Pain Cages

by Kane, Paul

  Then, just as Croft had predicted, the world began to change.

  The first thing that happened was that Phil Barnes, the motorcyclist Matthew had apparently brought back from the brink of death, got up from his hospital bed and went for a walk himself. The nurses thought he was going to the toilet, a good sign that he was recovering even more. But he wasn’t. Phil was going down into the morgue.

  He walked past the attendant in charge, who was listening to Nessun Dorma on his ipod at the time, as if he hadn’t even seen him. The man asked him exactly what he thought he was doing and Phil simply replied:

  “They’re asleep, that’s all. Just asleep.”

  Then he pulled open the freezer drawers and woke them up, one by one: men, women and children. In no time at all, the morgue was filled with reanimated corpses and the attendant had collapsed on the floor in a dead faint. He was used to cadavers making noises––groaning and farting as he moved them––but not used to them climbing out of their drawers. The last person to be woken was in quite a bad condition. His limbs were broken and he was still scarred, bruised and cut from the fall.

  However, when he looked down on himself, Douglas Knowles found that he was entirely healed, that his body was as good as… no, better than new. Life surged through him, the blood pumping in his veins full of vitality. The last thing he could remember was being on that balcony. When the man he’d killed refused to put him out of his own misery, he’d suddenly been overcome with a sense that there was no point in going on. And he owed the person standing there some kind of justice. That was when he decided to throw himself off.

  He smiled. It was a miracle.

  “Come on,” said Phil, showing the others a way out of their resting place, up into the light.

  In his hospital bed, recovering from being shot and being treated for the ‘full house’ of ulcers they’d now found in his gut, DCI Robbins saw the strange procession go past. And saw Knowles tagging on at the end. But he put it down the strong medication he was on, just as he had the return visit from Croft.

  “I can’t stand these places,” he’d told him, eating Robbins’ grapes, “they remind me of the time I had my heart attack.”

  He’d mention it to Beth the next time he saw her.

  But Beth would have other things on her mind entirely by then.

  * * *

  That night, Dr. Beth Preston was down in the lab––going through blood samples she’d squirreled away while she was still able to––when she was interrupted in her work by a child calling out her name.

  She rose from the microscope slowly, then nearly lost her balance, clutching onto the desk for support and knocking over the vials.

  “Hiya Bethany,” said the little girl in front of her. She was the only one who’d ever called her by her full name.

  “S-Sarah?” She shook her head, not trusting the evidence of her own eyes. “Sarah, is it really you?”

  The girl with long golden locks ran over and hugged her. “Course it is, silly. Who else?”

  Beth’s hand wavered, then it found the child’s back and she hugged her tight. The girl felt as real as anyone she’d ever met, as solid as… well, as solid as Matthew had been. Tears were tracking down the doctor’s cheeks, and she could taste saltwater on her lips.

  “It’s… it’s so good to see you,” Beth told her.

  “It’s good to see you, too. I was getting bored of waiting.”

  In spite of herself, Beth laughed. She held Sarah by the shoulders and bent down. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “You’re not meant to,” Sarah said. “Not yet. But you will.” She took Beth’s hand and began to tug it.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Beth hung back. “Hold on, Sarah. I have to say something.”

  Sarah looked puzzled. “Can’t it wait?”

  “No,” said Beth, shaking her head. “Not really.”

  Sarah looked up and nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” said the doctor.

  “What for?”

  “You know, for what happened.”

  The penny dropped and Sarah suddenly grinned. “Oh that. It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “But if I’d picked it up earlier then maybe––”

  “It was meant to happen, Bethany,” Sarah told her. “There was no way you could have known about the clot.” She tittered. “Sounds like cream, doesn’t it?” When Becky didn’t join in, Sarah said, “Could’ve happened anytime.”

  “But I’m a doctor, I should’ve seen the signs––”

  Sarah put a finger to her lips. “It made you a better one. Think about all the good you’ve done. Now,” she said seriously, “we’ve really got to go, there are things to do.”

