by Mike Revell
“Nice,” I said.
That dream—if that was what it was—happened so suddenly. What if another one struck in training? The whole team would think I was nuts.
“Earth to Smithy,” Danny said, wafting his hands in front of my face.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, snapping out of my thoughts.
The clattering of studs filled the sports hall as we approached the main entrance to the changing room. We got into our gear and ran out onto the field.
“Three lines!” Mr. Matthews bellowed.
We warmed up, then broke down into drills, running round cones and hopping ropes. Normally I was quick on my feet—this sort of stuff should have been easy. But when I tried to stop and spin round a cone to get a good burst, I lost my balance. And I got tangled up and tripped in the rope ladder we were supposed to speed through.
“Focus, Smithy,” Mr. Matthews said, but the more I tried to focus, the harder it got.
It all came back—the stench, the crow, the dusty air. It filled my mind and I bent over, stomach churning. I clenched my teeth, desperately fighting off the sick feeling.
When it came to the practice game, I didn’t score a single goal. I barely even hit the net.
Mr. Matthews pulled me aside as the rest of the team headed back to get changed.
“Is something up, Smithy?” he said.
“No, Sir, it’s just—”
“I need you at your sharpest on Wednesday. The team needs you.”
“I know, sir. It won’t . . . it won’t happen again,” I said, turning away because how could I stop it? I didn’t even feel that weird dream coming earlier. And that meant it could happen again without my stopping it.
“I’ve been talking to the academy,” he said. “They’re coming, Owen. If we get to the quarter finals, they’ll take a look. They’ll send a scout.”
I looked up then. His eyes were wide, and I could see myself reflected in them. I imagined walking through the entrance to a giant football stadium, me and Danny, the floodlights shining down on us. The flash of cameras in the crowd.
Then the stadium crumbled to dust, and all around me the ground was barren and dead.
I staggered back, breathing fast. I had to tell Dad what was happening to me. If this was all in my head, then I needed counseling more than he did.
6
When I got home, Dad was outside in the garden, talking to Clive over the fence. Our next-door neighbor was the kind of guy who could go on for hours, even if you were trying to end the conversation.
But for once it was Dad doing all the talking. And even though the not-me in the mirror kept flashing in my mind, a wave of happiness washed over me. The writing must have been working already, because I hadn’t seen him this talkative in months.
Just then Dad looked back at the kitchen window. He smiled when he saw me, and raised a hand. I waved back, excitement fluttering in my stomach. I couldn’t believe how good it was to see him smile like that.
“I’ve been meaning to say thanks,” Dad said, coming in through the back door and closing it with a loud clunk.
“What for?”
“Getting me off my backside. Forcing me to go to see someone. I actually went today, you’ll be pleased to know.”
“I didn’t force you,” I said, but realizing he’d actually gone made my stomach ripple in excitement. Dad hadn’t been himself for so long, but he’d only been to counseling once and already he was changing. I crossed my fingers and toes, praying that it could keep working.
“Artistic Healing,” Dad said. “I would never have believed it. I’m still not sure I do. But I showed the counselor what I’m working on, and she convinced me to keep going. She said writing can be a powerful window to the soul that helps heal all wounds.” He made a face, and I laughed.
“That’s great,” I said, and I really meant it.
Dad washed his hands in the sink, and the water turned brown with mud. “How was school?”
“Okay.”
“Not giving me any more than that, eh?”
“I didn’t really do much. I just . . .” I studied his face, the wrinkles around his eyes, the whiskery stubble on his cheeks. For one brief moment, seeing Dad smile had knocked all the worries out of my head. But now that I was away from the pitch, the memory of the daydream came creeping back. I had to tell Dad about the way I kept changing. Maybe he’d understand. He’d know if they really were dreams or . . . something worse. He’d know what to do. But as I looked at him, at the eagerness in his eyes and the expectant smile on his lips, the words ghosted away.
How did you talk about something so crazy? I didn’t know where to begin.
I clenched my teeth, hating myself for being so scared.
“I just felt a bit ill,” I said.
“Oh,” he said. “Are you feeling okay now? Do you want me to take your temperature?”
“I’m fine. How’s Clive?” I asked, changing the subject.
Dad dried his hands on the tea towel, but when he turned back he looked lost. “He wants to take me to a beer festival. I don’t know, though. They’re so loud. So many people.”
“I could go with you,” I said. “At school it’s really loud sometimes. But I just talk to Danny, and after a while the rest of the noise gets drowned out. Maybe you could talk to me.”
“Maybe,” he said. He went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of beer. There was a hiss and a crack, and wisps of gas drifted away from the open lid.
“What do you fancy for dinner tonight? Fish and chips?”
He must have seen the look on my face, because he set the bottle down, locking his eyes on mine. “I know we haven’t had a proper meal in a while. And it’s my fault. I just . . .” He sighed. “How about we cook something now, eh? You and me, together in the kitchen. Cooking maestros!”
“Yeah,” I said, trying not to laugh at the look on his face. “Yeah, okay.”
