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coffin…being lowered into the ground. He saw his wife

sink to her knees, where she remained until his son

picked her up and held her.

―Oh, poor baby. So confused. Sure, it may end with a

box buried in the ground, a quiet neighborhood, too, no

troublemakers, no noise.‖ The voice paused.

Marcus had been looking at the floor in a trance of

disbelief, struggling to make his way over to acceptance.

As his captor talked, Marcus raised his head, determined

to look them in the eye, whoever they were. He saw

nothing: the cave (or whatever it was) was empty.

―That is merely the physical world,‖ the voice

continued. ―That body you had was little more than a

transportation system. A shell – some outer husk you call

a body. But, dear…dear, dear, dear, your soul, the life that

filled that festering pile of cells you called your home for

over forty years, that will live on forever.‖ The voice

trailed off, but Marcus knew the owner was close. His

captor was there with him, hiding.

―Who are you?‖ he asked. A standard question made

even more pertinent given his recognition of the voice.

―Kiss me, my knight and I will be yours forever,‖ the

voice answered, and the small chamber was filled with

wind, a hot acrid wind that felt abrasive against Marcus‘s

skin. With it came a wet, damp odor like a rotten log in

the middle of the forest. As if appearing out of thin air

(which it did) a figure appeared. Nothing but a shadow at

first, it was large; that was all Marcus could fathom. It

was at least nine feet tall, wider than a normal man and

straight, no clear widening for appendages like arms of

legs. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a...

It‘s a giant talking shit, Marcus thought, his mind

conjuring up an image of a large brown turd holding a

cane, top hat perched on its head and a monocle against

one dark brown eye with long, feminine eyelashes.

Slowly, the thing revealed itself. It was covered by

wet, glistening skin. No, not skin, but a shell.

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It‟s a roach. The answer dawned in Marcus‘s mind

long before the creature had fully appeared.

The creature had its back to him, and Marcus noticed

that the walls around him were no longer wet but had

become tacky. He turned around to look and saw the

walls were bleeding. He could taste it: a heavy coppery

flavor like a mouthful of old pennies. Marcus gagged, yet

at the same time it brought along a sweet undertone

which made him want to swallow.

The giant body oozed a thick opaque slime, which fell

to the floor and congealed instantly. The creature was

shuddering, quivering, with a respiration rate faster than

a dog in the heat of summer. The brown, scaled body was

bald save for a thatch of thick, wavy, black hair, which

flowed from what Marcus hoped was the creature‘s head.

―What...what the f-fuck,‖ Marcus stammered as his

brain tried to get a grip on everything that had happened.

―Let me go.‖ The simplicity and the meek sound of the

request made him feel ashamed.

―I will, don‘t worry, my dark champion. It‘s no fun

without the chase,‖ the voice said.

―Listen, I don‘t know who you are, but if you think

I‘m gonna crack, you‘re wrong. I don‘t know what you

want and I wouldn‘t tell you if I did so just get it over

with.‖ Marcus‘s voice was strong and defiant.

The creature laughed at him; a mocking, belittling

laugh that made Marcus angry. The same sort of laugh

generated in a classroom when a student stands up and

says something he doesn‘t mean. Marcus remembered a

moment from his childhood where he stood up in a

biology lesson to give a presentation and kept saying

orgasm instead of organism. The reddening wave of heat

that had washed over him then stroked his cheeks once

more.

―You‘re dead, Marcus, and I‘m your judge, jury and

executioner. It doesn‘t matter what you say. None of it

matters. Not down here.‖ The beast turned, revealing

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itself to Marcus, who felt his skin tighten as if it had

shrunk two sizes.

When Marcus was twelve years old, his family had

rented a cottage in the middle of the woods. They spent

the vacation hiking, cycling, swimming and kayaking

from sunrise until sunset, and had slept long and hard

each night. However, one night towards the end,

something wrenched Marcus from his sleep. A strange

scuttling sound, as something scurried over the wooden

floor. Marcus had ignored it as best he could; telling

himself that, bugs are a part of nature, and the strange

itching feeling on my legs comes from the cheap

blankets, and the buzzing in his ears nothing more than

the sound of mosquitoes, awake and thirsty for blood.

The excuses kept him in a quasi-sleep for a while, but the

excuses ran out around the time something crawled over

his closed eyelids. They moved fast, like a sudden chill on

a warm night. Something forced its way through

Marcus‘s semi-parted lips. It choked him. Legs probed

his tongue, and antennae brushed the roof of his mouth,

while a hard shell clacked against his teeth. Marcus sat

upright, choked and unable to breath. He tried to call out.

To scream for his parents, his sister, anybody, it didn‘t

matter. Marcus threw back the bed covers and that was

when they descended on him.

Marcus retched from the memory, while the sight of

the thousands of pairs of tiny legs that jutted from

creature‘s black pulsating underbelly was too much for

him, and he vomited. The roach‘s legs seemed to wave at

him; they beckoned him towards them… hug me, they

screamed.

Young Marcus felt the bug trying to crawl down his

throat: his mouth was closed, so there was no other way

for the creature to go. Coughing and spitting, Marcus

tried to empty his mouth, but the roach held firm.

Marcus threw the bedcovers aside. The bed was infested

with roaches, ranging in size from that of a ladybug to the

size of a grown man‘s fist. They charged towards him like

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a flood, covering Marcus‘s legs in a rolling sea of hazel

brown bodies and black antennae. He thrashed with his

legs, and while bugs fell to the floor, the covering never

seemed to lessen; it was as though his lower body was in

fact comprised of them. He began to hyperventilate, and

in doing so he managed to suck four or five – he wasn‘t

sure of the exact number – roaches into his mouth before

they were subsequently swallowed. Marcus had heard the

stories of cockroaches being able to survive a nuclear

blast, and for months afterwards he couldn‘t help but

wonder: had they died or merely found a warm place to

sleep?

His screams had woken his parents, and they came

running. His mother had fainted when she caught sight

of all the bugs, while his father, ever the calm and

deliberate man, had swept Marcus up and charged out of

the house with him. They drove home that night and

never went back to those woods again. The nightmares

haunted Marcus the rest of his life. At least once a month

he would wake up, his skin soaked with sweat, his legs

and mouth itching from the delicate patter of their feet,

acid burning in the pit of his stomach. A small part of

him always believed those swallowed beasts had

survived.

Marcus looked around, desperate to avoid any eye

contact with the large cockroach beast, yet he was drawn

to it like a moth to the flame. The beast seemed to

recognize this and stood still. Even its legs seeming to

have frozen, allowing Marcus to get a good look.

―Are you ready to be judged, maggot?‖ the creature

asked. All the previous niceties – and it was a stretch to

call the previous voice that – were gone.

Marcus‘s eyes reached the head and he shut them

just before the image hit his brain. When he opened

them, he didn‘t see a hideous half-insect creature like

something out of a David Cronenburg movie, but

something much worse. The image developed like a

Polaroid picture: it took a few seconds for Marcus‘s brain

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to assemble everything to create the image. It wasn‘t a

bug‘s face, but a human‘s. A woman‘s, with creamy white

skin and long black hair, and eyes a sparkling emerald

green, shielded by long eyelashes, with a delicate nose,

albeit one refined by a surgeon‘s hand rather than that of

God. ―Melanie,‖ Marcus croaked, his voice a broken

whisper.

―Oh, how sweet, you remember me. How are you,

Marcus? It‘s been a while,‖ the once athletic-bodied

college student said.

―What are you doing? Just let me go,‖ Marcus

demanded, seeming to find his strength now that he

knew his captor.

―You still don‘t get it, do you? Still the same stubborn

old Marcus. You‘re dead, champ. Died on the streets,

don‘t you remember? You couldn‘t save the girl either.

Such a shame.‖ The roach creature shook its human

head. With every flicked lock there was a whip-like crack

followed by a bright orange flame which erupted from the

tip.

Marcus looked down and saw blood flowing from his

stomach. A wound glowed a bright orange like the

embers of a dying fire. Everything then fell into place.

The events appeared before his eyes, playing out in his

head like a silent movie, only every line of text that came

onto the screen was the same phonetically spelt cry. The

words (Young Infant) in brackets each time told Marcus

all he needed to know.

―So once again you are the Devil that comes into my

life, hey, Mel?‖ He looked at the beast puzzlingly, eyes

searching for something. He fought the rather absurd

notion to smile and won.

―Don‘t be foolish. I‘m no Devil. I am what you want

to see, what your soul has deemed to be your punisher. In

actuality I am just a humble chamber guardian here to

ensure that you see your past and are ready for

judgment.‖

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The creature took a scuttling step to one side.

A hole appeared in the solid rock. Blood swirled in

the opening. A whirling crimson vortex, suspended as if

awaiting a command to move. It began to separate,

beginning with a small circle in the center, which

expanded, the blood not falling away or lessening, but

merely pulling back like a curtain to reveal a play already

in motion.

―You have sinned, my shadow warrior. You have

known the carnal pleasures of a woman outside of your

matrimonial bed. Sinners must face their punishment.

Stand up for their crimes, face their victims, and let them

know the truth. Let them know exactly what has

happened. Only then can you hope to avoid punishment.‖

The voice grew in volume and lowered in pitch until every

trace of femininity was gone.

―I don‘t understand,‖ Marcus said, his head

beginning to spin. He felt woozy, as if someone had

spiked his drink. His eyes were drawn to the opening; it

held him in a trance with a silent promise of knowledge,

of answers.

The roach continued to speak as if it hadn‘t heard

him. ―Sinners will be punished, not before God, but

before the Justice Courts of the Netherworld. The kings

will decide your fate. So look upon your carnage. Look as

the damage your loins have caused is brought forth. Your

time is at hand. How much blood do you wish to shed to

hide who you are?‖

Beyond the creature, the doorway or portal, for that

was how Marcus saw it, had opened completely. He

looked through and into another time, another place, but

one he remembered as if it was only yesterday. He had

just finished training, a particularly grueling session that

had seen him knock out two sparring partners in

successive rounds.

On the other side of the blood window Marcus was

busy training for the Whitmore fight, a seasoned fighter

who had only ever been beaten once, early on in his

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career when, much like Marcus, he had been bullheaded

and cocksure. It was the fight that was to put Marcus‘s

name on the map. He was still somewhat of an unknown,

and in the eyes of the Whitmore camp Marcus was

nothing but a moving target for their man.

Marcus had had other ideas.

He had trained harder for that fight that he did for

any other fight. Brutal training sessions, late night runs;

midnight runs and protein shakes, early morning runs

and full-time training sessions on top of that. It was all

back in the days before sports nutrition became a topic

studied by the masses. He had won the fight inside of

three rounds, knocking his opponent out with a series of

powerful body shots followed by a big right hook to an

unguarded chin. By current standards the fight would

have been stopped in the second round after Marcus split

open Whitmore‘s left eyebrow.

Silence filled both worlds. Marcus watched on, his

emotions drained because he knew what came next. He

realized then what he was meant to see. It was her: the

woman whose head was now stuck on the body of a

cockroach.

Marcus looked around. The referee stood between

him and his slain opponent. The crowd was on their feet.

All of them roaring for the upset that none had even

contemplated. All around them flashbulbs exploded in

dizzying stars of bright white light, forever capturing a

piece of sporting history no matter how trivial in the

grand history of the chosen sport. The sound came back

to his world and with it so she entered. Rising into the

ring as if summoned, called out as an offering to him, the

barbarian warrior – as became his boxing name.

―Melanie,‖ Marcus said from within the chamber,

and was rewarded with a blow across the back which felt

as though it had been delivered by a baseball bat. Marcus

grunted. His mouth clamped shut to hold back the

scream.

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Meanwhile, the picture played on. Marcus saw his

hand raised in victory. And there it was: the moment that

began it all. Melanie, who at the time had been a college

student who looked to earn some extra cash being a ring

girl at any local fight, held his other hand aloft and

whispered in his ear, ―Congratulations. I wonder, do you

fuck as hard as you fight?‖ The words had been coarse

and raw, unexpected given her sweet face. Melanie had

had the kind of face a thousand men had fallen in love

with at first glance. She was tall, her skin was tanned, and

she couldn‘t have been more than twenty; the same age

as Marcus, who even then looked older than he was.

Marcus turned his head to look at her. She wore a

pink bikini, the top of which pushed up her chest,

maximizing her cleavage, and her nipples were a teasing

swell beneath the fabric, while the bottoms showed her

natural curves and smooth skin. Yet above it all, her

emerald green eyes were what held Marcus captive.

―Why are you showing me this? It was a long time

ago, come on Mela- whoever you are.‖

Marcus was ashamed of his past, but then again he

didn‘t know anybody who wasn‘t ashamed of something.

Everybody has a skeleton hanging in their closet

somewhere.

―Where were your wife and kids here?‖ the voice

asked. ―Where were they and what did you tell me?‖ the

Melanie-roach asked, ignoring Marcus‘s query.

―I wasn‘t married back then. If you were Melanie you

would have known that.‖ He paused.

―Where was your soon-to-be wife? Where was she

that night? What was so important that she couldn‘t

come to your fight?‖ the beast asked. Marcus knew that it

already knew the answer as well as he knew it himself

and so he answered, refusing to get drawn into mind

games.

―She was at home, pregnant with...‖ He paused,

unable to find the right words. His breath caught in his

chest.

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―With your son,‖ it answered for him, completing the

sentence Marcus took too long to answer. ―It was a boy,

right? That baby, the one she lost, the one that drove you

to my bed night after night?‖ The roach smiled.

―Yeah.‖ Marcus looked at the floor. A sudden pain

caused his chest to tighten.

The image cleared. They were in the cheap bedroom

of the motel than they had driven to straight from the

fight. Their passion erupted as they drove: Melanie had

straddled Marcus as he drove, forcing him to make the

last few turns blind. Her breasts filled his mouth, her skin

pressed hard against his face as he devoured her.

―Stop,‖ Marcus called out. He wanted to look away,

willed it with every inch of his being but just couldn‘t. He

turned his head as far as the bonds would allow, but the

scene moved with him, as if he himself was the projector.

―What did you tell me? Where were they when you

fucked me that night and the nights after that?‖ the

Melanie in the image screamed out the questions.

Digging her nails into Marcus‘s back, drawing blood as

she scraped deep gouges down his spine. In the chamber

Marcus winced, as he felt his blood begin to flow.

―Enough, I made a mistake, I offered my penance!‖

he shouted, noticing then that the chamber had gotten

hotter.

―No, I don‘t think that was what you said. Tell me.

Confess your sins, you beggaring maggot,‖ the voice

boomed. The Melanie in the motel room slapped Marcus

across the face with the back of her hand, and the real

Marcus felt his cheek begin to burn.

―I told you…‖ He hesitated. He remembered as clear

as spring water what he had told her. ―That I didn‘t have

a woman in my life.‖ He stopped, raising tear reddened

eyes towards the Melanie-roach. ―I told you that I was

single, and that if you were looking for a good time, I

could give it to you.‖

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―Go on, maggot, redeem yourself,‖ it screamed at

him. The multitude of legs rubbed together in sweet

anticipation.

Marcus felt the tears sting his cheeks; he could feel

the throbbing from the slap his other self had just been

dealt. He looked back at the image, wanting to see.

Melanie was on all fours, and Marcus had his face buried

between her buttocks, and only then did he realize how

strange sex looks when you see yourself doing it. Melanie

moaned, her questions replaced by the more expected

elicitations of pleasure.

As the sweat gathered on his brow, the real Marcus

felt the excitement swell from within the confines of his

trousers. He saw the gaze of the Melanie-roach drop to

his crotch; he didn‘t care. His head spun with ideas and

voices; crossover exchanges copied and pasted like the

adverts on TV, where different shows were taken to

create one fluid dialogue.

Marcus had offered penance for his affair, he had

atoned for his actions as best he could – everything other

than confess to his wife. And deep down inside he knew

that she knew. She had always known. Whenever they

talked about that first pregnancy, she would make small

comments. They sounded innocent, and would be

delivered in a light-hearted manner, but there was a look

in her eyes that told a different story. Most of the time

she kept it hidden, but sometimes, just every now and

then, it would come to the surface.

―When I asked you who the pregnant person your

manager asked you about was, what did you tell me?

What!‖ the Melanie on the bed quizzed. She bounced and

slid further across the mattress with each powerful

thrust. She screamed as her hand slipped between her

legs, where it began to move with fervor.

―I said it was my sister who was pregnant – my sister.

God damn you!‖ Marcus yelled as tears stung his eyes.

―Why, why did you lie?‖ Melanie asked as she arched

her back. The words came out in a purr of ecstasy.

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―Because...‖ Marcus began. His own breaths came

short and shorter as the scene continued to play out.

―Give it to me. Give it to me now. The truth.‖ Melanie

writhed and snaked with her hips. The bed squeaked and

the headboard thumped against the wall.

―Because I wanted to fuck you. You pranced around

in your bikini, winking at me, flashing me whatever you

thought you could get away with, and I wanted to see

what you had, to taste you. I wanted to fuck you every

way I knew how and then do it all over again. Are you

happy? Hey!‖ Marcus bellowed, as the floodgates in his

mind, those erected many years ago, came tumbling

down, releasing everything that he had pent up inside

himself

―Yes, yes!‖ Melanie screamed, collapsing onto the

bed, and Marcus fell on top of her – while the real

Marcus collapsed into his restraints. His penis twitched

in his trousers. ―Finally we have the truth,‖ Melanie

panted. Her hair was wet and stuck to her flushed face.

She rose from the bed and looked directly through the

portal; she looked at Marcus. She smiled. ―You have been

observed and judged, my barbarian lover.‖ She blew him

a kiss and the portal closed. The blood wall reformed

before bursting like a blister, showering Marcus with a

warm blood mist.

―I never loved you,‖ he said to the room, to himself.

Needing to hear the words. It was true. Maybe at the

beginning he thought he did, but at the end he knew

better. Melanie was a slut, plain and simple. Melanie had

been relentless, an animal in bed, unable to get enough

satisfaction, and it had been that craving within her that

had grabbed Marcus‘s attention. When he called it off,

sweat drenching his clothes in fear of her reaction and

the consequences it could bring, Melanie had merely

stood up, and taken it – as she did other things – like a

man. They hugged, she kissed him on the cheek, and left.

That had been the last time Marcus had ever seen her.

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―It makes no difference, maggot. Besides, the time for

apologies has passed. You have been judged, your crimes

presented before the Kings. Now you must suffer the fate

of all such sinners. The Chamber of Oil Cauldrons awaits

you. Now go; get out of my sight!‖ the Melanie-roach

screamed, the words uttered as the mask was dropped

and the creature‘s true face was revealed.

Marcus looked but could not begin to comprehend

what he saw; wet flesh, holes bored through it by maggots

or some other kind of carrion-eating parasite. Yet it was

not the appearance, but rather the feeling that came with

it that grabbed him. A depression thicker than anything

he had ever known, an air of complete desolation washed

over him, embracing him in a way that any powerful

characteristic can do, and it risked swallowing him

whole. He shook his head: it was in the past, and he had

changed and would not let himself be pulled down

because of a stupid mistake he made when he was young.

―What –‖ Marcus began, but with no forewarning,

the walls around him disintegrated and a wave of blood

cascaded towards him as if he were trapped in the

Overlook Hotel. The blood swept towards him like a

scarlet tsunami. His bonds held him down, while the

floor crumbled in a similar but slower fashion to the

walls. Marcus fell. He sank deeper and deeper until the

red became black.

Marcus began to fall.

A deafening roar hit his ears and the closer the

ground spiraled the clearer he could hear it. Not noise

but screaming; the sound of a thousand agonies all being

expressed simultaneously. It was underscored by a

searing sound, like raw meat on a hot grill. Bright fires

burned on the ground, while to Marcus they looked like

orange rings, not dissimilar to the hobs on the electric

cooker he had had in his first flat after moving out of

home at the tender age of seventeen. There were walls all

around him. Only, they weren‘t walls of cement or brick,

but of people. Human bodies bound and bonded to each

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other like the strange folk from in the hills, the cities.

Their skin was blistered and rotted, their eyes had burst

and liquefied by intense heat. Yet they were not dead.

They lived on in an agony that could not be explained or

even contemplated.

A monstrous roar shook the air and silenced their

screams for just a moment; and soon, several dark shapes

seemed to rise from the floor towards Marcus. The

creatures were beasts straight from a nightmare, their

bodies large, limbs gnarled and twisted. Stiff black wings

sprouted from their backs. Their heads were long, eyes a

burning red. They gazed at him, surveyed him like guards

of Azkaban. Happy with his presence, they descended

once more, eliciting a screeching, high-pitched wail. A

message to whatever waited below, confirming their

guest and granting him full admittance.

Alone again, Marcus could hear the groans of the

bodies… souls. They were suspended against the walls. As

Marcus descended, he left behind older, rotted bodies,

and reached those that were submerged in large vats of

boiling oil. Cauldrons like the stereotypical witch‘s pot,

with bodies clawing at the edges to keep their heads

above the boiling liquid, a pink, bloody froth at their lips.

Others were large glass boxes, the liquid inside a pale

yellow. It bubbled and cooked, the bodies stripped to

bone in many places. Burnt skin peeled away from the

flesh like the skin of a roasted pepper. Marcus realized

then that it wasn‘t just oil that the bodies were being

drowned and roasted in, but bubbling, scalding human

body fat, lanced over countless generations. It flowed

from one layer to another like a hellish champagne

fountain.

Marcus looked down, and saw the large hell beasts –

demons – that worked this particular chamber. They

walked around, covered with muscular decay. Each held

a large, long whip that would cleave even untouched flesh

straight from the bone. Marcus saw the place where he

would be introduced to the unspeakable abuse that would

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be dealt to him and those that followed by the guardian

demons, the lowest of all demonkind. Subservient beasts,

novices yet to earn their way up the ranks, left to take

their frustrations out on those unlucky enough to be sent

their way. All harbored the desire to leave the base level

chambers and actually serve in the deeper pits of Hell.

Marcus tried to close his eyes as he braced for

impact, but his eyelids had already melted and hung from

his face like wet scabs.

A light flashed, brilliant and white. The contrasting

and powerful brilliance of it made the walls glow. Even

the air itself seemed to have a red tinge to it, a fine red

mist; microscopic blood droplets shed hundred if not

thousands of years before. There was a sudden pressure

on Marcus‘s shoulder, a burning sensation. Marcus tried

to turn, the air resistance making it a struggle. The

human walls began to fade. The light encompassed him.

Marcus closed his eyes, anticipating the worst.

He landed on a hard floor. It was solid and rough

against his skin, like sandpaper or cheap carpet. The

screaming was gone, so too the smell of oil and burning

flesh. Marcus was surrounded by a fine mist, yet he was

inside and as far as he could tell…he was alone.

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Chapter 7

Becky Relives her Highs and Lows

“Do you wanna take a hit?” a smooth sounding voice

asked.

Becky felt strange. She looked down at herself. Her

arms were bare. The fine hairs stood erect on them. She

had on a short skirt with knee high black boots and a tiny

red top that showed more flesh than it covered. She felt

exposed. She crossed her arms over her chest and uttered

a dry sob. ―What‘s going on?‖ she asked herself under her

breath.

“Well, I‟m not into that sort of thing, but go on then;

I‟m a college girl now, gotta have a bit of fun.” Becky

Ponting held out her hand and took the innocent looking

cigarette. Then she – the daughter of two straight-laced,

hardworking parents who had scrimped and saved to be

able to pay her way through college – took a long, deep

drag. Her lungs caught fire, and her entire chest began

to itch, but she closed her watering eyes and held her

breath. The sensation passed and she exhaled, enjoying

the slow flooding sensation that washed over her like the

waves of the ocean as they march their way up and

down the shore. Each drag she took brought on a new

series of orgasmic waves. Just as with the ocean, they

came in a regular pattern, growing in strength. Just as

one wave began to recede, a new one came and hit the

shores of her senses. Becky felt her skin tighten. Her

nipples hardened against her university branded shirt.

She had only been on campus three weeks, and it had

been her first real party.

Trapped inside of her own mind, Becky felt the drugs

hit, too. Not in the same enveloping sense, but rather as a

howling, screaming wind. Her world darkened, and a

thick mist appeared. It enveloped her, wrapping her

within its cool embrace. Then it began to squeeze. It

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tightened until her ribs hurt and her bones creaked like

rusty hinges. She tried to cry out but all of the air had

been forced from her lungs. She was held firm, and

forced to witness moments of her past replayed with

clarity that she had missed the first time.

―Not a good sight is it?‖ a voice said from the mist.

Becky spun around; she saw nothing but grey.

―Who said that?‖ she called out, unafraid even

though she knew it was not a friendly voice that had

spoken to her.

―That is not important now. You must watch, see how

it all began for you,‖ it hissed. ―He seemed so innocent,

didn‘t he?‖ the voice whispered in her ear.

Becky knew who it meant before she even saw him

enter the scene. He was the man that would change her

life over the course of one bank holiday weekend.

He stood leaning against the wall, a roll-up cigarette

hanging from his mouth even as he spoke. He stared at

her. She flinched as he smiled as it felt as though he could

see her. His face was cold, the features sunken, and his

skin grey and sickly.

―Yes, now you can see him for what he was.‖

Becky didn‘t speak; she just watched, her eyes tearing

up as she remembered more and more about how the

evening had played out. Memories which, until that

moment, she hadn‘t realized had been locked away and

erased for the main part. They were not memories at all –

how could something be a memory if you don‘t

remember it from the first time? No, these were the

blanks of Becky‘s past coming back to haunt her.

Like a series of slides or an old stop-go animation,

Becky saw herself walking the hallways and pathways of

the campus. She saw the college lecture halls with her

sitting at first in the front few rows – center stage – her

hand raised regularly, her shy disposition forgotten in the

name of education, by her quest for knowledge. She

watched as she began to slip further towards the back of

the class, her arm raised less. Her skin became paler and

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paler. Spots erupted over the once smooth flesh, while

her eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets as if ashamed

of what was happening. Her clothes became baggier, the

sleeves always long, to cover up the bruises and the tract

marks. Then she was back at the party again.

They carried on smoking and drinking for a while,

the high never getting too strong, but simply giving

them all a mellow blanket to help ease the pain that was

the first few weeks of university. People came over took

a few drags and left, yet Becky stayed. She smoked less

than the others, and she had been holding the same glass

of Bacardi and cola all evening. She could have left, but

she didn‟t want to. She had the attention of a boy – man

– and Becky could feel the cotton of her underwear cling

to her moist folds in a way that it had never done before.

“Hey, beautiful, you know, if you don‟t want it to

end, I‟ve got some good times waiting back at my dorm.”

That had been his opening line. Becky had been won

over by the way he held her gaze and held her hand,

stroking the palm with his fingers as he drew it close to

his lips and kissed her knuckles.

―Don‘t listen to him!‖ Becky screamed ―Don‘t go,

walk away.‖ Becky turned and began to walk through the

now green tinted cloud, her footsteps echoing as if

wandering an empty warehouse. She fully expected her

body to obey, yet when she looked around Becky was

shocked to see her body move in the opposite direction. It

was then that Becky truly realized where she was. The

eyes she was looking through were but windows. She was

trapped in her own mind. Through these windows her

real self was nodding, the world rising and falling in short

jutting movements. The man walked ahead of her and

Becky followed, powerless to resist even now. Becky

wasn‘t aware of it, but she had begun to weep.

―Your lust for carnal pleasure that night cost you

everything. You were nothing but his whore after that,‖ a

high pitched voice seemed to come from within the cloud.

It sounded like it came from a small being, something

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wrinkled and mean, with cold heartless eyes, razor sharp

teeth that would grate together as it talked.

Becky spun around. ―Who‘s there? Come out…let me

see who you are. What have you done with me?‖ she

called out, but she saw nothing and got even less as a

reply.

―YOU‘RE DEAD, BITCH! Rotting in the ground, and

he has your baby,‖ the voice spat.

They were in his flat. The man was making a drink,

and, although the real Becky was already too high and

drunk – she had always been a good girl until college,

never drank, and that had only been her second joint – to

pay any attention, the inner Becky watched on. She saw

the man open the wine, pour the glasses, and then…yes,

there it was…a small packet of white powder was poured

into one of the glasses. He walked back towards them,

and once again Becky protested inside herself. ―No, say

no, get up and walk away; there‘s the door, just move.‖

“What‟s your name, beautiful?” the man asked.

“Becky Ponting,” she replied, stuttering. The

realization that this man couldn‟t possibly be a student

began to dawn on her. He lived nowhere near the

university, and the furnishings looked too expensive to

be anything but those of a man with money sitting

already earned in his bank account. She took the glass of

wine and drank. It had a sweet taste, and she quickly

finished the glass.

“It‟s nice to meet you. I think we are gonna have a

lot of fun together,” he said, although the words had all

slurred together by the time they arrived at Becky‟s

ears.

Becky‟s vision blurred and she realized then that

something was wrong. The man moved in, his hands

pawing at her breasts. Before she knew what had

happened her shirt had been ripped open and her bra

unclasped. The cool air hit her naked chest, stiffening

her nipples, and when his mouth engulfed her she

gasped.

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The high continued to rage through her body until

everything went black. She blinked – or so it felt – and

found herself in a strange bed, with sheets that felt

dirtier than they looked, and no recollection of how she

had gotten there.

“Where am I?” she asked.

For the Becky trapped inside, however, the night

hadn‘t gone so fast. She watched as the man stripped and

abused her. She felt his every thrust, from the burning

sensation as he entered her to the pulsating finale. Tears

rolled down her cheeks, while another, saltier liquid fell

from between her thighs, hitting the floor with a wet

smack before being eaten by the mist.

As Becky watched, she saw everything begin to

change. They were no longer in the bedroom. The floor

was cold; there was a lot of noise, a baby crying and

people staring. Blood, there was blood on her hands, she

could feel it, hot and sticky. Becky also felt pain, a pain so

sharp and severe it caused her legs to buckle, and she fell

to her knees in the dark cloud that had now charged to

the same deep purple color as rolling thunderheads.

Becky fought for consciousness and lost. When she

opened her eyes she was back in bed. He had turned her

onto her stomach and a new burning sensation racked

her delicate frame. She saw his face in the mirror, red

and sweaty. His eyes rolled back into his head every now

and then as he fought to control himself.

Becky saw in the mirror as his face turned into that of

a bald, sweaty salesman. His face reddened from

cholesterol, his wedding ring tight around his chubby

finger. Becky recognized him. He was the trick she had

pulled.

―Why are you doing this to me?‖ Becky asked.

Acknowledging her death was easy; she had come close

several times, either from a bad fix or an aggressive trick.

Besides, while she had ended up as little more than a

cheap crack whore, Rebecca Ponting was not stupid –

easily led maybe, addictive personality definitely, but

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stupid…certainly not. She understood the purpose of

what she saw, it was to make her see, to remind of what

she had done – but it didn‘t mean she wouldn‘t go down

without a fight.

―You need to see the error of your ways before you

can be judged,‖ a voice rang out, causing the cloud to

grow thicker and thicker. Her world whited out save two

round windows that forced her to look back into her old

life where –

She now sat on a bed. A needle hung from her left

arm, while a man‘s erect cock slid through her free hand.

They were all images that Becky could partially

remember, their clarity lost in the haze of the drugs.

Becky had made her peace with death long ago,

acknowledged that she would die a junkie, and she knew

it would not be pleasant. The only thing she had ever

hoped was that she would face it, look death in eye, and

not hide away. Becky was relieved that death had brought

nothing more than memories, and delighted that the

cravings had not followed her into the grave.

The voice that surrounded her began to laugh; a

lunatic laugh, the sort you would expect to hear walking

past an asylum just before medication time. The laugh

was cold and cut through to the bone. ―You think that you

accept death, but you still cannot bring yourself to

embrace your mistakes. Look at you, just happy that your

cravings have gone. Well I‘ve got news for you. You are

clear-headed here in the judgment chamber simply

because of necessity. Only a clear mind can truly accept

the consequences of its actions and be judged.‖ The

words came quicker and quicker, like a gospel preacher

building up to the big finish. ―Make no mistake, you are

trapped inside an addict‘s body, and once you get to your

chamber you will feel it all. That is a promise I can make

to you. Now watch and ask yourself this question, my

brave little girl.‖

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Becky froze. That was what she used to call her

daughter all the time, and she doubted that it was now

said by pure coincidence.

―What you‘re seeing now…how can you be so sure

that they are your old tricks?‖ The voice fell silent and

was gone.

―Hey, what do you mean? No…no, please don‘t say

that. She‘s my baby; she‘s just a baby, for fuck sake.‖

Becky felt her legs buckle and she fell to her knees. Her

brave little girl was all alone in the world and the only

person who knew she existed was him: Deejay Afité. Her

hands felt dry and rough as she rubbed her fingers over

her palms.

‖My parents will take her, someone will tell them

what happened to me and they will take my daughter

with them. I know they would, so don‘t lie to me.‖

Becky was near tears. She knew who the liar was. She

had been living under a false name for over a year; her

parents hadn‘t seen or heard from her in going on three.

They hadn‘t spoken to her since she ran away from

college. The fact that she had been pregnant and given

birth was a complete unknown to them. The chance of

them ever actually discovering that she was dead was

marginal, and so the notion that they would ride in and

rescue her baby was nothing more than foolhardy.

Becky concentrated hard. The decoration was the

same, the flat the same as it always was, the walls a pale

and dirty cream, stained with years of smoke, drugs and

all manner of bodily fluid. The same picture still hung on

the wall exactly where she had hung it, but that didn‘t say

anything. She looked around desperate for some clue

when the voice returned.

―You look a little bit flushed. What‘s the matter,

honey, you don‘t believe your daughter‘s all growed up

and fucking for herself? I know your type…don‘t care

about yourself, and think you‘ve accepted it all. Well I‘ve

got news for you: everyone has a weakness.‖

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When Becky looked through the eyes (windows)

again she saw the scene had changed. They stood in a

bathroom; the tub was filled with what looked like a

small chemical laboratory. Naked flames danced in the

dark corners, casting an eerie orange glow, as if the fires

of hell were trying to break through into the real world.

Glass flasks and tubes twisted and turned in a

meandering snakeway, creating a volatile maze. Even

locked deep inside what she still considered to be herself,

Becky could feel it: the air in the room was heavy and

dead. It tasted stale like the air in the bar the next

morning before the windows could be opened.

―You‘re lying,‖ Becky coughed, holding back her

tears.

―Why would I lie? The truth will hurt you much more

than any future I could create. This is your hell. I am just

here to see you judged.‖

Becky thought it through and realized that, to a large

degree, what the voice had said was true. It spoke with

reason, like a school teacher, bordering on patronizing

and always condescending.

―No, I won‘t believe it,‖ Becky answered, welling up

even further. Then, as if on cue, the body she inhabited

looked up and into a dirty, cracked bathroom mirror.

Becky screamed. Her hands yanked at her hair,

which came away in clumps. The face in the mirror was

young, a teenager, and clearly not Becky. The skin was

sallow, the face thin, clearly lacking in all forms of

nutrition. The teeth were yellowed and hung crooked in

her mouth. Large boils and spots had sprouted over her

face. Yet the cool green color of her eyes made it

impossible for Becky not to recognize who the girl was.

―My baby!‖ she shrieked. ―No…no, I won‘t let it. Send

me back, please, just let me take her away,‖ Becky

pleaded. Her breaths came short and sharp. She stared at

the girl in the mirror, the reflection of her child, truly an

image of her mother.

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―Your time has come. You have seen your sin. Your

addiction is hers, her sustenance a level on from your

own. The pressures of a modern world call for modern

relief.‖ There was a flash of light; an explosion. The

sound of shattering glass was all she needed to hear.

Becky and her daughter both screamed, although the

younger of the two was silenced not long after. Smoke

and fire filled the portholes through which Becky

observed, and when it cleared, her baby girl Alyssa once

again looked back at her. Only her face had changed. The

spots were gone, replaced by burns. The right half of her

face was disfigured, scarred and lumpy, her eye but a

milky white orb. Her ear was missing and all of her hair

had been burnt away.

―Please, I‘ll do anything you want,‖ Becky pleaded,

her hands locked together in prayer, her eyes stinging

with tears.

―Of course you will, you‘ve said that often

enough…you are a whore, after all. A worthless piece of

filth that dredges along and clogs your world, a bottom

feeder – yes, you would do anything. Isn‘t that how you

created your spawn in the first instance? A bit of extra

cash for a wet session. I have seen all you did. You forget,

I have held you in the dark for many years, bitch. You are

a liar. A cheat. You stole to feed your addiction. You stole

from merchants, you stole from your ‗Johns‘ – you stole a

life away from your own child. You would have been

better served to suck her from your broken cunt before

she knew anything about the world!‖ the voice roared,

and the ground trembled.

―No, please, not my baby girl – it‘s a lie, you‘re lying

to me.‖

―You have been judged. I hope you find the Chamber

of Flames a fitting place, for I see you being there for

some time.‖ As the voice spoke the cloud thickened. This

time its choking presence was just too intense to be

resisted. It filled Becky‘s lungs, pouring through her

mouth and nose. She could even feel it seeping in

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through her pores. ―Be gone from my court!‖ the voice

bellowed. The smoke shot through her body, and Becky

couldn‘t help but to scream.

When Becky came to, she was still screaming. The

image of her daughter‘s burnt face was seared into her

memory; every time she closed her eyes she saw her with

stark brutality.

Becky was tied down. The surface beneath her was

hard; a table. It was hot against her skin, like a leather

chair in the middle of summer. She looked around, her

head buzzing like a bad hangover-style headache; she was

covered in sweat and yet shook with cold.

It was dark. A warm breeze brushed her skin, and so

Becky turned her face towards it. Even her drug-fried

brain understood that whatever it was, whatever caused

it, it came from a point which granted it entry, and that

meant an exit. She tried to move, but her restraints held

her firm; her arms were pulled high above her head and

her legs were pulled taut in the other direction. She

remembered more now: the cop, the black cop who had

been there. He had tried to help, or was he the cause of it

all? She couldn‘t remember. She was so thirsty; her

throat was dry and felt like it had been lined with

sandpaper.

Becky tried to swallow, but her throat cramped shut.

She turned her head out of the way of the wind, which

had increased since she had woken. It had grown hotter,

too. When she opened her mouth to call out, her lips split

open as if they were made of crepe paper.

―Help me!‖ a tiny voice called out from the darkness.

Becky looked around, trying to make sense of things.

Slowly everything came into focus. The first thing Becky

noticed was that it wasn‘t black that shrouded them, but

red: a deep and powerful red.

―Who‘s there?‖ she asked. ―What‘s happening?‖ she

added after a short pause.

―My name… Oh God, I don‘t know anymore –‖ the

tiny voice began, but a second voice finished: ―You‘re in

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Hell, rookie, and it‘s frying time, so get ready for a real

baptism of fire!‖

―What do you mean? I don‘t understand, I was

just…?‖ Becky asked; her own voice breaking as she dry-

spat every syllable.

―I ain‘t gonna spoil it for you, bitch, I been down ‗ere

for fuckin‘ years and I ain‘t been given no answer yet.

Don‘t got no fucking clue what they want from me. So I

ain‘t gonna waste my breaf on youse. Just save dem

quistions ‗til your one on one time. They can make you

scream good whore. Maybe you‘ll even fuckin‘ like it,‖ the

second voice interrupted, and the echo that murmured

around the room seemed to be one of equal hospitality.

Becky shrunk back, her skin sizzling as the burning

metal rivets and the shackles around her wrists and

ankles seared her flesh. Becky bit her lip. She wouldn‘t let

herself cry. She had learned that from her pimp. An all-

around education, he had called it. ―Give them whatever

hole they want, keep quiet, take your dough and come out

again.‖ He had spoken not out of love but from a business

perspective. She was a financial investment for him, and

nobody wanted to pay top rate for a cut up whore.

It was only small at first, so small in fact that for a

while she just through it was some trick of the dark, a

fuzzy spot where the complete absence of light was

broken. The tiny orange dot gave her a glimmer of hope.

―Here it comes, bitches!‖ that same alpha dog voice

cried out, while others began to beg for mercy.

While many whimpered, Becky was fairly sure that

majority stayed silent. She put herself in the latter group,

or so she hoped. Even from such a great distance Becky

could feel the heat radiating towards them. The only two

sounds that could be heard was the distant rumble of

whatever it was that was speeding towards them from the

other end of the tunnel, and the maniacal cackling of that

same boisterous voice. It was wild with excitement and

yet Becky could tell its owner was terrified.

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The heat increased, the temperature going up and the

humidity going down. Becky‘s eyeballs itched, and when

she blinked she could feel her skin scraping across the

gelatinous surface, scratching like wipers on a dry

windshield. Becky knew exactly what it was that hurtled

towards them. She was determined not to scream. She

failed.

It was fire, a burning ball of fire that shot towards

them, incinerating anything that stood in its path.

The room was lit up, as if someone had changed the

fuse and flipped the switch. Becky‘s reduced range of

motion hampered her view, but she could see a few other

tables on the same level as her. The bodies on them lay

still, jaws clenched in anticipation.

Becky closed her eyes, when the wind stopped…no, it

didn‘t stop, it reversed. The wind was sucked back on

itself, pulled towards the burning ball of fire that

continued to rocket towards them all. Becky realized then

that there were more people than she could even begin to

contemplate. All crammed in together like passengers on

a Japanese express train in rush hour.

