Apocalypse Hill (Apoc Hill Miniseries Book 1)

by Matthew Stott

  ‘Paul, please, talk to me. Where you in an accident? A car crash? Or what? That’s a lot of blood, son. Is it yours? Are you hurt? Please, Paul, talk to me. We can go and get help together.’

  Paul’s mouth twitched as he tried to form words; he must be in some sort of shock. What the hell happened?

  ‘Mr… hey… it’s… Mr Reed?’

  ‘I’m here, Paul. I’m here.’

  Paul nodded and smiled. ‘You know… I always thought. Always thought. Always thought. I knew she didn’t really think about me like that, though. Never did. Not like that. I always thought.’

  Bill knew who he was talking about. ‘For a while there it’s what we all assumed.’

  ‘How did I get here?’

  ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘I was… the party. Barbecue. I was outdoors. Decided to sleep out there. Cool air. Now I’m here and I don’t remember, I…’

  ‘Were you attacked? Did you fight back? What happened to them, Paul?’

  ‘When’s Cali back? Can she come out to play?’

  ‘Paul, let me get you a doctor, okay? Then I’ll let your Mum know you’re—’

  Paul shuffled back at double-quick speed into the shadows as though a rabid dog had just charged him.

  ‘Paul, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m here—’ Bill took a step forward, towards Paul, towards the shadows. ‘Paul, come on now, we should—’

  Paul suddenly burst at him from the gloom, grasping Bill by the shoulders, his fingers digging in so much they made Bill wince and his knees weaken. He looked into Paul’s eyes and saw desperate, blind terror. Paul’s mouth trembled as he tried to force words out; something was trying to stop him. His whole body shook now as Bill tried to pull himself free. He was having a fit, or a seizure or something, he must have some sort of head trauma, that’s all there was to it. As he was able to pull his shoulders free from Paul’s rictus grip, Paul grabbed him by the collar and pulled his mouth close to his ear, his voice a stutter.

  ‘R-r-r-run!’

  Paul pulled back and locked eyes with Bill. ‘Please, Paul, let me help!’

  Paul blinked and a yellow cloud washed over his wide, terrified eyes, as though dye had been dropped into a pool of water. And then Paul was gone, there was no trace of him left in those eyes; he’d been replaced with something else. Something awful. Something without pity. Bill staggered back, withering under the new look in Paul’s eyes.

  ‘Paul?’

  Paul let out a screech like Bill had never heard outside of his nightmares. Before he knew it, Bill was on the ground, terrified as he looked up at the boy who was always too formal to call him by his first name, no matter how far back together their history stretched. As he lay on the ground, a protective arm held up, he almost laughed as the immediate danger ceded pole position and the thought of that smoke and the lack of sirens jumped up again. Who was going to call the fire brigade now? Then Paul kicked him in the side of the head and all thoughts were replaced by an explosion of pain and jarring light.

  Bill managed to just about cling to consciousness as one thought screamed at him: move you old sack of shit, move!

  He rolled out of the way of any potential follow up and staggered to his feet, one ear ringing and the world tilting as though it were trying to put him back down on his arse.

  ‘Stop, Paul, stop!’ But as Paul walked towards him, Bill had no doubt that what was attacking him was not Paul. Not really.

  He will rise—

  Bill turned and ran, his heart a jackrabbit.

  He ran blindly and without thought of destination. When he found himself back at the wooden jetty a little clarity returned and he cursed himself for running towards the water. If he’d gone left or right he could be safely in one of his neighbours’ homes by now, calling the police, instead he had water in front and some sort of murderous thing behind. Going to get yourself killed, Bill.

  He glanced back, wondering if he had time to change his mind and go elsewhere, but no, Paul was almost upon him. Those yellowed eyes scared Bill to death. There was no malice or hatred that he saw, just an unknowable blankness. There was no room for negotiation with something that had eyes like that. How could you convince the incomprehensible?

  Fucking move!

