The Forever Man: Unicorn

by Craig Zerf

  Roo, Tad and Char-rek stood and watched for a while longer as the rest of the Vandals continued to land, then the chief went to organize their dispersal and to show them where to set up camp.

  Roo had put aside an area next to the river for the Vandals but they had asked to be moved away and into the forest. It seemed as though they were happier if they could conceal themselves, using both their light bending abilities and screens of natural camouflage to do so.

  Chief Char-rek had been in contact with Tad via his emissary, Grim-son the scout and together they had decided on an arrival date for the flying creatures to arrive.

  True to their word they had started landing at sun up on the agreed date. By that evening the entire Vandal community was ensconced in the forest and their concealment skills were such that there was not a single sign of the over seventeen thousand inhabitants.

  That night, Roo, Tad and chief Char-rek stayed up until the small hours discussing and planning their next moves.

  Many more reports of the Annihilators had been coming in, the Fair-Folk and their Orcs were camped in close proximity to the wall and The Forever Man was incognito somewhere between the wall and London.

  War was drawing closer and all that Tad could do was tread water as best he was able to until their leader returned.

  Chapter 32

  The storm had abated somewhat. Downgraded itself from a howling blizzard to a merely unpleasant weather pattern.

  The snow still fell and the wind howled but it was more petulant than vicious. A tantrum as opposed to an act of violence.

  Nathaniel had left early that morning. He had bid Taylor and Lorna goodbye and had given them his thanks. There was no awkwardness in his leaving and they seemed pleased that he shared their view that The Forever Man existed. The marine had decided not to enlighten them any further regarding his actually identity. After all, he figured that their relative isolation, and the mere fact that considering him as a god was total loony tunes, would prevent the cult from expanding.

  He made good time considering the storm. At least the inclement weather had some advantages, he did not expect to see, nor did he, any Orc patrols. Like most in the military, the Orc sergeants kept patrols to a minimum during foul weather.

  Four days later, as the sun was setting, he found himself in the area around Nottingham. He had been following the old M1 motorway, merely in order to help with his direction. The old road itself was as rough to travel on as the open ground next to it. At times even more so. He had kept a keen eye out for Orc patrols and had so far come across only one, and it had been easily avoided by simply melting in to the forest and laying low until they passed.

  Up ahead he saw a wash of smoke rising into the blustery sky and he headed towards it, hoping for a little company, some local news, an indoor room for the night and perhaps some bread to supplement his diet of game. But as he got closer to the small village he could see that it was mean and poor. The thatch on the roofs was patchy and ragged as a beggar's beard and the fences lay broken and untended.

  Undeterred, the marine trudged down the main pathway to what appeared to be a central hall or pub of sorts. He hitched his horse to a post that was situated under a covered lean-to next to the building. Then he covered him with a blanket, unclipped his axe and his saddlebags from the saddle and went to the front door.

  He noticed, with surprise, that the windows were barred with strong metal rods and the door was locked and bound with steel straps. He knocked using the doorknocker and waited. After a while a small viewing flap opened in the center of the door and someone peered out at him. There was another short pause and then the door was opened and a short, skinny man ushered the marine inside.

  ‘Come on,’ he grunted. ‘Move it. It’s not safe out there. They come out after the sun goes down.’

  Nathaniel hesitated. ‘What about my horse?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘They don’t touch the livestock.’

  The marine had no idea what the man was talking about but he entered the building nonetheless, closing the door behind him as he did. The short man double locked it and drew a stout wooden bar across.

  Nathaniel found himself in a tavern room. A fire smoked away in the corner. The chimney obviously needed cleaning so it wasn’t drawing well. More than half of the smoke drifted into the room causing a blue-white fug so thick as to inhibit sight.

  There were only another four people in the room. A man standing behind the bar, the skinny man that had just let the marine in, an old timer with an outrageously long white beard and a woman of middle age. Dark eyed with a thatch of auburn hair that looked as though it hadn't seen a brush for over a decade.

