Kymiera

by Steve Turnbull

  Most people would have taken the road around the perimeter where there was light and people. Whatever lights the park had once had—there were lampposts—were long gone and no one replaced them. There were more important things to worry about.

  Chloe was cautious but not concerned; she had walked this route alone many times in daylight and at night. It gave her a chance to think. And she had a lot to think about.

  Miss Kepple was right about one thing; she did have a strong idea of what was right and wrong. That was why she wanted to join the Purity. That was the reason she tried to help her friends. But now she was confronted with what she could only regard as an ultimatum: If she wanted to lead this new young people’s group she had to leave Ashley, Kavi and Melinda behind.

  That did not seem right.

  After all they were not freaks. They just had the misfortune of being connected to people who had been infected. Just like getting the flu. Miss Kepple and the teachers acted the same way as the schoolkids—the only difference was that the adults were hypocritical.

  And she was in the middle in more ways than one.

  The sound of an approaching bicycle made Chloe stop and move to the side. She looked round but even accepting it was dark there was no sign of it. But she could still hear it bumping over the rough surface of the path. She could even hear its mechanical bell dinging on the big bumps.

  She turned her head and stared in the direction of the sound. Long moments passed and then a dim light moved in the trees. It resolved into a bicycle lamp and the rest of it emerged from the shadows. The rider had his head down peering intently at the path and trying to dodge the potholes. She did not think he even saw her as he trundled past.

  It did not seem to be making a lot of noise so the fact she had heard it clearly before it became visible was confusing. She thought she remembered that sound travelled over water; perhaps the lake made the difference.

  She knew she was trying to convince herself because she really did not believe it even saying it to herself. There was no water between her and where the bicycle had emerged. Even now she could hear it disappearing into the distance but it was out of sight.

  She shook her head and walked on. She tried to recall where her train of thought had led her but, as she came out of the park onto the street, she could not.

  Spots of rain were starting to fall as she went through the gate of the house and pushed her key into the lock. Even though her father had a job, quite a good one with an engineering company, they could not afford an electronic lock.

  A wave of hot air poured out as she opened the door. She had forgotten it was her dad’s FreakWatch meeting tonight. She sighed and closed the door as quietly as she could. Voices emerged from the front room.

  ‘What about you, Colin?’ she heard her father say.

  She recognised the voice of Mr Thackeray from down the road. ‘Mrs Wilberforce at 37 insists that there’s something odd about her neighbours at 39.’

  ‘Any particulars?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Thackeray, ‘they don’t go out much.’

  Chloe sighed. These meetings were always the same with petty-minded people whining about anything that did not match their personal expectations.

  She did not wait to hear her father’s reply but went past the door and through into the kitchen. She was starving again.

  Her mother was standing by the screen in the corner, leaning on a chair beside her. The display was filled with the face of a crying woman: Mary Vogler, Melinda’s mother.

  The table showed signs that dinner had already been eaten. That was usual on FreakWatch evenings. They didn’t know how long they would last so her parents ate early, as soon as dad got home from work. Hers would be in the oven. Chloe could smell burnt cheese.

  ‘Of course she’s all right, Mary,’ said her mother. She was using the earbuds so Chloe couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation. She didn’t stare because Mary could no doubt see her in the background. Better to act as if she was unaware.

  Chloe had to use the oven gloves to get the plate; it was too hot. The heat was getting even too much for the gloves by the time Chloe had managed to grab a mat from a side drawer and get it onto the table before she was forced to drop the plate heavily. Her mother glanced round and frowned at her.

  ‘But you can’t, you have to let them go sometime. You know it’s not your fault.’

  Chloe dug a knife and fork from another drawer and sat down. She could feel the heat of the plate on her face. Dinner was cubed swede and baked fish, all topped with cheese. Where the cheese touched the plate it had burned black.

  Carefully, so as not to touch the plate with her hand, Chloe scooped some swede onto her fork and put it down at the side to cool separately. Her stomach growled.

  There was an unframed photograph lying on the table. Chloe recognised it immediately. Two smiling couples posing on a road, each woman holding a young baby with the men standing protectively slightly behind.

  The two women, seventeen years older, were talking in the corner. One of the men was her father; the other was Melinda’s dad, Geoffrey. The street was nondescript; all you could see was a brick wall but there was a road sign saying Fanshawe Crescent. Chloe brought the fork tentatively to her lips and tried out the food. It was still very hot but she could manage it.

  ‘We have to trust them ... all right, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. She’ll be fine. Bye.’

  Her mother touched the screen at the bottom and it went black for a moment to be replaced by a gentle swirling pattern of interlocking spirals.

  ‘That was Mary.’

  Chloe nodded and tried breaking up the food into smaller piles, spreading it out so there was more surface area exposed to the air. It should cool quicker like that.

  Her mother came over to the table and plonked herself down heavily opposite. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if it was you.’

  Chloe took a moment to swallow. ‘I’m all right. Did she say what the police are doing?’

  Her mother sighed. ‘They won’t tell her anything. Just following lines of enquiry.’