God, she wanted a fix, her whole body itched,

wanting that sensation…that rush of peace.

All around her, Becky could hear people begin to beg.

Screeching for clemency like a repentant man taking the

walk to the gas chamber. She couldn‘t see them, but

hundreds of thousands of bodies writhed on wooden

slabs much like her own. They stretched out into the

distance for miles and miles. The walls too were stacked

high with tables, some flat, others ranging through

various gradients all the way to completely erect, some

people even inverted. While many were naked, the

majority were clothed. Becky could see all manner of

clothing, from business suits and swimming costumes to

wedding dresses and fancy costumes. She saw men and

women, boys and girls of all ages, each bound

individually to their own table, custom made to their size.

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―No, no more, please, please, I‘m sorry…I‘m sorry!‖

Becky heard a voice scream.

Becky looked and saw a young girl only a few years

older than herself.

Becky vomited; choking and spluttering as she

swallowed a great deal of it back down into her lungs.

The girl was black, her skin colored not by race but

flame. Her entire body was chargrilled, the flesh peeling

off in large, thick flakes, revealing the raw skin beneath.

It glistened like dew on an early spring morning. Her hair

was all but gone; just a few burnt locks remained clinging

weakly to her scalp. Both of her eyes had burst, leaving

two empty holes behind, yet they stared at Becky,

pleaded with her as if she was the key to their release.

The rumbling of the flame grew louder, as did the

gnawing need for a fix. Becky‘s stomach was twisted into

a large knot that wouldn‘t move. Her throat burned from

the vomit, while her head spun and sang out at the top of

its voice. She could feel the hot air burn her skin, she

could smell it cooking, the way she could smell her skin

after a day in the sun. The fireball was closer now; she

could hear the screams from the others as it hit them,

roasting them but somehow keeping them all alive. Just

before it hit them Becky heard the unmistakable sound of

rain. The drops were intermittent at first, but soon they

became a downpour. It didn‘t take long for her to realize

that it wasn‘t rain that was falling, but the result of a

multitude of bladders all releasing that the same time. A

strong smell filled the air for those last few seconds. A

golden shower fell, and soaked them all.

***

Only a hundred meters or so to go, Becky would have

said. The burning orange light became too much for her

and she had to just shut her eyes and grit her teeth…

And wait…

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Her body screamed in pain as her skin began to

blister.

The wait was always the worst part. Some days the

fire would be slow, and on others it would seem to last an

eternity. There was never a quick session: they didn‘t like

that. They liked to take their time, to play with them in

the flames.

It hit.

…a brilliant flash of light.

…Becky screamed, but there was no pain.

Not this time.

Becky felt the table fall away as her body rose into the air.

It felt cool – cold, even. Becky opened her eyes. She had

grown accustomed to the regeneration process, but still

felt nervous about what she would see upon waking. Raw

flesh, glistening as the guards watched over her, picking

away the healing skin as it grew. Sometimes it was a bath

of bloodsucking maggot-like creatures that would eat

through her charred flesh.

Only this time she felt something different. The

bonds that held her were gone. She felt something rough

and wiry beneath her. It was hard, but compared to what

she had been used to it felt like velvet. It was carpet.

Becky rose onto her elbows and looked around; she saw a

door and a cupboard. She saw nobody. Not that she could

have acted had she had company, for she passed out

immediately.

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Chapter 8

Richard’s Lust For Life

―Hey, Dick, wake up; it‘s time to play,‖ a voice called

out, stirring Richard from his slumber. He opened his

eyes with a start, the dream still vivid in his mind, like the

ones he used to have when he fell asleep high. He sat up

in bed; it wasn‘t his, but that wasn‘t a strange thing for

him. The only two things that were unusual were his lack

of a hangover, or the dull aching head that promised to

deliver one. The other was a sharp pain in his upper back,

in his shoulders. He raised his arms, swimming in the air,

and when they both worked he threw back the bed covers

and tried to stand.

―Where are you going, honey?‖ the feminine voice

said. It was then Richard saw the chains. His legs had

been fastened to the bed, spread eagled; not in a kinky

way, but with real shackles. Heavy irons chains fastened

each ankle to the bedposts and were weighed down by

large iron balls like an old fashioned criminal. His feet

were purple and swollen from where the cuffs cut off his

circulation.

―What‘s...? Who are you? Where am I?‖ The

succession of questions spewed from his mouth.

Richard looked around. He was in a plain, white

walled room, the ceiling painted the same off-white

shade. The paint was fresh; the Caution: Wet Paint smell

hung in the air.

The woman emerged from nowhere; a door

concealed in the walls. It must be a trick of some sort,

some crazy ass chick in a futuristic fucking house. Boy,

Rich, you sure can pick „em, Richard reasoned with

himself. He wasn‘t convinced.

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She wore a lacy negligee, which covered her body and

made no attempt to hide her curves. White stockings

attached to a garter belt clung to her legs

―Don‘t you want to play anymore?‖ she asked. Her

eyes glistened as she pouted.

She walked up to the bed, her hips swaying from side

to side. Richard liked what he saw and wasn‘t

embarrassed when his penis began to harden, forming a

bulge in his underwear; the only item of clothing he wore.

The woman raised her arms and flicked her wrists,

and all of a sudden Richard‘s own arms were pulled

above his head, which was immobilized by their vice like

presence.

―Hey!‖ Richard called as he tried to lower his arms.

But they were held by some invisible force. Richard

craned his head back just in time to see thick burns

appear around his wrists. ―What are you doing? Listen, I

don‘t mind being a bit kinky, but this is too…‖

―Shut up, man-whore. Where do you think you are,

some slut‘s bedroom? You must remember, pretty-boy.

You fell, and now you‘re mine until it‘s time to be

judged.‖ Her voice was deep, beyond husky. Her hands

glided up and down her body, pulling the lingerie. Yet all

the while her eyes never broke their near-mesmerizing

contact she had with Richard.

Richard stared at her, his arousal overpowering his

nerves. He had fallen, he remembered that, but he had

been fine, so drunk at the moment of impact that his

body simply bounced down the steps and into the yard.

He had gotten up with nothing more than a grazed knee

and twisted ankle. That had been weeks ago. He had

stayed inside for a while, sulking about everything.

Nobody had bothered him. His friends only came

knocking when there was a party to throw.

The anonymous stranger hooked her thumbs beneath

the shoulder straps of the lingerie and slid them over her

shoulders. She let the garment fall to the floor and

stepped towards the bed. Her skin was flawless, her

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breasts full. Richard‘s eyes worked their way south, to the

barren plains of her groin. She saw his gaze and smiled at

him. ―You want me, Dick? You want my tight cunt on your

pole?‖ She jumped up onto the bed and stood astride

Richard.

Richard couldn‘t speak; his throat had seized up. All

he could do was give a small effeminate cough and watch

in silent awe as the woman – by far the sexiest woman

Richard had ever been with – lowered herself onto him.

Their embrace was fast and furious, animalistic at best,

with its raw fury powering the both of them to an

explosive end.

―You were a bad man, Richard. Do you remember all

of the women you used, the ones you hurt?‖ she moaned

as she rode him.

―W-what?‖ Richard asked, surprised by the turn in

conversation.

―You heard me. It‘s time to confess your sins to me,

boy.‖ The voice changed once more: it deepened, the final

word being spat with contempt.

―I never did any –‖ An open hand stung his cheek

and cut his words short. It was a powerful strike; strong

enough to make him see stars.

―Fine, have it your way. I enjoy this part too much

anyway,‖ she answered as she began to grind her hips in

a circular motion.

Before Richard could ponder this statement or even

offer a rebuttal, he felt something change, something

inside her. The warmth of her sex disappeared. Pain

replaced it. Multiple rows of teeth emerged and sank into

Richard‘s manly flesh, chomping on it with hungry wet

smacks like pigs at a trough.

Richard screamed. He could feel the blood seeping

from him, he could taste it in the back of his mouth. Still

she continued to ride him. The slapping of their skin

became wet and sloppy. Richard didn‘t need to look down

because he saw his blood splashing against her skin. She

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cupped her breasts, moaning with pleasure as she

smothered her body with his crimson tide. The pain soon

became too much to bear, the initial numbness of shock

wearing off quicker than Richard had hoped. Every

contact she made cut further into him and the more

Richard‘s blood flowed, the fiercer her arousal became.

―Confess to me, baby. Tell me it all, their names, who

they were. What did they mean to you, baby? Tell me,‖

she moaned, licking the spattering of blood from her lips

with a long forked tongue.

As if the words had placed him in a trance, Richard

saw it all. It came flickering back to him.

Richard remembered the fall. He hadn‘t gotten up at

all. He looked down and saw the faint silver marks of the

Y-incision left by the forensic issue scalpel. Yet nothing

took away the agony in his crotch and as soon as he

thought about it, everything disappeared and he was back

with his demon lover and her cannibalistic cunt.

―Confess to me, boy. Do you remember them? Do you

remember us?‖ The voice changed. It laughed a thousand

laughs. All of the women that he had slept with, used and

then discarded with no respect and no regard for

anything other his own satisfaction.

Richard thrashed around on the bed, trying to

dislodge her, but the pain only increased. His head sang

with agony, and when Richard opened his eyes she had

changed. She had become Monique Houston, Richard‘s

chocolate skinned first. Richard‘s mind managed to pick

the name out despite his pain. His body was soaked in

sweat, his hair plastered to his scalp, skin pale as the

blood continued to leave his body. The bed sheets and

mattress were sodden now with his arterial liquid.

―Liar!‖ the sixteen-year-old Monique Houston

screamed. She slapped him with the back of her hand and

Richard both felt and heard his jaw crack.

Richard tasted the blood in his mouth; a rich coppery

taste that hit the back of his throat like a shot of tequila.

All along, she, this mystery torturer – now somehow

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Monique – continued to chew her way through Richard‘s

manhood.

―You lying pig!‖ she screamed, clenching her fists as

if she was about to beat him again. ―I loved you, we all

did. That‘s what you made us do; you didn‘t just fuck us

and dump us, no, that was too easy for you.‖ Her eyes

glowed yellow as her temper continued to flare. She

stopped grinding him: instead she bore down and forced

Richard deep inside of her.

―W-wh-what are t-ta-talking about?‖ Richard

stuttered. His world had started to dim.

―You used me. You fucked me, made me think we

would stay together and then you left; just got up and

walked the fuck away. How could you?‖ she screamed at

him.

―Love you? Come on, you were the school slut. I only

fucked you because it was an easy way to practice.‖

Richard gave her an honest answer, thinking that the

truth was what she wanted to hear.

Monique screamed, her hands clasped against the

side of her head. She began to grind her pelvis once more,

rocking backwards and forwards on top of Richard,

sending new waves of pain through his body. It burned

and whistled through him like wind against an iron grate.

―Fuck you. You will learn.‖ She smiled at Richard. ―It

is your time to be judged, so say what you will, for it will

only increase your suffering,‖ she spoke in a calm voice.

She slapped Richard on his bare chest. The sound echoed

around the room like a gunshot. Then, with her talon-like

nails, she dug into his flesh. The nails bit through the

skin with ease. A slight popping sound could be heard as

the hook of each digit entered him. Richard screamed;

there was nothing else he could do. In one quick

movement, Monique slid her nails down his chest and

over his abdomen. The skin tore apart with a rush of hot

air and blood; warm spurts jetted into the air as if the

nails had struck oil.

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―Fuck…you, crazy bitch!‖ Richard cried as he saw her

fingers disappear past the first joint into his chest.

―Confess to me, maggot. Admit to what you did,‖ she

instructed.

―I fucked you. You had a good time, too, so why

should I be sorry?‖ Richard grunted against the pain. It

had overridden his brain and taken control.

―You made us love you. Say it… Say it!‖ she screamed.

―I‘m s-s-s-sss-sorry,‖ Richard whispered, his voice

squeaking as it forced air out of his lungs. He could hear

a hissing sound escaping the claw wounds in his torso.

―There, that wasn‘t hard now, was it? We‘re making

progress, but you‘re not there yet, man-whore. Oh no,

I‘ve got a lot more pain for you.‖ The voice was once more

than of the womn in white.

The dark chocolate skin of the sixteen-year-old

classmate who had taken Richard‘s virginity in an empty

classroom during lunch on a Friday afternoon began to

disappear. As she faded the woman in white returned. Yet

her face was not quite as complete as it had been. She

was old. Loose skin clung to her face, drooping in

wrinkled jowls. Her teeth were twisted fangs, browned

and yellowed from years of neglect. Her body too had

changed: her pert, full breasts had now become sagging

bags of rotting flesh. The nipples were black and

festering, and they lactated sour milk the color of

concentrated pus.

―Well done, my lover. I see why they wanted you. Can

you feel it building?‖ she asked as he began to rotate her

hips once more. ―Oh God. Here it comes, baby. Fuck

me…fuckmefuckmefuckme!‖ she screamed in a manner

that made Richard think of Linda Blair‘s character in The

Exorcist.

She came, and came hard, her entire body tensing up

in ecstasy the same way Richard‘s had tensed with pain.

It was then that he felt the snap. Her ravenous snatch

took that last bite and severed his penis from his body.

This new wave of pain shot through him like an

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adrenaline burst and Richard threw himself around on

the bed. His wrists and ankles bled as he tried in vain to

rip himself free from the shackles. The deep puncture

wound in his chest continued to hemorrhage blood onto

the bed.

The woman sat back on the bed, her feet planted on

the mattress, her knees pulled apart to give Richard a

good view of the show.

He looked down between his legs and saw nothing

but a small bloody stump where his penis had once been.

Richard screamed…

…She laughed.

Richard raised his eyes and looked at her. Her face

was filled by a smile so large it couldn‘t possibly be faked.

Richard couldn‘t help but look down, and vomited when

he saw the multitude of teeth that jutted from her

engorged lips. They chewed on his penis with gusto with

a sound akin to eating raw celery.

When he came to Richard sat up with a start. His

hands grasped at his chest, his groin: everything was still

there. He laid back, his body caked with a cold sweat. He

could smell urine but didn‘t care.

―It was just a dream…it was just a dream,‖ he

repeated in a small voice. His chest burned as if he had

just run a marathon. He gasped for air.

―You tell yourself that, sweet cheeks. But truth is, I

just ain‘t done with you yet,‖ the lady in white said.

Richard looked up and there she was, walking

towards him, her nightdress falling to the floor. This

time, when she straddled him, her body changed to

someone else: Nancy Thomas, the daughter of his father‘s

business partner. Another one of his conquests.

Richard had no idea how long his torture continued.

Each time he was ripped apart only to pass out and wake

up as good as new. Then it would begin again. Sometimes

his genitals would be flayed during a session of heavy

bondage, the next day – he thought of each session as

being one day – they would be eaten in large chunks. His

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penis severed, bitten, cut, burnt, ripped, and pulled. Each

time Richard would break sooner and sooner, apologizing

for what he had done, although she – his Lady in White –

could tell when he meant it. When he had had enough.

The pain never stopped, and as the days turned to weeks

Richard was taken through every girl he had ever had.

The stream of scorned lovers seemed endless.

Until…

Richard opened his eyes; he remained still, for he

knew he couldn‘t escape even though she had removed

his bonds after the first few days. Looking around the

room, Richard saw the walls had darkened yet another

shade; they were now a deep red. Every day when he

woke it was different, going from off white to pink,

darkening in color. Richard had long ago realized that the

goal was for them to be the color of blood…his blood.

Maybe then it would be over; perhaps only a few more

days, Richard thought to himself.

The lady in white appeared – the young (hot)

version. She was pale, translucent, as if she were fading

as his time with her drew to a close. She walked towards

the bed, the sway of her hips lost. Her negligee still clung

to her skin, but today she left it on. There was no need for

her to change: his time was done. She had been told, the

walls were full, and her superiors had decreed that time

was time and the judgment was to be passed.

―What, who are we today?‖ Richard asked.

She said nothing as she sidled up to the bed, climbing

onto him. Her eyes were fixed on Richard and she heard

his question, but today she was not in the mood to talk.

―I asked you a question. Who are you today? I‘m

sorry; I never meant to sleep with you. I understand now

that I was the destructive point in your life…all their

lives. Even the successful ones, those that are still alive

and living a good life. Is that enough? Tell me what to

say,‖ Richard half commanded and half pleaded.

―Poor puppy, your time here has reached its end, I

have come to judge you – so play nice. For I and I alone

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get to decide which chamber you are sent to, so bite your

tongue,‖ she said, and then, moving with the quickness of

a striking snake, she kissed him. It was a passionate kiss,

a lover‘s kiss. Her entire face melted away, once again

revealing the ugly truth beneath her attractive exterior.

She broke their kiss and bit into Richard‘s tongue

before he opened his eyes. A mere heartbeat later her face

was back to the beautiful woman in white.

―Who are you?‖ Richard mumbled as his mouth filled

with blood. After what felt like years of abuse Richard

had built an affinity with the woman.

―That doesn‘t matter. Today is the last day you will

see me. I am here to judge you. Your crimes were

heinous, maybe not in the eyes of humanity, but your

thoughtless fornication was a cr ime against the eyes of...‖

She paused, swallowing as if something was caught in her

throat. ―Your God,‖ she said weakly.

―What?‖ Richard began.

―I know where I‘m sending you. Somewhere not

related to your overactive penis, but a chamber that will

address your wastefulness, your belligerent spoilt

attitude and wanton disregard for those less fortunate.

But first, let me give you a taste of real pleasure, just a

final reward…‖ Her words trailed off as she kissed her

way down Richard‘s stomach, stroking his skin with her

curled, blackened fingernails, although they curled

around on themselves and formed a sharp point, looking

more like a scorpion‘s tail.

Richard tensed, grimaced against the stinging pain as

her claws effortlessly sliced through his flesh, peeling it

away in thin strips like the tab around a packet of

biscuits; take it all the way around and the package spills

open exposing all the goodies stored within. She licked

and kissed the wounds, lapping at the blood that flowed

into her mouth. She looked up at Richard once, as her

mouth began to envelope his throbbing – and once again

reattached –penis.

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Richard screamed, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw

began to cramp. His eyes sealed so tight that he saw

stars. It felt as though a belt sander had been turned on

and applied to his cock in an effort to smooth out the

ridges.

―You may be done here, but I get one more day of you

all to myself. See, you‘re something special; they‘re all

talking about it, the ones deeper down; the powerful

ones. They don‘t tell us, but we hear the rumours, and

I‘ve just got to have a taste of you myself,‖ she said as she

then resumed her sensual, grating fellatio.

The pain was intense, yet not unbearable. Rather

than the white-hot agony of the physical torture it merely

felt as though her jaw was not opened far enough and so

her teeth scraped against his skin, like a tired hooker at

the end of a long day.

―Wow, for a sexual tormenter you‘re really not very

good at this,‖ Richard groaned. He raised his head and

looked down at her. His penis was dotted with blood, a

few small dots here and there like a chin after shaving

with an old razor. He tried to jerk away but she held him

in place with one powerful hand.

―Oh, I like to take my time. I‘m gonna suck you dry,

baby,‖ she said with a smile, and this time when her face

changed it stayed that way. Thick, pulsing, purple veins

marked her back like an atlas. Her mouth devoured him

and with each abrasive stroke she made Richard could

feel another layer of skin being stripped away.

The blood flowed, leaking from the corners of her

mouth, but her tempo never changed. With an assured

rhythm, the demon known in her section of the

underworld simply as Margeth worked Richard‘s penis

like a lollypop. She could feel it getting smaller and

smaller in her mouth. It didn‘t soften but shrank. His

blood tasted strong; different to anything she had ever

tasted. She knew it was wrong; there would be

repercussions for sampling him, but sometimes, even in

the pit – not that this was the pit, not even a suburb,

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more like a satellite town – the rules sometimes had to be

broken.

―Stop, please,‖ Richard groaned through gritted

teeth. His brain exploded as white hot flames lit up the

darkness behind his closed eyes.

Margeth looked at him, her eyes black. In the center

of each was a red dot. The spots grew and grew until they

consumed her eyes. They flickered, as if something was

on fire deep inside her demon shell. Margeth jumped

away from the bed, her hands clawing at her throat,

choking and coughing in wet gargled gasps for air. Her

eyes were wide and a pink foam began to leak from her

eyes, her nose, her mouth; every orifice had developed a

leak. Margeth fell to the floor and Richard could hear her

sizzling like meat placed on a barbeque. Smoke drifted

from her nostrils and ears in delicate white tendrils.

―You…you don‘t ev-e-even know, do you?‖ Margeth

stared at Richard, although he could tell she was blind.

Her eyes were swollen. The jelly within each ball bubbled

and boiled before they exploded, showering Richard with

warm jelly.

Margeth leapt towards him, her claws elongated,

slimy lips pulled back to reveal sharp needle-like teeth

eager to take one last bite, and it was then that Richard

felt the invisible forces that held him to the bed

disappear. Richard sat up, his reactions quicker and more

fluid than he had expected them to be. His crotch burnt

but he knew, or at least hoped with a vague sense of

certainty, that it would heal. The bleeding had already

stopped. Richard stood. His body felt strange, like a

sailor setting his feet back on dry land after months at

sea.

Richard walked towards Margeth, who lay on the

floor, curled double in pain, her skin red and flushed as

the fire Richard had seen ignite behind her eyes devoured

the rest of her. She looked scared. Out of all of the

emotions he had expected to consume him should escape

ever been an option, Richard had never once run through

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the scenario using pity as the driving force. Yet standing

there Richard realized there was no other emotion that

could be more fittingly used to describe what he felt.

Behind him, Richard felt a cool breeze blowing, as if a

door or window had been opened. He began to turn when

the voice spoke.

―Come; we have little time.‖ It was a tired, scratchy

voice, and before Richard could answer he felt a hand fall

on his shoulder. He was engulfed with light. Richard lost

all sense of direction and purpose and so allowed the

light to envelope him. ―The poison won‘t slow her for

long,‖ the voice said.

Richard had no idea for how long they travelled, but

as they rose he passed through several levels of screams,

each one separated by a few moments of silence. Richard

could not bring himself to open his eyes, not even the

smallest of cracks lest it all was a dream and he was still

tied to a bed, held by the ropes of hell. After a while the

sounds disappeared, replaced instead by silence: a warm,

airless silence.

Finally they stopped. Richard felt solid ground

beneath him; he felt his legs tense up as his fully body

weight was lowered back onto them. It was hot and there

was an abrasive wind that scratched at his face and

irritated his sensitive new skin.

His crotch continued to throb.

―You can open your eyes now. It‘s quite safe.‖ The

voice speaking to him was one of kindness. Richard

opened his eyes and felt his body tense in preparation for

what awaited him.

Pain; bright flaring pain seared his eyeballs and he

clamped them shut again.

Richard raised his hands to his face and then tried

again, peering through his fingers, first his left eye, then

his right, and then finally both of them. After a few

seconds he lowered his hands and stood squinting,

looking out from a great height across an endless desert.

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―Where am I now? What‘s waiting for me here?‖ he

questioned, not fully trusting anything anymore. It hadn‘t

taken Richard long to accept that he was dead, and he

was strangely okay with that fact. What had hit him was

the punishment he received; not from Margeth…but from

himself. Not a day went by that he didn‘t recall some

moment or incident from his past that he regretted.

Emotions felt stronger: grief felt like despair to him,

sadness felt like a black, heavy depression, seconds felt

like hours, and each moment saw Richard slip farther

and deeper into his own mental hell until it reached the

point where he would almost look forward to the physical

pain.

―You are safe,‖ the man said. Richard turned to face

him. He had to squint in order to focus. The light and

fresh air seemed to overload his mind. The man was

short, much shorter than Richard, and old, at least sixty if

he was a day; but then again time seemed to have a

strange way of drawing across life‘s sky and so the man

could well have been older than the earth itself. He was

as good as bald and his skin so tanned and weathered by

the elements that it looked as if it were made of leather.

He wore a long, brown robe like a monk, and in one hand

he held a long, thick, wooden staff. The image that came

to Richard‘s mind was the love child between Friar Tuck

and one of the Buddhist monks whose orange robes were

famous across the globe.

―How long have I been dead?‖ he asked, his voice

shaking. Did he really want to know the answer?

―In the time of this world it has been ten years. A lot

less back in the world you occupied previously, but still

ten years remains a decade,‖ the man answered.

―Ten years. Fuck no. That‘s not possible.‖ Richard

opened his mouth to continue when he realized that the

time for such a limited way of thinking was past. ―I‘m in

Hell,‖ Richard said under his breath.

―Well, not exactly. I cannot take you to where you

want to go, but only where you need. Your righteousness

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must be tested, and you must not be found wanting in

order to move on.‖ The stranger remained standing. One

arm held the staff, the other hung by his side. Another

gust of warm air wrapped around them, howling a sad,

lonely cry, and it made the hairs on the back of Richards‘s

neck stand on end.

―Who are you?‖ he asked. ―Why did you save me?‖

The question needed to be asked. Richard wasn‘t a saint;

he didn‘t deserve to be rescued, or so he himself believed.

―I am Jizo, a wanderer of the spirit world. Now, you

must begin. I cannot be here when you do – the challenge

of righteousness must be undertaken alone,‖ he said,

moving his head to one side. It made him look inquisitive

and was the first sign of any real life inside his leathered

exterior. He looked at Richard. His eyes seemed to burn a

hole through his skin; he wasn‘t looking at him, or

through him, but in him.

―What am I supposed to do? We‘re stuck on a

mountaintop in the middle of the fucking desert. And

what? You want me to just take a walk…some Indian

spirit quest or something like that? How am I even

supposed to get down from here?‖ Richard asked,

throwing his arms out wide in a sign of his exasperation

and growing frustration.

―I cannot help you. Your test is your own; only you

can decide its course. I am sorry it must be this way.‖ He

paused for a moment, and looked at Richard before

beginning again, adding a second statement. ―We will

meet again at the end, and then I can take you where you

need to go.‖

With his words spoken Jizo raised his staff and was

gone, and with nothing more than a rush of wind,

Richard found himself alone.

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Chapter 9

Helen: It’s the Quiet Ones You Have to Watch

The sound of water running – a small stream or a

brook – roused Helen from sleep. It was a peaceful,

serene sound, one promoting a quiet, restful place,

bordering on idyllic. A cool breeze brushed her skin, her

auburn hair, longer now that it was when she had first

died, wafted, submitting itself to the will of the wind. She

didn‘t want to open her eyes, but once she was awake

there was little choice left in the matter. The pain would

begin and then there was no choice but to open, to see

what clever way of torturing her he had come up with this

time.

―Good morning, beautiful. How are we feeling

today?‖ a sneering snarl of a voice asked. It was always

him. Deep inside, beneath the disguises he wore, it was

always him. Luther was the name he had used when he

introduced himself.

―Bite me,‖ Helen answered, spitting the words like a

feral cat. Cornered and out of options, she would fight

until she had nothing left to give.

―Ooh, now there‘s an idea,‖ he sneered once more.

Even with her eyes closed she knew he would be leaning

in close to her, his thick lips pulled back, exposing his

yellowed teeth. She felt his rancid breath heat her skin.

Helen shuddered. Her mind struggled to keep hold of

the sound of the brook running its course through

wherever she was. Then, without thinking any longer, she

opened her eyes. Luther stepped back, allowing her to

look around her. He liked to take things slow – but Helen

knew that.

The light hurt her eyes. She was outside for the first

time in many sessions. She saw the stream. It was crystal

clear and babbled like the picture perfect brook it was.

Wildflowers grew on the shallow banks – yellows,

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purples, reds – their blooms all facing her, watching.

They were in a wood, not quite a forest but approaching

it. She could hear insects buzzing all around her and the

floor beneath her bare feet was carpeted by pine needles,

yet the trees were all green. None of it fully matched. All

four seasons seemed to be represented as if that

somehow made the whole scenario more real. It was the

only thing she ever looked for now. The small conflict of

details that told her it was just a trick; another one of

Luther‘s games that would end with her blood being spilt

regardless of how she played.

At first Helen fell for his tricks, believing she had

been let go, allowed to escape and return to her normal

life, but then after a while, just has she began to relax, let

her guard down, the hooks would come. Now she

expected them: she would wander through the various

colorful worlds he created for her, looking for flaws in it.

The sun moving in the wrong direction across the sky, a

tree with no leaves in the height of summer, anything she

could see that seemed out of the ordinary became her

earth wire. Once she noticed the mistakes, flaws in his

design, it meant that the hooks were not far behind, and

she would brace herself.

It had all happened in the blink of an eye. Helen

remembered working in the salon, and then there had

been silence, a painful silence and then she fell, not to the

floor, but through it.

When she had woken up Helen was tied to a chair

with ropes that smelt of urine and sweat. She was alone.

In that first small room her tears had been enough. The

visions she was sent, the places she was taken, places

from her past that reminded her of how ungrateful she

had been. She had seen the arguments that she had had

with her in-laws, only petty things for the most part, but

almost every time they got together, a fight would ensue,

and more often than not it would continue long after they

had left. Helen and her husband would argue about them

for days. Her father-in-law Herbert would start drinking,

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and this in turn would make her mother-in-law Jocelyn

cry. Helen was shown over and over again not just the

arguments but their consequences, the continued fights

between the two as they drove home and often long after

they locked their front door.

Helen finally broke when she was shown a fight over

the middle name of a child that hadn‘t even been

discussed, let alone conceived.

Helen‘s hands instinctively touched her own

stomach; she hadn‘t even been able to tell Mark that she

was pregnant before she died.

The argument had ended and her in-laws drove

home and, once behind their own front door – in a quaint

suburban area where their age was the perfect median for

the neighborhood – Herbert had turned on his wife. He

beat her with an open hand, then when Jocelyn still

didn‘t accept the blame Herbert used his fist. Helen

couldn‘t believe what she saw, and she called out her

apologies to them, begging them to stop.

No sooner had she called out and the images were

gone.

―You have been judged,‖ a figureless voice had said,

and then he had arrived: Luther and all of his toys. He

had wasted no time in sharing his ideas of fun with

Helen.

Above her, the trees had all linked together forming a

sort of canopy, although the clear blue sky of the day was

visible through the smaller less supportive branches. It

was hot; it was always hot. Every day the oppressive heat

would play an equal role in her torture. Helen would be

drenched in sweat before Luther had even begun to apply

his trade to her flesh, which somehow managed to

regenerate each night.

―Do you want to take a walk with me, my dear?‖

Luther asked. He was always polite. His manners were

impeccable: that was part of his charm. That was what

made him so dangerous. He would attack her body with

the feral power of a serial killer in the height of his spree,

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and yet the next day he would arrive and whisk Helen

away to a romantic candlelit dinner. Oh, how charming

he would be. Walks were his favourite; he would often

come and invite her to walk with him. They would

wander through the woods, hand in hand like young

lovers. The touch of his cold, slimy skin against her own

warm flesh made Helen want to vomit, but she was

powerless to resist him. As they walked, they shared

intimate secrets and memories with one another. Luther

would talk to Helen about his conquests, the people he

had brought to and from the rack – as he liked to call his

place of work. His tales were not special; they held no

hidden meaning: they were simply a glimpse of all the

things that he planned to do with her.

―Okay.‖ Every instinct within her body told her to

turn and run. She had no shackles, no bonds holding her

in place, but Helen knew by now and had learnt over the

years that running offered nothing. Luther or the people

he worked for were in control. Helen knew that if she left

the wood, she would blink and be back in the middle

again. Her world had become a maze. It didn‘t matter

which way she fled: she would always come back to the

same starting point.

They wandered in silence, the woods thickening

around them. The pine needles crunched underfoot until

without warning they changed. Helen‘s feet felt as though

they were on fire. She looked down and saw that the

carpet of pine needles had become a field of shattered

glass. Along with this, scattered around as if for good

measure were hypodermic needles, some clean, others

used and dirty, caked in dried blood. Helen‘s bloody

footprints glistened in the sun. She screamed but before

anything else could happen, she felt her body lift into the

air. ―Well, my dear, it appears that we have come around

to that time of day again,‖ Luther said.

Helen closed her eyes, bracing for the pain.

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―Fuck you, Luther.‖ It had become her standard

response at this stage of the day.

―My, my, my, nearly ten years we have been doing

this—‖ Ten Hell years, that was. In the reality that Helen

knew, it had been little over ten months. ―…yet still your

dirty mouth comes forward first. It just isn‘t the way a

lady should behave, Helen.‖ He smiled as he pulled the

scalpel from his inside jacket pocket. ―And just think

about how meek and mild you were in life. Tut…such a

waste,‖ he sneered.

The first hook pierced through her shoulder, an

invisible hand forcing it through the bone. Helen

clenched her teeth and felt every sinew in her body tense

in unison. Pain, it seemed, was the one thing to which the

human body could never grow accustomed.

The second hook passed through her left side,

separating two ribs. Helen couldn‘t help but cry. ―I don‘t

know what you want from me,‖ she sobbed as she felt the

third hook trace the contours of her body in search of a

good place to strike.

―Stop, please,‖ Helen begged as the hook passed

through her ankles, stringing her like the famous

Achilles. Her words came out slurred as the blistering

pain began to affect her basic motor functions and speech

abilities.

―Helen, my dear, you know if you want me to stop,

then you just need to say the words. Tell me you love me,

embrace me, and I can begin to teach you. I think you

have great potential, and me, well…I‘m not getting any

younger. I need to start thinking about a replacement,‖

Luther said, waving the scalpel in front of his face as he

spoke. He swung the blade back and forth in front of her

like a hypnotist waving his pocket watch on stage.

―Then get on with it, because I won‘t ever love a

creature like you,‖ Helen spat. A clot of dark red blood

flew from her lips.

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―I admire you, Helen, I really do, but we both know

it‘s just a matter of time.‖ He smiled at her and turned his

back as the remaining hooks did their job.

The chains rattled, and before she could even think

about fighting against it, Helen found her world inverted.

Pain exploded like fireworks behind her eyes. She could

see the hooks by her ankles, see her skin stretching to the

point of breaking – but it never would.

Blood flowed down her shins and dripped from her

knees onto her face and chest. She was naked, but that

was not a surprise. Helen could recall one such session in

which she had been hung by only her bosom, one hook

passing through each breast. She had been left there for

weeks before Luther came back to begin his torment.

―I‘m sorry, my dear, I do despise of vulgarity. You

should understand that your naked body means nothing

to me. I don‘t see you like that, but times must, I am

afraid.‖ Luther winked at her and walked away. He would

leave her, allow her to stew a while with her own mind.

What ghosts would it conjure up to haunt her this time?

Over the years she had received numerous visits from

wandering spirits who could not let go of their rage and

were trapped in the forest as a result.

Helen remembered the first spirit she had

encountered. She had been hanging in a cave. It was only

once he got close did she see what it truly was. Its skin

looked as though it was three sizes too big for its

skeleton; large flaps hung from its naked frame. Helen

thought it was male, but its genitalia had been ripped off,

or so it seemed from the gaping wound between the

person‘s legs. The one thing Helen did see was that in the

center of each flap of skin was a black, festering hole: the

place where the hooks took hold. It hadn‘t come too close

that first time. There had been many encounters over the

‗years‘ and they were a great deal more interactive and

violent than that first time. Yet it was for some reason the

only one that stuck in her mind.

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The final hook came out of nowhere, catching even

Helen unawares. With her guard down, the pain brought

forth a scream that would have brought a Cheshire cat-

sized smile to Luther‘s face. With her legs above her head

and pulled out to either side the hook had an

unobstructed path and pierced through both lips of

Helen‘s vagina, whereupon the majority of the weight

was shifted.

―Stop…please…Luther…‖ she begged, but her voice

trailed off and just as she lost consciousness she heard

footsteps crunching on the broken glass.

A sweet aroma caused Helen to stir from the

blackness that had consumed her. It was the smell

of…honey. She could taste for the first time in a long

while; several years she guessed. Her stomach cramped

and tore at her in demand of sustenance. Helen licked

her lips and tasted it again: honey, thick and sweet. She

opened her eyes and saw that she was covered in it, from

her bloodied feet to her swollen, weeping vagina, all the

way up to and over face. It was as if some artist had

brushed it onto her while she was unconscious, some

sweet-toothed James Bond villain.

―Oh good, you‘re awake. I didn‘t want to have to start

this while you slept; it would have been rude not to give

you a final chance to save yourself.‖

―Go to Hell,‖ Helen spat, her words harsh and strong,

while inside, every part of her screamed to be let free. She

didn‘t care what she would have to do, she just wanted

the pain to stop, she couldn‘t take it anymore, but…

Maybe today is the last day, she thought . Maybe

from tomorrow it will be less…

―Very well. This will hurt, by the way – a lot.‖ With

that Luther leaned in and kissed her on the lips. His skin

was cold, his lips hard and stony, yet when he kissed her,

in that fleeting moment of contact, Helen felt all the pain

disappear. She felt free; she felt herself. As soon as the

contact was broken it flooded back.

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Luther looked at her, his thumb held out before him,

one eye closed, and he studied her like an artist admiring

his latest model or chosen landscape. Then, with a few

assured and strong cuts, the sharpened blade drew

Helen‘s blood once more. Today she saw he had opted for

the rusty cutthroat razor. It meant two things: he was in

playful mood, and it would be a long day. The pain

bordered on being refreshing; it cleared her head from

the lingering dizziness of the kiss. It was the first direct

contact between them that hadn‘t been meant to inflict

pain and Helen forced herself to think that maybe, just

maybe, Luther was losing his touch; she was winning.

The blood that flowed seemed to bond to her honey

skin, congealing rapidly like candle wax. Her body was

still; struggling was no use. Once she had managed to

wrench herself free from the chains, pulling them

through her skin, fighting against the waves of nausea

that had washed over her. Yet before she had even gotten

to her feet they were back in place.

―Luther, Make it sto— I… lov—‖ Helen was just about

to cry, to offer herself in any form of service that would

be accepted, but when she looked up, Luther was gone.

A solitary bee was the first to arrive. It flew along

more by luck than any scent or knowledge of the riches

that lay ahead for it. Yet once it found the girl, it couldn‘t

leave. It settled on Helen‘s stomach just above her navel.

It stood for a while, wandering along the sticky contours

of her flesh, before plunging its stinger into her skin. It

left a small, burning swelling behind, one that soon began

to pulse, continuing to grow in size until it was the size of

a pea.

Word soon spread however and before long an entire

striped army clouded the blue sky. The furry bodied

beasts roamed around Helen‘s naked form, stinging with

the unprovoked viciousness of wasps on a hot summer‘s

day. Beetles and other flightless creatures, their scuttling

bodies bouncing off each other in the chaos, soon joined

party, their jaws nibbling not just the honey but the flesh

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beneath. Helen felt the first few insects dive into her

exposed raw meat, her silence only maintained by the

simple knowledge that if she opened her mouth to

scream they would come flooding inside of her.

The insects and creatures continued to arrive; a pair

of earwigs had perched atop each of her nipples and took

it in turns to pinch them, drawing little spots of blood

each time. Helen could feel her skin being stripped away

one small bite at a time. They were inside her, too: she

could feel them burying through her open wounds,

deeper and deeper into her body, foraging for fresh,

sweeter meat.

The spiders were the last to the party, their fat

bloated bodies swollen and wet before they arrived. Their

legs were needle sharp and left tract marks all over

Helen‘s skin. One particularly bloated arachnid with a

yellow lightning bolt running the length of its abdomen

settled on her face. Helen‘s blood flowed freer as her

wounds were stretched. She felt something hard burrow

its way deep into her body, hissing and buzzing as its

powerful legs propelled it deeper. Her tears that seemed

to excite her living second skin welled in her eyes. They

erupted en masse, bursting out from within her. They

spewed up her throat, a wave of living vomit. A tide of

scurrying legs and mandibles ripped into her bleeding

gums. Her tongue was stung and bitten until it was

swollen and plump with venom and finally it simply

exploded, like a cartoon shotgun, leaving her with

nothing but a stump that fanned out at the end like a

peeled banana. Then…

…as if some invisible gag or weight had been

removed from her, Helen found the power to her voice.

She cried out, a long, ear splitting wail, a mix of terror,

pain, and anger that had been boiling away under the

surface. It had been displaced by the bugs and insects

that now burrowed through her flesh; large tracks

swelled all over her body, marking their progress like

thick pulsating veins.

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She managed to form a word that expressed her pain.

―Why?‖

Everything froze: the pain, the burrowing,

everything. ―Because it is necessary. You were a bitch on

earth; you mistreated and abused those who loved you,

the people who took you in to their family with open

arms, people who loved you as if you had been their

own,‖ Luther whispered in her ears, appearing as if

conjured from thin air.

―You keep saying that, but I don‘t understand. I said I

was sorry. Why can‘t you just let me go? Please, I can‘t

take it anymore,‖ Helen begged. Her voice was tired and

just as emotionless as Luther himself. Her hopes that the

words would have any effect had long since died: this was

merely a process that they followed; a script.

―Well you know what you have to do, my dear. Admit

your guilt, open you heart and release the hatred you

have for people like your in-laws. Submit yourself to me.

