Darkest Before The Dawn

by H. M. Reynolds



  Darkest Before The Dawn

  By H. M. Reynolds

  Ω

  Darkest Before The Dawn

  H. M. Reynolds

  © 2014 H.M. Reynolds 2014

  Also by H.M. Reynolds:

  Novella:

  The Eight Hour Hell

  Probability Man

  Novels:

  Ecocide

  Llyn Ar Bryn Falls

  The Alt-Worlders

  Short story collections:

  Emergency Protocol Nine

  Fast Stream Rehab

  Contents:

  In The Cradle Of Morpheus

  Monophobia

  The Lurker In The Woodland

  Desolation – the Umbrekka Extinction

  In The Cradle Of Morpheus:

  'My Mummy always told me there were no monsters, no real ones anyway - but there are...'

  "Aliens" (1986)

  “Trudging through the blackness, feet on wet mud, feet on stone; fear, weariness; these are my experiences of the last few hours.

  My name is Jack. I'm talking out loud to help me stay awake, although God knows I'm too tired to sleep.

  I'm leaving the open countryside for the city, leaving the baleful moonlight for the cancer-yellow lamps of the streets. More dreams, more danger.

  The solid ground beneath me is a pleasant change from the mud created by the almost perpetual rain, but this is small comfort. The next day or so, I'll be crossing through some of the most dangerous places of all, where the nightmares are most concentrated.

  I don't need any actual threat to scare me; I'm on edge, sweating despite the cold, my heart beating fast, my breath shallow. My lack of sleep only makes it easier to see figures in the shadows where there are none.

  I can't rest until I get to the rendezvous in the park. Not just because of the importance, but because I'm alone. That may sound crazy, but I have no choice.

  If the rumours about Psychotonin are true… It's too good to begin to imagine. We've tried so many things, so many good people have died. These days it's getting hard just to stay alive. I can only dimly remember the days when we did not have to sleep with a buddy to awaken us if we nightmared, just as I can only dimly imagine a future without the nightmares, the bogeymen and the monsters.

  I think I heard a noise then; I'm walking faster, wondering which is more insane, the world I live in now, or this man walking down the street talking to himself. The sound is probably just my imagination; I say ‘probably’ and here I am looking over my shoulder, but I know you start to hallucinate when you haven't slept - I've been in that state often enough

  Thinking about it, it’s probably for the best I don't have a buddy. There's enough nightmares round here, even if I didn't dream one up myself.

  I'm heading down into a dark alley now. My nerves scream against it, but it's the only way forward. There's a railway station next street down. A train has slewed off the tracks and crashed, the debris left there since this all began.

  The darkness is thick, potent, the stuff of nightmares itself, before you even include whatsoever it might contain. There's no telling what could be waiting for me: horrors from the unconscious or even a more human assailant, desperate enough to kill me for any food that I might have or simply mad; many have gone insane from lack of sleep.

  I take a quick glance at my watch, illuminating its face, not daring to take my eyes off the path ahead for more than a second. The time is 4 PM. In the old days, it would have been daylight now; all times are darkness these days.

  Something squidges beneath my feet; I do not dare to imagine what: a rotten fruit, a dead rat, or something else equally mundane, rendered by my imagination into the worst forms.”

  “This is the greatest step forward since the invention of VR,” the salesman enthused over the internet, to the millions who would, at one time or another, tune in to play that program.

  “Ten or twenty years ago we could not even give you reality quality pictures or holograms. Thirty or forty years ago, you had to use a mouse or a joystick to control your cyberspace character. Soon, we will be able to access the unconscious mind, projecting its contents into your own VR homespace. Imagine what you can achieve when you can explore your own mind.”

  “It seemed we had made a great discovery; one that would be both fruitful and fun. But we destroyed all we had made. A channel was opened from the unconscious into the real world and a flood slewed forth that no-one could stop.

  Now when we dream of stalking men and quicksand beneath our feet, they emerge with that conception into the world, sometimes whilst we still dream.”

  (A pause for breath)

  “I must be very tired now - I got completely side-tracked then. What I was trying to get onto was the mission I'm on. Maybe if I talk the important part through some good can come of this rambling.

