Trapped Within

by Bradshaw, Duncan P.

  As if he would ever forget.

  The roads were preternaturally quiet; a few cars—cabs, mainly—dawdled along. A tractor slowed Michael for two miles before finally turning off onto a country lane, leaving the carriageway ahead wholly clear.

  He kept to the speed limit, despite the urge to drive faster.

  Shortly after the accident he had placed himself in rehab, a thirty-day detox designed to free him of his addiction once and for all. For thirty days he had existed on a ward in which men screamed themselves to sleep at night, the stench of sweat and vomit a constant. Two suicides and a month later he had left that infernal place feeling better than he had in years.

  Newly-clean, almost reborn, he had deigned to forgive himself for what he had done.

  He was still working on it.

  Two roundabouts and a T-junction later, Michael joined the A454. Bound for Bridgnorth, he was less than six miles from the spot rage had got the better of him.

  “Leave those ones for now,” a voice had said as flashing blue lights filled the overturned husk of a car. “This one’s still alive.”

  Michael had sobbed as they eased him gently from the smouldering wreck, his body cut and sore but no breaks and no internal bleeding. “You’re very lucky to be alive,” were words he heard many times during his time in hospital, words which continued to follow him though rehab and beyond.

  Lucky?

  Sure.

  The rain drummed a thousand skeletal fingers upon the roof of the car as he drew closer to his destination; the wipers worked manically at the windscreen, fruitlessly. A distant rumble of thunder—twisting steel, breaking glass, hissing tyres—startled Michael, and he almost crossed the intersection.

  Straightening up in his seat, he cursed himself for being so skittish. But it wasn’t the weather which caused his agitation; it was the feeling that, one way or another, after tonight, things would be very different indeed.

  Two miles to go, and still not a vehicle in sight. Michael glanced toward the dashboard clock which flicked over to 22:21. It was getting late, and the inclement weather was no doubt a factor, but six miles without so much as another soul was… curious.

  A flash of lightning illumined the road ahead and the fields either side of the car, and when it was gone—leaving the Corsa’s dim headlights to resume the mantle—the world seemed darker, somehow. Then came the inevitable crash of thunder, much closer this time, and loud enough to send sheep running across the leas in search of shelter and sanctuary.

  One mile to go.

  Michael hammered at the steering-wheel with open palms. “What are you doing?” he screamed, for suddenly he realised the absurdity of his actions. There was no redemption out here for him; there was no forgiveness to be found amongst the grasslands and nothingness of the A454. There was only roadkill and wheel-trims, squashed badgers and flattened hedgehogs scattered about the road with their innards stretching for miles and miles and their hopes and dreams of ever reaching the other side lying in tatters.

  Like Carrie.

  Like Alan and Lisa.

  Just bloody roadkill.

  The scream in Michael’s throat caught as, suddenly, the car’s headlights flashed upon something in the road ahead. Slamming his foot down on the brake, the car began to squeal as the creature—a dog? Yes, it had to be—stood motionless, watching the oncoming vehicle with mild indifference.

  The car did not flip this time. Instead it barrelled into a wire fence, past that and into a hedge, and then onto an open field. There was no airbag fitted to this car, though, or if there was it was defective, and so Michael’s face met the steering-wheel with a sickening crunch. Pain stabbed at his legs and back as his head flew back and thumped against the headrest. His eyes remained open the entire time, tear-filled and stinging.

  How long he sat there, unmoving, unwilling to even try, Michael did not know. The car had stalled, had travelled only a few metres into this empty field in which he now found himself.

  You’re very lucky to be alive…

  Hissing, the taste of blood like copper upon his tongue, Michael reached down to unclip his seatbelt. Once he’d managed that, he reached for the handle and gave it a lethargic tug. The door opened easily, for the car had come to settle upon a slight incline to the right.

  Michael slowly stepped out, thankful that his legs were still working, and although they were, he struggled to remain upon them, as if his torso had suddenly gained weight. He slumped to his knees, his hands finding the cold, sodden grass; the skeletal fingers of rain now rattled upon his spine, too many to count.

