I turned away from the fence. The trolley had collapsed in the middle. It wouldn’t take my weight, but there must be plenty of other junk lying around. Surely I could find something strong enough to stand on, and then carry it to the fence. A quick scan showed there was nothing useful nearby. And a line of bushes prevented me from seeing farther in. I’d have to go on, into the quarry itself. But hey, what could go wrong?
I waded forward through the debris and decaying leaves, felt them drag against my legs. The smell wasn’t great, but I could manage. “Come on,” I said. “You’ll soon be out of here.” Then, as I stepped forward, my foot just kept going down, sank straight into the ground halfway up to my knee. Cold water soaked though my sock, trickled into my trainer. Mud oozed against my leg. I closed my eyes, moaned to myself. “Oh, man.” I leaned back, steadied myself and tried to pull my leg out. At first it wouldn’t budge, but then there was a sickening squelch, and slowly, slowly my leg emerged. The sensation of slime and suction was unpleasant, but much worse was the rancid stench. I grimaced, tried not to breathe it in, tried not to think about what might be causing that smell. And then my foot was free, and I could inspect the damage.
I didn’t like what I saw. The sodden leg of my jeans clung to me, black water staining it almost up to my knee. But the real pain came when I saw the state of my trainers. Ruined. I scowled at them accusingly. My best trainers. The pair that was almost exactly like the ones I wanted. They’d both been white, but now, one was very definitely black. It was the last straw. I just wanted to get out of there.
I glanced back to the fence. It was still too high. I shrugged my shoulders, muttered, “Nothing for it.” I turned back toward the quarry. I’d have to go farther in. But I hesitated. So far I’d narrowly missed being skewered by a shopping trolley, and I’d ruined a trainer in a bog. It was only a few metres across the deep, dead leaves, but even so. “What else is under there?” I wondered aloud. I could be a millimetre from sinking up to my knees—or worse. I’d never know until it was too late. But what choice did I have? I would just have to be more careful.
I picked my way forward, lifting my feet high. At each step I nudged my feet carefully through the leaves, testing the ground. At each step I held my breath as I transferred my weight. If the ground was too soft, I tried another place. I tried not to think about quicksand and leeches, bodies found preserved in bogs, tried to put images of bear traps out of my mind. I said, “You’ve been watching too many cartoons.” Then I gritted my teeth and went on in silence.
My thirteenth step took me out of the leaves and onto solid ground. I’d done it. In front of me, the straggly line of bushes was not as dense as I’d thought. I squeezed through a gap, ignoring the snags and scratches. And I smiled. It was astonishing. I stood on the floor of the pit itself. And it couldn’t have been more different than the dank shadow and debris of the quarry’s edge. The sun shone down onto the wide semi-circular sweep of the quarry floor, an inviting carpet of long grass and wild flowers. The sides of the pit curved away from me and rose to form a magnificent amphitheatre. And I had just stepped onto the stage. I stood, with my head back, my mouth open, and stared from left to right and back again. Once, Dad had dragged me to York Minster. I’d sulked the whole way there, but once inside I couldn’t help but pick up on the magic of the place. There was just something impressive about the sheer space. I had that feeling now. I wanted to take it all in, absorb every sight, every sound.
The edges of the pit, which must once have been brutal bare rock, were now softened by lush green plants. Bracken, ivy, brambles and ferns tumbled from every fissure, crept over every crumbling boulder. It was as though the plants were escaping, emerging from the heart of the dead rock where they’d been trapped and controlled by generations of quarry men. Now, free and unnoticed, they poured out like a living lava flow to reclaim the place for themselves. There were even small trees, scattered across the slope, growing out at impossible angles.
A breeze ruffled through the undergrowth. I could almost see the plants edging forward, growing toward me. And along the top edge of the pit, my new horizon, was the distant hard line of a fence, just like the one I’d fallen from. I was fenced in, surrounded by this barrier between me and the rest of the world.
But the star of the show was the pit floor itself. Dotted across it, standing like works of art in a surreal sculpture park, was a bizarre selection of objects. A huge old TV sat on a ripped armchair, its broken screen staring blindly in my direction. An upturned cast-iron bath pointed its feet toward the sky. A chest freezer balanced on its end, its door hanging open to display the silver interior. An ornate iron bedstead seemed all the stranger for being the right way up. An old-fashioned lawnmower waited for a long-gone groundsman to return and finish the job.
And then there was the prize. The main attraction. Some way away, right at the back of the pit. A car. And not just any car. Even at that distance the outline was unmistakable. This was an MG GBT, my favourite classic sports car. The colour was hard to make out, but it could’ve been British racing green. Fantastic. I whistled under my breath and whispered, “How the hell did that get there?” My dad would’ve gone mad at the sight of it. He loved classic cars—once he started going on about them, there was no stopping him. So it was no wonder that some of that interest had rubbed off on me. It was something we shared—or always had in the past. It was hard to see what we shared anymore. “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I can’t tell him about it anyway.” For a moment I wondered what he’d say if he knew I’d been in the quarry. Then I jammed my hands into my pockets, pushed the thought away. I was meant to be finding something to stand on. But could I leave without taking a closer look at the car? “I wonder,” I said. “I wonder if it’s got the wire wheels.” A thought struck me, and I felt in my pocket for my phone. I could do it. I could take a picture of the car, show it to my friends. Otherwise, no one would believe it. Of course I’d still be looking for something to stand on, to get out of there. That was still the plan. “Right,” I said, and I set off to cross the pit floor.