  I've made it through the alleyway, but there is no room for sighs of relief or relaxation. The wider street stretches ahead. In the old days it would have been well lit, but now I see the pools of light cast by the streetlights are slightly distorted, pregnant shadows between them. The open space means I can see a threat coming from further away, but it also means that threat can see me.

  The unconscious understands the rules of terror, that anticipation is better than many terrors all at once, but sooner or later something will come and I will have to make a choice to fight or run away.

  No-one else I could call friend dwells in this part of the city. All the good people have been driven away by the monsters. Those that are left are mad or dregs of society that, little did they know it, have been waiting for these dark times to thrive.”

  When it comes, he does not see it at first. It is still, ominous, waiting.

  It does not move until he has seen it, recognised it for what it is, this half-shadow, half demon-inspired thing. Then, the barrier crossed between hallucination and reality, it springs to frightening life with all the speed it can muster.

  Not knowing what else to do, he turns and runs, cutting through a passage between two dark stone buildings, thinking this would be a bad time to run into a slow-motion nightmare.

  It is behind him, how close he does not know, but he is sure he can feel its breath. Perhaps this gives it greater power, for he hears its guttural roar echo between the two great edifices.

  He emerges from the passage, panting, adrenalin overcoming his tiredness, knowing he will be more tired still if he survives this encounter. The ground underneath his feet turns to soft grass as he crosses into one of the outer parks which circle the main one. Perhaps, in the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlamps, he can lose it. Do they see as we do, once unleashed into the real world, he wonders? Or will it, as in a nightmare, unerringly home in on whatever place he chooses to hide? And will it race toward him without tiredness, or need to rest as he would soon?

  Out of old habit, he dodges around what he judges to be the jagged remains of a flowerbed long untended; the flowerless roses stretch out of the ground like withered grasping claws.

  This noisy, breathless flight is dangerous. He cannot hear what danger might be ahead of him, let alone behind.

  He turns, jogging backwards, spitting the bile rising in his throat out the side of his mouth. He cannot see it.

  So he stops, still, wondering if this is some trick; will it leap out right beside him any instant?

  All is still. He does not dare move, eyes scanning the prickly darkness, guessing what reality the shapes cloaked within it might hold. Is it out there now? Waiting for him to move so it can pinpoint him for the kill? Sooner or later he will have to move.

  Then, at last, just before he is about to turn and break away, run for greater distance from this
spot, a form separates from the darkness behind a bush.

  A shaft of moonlight briefly illuminates the centre of the park, painting faint shades of colour onto the form. The nightmare raises its head to the sky, as though trying to smell him out, then turns and disappears from sight.

  Eventually, he scuttles backwards, clearing the other exit from the park, round behind another shady figure, this time a statue, which he recognises from the old days. In another couple of minutes, he is back on the road, all the time expecting to be ambushed at any second.

  He continues on his way; ten minutes later, there is a shuffling and he hides underneath a car. He sees a pair of scuffed trainers run past. Another survivor or another danger, he does not know. It is too dangerous to be worth finding out. Besides, he has his mission and this is no time for making contacts.

  “I'm getting near the park now, so I guess soon it will be time to stop talking to myself, in case the people I'm going to meet think I'm a loony.

  But first, I have to talk out what just happened:

  I noticed the glass had been broken on a shop window that I passed. Someone had taken the time to cut through the mesh security screen as well. When I saw the stuff inside was largely unlooted, it was too good an opportunity to miss - all the gear could be gone in twenty-four hours.

  I climbed in through the window, careful not to cut myself on the rusty mesh, then stopped and listened. I didn't want to disturb anyone who had claimed this as their territory and was about to get violent about defending it.

  Reasonably satisfied, I pulled a pen torch from my pocket and twisted it on. The battery was running low and the glow was only half as bright as it had been at first, but I thought it might be worth the risk, that I might find something useful.

  The small circle of light made for a painfully slow means of scanning my environment. It took a long time to establish what was around me as I made each step forward. My reaction time against any hidden threat would be minimal and I might easily miss something useful in the limited time I had available to me to search.

  The interior of the shop was no friendlier than the street outside. Here, the darkness was more claustrophobic, more suffocating. It seemed to collapse in toward me as I ran my fingers across the floor. I kicked something on the ground, and stepped sharply backward in shock.

