by Sean McMahon
Fearne scanned the room, her eyes resting on the far corner, the swaying light bulb above causing countless shadows to frantically dance around her, casting just enough glow for her to see Peter’s quivering legs, which were oddly being supported by the mere tips of his expensive astro-turf golfing shoes.
As the swaying bulb lit up the left-hand side of the room, Peter was once again cast into darkness, until the pendulum of illumination made its return journey. Fearne’s vision was obscured by a huge mass of darkness, which she realised all too late to be the silhouette of a large-framed entity. The blackness obscured Peter from her line of sight, as her eyes caught glimpse of a sliver of silver, which moved diagonally with such speed that it seemed only to exist between blinks.
Fearne felt a sharp bee-sting like pinch in her throat, and instinctively brought her right hand up to her neck to see if she could feel what had grazed her. To her horror, she felt the skin of her neck opening up like a second mouth, as liquid drenched its way through her fingers. The swinging bulb returned for an encore above her, and she looked downwards to her chest, noting how her beautiful white dress was slowly transforming into an ever-expanding pitch black.
She called out for Peter, her voice a hoarse whisper that became a sickening gurgle of panic, as she fell to her knees into the pool of blood beneath her.
“My blood,” she thought, before being overwhelmed with dizziness and passing out in an undignified heap on the cool basement floor.
*
Peter was still reeling from having nearly been suffocated by the man he had, in typically British fashion, just apologised to for disturbing, the swirling black lines that filled his vision slowly receding from whence they came now that precious oxygen was returning to his body via the desperate gasps he was making. Gasps he needed, in order to restock the supply his body required in order to stay alive.
Pulling himself up into a kneeling position, he instantly resented his reacquired ocular clarity, as he saw the murderous monster slashing across his girlfriend’s throat. As she fell to her knees, her face was lit up by a brief streak of light from the bulb above, eyes wide, her white dress a horrifying crimson.
Jerry’s hackles were up, and he barked angrily at the monster between them, positioning himself between the two men.
Peter wanted to scream, but thankfully a sub-conscious act of self-preservation grabbed the steering wheel of that particular decision-making process and prevented him from doing so. Instead, he simply shook with terror, his jaw wide, as he enacted the process of yelling without generating any sound at all. His whole body shook with such intensity that it seemed to generate an audaciously fervent energy that managed to reverberate through the floorboards beneath him and even made the bannister rail behind him shake.
Peter attempted to control his own body, if only for a second, realising that his utterly forgivable descent into torturous despair was causing tremors that would surely show up on the monster’s built-in Richter scale sooner or later. Peter’s preference, if given the choice, being the latter of two evils.
The man and Fearne were at the base of the stairs, blocking Peter’s only route out from this vertical slice of hell. The only way for them both surviving was for him to escape. To get help. Maybe then–
“Oh God she’s dead, I’ve lost her, how did this–” he pulled the plug on those thoughts.
If he could just make it up the stairs, he could get help.
Fearne would be okay.
She had to be okay.
Peter reached out to the counter to his right, using it to pull himself up. He was on his feet like a panther, and felt the reassuring shape of an object beneath his splayed fingers. Allowing his hand to curl around the object, Peter clutched it as if it were the rip-cord to a parachute he had to pull at exactly the right moment to avoid imminent death.
And then, his body filled with adrenaline, as he surged forwards towards the man, whose muscular shoulders were rising and lowering slowly, his head craned down as if surveying Fearne with…what? Sadistic pleasure? Regret? Peter didn’t have time to stop and ask, as he pushed into the hulking body of the man who was still facing away from him.
Rather embarrassingly, their attacker didn’t move a single centimetre under what Peter had gauged to be a significant amount of sheer force on his part.
An irritated huff of exhalation escaped from the killer’s mouth and nostrils as he spun around, bringing the knife he was holding in a downwards arc that was surely more than capable of cutting through Peter’s brain like a machete passing through a head-shaped watermelon.
