The Fury

by Alexander Gordon Smith

  ‘No,’ she said instead, choking on the word. ‘People are good, Rilke, they’re nice, most of them. I don’t want things to change.’

  Rilke’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of sympathy and compassion that was heart-breaking.

  ‘It’s too late. I’m sorry, Daisy, but it is. What’s happening to the world . . . It has already begun.’

  ‘But what is happening?’ Daisy asked, catching her breath. Rilke squeezed her hands, pulling them closer to her.

  ‘We are,’ she said. ‘We’re happening. Don’t you see? Isn’t it clear what we have to do? We’ve been sent here to make things different. To clean things up. Look inside your head, Daisy, and tell me I’m wrong.’

  She didn’t want to, not again. If she peered into those ice cubes then who knew what she might see? It would be bad, though, and there would be fire.

  ‘Please, Daisy,’ Rilke said. ‘I can’t do this without you. I need you, Schiller needs you, we all do. Just see for yourself.’

  Daisy glanced again at the boy in the corner. He would be so hungry now, and thirsty. He might die if they couldn’t wake him up. As horrible as it might be, what if she could help? She tightened her grip on Rilke’s hands, grateful at least that she wasn’t on her own. Then she closed her eyes and let the images float to the surface . . .

  It was like taking off a big coat in the middle of winter, one that was drenched with snow and water and which weighed a ton. She became as light as the dust that rose in the candlelight, free of everything and anything that could hold her down.

  Even with her eyes closed she could see the others as if they were all standing in the same room. Only they weren’t, they were scattered over the park – Adam and Chris and the new boy Marcus, still sleeping (they were sharing a dream, she realised, one involving tortoises), Jade sitting on the log flume thinking about a boy who had tried to kill her, Brick still mending the fence, his thoughts full of revenge, and Cal just outside the restaurant door, his ear against it, shivering as he tried to work out what was happening.

  There were loads more, boys and girls she didn’t yet know but who she seemed to recognise. They were everywhere, maybe twenty of them, more even, and they were all flowing this way. The sight of them – although it wasn’t quite sight, it was more than that, a vision – was dizzying, but it was comforting. These were members of her family. They were all welcome.

  The same feeling from yesterday was there too, though, and this was certainly not welcome. It tainted everything, the way the world turns the colour of old bruises when a storm is about to start, and it made her feel like crying even though it had been so good to soar through her thoughts. She wanted to be away from this thing, whatever it was, and she fought to claw her way back into her body.

  It’s okay, nothing can hurt us here. The voice was Rilke’s, emanating from everywhere. Just a little longer, Daisy. Just so we can see it.

  Why did she want to see it? It was horrid. But Rilke was right, it couldn’t hurt them. Even though it felt like she was a million miles away in a million different places she knew she was still inside the restaurant in the little park by the sea. She focused on the dark cloud, trying to work out what it was and why it felt so unkind.

  A picture began to emerge: a wide road, with fields on either side of it. There were several big black cars there, and men in suits holding guns. Some of those men were shrieking, others were pointing at . . .

  What was that?

  It was a man, but he was floating inside a whirlwind of chaos, and his mouth . . . Daisy groaned. It isn’t real, it isn’t real, she told herself. But it was; this was the thing they had all sensed last night, the lord of absence. She tried to close her eyes but the pictures were in her head, the sounds coming from inside her. She could smell blood, and burning meat, and smoke, she could taste the thick, oily air on her tongue. None of it mattered, though, because the man in the storm had left her empty. There was nothing left of her. She had never, ever felt this alone.

  I want to go, she said, feeling Rilke’s hands over her own. Please, Rilke, I want to—

  A blast of light, like an old-fashioned photographer’s flash, then a raging fire bit into her skin, making her scream. It was as if the floor had given way, her stomach lurching up into her throat. She opened her eyes and the air was full of flames, flickering blue and yellow and red. Just as quickly they were extinguished, leaving the same wide road as before, only this time it was completely and utterly real. Rilke was there, her mouth open in a rictus of shock, her hair billowing around her shoulders. Both of them were standing now, their hands linked together, the wind roaring past them like a train. Hundreds of bright embers had been caught up in the gale, all being pulled in the same direction.