  My shaky torchlight revealed a half-full bag of gear, lying there unzipped. I crouched to look at it. Someone had left this here, a task unfinished. Had they been interrupted, or had they simply forgotten?

  This apparent lucky find began to worry me, that long honed survival voice telling me this was a bad sign.

  I threw a couple of items into the bag, my palms sweating and told myself to stay calm and grab a couple of goodies while I could.

  Then my shoe sank half a foot into the concrete floor. Quicksand!

  I panicked, turning and running toward the gap in the window. In a way, it was lucky I did.

  As I turned I saw a petrol powered chainsaw on a shelf. It would have made both a good tool and a good weapon against the nightmares. If I had been in a clearer frame of mind, I might have risked trying to take it with me, but that extra few seconds might have been enough time for me to sink beneath the floor and drown.

  As I pounded toward the only exit I knew of, my feet sank deeper and deeper, first up to my ankles, then my shins, then my knees.

  I threw myself through the hole in the window, cutting my fingers, cutting my legs, cutting my arms and torso on the jagged mesh.

  I collapsed onto the street outside, which was reassuringly firm. There was no sign of quicksand on my shoes or clothes; there would be no evidence to warn anyone that the shop was a death trap.

  I searched through the bag I had recovered. Finding a marker pen, I scrapped an X on the side of the building, as large as I could make it. It was a universal sign of danger, if others would be careful enough to look for it before they went inside.

  I transferred the contents of the bag into my own pack, then rolled the bag itself up and scrunched it into my own.

  It's getting heavy to carry. I will have to drop some things off at one of my hidey-holes as soon as possible. These days you have to be light enough to run at any time.”

  Twitchy met him in the park, out in an open space, the nearest trees or bushes a hundred or so yards away. The moonlight illuminated the short man's face as he talked nervously, involuntarily shrugging his shoulders and neck in a nervous spasm.

  “Where's Miller?” Jack asked him.

  “He didn't make it,” was the reply, between chain-smoked puffs of cigarette. The red glow of the cigarette was the only colour in the scene. It was as though it had all been filmed with a black and white camera.

  He looked about him. The shadows lurked menacingly in the distance, as though there was something there waiting for them to finish their conversation.

  “I've known him for months now...” he started, shaking his head. He should have known not to get attached to anyone.

  Twitchy paced away and came back as though impatient to leave. He rubbed his free hand on his dirty shirt.

  “Miller said you could help us.”

  “Is this about the Psychotonin? Is it real?”

  Jack took a step toward the shorter man, before realising what he was doing; Twitchy backed away from him as though he were one of the monsters that were abroad.

  “Never mind those rumours. We need a chemical lab, somewhere that we could mass produce something. Miller said you could help us.”

  “Maybe. I still know the codes for the science campus of the university. In fact, now I think about it, some people I knew were staying there last time I heard from them. If they're still there it might be relatively intact.”

  “This is what we need,” Twitchy thrust a vial of blue liquid toward him, faintly luminous in the moonlight. He held it out at arm’s length.

  Jack took it and held it up for his inspection. He could be holding humanity's salvation; or at least it might be enough to keep the population of nightmares at its present level.

  “Careful!” Twitchy needlessly screeched, “we only have two vials.”

  “If the lab is still there, I'll see you get more.”

  The short man started backing away, then turned and ran on his stubby legs, smoke puffing away behind him like a steam train.

  Jack gathered the meeting was over. He wondered if he could find someone who knew how to use the stuff at the laboratory.

  “I know how important this stuff could be. Don't get me wrong. But, like I said earlier, I have to drop some things off at a stash of mine. If I run into trouble, it's even more important that I can get away as cleanly as possible, especially with this vial, especially with the mission I'm on now.

  I'm heading through the park, nervously skirting round some woods. It’s dark inside and it would be an ideal nest for a nightmare.

  I don't normally approach the hideaway from this direction

  I stop, realising that the position of the river and the available bridges means I will either have to go through the woods or go round in a big circle, which might take a couple of hours.

  Thinking about it very quickly, it might be worth taking the chance. It seems like time could be of the essence now.