  It was Beth’s turn to be puzzled. “What things?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Wait.” Beth pulled her back again. “I need to tell you one last thing.”

  Sarah sighed. “Kay.”

  “I love you.”

  Sarah beamed. “I love you too, sis. Now let’s go.” She pulled on Beth’s hand and led her out of the lab.

  * * *

  These weren’t the only occurrences.

  All around the country, all over the globe, people were seeing the dead. Not ghosts, but living, breathing human beings––of a kind. Mrs. Shaw, the school helper, woke up from yet another troubled sleep only to see the figure of young Oliver at the foot of her bed, burn marks from the rope still around his neck. Terrified, and thinking she’d brought the images from her nightmare into the real world, she tried to wake her husband. But he just kept on snoring beside her.

  Oliver held out his hand for her to take it, and she felt compelled to do so…

  Across town Thomas Valentine was shocked to see that his best friend from college, Martin Raines, who had drowned during the Tsunami disaster in Sri Lanka, was playing computer games on the X-Box in his living room. Meanwhile WPC Trisha Adams’ discovered that her Granddad, who’d passed away from a stroke when she was only a little girl, had come to visit offering her a bag of those sticky toffees he always used to bring.

  And as PC Frank Wilson was sitting down to eat breakfast, he found that his Uncle Ted and Auntie Rita, the couple who had taken him in as a child and brought him up as their own, were suddenly in the room with him. Ted was making himself a cup of coffee and Auntie Rita was asking him if there was any toast left. He was scared and happy at the same time, but he wasn’t really surprised. After all, the dead man in the cell had told him he would see them again soon.

  * * *

  In the cold, damp cellar he waited.

  It wasn’t comfortable: he was hungry and he couldn’t feel his hands now, but he had to wait it out. What he’d done had been right, of that he had no doubt. But the authorities wouldn’t see it that way. They’d probably been to search for him already, though he doubted whether they’d find this hiding place––used to protect the faithful during the blitz when the bombing had been fierce. Why, they’d even held services down here.

  Smiling, he patted the instrument he’d used to rid the earth of that monstrous creation. His father’s trusty old service revolver, given to his mother after the great man’s death. It had been used back then in the name of good, fighting the forces of evil, and he’d put it to use in much the same way.

  Father Lilley struck a match and lit the altar candle he’d brought down with him. He wished to consult the good book once again. But in the half-light he saw something stirring there. A shadow at the back of the cellar.

  “Who’s there?” he asked, snatching up the revolver.

  The shadow drifted closer and, in spite of himself, Lilley let off another bullet.

  “Put that thing down, right now,” said the voice, stern but with genuine feeling. “Put it down before you hurt anyone else.”

  Lilley recognized the voice, but it couldn’t be who he thought it was. “Father?”

  The Captain, still in
uniform, walked over towards him shaking his head. “Gerald, what did you think you were doing?”

  “This isn’t real,” gibbered Lilley. “It’s a trick, the Devil’s work.”

  “He has been at work, yes, but not here. Not today. It was not me who told you to shoot that man.” His father, the moustache he sported twitching, reached forward and took the gun from him.

  “Our father who art in Heaven––” began Lilley.

  “Not anymore,” said his own father, seriously.

  “Begone demon. I smite thee from the Earth!”

  The army man picked up the bible and leafed through it. “You’re so fond of quoting these passages, Gerald. Here’s one for you: ‘And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened: and another book was opened, which is the book of life, and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works. And the sea gave up the dead which were in it, and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them: and they were judged, every man according to his works.’”

  Lilley’s face froze. “The Book of Revelation.”

  His father nodded. “The immortal body is real, Gerald. And yet that same body can pass through an object, or pick up the object.” He looked down at his old gun. “They also have none of the defects they had in life.”

  Lilley was shaking. His father grabbed him by the hand and started to drag him up the stairs to the hidden door beneath the altar itself. “No!” screamed Lilley. “It can’t be.”

