For a moment he thought he heard something, and instantly prayed to God that he hadn’t. How could human ears possibly hear the voice of this entity without driving the owner insane?
Then lights. Tiny, far off pinpricks of weak light in the darkness around him.
It took him a long time to realise they were stars.
Now they rushed towards him, and then past him. Their speed increased, the stars blurring into thin white lines like strands of incandescent spaghetti as they raced past him - or rather, as he raced past them. Hurtled through the void.
Or pulled. Deeper into space, towards whatever awaited him.
A journey that crossed such distances it must have lasted for millennia ended as abruptly as it began. Freed from all earthly senses and perceptions, freed from the limitations imposed on the human body and mind, Andy Hughes had suffered none of the soul-grinding weariness or ennui that he would have associated with such journeys like those in the science fiction books of his childhood.
It didn’t appear to be much of a destination. No swirling milky spirals of densely packed suns, no rainbow-hued clouds of cosmic gases, no explosions of new-born stars.
Just the same blackness as before, pinpricked with stars that were motionless.
No, he realised. Not quite the same as before. The stars here seemed faint: shining feebly with a weaker light, and there were far fewer of them.
They were dying. As thought the blackness around them was a poison, slowly draining the light - and life - from each.
Rubbish, he told himself. But he wasn’t sure which the most disturbing scenario was. The first option - that the darkness wasn’t an absence of light but a very real, physical presence that contained an evil inconceivable to human perceptions.
Or the second option - that the stars here were dimmer, their glory fading as they died alone, because he was at the furthest flung outpost of the universe. That he was here at the very borders of the end of creation.
Beyond that, there could only be nothing. Less than nothing…
The blackness opened up before him, a horizontal line of deep, scarlet light that would have burned earthly eyes if he had been witnessing it through them.
He had no idea of how close to - or how far from - he was to this line. He couldn’t see an end to either side of it - perhaps there was no end. It was beyond human measurements or perceptions of distance. He felt his mind crumble at the sheer effort of trying to perceive it…
Now it grew. The scarlet line became a wall, a barrier that blazed through the darkness.
The upper and lower boundaries were curved slightly, a meniscus, rolling away from something spherical.
In the centre of the light, as the black curtains rolled fully away, lay a pit of darkness, deeper and blacker than the empty void of space that had surrounded it earlier. A darkness that hungered for life.
At the very end of the universe, at the last outpost of creation, Andy Hughes found himself staring into an eye.
The incandescent, almost liquid quality of the scarlet light that had opened earlier was formed the eye’s sclera. No iris, just an unmoving pit of blackness sat in the centre of this orb of furious light like a malevolent black hole, greedily sucking in any trace of life that passed nearby.
This was more than some alien optic. It was the force that had pulled him across the galaxies at incomprehensible speed and distance. It had paused, allowed him to look upon its hideous, limitless glory to awe him with its power before resuming its pulling.
It seemed an age before the growing blackness overtook the entire scarlet sclera from his vision. A lifetime for him to anticipate what lay beyond this final exit from the universe, this grim doorway to another - another what? He asked himself. Dimension, parallel universe - or Hell itself?
The eye didn’t blink as it drew him in. But the darkness disappeared instantly, as though he had passed through a heavy curtain of impenetrable blackness to view the terrible show on the stage behind.
A show of horrors that threatened to shatter his mind into pieces more numerous than the dwindling stars he had passed on his impossible journey. Andy knew that he was truly in Hell.
Now he saw the fate of those offered to Andraste. The physical tortures that had accompanied them in their last agonised hours should have ended with their lives. Not so. Freeland was correct.
He now had an idea of the sheer scale of Andraste’s power in the number of victims that writhed and thrashed in the vacuum around him. Everywhere he could see, the offerings to Andraste screamed soundlessly, mouths stretched wide to give vent to the agonies they each suffered. Eyes rested on him briefly, awareness of one who was not like them. Pitiful, mute pleas for help that they knew would never come burned from their eye sockets before they turned away to concentrate on their own, individual suffering.
Limbs tore themselves from torsos: skin peeled itself away and burned to an instant crisp. Jaws were stretched wide, dislocated, and tongues wrenched free by the same invisible forces that tore the teeth away in fractured lumps from the gum. Blood welled up in earlobes and dribbled downwards. Eyes bubbled and popped in the faces of some of the offerings whilst in others the orbs were simply scooped away and snapped clean from the sockets.
It took some time for Andy to appreciate the sheer scale of the suffering in front of him, because each victim was torn to pieces in different ways, at different times, so that he didn’t immediately take in the fact that the tortures were repeated on the victims as soon as they ended.
He recognised certain faces that he had seen moments before, now fully intact, only to be stripped of their defining features as the unseen forces of Andraste’s pain machine tore them to shreds once more.
And through it all, the most horrifying, obscene aspect of this eternal, unrelenting blood-show, was that each of the victims was unaware that others suffered with them. Eyes that had registered the presence of Andy failed to recognise the existence of other victims that suffered equally.
Each was in their own, private Hell. Tortured to death, torn to pieces, dying in agony and reborn in pain, forever alone.
