World's End

by Mark Chadbourn

  This is it, Ruth thought. She threw her arms across her face.

  She didn’t see what happened next, but she felt the surge of forces pulling at her body as Shavi dragged the wheel to one side. There was a rhythmic rumbling and the van bounced around crazily as it ploughed through the bollards. The screaming of the juggernaut’s brakes merged with the strangled sounds coming from Ruth’s throat, punctuated by Laura’s yells. When they hit the hardcore Ruth waited for the tires to burst, flinging the vehicle on a wild roll into the trees. But somehow they held. The van slewed crazily as Shavi fought to regain control, tipping up on two wheels before bouncing on to the other two. Shavi managed to keep it upright, but it spun round in an arc until it was facing in the opposite direction.

  Ruth could barely bring herself to look. The muscles of her neck and shoulders ached from the strain of being thrown around. As she lowered her arms, she saw with horror that Shavi was slumped across the wheel, a trickle of blood running down his cheek. But then he sucked in a huge gulp of air and raised his head, his expression as calm as it had been when they met. When he flashed her a smile she almost cried.

  The juggernaut had come to a rest across both carriageways. The driver was already clambering out of the cab, an expression of fury replacing one of relief.

  But their attention was drawn past him to an eerie light in the sky just beyond the silhouetted bulk of the lorry. When Shavi scrambled to start the stalled vehicle, the engine rumbled without firing.

  “Flooded,” he said.

  The light in the sky was growing more intense as the Hunt neared, a swirling, uncomfortable mix of greens and reds. Ruth stared wide-eyed at Shavi’s hand as he turned the ignition key again.

  Laura hauled herself up between their seats. Her face was streaked with blood from numerous cuts and her skin was darkening in anticipation of several bruises. “Good driving,” she said sardonically.

  As the juggernaut driver marched towards them angrily, Ruth realised she ought to call out a warning. She was too late. Transfixed, she watched the Hunt rise up above the lorry in all its awful majesty. The horses were black and sleek with sweat, but they were like no horses she had seen before: larger, more muscular, there was something almost serpentine about them; their eyes glowed as red as coals in the gloom. The riders exuded power from their large frames, but their faces were still hidden in shadow. At the head of them was the Erl-King, wearing a helmet made from the bleached bones of their prey. As they moved over the lorry, the roof of the vehicle was torn apart by their cruel weapons, showering shards of metal over a wide area as if a grenade had exploded.

  The driver whirled, seeing the Hunt for the first time, and as he did so, the strange red and white dogs surged over the top of his rig. Snapping and whirling in a way that made Ruth think they were one creature, they speedily hurtled towards their target. In horror, she saw him start to run one way, then another, and then scream in fear, and then the dogs were upon him, their needle-sharp teeth rending and tearing; his frail human body was dismantled in seconds as a red mist filled the air.

  Finally the engine fired and caught. Shavi popped the clutch and hauled the van back on the road, the tires complaining loudly, but miraculously holding. As they sped past the other end of the roadworks, the silence in the van was palpable; they were jointly overcome with loathing at what had happened to the driver-another death they could mark up to their actions-and a sodden feeling that their situation was hopeless. They had lost too much time. Ruth didn’t have to turn to ask Laura how they were doing; she could hear the thunder of hooves drowning out even the sound of the engine.

  Shavi put his foot to the floor as often as he could, but there were too many twists and turns along the road, forcing him to brake sharply then accelerate again, and on several occasions he had to put their lives on the line to overtake cars that were already speeding. Ruth was relieved the Wild Hunt paid the other travellers no heed this time, but it was a small success as the riders spurred on their mounts to close on the van.

  The villages went by in a blur: Coldeast, Heathfield, Chudleigh Knighton; when they saw the sign for the motorway just four miles away they had a brief moment of hope. It was killed in the instant it was born by a startled cry from Laura. The stink of horses, musky and oppressive, had grown stronger, even through the door and over the exhaust fumes, and it had prompted her to peer once more out of the rear windows.

