Dark Voices

by Darren Sant

  The Ballad of Peter Pumpkinhead by the Crash Test Dummies blasted out of his Citroen’s stereo system and he again swerved along to the tune. A sudden pothole caused the CD to jump and he looked down in annoyance. Pete’s already huge pupils widened as he lost control and mounted the kerb, narrowly missing a dog walker. With a sickening thud, he clipped a little black dog, sending her flying through the air and into a wall, her little flat face made flatter still by the impact. Pete careered into a wall of a cafe called The Munch Box which, luckily, at this early hour was empty. The impact inflated the air bag and he groaned as he kissed the plastic. With a wrench his door was opened and he was yanked, moaning, from the car.

  “Than …” he managed to say, before a fist smashed hard like a piledriver into his face. Kelly punched him again and again. The last thing Pete saw before losing consciousness was the prone and shattered form of a little black dog lying in a puddle of blood. As Kelly stood over the battered form of Pete he thought, this really hasn’t been my fucking day. He reached into his pocket and fished out his mobile. He quickly dialled a number.

  “Gus, get your arse onto English Street now and bring the car, pronto.”

  “Whereabouts, boss?”

  “Oh, I think you’ll see me, Gus.”

  He walked slowly over to the corpse of his beloved Rosie and gathered her up tenderly into his arms.

  * * *

  Kelly looked grim as he stared down at Pete. His ugly features contorted into a sneer as he whispered, “This is for Rosie.”

  Kelly slowly lowered his cigar to the rope. The petrol caught and the flame rushed towards Pete faster than a Brazilian striker on speed. Pete’s last thought as he plunged head first towards the dark, sandy waters of the Humber was, who the hell is Rosie?

  ECLECTICA

  The Sad End of Ernest Winthorpe

  Ernest looked up at the sky. Bruised angry clouds hung just beyond his reach. He scratched his bald pate and looked down the hill it had taken him all morning to climb. Bedraggled gorse had nipped and scratched at his ankles for the entire ascent. He sat and patiently waited for the storm he knew was brewing. A strange little smile crossed his face. As the first rumble of thunder charged the air he thought of his beautiful wife, now absconded with his former business partner. Before leaving their scornful note they had made sure to clear out all of the bank accounts. Ernest held aloft the length of 15mm plumbers’ copper pipe that had served as a walking stick for his trek.

  “Do your worst, you bastards! he yelled with a primal ferocity at the roiling skies and any Gods that might be listening.

  Two elderly men sat playing chess, their faces creased, deep in concentration as they battled for supremacy.

  “Rook takes pawn,” said the man dressed in white.

  As if in answer to Ernest’s prayers, a mighty finger of fire reached down from the heavens. His knuckles were white as he gripped the length of copper pipe tightly. He tried not to imagine his blackened, dried up form being stripped of all moisture before roasting like a Christmas turkey when the lightning hit him. At the last minute, the lightning veered away and blasted a nearby oak tree. Ernest stared in dismay at the now burning oak. The worst of the storm quickly abated, but not before he was soaked to the skin.

  As he loomed menacingly over the ornate pieces on the board, the man in black simply nodded and said, “Impressive,” as he moved a pawn forward.

  He threw the copper over his shoulder and trudged back down the hill. At the base of the hill he sat, shivering, in his aged Mazda. The heater was cranked up full as he tried to start the engine, which coughed and spluttered but failed to cooperate. Breathing a deep, world-weary sigh, he stepped out of the car, locked it, and set off in the direction of town.

  In the shadowy streets on the wrong side of town, Ernest’s wrinkled face twitched into a smile as he spotted a group of hoodies drinking and smoking near the park, their loud shouts and loud banter making all who passed near give them a wide berth. Cans of lager littered the ground near them and the tangible smell of dope hung in the air.

  “Oi! Come get some, you little motherfuckers. Come on! BRING IT ON!” yelled Ernest, with an anger he didn’t really feel.

  I might get lucky, he thought, with a good beating they might even kill me. His heart pounded with anticipation of the violence to come. This could be it. The hoodies looked nervous for a moment. One of them threw a can at him and they laughed.