  Daisy watched them go, seeing them dragged towards the man in the storm. He was raised over the ground like he’d been crucified, his eyes blazing black light, his face like a drain, sucking in clouds of darkness. The noise was terrible, an inward howl like someone with asthma taking their last, desperate breath. It went on forever. All around him the air was in upheaval, like a tornado, like the one in the Wizard of Oz film. He’s a sorcerer, she had time to think. Or something worse.

  One of the cars was in the air, and Daisy looked through the windows to see five men inside, two of them dead, speared by a shaft of metal, the rest screaming. One – the man sitting in the middle of the back seat – glanced at her, and she could read the horror in his bulging eyes, his bared teeth.

  I’m sorry, she said to him. I can’t save you. And somewhere in the chaos she realised that although she was here, actually here on this road, these events had already happened. She could almost hear the vast, groaning weight of broken time.

  The man in the storm hurled out another whip-crack of black lightning, more of the world disintegrating. The car exploded into a million pieces, the bodies inside turning into sand and spiralling into the corpse’s mouth.

  Daisy screamed, even her breath stolen by the wind. The man’s lifeless eyes rolled towards her, the sensation like she’d been punched in the gut. And it knew who she was, because the raging storm seemed to call out her name – only, it wasn’t her name. It wasn’t even a word. The dead man flexed his fingers and Daisy felt herself rise from the ground. She gripped Rilke with everything she had, both of them swept up towards the vortex. And she knew that if they didn’t get away, get away right now, then they’d be pulled inside it, that they would become nothing.

  Even Rilke seemed to understand this.

  Daisy screwed her eyes shut and suddenly she was falling again, the sensation so real that her whole body flailed. Another flash, more flames. She lurched backwards, the chair spilling over behind her, making her topple. She scrabbled on the cold ground, expecting to see the storm man there, ready to suck her up. But there was just the restaurant and a blizzard of glowing embers which drifted lazily to the ground.

  Daisy waited for the real world to feel solid again before sitting up. Rilke sat on the other side of the table, wearing that same lunatic grin. She looked at Daisy, then she started to laugh.

  ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I told you that things were about to change.’

  Daisy got to her feet, half running, half tripping towards the doors, knowing she should be looking for food but desperate to get away. She flew into them, fumbling for the lock, spilling out into Cal’s arms. He held her tight in the warm glow from the foyer, stroking her hair as the tears came.

  ‘Are you okay? What happened? What did she do to you?’

  Daisy clung to him, hearing the sound of footsteps then the crunch of the doors closing behind her, the snap of the lock.

  ‘Rilke, what did you do? Daisy, Daisy look at me.’

  She tilted back her head and he ran his fingers over her cheek. They came away covered in fine, red sand.

  ‘What is this?’ he asked, and there were tears in his eyes too. ‘Tell me.’

  Daisy hugged him again, his shirt soon stained red with powdered blood.
It wasn’t hers, though. It wasn’t Rilke’s either. No, it belonged to a man whose body had disintegrated miles and miles from here, in another place and time, who had been dragged into the vortex. He had been real, it had all been real.

  And so had the man in the storm.

  Cal

  Fursville, 10.23 a.m.

  Cal lugged the heavy pan of water out the kitchen door, careful not to trip over dead Edward Maltby, who still lay there covered by a tablecloth. Steam rose from the water that slopped inside it, welcome against his face. He’d heated it on one of the industrial gas hobs, which, incredibly, still worked. Chris was standing down the corridor, outside the toilets.

  ‘Want me to take that for you?’ he asked. Cal shook his head, even though his arms were trembling with the weight of the pan. He pushed into the left-hand toilet, laying the pan down beside the small shower unit that sat beside the single cubicle. Then he ducked into the staff room next door. Daisy was sitting on the sofa, wrapped in Jade’s arms. The other girl had wiped most of the weird red sand from Daisy’s face but it was still stained pink, like she was sunburned.