  I'll carry on talking now, as I walk between the first of the dark trees. It will help me stay calm and it'll fill up the silence that seems almost deafening here.

  I'm can hear soft leaves underfoot and fallen branches too. I think about sticking to the widest of the overgrown paths, but it’s a toss-up either way, between seeing where I'm going and going where nasty things are most likely to be waiting.

  I think I heard a noise in the distance then, but it was probably just a falling twig or something. The woods here, away from where people used to live and sleep, should be slightly safer than the roads and buildings in the town. Or, so I'm trying to convince myself; I'm still looking around nervously, wondering how much more stress it will take before I end up lik
e Twitchy, nerves burnt away.

  The moon beams eerie shafts of light between the trees here and there, like formless ghosts. In the light I can see a thin mist which has drifted off the river.

  Not long now. Soon I should be able to see the other side.

  I can see the edge of the woods now - there's a path and a bridge I have to take to the other side of the river. It looks clear, but I won't feel any relief until I get to the other side. I thin...”

  “I'm on the bridge now. It springs alarmingly under my feet as though about to collapse, but I know it won't. It used to be like this in the old days.

  I'm stopping for a pause and a deep breath. I had a bit of a panic back there, on the edge of the wood. Suddenly, reaching the threshold, I saw a little movement and sprinted, before I even realised it was only a squirrel. At least that's all I think it was. It hasn't followed me now. I shut up until I reached the middle of the bridge in case there was something that could get where I was from the noise.

  It's quiet out here still, so it’s good to hear sound, even if only the sound of my own voice. I look up and down the river whilst I calm down. I can see a great smoky fire in the city. I wonder what's burning, trying to guess roughly where it is, but I can't make it out.

  Moving on, feeling time ticking away, I’ve crossed the rest of the bridge and am now heading down a path into a car park. It's still a little creepy, but I know it should be safe from previous experience.

  This is the sports centre. I've got a little hiding place in there. I won't say out loud where, because there could be ears listening nearby; I just saw an over turned bin. Maybe it was an animal or maybe a hungry man - I'll have to be on the watch out.”

  “I just got back from inside. There's some signs of recent activity in the gym; a burned out campfire and a couple of empty tins of beans. My hiding place still looks safe enough though. It’s upstairs and across the way. I've stashed some stuff and since no-one seems to be about at the moment, I stopped for a quick snack as well, lunching on some junk I stole out of the vending machines in the hall, back when I first started using this place.

  Now that I'm carrying a minimum of things I need, I'm going to head off for the university.

  Going back through the woods is probably the best way, but somehow I don't fancy it, even though the town road is probably more dangerous. It feels like taking too big a chance to risk the woods twice. There was something about those spiny trees and all those dark spaces that set my nerves on edge.

  Anyway, here I go, off. A journey of about another two hours, hopefully uneventful. Maybe it's time to shut up for a while so I can actually talk when I get there; my throat's getting sore.”

  :

  “I've decided to use a Dictaphone I found in the bag near the quicksand trap. If anyone finds it later, it will tell them about my mission in case I'm not alive to continue it.

  I guess this is also worth immortalising as a piece of history, supposing we succeed that is.

  I'm feeling nervous about this now, given the importance of my mission. The night seems especially lonely; I look forward to sharing my experiences with the people who live in the university, who I have not seen for some months. I'm praying that they are all still there and still alive. If they've moved on for any reason I'll need to find someone else with technical expertise, and with fewer and fewer survivors every day, there's less and less chance of that as time goes on.

  Still, I finally have some hope that we might get through this endless night.”

  The university is dark when he arrives, but he does not suspect anything is wrong. It is a big place, plenty of spots in which to hide from any passing threat. There is a board across a window which he knows can be forced back; he climbs in through it, checking the vial is still in his pocket as he crouches in a dark hallway and pulls the board back into place.

  He remembers this place fondly from attendance in better times. Perhaps it is this happy memory, this familiarity which prevents the darkness from assuming its usual sinister forms. For an unusual time, he is relaxed, anticipating seeing friends, wrapped in a false sense of security.

  He walks down the man hall, marble beneath his feet, and ascends the stairs, sweeping like in a grand castle, up toward the second floor, toward the laboratories and what awaits him there.

