Adrift 2: Sundown

by K. R. Griffiths

  It would mean leaving Remy behind. It had to: there was no way she could carry him quietly, and he was lying on his side, staring at her with abject, wide eyes; barely breathing. She doubted he could stand, let alone run.

  She clenched her jaw.

  It would break her heart to leave him.

  It would break her heart not to.

  She heard another series of thumps, even fainter still.

  Now, or never.

  She willed her muscles to move.

  Wanted to reassure Remy; to whisper that she would come back for him.

  She didn’t dare.

  Couldn’t make a sound.

  She stared into Remy’s panicked eyes, her vision blurring, and turned away.

  Just in time to see clawed feet landing heavily on the ground barely a yard in front of her face. She almost let out a yelp of surprise, and her muscles went rigid. She was too terrified even to shrink back into the shadows beneath the train.

  Definitely more than one of them.

  Another pair of feet appeared out of nowhere, just barely illuminated by the faint emergency lighting.

  And then another. Another.

  A lot more.

  The creatures were making plenty of noise. Conny figured that she was at greater risk of being spotted than heard, and quietly eased herself alongside Remy, listening as the creatures—there had to be a dozen of them—leapt up into the carriage.

  And began to feed noisily.

  The horror of the sound was incomprehensible; meat being torn and chewed. Bones being snapped like breadsticks. Human beings.

  On more than one occasion, the carriage erupted in sudden grunts and shrieking, and Conny recalled nature show footage: animals feeding alongside each other suddenly going on the attack. With each shriek and each crash, her fear intensified until it almost felt unreal. The world began to spin around her, and she shut her eyes.

  Perhaps I have gone mad.

  Maybe I’m still sitting in the van.

  Staring at my phone.

  Those two words.

  Huntington’s Disease.

  Incurable. Unstoppable. It killed usually within a couple of decades. Conny knew the disease and its cruel symptoms all too well. She’d known all about it even before Logan had been born, and she had prayed, every day since, that the hateful condition which had taken her husband would spare her son.

  But prayers had a tendency to go unanswered. Logan had exhibited symptoms so young. He had been born to die, and she wasn’t going to be around to make it right, and—

  Her eyes flared open as she heard the carriage above erupt with a new noise. It sounded like the creatures were shrieking in unison, over and over. If it hadn’t been a sound that could only have existed in Hell, Conny could have sworn that it was some sort of language, like a chant or prayer. Twisted and demented and terrifying.

  She felt Remy begin to quiver alongside her, and reached out a hand gently to reassure him, stopping dead when she heard the creatures bellow a final shriek that shook the walls, and then there was silence for a moment, before they came crashing out of the train, their clawed feet once more slamming into the ground right in front of her.

  The creatures charged away down the tunnel without pausing, almost as if answering some urgent rallying cry that she could not hear. When the thunderous clacking of their movement dissolved into silence, Conny remained frozen in place for a long time, her palm hovering above Remy’s belly, her mouth open.

  Still alive.

  23

  The London Eye was on its final rotation of the day. The vast Ferris wheel built at the turn of the century offered a magnificent, panoramic view of London from its slow-moving passenger pods, but to Hideo Kagome, the view had already been boring for at least twenty minutes.

  Hideo’s parents still seemed enthralled, though that didn’t mean a great deal; Hideo thought they were enthralled by pretty much everything in London. It was, after all, the vacation the Kagome family had been waiting to take for several years, combining a visit to Hideo’s older, UK-based brother Kasamo, with an opportunity to take in some of the most famous tourist spots in the world.

  And it was all so boring.

  Kasamo had barely been able to get any time off work, and so only saw them in the evenings when he was tired, and London? London was dusty old buildings and people with angry faces. Places where someone supposedly important had lived or died, like, hundreds of years earlier. Museums that took all day to trample around. Who cared?

  At least the Eye had been an exciting prospect, like a giant fairground ride. It had even looked cool from a distance, sitting right on the south bank of the Thames, soaring high above the nearby buildings, all lit up like Christmas as dusk began to settle over the city.

  But it was so slow. The egg-shaped pods, each large enough to hold twenty-five people—and which you couldn’t even lean out of—sealed up for the duration of the ride, and that was it for the next forty minutes: crawling up into the sky inch by boring inch until the city was laid out below…and then crawling back down. Hideo’s time would have been far better spent on his PS4, no doubt about that.

  At least it was nearly over. He pressed his face to the curved glass, trying to look straight down. The pod was, he guessed, still at least a hundred feet above the ground. Far below, the queuing area was a functional square of concrete, spattered with token splashes of greenery. It was almost empty, most of the tourists having moved on.

  Suddenly, his attention was taken by movement to his right. Something on the water. He glanced toward it, expecting to see yet another slow-moving riverboat, and frowned.

  Nothing there.

  He squinted into the last rays of the sunset, certain that he had seen something out there.

  And movement erupted directly below him.

  Hideo’s mouth dropped open, his boredom forgotten.

  So fast.

