Authors: Craig Saunders
Don't
feed him,
came the next thought
. Flames will only make him stronger.
The
other
man laughed - a horrible flat sound, and far too close.
'George
Farnham,' he said in a voice full of good humour and long teeth. 'I believe you
know me already. We are well met.'
George
would have been bright and intuitive even had he not known the answers to
questions if they were in a person's head. Like how he knew his dad was DEAD.
Like how he knew all the times his mum was COMING with her friend John.
Some
words and concepts didn't resonate with meaning for George like they might an
adult, but he knew enough to dread the dark man before him.
But,
too, something blossomed deep inside George. A candle just for him, a
brightness in his mind. Hope? A chance?
No,
he thought.
Not that. Not with this man.
But
that light would not go out.
'Come
along, George. Let's have a
chat
, shall we?'
The
man's words were easy, but his tone wasn't. It was off, stinky, like fish.
George hated fish.
'You're
a dickhead,' said George, dragging out the strongest word he could muster. George's
dad told him not to swear, but his dad was DEAD. This man was the cause of it. He
couldn't bring himself to say the bad swears, even now. George was a good boy.
'George
Farnham...such a tongue on you! I do believe we're going to have some fun
before this is all over. What do you think of that?'
'Just
let me go.'
'I
can't, Master Farnham, because you're special, aren't you? You know that,
right?'
George
saw no sense in denying it. He knew the dark man was special, too. He felt it
in the blackness that surrounded them both, heavier than the shadows in the
cellar.
George
nodded, and wondered. Could the man in front of him feel, see,
hear
the
hope in George's head? Did he see the shape of things to come?
'You
know things, don't you, young man? And you don't know
how
.'
CAREFUL
,
thought George.
Don't say anything else.
'Do
you see the future, George?'
George
forced himself to say nothing. He wouldn't even let himself move, and looked
away, too, like he'd learned to do if he ever had to lie to his parents.
'Good
for you. Good for you, George.'
George
didn't see the future, but it was all laid out before him. A jigsaw puzzle, but
one with the big pieces for little kids.
Two
words popped into his head.
THE MILL.
Nothing
but black, dangerous images when he thought of those words. People full of pain
and empty of everything else. As those words came into his mind his fear grew
and he could not help or fight it. His bladder let go. He felt ashamed and
afraid...but that different thought, one of his older and wiser thoughts, came
to him again and it was a whisper, like a secret:
CAREFUL.
'Ah,'
said the man. 'You see it. Yes, George. You're coming with me. We're going to the
Mill. You'll like it there, George, because though you don't understand
it...shit, you're only eight...I'm about to save your life.'
The
man leaned forward. He might be able to read minds. Fire did dance in his eyes,
and his whole face was dangerous and crazy - but the man lied with every word.
He leant in further, and waved his left hand fast, right beside George's eye. George
couldn't help but react. As he did, the man jabbed out with a syringe he held
in the other hand, unerring even in the shadows, into the thin tissue of
George's neck.
As
George gawped, then later, while he drifted down, just two words remained in
his thoughts:
THE MILL.
*
Wayland
Redman checked no one watched before he keyed in the number to enter his home.
He was a careful man, a dangerous man, and a sneak.
Already
he'd put O'Dell and the kid from his mind. Neither the dark man nor the boy mattered.
He thought about getting a good night's kip, and a decent breakfast in the
morning, and very little else troubled him.
Inside,
quietly, he passed through the low lights set along the hallway that led him to
his bedroom. His walk became a shuffle, his back stooped.
He
made it to his room with no problems. There, he undressed swiftly, managing
buttons and zips with deft, strong fingers - he didn't suffer at all with his
joints. He took a set of flannel pyjamas from the wardrobe that stood against
the wallpapered wall and slipped them on, along with his slippers and bathrobe.
The
room had an en suite toilet, where he brushed his teeth well and pissed poorly.
He was still grimed from the road and from the warmth of the day and the night.
A little water on his face was the best he could do, and a good rub with a thin
old towel instead of soap, which he never seemed to get.