  Bill ran down the jetty, his feet slamming against the wooden slats with each heavy step. By the time he reached the end he was slightly ashamed to realize he was breathing heavy. Cali always told him off for not taking better care of himself. At the end he crouched and hopped down onto his still moored rowboat. The boat swung madly back and forth in the water at this sudden off centre weight landing on top of it, sending Bill backwards over the seat, jarring his elbow sharply and causing him to yell out in pain.

  A shadow crossed him and he looked up to see Paul on the jetty, looking down at him. Bill scrabbled up and with trembling hands unhooked the rope from the post and pushed the little boat away. Paul didn’t move; Bill had the horrible feeling he was being allowed to escape. To think he’d escaped; that Paul could take him down and tear him to pieces any time he liked.

  Elbow screaming in complaint, Bill managed to get the oars in place and he pulled and pulled as hard as he could, cutting the oars through the water and away from the jetty, away from the motionless monster that was wearing Paul like a wetsuit. What was the plan? What was he going to do now? Just row to the other side, then run for help? If he’d been able to get into the house, he could’ve locked the door, grabbed his granddad’s old service revolver out of the box in the wardrobe for protection. Though the thing probably didn’t work anyway, but he’d feel a lot better holding it whilst he called for the police and—

  A splash snapped Bill out of his head and he looked up to see Paul was no longer on the jetty. In fact he wasn’t anywhere to be seen at all.

  Bill stopped pulling the oars and the little boat glided gently to a stop. Maybe he’d gone? Well of course he had, he wasn’t on the jetty, or on any part of the shore he could see, and he certainly wasn’t walking along the bottom of the water towards him. Now Bill began to wonder about that blood. He knew it wasn’t Paul’s. Maybe some of it, but there’s no way all of it was. That much blood loss he wouldn’t be standing. So what had he done? And who had he done it to? Someone at this party he went to?

  A hand burst from the water, gripping the side of the boat and pulling it forward. Bill cried out and tumbled towards Paul as he pulled himself out of the water and into Bill’s rowboat.

  Two wet shoes dropped into place before Bill’s face, Paul’s clothing pouring with water, pollen from Dearnewater’s surface clinging to him like sugar frosting. Bill’s mind whirled with confusion and fear; how had Paul snuck up on him? He would have seen him if he’d simply swam, but there’d been no sign. Surely he hadn’t come the whole way underwater, that wasn’t possible.

  ‘Please, Paul, this isn’t you. Something’s very wrong with you; I think this yellow shit has messed with your head. Now if you could just—’ Paul struck out, catching Bill hard across the face and sending him backwards. Bill tried to keep his bearings as his head spun and blood pooled on his tongue.

  ‘Listen to me! You don’t have to do this! It’s me, Mr. Reed!’ Paul stopped, seemed to consider Bill’s words for a second. ‘Yes, I know you can hear me, I believe you can hear me, we can stop this right now and row back to—’ Paul’s knuckles struck out so sharply Bill saw nothing but a blur before they connected with his jaw and his knees buckled. Bill lay flat, unable to pull himself to a safe distance as his vision began to fade around the edges. He blinked, maybe blacked out for a second, two seconds at the most, then Paul was stood over him. Bill looked up and met his eyes, desperately searching for a glimpse of something familiar, of a hint of doubt in Paul that could tell him maybe he had a chance of getting out of this alive. Paul stamped on Bill’s hand, two fingers cracking like twigs on a fire.

  Bill was dimly aware of his cries of pain, of his ragged breath. He thought about Cali, wondered when she would g
et the news. Would they tell her about his death whilst she was up there, or would they think it better to pass on the news once she was back on Earth? It would probably be better if they did wait. Maybe they wouldn’t even know until then anyway. Would Paul drop his body overboard? Weigh it down so his corpse sank to the bottom for curious fish to swim around?

  He looked up to where Paul stood impassively and noticed the smoke from whatever was burning was now wholly black as it spiralled upwards over Paul’s left shoulder. Bill realised his hand, the one that hadn’t just had two fingers broken, was resting on one of the oars. It must have slid into the boat, or been knocked in at some point. Without thinking, without crying out in agony as his good hand was joined by the broken one, he grasped the oar and thrust it upwards as hard as his old body would allow, striking Paul under the jaw as he stepped calmly forward. As the oar dropped back beside Bill he saw a large tear sprout across the bottom of Paul’s jaw and neck. Blood bloomed and fell with a violent splatter on Bill’s knees and the wooden boat.