I‘ll take the pain away from you, teach you how to master

it, to gain control over it, and maybe, just maybe, when

these parasites you hate so much die I‘ll let you, my dear

protégé, spend some time with them… alone,‖ Luther

hissed, his tongue sliding out of his mouth. It was long

and thin, and forked with three sharp points. He licked

the side of Helen‘s face. She felt her entire body shudder.

―No, I won‘t do it; I‘m not like you,‖ Helen

whimpered. ―I didn‘t hate them. They just wouldn‘t let us

live our own lives. All I wanted was some peace. Was that

too much to expect?‖ She stopped as the pain returned,

just as intense as it had been. Her entire body cramped as

the insects buzzed back to life. Only this time, instead of a

feeling one mass body, Helen felt each individual

creature, every stabbing motion their pointed legs made,

every ravenous bite they took.

Helen closed her eyes and saw her husband. He sat at

home by their dinner table. A wedding photo in his

hands, an open bottle of liquor stood beside him, his face

red and swollen with tears. Between his body and the

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picture was an empty bottle of medication. He wore a

suit; the same suit he always wore to work on a Monday.

It was the first suit – it wasn‘t a suit, rather a shirt, tie

and trousers set – that Helen had bought him when they

got together. He always said that wearing it on a Monday

seemed to make the week seem much more bearable. The

house was dark and messy; papers and letters lay strewn

over the dining room table. Dirty dishes and several

empty bottles of various liquors littered the floor, while a

thick layer of dust had gathered across every exposed

surface.

―Mark,‖ Helen called, not thinking that he couldn‘t

hear her.

Everything seemed so real. She raised her arms, and

saw them, not the swollen poison-filled flesh sacks that

hung inverted in the air, but the slender tanned arms she

had had in life. She reached forward to her husband, but

just as she was about to touch him he turned to face her.

His face was twisted as if it were a mask pulled over some

other beast‘s head, a head that was far too large for it to

fit properly. His eyes were black as the night and his

mouth curled into a snarl. ―Bitch!‖ it roared, just as

Helen was pulled back into her nightmare world. The

pain thumped and pulsated deep within her body like an

itch on a covered wound, and no matter what she did,

Helen couldn‘t quite find any release.

―You hated them. Every time you saw them, your

blood would boil – ah, such a wonderful sight. You felt

contempt for them like you had never felt before, and

that is why I know you, know what you are capable of

should you put your mind to it. You will break, so why

make it harder on yourself? Join me, leave the pain

behind and take your position on the other side of the

rack,‖ Luther said. He was crouched down onto his

haunches, his fists resting on the shard covered ground.

As Helen watched he began to dig his fists into the glass

and needles, twisting them in slow forceful circles.

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―You don‘t know me!‖ Helen screamed. Bitter tears

stung her eyes as they rolled up her forehead and into her

sweat-matted hair. ―They wouldn‘t let us live our own

life. Even our holidays had to be booked by them…where

we went for a day‘s shopping or a romantic

meal…everything had to be run through them first. They

had us trapped like naughty fucking children, so what

does it matter that sometimes, just sometimes, I wanted

to see them in the cocksucking ground? Fuck them and

fuck you!‖ Helen spat a ball of dark red bloody spit into

Luther‘s face. He allowed the clot to ooze down his face

before falling off into oblivion. Helen couldn‘t see it, but

her own pale blue eyes had become as black as the night.

―I think that‘s enough progress for today. I would

offer you another chance, but I know you won‘t take it. I

am a great many things, but a fool is not one of them. So I

will leave you with your children and return tomorrow. I

have something rather interesting in store.‖ He smiled

and without speaking another word he was gone, as was

the light.

The sun set with visible speed. The shadows of the

trees grew longer and the air cooler. The pain was gone;

the insects retreated; her flesh and body returned to its

pristine condition, as was always the case. Only, tonight

Helen felt a strange, fluttering in the pit of her stomach.

Nerves, Helen told herself. Yet it continued to grow, and

soon, just as the last remnants of light left and a howling

wind began to rustle the trees, it became an itch. The

deep seated kind, and no matter how she moved and

wriggled it would not let up in the slightest.

―Fuck you!‖ Helen screamed into the night. A

howling gust of wind blew through the trees, echoing her

mournful cry as if in sympathy. Helen began to thrash

about like a filly yet to be broken in yet fastened with a

saddle nonetheless. The feeling grew. Her flesh began to

crawl, her head to thump and ache. Long shadow fingers

from nearby branches began to fondle her still naked

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body as her flesh began to ripple and bubble as though

her fat and blood had begun to boil.

Helen coughed once and a fat swollen bluebottle

burst from her throat. It flew drunkenly through the air

before crashing into a tree and exploding, its yellow

insides splattering the impact zone like a burst white-

head hitting the mirror. Helen had experienced all

manner of pain over the years, she had suffered

unspeakable act after unspeakable act – with one in

particular guaranteed to haunt her time of reprieve each

day without fail – yet the pain that washed over her was

new. Even for Luther it was agony. For he felt everything

as she experienced it; it was a bond he had shared with

her. Next came a stronger gust of wind. It rustled the

trees and their leaves; it sounded like flapping wings,

wings so large they caught amongst the branches.

Birds, he sent birds to just peck away at you. Close

your eyes; they always go for your eyes, Helen told

herself, trying to remove the image from her mind‘s eye.

That of the neighbour in Bodega Bay whose face had been

fed upon by Hitchcock‘s flock of hungry feathered

friends.

The rustling grew louder, intensified further, and

then all at once Helen was bathed in light as if a spot

lamp had been opened up and she was center stage.

Helen‘s body froze. The light burnt her eyes, yet she

couldn‘t close them. The deep ache that had burnt from

within her for so long, the itch of her healing wounds,

died. Her body felt her own again. Yet before she could

do anything about it her body was wrenched free from its

bonds, her world returned to the right way up. A warm

breeze enveloped her like a blanket; it protected her as

she rose higher and higher. Above the trees she climbed,

as though conveyed by the glass elevator itself. As Helen‘s

world went black, her body filled with warmth. I finally

get to die happy, were her final thoughts before the

welcomed darkness overtook her. Just as the curtain fell

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Helen saw the trees of the forest stretching out for as far

as she could see. They rose and fell like the optical

illusion of the never-ending staircase. It was as if she

were trapped in a Leonardo DiCaprio movie. There was a

small clearing in the center of it all – or at least in the

center what Helen could see – and in the middle of that

she saw him. Luther. He stood, dressed not in a business

suit but a robe, a white robe. He stood staring up into the

sky, watching her ascend. The last thing she thought may

have been about having a happy death, but the last vision

her mind processed was Luther as he blew her a kiss,

flashing her a smile that said, ―See you soon, my love.‖

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Chapter 10

Graham: Can’t Teach an Old Dog New Tricks

―Do you not fear God?‖ a voice cut through the

darkness, slapping Graham in the face like a bucket of

cold water, shattering the rather comforting darkness

that had overtaken him ever since he had died.

How long had it been? He felt as if he had slept

forever. His body tingled with energy. It hadn‟t hurt.

Dying. Not in the way he had expected. The worst part

by far had been the waiting. Graham had never known

what to expect once life had ended. He had been raised a

believer and for all his talk, his faith never left, but

rather faltered.

After a while Graham opened his eyes. He was tied to

a chair, bound tight at the wrists – and with a shuffle of

his legs his ankles were also added to the list of secured

limbs, fastened by large steel cuffs that looked like

something you would find on the electric chair. They

were hinged and locked into place by large old-fashioned

bolts.

A gust of cold wind sent a shiver up Graham‘s spine,

creating a full body wave of goose bumps which ran along

behind it like the wake from a boat. He was in a dark

room. It was cold, and somewhere he could hear water

dripping in slow steady drops; a leaky pipe? The floor

beneath his feet was bare concrete, and above his head a

naked lightbulb swung back and forth. Its dust-encrusted

shell only offered a limited level of sight. To Graham it

looked like a basement.

―I asked you a question. Do you not fear God?‖ the

voice asked again. It was neither angry nor threatening,

but rather curious. Its question posed with genuine – or

at least well-acted – interest.

―Why would I fear him? I‘ve seen what he can do, I

lived through it. From my way of working things out he

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should fear me,‖ Graham said. His voice came out strong

and proud despite his dry throat and feeble shallow

breaths. ―I survived his petty games and came through

the other side still willing to play my role. That makes us

at least even.‖

The voice laughed. It was not a mean spirited laugh,

but a simple chuckle of continued amusement.

―Oh yes, your war all those years ago, yet the

memories so fresh in your mind. I can taste them,‖ it

whispered. ―I know the things you saw. We use them here

as tales to calm the younger ones of our kind.‖

Graham couldn‘t see its face but he could tell that

wherever it was, it wore a smile. Its eyes gleaming in the

darkness, quite possibly red; or green, an absurd yet

certain thought came to him.

―You don‘t scare me. So just get it over with already,‖

Graham said, drawing his shoulders back as far as his

bonds would allow.

―Very well, let‘s see if you can accept your judgment.‖

The voice changed to a snakelike hiss.

As if on cue, the room began to spin. Colors flashed,

filling Graham‘s entire field of vision with the power of a

thousand flash bulbs going off at once: the Hell Press,

eager to get front page pictures of the newest recruit.

When it all cleared, Graham found himself still tied to the

chair, in a dusty field. A few struggling plants jutted from

the ground; not growing so much as reaching out of the

bulb trying to claw their way out of the soil and escape.

Vines and stems twisted and hooked like bony fingers

scratching away at the earth. A choking air hung all

around him. Graham coughed. He could feel – no, he

could taste the dust; it was putrid and dried out his

mouth immediately.

It was hot. There was no wind. Graham looked

around and knew where he was. He wasn‘t surprised at

all: he had always said to anybody who asked him that a

large part of him had died over there…here…the

Netherlands…in Europe. The whole godforsaken war had

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murdered him. Yet the field – this one small place – had

been the spot where the final nail had been driven into

his coffin. It was the cornerstone behind every dream or

nightmare he had for the rest of his life. And now it

seemed he had finally come home.

In the distance, Graham heard a thundering

explosion. Another blast followed soon after, and with it,

as if carried away from the battlefield, were the screams

and shouts of those caught in the path of the blasts.

Several lesser explosions followed like an echo. They

came in waves, volleys of fire. The determined artillery

unit made not war, but rather a work of poetic beauty; a

vicious score to orchestrate their side‘s movements and

intentions. The earth around him shook as if it were

scared by what approached. Accompanying the

explosions was a mechanical sound, a tired groaning

source of motion that was unmistakable even to ears long

since unaccustomed to war: a tank. It was moving fast,

and in their direction, and it was then that Graham

realized he was not alone.

He was, in fact, surrounded on all sides. Men stood

behind him. The majority were in uniform. Graham

couldn‘t tell where they were from; the only thing he saw

was their dead, lifeless faces, all staring blankly towards

him. Eyes white, not empty, but bleached by standing in

the sun, immobile for too long. The group stood, their

weapons on the floor, discarded, clutched at by the

grasping digits of the war-ravaged greenery. There were

civilians among them also; men, women, and even a few

children; a quick count had Graham thinking they

numbered around fifty.

They all simply stared at him, yet Graham doubted

that any of them could see. ―Hey, hey, could one of you

come and untie me?‖ he called out but got no response.

All the while, the mechanical whining grew louder as the

tank, no, wait…tanks, approached.

―They won‘t help you,‖ a voice inside his mind said.

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Graham didn‘t recognize it as one of his own. Over

the years he had created many different voices that dealt

with his past. Each character had their own role and part

to play in his dreams. It was the same ownerless voice

that had spoken to him when he was still in the

basement.

―Don‘t you remember where you are?‖ it asked him.

―I couldn‘t forget this place if I tried,‖ Graham said

inside his mind. He learned early enough that talking just

made him look even crazier. ―I remember everything

about this place,‖ he said. His voice threatened to break,

yet he did his best to remain defiant. ―Who could ever

forget something like that?‖

―That‘s good, because all of these people remember

you,‖ the voice answered. It ignored Graham‘s question

in favor of a chortled laugh.

Graham recoiled on his stool; images flashed into his

head like a slideshow. Images that weren‘t new to him

but seemed somewhat more vivid than the last twenty

years‘ dreams had been.

―What do you mean?‖ Graham asked, dumbfounded.

―Oh, I never like to spoil the ending. I would rather

let them tell you themselves anyway. I enjoy a bit of a

role-play from time to time,‖ the voice sneered. ―So just

close your eyes and cast your mind back. Go, they‘re all

waiting for you. Don‘t worry; maybe you can win this

time.‖

―Bobby?‖ Graham whispered.

***

It was 1944, the start of winter, Arnhem Bridge still

stood, yet operation Market Garden had been deemed a

success despite the fact that casualties and unplanned

problems – an arguable consequence of war – had

depleted numbers in the north of Holland by more than

double the estimated figures. Graham led his small

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company – they totaled twenty – on a regular tour of

their designated stretch of countryside.

They had not been part of the market or the garden,

but rather had been stationed closer to the Belgium

border. Graham was the first one to see the church. He

led the way, whistling a nameless tune to himself as he

went. The first thing he saw was the wisp of smoke on the

horizon. It had snapped him out of the comfort zone he

had slipped into; smoke meant fire, fire meant people,

and that invariably meant Nazis – or so they had all come

to think. As they got closer, however, a strange calm

washed over them all. They came over the crest of a slight

rise in the road and it was then Graham saw the church.

A small fire was burning out front. The emergence of a

figure from behind the church set them all on alert. Yet

the closer they got the more confident they became with

the knowledge that whoever was there was friendly.

Graham was the first to make contact with the

family; a farmer, his wife, and their three children. A boy

of about thirteen, a tiny, scrawny thing with a mop of

unruly jet black hair which had already begun to thin in

places, giving the kid the look of a middle aged man.

The two daughters were in no better physical

condition. The youngest, Wilhelmina, would have been a

cute looking thing if not half staved. She was only six

years old, and despite her skinny frame and a swollen left

arm that hung limp at her side, she still had a sparkle in

her eyes; the eternal optimism of youth. Comparably, the

eldest daughter Johanna who was eighteen, was quite the

opposite: her face was sunken, her eyes dark and

deadened to all emotion. Her hair was a beautiful

chestnut color, her body not as skinny as the rest but

certainly on the wrong side of healthy.

She had smiled when Graham approached, and part

of him – that small part nobody can control – fell in love

with her. She looked utterly helpless, scared and

indefinitely damaged by what she had borne witness to.

Yet, despite it all, she was, for lack of a better word,

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beautiful. She wore a shirt that came to just below her

hips, and a pair of shorts that had been so damaged,

Graham would have believed it if they had said they had

once been trousers.

They welcomed the American troops with open arms

and kisses to each cheek. The only one who didn‘t offer

her cheek was Johanna. It was the mother, a woman who

looked twice her forty years, who told Graham through a

rudimentary mix of English, sign language, and Dutch

that her daughter had been raped by the German soldiers

in the town they had lived when the occupation

happened.

Just as they let their guard down the ground began to

tremble as tank tracks tore at the dried dusty soil.

―Sarge, targets approaching from the south. My

count is at two tanks. Panzers are my best bet. Not

enough movement for a whole platoon. I would say just a

couple of stragglers,‖ Henry Balfont said. His thick

Southern accent disguised every other word. Graham was

the one person who seemed able to understand him well

enough to not have to ask for a repeat of every other

sentence.

―Move the men; head into the trees yonder. Henry,

take the family with you just for precaution. Let‘s not

make any hasty decisions before we know what we‘re up

against,‖ Graham answered. The trees would give them

the best position for mounting a possible attack while

also offering enough shelter should the unexpected

guests be too strong in numbers. Better then to wait for

them to move on, radio the news and then stage an attack

under more favorable conditions.

―Yes, Sarge,‖ Henry called in response, although it

came out sounding like ―Ayuh-Saage‖ before signaling to

the others. They moved silent and they moved fast, but

when Graham turned back to the family, they were gone,

the doors to the church just closing behind them.

Graham ran over to the door but it was locked. He

knocked and waited, then knocked again, harder this

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time. The drone of the approaching tanks grew closer.

The door didn‘t open.

―Come out, we will protect you,‖ Graham called to

them. ―You don‘t have to be scared,‖ he added.

It was a blatant lie, but he guessed they either

couldn‘t understand or wouldn‘t listen to him anyway. He

tried once more, refusing to give up until the last possible

moment. They would not be able to explain their

presence in the church and would no doubt be killed.

―Sarge, come on, will ya?‖ Henry called, grabbing

him by the shoulder. ―Jimmy‘s got the base rat on the

wire. What do you want us to say?‖ Henry asked him as

they ran for cover.

The air turned grey as a lone tank approached, and

offered Graham the first clue that things were not as they

appeared to be, but he waited nonetheless.

The tank drove up to the church, stopping close

enough for the barrel of the cannon to be inches away

from the sidewall. The other held back, standing point.

Graham and his men watched as seven men

clambered out of the machine, not wearing the expected

Nazi uniforms, but rather a mixture of what seemed to be

every uniform involved in the war; the American Army

and Air Force, British infantry and RAF colors. Some of

the men had even gone so far as to mix and match their

military ensemble with British shirts and American

trousers and boots. Graham couldn‘t see any of the marks

of the 30th Infantry; his unit.

―You seeing this, Sarge? They‘s tryin‘ to be us,‖ a New

Yorker named Martin Brittori whispered. They were the

same words that were on the lips of the entire group.

Martin laughed under his breath. Graham smiled in spite

of himself. ―Shall we go t‘em?‖ Martin asked.

Graham was about to answer when one man dressed

in a complete British uniform walked to the church,

picked up a rock and threw it through one of the small

windows. This seemed to be some sort of signal, because

the others walked over to the door and with a small burst

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of gunfire succeeded in wrenching them apart before

storming the building like a modern day SWAT team.

They all heard the screaming, followed by the familiar

rattling burst of gunfire erupt from within the church.

The men emerged soon after, holding both the wife and

Johanna by the hair. They dragged the women behind

them as if they were mules at auction. There was no sign

of the father, son, or young Wilhelmina.

―What do we do, Sarge?‖ a voice said up from the

background. Graham didn‘t hear who it was; he was

focused on the scene unfolding before his eyes. The fight

or flight syndrome, as people had labeled it over the

years, raged through his body. Graham knew that any

action would result in bloodshed, and although it took

him many years before he would admit it to himself, the

only thing he had thought about back then was which

way would be the most likely to leave him alive.

The group remained in the trees and watched in

silence as first the mother and then the daughter were

bent over the tank to be stripped and beaten by the

soldiers who cawed with laughter throughout the whole

ordeal. Johanna screamed while the mother was silent,

her face unemotional, broken; she had surrendered.

―Sarge, we can‘t wait any longer. Jesus, look at what

they‘re doing, for Christ sake!‖ Martin shouted from

beside him. ―Come on,‖ he called and charged out of the

coppice followed by ten other men, the movements fueled

by rage, their actions clumsy. Their minds shunted over

into the passenger seat for their joy ride into death.

―No!‖ Graham called after them – but his words were

cut off by gunfire, and not from the group of men, but

from a new group, hidden by the trees to their far left.

Their attention still held by the helpless women.

Martin was the first to fall, his head exploding in a

red mist; quite possibly the same mist that had

descended over him a few moments earlier. The rest of

the group fell after a scattered burst of panic fire tore

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through them. The first shot was more luck than a

specifically aimed headshot.

Graham had seen them, something, a glint of light

which he was sure came from either a pair of binoculars

or the sight of a rifle, but he hadn‘t seen it in time to stop

Martin from doing exactly what he himself had wanted to

do. ―Two o‘ clock. Unknown number of targets. Watch

the trees and open fire as soon as they emerge!‖ Graham

shouted over the rattling sound of his own gunfire

directed towards the tank. The German soldiers threw

the women to the floor behind the tanks in what looked

at first glance like a strange act of protection.

The Nazis (for there was no other option other than

that) jumped inside the British tank which they had

somehow acquired – no doubt at the same time they

picked up their uniforms, Graham reasoned. They heard

German voices barking orders on all sides of them, and

when the tank‘s engine roared into life the group‘s

resolve was broken.

The battle intensified and when the turret of the

giant tank turned in their direction Graham didn‘t need

to give any orders. The group turned and fled. They

moved along the trees rather than deeper into them. No

sooner had the last man broken into a run than a

booming shot rang out, shaking the ground like an

earthquake. The splintering sound of trees being felled

shook their bones. Tendrils of smoke overtook them like

a mist rolling across the English moors; only the snarling

hound was not the Baskerville ghost, but the machine

gun fire of German troops.

By the time they stopped moving to regroup, the

hidden German soldiers had emerged, another tank, this

one a Panzer with approximately ten men walking beside

it, all in German uniform.

Graham couldn‘t help but offer the world a wry smile.

―Waas‘up, Sarge?‖ Matthew Paterson asked, his

voice barely a whisper, his body crouched low to the

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ground behind a small bushel which had at one time been

a wild blackberry plant.

―Just thinking about how fucked we seem to be,‖

Graham whispered in return. Their situation was indeed

grave and at that point in time he saw no options open to

them other than to make a stand.

The ensuing battle was inevitable. The German

troops joined together and spread out, leaving the tanks

guarded but not occupied. Graham knew that once the

skirmish began the tanks would be useless, as not even

the Germans would use them in such close proximity to

their own troops.

Matthew, Henry Balfont, and Jimmy Stevens, the

radio operator, were the first to fall, followed soon after

by a number of German soldiers. The cover offered by the

trees, although sparse, was enough to give Graham and

his men a degree of shelter. They moved fast but with

caution towards the edge of the copse, moving away from

the church. Graham was relieved when no more German

troops arrived. The numbers had not been in their favor

when it began, and with nine of his initial twenty men

dead and one other with a nasty wound in his shoulder,

things hadn‘t gotten any better.

―Listen, we need a plan. If we run now they‘ll mow us

down. If we stick in the trees they‘ll unleash the big dogs

on us.‖ Graham gestured towards the tanks. The

Germans were less than a hundred meters away,

remaining outside the line of trees.

Graham crouched down to his haunches and fired a

burst towards the moving stumps that were legs attached

to hidden German bodies. None of his shots killed but

several of the group fell, their screams breaking the eerie

silence that had fallen. Graham sprang from the trees, his

rifle ready, and unleashed another volley, partnered by

Harold McCarb – the oldest man in their group at

twenty-five – yet he still had yet to be promoted to a

higher rank despite his near perfect service record. He

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and Graham had both enlisted together before the war

even started, unlike the majority of the others.

―Walter, John, we‘ll divert their attention. You guys

need to get to those tanks,‖ Graham instructed the two

men he knew could operate a tank.

They sped off at once without even daring to question

his order. The skirmish wasn‘t a long one; Graham took a

flesh wound to the right thigh from one of the tank

guards – who he had rightly guessed didn‘t dare even

consider firing the big guns into their own men. He

remained on his feet long enough to fire one round. The

man‘s face disappeared in a cloud of red, and he fell

backwards onto the Panzer and everything fell still. The

only sound that remained had been groaning of the

injured Germans, their bodies broken and bleeding, their

guns fallen out of reach.

Slowly, the scene around Graham began to dilute the

same way a photograph reduces in clarity over the years.

The color was the first thing to fade. Then the lines and

boundaries of everything began to blur. Colors ran and

collided with each other. The tanks half sank into the

ground, their motors still grumbling. Graham looked to

his left, but Harold was gone. He had been replaced by a

faceless, flesh colored orb; the eyes, nose, mouth,

everything had been erased. The dawning realization that

it had all been a dream came when Graham tried to

move. He was still sitting, lost between worlds. His wrists

were bound, his legs also. His army uniform was gone,

replaced instead by a strange and rather uncomfortable

suit, the top button fastened in a choking fashion.

―You remember, I see. Well, that makes my job

somewhat easier,‖ a voice said.

Graham felt a surge of emotion rush through him,

and he fought hard to keep control of himself, tensing his

jaw until it hurt.

―How could I forget? But it was a war. I killed. I shot

first and cursed when I missed, but I accepted what

happened over there,‖ Graham said defiantly. The room

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was cold and his breath clouded before his face with

every word he said.

―Really? You can tell yourself that, you can even tell

me that, but we both know that this is where you finally

broke. Doesn‘t it still haunt you, the look on those

women‘s faces?‖ Was there pleasure in the voice?

―Fuck you. I still remember them…how could I

forget? I remember every man who served and died by

my side, so I guess you‘re out of luck.‖ Graham tried to

sound strong, but even he could hear his voice start to

waver, just a little.

As Graham‘s eyes adjusted he found he could make

out more and more of his cell. The walls were lined with

wood. There was nothing but earth on the other side; he

could smell it, rich and peaty. Before long, Graham could

see from one corner to the other, yet try as he liked, he

could not find the owner of the voice.

―I believe you, I really do. That‘s why our time

together it about something else entirely,‖ the voice

whispered in Graham‘s ear.

―Oh, then please enlighten me, set me on the right

path so that we can get this over and done with,‖ Graham

responded, not with fire and guile but anger. An

instinctive reaction brought on through having to relive

memories that now they had been replayed and brought

to the surface again didn‘t seem to matter.

―First, answer me this: why did you leave them?‖ the

voice asked. It came from behind him now. Graham

turned his head. He saw someone, two people in fact.

Shadows in the corner, but just as Graham thought he

could see his tormentor both figures disappeared, leaving

him with a different scene to contend with. He saw the

old church; the brick and stone walls had crumbled away,

the small spire fallen through the roof and stood but a

few feet proud of the walls that had supported it for so

many years. Graham recognized it without a moment‘s

hesitation.

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Then all of a sudden they stood before him. Stared at

him, their heads tilted to the right. They studied him.

Their faces blank, expressionless. Their grey, sagging

flesh was covered in open wounds which, even after so

many years, still wept. Fleas and ticks sprung joyously

from one body to another. They opened their mouths, yet

speech was impossible for the women as they had no

tongues. They had long since rotted away or been eaten

by some hungry scavenger. As a replacement, each

mouth contained a thick white maggot, their bodies

swelled so large and obese after having gorged on the

rotting treasure trove they had discovered that they now

barely fit inside the respective mouths that they called

home.

―Johanna, Jesus Christ, I‘m so sorry.‖ The words

were empty. They were words he had spoken a hundred

times over the years but never had he wished them so

earnestly.

The corpse muttered at him, angry mumbled sounds.

Yet her eyes said volumes. They stared blindly at Graham

but he understood well enough that it wasn‘t anger, but

warning; a plea for him to once again turn around and

just keep walking.

―Answer my question, peon. Why did you leave

them? You never gave a second thought to that family,‖

the voice said through the women. Their mouths opened

and closed in no particular synchronicity with the words,

like fish. ―You just packed up your things and left, eager

to get back to the comfort of your platoon and spread the

word of your heroics.‖ The last word was spat, as if it left

a foul taste in the back of the mouth.

―They were dead. It‘s not as though burying them

wouldn‘t have helped. We needed to get back and advise

those that needed to know what had happened,‖ Graham

lied. He stuttered as he spoke. He always was a bad liar.

―That does make a convenient excuse for you I‘m

sure, but utterly irrelevant. You see, they were alive; they

were healthy, in fact. In spite of their exterior ailments,

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their bodies were strong. But thanks to you, their family

was taken from them, their patriarch, their hunter-

gatherer, and their future, the small child. Their bodies

were left to rot inside that church…riddled with holes.

They drowned in a sea of their own blood. Alone. The

women didn‘t dare go back inside, not even to say

goodbye,‖ the voice snarled.

―You turned and walked away from us. The fight was

over and you turned heels and took your men away from

danger.‖ The two women continued to convey the words

of the mysterious narrator whose face he dared not show.

Their bodies were thin and haggard, their arms and legs

so tiny it looked as though they would break if they had

to so much as hold each other‘s hands. Their hair was

matted and filled with leaves and twigs.

―I thought you were dead,‖ Graham said, his voice

beginning to crumble. ―With all the gunfire we just

thought you were dead.‖

He could feel the warm, salty tears stinging his eyes.

Graham tried as hard as he could not to let them fall. It

was unavoidable. Not because he was angry or because

what he saw upset him, but because he was lying. He

hadn‘t thought that they were dead, not back then, not at

the moment. Truth be told he had simply forgotten them,

he had been happy to survive and wanted to get himself

and his men (although if you asked him at the time, he

would have said that they too were expendable) away

from the encounter and back to the rest of the unit. There

was comfort in numbers. It wasn‘t until much later, as

they sat around a makeshift table playing cards for

cigarettes, that the family came back into his head. It was

then, at that point and no sooner, that Graham convinced

himself that they had died. They had been dead as soon

as they had been pulled from the church, the rest was just

a faded memory; selective, they called it. It helped him

sleep a little that night, and over the years it simply

became truth.

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―No, no, we were alive and scared. We were alone,

our shelter and food taken from us. We were forced to

stand there through the cold nights, the wet days.‖ The

words were accusatory, barbed, and meant to hurt. Then

it went silent. Their voices muted, and then his v oice

returned.

―It was starvation and dehydration that took them. It

ravaged their bodies and melted their minds long before

their hearts stopped. They died cold, alone, and still

believing that you would come back for them.‖ The words

cut Graham like a hot knife. He tried to tell himself that

they were dead; nothing could bring them back anymore.

It was too late, the damage had been done in Graham‘s

mind. The floodgates opened and try as he might,

Graham could do nothing to stop it.

―I‘m sorry. I never stopped thinking about you, both

of you. It was because of you, Johanna, that I became a

teacher. I taught children your age. I wanted to help them

understand life. Not just in terms of schooling, but in the

broader terms of reality. I helped prepare them for

everything life would throw at them, not just the

standardized ‗do not copy your neighbor‘s answer‘ kind of

problems, but real issues. You saved my life. I got out of

the military as soon as the war was over and I never

looked back. You stayed in my dreams until the end and I

mean that.‖

Graham felt his emotion building but his words were

cut off. His windpipe closed as if someone had shoved a

cork down his gullet. His lungs began to burn and

although he was dead Graham felt his heart begin to race.

His face grew dark, his limbs heavy; his thumbs and

fingers became useless, fat sausages that dangled from

his arms in bunches like fruits on a tree.

―I know what you did. I see everything. Don‘t you get

it? I didn‘t create these images; I just found them in your

mind and pressed play. It‘s my job to ensure that you see

everything in the stark, unrepentant light of day. I am

merely the tour guide, here to keep you on track and,

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well...maybe have a bit of fun with you on the way.‖ The

pressure around Graham‘s throat abated, and as he

gasped for air with burning gulps, his captor continued to

talk.

―I don‘t care about them and neither should you.

They died, you lived, and that‘s all that matters in your

petty human world. Believe me, down here, it‘s

remarkably similar. I would cast my own brother into the

pit of Assisi if it would help me advance another level

down. Your real problem is what happened to you

because of that day,‖ the voice said, but no longer

boomed or demanded. To Graham it sounded like the

narrator of a game show.

―I don‘t understand. I let those innocent people die; I

did desert them. I deserve to be here… more than I

realized.‖ Graham felt his resolve crumble faster than the

walls of the church that had been the tomb of a father, his

only son, and youngest daughter back in 1944.

―Humans, you are so pathetic, with your crude

emotions and your lack of control. You‘re not in Hell; not

yet, at least. You are here to be judged. I am not the

executioner, but merely the messenger; a bailiff, if you

will. They would have died from their malnutrition even

if you had have taken them with you. I mean, come on,

the lives of a couple of poor farming women is of no

interest to me or anybody down here. If anything, I –

personally speaking – applaud your actions that day. No,

you are here because you gave up on God. You

surrendered all your belief in Him, your fear of Him after

that day. Your life became about helping others, but not

for a cause any less selfish than trying to fill that gnawing

hole left inside you where your faith had once been.‖ The

voice lectured now, and Graham imagined him as a

tweed-wearing history teacher, not unlike Robert

Carmichael, the history department head back at his first

ever high school teaching job. It didn‘t make the situation

any less daunting but it gave Graham a base from which

he could conjure an image to fit the floating voice.

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―God, I never forgot God or stopped believing in

Him, I just decided that He‘s a cocksucker and only

interested in seeing people suffer. Eradicating that

sadistic son of a bitch from my decision making took my

life and turned it into something enjoyable. So if you ask

me if I believe, then yes, of course I do. I always did. If

you ask me what I would do if I got to the pearly gates,

then I would love to kick my bearded creator a swift one

in the bollocks and then go find my wife,‖ Graham spat.

Now it was his turn to feel enraged. Not because of

the questioning and not as a result of the images he had

seen, but simply because he had been forced to empty

himself. He could feel the atmosphere working on him,

ridding his body of the pent up emotion and aggression,

rendering him passive, empty and tired, making him easy

pickings for whatever lay ahead.

―Yes, yes, I find it all very intriguing but also so

incredibly... boring.‖ The voice roared the last word. ―If

you do not fear God, then you cannot fear us, and if

people stopped fearing us, then, well, Hell wouldn‘t be as

much fun, now, would it? Sure, it would still exist, and

yes, business would pick up with all the holy defectors,

but fear is kind of what we do down here; it is what drives

us. The terror helps us survive and keeps us all

functioning.‖

Graham opened his mouth to speak, but the voice

snapped, barking at him in the snarling voice of an old

man. ―Be an end to it. I am bored with you now. Your

ghosts are simple, your past pathetic, and I no longer

have an interest in you. You will learn of your mistakes in

the Chamber of Blood. Now get out of my sight.‖

There was no goodbye, no cackling laughter as

Graham had half expected. There was nothing but a

rushing wind. Graham began to fall. His restraints had

vanished, so too the chair. Graham fell into the darkness

and the walls turned from black to purple, from purple to

red, and finally from red to a burning blood orange. It

didn‘t take long before Graham hit the ground…no, not

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ground, but water, a sea, a vast sea (or lake) and was

swallowed by it whole. Graham was effortlessly sucked

deep beneath its surface.

When he broke the surface of the water, Graham

struggled and flapped with his arms. They seemed to

respond to his commands with the same conviction a

toddler shows when listening to its parents. He sank

beneath the surface again, pulled – or so it felt – by

hands grasping at the newest member of their clan.

Graham‘s body called out in agony, his chest tightened,

his vision faded, and yet his thoughts seemed to clarify.

He saw the field and the church the way it had been

before they arrived. It was a beautiful sight.

With that in his mind, Graham let go. He stopped his

struggles and allowed himself to sink. Eager hands

tightened their grip on his ankles and pulled him deeper.

He opened his mouth. The taste of copper hit the back of

his throat and surged down his gullet. Then, suddenly he

was propelled upwards, pushed by some hidden force.

Graham rose fast and broke the water, coughing and

spluttering, gasping for air. For a few moments he

wheezed and gulped and, after a while, began to regain

control.

Graham tread water and looked around, panicked

that they would grab at him again. He saw no signs of a

shoreline, but the rough undulating surface could easily

have hidden land from view; Graham decided he was in

an ocean, for he had never seen anything other than sea

so rough and untamed. Only the water was not the crisp

blue of the tropics, or even the sewage green of the seas

around Europe, but red. It didn‘t take long for Graham to

realize the sea was blood, and he was nothing more than

a clot in the system, destined to end up wherever the tide

would take him.

There was an obvious current beneath him; Graham

could feel the gore pulling at him and so he decided to

swim with it. He began to paddle, his body covered in

rapidly congealing blood. Thick clots tried to stick his

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eyelids together. His nose was blocked with black lumps

of jelly, and he had swallowed more than he cared to

think about; his mouth tasting as though he had bitten

down a handful of old pennies.

Graham had no idea how long he swam: all he knew

was that he was tired. Not just I‘ve had a long day at work

tired, but worn out, falling apart tired, exhausted to the

point where further movement was not just hard but

impossible.

When he first arrived in the world, it had been silent.

Even the blood ocean with its pink froth capped waves

had made no sound. Yet now, as he swam heading

towards what he hoped would be the shore, Graham

realized that the silence was being replaced by an eerie

groaning, the same sound one hears in old houses or in

pipes long since due a service. It was carried on the air, it

travelled through the ocean, it fell from the sky, an all-

encompassing cry. It was that of tortured souls

screaming, cries of lust, sin and hatred all boiled

together.

He stopped swimming and noticed that every part of

him that was below the surface was completely numb. It

had been a warmth, bordering on burning sensation at

first, but now all feeling had gone. He was tired,

exhausted, and there was part of him that wanted to be

taken by the sea, to simply sink away again to the bottom

of the bloody ocean and drown in the fluid of life. It all

seemed rather poetic to him. Yet just as he made the

decision to let his body go, the water began to ripple

around him. It spread in circles as if a helicopter was

moving into position to pluck him from the sea. A bright

light appeared, bathing Graham in a pure brilliance; a

searchlight, or so his natural inclination and rational

mind suggested.

Out of nowhere, a pair of hands grasped him, not by

the feet this time, but by the shoulders. The grip was

powerful and the nails felt like sharp talons as they dug

into Graham‘s flesh; not breaking the skin, but pinching

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to the point of penetration. Graham felt himself begin to

rise above the waves. He was plucked effortlessly from

the ocean. It looked as if he had been bathing in a barrel

of beetroot for weeks. He rose higher and higher, not

moving in any direction other than vertical.

Graham looked down and saw for the first time how

vast it all was. The ocean stretched out in all directions,

and squint as he might, there was not even the faintest

trace of land on the horizon.

Graham could make out small islands dotted around,

and he could see people, souls like himself, swimming,

some against the tide, some with it, all heading towards

what they hoped to be salvation. They rose another few

feet and Graham realized that they weren‘t islands, but

rather giant floating clots that drifted on the surface of

the water. Graham could see people clinging to them. He

could feel their anguish and hear their groans as they

realized that salvation didn‘t exist, not anymore. He saw

sprays of pink foam shooting high into the air just before

large grey beasts leapt from beneath the surface,

consuming entire groups of people, even entire ‗islands‘

inside their cavernous mouths. Some had fins, and others

looked like giant frog/whale hybrids. Some had several

heads and some to Graham‘s shock seemed to have no

heads at all. One end simply opened into a giant mouth

like an amphibious worm.

There was something else. Graham noticed it at the

end just as they reached a height where things all became

indistinguishable: beneath the surface, when the ocean

was flat and the waves staved off, he could see them,

hundreds, thousands, no, probably hundreds of millions

of faces staring up through the red liquid. Their arms

were outstretched as they grasped upwards, reaching not

for the surface but for more bodies, for new arrivals. They

were waiting to take a hold and pull them down. To sink

them to the Hemoglobic Ocean floor, and in turn lift

themselves slightly higher, back to the surface, to their

second chance. They were the faces of those who, like

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Graham, simply gave up and sank. They didn‘t die, but

were made to wait, to gather those that joined their

hopeless cause and climb back up and restart their epic

journey in the hope of finding…anything.

―What the hell is this?‖ Graham asked, not realizing

he was speaking aloud, his consciousness drifting away

from him.

―One of the Blood Seas, pools that are filled with the

remains of those skinned in the Chamber of Blood,‖ a

patient sounding voice answered him. There was no

malice in it, no hidden, scheming lust for suffering, but

simply an honest answer to an honest yet terrifying

question.

With the answer still filtering through his mind,

Graham felt everything slip away from him. All his fears

and thoughts wiped out of his mind, replaced by a feeling

much akin to sleep, and when it hit, Graham welcomed it

with open arms.

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PART II

A GREAT HALL IN A DYING WORLD

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Chapter 11

Helen‘s eyes sprung open, panicked. She sat bolt

upright; the sensation of being unrestrained scared her at

first. After so many years of being bound and immobile,

the sudden range of motion her body was given was too

much for her and she collapsed back down onto the hard

floor.

Helen let out a long, slow breath, wincing in

anticipation of the pain that she had learned

accompanied such sudden movements. Behind her closed

eyes she could see Luther‘s face, a smirk spread across it,

his eyes glowing with orange fire, no doubt merely a trick

of her mind, a dream. Yet she felt his hot, acrid breath

blow against her face as his mouth opened up into a

laugh; a sneering, howling laugh that revealed rows of

shark teeth. Behind him fire spurted into the air, flames

fanned outwards, licking Luther‘s colorless skin, leaving

red tattoos patterned over his flesh. She saw hazy images

of shadowy skulls, and bony limbs twisted and danced

within the flickering background inferno – and so, with

no other option…

Helen opened her eyes.

The initial burst of panic replaced by a nervous

caution; she fully expected the freedom to have been

dream, and didn‘t even entertain the notion that she had

gotten away. Helen was certain that she was still hung

upside-down in the forest, or maybe that was over and

she was above a canyon or gorge. She could see the blood

red river running far below her; it looked like nothing

more than a small vein running through the body of

barren land that stretched out in all directions as far as

her inverted eyes could see. But no, the world was not

dull and hopeless, yet nor was it bright. The world was

pastel. The colors were there but faded, yet felt so real, it

was unmistakable. Helen had escaped and woken up in

some vintage world, a water-washed pastel kingdom

where nothing could be too bright or vivid.

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Despite what appeared at first glance to be safe

surroundings, Helen could still feel the insects crawling

over her skin, and with a frantic flail of arms she pulled

off her shirt. Helen wasn‘t sure where the shirt had come

from, but she was glad for it, as she wasn‘t sure she

wanted to see the damage it covered. Her skin was

smooth, unblemished. Even the scar from where she had

had her appendix removed when she was sixteen was

gone. Helen ran her hands over her body, fingers

trembling in near disbelief. She refused to believe what

her eyes showed her; she needed to feel it for herself. She

patted herself down, and only once she was satisfied that

her body was her own and that no bugs were preparing to

erupt from her chest in a reenactment of the alien

birthing scene did she put her shirt back on.