He ruffled my hair and gave me a playful squeeze.
“We haven’t got much in, but I’ve got all the stuff for Juicy Lucy burgers,” Dad went on, raiding the cupboards and dumping ingredients on the table. Then he looked back, his smile faltering. “Er—are you okay, Owen?”
“I’m fine,” I said. I hadn’t thought about food all the way home, but now that we had the chance to eat a proper dinner my stomach grumbled.
We made our special burgers, where the cheese oozed out of the middle, and grilled the veg to go with them. Then we sat down and turned on the TV—some documentary about airplanes—and even though we were both quiet, it wasn’t a bad quiet, like when no one can think of anything to say and all you want to do is leave the room. It was a good quiet.
On the show they were following a plane that had crashed in the sea, and using modern technology to recreate what happened to it before, during, and after the accident. The presenter held up something that looked like a large metal cylinder. They called it a black box even though it was bright red. Apparently it had two different location devices on it—one radio beacon to be used on dry land and one pinger that activated automatically when it made contact with water.
“I love stuff like this,” Dad said. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” I didn’t really find it that fascinating at all. It was just nice to be sitting with Dad, spending some time together. “Hey, why don’t we go to an air show sometime? We haven’t been since you were really little. Do you remember that one in Hastings?”
“Yeah,” I said. How could I forget? I must have only been five or six, but they had ten Spitfires flying overhead, one of the largest displays there’d been since the war. I still remember the sound they made rumbling past us. The commentator said they flew like angels who’d left their wallets in the clouds. I didn’t really know what it meant then—I still didn’t—but at the same time, it kind of made sense. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
I turned away to cover up the grin that was splitting my face. All this time, I’d hoped and hoped that Dad going to counseling would help, but it was one
thing hoping it and another thing seeing it. I couldn’t bring up the weird dream now. Not when he was in such a good mood.
Before I went to bed that night, I checked the bathroom mirror again. I held my breath as I looked into the glass, but it was just me blinking back in the reflection.
Just a dream, I told myself. It had to be. A stupid daydream. Or day-nightmare, more like. Maybe it was a good thing I couldn’t bring myself to tell Dad.
It probably wouldn’t happen again, would it?
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
7
The next morning, I looked for Dad in the kitchen. There was a teaspoon on the counter and the smell of toast still lingered, but the room was empty. The hall was quiet too.
Then I noticed the light was on in his study, so I went over to check on him.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he explained, when I knocked on the door. “Thought I’d get a head start on the writing, see how it goes.”
“Nice one,” I said.
I’d always hoped that the counseling would get him working like he used to—you know, to keep his mind busy—but I never imagined he’d be this keen. He didn’t even write this early in the morning with his first book.
I ate breakfast on my own, watching kids’ cartoons. As I got ready for school, I kept thinking about football. I was so useless yesterday. I didn’t know what had got into me. I’d have to make sure I scored loads of goals today.
I opened the front door and was just walking down the drive when I heard a shout.
“WATCH OUT!”
I glanced up—
The next few seconds happened so fast they almost seemed slow. My throat tightened. I tried to move, but my legs were glued to the spot. My eyes widened as I saw the bike speeding toward me, brakes squealing. The front wheel locked and the back rose up, up, up, arcing through the air and flinging the rider right out of the seat.
Part of me wanted to try to catch the man so he wouldn’t crash into the road. The other part of me needed to get out of the way. The two parts combined and I froze. At the last possible second I jerked out of the way, but the handlebars jabbed me hard in the ribs and I fell back, clattering into the recycling bins.
Garbage bags scattered over the road, spilling food containers and milk cartons all around me.
A sharp pain shot through my palms where the asphalt had ripped off the skin.
My gut twisted as I pushed myself onto my hands and knees, willing myself not to throw up.
“Are you okay?” said a voice across the street. “Young man?”
I didn’t look up, didn’t dare reply in case opening my mouth made it worse.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the twisting and churning stopped. I blinked, rubbing my eyes on my sleeve to stop them watering.
At first I didn’t realize anything had changed . . .
Then I started to notice things. The bike was gone. The man riding it was nowhere to be seen. And whoever was calling across the street must have run off quickly, because there was no one about. The streets were empty. And the streets round here were never empty. But it wasn’t just that . . . there were no buses or cars, either.
The houses were in the same place, but they were broken, blackened, covered in dust and muck. The windows were smashed and boarded up. The bricks looked as if they’d been burned. If I hadn’t been looking at them a few seconds ago, I wouldn’t have guessed they were houses at all.
An acrid smell filled my nostrils. I staggered to my feet, turning round and round in shock.
What’s going on?
“We’ve got to move,” said a voice beside me.
I jumped and spun round, breathing quickly.
A boy was staring at me urgently. He looked about my age, maybe eleven or twelve. His clothes were grubby and mud stained and he clutched something tightly to his chest. No, not something. Lots of somethings. Cans of food and an old CD and a book.