  ‘Greetings,’ said the marine.

  All that he received in reply was a collection of suspicious stares.

  Eventually the man behind the bar spoke.

  ‘You’re not from around here,’ he said. His voice devoid of emotion. Dead. Defeated.

  ‘I am not,’ agreed Nathaniel. ‘I hail from up North. Beyond the wall.’

  ‘No one lives beyond the wall,’ argued the bartender to a general nod of agreement from the other three occupants of the room.

  ‘Well that can be your little secret then,’ retorted Nathaniel. ‘Nevertheless, that’s where I come from. So tell me,’ he continued. ‘Why the security and the less than hearty welcome?’

  The skinny man sniffed wetly before he spoke. ‘That would be on account of the ghouls,’ he said.

  ‘Ghouls?’

  The man nodded. ‘Aye, ghouls. Skinny, white as snow, pointed teeth. They feed on human flesh, particularly children. Ghouls.’

  ‘They only come out after sunset,’ added the woman. Her voice was deep and husky and smooth as velvet. A complete contrast to her craggy, worn exterior.

  ‘I’ve never heard of ghouls actually existing,’ said Nathaniel.

  ‘Lots of things that I never heard of,’ returned the skinny man. ‘That don’t mean they don’t exist.’

  ‘How long have they been here?’

  Skinny shrugged. ‘Long time. Always, perhaps.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave?’ Asked Nathaniel. ‘Or do something about it?’

  ‘We’ve always lived here,’ affirmed the skinny man.

  ‘And what could we do?’ Asked the woman. ‘They’re supernatural. They make no sound and leave no trace. They ghost in like wraiths. White will-o-wisps. There’s nothing that we can do. And they only come out at night. So we hide. We lose someone every now and then, but it’s no worse than anywhere else in the world.’

  ‘Aye,’ confirmed the skinny man. ‘Better the devil you know.’

  ‘Are they out there now?’ Asked the marine.

  Everyone nodded.

  ‘More than likely,’ confirmed the woman.

  Nathaniel stood up. ‘I think that I’ll go and take a look,’ he said as he walked over to the door, picking his axe up as he did so. ‘Never seen a ghoul before.’

  The occupants of the tavern looked at him blankly.

  Eventually the skinny man shrugged. ‘It’s your funeral,’ he said. ‘Just make sure that you leave quick. I’ll lock the door behind you and then you’re on your own. Can’t let you back in. Couldn’t take the risk.’

  Nathaniel nodded his acceptance of the man’s terms. ‘Fair enough,’ he said as he opened the door and stepped out.

  The skinny man slammed the door shut behind him and the marine heard the sound of the lock turning and the bar being slid home.

  The marine looked around. The light of the gibbous moon reflected off the white snow and cast more than enough light to see well. He walked around the corner to his horse. The animal snorted a greeting and Nathaniel patted its neck.

  ‘Hello, ugly horse,’ he said, checking that the blanket was still covering his back. Then he pulled a feedbag from the saddle and filled it with oats from his pack, finally attaching it to ugly horse's nose so that it could eat.

  ‘Seen any
ghouls?’ He asked the beast.

  Horse chomped away at its bag of oats and didn’t react to the question.

  The marine pulled his cloak tight around him and then he swung the axe over his shoulder as he trudged through the village, peering down alleyways and looking out into the surrounding forest.

  As he walked he wondered what he was doing. What misguided sense of duty had caused him to elect to traipse about in the dark looking for a demon with rows of sharp teeth and a penchant for human flesh?

  If he were inclined to be kind to himself he would have supposed that he was out in the dark in order to protect the innocent people hiding from the ghouls. But if he was totally honest he would admit that he was less than inclined to protect them. Deep down he wondered why they hadn’t done something themselves. And if they were too scared to react forcibly then why did they not simply move. It wasn’t as if there was a massive shortage of spare housing or land in the new world.

