Momento Mori

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Something I wrote for an assignment this week. It was meant to be horror, and maybe it still is, but it seems to me to be more like fantasy.

But I digress. Enjoy!
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David hated Halloween. Not even on the subway could he escape it: the tacky rubber bats; the garish plastic jack-o-lanterns. Kids grinning in anticipation of a weekend of sugar highs and parents dreading sleepless nights.
It wasn't just the kids, either. Sitting across from him was a man already garbed in costume. This one was genuinely creepy though, at least. The skeleton-print onesie was standard, and he wore a roughed-up black leather jacket, but the carved-turnip-effect mask was startlingly realistic. It looked old, too, like a rough hemp sack pulled tight over a bowling ball. The mouth was moulded open in a sinister leering expression, and the eyes were blank sockets, and betrayed no trace of hidden slits through which the wearer might see.
Come to think of it, the man's posture and general countenance were at odds with his surroundings. He seemed to be genuinely in the spirit of the macabre. Whereas most of their fellow commuters were slouching in their seats or hanging off the overhead grips, this ghoulish individual was sitting up straight, hands clasped in front of him, and was staring around the carriage with impish glee. He would attempt to make eye contact with those around him, but his gaze was universally avoided. The old Italian gentleman next to him coughed and returned to his paper. A young fashionista in winter furs sneered and turned up her nose. A mother of two frowned and shooed her brood behind their pram, lest his grim countenance fuel their dreams that night.
So caught up had he been in observing the young reveller that David forgot to look away himself when his gawp was returned. Turnip-head, clearly delighted, smiled a broad smile that turned up the corners of his mouth. His mouth? No, that couldn't be right. He looked down and pulled an old brass timepiece, which was on a chain attached to a button hole on his jacket, out of his pocket and checked it, before looking back at David and nodding, still grinning that rubbery grin.
“This is Grand Central Terminal” chimed the recorded announcement, snapping David out of his stupor. The train sprang to life as its occupants scurried towards the doors. He shook his head and grabbed his briefcase before standing up to join them. The man in costume was nowhere to be seen.
Grand Central was packed, as usual. David elbowed his way to the barriers and presented his ticket to the slot. The machine took the ticket, pondered it for a few seconds, then spat it back out. He tried again. No joy. The crowd behind him was jostling with impatience. Flustered, David tried one more time. At the third round of rejection beeps, he started to become angry. He banged on the metal casing and was rewarded with a shockwave up his arm and a tight feeling that shot across his chest.
Before David could catch his breath, the man behind him reached around and slotted his own ticket into the machine with infinitely greater success, before giving David a hefty shove between the shoulder blades which carried both of them through. It was a rough measure, but it did the trick.
The walk up the main staircase to the street was harder than normal. He grabbed onto the hand railing for support, but could barely feel it in his hand. That guy must have hit a nerve or something, and David laughed at how weak he felt all of a sudden. Looking up to the top of the stairway he was surprised to see Turnip-head looking right at him.
He nodded again. The next moment David was tumbling backwards, and then it all went black.

