by Lex Sinclair
‘The path goes round the cliff,’ Tom said, as though reading the exact words from his son’s mind.
Behind them stones protruded from the mountain like ledges or footholds. If one used them as intended they’d reach the summit where the grey sky loomed no more than an arm’s length away.
‘Which way?’
Tom’s face was flushed and scalding from the climb. He could barely think let alone decide their next course of action.
‘The footholds are quite generous,’ Tobe said, chest rising and falling a little faster than normal. However, he could’ve been walking briskly to the bus stop to look at him.
Meanwhile Tom’s chest heaved and sighed, heaved and sighed. His lungs expanded and contracted; expanded and contracted. If the shrieking wind hadn’t been so bitterly cold up here in this altitude then sweat beads would have glistened on his brow.
‘The path around the cliff is even, although a tad muddy. But one minor miscalculation and we’ll be falling in love with a girl called gravity,’ Tom said once he’d caught his breath. ‘On the other hand the footholds as you say are pretty generous. But one slip and at best you’ll fall and break your legs and back.’
A stream coursed through the apertures of stonework and into the mountain where the footholds were situated. The footholds would accommodate a Bigfoot. However, all there was to grab onto was the undulating blades of grass. The high winds blew them flat one way then the other, like a drunken imitation of the Mexican wave.
Tobe was confident to the point of certainty that he’d get to the summit with ease if he went that way. However, he had to take into consideration the waning condition of his old man. Exhaustion affected the mind and in turn one’s concentration. This could quite easily be the reason his dad would fall to death or in some respects worse – to being paralysed evermore.
The muddy path however was wide enough to permit them both to sidle along at a measured pace and not place themselves in great peril. Also, if his dad went first Tobe could keep a watchful eye on him and instruct him accordingly.
‘It’s up to you son.’
‘Let’s take the path route,’ Tobe said. ‘We’ve done enough climbing for one day.’
Tom knew that Tobe had been considering what was best for them both and not for him alone. He wanted to thank Tobe for that, although he didn’t want his relief to hinder his son if the muddy path led to a dead-end and they had to retrace their steps. If that was the case, Tom would stay here and give his son the binoculars and wait while he reached the summit, alone.
‘You go first,’ Tobe said, by way of explanation. ‘Don’t go fast. Go slow and listen to my instructions, all right?’
Tom nodded. His son telling him what to do in a soothing tone made him feel as though he was the son and Tobe was the father. Roles in reverse. ‘Okay. And thanks.’
Tobe grinned from ear to ear. ‘You: “Do you want to go back and play golf, or what?”.’
Reluctantly, Tom turned away from his cheerful son and made his way towards the muddy path that curved around the crag, not realising what was lurking out of sight in close proximity.
In the moments thereafter when it was too late to go back, Tom wondered if it would have altered his and Tobe’s fate had they chosen the other route.
*
The human remains that had once embodied the soul of Roland Goldsmith bounced ballerina-style on his toes around the marble onyx-coloured monolith. The circular area at the foot of the amphitheatre was where many a men had forsaken their ordinary existences and ascended to a higher form of existence.
The pit beneath the stone risers was also the battleground where many a man had spilled geysers of blood that the ground soaked up.
His body glowed neon green. A torch from within burned radiantly. He’d awoken from his cataleptic state an hour earlier when Vince had whispered the three sacred Latin words to him. The incantations of a hundred phantoms reverberated around the amphitheatre, but Vince couldn’t decipher what any of them were saying. It wasn’t the same chorus sang in unison, it was a myriad of unintelligible declarations.
These hallowed incantations occurred when the monolith was either rising or disappearing into the aperture or motionless at the centre of the amphitheatre. Vince was by no means a man who possessed acumen in abundance; on the contrary if anything. However, he wasn’t so insensible not to notice that the monolith gave off an aura as palpable as any other entity.
For the first couple of years he made forceful endeavours to converse with the green figure of a man, but was evidently something quite unique. Vince was never one to be able to have the ability to live inside his head. One who had acumen above average human condition could ponder profoundly the depths of their past, present and future. Vince had never been one for notions of deliberations. He wasn’t a reader or anyone who looked beyond his own selfishness. The asinine folk of the present world long begotten offered in its absence, stress-free, unburden slumbers and long, rich lives.
Enraged by the shimmering neon green man’s compulsion for silence, Vince took out his vexation and fury by taking long hikes across the mountains and lifting boulders. He did repetitions with the smaller and lighter stones and power lifts with the large rocks. Along with the ample amount of food and drink the Reaper provided every few months upon whispering the three Latin words, Vince had not only maintained his physique but improved it. His size, shape and definition exceeded his expectations and desires greatly. He strode through the Brecon Beacons at dusk like a Greek God.
Nevertheless, whenever he reluctantly returned to this sacred amphitheatre and shared the cavern and provisions with the “green man”, the lack of conversation irritated him. He wasn’t asking for this peculiar torch dude to be a non-stop loquacious type. All he sought was mild companionship.
However, as time passed and the aftermath lingered from months to years, Vince had grown accustomed to his acquaintance’s muteness. That’s not to say he was content with it. Vince still felt the urge roil inside him, as though his rage had fused a fireball ready to burst out of his snarling mouth and throttle the green figure.