  The thing—a dark shape that he could not even begin to identify—leapt from the water up onto the path that ran alongside the river with ease, landing with a fluid motion like an uncoiling snake. It took a couple of loping strides forward and then launched itself onto all-fours, galloping like a cat toward a small knot of people sitting outside a coffee shop which overlooked the river.

  It barrelled into them at full speed, oblivious to their fearful screams…

  …scattering tables and chairs like matchsticks…

  …and began to tear them apart.

  Hideo’s eyes widened painfully as he saw an enormous splatter of blood—dark in the failing light—arcing across the pale concrete below. And then another. It looked like somebody had been ripped in two at the waist, the obscene pieces that they became tossed aside like garbage.

  He screamed then, his mouth making the noise all by itself, and he stumbled backwards, away from the window, colliding with his stunned mother and sending her crashing to the floor.

  He didn’t even hear his father yelling at him as he helped her back to her feet. For a moment, all Hideo could hear was the noise of that distant splatter; inaudible and deafening at the same time. His eyes glazed over.

  Somewhere below, a loud thump jolted him back to the present.

  The thump became a shatter.

  Glass breaking, Hideo thought in horror, and he scrambled to press his face to the window once more. The pod was closer to ground level now, ninety feet or less, and suddenly the giant fucking wheel was moving far too fast.

  It’s gonna deliver us right to it.

  He searched, panicked, for some sign of the terrible creature, but all he saw was the bodies it had left behind. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, it had already moved away from the Eye. Jumped back into the river, perhaps. Or it was in the pod at the bottom of the giant wheel, tearing the passengers to pieces…

  Hideo gagged as he stared at the remains of the group of people who’d been enjoying their last ever cup of coffee, and began to offer silent thanks that he hadn’t been down there when the monster had leapt
out of the Thames.

  His relief withered and died as the creature erupted from one of the pods directly below his, swinging easily on the frame of the Ferris wheel with long, gangling limbs, as comfortable climbing up the steel lattice of the structure as a primate.

  Oh, no, Hideo thought. Oh, no, please don’t—

  With a screech, the creature swung up to the next pod, smashing the thick glass with a single blow and leaping inside, out of sight once more.

  Distant, muted screaming.

  Hideo turned to face his mother and father, and saw his terror reflected in their eyes. They, too, had seen it. He wasn’t going crazy; the monster wasn’t a product of his imagination. It wasn’t what his mother would smile and label teenage hormones running amok.

  It was real.

  They were all about to die.

  He opened his mouth to say something, though he wasn’t sure what that might be. My final words, he thought numbly. How could a sullen fourteen-year-old boy possibly conjure up the right ones?

  “Mother,” he began to say, and the window behind him imploded.

  The words, whatever they might have been, remained unsaid; there was just no room for them as the air thickened with terror. Suddenly, in the slow-moving pod, there was only enough room for screaming.

  And dying.

  *

  Harold Birch patted at the air for a moment before his fingers landed on the cool, rough wood.

  He gripped the bench and levered himself down onto it with a sigh, setting his stick against his right leg.

  With his left hand, he reached out and ruffled the back of Brody’s neck.

  “Good boy. Take a break, Bro.”

  A moment later, Harold heard the soft whump as the dog’s generous backside hit the ground.

  Harold breathed in deeply, listening to the sounds of Hyde Park. He used to love taking Brody to walk there, and each time they visited, Harold would try to navigate to the very centre of the vast green expanse, judging that he was close to it when the sounds of the city—the background pollution that never truly dispersed—was at its quietest.

  The middle of Hyde Park was the only place in central London, in Harold’s opinion, where you could go and almost forget that you were in the city at all.

  Increasingly, though, the park hosted noisy events; on most nights it seemed that there was some band or other performing there now. Even at times when the park should have been quiet, the relentless noise of London invaded. Kids playing godawful music through tinny speakers, or people chattering loudly—and constantly—on their mobile phones. The various pings, whistles and buzzes of information hitting the electronic devices the whole world now carried everywhere. Everything so damn connected. No way to escape any of it and just be.

  Tonight, there was a rock band playing, and so Harold didn’t make for the centre of the park. He skirted the edge of it for a while, just long enough to give Brody some exercise, and rested a while before heading back home. He could hear the music in the distance, the excitable murmur of the crowd.

  The music itself was muddy and indistinct: it didn’t travel well across the park; becoming little more than a dirge at distance. Harold didn’t recognise the tune, though that didn’t surprise him. Despite the winter chill in the air, it was still early, just late afternoon, and the stage would be home to a warm-up act at this time of the day. The crowds would gather in greater numbers for the main act in two or three hours. He probably wouldn’t have recognised their music, either.

  His ears were well-tuned, though: far closer, he heard the soft swishing of bicycles passing; there were always the fitness freaks lapping the park. Groups of joggers and cyclists, mostly. Occasionally, the heavier clatter of skateboards or rollerblades. The edge of the park was constantly shifting; home to those people for whom stillness and silence were reasons for discomfort.

  The benches were set a way back from the wide path, and in the summer they bathed in the scent of flowers. During the warm months, the one that he usually sat on would be surrounded by the hum of insects, and Harold liked listening to their quiet little symphony being played out. Yet the park was so much busier in the summer, so much noisier.