  But the more that he thought about it, the more obvious the answer became. People feared change. Even change for the better.

  Entropy was a powerful force and its gradual decline into disorder was often irreversible.

  He had been outside for almost an hour when he got his first glimpse. A white figure, thin and ethereal, flittered across his vision. As he spun to watch it another ghosted after it. And then another. Three pale wraiths, slipping through the snowflakes, bathed in moonlight, as quiet as figments of the imagination.

  The Forever Man brought his axe to port and ran after them. His footsteps were as cotton upon snow. Unheard. Stealthy beyond those of mere mortals. Otherworldly.

  The eerie trio stopped outside a small cottage, peering in at a badly shuttered window. Scratching on the glass. Snickering and grunting.

  From inside Nathaniel could hear mewls of terror.

  He stopped directly behind the three specters and held his axe high.

  ‘Hey, ghoul dudes,’ he called. ‘Time to party.’

  As one they turned on him, their mouths open wide, their teeth were sharp as needles. Yellow and stained. Their breath stank of rotting flesh.

  The axe sang its song. Slicing through snowflakes and necks. Sleet and limbs. A sibilant hissing melody of death and destruction. Of blood and desire. Retribution.

  For The Forever Man was the judge eternal and he had brought down his gavel upon the sinners.

  Blood stained the snow in a wash of bright red as the three beings fell to the ground, hacked through and through again.

  Real blood. Human blood.

  The Forever Man picked up a severed head by its hank of lank greasy hair and he stared at it.

  The lips were peeled back in a grimace of rigor and it became immediately apparent that it was human. Its teeth sharpened to points by file or chisel. Its skin was pale and it was thin to the point of emaciation, every muscle in its jaw standing out like a chart in a biology lesson.

  The so-called wraiths were no more than tribalistic cannibals.

  Nathaniel kicked at the body that lay curled up in the snow at his feet. Then he knelt down and pulled the flowing white tunic off the corpse before standing back up and heading to the tavern.

  He stood outside the tavern door and banged loudly.

  ‘Hey,’ he shouted. ‘Open up. It’s me.’

  There was a pause before someone answered, their voice muffled by both the door and the weather.

  ‘Who is, me?’ They asked.

  ‘The stranger,’ answered Nathaniel. ‘From up north, beyond the wall. I think that I’ve sorted out your ghoul problem. Let me in.’

  Again there was a long pause.

  ‘No can do, stranger,’ said the voice. ‘After all, how do we know that you’re alone?’

  ‘Or what if you’ve been possessed by the ghouls?’ Asked another voice.

  The marine reined in his impatience before he spoke again. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he urged. ‘Open the door.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Last chance,’ said Nathaniel.

  ‘Or what?’ Asked the voice. ‘You’ll bash the door in? Three inches of solid oak and a steel locking bar – I don’t think so. We’ll just wait until sunrise if that’s alright with you.’

  The Forever Man didn’t even bother to use his magikal powers. No fireballs. No lightning. He merely lifted his foot up to his chest and unleashed it, hammering into the middle of the door and literally tearing it off its hinges and smashing it into the middle of the room.

  ‘Knock knock, morons,’ he said as he walked inside and plunked the severed head down on the bar. He lay the white tunic down next to it, stood back and gestured with a sweep of his arm.

  ‘Behold. A dead ghoul.’

  The woman with the husky voice took one look and slid off her chair in a dead faint.

  ‘They’re just people,’ continued Nathaniel. ‘Malnourished, sharpened teeth, floaty white tunic. Simply people. You guys have been living in terror for nothing.’

  The skinny man shook his head, his features ashen with fear.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘They only become flesh when you kill them. They’re ghouls.’

  ‘Whatever,’ argued Nathaniel. ‘You hit them with an axe and they die.’

  He poked at the white tunic. It was a simple cotton coat, at least twenty years old, worn thin by countless washings, its hemline ragged and frayed. Something about it looked familiar but he couldn’t quite place what. He lent forward and picked it up. All of a sudden he knew what it was. A white doctors’ coat.