Getting to her feet wasn‘t as difficult as she had

envisioned. Keeping her balance, however, that took

some practice. Holding out her hands like a blind

woman, Helen supported herself against the grey wall

that she had been slumped up against when she woke. It

took a few moments for her balance to return but when it

did it was instant, with nothing worse than a slight

popping sensation in her ears, like when adjusting to the

pressurization in an aircraft cabin. The wall was solid and

warm to her touch, its surface was rough against her skin,

which seemed overly sensitive. The walls looked smooth,

but felt like raw brick, scratchy and unrefined. It was

dusty, and when she removed her hands Helen saw it had

once been a yellow color. No sooner had she removed her

hand, when the strange, dust-like coating – which she

would notice at a later date once having left the confines

of the room, seemed to affect everything in the town –

returned, covering her palm print like steam on a

bathroom mirror.

There was a large window to her left. The curtains

were tied back neatly, but the glass they were hung to

cover was so filthy that it offered up no view of the world

beyond the walls. With first impressions being the

powerful tool that they are, Helen thought that it was

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merely misty out. Reluctantly, Helen pushed herself away

from the wall, giving herself complete control of her

body. Once she was stable, Helen walked over the

window, wiping it with her fist, creating a small porthole

through which she could see. While Helen could not

make out any distinguishing features or individual

landmarks because of the ‗mist‘ as she thought of it, it

was obvious that she was in some sort of town. From the

shadowy look of the buildings opposite, Helen had only

one thought occupy her mind and it was too absurd to

even speak aloud.

(The Wild West)

―Where the hell... Where am I?‖ She caught her

words without realizing it. The stupidity of the statement

occurred to her, however, and when thinking about it

after the fact she realized it was a silly saying when one

thought about it.

―I hoped you could tell me,‖ a deep, somewhat groggy

sounding voice said from behind her.

Helen let out a startled scream as she turned around

and saw the shadowy figure of a semi-naked man

standing in the far corner of what she now saw was a

large bedroom; a hotel room. The random scenic

paintings placed on the wall above the bed, the rather

surreal oil painting in the far left hand corner of the

room, a small alcove where there should have been a desk

or wall mounted trouser press. The floor was carpeted

with cheap nylon and the bed decked with an ever

outdated floral bed spread. In fact, the only thing that

looked out of place was the small clapped-out cupboard,

which looked as if it would fall apart at the slightest of

touches. The cupboard was immediately to the left of the

door upon entering, yet it stood at least six inches away

from the wall, with no obvious obstruction having caused

its unusual placement.

―W-wh-who are you?‖

Luther?

Helen stuttered, her voice a shocked whisper. The

small amount of power she did put into her words

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seemed to be absorbed by the air long before they

reached the stranger‘s ears. She moved backwards as she

spoke, reaching behind her for support of some kind, her

legs losing the strength they had just found.

―What do you say you tell me your name first and

we‘ll take it from there? Who are you, how did you just

appear out of thin air, and what the fuck is going on

here?‖ Marcus demanded, his tone serious, straight to

the point and downright terrifying, or so the scared and

disoriented Helen thought.

―I…I don‘t know, I mean…I was, um…I think I died,

but then I thought it was a dream. Him. Oh God, I just

don‘t know.‖ Helen couldn‘t take it any longer and she

burst into tears. She collapsed onto her haunches and

buried her face in her hands, her hair doing its best to

hide it all as she sobbed.

Marcus moved across the room and crouched down

next to the woman. It felt strange to touch another

human being, and he wasn‘t surprised to see his hand

shake as he reached out to her. Marcus laid his hand on

the sobbing lady‘s shoulder. He felt her shrink back from

his touch and recoiled himself.

―Hey, I‘m sorry. I guess we seem to be on the same

side here. I…um, I died also,‖ he said, admitting it to

himself and speaking it out loud for the first time. ―You

just put the wind up me with your sudden appearance.‖

Marcus continued, ―Come on, why don‘t we stand you up

and see if you don‘t feel better?‖

Marcus slipped his hand under her arm and applied a

gentle pressure that helped guide Helen to her feet. ―You

don‘t happen to have a key, do you? I had kind of hoped

we could get out of this godforsaken hotel. It doesn‘t feel

right here.‖ Marcus managed a half smile. He meant what

he said but didn‘t want to scare the girl; she looked as

though she had been through enough.

―Wh-what do you mean, I j-ju-just appeared?‖ Helen

asked, stuttering as she always did when nervous.

Or scared.

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She knew that the conversation had progressed from

the stranger‘s opening statement but she didn‘t care. It

had stuck with her and she needed to know what he

meant.

Marcus, who had turned to stare out the window –

which had held him captive since he had awoken –

looked at her over his shoulder. ―Well, that‘s just it. One

minute I was here alone, the next, there was a strange

grating noise and there you were.‖ Marcus looked Helen

right in the eyes as he spoke. It was enough to convince

her that he spoke the truth.

―I don‘t understand, I don‘t remember what...I was

just at work and then, then I was...in Hell, with him. And

it was so long, and…and, and now...‖ Helen‘s words

faltered as a fresh wave of warm, salty tears fell from her

eyes.

―You were in Hell,‖ Marcus finished for her, jumping

on her words. ―You and I both. I was just walking back to

the car ready to finish my shift when trouble starts just

out of nowhere. This guy stabs me and boom…out went

my lights. Next thing I know, I‘ve got some strange

creature showing me what I did wrong and sending me to

some chamber. And I‘ll tell you one thing…I saw that

place, and I don‘t plan on going back.‖ Marcus exhaled a

long, deep breath. Under normal circumstances he wasn‘t

one to run his mouth, but after being alone for so long it

felt good to get it all said in front of someone else.

Helen tried to smile – it was the only gesture she

could think of – as she steadied herself on her feet. She

stood steady and then walked over to the man. He was

big, broad and in good shape. Three things which, when

combined, made Helen feel safer than she had ever in her

life. ―Helen, Helen Attinson.‖ She offered Marcus her

hand. He took it – enveloped it, more like – within his

own gigantic fist. His grip was gentle, although Helen felt

the power that lurked behind it and felt safer still. ―I was

stuck in the chamber for years, or at least it felt like years.

I was tortured every day in ways that even now I can‘t

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fully imagine.‖ She stopped talking; the memories that

flooded back into her mind were too painful and the

wounds too fresh. Every time she closed her eyes Luther

was there, smiling at her, waiting.

Marcus stared at her, his eyes wide. ―Jesus—‖ he

began, but Helen cut him off.

―It wasn‘t your fault.‖ She tried to smile, and felt the

corners of her mouth twitch; it was the best she could do.

―Marcus Fielding. You said you were there for years

in one of those oil cauldrons? I can‘t what that must have

been like. I was falling, these things flew towards me and

then…then I woke up here. I have no idea how long ago

that was; the time never changes. Never day, never

night,‖ Marcus said, trying to fathom how the attractive

young lady in front of him had earned her space in the

oil. ―Oil? What do you mean? I wasn‘t in oil. I

was…well…I don‘t want to talk about it.‖ Helen quieted

down as she finished talking, her eyes scanning the

ground. ―No offence,‖ she added as an afterthought, not

wanting to hurt Marcus‘s feelings.

Marcus didn‘t push the subject; he knew that once

somebody decided that they didn‘t want to talk then

there wasn‘t anything that could be done to make them.

Plus he knew well enough that she was on his side. There

was a look in her eyes that just couldn‘t be faked:

sincerity.

―So what is this place? Have you been outside yet?‖

Helen asked after the silence between them became too

much for her to bear.

―The door is locked; there isn‘t any way out of this

room. I thought I would go insane before you arrived,‖

Marcus answered with all seriousness.

Helen looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He

was clearly in good shape; his body toned and showed

signs that once it had been a muscular one. She also saw

a wedding ring and the shadow left behind by a watch

which was no longer there. ―Well I guess we can go crazy

together then.‖

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What happen next surprised the both of them. They

looked at each other, and laughed. Not a crazy laugh, but

simply a good, old fashioned ‗my sides are stitching‘

laugh. Tears welled and rolled down cramp afflicted

cheeks as every emotion they felt boiled over in a fit of

the giggles.

Once the laughter subsided and their breath had

been re-caught the pair began their introductions again.

The mood between them lightened; a friendship was

instantly formed.

***

―Wow, I can‘t believe you were a boxer. My dad used

to love watching boxing – all sports actually, but boxing

was his favorite,‖ Helen said. She sat cross-legged on the

bed, listening intently to Marcus‘s life story. Wondering

at the same time how she could make her life sound half

as interesting.

―Yeah, they all claimed that I was the next big thing,

but I got out of the game. I discovered that it had a dark

side…a very dark side. I didn‘t want to become a Sonny

Liston, some puppet who winds up dead in a hotel room.

So I left, retired before my time had even begun and

joined the force,‖ Marcus continued. The entire time he

spoke he held studied Helen. He couldn‘t help it. She sat

with her hands in her lap, and played nervously with her

fingers, twisting them, rubbing them against their

opposite number like Lady Macbeth. She was

uncomfortable, not to mention shy. Marcus kept his story

short, giving her the highlight reel rather than the blow

by blow account.

―And that was how you died? You were stabbed?‖

Helen asked.

―Yeah, this guy was beating up on his girl. I tried to

split them up and that was when he stabbed me. The

blade must have gotten under my vest. I just bled to

death in the street. It all happened real quickly. I know it

sounds like a standard movie cliché, but it is the truth.‖

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Marcus paused for a moment, looking down at his own

hands, which he saw were clasped into tight fists. He

ground them into his thighs as he spoke. ―The last thing I

heard was the baby screaming,‖ he added absently. ‖My

wife was at home packing for our holiday. I never got to

say goodbye, or hug my kids.‖ Marcus stopped, his tale

done. It was the condensed version, but it had been said

nonetheless.

It had left him feeling sore, as if someone had

scrubbed his soul with a wire brush – but it was said and

he did feel better. Even if the sudden mention of his wife

and children, the realization of the withdrawal of his role

in their lives, reduced him to tears.

―I‘m sorry,‖ Helen offered. ―I know it doesn‘t exactly

help, but I am.‖

She rose to her feet and both her knees gave a loud

crack. ―My life wasn‘t anything like that. I was just at

work. The next thing I know, I was naked and hanging

upside-down. The first time I was in a warehouse. There

were large hooks everywhere. Like a meat factory, I

guess; a slaughter house. I was alone and these large

hooks had been put through my feet. That was when he

came.‖ Helen paused to compose herself. She had moved

over by the window, and as she peered out into the grey

she thought she saw a shadow float across the street. No,

not a shadow but a figure, someone else. She blinked,

clearing her eyes, and it was gone.

―Who?‖ Marcus asked. He had moved beside her. He

didn‘t push her for an answer. He knew that she would

tell all when it was time, when she felt ready for it.

Together they stood in silence and stared out of the

window, simply enjoying the feeling of company. It was

quite some time before either of them spoke, and it was

Helen who broke the silence, continuing her tale as if she

had never stopped.

―Luther. It was always him. Every day, for years on

end he would come.‖ There was a slight pause as Helen

fought to find her words. Her voice sounded embarrassed

by the admissions she was about to make. She could feel

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her cheeks beginning to heat up with a blush. ―He would

do all sorts of things to me, always smiling; sometimes he

would even hum some Hell tune to himself. It was

strange because he was…well…charming. When he spoke

he was a real gentleman. He was never crude or vulgar,

but the things he did…‖ Helen stopped, unable to go on

any further without having Luther come forward out of

her mind, a shining steel blade in his hands, his eyes

glowing with hellfire, yet pining at her absence with the

same longing lust as a couple reunited after a period of

separation.

The click startled them both, although Helen was the

only one who let out a startled scream. The atmosphere

of wherever they were seemed to eat their words, but that

sound – whatever it had been – thundered in their ears

like cannon fire. Helen and Marcus both spun around,

Marcus‘s hands coming up in front of his body, fists

clenched; his body weight moved onto the balls of his

feet; his eyes narrowed. He was ready for anything.

Helen was startled. She shrank within herself. She

brought her arms up and wrapped them around her

chest. Unknowingly, she had taken several steps

backwards, behind Marcus.

Or had he stepped in front of her? It didn‘t matter.

The room was still empty.

―The door.‖ It was Helen who saw it first. The

booming sound they both heard must have been the lock

turning. The door, a large windowless point of entry,

swung open a few inches. It wasn‘t much, yet at the same

time it was just enough. A beam of bright, powerful

yellow light squeezed through the opening. It looked like

something from an early Technicolor movie where most

parts were still in black and white, and any color that

appeared seemed far too powerful and brilliant to be

true.

―We‘re not alone,‖ Marcus responded. His gaze was

focused on the door, but his body was more relaxed: if

there was a threat lurking out there, it wasn‘t ready for

the fight just yet. First it wanted to play.

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―Well, you‘ve been here longer than I have, but I‘ve

already had enough of this place. Let‘s get out of here

while there is a doorway we can use. Please,‖ Helen said,

making the statement, but not wanting to be the first one

to make a move.

―Stay close to me. We don‘t know what‘s out there,‖

Marcus said, his voice quiet, his words slow and steady.

His eyes never left the door. They studied it the way

an artist studies a slab of clay or blank canvas before

beginning their masterpiece. He took a gentle hold of

Helen‘s right arm, moving her even further behind him,

and then, together, they headed toward the door.

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Chapter 12

The yellow light was not only too bright, but it was

too thick, displacing their air, hanging like oil. Marcus

raised his hand and gently prodded it with his middle

finger. It felt like jelly. The surface didn‘t break but

pushed inwards.

―It‘s like a balloon,‖ Helen whispered. Both of them

felt the strange yet certain sensation of being watched, or

at least eavesdropped on, and so automatically they

began to speak in whispers.

―Something like that,‖ Marcus said, puzzled. It was

unlike anything he had seen before, but a balloon was a

good enough description for him.

Carefully, Marcus opened the door, expecting for

some strange reason for it to creak like an old haunted

house. It opened smooth and silent. Together Marcus and

Helen stepped out into the hallway.

―Good God.‖ Helen caught her breath as she spoke.

The yellow light hung close to the ceiling, and travelled

along the corridor before making a ninety degree turn to

the right. ―What is this place?‖ she asked the air, echoing

Marcus‘s thoughts to the letter.

―It‘s like a Tardis, or the theory of one,‖ Marcus

remarked. He felt his age when he saw the blank look of

Helen‘s face. ―It didn‘t feel this big when you looked out

the window.‖ Marcus backtracked and redirected when

he saw his Tardis comment would need extensive

explanations.

The corridor stretched out in both directions and

disappeared into the distance. The floor was carpeted

with what their minds told them was a rich ruby red

carpet, but in reality – or the reality they were in, at least

– it was a faded pastel, pink. The walls were decorated in

two styles; the lower half was covered in wallpaper,

embossed with a floral-cum-tribal design that swirled

around in semi-hypnotic patterns. The longer Helen and

Marcus looked at it, the more convinced they were that

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the patterns were moving, swaying in some invisible

current. Above the wallpaper was a wooden rail, not a

feature of decoration, but more of a handrail to guide

those who might get lost in the labyrinth. The rail stood

apart from the wall, held by regularly placed brackets.

Marcus wrapped his hand around the bar and gave it a

series of swift sharp tugs; when it didn‘t give, he seemed

to loosen up just ever so slightly.

Helen could see in his naked torso that his shoulders

were anything but at ease; his muscles rippled with every

movement he made. The top half of the wall was painted

what they thought to be cream, but it could just have

been a dirty white. The color of the wallpaper was dulled

beyond recognition. Miniature chandeliers hung at

regular intervals from the – supposedly – whitewashed

ceiling. The yellow beam swerved effortlessly around

them like a slalom skier, first to the left and then to the

right. To finish the look, there were delicate ornate wall

lamps placed between each of the chandeliers. Yet, in

spite of all the lights, the only illumination proved to be

that emitted by the strange yellow beam which seemed

even more vivid in the watercolor corridor.

―There aren‘t any doors,‖ Marcus noted. It was a poor

attempt to strike up a conversation and, coupled with his

expression, he was surprised Helen answered him at all.

―No, wait, take a look at that,‖ Helen said, pointing to

the opposite wall.‖ Marcus looked, following the

guideline laid by Helen‘s outstretched arm and finger.

At first Marcus saw nothing; the swirling design of

the wallpaper stole his attention – but then just as he

looked away he saw it. A faint outline –

Just a shadow

– against the wall. Marcus looked back at the door

they had just walked through. It stood out like a sore

thumb. Its mahogany coloring seemed completely out of

place amid the faded kingdom that they found

themselves trapped in. Marcus turned his attention back

to Helen, who had moved away from him. She

approached the wall, her left arm raised; she made to

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touch it. It looked to Marcus like nothing more than a

thin crack. Granted it just happened to change direction

at the crucial moments, creating the appearance of a

door.

Helen had moved forward, unaware that Marcus had

remained standing. The closer she got to the wall, the

clearer the image became. The outline thickened, taking

form with each step Helen took until she stood before it.

She could do nothing but stand and stare. The door was

plain, naked, untainted by stains or paints. There was

something about the number 937 that spoke to her. They

hadn‘t been that high, assuming the hotel was numbered

with the same principle as every other hotel she had ever

known.

―I told you there was a door,‖ Helen called. She

looked back at Marcus, giving him a look that only a

woman can give properly.

―What are you talking about? I can‘t see any door,‖

Marcus began. He walked over to Helen, his attention no

longer focused on the wall, but rather he surveyed the

scene as a whole, looking for something, anything.

It was then that Helen looked past Marcus, over his

shoulder at the wall where their door had been. Only it

wasn‘t there. It was gone, vanished. All that was left in its

place was the wall, uninterrupted, as if it had never been

there.

Marcus looked at Helen and saw her pale as she

opened her mouth to speak. Her eyes widened as if she

had seen a ghost or some other spectral figure. The

change was so sudden that he even felt the hairs on the

back of his neck prickle. Acting on instinct, Marcus took a

look behind him, expecting to see some Hell beast which

Helen had yet to find the right words to use as warning.

When he saw nothing out of place, Marcus moved

forwards once again, walking over to her, watching as her

face didn‘t change; the look of slight horror held firm. It

was only when he got close enough to Helen that Marcus

realized it wasn‘t horror, but sheer puzzlement. The kind

of bewildering speechlessness had come over her that

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affects a child when someone pulls a coin or a small toy

out from behind their ear.

Marcus opened his mouth to speak but then saw part

of the riddle for himself. The door. It was right before

him. Marcus closed his eyes, squeezing them shut until

they itched with cramp. When he opened them he

expected the door to be gone, but it wasn‘t. Marcus did

everything but rub his eyes with the heel of his hands but

the door remained fact. He reached out and touched it,

expecting it to disappear, to burst like a balloon, but it

remained solid. Marcus even made a fist and rapped

three times on the door‘s hard surfaced; the booming

clouts of each blow echoed on the other side of the door

and simply confirmed that the door did in fact exist, and

so did the room behind it.

―I don‘t get it. This place, I mean. What on earth is

this place?‖ Marcus turned to look at Helen as he spoke.

He noticed that her face had regained a measure of color,

although it would never be what it once was. It was the

atmosphere of the hotel; it was draining them of their

color just as it had drained the building.

―That‘s not all,‖ Helen began, but before she could

finish speaking Marcus saw it for himself. The door that

they had only a few moments ago passed through was

gone.

―That‘s interesting,‖ Marcus offered, unsure of what

else to say. He was more surprised to find that he wasn‘t

surprised.

―Wait a second. Let me try something,‖ Marcus said,

his voice distant, not really there. In a way, he wasn‘t.

Marcus had retreated, crawled deep inside his own mind.

He acted, he didn‘t overanalyze or underestimate. He

simply acted with an innate knowledge; it was carved into

his bones and had saved him on more than one occasion.

Both in and out of the ring.

He turned his back on Helen once again and walked

back towards the original door. His eyes were focused on

the wall. As he had expected, every step he took brought

the door further into focus; first the outline, then the

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shadows, and finally the substance. Marcus reached the

door just as the handle appeared. He turned around and

looked back at Helen. She was still there in the same

spot. However, the door to room 937 was gone.

―Can you see me?‖ Marcus asked.

―Yes,‖ Helen answered him, confused and uncertain

why had would ask such a simple question.

―Can you see the door?‖ he asked again.

―No,‖ Helen responded.

Marcus raised his right arm, and with firm strokes

rapped against the door three times. Although Helen

could not see any door, she heard the unmistakable

knock of wood, of visitors requesting entry.

―Your turn,‖ Marcus called. He had a hunch that he

would hear the same sound when Helen knocked on the

wall (as he saw it). He was sweating; he could feel the

droplets forming on the top of his head.

Slowly, Helen raised her arm and knocked on the

door. Her hand shook – all her strength was gone – but

Marcus heard it clear enough. Satisfied with the

conclusion he had reached, he walked back over to Helen,

looking over his shoulder with each step. He walked as if

he was walking down the aisle.

Left foot forward.

Look at door 937.

Feet together.

Look over shoulder.

Left foot forward.

And so it went. One door disappeared and another

came into being.

―We‘re not going in, are we?‖ Helen asked once

Marcus had returned to her side. She wasn‘t sure if she

wanted her words to sound hopeful or hesitant.

Marcus looked at her. His bare chest twitched as he

thought, and despite herself Helen couldn‘t help but give

him the quick once over with her eyes.

―I think we are supposed to follow this light.‖ Marcus

realized how corny it sounded when spoken out loud but

he meant it.

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―I guess you‘re right; I mean, it does seem to be going

somewhere,‖ Helen agreed. They both knew that

following the trail of bright yellow floating jelly was the

right idea, but neither was ready to put their complete

trust in it.

―Do you think this is another part of Hell?‖ Helen put

the question out there. It had been resting on the inside

of her lips ever since she woke up, but she couldn‘t quite

bring herself to raise it; now seemed like as good a time

as any.

―I don‘t think so. From what you told me, we were in

two different places. Two different…what was it,

chambers? I‘m no expert on Hell – I don‘t even think I

believed in it all – not to this extent – but I don‘t think

you just get moved around. Judged is judged. That whole

process seemed damned official. If you ask me, I think

something pulled us out.‖

They walked as they talked, Marcus always half a step

ahead as they followed the yellow bubble of light. It was

that half step which allowed Helen, with help from the

yellow glow emitted from the beam, to see the mark on

Marcus‘s shoulder. It was as clear as day in the strange

light. A bright red burn covered Marcus‘s shoulder; a

hand…an enormous hand, but a hand nonetheless.

―Jesus,

you‘ve

got

a…um…you

have

a

hand…handprint on your back,‖ Helen stammered. The

print was enormous; easily three times the size of a

normal man‘s hand, but it was unmistakable.

―What?‖ Marcus stopped. It wasn‘t so much Helen‘s

words, but rather the vision they seemed to create.

He was falling. The bodies around him cried out,

laughed at him. A few threw lumps of molten flesh in his

direction. Then the hand grabbed him, just as those

beasts had flown away. It had grabbed him by the

shoulder and lifted him to safety.

―I remember,‖ he said before Helen could say

anything.

―What, what do you remember?‖ Helen asked.

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―Turn around,‖ Marcus told her. Reaching out with

his hands as he moved, he pulled her shirt upwards. Her

shoulder was bare, the flesh unblemished, flawless. ―Shit.

There goes that theory,‖ he said out loud to himself.

―What are you?‖ Helen asked, her words catching in

her throat as her own vision broke through into the

forefront of her mind. A hand had reached out nowhere –

light – and grasped her by the ankle. ―Wait…wait…‖ she

said, kicking off the shoes – which, much like the clothes,

had been placed upon her between her rescue and her

waking – and rolled up her trouser leg. ―I was upside-

down. They grabbed me by my leg,‖ she said, her voice

filled with an excitement she couldn‘t explain.

Marcus saw the imprint, but only once Helen stood

in the glow of the yellow beam. The large red hand print

that wrapped around her ankle. The imprint was not as

clear as the one on Marcus‘s shoulder, but it was clear

enough.

―Do you—‖ Marcus began.

―Yes, I remember,‖ Helen finished.

―Okay, well that gives us something we can go on at

least. We were pulled out of Hell and placed here, so that

means, in theory, that this is…what...some sort of safe

house?‖ Marcus pondered; his mind busy working

through a number of different theories.

―Okay, then why us?‖ Helen asked. Questions

bounced around inside her head, desperate to be spoken.

Not because she expected Marcus to offer her anything

other than a thoughtful observation, but because she had

missed having somebody else to talk to, and wanted to

make the most of it should everything fall apart. Sure,

Luther had talked to her, had broken the loneliness, but

that wasn‘t company; that was just his fun and games.

The only sound was a strange, electric buzzing noise,

like when you stand too close to overhead power lines. It

came from the yellow light. Neither of them was

surprised.

―Beats me, it really does, but my guy tells me that if

we follow this path long enough we will either find either

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the beginning or the end. Either way there has to be a

way out.‖ Marcus looked over his shoulder at Helen; he

could feel her nerves and felt sorry for her.

The emergency lighting, as they liked to think of it,

took them down the corridor and then turned right into a

second corridor which was just as long as the one they

had come from. Impossibly long given the size that they

had gauged based on the other buildings in the street.

The meandering corridors appeared and disappeared

much like the doors, which they now passed at regular

intervals – even numbers on the right and odd numbers

on the left. They‘d made yet another turn when Helen

stopped; frozen, she looked over her shoulder, certain

that someone was watching them; there was nothing. No

sign of the corridor they had just left. Instead, she stood

but a few feet away from a wall. She reached out and

touched it. It was real. Marcus, who had felt her fall

behind, stopped and turned to face her. While he wasn‘t

surprised by what he saw, he still let out a startled grunt.

―How big is this place?‖ Helen asked, breaking the

silence that had fallen between them once again. Their

pace had increased ever since they reached the

agreement on the safe house theory. They felt much more

relaxed and even walked side by side, as if they were old

friends out for a stroll.

Despite the relative comfort that had fallen over

them, they were both still uneasy with the strange

atmosphere that hung in the corridors. Every corner they

turned, every door they walked past, they just couldn‘t

shake the feeling that they were being watched.

―I have no clue. I think it‘s as big as they want it to

be,‖ Marcus answered before Helen had finished

speaking. It was the same question he had been asking

himself since they made the third ninety degree turn.

They had walked for a good twenty minutes now, twisting

and turning through various corridors, following the light

which never wavered or diminished in any way, shape or

form.

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―Who are they? If they rescued us then why can‘t we

see them? What‘s going on? Can we leave? If we find a

door, I mean,‖ Helen continued, rattling off half

questions which seemed to answer themselves. Marcus

didn‘t know whether they needed to be answered or not,

and so he kept quiet until Helen was finished.

―We‘re trapped here.‖ It was a simple answer, and

when Marcus saw the look of desperation wash over

Helen‘s face he decided to elaborate. ―Someone or

something rescued us from Hell, but I don‘t think that

this is the end of the journey; rather a truck stop if you

want to think of it in terms like that. We aren‘t being held

prisoner, but I don‘t think this place wants us to get out.

Not just yet.‖ Marcus unraveled his mind, which had

been balled up like a knotted ball of yarn. His answers

may not have answered any questions, but Marcus felt

better for speaking it, and he could see from Helen‘s

expression that she felt better for having heard it.

Helen nodded for a while, contemplating what

Marcus had said. ―You mean we‘re in a maze,‖ she

commented at last.

III

A short while later, they stopped walking and stood

in the middle of the corridor, both acutely aware of the

sudden hunger pangs that had cramped their stomachs.

Helen began to swoon. She put her hand out to steady

herself against the wall. The door appeared out of

nowhere, as had all the others. Helen fell against the door

and was immediately thrown back by a jolt that could

only have been electricity. Bright green sparks filled the

air. They zigzagged over the surface of the door as if

startled.

―Helen!‖ Marcus called, rushing over to her. The

force of the shock had thrown her into the corridor,

where she lay motionless. A faint licking of green sparks

drifted over her body in much the same way as it had the

door.

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―I‘m okay,‖ she said groggily. She sat, her hair filled

with static. Marcus crouched beside her, careful to avoid

all contact until the residual charge had gone.

―Well I guess now we know it‘s their maze and we are

the mice.‖ Marcus offered a smile with his words and felt

relieved when he saw Helen‘s eyes twinkle, the corners of

her mouth rise up. A second later, a small giggle escaped

her lips. He also saw how her nose wrinkled slightly on

the bridge when she smiled. ―Do you want to rest a

minute?‖ he asked with genuine concern.

―No, it‘s fine. Let‘s keep moving.‖ Helen stood

groggily, speaking like someone recently roused from a

deep sleep. ―Just don‘t let me rest against any more

doors,‖ she said, smiling, as she brushed her hands

against her trousers. They both saw green dust-like flecks

fall from her clothing and disappear into the floor.

Moving at a slower pace, they resumed walking.

Helen felt a strange dizziness creep over her but she said

nothing. She knew that Marcus was a good guy and on

her side, but she wasn‘t quite ready to unload everything

on him. Like the way she kept seeing Luther every time

she closed her eyes for longer than it took to blink. He

stood with his razor blade in hand. How he would turn

towards her, creeping ever closer each time, as if he

planned to jump out of her mind and take her back with

him.

She also wasn‘t ready just yet to divulge that she

wasn‘t alone, that she carried a baby in her stomach. A

living thing that had died with her before it was even

large enough to be called a baby. Yet Helen was

consumed by the haunting knowledge that her baby was

still inside her – that it was alive. She had seen Luther

slice her stomach open, she had watched as he pulled the

rotting fetus out of the long gash in her abdomen. Helen

knew beyond shadow of a doubt that inside her womb,

her baby had returned. It was floating in a bag of

stagnant amniotic fluid, its body decomposing, rotting

away as nature intended – until the green lightning had

given it a kick start, brought it back to life and given it a

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hunger that could not be quenched, a thirst for blood that

would be satiated not matter what the cost.

The beam carried on before them and took one of its

now customary and tiresome turns, this time to the left.

Both had noticed it followed a simple left-right pattern,

only this time when they reached the corner, there was

nothing. No new hallway for them to march down, no

monotonous continuation of dying colors and moving

wallpaper. The swirling effect of the wallpaper – which

they were now both certain moved – had given them both

a headache, and so they now walked either looking at the

beam or at the floor, thus minimizing eye contact with

the walls.

―Great. What does it want from us?‖ Helen asked

before adding, ―I‘m sorry, I know you don‘t have any

more answers than I do, I just feel better asking

questions. It calms me down; you should have seen me in

school.‖ She smiled.

―I had noticed, but I don‘t mind. I‘ve got the same

questions in my head, too, and it does good to keep

things out in the open.‖ Marcus retuned the smile. He

had a friendly smile; a single glimpse of it was enough to

put anyone at ease. Or so Helen thought as she stared

and image of her husband Mark flashed in her mind. She

felt tears coming, but managed to hold them at bay.

She and Mark had always been in the same schools,

right from primary school. Yet Helen never noticed him

until they met several years after high school had ended.

It had been a chance meeting that worked out great for

both of them. A whirlwind romance followed by a stylish

but not too over the top wedding, all within eighteen

months. Despite the time that had passed, they both

seemed to remember everything about each other. As if

their subconscious had been one step ahead of them and

decided to take matters into their own hands. They were

best friends before they became husband and wife, and

had remained so until the end.

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―I guess we just have to wait,‖ Marcus said. Helen

saw he had turned his attention back to the wall, studying

it as if it were a piece of art.

The both stood and stared when, without warning, a

crack appeared. It began at the bottom, just above the

skirting board. It proceeded to trace its way upwards

before taking a ninety degree turn to the right. A little

later another right turn was made and the crack hurtled

down towards the floor like a rollercoaster on that final

descent, the one that everyone simultaneously dreads yet

longs for.

―It‘s…‖ Helen began

―A door,‖ Marcus finished.

They watched as the doorway materialized before

their eyes, and to their combined relief there was no sign

of any danger, green or any other color. It was just a

door, a real, solid wood door. It appeared like world‘s

largest Polaroid picture being developed.

―Don‘t tell me. We have to go through this one,‖

Helen said, once again taking the words from Marcus‘s

mind and making them fact.

―Looks that way. Besides, we don‘t have much

choice,‖ Marcus answered her, gesturing with his head.

The hallway was gone; there was no sign of where they

had come from; only a black shadow-like cloud that

successfully limited the options available to them.

―What the hell is that?‖ Helen asked, panicked and

unable to keep it hidden any longer.

―I don‘t know, but it started following us not long

after you got shocked by the door back there. It could just

be coincidence,‖ Marcus added, realizing that it sounded

as though he was placing the blame at Helen‘s feet.

―But what is it? Shadows, is it them?‖ Helen asked,

her words coming out so close together it was hard to

distinguish between them.

―Think of it like being trapped in a Mario game,‖

Marcus said. The strange image popped into his mind.

He saw the two of them crashing through the door to find

giant mushrooms wandering around and nothing but a

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thick green drainpipe protruding from the wall on the

other side.

―Great. Then I hope it‘s unlocked.‖ Helen began to

panic, her voice higher in pitch. Her eyes had begun to

water – not cry – and she could feel her heart thunder

like a stallion towards the finish line of the Grand

National.

Marcus reached forward, his hand shaking. The veins

in his arms stood thick and proud, tracing their way up

his forearms before disappearing beneath his biceps. He

knocked on the door; careful, fearful, testing it for any

current that might be lying dormant. He felt nothing. The

wood felt warm, as if heated.

―Come on.‖ Helen hurried him along, trying hard not

to scream. She watched the ground disappear behind

them. Only a few meters of flooring remained before the

black abyss would swallow them. She knew what that

meant: it would send them back to Hell… send her back

to him.

Marcus tried the handle. The door wouldn‘t budge.

He twisted it further and pushed again but got nothing.

He pulled, thinking maybe it was all just one big trick, yet

the door remained immobile in its frame.

‗It won‘t budge.‖ Marcus grimaced as he pushed

against the wood with all his strength.

―Do something. Break it down. You were in the

police. Try anything. Hurry!‖ Helen screamed. The

shroud was less than a meter away and she could feel the

vacuum grab at her. The pressure of the air around them

increased with every second; Helen could feel it crushing

her chest. Her entire body felt heavy.

Marcus crouched down, shifted his weight, and

launched himself at the door. His shoulder struck and

twisted. The sound of it popping out of joint was loud

enough for even Helen to hear above her own screaming

mind. The door wouldn‘t budge.

―Help us! Somebody, please! I don‘t want to go back.

Not to him. I can‘t take it anymore.‖ Helen was crying,

stinging tears that felt like concentrated acid burning her

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cheeks, peeling away strips of her flesh as she wept. She

kept glancing over her shoulder at the approaching

shadow, and that was when she saw him… Luther. He

stood – no, floated – in the black center of the void.

Marcus turned to face the door. He gripped the side

of the frame, raised his foot and brought it crashing down

against the lock. Once, twice, three times – and finally

the door gave way. It flew inwards, crashing against the

wall. The lock splintered and the frame buckled, causing

Marcus to fall into the room, his momentum carrying

him forwards. He turned, with reflexes honed through

years of police training and gym work. He grabbed Helen

by the arm and pulled her through the door just as the

void ate the spot where she stood. She fell; her arm

slipped through Marcus‘s sweaty hands. He grabbed at

her again, but felt her slip father away, as if a greater

force pulled on her than he could counter.

―Don‘t let me fall. Please…oh, God, don‘t let me go

back there, please!‖ Helen begged, her eyes were wide

with fear.

She was caught in the threshold, her balance thrown.

Leaning backwards, her arms flailed wildly, trying to pull

herself forwards. Marcus gritted his teeth, set his feet and

pulled her as hard as he could, grabbing hold of the

sleeve of her shirt for extra leverage. With one final heave

he felt the momentum shift and Helen fell through the

doorway. He caught her and they fell backwards into the

room, stumbling to keep their balance.

Marcus hugged her close to him and Helen hugged

him back; her entire body trembled, and the tears she

had kept locked away for so long flowed in a tide.

―It‘s okay. I‘ve got you, you‘re safe now. Look…it‘s

gone. We‘re safe here,‖ Marcus said, badly shaken

himself now that the he had time to reflect on it. He

showed Helen that not only had the encroaching void

disappeared, but so had the door. Once again they were

sealed in a bedroom.

The room they had been lead into was similar to the

one they had just left, its decoration just as sparse. It was

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the mirror image of the room they had just left. Even the

pictures above the bed and in the small alcove were

exactly the same. While the decorations were the same,

the walls were a pastel yellow, with a matching carpet.

The only difference that Marcus saw was that the window

was smaller than the one in their first room. It was about

half the size and framed by long curtains that stopped

just short of the floor.

―Let‘s split up, there has to be an exit,‖ Marcus

whispered to Helen. ―I‘ll take this side and the window,

you have a look along that wall, and see if we can‘t find a

door or something.‖ He gestured with his head as he

spoke.

Helen nodded, too shaken to find her voice. Helen

ran her hands over the smooth painted finish. The walls

felt warm and strange to the touch; they didn‘t feel solid,

not in the real sense of the word, but rather fluid. Helen

had the feeling that if she pushed hard enough she would

not break through but fall. And she knew what darkness

waited for her.

―I don‘t see anything. Do you?‖ Helen said once she

reached the end of the long sidewall. The room was

narrow but deep, unlike their own, which had been

square. She looked over at Marcus. She watched him pace

up and down, staring at the wall as if he just expected

something to happen. She noticed that he never passed

the window, stopping each time about a foot or so short.

Probably some cop thing, being seen through the

window or something, Helen told herself.

Marcus raised his arm, and without turning to face

her he beckoned her to him. From the simple, short way

he directed her, Helen knew that she had to remain quiet.

Marcus seemed happy to take charge, and she was

grateful for it. Helen crossed the room, holding her

breath without realizing it.

―What‘s wrong?‖ she whispered in Marcus‘s ear like a

lover.

―There‘s someone inside the cupboard. I can hear

them breathing…moving.‖ Marcus was calm and rational,

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as if he making a simple observation, such as advising her

of the time of day or the date. ―You don‘t have to do

anything. I just wanted you to know,‖ he added after he

saw Helen tense up and the color drain from her cheeks.

―You‘re not going to open it, are you?‖ she whispered

at him, sending a glare out to accompany the words. It

said volumes; WAKE UP, MAN. WHAT THE HELL ARE

YOU PLAYING AT? DON‟T WAKE A SLEEPING BABY

AND LET‟S JUST FIND A WAY OUT OF HERE.

Marcus didn‘t answer. He moved to one side, and

approached the cupboard from the left-hand side. It was

the larger of the two doors in the unsymmetrical piece of

furniture and with just a big enough angle to allow

Marcus‘s body to be hidden, and also gave him the

maximum space and reaction time should whatever it

was decide to jump out at him, or – God forbid – pull

him back inside.

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Chapter 13

The door opened smoother than Marcus had

expected. Helen held her breath and wished for her eyes

to close, but they refused. The door swung open and

there he was, standing before her. Luther, his suit neat

and freshly pressed; he had chosen pinstripe just for this

special reunion. His gleaming blade was sharpened to the

point where it no longer looked like a scalpel. It wasn‘t a

surgical blade at all, but a cut throat razor, opened to full

length. He had added an additional attachment on the

other side; another blade, sharpened to a needle point.

The world around Helen went black as Luther was

picked up by a large spotlight. His mouth opened and he

hissed at her, bearing his teeth like an angry dog. His

head dropped lower onto his shoulders before he threw it

back, jaw stretched open a hundred and eighty degrees.

He bellowed at the top of the closet. Blood erupted from

his mouth, jumping in spurts as Luther gargled with the

iron fluid. It was a rich red, too red to be real blood, and

the longer he gargled, the taller the bubbled spurts

became. Blood splattered against the walls and ran down

his throat, staining his suit. As Helen watched, the blood

turned from red to maroon and finally to black, no longer

blood but a thick sludge. The gargles changed to choking

sounds, and when Luther‘s head snapped back to face

Helen once more the flesh was gone. What remained was

the wet, meaty face of a partially rotted skeleton. The

mouth began to close, but before it did a burst of the foul

smelling waste shot towards her.

Helen screamed and covered her face with her hands.

Her heart hammered in her chest. She braced herself

even in her blind panic for the impact of the slimy liquid.

Nothing came. Against her better judgment she spread

her fingers, peeking through the gaps like a child

watching a scary movie. The cupboard appeared empty,

but Marcus stood looking at her, his attention diverted

from the task at hand just long enough for the person

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who had been hiding there to spring out from behind the

other door. The woman leapt through the air, her hands

curled into claws, her sharpened nails ready to do

damage to whatever they came into contact with. Marcus

caught her with ease, his reactions quick enough to stop

her before she did any damage, but not quick enough to

shift his balance, and so the pair tumbled backwards, and

once again Marcus found himself on the floor. Marcus

moved fast, his body a writhing shadow: he pushed the

woman – whether he knew it was a woman at the time

Helen didn‘t know – away from him. He was on his feet

and had her arm twisted behind her back in a simple yet

painful looking hold. He pulled her from the floor and

drove her forcefully up against the wall. The woman soon

stopped her struggles and as soon as Marcus released his

hold on her she fell to the floor.