  He reaches up and carefully punches in the code that will allow him access, once installed to keep out thieves, most recently functioning to keep out more murderous undesirables.

  The lab corridor is lit by light coming from beyond, from the inhabitants of a passageway that lies perpendicular to this one, at its end. He moves that way with an urgent pace, eager to see the familiar faces. There is an odd babble at the edge of his conscious perception, which does not quite fit in with his picture of the scene he imagines he will see when he walks into the rooms ahead.

  Jack strides forward and there is a barely perceptible rushing of air, as though something waiting expectantly is holding its breath...

  Of course, the lab itself has become a nightmare. Dismembered body parts are strewn across the benches and tables; a human brain hangs impaled from a light fitting; the whiteboard and floor are smeared with blood.

  Still more horrific are the caged victims, some barely recognisable as human, naked and labelled with blue paint: 4f for the leg, 4l for the right half of the chest, perhaps proscribing their order of dissection by the anorexic stick figures with their flashing blades for fingers.

  “...get out of here!”

  (Laughing/Hissing sound in background. A crash is heard in the foreground)

  “Get away from me!”

  (Panting. Scream of pain)

  “I don't believe this. I don't believe this.”

  (Sound of feet running across linoleum; a galloping sound follows, along with the skittering of claws)

  (Another crash)

  “See how you like that!”

  (Sounds of feet and galloping resume.)

  “Nearly there. Come on. Nearly there. Don't stop to think about it.”

  (Sound of feet arhythmically clattering down stairs. A sudden smack and a momentary silence followed by a rolling sound and a louder smack)

  “Ooof!”

  (A distant hissing begins to grow louder)

  “Get up! Get up!” (Cough)

  (Uneven paced walking sounds; every other step sounds louder than the paces in between)

  (A door slams and the uneven motion continues on the other side)

  ...

  [Partial transcript of Dictaphone tape, accidental activation.]

  Somehow he escapes. It is debatable to what extent his mind will recover from this latest horror. He has lost his only road to manufacture of the Psychotonin.

  Jack tries to find Twitchy, but he is dead; all he hears is something about a swarm of black rats...

  He cannot find who was working with Twitchy, nor the location of the second vial.

  All he can do is keep running, keep searching for another means of mass production. Like a momentary awakening from a dark phantasm in the night, he knows there is still a gruellingly long way until dawn, if he ever sees its light...

  Monophobia:

  How do I describe a world full of the dead? It is a world lacking in the simple comforts of human company and the many delights of interaction: of culture; of music and art and literature. All relics of a great civilisation extinguished and rendered obsolete.

  When the plague hit, it spread quickly, as it always does in the stories. As in those tales, the cause wasn’t as important as its impact on the lives of the people involved.

  When the infections began it should not have surprised me; after all I am especially well placed to appreciate the truth hidden behind old myths. When the civilisations started to cave in like a rotten fruit, only then did I begin to realise how much I took for granted. For years I had been a fugitive, surviving by my paranoia, fearful in an age that could readily access information. Only when the hordes of flesh-eaters began to gro
w did I begin to appreciate how much I might have missed in my desperation for secrecy.

  It has been two years now since it began and the once worldwide networks of data and communications have long been dark. Against a sea of mindless dead, those few people left are a beacon, a precious flower to be preserved against brutes who would crush it without thought of the consequences. I know many of the survivors are flawed. By definition natural selection has cut the numbers down to the hardiest of people, for whom, like myself, survival is all that matters. They have been scarred by the tragedy that has swept the land. They do not trust as they once did and in some ways that gives even more reason for me to conceal myself. Yet I would help all I could, as much or as little as is possible. Even after so much time, the path is not clear to me, so I must stumble in the dark after a solution, like one of those dumb beasts that now throng the world.

  Though it is night now, the busy scene before me is a more accurate simulation of a day’s activity, for the creatures do not recognise the rising or falling of the sun. Amongst them, I wander unimpeded; they pay less attention to me than their own kind. It is part of my blessing - or curse, depending on how you perceive it.

