The Children Of The Mist

by Jenny Brigalow

  As a hand closed around her wrist, all conscious thought evaporated. In one fluid motion her right leg lashed out. Her foot connected with Pasty Face’s rubbery midriff.

  He doubled over. ‘You bitch.’

  Morven snarled in fury. She had only just begun.

  Chapter 16

  Just like the time on the roof at the building site, Morven felt the world slow down. As each guard came on the offensive, it was as if she knew exactly what they were going to do. Every counter-evasion seemed perfectly placed. Even when Pasty Face recovered and began to edge in, Morven felt under control. Slowly, but surely, she was manoeuvring her way closer to the door.

  A wave of joy washed over her as a well-placed hand smashed one guard’s broad nose. Blood sprayed copiously around the room. The aroma filled her head. It gave a whole new dimension to the old saying ‘seeing red’. The guard, half-blinded, staggered back. Now there was only one guard and Pasty Face. She was just getting into her rhythm. Already she’d worked out the guard’s technique. As he spun in low she simply leapt up and over. She landed lightly. There was nothing between her and the door. With a triumphant cry she made a dash for it.

  And then her foot hit a big splatter of blood. With her mouth in a wide O of shock, she slipped and landed flat on her back. It was just the opportunity her opponents had prayed for. With a mighty effort she flicked up with her spine and kicked off with her feet. If her dad and the Doc hadn’t rolled into her she would have had a chance, but the extra handicap was her undoing.

  Pasty Face straddled her chest, both thighs pinning her arms to her sides. She thrashed frantically, and she felt him dislodge. But it was a false hope. Both guards grabbed a leg each. A Christmas turkey would have had more range of movement. All she could do was whip her head from side to side. Which she did, in a desperate attempt to prevent the greasy little turd from sticking her with the needle.

  ‘Leave her alone.’

  Morven stilled and turned to look at her father. He was sliding across the room toward her, the Doc like a limpet clamped onto his legs. His finger slipped in the bloody mess, and one eye was swollen. ‘Don’t you touch her, you cowardly bastards,’ he hissed.

  Despite her predicament, Morven couldn’t help but feel a wave of pride. While her dad wasn’t exactly Ninja, he was outstripping all expectation.

  As if he sensed he was out of time, Pasty Face carefully prepped the syringe. A tiny spray of liquid fizzed into the air. His free hand clamped onto her upper arm.

  Morven glared at him and snapped her teeth together, twice. ‘You’re going to regret this.’

  Pasty smiled. ‘I doubt it.’

  Morven watched helplessly as the needle finally found its target. A tiny prick and then it was over. It was strange but she could actually feel the drug surge into her bloodstream. It shot directly to her brain where it stopped. Immediately she tried to fight it. As she looked up into the pale eyes of her captor a wave of hatred fired up in her heart. When she woke up, there was going to be hell to pay. She was going to hunt him down and suck the spirit from his miserable carcass. She was going to wear his eyeballs as earrings. And that was if she was in a good mood. A flood of tiredness washed over her. With every atom of her being she willed herself to stay awake. She could beat this thing. Hell, she was Batgirl. Next best thing to Wonder Woman.

  The heavy weight receded and Pasty’s face floated above her. Morven glared at him. ‘I’m going to drink your blood, you scrotum,’ she said succinctly.

  And he laughed. He was still laughing as her world telescoped inward and flickered out.

  * * * * *

  It was nearly six o’clock when Zest finally parked the last car in the secure fenced car yard. He loved cars. Was good with them, too. He had a knack for the mechanical. It was one of the reasons that the dealership owner, Elvis Wesley, let him live in the caravan — rent free, no questions asked. In return, Zest helped out all he could. He liked Elvis who, while strangely obsessed with The King, was a wizard with the giant yank tanks that glittered gaudily in the yard. The less glamorous models were less visible. Elvis only begrudgingly let them into the premises because he liked to eat. Every time one of the tanks went, Elvis went into mourning. He’d drink cans of American beer, get out his old guitar and play Jailhouse Rock until he slipped quietly into unconsciousness on his front deck.

