The BIG Horror Pack 1

by Iain Rob Wright

  Then there was an explosion of sound and the smell of smoke.

  Bex wailed.

  Andrew opened his eyes.

  His vision had cleared a little since closing them, and though he could not make out the finer details, he could see that a body now adorned the floor. A body that was thankfully not his own.

  “I’m sorry about your wife,” said Davie. “I hope this makes up for it a little bit.”

  Andrew stared, trying to understand. He wasn’t certain, but it looked like Frankie was lying dead on the floor. Davie had shot his own brother.

  Andrew shook his head with disbelief. “W-Why?”

  Davie didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, “I’ll go and get some help.” He dropped the gun on the floor beside his dead brother and left.

  Andrew realised that he hadn’t taken a breath in almost a minute, and expelled the air from his lungs. Things in the room slowly came into focus and the first thing he made out clearly was Officer Dalton lying on the floor beside him.

  “Hey,” he said to her. “It’s over. Help will be here soon…Officer Dalton…Laura?”

  Andrew put a hand on the woman’s chest and rocked her gently, and then more firmly. She did not wake up. Her body slid sideways and flopped onto the tiles. The blood had stopped pumping from her stomach and she was no longer breathing. He mourned the loss more than he would have expected. He’d met the policewoman only days earlier, yet she had been a massive part of the reason he and his daughter were still alive. He would never forget what she did for him – Dalton’s sacrifice.

  “Dad?”

  Bex’s voice was like music, clearing away the nightmares that filled his head and replacing it with love and hope. She would be safe now, and that made the world bearable again. It was just he and she now, and he would never let anything hurt her ever again.

  “Everything is going to be okay now, honey,” he told her. “It’s over.”

  Andrew’s vision finally cleared and he used it to make certain Frankie was dead. The bullet wound in his temple confirmed it and he gave the biggest sigh of relief that he’d ever taken in his life and then let it out slowly. He was about to lose consciousness, but before he did, he managed a smile. Yep, he thought sleepily. It’s finally over.

  Epilogue

  April 17th

  Dear Diary

  Today is my twenty-first birthday. Dad and I spent the afternoon at Mom’s grave. We both still miss her every day. Visiting the cemetery helps alleviate some of the pain, but I know it affects Dad differently than it does me. He still blames himself for being unable to protect us that week Frankie forced himself onto our lives.

  It still shocks me that Davie Walker shot his older brother that day, to save me and my father. I’ll never know the full reasons why he did it, but I can still picture him now, squeezing that trigger as though the weight of the world fought against him. It must have been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. But he did it anyway. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.

  After the events in the hospital, the police arrested Davie for murder, but, after they took my Dad’s statement about what happened, they offered him a deal: testify against Dom in exchange for a reduced sentence. He was looking at about five years. When my Dad got a lawyer involved, the police dropped the charges altogether. The court case against dad’s half-brother, McMillan, is due to start any day now. Apparently Frankie wasn’t his only victim; a dozen more have come forward.

  Davie went into care after it was discovered what a poor excuse for a mother he had. His identity was withheld to protect him from the media-circus that ensued to cover what came to be known as the West Midland’s Massacre. I don’t know what happened to him after that, but I hope he’s okay.

  Eventually my wounds healed and things went back to normal little by little. We sold the house and moved to the country, away from the pavements and lampposts of urban living, and away from the memories that haunted us. Somehow, I managed to get my head together enough to finish high school and move on to college. I’m at university now – my third yearstudying Law. All in all, I managed to get through the ordeal Frankie put us through with my mind and body still intact. A scar across my stomach the only physical reminder of the night I nearly died.

  Dad hasn’t been so lucky. Even five years later, he still walks with a pronounced limp. The wounds of his mind are even worse. Sometimes when we watch TV together he starts crying for no reason. His emotions don’t work the way they used to. If I go out without calling him every two hours, he panics.

  It’s not all bad, though. After what happened, there was a media furore about how the police had failed my family, and about how all the red tape in the criminal justice system did nothing but hurt the people that needed protection the most. My dad fronted a campaign to increase police powers, and he succeeded. Now young offenders can be given something called an ASBO and placed on a public register for as long as the police deem necessary. They can also be escorted back to their homes if they’re caught congregating after nine o’clock at night. It isn’t much, but It’s a start. People have hope again.

  After what happened to my dad, neighbourhood watch programs began popping up all over the country and memberships sky-rocketed. People started coming together, fighting back against the thug culture that was threatening to invade our country. If anything good came from my mother’s death, it’s that the UK today is a safer place than it was when she died. Dad holds onto that dearly. Last year he went into politics.

  Dad formed an organisation committed to protecting the streets from crime through a series of initiatives. One of those demands the Government to allocate part of the annual budget to evening activities for impoverished youths. One of the failings that led to much of the UK’s gang violence wasteenage boredom. My father helped change all that – he called it Pen’s Law. He also spearheaded an investigation into young offender’s homes and was disgusted to find out that the claims Frankie made about his half-brother were true.