“Watermelons are already kinda head-shaped. Don’t overthink it,” he overthought.
Peter closed his eyes, holding up the object in his own shaking hands as if it afforded him a single iota of protection, as an incredible force pushed down against his now-burning muscles, causing his arms to ache terribly.
Gingerly, Peter opened one of his eyes expecting to see, well, nothing much at all given that he should have been dead.
Instead, he was greeted to the ridiculous sight of a ferocious-looking man who was staring back at him with incredulity.
They shared the moment together, both standing there experiencing a rather definitive example of awkwardness, as Peter realised the rusty barbecue fork he was clutching onto for dear life was halting the blades progress mere inches above his head, caught between the V-shaped prongs, and being kept at bay by Peter’s slowly diminishing strength.
The beast stared at Peter with eyes that seemed to be completely black, which Peter told himself was surely just due to the poor ambient lighting. His opponent’s shark-like teeth remained clenched, as Peter cocked his head a little and shot him an embarrassingly apologetic smile.
Peter stepped backwards, his arms now fully outstretched, and allowed the man’s sheer power to win the unexpected instance of Priori Incantatem, pulling the barbecue fork downwards and away from his attacker.
Exploiting the brief reprieve he had been gifted with, Peter span on his heels, moving backwards as he did so, and was granted a once in a lifetime opportunity; the stairs were now open to him.
He didn’t waste a single second, running towards them and taking three steps at a time.
With surgical precision, Malcolm poked his blade through the spokes supporting the bannister rail, severing what Peter assumed was his Achilles tendon, as the sound of a sickening snap rippled through his entire body, making him want to vomit. Peter fell to his knees as the agony took hold, his shins cracking audibly against the edges of the steps that were meant to be his salvation, and quickly used his elbows to crawl his way to safety, the thin slit of L-shaped light seeping in around the basement door above him appearing to be a million miles away to him now.
“Might as well be,” he thought defeatedly, as a hand clasped around his ankle, the fingers of which digging into his frayed flesh and clamping into him like a vice, the tendons flaring under the pressure and causing the black spots to seep back, robbing him of his ability to see.
He brought up the barbecue utensil and thrust it behind him, not daring to look back, fear taking hold of him as it failed to connect with anything. He tried again, and this time he felt it plunge deep into something, like a pronged fork coasting through a freshly roasted chicken. Notably un-roast chicken-like, however, the action resulted in a guttural growl that filled the tomb behind him.
Clambering onto his one good leg, Peter hopped the last few steps and reached out for the door in front of him, fumbling for the doorknob, which mercifully met his hand as he pushed through it. The door creaked open, humming with inanimate encouragement, Jerry’s barking reaching fever pitch, growing increasingly louder and more frequent, until a sickening whimper echoed below him, and the barks ceased.
Peter fell forwards into the living room, not having time to take in how normal and comforting the room appeared, his eyes darting in frantic desperation towards the front door of the cabin from hell. He made a snap decision, realising he wou
ldn’t get very far in his current state, noting the trail of blood pulsing from his ankle, as his ears were greeted by the music emanating from the nearby radio.
Accepting that this would be his final stand, he limped towards the retro device, lifting it from the cabinet it was resting on, hoping to use it as a weapon, just as he felt metal tearing through his shoulder, causing him to fall backwards, pulling the radio with him, and falling onto his back, the radio clutched to his chest. A flicker of steel filled his vision, as the blade followed through, embedding itself into his eye socket, killing him instantly.
*
In that moment, outside the perceivable realm of human consciousness, reality splintered, and a static fog hummed to life, awakening from its slumber. It was everywhere and nowhere, existing between the fabric of space, time, and every dimension in between, summoned to fill the void that had been created.
This force knew nothing of life, or of death, nor did it care for either. It simply travelled to where it needed to be, like a sea of power trying to refill a chasm that had appeared in the centre of an ocean.
