by Luke Kondor
“I’m pretty happy with what I got going on here,” he said. “Can’t beat a salary, twenty-day holiday, sick pay, pension … it’s all good.”
And then he went to close the holding cell door. He went to lock Aidan in the cell with nothing but a toilet and a blue-plastic-covered bed. But the fat man didn’t see it coming. As he went to close the cell door, Aidan kicked against it. He kicked against it so hard that the thing flew back and smashed into the guy’s nose. The cracking sound confirmed it was broken. As the guard stepped backwards, Aidan jumped through and leapt on top of the guy, punching as fast and as hard as he could, each fist connecting with the guy’s nose or throat, but the fucker was big. He wasn’t a guard for nothing. He used his weight to push Aidan backwards, towards the paperwork Aidan had refused to fill in. To the pen he’d refused to pick up. Aidan used the damn thing as a weapon.
The goofy eyed fucker had had his eyes closed for most of his life, and now he would never open them again. He’d tried to cover his face with his hands, but Aidan jammed the Biro between his fingers and into the man’s eyes. The surface of his eyes tore as the tip of the pen broke through.
You see, when it came to fighting. Aidan had found that the person who was willing to go the furthest, to hurt the opponent the most, was usually the winner. If you got into a fight, you went in to kill. The guard wasn’t in this fight to survive: he was in it for that salary he cared about so much, and it was because of that he failed. His salaried position had gone and lost him his vision.
Aidan walked out of that place with the guy sitting on the floor, crying for help, reaching his hands out to nobody. Aidan didn’t feel sorry. He couldn’t be held responsible for other people’s mediocrity. The guy should have wanted more from his life. He should have taken the opportunity.
Aidan was adjusting his shirt collar when he noticed a young woman sitting there, expressionless, skin pale, tears streaming. Some sort of admin — glasses, ponytail, braces. Aidan patted her on the head as he walked past her, leaving a handprint of her colleague’s blood in her blonde hair. And that was that.
He changed lanes and checked his reflection in the rear-view mirror. The skin around his eyes was peeling and blistered from where the Thinker had pushed that Steak Bake into his face. His eye was a ball of red with pitch-black pupils. He was a stranger even to himself. An alien to his own eyes. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his comb, and …
Aidan thought he heard something. A whisper. But it was too quiet. He couldn’t make it out. It was too distant.
He pulled the comb through his hair, pressing down so strongly that two fine lines of red appeared on his forehead. Looking at himself in the mirror he laughed. He was a mess. It was the face of a warrior, a gladiator; the face of someone who was fighting tooth and nail to make their dreams come true.
“I’m sixty foot tall and made of diamond,” he said and laughed a little louder. “I’m sixty fucking foot tall and made of solid diamond. I’m sixty foot tall and made of diamond.” He repeated the words, louder each time until he was screaming them at his own reflection and the open road ahead. “I’M SIXTY FOOT TALL AND MADE OF MOTHER-FUCKING DIAMOND!”
After a few minutes, his voice was nothing but air and spit. He coughed and patted his hand on the tin box on the dashboard. It rattled with each tap.
“Let’s go home,” he said to himself, his voice now just raspy air. “Let’s go home and get some new clothes sorted. This thing in the back is starting to stink.”
Bexley Darlington-Whit
Bexley pulled the old pistol out of the bag and held it firmly in his hand, his finger resting on the trigger. He pulled the hammer back until it locked. Rosie was sifting through a bunch of old papers.
“I don’t know what could be so special about a pig,” she said as she threw a bunch of papers to the side. “But … I guess if it comes down to it, we’re just going to have to send its dead body through the chair back home.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Bexley said. “This doesn’t seem like a normal case of something being out of its place.”
“What do you mean?” Rosie turned, stood up and looked at Bexley. “You don’t think it’s a pig from another dimension?”
“No,” Bexley said, looking past Rosie, out the window, not quite sure what he was seeing. The skinny farm boy ran past, carrying something just out of view from the window. Rosie turned and caught the last glimpse of him before he disappeared.