  Zest switched off the ignition and patted the old leather steering wheel. But his mind wasn’t on the vehicle. The long day was finally singing its swansong. Already the shadows were long and the stifling heat of the day had begun to recede. Streaks of flamingo pink scored a soft lavender horizon. Night called. For the 100th time, he checked his phone. Still nothing. What the hell was going on? Why hadn’t she texted him? He couldn’t rid himself of the horrible feeling that something was very wrong. Unable to control himself any longer he typed in a quick message. ‘Hey u, how u going?’ After a moment of hesitation he pressed send.

  Relieved to have made some kind of decision, he pulled the keys out of the ignition and hopped out of the car. He could see Elvis waiting patiently at the office door for him. He jogged carefully through the parked vehicles and threw the keys to the waiting man.

  ‘All done,’ said Zest.

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ said Elvis. He pulled two combs out of his back pocket and ran them expertly through his black, coifed hair. ‘Got a special delivery on Monday. Can you give us a hand?’

  Zest nodded. ‘Sure.’ He had no idea what was in the large crates that arrived sporadically at the yard on Mondays when the place was shut. Didn’t know and didn’t care. Well, actually, he was a bit curious, but not enough to try to find out. That was another reason Elvis let him stay. He’d never have shifted them on his own. And besides, Elvis knew that Zest kept his mouth shut. It was a happy arrangement for all parties.

  Elvis smiled, his white false teeth bright in his pitted, swarthy face. ‘See you later.’

  Zest set off to his van. Not for the first time he wondered how old Elvis was. He could be anywhere between 50 and 70. He looked pretty fit for an old geezer but his face looked like it had lived a couple of centuries. His phone buzzed and all thought of Elvis was wiped away. Morven!

  But it wasn’t. Just some crap phone sales stuff. Inside the van it was stifling hot, even though the windows were all open. Normally he’d make his herbal drink and then head out to meet Morven. Saturday night was a big night. Unable to decide what to do, he absentmindedly fell into the old routine. With the kettle on, he had a quick shower, pulled on his camouflages and a clean vest, and went back to the kitchenette. Without thinking he measured out a scoop of Wolf’s Bane and poured the nearly boiling water over it. For some reason, nearly boiling worked better than actual boiling.

  He sat down on the top step where a tiny breeze gave some relief. It wasn’t dark yet but already he could feel his senses stir. Memories of the night before flickered through his mind. His body could still remember the savage joy of Being. Something primitive and urgent beckoned. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. One day without the herbal suppressant was dangerous. He’d never missed more. And tonight was a full moon. She would soon be there, smiling at him.

  Zest jumped as Gangsta’s Paradise burst through his pocket and he slopped the hot tea over his shirt. He swore, held the hot material off his skin with one hand and pulled his phone out of his pocket. The number was unfamiliar. No one ever rang him from that number, or not that he could remember. Intrigued, he lifted the phone. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Zest, is that you?’

  It was a woman, the voice vaguely familiar. ‘Yes, it’s me…Zest.’

  ‘Zest, thank God, it’s Mrs Smith.’

  Zest’s brain went blank. Who?

  Perhaps his silence spoke for him as Mrs Smith carried on. ‘Mrs Smith…Shelley…Morven’s mum.’

  Zest went straight into panic mode. Why would Morven’s Mum be calling him? It couldn’t be for a friendly chat. Or maybe it was. ‘What’s the matter Mrs Smith?’


  For a moment the phone was silent. Then, just as he began to wonder if she was still there, she picked up the thread of conversation.

  ‘Zest, it’s Morven.’

  Zest felt his chest constrict. She was dead. He just knew it. Oh God, he should never have left her. He couldn’t speak.

  ‘Zest, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here.’

  ‘Zest, she had to go to hospital last night and have her appendix out, but she got better but then they, the doctors and nurses, wouldn’t let her go, and they abused her, drugged her and locked her up. She’s in the psychiatric unit and they say she’s dangerous but she’s not dangerous, but they scared her. It’d make anyone act a bit crazy…I don’t know what to do, I just know she’d want you to know as you’re her friend.’

