Severed

by Peter Laws

  ‘Crap.’ He looked up and stared at those hedges again, but all that rain meant he couldn’t see a thing. He’d have better vision swimming in a pool of milk, without goggles. But still … he had to tell them. He took a breath, brewed up a shout, and tried a quick test. He pulled the handle from inside. Like he’d thought, the locked door popped open easily. He quickly closed it and pushed the lock down again, and they all clunked shut.

  Okay. He had this. He’d open up, shout for them, and drop right back into the car and lock the doors again. He’d only have to put one foot out of the car the entire time. This was genius.

  Sometimes people don’t think things through.

  It’s like pressurised circumstances force them into particular actions. Army guys and police folk get trained in the quick-thinking mindset, but Matt was a university professor. He usually had ample time to make responses. So when he opened the door, planted his one foot down and stood up into the rain, he cupped both hands around his mouth so he could shout to the police. He did it as loudly as he could. ‘Over here.’ But as he formed the ‘o’ with his lips, the figure in black rushed up from the back end of the car. Matt span and saw a wet caveman lunge through the rain. He slapped a very wet hand across Matt’s mouth and pulled him from the car, spinning him and dragging him to the floor.

  Matt called out in a muffled roar but he cut it short the instant something sharp pressed against the base of his spine. The corner of that infamous axe, ready to sever his spine, perhaps? A thought bubbled up that made him want to punch himself – Should have beeped the horn, ya dick. Should have beeped the horn.

  Micah held Matt there, both sitting on the wet soil, hidden between the cars.

  ‘You’ve got to drive me out of here,’ Micah said. He stunk of that cruddy odd cocktail from the church … blood and urine.

  ‘I don’t have the keys.’

  Micah hissed into his ear, ‘Don’t lie to me.’

  ‘I swear to you, I’m not. It’s not my car. I’m just a passenger.’

  The kid groaned desperately, and his breath was pure panic.

  ‘Micah, listen,’ Matt spoke into a hand that was slowly loosening to let him speak. ‘We can talk. Let’s ta—’

  ‘My dad,’ he whispered. ‘Have they moved the body from the church yet?’

  ‘The body? But he’s alive …’ Matt felt a flash of hope. ‘So, this isn’t murder, all right? You’re not in as much trouble as you think.’ He wasn’t sure why he assumed this information would be helpful. Perhaps he just imagined how relieved his own teenage self would be, if his lashing out wasn’t permanent. So, Matt said it again, ‘You didn’t kill him.’

  This hopeful titbit did nothing to lift Micah’s spirit. It was the absolute polar opposite.

  ‘No … no … no …’ He gave out a horrified, lurching moan. ‘That’s why you’re still here.’ Then he made another sound. Was he crying?

  ‘Micah,’ Matt said. ‘Why did you do this?’

  ‘I had to,’ he sniffed and whimpered. ‘Had to.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘You know why,’ he sobbed. ‘To stop you all. To stop the Father.’

  ‘I told you, your father’s still alive. Now, I’m just going to turn around.’

  ‘Don’t you dare.’ Micah pressed the sharp point harder into Matt’s coat. Then the boy gasped.

  The helicopter was swooping back now, and all the police and Bowland too were coming with it, charging from the turbines back to the cars.

  ‘Keep talking,’ Matt said. ‘What is it you want to stop, exactly?’

  ‘They know,’ he said in panic. ‘They know I’m here.’

  The helicopter got to them first. It swung overhead, blasting deafening power into the ground, pressing out every blade of grass, every strand of hair.

  ‘I’m not a policeman, okay?’ Matt shouted over the blades. ‘And I know what it’s like to want to hurt your dad.’ Matt started to turn his head.

  ‘Don’t you dare look at me, demon.’

  Matt frowned. ‘Demon?’

  ‘If you do I’ll … I’ll cut your eyes out. So, it won’t work, Hollow, it won’t work.’

  ‘What won’t work?’

  A spotlight erupted from the helicopter. It threw a brilliant, perfect circle over Matt and Micah, alien-abduction style. Then the giant dragonfly cried out words in a deafening, mechanical buzz. ‘Put the weapon down. You’re surrounded. Put it down.’