So, although the monolith rising from the deepest part of earth unnerved Vince, he was also glad to have something new to break the monotony of this caveman existence.
The foreign incantations rose to a crescendo then tapered off.
Vince had no idea if this was good or bad.
Then his heartbeat accelerated. The rushing of blood coursing through him sounded like the mile-high waves rising from the oceans and crashing down on the nearest land, obliterating houses, roads, parks and edifices as though they were constructed from flimsy cardboard.
The “green man” ceased bouncing moronically on his toes and stood unmoving. Vince whipped his head around and followed his unflinching stare to the opening. The precipice sheltered them from gale force winds. But it wasn’t the wind that had secured their undivided attention.
Vince jolted involuntarily at the distinct sounds of human voices, nearing ever closer.
‘Nearly there, Dad. Just keep going steady, one step at a time. Don’t look down. Keep moving forward. Few more meters and we’re there.’
If this wasn’t the world and a cartoon instead Vince’s eyes would have leapt out of his skull and been yanked back by elasticised retinas. His heart hammered in his throat, strangling him.
He staggered blindly, arms flailing at the sight of one leg followed by another. Then the figure of a man donning ear muffs and a woolly fleece stood beneath the stone arch and raised his head.
Vince and the man clad in winter clothing echoed each other’s cries.
The man born as Roland Goldsmith yawned and screamed as well. However, his scream was much higher-pitched and came from another dimension, travelling at the speed of sound through a vortex from another realm. Instinctively, the man wearing ear muffs and Vince clapped their hands over their ears and grimaced at the discomfort of the banshee cry.
Vince spun his arms windm
ill fashion as the ground rocked and swayed beneath him. Inevitably he fell and landed on the seat of his pants. His teeth snapped together doing an impressive impression of a great white shark.
When he squinted across the circular patch he saw another figure had toppled over on top of the man who’d reached their residence. Blood poured out of their nostrils over their lips, staining their teeth. Vince ran his serpent tongue across his own lips and mouth.
Nothing. No blood.
Then he recalled the first time the monolith had risen out of the aperture in the ground and the incantations booming in his head. His nose had run tap-like. Twice only in his whole life he’d ever been inflicted with nosebleeds prior to that time. One was when he was a toddler in nursery school. He’d been doing some thorough excavating when blood rushed out. The second had been when he’d been elbowed by a piss-artist who’d had too much to drink while escorting him out of the nightclub to the gutter. He could still taste the coppery scent on his top lip now.
The monolith’s aura was aberrant. Not ideal for humans or any other living creatures to be around. The “green man” must have got closer to the monolith or even touched it with his bare hands, Vince surmised.
What had befallen him was now affecting the two men.
Vince deduced that they were of the same bloodline. They both had similar features. Average to tall, slender, dark woven hair and eyes of men filled with acumen.
The Reaper had scrawled in its black ink-blood on a rock the birth name of the “green man” when Vince had still been futilely wasting his time trying to get the man to engage in conversation with him. He watched Roland bounce slowly, fluidly past him towards the two men.
The two newcomers (uncle-nephew, father-son, for something closely linked the two men together), lay beside each other, slipping between consciousness and unconsciousness. Roland reached the younger man and took his wrists in his hands, pulsating neon green. Then with unassuming strength, Roland dragged the man across the dusty open area and loosened his hold when the man lay next to the monolith. He repeated this procedure with the older man and sat, legs folded and observed.
Vince heaved himself up off his knees and dusted himself down.
His muscles flexed and became taut. A tingling sensation coursed through his veins as if they were guitar strings being plucked at high voltage. Every nerve buzzed and jangled. The sensation was far superior to that of pumping iron in the gym or reaching an intense orgasm. An invisible firework or lightening bolt shot through him. It ebbed as he took two backward steps away from the monolith and realised the buzzing sound didn’t reverberate in his mind but around the amphitheatre.
Vince raised his hands that were knotted with flushed veins, which gave the impression the back of his hands were intricate roads on a map. What he saw banished the amazing feel-good sensation faster than a blink of an eye. Fear replaced all other emotions with paramount dominance. The invisible firework or lightening bolt seared through his veins. A hundred jagged knives sliced through his nerves over and over again – pulsing through his veins altering from their usual indigo hue to the shimmering radiant green.
Vince emitted a bloodcurdling scream that never died.
He screamed… and screamed… and screamed…
When his lungs burned lasciviously and his throat was unable to produce any sound the screaming continued in the valley of his fragmented mind and hollow heart… evermore…
26.
JANE SNAPPED AWAKE. Her head whipped to and fro in the dimness and it took half a minute for her to catch her bearings. She recalled a time prior to the aftermath when she’d travelled to many places and had awoken after deep sleep with the same disorientation. Only this time she hadn’t been sleeping soundly. On the contrary, she’d had a terrible dream or vision.
She’d rolled off the sofa cushions in the stone-walled vicarage. Jonesy stirred in the recliner but did not awake. Jane wondered if he too was having a bad dream. This topic had been discussed at length in the living room throughout the past couple of weeks after Sapphire and his adorable cat, Smokey, had retired to bed. What Jane found most unnerving was the letter written in hasty scrawl by Sapphire’s mother, Nadine.