  ‘I should have said something,’ said Chloe.

  ‘It’s not your fault, sweetheart,’ her mother hesitated, ‘I just don’t know how they can lose children like that. I mean, we let them put these things in our heads so they know where everyone is and can make sure anyone who’d infected can easily be found.’

  ‘It’s easy to get round, Mum,’ said Chloe. She tried some dinner, it was cooling. ‘Get in a car, go underground, wear a tinfoil hat.’

  ‘Don’t.’ Her mother reached out and grabbed Chloe’s hand, thankfully not the one with the fork. ‘I don’t want to lose you Chloe.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Chloe. ‘I just wish I could have done something. Why didn’t I?’

  ‘Nobody likes to pry.’

  ‘Tell that to Dad’s FreakWatch friends.’

  ‘Don’t call it that.’

  Chloe extricated her hand from her mother’s and picked up the knife. She didn’t need it; the dinner was soft enough that the fork alone would do. But she suddenly did not want her mother holding her hand.

  ‘They’re just a bunch of vicious gossips.’ And no different to everyone else, including the people in the Purity if Miss Kepple is typical. ‘They never actually do anything useful.’ The anger and frustration that had been festering inside her suddenly boiled over. ‘Nobody does anything. You talk and talk, mouthing words and saying nobody can do anything about anything, it’s all too hard, mustn’t interfere except when you think someone’s harbouring a freak.’

  She pushed herself to her feet, the chair almost toppled over but she felt it go and caught it without even thinking.

  ‘I am fed up being told that no one can do anything. We have to do something!’

  She grabbed the plate and stormed out of the room and up the stairs. There was silence from the front room. They must have heard her. So what?

  Chloe did not bother chan
ging out of her school clothes. She dropped the plate on the bed and took up a balanced stance in front of her punchbag. It was an old leather one that had seen better days. Sensei had bought a new one and bequeathed the old one to her.

  She slammed a straight punch into it making it quiver. She followed up with a jab from the left. She adjusted her stance slightly—wearing ordinary clothes felt odd; her body was trained to expect her to be barefoot and in her gi.

  She ignored what her body expected and slammed punch after punch into the bag. Sequences of one fist then the other, patterns shifting sides. She swapped stance and repeated. As the sweat streamed off her she switched it up and added imaginary blocks.

  Her school skirt was pleated with plenty of give. She lashed out with a right side-kick and stretched for a roundhouse with the other leg, striking with her shoe at the top of the bag. Sensei did not think much of roundhouse kicks—they left you open and easily knocked off balance. She put her hands flat on the ground with her back to the bag and kicked up three times. In her mind she was Melinda kicking the people that took her.

  Her imagination became her reality. She pushed herself up and spun around. She beat the punchbag with every punch and kick she could muster. She did not even realise she was crying until she collapsed to the floor exhausted and panting. Her back ached but did not seem inclined to inflict pain.

  Her stomach told her it was hungry again. The plate of food was almost cold and she ate it all.

  Why couldn’t she do anything about it? Why did she have to wait?

  The police would be investigating, said the side of her that was her mother. They know what they are doing.

  But they don’t know Melinda. She looked up at the picture she had of the two of them making faces at the camera when they were about ten. It made her smile.

  She knew she ought to do something, but she had no idea what that could be.

  Chapter 14

  Jason

  The muffled roar from a beast with a hundred throats went up. The two-hundred-year-old warehouse, with its thick, mossy walls and covered windows, was a deeper shadow against the dark of the trees that fought to grow in the cracks between the flagstones. The sky was overcast though there was a patch of silver where the moon hung.

  Among the shadows Jason Lomax moved silent as a breath.

  The door was shut and guarded. There was no way he would get in that way. Another roar went up. The freaks must be making a good show. Jason did not care. There were other guards set out at the entrances to the industrial estate. They were on the lookout for police or the Purity. They were not interested in shadows.

  In the distance Jason heard a car moving along the road. He saw its lights shining out through the mist as it curved around the bends. The collection of warehouses, some converted to empty offices, were on a slope and downhill from the main road. Beyond that road the Pennine Hills stretched away to the small towns in the valleys and the cities on the farther slopes. Jason did not care about those either.

  He was here to eat and to steal.

  There was a wall that ran alongside the warehouse. He slipped over it in an easy motion and landed with barely a sound on the other side. The silver eyes of a cat stared at him for a moment and then vanished into the dark.

  He made his way along the side of the wall until he reached the warehouse proper and then climbed the outside. His bare fingers found easy purchase in the brick and stonework. The years of weathering made some of it unreliable; it crumbled under his fingers, but there were plenty of gaps.

  The roof was corrugated plastic, brittle with age. To prevent light from the fights from shining up through it the ceiling crossbeams had been hung with cloths. He could see down through them into the melee of the battle and the chaos among the men who watched it. Mostly men, and a few whores.

  The fight organisers were nothing if not thorough. The fights were the big draw and the gambling that went on, but they made their extra cash from the alcohol, drugs and prostitution. They had some of the office space set aside.