  The pressured outpouring ceased and Zest knew that Morven’s mother was crying. A rage filled him. A rage that he’d learned to keep on a short leash for a long, long time. The thought of Morven, his brilliant, infuriating, brave and beautiful friend caged like a beast, drugged like a lunatic and all alone was too much. He should never have left her. It was all his fault.

  ‘Mrs Smith, don’t do anything. Do you hear me? Don’t do anything until I get there. I have to talk to you.’

  Morven’s mother made a small hiccuping sound. ‘I don’t know…well, alright…but be quick.’

  Zest felt her indecision. ‘Mrs Smith. Shelley. Promise me, please.’

  ‘Yes, I promise, we’ll see you soon then.’

  This time her voice was firmer, the tone more assured. Zest relaxed a fraction. ‘Soon,’ he said. He put the phone in his pocket, went into his bedroom and opened a drawer. He reached in and drew out what looked like a shiny belt. He threaded it, almost reverently, around the top of his camouflage pants. For a moment he was lost in thought. Then he took a deep breath and set off with determined strides across the van and out the door.

  Minutes later he raced across the car yard. The mug of herbal tea sat upon the top step and steamed softly.

  Chapter 17

  When Morven awoke her brain was as clear as a mountain creek. She’d been pissed off before, now she was coldly determined. It was dark. But she could see clearly that she was in a small room. Not a padded cell, but the next best thing. It did not take a genius to work out that the door was locked and the small window reinforced. She lay quite still, allowing her senses to read the situation. For a moment, despite it all, Morven felt a thrill of excitement. It was like being reborn. She was the same, but more. Much more. Every part of her body felt more vibrant. Each breath of stale air told a story. Sounds she should not hear filtered through the thick walls and tightly sealed door.

  It only took seconds to work out that there was someone standing outside the locked door. Correction. Two someones. She could smell them and hear them. Their conversation was most interesting.

  Voice One she instantly recognised as the Doc. ‘She’s had enough sedative to keep a herd of rhino unconscious for several more hours. When she wakes she’ll have a king-size hangover. She’ll need plenty of fluids.’

  Morven thought a number of very rude words. The great turd burglar sounded positively chipper. But she strangled down her anger and tuned back in.

  Voice Two was another male, younger though, and politely subservient. A nurse or possibly a junior doctor. ‘Do you have any idea what’s going on?’

  The Doc. ‘A couple. One possibility is some rare form of porphyria. Which would explain the blood drinking and the delusions. Another blood work-up will shed some light on that. Personally I think she is floridly psychotic. Actually believes she’s a vampyre. It’s not that rare. Doctor Spock will be in tomorrow morning. Unfortunately he’s in Sydney, couldn’t get a flight until the morning.’

  Voice Two chimed in. ‘Should be very interesting.’

  The Doc made a phlegmy sound in his throat. Could have been either a laugh or a cough. ‘Indeed, Jared, indeed.’

  They moved away. Morven sat up slowly and stretched. She had to hand it to the medical staff — they were pretty confident. Maybe because this Doc Spock was going to beam down from the mothership. Still, pre-warned was pre-armed. All she had to do was convince the new arrival that she was quite sane. Shouldn’t be too hard. Maybe she should confess to taking drugs, a kind of temporary insanity plea. The old spiked-drink-at-the-party was always a goodie, too. Or perhaps she should complain of a migraine of epic proportions. Surely they’d have to send her back to the main hospital block for some sort of tests. Then, it’d be easy to get away.

  She realised she was thirsty. There was a water fountain on the wall. It was very cold and the taste was not unpleasant. There was a hideous metal loo as well. Otherwise, the room was bare. The one window was too high to see out. After a minute’s contemplation Morven leapt up. With an agility that rivalled a gibbon’s, her fingers fastened onto the narrow sill. Her bare feet walked up the wall until her head was level with the window. It was an effort, but Morven was able to see outside for a few minutes before her strength gave out. She paused and listened, but all was quiet. Again she drew herself up and peered out of the window. It was cloudy. Occasionally the cloud thinned a little and the moon’s silver face shimmered mistily. Opposite was another tall building and, in between, a small garden. Shade trees, pearly grey, swayed in a soft breeze. The faint, sweet smell of blossom told Morven that they were flowering Jacarandas. As her eyes feasted on the wide world she longed to be outside. Free.

