by Lex Sinclair
These facts should have induced distress and melancholy. Instead he felt relaxed and at ease, determined more than humanly possible to reach the sacred church and wreak havoc on their unsuspecting victims.
Bearing down on his handlebars, Number 3 squeezed the throttle. The engine growled and the bike leapt forward. In his wing mirrors the road behind was clouded with the dust trail choking the air in his wake. The greater the velocity, the greater the thrill. Number 3 had the need for speed. And its ever accumulating thrill was driven by the need to kill. Inside the confines of his skull there came a burning sensation. His heart mimicked the humming of the engine. The torque of the wheels made the buzzing of a hundred content bees.
The air wasn’t fresh but it was clearing and when it did a far darker sky awaited the world’s remaining inhabitants. Number 3 grinned at that notion. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. It was as sure as a young, fit and healthy person retiring to bed and setting the alarm clock knowing they’d rise the following morning to face a new dawn.
A new dawn.
He liked that. It sounded good and… what was the word… appropriate.
A new dawn meant new, fresh beginnings.
A fresh beginning for him and his compatriots and the end for the group of survivors.
When they arrived at their destination it would be the beginning of the killing.
Number 3, who had been born as a son of God, as Michael Scott Thompson, was long gone. What remained was the cadaver he’d worn as a living human. Now the form belonging to something not of this world. Not of God’s creation, but by Death. And Death never bred life, only death.
The three zoomed over the River Severn Bridge into Wales.
When the vehicles that had been left parked diagonally across the highways the three used their supernatural powers to defy gravity and lift themselves and their motorbikes into the air before landing again when the road was clear. Had they all had access to their human memories no doubt one of them would have remarked how uncannily alike it was to a pivotal scene in the 1982 blockbuster movie E.T. Extraterrestrial.
Another peculiar thought crossed Number 3’s mind. He’d never been to this part of the world before (at least not what he could remember). Yet a pulsing sensation that was a part of the aura he now emanated knew the way.
The Reaper’s followers rode abreast, like Hell’s Angels. The road was theirs, as was the environing land as were the acres and acres of farmland and miles and miles of cracked motorways and highways. No people or livestock. Or at least if there were they were scattered about in small groups sporadically.
They had no need to fear for the Grim Reaper was near…
*
Frank Benullo devoured the green apple and guzzled the fresh milk the farmer had brought the remaining survivors in the cavern. He sat with Sammy and Elias. It was rare they often got to spend time with one another, but they appreciated every minute even more.
A few elderly members of parliament had died: one of infection, the other had run out of medication for his diabetes and asthma. There were considerably less people living in the cavern now than there were when they first took shelter there nearly six years ago.
A phalanx of military rode out one evening about two months ago and got in touch with a farmer someplace north of London. He survived. Some of his crops had turned to cinders. However, his farmhouse had been equipped with a greenhouse and a spacious basement. In the stables he kept cows, chickens and pigs. He began growing food and watering his two-acre land with bottled water long before he ran out of microwave and canned food.
The vast majority of his land was beyond fertilisation. However, he persisted with raking the ashes and debris out of the earth and digging for fresh soil. Soon, as the years passed and the effects of the aftermath subsided, his persistence and perseverance started to gain advantage.
Some of the young soldiers returned on days when their trucks were still operating and wept in the darkest niches. Frank and everyone else prudently chose not to question and probe the reasons behind the tears. Evidently, they’d had to shoot and kill people gone mad to the point of no return. According to an ex-military officer the worst aspect apart from losing lives was the loss of innocence during conflict. Madness was contagious. You needed it to find the courage to run across a battlefield where machine-guns fired innumerable bullets that would tear you limb from limb. You needed madness to be able to raise an assault rifle at a complete stranger and shoot to kill because men in power argued instead of negotiating over money.
This was different. One young man that could have been no older than twenty-five cried into the wee hours of the morning because a madman had darted at them, swinging a garden fork. His mind had snapped. His eyes were feral, not human. His plaid long-sleeve shirt was covered in blood belonging to his family.
The young soldier had told this account to his father who held him close.
Apparently, the man and his family were hurrying to the basement in their countryside domain when the asteroids had started falling. A stone wall running alongside a stream was uprooted and a stone had struck his wife with a fatal blow to the head. She’d collapsed instantly. His daughter had pirouetted and tried to run back to his wife who lay face down in the dirt only to be blown back against the rear of the house. The unyielding wall delivered a breathtaking smack. The young girl slid down the exterior wall into a drunken sitting posture.
Another blast shook the foundations hurling the man down the basement steps and slamming the storm doors shut, as though God himself had saved him.
When he came to and fought off the dizziness the madman hurried up the steps, charged the storm doors open and fell outside.
Amidst all wreckage was the body of his daughter in a kneeling posture. For a minute the madman thought she was sending a prayer of thanks for being spared. However, when he tiptoed over the overturned earth and fragmented fencing it became apparent that his first conception was incorrect. The only cause for his daughter to remain in her motionless crouched-over posture was the fact that a gardening fork had embedded itself right through her back. The prongs protruded her chest and were coated in thick, wet blood. He floated forward and dropped to his knees. Then he stared aghast at the lifeless eyes of his offspring.