  There had been a hole in the roof here the last time, just a little higher and towards the middle, but it had been patched. No problem. He climbed along the edge of the roof to ensure his weight only pressed against the solid wall beneath. At the apex the wall was truncated but the roof continued to rise the final few inches. And between them was a triangular gap.

  Clinging upside down to the main strut that ran the length of the roof, Jason wriggled through. The sounds from below increased in volume and the moist heat was oppressive. The place stank of men, urine, and alcohol. The shouts and laughter battered at his ears as the scents assaulted him.

  He paused to allow himself to adapt to the onslaught. It always took a few moments but his awareness dulled and the volume of the experiences reduced.

  He turned his head to check the position and distance and then dropped to a lower metal girder and crouched. His balance was perfect. The girder itself was most likely original and was covered in rust. He needed to take care not to disturb it; while most of it would be caught in the blankets below he could not risk someone looking up.

  He did not think he would be caught. He had been seen before and had always got away. Other people were just slow. But better he was not seen at all.

  There was the sound of something hard snapping, a moan of pain and an unpleasant squelch. He was deafened by the explosion of sound, the cheers and the complaints, the swearing for pleasure and disgust. He looked down into the cage—sealed to avoid any chance of S.I.D infection—one of the freaks was on the floor. At first glance it did not look too horrific, until you noticed a small second head with extra limbs sprouting from the chest and hips.

  The original face was crushed on one side but a very human eye stared up at the thing that was killing it. Something so far gone that it looked like a monstrous combination of a crab and a tree. Its exoskeleton had root-tendrils growing across it. Jason imagined it must be feeding off itself.

  As he watched it raised its crab-claw right arm and smashed it into the bigger head. The smaller head set up a childlike wailing before it too was smashed.

  Jason shook himself. He did not care.

  There would be a break of half an hour while they cleared the cage and brought on the next pair. Barely disturbing the dust and rust, he traversed the length of the warehouse and came to a stop above the rooms used by the women. He could see what went on perfectly clearly. It did not interest him.

  There was a small passage between them that led to a toilet. The stench was appalling. Ensuring no one was heading his way, he descended to floor level and, with his hoodie in place over his head, ensuring that his face was in shadow, he stepped out into the maelstrom of people.

  Dog

  Dog had been careful not to look up. Mendelssohn did not understand the way it was with some of them. This one was used to working alone. If Dog and Mendelssohn turned up the following night without warning and tried to recruit him, they would never see him again. And Dog knew how good the thief was.

  He watched as the fellow—he really was very small—slipped out from the shadows that led to the latrine. Dog could barely stand the smell of the place and he was used to it. Ordinary people had no idea what the real world smelled like.

  Dog lost sight of his prey was the crowds moved around him. If this sneak was true to form he would make a pass across the room and back, then he would be gone.

  He never stuck around long, just enough time to lift a few items. Dog had never actually seen him do it, but he’d seen the results when someone found their wallet was suddenly empty of money. Usually long after this guy had gone. He was so smooth and so fast.

  But this time Dog needed to talk to him. The sneak was heading in his direction but would pass him about fifteen feet away. Dog casually stood and headed on a course that would not quite intercept. He was sure the little fellow had senses as good as his, at least.

  Dog passed a table and removed a beer bottle. Its owner was busy talki
ng to someone else. He took a swig as he moved and sat on a stool by an unoccupied table. People were still busy sorting out their winnings.

  Dog did not look up but watched as the threadbare hoodie moved past. He carefully pulled one of the two packages from his pocket and put it on the table.

  ‘Hey, hoodie.’

  There was a blur of motion and he was three yards away. Dog spoke low, certain he’d be able to hear. ‘I’m not turning you in. Just want to talk.’

  Hoodie did not move.

  ‘Got a couple of pies, thought you might like one.’

  The hoodie moved. The pie was gone but he was standing closer.

  ‘Or two. Whatever. Time is money, or pies.’

  Dog finally lifted his head and looked into the hood. Nothing but dark.

  ‘My name’s Dog.’

  The noise and the people flowed around them. Hoodie moved closer but stayed out of reach. Dog could see he was ready to flee in a moment.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I know you’re not the same as everyone else,’ the tension in Hoodie’s body increased, ‘I’m not either. I mean I know you’re different. Like me. I’m not going to grass you up. I know you’re not S.I.D. You’ve been like this all your life. Like me.’

  Hoodie glanced at the cages; at least, Dog saw a movement that was probably that.

  ‘Yeah, that.’

  Hoodie moved a little closer.

  ‘So, anyway. I work for a guy. He knows about us, understands we have special skills. I do things for him and he looks after me. You could work for him too. What do you think?’

  This time there was no mistaking the shaking of the head. But in doing it the hoodie over his head moved in the light and Dog saw something in the shadows. In that moment all he could think of was tentacles. No wonder he kept his head covered.

  ‘No need to be hasty, my fine young friend. Think about it. You wouldn’t have to do this petty stuff,’ he gestured around. ‘He looks after us; it’s like a family. He makes sure we have what we need.’