―Just get it over with, please, just kill me now. I don‘t

want to go through all this anymore. I can‘t,‖ The woman

wept, her words stumbling over themselves, half

drowned by the tears and ragged, gasping breaths.

―Relax. I‘m not going to hurt you,‖ Marcus said to

her, resisting the urge to crouch down to her level. The

stranger raised her head and looked at him; her eyes

were purple, swollen from tears and fear, while her face

was pale and soaked with sweat. Her hair was different,

longer, and black, jet black. It was plastered against her

head. Despite the swelling around them, it was the clarity

to the eyes that proved to be the best part of the disguise.

It was she who saw it first.

―You,‖ she said before passing out, as if the sudden

rush of safety she felt and saw was too much for her brain

to handle.

V

―You know her?‖ Helen asked as Marcus carried the

unconscious Becky Ponting away from the cupboard. He

placed her gently on the bed. Marcus made another

observational note to himself, that the bed in this room

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was made up and turned down, as if it had been

expecting an occupant all this time.

―Yeah, she…‖ Marcus paused, trying to think of the

best way to say that this girl looked nothing like the girl

she was – or had been, at least. ―She doesn‘t look

anything like she did then,‖ he started, and when his

words faltered Helen finished the sentence for him.

―She‘s the woman who got you killed?‖ For a moment

Marcus said nothing. He heard Helen‘s words and

nodded his response. He stared at Becky as if she were a

piece of art, unable to avert his gaze. ―Wow, then maybe

we should rethink why we are here. Is this like some

revenge chamber…a test or something?‖ Helen got a

vision of every horror film she had seen released over the

past few years. A chill so thick and heavy ran down her

spine that it felt like an avalanche tumbling between her

shoulder blades.

Marcus didn‘t answer her; he was too busy studying

Becky, checking not only to see if she was still alive – if

alive is what they were – but also how she had changed.

Her clothes and hair were obvious, but the sparkle in her

eyes was so bright, it shone through her fear, and he

knew what it meant, and another piece of the puzzle fell

into place.

―She‘s clean,‖ he said suddenly. ―She‘s not here to kill

us or for me to take revenge on. Besides, it wasn‘t her

fault. She died, too, trying to protect her child.‖ Out of

the corner of his eye Marcus saw Helen lower her own

hands to her stomach. ―She‘s been in the same place as

us, and long enough to be forced through it cold turkey. I

think this house led us to her. We were supposed to find

her. Feel free to tell me why, because I‘m drawing a

blank. There must be a reason for the three of us being

here.‖ Marcus rose from the bed and spoke in a lowered

voice. Becky‘s eyes began to flutter and when they opened

they were an intoxicating shade of green.

For what felt like an age, Becky just lay on the bed,

staring at the ceiling, afraid to even blink. Eventually, she

sat up. She stared at Marcus in horrified silence. Her jaw

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was clenched, and her eyes wide with fright. Then,

slowly, a look of distant recognition washed over her.

―You,‖ Becky repeated as she scrambled to her feet.

In her hurry she fell from the bed and scurried backwards

across the floor on her hands and knees.

―It‘s okay. Stop, please. It‘s okay, we‘re trapped here,

too,‖ Marcus said, trying to find the right words to make

her understand. He backed away from the bed, holding

his arms out before him, palms facing her. He saw her

shoulders drop (relax), and he finally let out the breath

he had been holding.

―Wh-what do you mean?‖ she whispered through

clenched teeth, afraid of being overheard if she spoke in

louder tones. ―Trapped? You got in here; you can get

out,‖ Becky snapped. ―If there is something going on then

I don‘t want any part of it. I‘m out. I‘m not going back.‖

Becky rose from her knees and stood hunched over,

bouncing on the balls of her feet. Not jonesing for a fix,

but ready to run back into her safe house.

Marcus made to walk closer to her; Becky shifted her

weight ready to jump. It was Helen who spied the mark

on her bare shoulder; the tank top she was wearing

showed a clear palm print complete with four fingers and

one thumb, although the ends of each digit were lost

beneath the fabric. Rather than calling out, Helen nudged

Marcus in his side with her elbow and whispered to him.

―I think you know you can trust me,‖ he said, turning

around to show Becky his identical tattoo. The smaller

window in the room seemed to increase the range of the

yellow beam, which had gathered above their heads like a

cloud of cigar smoke over a poker table. ―You seem like

someone who has made her fair share of bad decisions in

life. Look at them now, and then look at me. Look at us.

Helen here is in the same boat. If you think we are a

threat then okay, we‘ll leave and give you no more

problems,‖ Marcus said with well-practiced diplomacy,

his words soothing even to Helen, who watched the

strange reunion from a distance. Having heard Marcus‘s

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tale once before she was surprised to see how her image

of the prostitute…the girl had been so accurate.

Convinced, Becky got to her feet. Her hands relaxed

from the claw-like shapes that they had been cramped in

for the last…God knew how long she had been hiding in

the cupboard, sitting in the dark, listening to the

whispers that floated through her head, hiding from

whatever had been outside waiting for her. The only

thing that didn‘t change about her was the gaze she held

on Marcus. She studied Marcus, looked him up and

down, before she fell into his arms and burst into tears.

She flung her arms around his shoulders, buried her face

into his neck and sobbed.

―I‘m sorry,‖ she wept. ―I‘m so sorry.‖ She repeated

this over and over until Marcus pulled her away from

him, cupping her head in his hands so that he could look

her in the eyes before speaking.

―It wasn‘t your fault. You didn‘t kill me. You had

nothing to do with it. It was my job, and you are just as

innocent as I was,‖ he said, but after everything that he

had been shown in the judgment room, the word

innocent tasted stale on his lips, like a glass of water left

out overnight and drunk the next morning.

―I‘m not innocent,‖ she said with a broken voice; yet

her eyes burned fierce and proud. ―I saw everything…the

people I abused. I abused them, offering them my body. I

stole from them, and I abused my child. I deserve to be

down there. Being tied to those tables was too good for

me. I deserved much worse. They explained it all to

me…made me see. I sent my own daughter to her death

the moment I gave birth.‖ Becky broke down once again

and it was Helen who moved forward and put her arm

around the woman who, despite everything she had been

through, was still so young.

―None of us are innocent,‖ Helen said, feeling

embarrassed when both Marcus and Becky – although at

that point, Helen still thought of her simply as ‗the

woman‘ – looked at her. Her cheeks flushed; she could

feel them glowing red with heat.

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―That‘s right. We‘ve all done things we regret, but you

have turned it around. You‘re clean now, you survived

that…and you survived wherever you were sent. So you‘re

not innocent. Nobody is, not in the real world, in real life.

Deep down we all know that. I want you to listen to me

now.‖ Marcus didn‘t speak again until Becky turned to

face him. ―You had nothing to do with my death; my

conscious is clear on that, and so should yours be. Now

what do you say we find a way out of here?‖ Marcus stood

up straight as he spoke, and both women felt safer.

Becky nodded her head and wiped away the tears

with the back of her hand.

―Marcus, how do we do that? I mean, we checked this

place, there is no doorway here,‖ Helen said. Now that

the confrontation was over she was happy (not

comfortable) to speak again.

―There has to be something,‖ Marcus said, turning

around, surveying the room, looking at everything

closely.

―Marcus?‖ Becky asked, still somehow unable to

break her stare at the man. ―And Helen, right?‖ She

pointed at Helen. ―I‘m Becky; Becky Ponting.‖ She

already seemed more at ease in their presence, and stood

up amongst them. She offered her hand out to Marcus,

who took it without question, and then did the same to

Helen. She was more apprehensive but took it

nonetheless.

―It‘s nice to meet you, Becky.‖ Helen flashed a half

smile as she spoke in the hope that it would mask the

apprehension she felt.

Marcus turned, opening his mouth to speak, when it

hit him: an idea of such clarity that he felt himself recoil

as it came into his mind. The yellow ‗balloon‘ – it wasn‘t a

cloud over them; it was showing them the way as it had

been since the start.

―Watch out,‖ he said as he bent down onto the balls

of his feet. He grabbed the legs of the bed, and in one

powerful movement pulled it from the floor and threw it

out of the way. Dust billowed up from beneath it – no,

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not dust, but dullness; the same strange chalky mist that

had covered their previous room also. The sudden nature

of Marcus‘s action kicked up a small storm and for just a

second, the true colors of the room were revealed to

them.

The women both jumped and shrank away from

Marcus as he threw the bed. His chest tensed, and his

shoulders bulged as he threw the bed. Becky let out a

small shriek; she had been around enough violent men in

her time to become sufficiently scared of the

consequences if you get in their way.

―There, look,‖ Marcus said, panting.

His time in the judgment cell and hotel room had left

him weakened. He had no idea how long it had been

since he had last eaten or drank anything, and it wasn‘t

until that point that he realized how his throat ached for

a sip of water or how his empty stomach flapped around

inside his body like a windsock at an airport, desperate

for some meager level of sustenance.

The women stood together and simply peered

forwards, craning their necks, neither one wanting to

move any closer until they knew what it was they were

supposed to see. It was Helen that saw it first: a faint

outline on the floor.

―A trapdoor,‖ she said in a voice filled with

wonderment. She took a step away from Becky but found

her gaze moved from the floor to Marcus and so she

stopped. She didn‘t know what it was about him, but he

made her nervous.

―Now we just need to figure out how to open it.‖

Marcus began to plan things out. Stepping closer to the

trapdoor, he crouched down onto his haunches. He

placed his hands on the floor in the center of the faint –

but now that attention had been drawn to it – clearly

visible square.

―What are you talking about? I don‘t see anything,‖

Becky said. Her arms were crossed, but she no longer

hugged herself.

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―Come here and you‘ll see. Don‘t worry, I don‘t bite.‖

Marcus looked directly at Becky as he spoke from his

squatted position and he saw her face change, relax. ―I

saw your face change when I moved the bed. It‘s a face

I‘ve seen one or two times before, you know. It‘s fine, you

don‘t have to say anything, but just know that we‘re in

this together, alright?‖ he continued, holding her gaze so

that she could see his words were genuine.

With memories of rash decisions still lingering in her

mind, Becky moved closer, until she stood between Helen

and Marcus, leaning over them, not wanting to crouch for

fear of not being able to stand up again. Her body was

weak with hunger; her legs trembled, and visibly, she

guessed, for Marcus rose and steadied her by placing an

arm around her shoulder. She looked, squinted at the

ground – she even tried crossing her eyes like one of

those magic eye puzzles that she had never been able to

see as a child, but she just couldn‘t see it.

―It‘s here.‖ Helen pointed at the ground, tracing the

outer edge of the square with her index finger.

―I see it!‖ Becky squealed with delight. A childish

smile graced her face. She stood with slack-jawed

amazement as a bold black line appeared before her eyes,

travelling along the floor like the lines of an earthquake

in a cartoon. The line wasn‘t much thicker than a hair‘s

breadth, but she saw it. She could see the shape and that

made her happy; she wasn‘t the one left behind this time.

―It‘s hot – ouch, really hot,‖ Helen exclaimed as she

stood up, shaking her right hand as she did. She put the

burnt finger in her mouth and felt it throb against her

tongue.

The trio stood side by side. Marcus loosened his arm

around Becky and when he felt her stand on her own he

removed it completely.

―Is it just me, or is anybody else starving?‖ Becky said

at the same time as her stomach gave a loud, lengthy

growl.

―Oh, God, I could eat a horse sideways,‖ Helen

remarked as she continued to suck on her burnt digit.

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None of them had even thought about food until they got

close to the trapdoor, but now the hunger grew inside

them like a parasite.

―I think we‘re getting close,‖ Marcus offered. ―It‘s our

bodies catching up with us, what has happened, how long

we have been gone,‖ he reasoned. And while he was

aware that it sounded as if he knew what was happening,

the reality was that it was all guesswork. If anything came

out in some sort of sensible order it was pure

coincidence. Nothing that had happened to them had

been normal in the terms that they had been raised to

believe, and so why should this time around be any

different? If they felt hungry it was because they hadn‘t

eaten in a long time.

―How do we open it then?‖ Becky asked, looking

around the room, struck by a sudden feeling that

something was watching them. Not in that creepy

mansion sense of the eyes in paintings moving, but rather

like being in a police interview room, all of them hidden

behind the mirror watching her every move. She was sure

of it even before the hairs on the back of her head stood

on end.

―No idea. I think we just have to wait. The last

time…it appeared when it was ready,‖ Marcus answered.

His left arm was crossed over his body, while his right

rested with its elbow on his forearm. He stroked the thick

layer of stubble that had appeared on the lower half of his

face as he thought. He knew they were being watched,

but there was nothing he could do about it.

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Chapter 14

The first cracks appeared just as the ground began to

rumble beneath their feet. A gentle shake at first, but it

escalated to a tremble that rattled the windows in their

frames. The loose fitting shelves in the closet fell from

their holdings, creating a strange sound, muffled by the

unusual atmospherics of the building. It sounded

haunting and melancholy. The line traced its way around

the outline of the square, not following the faint but crisp

shape, but rather tearing the floor open. Wooden

splinters shot into the air before they rained down

around them like Lilliputian arrows fired at invading

giants from another world. Helen flinched, ducking

backwards, Becky remained stationary, while Marcus

stood tall, watching the scene as it unfolded with a

curious intensity.

―Get back,‖ Marcus said as he stepped before both of

the women, spreading out his arms and holding them in

front of them, creating a temporary barrier. His block

soon turned into a swimming motion as he pulled his

arms backwards, sweeping the women with them, just in

case. The crack made the first turn and sped towards the

second. Its speed along the third straight slowed, even

stopping twice. Yet each time it started again. Reaching

the third and final turn without any further problems, the

line then decided to straighten out, moving crisply and

cleanly towards the finish.

All three of them held their breath as the vibrations

that shook the room increased, and until it was a tremor.

The building seemed to shake in fear of what lay

ahead…lay in wait.

―Becky, get back a bit. We don‘t know what‘s going to

happen,‖ Marcus called. He found himself shouting even

though there was no real need for it.

Becky ignored him, or so he thought. In reality she

didn‘t hear him. She heard a faint sound, like someone

talking through a wall, or underwater. Becky heard her

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name – or the last syllable of it at least – but her focus

was elsewhere. She watched as the crack in the floor

spread, first becoming a thick black line in place of a thin

grey draft. She looked on as it widened; with it came the

voices. They hit her like a rush of air escaping a recently

discovered tomb opened for the first time by eager

scientists and archaeologists whose only interests deep

down are to better their own names.

At first, the rush of air sounded like the wailing song

of the helpless, a truly lonely sound that Becky was sure

would break her heart in two all over again. For hidden

within the mournful cry, she heard her daughter. Crying

as she left her womb, ripped into a world that was

destined to look down on her. She heard the cry of a

baby‘s first teeth and first fall when learning to walk. She

heard the crashing sound of a bicycle falling, the tears of

a child with knees scraped and bloody.

The gap spread, opening like the legs of the crack

whore she once was, and with it came the howls of

disbelief, of refusal, as her daughter was told who her

mother was, hearing the truth that her real father was

just some bum, who was bored with his own wife and

kids and too spineless to leave them, yet couldn‘t keep

the itch in his pants. So he had offered a girl half his age

three times the going rate to fuck unprotected. To Becky,

three times meant three times as much escape and so she

had accepted without hesitation.

She heard her daughter scoff as she was told her

mother didn‘t care. They told her that he could have

fucked her all night wherever he wanted for just a small

rock or a few hundred bucks and a cup of coffee.

She didn‘t feel Marcus grabbing at her as the crack

spread further, cutting the square from corner to corner

like a sandwich. She heard nothing other than the cries of

her child before they turned into the wails of a woman, a

woman so desperate to avoid her mother‘s life that she

unknowingly ran harder towards it.

The screams turned to moans of pleasure and

ecstasy. Then screams of terror and pain as her legs were

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spread against her will. Men, sometimes in groups – she

could hear their taunting laughter – ploughed her young

body with their own instruments of torture.

Becky heard the weeping shallow breaths of

depression as her baby took her first hit from a crack pipe

handed to her by some pimp in an alleyway. Becky

clasped her hands to her ears.

The square disappeared, revealing a black void, and

in the center a dot. A dull yellow light fought its way

through the darkness. To Becky, it didn‘t look like the

light at the end of the tunnel, but rather the headlight of

the oncoming locomotive ready to meet them halfway.

The light cast long eerie shadows on the walls and Becky

screamed as her daughter‘s weeping turned itself to the

guttural screams of terror that brought back the images

of the endless rows of bodies being burnt, turned on

roasting spits, helpless and at the mercy of the merciless,

flames forever licking at their wounds. She could feel the

heat of the fire flicking through the floor, tasting the air

for her scent. It was then that Becky understood what

waited for her in the dark: Adramalech. His burning, fire

filled eyes would fill the void, and the festering open

wound that was his hand would reach through and pluck

her from the group, just as King Kong first abducted Fay

Wray‘s unforgettable character from the safety of her

hotel room.

It was then that Becky felt the tremors, felt the floors

beneath them begin to melt and roll as if they stood on a

waterbed. She threw out her arms for balance as the

screams in her head grew worse. The cries of those who

were left behind, strapped to their tables for however

long their sentences were deemed to be, the cries of her

daughter‘s life, marred and influenced by the absent

parents, the mother who cared so much for her baby and

died in a fight to keep her, and the faceless father who

didn‘t even know she existed. Becky‘s world became

vague, her head became warm and heavy, and she was

sure that she cried out her daughter‘s name before the

darkness consumed her.

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Chapter 15

―It‘s okay. We‘ve got you.‖ It was him – the cop. He

had caught her and pulled her into the center of the

room, away from it all. While the entire room still

trembled, the ground underfoot felt sturdy.

Becky‘s vision continued to shimmer; it was like

looking down a long stretch of road on a hot summer‘s

day. She hadn‘t lost consciousness; she had passed out

enough times in her life to know this was different. She

looked back at the hole in the floor. The wailing was

gone, the sobbing vanished, the fires of hell extinguished

and replaced instead by a simple hole in the ground.

There was a faint light in the center but its source was

still some way off.

The ground stopped shaking so abruptly that it threw

them all off balance.

―Are you okay?‖ Helen asked. ―Come on, you‘d better

sit down for a second.‖ She took a step closer to Becky,

but stopped. She didn‘t want to get any closer to the

trapdoor than was necessary.

―No...no, I‘m fine. Did you guys hear that? As it

opened, did you hear the screaming?‖ Becky asked, her

voice still trembling from the images that her head had

produced.

―I didn‘t hear anything. Did you, Marcus?‖ Helen

answered before reposing the question to the man they

had unofficially elected their leader.

Marcus gave no answer at first; his attention was

diverted to the whole in the floor. ―No, I didn‘t hear

anything.‖ He looked up at the two women. ―I think it‘s

this place; it plays tricks with your mind. When I first got

here I kept hearing my wife calling my name – well, more

yelling my name, and…‖ He paused. ―Well, the finer

points aren‘t necessary details at the moment.‖ He

stopped. They didn‘t need to know everything yet. Not

about his past at least. What would be the point?

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―I have it, too,‖ Helen said just as the silence began to

settle. ―I keep seeing Luther, the thing who tortured me

in Hell,‖ Helen added, speaking the words before she had

a chance to think them through. They leapt from her

mouth like a juicy good secret. She was shocked at

herself; usually she kept her problems to herself; why

would anybody else be interested in what was wrong with

her life? Everybody had problems; she knew that.

Marcus moved closer, leaning over the hole, peering

into its depth to get a better picture of what faced them.

All he saw was a tunnel that descended on the vertical,

before turning into a slope that headed away from the

hotel – outside – taking the light with it. There was

rickety ladder which looked as though it were as old as

the earth itself. Marcus understood that at that same

moment they would have to make the descent and trust

that the wood wasn‘t too rotted. It looked old and

unstable; a homemade contraption from planks of

driftwood and rusty nails – but at the same time he had a

feeling that it would hold.

―Well, it would seem that I‘ve found the way,‖ he said

as he stood up straight again, hearing his back pop as he

stretched.

The two women moved next to him and peered over

the hole, both grabbing a hold of Marcus as they did so.

Both fully expected their respective demons to come

charging at them through the darkness like Graboids,

taking them back down below where punishment would

be waiting.

―Where do you think it leads?‖ Helen asked

nervously. Sure, there was a light, but where did it come

from? It could have been anyone or anything; there

wasn‘t any way for them to know whether what say

lurking in the basement was friend of foe.

―We won‘t know if we never go down there,‖ Becky

said, making the first move. More than anybody she was

eager to get out of the room. She hoped that getting away

from the four walls would stop the voices and cut down

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on the splitting pain that continued to rip her head apart

with the relentless ferocity of a wild dog with a bone.

Becky made the first move and Marcus shot Helen a

compassionate look that said she was right. Helen knew

it. They had no choice but to follow. After all, they were

just rats in a maze. Helen was resigned to follow them,

but couldn‘t shake the idea that some hidden corner of

Hell had been opened up just for them.

Becky went first, stepping gingerly, tapping each of

the rickety wooden steps several times with the ball of

her foot before taking the actual step in its entirety.

Against her better judgment Helen allowed herself to be

ushered into the mid position, with Marcus taking the

rear, keeping his eyes open and attention focused on

anything that may come after them. His footfalls were

swifter and more assertive; he reasoned that his two

cohorts had passed over them with no ill effects, and he

was eager to leave the hotel behind him. He loved his

wife, but hearing that voice constantly whispering in his

mind was too much; the things she said, the threats she

made.

The deeper they descended, the cooler it got, and

they all realized for the first time how hot it had been in

the room – or maybe hot wasn‘t the right word; airless

perhaps being the more fitting term. There had been

windows, but none open, and it had created a stifling

atmosphere, like entering a car left out in the summer

sun. Marcus lost track of how far they descended, but

after a while their pace increased, their footfalls became

less tentative and more assured. The two women were

completely focused on the way ahead; it was only Marcus

who noticed that the hole in the floor that had been their

entry point had sealed itself tight not long after they had

all passed through its threshold. He wasn‘t surprised, and

so said nothing.

He saw it as a pointless bit of information at the time.

After all, there was no other way for them to go and he

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knew it, they did, and with more clarity each step they

took.

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Chapter 16

The light grew steadily brighter; it both guided their

way and kept their spirits bright. The slope began to level

off and a relief swept through the three of them when

they finally reached the bottom and saw the tunnel

stretch out before them.

It wasn‘t a dead end, not yet. It was a T-junction,

with a tunnel branching in each direction, although their

choice was a simple one because the light only came from

one branch. They turned right without even stopping.

They followed the light like Theseus followed the string

through the labyrinth once the Minotaur was no more

than a rotting pile meat behind him. Unlike the lighted

gel bubble that had drawn Marcus and Helen from their

room and brought them to Becky, this light seemed to be

a genuine; a beam of sunlight, or at least electric lighting.

The tunnel widened as they left the stairs behind

them, and the crude wooden floor that had been laid at

the base of the ladder was exchanged for compact earth.

He saw old, dead roots poking up through the ground,

and a shudder went through him as he remembered the

arms he saw reaching up out of the boiling vats of human

fat. The skin, blackened circles surrounding raw red

wounds that sparkled as if encrusted with tiny jewels,

yellow blisters and thick clumps of wet skin hanging from

their bones as they clawed and dragged themselves above

the surface in a pointless attempt to escape. Marcus

pushed the image out of his head and carried on after the

girls, who had picked up speed since the ground leveled

off. ―Do you smell that?‖ Becky called from up ahead.

Her voice sounded loud and booming when in reality it

was not much more than whisper. ―Vanilla. Oh my God, I

feel like I‘m high again. I can taste it, right in my mouth.‖

She was panicked by her choice of words, and hoped that

the others would ignore them.

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Marcus heard, but thought nothing of it; his own

head spun with overpowering sensations and it was all he

could to not collapse onto his knees.

They all stopped and, yes, they could smell it. The

aroma filled their noses and made their heads swim like

alcohol. It attacked their bodies and made them reel.

―Bacon, I smell bacon,‖ Marcus said, his mouth

dribbling as he spoke. His stomach began to cramp as the

aroma travelled through his body, reaching his brain

before being shot out through his entire frame like an air

raid siren during the war. Incoming, Incoming. Brace

yourself.

―Coffee. Oh God, it‘s so strong,‖ Helen said quickly,

her head spinning just as fast as Marcus‘s, only her

stomach wasn‘t quite as strong and she began to retch. A

white froth spewed from her mouth and Helen collapsed

to her knees. Helen couldn‘t help but laugh as she

vomited once more. ―It‘s so strong, I can‘t take it.‖ She

giggled despite the sour taste that burned in the back of

her throat and stung her eyes.

―Come on, why are you just standing there? Let‘s go,‖

Becky asked. Turning, she resumed her high tempo walk

and strode away from them without waiting.

Marcus bent down beside Helen, resting his arm over

her shoulders, pulling her hair out of her face. ―Are you

okay?‖ he whispered, not wanting to speak too much for

fear of throwing up himself. ―Just count backwards from

ten. It always works for me.‖ He gave her shoulder a

squeeze and when Helen was ready he helped her back to

her feet.

―We‘d better follow her before she gets lost or forgets

all about us.‖ Helen rolled her eyes in the direction Becky

had taken.

Marcus and Helen soon caught up with Becky not

half a mile further along the tunnel. The aromas had

become so strong that Becky had been forced to stop. She

stood like a sprinter at the end of a tough race. She was

panting. Sweat dripped from her brow and the floor

around her feet was sodden with vomit. Marcus had

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Helen stopped a few paces short of where Becky stood;

they understood enough of who she was to know they

didn‘t need to get any closer. When Becky was ready, she

looked over her shoulder at them, gave them a half smile,

and once again they walked away as a group.

After a gentle dog leg to the left, the tunnel came to

an abrupt and rather unexpected end. When they reached

it nobody spoke. The large circular door filled the entire

tunnel, leaving only enough space for the light to spill

through around its circumference like a corona during a

solar eclipse. The door itself was made of iron, solid iron,

and engraved with all manner of symbols. They covered

its every inch; swirling patterns, sy mmetrical designs and

oriental looking characters. Marcus was the one to take

them closer. They had come this far, and he knew that

the way behind them was not only sealed but had begun

to disappear like the corridor before, forcing their hand

and putting them up against a very strict clock.

―What are they? Hieroglyphics or something?‖ Becky

asked, knowing that they weren‘t but unable to find a

word suitable.

―No, they‘re something else entirely.‖ Marcus exhaled

as he spoke, a long, drawn out breath.

The aroma of fresh coffee and hot food was strong

still; they could all smell cinnamon buns and fresh bread,

vanilla and a great range of other aromas that created a

kaleidoscope of patters inside their brain, like a

psychedelic montage from the sixties and seventies. Their

heads spun with the intoxicating mix, their stomachs

cramped from the pain while their legs struggled to

support them.

―We just need to find the key,‖ Marcus began. ―Look

around, there must be something, a lock or a

button…something.‖ Marcus hoped they would find

something as he was already lost in the designs of the

wheel.

Marcus reached out and ran his hands over its

surface. He was surprised to find it was cold and damp.

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The three of them – the ladies joining in a little later,

their hands trembling as they approached – searched

every inch of the gateway that was within their reach.

They found nothing. There were no buttons or hidden

levers like all good rich people have built into their

libraries. Marcus even traced the outline of the

engravings to see it was like some sort of puzzle box with

the engravings that needed to be turned in a certain way,

forming completely new images that would in turn

unlock the door and grant them passage into the next

phase of the unknown. He found nothing. Everything was

as it was supposed to be. Frustrated, tormented by the

aromas and – possibly the greater factor of the three –

exhausted, Marcus slammed his fist against the surface of

the blockage with a flat wet slap. He grunted from the

jarring shockwave that travelled through his wrist and up

into his shoulder. Once the dull echo of his knock

receded, the ground began to shudder. The door winched

open as the sound of old machinery sprung into life.

―Of course, why didn‘t we think of just knocking on

the door?‖ Becky quipped. Helen and Marcus gave a

short chuckle as they waited patiently to see what

awaited them on the other side.

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Chapter 17

The group walked through to doorway together,

unaware of the bond that had formed between them in

such a short space of time. The strange grey shroud that

had been so smothering in the hotel rooms was gone,

vanished into nothing. Instead they found themselves

standing in an elaborately decorated room with a high

ceiling which was decorated with all manner of ornate

designs.

Only, upon closer inspection, Marcus saw that they

were not casts, but one immense flowing sculpture,

carved into the building itself. Large crisscrossed beams

created regularly spaced squares, which were further

segmented into triangles. From the center of each cross

hung a large chandelier, and along the hor izontal axis of

each triangle was a hidden light source that beamed not

down towards the guests but rather up against the

ceiling, reflecting a much crisper light that could ever be

achieved with a bulb. A marble floor traced its way

around the room. Its grain flowed and swam much like

the floral patterned wallpaper in the other building, while

the main flooring was jet black, and as cold as pack ice

beneath their feet. Large arched windows were covered

with heavy gothic style drapes, which stopped a barely

perceptible distance from the floor. Everything about the

great hall was pristine, every detail perfectly arranged

and placed with precision.

It was daylight outside. None of them knew how they

knew this, but they were certain beyond any shadow of a

doubt that on the other side of the walls the sun was

shining, the air was clear, the temperature warm and

summery. Yet the drapes kept this locked outside and

their dark fabric and dense texture helped create a rather

strange and surreal atmosphere. In the center of the

room – running lengthways – ran a large dining table, or

quite possibly a series of dining tables. It was set with a

bone china service, plates and bowls stacked high in the

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center of each place setting. Nestled upon the apex of the

china tower was a napkin folded into a rose. A pure silver

ring glistened at the base of the flower, keeping it in

perfect balance so that neither stem nor bud touched the

plate. The cutlery was laid out in rows: forks and knives

of all shapes and sizes, spoons and serving cutlery all lay

in perfect formation. There were crystal glasses for water,

wine, and of course the after dinner brandy, and they all

glinted and chimed melodiously in the electric

atmosphere of the room.

The trio walked along the table, the two women on

one side and Marcus on the other. He ran his hands over

the backs of the chairs as he walked. They were heavy to

his touch and refused to move when he tugged on them.

They reached the end and stood together, looking down

the unoccupied table, wondering what it all meant.

Looking down the room back the way they had just

come from, none of them were surprised to see that the

large iron door complete with its strange markings was

gone, vanished completely, not like the doors back on the

other side, but removed in its entirety. In its place,

mounted high on the wall, hung a large oil painting of

Michelangelo‘s The Last Judgment.

Behind them, a glass rattled and a gasp filled the air.

―How did you get there?‖ a startled, aged voice asked.

―Who are you people?‖

The voice came from behind them. Marcus turned

first, followed by Becky. Helen froze; she turned slower,

her face tensed, eyebrows raised in a mixture and

surprise and apprehension.

The three turned around and saw the room was all of

a sudden much longer, extended at least the same

distance that they had travelled. The tables continued,

unaffected by the sudden change in the room‘s volume,

their elongated surface decked immaculately once more.

The only difference was that the large, silver serving

dishes were filled with all types of food, fresh fruit, and

breads. Butter dishes with fresh butter, margarines,

pastes and spreads. Decanters filled with red, white and

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rosé wines were positioned every other chair. In total

there were five settings stocked, with three glasses

already filled with generous amounts of each.

Leaning against the back of the first chair sat an old

man, certainly in his seventies and possibly older if he

had aged well, and likewise younger had he experienced a

tough life. His hair was white and he had a faint beard

that covered his strong-featured face. He was a solid

man, his clothes fitted him well, but he was broad

shouldered and had a wide chest. His T-shirt showed that

despite his age his arms held a deep rooted natural

strength; his forearms etched with deep, sweeping,

curved lines of muscle.

Without invitation, Becky, Helen and Marcus walked

to the place settings that they understood had been laid

for them. It was then they saw the second man, a young

man, not much older than a boy. He was sat in a semi-

catatonic state, his head bowed, staring into his own lap.

He was pale, his face damp with sweat. His arms were

wrapped around each other as he hugged himself. He

didn‘t look up as the newcomers sat down. He didn‘t

seem to notice them at all.

―I could ask you the same question,‖ Marcus

answered. He felt himself stand taller as he spoke.

―That‘s an easy one. I‘ve been here for days already,

just me and my rather subdued friend there.‖ The old

man rose from the chair with the ease of a man half his

age and pointed to the younger man. Standing behind his

chair the man looked at Marcus, gave him a quick glance

up and down and then continued to speak. ―My name is

Graham Williams, and I fear that, much like you, I have

no idea what is happening to us. I will, however,

speculate that we all died in some way. That we went to

our own personal flagellation chambers. As to what this

place is, I am in the dark, but I think it is safe to say that

we are all on the same side. How am I doing, sport?‖

Graham said with gentle honesty, yet inside he was

shocked and confused as to how the trio had arrived

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given that there was no door to grant any one entry or

exit.

Graham had been trapped in the building for what

felt like an age. The sunlight outside never faltered, not

even broken by a passing cloud, and so he had closed the

drapes to create some degree of darkness only to find the

lights came on as if on a sensor. The tables had been

filled with food prior to his arrival, and all five place

settings had been set. It was this specific number of

settings at such a large table that offered a strange level

of reassurance when Graham looked up and saw three

strangers stood around like lost sheep.

Marcus stepped forward. He was unsure why he did

this before speaking, but he went with it. ―Pretty good.

We all died, you got that right. Where we went, well...‖

Marcus paused to choose the right word but was cut off

by Becky, unafraid of speaking the word that hung on all

their lips like a gossip.

―We were in Hell, old timer. We all know it even if we

won‘t say it. Now, I don‘t trust people easy but we‘re all in

the same boat, and right now I‘m fucking hungry so let‘s

just have some food and see where this delightful day will

take us from here,‖ Becky said with anger, but even

Graham could tell that there was more to it than the

stress of their unfortunate situation and so he let it slide.

Instead, he sat down and raised his glass to them. It was

a signal to them. It said, I am a friend. Eat with me so

that we may talk. Across the table, the pale figure of

Samuel Westford turned his face to them; his eyes were

swollen and bloodshot, surrounded by red blistered

circles that looked like somebody had played a prank on

him with a pair of binoculars that had been dipped in

acid. Helen gasped, but caught herself before she uttered

the cry that rose in her throat.

―Hi,‖ Sammy muttered weakly, his voice cracked and

broken.

―You will have to forgive Samuel…pardon

me...Sammy,‖ Graham corrected himself and smiled at

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Sammy while doing so. ―He isn‘t ready to talk about

things yet, and until he is, I have promised to leave him

to work through it on his own.‖ He finished speaking,

took a long sip of the wine, and smiled as it warmed his

throat.

It was the first time any of them had touched the

spread. They had been too concerned and confused to

think about eating, even though the aromas tied their

stomachs into knots as they looked at each dish in turn,

feeling the pain travel along their jaw as their deprived

senses became overloaded.

Marcus looked intently at the burns around the boy‘s

eyes. The skin was sore and blistered, the surrounding

areas blackened and festering, while the eyes were not

bloodshot, but rather weeping sores. His eyeballs had

been damaged and what remained would never offer him

the power of sight, even once the burns had healed.

The trio sat at the table. The chairs were heavy but

slid effortlessly over the floor. The thick velvet padded

cushions welcomed their tired posteriors and enveloped

them, wrapping around the individual contours of their

bodies to provide them with the most comfortable sitting

position. Soon, they were all seated, with Graham at the

head of the table, on the left-hand side when viewed from

the direction Marcus and his ladies had approached

from. Helen had positioned herself next to him and

Marcus sat beside her. Becky took the place that was set

on the opposite side of the table to Graham, beside

Sammy. He had released his hold on himself, and now

searched the table for his wine glass, having heard the

others both raise and drink from theirs.

―Here, let me help you.‖ Helen leaned across the

table as far as she could, and Marcus couldn‘t help

himself but steal a peek at her behind as she did for her

shirt rode up and exposed both her lower back and her

belly, which was smooth and flat. He felt less guilty when

he saw Graham doing the same.

―Do you want white, red, or rosé?‖ she asked him

softly.

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―Red, please,‖ he answered, his voice a whisper, but

certainly more audible than before they took their seats.

Becky handed Sammy the glass, and waited before

lowering her hands just in case he needed some help in

replacing it on the table.

Despite their stomachs cramping in hunger nobody

was prepared to make the first move and dig into the

food. Occasionally one of them took a sip from their wine.

The men had all chosen red, while Becky had taken the

white and Helen opted for rosé. It was only once one

person broke the standoff for a drink that the others all

followed suit, and it soon turned into a round robin, each

one taking a sip when it was their turn in the cycle.

―Bugger this,‖ Becky finally said. She reached across

and pulled the cover from the nearest dish and placed it

on the table beside the container. ―I‘m famished,‖ she

added as she looked at the contents.

The silver serving dish was filled with bacon; crispy,

fresh cooked bacon. It was hot and just too good to be

ignored. All four of them dove in, piling their plates high

with food. Marcus removed the cover from another

platter revealing eggs; a mountain of scrambled eggs on

one side and a tower of fried eggs on the other, some

sunny side up and the others over easy, each cooked to

perfection. The other dishes offered steaks, mixed

vegetables, sautéed potatoes, mashed potatoes and a

pasta dish with what they all assumed was chicken and

large, thick sliced mushrooms covered in a rich cream

sauce. The final serving dish that was within their seated

reach was much deeper than the others. It was filled with

fresh baked rolls; whole-wheat and white, covered with

sesame seeds, poppy seeds, sunflower and pumpkin

seeds. Not to mention ciabatta and flat breads a-plenty.

There was also a wide selection of butters, margarines

and spreads, including olive and walnut spreads, jams,

preserves and various herb and garlic butters.

With their plates filled they sat back. Only Sammy

remained sitting with an empty plate.

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―I can smell it all. It smells so good,‖ he said as if

speaking to himself, forgetting the fact that he was in

company.

Sammy‘s mind was overpowered by the smells. While

he could put no images to the aromas, which by the time

they reached his nose were mingled into one large,

flavored cloud, his world was lit by a fireworks display.

He struggled to speak because of the saliva that filled his

mouth and the screaming that still rang in his ears.

―Here you go, Sammy, I filled one for you. It‘s got a

bit of everything. I hope you don‘t mind,‖ Graham said as

he handed the laden plate to Becky, who in turn placed it

in front of Sammy. She also handed him his cutlery. At

first he took hold of her hand and gave it a grateful

squeeze.

―Thanks,‖ he said as he began to shovel the food into

his mouth like a ravenous animal. Unlike the others he

wasn‘t privy to the tense and stifling Mexican standoff

that had played out with the wine. Nor was he aware that

he ended it when he began to eat with such gusto.

It wasn‘t long before they were all cramming food

into their mouths like hamsters, swallowing mouthfuls

whole in instances where chewing seemed to take too

much time. They drank their glasses empty – and refilled

them without hesitation – to wash the slow descending

food away and clear the route for the next forkload. They

ate through bouts of nausea, stomach cramps and sweats,

but also through periods of near orgasmic pleasure and

warming reassurance such as is only possible to feel

through food. They never felt full, never felt the head

dizzying effects of the drink.

The more they ate, the more relaxed they began to

feel in each other‘s company. The more they drank the

warmer they felt from it, the more alive they seemed to

feel, even if the alcohol seemed to be nullified somehow.

Conversation began to flow, albeit stalled and rather

awkward at first, nobody wanting to begin talking about

their experiences or their current situation in general.

Partly out of fear of the judgment and reaction of others,

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despite the link between Marcus and Becky, and the

knowledge Helen had gained in a short time, they were

still all strangers. Perhaps the main factor behind the

short, choppy sentences and curtailed responses was that

none of them wanted to stop eating. The risk of a serious

conversation arising was too large. Not to mention the

possibility that it could lead to a debate, and that would

cost

valuable

mouth-filling

moments.

Instead

conversation remained light and jovial. Memories of

embarrassing moments and funny childhood stories were

shared as if they were a group of old college buddies

gathered for a barbeque one hot August afternoon.

―I remember when I was a kid,‖ Marcus began,

before forking a pile of scrambled eggs into his mouth –

he was on to his third plate, having moved from bacon

and eggs to a glorious steak dinner; he had been seduced

once again by the perfectly cooked and seasoned eggs.

―We used to go away almost every weekend…camping,

hiking, biking, it was only the four of us, but my mom

was such a stickler for organization that she planned a

simple two-day hike…‖ Another load of eggs entered his

mouth, this time accompanied by some garlic sautéed

potatoes and a small piece of steak – his third of the meal

– ―as if it was the invasion of Normandy.‖ Marcus let out

a small snort of a laugh at his comparison, one that in the

station would have elicited a similar response from the

audience. While Becky gave a slight chuckle, Marcus saw

the look on Graham‘s face and stopped. It was not a look

of anger or disappointment, but one of remembrance.