“Was that the fucking runt?” she asked. “That didn’t look like tea he was carrying.”
Bexley quickly tried to door handle.
“The door’s locked,” he said, his voice steady as ever.
“That little fucker,” Rosie said, her voice jumping up a notch. “Can you break it open?”
Bexley pulled the door handle back towards him, but it didn’t budge. He lifted his huge boot and slammed it against the door. Nothing. Rosie paced to the window and peered through. She lifted the blinds all the way and the only thing to be seen was the Saab, sitting there, alone, and a fine mist of rain now falling.
Bexley slammed his boot against the door again, putting all his weight behind it whilst Rosie picked up the little wooden office chair and slammed it against the window. The chair bounced off the glass and out of Rosie’s hands.
“Bexley,” she said. “Your gun.”
Bexley turned and shot three rounds into the glass. It cracked into hundreds of hairline fractures, but the wireframe running through the glass held it together.
Bexley took a few steps backwards. He heard splashing outside against the side of the building. He had an idea about what the farm boy was carrying. He took a deep breath and rescanned the room, but there was nothing. They were trapped.
Feeling a sudden rush of desperation, he ran towards the door and slammed his whole body against it as hard as he could but the thing was too strong. He tried the handle again but it was hot to the touch. Wisps of smoke began to work their way under the door and Bexley took a step back. He walked over to Rosie and placed his hand on her shoulder. She was slamming whatever she could against it, but the wire frame wasn’t budging.
“Rosie,” he said, as she threw a metal waste basket against the window. He pulled her back and she spun around. He saw the fear in his sister’s eyes. The mere fact that Bexley had stopped trying to escape was enough for her to understand. Within a few seconds, smoke filled the room and they both crouched down to the floor. The first flames started from the bottom of the wall and soon engulfed the whole thing — papers, folders, framed pictures — perfect kindling. They felt the heat instantly. The whole place was an oven. Bexley’s hands began to throb in the heat. They were screaming at him. The skin on the backs of his hands felt like it was peeling away.
Rosie coughed as the smoke thickened into a black cloud lining the ceiling. He looked up at it, and, for a second, saw something. A handle.
“There,” he said, pointing to a trapdoor.
“Okay, okay,” Rosie said, a new hope washing over her. “Let’s get out of here.” Bexley pulled his shirt up to cover his mouth, grabbed the office chair and placed it along the bottom. He reached upwards but the trapdoor was too high. The flames were now spreading across the floor, near to the desk in the centre. He felt like the skin on his legs might melt. He was sure it was blistering already.
“Come on,” he said. Rosie jumped to her feet and he hoisted her up onto his shoulder. She reached upwards, her fingers an inch away from the handle. Bexley felt the flame now on his feet. He screamed as he hoisted her upwards, as far as he could take her. She grabbed onto the handle, twisted it. Bexley waited for the trapdoor to fly open. He willed the rain to pour through, but nothing happened. The door didn’t budge. Rosie punched it over and over, but it was stuck. She looked down to Bexley and in her eyes he saw the acceptance, the fight leaving her. Her beautiful face of freckles now full of terror.
Bexley turned his head to the window again, and through the thousands of f
ractures in the glass, through the rain, he could see the man who had killed them, looking in, wide-eyed, like it was just another day at the farm. He turned back to his sister, still on his shoulders, and tried to mouth the word “Goodbye” but it was too late.
Carol Francis
Carol picked up the tray — four empty mugs, some bourbon biscuits, a small jar of milk, a pot of sugar, and a steaming hot teapot — and carried it through the kitchen door, which she nudged open with her foot, and into the living room where her guests awaited.
There was an Eastern European woman sitting in her husband’s chair. There was a bearded man, beaten black and blue, in a messy suit that smelled like fruit sitting on the sofa next to a cat, which had a cast around its paw and a cone around its neck. It was one of the more interesting tea parties she’d had in a while.