  ‘Sorry it took so long,’ Cal said as Chris walked in after him. ‘Took ages to heat up.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jade. Daisy glanced up, but she was looking at something far beyond Cal, something distant. He smiled at her, and she imitated him robotically. She hadn’t said any more about what Rilke had done to her. She hadn’t said much of anything at all since coming out of the restaurant.

  ‘No worries,’ he said. ‘It’s not exactly nice through there, but it doesn’t look too bad. I’ve seen worse bathrooms in my time. Just pretend you’re at Glastonbury.’

  ‘Come on, Daisy,’ said Jade, gently tugging on her hand and easing her from the sofa. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’

  Cal waited until they’d walked from the room before turning to Chris.

  ‘Brick?’ he asked.

  ‘Won’t come, says he’s fixing up the fence. That guy . . .’ He scowled, but he didn’t finish. Cal was glad. Brick was a douche, yeah, but he had just seen his girlfriend get murdered. Cal walked past the sleeping figure of Adam and over to Marcus, shaking him gently. The new kid snorted, but it took another couple of attempts before his eyes opened. He flinched when he saw Cal, struggling inside his cocoon of tablecloths before remembering where he was.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Cal. ‘I didn’t want to wake you, but we need to know about Soapy’s.’

  ‘The car place?’ Marcus said, groaning as he sat up. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Is there more food over there?’

  He wiped the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘Um . . . Yeah, I think so. Not much, mind, a few cans, a couple of boxes of cereal maybe, that’s what I had. Tasted like turd. Thought you had stuff here?’

  ‘Long story,’ said Cal. ‘We don’t. You up for a return trip?’

  ‘Over the road?’ said Marcus. ‘Sure, just gimme a minute, yeah?’

  ‘Meet us outside,’ said Cal. He turned to Chris. ‘We should take weapons, just in case.’

  Cal walked out into the corridor and through the fire door, blinking against the glaring sunshine. There wasn’t a single cloud up there, the sky a vast, perfect blue. Any other weekend he’d be heading up the park with his mates, or into town to sit outside the library, maybe even hopping the school fence to use the pitches for a kickaround. It seemed so long ago. He was already forgetting what they looked like, all of them except Georgia. But even when he thought of her he could only see her eyes, the rest of her face hidden behind a book.

  What’s the point? Why bother trying to find food, trying to survive, when everything you had is gone?

  He sighed, the sunlight no longer quite as bright, the sky no longer quite as blue. Chris appeared beside him, scouring the ground then waddling to a waist-high clutch of sea grass and wrestling something from it. He swung the wooden plank like it was a sword and it snapped in two with a soft, rotten puff.

  ‘Guess not,’ he said, throwing it to the floor and wiping his hand down his trousers. ‘Ew, woodlice.’

  There was a rattle of chains and Marcus crawled through the fire door. He shot Cal a grin, holding his hand up to shield his eyes.

  ‘Ready when you are,’ he said.

  Cal set off again, heading for the front of the park. The big wheel towered overhead, creaking as it absorbed the morning heat. He gave it a wide berth, not wanting to be skewered if anything else decided to break free. The main path from the pavilion to the gates was strewn with rubble and debris, the earth still ruptured and black from the explosion. He spotted a rusted iron bar poking from the mess where the hot-dog stand had been and pulled it free. It was half a metre long and heavy. It wasn’t exactly a gun, but it felt good when he swung it from side to side.

  ‘There’s nobody over there,’ said Marcus. His arms were so skinny Cal didn’t think he’d be able to hold a knife and fork, let alone a club. He bounced when he walked, his gangly body flapping. The kid could have been a scarecrow.

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ said Cal, swinging the bar again, imagining it was caving in the side of Rilke’s head. The image made his stomach curdle. There was no sign of Brick as they wove through the metal struts and turned left, heading for the Boo Boo Station. He was there, though. He was watching them. Cal could feel it.

