The circle this morning is like the pictures he took last month and the month before. He knows it isn’t just bored kids or someone sleeping rough. He knows it is witches.
He takes a step towards the edge of the circle. The air there is heavy and dense, as if rain is coming. His first thought is that he might see a rainbow. His second is that he is going to get wet.
Huge, heavy drops of rain begin to fall through the trees. Each drop snaps on the dry leaves like a footstep. Spooked at first, he turns at every sound. But soon there are too many to follow and he feels a bit stupid. Who could it be, anyway? Just some old duffer walking a dog.
But deep inside his instinct knows better. And that instinct is telling him to run. The raindrops are closer together now, and they hit the earth with a crack, crack, crack like a whip. Bravado straightens his shoulders. Time to go home. He tries to move casually, as if someone is watching him. But the rain has made the earth slippery and he is wary of falling, out here in the woods. If he broke a leg someone would eventually find him. But it just might not be today. Safer surely to stay in the circle until the rain stops.
The leaves rustle like laughter behind him. He spins again. Nothing. No-one. Just being stupid.
The raindrops are getting heavier. Each strike takes on a life of its own. It seems to his overwrought mind that they are surrounding him, holding him there in the circle with the bloody red symbols and the mound of fresh-turned earth.
He closes his eyes. Takes deep breaths. It’s just the rain. Just the rain. Just the –
His eyes fly open. A drop of rain so large he can follow its trajectory from the sky. It splashes at his feet. It glows with a fierce grey light and swells and grows and then she is there, an image straight from the pages of his books at home. Cloaked and gowned in grey. Beautiful. Glowing. No, blazing with fierce, pale fire.
And cold fear runs down his back. Pools in a sick knot in his stomach. He forces himself to turn away. To begin to run.
More huge drops strike the earth, one for almost every tree in the circle and each blossoms into a cloaked grey figure as terrible as the first.
Male and female both. Surrounding him.
Laughing.
The earth exhales a fine, soft mist. The camera falls unheeded from his hand. It strikes the damp earth without a sound. Words form like numbing whispers in his head, ‘Who dares… who dares… who dares…?’
The desire to know is plucked from his mind and suddenly he sees it all, replayed like a film in the haze. The yellow blaze that lit the harsh faces of the witches. The chanting. The stately dance they wove through the trees. The shadows that moved in the blackness around them. The bound and bleeding child with shattered eyes. The Initiate, with her pale and resolute face kneeling before the dark Priestess, her hand reaching out to make her choice. The flashing knives. The blood painted on their faces and on the trees. The chittering, swirling shades that licked the scarlet drops from their gory feet.
The chanting that rose to a crescendo as the Initiate sank into the ground and then rose again, cloaked in grey, her mortal remains buried in the earth below. The final keening scream as the dying child was tossed onto the fire. And then the choking acrid smell of burning flesh and bone.
Sickened, he gags on bitter, coffee-flavoured bile. His legs want to fail, to let him sink to the earth and into insensibility. But he is gripped by the vision before him and now she says, ‘Choose…’
In one hand she holds a grey cloak, and in the other a knife. The blade is blackened and sour with the blood of the sacrificed child. The coven draws suffocatingly close, tightening the circle around him. Grey cloaks merge with the soft mist into a barrier he cannot breach. And the chant fills his head like white noise.
“Choose, choose, choose…”
His breath comes short and fast. The sudden knowledge that they will decide if he does not, as the knife twitches impatiently towards his heart. An agonisingly long moment of wishing with all his heart that he had stayed in bed. And then he watches his hand creep out and his fingers touch the cloak.
*
The rain stops. The earth is wet. The wood breathes out a fine mist that covers the soft, turned dirt of the new mound in the circle. The one that makes it complete. It is just a bunch of trees now, with some blurry paint on the bark and a pile of rags near the centre. Left by kids, maybe. Or someone sleeping rough. And a camera soaked through and ruined by the rain.