Indie’s eyes were fixed on the cat, her tail wagging left to right, slapping the wooden floor. She had the good training to know not to bother a guest so she kept her distance, but it was difficult to teach a dog that it’s rude to stare.
“Well,” Carol said as she placed the tray on a small table in the middle of the room. “I don’t know how you take your drinks, so I brought a bit of everything.”
Nobody moved. Nobody seemed to know what was happening. The cat yawned.
“Well then, come on, speak up. The tea will go cold and that will only put a bad spin on the day.” Outside it had started to rain. “More so than it already is.”
Still, nobody said anything. The sound of the tea spilling out of the teapot and hitting the bottom of Carol’s mug was thunder to the quiet room. She finished pouring, added some milk and sugar, tapping the spoon on the side of the mug, and stood back up.
“Go on,” she said. “Help yourselves.”
Soon enough the Eastern European woman leaned forward and picked up a cup and a biscuit.
“You want me to make you one?” the woman said to the bearded man.
“I want a cappuccino,” he said, huffing.
“This a house,” the woman said. “They don’t have cappuccino.”
“Fine, I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said.
“What about you?” Carol said. It seemed to shock the Eastern European woman when she realised that Carol wasn’t talking to the bearded man or herself but was talking to the cat. “I can’t remember if you drink tea, Gary.”
“Gary will have whatever milk the Tall Ones leave,” Gary said.
The bearded man and the woman both looked at Carol, unsure. She laughed.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ve met before. In fact, Gary and I have known each other for a while.”
“Gary doesn’t want to talk about that,” Gary said.
“Sorry, little buddy … looks like you’ve been in the wars again.” She sat on the ottoman and drank some of her tea. “So … what brings you here?”
“Earth has a parasite,” Gary said. “A big one.”
Carol nodded and sipped. The Eastern European woman’s eyebrow rose.
“Go on,” Carol said.
“Gary has seen parasite break into this dimension. Taken host. Luring Thinkers.” Gary shook his head. “Stupid Thinkers.”
“Hey now,” Carol said. “You’ll offend someone.”
As they spoke, the Eastern European woman crept forward and poured tea for the bearded man and for herself.
“Do not worry, human woman,” the bearded man said, his arms crossed. “Nothing this Earth feline can say will hurt my feelings. I’m above them. I’m better than emotions.”
“I wasn’t talking about you, yer daft nob,” Carol said. “I was talking about myself.”
Now everyone was looking at Carol … apart from Gary.
“You’re a Thinker?” the bearded man said. “Why are you … why are you here … with the living things? Why don’t you go home?” He stood up, excitement all over his face. “Thank the cat! He was right. This is how I will get home.”
Carol looked at the bearded man’s face, the big goofy smile, the bruising around his eye socket. She sighed.
“Sure, yeah sure, just sit down … calm down. Drink some tea. Don’t shit yourself,” she said.
His face was all smiles and teeth as he slowly sat on the sofa again.
“I am home. This is where I live now. Earth is my home,” she said.
“Oh …” he said, his face dropping. “Oh, I see. You’re insane. You’re broken. Like the man who attacked me.”
Carol didn’t say anything. She sipped her tea, selected a biscuit and threw it straight to Indie who scoffed it down with one bite. She ran her free hand along her chin, scratching at the mole hairs.
“I’ve known about the parasite for some time,” she said. “I’ve seen it.”
The Eastern European woman coughed into her hand — a fake cough.
“What’s a parasite?” she said. “Do we need to take the cat back to the vet?”
Carol chuckled.
“No dear. No, I can’t handle vet bills for the ticks we find burrowed in Indie’s skin. I certainly couldn’t afford the bill for this big fucker.”
There was silence again. Gary yawned.
“So …” Carol continued. “Have you ever seen those nature documentaries where they show you what’s at the bottom of the deepest and darkest oceans?”
The Eastern European woman shrugged.
“Right, well … without any light of any kind, there are fish down there that have found a way to survive, flourish even. There’s one fish that has evolved in such a way that it’s sprouted a little light bulb on its head — a light designed to lure in its prey.”
“So … we have a fish with a light on its head,” she said. “Where?”
“No … kind of … okay, so, my point is that life finds a way to succeed, even in the direst of environments. There is one such species that grows around holes in the space-time continuum. Some of these holes in the universe lead to planets like our own. A parasite, like the one we have, will latch onto a hole, send out a signal like the fish with its lightbulb, luring its prey towards the hole, and when the prey comes near it, the parasite bites, consumes and grows.”
“What are you talking about, broken Thinker?” The bearded man pointed at her. “I’ve never seen any such parasites and I’ve been around since the dawn of time.”
“Don’t worry about it, there're a lot of things that even you haven’t seen.”
“And what, so there’s a hole, and the parasite is luring … ?” the woman stammered.
“People, humans … life,” Carol corrected.
“It’s luring people to the hole, and it's eating them?” the Eastern European woman said, nodding.
Carol saw the woman’s brain working away. She could almost hear the gears. She tutted at the human mind.
“Parasite is luring Thinkers,” Gary said, his voice a low grumble. “Thinkers are lured to the planet, where they possess human vessels, which are then picked up by the host, which are then fed into the hole.” Gary closed his eyes. “Simple.”
There was silence. Everyone drank their tea. Moomamu grabbed a biscuit. Indie whined and rolled onto her back, exposing her pink belly, her tail still wagging.
“Aww,” the Eastern European woman said, reaching over and scratching her belly. “Cute little doggy.”
“So what does all this matter to me?” Moomamu said. “When do I get to go home?” He looked at Carol.
“I … don’t …” Carol began to say when Gary interrupted.
“Bearded Thinker is an inconsistency. If someone like him goes into hole it will seal up. It will stop parasite from entering Earth. Then Thinker will be sent home.” Gary licked his good paw.
The bearded man sat back in the chair. Indie rolled onto her feet and sat by Carol, her head resting on her knee. Carol looked at Gary, but he didn’t look over. She understood the play; she didn’t need to hear the rest. This was almost good news. She looked up at the mirror above the fireplace, and below it she saw
a photo of herself and the family.
“No,” he said, his face like an angry toddler’s. “I don’t want to. I’m tired of getting caught up in this human drama. I don’t care if this parasite lives and eats a few humans, what bad could it really do?”
“It could break its way through the portal, devour everything — humans, cats, fucking lightbulb-headed fish. It will eat everything until there’s nothing left, and when it’s done it will lay its eggs within the surface of the planet. The fucking planet will hatch, unleashing a whole swarm into space to float around in stasis until they happen upon new holes, where the process will repeat itself,” Carol said.
“So?” He shook his head. “Life dies all the time. Whole planets of life. Who’s to say it’s not crueller to deny the parasite its meal and its spawn? Who determines what life is more deserving than the other? I’ve seen whole colonies of lifeforms die in the blink of a millennium, and it will continue to happen over and over and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“What about me?” the Eastern European woman said. “I will die. I thought we were friends.”
“Woah,” he chuckled. “Friends? I let you tell me your name, I think we’re even.”
“What?” she said, her voice stern, her strong Baltic accent shining through. “I saved the talking cat’s life. I drove you to the vet. I drove you all the way to Nottingham. Not half way. All the way. And now I find out I will likely die if you don’t get in a hole? And all I get is the honour of you knowing my name?”
“What more do you want?” he said. “What more can the humans want? You were given the gift of life. Enjoy it while you have it and that will be that. You think all lifeforms get the chance to evolve past their tribal skin clothes and flesh on sticks on fire? You think you all get to experience the pleasure of cappuccino? You drove us here in a tiny moving machine. I was impressed by how it moved along on round objects. Very clever. I’d say your species has had a good run at it all and now it’s time for another species to try.”