  He crawled for a while, unsure of which direction he was heading. Away from the car was the best he could do. Back to the road, where he would flag someone down.

  The fact that he had not seen another car on the road since joining the A454 was not lost on him. But what else could he do but wait? Someone would surely be along, someone would help—

  A howl from nearby derailed his current train of thought and caused him to fall still in the mud beneath his hands and knees. Breathless, he listened, trying to discern from which direction the noise had emanated, when there came another sound from his right.

  A barking. As of a mad dog.

  Then, to his left, a guttural growl from somewhere within the darkness. Michael snapped his head across, squinted through watery eyes in the hopes of seeing the thing standing there, but he could not, not right away.

  A feral bark from the gap in the hedge ahead—the aperture created by his car—drew his attention away from the darkness to his left. And now he realised, with some dismay, that he was surrounded on three sides by wild animals of some description. The image of the dog he saw just before losing control of the car was not quite right as it played through his mind. And he didn’t have to wait long to discover why.

  Through the void in the hedge it came at a canter; a solid black body, muscular and sinewy all at once. But when his eyes fell upon its face an involuntary moan escaped his lips.

  The creature wore Carrie’s face as its own. Its teeth bared, Michael could just about make out the dimples in her cheeks and the beautiful shock of blonde hair framing her face, hanging down over thick, furry black shoulders.

  Paralysed with fear as the things to his left and right stepped from the darkness—and what a lovely couple they had once made—Michael lost all control of his bodily functions, and he slumped to the dirt, sobbing and cursing the gods for allowing these things to exist.

  The thing that was once his best friend barked once before leaping onto his back, and then they were all upon him, tearing at his flesh with their teeth and scratching at him with their claws. He saw their faces as they rolled about, their fur-covered rain-matted bodies as they pinned him to the ground and feasted.

  And the rain came down in sheets as Michael Sullivan was finally granted the redemption he so eagerly sought.

  Adam Millard is the author of twenty-two novels, twelve novellas, and more than two hundred short stories, which can be found in various collections and anthologies. Probably best known for his post-apocalyptic fiction, Adam also writes fantasy/horror for YA/MG, as well as bizarro fiction for several publishers. His work has recently been translated for the German market.

  The apartment is large, airy and furnished throughout to a high standard little different to a hotel suite. A week old Premier League football match plays on the television and although a low table is covered in bottles of spirits the men in the apartment sit in relative quiet. An efficient air con unit keeps the apartment cool despite the oppressive heat outside but the air is still thick with cigarette smoke. Hale, of the Gulf Star, picks up a deck of cards and offers it to the men around him.

  “Poker? Pontoon?”

  There is a shaking of heads and a recharging of glasses. Svenson, of the Prestige, takes a mouthful of Johnny Walker before speaking, enjoying the taste of it on his tongue.

  “I see the bloody Somalis have taken another ship.”

  “Which?
”

  “The Tara.”

  “Shit! That’s Gemmell’s ship.”

  Silence, once more descends over the men as they stare into their glasses, each man studying the liquor within rather than verbalising their thoughts. The man who runs the apartment for its owner appears from the other room and asks the men if there is anything else that they require. There is a general shaking of heads and the man vanishes once more with an impassive smile that hides his true feelings towards the westerners that he serves. Hale puts down the deck of cards and looks up at the others.

  “I suppose you already know about Lehman?”

  Heads are shaken and men look up, attentive now and eager for news. Hale lights a cigarette and leans back in his chair.

  “If someone will grab me another beer then I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Van Den Berg, of the Hellespont Giant, pulls his huge frame from his chair and grabs a fresh bottle of Heineken, so cold that the bottle sweats, from the large refrigerator. He passes the bottle to Hale who runs his finger through the moisture on the bottle and then takes a deep bite before continuing.