  The Hunt was almost within reach of the van. Laura could see the muscles rippling on the arms of the riders, the delicate ornamentation on the clasps and buckles which held their furs tight, the shining leather and metal of the bridles, and then she made the mistake of looking into their faces. They were all terrible in aspect, but the worst was the Erl-King leading the charge. His face seemed to have exposed bone breaking through on the cheeks, brow and jaw, so that when the streetlights caught him it glistened like a death-mask. And where there was skin, it had the faintest green hue and appeared to be scaled like a lizard. But it was the eyes that made her sick and terrified. Red-rimmed beneath a lowering brow, they glowed with an inner yellow light, the pupils slashed like a serpent. When he saw her frozen stare, he grinned malevolently, revealing a menacing row of stained, pointed teeth. Laura had a sudden vision of herself as a terrified rabbit before a predator and then she thrust herself backwards as the Erl-King lashed out with the spear-sickle.

  There was a deafening rending as it shredded the door like paper, and then, with a tremendous heave, he tore it from its hinges. It flew up high and landed with a crash far behind them. The van was filled with the searing sound of the road and the horses. Too frightened to speak, Laura scrabbled backwards until her back pressed into Ruth’s seat. Ruth’s hand snaked down and caught hers, holding it firmly, squeezing for comfort; Laura squeezed back.

  Framed in the hole where the door had been, the Wild Hunt drew ever closer. Ruth thought she was going to be sick when she looked at them-it was as if she was queasily drunk and everything was distorted-and she couldn’t bear to look into their faces, although she was sure they were mouthing hypnotic words that hissed in the back of her head: to give herself up, to throw herself to the pack. She placed her hands on her ears and yelled.

  Shavi looked at her with concern. “We are nearly there.”

  The dual carriageway gave way to the motorway outside Exeter just as the other rear door was torn free. Laura’s nails were biting into Ruth’s hands so hard they drew blood. With the extra lane, the traffic thinned enough for Shavi to slam his foot on to the accelerator. The turbo kicked in, propelling the van forward violently until they were hitting 85 m.p.h.

  “We’re doing it!” Laura gasped. The Hunt had dropped back several yards and were falling further behind as Shavi continued to accelerate. Cars swerved to avoid them as the horses pounded along the motorway, the hounds spreading out to fill all three lanes. A Lotus ploughed into the central reservation, showering sparks, glass and metal up into the air.

  “God,” Ruth whispered hoarsely, looking at the vehicles driving ahead of them. “Have we consigned all these poor bastards to death?”

  “Casualties of war,” Laura said.

  “I wish I could be that cold.”

  “Better get used to it.” Laura tapped Shavi on the shoulder. “Have we got enough petrol, hero?”

  There was a long silence before he replied, “Let us hope.”

  “Great.” Laura’s hand went limp and slipped out of Ruth’s grip. “Knock me down when I’m on a high, why don’t you?”

  “I am not saying we have not …” His voice trailed off.

  “Just put some miles between us.”

  The Hunt was a half-mile behind now, but they all knew the distance would be covered in no time if they had to stop. Secretly, they each checked their watch, wishing dawn upon them.

  They lost sight of the Hunt somewhere past Bristol, but although his eyes were tired and burning, Shavi continued to drive. And when first light broke Ruth found herself crying uncontrollab
ly, making no attempt to hide her tears. If Laura saw, she said nothing. They pulled off the motorway at the first junction and sat quietly watching the dark sky turn purple then gold and finally powder blue. It was going to be a fine day.

