Authors: Lucas T. Harmond
“Welcome back to our filth infested arsehole of a dwelling.” The other announced to the air, sensing the return of the third member of their group.
The room’s door opened partly, jammed on the badly cut carpet and was then kicked impatiently open.
“Well Malok, what news?”
“The idiot still hasn’t sold any!” Malok said coldly as he towered over the other two, his head touching the low ceiling.
The man on the bed sighed.
“Maybe we should sell it ourselves, to the punters?” said the angel voice from the corner.
“No, I don’t think that is wise, dear Nik’—we’re not from this city, were not familiar with it’s peoples.
Who knows, they may even think us to be odd.
” He laughed.
“He did,
however
, try some.” Malok’s rough face slipped into a mild smile.
“Good! That should help.”
“The only other event of interest was that I believed I saw a Casendrull.”
The room slipped into intense silence.
Malok relished the fear, then spoke again. “He was, however, not a Casendrull and was in fact just partially that way or
our way
, if you will. Naturally so, as well, which is rare.”
“You’re sure!” The first man said with no trace of what seemed to be his usual humour.
“Yes, I followed him for only two minutes, but he was with some girl who was definitely not Casendrull, showed no traces of being such, and neither were aware of me. He wasn’t an undercover operative. Just an offshoot of normality.”
“Good, good, good. Tomorrow we shall have to look into some mode of transportation. Do we have any funds left?”
“Not as such but we can get some.”
The first man was thoughtful, jammed a piece of fruit into his mouth and nodded. “Yes, but this has to be the last time,
for a while
. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
The knife of Nickoloi swiftly pinned a cockroach to the wall. The other two looked round at the dull sound of the impact.
“This
Harper
may not be the best man to represent us. I get the feeling he’s pushing the substance at the wrong people. Maybe, like Nickoloi suggests, we should approach people ourselves.”
“Only if all else fails. Everything is not quite right yet, we need more time
and call him Nick
. you shall be Mark and I Zakeriah. These names are less conspicuous, don’t you think Nick?”
Nickoloi was examining the squirming insect on the point of his dagger. He looked up. “Ugly!” He said simply and smiled.
DREAM TIME
A BLACK BULL WAS CHARGING at him, and Josh stood confused. All the people he had previously been standing with were gone and now there was an unusually large beast charging down on him. He jumped forward clumsily and felt the air rush past him. The thing screeched to a halt before colliding with a lamp post.
At some level he was aware he was dreaming and like always realised that everything that happened was in his control. The van disappeared. He wondered what the hell that incident had been about and looked round for his friends.
Before, he, a girl called Karen, Sarah and Rufus had been walking down a street talking, trying to find something. That was all he could remember. Josh strained his memory, knowing that it was extremely important that they find whatever it was they were looking for, but couldn’t remember anything beyond that. BLUE. The word suddenly filled his head, faded and turned to dust. “What the fuck?” he questioned to the silent street. No one else was around and the whole city seemed strange. very unreal.
Which of course, it was
.
Then suddenly, he knew Sarah was watching him. He just knew. He began running, uncertain why. Heading for the alley next to kFC. Only the place wasn’t what it should have been, it was something else, something he didn’t understand.
Sarah was standing there, her skin seemed almost luminous, seemed to glow. All around her were unnatural shadows. She was silent but that alley was alive with fear.
Josh filled with fury. “Go away!” He began to scream and as he did he was changing. He continued to shout and wasn’t even sure who he was shouting at.
The room was dark, only some light crept past the thick curtains. There were shadows that didn’t seem to be caused by the furniture.
Sarah stood glowing in front of were he lay.
Slowly Josh began to realise he was now awake. Then the sleep was blasted away, his mind became razor sharp and he was fully aware.
Sarah was now gone.
He was lying on a floor, alone except for Rufus’ heavy snoring coming from somewhere nearby.