  Paul staggered backwards in confusion, his hands reaching up to the rip in his flesh that had turned into a blood Niagara.

  Up! Now, you old sack of shit, now!

  Any pain in his hand or head forgotten, Bill pushed himself to his feet, bending to retrieve the fallen oar again. He swung it like a cricket bat, catching Paul across the side of his head. Paul flailed as he stumbled backwards, blood now gushing from the side of his face, his eye visibly swelling like a cartoon cat that had just been struck with a frying pan.

  Paul swung out blindly with his fists, screeching inhumanly.

  ‘Please, stop, I don’t want to hurt you anymore.’ But Paul, whatever he now was, wasn’t listening. His surely shattered jaw gaped and he staggered towards Bill, who had no choice but to swing again, this time sending Paul falling to the boat’s bottom. Paul lay still for a few moments, yellowed eyes wide as his head pumped torrents of blood. Then his whole body became one violent movement, shaking all over, limbs spasmodically twitching like he was fitting. Even now, to Bill’s horror, Paul wasn’t done. Body still shaking and twitching, head a bloody mess, he somehow pushed himself up and to his knees.

  Words a broken slur, what had become of Paul spoke: ‘Bill…she’s going to die, Bill… Mary’s going to die…’

  ‘What? What has that to—’

  ‘You could…help her…’

  ‘I don’t understand what—’

  —Paul lurched forward on his knees, twitching hands outstretched, grasping air, desperate to take hold of Bill and take him down.

  Bill felt a tear run down his cheek as he stepped back; it felt like it burned his skin.

  ‘I’m sorry, Paul.’

  Bill brought the oar down with such force upon Paul’s head that the end snapped off and landed with a splash in the lake.

  Paul no longer moved.

  Bill dropped down and fixed his eyes on the black smoke. There was much more of it now; the fire had clearly spread.

  He sat for a long time watching the smoke spiral skyward, as his friend began to grow cold and stiffen.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Bill Reed lay on his back on the wooden jetty and looked up at the yellow sky. He prayed for a glimpse of blue. For a single cotton candy cloud to break through that new, unnatural sky that caused his stomach to twist.

  He could taste metal in his mouth. Blood. Dried now. The blood flow had stopped as the wounds began the healing process. He always did heal quick. Cuts and wounds and so on. Sticky blood, that’s what his Mum had always said. I try and take him to the doctor, but by the time we get there, that sticky blood of his has already worked its magic and glued up the gaps. He’s like one of them super heroic fellas he’s always reading about in the comics. Magic powers and the like. Sticky Blood Bill.

  Didn’t work on bones though, that was a different kettle of pain. He rested his broken flipper on his chest and held it gently with his good hand. The nerves throbbed and screamed and stamped their feet. He had some painkillers in the house, he’d chug a handful and fashion himself some sort of makeshift sling until he could get over to the doctor’s place. Bill laughed to himself. Look at him, laying back, thinking about ordinary things like comic books and doctor’s offices, like he hadn’t just beaten a man’s brains out an hour ago. The rowboat was tied to the jetty below where he lay; swaying gently as the waves moved back and forth, rocking Paul’s corpse sweetly to sleep.

  Bill knew he’d been given no option, but that didn’t make it any easier. He’d known Paul almost the entirety of the boy’s life. Now he’d been the one to place the full stop. No. No, that wasn’t right. He hadn’t been the one to do that. The man he killed hadn’t been Paul, not by that point, something had happened. Something terrible. Something connected to all this damn plant blossom or pollen or whatever the crap it was that had suddenly appeared overnight. That had coated his house and robbed Apoc Hill of its sky. He’d seen the colour in Paul’s eyes, those alien, empty eyes. And his last words? What did it mean? Why did he feel like he was being pushed toward a place he should never go?

  Bill wondered if he was going crazy.