  He walked to the fence and squeezed through, laurel leaves cool and waxy against his skin. It took him a little while to find his way past the thick hedge, but eventually he popped free of the foliage and found himself on a wide road that stretched right and left for as far as he could see. He felt weirdly exposed out here. Fursville wasn’t exactly a fortress, but he’d come to think that as long as they stayed there the ferals couldn’t get them. The dealership was directly opposite, the box-shaped showroom drenched in the long shadow of the big wheel.

  ‘Coast looks clear,’ said Chris. ‘Place is deserted.’

  ‘Like I said,’ added Marcus. ‘Didn’t see a soul when I was cycling up.’

  ‘Well, don’t let your guard down,’ said Cal. ‘Stay sharp.’

  ‘Yessir, Colonel sir!’ said Chris, snapping off a salute. Marcus laughed. Cal gave them both a look, then set off over the road. Their footsteps seemed like the loudest thing in the world, like gunfire. If there was a feral anywhere nearby then surely it would hear them and come running.

  He bolted over the empty parking bays and slammed into the boarded-up showroom window. Marcus was next to him in a flash, Chris taking a few seconds longer, already out of breath.

  ‘Way in’s round the back,’ said Marcus, taking the lead around the side of the building. They passed a caged propane tank and the empty skeleton of a vending machine before reaching a door. It was open, nothing inside but darkness. Marcus slapped a hand to his head. ‘Oh yeah, I meant to say we should probably bring a torch.’

  ‘Use this,’ said Chris, fishing his phone from his pocket and holding it out. Cal didn’t take it and Chris got the hint. ‘You want me to go first? I don’t know the way.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Marcus, pulling out his own phone and stepping through the door. He vanished immediately, like he’d been swallowed up. Cal followed him, hoping the others couldn’t hear his racing pulse. Chris came in last, holding the phone over his head. They didn’t do much to light the way, covering everything in a silver moon sheen and making the shadows twice as deep. They stuck close, almost touching, as they scuffled down a short corridor.

  ‘Where you from, anyway?’ Chris said, his whisper as loud as a hurricane.

  ‘West,’ Marcus said. ‘On the border, really. Go out the front door I’m Welsh, go out the back I’m English.’

  ‘I know which one I’d rather be,’ said Chris. Marcus laughed, and Cal hushed them both. ‘I think we’re okay,’ said Chris. ‘If there was a bad guy in here they’d have sensed us by now, right?’

  He had a point, but all the same Cal didn’t feel comfortable creeping through the dark making small talk. Ther
e were two doors at the end of the corridor, one leading into the main showroom. Marcus went through the other into a large office, the floor covered in rubbish. There were rats in here, Cal could hear their faint chatter inside the walls. He opened his mouth to comment when a noise cut through the quiet, the ‘screech screech screech’ sound from Psycho. He almost screamed.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Marcus, holding up his phone. ‘Should probably change my ringtone given what’s going on.’

  ‘Think I can find some new underwear in here?’ said Chris. ‘I need it after that.’

  ‘My brother,’ Marcus explained, sliding the phone into his pocket. After a while the noise ended. ‘Keeps calling to ask where I am. Doesn’t seem to remember trying to stamp on my face with his steel caps.’

  Cal thought about his own phone. He couldn’t get a signal out here, but what would have happened if he could? Would Megan have called again? Eddie? Georgia maybe?

  Or his mum. Would she ask him where he was? Why he’d run away? The thought made his heart feel like a deflated balloon and he was grateful for the darkness as he rubbed a tear away.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Marcus, ‘look around. There isn’t much but there are bits and pieces.’

  Cal got down onto his hands and knees, trying not to notice the soft, wet pellets that littered the ground. The first couple of boxes he lifted up – one that might have been Frosties, another faded beyond recognition – were empty. The third had something living which scuttled over his fingers into the gloom. He shuddered, resisting the urge to get up and bolt, instead crawling across the floor, feeling for anything that might be useful.