  Officer Dalton was, of course, honoured for dying in the line of duty. Nobody, other than her partner, Wardsley,ever knew that she’d let Andrew go after Frankie. Wardsley asked my dad to keep the fact quiet and he’d been happy to. Dalton was a good woman. Once a year we visit her grave too;sometimes Wardsley comes with us. I think they were more than just partners.

  I guess we’ll never know if Frankie was evil or just a result of a crippled and decaying system that failed him from the day he was born. All I know is that the world is a scary place, and that, like my dad, I’m going to do everything I can to help make it safer. I don’t want any other young girls to lose their mothers the way I did.

  This is my last diary entry. At twenty-one I feel I’ve outgrown the need to analysis my daily thoughts by writing about them. I know myself well enough now. I guess I should end it here. I need to get ready. Dad’s taking me out to celebrate my birthday. At least we still have each other…

  BOOK 3 OF 5

  THE FINAL WINTER

  Now this was the sin of Sodom: She and her daughters were arrogant, overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy. They were haughty and did detestable things before me. Therefore I did away with them as you have seen.

  — Ezekiel 16:49-50

  The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event.

  — J. B. Priestley

  What He really hates is the shit that gets carried out in his name. Wars. Bigotry. Televangelism.

  —Rufus, Dogma; View Askew Productions, 1999

  Chapter One

  Harry sipped his latest beer as more news updates flashed up on the pub’s dusty television. A female reporter, enveloped by a bulbous pink ski-jacket and covered in snow, began her report. “Good evening,” she said, a shiver in her voice. “I’m Jane Hamilton with Midland-UK News. As you can clearly see, the nineteen-inches of snow Britain has witnessed in the last forty-eight hours has left the nation’s transportation networks in disarray.”


  The camera panned to overlook a deserted motorway. A sky-blue transit van lay overturned and abandoned in its centre; its mystery cargo strewn across, and half-buried by, the snow.

  The reporter let out a breath, which steamed in the air, and then continued. “Major roads are closed and rail services have been terminated until further notice. Schools and many business are temporarily suspended, while hospitals and other vital services are doing their best to remain open. The current death toll has reached twenty-seven and is feared to rise. Emergency services have set up a helpline in order to assist those in most need, and to offer advice on how best to survive the current freezing temperatures. That number is being displayed at the bottom of the screen now.”

  Harry shook his head. He was never one for fretting about bad weather. The freeze had come suddenly and would leave the same way.

  “Even more concerning,” the reporter continued, “is the fact that it is currently snowing throughout numerous other areas of the world.” A multi-coloured map of the earth superimposed itself at the top-right of the screen and then slowly turned white, representing the recent snowfall. “From barren deserts to areas of dense rainforest, all have been subjected to unprecedented cold spikes. Never before in recorded history has such a wide-spread cold weather system been known to become so widespread. Certain religious leaders are calling this-”

  “Rubbish!” Old Graham, the oldest regular of The Trumpet and resident of the one-bedroom flat above the pub, threw his hands up in disgust. “A little snow and the country falls apart. Every time. It’s a shambles.”

  Harry lifted his head away from his half-finished pint and glanced over at Old Graham. The grumbling pensioner was pointing to the television screen.

  Harry shrugged his shoulders. “No need to get wound up about it.”

  Old Graham huffed and pouted toothlessly. “Your generation can’t cope with anything unless there’s a video on that Your Tube or My Face to tell you about it.”

  Harry glanced at the television. Scenes of heavy snowfall. Locations from around the globe had become half-buried in blankets of slush and snow. The Pyramids of Giza, ice-capped like Himalayan Mountains; the canals of Venice frozen over like elaborate ice rinks; and Big Ben rising above a snow-covered Westminster like a giant stalagmite.

  The television began flickering with interference.

  Harry returned his gaze to Old Graham. “I agree it’s much ado about nothing. People just enjoy a good panic from time to time. No point in letting it bother you.”

  The old man huffed again, the sound was wet and wheezy. “You think Canada, Norway, Switzerland are panicking about the snow? This is a heat wave to a bloody Eskimo! All this climate-change, ozone-layer hogwash they’re harping on about is just to scare us, you mark my words, lad.”

  Harry thought about it. According to the news, it was categorically denied that climate-change could cause such unprecedented weather. The various meteorologists and talking heads all maintained that the snow was being caused by something else.

  Harry swallowed another mouthful of crisp lager and kept his attention on the flickering television screen. Old Graham continued to gawp at him. Eventually the pensioner’s persistent staring irked Harry into speaking again. “Bet everything will be back to normal this time next week, huh, Graham?”

  “You bet your balls it will.” He slid along the bar towards Harry, arthritic knees clicking with every step. “I’ve lived through worse times than this, lad!”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I used to be married.” With that, Old Graham howled with laughter, until his worn vocal cords seized up in complaint and caused him to hack yellow-green phlegm bubbles over the bar. “Best go shift the crap off me chest, lad,” were his parting words before he tottered off toward the pub’s toilets.

  Harry shook his head and turned to face the opposite side of the bar. Steph, the pub’s only barmaid, was smiling at him while clutching a cardboard box of Malt ‘N’ Salt crisps against her chest. She placed the box down on the bar and pulled an old dishrag from the waistband of her jeans. She wiped down the area where Old Graham had coughed. “He bothering you again, Harry?”