Josh rubbed his eyes and looked around. There was an uneasy sensation in his mind, not just a clinging hangover but something else. He frowned, convinced for a second Sarah had been there. Still dreaming, he told himself. There was something else though, a message that was gone now. For one second, when he’d just woken up, he’d known a terrible truth about Sarah; but now that was gone. He was still troubled though, part of that was due to the fact the walls were rippling and moving in the darkness.
More than that though
...
He awoke with a start—was he really awake this time?. The room was dark, only some light crept past the thick curtains. Dim dawn light. The walls were still now and he was covered in a cold sweat beneath the layers of his clothing. He was lying on the floor, alone except for Rufus’ heavy snoring coming from somewhere in the room. He had just dreamed the very same thing.
He was alive with fear. He’d just discovered something terrible but it was fading.
Something about Sarah. Maybe
? But even that was fading now. He frowned concerned by the lack of control he’d just had while he was dreaming. Normally he made his dreams work for him perfectly. In the back of his mind a distant voice was telling him this dream had been no different. It had been him in control.
He lay there feeling deeply troubled as he did normally at this time in the morning. Usually though the source was some vague problem he was being troubled by or a reasoned dread which never really faded and could never really be justified. Now though, it did feel justified and real. Quite simply Josh realised he was cracking up again and although he knew it, he wasn’t sure he could do anything about it. He had the same hollow hungry feeling welling up deep inside his chest, soul pain as he’d called it back in the day. Most of all was fear, incredible fear, that he was never going to feel better, that part of his life would always be missing. Still, he couldn’t say he understood why it was happening. His partial breakdown at eighteen, when he’d began to see things and maim himself, randomly fly into rages, break apart anything near him, throw knives at doors, drink himself into oblivion and a list of violent insanity that seemed distant even to him now, had made sense. Quite simply a collection of events had all collided at once. Mainly his mother’s extreme alcoholism had reached an all-time high, his father’s health had been failing critically and he was still struggling with the loss of his Nan to cancer, his short-lived atthe-time girlfriend—probably the first girl he’d actually been serious about—had cheated on him. He had still been angry and scared about being attacked and nearly killed. Plus, at this time, when he felt at his lowest, when he was only half convinced that life had any value at all, he had started University with a complete bunch of strangers, felt unable to respond to them, couldn’t bring himself to act cheerfully around them, to act human, to make the forced effort to fit in, and the complete isolation of days walking around alone going home to chaos had finally tipped him into oblivion. Counselling and anti-depressants had finally got him out of a slump which had been spiralling down for about six months before its complete climax. It had all made sense, quite simply he had been given more than he could cope with and had folded, could not see a single reason for continuing. Now though, despite occasional bouts of depression, he felt good, antidepressants still helped and in truth his expectations about the future were good.
“So why,” he questioned, “
is it happening again
?” Still, he didn’t feel exactly the same. There was no anger, anonymous anger and bitterness at everything he felt was wrong with himself, the world... people.
He couldn’t grasp why it was beginning again. Maybe he’d never really recovered, and the craziness had just been waiting.
He wished he could remember the dream he’d had while he’d been unconscious in the club’s toilet, as if that might explain everything. For some reason, remembering its events seemed very important. All he could remember was that it had been very violent and that’s it, like his mind was blocking it out.
He’d woken up about twenty minutes later leaning over the toilet, covered in piss and sick. It seemed he’d knocked the door shut on his fall and since no one had been in there when he fell, no one had noticed.
He’d been hysterical at the time, but had managed to stay calm enough to wipe the worst of the muck off himself with toilet paper. He’d felt disgusted with himself as he emerged but hoped due to the darkness of the club no one would notice the state he was in. He’d explained to Rufus that he’d passed out, nothing more, and they’d left to crash at his flat. He’d smoked a good deal of shit to calm his razor-edge nerves, risking paranoia then fallen into a deep sleep.
Now, Josh propped himself up, rubbed his alcohol drowned head, licked his dead tongue around his dry mouth and realised he was awake for the rest of the night now. A whirlwind of chaotic thoughts were spinning round his mind. Most of all though, he had the crushing feeling that something was beginning and that something was coming for him. He smiled nervously.