  The sound of shouts and pounding feet was getting closer. Maybe fifty feet away.

  ‘Tell me about the crosses,’ Matt said. ‘And the church altar.’

  Micah’s hand fell loose and the pressure from the blade vanished from the base of his back. Matt felt himself pushed forward. He stumbled forwards, hands outstretched into the damp, but still hard mud. When he spun back around, he saw Micah had already flung himself to his feet. In his hand was a ballpoint pen. There was no knife.

  ‘Micah, wait!’ he called out, but he was already shrinking. He was running back towards the trees where he’d been earlier, as the white, spectral circle from above followed him in perfect time.

  Matt raced after him, just as the others were closing in. He heard a bevy of policemen thirty feet away, roaring out demands for Micah to stop running. In amongst it, he heard Bowland’s panting voice shouting, ‘Stand down, Professor. Stand down!’

  But Matt kept running, because he knew what would happen next. Heck, they all knew. It was obvious. Micah span dirt under him so he might reach the train track. So he might reach the train that was hurtling down the line at what, in the distance, looked like a slow-ish speed. True, if Micah could get across this track before the rest of them, he’d at least have a chance of losing them again. Though Matt doubted the kid could ever escape the helicopter above.

  But there was a horrible inevitability about it, because the train was obviously too close. The nearer they got to the track, the less slow the train seemed to be. It wasn’t a passenger train. There were no commuters sipping warm tea at the windows, or bored yawners catching up on their Netflix queue. It was just a giant, wrought iron, black centipede dragging fifteen skips of what looked like heavy coal.

  ‘Micah, no!’ Matt shouted out. ‘You won’t make it.’

  Micah surged ahead, anyway. Towards the end, Matt saw the already exhausted kid veer to the left a little, as if going at the track on an arc of just a few extra centimetres might just get him across.

  It didn’t.

  The last thing they all saw was Micah raising his hands in the air, so he could shout at the sky. Calling out something indecipherable. Then they heard the monstrous roar of the train that didn’t slow at all, but seemed to speed up in those few final seconds.

  Matt squinted his eyes shut, but like his shout from the car before, his brain hadn’t prepped him for the timing. It went in slow motion. The heavy lids of his eyes closed, the eyelashes spiked into one another, like a portcullis dropping. None of this was fast enough.

  It was interesting, he supposed. From a purely biological point of view. That the brain can register images in a thousandth of a second, because just as the forest of lashes closed, he saw the train pick up the figure of Micah and carry on moving, and then his eyes were shut tight. For a silly, but genuinely hopeful second, he thought the kid might have somehow grabbed onto a railing and was holding on. Using some super-cool parkour skills, to make an epic getaway.

  But he opened his eyes again and the train was screeching its brakes in a nightmarish scream, and out of the corner of his vision he saw the strangest sight he’d ever seen. A leg, as if it was still running, was tumbling down from the sky.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ever pushed through the wooden gate and looked up the path at his home. Everybody’s home, really. Wisps of smoke were just about visible from the chimney, which made his tongue instantly tingle. A big day like this meant they’d cook toast on the open fire in the lounge. He loved it when they did that. Huddled together, all bundled up in prayer a
nd honey and laughter and crumbs.

  He squealed as the snow turned into heavy rain, and he raced up the path. He looked back at the men who were both running too, but they were heading for the shed for some reason. At least they’d stopped shooting. Ever didn’t wait for them. If I get inside now, I’ll get a seat on the couch before they do. Prime toasting space. Ha!

  He pushed through the door and smiled at the warmth inside and noticed the glow. With it being a special day, all the lights were off. Mum had lit soft rows of candles, instead. They threw strange, swaying shadows across Donald – the big deer head that hung on a plaque, near the ceiling. Donald’s mouth smiled at him, then stopped smiling, smiled again, then stopped. At least the eye sockets were empty. They’d been scooped out ages ago. Though in the dancing light, it almost looked like there were movement in those sockets too. New, deeper eyeballs growing and trying to push through.

  He shoved his boots into his section of the huge metal rack and skidded on his socks across the hallway to the lounge. He ploughed right into Pax’s legs. She was stepping out of the kitchen and she stumbled backwards when they clashed.