These facts the soldier learned form a madman screaming his macabre yarn from the top of his lungs at them. They did their utmost to placate him for his own good. They pleaded with him to drop the bloodstained garden fork and to relax. Then they’d take him to their safe haven. Clearly this man who lost everything that gave him reason to live didn’t want their help. Eventually they acknowledged this and reluctantly concurred that it was in everyone’s best interest that they leave. Nevertheless, the madman kept swinging and frothing cuss words at them. His verbal abuse they ignored. Yet when one of the sharp prongs shredded the jacket of one of the soldiers another comrade put a bullet in the man’s forehead. Quick and easy.
The only noble deed they did that day was carrying the madman’s body to the other two unmarked graves where they buried him with his family.
No one sobbed, but there was no concealing the pooling tears. The hardest, most experienced officers did well not to let their inner emotions get the better of them.
Once they recited the Lord’s Prayer the soldiers crossed themselves. Then they returned in a sombre mood.
Frank lay wide awake that night (he wasn’t the only one) listening to the young soldier crying. ‘Sorry, Dad,’ he whimpered over and over.
‘It’s not your fault, son,’ the father replied every time. ‘It’s not your fault…’
That night Frank felt like screaming…
*
Belinda Watts sat on the deckchair in the shade of the canopy. The last time Tom had gone to the food store she’d asked him to get her as many books as he could from the shelves. Provisions and water weren’t going to kill her in the short term. They’d survived remarkably well, she supposed, than the rest of the population located
in towns, villages and cities. What gnawed away at her hour by hour, day to day, was boredom.
She wasn’t keen on fishing during tranquil times. The first time she’d gone to the nearby lake with her husband and son she’d been mortified. All the fish floated on the surface… dead. It shouldn’t have really bothered her, as the fish would be killed in order for them to cook and then eat. Yet the mere sight of thousands of fish floating lifelessly grew in her mind like a contagious fungus.
She folded a hardcover book on her lap. The book had been rushed into publication and made it to the bestsellers’ list (not that any of that mattered now). It was a non-fiction book on the topic of comets and asteroids. The front cover image was that of one or the other that looked more like a rocket scraping across the solar system and plummeting towards Earth.
The last passage had forced Belinda to stop reading and to take in her peaceful surroundings. Then she read it again, wishing she hadn’t started to read it in the first place.
Comets, not asteroids. The former is much more difficult to predict in order for scientists to divert pending impact. Usually, we can predict asteroids entering the Earth’s atmosphere months or years in advance. Comets therefore have the potential to be far more perilous and less likely to mitigate.
Paradoxically, it is comets and asteroids that are the reason the Earth exists today. And thus, just as comets and asteroids brought life to Earth they too can end it.
If she’d read this book under normal circumstances in her living room at home, Belinda would have been fascinated, not unnerved. Yet reading this either before or now, during the aftermath, was somewhat irrelevant. The passage she reread by the author implied that the asteroids and comets actually had the right to destroy civilisation.
Tossing the book as though it were some rodent that had sat on her lap, Belinda shot up and consulted her watch. 4:01.
It suddenly dawned on her that Tom and Tobe had been gone for five hours. She cornered the caravan and faced the mountain they’d ascended.
No sign of them anywhere.
Tom had said they wouldn’t be long. And although the mountain appeared not so big from her vantage point and it would seem much larger the closer you got, that still didn’t explain their delay. After all, they were only going to the summit to use the binoculars and try and see if there was any sign of life elsewhere in the vicinity. Then they’d return with news or no news.
Had Belinda been able to see them, and vice versa, it might have calmed her. Instead there was no way to communicate and there wasn’t even a trace of them.
A myriad of scenarios played across her psyche. None of them promising.
Perhaps Tom had given into exhaustion and decided to sit down for a while. Belinda had watched them closely earlier and nearly halfway up she’d seen Tom struggling. The thought was a plausible one, if nothing else. Also, they might have stopped for a long break before heading back down again, hence the delay. That too sounded logical.
Nodding to herself, Belinda returned to the deckchair having decided to wait another hour. But what if they hadn’t returned then? What would she do? Was she going to get all suited up and go climbing the mountain to find them? That notion made her swallow with difficulty. Belinda hated to admit it but she was never a girl who took an interest in sports or any type of fitness programme. Apart from a nonchalant stroll through the copse of trees her body remained fairly motionless.
She wasn’t obese; on the contrary, if anything, she was slender and lithe. She was five foot nine and a half. Nevertheless, climbing a steep mountain with light rapidly ebbing wasn’t even remotely ideal.
Mobile phones didn’t work in this part of the world; that’s if they had electric to recharge the battery. All Belinda wanted was to either see them both or hear their voices.
Probably lost track of time, she thought. Or they’ve seen something in the near distance that’s caught their interest, and might be useful to stay around to see more of.