His
room was hot - stifling, even. It always was. The heating stayed on in winter
and summer whether he liked it or not (and he didn't). He'd rather not sleep in
anything at all, but there was only so much he could do. It wasn't, after all,
up to him any longer. But at least the window opened. He pushed it out as far
as it would go, but the night was still and there was no breeze. At his
bedside, he removed the dressing gown and kicked free of his slippers, then popped
himself up onto the bed. Someone came toward his room - just soft footfalls,
out in the hall.
Bugger,
he thought. He worked up some spit and let a small trickle loose down his chin,
but it was only Roo. She was a good girl. He could get away with a little more
when she was working the nightshift.
She
insisted on being called Roo though her name was Rowena, but she always seemed
to have a smile ready. She poked her head round the doorframe.
'Still
awake, Wayland?'
'Yup,'
he said, tailing back a bit on his act. Roo wasn't daft as some. Down the hall,
Maureen yelled out and they both jumped, then shared a smile.
Maureen
only ever said
'Help me'.
Same thing, over and over again. It got
wearing.
Wayland
nodded and gave Rowena a wink.
'Easy,
tiger,' smiled Roo. 'Can I get you anything? Glass of milk?'
Wayland
shook his head and mumbled something unintelligible, like an old man with only
half his marbles might.
'Okay,
honey. Night.'
'Night,'
Wayland muttered.
Roo
left to check Maureen. Maybe the old bitch had fallen out of bed again. He hoped
she broke her hip. People their age died of broken hips.
Could
happen
, he thought.
It
was Roo who occupied Wayland's mind while he drifted into sleep, rather than
the day's jaunt or George Farnham or the dark man or noisy old bitches.
Great
tits,
he thought while sleep crept over him. In the night, he dreamed about
driving a kitchen knife right between them. In the morning he woke up with a
wood-on like teak.
'Would
you look at that,' he said to himself as he got up. 'A God-damned miracle.'
He
even had to sit to piss.
'Miracle,'
he said, and brushed his teeth while his old man cock fell to sleep again.
It
was still hot, but the day hadn't started bad at all. Wayland slid into his
slippers and gown and headed to the dining room of the residential home with
the other doddery bastards, looking forward to his kippers and eggs.
*
IV.
The Orphan
George's
mum's name was Eleanor. She liked it when John fucked her hard and called her
name.
'Eleanor...
sweet
Jesus
...Eleanor.
God.
Fuck
...
I'm coming
.'
Things
like that.
Eleanor's
husband's name was David, but she didn't want to worry about that right now. Currently,
Eleanor was on all fours, flicking channels on the TV while John bashed away at
her enthusiastically from behind.
'John,
wait. Stop...'
'Can't...not...now...'
'Just
fucking stop!' she said, and pushed back hard with her arse just as he tried to
stick his finger in it and got his fat finger jammed right up there.
Swearing,
she bucked to one side, just as John came all over her duvet. His finger cracked
as it popped free and he swore, too.
'Fuck's
sake, John!'
'You
nearly broke my fucking finger!'
'Fuck
off, you shot a load on my fucking
duvet
! On my arse, I said!'
On
the TV, the camera swung around from the reporter, and there it was - David's
car, in the supermarket car park, right behind the woman with a microphone that
was probably more prop than necessity.
Eleanor
turned up the television and ignored John bitching from behind her.
'Because
of the dangerous nature of the spill, we can't film closer, but I can tell you
the fire is still raging behind me. Government...'
'Fire?'
said John.
'George...'
she said.
'George
what?'
Eleanor
ignored John, who was busy wiping his cock on balsam tissues from a flowery box
beside her bed. She scooted around so her arse wasn't poking up anymore.
'Once
again, I must stress that these scenes were taken earlier, before the
quarantine was put in place. In a statement given earlier this evening police
admitted they were unable to extinguish the blaze and are now working solely on
containment. Fire crews and rescue vehicles have been drafted from outside the
county and the spokesman added that the quarantine is a purely cautionary
procedure at this time...'