  And he remembered.

  Nottingham. The Barnet House Psychiatric Hospital. Doctor Henry Luckman. Long pork. Doctors and nurses eating their patients.

  He had left them. Faced with exterminating the staff and letting the patients starve to death he had gone with what he thought was the lesser evil. He had figured that the patients would at least have some semblance of life before they were culled for the pot.

  And his decision had caused over two decades of fear and degradation to an entire collective of innocent people.

  He walked behind the bar and helped himself to a bottle of whisky, pulling the cork with his teeth and slugging down a long pull. The barman was about to say something but, seeing the look on the marine’s face, he decided upon discretion instead.

  Nathaniel walked over to a table, sat down and drank some more of the rough spirits, seeking to quench the fire of guilt and anger that roared in his belly.

  In the meantime the old man who had been sitting quietly in the corner, picked up the ruined door and propped it up in the doorway, blocking a substantial proportion of the inclement weather. Then he went over to the woman who had passed out and rubbed her wrists until she came to. He gave her a sip of his drink and helped her to her seat.

  No one ventured outside and no one dared talk to Nathaniel who sat at his table, swigging from his bottle, on his face an expression of barely contained rage.

  The inhabitants of the tavern sat in uncomfortable silence for almost an hour.

  And then The Forever Man stood, picked up his axe, grabbed his saddlebags and headed for the door, kicking it aside as he left.

  He turned and gave the company one last look.

  ‘By the end of tomorrow you shall no longer be troubled by these things,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, but I will make it right.’

  He untied his horse, mounted up and rode off.

  The skinny man pushed the door back into place once again.

  ‘Why did he apologize?’ He asked the room in general.

  The old man shrugged, as did the rest of the occupants.

  ‘That is one very scary man,’ said the husky voiced woman as she summed up everyone’s thoughts in a single sentence.

  There was a general mumbling of agreement.

  The barman covered the severed head with the white tunic and then he served a round of fresh drinks - on the house.

  ***

  The weather and the lack of light made the tracks difficult to follow but Nathaniel conju
red up a ball of blue-white fire to help him see and he walked alongside his horse, peering closely at the signs.

  The job was made slightly easier by the fact that the imitation ghouls had made no attempt to cover their tracks. Scuffled footprints, broken twigs and crushed leaves lay liberally along their chosen pathway and, to someone with Nathaniel’s tracking skills, this was as a painted arrow pointing the way.

  Eventually, as the sun was rising, he came across the remnants of a high chain-link fence, unravelled through neglect and the ravages of time. He rode through a gap, keeping his eyes open.

  After a few minutes he saw it. Time had taken its toll but, ostensibly, the building had not changed.

  A huge Victorian edifice done in a Gothic revival style. All red brick, mullioned windows, cupolas and round roof turrets. Unlike the first time that he had seen it, the building was now covered in thick ivy and many of the windows were broken. The front door, however, was still intact and the ground floor windows had all been boarded up.

  There was no sign of life.

  He tethered ugly horse to a low hanging branch and walked up to the front door, his axe ready to swing.

  The door was barred from the inside. He slid the blade of his axe through the doorjamb and levered the bar up, pushing the door open as he did so.

  The inside was thick with dust and detritus. The smell of mould and rotting meat permeated the air. Little light made it through the shutters and what did showed tracks across the floor. Passages through the dust, showing where people walked most frequently.

  As he wandered down the main corridor memories flooded back to him. The meal that he had eaten, thinking that it was pork, only to discover later that he had eaten the flesh of another human being. His outrage at the doctor and the staff. His helpless inability to do anything about it.

  His ultimate failure.

  He heard sounds coming from a room at the end of the long dark corridor and he hurried forward. Someone was giggling. Laughing. Someone else was moaning. A long drawn out wail. There was no real urgency to the sound. No pain. No fear. It seemed simply to be an outpouring of random gloom. A formless lamentation.