Dillon. That was his name. It drifted from the back of my mind and hung there, burning bright. But how could I know that when I’d never seen him before?
I must have been daydreaming again. But how could I have been, when I’d been so close to getting knocked over by that bike? You didn’t just fall asleep or drift off like that, did you? My heart was only just calming down.
An explosion of noise made me look up.
Cawing and screeching, cackling, crying out.
Something black rose on the horizon. Maybe they were crows, like the one that landed next to me when I had daydreamed in school.
They started off like a stain, pooling out, rising up into the gray. Then they spread out, until they weren’t just a black mark in the distance. They became a cloud, a huge cloud, getting bigger and bigger by the second.
They’re not birds, I thought. They can’t be birds. No birds fly like that.
The wails grew louder. The black stain was so big now that it blotted out the sun. And it was getting closer. It was coming this way.
“Move,” Dillon growled.
“W-what is it?” I stammered. As it closed in, it spread out, oozing over the sky like spilled ink. Whatever it was, I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
“The Darkness,” Dillon said, his eyes narrowing. He looked me up and down, a confused expression on his face. Then he shook himself and moved away, glancing from building to building. “Where’s Iris? We’ve got to run!”
Iris? As soon as he said the name, an image of her flashed in my mind. I’d seen her before. I . . . I knew her. But how could I? I’d never met anyone called Iris in my life.
“I need to get back for Dad,” I said. “I need to see if he’s okay.” Something must have happened when I got knocked over. Something bad. And he was still in his study. He wouldn’t know anything about it. I had to get back and warn him.
Suddenly a whirlwind of thoughts exploded in my head. Images and places and people and things. Things I’d never seen before, things I’d never known.
But standing there . . . Standing there, it felt like I’d known them all my life.
It was like I’d become a different person. Like I wasn’t Owen Smith at all . . .
I glanced down—
And cried out in shock. My school blazer, my trousers and shirt and tie—they’d vanished again. Instead, I was wearing the same kind of rags that Dillon had on.
I held out my hands and examined them under the fading light. They were too big. The fingers were thicker than normal. They weren’t my hands. They couldn’t be my hands.
Panicking, I felt my hair. It was long again.
What’s happening to me?
Another screech echoed off the ruined houses, and I whirled round, each breath getting faster and faster. But there was only the wasteland. Only the Darkness.
Dillon grabbed my wrist and dragged me into the barren road.
“We’ve got to get into the light,” he said. “Run!”
The high wailing was so loud now I could feel it as well as hear it.
Dillon ran. I hesitated, turning back to my house—
But it wasn’t there. All that was left was a pile of brick in the vague shape of a building. The garden was lined with the hollow husks of long-dead trees. The grass was blackened and dead.
Adrenaline surged through me and I pelted after Dillon.
The scream ripped through the air just as I caught up with him. The Darkness, I thought. Is that where it was coming from? But then I heard the scream again, and I realized it sounded different to the high wailing. It sounded like—
Like a girl.
She was there, fifty yards behind us. Iris.
“Help!” she called, stumbling toward us.
She was carrying too much in her arms. She wasn’t moving fast enough.
I skidded to a stop, kicking up swirling clouds of dust. The Darkness covered the whole horizon like a raging storm, tendrils lashing out at the dead trees, licking at the rubble and rocks.
It was closing in—fast.
There was
no way Iris was going to make it. And if I went back for her, it’d probably get me too. Dillon’s desperate voice echoed in my mind. Run. I glanced back again, but he was long gone, rushing toward a dome of light in the distance.
What would happen if the Darkness touched us? I plunged into the rush of memories, but the fog in my head made it too hard to see them.
“Help me!” Iris yelled again.
What was she holding? Why couldn’t she just let it go? Surely nothing could be as important as getting away from that cloud. I took a deep breath and ran back toward her.
“Just drop it!” I shouted over the whipping wind. “Let it go! We’ve got to run!”
“I can’t!” Her foot caught and she stumbled. I reached out to steady her, and my hands brushed against the two plastic containers she held, filled with sloshing liquid. “We’ve got to get these back to camp. If we don’t—”
But whatever she was about to say got cut off. An ear-splitting cry filled the air, like a bird of prey but a hundred times worse.
Iris’s eyes grew wide with fear.
I didn’t dare look up at the storm. I didn’t want to know how close it was. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed the containers off Iris and held one under each arm.
Then I ran.
I ran as fast as I could toward the light. That must have been the camp she mentioned. It was hard to make out from so far away, but I could see people moving inside the dome.
Iris darted alongside me, her hair whipping around her face.
I could see Dillon in the distance. He was miles away now. He’d almost reached the camp. He was going to make it. But we—
I glanced back quickly, just to check.
It was right on us, bubbling and boiling, reaching out with flickering fingers. Something snapped. There was a snarl, like a rabid dog. An orange gleam appeared and vanished again back into the clouds.
Desperately I willed my legs to move faster. Every breath felt icy cold, stabbing my throat. But the Darkness was closing in too quick.