As the fog made its way through the ages, a stowaway latched onto it; a colourless energy of unknown origin, that occupied the farthest recesses of the cosmos, living within the hearts of dying stars, dancing through the inhospitable and treacherous apex of the nameless singularities that twisted and contorted through the tunnels of time. A lonely ouroboros, imbued with the transferable ability to change the very course of fate itself.
Had Hal been present, he probably would’ve named it Dave.
Free from the confines of existing in a dimension that didn’t have a need for colour, the lightning-like power adopted a form more befitting of its new environment.
The intangible passenger crackled and contorted in protest, shifting in appearance, seemingly unable to decide on if it wanted to be red, or blue.
Hal’s choice notwithstanding, had the hitchhiking electricity been capable of taking a name, it would have translated into that of a single word.
Destiny.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Restart Zero
Timeline Prime – Saturday, August 25th, 2018, 9:07pm
Fearne waited for Peter to hop over the threshold before closing the front door of Kevin’s lodge behind them, dusting off her hands to signify a job well done, and they set off back towards Fir Lodge.
She skipped quickly to close the distance between them and reached out to hold his hand, only to be repelled from him due to an unexpected static shock.
‘Ouch! Did you see that? Actually saw a spark there!’
‘Must be my magnetic personality,’ said Peter, dispensing what he hoped was a charismatic grin.
‘A personality that repels women, you mean?’ said Fearne, failing to hide her own smile under the dramatic sigh she made to emphasise her disapproval at his terrible joke.
‘You’re a mean drunk.’
‘You know, you saying that...this walk really must’ve cleared my head,’ said Fearne. ‘I don’t feel nearly as drunk as I did when we left.’
In fact, as she took a deep breath and stared up at the sky, Fearne realised she was no longer intoxicated at all, the thought evaporating as the beauty of the sight above her filled her soul; a billion blinking lights shone down on her from the heavens, impossibly vivid in their clarity, as if she were looking at them through a powerful telescope.
‘Will you look at that sky,’ she said, exhaling sharply, completely mesmerised by it.
Peter let out a short whistle, equally impressed. ‘I don’t think I’ve even seen the moon in that much detail. It’s the second most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’
‘What’s the first? A full bucket of balls at the driving range?’ replied Fearne, not willing to let him score a win so easily.
‘You know I meant you,’ said Peter, looking directly into her eyes, which seemed a far deeper brown than usual. Amplified in depth, almost…
Fearne glared playfully, the redness in her cheeks betraying the prospect that his words didn’t affect her.
As they made their way up the driveway of their temporary home away from home, a sense of unease grabbed hold of Fearne, who failed to realise it was brought on by the sound their footsteps were refusing to make against the gravel. Of course, they had no reason to suspect that it was the universe trying to offer them their first heads up that everything was very, very wrong.
Fearne walked towards the glass-panelled double entrance doors and reached out for the handle, which refused to budge under the force she was expending.
‘Ah, your greatest nemesis. Doors,’ jibed Peter, now standing alongside her.
‘Bloody door’s locked,’ said Fearne, with the tone of a surly sailor. ‘And if you’re referring to the time I locked your keys in your car, it could’ve happened to anybody!’
‘Never happened to me,’ said Peter, checking the door himself and quickly changing the subject upon discovering the door really was locked tight. ‘We’ve only be gone like, what? Twenty minutes? There’s no way they would have locked us out…’ but his certainty wavered, as he too struggled a second time to make the handle so much as wobble.
He tapped gently on the window in an attempt to get either Hal or Jon’s attention, who were both playing a game of pool. ‘Back door it is,’ he said, finding it weird that neither of his friends would so much as look up at him. Giving up, he set off towards the rear garden via the side access.
As Peter entered the rear garden, Kara sprung up in front of him.
‘Oop! Sorry Kara!’ said Peter apologetically, having nearly taken her out.