―Carry on. It was a long time ago. Don‘t get all upset

because some old bastard like me was there. I‘m old, not

an idiot. I do understand the concept of humor, you

know.‖ Graham had a friendly voice and a wry smile

across his face, immediately sensing or understanding

the reason for the derailing of Marcus‘s tale.

―You were there?‖ Helen asked with a look of

disquieting eagerness. ―Sorry if I sound excited but

History was the one subject that always kept my attention

at school,‖ she continued before stopping to reload her

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mouth. She too was onto her third plate of food, although

her‘s were not stacked as full as the men‘s were.

―Yes, not for long. I didn‘t storm the beaches or

anything but I was there. My war was fought in the

Netherlands…Holland.‖ He added the second name after

a short pause to check for recognition or confusion. He

saw neither but thought it best to include it to be on the

safe side.

― A Bridge Too Far,‖ Sammy said, looking up from his

second plate of food. His mouth was ringed by bits of

food and butter from the bread rolls that he had taken

such a shine to. His shirt was dirty also, but they forgave

him that given his unfortunate circumstances. ―I liked

that movie.‖ It was the most Sammy had contributed to a

conversation yet.

―Yeah, that was a good one. I saw it myself. It wasn‘t

that operation for me, though. I was stationed closer to

the Belgium border...‖ Graham paused, suddenly aware

of how close he was to the subject they had all worked so

hard to avoid. F uck it, he thought before continuing, ―We

were there until the liberation, fighting small battles here

and there. Had a couple of damn close calls too, I can tell

you. In fact, it's part of the reason why I‘m sitting here

today.‖ He raised his glass and drained it empty, enjoying

the clean taste it left. ―Do you know? I think I‘m done

eating,‖ he added as an attempt to lighten the mood, or at

least change the course of discussion.

In seeming agreement, the others too set down their

weapons and called a truce with the endless delights that

lined the table.

―Now would be a good moment for a cigar,‖ Marcus

added, also aware of the direction the conversation was

taken.

―At least you went to Hell for doing the right thing.

Protecting people, I mean, not killing. I got this because I

looked at my hot neighbor when she was out and about in

the summer,‖ Sammy said, not looking at any of them,

but rather gazing blankly at the center of the table – not

that he knew it.

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―All I did was dislike my in-laws,‖ Helen said. She

had been as good as silent since they had arrived. Even

more so than when they first met Becky, and even now

she seemed somewhat embarrassed at having spoken.

―Crack whore.‖ Becky put her hand up as she spoke.

―Long story short,‖ she said and smiled, and it was true:

while there were many factors she was sure that

contributed to her fall into the pit, it was this basic fact

that remained the constant.

―You two should have been neighbors,‖ Marcus

blurted, pointing across at both Becky and Sammy. He

smiled, and before long the entire group was laughing,

the pressure removed now that things had been brought

to surface.

―So you three don‘t know each other then?‖ Graham

said. The conversation had moved on at a natural pace,

Marcus admitting his adultery, which he was surprised to

find still stung him to say aloud.

―Well, not really. I mean, that firecracker over there

and I kind of have a history,‖ Marcus began. He winked

at Becky as he said it so that she knew he meant nothing

serious by it. It was just his way.

―What he means is he tried to be all Action Jackson

when I was in trouble and got killed as a result.‖ Becky

smiled back, pouting.

―Something like that, but we only met once we got

here, in that weird hotel-style building. I guess it‘s on the

other side of the street or something. It was too bizarre

for words,‖ Marcus offered. They had already discussed

the building, the strange grey living dust that seemed to

detest color in the extreme, not forgetting the moving

doors and wallpaper.

Both Sammy and Graham had woken in the Banquet

Room, as they had christened it, and so the tale of the

mystical hotel held a great appeal for them. Sammy

listened with his head turned away from Marcus, who did

most of the talking, giving at least one ear direct access to

the waves of spoken sound. Graham listened keenly,

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entranced by the tale like a kid at camp sitting around the

fire listening to the others tell ghost stories.

The group remained at the table, yet was far more

relaxed than they had been at the start. The wine flowed

in more irregular streams rather than in the previously

adopted synchronized style. Even Sammy had brightened

up and seemed to be feeling far more comfortable with

his position.

―Does it hurt?‖ Becky asked with genuine concern,

touching Sammy on the shoulder with the merest of

brushing movements, just to let him know that she was

talking to him and because she wanted to know, not

through pity or through awkward formality, but because

she genuinely wanted to know.

―Not anymore. It did, but once I got here it began to

fade,‖ he answered, looking right at her as he spoke.

―How come…I mean, I got…um, well, injured when I

was, you know, down there. But when I got here,

everything was gone,‖ Becky stammered as she tried to

find the right words to use when phrasing what she

viewed as a delicate question.

―It‘s true,‖ Helen agreed, her cheeks flushing a warm

scarlet. ―I was tortured for years, but I don‘t have a mark

on me,‖ she finished. Despite all they had been through,

it seemed remarkably easy for them to talk about it all.

The initial fear that had held them all in its vice-like grip

while alone had begun to loosen in the presence of

company. Much like an abusive spouse, it seemed happy

to play along while the others were around, but nothing

comes without a price, and it would be reaped when the

time was right… when they were alone again.

―That‘s because the demon that put their hands on

you was powerful. A demon of the second hierarchy, and

not someone you would expect to find getting their hands

dirty in the lower levels of the pit such as the chambers

you five occupied. His name was Rosier, and we cannot

undo his touch,‖ a new voice said. It was deep and

monotonous and made all five of them jump.

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Unlike the others, Marcus and Graham reacted more

than jumped, both leaping to their feet. Marcus noted

how sprightly Graham was for an older man.

―Who the hell are you?‖ Marcus demanded. He

turned as he snapped to attention, and saw the four other

men standing at the head of the table far to his right.

―Sit,‖ the one in the middle ordered. He stood half a

pace ahead of the other three, who stood with their arms

straight, hands resting over each other in the center of

their waist like personal security or the guardians of The

Matrix.

Marcus felt an overwhelming urge to take his seat

again, and very nearly did when he heard a chair scraping

behind him. Out of the corner of his eye Marcus saw that

the others had also risen to their feet, even Sammy.

―No. You see, I‘ve had about enough little surprises

and strange goings on for one day. You sound like

someone who can give us some answers, so why don‘t you

start by telling us who you are and then, maybe, if we like

what we hear we‘ll sit. What do you say?‖ Marcus stood

firm, his shoulders back, blood surging through his veins.

He was nervous. His hands shook but he held them

before his body, fists clenched. The fact that he felt so

nervous was actually a comfort for him.

―How dare you speak to...‖ One of the minders took a

stride forward, his face a thundercloud of restrained rage.

His eyes seemed to flash and spark like a live electric

cable, while his hulking muscle ridden frame looked to

have expanded and stretched the skin that covered it to

the limit. The other man, the obvious leader of the group,

simply stuck his arm out and held up his hand in a

silencing gesture.

―Calm down, Nakir. They are sinners and know no

better. Besides, they are right. We haven‘t introduced

ourselves to them yet.‖ He turned his head to his friend

as he spoke, then turned back to look at Marcus. After

some pause, he added, ―My apologies.‖ He flashed them a

smile and folded his hands before his body much like the

others. Behind him, the one he called Nakir had resumed

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his place in the line. ―My name is Raguel, and these are

my brothers. Nakir has already made his presence felt, as

is often his way. The fellow on my left here is Sariel.‖

Raguel pointed to the man that stood at the end of

the line; he was an ordinary looking man, not as large or

imposing as Nakir. Raguel wore a pair of faded blue

jeans, a regular work shirt and a pair of black shoes. His

hairline receded slightly as the later stages of youth

began to give way to approaching middle age, and also

unlike Nakir, whose eyes were so dark they seemed black,

Sariel‘s were green; nothing out of the ordinary but

clearly more colored than his muscular counterpart.

―And this is Nemamiah.‖ He was dressed in a casual

suit. He had a pair of glasses perched on his nose but he

seemed to not understand their purpose for he kept

removing them and then replacing them, and when his

name was mentioned and the attention directed his way

he dropped them. He was the youngest of all four, or so

he looked. Nemamiah offered them a strained smile, but

for the rest, his body did not move.

―Okay, those are nice names,‖ Marcus said

sarcastically. ―But not what I meant. Who are you?‖ he

asked again.

Raguel opened his mouth to answer, pausing before

continuing in a tone that was one of complete surprise, as

if their names alone should have been introduction

enough. ―Why…we‘re Angels of the Lord.‖

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Chapter 18

The sun beat down. The sky was cloudless a deep

shade of azure, impossibly so. It was the kind of blue sky

seen in surreal movies or comedies, and had Richard not

been staring into it for the past week he would not have

believed it even if someone had told him and made him

watch their home movies of the trip to prove it. Truth was

he had no clue how long he had been there, stranded on

the top of a mountain risen in the center of a large desert.

Although it wasn‘t just desert, no, there were patches of

what looked like dry earth, cracked open like the soles of

the feet that must have tried to cross this landscape at

some point in times past.

The sun moved across the sky, a large burning disc

that traversed the world far too close to the ground to be

considered a good sign – although that could have been

aided by the impossible height of the rock which Richard

found himself stranded on. It rose in the East, and

lowered in the west, but its pace was as impossible to

gauge as the mind of a woman, especially one who bases

all of her important life decision on the measure of drink

and liquor floating through her system at the time of

asking. Some days would go by slower than the last

afternoon of school before summer. The heat would boil

the sweat while it was still beneath Richard‘s skin, and

the night would go even slower, the cold air freezing him.

With no place to turn for shelter from either of the

two extremes, Richard lay flat against the rock, fighting

against the elements. The sun would rise and he would

welcome he oncoming heat, and the moon would come

out and usher in an equally welcomed cool. Then, just as

Richard would get accustomed to the system, it all

changed. The sun would rise; the temperature would

shoot off the chart before the burning orb had revealed

itself for the day to be gone in a matter of hours, before a

night came that lasted twice as long as Richard could

bear. There was no pattern to the concept of time, except

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maybe a randomness which could only be seen once the

approaching insanity could decode.

The first few days after his arrival, Richard stood or

sat in the same location, just waiting for the man, Jizo, to

come back and take him further on whatever journey it

was that he had to make; escaping Hell or simply being

moved further into it, he wasn‘t sure which. However,

after a particularly long day and halfway through an

equally slow night, Richard finally realized that he was

waiting for something that would not happen. It was his

move to make.

On the fourth day Richard began his search for a way

down, or at least a route that was less than vertical and

offered a modicum of grip. There was nothing. He was

stuck on the plateau of a large mountain in the middle of

the desert without even so much as a tree to offer him

shade. There was no way down that wasn‘t merely a feat

of chance. By the end of that fourth day, the sun had

begun to take its toll on him. Richard found himself

weaker, the night was harder, and even by mid-afternoon

on the fifth day beneath the blistering sun, he shivered.

Richard was reduced to crawling on his hands and knees

as he continued to scavenge the mountain top for

something, anything. Each day he would cover the same

ground, hoping for some change, for some miraculous or

overlooked escape point. He thought he had seen a root

or some other form of vine not far below the edge on the

evening of the fifth day, and so he had headed for it, but

no sooner had his grasping fingers found their target did

the vines crumble in his hands, disappearing to dust and

floating off into the wind.

At the peak of the sixth day, Richard sat back, resting

on his elbows, forearms flat against the burning rock, like

a holiday maker on Bondi Beach. He watched as a

fascinatingly green colored scorpion crawled along his

legs. The creature seemed rather interested in this new

find, for it had stalked Richard for the best part of ninety

minutes, much to Richard‘s amusement. It circled him

like a cat circling the unaware blackbird, moving it

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seemed in ever decreasing circles until the time came for

its first approach.

Richard‘s body had been coated in sweat as the beast

approached him. He was exhausted, unable to move away

if he wanted to. His body burnt from the sun, blisters had

erupted all over his flesh and they seemed to pulse in a

strange rhythm, his right arm was tingling, while his left

had lost nearly all sensation other than a dull ache which

lingered in the back of his mind. The unusual coloration

of the creature also held him captive; the fine hairs on its

body were clearly visible and to Richard‘s sun-bleached

mind it looked like a gooseberry. Richard had laughed,

chuckled until his stomach cramped.

When he focused again, the beast was gone; it had

moved from the rock and now sat, perched neatly, on

Richard‘s legs. His trousers were torn at the knee, his legs

exposed. The scorpion moved with a gentle grace. Its feet

were tipped like needles yet they didn‘t break the skin. Its

curled tail twitched at regular intervals and its body

expanded as it took a breath. The barb was a much

darker shade of green than the rest of its body, dyed by

the poison that filled it, no doubt. The large pincers were

held up in the air, the left one higher than the right, as if

it was taking up the defensive stance of a boxer, ready to

strike with one claw while protecting itself should the

enemy get a shot off or even evade the first attack.

Afraid to even move, Richard lay still, his breath

burning in his lungs, his legs trembling as his body began

to scream for oxygen. For a while he thought the creature

had fallen asleep; it didn‘t move, didn‘t breathe. It just

sat still. Finally, after what felt like an age, with a

startling leap the creature jumped from Richard‘s legs

and landed more than a meter away. It remained where it

landed for a few moments – winded, perhaps – before

scurrying off again, disappearing over the edge of the

cliff.

Richard watched the creature, awed by the certainty

of its movements, and he was overtaken by a sudden

surety that the answer to his eventual descent laid in the

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beast. Rolling onto his front, ignoring the cries of his

body, Richard forced himself onwards. He crawled on his

belly like a snake, not stopping until his bloodied hands

hooked over the lip of his elevated prison. The sun

blisters that covered him had burst, becoming open,

weeping sores. Sweat stung them and the pain sounded

in his ears like wind chimes. Richard also felt his crotch

begin to itch, a mere flutter of a sensation that went away

with a simple veering of the mind.

Richard hauled himself further over the edge, giving

himself a clear view straight down the side of the cliff. At

first the scorpion was gone: Richard scoured the cliff face

but saw nothing. Then, there it was, scurrying effortlessly

down the side of the mountain. It reached about halfway

down and stopped. Richard waited and watched as the

beast jumped from the rock and plummeted towards the

ground before a set of wings came loose from its back and

began to flap furiously in a bid to slow its ever

accelerating descent.

With the task accomplished, the beating wings took

on a much more rhythmic pattern, and the unique

creation flew away, gaining height and picking up speed.

Richard watched it go and then turned, exhausted,

exasperated and defeated. It was at that moment, with

his head still hanging over the edge of the cliff, that

Richard raised the question of just letting himself fall

straight down into the desert below like Wyle E. Coyote.

That wasn‟t possible – although, if it could do that,

then why can‟t you? a voice spoke inside Richard‘s head.

It was a voice he was familiar with, although in the past it

had always been more aggressive. It was the instigator

behind many of his sexual adventures, the whispering

voice that sat on his shoulders, directing his moves,

aiding and powering his thrusts, enhancing his love

making until he could outlast even the most energetic of

women in bed and leave them begging for more.

Maybe. I mean, nothing makes sense anymore, his

own mind answered the voice. It was the first time he had

answered, or reasoned with himself, but the voice was

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different now; it was withdrawn, worried, maybe even

scared.

If you believe it, then surely it makes sense, and then

anything is possible. I mean, this rock you‟re on, it looks

a little, I don‟t know...um...sandy to me, yeah, real

brittle. I reckon you could just dig your way down, if

you had enough time.

Richard found himself peering down the side of the

mountain once again. He was shocked by what he saw,

the sides no longer the hard, smooth rock of a few

minutes previous, but fragile piles of sand that seemed to

be flowing as the top layer drifted down to the bottom,

where it formed the new base and pushed the pile back

up to its full height.

Was it always like that? he asked himself. No answer

came.

Of course it was. You just missed it, Richard gave

himself the answer.

Richard‘s movements were slow, more through his

body‘s weakened condition than as a result of any

planned caution, but he swung himself over the ledge

and, with a series of weak kicks, managed to create a

foothold and followed this up by creating a second. He

swung his second leg over, ready to begin his possibly

foolish Papillion impression and try to escape an

inescapable prison.

His progress was slow and it didn‘t take long before

his body began to rebel. His shoulders cried out as cramp

surged through them. His forearms and fingers burned

from the constant tension that they were under. Sweat

blinded him and his gums bled as his clenched jaw forced

his teeth deeper into their beds.

Through it all, the itch in his crotch grew. It was no

longer a thought in the back of his mind but a fact, cold

and hard to ignore.

In an attempt to catch his breath Richard stopped

and rested his head against the rock. Its surface was

chalky, and although he couldn‘t see it, he felt a layer of

powdered rock dust stick to his sweat drenched forehead.

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Once it became clear to him that resting in his current

position would not lead to recuperation in any form, he

continued his descent, slamming his feet into the

softened sand-like rock, driving his legs with power

generated in an attempt to ward off the itching which had

become too much to bear. It had progressed beyond the

point of a need to scratch and become something painful

in both mind and body.

His feet hit home, eliciting a grunt which could have

come from either him or the rock. Richard lowered

himself another step, hands filling the indentations left

by his feet from an earlier strike. Richard had struggled

at first, but now he had found his rhythm. It was slow

and steady but it worked for him. He looked up and saw

the ledge towering above him.

What are you doing? the voice whispered to him,

impatient with the halt of his descent.

There‟s no way I‟ve come that far. Fifty feet,

seventy-five maybe, but no way have I come this far.

Richard looked back up again. The ledge must have been

at least two hundred meters above him, too far to change

his mind.

Richard clenched his teeth, closed his eyes and tried

to wipe his mind.

It itches so bad, doesn‟t it? The voice changed its

approach, trying to find another way to worms into

Richard‘s mind, to sell him a deal he couldn‘t refuse.

It itches, but you can make it stop. Just scratch it.

It‟s burning, right? it probed.

No, it‟s not. Focus. Come on, we need to get down.

I‟m saying that this is all wrong, don‟t you see? Richard

told himself

Okay, but just scratch it, we can‟t think like this.

Scratch; find that sweet release and then we can think

things through with a clear head.

The argument raged inside his head, and Richard

could feel his mind being pushed and pulled in both

directions. Through it all, his crotch continued to burn as

the itching became so intense it brought tears to his eyes.

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His whole body called out to be scratched, yet he knew

only one place would be the right one, the sweet spot that

would make it all go away.

Richard tried to grind his crotch on the rocks, but it

was to no avail. This relief needed to be delivered by a

much more intimate method. He closed his eyes and the

voices grew louder, so he opened them again.

Determined to ignore them, he looked around. He was

unfocused but determined to find a way to the bottom.

He looked down, and thought the cliff no longer looked

like such a vertical drop, but had turned into a curve. The

change in gradient was slight, if at all, but it was better

than the sheer face he had begun with.

If I can just find a way to make…

Scratch IT! Burning, we‟re burning up!

I just need to work out how…

To scratch it. We could think clearer if we did…

―No!‖ Richard bellowed aloud, his voice raspy, his

throat agony as a result. His grip loosened as cramp

buried into his forearms while his swollen fingers were

skinned down to the bone. Unable to take the strain any

longer, they released their grip, and for a split second

Richard hung in the air. It was a sobering moment, akin

to when one falls asleep while driving. Having not

noticed your head drooping towards the steering wheel,

you are jolted awake when your head snaps back up just

in time to avoid disaster. Richard closed his eyes and

forced his fingers to do the same. They dug into the rock.

It didn‘t stop his fall, but rather sent him sliding like

Errol Flynn down sail of a ship, knife-like fingers slicing

through the sandy cliff face. His descent slowed – after a

few more meters Richard came to a stop.

The unwanted descent had taken Richard closer to

the ground, but now his feet were left without purchase.

He tried to create some foothold like before, but the soft

surface was gone, replaced by hardened, terracotta

colored rock. Time passed, the sun beat down on him,

and Richard felt his grip begin to give. His kicks against

the rock lost their impotence, his toes numb from the

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blows. Still the maddening itch buried its way deep into

his crotch, like a flesh-eating bug. At some point during

his descent the thin, healed skin had been ripped away.

The skin beneath the scab was wet and raw, and

Richard‘s every move irritated it further.

Just FUCKING SCRATCH IT!

The sweat blinded him as the need to scratch

continued to grow. Richard realized it was unavoidable.

Much like mosquito bites, there was only so long he could

resist before he just had to scratch them, stopping only

once he had broken the surface of the swelling, spilling

the white poisonous fluid that filled them.

Richard‘s hands slipped further, the surface of the

rocks slick with a mixture of blood and sweat. His

strength had deserted him; he hadn‘t even the energy to

tell the voice in his head to shut up. He needed to think

and find a fast way down – and then it came to him.

There‟s only one thing for it, he told himself as he

looked down between his legs.

Just scratch it then, get it over with. You know

you‟re not thinking straight. Scratch it and things will

look so much different. Don‟t do anything stupid.

Fuck you, Richard snapped at himself, unsure if he

spoke aloud, not caring either way.

Richard closed his eyes, and a sudden moment of

clarity came rushing into his brain as he realized what he

was about to do, and for the first time he could

remember, certainly the first time since his parents had

died, Richard Hamilton prayed. The words felt hollow

and stale in his mouth. He knew what he planned to do

was wrong, but at the same time if felt right.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy

name.

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done,

on earth, as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from

evil:

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For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the

glory,

forever.

Amen”

Richard whispered the final word and then kissed the

rock. Wanting no further moments to risk additional

reflection, Richard released his grip. The feat itself was

harder than he had anticipated and for a while Richard

wondered what that meant.

Cramp raged through his arms and shoulders, which

he found to be locked into position, yet somehow Richard

managed to force his hands to open far enough to allow

gravity to do its part in the proceedings.

Turning as he fell, Richard felt his back grate against

the rock. He began to pick up speed. The rock wasn‘t as

smooth as Richard thought, yet after a few feet his body

came away from the wall and removed the issue from his

list of problems. Richard pitched forward and for a

moment thought that he would do a somersault in mid-

air and land head first in the ground like a javelin

launched from the top of the highest mountain in Hell.

Thankfully the curve of the cliff face began at just the

right moment: Richard‘s heels hit first, creating a jolt that

ran up his spine like a static shock. He twisted and felt

his spine crack. He gave a small cry but was cut off when

his torso slammed into the cliff face, bouncing not once

but three times before settling into the slide. Richard‘s

head also took a solid whiplash jolt which caused

fireworks to explode before his eyes, and twilight

descended over the entire desert.

Richard managed to remain conscious but felt his

slide getting out of control; his speed was much faster

than he had thought it would be in his brief moment of

contemplation. Before he reached the burning sand of the

desert, he had twisted and begun to tumble rather than

slide. His arms went out behind him to try and create

some stability, but succeeded in merely loosing several

layers of skin and being pulled to the limit of their arc of

rotation.

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When his slide finally came to a halt, Richard‘s body

landed in a limp heap, his legs bent one way, his upper

body twisted another. His neck snapped to the left so

hard that the pain erupted through his entire body like a

ball of fire. Just before his world went black, Richard

managed to raise his arms and drape them over his face

to protect him from the sun which had now passed over

the mountain and had the rest of the afternoon to focus

all of its damaging attention on the prostrate figure that

lay below it.

Richard had no idea how long he was unconscious,

but when he came around a genuine twilight had taken

over the world – not just the hazy blackness of

impending unconsciousness, but the actual look of the

world as the light is rubbed out.

Richard sat up, his skin dry cracked and sore, already

blistered from overexposure. Weeping sores covered his

arms from where they had been raised. His legs were

straight out before him, and he could see that his left

ankle was badly swollen, his knee was locked into place,

and Richard saw his jeans were soaked to a hardened

crisp from where his blood had been spilt. A large tear

ran through his jeans leg, stretching from his knee down

to the midpoint of his shin. Through it, Richard could see

a deep laceration that ran the same length as the tear. Yet

miraculously he could feel and move both of his legs and

saw no immediate sign of continued blood loss.

Looking up at the mountain Richard was amazed at

how large it looked. He couldn‘t see the exact place where

he let go, but he made a groggy estimate and found he

didn‘t like even the most conservative of numbers.

How did we survive that? the voice said. This voice

wasn‘t groggy, and it didn‘t seem to be suffering from the

heat or overexposure. The only thing that seemed to

affect him had been the itch, which, now that Richard

thought about it, still burned like the memories of a first

love.

I don‟t know. I guess somebody up there likes me

today, Richard thought. He shivered. It was cold. Night

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approached fast in the desert, no matter the passage of

time once it arrived. The stars were already out in force,

and Richard just knew that this night would be a long

one. A fluttering sound behind him made him turn

sharply, and his neck called out a bright reminder of its

recent off road adventure. Moving slower, turning his

entire upper body in one sweeping motion – it was stiff,

but not as painful as when he moved his neck –Richard

saw nothing. Not just in terms of a source of the

fluttering sound, but nothing, simply endless rolls of

undulating sand dunes and valleys of dried cracked earth

which he assumed had once been the bed of rivers, wild

water highways that had cut through this arid landscape

and offered respite to all who graced the vicinity.

The fluttering sounded again, buzzing in his ears like

a mosquito in the middle of the night. Richard turned

back again – and then he saw it. It hovered in the air, its

body not exactly glowing but shimmering in the

moonlight as if it had a phosphorescent shell. The

scorpion hovered mere inches from Richard‘s face, its

wings creating an ever so slight breeze that battered

against his nose, making it itch.

―Hey, little guy, I guess I owe you a lot of thanks, or

at least half of a lot.‖ Richard smiled, unable to take his

eyes off the magical creature.

Moving with a grace that defied its species, the

creature landed on Richard‘s injured leg just above the

knee. He could feel its legs prickling his skin. Richard

winced at the sensation – not pain – but the scorpion

stood perfectly still. Richard smiled at it.

―You are a strange little bugger,‖ he began, but before

he could say anything else the scorpion struck. With the

speed of Mohammed Ali‘s jab, its barbed tail whipped out

and dug into Richard‘s leg. It struck three times in quick

succession, each strike so fast that Richard didn‘t even

see it move more than once. ―Ah…son of a bitch!‖ Richard

snapped, flicking out his hand and slapping the creature

off of his leg.

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The scorpion landed on its feet and turned to face

him. ―You journey has begun,‖ the creature said, and

then in a sudden burst of fire the jade scorpion was

engulfed in flames and disappeared within seconds. It left

behind not even a scorching on the ground or smell of

smoke in the air.

The pain was instantaneous; Richard could feel his

leg begin to swell as the poison worked its way into his

body. It was excruciating. Richard felt his heart begin to

race. His breathing accelerated but become shallow at the

same time. A bellow of rage grew in the pit of his stomach

where it remained prisoner for as long as Richard could

contain it. His leg was swollen to the point where it

looked the same as when Bill Bixby‘s Bruce Banner got

mad.

A sudden gust of wind ran through the desert,

carrying Richard‘s screams off into the distance, leaving

behind nothing but a howling echo that came close to

taking Richard‘s focus away from the pain. The pain

remained long into the night, and Richard lay awake the

entire time. He screamed and roared in agony until his

throat was raw and the coppery taste of fresh meat filled

the back of his throat. His leg alternated from periods of

burning, fire fuelled agony to near frozen cold spells that

only served to aggravate the poison further.

When the sun finally rose in the morning, Richard

lay once again with his eyes closed, only this time it was a

light form of sleep that held him captive. Even in his

dreams his leg burned, but he was elsewhere, lost in a

happy place. The scene changed every few moments, or

so it felt. One moment he was at the local water park

where he had spent many summers as a child, and then

he was in a forest, the floor thick with pine needles that

crunched beneath his feet.

He turned a corner and found himself looking at a

church; a small quaint country church surrounded by

barren fields. A small campfire smoldered beneath the

shadow of the church, a thin trail of grey wispy smoke

dancing into the air, pushed along by a light breeze. Just

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like the breeze created by the jade colored scorpion. A

close up image of the rare creature appeared in his mind,

spot lit and taking center stage. Its talking head‘s

monologue was short and simple: Your journey has

begun. The words echoed through Richard‘s dream

world: taking him by the hand, they pulled him from

slumber.

Richard‘s eyes fluttered open. The lids were heavy

and his head called out groggily, his mind swimming in

the strange sensation of too much sleep, leaving him

feeling shattered. With his mind temporarily blank, he

sat up and looked around him. He remembered the

dream, the strange places he had visited, and the subtle

threatening nature of them. A strange feeling that some

unseen hostility lurked in the background, behind the

images he saw, had created a feeling of dread the

emanated from the pit of his stomach and just could not

be shaken loose.

After allowing his head to clear, Richard immediately

noticed the changes, not only in the desert around him

but also in him. His clothes were the same, but his body

beneath them was not. His leg was healed, the deep

incision which if it had been viewed under more

professional circumstances would have revealed a wound

deep enough to see the bone, was gone, and not even a

scar remained, not even a scab to show he had fallen. His

leg was as good as it once was. Richard sat looking at his

healed limb, having rolled his trouser leg up to get a

better look. He remembered the scorpion, its lightning

fast tail stabbing him several times, he remembered it

exploding in a flash of light, and slowly the pieces began

to slot together.

It was a test of faith, he told himself. The scorpion

rewarded me for making the right decision.

Before the other voice that dwelled inside his mind

had a chance to add his two pennies worth of

information, Richard scrambled to his feet. The sun had

begun to warm up the sandy world once again but

Richard felt certain that he would be fine. As he stood,

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his back cracked several times, and his legs ached with

sciatica from his rather unusual choice of sleeping

locations, but once he stared walking it soon passed.

Turning his back on the mountain, Richard faced the

desert and looked at how it had changed. There were two

paths, one heading east, the other heading west, or so he

assumed given the path of the sun each day – but who

was to say that in this world the sun followed such a strict

path – and each path extended as far as Richard could

see. All around him was sand, undulating unbroken rows

of sweeping dunes. Each one rippled from the flow of

sand and the occasional gentle gust of warm arid wind.

The horizon seemed to shimmer as it met the once again

cloudless blue sky. Richard turned his focus back to the

two pathways. He stood at the beginning of each, the

starting points so close to one another that only after

closer inspection showed that they did not meet.

A decision; you must make a decision, he told

himself.

In the center of each path, but several meters after

they began, lay what could only be considered a guardian.

On his left, the path heading east, he saw a dead bird, its

body plump and gaseous. It was still covered in feathers.

They were dark grey and looked almost like that of a

pigeon, only longer, much longer. The legs were bright

orange and seemed to have curled up into the body like

the legs of the wicked witch that Dorothy was so kind as

to flatten with her house. The wings, however, were

completely decomposed, all traces of flesh and feather

removed, leaving nothing but bone bleached by the sun

and polished by the abrasive nature of sand. The wings

were not curled up or broken as Richard would have

expected, but rather spread out wide as if the animal

were in full flight. The wingspan was large, much larger

than would be normal for a bird of that size. Its neck was

broken, the head twisted so that it looked right at

Richard. The eyes seemed alert. Even in death their

piercing brown color led Richard to believe that if so

inclined the bird could spring up and hop away.

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Of course, it did not.

To Richard‘s right, the path that headed west was

guarded by a snake. The large reptile was coiled up on

itself. Its head rested on its spiraled body. The creature

seemed to sense the gaze of the strange man that stood

before it and raised its head – not a lot, but just enough

to show it was alive and that it was a bad motherfucker.

The snake had seen man before, many years ago, and it

still carried the scars down its flank which served as an

everyday reminder for him to always be on his guard.

Richard saw the snake and understood the danger

before it moved. He could hear it, the hissing of its forked

tongue as it shot out of its mouth with the same lightning

speed as the striking stinger on the end of the jade

scorpion‘s tail. It tasted the air, tasted him no doubt,

inhaled his scent. Uncoiling, the snake raised its head

ever further and Richard could clearly see its coloration.

Its body was a dark green, with yellow edged diamonds

running down its belly. Along its flank ran spots of red –

at least from the sensible and safe viewing distance

Richard had decided to keep they looked like spots - but

they could well have been random patches of color, or

even watery edged diamonds to match the reptile‘s belly

tattoos.

The snake opened its mouth, hissing like a cornered

cat, and in doing so revealed two rows of large hooked

fangs in each corner of its mouth. The large fangs were at

the front, and behind them, just slightly offset, was a

smaller set. The larger front fangs glistened in the

sunlight, coated in and dripping the venom that it was so

eager to share with whoever came too close.

What a choice, Richard said to himself. He wanted to

sit down. His body was tired and his head felt groggy.

Well we have to pick one of them, he told himself, eager

to make a decision before the unwanted voice returned.

Richard looked at each path in turn, from east to west.

Neither looked any different. The dry riverbed off into the

distance rose and fell in rhythm with the dunes.

I would choose the snake, the voice spoke up again.

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Why? It looks dangerous. I think we should go east,

if for anything simply because it heads away from the

sun at the moment, Richard reasoned with himself. He

was unsure if he spoke out loud but when he thought

about it found that he didn‘t care either way.

You have to be kidding me. Look at that thing. It‟s

dead. D-E-A-D. Dead.

I know, but the snake is dangerous; it‟s just waiting

to take a bite, and I have a bad feeling about it.

Remember the fucking scorpion. It‟s a test. West is

the answer.

No. I‟m in charge; we‟re supposed to go east. It‟s in

my gut.

I‟m in your head, you fool. Go west. The snake is

here to help us.

Richard stood still, simply staring from one path to

the other like a child checking the road for traffic but

never being brave enough to take the first step even onto

an empty street. He looked from the dead animal, with

the decayed extremities and the life-like torso, to the

cold-blooded, evil-eyed snake. The small black dots that

Richard assumed were its eyes seemed to be fixed on

him, as if trying to beckon him over.

The issue of the scorpion weighed heavy in his mind,

and he turned his body to head towards the reptile, when

he remembered that the scorpion helped heal him; it had

served a purpose. This time he didn‘t need to be cured; he

was as healthy as could be expected for somebody

stranded in the desert. He also remembered the Bible.

Genesis. The creation of the world and the tempting of

Adam and Eve, man‘s fall from grace and expulsion from

the Garden of Eden. It was all masterminded by the

serpent.

The serpent is not the right choice, Richard said – or

maybe just thought – to himself. With that he turned and

started walking towards the eastbound riverbed.

Oh, so choosing death is better than a snake. That‟s

what this path is, you know: DEATH for us both.

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The voice staged its protest vehemently but Richard‘s

mind was made up, the decision already made.

If it is a good death, then yes. I would rather die

(again) knowing I made the right choice.

Concentrating hard, Richard made himself bring

down – or erect – some mental walls and block the

annoying conscience themed voice from coming any

further forward. It wasn‘t a sturdy construction but it

would hold him long enough for Richard to start his

journey, and by then it would be too late for further

protest.

Richard reached the dead bird and paused. He stood

over it and looked down at it. He was amazed at the way

the wings were spread, as if it had been placed so at some

point in time. Before he set off, Richard cast his eyes back

over his shoulder at the path he had decided against. I t

was a momentary glance, but enough to tell him he had

made the right decision. The snake had risen even higher

from the ground, its body thick and powerful,

overflowing with a deadly force and Richard could have

sworn, even though it was the quickest of glances that he

gave the beast, that it had smiled at him.

Richard turned back again and with his head down,

staring at his feet, watching how they moved over the

cracked arid floor beneath them, he began his eastward

journey, unsure where it would take him or what he

would do when he got there. He was just happy to be off

the mountain, and to have a direction to head in, but

most of all he was thankful to the scorpion, for its sting

had finally taken away the maddening itch of his groin.

He hadn‘t checked the merchandise just yet, but it felt all

in one piece and seemed to swing the right way so he

would take it.

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Chapter 19

―I‘m sorry…could you say that one more time for me,

please?‖ Graham said first; each stuttered word was

interspaced with stifled laughter. The kind you get at all

the most inopportune moments throughout your life;

church or the school assembly were always the popular

ones, not to mention business meetings or remembrance

services.

―Yes, with pleasure,‖ Raguel said in a stoic fashion.

―We are Angels of the Lord and we have been sent here to

gather you all.‖ The words were cold, emotionless; they

smelt foul on the air coming out of Raguel‘s mouth and

they felt even fouler when they entered the ears of the

feasting group.

―A-angels. As in wings and halo angels?‖ Helen

stuttered and mumbled. Her voice lacked the mocking

undertones that had accompanied Graham‘s initial

statement, and instead made her sound rather fearful.

―Well, your conception of us is a fool‘s mindset and

depicts us in a certain way, but for the sake of your own

understanding, then yes. Angels with wings and halos is

exactly what we are,‖ Raguel said.

It was obvious to all that he was in charge, the person

to deal with, to come to when you wanted to file any

grievances. The others stood stock still behind him, and if

they hadn‘t all moved earlier at some point in time after

their arrival, everyone in the group would have been

forgiven for thinking them to be statues.

They don‟t even blink, Marcus thought.

―Bullshit. Tell us the truth. I mean, you pulled us out

so I guess we are indebted to you to a certain degree, but

don‘t bullshit us.‖ Graham rose from behind the table, his

chair grating on the floor, eliciting a sound not unlike

long gnarled yellow fingernails scraping the top layer

from a blackboard in a classroom filled with unruly

children.

―You dare question us? Call me a liar, you peasant?‖

Raguel roared. He threw his hands out and the room

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began to shake as if an earthquake had picked a most

poetic moment to release its rage. The lights dimmed and

Raguel seemed to grow, rising into the air. His feet left

the floor as his face reddened with a controlled yet

imposing rage. His eyes were wide, his lips clenched

tight, and electricity seemed to snap and crackle in the air

around them.

Sammy, in his blind and rather disadvantaged state,

jumped as a charge hit his arm and jolted through his

body. The curtain that hung before the windows was

thrown back. It grabbed all of their attention, with the

exception of Graham, who seemed to have his gaze held

by the furious Raguel. The angel‘s face had continued to

darken and now looked like somebody who had been

hung to the point of suffocation only to be revived at the

last second. Outside the sky too had darkened, as if

someone had flipped the theoretical switch and brought

darkness forward but a few hours. The ground seemed to

tremble and even in the near night conditions they could

see the thick bubbling thunderhead clouds that had

gathered overhead. A fierce wind surged down the street,

whistling through the eaves of the other buildings; it

kicked sand up from street and battered it against the

window like a fine rain. Mini tornados of gritty dust raced

along the road and disappeared into the night.

Thunder rumbled along like the wheels of a carriage

and the pounding hooves of the steeds that pulled it

across the plains. The wind‘s whistling had turned into an

eerie groaning; a cross between a creaking door and a

more classical impression of a ghost. The thunder

rumbled again, expressing its own obvious annoyance at

the insolent attitude shown by Graham and his group.

All of them could feel the tension growing in the

room. It pressed against them all like the G-force in an

accelerating aircraft. Outside, lightning flashed, lighting

everything for a short moment. The buildings‘ silhouettes

were traced in a phosphorescent light, which remained

once the lighting was gone and darkness returned to the

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world, creating a negative impression of the desolate

world that awaited them…or so they feared it was.

With a demonstration of incredible self-control,

Raguel calmed. His face returned to the normal pale

coloration, the light returned to the world, first moving

from midnight to late dusk through to a dawn style lull

before the sun re-emerged and the town took on its old

Wild West look once again.

The others felt the change and were without any

shadow of a doubt impressed with the sheer power that

the men…no, angels – it would take time to get used to

the word – possessed. Graham somehow seemed either

less than impressed or completely taken aback by the

display, for he remained standing where he was, staring

down the men, Raguel in particular. It was a look Marcus

knew well, one he had seen many times, both in the ring

and reflected in his own face by the mirror in his dressing

room before and after his appearance. Although the latter

was often less intense and more ponderous, considering

not only his actions and reactions during the fight, but

also his future, and the normal questions of doubt that

arose inside him. Why he did it? He never had an answer.

Raguel held Graham‘s stare and matched it with one

of his own, and the thing that struck both Marcus and

Helen was how human it looked. Unlike the previous

image that had captured them, this stare, while being

without any doubt cold and harsh, was undeniably

human.

―You are a cynical man, Graham Williams. You are

responsible for more death than anybody in this room

and yet you question the existence of a God the most. So

did you kill because you wanted to, because you enjoyed

it? Many men in your position with no faith would have

turned and fled or allowed others to engage,‖ Raguel said,

his voice now calm, all traces of the rage which had just

consumed him was gone.

―It was a war, it was kill or be killed.‖ Graham‘s

comeback tasted stale in his mouth, words used all too

often, words which had now been reduced to nothing

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more than meaningless syllables uttered on an exiled

breath. ―The war is why I question. Men killing each

other, turning on each other, rape, murder of innocent

bystanders, people just trying to live their lives. Good

people for the most. Believers. Where was your God

then?‖ Graham asked. He had no plans to get involved in

a theological debate with a man who called himself an

angel and so far seemed to have the goods to prove his

story, but he felt the anger rush through him and was

unable to hold it back.

Raguel smiled, a sight even more unnervingly human

than the cold stare, and behind him the three other

angels chuckled amongst themselves, like schoolchildren

hearing someone say a dirty word.

―Well I could give you the answer to that, but, to be

honest, it‘s more fun to keep it a secret.‖ He laughed.

Neither an evil laugh, nor the frolicking playful laugh one

might expect from an angel. It was the laugh of a private

joke of a secret piece of knowledge that people would

never guess, nor would science prove.