  Ruth was the first one to see the owl hovering over a field nearby. When she’d finally recovered enough to talk, she convinced the others to follow it, without giving them any explanation; none of them questioned her anyway. Slowly it began to head back south at the side of the motorway. Laura took over from Shavi at the wheel, allowing him and Ruth to sleep if they wanted, although neither of them felt able. And at junction 23 the owl veered off to the east. Half an hour later they found themselves at Glastonbury.

  chapter eleven

  away from the light

  he first thing Church sensed as he surfaced from a world of tormented images was a miasma of aches and pains that made him agonisingly aware of what seemed like every nerve in his body. He felt like he’d been thrown down a flight of concrete stairs. Then came the odours: dank air, stale and unpleasant, mildew, straw, the musky stink of animals, and beneath it all the sickening smell of an open sewer. Dully, he forced himself to open his eyes, then realised they were open; the place was so dark he seemed to be drifting in space. And then the sensations came thick and fast: the sound of dripping water creating echoes that testified to some kind of confined space with bare, hard walls; nausea; a burning sensation in his arms, which were hauled up above his head. He yanked at them and heard the clang of metal on rock. Chains. Manacles around his wrists, biting into the flesh. Panic swept through him as he desperately fought to recall where he was and what was happening to him. Slowly chunks of memory floated up like wreckage bobbing to the surface of a stormy sea. The Wild Hunt. The race across the moor. That awful awareness that his life was on the brink of being snuffed out. And then … what? A brief sensation of falling.

  The cotton wool that clogged his head gradually began to clear. He must have tumbled into some kind of shaft. He knew the moor was littered with all sorts of old mine workings, but he was sure a fall of that kind would have killed him. And then how did he end up wherever he was?

  At least he was alive. With a twist of anxiety he prayed Ruth and Laura had got away too. Cautiously he stretched various muscles to try and ease some of the tension in his hanging body, but the stabbing pain that followed made him stop with a groan. The fall might not have killed him, but it felt like it had been close to it. He sucked in a deep breath and that was a mistake too; fire spread out across his ribcage. He prayed it was just bad bruising and not broken ribs.

  When the agony subsided, he listened for any sign of his captors, but it was as still as the grave. Steeling himself for further pain, Church checked the chains, but they seemed solid; he wouldn’t be able to pull them out of the wall, even if he were fit. Morosely he leaned back against the wall and desperately tried to think of a way out of his predicament.

  The total darkness tricked his mind into hallucinating that he was floating, and in that strange state he lost all track of time as his thoughts constantly drifted in and out of daydreams. For a while he thought Marianne was there with him. He could smell her perfume, hear the soft whisper of her voice on the periphery of his senses; once he thought he saw her, pale and disturbing like the time she had come to him at Stonehenge.

  “Don’t worry,” he muttered. “Soon I’m going to find out why you did it. And I’ll make amends to you somehow for whatever I did. Then I can die in peace.”

  She didn’t reply, if she was there at all, and then his thoughts tumbled back into darkness.

  Sometime later he was startled out of his deeply drifting thoughts by the noise of heavy footsteps and a muffled, hectoring voice that sounded agitated. They drew closer until a door opened, and although the light without was only a lantern, it was so blinding after the dark that Church wrenched his head away. But in that briefest instant, he got a sense of his surroundings. He was in a place which seemed to have been cut from the bedrock. A low ceiling hung only a few inches above his head and straw had been scattered across the ground. A row of rusty bars lay a few feet away; beyond them was a small passageway, before more bars for another cell which was still swathed in shadows. He heard laboured breathing and smelled the animal stink of a Night Walker. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see it.

  “Who’s that?” The voice made him jump and for a second he did look, before screwing his eyes shut again. A man was being hauled into his cell. Church heard the jangle of the door opening and the man protesting before he was shackled to the wall. He spat noisily-obviously at his captor-and an instant later there was the sound of something heavy striking him, then silence. Church heard shuffling, sensed a disturbing presence hovering over him. It made a guttural noise deep in its throat and then moved off, pausing briefly to do something in the passageway. Church waited until he heard the main door close before looking round.