  Maybe none of this was really happening.

  Or maybe his brain had just snapped and he’d cracked Paul’s head open like an egg for no good reason. Total psychotic break. Pressure of work, the worry about Cali, all marinated in a thick, alcohol heavy sauce. That made more sense than what he was thinking, than what he seemed to be putting together. That was B-movie stuff, not real life. He’d written enough of these kinds of stories himself in the past. Was this more plausible than a crazy old man dipping out on reality and taking it out on some neighbour’s skull? You read about that kind of thing all the time.

  Maybe he’d be in the papers tomorrow?

  ‘Local Author Beats Neighbour to Death’

  What page would that hit? Probably front page of a few of the more local rags. The national press would run it too, of course, but it would be on the inside unless it was a particularly slow news day.

  Bill used his good hand to scoop up a fistful of the grainy yellow matter. He leaned down and blew the palm of his hand, the pollen blowing forward towards the water. Bill peered over the edge to see it fall; saw it scatter over Paul in the boat below. ‘Ashes to ashes.’ Bill pushed himself awkwardly to his feet and headed home to call the police.

  He looked over across the water; the fire was still burning.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bill rooted around in a few kitchen drawers until he found the little white plastic bottle of pills. Using his teeth he managed to open it up, then tipped three or four into his mouth and swallowed dry. He had his throbbing hand tucked into his shirt; he hoped the pills would work their magic soon. Pocketing the rest of the bottle, he headed upstairs and into his bedroom to find a shirt. Cursing as he had to use his broken hand, he managed to tie the shirt into a temporary sling. He placed it over his neck and gently cradled his arm in the little hammock it created.

  He meant to go right to the phone. To call the police and get this over with. His feet had other ideas. Before he knew he was even doing it, Bill had made his way through to his bedroom and curled up on the bed, suddenly more tired than he’d ever felt in his whole life.

  Bill closed his eyes and before he’d even have been able to count to ten, he was asleep.

  ***

  Bill could sense something in the black. Something huge. It was behind him, he knew it. Could feel waves of terror rolling off it like pheromones.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s coming,’ replied the Yellow Man.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She had a choice, Bill. The Knot Man told her, but she did it anyway.’

  ‘Who? Mary? What did she do?’ Bill caught sight of the creature in the corner of his eye; he turned quickly away from it. Didn’t want to see.

  ‘She did what she wanted to do, what she had to do, and who could really blame her, Bill? Would any of us have denied her that?�
��

  Bill was stood on Apoc Hill, the grass red beneath his feet.

  ‘She dealt a final blow to her wicked family, and opened a door for madness to rush through. To streak across the sky and start turning the sane monstrous. You’ve already seen it happening, Bill. You’ve already seen what it did to Paul, and he isn’t the only one. It’ll spread, and spread, unless...’

  ‘What can I do?’

  The Yellow Man clapped a hand on Bill’s shoulder, ‘That’s a good question, Bill. Don’t worry, the answer will come soon enough.’

  Bill looked down at the house at the foot of Apoc Hill, and felt sure he would be visiting that place all too soon.

  Felt sure he should never go there.

  Felt sure he didn’t have a choice.

  ***

  Bill woke with a start, the world was soft and his brain full of cotton wool. He realised he was damp with sweat.

  For a moment he forgot about Paul, forgot about the world turning yellow. His mind was consumed by the Hill, by the red grass, by the house. He didn’t know Mary, but he knew of her. Knew of the family in the house by the hill that local people gossiped about. The mean drunk of a Dad, the son who only had eyes for his sister; and then there was Mary herself. Crazy, with her head in the clouds, that’s what people said. No one knew any better as her brother would head them off if they tried to talk to her. Apparently once beat a man unconscious for laying a hand on her shoulder. Who knew how much of it to believe, it was probably mostly idle, bored gossip. Didn’t matter; either way, Bill was getting... what? ‘Visions’ about her, about the house? God, it sounded crazy even to think about, but it was true. He felt it. He had another feeling too, the feeling that something truly bad was happening there, happening at Mary’s old house by the hill. Something that he should stay well away from.