Marcus looked from Graham to Raguel and then back

and forth between the two several times. He could see the

tension in Graham‘s face and the look of near boredom in

Raguel‘s, and so he decided that it was time to intervene.

―Gentlemen, forgive our skepticism over your true

identities. It is just that when certain things are

introduced to you in life, you have a certain degree of

expectation that goes with it. Thunder and lightning, for

example: you don‘t expect anything else to follow that

first thunderclap than the next wave of lightning. Were

you to look outside and see snow falling, you would stare

in disbelief despite the real possibility of it occurring on a

regular basis.‖ Marcus was in full flow, using his best

courtroom language, hoping that it would sound, if not

respectful, at least sincere. ―Let us do this. We will

assume that you are indeed Angels of the Lord, sent here

to pull us from Hell, but I ask you, at least allow us some

time to judge you or at least time to adjust to the notion

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that you don‘t all carry harps and live on the clouds like a

child‘s cartoon would have us believe.‖

Raguel looked from Graham to Marcus and back to

Graham again. ―He doesn‘t believe, he doesn‘t want to

believe and, to be honest, I wonder why we had to save

him in the first place. You keep him under control or I‘ll

cast him back into the fallen world for good. I‘ll bury him

in such a deep level surrounded by his own nightmares

that he will be wishing for the churchyard and the sounds

of the pretty young Dutch girl screaming.‖ Turning his

attention back to Marcus, Raguel continued. ―I will not

pander to your petty will. Your concept of perception will

need to change, and so it changes now. You will listen to

me. We pulled you out, but I will throw you back without

warning should you so much as think about questioning

us again. We have a lot to discuss – or should I say I have

a lot to say and you all to hear. So let us begin, shall we?‖

With that he clapped his hands, creating a wall of sound

like cannon fire, and everything began to change.

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Chapter 20

The tables with food disappeared, faded away, eaten

out of existence by time itself like childhood memories

once old age takes its icy grip on the mind. It moved like

a flood and erased the color from the world first of all,

and then like a cloud of cartoon termites it ate its way

through the fabric of it all. The contents of the tables

disappeared first, the silver serving sets and crystal

glasses becoming tarnished and dusty, before becoming

paler and paler until they were translucent. Once the

tableware had become nothing more than faint silver

outlines, the last few graying strands of the hairline that

was their feast, it became the turn of the table and chairs,

each one disappearing at a uniform pace, a curtain call of

the most actual possibility.

―What‘s going on? Why are you doing this?‖ Helen

cried, her voice filled with fear, her eyes were wide with

terror. She felt dizzy. She reached out, took hold of

Marcus‘s arms and held him tight.

The angels – for that is now what they were – said

nothing. Raguel raised his head back and stared rather

fittingly into the heavens while his three bodyguards

remained standing in their statuesque positions.

The building was next to go. Unlike the rest, it

crumbled around them rather than disappeared. It

decayed and fell apart, large clumps of brick and

concrete. Marcus found this strange as all the other

buildings he had seen through in the street had been old

fashioned wooden creations. The sort of buildings that

one would have seen in the old frontier towns back when

Wyatt Earp justice was the reality and the saloon fell

silent when a stranger came to town.

It‟s all a mirage; just showmanship, Marcus

thought. His years of police training and a level-

headedness which had been beaten into his skull as a

result of all the gym work and sparring had taught him to

always look around not just at the center of the problem.

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He had learnt that more often than not there was a lot to

be learnt by the problems created as a result of, rather

than by, the initial problem itself. At least he had found it

to be true when it came to investigating alibis and group

encounters such as this.

―Relax, they won‘t hurt us. Not after everything they

did to get us here. They just want to show us how

powerful they are so we know they mean business,‖

Marcus whispered to Helen. Although he felt her grip on

him loosen, he didn‘t look, it was now his turn to hold the

stare of the angels – only it was not Raguel he was in

contact with but the other three. Their eyes were as heavy

as lead on his soul. He could feel them looking through

him, inside of him in the place where angels – or so he

assumed – waged their combat with all mortals.

Helen said nothing, and felt no better. It might well

only be a hallucination or whatever, but it scared the hell

out of her. In all honesty she was still in denial over

everything, and in the back of her mind was the constant

thought that she would wake up in bed next to her

husband. He would be snoring away, lying with his back

to her as he always seemed to be if she woke up in the

night despite them having fallen asleep curled up

together in some form or another. She expected to be

covered in sweat, shivering and scared to open her eyes

or look around for fear of seeing him... Luther… standing

there his face, grinning as he drank hot blood from a

large glass like the vampire he was. Oh but she would

look, she would look with pleasure if she were to wake

now and hear those deep inhalations of her other half,

the man she loved with all her heart and soul. She would

look not because he gave her strength, or because love

conquers all, but because she would be alive. She would

know it was had been but a horrible dream. Oh how she

would look, she would stare deep into Luther‘s cold

ruthless eyes and smile at him and then allow herself to

disappear like the buildings around her, fading as the

memories of dreams always do.

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Yet deep down, beneath it all, Helen knew the truth.

She knew she was trapped, she knew what lay ahead from

them all would be horrid. She thought about Marcus‘s

words once more and felt better.

The building disappeared, rotted around them the

same way the world had done for H. G. Wells and his

‗character‘ of The Time Traveler, only this journey did

not yield any new civilizations or monstrous beasts, but

rather seemed to leave the group standing surrounded by

a pile of rubble. They stood stranded in the center of what

looked like a smoldering bomb site in some war ravaged

country.

Small fires licked at the air in random places, smoke

rose from towering piles of rubble and the choking air

filled their throats with every breath, making them want

to gag more and more each time. The ground beneath

them was dirt; the stunning marble flooring was gone,

vanished into the folds of time. In the distance they could

hear screaming – or maybe it was just the wind as it

whistled through the debris.

A large crater had opened up in the ground before

them. It separated the group from the angels, and it

continued to open in a yawn. The earth fell away as if a

vacuum pump had been turned on far down beneath the

surface. The air was thick with dust and it was hot, the

temperature well over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, and

dry. It was as if some hygroscopic element had been

released and had absorbed all of the moisture from the

air. It was hard to breathe. Panic soon began to creep in,

despite the fact that they were all dead and had no real

need to take in air. The women were the first to show

signs of it, but soon, much like a wildfire, it spread.

Sammy felt his head beginning to spin; even in the

darkness he had a concept of what was stable and what

was not, just as he knew if his eyes were open or closed.

Graham and Marcus stood firm the longest, but soon

even they began to feel the effects of the thin air. They

began to pant. Sweat greased on their faces and made

them sparkled in the firelight. Marcus tried to take a step

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forward, but his legs felt as if they had been weighted into

the earth. Behind him, Graham, at least thirty-five years

his senior, stood with his hands on his knees, head down

low, looking at the ground like a sprinter at the end of a

hard race. Graham fought hard to keep his balance, but

in the end he fell.

When Raguel finally returned his skyward gaze and

directed it on the group, only Marcus had remained

standing, although how much of it was simple, old

fashioned stubbornness he couldn‘t have said. It felt as

though he had been caught right on the chin, yet even

now, after all those years, all he wanted to do was hang

on, to stay on his feet until he heard the bell.

―You are strong. Even for a lesser being, you are

strong, but still it doesn‘t impress me. Nothing about you

people does, but I have been told that you are needed,

and so we must come down to your level even if only to

bring you back up to ours,‖ Raguel said in a patronizing

tone. The entire time he spoke his eyes glowed, pu lsing in

time with the rise and fall of this pitch. ―Look at me. All

of you,‖ he bellowed.

They all looked; even Sammy snapped his head

around to look in the right direction. There was a flash of

light, followed by the roar of the earth splitting open,

bringing with it a scream that made their blood run cold

and goose bumps erupt all over their flesh, from the tips

of their fingers to deep down into their toes. Even their

genitals were treated to a tight layer of chicken like flesh.

The atmosphere crushed them and forced the remaining

out of their lungs, and even Marcus was forced to take a

knee.

Raguel calmed and once again darkness fell, only this

time none of them felt scared. They felt their lungs fill

with air, their heads cleared. Their racing heartbeats,

which had felt like the thundering of stampeding hooves

in their chests and ears, began to slow as if the drover

had finally taken control and brought the herd back

under his command just before they decided to charge

over the cliff edge and plummet to their deaths. They

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remained still, although Graham did manage to rise to

his feet. His joints roared with fire, and his hips cracked,

but he straightened himself and stood tall.

What occurred next left little doubt in any of their

minds as to the genuine nature of the claims the angels

had made. A bright light appeared, one more brilliant

than anything any of them had ever seen before.

Suspended in the center of it stood Raguel, and behind

him the source of the light spread out for several meters

both to his left and to his right. Sprouting from his back

in large sweeping shapes were two wings. Their feathers

were pure energy, each one detailed in ways the human

eye cannot fully perceive. To the group they appeared as

a brilliant white, yet in truth they held every color. None

of them were visible, at least not on the plane of mortal

vision, but they all knew that they were there.

The ground shook beneath them and while fire leapt

into the air, jumping from the ground like reverse

lightning, none of them noticed. They were locked, held

hypnotized by the wings, and the rustling sound of the

feathers, which began to speed up quick and quicker,

moving from a gentle rustle through to that of a bird

ready to take flight and leave the nest in panic. The pitch

increased until it reached such a frenzy that it hurt their

ears. The light emitted by Raguel‘s wings enveloped

them, ridding their lives of shadow and fear, of

everything. There was a flash and it was gone: they were

back in the decrepit scene that they had just left. Only

now they could breathe easy, and for the first time really

take in their surroundings.

―Where are we?‖ Becky asked first, her head and eyes

in constant motion, surveying everything, watching,

waiting for something.

―What was that?‖ Sammy called. He had somehow

been turned around and had walked away from the

group. Not a great distance, but enough for him to realize

without help that he had moved in the wrong direction.

―What did I miss, someone?‖ he called, holding his hands

out before him, and just for that second he looked exactly

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like the one thing he had promised himself he would not

become: helpless.

Becky, despite being the poser of the question, didn‘t

wait to hear the answer, but instead went towards

Sammy.

―It‘s me. Don‘t worry, I think we‘re about to find out

what‘s going on, but believe me, you don‘t want to see it,‖

Becky whispered to him. She took his hand, locking her

fingers through his own. She gave them a slight squeeze,

an invisible sign sent from her to him, just a way of giving

him some reassurance while getting some for herself in

return. She smiled when he squeezed back.

Raguel seemed to wait for Becky to return to the

group with Sammy before he answered. He did not do

this out of his own good nature, nor because he wanted

them all to hear what he had to say, but simply because it

was a good game to him. Watching how these creations of

God moved around so clueless about the world they lived

in, their minds so one-dimensional – if that – and unable

to accept what they were about to be told without the

intervention of himself and his brothers.

―What did you do to us?‖ Marcus asked. He had felt

the silence growing heavy and been pushed to speak.

Raguel shot him an angry glance, a ‗how dare you

interrupt when I was about to speak‘ look.

―Something you do not deserve. I have enlightened

you, helped you all to ascend to a higher level, as you

would say. In short, I let you live,‖ Raguel said, but the

words themselves were empty, nothing more than verbal

shells.

It was the manner and tone with which he uttered

them that conveyed all they needed to know. He was

bored, and had no desire to chat with them more than

was necessary. They all noticed this and braced

themselves for what was to come. They understood that it

would only be spoken once and even then only if they

were lucky.

Raguel began.

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Chapter 21

―Think of this as Purgatory – I will try to keep to your

simple way of categorizing things. There are many places

just like this, realms or realities that exist alongside your

own, within your own, and a near infinite number which

exist in the different pathways of time. This you will see

for yourselves, I am sure.

―These worlds exist to house those who had died. To

allow them time for contemplation, and to give us time to

judge them. Some worlds are filled with those who led a

righteous life, one worthy of a happy eternity. Others are

fire realms, nothing more than holding pens for the cattle

that will be marched below to where out fallen brother

leads his hedonistic life.

―Then there are many filled with lost souls; empty,

lonely places void of all feeling; ghost worlds filled with

those that were forgotten, left behind when it was their

time to rise... or fall. These worlds all exist separate from

each other. Those who dwell or wait in one know nothing

about the others. Although memory of your own world

remains, given time it fades. Those in the fire realms

seem to remember the longest. They are the ones who

grasp onto their human memories as if it could somehow

help them find redemption. While those who are

righteous are given a mere taste of what awaits them and

realize that there was no point to their lives.

―They are merely a short test which will determine

your place in eternity. Pass and you will be rewarded, fail

and punishment is a certainty, do neither and you will be

destined to carry on living your mediocre existence in a

world fitting to the task; a place such as this, for instance.

―This community, if you would like to call it that, is

long abandoned. The souls simply fell from existence. In

these outer worlds the boundaries that keep them

sustained are weakened, bending all the time. It is not

unheard of for these dimensions to disappear along with

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everybody in them. This was where we needed to bring

you, for it is here that the boundaries are weakest.

―There is a war coming, a fight that has been brewing

beneath the surface of all worlds since before time, and it

is here that the first tears will appear. Once they start

they cannot be stopped, and given time the barriers will

break and all worlds will collide. Your earth, your mortal

life, the kingdom of God will come crashing down from

the heavens while the fiery underbelly of Hell will rise up

and Lucifer, our fallen brother, will try once more to take

control. This will not happen; it must not. Do you

understand me?‖ Raguel‘s eyes seemed to focus on all of

them individually, yet simultaneously. It held them

captive and allowed them all to see that this angel was far

from the stereotype.

The group stood in silence. The words they had just

heard were heavy to digest, and their brains had been

sluggish before Raguel started, and so it took a while for

everything to sink in. When it finally did they all had to

fight back the urge to laugh, especially Graham who,

despite his age, or possibly as a result of his age, was the

most skeptical and cynical of them all. Once the laughter

was contained without even so much as a nose snort, they

all returned their attentions to Raguel, but instead of

continuing with his explanation, he simple stared at

them. There was a flash of light and a loud rustle of

feathers. The wind created as the angel took flight

brought tears to their eyes. Raguel was gone before any of

them could register anything, the wind and sound

apparently coming after the fact. All five of them had

been looking straight at him, or so they would swear in

later conversations, but yet none of them saw him leave.

Like the greatest magician in the world, he was there one

second and vanished like the victim of a David

Copperfield illusion the next.

―Forgive Raguel. He does not deal with mortals well.

He is a warrior through and through. Maintaining the

balance is his purpose, keeping a watchful eye on us is his

responsibility. The troubles of our father‘s favorite

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creation are of little and no concern to him,‖ the angel

who had been introduced as Nemamiah said. His words

were noticeably more cordial than Raguel‘s had been.

―Can you answer our questions?‖ Becky said, her

words forming not a question although it certainly would

look like one if written down, but rather a stern

statement. It was one that Nemamiah, if not all three of

them, seemed to understand with relative ease.

Helen turned and looked at her. She didn‘t know who

she was, but she knew what she had been, she knew that

she had gotten at least one of their group killed in the

past, and she didn‘t trust her. Becky met her eyes, and if

Helen‘s were soft and naïve to the ways of the world,

Becky‘s were hard and cold. Those of someone who has

lived through the worst and come out the other side,

uncertain which side of the line they had returned on.

They find themselves forever perched upon a fence as

they wrestle with themselves, with what they have done

and what they wish they could have done differently, yet

at the same time they take on the world with the subtle,

brute force of a Caterpillar running full speed on the

building site. Helen held the stare that was returned to

her for what felt like an age. She felt her heart race, her

mouth begin to dry and her palms to moisten. When it

became too much, Helen averted her gaze, dropped her

head to study her feet. She could feel Becky‘s eyes

burning into the top of her bowed head. After making

sure that her feet were all in good order, Helen raised her

eyes more. Becky had returned her attention to the

angels, who they all realized stood like fish out of water.

Their appearance seemed more and more bizarre with

each passing second.

Out of the corner of her eye, Becky glanced over at

Helen but said nothing. She had changed, and while

buried deep down inside her was a small voice that spoke

from the corners of dark streets in the early hours of the

morning, a taunting, goading voice that told her to fight,

to grab that beautiful blonde by the hair and throw her

face first into the first wall or tree she saw but she

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silenced it before even realizing that the thought had

truly occurred. After all, that person was the fake. Who

she was trying to become was the same person she had

been before that dark figure in her mind had taken

control. She forgave them their thoughts and perception

of her; she didn‘t even like whom it was they believed her

to be, and she promised herself that she would give

everyone the chance to see who she really was.

God, it all feels like so long ago, she thought, already

finding it harder to remember her old life, both the highs

and lows.

―Raguel, he‘s an archangel, isn‘t he?‖ Marcus said

with a reassuring confidence.

He wasn‘t a big religious fan, and certainly didn‘t

claim to be able to regurgitate his favorite psalms or

quotations when the right situation arose, but he knew

enough to make his statement one based in knowledge

rather than pure speculation.

―Yes, he was sent out of Heaven to oversee

your…collection.‖ The word came after a slight pause and

sounded wrong, but what better word was there for what

happened to them other than those offered by a

thesaurus? ―But now is not the time for that discussion;

we have business at hand and it is time for you to hear it

to the end.‖ This time is was Nakir who spoke. Now that

Raguel had gone, the group had expected the others to

become more relaxed, but they remained in their rigid

positions, standing to attention the whole time. When

one spoke they did so by stepping forward, raising their

eyes from the floor and looking at the group as a whole,

rather than from one to the other in turn. Now that he

finally spoke and had their attention, they all noticed –

apart from Sammy, of course – that Nakir‘s eyes were jet

black. In fact, they thought there was a good chance he

had no eyes at all, and all that they saw was a heavenly

void, filled with flawless rounds of onyx or possibly, given

his angelic persuasions, black sapphires or even

diamonds. For they did seem to sparkle with a little bit of

what Marcus liked to call the ‗Ali gleam‘.

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Nemamiah stepped forward once again. He shifted

himself as if uncomfortable; his body seemed bloated and

stiff, overstuffed, a balloon blown up to the point of

bursting, the lettering on it claiming whichever

celebration was right for the occasion stretched not to the

point of complete nonsensicality but distorted enough for

it to be noticeable only by those who looked close enough.

When he spoke, they all felt compelled to listen.

Helen stood beside Marcus, her grip on him released,

satisfied with the close proximity between the two and

the comforting way his shadow seemed to fall over hers.

Graham stood behind them; he stood alone, while off to

his left stood Becky. Her arm was wrapped around

Sammy‘s waist; her hand, which had settled on his

abdomen, was covered by his own. Their fingers were not

interlocked but did more than overlap one another.

Nobody noticed that, the more Nemamiah talked, the

more Sammy‘s eyes bled.

―Take a look around you. This place was once a

bustling halfway house for those that have passed. For

those whose deaths had been noble, their lives less so,

their true place in eternity not yet fully known. It wasn‘t a

happy place, nor was it one filled with sorrow. A piece of

the grey lands, we call it. Many years ago, too many for

you to be able to comprehend – for time, time moves at a

faster rate in the between worlds, and faster still in the

greater worlds, but then when you live in paradise time

has no meaning for you anymore,‖ Nemamiah added as a

side note.

His eyes left the group and seemed to gaze listlessly

for just a moment or two, his train of thought not broken,

but detoured before being brought back on track.

―Mirantaea is lost, this shell a mere husk of landscape

and empty buildings is all that remains now. The barriers

here are thinner than any other worlds that I know of,

and our presence here is unwise, but it is what is needed

for you to understand what has happened here, and what

will happen to your world. So we must allow it to begin.

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You must watch as a world falls out of existence, for it is

the only way.‖

Doing as they were instructed they all looked around

at the world they were in. What they saw was powerful

enough to reduce them to tears. The buildings that they

thought looked like they belonged in a wild west movie,

possibly a Henry Fonda classic, were much older than

that: they were little more than mud huts held together

by spit and crossed fingers.

The wood used for the support beams were rotted

through – scorched and dry. The ground which they had

mistaken for sand was dust, a grey dust which had once

been earth; it was cracked and open like the sores on a

junkie‘s arm at the end of his needle fuelled life.

There was an occasional orange glow that brewed

beneath the surface. It ran beneath the surface of the

entire town like blood, and the more they looked the

more they could see the crisscrossing pattern of orange

fire veins than ran beneath it all. Far beyond the borders

of the town, which was now no longer than a quarter of a

mile from start to finish, buried somewhere out in the

middle of the desert like barren land that surrounded

them, a golden fireball heart beat and struggled to bring

life to the world. With each pulse it further inched its way

to the surface, where it would cease. The ground pulsed

beneath their feet, and a groaning sound like a mosquito

that wakes you in the middle of the night began to hum in

their ears.

―You wouldn‘t believe it…‖ Becky began to whisper to

Sammy, who she could feel stiffen beside her. He could

hear the silence that had befallen the group, and felt the

awe of what the rest could see.

―…If you told me. No need, I can‘t see it, but I know

what‘s there. I think they want me to see it. I can see

them, too, standing over there.‖ He nodded to the left,

right at the point where the angels stood. Becky cast a

quick glance towards them. They stood still and stared at

her – no, not at her, at Sammy. She turned away as a

shudder tickled her flesh. She could have sworn that one

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of them – she couldn‘t remember all of their strange

names – smiled at her.

―What do you mean?‖ Becky asked, confused.

―I can see them, the real them. I don‘t know what you

see, but I don‘t think it‘s anything like this,‖ Sammy said

with a quiver in his voice, an undertone of delight; for

good reason. What he saw was as close to perfection as

any conscious mortal mind could ever hope to experience

or be able to describe.

―They look normal, just like regular people, only a

little bit, um, stuffed, I guess,‖ Becky answered. She

didn‘t need to look at them any more to know they were

all focused on the two of them. ―What do you see?‖ she

whispered.

―I see them. They are brilliant. They‘re light, you

know, but not just shapes; I can see everything about

them; the one with the black eyes, and the other two. The

one on the left is injured; he holds his arm as if it‘s in a

sling. He‘s nice; I can see it in his face. The others are

different, vague. I see them, but not as clearly as him.‖

Sammy‘s voice sounded frayed, raw and gruff. He held

back the tears, even when Becky squeezed his hand

tighter and pulled him in close to her. The arm around

his waist rose up to his shoulder, and he whispered, ―I

always believed, through everything, I believed, but I see

them, I see Angels of the Lord standing right before me,

and I don‘t trust them.‖

―It‘s okay to doubt, Sammy. I didn‘t believe in

anything before I died – nothing like this, any case, but

by all accounts God made us, and God made them first.

Maybe He isn‘t perfect; we all have flaws, after all,‖ Becky

whispered, although she was sure that they heard every

word.

This idea seemed to perk Sammy up. He stopped

shaking, that ever so slight tremor that he quite possibly

hadn‘t even noticed himself, and he began to walk; he

allowed Becky to lead him to the others. They had spread

out – only a few paces each – exploring the strange new

world that they had just been told was about to end. ―Can

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you help me?‖ he asked Becky gingerly. The concept of

having to rely completely on others was still hard for him

to come to terms with, but with Becky it came easy.

―Of course, whenever you need it,‖ Becky whispered

in his ear, enjoying the fluttering sensation that flitted in

the pit of her stomach, like nerves before an exam.

Although in Becky‘s case the most recent memory that

had caused her to be nervous was the night of her first

ever trick.

―What‘s that?‖ Helen asked, pointing at a cluster of

orange veins, which they now saw ran beneath

everything.

Before any of the angels could offer their

explanations, Graham popped up with a simple one.

―It‘s Hell, my dear. Or so they want us to think.‖ The

last sentence was spoken with the tone of a true

conspiracy theorist.

―Oh, it‘s more than Hell, old man.‖ Sariel stepped

forward to speak. His voice was hoarse, like that of a man

with a sixty a day habit. ―The Hell you think of, even in

your wildest variations thereof, cannot be compared to

the kingdom Lucifer has established. Your world would

be swallowed whole, absorbed without even upsetting the

balance down there, which, given how fragile it is, should

be regarded as nothing more than embarrassing.‖

Graham said nothing. There was no need for him to

speak; the three angels already knew what he would say.

He could feel them rooting around in his head, plucking

at his thoughts the instant they formed, sometimes

before he had even heard them.

Keep your doubts, old man. It doesn‟t matter. I‟ll

send you back down there myself the moment you stop

being of any use, a voice said – well, it didn‘t speak, but

rather came from inside Graham‘s head. He didn‘t know

who it was; possibly a combination of all three of them.

Either way, Graham knew a threat when he heard one,

and decided it was best to play simple.

… Although…

…He didn‘t think it. He was careful not to do that.

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―Okay, so it is Hell, I‘m not going to disagree either

way. I mean, I know what I saw and went through down

there,‖ Becky said. Now it was her turn to hold onto

Sammy for support. ―What you‘re trying to say is the end

of the world is coming; Armageddon and all that shit.

Only you say it has always been like this and now the

walls have gotten a little thin, like an aneurysm waiting to

happen, and you have no idea how big it‘s gonna be?‖ She

let the words flow, aware that it didn‘t exactly make

sense, but they were stuck inside her and she needed to

get them said. They just happened to come out in a flood.

The angels looked from one to another, as if

conferring. Once again it was Nemamiah who spoke.

―You think of it in such simple terms. The world you

think of as being the center of your universe will not be

destroyed, nor will the people in it – not all of them, at

least. They will simply be overrun. When the barriers to

your world begin to break, beings will emerge. First it will

be the lower level sentient beings…like those you

encountered. They will overrun your world and fill it with

terror, getting ready for the cracks to open wider and

allow the Kingdom of the Damned to take control. To

answer your question, if that is even what it was, then no,

this isn‘t new. Cracks appear all the time and beings

escape, as do souls – those brave enough to fight through

their way through the torture racks and pain thresholds.

We do our best to keep it to a minimum, although there

are always a few who manage to evade us. It is just that

this time…this time something big is brewing, and...‖

Nemamiah looked across at the other two as he spoke.

Once again they seemed to smile at him, a wry smile that

none of them noticed, not even Nemamiah, who had

returned his stare to the group.

‖You don‘t know what it is, do you?‖ Graham piped

up, seeming to take quite some degree of pleasure in the

statement.

―Lucifer was thrown from Heaven after a great war

within our family. He questioned our Father‘s decisions.

We tried to reason with him, we tried to help him find his

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faith, but his anger made him powerful, more powerful

than many of us realized. So there was a war, civil war.

The angels fought amongst themselves, our purity was

ruined, and our Utopia was ripped apart like the Garden

of Eden had been after the touch of mankind. With our

brother Michael leading our army, we banished Lucifer

and his followers from Heaven. As punishment, his soul

was tainted, meaning he couldn‘t find a vessel on earth,

and so he fell deeper into the very bowels of the universe

itself,‖ Nemamiah said with the soothing tones of a

storyteller. All five of them stood captivated by his words.

‗You mean the like the core of the earth?‖ Helen

asked clumsily.

―No, female, that is not what we mean. We mean the

bottom of the universe, the basement of all existence. It is

here that he came to rest, and even that was too good for

him, the traitor,‖ Sariel began, but he was cut short

―Sariel, bite your tongue or offer penance,‖

Nemamiah bellowed. The power of the voice was enough

to make the group of mortals jump, and had it been

directed at them they were all certain that it would have

been too much and turned them into liquefied jelly

puddles. Thankfully, however, it was directed at Sariel,

who shrank visibly and took several steps backwards.

Even Nakir seemed to shrink away. Then, as if nothing

had happened, Nemamiah continued talking.

―Lucifer fell. By your own way of calculating the

passage of time, he fell for millennia before landing on a

desolate piece of rock at the bottom of the universe, the

edge of all existence. So fierce was the wrath that God

unfurled on him after his defeat. It was there, on a small

rock fighting for its survival in the truest possible sense,

that Lucifer began to create his realm. Four of his

followers survived the descent and impact. Their bodies

were broken and disfigured, twisted into hideous beings

with a thirst for revenge that consumed them completely.

―Lucifer saw his chance and so fueled their rage with

crazy promises and desires. Lucifer spoke to them so as

to keep himself whole. His anger was channeled through

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them, and as time passed they grew stronger. They

remained there, balanced on the brink of everything,

when more rocks began to pass them by; used up, dead

chunks of everything, crushed down into rocks and

floating debris islands by the pressures that the end of all

existence exerts. There were gathered together and fused

to each other, and thus his empire began to grow. The

denser it became the more it began to rise. Not

ascending, no, the path home was closed to him, but they

pulled away from the edge. It was here as they rose, that

Lucifer found the portals, and so too he found their

weaknesses.‖ Nemamiah stopped, pausing to let

everything sink in. To give them time for a question and

answer session. None of them knew what to say; his voice

held them captive, while his anger kept them tamed.

Marcus wanted to speak but found himself frozen, his

lungs filled with air, but when it came out it brought no

sound. It was like he had been hypnotized, yet all of them

were aware of what occurred around them. After a while

Nemamiah resumed his tale and they all stood; their

minds filled by the words, yet hungry for more, as if they

had been offered fruit plucked from the tree of knowledge

itself.

―Once Lucifer found the portals and learnt how to

use them, it was merely a matter of time before he

became strong enough to travel through them. Your

world is not the only one, as I am sure you now

understand.‖ Nemamiah swept his arm out before

showing them once again the barren, oven baked land

upon which they stood. ―Yet it was man that he was truly

seeking, it was man that he blamed most for his fall, and

man who, sadly to say, was the easiest to corrupt. He

filled your world with hate, murder and deception. Envy

and lust became mainstays of your existence and the

more you sinned, the more his power grew. Despite it all,

he could never take you whole, unlike the spirits and

beings that dwell in the outer worlds. He had to wait for

your death before he could claim your spirits, a small

parting gift from us to him when he fell.‖ The voice had

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changed now, or maybe they had become accustomed to

it. Maybe all angel stories were told in such mesmerizing

tones and you just had to build up a tolerance.

―If he could move around all this time, why hasn‘t he

broken out already?‖ Marcus said. He had many a great

many questions stored up, but he feared at least half of

them would not be answered – however, this question

was one that he wanted to get out in the open. He treated

it as a test to make sure they weren‘t just playing a trick

on them. It was a question that he hoped would give him

enough information to be able to use it at a later date in a

number of different capacities and help them on their

way.

―Travelling the portal pathways is not easy; it drains

you, and if you get lost along the way the energy of the

paths will consume you,‖ Nakir said to them, but Marcus

noticed – he could not speak for the others as he had

forgotten that they were there, with the exception of

Helen – that neither Nakir nor Sariel dared stepped

forward now to speak, nor did they look so bold and

brash. Apparently an angelic ticking off had a lasting

effect.

―Then what is so different now?‖ Graham asked, his

tone of voice still one of deep cynicism. He sounded quite

annoyed, as if they had woken him from a good nap or

pulled him away from a good football game to talk at him

nonsensically.

―A great many things have changed. Lucifer‘s domain

has grown, and broken through the portals. He has fused

masses together across the pathways, breaking them

down and setting the balance of everything off center.

Each new piece of land, every extra world he adds to it,

causes the balance to topple further,‖ Sariel answered.

His tone was much like that of Graham. One of deep

annoyance, and Marcus couldn‘t quite work out whether

it was a good imitation or if they were genuinely annoyed

at being made to talk to humans.

Another tremor shook the ground, this one lasting

about thirty seconds, and even the angels seemed to look

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startled. In the distance, lost somewhere in the reaches of

the wastelands, a pillar of orange fire spurted into the

sky, glinting in the sun like a tower of jewels. The power

of it was felt even in town: they could all hear the

foundations of the skeletal buildings creak and groan.

Fibers snapped even further as the wave of heat washed

over them, pushing a cloud of dead, dusty earth before it

like a shield, preserving its heat for as long as possible.

―The underworld is a powerful place, and Lucifer was

the most powerful angel in paradise, but even he is not

exempt from the effects of the portals. The large beings,

like Lucifer and what remains of our other fallen

brothers, are easy enough to find and contain, but his

army grows at such a rate even we cannot keep track of

them all the time. It has always been so – beings escape

through the portals and come out in other worlds. Their

sole purpose is to recruit, to gather new souls, new bodies

for Lucifer to bend to meet his will. ‖

―You mean on earth?‖ Sammy raised his voice. He

looked blindly towards the angels.

―To coin a popular phrase, there are other worlds

than this. Have you not understood that yet? There are

beings, energy forces everywhere that can be taken. The

lost souls of mankind are but a small piece of the

population. You are merely Lucifer‘s own personal

fascination, to be honest, in the grand scheme of things,

you are but cannon fodder for his soldiers.‖ As he spoke

Nemamiah cast a nervous glance at the floor beneath

their feet where thin snail-like traces of a warm orange

glow could be seen shining through the crust. ―We must

be quick,‖ he added in a tone much more somber than

anybody would have liked.

―Why us?‖ Marcus asked, another one of the

questions he felt must be asked.

―The answer is simpler than you realize. You are

God‘s favorites. He had us, and then he created you, and

commissioned us to ensure your safety. Lucifer will do

anything to control mankind simply to anger our father.‖

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It was Sariel who spoke, his gravelly voice resonating

deeply in the air.

―I mean us,‖ Marcus said again, only this time he

swept his arm out and drew an imaginary circle around

the five of them. They had moved closer together again.

―In good time you will know,‖ Sariel said before he

stepped back and turned the floor back to Nemamiah.

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Chapter 22

All around them, the strange humming sound began

to work its way into their heads, not forcing its way but

rather worming inside them, sneaking in through the

back door while they were occupied with other more

important matters.

―Every world that Lucifer conquered or emptied was

welded to his own, but nothing is able to satiate his

quest…his hunger for control over humanity has

transformed him. There have been battles for as long as

your time has existed. You hear them but cannot

interpret them for what they are. Besides these worlds

there are parallel existences where humans live in the

same place as you, the same time, but you never meet.

Time runs adjacent in each parallel, but the portals

access them all.‖ Nemamiah had once again resumed

control of the story telling. He stood more relaxed now,

as if he had grown slightly more acclimatized to his

guests. If there had been a sofa and a few beanbag chairs,

Becky was fairly sure he would have sat down in one and

resumed his tale, possibly smoking a pipe as did. With

this image in her head she could not help but give a

smile.

―You mean like a parallel universe, a world existing

within our own, people living in the same house as us,

shitting in the same pot,‖ Graham scoffed.

―Yes,‖ Nakir‘s curt response came even before

Graham had finished speaking. ―More than one. You may

catch glimpses of them from time to time; reflections and

shadows for the most. You call them ghosts.‖ At this, both

Graham and Becky gave a stifled laugh. One in disbelief,

the other a distorted form of understanding. ―Believe me

or not, for I have no time to deal with the simple gradient

of your thoughts,‖ Nakir snapped before being thrown

another, if not even more furious glance from Nemamiah.

So heavy was his face that even Nakir‘s black eyes

seemed to pale compared to the thunder red rage that

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appeared on Nemamiah‘s face. Without saying another

word, Nakir spread his wings; wings so bright and pure

that none saw, apart from Sammy; they shone in his

mind‘s eye as beams of pure brilliance, with a detail that

the human eye could never even hope to comprehend.

Then, with the speed of a flying bullet, he was gone, and

Sammy felt a wave of depression sweep through him as

his world was once again restored to darkness. Even the

light of the remaining two angels seemed dark in

comparison to what he had just witnessed. He let out a

slow, quiet sigh.

Nobody spoke for a few minutes. The banishing of

Nakir – for they all knew that was what it had been – left

them all ill at ease. The humming sound continued to

push its way into their ears, and for the first time since

they had gathered to listen to that what they must be

told, they noticed Sammy‘s eyes. They were bleeding, not

as though someone had taken a knife and divided an

artery, but certainly more than the weepy nature of the

crusted over wounds would have warranted under any

normal circumstances. Even Sammy raised a hand to

them and felt the sticky residue on his fingers as he

pulled them away.

―They‘re not too bad. Honest, just a bit…wet, that‘s

all,‖ Becky lied to him. She knew she was lying, and worst

of all she knew that Sammy knew it, but it was what he

needed to hear. She had been in the position where a

small and completely unconvincing lie had been the best

medicine.

Nemamiah noticed it also, as did Sariel, but neither

moved to offer any help: instead they looked once more

at the ground and then decided to continue with their

tales.

―The concept of multiple layers and worlds within the

fabric of your own can be a tough one, but at this moment

in time it is not imperative that you understand, but

simply believe. Understand that Lucifer means to take

much more than just your world and those that exist

within it. He looks to claw his way back into the heavens

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and this time he is strong enough and has an army large

enough to be a real threat to the balance.‖ Nemamiah

accented his words and mimicked mortal speech as best

he knew, and could see on their faces – with the

exception of Graham – that they were at least willing to

consider what he had told them.

―Okay, but what can we do? I mean, you said that you

guys, sorry, I mean the angels, have been fighting Lucifer

for a long time. I don‘t understand what we can do; I

mean, you have stated our insignificant stature in the

overall balance of the universe several times, so why are

we here? Why pull us out of Hell, and not some other

creature, a clan of warriors or…or…I don‘t know,

something more useful. I just don‘t get it.‖

Marcus posed the questions, but they were all a

variation of the same one that danced on all of their lips.

He had one arm crossed over his stomach and the elbow

of the other rested on the enveloping forearm. Marcus

scratched his chin as he tried to think and stay at least

one step ahead of the game, or in this case as few steps

behind as possible.

Nemamiah considered this for a second, his head

tilted slightly to one side. He looked at Marcus, and

opened his mouth several times before closing it, trying

to find the right words for the occasion. ―You of all

people, Marcus, should understand the concept of

fighting for a cause that you cannot fully explain. You

dedicated your life to fighting the very things we now

speak. The low level sentient beings that manage to slip

through the openings that appear or those that use battle

as a cover, fleeing when our eyes are diverted.‖

Nemamiah‘s answer was vague, yet Marcus nodded. He

thought he understood.

―It is God‘s will that you help; He gave us your names

and told us to pull you from Hell. You all died a death

that was not due; you were all plucked from the earth by

something, and that has never happened before, not to

the extent it did with yourselves. You were sent straight

to the judgment chambers. You should have been sent to

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one of the grey worlds to await your trials.‖ Nemamiah

did all of the talking now.

―So what made us so special?‖ Becky asked.

Marcus turned his head to face Becky as she spoke,

and in doing so he caught a glimpse of the look which had

set itself on Graham‘s face. It was as if the wind had

changed direction and frozen it in a look that was not

anger but one of worn patience. It spoke volumes to

Marcus. Graham was clearly exasperated, because,

despite it all, everybody seemed to be coming around to

the ideas being presented to them – everyone apart from

him, that was. Graham thought it a waste of their time.

He wanted to get through this and then either wake up or

simply move onto the next stage of his afterlife.

Becky was scared by the possible reaction her words

may have elicited from the angels, even as she said them.

She knew what she had experienced in Hell, she knew

that was where she had been, and deservedly so in her

own eyes.

―Nothing makes you special, not that we can tell.

Your deaths were unique; they were random; you were

victims of circumstance. The portals opened exactly

where you all were. It has long been rumored that Lucifer

was searching for something in your reality, something

that was lost when he fell, and we took this to be a signal

of his intent, so we intervened,‖ Sariel said, his tone one

of moderate – forced – enthusiasm.

―We all died at the same time? That must be

something special, surely. You said these portals were

difficult to use, yet five of them managed to open up and

swallow us simultaneously.‖ Marcus didn‘t speak but

rather speculated his mind.

―Truth be told, for this is what you must hear, there

were more than just the five of you, and your deaths were

not simultaneous. Marcus Fielding, you died in 2009.

Graham, your wonderful skeptic, died a few months later.

Helen, you were pulled back in 2007. Sammy, you left

your car and girlfriend wrapped together a half year

before that in late 2006. And, Becky, well, you obviously

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share your date with Marcus. Everything happens for a

reason, we angels do not believe in coincidence, as you

would have it phrased.‖ Nemamiah was quick with his

information, rattling it off like one of those pitching

machines used in batting cages and tennis courts. ―We do

not have time for questions; you must all be educated on

what is happening. There are battles that do currently

and soon will rage, and you must learn how you are to

play your part in our war. I beg of you, please, listen to

me now.‖ Nemamiah held his hands outstretched, palms

facing upwards, his request a genuine plea for all ears to

be cast in his direction, questions held until after the

sermon and a change in venue.

The humming noise began to drown out the sound of

Nemamiah‘s words. Turning them vague and diluted,

muffled somehow, like talking inside a night club. The

ground now had also started to groan, growling as if

digesting a large meal; Thanksgiving or maybe even

Christmas dinner. The ground beneath their feet had

begun to move. It was softening, melting as the intense

heat below continued to worm its way up to the surface.

The all found themselves adjusting their balance and foot

positions regularly. If they stood still for too long they

were sucked into the ground the same way your feet

disappear into the sand when you stand in the surf.

―You asked about our battles, and yes, the war

between Heaven and Hell as you view it is not the signal

of the Armageddon unless you will acknowledge that the

final battle began millennia ago and is but nearing its

conclusion.‖ Nemamiah paused for a moment, then

continued, ―Lucifer is powerful and as his empire grows

so does his strength. He is driven by anger and rage,

emotions that when harnessed are stronger than all

others. We have not seen him for many generations now,

but he has been changed, the same way our other fallen

brothers and the beings he caught as he fell were

changed. The problem is that his empire is built from not

one thing, but many worlds crafted together, crossing

through the dimensions and portals of time. It is a fragile

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place, forever shifting and changing its position, and as

Lucifer changes, his control lessens. It is in these periods

of change that many sentient lower grade beings escape.