TRESPASS CHAPTER 4
3500 BC
BURLIC SCREAMED. He threw back his head and roared a single furious word into the night: “Waeccan!” The name erupted from him in a savage wail that rasped at his throat, over and over until he could shout no more.
His howls echoed along the valley. In the village, the other hunters heard and exchanged glances, shook their heads and said nothing. The women clutched their talismans, told the children to go inside. They had tried to help, but there was nothing they could do for Burlic now.
Burlic slumped, sat heavily on the cold, hard ground. He was drained, exhausted. He squeezed his eyes shut tight. And saw Waeccan’s face. It was the old man’s fault. Yes, he was to blame. He had used his dark magic to deal out this grief, this unbearable hurt.
Burlic opened his eyes and stared up into the sky. Why had Waeccan done this terrible thing to him? Why? There was no reason, no way to know. Burlic could make no sense of it, and it bewildered him, made him weak.
Burlic scowled. “Weak?” he growled. “Never.” He clenched his fists, pushed them into the ground. He didn’t need to know why Waeccan had done this—he only needed the strength to deal with the old man. My anger will be my strength, he thought. The rage surged through his blood. He jumped to his feet. “I will have my revenge on you, Waeccan,” he snarled. The old man must die. It was the only way.
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ALSO BY MIKEY CAMPLING
A Dark Assortment
Sometimes that noise you can hear upstairs is just the old floorboards creaking as they settle down for the night. Sometimes. But there’s no need to worry because that face you saw at the window was just a reflection. There’s no one else here. You’re alone. But that’s OK because you’re safe in your bed. And all those things you fear deep down in the dark reaches of your soul… well, they only happen in stories, don’t they?
A Dark Assortment is a collection of seventeen stories; a chocolate box of handmade treats. But beware—beneath each richly decorated shell, there’s a seed of delicious darkness.
The God Machine
Areva dreams of the day when he will become a Scribe and contribute to The Collective—the tethered souls, connected to the God-Machine. The Scribes write the Universe into existence, and it’s Areva’s destiny to join them.
But as his time draws near, he hesitates. Perhaps the God-Machine serves a darker purpose.
CHEATC0DE
Most people play the game: total immersion VR with full neural sync. But Hank lives it. In Unlimited Combat, he’s one of the best. He makes his own luck. And he plays solo. Until now. When a player offers Hank fame and fortune, it’s too good to pass up. To succeed, Hank must fight harder than ever before, pushing past the game’s safety protocols. His life is on the line, and when he’s captured, he knows he’s in too deep. Can he escape? And who can he trust?
Join Hank in the game—if you dare.
COMING SOON
Outcast–The Darkeningstone Book II
In Trespass, we saw Jake caught up in a chain of events beyond his control. Now, lost and alone in a nightmare world, he must learn to fight back, learn to survive. He’s determined–whatever it takes, he’s going home.
3650 BC When Hafoc’s only family, his brother, is taken by the savage tribe known as the Wandrian, he’s determined to rescue him. But Hafoc is too young to face the Wandrian alone. Will his tribe fight alongside him? And can they rescue Brond before it’s too late?
2014 Tom lives a life of quiet, orderly routine. He needs it that way. But when he sees a mysterious stranger, his life begins to unravel. Who is watching him? And why do they seem hell bent on ruining his life? To find the answers, Tom must confront his inner demons. And finally, he must face his past.
2018 Cally is working hard on her studies at university, so when she’s instructed to drop her research, she’s devastated. Will she give in or will she rebel? The decision is taken out of her hands when she finds herself caught up in a conspiracy. Why are the authorities trying to stop her research? And who can she trust?
Outcast will be released in 2016.
Scaderstone Pit–The Darkeningstone Book III
In the year 3550 BC, a woman runs for her life. She must find shelter before nightfall. But why is she so afraid?
In 1919, the new owners of Scaderstone Rock prepare to open a quarry on the site. But what will they discover? Will the secrets of Scaderstone finally be unveiled?
And in the future, what lies in store for Jake? He needs answers. But where can he turn? There is perhaps one person who can help him.
Scaderstone Pit will be released in 2016.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mikey was born in Scarborough, North Yorkshire. He was, he says, given very little say in the matter. Some years later, during his first day at school, he discovered the wondrous world that is The Book Corner, and he has never really left it.
Although Mikey grew up in Yorkshire, he refuses to be classified according to Northern stereotypes, which is just the sort of bloody-minded attitude you’d expect from a Yorkshireman.
He now lives in Devon, on the edge of the wilds of Dartmoor, with his wife, two children, and black Labrador called Lottie. He has more books than are strictly necessary, but not quite enough to have his house reclassified as a library. Apparently.
On the subject of writing, he says:
“I love the savage business of writing—it’s edgy, exciting and much harder work than everyone thinks.”
Now we bring you the anecdote:
Mikey has had lunch with the late Sir Terry Pratchett a couple of times. And you’ll be pleased to know that Sir Terry was just as warm and humorous as his books.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
Editor: Jason Whited
Copyright © 2013 by Mikey Campling
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Also by Mikey Campling
The Collective SciFi
The God-Machine
Standalone
Breaking Ground: A Tale of Mystery and Suspense Across Time
Watch for more at Mikey Campling’s site.
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