  ‘Pax.’ He felt terrible. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  He needn’t have worried. As usual, she was oblivious. Pax meant peace, after all, which was true enough, because she never used many words. Right now she just stood there, chewing the overlong sleeve of her raggedy old cardigan. ‘I … dreamt …’

  Ever waited. ‘You dreamt …’

  ‘’Bout Hollows.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘They came. Burnt us …’

  ‘Hey …’ he took her hand, ‘it’s just a dream.’

  ‘Too slow to stop them.’ Her eyes glistened. ‘Sorry … Ever died …’

  ‘Oh, Pax. Come here.’ She was pretty tall, so when he threw his arms around her hips he had to speak into her tummy. ‘Just forget about those stupid Hollows, okay? And forget that brain of yours, too. You’ll get a new one soon. You’ll be the cleverest person in this whoooooole family.’ He pulled back, staring up at a child of twenty-four. Prosper called her slow. Uncle Dust said it was brain damage. Milton just called her a retard. But Ever? He called her ‘sleepy’, because that’s precisely what she was. But she’d wake up soon. They all would. He squeezed her hand. ‘End’s coming, Pax.’

  ‘Is Mummy coming too?’

  ‘Soon, I think.’

  His own mum appeared in the kitchen doorway. That rope of long, plaited hair hung off her shoulder and, as usual, she had that thin scarf of hers, tied around her neck. ‘You kids ready for a feast?’

  His eyes popped. ‘Totally.’

  ‘Then take Pax and grab a seat in the lounge, Merit’s eating in there already. But be quiet, Ever. Uncle Dust’s still praying.’

  He threw her a thumbs up and headed in.

  They found the sofas and armchairs had all been pushed back, and right in the centre of the large space was a figure, crouched over. Dust had his forehead pressed on the floor, whispering into the wood.

  Pax’s five-year-old, Merit, was sitting on the sofa, legs dangling as she quietly ate toast. Pax sat down next to her like a robot but did nothing except stare at the fire. So Merit slipped her mum’s fingers between her own, and manually locked them together. Then she kept on munching her food.

  Uncle Dust finally looked up from the floor. He raked his long hair from his eyes and scooped it into a ponytail, then he sat in the armchair by the window, slipping his little ringed glasses back on. He caught Ever’s eye as he tapped his glasses into place. ‘Hiya,’ he mouthed, then winked at him.

  Ever did the same wink back, but Dust had already turned to look out the window, gazing at the rain.

  Ever went over. ‘Uncle Dust?’

  ‘Yup?’

  ‘It’s still going to happen, isn’t it?’ Ever waited. ‘It’s still going to end?’

  The front door crashed open, and any sacred silence in the house vanished. The hallway filled with men’s laughing voices as Prosper and Milton strode in. Prosper, long-armed and gangly, with his perfectly bald and perfectly reflective head, and Milton, older than any of them, all tattooed arms with thick, bone-crushing fists on the ends and cheeks puckered with little scars.

  Milton nodded to Ever and warmed his backside by the fire. ‘Hiya, Big Man.’

  ‘Hi,’ Ever said.

  ‘Hey, Dust,’ Prosper was frowning. ‘Why so glum?’

  ‘Glum? Who’s glum?’ Dust laughed.

  Prosper flashed his little teeth. ‘You are. Feels like a funeral parlour in here. Feels like somebody died.’

  ‘Relax, I was praying. Just easing the way.’

  ‘Pah,’ Prosper shook his head. ‘The time for prayer’s over. Me and Milton have just been melting this snow with praise … with dancing!’ He slapped a thick hand on Milton’s shoulders. ‘Maestro, please.’

  Milton vanished into the hallway, then came back with his accordion in place.

  Merit stopped the slow chew of her toast, ‘Yay!’

  Even Pax let her cardigan drop from her mouth.

  Milton curtsied in the centre of the room and started wheezing out busy, happy chords while Prosper clapped a constant rhythm. His claps were always that little bit too loud. Each slap of his skin sounded like a whiplash.

  Prosper looked over at Ever’s mum, who was leaning by the door. ‘Don’t just stand there, Verity. Come and rattle these floorboards.’