  The soldier dragged Lilley out into the church and forced him to look through the window. There, in the graveyard, were the dead. Each one standing next to the grave they had risen from, the soil on top untouched (in fact the only hole there was at Matthew Daley’s plot). Their clothes ranged from the quite recent, to centuries old. All were looking at him, all were pointing.

  “Now do you understand, Gerald? Around the world, those who have died in conflicts like mine––those who are still dying––they are coming back, too.”

  Lilley grabbed the gun off his father and placed it against his head. Before the Captain could do anything, the trigger had been pulled and the last bullet punched a hole in Lilley’s skull. To the priest’s own amazement, though, he didn’t fall down. He dropped the weapon and touched the wound in the side of his head, looking at the disgusting mess on his fingers.

  His father went to the font and dipped a cup into the water, bowing his head at the stained glass image of Christ above him. The he returned to his son and washed away the blood on his scalp. The hole was gone.

  “‘And immediately there fell from his eyes as it had been scales: and he received sight forthwith, and arose, and was baptized.’ That’s Acts Nine, Eighteen, Gerald,” said the man.

  Lilley started to cry. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  The Captain held him for a moment, then pulled away. “It’s time to go, boy.”

  He placed a hand on his son’s back and led him out of the church. Lilley turned and looked up at his much younger father. “Will I be spared for my foolish actions?” he asked.

  The Captain didn’t reply. He just carried on walking, the dead from the graveyard following them both on their way up the road.

  Epilogue

  Irene Daley woke from the deepest sleep she’d had in years. She could remember the priest being here, them praying and discussing Matthew. And then she must have fallen asleep, except she had the vaguest recollection of trying to wake up and not being able to. She looked at the clock by the side of her; it was just gone nine. But the date must have been wrong on it, because according to that she’d been in bed the past few days.

  There was a knocking at the door downstairs. It was probably Father Lilley back again to tell her what was happening. She got up, feeling none of the usual aches and pains that came with age. No cracks of the knees, no arthritis, which was always wicked first thing in the morning. In fact she felt better than she ever had in her life.

  Pulling on her dressing gown she went downstairs. There was a shadow waiting there and she hesitated, flashing back to that morning almost a week ago. But something told her not to be afraid this time, something told her to open the door.

  So she did.

  And it was like a replay of before: There was the man who’d looked so much like Matthew, who she now knew was Matthew, only he’d been changed, just like she herself had been changed. And it was time to go somewhere, she knew that as well, although she had no idea how.

  “Hello Mum,” said Matthew.

  Instead of passing out this time, instead of being afraid, lashing out, she put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “Welcome home, son,” she whispered, her eyes watering. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” he assured her. “None of that matters now anyway.”

  “We have to go, don’t we?”

  He nodded. “I was allowed to come and get you. But yes, they’re waiting.”

  “Right,” she said. Irene shut the door behind them and was about to lock up when she realized how daft that would be. She took her son’s arm and he walked her down the path. Birds were flying overhead––huge birds, almost humanlike––and it was a beautiful day. The flowers were blooming on her front lawn. He opened the freshly painted gate and the new hinges didn’t make a sound.

  The streets beyond were full of people. Some she recognized from round and about, like the pot-bellied man from across the road, others she’d never seen before. Relatives: long lost sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, grandfathers, grandmothers, and back further still. It would be the same the world over; she knew that as well.

  “Will he be there, too? Arnold?” she asked Matthew as they went through the gate.

  “Dad?” he said. “Of course. He’s waiting for us.”

  Irene smiled at that and patted her son’s hand. “You’re a good boy.”

  They joined the throng, fitting into place alongside them. The living, the dead––all were here. All were heading off over the horizon. As finally, it had come: a time to be judged rather than to judge.

  The day that lasted a thousand years had finally begun.

  ‘Marvel not at this: for the hour is coming, in the which all that are in the graves shall hear his voice, and shall come forth; they that have done good, unto the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil, unto the resurrection of damnation.’