Shenanigans
by Chris Jeal
I get into my car and sink into the plush leather of the driver’s seat. Placing my mobile phone on the dash, I take a deep breath and enjoy that new car smell. It’s great to finally be able to have the things I’ve always wanted – even if it has cost me a lot more than just money.
The phone’s screen lights up and a jaunty voice calls, “Hey John, you slowpoke. You now only have three hours left to complete Shenanigan: Bloody Heartbreaker.” This is the Host, the voice of The App and possibly that of the Devil himself, or maybe someone much, much worse… I jam the keys into the ignition, fire up the engine and drive away into the night.
Thirteen months, that’s how long The App has been around and five of those months was all it took for society to break down and take a shit on itself. The App changed everything. No one knows who created it, or where it originated from, but on Tuesday 22nd June 2016 it appeared on everyone’s phone, tablet and laptop. Every network, every town, every country got The App. At first people thought it was a scam, one weird trick to make you rich, but when they realized it was legit and they saw what it offered, people went crazy for it… literally.
The App offers cash prizes to perform dares, or Shenanigans as the Host calls them. Pick a Shenanigan from the list, film it, upload the footage and the money is transferred to your account – simple as that. The dares started pretty tame, with things like Eat Worms! which paid £50 or Slap a Friend! for £80. Once people got into the swing of it and the money started pouring in, things escalated rapidly. Eat Worms! changed to Eat Glass! Slap a Friend! turned to Mutilate a Friend!
I steer onto the common and pass through what was once a thriving neighbourhood; now everything looks like it’s been chewed up and spat out. The police can’t stop it, and those that still patrolling the streets are more likely to commit Shenanigans than prevent them. If you did get arrested, it’s doubtful you’d make it back to the station.
Headlights pick out movement in the road up ahead. I stamp the brakes and crunch gravel, grinding to a halt in front of two scabby women dragging a barely conscious blood-covered man across the road. One of them points a fleshy stump where her arm should be at me. Probably did that to herself. Mutilation and self-mutilation Shenanigans equal big payouts – a year’s wage to hack off a limb is a reasonable proposition for those who are desperate.
I grab my phone and check the Shenanigans list to see if I can make some cash by flattening these fucks into the gravel – I quickly change my mind as I consider the mess it’ll make of the new car. I palm the horn, “Get the fuck outta the way.” They scurry off into the darkness with their prize, no doubt taking him somewhere to indulge in some slice ‘n’ dice.
I drive on.
Things have gotten even more interesting since the new app-upgrade: The App 2.0. Now Shenanigans are streamed live as the Host offers bonuses and cash multipliers to encourage you to get even more creative and twisted.
The first time I witnessed 2.0, I was in the supermarket. I turned into the frozen goods aisle and walked into a Shenanigan in progress, a man beating a screaming blonde woman to the floor. When he’d knocked the fight out of her and she was choking on her own teeth, he started tearing at her clothes; it was then the Host called out from the man’s phone, “Make it multiplayer! 10X the cash if you make it a party! Have fun with it. Share with friends!”
People who had been watching didn’t take much persuading to wade in on her, too – everyone has a price – and it wasn’t long before it was a game with twelve players. Wh
en they’d finished with her, blondie’s limp body was dumped in with the frozen potato waffles.
Sure, someone could have intervened, tried to save her. But who’d pass up that kind of cash? And those that didn’t get involved? They were too busy with their heads down, checking The App for an ‘easier’ Shenanigan – these people are in denial, thinking they’ll just take on the tame stuff. But it doesn’t take long for your moral compass to fracture and you’re doing the real nasty shit.
I pull up at Pennington flats, kill the engine and once more take in that new car smell. I tap The App, and speak into my phone, “This is John Glenn, going live with Shenanigan: Bloody Heartbreaker.”
“Make this your best Shenanigan yet, tiger,” chirps the Host. “Remember to use your official App gear for bonuses and multipliers!” I open the glove box and pull out my official App Shenani-cam retina recorders™. These are awesome, contact lenses that record everything. Some people still use head cams. Amateurs. I slip the retina recorders over my eyes and check my other gear, all bought from in-app pop-ups and advertising. I have my ‘App scream for me slice-‘n’- dice knife™’, my official ‘App I can’t feel my legs! restraints™’ and my ‘App Deepest itch internal flayer™’ Using all these official items brings bigger bonuses and multipliers. I simply refuse to use any other brand.