  Her shoulders began to spasm and she dropped lightly back onto the cold lino floor. A faint noise caught her attention and she dived onto the bed and closed her eyes. A key rattled in the lock. For a fraction of a second Morven contemplated the risk of trying to get out. It was tempting, but she had to dismiss it. There was no way of knowing what security measures were outside. A failed breakout would foul up any hope of bullshitting her way out in the morning. Better be patient.

  The door swung open and a pair of rubber-soled shoes squeaked across the floor. Just inches from her prone body, someone stopped. ‘Hello, Morven,’ said a familiar voice.

  Morven kept her face and limbs quite deliberately still despite the surge of emotions that shot through her brain. Even if she hadn’t recognised his voice, his aroma gave the game away. Pasty Face smelled like day-old curry, beer and cheap aftershave. A real class act. The odour threatened to suffocate her as he leant down to her face.

  ‘Are you really asleep, Morven? Or are you playing possum? You might fool the mighty but you don’t fool me.’

  Morven crushed down the wave of murderous rage in her chest. Pasty Face might not be classically intelligent but he had a certain, unexpected cunning. It occurred to her then that he posed a very real threat. Perhaps more so than the Doc and his sidekick Spock. She must be very careful. But she was afraid her own body would give her away. Already her heart rate had accelerated. If he checked her pulse he might get suspicious. With determined effort she slowed down her breathing. She visualised her heart, the big pump, slowing in her chest. To her amazement — it worked.

  It was no surprise when fingers pressed lightly onto her wrist. She smiled to herself as Pasty Face made a small grunt of disappointment. But the small smile dropped out as the fingers went walking. It took every ounce of self-control to ignore the invasion. The fingers slid softly up her bare arm, and then stopped. She could smell his excitement as the pressure increased and then slid across and up to her neck. Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it, she chanted silently. He’ll get bored and go. Ignore it.

  Again the small moment of hesitation. And Morven sensed what he was about even before she felt the pressure lift from beneath her ear and reassert itself on her left thigh. Blood flooded her brain. Red. Red. Red. The whole hand squeezed her thigh none too softly and then insinuated itself beneath the flimsy blue gown. Pasty Face’s breathing was loud and rough. And then Morven had a horrible thought. Had he been here, like this, before? When she had really been drugged out. Sickened an
d outraged, Morven snapped. One thing was for sure — the dirty little perv wasn’t having a second helping.

  For a second she waited, ears alert. But all she could hear was the soft murmur of conversation some distance away, and an owl screeching outside. As the hand groped higher she tensed…and let go. With a turn of speed that shocked her, she smacked the unsuspecting man hard around his head. Stunned, he reeled away, and — to Morven’s glee — crashed onto the hard floor with a mighty wallop. Morven was up in half a second and landed a foot in his midriff. The breath left his doughy body with a satisfying grunt. With a hand caught in his greasy hair she jerked him up like a marionette. His eyes popped and his feet ran frantically in midair.

  Morven felt for the key. Although it made her nauseous, she slipped a hand into the front of his black pants. There it was. His mouth opened but she had anticipated that and she shook him. Hard. His teeth knocked together in his head. How she hated him. In fact, there wasn’t a word that could come close to the deep-rooted loathing she felt for this animal. She threw him onto the bed and leaned in close.

  ‘I’m gonna keep my promise, pig face,’ she said softly. And then she smiled.

  His slack features crumpled in terror. It was a most satisfactory moment, one she expected to remember for a very long time. The red filled her brain. She was going to kill him; planet earth would be a better place. It was a mission of mercy. She looked at him almost tenderly. Her first. Shame he was such a pathetic specimen. Really, it was almost too easy. And then she realised that he had fainted. It seemed indecent to kill him when he was asleep; it would make her almost as bad as he was. Besides, what if he had some nasty disease? HIV. Hepatitis Z.

  Her appetite faded. Not this time. Her first time had to be a worthy specimen.

  Footsteps echoed outside. Someone was coming.