  (John 5:28-29)

  About The Author

  Paul Kane began his professional writing career in 1996, providing articles and reviews for newsstand publications (most recently he has worked for The Dark Side, DeathRay, Fangoria, SFX, Dreamwatch and Rue Morgue), and started producing dark fantasy and science fiction stories in 1998. His work has been widely published in many magazines and anthologies on both sides of the Atlantic, in all kinds of formats. He has written the collections Alone (In the Dark) (the fastest-selling BJM title of that time), Touching the Flame (which has been translated into German), FunnyBones (which went into a second printing), Peripheral Visions, Shadow Writer and The Adventures of Dalton Quayle, as well as the novellas Signs of Life (this reached the short list for the British Fantasy Awards 2006), Dalton Quayle Rides Out (introduced by Tom Holt) and RED (featuring art from Dave McKean – MirrorMask, Sandman, The Graveyard Book). He has appeared in the documentary Assembly of Rogues talking about his work, and his stories have been read on BBC Radio 2, recommended and nominated for other British Fantasy Awards, in addition to receiving honorable mentions in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror and The Best Horror of the Year edited by Ellen Datlow. He was also the recipient of Estronomicon magazine’s 2008 Dead of Night Award (Editor’s Choice) for his short story ‘A Chaos Demon Is For Life’.

  He has a B.A. and M.A. from Sheffield Hallam University and in the past has worked as a photographer, an artist, an illustrator/cartoonist and a professional proofreader; he is currently working part-time as a Creative Writing tutor in the UK. Paul
served as Special Publications Editor for the British Fantasy Society for five years, where he worked on projects with Clive Barker, Neil Gaiman, Brian Aldiss, Robert Silverberg, China Miéville, Muriel Gray, Graham Masterton and many others. He was on the organizing committee of FantasyCon for two years (as Co-Chair in 2008) and is co-chairing 2011’s event again with Guests of Honor including World Fantasy Award-winner Gwyneth Jones and John Ajvide Lindqvist, bestselling author of Let the Right One In (filmed as Let Me In for the US). Paul was also on the organizing committee of the 20th World Horror Convention in Brighton, which headlined guests such as James Herbert, Tanith Lee, Les Edwards and Ingrid Pitt. He has himself been a Guest four times at Derby’s Alt.Fiction Festival and was one of the Guests at the inaugural ‘SFX Weekender’ in February 2010. He is co-editor of the Terror Tales series of anthology books and editor of the Shadow Writers line. His story ‘Dead Time’ was developed by Lionsgate/NBC for the US network show Fear Itself, adapted by Steve Niles – creator of 30 Days of Night – under the title New Year’s Day, directed by Darren Lynn Bousman (SAW II-IV), with effects from Oscar-winners KNB (Chronicles of Narnia). Paul himself scripted The Opportunity based on his own short story – which features the vocal talents of Stephen Coates from the band The Real Tuesday Weld, and premiered at the Cannes film festival 2009 – plus The Weeping Woman filmed by award-winning director Mark Steensland, starring Tony award-nominee Stephen Geoffreys (Fright Night), with music from legendary Lucio Fulci collaborator Fabio Frizzi (The Beyond, House by the Cemetery).

  His non-fiction books are The Hellraiser Films and Their Legacy, introduced by Doug ‘Pinhead’ Bradley (which reached the nominations stage of the BFS Awards 2007) and a book of interviews with horror writers, directors and actors called Voices in the Dark (featuring the likes of James Herbert, Graham Masterton, Mike Carey, John Carpenter, Stuart Gordon, Rob Zombie, Ron Perlman, Betsy Campbell and Zach Galligan). He is co-editor of the mass market anthology Hellbound Hearts (published by Pocket Books/Simon and Schuster), which gathers together stories inspired by Clive Barker’s mythology from the likes of Christopher Golden and Mike Mignola (Baltimore and Hellboy), Kelley Armstrong (Personal Demon), Yvonne Navarro (Species & Ultraviolet), Nicholas Vince (Chatterer Cenobite), Barbie Wilde (Female Cenobite from Hellbound: Hellraiser II) and Richard Christian Matheson (Dystopia & Stephen King’s Nightmares and Dreamscapes), with a brand new cover Cenobite and introduction from Clive Barker.