  “Piss off back to the funny farm, old man, before we hurt you,” yelled back the biggest of them.

  Ernest’s nerve left him and he halted in his tracks. This wasn’t the way to do it.

  With an angelic smile, the man in white smugly exclaimed, “Knight takes rook.”

  Whole universes seemed to be contained within the man in black’s ancient eyes as he gave his competitor a disgusted look.

  Despair stabbed at Ernest like a physical entity and he wondered if he would ever be able to do this one thing right. The sound of distant traffic sparked an idea and he walked onward and away from the threat of the hoodies. As street after grey, lifeless street passed him by he felt more despondent about life. He was going to end it one way or another. He found himself standing before the busy A6278. Cars and lorries whizzed past with frightening speed and Ernest knew he couldn’t fail.

  The man in black spotted a sudden opening and moved in for the kill ...

  Closing his eyes, Ernest stepped out into the traffic. He heard a screech of brakes and the loud blaring of horns. He knew there were just seconds left, but those seconds stretched out for eternity as he waited for death and a welcome release from his misery of life without Claudette.

  With a casual nod, the man in white smiled and his eyes seemed to shine in the small dimly lit room.

  “Bishop takes knight.”

  The man in black blinked in surprise and shock.

  When Ernest opened his eyes he saw that a truck was just inches from him. It had jack-knifed and completely blocked the carriageway. The driver wound down his window and hurled a string of abuse at him in a foreign language.

  Ernest wandered numbly away and decided that the fates didn’t mean for him to die just yet. The nameless bastard gods out there had decided to toy with him. He concluded that it might be best if he kept his appointment after all.

  With a sudden grin and then a wink, the man in black cracked his ancient knuckles before moving his queen into position.

  “Check-fucking-mate, sunshine.”

  A sudden gale blew as the storm picked up ferocity again. A supermarket carrier bag danced around, being controlled by an unseen puppeteer as the winds manipulated it. Leaves blew from the trees and people dashed for cover, and still Ernest plodded along. A hefty barrel tile flew off a nearby roof and struck Ernest solidly in the head. He went down silently, crumpling to the ground like a deflated balloon. A steady drip of blood leaked from the fatal head wound as the gossamer thread of his existence was slowly snipped.

  The man in white cursed and stood up, fuming.

  “Where the hell is Ernest tonight? At least I can beat him and it’s his turn to buy the coffee.”

  The Journey

  They wheeled me across the tarmac. I got special treatment, first on the plane like a visiting dignitary or pop star. People stared in silent resentment as I was wheeled up the steps. The journey was rough. Turbulence buffeted the plane as if it were a child’s toy and not several thousand tons of metal. I felt a little weary as they wheeled me off. I could never settle on a plane. My chest felt like a pin cushion as sharp needles of pain danced up and down it in a merciless tango. I nodded to my carer, who gave me more painkillers.

  My coughing worsened on the coach over to the hotel. I smiled ironically to myself between gasping wheezes as I thought it would be amusing to expire now after travelling this distance.

  The pretty young blonde girl at the reception desk maintained a professional smile as we checked in. Her twinkling blue eyes, however, didn’t lie to me. The shock and p
ity they held in them showed that she had a compassionate soul.

  I insisted on a full meal and not the pureed muck they had been feeding me for what seemed a lifetime. My stubbornness did me credit, but my lack of appetite laughed in its face. Back in my room I fought it, but my ravaged, weary body insisted I sleep. I took a glance out of the expansive window at the snowbound beauty of it all. A slight smile creased the lips of my grey, ashen face and almost in slow motion my head hit the pillow.

  I awoke to gentle hands tugging at me. With patience, I let them put the cold suit on me. A pointless and futile act, like so many things for me these days.

  A roaring fire beckoned me hungrily toward it. Sparks floated up to the clear sky and mesmerised me momentarily. The crackling and spitting of burning logs sounded crisp and fresh to my ears. I remember being captivated by fire as a boy. A small burn scar on my left hand always seemed to itch whenever I got near fire, as if my flesh remembered the pain of the initial burn. The fire was set in a small clearing just outside the hotel, well away from the tree line. Outside of the fire’s sphere of influence, snow and ice glistened crisply in the night air.