Again these runaway thoughts were all rather rational. Belinda wasn’t going crazy or fretting to the point of madness. She was just your typical doting wife and mother who cared about others’ wellbeing more so than her own. Tom had told her that on occasion to try to get her to relax and sleep. He soothed her with, ‘You are a good person, my love. Maybe too good for this world. A world where people care about one thing: themselves. People care more about money and how they want all the shit that other rich people have, but you just want the ones you care about to be happy. That’s noble. That’s the way to be. We got some good possessions and comforts and that makes life a little more comfortable, but without love it’s all worthless. I don’t know what’ll happen. But I do know that as long as I’m with you and Tobe, that’s all that matters.’
Belinda poured herself a glass of lemonade and reluctantly chose another book. One that hadn’t been a prelude to the world’s demise.
Deep down though, all she wanted was to hear those soothing words from Tom himself. Only he had the ability to calm her and lull her thunderous heartbeat…
*
Belinda bolted out of her deckchair as though she’d been shot. The screaming had murdered her doze and given her heart an adrenaline shot. Frantic, she blinked away her weariness and darted around the caravan where the screaming came from. According to her wristwatch it was 4:57. She hadn’t slept for long, which was good. But would it make any difference?
The ash-grey sky and the fact that dusk had descended obscured the clear view the mountain had offered earlier that day. This veil of darkness seemed to mock Belinda. She stood helpless, no knowing what the best course of action to take. The screaming reverberated in the valley. Then there were a chorus of screams. Screams of men facing pure horror the likes of which no human should ever have to face.
Shaking herself out of motionless, Belinda hurried into the caravan. She stooped down at the cupboard, flung it open and extracted a torch. She flicked the ON/OFF switch with trembling fingers.
Nothing.
The interior of the caravan was a few shades darker than outside. Fortunately Belinda knew her way around the interior as well as the wrinkles on her hands. She rummaged blindly in the cupboard until her fingers brushed a small cardboard box. Shaking them, she breathed a sigh of relief at the dull rattling of batteries inside. She grabbed two and slotted them into the torch; flicked the ON/OFF switch and cussed under her breath. She’d put them inside the wrong way. Once that mishap had been corrected she flicked the ON/OFF switch again.
A cone of golden-yellow radiance.
The light shone out of the torch giving the impression of a futuristic sword. Torchlight in hand, Belinda leapt out of the caravan and crossed the deserted highway and pointed the beam high up.
Nothing.
The light as strong as it was with a new set of batteries didn’t reach that far. The cold stone struck hit the anxious woman with the same impact as a concrete block. If she truly desired to find out what had induced the harrowing screams and the delay of her husband and son then she’d have to climb the mountain herself.
Terrified of the screams as she was, Belinda’s mind feared the unknown to a greater extent. This she knew otherwise she’d have been racing up the mountain without the slightest hesitation. Instead she stood rooted to the spot, shaking head-to-toe.
Tobe was a tough kid. Unlike her, he had an avid interest in sports. He played rugby for the school team and went to the boxing gym three times a week, sometimes five when the rugby season was over. Not once had he ever come back from either sport with anything more than a scrape.
Tom, Belinda knew, was as tough as nails. His father had been an undertaker and worked in the basement of their countryside villa on the outskirts of Merthyr Tydfil. As a child he’d often seen cadavers entering the home in black body bags. When dinner was ready his mother sent him to get his dad. Tom ventured downstairs and usually saw his father at work; the cadavers pallid and bloodless. Some he said had died young and their bodies and faces wer
e beyond full repair. Belinda was certain that if they’d come across something unforeseen, such as a dead body, there was no way Tom or Tobe would have screamed, especially for as long at the top of their lungs. To have that effect on them there had to be something far worse.
It was this reason that kept Belinda rooted, shaking with worry.
She loathed herself for her fears. She loathed how weak and inadequate it made her. Of course she was the woman in a family dominated by men, but her son and her benevolent husband evidently were suffering from some sinister unseen occurrence, and she was not able to move a step closer.
Another reason why she shook had to do with not wearing anything more than a long-sleeve Reebok T-shirt and a pair of Levi’s. Also, she hadn’t grabbed any water or fizzy drink that she would need if she were going to overcome her fear and climb the mountain. So, if nothing else, being properly prepared would help a great deal.
Belinda hurried back across the deserted highway and realised she’d left the caravan door wide open in her haste.
‘Stupid girl!’ she chastised herself.
As she hopped over the step into the caravan another light out of the corner of her eye pulsed.
The room suddenly filled with static of unease. The cosy interior had long departed and had now been replaced by an eerie radiance that came not from any torch or bulb but from a shape and size of a man who used to be her husband.
She didn’t have control of her voice or any of her bodily functions when her eyes met this neon green shape. The torch fell out of her numb grasp. Belinda didn’t even hear it hit the floor. She stood frozen, eyes bulging. Then she pissed herself. Nevertheless, Belinda didn’t feel or notice the warm flowing liquid spilling out of her crotch and coursing down her quivering legs. Her mouth yawned open and she swayed as though drunk or being rocked.