  “Well, you all probably know that Lehman has been captaining the Panama Valdez since he left Exxon. He was carrying a load through pirate alley…”

  Lehman leaned against the bridge of the Panama Valdez and stared out over the deck. Light reflected from the white-painted deck made it glow in the moonlight. He could see Martinez walking along one of the gangways; the first mate was so far from Lehman that he looked like a stick figure in a Lowry painting. Lehman took a mouthful of his coffee and waited for the man to make it up onto the bridge.

  “You got it from here?”

  Martinez nodded.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Lehman exited the bridge and made his way down to his quarters, sleep being all he wanted. He trusted his Filipino first mate to keep the ship running smoothly. As soon as Lehman lay down in his cot his mind seemed to come awake. He swore and tossed and turned but sleep finally came twenty minutes—seeming like twenty hours—later. Lehman dreamt of burning lakes of red on black and himself standing naked at the edge of it.

  A hand shook him awake. He sat up immediately.

  “Sorry, Captain.”

  Chen looked apologetic as the captain swung, fully dressed, off his cot and pulled his shoes back on.

  “This had better be good.”

  The small Chinese passed him a cup of coffee and Lehman smiled. He took a swig and got up.

  “Well?”

  “Misser Martinez say he need you in radio room.”

  Lehman nodded and picked up his cap as he headed up to the radio room. When he arrived he saw a concerned looking Martinez standing over the radio operator, Vallacer. Vallacer, like Martinez, was from the Philippines as were several other members of the crew, the rest being made up of Sri Lankans and a few Europeans. The radio chattered and Lehman heard Arabic voices through the static. It sounded to Lehman like there were half a dozen voices speaking beneath the cloak of white noise.

  “What are they saying?”

  Vallacer shrugged. Lehman looked to Martinez who did likewise.

  “Do the pirates ever speak in Arabic?”

  Martinez nodded.

  “I’ve heard them do it before.”

  “Shit. Increase speed. How long till dawn?”

  “About five hours, Captain.”

  “Keep me updated, Vallacer. Martinez, with me on the bridge.”

  As Lehman checked the ship’s position, Martinez stood close by at his elbow. The captain didn’t look up as he spoke.

  “We maintain speed. No way their little piss-ant speedboats can catch the Valdez.”

  Lehman’s eyes were cold and Martinez nodded to his captain.

  “I’m going back to bed—do not let our speed drop, even if the engine falls out this bitch.”

  Martinez grinned as the captain vanished off the bridge. If there was one man he wanted to be with rolling through pirate alley then it was Captain Lehman. The first mate stared out at the clear night sky and watched the stars overhead. If there was a view to beat this then he hadn’t seen it yet.

  An hour later and Lehman was once more roused from his sleep. Chen looked at him with his head tilted to one side.

  “They need you.”

  “You’d better get some coffee on. It’s going to be one of those nights.”

  Chen handed a cup to the captain with a smile.

  “I thought you need another cup, Cap’n.”

  Lehman took a draft and grinned; Chen made the best coffee that Lehman had ever had on board a ship. He headed up to the bridge and cast a sour look at his first mate. Martinez looked strange, as though someone had told him they had sighted an iceberg in the Gulf.

  “Well?”

  Martinez looked away

  “Come on, man! Why’ve you got me up now?”

  “It’s Langdon, sir…”

  “What about him? What illness has he contracted now?”

  “No, he saw something far up the deck.”

  “Saw what, Martinez?”

  The first mate looked the captain dead in the eyes as he spoke.

  “A woman.”

  Lehman laughed.

  “Didn’t he manage to get his dick wet in port then?”

  Lehman shook his head and turned away, still laughing.

  “He was serious. This was no mariner’s fancy. He described her to me.”

  “And?”

  “He said she was wearing a…”

  Martinez ran his hand in front of his face.

  “A veil?”

  “No the whole thing. A burka. And he said she only had one arm.”

  “Oh, this gets better. Where is he?”

  “Down in the mess.”