  Harry ran a hand through his hair, threading his fingers through the knots and trying to neaten the scruffiness. He sighed. “Graham’s okay. Just had too much to drink.”

  Steph snorted. “You’re one to talk. What time did you get here today?”

  “Noon.”

  “Exactly, and it’s now…” She glanced at her watch. “Nine in the evening.”

  Harry blushed. “At least I have the decency to pass out when I’m drunk, instead of talking people’s heads off like Old Graham.”

  Steph rolled her eyes and smirked. “I’ll give you that, but I’d like to remind you that you left a puke stain my knee-highs on Sunday. I had to throw them out”

  Harry stared down at the hissing liquid in his glass and, for a split-second, felt ashamed enough that he contemplated not drinking it and going home instead. Instead, he downed what was left of it, dregs and all. “I must have been a pathetic sight,” he admitted.

  Steph shrugged. “You’re not pathetic, Harry. Just a bit tragic. Things will look up for you one day, but you got to get a hold of yourself. I know life’s been pretty damn shitty to you, but you only turned forty a couple months ago, right? Plenty of time to get back on your feet and start a new life.” She stopped and looked over at the large plate-glass window that lined one side of the pub. “As long as this wretched snow don’t freeze us all to death first, you’ll be fine. You just gotta get a grip.”

  “You really think so?” he asked her with a sigh.

  “You better hope so, matey, because I’m not putting up with you spewing on me again. Don’t matter how handsome you are!”

  They both chuckled and Harry felt his mood lighten a little. It wasn’t often he heard such things from a younger woman. Not when the mirror showed him a man that looked closer to fifty than his actual age. Grief had been hard on his face.

  Harry pushed his empty pint towards Steph and she refilled it diligently. The overflow from the glass slid down over the black Foo Fighters tattoo on her wrist and made her pale skin glisten. Harry was ashamed to feel a stirring in his loins as he looked at her.

  Harry’s wife, Julie, had been gone a long time now, but he never stopped considering himself a husband. Never once forgot his vow to love her forever.

  Harry moved away from the bar, and away from Steph. The tattered padding of the bar stool he’d occupied for the last several hours had sent his backside numb and he craved the relief of a cushion. He headed towards the bench by the pub’s front window. At the same time, Old Graham returned from the toilets. There was a small urine stain on the pensioner’s crotch and Harry was relieved when the old man headed back to the bar instead of coming over to join him.

  Harry eased down onto the worn bench and sighed pleasurably. He placed his pint down on the chipped wooden table in front of him and picked up the nearest beer mat. There was a picture of a crown on it, along with the slogan: Crown Ales, fit for kings. Without pause, Harry began to peel the printed face away from the cardboard. It was a habit Steph was always scolding him for, but for some reason it seemed to halt his thoughts for a while and kept back some of the demons in his head.

  Relaxing further into the creaking backrest, Harry observed the room he knew so well. The lounge area of The Trumpet was long and slender, with a grimy pair of piss-soaked toilets stinking up an exit corridor at one end and a stone fireplace crisping the air at the other. A dilapidated oak-wood bar took up the centre of the pub, probably older than he was. Several rickety tables and faded patterned chairs made up the rest of the floor space.

  In the pub’s backroom, a small, seldom-used dance floor collected dust. Harry had only seen it once, at New Year’s.

  The Trumpet was a quiet, rundown pub in a quiet, rundown housing estate – both welcoming and threatening at the same time. Much like the people that dr
ank there.

  Tonight the pub was low on drinkers, as it typically was on a Tuesday. Harry wasn’t a big fan of company and preferred the quiet nights. Of course it helped that the snow had confined most people to within a hundred yards of their homes, clogging the main roads with abandoned snowbound vehicles.

  Somehow Steph had made it in, holding down the fort as she did most evenings. Harry often wondered why she needed all the overtime she worked. She seemed to enjoy her work, but it could’ve just been the barmaid’s code to be bubbly and polite at all times to all people. Maybe, deep down, Steph really counted each second until she could kick everybody’s drunken arses out. Whatever the truth, Steph was a good barmaid and she kept control of the place.

  Even Damien Banks behaved on her watch. Weekdays were usually free of his slimy presence, but tonight was an unfortunate exception. The local thug was sat with his Rockports up on the armrest of the sofa beside the fire, iPhone fastened to his ear.

  Harry had heard – from sources he no longer remembered – that the young thug pushed his gear on the local estate like some wannabe drug lord. No one in the pub liked Damien, not even his so called friends – or entourage as Old Graham would often call them in secret. Rumour had it that the shaven-headed bully once stomped a rival dealer into a coma, taunting the family afterwards by revelling in the grief he’d caused.

  Harry shook his head in silent derision. He hated the way Damien lounged around like he owned the place.

  There was one other person in the bar tonight. A greasy-haired hulk named Nigel. A lorry driver, from what Harry had gathered over time, the man spent a lot of time on the road. The poor guy would probably have to sleep in his cab tonight.

  Just the five of them. Tuesday was a quiet night.