She
listened for a while longer. John was already buckling his belt, getting ready
to leave. Eleanor paid him no mind, and tuned into the report.
Quarantine?
'They
were supposed to go to the supermarket, then across town for new shoes. That's
David's car,' she said.
'What
are you talking about?'
'I
think you better leave.'
'Suits
me,' said John. He finished buckling his belt, hitched his jeans a little
higher and tucked his t-shirt in. He pulled a cigarette from his jean pocket,
which he lit.
'Jesus,'
said Eleanor. 'Not in here!'
'You're
worried about my cigarette? Worry about my jizz on the quilt, love,' he said.
He flicked his ash on the carpet before leaving.
'Fucking
arsehole,' said Eleanor as she got up.
She
stripped the bed, still naked, and put everything in a heap by the bedroom
door. A quick shower and three text messages and two phone calls to her
husband's phone later, she was out the door and on the way to the supermarket
in her BMW X3.
*
John
was an arsehole - Eleanor was in no doubt about that. She knew, too, that David
was the best thing that'd ever happen to a woman like her. But she needed
something her husband just couldn't give her. She needed someone who'd
fuck
her. She needed dirty, like she couldn't get from David, because he was so
fucking
nice
.
And
she always felt like shit after seeing John. She thought that maybe she needed
that, too. Eleanor really didn't like herself very much.
I'm
a bad wife, a bad mother, and a bad person. Full house, baby.
A
couple of tears escaped as she drove, and the bright headlights of the oncoming
cars nearly blinded her. She wiped her eyes clear and shook her head, like she
was shaking off the bad then getting with the good persona that she strived for
most days.
It
wouldn't do to find David and George and for either of them to get wondering
what was going on with her. Sometimes she thought George knew...
something
.
He looked at her like
he knew.
Of course he didn't. He was just a
smart kid, and he picked up on things. Nothing more than that.
She
thought back to a conversation she'd had with George a couple of weeks before.
'It's
OK, Mummy,' he'd said, entirely out of the blue.
'What's
OK?'
'Oh...nothing,'
he'd said.
But
the thing of it was that he'd been helping her with the dinner - washing
vegetables. They hadn't been talking, even, and George's tongue had been
sticking out a little as he concentrated on his task.
Damned
if she hadn't been wrapped in guilt about John while she cooked.
She
shook her head again, this time at the red rear lights of a line of cars in
front of her. A car pulled from the queue to make a three-point turn. Moments
after it passed her, others seemed to get the message and do the same.
It
took her forty minutes or so to reach the front of the line, and when she did
she was good and angry. It wasn't even where she wanted to be. A roadblock, and
still at least half an hour of driving left to get to the supermarket.
But
even if she could get round the block, it probably wouldn't do her any good. It
wasn't a police barricade. These were military vehicles.
It
began to rain. Just specks, turning the lights ahead into red or white diamonds
across her windshield. The air cooled, just a little, but not enough. Never
enough, when it's hot and you're crying. As she waited, the rain got heavier
and she put the wipers on full. Her attention drifted for a while as the sound
of the wipers lulled her, and the tiredness that came from anger and boredom
and frustration stole her energy.
As
she nodded off her head fell forward and she grunted.
'Shit,'
she said and wound the window down before shaking her head back and forth. Stationary
or not, she figured falling asleep behind the wheel with the engine running was
never going to be a safe thing to do.
There
was now a gap in front, maybe five cars long. She put the car in gear and
rolled forward slowly and as she came closer to the barricade, she saw it
wasn't just some safety precaution, this quarantine. It was worse than that. The
soldiers at the barricade were armed. Not with little pistols, either. They
held rifles across their bodies.
The
last time she'd seen soldiers holding their weapons like that for real, and not
on TV, had been in Northern Ireland, nearly twenty years ago. Those soldiers
hadn't been fucking around, and these weren't, either.