Reverend Perkins also depicted the dream/vision he’d had of the dark hooded figure that had to be the Grim Reaper and a man in black following. The young man revealed he had no notions of what it all meant precisely. However, as the vision of the nuclear holocaust induced by the asteroids entering the atmosphere was accurate then his visions had to be taken as truth. The same could be said for Nadine who’d prophesised her own death could not be ignored.
Still half-awake, Jane replayed what she’d witnessed.
Death had walked the earth ever since the dawn of man. For every living creature that was born naturally into the world through God’s will, they too would surely die. That fact itself was grim. The Reaper although frightening by appearance alone was considered the one entity that could help make souls pass over into the next life without difficulty.
A movie titled The Muppets Christmas Carol came to mind. Jane recalled the ghost of Death had visited Scrooge and had taken him to his grave. The image in her dream depicted a very similar picture, as it did with Perkins’ peculiar vision.
In her vision Jane had seen Death gesticulating with its skeleton hands this way and that, sending vehicles coated in so much dust it looked like heavy snow had fallen off the motorways. They plummeted into ditches and charcoal pastures, crashing into each other where they lay forgotten, rust turning their bodywork orange and flaking.
She wondered why it would waste time doing this if there were no living souls. Then she saw the three figures that had not so long ago been human, but had transformed into demons. Their faces shimmered in the daylight. However, as night had fallen they fluxed in gleaming metallic hues, eyes beaming violent red from the core. Their faces rippled the way a lake does after a stone breaks the surface.
Worst of all was that they revved their powerful motorcycle engines, bore down on the handlebars and howled and laughed maniacally. They too had powers beyond human capability and human comprehension.
They stopped, occasionally, demonstrating their developing powers. One saw the blue sign to the left of the road indicating it was the M4 and ran and punched it. Instead of bouncing back or crying out in pain the sturdy metal sign buckled and caved inwardly from the impact.
Jane noticed that the sign was not at all nebulous but one that was real. It stated there was an off-ramp 1 mile ahead leading into the city of Bristol. There were rest stops and Drive-Thru restaurants such as McDonald’s, KFC, Burger King, a Texaco filling station and a shopping precinct.
One of the evolving demons rode his Yamaha leaning back and using his feet to steer. This stunt was virtually impossible. Yet this figure that had once been as mortal as Jane herself cut across lanes effortlessly with his hands behind his head.
Then Jane found herself flying over the country. A long, straight motorway cut through pastures, towns, cities, golf courses and valleys. She knew not how this could even be possible. It was as if she were having the most vivid dream of being Superman or Superwoman. It didn’t make her feel afraid. Nevertheless, perplexed as to what the cause of this might be, the reason behind it all plagued her mind.
This continued for what seemed like a lengthy amount of time until she recognised the familiar terrain. Port Talbot flew by and then she ascended higher. The white mist that was atmospheric dust blinded her until she felt herself plummet and her stomach follow seconds later.
Her heart clamoured into her throat when she saw the small town. She was flying above the main road out of the village past the junior school and into the cemetery. Instead of being lowered to the front door of the vicarage she drifted languidly over the cottage down the chimney flute, out of the hearth and floated above herself.
Upon waking and sitting bolt-upright, Jane gasped.
She gasped because what she saw floating above her wasn’t her dream se
lf but the Grim Reaper staring down at her.
‘It knows where we are,’ she whimpered into the darkness.
*
Perkins blinked awake at the first chink of dull morning light shining through the parted curtains. He sighed, bone-weary. Rolling over he consulted the alarm clock ticking incessantly.
9:29
The night before he’d shaved and given himself a haircut. A number two on the sides and tidied up on the top. He looked more like a human now than a caveman who hasn’t been well. His eyes were dry and crusty. Spit and blood stained the pillow he’d been resting on and some shredded hair. At times such as waking to perfect silence Perkins honestly wished he’d perished with the rest of the country, and perhaps, the world’s population. It would have been easier anyway.
He shook his head. His mouth tasted like a garbage disposal. His entire anatomy had been sleep-deprived for so long; like himself, it hoped that his heart would eventually cease beating and his overworked brain would shut down. Unfortunately, no such luck.
Committing suicide wasn’t an option. It wouldn’t be fair on the others or Sapphire, whose company he enjoyed. If nothing else, the youngster had a pleasant, cheerful character about himself. So did Smokey. The pair of them knew not of all that had been lost and destroyed and savoured life for what it was now. Of course, Perkins knew that as the boy got older and the innocence of childhood paved the way for full understanding, Sapphire would feel the soul-crushing effect of melancholy. The impact would be equivalent to the asteroids on the earth.
Yet Perkins wanted to believe with all his heart that Nadine’s sincere letter was unequivocally true. Already Sapphire lit up the darkness of the days over the last few years in their close group. He was still innocent, free of sin. If Perkins could just keep it that way until he was old enough to make the right decisions for himself he’d be reassured that his own life hadn’t been for nothing, after all.