I pocket my phone, bag my gear and bail from the car. I make my way to the tower block entrance and key in the door code, all the while keeping an eye out for anyone who might be looking to Shenanigan me.
Inside, I take the lift.
A ping announces my arrival at the top floor and the doors clatter open. I step out and make my way towards a reinforced door protected by security bars. “Let’s get messy, mah boy!’ the Host shouts from my mobile. “Don’t puss out!” he adds. No way. Not me. I knock on the door, and after a moment a voice calls from the other side, “Who is it?”
“It’s me.” Locks slide and chains clang. The door opens. Tanya stands there looking delicious in a stunning evening dress. “Well, look at you,” I grin. I enter, kissing her as I pass, looking at the bandaged stump where her arm used to be. She’s been such a good girlfriend; that arm paid for my first house.
I rock down the hallway towards the kitchen. The taste of Tanya fizzes on my lips and for a second I wonder how much of a multiplier I could rack-up if I fried and ate a bit of her.
Inside the kitchen, candlelight hugs flutes filled with champagne and casts shadows on a table laid with a beautiful spread – I love date night. I place my bag down and wonder whether to start with some genital mutilation to get things rolling. I’m thinking I can earn at least fou– A sharp pain in my lower back.
For a second I feel like I’ve shit myself, as my trousers flood with hot liquid. I look at my feet, blood pools around them. Oh shit, I stumble back, crashing to the floor. Tanya looms over me, clutching a knife, wearing a small camera strapped to her head. It’s nowhere near as cool as my Shenani-cam retina recorders™ and I snort at how stupid she looks.
“How did I know that you were coming to torture me and be a Bloody Heartbreaker, John? You’re really behind with your tech.” She pulls her phone from her pocket and holds it up for me to see. “The new App 3.0 alerts me when anyone in my contacts list accepts a Shenanigan.”
3.0?!? How could I have missed this?
Tanya taps the phone’s screen and holds it to her mouth, “This is Tanya Morrison, high-jacking Bloody Heartbreaker from John Glenn.”
“Well this is an exciting turn, Tanya! Make that no good scallywag scream!” Tanya stalks toward me with the knife. “Whoa! Bonus Alert! Thirty thousand if you cut off his winky and feed it to him.”
Tanya smiles, “Accepted.” She eyes my crotch, “Grilled or fried, John?”
I look at the blade of the knife as it grins by the candle light. “Wait!” I shout. Tanya pauses, unimpressed. I continue, “That isn’t an official App knife… use the knife in my bag… it’ll up your multiplier.” A warm smile spreads across Tanya’s face.
“You are always so sweet, John. Doing this is gonna break my bloody heart.”
Aftermath
by Geoff Bagwell
Smith eased the door closed behind him, careful not to wake Elizabeth and the baby. After another bad night they were finally asleep, and the longer they stayed that way the better. These days, sleep was the only refuge from the nightmare.
Outside on the pavement he stopped. The street was deserted. Over his shoulder hung the rifle he'd found last year, next to the body of a dead soldier. The empty street, together with the rifle, made him feel… well, maybe not safe, but safer.
Feeling safe was a luxury of another age, like the assumption that the flashpoints of the world's bloodiest conflict would only ever be seen on a television screen. These things were gone forever, since the brief respite between the Cold War's end and the Holy War's beginning had turned out to be just that – a respite.
But the winter had been long and many had died. Of the survivors, most were sick and weak. And in the land of the frail, Smith thought, even a 30-year-old accountant can survive.
And he had to. They had a baby.
He scanned the row of Victorian terraced houses. He thought he saw a movement in a window and frowned. He stared, concentrating on the laced net curtains, assessing the risk. His finger crept towards the trigger of the rifle and rested there.
Nothing. Just his imagination. Slowly, he took his finger from the trigger guard and allowed the tension to ease from his shoulders. He began to walk.