She ignored him entirely, dropping a towel and climbing into the hot tub armed with a fresh glass of Southern Comfort and Coke.
‘Okaaay…’
‘What’s up?’ asked Fearne, pulling up next to him.
‘Oh, just Kara, she totally just blanked me.’
‘I’m sure you just imagined it babe. Let’s go inside, I could use a drink!’
‘Figures,’ mumbled Peter, causing her to nudge him in the ribs, and they made their way inside.
Gradually, Fearne began to notice her vision becoming partially obscured by a static mist that was slowly but surely thickening in density.
‘What’s up with this stuff,’ said Peter, flapping a hand in an attempt to dispel the oddly unmoving and entirely intangible whiteness.
Things grew stranger, as everyone they came into contact with ignored them, until eventually Peter started to wonder if their friends were playing a prank on him. Stopping at the pool table, Peter reached out to place his hand on Hal’s shoulder, his fingertips stopping a mere millimetre away from Hal’s boiler suit, as a faint rumble of thunder rang out above the lodge, causing him to hesitate.
“That’s not right,” thought Peter.
The sky had been notable for its absence of clouds a mere moment ago – a thought he had little time to voice – as his senses were assaulted by the sound of a tremendously powerful rush of air.
He looked to Fearne, who was scanning their surroundings, ears covered, eyes fixed firmly open.
The fog thickened around them, and Peter nodded towards the communal staircase. Fearne cracked his code, realising he was suggesting they get to higher ground, knowing the doors behind them were locked.
But as Peter began to ascend, Jasmine blocked his path. He tried to ask her what was happening, to warn her not to go downstairs. That it wasn’t safe. But his words fell on ears that either chose not to hear him, or more terrifyingly, couldn’t. Jasmine sauntered down the steps, entirely unfazed by the unfolding chaos around her, as Peter pressed his back against the banister to let her pass, and she swirled away into nothingness, erased by the mist.
The relentless cacophony of thunderous wind conspired earnestly with the impenetrable fog, which filled the ground floor like a rising tide of pristinely-white lava, and for a moment Peter felt almost certain it was coming for him specifically.
‘Come on,’ he
shouted, the shrillness of his words muted by a world that was slowly disintegrating around him.
Fearne didn’t need to hear him to hear him, and made her way up the staircase.
They were greeted by yet more fog, which spilled in from the windows of the upper-level, across the kitchen counters and proceeded effortlessly on its mission to consume them, pulling them both apart, the fragments of their former-selves now blue dust on a non-existent wind, converting them into something far beyond what they could initially comprehend;
The first two individuals ever to be sent back through time at Fir Lodge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Repeaters
Timeline Alpha – 7th Repeat – Friday, August 24th, 2018, 12:02am
'This is incredible,’ said Peter, as they re-materialised into their seventh repeat.
A term Peter had initially tried to sell to Fearne in the following way; namely by pronouncing it as “Re-Pete.” But his partner was having none of that. And so, whilst she allowed him to refer to what was happening to them as “repeats”, it was under the strict proviso that his name was not a part of the equation.
They had been spectating on their friends for seven repeats now, and Peter genuinely couldn’t understand why his significant other was equally averse to naming themselves as if they were a superhero team.
‘What’s wrong with calling ourselves The Repeaters?’ said Peter, throwing the retro-styled cordless radio over his shoulder, clearly not seeing a problem at all. He had no idea why he started every new cycle holding that thing, but without fail it was pressed between his chest and arms, every time they reformed.
Even more confounding was that, despite being unplugged from the mains, music blasted through the speakers upon each new arrival into what they now knew to be their own shared past.
Peter had spent time fiddling with the back compartment, gleaning that the device did at least appear to have a backup power source, thanks to the presence of six D-sized batteries. What he couldn’t figure out was how the time-travelling-music-dispenser was somehow broadcasting what was clearly a radio signal.