  She chuckled, then flung the tea towel away. ‘Ahhh, why not.’ She started clapping and came over to Ever, tugging him up too. Then, as music filled the room, Merit and Pax slid off the couch to join in. And finally, Dust. He started tapping his hands on his knees as he sat in his chair.

  ‘End’s coming, hallelujah,’ Prosper whirled in a circle. They all did. ‘Hope is blasting Hollows to the moon!’

  Milton spun too, his fingers flying wild and busy on the buttons and keys. It was only when Ever stopped to catch his breath that he noticed Uncle Dust. He was back on his knees again, over by the rain-spattered window. His scarred hands, that were always so great at flinging him high into the air, were now locked together in prayer. Prosper saw this, and just rolled his eyes. ‘Louder, Milton,’ he shouted. ‘Faster.’

  Milton spun more quickly.

  ‘End’s coming! End’s coming.’

  Chanting. Laughing. Clapping hard.

  ‘Hallelujah it’s coming sooooooon—’

  Prosper trailed off when Milton lost his balance and staggered headlong towards the fire. The whole room gave a panicked ‘Whoa’.

  Dust leapt up and grabbed him, stumbling him into a safe landing on the sofa.

  The kids cheered but Prosper stood there, quietly. His gargoyle face flickered in the firelight.

  ‘Verity?’ Dust said. ‘I reckon it’s time we had this toast of yours.’

  ‘Coming up.’ She vanished for a moment, then came back with a tray of bread and jars, each with knives sticking out. They all scooped up slices and stuck them on forks, dangling them over the flames. Ever was trying to jab a fork into his when he heard his name.

  ‘Ever …’ Prosper said.

  He swallowed. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Made a new friend today?’

  Silence.

  ‘I saw you talking to the squirrel.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s the cutest little—’

  ‘Hollow?’ Prosper licked his bottom lip. ‘Could be one of them, you know.’

  Ever shook his head, ‘No way.’

  ‘Don’t you know? It’s not just humans who turn. I’ve heard animals can too. And when they turn Hollow the Father makes them walk tall like people, and they even talk like people. And worse than that they love to kill, just like people love to ki—’

  ‘Prosper …’ Dust said. ‘That’s enough.’

  He ignored him and leant forward. ‘You didn’t look in its eyes, did you?’

  Ever shivered.

  ‘Did you?’

  Ever jumped when a hand touched his side. He relaxe
d. It was Uncle Dust, hitching him up onto his hip. ‘It was a squirrel, okay? And what’s it matter? It’ll be over soon.’

  ‘That it will.’ Prosper sunk back into the sofa. ‘Just want you to be safe, that’s all. Don’t want to lose anyone today, of all days. Closer to the end we get, the more they’ll come to find us. They have tricks, remember. Tricks.’

  Mum was sat on the floor, catching her breath. ‘Prosper?’

  ‘Mmmmmm?’

  ‘It is still happening today, isn’t it?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘But Hope … Have you heard anything yet?’

  ‘Relax.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s not quite lunch yet, Verity.’

  ‘Erm …’ She nodded at the clock on the wall. ‘Lunch was an hour ago.’

  Prosper blinked, looked at his watch, then tapped it. His smiled faded. He pushed himself up from the sofa and walked to the window. He stood there for a long time watching the farm track, winding his watch and looking up at the clock on the wall. He had big cheekbones, which in certain lights, and certain unsmiling moods, made his face look like a skull. Like now. A minute became ten. Then ten became twenty. They all just sat there, looking at him, breathing awkwardly. When he finally turned back, he had jam smeared on his cheek. ‘Weather isn’t changing,’ he said.

  ‘Is it supposed to?’ Dust asked.

  ‘I expected it to right at the end, yes. A huge storm. And hail. Lots of hail.’

  Milton, sensing the sudden tension, grabbed the accordion. He started squeezing chords again but Prosper shot out a hand. ‘No.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Dust, you’re right. We need to pray.’

  Dust stepped forward. ‘Do you think something’s gone wrong?’

  ‘Is it time for the other path?’ Mum put a hand on Ever’s shoulder.

  ‘Shhh … slow down. We need to pray, right now.’ He put a hand on Dust’s shoulder and pushed him hard to the floor. ‘Everybody. Come on.’