Andy closed his eyes and screamed. He screamed for all the souls suffering in front of him. For the dead who could not die, who found no release from their suffering after death. And most of all he screamed for Jennifer Callaby, who was fated to join the flocks of ravaged souls in this abomination of an afterlife. He screamed his defiance of Andraste, a vow that she would never have Jen.
A voice. A single voice in this deafened wilderness of suffering where even the screams of the damned were silenced. A whisper, barely perceptible at first. A female voice.
Jennifer will join my choir. You have no say in the matter.
“You’ll never have her!” Andy screamed again.
Her path has already been chosen. She belongs to me.
“She belongs to no-one!”
She is mine. The propitiation has commenced. She will join my choir…
“SHE GOES NOWHERE! SHE COMES HOME WITH ME!”
You dare to defy me? You doubt my power?
* * * * *
The attack began the moment the light in the dead boar’s eyes faded to black. There was no hesitation, no delay and if Rob didn’t act quickly, no chance.
There was no way Jason was going to be able to repeat his success with four of the fuckers tearing towards them. They hurtled onwards with a chorus of guttural snarls and a thunder of trotters beating on frozen earth. A strange, maniacal roar of rage and savage glee that could only have come from Jason.
Jesus Christ, the mental bastard’s actually enjoying this!
It was the armed porter that went down first. Rob Benson watched in horror as the Yorkshireman crashed to the ground. His left arm was trapped beneath a beast that was burrowing its tusks into his side. He scrabbled in the frozen mud for the Browning with his damaged hand, the desperate screams of the porter chilling him to the bone. The porter had only his damaged hand free, and his shattered knuckles would n
ot allow him to grip the gun, let alone put a finger into the trigger guard.
At least it was keeping one of the beasts busy. There were only three to deal with.
Rob leant over the bonnet of the Mondeo and squeezed off two shots at the boar nearest to him. It went down, squealing and roaring at the same time. Black blood pumped slowly from the hole in its right flank like sump oil. Another round from the Glock and the top of its head came away.
Its companion continued its destruction of the porter, oblivious to everything except the warm innards and gushing, life-giving fluid that drenched its head.
The other two had turned to attack the grinning Jason. His arms were extended, beckoning each creature to strike first. They pawed the ground on either side of him, steam rising from their open maws. Their eyes glowed ebony in the light, matched by the intensity of the light that shone in Jason’s eyes.
Rob shook his head disbelievingly as he brought the Glock up. You ain’t indestructible, young mentalist. You can’t take both of them on.
He waited for a moment, the gun trembling in his hands. He needed to wait, to see which one Jason would go for first…
Jason swung to his left. The probe described a silver arc in the headlights and slid effortlessly into an undead eye.
He’s really got that thing down to a fine art, Rob thought as he aimed at the other beast. Just as well he’s on my side. For now…
Right flank fully exposed. A clear shot. Rob fired.
The reports from the Glock were drowned out by the cries of the two boars. The squeals of pain and death were nightmarish, identical to the cries of the boar in the warehouse.
These were not the pitiful cries of creatures in pain. They were monstrous howls of rage and fury from creatures that knew death all too well. They had already experienced its dark embrace and had no fear of it for they knew that - for them, at least - it was purely temporary. That they would return.
He continued firing until the magazine was empty. Only when the beasts were silent did he hear the firing pin clicking on empty chambers. And knew that there was still one more boar to be taken down.
He glanced fearfully to his left and saw the beast retreating from the dead porter, pieces of torn intestine looped around its tusks like some grim Christmas garland. It snorted, blowing out thick red human blood from its nostrils, daring Rob to come towards it to retrieve the Browning.
It lay in the bloodstained snow and churned mud, shiny and enticing, like the best Christmas present he could ever hope for.
It was also just two inches from the dead porter’s outstretched fingers.
Shit. Now what? He glanced back and saw that Jason had disappeared. Where he stood before there was nothing but congealing black blood from the boar’s head.
“Cheers, pal…” then he saw the cab of the Luton was rocking back and forth. What’s he fucking doing in there?
Jason emerged with something green and bulbous in his right hand. Only when he stepped over the dead boars and advanced fearlessly towards the front of the Mondeo did Rob Benson realise what it was.
The cap of the plastic petrol can was tossed contemptuously towards the remaining boar. Its nostrils twitched wetly, scenting the acrid aroma of unleaded.
“I’ll wash. You dry.”
What? Then Rob knew what Jason meant. The can was jerked sideways, its contents thrown over the boar’s head. Washing the blood from its tusks. It sneezed, its eyes squeezing shut.
Rob felt in his fleece pockets with his left hand and found an empty packet of Mayfairs. Where was his fresh one? And where was that fucking lighter?
Another splash of liquid. The boar roared.
In the car, he realised. He stepped backwards, leaned into the driver’s seat and saw the Clipper lying on the dashboard with the fresh pack of cigarettes. He tossed the spent Glock onto the passenger seat and picked up the lighter.
He exited the car and thumbed the wheel of the lighter. A buttery, golden flame leapt up to greet him. He held the empty cigarette pack over it, turning it to make sure flames engulfed it completely before throwing it at the petrol-soaked boar.