She
rolled closer still, running her words through her head, discarding them. A
soldier held up his left hand, palm up, to let her know to stop. His right hand
remained on the grip of his rifle. Hers the fifth car in line now, and even
though this was English soil and no one was at war, fear made her suddenly
cold.
Another
soldier, this one armed, too, walked toward Eleanor's car.
The
sight of armed soldiers was frightening enough, to her, but she feared for her
family more. George was her only reason for getting up in the morning at all,
and David was a lovely, lovely man. Maybe not the man she needed, but she
couldn't live without him, either.
Her
heart pounded as she buzzed her window down. The soldier didn't ask her to step
out.
'Quarantine,
ma'am. You're going to have to turn around.'
'My
husband and son were at the supermarket. I saw the news...I'm worried.'
'I
understand,' said the soldier, his face stern and serious. 'Can you give me
their names?'
She
did, and he told her to wait in the car while he walked back to the barricade.
He had a radio on his shoulder, which he spoke into for a while. Then he came
back to her.
'I'm
sorry,' he said. 'We don't have anyone by either name.'
'You
have a list I can check? Can I take a look? Maybe there's been a mix up...'
'No
mix up, Ma'am. You really have to turn around and go home. I'm sure they'll
turn up. They probably left already and you just missed them on your way here.'
'I
saw my husband's car on the TV. They must still be inside,
or...God...hurt...or...'
'We've
searched the entire area, ma'am. Everyone within the zone is accounted for...
Now, turn around.'
Zone?
'But...'
'Ma'am,'
he said, his voice still calm, but with something slightly harder just beneath
the surface, 'I really must insist.'
She
knew she wasn't going to get anywhere. She wasn't about to argue with a man
holding a gun. The soldier was younger than her, for sure, but he had a gun and
Eleanor could see in the soldier's eyes that he was prepared to use it. Maybe
he'd feel bad about it, but not as bad as whoever it was he shot.
What
kind of emergency warrants shooting people?
Hot
after that thought, the fear became a crushing weight.
The
soldier's radio squawked and he stepped back and away from Eleanor.
She
considered just driving on through the barricade. What were they going to do?
Shoot her? Really? Maybe they'd shoot out her tyres - did people actually do
that? Maybe they'd just spray bullets all over her car...she didn't know, but
her assessment was right: whatever was going on, whatever the spill was, it was
dangerous enough to
kill
people just to stop them getting in.
Some
kind of chemical, she imagined, or a toxin, or radiation...
No.
Because
why would you shoot people to stop them killing themselves? The army wouldn't
work like that. They'd shoot people to save people. That was army thinking.
Which
meant something infectious, or contagious...didn't it? Something viral, deadly
enough to use the army's kind of persuasion to contain. And George and David
were right there. Somewhere behind this blockade, and probably plenty of checkpoints
like it, all around the...
zone
.
'Fuck.'
She
made a sharp three-point turn, drove sixty or seventy yards clear of the road
block and pulled onto the hard shoulder. There, when the car was safely in
neutral, Eleanor Farnham covered her eyes with her hands and sobbed.
*
Eleanor
cried because she was afraid, but for her failings, too.
You're
a bitch
, she told herself. Her husband and son were missing, and her arsehole
boyfriend's come was drying in a heap of washing.
She
laid her head against the rest, tears still coming even though she closed her
eyes and tried to wish it all away. No matter how she tried, she still hated
herself, same as every day. She tried, desperately, to think through her
self-loathing and her fear for her family, of some way to find them. With no
mobile, no help, and the quarantine...
GPS
on the car? Would the police help, or turn her away?
Fucking
idiot,
she thought.
I know where the car is.
Her
thoughts wouldn't move on. Like she was drunk or on drugs; her mind just kept
turning, every thought cyclic.
There
was no doubt in her mind that she'd seen David's car. Which meant that either
the soldier was lying, or that her husband and son had left the supermarket
without the car.
Which
just wouldn't happen. So...the soldier lied. But he hadn't
looked
like
he was lying. She lied every day. She knew what a liar looked like well enough.