The majority of the time these shifts simply move them to

another place within their own world. Yet sometimes

they land in a light world, one inhabited by those who are

righteous, or, like your world, one filled with those yet to

request judgment. It is only once they arrive here that we

will learn of it and the problem will be dealt with.‖ He

paused, his face pensive as he tried to search for the right

– simplest – words to use.

―However,‖ Nemamiah continued after his brief

period of thought, ―we cannot be everywhere, we are not

omnipresent; sometimes we are simply too late. If a being

enters a world of the righteous, or your own,‖ he added

with a snort of disgust, ―then they will do the one thing

that they know, and that is to collect. They will gather en

masse like a harvest.‖

―Earthquakes…you‘re talking about earthquakes,

aren‘t you? I mean, shifting pieces of ground, a lot of

people dying.‖ It was Marcus once again who drew all the

conclusions, yet once it was said the others saw it, too. It

was embarrassingly obvious when they thought about it.

Nemamiah regarded them with a look that was hard

to place, but when pushed, the closest would have been

pride. The sort of look a parent gives their child when

watching the school play or seeing them score the

winning goal in a soccer game. He wasn‘t necessarily

surprised that they had figured it out, but was just

pleased with the speed they had done it in. He could read

it from all of their faces – even the old man – that they

understood as a group.

―Yes, but what you feel and see in your world…it is

not a result of a shift, but from the force of the portals

when they open – the ones that open into your world, the

world you all came from. It is key you understand that

you all came from the same world, the same time, and the

same plane of existence. The force of the gateways

opening pushes around the plates that cover your planet

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and creates what you call earthquakes. In fact, the same

applies for everything you consider a ‗man-made‘

disaster.‖

While he didn‘t use air-quotes, when he spoke the

word ‗man-made‘ they all had an image in their minds of

Nemamiah doing so. It was the tone his voice took on

when he said it. Thankfully – or so they thought later on

when looking back on this first fateful day – Nemamiah

didn‘t seem to notice and continued to talk unbroken.

―Earthquakes and hurricanes, tsunamis and volcanic

eruptions are all the result of portals being opened. Those

who perish are taken regardless of their worth, their

righteousness. Sometimes we arrive in time; we see the

signs building the same way you humans can do with

your machines and the technology we allow you to

develop.‖

―Seismologists,‖ Graham scoffed. His contempt for

the angel was now clearer than ever. ―You‘re telling us

that seismologists have been able to track the battles of

Heaven and Hell, and that earthquakes are little snippets

of Hell that escape into our world.‖ He laughed as he

spoke, not with joy, but rather a vicious sounding laugh,

and it made the colors of Nemamiah‘s face darken several

shades.

―He‘s mad,‖ Sammy whispered to Becky, who had

loosened her arm around him, although they still leant

against one another not for support but for the company.

―He isn‘t so bright any more, but kind of flickering like an

old lightbulb,‖ he added.

―Hey, come on, Graham, don‘t you think after all that

we‘ve been through we can be a little bit openminded

about this?‖ Becky said, pausing before speaking his

name, having overcome a strong notion to call him either

old-timer or Nigel. The latter name, she had no idea of its

origins in her mind, but then again given the way that the

humming sound had now embedded inside her skull and

thoughts it was possible that the name Nigel was simple a

result of black noise.

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As the humming increased, they all noticed that it

began to sound less musical and more like moaning. It

was Becky who recognized it first, for it sounded similar

– if not less agonized – to the groans of thousands of

humans having their skin peeled from their bodies after

being roasted on an open fire like Christmas chestnuts.

Her skin crawled and she found herself listening to the

sound rather than the words being spoken. She could feel

herself getting lost in it somehow, as if it created a maze

inside her mind, one that twisted and turned, and the

more she followed it the harder it would be to find her

way back out again. She wasn‘t sure of it, but guessed

that the others all felt similar things, given the strained

look on their faces.

―You are a non-believer. Even after everything you

have been forced through, you disbelieve. Well, fine,

don‘t believe, but remember that I pulled you out of that

Hell ground myself, and the moment I feel you overstep

the mark, I will throw you back myself. I‘ll reunite you

with that rotting young girl whose life you took and leave

her to have you in any way she sees fit. Just remember

that as you keep your mouth shut.‖ Nemamiah was calm

as he spoke, although the rage on his face and the

obvious anger in his words made his rage clear. The

words had that parental effect and tone to them, the

same one used to deliver the famous, „I‟m not angry with

you, just disappointed‟ speech. The one that crushes you

and has more effect than any bellowed argument or

length of grounding could even hope to accomplish.

Graham said nothing, and when he saw the whole

party turn to look at him like the naughty boy in school,

he felt himself shrink back a little. He bit his tongue.

Even for an old cynic like himself, the existence of God

could no longer be denied. He had been to Hell, he had

seen an angel, and was now about to watch a world be

consumed whole. You cannot have one without the other,

that was common knowledge in all walks of life, and so to

have a Hell, there must be the other.

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Before he continued talking, even Nemamiah raised

his hands to his head and massaged his temples. Beside

her, Becky felt Sammy begin to sway on his feet.

His eyes had begun to pulse, as if behind each blood

encrusted socket was a small heart, seeping its precious

cargo a little more with each rhythmical pulse.

―We do not have enough time to discuss everything,

so I must be brief. I can feel the barrier breaking and the

worlds merging. I‘m sure you can, too, although it will

sound different to each one of you, just as Hell itself is

unique at many levels,‖ Nemamiah said, with his head

lowered, hands still rubbing his temples, and when he

took them away it looked as though he had worn through

the thin skin that covered them, for where his thumbs

had been circling, a bright light shone through, like a

torch beneath a child‘s bed covers or seen through a tent

while camping late at night, telling ghost stories. Finally

he was ready to carry on his monologue – without any

further interruptions.

―What I say is what it is, how it is, and there will be

no more questions,‖ he said to the group, but they all

knew who his comment was intended for. ―It is not only

these earthquakes, as you call them, that mark Lucifer‘s

progress; more often than not a demon simply makes a

lucky choice with the portal he takes and finds himself in

your when and where. The same is for hurricanes and –

what is it – twisters, it is strange that they descend from

above while in fact they bring those from beneath up to

the surface. It is dependent on the proximity of the portal

to your world. The same is for the battles. You have all

been witness to them, many times, yet they occur in a

time different to yours, so that only the slightest of blows

is felt. Thunderstorms, you call them: a clap of rumbling

sound and a strike of pure brilliant energy. We are

surprised that in spite of the large level of religious fervor

in your world, nobody has yet made any concrete

connections.‖ He had sidetracked himself, but without

even a pause in the flow of his words, Nemamiah brought

the conversation around and continued. ―The storms are

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where you come in, for those who die in a thunderstorm,

as a direct result of the storm, being touched by the

lightning, or having their head implode as a clap of

thunder rolls through their body, are people taken before

their time, struck down in a fury. Friendly fire is the

phrase you have created for it. Their souls are lost,

banished from the world, and often they are grabbed by

the beings who stand in wait along the edges of Lucifer‘s

kingdom like sentries. Others fall into the Purgatory

realms, and are left to fend for themselves, for we have

no way of tracking them…‖

… Pause for thought.

―Your deaths were the same. Each of you taken

before your time: only there were no battles, no storms or

earthquakes; nothing out of the ordinary occurred at the

times of your deaths. You were simply plucked from the

earth and removed, banished to the chambers without

the balance being weighed. What did it? I am afraid to

say we don‘t know, but we had to rescue you. Raguel

brought us the word straight from God‘s chamber, and so

we came, and so we stand.‖ Nemamiah stopped speaking,

his breathing heavy as if he had run for a short while at

maximum speed. The shiny spot at his temple had

spread, as if the skin, once broken, simply melted away,

absorbed by whatever it was that was hidden on the

inside; his true body.

―There was a storm when I died,‖ Sammy offered,

unaware of the strange light that grew before the others‘

eyes.

―No, that is true, but it was not your turn to pass,‖

Nemamiah answered. His voice seemed to be faltering

just a little bit, like a boy‘s voice breaking at the start of

puberty.

Sammy fell quiet. A sudden image of his girlfriend

Mandy popped into his head, and the knowledge that

they had been arguing as they died. This fact had haunted

him throughout his time in Hell, but it had been a while –

or so it felt, at least – since he had thought about it at all,

and now it was back, and it hurt. He couldn‘t for the life

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of himself remember what his final words to her had

been, but he was sure that they were not the ones he

would have chosen. Why? It was another question he had

asked himself over and over again. Because some jerk she

went to university with wanted the girl he had, the girl

who wanted him by return. It was all so pointless. Beside

him he felt Becky‘s body pressing against him, he felt her

fingers locked within his own. It felt reassuring in his

dark world to know that there was someone with him,

not just a voice or two he could hear speaking, but an

actual physical human being who stood beside him and

who he knew understood him. To some degree they all

did understand each other.

―While we do not know why Lucifer chose you, we do

know that you all now have a part to play in this war. You

are to help us travel undetected through the worlds, to

find whatever it was that Lucifer was so sure he had

found. We don‘t know who it is, but we are certain you

are to look for a mortal. It is up to you to find the others

who died before Lucifer can claim them,‖ Nemamiah

began, his voice now cracked and reduced to a whisper.

His words were kept simple, cryptic but lacking the

mysterious audio book quality that it had before the

humming noise of the weakened barriers had begun. His

eyes had faded, as if the light inside had been drained, or

rerouted towards the ever increasing circle at his temple.

―There were seven others who died in the same manner

you did. These seven were all on the same day, in fact. We

found one, but he was lost before we could get to him.

The remaining six you must find. Track them down and

bring them away, keep them safe, and when the time is

right we will come to you and take what we need,‖ he

said, more like a general now than the occasionally

friendly, usually amicable storyteller.

―W-w-what?‖ Helen stammered.

―We do not have time to repeat ourselves. The

barriers are weak. This world has become unstable. We

must be quick. You have been told your role as it has

been decreed by God, our Father, your creator. It is what

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He wishes that you should now concern yourselves with.

If you succeed in your task, you will all be granted entry

to the Kingdom of our Father. I give you my word,‖ Sariel

answered. His own physique looked to be just as

weakened as Nemamiah‘s, yet his words sounded

stronger.

―God told you this Himself?‖ Sammy asked, aware of

how strange the question was, but it came to him and he

thought it best to speak it now. Kind of like at a wedding:

speak now or forever hold your peace. He could feel his

eyes sockets pulse stronger and faster, as if behind the

hardened jellied scabs the sockets were simply filled with

blood that sloshed around like cola inside a bottle turned

over and over in someone‘s hands. He could feel the

warm fluid coursing down his cheeks, meeting together

under his chin like the ribbons on a bonnet, and yet he

felt no pain.

―Do not be so foolish. God does not speak to every

angel. The archangels are His passageway for words and

messages. Raguel was the one who delivered us the

message, the will of God. Our Father does not lie; He

does not sin, and we do not doubt His words, so we do

what we are bade,‖ Nemamiah answered, his weak voice

trying to gain power and resonance, and for a short time

it did, but when he was finished speaking it was obvious

that he was exhausted.

―So you‘ve never even se—‖ Graham began to

interject, possibly sensing the weakened state of the

angels.

He put it down to the scratching parasitic sound of

church bells ringing that had invaded his head and

hammered around inside his skull until his eyes watered.

Yet a quick glance at Sariel, whom he believed was the

lesser of the two, silenced him. Sariel‘s face had not

exactly darkened to the same thunderous maroon that

Nemamiah‘s did, but it certainly showed Graham enough

to cut his words short mid-sentence.

Sariel took a step forward without uttering a word,

and for one second Graham held his breath and prepared

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himself to be flung back into the fiery red ocean that

swam beneath their feet. The thin orange veins that had

tattooed the underbelly of the ground had burst, merged

together to form a giant orange bruise. A contusion on

the face of the earth, where, at its center, which also

happened to be in the middle of their meeting, a red dot

appeared. Graham had noticed it earlier, while

Nemamiah had reprimanded the angel who had fled. It

had grown steadily stronger as their meeting progressed.

It had begun about the same size as one of the marbles

Graham remembered playing with as a kid, but now it

was as large as a bowling ball, possibly bigger.

Another tremor tore through the ground, and with it

came a great ripping noise that caused one of the

buildings at the end of what would have passed for the

high street in this ruined western world to collapse. Giant

vents of steam plumed into the air. It was a dark red

color, and after its ejaculation fell as a pink rain; a blood

rain. The tremor didn‘t stop; it lessened, but it remained

a background factor to their new world. Cracks began to

appear in the dry dirt street. The wooden buildings could

be heard creaking and groaning their complaints, like a

sailing galleon moored on the quayside, its ropes

straining to keep it in place.

Graham breathed a small sigh of relief when Sariel

turned his back to him. Instead he chose to face Becky

and Sammy, or the kid, as Graham had named him in his

silent voice the day they first met. It was impossible to

tell how long ago they had met, or how long they had

been standing there as a group. It must have been days

since he and Sammy met, and hours had passed since

they arrived on the streets of Mirantaea, but then again,

what did the passage of time matter? They had a clear

deadline and that the crux of it all.

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Chapter 23

―Samuel, come to me,‖ Sariel said. His voice was

different; it was not the voice which had chided them as

they were – what was it that Nemamiah had called it

again? – enlightened. Now it was a voice that was gentle

and soft, one that beckoned you to it like a Pied Piper‘s

flute. The words formed a melody so glorious to your ears

that you couldn‘t help but smile and obey. Sammy took a

step forward, yet he didn‘t relinquish his hold on Becky‘s

hand. She had to take a small step with him to stop their

arms from becoming too stretched.

Sariel said, ―Your eyes were wonderful things. The

gift of sight cannot be overestimated. Yet it is not noticed

or appreciated until it is gone. We did not reach you in

time. You were hidden away better than the others, for

some reason.‖

All around them now the ground shook, harder and

harder – not quite like an earthquake, this felt to all of

them like something they had ever before experienced.

The ground wasn‘t quaking; it was being ripped into bite

sized pieces. Sariel continued, his eyes fixed on Sammy.

He felt it, could see the immense white stack of e nergy

beckon him. Sammy felt Sariel‘s hypnotic gaze was held

captive by it. ―I cannot give you your eyes back – that is

beyond even our reach – but we have a gift for you…to

make things easier.

Sariel raised his hands and brought them towards

Sammy‘s face. The group saw this; they saw the bulging,

swollen fingers hook around Sammy‘s face. All Sammy

saw was a bright light which enveloped him in its

embrace and held him tight. He couldn‘t move, yet he felt

no fear or apprehension. Sammy felt his body begin to

rise upwards, straighten until he stood to attention, his

back so straight that it felt strange to him. The curve of

his spine had straightened out into one vertical mass of

bone and nerves.

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His face felt hot, he felt relaxed, at peace, until an

image flashed before his eyes. It was Mandy. She was in a

park. She wore a white jacket; a dentist‘s coat. She stood

still, looking at the world around her. Then she glanced

up at the sky. Sammy would have sworn she looked right

at him, although he knew she wasn‘t there. His heart

pulled tight in his chest. Her face had aged, not a lot, but

enough that Sammy noticed. She looked even more

beautiful than ever. She raised her hands up to her face,

her eyes filled with tears. She clutched at her face, hands

forming a tent over her nose and mouth. Her eyes

reddened by the stinging tears. She lowered her hands

again and began picking at the tips of her fingers, a habit

Sammy had often told her to stop.

‖Sammy,‖ she mouthed the word.

There was no sound.

There was nothing – only the warmth which came

from being trapped inside an angelic embrace, a distant

shuddering of the ground and, even more distant to that,

locked away inside his mind, was the humming sound. In

Sammy‘s mind he heard the screeching of car tires, of

metal bodies engaged in an ongoing collision course that

nobody can stop. Yet he saw the word on her lips, he saw

his name spat out, cried out. Her lips trembled as did the

hands she raised skywards, palms away from her. She

reached towards his face. Tears streamed down her

cheeks, but before she could touch him she began to fade.

‗Sammy, Sammy‘ she mouthed, her lips trembling harder

now, hands shaking. Sammy could feel them, he could

feel them reaching for his face, millimeters away from

being reunited with her. He knew that if she reached him,

if she could, then they would be together again. Yet her

image continued to dim.

―I‘m sorry, Sammy. I‘m so sorry,‖ she mouthed to

him, calling, he could see from the way her jaw seemed to

strain. Then, like a reverse developed Polaroid

photograph, Mandy disappeared from his life, wiped out

for a second time.

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Before she disappeared completely, Sammy saw her

body change, like a ghost appearing in a semi-serious

horror movie: her imaged flickered, moving between the

Mandy he knew in life and the one he had left in death.

Her once sweet face alternated like a piece of stop-go

animation with that of a corpse. It was wet and rotten,

well on the way to total putrescence. She smiled at him:

although her lips were gone, eaten or rotted away, the

muscles remained, and they tightened, pulling what skin

remained of her cheeks upwards.

―Mandy,‖ Sammy called, filled with a despair that

knew no limits.

He tried to move but couldn‘t. His arms and legs

were locked in place, held together by this angelic

embrace. Then, as suddenly has it had started, it was

gone, and Sammy was thrown back into a world that was

dying. A burning pain ate away at his face, while tears

with no possible outlet stung his soul.

―Sammy, are you okay?‖ a voice asked him. It was

Becky, although she sounded a long way away.

―What did you do to him?‖ another called. It was

either Marcus or Graham; he couldn‘t tell which. The

only thing he knew was that it was a man‘s voice and it

was angry.

A hand grabbed his, fingers locked within his, and he

was pulled backwards, stumbling over his own feet,

which felt as if there were embedded in the earth, already

being pulled back down below…to him…to them and

their games…to…to…

―Sammy, Sammy, are you okay?‖ the voice asked

again, not as distant this time. Her voice came from

beside him. It was her hand that held his. The sensation

of their skin touching was electric. Much like when the

wires in a hotwired car are first introduced they create a

spark, a similar jolt travelled through Sammy‘s entire

body and succeeded in pulling him back into the present.

―Mandy,‖ he whispered, the words coming out as

little more than an exhaled breath. Sammy looked

around; his vision was a haze, a swirl of pastel colors all

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merged together. He saw a shape, a head – it was a

woman‘s head, dark hair, yes, brown maybe, not black. It

wasn‘t Mandy. He knew that. Then it came back to him:

her name jumped to his lips and made him want to smile.

―Becky.‖ No sooner had he spoken her name and his

world went black, as if the lights were just turned out.

Sariel stepped back from Sammy, while the others

simply stood, their mouths gaping, a look of horror

frozen on their faces. Through it all, Sammy had stood

motionless, calling out a name none of them could hear,

and he kept throwing glances over towards Becky,

looking right at her, his face finding hers despite the

blood that streamed down his face. The black sockets that

had housed his eyes stared ghoulishly at Becky‘s. His arm

reached out, groping towards her. Sariel stepped back

even further and Sammy fell, stumbling backwards. He

kept his feet and Becky moved without flinching to stand

beside him once more, steadying him. Marcus and

Graham had both made the move to offer aid, but had

pulled up automatically when they saw the pair together;

they weren‘t needed.

Becky‘s hands were soon sticky with Sammy‘s blood

as she brushed his cheek with her thumb, cupping the left

side of his face, asking him repeatedly if he was alright.

She got no answer at first, then after a few moments he

seemed to come around, like a man waking up from a

deep sleep. Becky threw her arms around him and held

him tight. She stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms

around his neck. When they pulled away from each other

there was a bloody face print on the shoulder of Becky‘s

shirt.

While Sammy was lost in a pain-free dream world,

enveloped by the pure spirit of the angel Sariel, the angel

of healing, the others in his group of new friends stood by

and watched what really happened. They saw the healing

hands of God‘s servants at work in raw reality.

Sariel had beckoned Sammy to him, and with a speed

that took them all by surprise he grabbed Sammy‘s face

and forced his thumbs into Sammy‘s eye sockets. The

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crust that covered them broke and thick maroon blood

spurted out. It ran down Sariel‘s arms with the lumpy

consistency of milk left out in the sun. The worst thing

was that Sammy stood stock still, not even flinching or

seeming to feel the way Sariel worked his thumbs deeper

and deeper into his skull until the palm of his hand was

pressed against the corner of each eye socket. A sickening

wet sucking sound belched as Sariel began to massage

the inside of Sammy‘s skull. He muttered something

incoherent in a voice so low Marcus was amazed they

heard it at all.

Behind them, for they had all turned to face the scene

as it unfolded, Nemamiah stood impassive, arms now

folded across this chest, his face looking drained and

tired, worn thin in fact.

His work done, Sariel the healer stepped back, his

head tilted to one side as he examined the end result. He

studied Sammy like a sculptor, staring at the lump of clay

he had just manipulated, wondering, ‗ Is this my

masterpiece, or do I need to just take this off here, or

that bit there mayhap?‟

Before he had any time to make that editing decision

the ground exploded around them. The dried earth cried

out with a weak crunching sound, and fire erupted into

the air, shooting upwards until they could no longer see

the sky. The group all cowered; it was instinctive. Becky

pulled Sammy down onto his haunches beside her. She

clapped her hands over her own head, still refusing to

release their interlocked arms.

―Holy shit!‖ she screamed, looking around for the

others.

Marcus was crouched down, his head up looking

around, eyes wide with fear – yet somehow he managed

to keep himself calm. Helen was next to him, lying flat on

the floor, with her arms over her head, hands interlocked

at the base of her skull. Graham was a little further away,

crouched down much like Marcus. His face, however,

told a different story; Marcus sought a way out while

Graham seemed at ease, not looking for anything, simply

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just waiting for it to blow over before they made their

move.

The fire flew into the sky, thundering upwards before

crashing down on itself and falling back into the chasm

from which it burst. At the same time more continued to

rise, creating a wall that ran down the length of the town,

or what remained of it. There were several loud

explosions as the larger buildings gave up the fight and

collapsed on themselves, sending up a cloud of dust and

wood so rotten it had been reduced powder on the inside

many years ago. The heat was intense yet didn‘t burn no

matter how close the blaze seemed to come to them. After

what felt like an age, the wall of orange heat finally began

to fade.

―It has begun. Quick, Sariel, we must pass on the

word,‖ Nemamiah called out, his voice booming above

the agonized scream of the earth. ―You have been told.

You must track down those we seek. Those six souls are a

part of this and they must be removed until we know why

our brother is so keen to locate them. Find them, and

keep them safe. We will find you when the time is right

and take you all to safety.‖ Nemamiah spoke with

renewed urgency now. He sweated profusely, Marcus

noticed… no, he wasn‘t sweating, he was melting.

The air around them roared. The sky above their

heads echoed the dying call of a forgotten world. The

group flinched but nothing more; it was a sound they

were used to, like a jet plane flying overhead, a lot lower

that you would expect but certainly not a sound that was

completely foreign to them. However, none of them were

prepared for the sight they saw when their raised their

heads. The sky had ripped open, the blue peeled

backwards from itself, creating a long, thin oval in the

sky. Clouds were cut in half and fell to the ground,

descending like a strange mist only to burn up in the heat

with nothing but a slight puff of smoke. The oval itself

was black – jet black. With another bellow the sky

cracked even further, the oval widened, and they all

began to feel the atmosphere change: the air thinned fast,

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gravity began to falter. One moment they felt weighted

down and squashed and the next they felt as though they

would float away on the slightest breath of wind.

―Quick, join hands!‖ Nemamiah called, having roar to

now, not only because of his sudden decline in condition

but because the crack in the sky and ground had

unleashed the skull penetrating groaning sound at full

volume. It was the combined screams of two planets as

they merged. It was nails being dragged along a

blackboard and cutlery being scrapped on a china plate

all combined into one cacophonous din. ―Don‘t look at

it!‖ he called. Was it panic in his voice? They couldn‘t tell,

and had no time to dwell on the matter.

They could all feel it grow inside them like a craving;

a desire, a hunger to look up. It called to them, whatever

it was. It began its existence in their lives as the humming

of underground power cables and had grown into sounds

that reminded each of them of their time in Hell. There

was a strange pressure that emanated from above their

heads. It coursed through their bodies, tearing at them

on the inside, the way the moon pulls at the oceans,

creating the tides that govern so much of our lives.

―Join hands!‖ they heard Nemamiah calling, his voice

once again distant.

Somehow they all managed to obey his commands,

moving to form a small, odd-shaped circle. There was a

flash of light, a rustling of feathers, a fierce cool breeze –

and they were gone.

Had they been any later in making contact with each

other, then they would have been sucked out of existence.

They would have seen the split in the sky twist into a

smile, they would have seen it open in a yawn and then

collapse inwards on itself, and the last thing they would

have seen would have been the stars themselves, deepest,

darkest space as the world they were on was pulled away

and fused into the underworld as the newest extension to

an already overloaded kingdom.

They landed with a strange, stomach shifting feeling,

much like going over a gentle, rolling hill in car travelling

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just too fast. The light that enveloped them left, and for a

few moments they were blinded. Children born into a

new world, one that was foreign and alien to them, and

made them all feel like babes fresh from a mother‘s

womb.

The world they found themselves in was a stark

contrast to the one they had just left. This world was alive

with vegetation, grass that was a vivid green and smelt as

sweet as the first cut of summer. Each blade glistened

with drops of morning dew, the sky above them was a

deep azure, ocean of brilliance which, when compared to

the deep blue emptiness of the previous world, seemed to

be much more alive and hopeful. The grass was soft and

spongy under their feet, holding natural warmth from its

days in the sun. There were trees of all description, from

towering oaks to pines with cones the size of melons

hanging from their branches. Wild trees grew bearing a

strange looking – but later, they would discover,

wonderfully tasting – fruit. It was a strange shade of

blue; near purple, with a yellow stripe that ran through

the center of it. It looked like a strawberry in its shape,

yet was the size of an apple.

Somewhere close at hand was the source of the new

sound that filled their ears, only unlike the humming of

the Hell worlds, this was the pleasant sound of a small

stream or brook as it followed its course, either flowing

into something larger or quite possibly just looping back

on itself and continuing the circle of its own existence.

When they found it, the water was impossibly clear; the

bed of the stream was dotted with rocks and small fish

whose unending game of tag saw them dart from one

place to the other with amazing speed and agility. They

skimmed over some, around others and even under a

few. Marcus even saw one of them jump out of the water

and slide across the top of one rather large stones as

though it were a slide at the local waterway‘s park.

―Jesus, they just melted them,‖ Becky said in a

whispered voice from behind them all. The others turned

their heads towards her, and saw for themselves.

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On the floor just in front of, where the angels had

been standing before they made their strange, stomach

turning trip, were two piles of what could only be

described as liquid rubber.

―I‘m gonna be sick.‖ Helen put her hand up against

her mouth and turned her head, gagging. ―How could

they do that to people?‖ she asked, the words muffled by

her hand but clear enough to be heard.

―They‘re angels. I think they can do whatever they

want,‖ Graham answered, but his words distracted him

as he stared at the pile of melted skin and bone on the

floor with a mixed look awe and fear.

The clothes had disappeared, burned away by the

power of an angel‘s touch. A few small strands of material

remained, and most of those had blown away and lay in

the grass a few meters further into the meadow. The

bubbling liquid was peach colored, with a ripple of red

running through it. Bubbles of fat had risen the surfaced

but cooled before they could burst. Dotted around the

mass, some hidden deep down inside and some

protruding from the surface still as if nothing had

happened at all, were teeth, some capped with shiny

metal crowns, others simply gleaming in their own right,

enjoying the warm midday sun. A lone eyeball lay on the

right – Nemamiah‘s – pile. It topped the skin cake like a

horror shop cherry.

Turning their attention away from the two melted

bodies – none of them quite realized just how easy it was

for them all to put the issue out of their minds – they saw

that in the distance there was a thick wooded area. Dense

trees towered into the sky at unequal heights, their green

tops standing out in contrast to the blue sky. There was a

small wisp of smoke that rose from somewhere in the

distance. Marcus saw it first but heard the gentle gasps of

his party not long after.

―That means people, right?‖ Helen said. Even their

voices sounded sweeter in this world, if that were even

possible.

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―I guess so,‖ he mumbled, his eyes busy surveying it.

―If there are people here, we‘d better be ready. We don‘t

know which type of world this is,‖ he added without

thinking.

―Is it me, or are there lights in the trees?‖ Helen

asked, squinting to see if that changed the way the trees

seemed to glisten at regularly spaced intervals.

They all looked, squinting in unison without even

realizing it. That was all of them besides Sammy. Why the

angels did it, none of them knew, but Sammy‘s eyes had

been removed and replaced with nothing, the sockets‘

now unguarded entrance or exit points into and out of his

skull. That being said, he knew exactly where the forest

was, and he knew that the people living there were

friendly, but also scared. The ground where they stood

was the same eternal blackness that Sammy had become

accustomed to, however in the distance – this was where

he assumed he faced in the same direction as his friends

– he saw a hazy green cloud which seemed to rise from

the ground and ascend into the sky. He saw a lime green

cloud that shimmered and danced like the tarmac on a

long, straight road in the middle of summer. Then, above

the trees, was a warm orange glow, like the embers of a

fire as it starts to die down. From this orange cloud fell an

amber rain, or so it looked; small embers floating down,

mixing into the green, being enveloped by it.

Sammy looked at the strange colors, which looked

something akin to the northern lights in their movements

and beautiful vivacity, and it was only when he turned

around and saw the tidal wave of red, a blood cloud,

swooping towards them that he realized that the trees

were safety.

―We need to move,‖ Sammy spat the words out.

Beside him he felt Becky jump.

When they looked at him, he had his back to the

trees, and they would have questioned him if it hadn‘t

have been for the look of complete horror that was etched

into his face. Much as a look of evil is carved into every

devil head found in pawn shops, gift shops and antique

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shops the world over, there was no question that Sammy

was not certain and right in his statement.

―What is it?‖ Marcus asked.

―You get psychic all of a sudden, kid? See something

we don‘t, or can you smell it coming like a thunder

storm?‖ Graham asked, his already accustomed

pessimistic tone replaced by one so cynical and vicious

that it shocked them all. ―Sorry,‖ he added honestly, and

not just because of the way they all looked at him. ―Old

habits die hard.‖ He chuckled to himself as he said this, a

private joke no doubt.

―I don‘t know how to explain it, but there isn‘t any

time. We need to move…now,‖ Sammy said again. He

could feel his heart begin to increase its tempo, gathering

speed like a stampede.

―Okay, Sam, let‘s go,‖ Marcus said, leading the way,

Helen following close behind him. Sammy and Becky

were further back and Graham once again took up the

rear, holding point with the same diligence he always

had. ―I really am sorry, kid,‖ he whispered to Sammy.

―There‘s something about all this that doesn‘t quite sit

with me.‖ He continued to explain his actions, although

Sammy didn‘t seem to give an answer. He just kept

glancing over his shoulder, his face becoming paler and

paler with each check and double-check.

For it was over his shoulder that Sammy could see

the red cloud as it drew closer and closer, its form

changing to that of a giant hand, with large chunky

fingers stretching out, reaching for them as they made

their way towards the trees. The cloud moved fast, their

pace was slow, and from what Sammy could gauge, the

trees were too far away.

―We‘ll never make it!‖ he shouted, grabbing Becky

and pulling her close to him.

―What is it?‖ Becky asked him, squeezing him just as

tight in return. She looked around like a deer ready to

take flight at the slightest noise, but she saw nothing; she

only felt the warm breeze as it rushed over them.

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―Red.‖ It was the last word Sammy said before his

world exploded with a bright flash. Once more Sammy

fell. The usual sense of weightlessness was gone; he was

heavy and fell faster and faster, the wind rushing past his

face, until, without any warning, he stopped. The

sensation was gone, and he realized that he was still on

his feet. It was not him that had fallen, but rather

everything else around him.

Sammy reached out with his hand, trying to find

Becky; their embrace had been broken as he fell, or

thought he fell, at least. She wasn‘t there. Sammy turned

a full circle, sweeping his arms in ever more wild circles

as panic began to set in. A voice spoke inside his head; it

was HIS voice, Xirmon, the creature who had welcomed

him with such open arms upon his arrival in Hell. It was

the same voice that spoke to Sammy in the dark. It

whispered to him now, told him he was alone, they had

left him behind. Dropped the dead weight. Panic arrived.

Sammy called out over and over again but nobody gave

him an answer.

He began to feel dizzy. The colors were gone. He was

enveloped by a red mist which held him captive.

Disoriented, not knowing which way he faced or which

way he should turn, Sammy began to walk, groping for

things that weren‘t there. He hoped that his chosen path

would lead towards the trees. He kicked something,

something solid and heavy. He stumbled, taking several

large lumbering paces, bent forward like a hundred meter

sprinter ducking down to cross the line first.

―Becky, Marcus…Graham.‖ He added the final name

after a moment of hesitation. The old man had been good

to him when they first met in the house, and deep down

he meant well.

―I‘m sorry, but your friends are gone,‖ a voice said

from behind him. Sammy turned, but before he could do

anything, he felt hands seize him in a strong grip and

hold him steady.

―Get the fuck off me!‖ he called out, struggling and

kicking with his legs. He kicked and scraped at the legs of

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whoever held him, but never made contact. The grip held

firm. ―I‘m not going back!‖ he spat the words out as they

rushed from his body like vomit. ―I‘m not fucking going

anywhere!‖ he called. His words cut off before he could

add a second sentence when a strong hand clamped over

both his mouth and nose.

Sammy continued to struggle right up until

something cold and wet was pressed against his mouth. It

didn‘t take long for unconsciousness to take over his

world, and only a few moments after his friends

disappeared, so did Sammy.

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Keep up to Date

If you want to keep up to date with what I have going

on, and grab yourself a free book in the process, then

click the link below and sign up for my mailing list and

newsletter. Be among the first to know about all my good

news and goings on.

Who is Alex Laybourne?

Born and raised in the coastal English town

Lowestoft, it should come as no surprise (to those that

have the misfortune of knowing this place) that I became

a horror writer.

From an early age I was sent to schools which were

at least 30 minutes' drive away and so spent most of my

free time alone, as the friends I did have lived too far

away for me to be able to hang out with them in the

weekends or holidays.

I have been a writer as long as I can remember and

have always had a vivid imagination. To this very day I

find it all too easy to just drift away into my own mind

and explore the world I create; where the conditions

always seem to be just perfect for the cultivation of ideas,

plots, scenes, characters and lines of dialogue

I am married and have five wonderful children;

James, Logan, Ashleigh, Damon, and Riley. My biggest

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dream for them is that they grow up, and spend their

lives doing what makes them happy, whatever that is.

For people who buy my work, I hope that they

enjoy what they read and that I can create something that

takes them away from reality for a short time. For me, the

greatest compliment I can receive is not based on

rankings but by knowing that people enjoy what I

produce, that they buy my work with pleasure and never

once feel as though their money would have been better

spent elsewhere.

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An Extract from Diaries of the Damned

Paul Larkin sat in his seat and fastened his

seatbelt. His body was caked with sweat and dried blood.

His ears rang from the gunshots, and his ankle was

swollen again; remnants of an injury he acquired

jumping from the first floor window of his suburban

home. At least, it used to be suburbia, before everything

went to shit.

He sat back and let out a long, deep breath. Shock

threatened to take hold of him, so he closed his eyes and

waited. The plane filled up and the cries of those refused

admittance echoed down the walkway, swiftly followed

by the sound of their execution.

Paul spared but the most fleeting of moments

thinking about it. He found it strange how killing and

death had become such a large part of his life.

―Excuse me,‖ a fragile sounding voice stirred Paul

from the calm place he had just started to settle into. ―I

believe this is my seat.‖ An elderly woman, late seventies

at best stood before him, her face was smeared with

blood, while one eye had been covered by a filthy rag that

had been hastily secured to her face with what looked like

duct tape.

―I‘m sorry…‖ Paul asked, confused.

―Seat 17b. This is my seat.‖ The woman waved the

ticket in Paul‘s face.

Paul said nothing, but gave the woman a look

which screamed, „the world as we knew it has ended, are

you seriously going to complain that I‟m in your seat‟. If

she could read his expression, she showed no signs of it.

So with another heavy sigh, this one of frustration, Paul

undid his belt and scooted one seat over.

―Thank you. I don‘t mean to be rude, but after all

that has happened, I feel the need to remain proper about

some things,‖ she said as she sat down. There was an

odor to her person that Paul found dist inctly repelling,

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yet she had clearly gotten through the scanners at the

gate.

―It‘s fine,‖ he answered her, closing his eyes once

more. The seat he had taken was a window seat, just

before the wings of the Boeing 737, which the military

had been using as an emergency evacuation vehicle for

the past two weeks. Looking out across the tarmac, Paul

saw the troops standing guard at the perimeter of the

small airfield. The sun had begun to disappear beneath

the horizon, and in the dull afterglow of yet another

survived day, Paul found himself staring at the firework

like bursts of gunfire and wondering how it could have all

gone so wrong, so quickly.

He tried to stop himself, but before he knew it, his

mind was cast back. He saw his wife, Julia and their two

children, Doug and Maddie. They were outside, Paul

standing behind the barbeque as Julia busied herself by

setting the table, while their kids played in the garden

enjoying the summer weather. He blinked, trying to force

the image away. It worked, but was replaced by the

memory of his wife‘s battered, bloody corpse lying on the

floor in their living room; her face blackened and swollen

by the sickness, her body broken from the repeated

strikes he had delivered with his son‘s baseball bat. Her

blood was splattered over his clothes, his face,

everything.

―Daddy, I don‘t feel well,‖ his daughter had called.

Paul had turned around just in time to see the blood flow

from her mouth like vomit. She collapsed to the floor, the

convulsions already upon her. His son followed suit

within the hour. Their small bodies were an easy target

for the virus.

―I love you,‖ Paul had whispered as he hugged

them both tightly, and then pushed their heads beneath

the surface of the water. They struggled of course, but

their bodies were too weak from the disease to provide

much resistance. His daughter fought the longest. ―You‘re

with the angels now,‖ Paul whispered to them as he dried

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their faces, dressed them in clean clothes, and laid them

in their beds.

The sound of an explosion within the terminal

rocked the plane and pulled Paul from the nightmare.

The sun had fallen behind the trees, yet the plane did not

seem anywhere near full.

―Close those doors!‖ the lone flight attendant

called out, running down the aisle, pushing passengers

out of the way without a second thought. ―Close them

now!‖ she screamed again just as the roar of machine gun

fire reached them.

The screams of those still in the walkway were cut

off as the doors were closed and the engines roared into

life. ―Ladies and Gentlemen please take your seats. We

are making an immediate departure,‖ the now out of

breath young women spoke into the intercom. ―God help

us all,‖ she added.

The plane shuddered into life and rolled away

from the gate. The coupling that connected it to the

terminal was still filled with bodies. Paul watched them

cascade to the floor like lemmings; a human waterfall.

―Lucky bastards,‖ he whispered as he stared at their still,

lifeless forms.

The plane rolled onto the runway and stopped.

They sat there for ten minutes. Then just as people

started to get nervous, three armored Jeeps came to a

screeching halt either side of the aircraft, the machine

guns mounted on the top of each firing into the unseen

enemy.

―Oh God, they got past the perimeter fences!‖ a

voice cried out. This was accompanied by a wave of panic

that saw people leap from their seats. Paul however, sat

still; shock and weariness had overcome him. As a result,

he saw the guns cease firing, and the gunner of the car

nearest his window waved his hands in a signal which

even Paul understood meant, „Get going, NOW!‟

Paul opened his mouth to warn the panicked mob,

but he was too late. The engines roared and the plane

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sped down the runway. People were thrown to the floor

and into their seats as the plane gathered momentum.

Through his window Paul watched as the bodies of those

that had caused the delay were mown down by the

speeding jet. Even that wouldn‘t be enough to kill them

all, but what did it matter now; they were airborne and

the legions of the undead were behind them.

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Grab you copy of Diaries of the Damned from

Amazon today!

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If you like creature features and mindless carnage,

then feel free to check out any of my titles below:

When Dr. Martin Lucas was recruited to work on

the oceanic military base Omega Base Six, he had no idea

of what lay ahead of him.

Tasked with gentically engineering a megalodon

for military use he was the most important man on the

base. That also made him a target.

Six years after a terrorist attack on the base almost

cost him his life, Martin is brought back to face off

against the monster he created. His shark has lain

dormant, but with Omega Base Six set to be scuttled, she

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returns, bigger than ever and ready to protect her home

at whatever cost.

When Lieutenant Jenna Harrington and her crew pulled

their US CoastGuard cutter up against a stricken fishing

vessel, the last thing they expected to find was a boat

covered in blood, the lone survivor muttering about a sea

monster. Yet before they know it, they are locked in a

battle with a beast straight from the gates of hell.

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Pitted in a war against a creature they don't

understand. the US Navy is caught in a fight that will

change everybody involved, forever. When tensions run

high between the captains in the makeshift attack group,

their internal squabbles threaten to get them all killed.

The Kraken has risen, and the world will never be

the same again.

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Table of Contents

PART I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

PART II

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23