  A glimmer of hope! This night, as I wander dejected, I spot a small hint of intelligent life: a flicker of light shining in the window of an old school, abandoned long before the plague and marked off with high fences to prevent intruders before a demolition that will now never happen. Could I be mistaken? I must see. But as much as I feel a hint of joy at the prospect of survivors, I also worry for them. Do they not see that this place is no long term haunt? This is too close to the mobs, too far into the city. Have they learned nothing these past few months?

  There are savage spikes at the top of the fence, designed deter teenage drinkers and graffiti artists, but I find a spot on the high fence which has been missed, where stands a rusting gate. This I clamber easily to deftly land on the other side, a thin cloud of old mortar arising beneath my feet.

  I crouch for a moment, observing, then sneak closer, old predatory skills once put to other uses in my younger years. I edge nearer still, my feet scuffing up dust, sliding off the chunks of rubble from the abortive demolition work.

  Soon I am close enough to pick up the flutter of their hushed voices with my sharp hearing. There are three of them, I think, two men and a woman. I do not listen too closely, not yet, for it seems an intrusion, before I know them better, before I at least introduce myself and offer them my assistance. But I know in this suspicious age, such an approach will be long in necessary progress, complicated like a formal dance. For now I return to my abode with a renewed sense of optimism. It is enough for now to know that people are still out there, to see the distant glimmer of firelight, though I may not yet approach its warmth.

  The next few nights bring the same mixed feeling: it is good to know that they are nearby, but I fear for their own sakes, for their strategy, that they have lingered in this place too long. They must be foraging for food in the day, because I rarely see them outside after dark, which is the only time I dare to emerge from my fortress.

  Then the worst happens; but at least I am there, at least I may be present to influence matters in the right direction. The throng of the dead has been growing each day the small party lingers. Now the press of the rotting masses fatally undermines one of the walls of this modern day castle. A short wall, perhaps already stressed by the nascent demolition work, collapses under the pressure of their clawing hands. They scramble through the gap, seeking out that most ancient of nourishments through some sense I do not share. In their eagerness some of the creatures scramble on top of one another, like shoppers desperate for a bargain.

  In my own desperation, I leap into the fray, sundering limbs, decapitating corpses with my furious fists, but it is a joyless carnage and there are too many of them to hold back. Soon some begin to slip through. It is not long before I hear a man scream. It is a sound that wrenches my heart, a sound that has become all too familiar.

  I rush to find them now, heedless to the danger they might inadvertently pose to me. As I am nearly upon them, a gun sounds three times and I arrive just in time to witness a mob tearing a second man into his constituent meats. Yet - another flicker of hope - the young woman is still free. She thrusts her knife into the skull of a brute who stands in her path, then as it falls, she runs for the nearest open space; if I do not act, she may soon be trapped against the fence.

  “Quickly, this way,” I urge. In her desperation, she does not question from whence I have come. I pull a couple of bars loose from the fence, pretending as though they are weak from rust and we scramble through. Before long we are racing through the streets, outwitting the flesh-eaters for the moment with the speed of our flight.

  I take her to the nearest safe place I can think of, a rooftop garden with a fire escape. It will do for a short time, while we gather our wits.

  “Who are you?” she asks, regaining her breath. I stand well clear, not wanting to spook her.

  “You may call me Michael,” I say, but then there is a flicker of fear in her eyes and I curse; old instincts have triumphed over my reformed nature. She must have seen my fangs, for she turns and runs. I want to pursue, to let her know that it is ok, but I cannot. I must let this one go, for her own sake. To give chase would only cause her to fall into the embrace of the ever present monsters.

  I watch her form departing along the street from the viewpoint of the faded garden. I want to tell her that it is ok. I could not feed on humans anymore, even if I could not control my passions.

  Many days ago, I was in contact with others of my kind. They discovered, to their eternal end, that the humans all carry the taint now. To feed is to become mindless like the shambling hordes, to become no better than them. But this is good in a way. Without the temptation I can devote myself to altruism, to finding a way to preserve what remains of the human race, to encourage it to grow, like the perilous growth of a seed in a barren land. But I cannot fool myself: it is not solely for their benefit that I do this. In my mind’s eye I see a world full of the mindless, myself the only creature left capable of thought, of laughter, of mathematics, of artistic endeavour … and I tremble.

  The Lurker In The Woodland:

  Part One: