“We didn’t know it was you,” Novi said, explaining the delay. “Since you left, we heard noises in the tunnel. Something was banging on the pipes and pacing the length of it.”
The Farreter were not used to uncertainty, Hal realised. Their sight gave them confidence, but they so relied on it so heavily they weren’t aware of the things they were blind to.
“You must gather your things,” Hal shouted to the room. “We have vans waiting to take you to a safer place. You will never be able to return here, so do not leave anything you can’t live without.” The Farreter went to their bunks and started stashing things into their pillowcases. “We will leave in groups, each with an escort.”
Hal watched the Farreter stuff their sacks with bones, scraps of clothing, and other strange trinkets. “Rikhter, why are they packing those things?”
“They are memory aids,” Rikhter explained. “If we like an object’s history, then we sometimes like to keep a token of it.” Hal remembered the way Shande had caressed Mrs King’s blue shawl.
The creatures assembled at the bunker’s entrance as soon as they were packed. Hal, Eli, and Joseph began leading groups of three to the waiting vans. They had to keep moving the Farreter along: despite the harsh cold, which must have hurt them, they seemed to revel in the sensation of rain and the feeling of walking in soft mud.
The evacuation became confused as the Farreter started to meet them at the boiler room instead of waiting in the bunker, and the groups started drifting on the walk to the van. Some of the creatures left without an escort and had to be herded towards the waiting vehicles.
When it appeared all the Farreter were assembled, Hal did a headcount to be sure: twenty-six. They were all there.
The group had agreed to leave Shande to his fate. They were not killers, and they couldn’t bring him to justice without revealing the existence of the other Farreter. Eli and Joseph took their places in the vans and Hal waved two torches over his head, the signal for Daniel to join them. Hal could see his flashlight in the boiler room, but it didn’t move, so Hal signalled again. He signalled a third time as he started to walk over the field, worry starting to build in his gut. Rikhter followed close behind.
Hal broke into a jog. He felt crunching underfoot and pointed the torch at the ground to see bits of broken china—the all-too-familiar mask, now in pieces. He began to sprint towards the open door, Rikhter picking up pace behind him. Hal heard the sound of van doors opening as the other men saw something was wrong and came to help.
Daniel’s torch lay abandoned on the floor of the boiler room but Hal saw no sign of his grandfather. The hatch lay open, a terrible invitation. Hal shone his torch through the gap, checking the tunnel below, before climbing down.
Hal sprinted down the tunnel; the only sounds he could hear were his heavy breathing and Rikhter’s footfalls as he kept pace behind.
Hal slowed at the bunker. The lights were off and he couldn’t see anything when he shone his light through the doorway. He motioned to Rikhter to follow him inside, crossed the threshold and swept his torch beam from side to side. As he turned, he felt something heavy connect with the side of his head. He saw
—himself stumble sideways into one of the bunk beds, dropping his torch—
He heard the metal door slam shut behind them, the bolt sliding home. Banging and shouting from the tunnel began a moment later.
“No one move,” a voice said in the dark. The only light was the beam from Hal’s torch as it rolled across the concrete floor.
“Brother, we’re leaving,” Hal heard Rikhter say.
“He’s got a knife,” another voice said.
“Daniel?” Hal shouted. “Are you okay?”
“Nothing permanent,” he grunted. “I’m sorry, grandson, he looked like all the others.”
“Brother—” Rikhter began.
“Brother? Not Shande?”
“We must leave here, brother.”
“I saved you all and you said I shamed you.”
“We were wrong—”
“So faithful you all are, I thought. I transgressed by escaping death, I acted in bad faith. I shamed my brothers by pulling them away from their fate.”
Hal tried to locate the voice in the dark as he edged towards the door.
“You, you faithful—My Ward, if you keep moving I’ll cut your grandfather open—Here was a perfect test of your faith, brother. If you accepted death, all you had to do was stay here, stay in this bunker.”
“You showed us we didn’t have to, you showed us we could survive—”
“And you named me ‘shame,’” Shande shouted. There was a sudden movement in the dark and Rikhter stumbled into the light, clutching at his chest, blood on his hands.
“I didn’t want to kill any of you,” shouted Shande. “I wouldn’t have to, if you’d just lived up to the ideals you attacked me with.”
“What about Shahid?” Hal shouted into the dark. His eyes were adjusting to the light; he made out the outline of a tall figure in the gloom.
“He was going to tell the world about us. He was going to expose us. He had my photo. For months he’d tried, but after you two met my brothers, he hounded me. He did it behind your back. My mask slipped once—just once—and he was waiting. I had to protect my brothers.” Shande stepped and leant over Rikhter’s writhing body. “I made myself monstrous for you!”
“And Sarah Williams?” Hal asked, seeing Shande’s shadow move closer as he talked. “Was she going to expose you?”
“I trusted her,” Shande said, circling back into the dark. “I read her future every day. I told her more than the others. I cared for her; I thought she could help us. I thought she was good. But when I touched this knife”—the figure gestured—“I saw the knife would stab me. I acted, I attacked her before she could attack me. I thought she must have blinded me somehow, her future had said nothing of this danger. As she died, I saw that I was wrong, she hadn’t wanted to kill me at all.”
“What about me? What did you have planned for me?”
“I wanted to make you our protector.”
Hal could see Shande step towards him in the dark. He tensed in preparation.
“You were supposed to die on that roof, but I broke your fate. I gave you new purpose. I thought I could teach you about us, tie you to us. You could prot—”
Hal dove forwards, tackling Shande to the ground. As soon as Hal touched Shande’s skin his head filled with visions. He saw
—himself lying on the ground being punched—
Hal felt the blows on his face as he struggled to get on top of Shande. He swung his fist and caught the creature on side of the head, knocking Shande off him. Hal’s head cleared and he could see again.
Shande rose to his feet in the harsh light of the torch, half in light and half in shadow, knife in hand. He lunged at Hal with the blade and Hal managed to step aside just in time. Shande swung at Hal’s neck and he ducked; he stepped forward with another lunge and Hal tripped and fell backwards. Shande was on him in a moment. He pressed Hal’s head into the concrete. Hal saw
—Shande gripping his hair and smacking Hal’s head onto the ground—
Something strange was happening to Hal. He was seeing visions from Shande’s eyes as before, but now through his own eyes, too. With this double-vision he saw Rikhter behind Shande, holding back his knife arm, keeping him from stabbing Hal. The vision in Hal’s head was moving beyond the present
—Shande crawling towards the bunker door—
Hal pulled at the knife in Shande’s hand
—Shande pulling himself along the tunnel floor—
Hal stabbed the knife up, driving it deep into Shande’s side
—the tunnel collapsing on Shande—
Shande let go of Hal’s head and pressed his hand to the knife wound in his side. Hal scrambled out from under him and ran to the door, throwing back the bolt and turning on the lights.
“Don’t touch Shande,” Hal shouted as Eli and Jose
ph burst in.
Eli checked Hal was okay and ran to Daniel, who was lying injured on one of the bunks. Hal and Joe dragged Rikhter by the coat away from the writhing Shande. They fled together down the tunnel and up into the night.
“What about Shande?” Eli asked.
“I saw,” Hal said. “He doesn’t escape.”
HAL SAT IN the back of Eli’s van beside Rikhter, who lay on the floor, blood soaking into Hal’s father’s coat. They had bandaged him as soon as they got into the car, but he was looking weak. They couldn’t do any more for him at the moment, so the convoy had decided to set off for Scotland as planned.
“You protected us,” Rikhter said. “Just as he meant you to.”
Hal sat in silence.
“Hal, if you could see the things I see wearing this.” He indicated Hal’s father’s coat. “You’re just like he was, before he went away.”
“I don’t even know that man,” Hal said quietly. “He abandoned us.”
“He saved people, too.”
They sat in a long silence.
“Come, let me show you,” Rickter offered Hal his hand.
Hal stared at it for several long seconds, then reached out.
He saw.
He saw his father, from the moment he first wore that coat, through that long war.
He saw his father find a group of soldiers lost in a snowstorm and he saw him lead them home.
He also saw things that broke him, left his father a shadow of himself.
Worst, he saw how it crushed his father to see Hal and his mum and not to be able to feel joy.
Hal saw further.
Hal saw
—the trucks arriving at the farm—
—the home the Farreter make—
—he stays with them—
—watching over them—
—as Goan had planned.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book wouldn’t have happened without the help of two people in particular: Cassandra Khaw and David Moore. Cass pushed me to pitch a story, introduced me to David, and chased me when I dragged my feet. David found the story within the manuscript, trimming away wasteful words and giving what I’d written new life. Most of all, he didn’t once point out that at the start of all this he asked me for an alien invasion story.
Matt Zitron gave invaluable help, correcting my use of Hebrew and Yiddish terms, and offering incisive notes to improve the whole story.
A great help, too, was Jonathan Oliver, who took the last pass over the manuscript, slicing away the last of my repetitions.
Then there are Adam and Barney who put up with weeks of me walking around the flat at night, talking to myself and making coffee. And, then, after all that, reading my early drafts with fresh eyes and pointing out muddles and mistakes.
Mum and Dad, too, for reading through my drafts and then submitting to long phone calls where I asked them endless questions about what they’d read. Though, Dad, giving me notes about suggested puns when I was one night before deadline is less helpful than you would imagine.
Julian Benson
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julian Benson is the deputy editor at PCGamesN, a website about video games, their makers, and the people who devote their lives to them. Tired of concerned family members suggesting the low wages of video games journalism wouldn’t be enough to support himself, he has started to write sci-fi novellas, where he is positive he will make his millions (Right, David?). He once interviewed the space pope of an online universe and he won’t shut up about it.
SCHNEIDER WRACK WAS DEAD.
Until he wasn’t.
Convicted of a crime he’s almost completely sure he didn’t commit, executed, reanimated, then pressed into service aboard a vast trawler on the terrible world of Ocean, he was set to spend his afterlife working until his mindless corpse fell apart.
But now he’s woken up, trapped in a rotting body, arm-deep in the stinking meat and blubber of a sea monster, and he’s not happy. It’s time for the dead to rise up.
From the stench and brine of Ocean to the fetid jungle of Grand Amazon, Schneider’s career as a revolutionary won’t be easy.
But sometimes a zombie’s gotta do what a zombie’s gotta do.
Praise for Nate Crowley
‘Genius’
Dara Ó Briain
‘Weird and hilarious’
Buzzfeed
‘Surreal and occasionally horrifying’
The Daily Dot
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“MY NAME IS JOHN DOE. I'VE BEEN DEAD FOR TEN YEARS.”
I have no heartbeat, no breath, no smell, just cold, clammy flesh animated by something I don't understand. So I sell my dead flesh to the highest bidder. If the price is right, I'll kill for you, steal for you, or save your life for you. There's no mystery you can't hire me to solve... apart from this one.
The bent copper torn apart in his flat by something not quite human. The hidden rooms underneath the Tower of London. The hollow-eyed boxer, Morse, and strange, strange Mr Smith with his head full of the future. And the secret they found. The secret of who I am. A secret so big and black and terrible that it changed everything we thought we knew about existence.
And now I'm the only person who can stop the end of all life on this planet...
...I, Zombie!
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Gods. Gore. Good Food.
By day, Rupert Wong—sorcerer, chef, former triad—prepares delicious meals of human flesh for a dynasty of ghouls in Kuala Lumpur; by night, he’s an administrator for the Ten Chinese Hells. It’s a living, of sorts.
When the Dragon of the South demands that Rupert investigate the murders of his daughter and her mortal husband, Rupert is caught in a war between gods that’s as bewildering as it is bloody.
If he’s going to survive, he’ll need to stay sharp, stay lucky, and always read the fine print...
“My favorite urban fantasy this year... Very fun, fast, quick read”
Silvia Moreno-Garcia
“A high-octane fantasy and murder mystery. I’d love to see more in that world.”
Lavie Tidhar
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