  Lehman grunted a response and left the bridge to find Langdon.

  Langdon sat in the mess and looked, to Lehman, even paler than usual; Langdon was an able enough seaman but always had some complaint in regards to his health or his ship mates, something that always grated on Lehman’s sense of things. The seaman ran a hand through his collar-length hair and refused to meet Lehman’s eye.

  “So?”

  Langdon finally looked up and the captain saw that his eyes were red and raw.

  “I swear I saw her, Captain.”

  Lehman nodded and took a seat on the bench next to Langdon.

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  “She was down at the fo’c’s’le. At first I thought it was a trick of the light. She kinda just came out of the shadows.”

  “And she was wearing a burka?”

  Langdon nodded.

  “And her arm?”

  “That was the worst of it. I called out to her and she turned to face me and I saw that her arm was gone below the elbow and in her other arm she was holding…”

  “Yes? What was she holding?”

  Langdon looked Lehman straight in the eye.

  “A dead baby.”

  The captain blew out a long breath and adjusted the cap on his head.

  “Okay.”

  “You believe me?”

  “Yes, Langdon, I do. You stay here and sort yourself out. I think we might have ourselves a stowaway.”

  Lehman left the dining room and headed back up to the bridge.

  “Martinez. Organise a search. I want this woman found.”

  “You think he really saw her?”

  Lehman nodded.

  “A thorough search. Langdon thought he saw something and I don’t know if it really was a person or not but we need to check.”

  Martinez looked doubtful but he headed off the bridge to find any of the crew that weren’t engaged in essential activities. The captain leaned against a bulkhead and watched as his men moved along the decks and gangways in the too-bright glare of the overhead lights. Lehman jotted in the log as he waited. He waited for the cry of one of the searchers that would alert him to the presence of a stowaway—none came, and eventually Martinez returned to
the bridge. He shrugged at the captain and slumped against the lockers.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. If there was someone there we would’ve found them.”

  Lehman nodded.

  “Okay. Send Langdon to his bunk but keep your eyes open. I’m going to have a walk around.”

  Before he left the bridge Lehman grabbed up a walkie-talkie and shook it at Martinez. The first mate nodded.

  Beyond the glare of the lights above the deck the night was still and Lehman could see clouds moving in from the East. The radio attached to his belt crackled before he had even moved ten metres. Lehman turned the volume up to better hear the sound on his handset. It sounded like a thousand souls screaming as one. Lehman recognised the language as Arabic, but could identify none of the words. He stopped at the rail and stared into the night. The sea seemed calm and the clouds seemed closer, lower, than they had been a moment earlier.

  The handset crackled again.

  “Captain? Captain?”

  Lehman clicked the handset.

  “Martinez, come in.”

  There was no response except a burst of static, and Lehman headed back towards the bridge. The ship began to tilt and sway as he moved across the deck and Lehman saw the clouds overhead now seemed close enough to touch and the sea was swelling around the vessel. Lehman grabbed at the ladder and hauled himself up. Martinez stood at the helm, beads of sweat rolling down his face like escape pods heading towards the earth.

  “What in hell’s name is going on?”

  “Sir, you need to speak to the engine room. It’s chaos!”

  Lehman grabbed up the mike and called down to the engine room.

  “Kessel, come in, it’s Lehman.”

  “Captain! We’re flooding! We’re taking on… water.”

  The last word didn’t ring true.

  “Water?”

  “Well, I don’t know what to call it. It’s as thick as oil and as black as blood in moonlight and Jesus! The smell… It smells like copper. Wait, Ramos has found something. My God, Captain, there are things in this stuff.”

  The link to the engine room cut off with a hiss and Lehman slammed the mike back down. He reached under his chair and pulled out a grey lock box. Company policy strictly prohibited the carrying of weapons on board ship but Lehman had always preferred to reduce the risk of someone sneaking a gun on board by having his own. He slipped the clip into the hand grip of the Beretta and chambered a round.