  Having no control over my destiny, I allowed my carers to push me close to it. The warmth on my emaciated cheeks the first pleasant sensation I had felt in aeons. I looked upwards at the expanse of the heavens unpolluted by traffic fumes or street lighting. Beautiful. I allowed the majesty of it to fill me up. For just a moment my pain was banished to a dark corner and locked away like the murderous, cowardly beast it was.

  “Leave me,” I whispered and my carers did just that. It came slowly at first. A faint, greenish tinge. Then more colours came in a shimmering curtain. The northern lights danced across the sky in a celestial ballet. I sighed happily and closed my eyes for what I hoped would be the final time.

  Camouflage

  1. Discovered

  I hunkered down in the coarse grass with my heart pounding like a jackhammer in my chest. Nearby I heard them moving around in the dense jungle. The muffled crump of the occasional explosion in the distance reached my ears. For the third time I checked my remaining ammo and for the third time my heart sank. I had just half a clip for my M16 and a full clip for my pistol. The combat knife concealed in my boot was a last resort and would do me little good against the AK47s of the Viet Cong.

  The jungle around me was laden with traps and my unit were god knows where, assuming they were even alive at all. The calls of exotic birds echoing in the jungle only made me jumpier. I was oblivious to the beauty of the local flora and fauna as I crept around, trying to remain under cover.

  I flashed back to the ambush. They had materialised like phantoms out of nowhere. Buck went down first, his brains flying out of the back of his head. Nash had met his end as a heavy calibre round had reduced his hip to so much bloodied mush. After that it had been a rout and we’d all split up, heading in different directions. That had been yesterday. My water was running low and I had lost all bearing on my location. My desperation was increasing with every passing moment.

  I heard a rustling in the undergrowth directly in front of me. I raised my rifle and whispered,

  “Adios, motherfucker.”

  I might just be a grunt, but I was not about to make it easy for them. We all knew what gooks did to prisoners. The occasional rat-tat of distant gunfire set my nerves further on edge as I waited for him to appear. I felt something sharp dig into my back at the same time as a gook appeared through the undergrowth in front of me. He was dressed simply, like a peasant, but I was more concerned about the person that had obviously flanked me. I heard the chatter of the native Vietnamese language and the pain in my back increased as something was pressed more emphatically into it. I got the message and slowly crouched down and dropped my rifle. The person behind me relieved me of my pistol. The little man in front of me retrieved my M16 and gave me a wary look, never taking his distrustful eyes off me. I now had two guns trained on me.

  The person behind me turned out to be a sallow faced little Vietnamese woman holding a bloody big knife, except she now exchanged that for my pistol. Her brown eyes surveyed me carefully. Long dark hair spilled out from under her nón lá. The gaunt little guy in front of me looked about mid-forties and was dressed in little more than rags. I guessed they were not Viet Cong, but as poor as they were they’d get a reward for turning me in. The little man put his finger to his lips to indicate I be silent and said, “Du? C yên tinh.”

  They led me through the jungle to an unknown destination.

  2. Incarcerated

  At the distant thwop-thwop sound of an egg beater, my hopes soared briefly. If only the Huey could come close enough to see me, maybe I could escape these two. My hopes were dashed when we came across a clearing containing some neat little bamboo huts with a large Rong house in the centre. With a prod from the muzzle of my pistol I was led up some wooden steps and into the living space of a crude hut. From the main room there were two other doorways. I was led through one of these and into a bare little room. I was forced to sit in a chair. My hands were bound behind my back with strong bamboo cord that cut into my wrists. My legs were tied to the legs of the chair. So they were keeping me here until the Cong could get here. I thought of Moira back home, with her long blonde hair and her ocean blue eyes. I pictured her smile and thought of her laughter. I remembered making love to her in my Pontiac Tempest, the feel of her warm body beneath me as we sweated and grunted in the June evening. I felt the black pit of despair calling me. I physically shook my head. NO. I wouldn’t give in. The gook couple eyed me warily, they chattered briefly and then left me, closing the door behind them. The woman gave me what looked like a compassionate smile as she left the room. Her grimy features showed the beauty she’d once had, that a hard life had robbed her of.