“Bullshit,” he whispered and shook his head. Sometimes he hated his vivid imagination.
Still the fear was in him and felt incredibly justified.
RANDOM ENCOUNTER
ONE MONTH LATER
HEADLIGHTS RIPPED UP WET, uneven tarmac. a slick, flat plane of oil and pissy light. The red smears of its taillights followed closely behind the speeding Golf, before fading and shimmering into the blackness.
The wind was blasting out around the concrete towers, catching the rain and throwing it out almost vertical. Every now and again the chill picked up and pellets of hail began to bounce off Chris kent’s window screen.
“Jesus!” He cursed.
He was having a hard time seeing. It was around twenty to three in the morning and he was mildly drunk.
Not pissed
, but he’d drank more than he should have.
A one off
. Normally he stuck to four pints,
if that even
, when he was driving. Tonight though had been Matt’s birthday and despite his better judgment, he’d had five and a half. Still that wasn’t bad considering he’d stayed till the end.
However, he was regretting it now. Not because he couldn’t handle it but because he was scared shitless of being pulled over by the police. Also he had enough hash in the glove box,
just enough
, to be done for dealing. In fact, it was his personal stash, but in the eyes of the law that wouldn’t matter.
“Shit.” He hissed as he considered the possibilities.
Old Happy-Hardcore was booming around his custom Golf and although it was stopping him panicking so much, it was also increasing his adrenaline levels and he wondered if he was more likely to be pulled over because of it. After all, it was early in the morning and he knew the bass would be kicking off the tall buildings on either side like cannon shots. Reluctantly he turned it off.
The window-wipers were fighting a losing battle. Each bead of water reflected light from the numerous acid yellow street lamps before being smeared away and then almost instantly replaced.
He squinted out into the night. The streets were bare now, everyone having long ago crawled into taxis. Up ahead was the Uni’ buildings and the ‘freak’ pub on the corner, the Fox and Hound. If it weren’t for the weather, the chances were there would still be a swarm of goths and other assorted scum hanging outside of the place, staggering around drunk, shouting and falling about. He’d normally glare at them, slow down, wind down the window and he and Steve— or Matt or Tom
or whoever
—would hurl a frenzy of abuse at them and if they had any, a few empty beer cans.
He stopped at the traffic lights on the cross-road and to pass the time stared down the street the Fox sat on. There were a pair of goths crouched back into a doorway looking miserable. “Goes without saying,” he thought,
after all that’s all goths do anyway, sit around looking miserable. If they’re that pissed off why don’t they just do the world a favour and kill themselves
?
“Fucking freaks.” He mumbled to himself as the lights changed and resisted the urge to tell them so. He decided it was too wet to open the window, so they would have to do without his insightful and constructive criticism.
He accelerated hard and with wheels spinning, tore forward along up a stretch of mainly abandoned and boarded-up shop fronts. Up ahead of him was the concrete bridge that supported one of the many linking flyovers that looped all around the city centre.
The wipers were pretty much useless and he had to really strain his eyes to see through all the mess. It seemed to have been raining virtually every day for the past month and the conditions were becoming increasingly extreme. It was becoming like a monsoon and—
“
Fuck!!!
” He screamed, his foot pretty much pushing the brake through the floor.
They’d come out of nowhere
!!! A figure running in front of his headlights, their face illuminated for only a brief second through the blurred glass, then his tires were screaming for traction on the wet road. The car seemed to be grinding forward for minutes, Chris’ mind was spinning, his teeth were gritted and he couldn’t help but close his eyes. He knew he’d never stop the car before it impacted and instinctively he swung the wheel. The wheels screamed as the car lurched round violently in an 180 degree turn. A moving wall of metal ripped forward by what seemed like unstoppable velocity. It wasn’t enough. A few seconds in and he’d heard,
felt
, the sickening impact, briefly seen something hit the bonnet,
went down
, closed his eyes again, felt the car spinning, felt it raise then crash down as the front wheels rose up over
something
. It seemed a long time before all the motion stopped and then he was just rooted there, a slow terror rising up in him.