  A lantern had been hung on the wall outside his cell, its flickering light casting bizarre, distorted shadows around the rough room. The man hanging from the wall nearby was around thirty, with straight, dark brown hair that fell around his slumped head. He was good-looking, with a square jaw and sharp cheekbones, but there was a granite hardness in his features that suggested a tough upbringing. The most striking thing about him was the mass of tattoos that covered his naked, muscular torso, a swirling, iridescent panorama of odd pictures, strange images and symbols which Church had never seen before, but which affected him deeply on some subterranean level. At that distance, and in the gloom, it was impossible to make out the detail, but the more he looked, the more he felt even the pictures were speaking to his subconscious, stimulating half-remembered memories, faded dreams. In the end, he had to force himself to look away.

  Church was thankful for the light, but its illumination didn’t provide him with much hope. Even if he could get out of the manacles, there was no chance he would be able to break through the iron bars, and even then he would have to face whatever lurked without. But he refused to give in to despair and he steeled himself until his fellow prisoner recovered from the blow.

  On awakening, his companion shook his head a few times as if being buzzed by an angry wasp and then he cursed under his breath. Looking round sullenly, he spied Church, remembering him from before the blow. “Who the hell are you?” he asked a little suspiciously, in the hard tones of working class south-east London.

  “Jack Churchill. Who the hell are you?”

  Silence. Then: “Ryan Veitch.” He continued to look around furtively. “They pick you up too?”

  Church shrugged. “Can’t remember. I was riding across the moor on a bike and fell down some kind of hole. Where is this place?”

  “Some abandoned mine. The place is swarming with them.” Veitch yanked at his chain angrily, but it held fast. “Bastards.” He took a deep breath, then said, “What are they?”

  “Our worst nightmares.” Now it was Church’s turn to be suspicious. “You seem to be taking this pretty well, being confronted by something that shouldn’t exist.”

  “I’ve had plenty of time to get used to it, haven’t I? About a bleedin’ week since the bastards dragged me down here. I was hitchin’ across the moor. The first time I saw them I threw up, then blacked out. I tell you, it was a stomachfull, projectile. The second time wasn’t so bad. Half a stomach and three hours unconscious. Now I’ve just about got used to them, and that’s a horrible bleedin’ thought in itself.”

  “Even so,” Church pressed, “you’re pretty much on top of it.”

  Veitch hung his head so his hair obscured his face. Church thought he was being cold-shouldered, but his companion was obviously thinking, for a moment later he looked up and said bluntly, “I’ve been dreaming about these sorts of things all my life. It’s like I knew they were out there. The biggest sur prise was that I wasn’t surprised when I saw them. It was almost like I expected to meet them.”

  “Dreams?” Church felt a tingle of
recognition.

  “Yeah. You see these tattoos? They’re my dreams. When I was a kid they used to make me miserable. I couldn’t get them out of my head. I screwed up school, had trouble making friends, couldn’t keep any bird on the go for too long-anti-social tendencies, they said. Attention deficit. Half a dozen other excuses. But it was the bastard dreams. I think I’d probably have topped myself by now if I hadn’t found some way to get them out of my head.” He nodded to the tattoos. “Every time one came into my head and wouldn’t leave I went to this place in Greenwich and had a picture of it done somewhere or other. That night it’d be gone. I tell you, this body is a picture book of my screwed-up head.”

  Church peered hard through the gloom and saw what seemed to be a tower floating in space. “I had dreams too,” he began. “Nothing like yours, but-“

  Veitch flashed him a strange, intense look that stopped him dead. “Dragons?” Veitch said, his eyes searching Church’s face. “Brother of Dragons?” Church nodded. “Those words’ve been doin’ my head in for weeks now. Just floating there. In fire, on a black background. What do they mean?”

  Church shrugged.

  Veitch looked truly disconcerted. “I jacked in my job to come here. Didn’t mind that too much. Renovating houses near the Dome for some tight landlord to make a mint on. I just thought I’d get some bleedin’ answers-“

  “But what made you come here?”

  “A little bird told me.” His crooked grin was engimatic but disarming.

  “What do you mean?”