  3. Escape?

  I wasted no time in struggling to get free of my bonds. My wrists were growing raw from the friction of the cord rubbing against them and I felt blood trickling down my hands. I switched off the pain and pictured Moira in my head. I heard a commotion outside the hut and then feet clattering around in the next room. I was running out of time, it was now or never. With an almighty yank I snapped the cord and surveyed the bloodied mess of my wrists. I retrieved the hidden combat knife they had neglected to take from my boot and quickly cut the cord holding my legs in place.

  I stood up and crept to one side of the doorframe. I felt the adrenaline coursing through my veins. It would have to be a quick dash out of here. If I could grab a weapon on the way out that would be a bonus. The knife in my hand was slick with blood from my lacerated wrists. The door opened suddenly and I buried my combat knife deep into the belly of the person coming through the door. The little woman’s eyes registered surprise and she dropped a tray containing a bowl of rice and a little glass of rice wine. Her knees buckled and as she dropped to the floor I saw the man behind her leading my squad mates into the hut with a smile on his face.

  The Final Tree

  Across the blasted plain, the lone walker plodded. The bubble helmet made his head appear strangely misshapen. His environmental suit sagged in places, giving him a lugubrious look. He scrabbled up a slope, sliding occasionally on loose scree. Reaching the top, he looked down upon the desolate valley below, devoid of life other than the hardiest scraps of lichen, even those dying now. The domed habitat could just be seen in the distance; an ugly unnatural blot. However, beauty had long since left this dying planet. His sigh reverberated inside the helmet as he trekked onward. It had to be here somewhere. All reports suggested this was the only place where conditions would permit it. Just one look was all he craved. His breath caught in his throat. There it was. The very last of its kind. Betula Pendula; silver birch. Her skeletal branches reached upwards towards the darkening sky, asking a silent question. Why? Every crease in her bark drawing his eye. A lone tear began an endless journey down his cheek. Stumbling up to it he caressed her beautiful bark with his gauntlets, wanting so much to touch it. To live i
n a world with nothing, no beauty, everything artificial, was more than he could bear. His orders were simple, locate the tree and tag her. She would be shipped to a lab for “study”. As he sat beside her, his final report read: “Unable to locate the final tree.”

  Karma Police

  It is the year 2059 and in an overcrowded starving world with dwindling natural resources, every action must be tightly controlled. There can be no waste. Every sin must be paid for. No criminal act will go unnoticed or unpunished. Balance will be restored as each action must have an equal and opposite reaction.

  1. A Deadly Contest

  Snuff virtual reality is the latest craze. How the hell did I get involved? The answer was simple: gambling. Well, that and the fact that I could never say no to a challenge. How did it work? A worldwide syndicate placed bets on who would be the winner. Tens of millions of credits exchanged hands virtually. Smart holding accounts in tax havens auto-distributed the cash to those that bet on the winner. The contest was a virtual reality 3D holographic duel broadcast on illegal servers run by criminal overlords. The setting for my duel was a ruined city, but it could have been anywhere. A computer randomly decided who got to choose. I won and chose this setting because I knew it from another game. I know every hidey hole, every virtual alley and every weapons cache. The loser of the duel would die both in reality and in the virtual world. That’s why it was so popular. That’s why the stakes were so high. Each of the contestants was injected with nano bots prior to the battle. For the loser, the bots would attack every major organ the moment they lost and this painful, agonising death would be broadcast worldwide and for the winner, a new identity and life in the opulence of the ultra-wealthy. The nano bots would always remain and would guarantee a long life as they warded off infection and disease. They even cured cancer. They ensured a long, illness free life. However, they were also a silent threat. If you spoke about your old life or the contest they would terminate you, immediately.