A casual glance and the street appeared as it had when they moved in – typical London terraced housing a mile south of the Thames, built for the poor of the nineteenth century, inhabited by the wealthy of the twenty-first.
Except it wasn't the same. According to Smith's watch (analogue, of course, now semiconductor- and quartz-based devices no longer worked) it was ten past eleven in the morning. Yet a dusty grey haze hung in the air, the twilight which now passed for daylight. And in another two hours, darkness would begin closing in, until a starless night smothered everything by two o'clock in the afternoon.
Smith walked on. Past front gardens where shrivelled flowers had fought to root then failed to bloom; past trees either diseased, dead, or dying; and past animals, skulking in shadows. Most of these were pets – or their mutant offspring; cats and dogs who were nowadays more likely to be food than fed. Left to fight for survival amongst the rats and other vermin, they stood little chance, their hunting genes lost to domestication.
Smith reached Costcutter. After a quick glance over his shoulder, he went inside.
Sanjeev had been sitting on a stool behind the counter. Now he stood, his right hand instinctively resting on the AK-47 hanging across his body.
“Brian, my friend. How's it going?” Apart from Elizabeth, Sanjeev was the only person who spoke to him like this. Civility and manners were a waste of energy, better conserved for the effort of staying alive. “How are Elizabeth and the baby?”
“They're fine.”
Sanjeev kept smiling, but his eyes held only pity. These were not the days to start a family. “So what do you need?”
Smith glanced around. The store was small, little more than a newsagent, but it had once sold all the essential groceries. Now its shelves were hopelessly barren. He turned back to Sanjeev. “What have you got?”
The smile faded and died, “Wait.”
Sanjeev went through a door behind the counter. When he returned he held a cardboard box. He placed it on the counter and picked items from it, one at a time. “Nappies, one pack; wipes, two packs; baby food, four jars.”
“That's it?” Smith said.
Sanjeev shrugged apologetically. “That's it.”
Smith thrust his hand in his jacket and pulled out a fistful of currency: Elizabeth's wedding ring, a gold chain which had belonged to her mother, a pair of gold earrings, other stuff he hadn't even wanted to look at. “Is it enough?” he asked.
S
anjeev nodded. “I'm sorry,” he said as he took them.
“Yeah,” Smith said. “We all are.”
*
The house was quiet when he got back; Elizabeth and the baby were still asleep. He trod softly along the hall, then slowly climbed the stairs. In the bedroom, he stood beside the bed.
Thin, grey light crept in around the curtains. Mother and baby lay face to face, and even in sleep Smith saw the anxious lines creasing Elizabeth's forehead. Then he shifted his gaze to the daughter he himself had delivered three months ago.
Lying on her side, her profile was one of delicate perfection: the graceful upturned nose, the tiny ear like exquisitely carved mother-of-pearl, the kiss of lips, the gentle swell of her cheek. Something hard knotted in Smith's throat and, though agnostic in belief, he suddenly understood how many could only attribute such beauty to a benign creator.
Then she moved. Slowly she settled onto her back.
And now Smith saw the other head. It sprouted from the crook of her neck, puffy and bulbous, with empty eye sockets and twisted features. Its skin was translucent like an over-inflated balloon, and just below the surface a network of veins throbbed and pulsed, mocking Smith's hope that it would shrivel up and die.
He turned away. He swallowed before the lump in his throat could become the sob he felt rising up from his guts.
Don't wake them. Sleep is the only escape.
And then the other thought came, as it so often did.
The nuclear winter was bad; but it will be nothing as to the nuclear spring.
Summer Sky
by John Read
It seemed strange that I could admire the beautiful, deep blue sky at such a time.
I was surprised that on the most dreadful morning of my short, troubled life, I would even notice, never mind enjoy, the simple splendour of a gorgeous summer sky.
And yet, as my jelly legs climbed the creaking wooden steps, Mother Nature’s pretty distraction gave me an unexpected strength for my imminent meeting with the fearful Madame.
Twisted 50 Volume 1 Page 2