  In the distance, the crowd erupted in a loud scream, and Harold blinked into the unending darkness, surprised. The main act must have taken to the stage already.

  At his left foot, Brody whined, and Harold tilted his head.

  “What’s up, Bro?”

  The dog whined again; louder.

  Harold frowned. Brody’s communication skills were a minor miracle, but this was a noise that Harold hadn’t ever heard the dog make before. A frantic, fearful noise, like Brody had seen something that terrified him.

  Harold listened intently.

  The bicycles had passed thirty seconds earlier, and he had heard nothing in his immediate vicinity since. As best he could tell, he and Brody were alone.

  He reached out to pat Brody, and paused.

  In the distance, the screaming intensified, but it sounded odd to Harold now, different in a way he couldn’t place immediately. It took him a moment to figure it out.

  The crowd was still screaming.

  But the music had stopped.

  Brody whined again, once, and then took off.

  Harold had been holding Brody’s leash in slack fingers—an unnecessary gesture since the dog was as obedient and even-tempered as a mutt could get—and he was too slow to react when he felt the cold leather slipping across his palm. By the time he closed his fist, the leash was gone.

  And he heard Brody sprinting away.

  “Brody!”

  Harold stood uncertainly, stricken by a sudden anxiety. His stick clattered to the ground. Brody didn’t slow at his call. If anything, it sounded like the dog was picking up pace.

  And in the distance, the screaming seemed to be getting louder.

  No, Harold realised. Getting closer.

  Before the patter of Brody’s fast-receding paws had faded, Harold heard another sound, like rippling thunder.

  Footsteps, he realised, and felt a shard of icy fear lance his heart. Lots of people, all running frantically. All screaming, heading straight for me.

  He crouched and patted the ground until he located his stick. Something bad was happening in the park, something that Harold couldn’t even begin to understand. Without his sight, he relied heavily on his hearing, but right now his ears were filling with a dreadful, incomprehensible cacophony.

  Someone rocketed past him.

  Screaming the whole way.

  Harold turned away from the noise of approaching footsteps, following the direction Brody had taken.

  And suddenly, the air was knocked from his chest as someone barrelled into him at full pace. Harold went down hard, slamming a shoulder painfully into the bench he had sat on peacefully only moments earlier. Whoever had knocked him down didn’t stay to see if he was all right; they didn’t even speak. Harold listened in astonishment as they clambered to their feet with a whimper and took off again.

  And then a wave of chaos broke around him.

  Over him.

  Feet running everywhere, trampling him, knocking him back down when he tried to get up. A million glancing blows that landed on his limbs as a tide of people broke around him. Screaming, all of them; wordless shrieks that sounded like panicked, primal terror.

  Harold tried to get up one final time, and when a foot caught him on the side of the face, he gave up the struggle and curled up in a ball, hands held protectively around his head, and prayed for the madness to stop.

  Somewhere beneath the thundering of feet and the piercing yells of fear, Harold heard another noise. Something that sounded like thick paper ripping. A sound that he thought was like branches being snapped, but slightly muffled somehow.

  Bones, he thought, and his terror ratcheted up a notch. That’s the sound of bones breaking. And the ripping…it must be…

  Suddenly, the thunder of fleeing feet began to fade, and Harold lifted his
head in amazement.

  Whatever had happened, whatever terrible event had just unfolded in Hyde Park, it seemed to have flowed right past him. He heard some screams; perhaps people who had fallen like himself, but whose injuries were more severe.

  The sound of fleeing people continued to move away.

  They’re gone, Harold thought, and let out a long, explosive sigh of relief.

  Click.

  Harold frowned at the noise. It almost sounded like a dog’s claws tapping on a linoleum floor.

  “Bro? That you?”

  Click, click, click.

  An animal of some sort exhaled loudly nearby; a snort that sounded far too big to have been made by a dog.

  Harold froze, and the dreadful truth of his situation unwound in his mind. Suddenly, it was like he could see again; like the thick veil that had been draped over his eyes for more than thirty years had lifted abruptly.

  The people who were running were gone.

  Escaped.

  The thing that scared them is still here.

  Click.

  Click, click.

  Harold swallowed; his throat felt like it was filling with broken glass.

  It’s right in front of—

  Something large and heavy breathed onto Harold’s face: a warm, moist wave of air that reeked of meat and blood. The creature grunted, and Harold thought the terrible noise, mere inches away from him, sounded almost like confusion.

  He reached out gingerly, feeling the air in front of him.

  And whatever was lurking out there in the syrupy darkness, beyond the reach of Harold’s ruined eyes, laughed.

  His mouth dropped open, and he had no idea whether the breath he drew in was intended to fuel words or a scream.

  It didn’t matter.

  Harold’s lungs were still inflating when something sharp punctured his chest. Huge; it felt like someone had just steered a train into his ribcage. He felt and heard the cracking of his bones, and then the terrible pulling sensation as something began to furiously rearrange his internal organs, before—finally—a new sort of darkness claimed him.

  *