Hog roast from Hell, he thought darkly as the stench of the burning boar flesh reached his nostrils. He’d never eat bacon or pork again.
Jason smiled at the unearthly screams from the creature, his face glowing hellishly in the dancing flames of the burning beast. He flared his nostrils and closed his eyes, appreciating the stench.
“Oi, Bisto Kid!” Rob’s eyes streamed from the heat and the black smoke.
Jason opened his eyes with a frown.
“We’ve washed and dried. Let’s put the dishes away.”
Jason grinned. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
He walked over to the burning pyre, picked up the Browning and tossed it to Rob.
Rob caught it with one hand: his streaming eyes never leaving the jerking, smouldering wreck of boar meat.
“What the fuck are those things?” He stared at the dead beasts behind Jason. It must have been a trick of the torch light. One was still twitching
He realised it was the first one that Jason had killed. It hadn’t been moving for a good five minutes. Now it was stirring.
“I think,” Rob said with forced calm “we should make a move.”
Jason followed Rob’s nervous gaze and nodded.
“Fine. But I wouldn’t recommend walking. The porters might be waiting, and you’ve probably guessed that death is only temporary to our furry friends…” his eyes narrowed. “You’ve seen one of them before, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. Accidentally…‘picked one up’ night before last.” He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. He inhaled, savouring the smoke that washed away the stench of unnatural blood and cremated boar flesh. “Came back this morning. Tore my mate’s dog to pieces. Fucker.”
Jason’s eyes widened. “Where?”
Rob blew smoke. “My van. It’s parked outside the porter’s lodge at the moment. Why the interest?”
“I’ll explain later. We’ll take my vehicle.”
Rob watched Jason climb into the driver’s seat of the cook-chill vehicle. Your vehicle, eh? He shuddered to think how Jason had managed to make the previous owner part company with it. With a sigh he reached into the Mondeo and switched off the lights and the engine. He had a feeling he might need the car later, if he was still alive.
Jason opened the passenger door for him. Rob thrust the Browning into his pocket. He took one last look at the twitching corpses behind him, shuddered violently and climbed into the cab.
* * * * *
The scene changed. The floating pieces of corpses, the vapour clouds of blood, all vanished. The blackened area he was in began to change, a void that gradually acquired physical form.
He no longer floated in the limbo of Andraste’s torture chamber. Gravity rooted him, held him solidly upright on frozen, black ground. He lowered his head, swallowing dryly. His throat was hoarse from screaming. How long had it lasted? How long was it possible to sustain a scream that had torn itself from the very bottom of his soul?
His head spun and he swayed on his feet. Forget that, he told himself. Get your bearings. Where am I?
He frowned. This wasn’t the medieval cavern of the Great Hall. He wasn’t even sure if he was back in Cambridge.
Night air surrounded him. Pale moonlight washed over the frozen, unploughed fields that stretched in all directions. To his right he could just make out the comforting glow of sodium vapour streetlights. Human company and the twenty first century were only a few miles away. He turned and headed for the light. The ground was firm underfoot, the unploughed earth of the field frozen and unyielding, but at least there was no snow.
Strangely, although his breath misted in front of him with every step, he didn’t feel cold. He glanced up and saw the stars glinting coldly in the heavens that hid a Hell beyond human imagining. Something caught his eye, in his peripheral vision. A light that shone slightly brighter than the stars
.
There it was. He narrowed his eyes, squinting at the pinprick of light that was moving. Growing.
Approaching.
It wasn’t just Andy Hughes that had come down to Earth. Andraste had sent something back with him. Heading in the same direction that he was taking, but it was going to get there before him.
At first it resembled a shooting star. Beautiful in its own way: a spot of heavenly light that carried a clear line of stardust in its wake.
He remembered Elizabeth Woodcock, the shooting star that had made her horse throw her into the icy wastes of Impington Common and yet had also carried her salvation. A meteorite, a piece of rock that carried the spirit of The Elder.
It could have looked nothing like this. It was a hell of a lot bigger for a start, and he was reminded of the unearthly alien eye he had travelled through earlier.
As it tore through the night sky it lit up the darkness with scarlet incandescence that reflected off the distant buildings. Just before it struck Andy saw familiar landmarks - the incinerator chimney of Addenbrooke’s hospital, the red brick tower of the University Library -he knew he was in Cambridge now.
And then they were gone, the sodium vapour of the streetlights replaced with a blinding flare of crimson light, exactly the same light that filled the eye of Andraste at the end of the universe.
It was accompanied by heat, a searing blast that turned all in its endless path to flame, instantaneous, unrelenting and unstoppable. One that would travel far beyond the city it was destroying.
Even the air burned.
Andraste’s voice made itself heard again, with peals of almost human laughter at the sight of the devastation that had begun.
You see at last. As the Covenant with me is broken, so too is your planet. Watch and despair…
Now Andy knew what Andraste meant. He knew why Searles, Franklin, and the members of All Souls believed what they did, did what they felt they had to do.
The Caretakers (2011) Page 38