*

When he came to it was getting dark, and moreover, it was cold. Very cold. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling and came to the realisation that he had been left exactly where he had fallen. Brilliant.
"This is probably the most boring part of my job. The waiting.”
At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, David sat up too quickly, and winced. The back of his skull hurt. He raised his hand to touch it.
“I wouldn't if I were you.”
The way David had landed meant he was now facing into the deserted station. The voice came from behind him. Turning, he was greeted with a familiar figure. Even in the darkness he could make out the skeleton print of Turnip-head's onesie, glowing faintly.
“Take it easy for a moment. You're probably still in shock.” he said.
“Look, thanks for waiting around. Looks like you're the onl'y one who did.”
He laughed. “Didn't have a lot of choice really!”
David stood up and dusted himself off. His clothes seemed to be in fairly good shape, despite the fall, but his head felt light and his limbs were numb.
“I suppose I should go to the hospital.”
Turnip-head laughed again. “You people crack me up sometimes. Come on, we should be going.” He turned and set off up the stairs.
David only caught up to him outside the building. He was waiting in the deep shadow cast by the statue of Hermes that watched over East 42nd Street.
“I'm not quite sure what...going where?”
By way of answer Turnip-head nodded towards the Park Avenue Bridge. “Watch out for the hounds. They bite,” he added.
There was a howl from above them. A pack of feral dogs, some pacing hungrily, some hanging their forepaws over the edge, hovered on the overpass. They looked ragged and emaciated; David didn't doubt that they would.
“They like to try it on with transients whilst they're kind of fresh,” he said, grinning.
Turnip-head slung his arm around David's shoulder and started walking him in the direction he had indicated. As they passed out of the building's shadow and into the direct moonlight, the mysterious stranger's ghoulish features came into stark focus. Up-close he could see all of the minute details; the rough texture, the cracks in the skin, all of the wiry little hairs. David was confused. This looked like no mask he had ever come across before.
Seeing his surprise, Turnip-head gestured back to the grand clock above the station entrance. “Ultima Forsan my friend. Every hour wounds, the last kills.”
“Look, I really should be going...my wife...”
“You don't have a wife David.”
This man was becoming more unsettling by the second. The way his mouth moved like the mask was alive. He shook free of the stranger's bony limb.
“I'm not going anywhere with you 'til you tell me your name!”
Turnip head sighed, slackened his shoulders, then quick as a flash grabbed David violently by the throat. Caught off-guard, he began gasping for air. He tried to wrench free, but his assailant's grip was like a vice. He started to feel faint, his vision turning hazy from lack of oxygen.
“Calm down David.”
But he couldn't. In struggling to focus he missed the other hand arcing across to bring a stinging slap to his cheek.
“Calm down!”
Stunned, David stopped struggling. His vision snapped back to normal almost instantaneously and he blinked. He was fine. Turnip-head let go.
“Stop being stubborn. I'm afraid you don't have a choice. You've nowhere else to go.”
They were interrupted by a growl from behind him. He looked down to see one of the hounds half way through tearing a lump of flesh from his calf, trouser fabric and all. With the same speed with which he had attacked David, Turnip-head aimed a kick at the mutt. It connected with a disgusting mushy sound, causing the dog to yelp mawkishly and back off to where the rest of its pack was lurking.
“What did I tell you about watching the dogs?”
David could only stare at the gaping wound in his leg and wonder why his brain wasn't registering what should have been agony.
“Oh, it's not that bad. I've seen worse. And you haven't seen the back of your head.”
Reflexively, David reached up to touch it, but his fingers still refused to register any feeling. His hands came away covered in a disgusting crimson mush that caused him to retch.
“I did warn you not to do that.”
“Look, I really need to go to a hospital!” he pleaded.
“No, David, you don't. You're a little beyond their sphere of expertise right now.”
“Who are you? How do you know my name for that matter?”
“Would it help if I waved my scythe and pointed a skeletal finger at you? You're dead, David. I thought you would have realised that by now. Loss of feeling? Gaping skull fracture? Mysterious lack of need for oxygen? I'm just here to make sure you don't get lost.”
David felt weak.
“H-how?”
“It was a close call. It started off as a heart-attack, but you rather stylishly pipped it to the post with a good old-fashioned brain hemorrhage. It was quite spectacular really.”
“Why didn't anyone move my body?”
“Oh, they did. You're probably in one of those cold storage lockers by now. This,” he gestured to David's body “is is a mental manifestation of your physical memory. Still damn tasty to the doggies though. Then again, they're not fussy. Come on, it's not so bad.”
“You can talk! You're not dead – are you?”
“Well I never died, if that's what you mean. I've never had a life though. Never tasted a fresh strawberry; run through a field of corn; made love. You think you've had it so bad?”
“I'm sorry; I didn't know.”
Turnip-head stared at him blankly for a moment, then cracked his customary grin. “Naaah, I'm just pulling your leg. This is the best job in the world, especially on Halloween. I get to shit you fleshies up all day and you don't have a clue who I am.” He pulled a face. “Boo! Come on sour chops, let's get you where you need to go.”

The Golden Valley

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A recent assignment for my genre studies class required that we write about a place, fictional or real, in the style of two different genres. I chose to write about one of my favourite places, known as Golden Valley to locals. It's a really peaceful place that I used to go to do some of my writing when I wanted to be alone, back when I lived in Malvern. I know it that well that I thought it would come easily, but thinking about it in terms of different feelings than it normally evokes was pretty difficult.
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The Golden Valley

Horror

It is twilight. A grey mist sits on the surface of the lake, reflecting the drone of the lone electricity pylon that towers above me. Although I cannot see it, I know the derelict old cottage is still there on the other side of the chill waters; all broken windows and rotting door-frames. It has spooked me ever since I was a little child. I swear I saw the light of an old oil lamp in one of the windows once, even though the building had been abandoned for years. Mama told me I must have imagined it. I hope now that I did.
The last, cold light of the winter sunset glows behind the hills, making them loom ominously. I daren't go that way; a patchwork of potholes and gorse bushes make for unsteady going at the best of times, and it's getting darker by the minute. Bad things happen on these moors. Terrible things. Should I need to run, I would be in serious trouble.
I can't go back; the way behind me is burning. So I head into the fields.
I feel my way through the gathering night. The long grasses and tips of barley brush my fingers and palms, giving me the sensation that I am floating. The way across the common is long, but I have no choice. I couldn't stay here, even if I wanted to. I'd be found.

Science Fiction

The midday sun glints off the hologram that poses for the lake's crystal-clear water. Things certainly have changed.
I step away from the door of my contraption. It hasn't just been a long time since I have seen this place in the rise-and-fall-of-civilisations sense: I may be able to reach the farthest corners of the time-line, but it has also been close to forever in my own lifetime since I set eyes on these fields.
I used to come here as a boy. It was one of my favourite places, actually. I would sit on the mossy old logs that served as benches with my Gramma and have picnics and feed the ducks. I don't suppose they have those any more – real food is costly to produce; far beyond the price range of the average human family. The ducks are definitely gone. It's funny, they can afford state-of-the-art holographic equipment so it doesn't look like they suffocated their own planet to death, but good luck enjoying it if you're a native. This is purely for the newsvids. If they caught me here though, trespassing would be the least of my problems. They have technology, but nothing like this. There would be some serious temporal consequences if they got their hands on this baby. But they won't; they'll never even know I was here.
I dig my hands into my pockets and sigh. The wind that blows through my hair at least is real. The barley stalks are simulated to sway in time with the breeze, but I know that if I walk over there my hand will go right through the stalks.
It's time to go. As I re-enter my ship, I take one last look over my shoulder and try to remember it as it was: the ducks, the water, the mossy log. Such a shame.

Untitled - 'Staticat'

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And the third piece. This, by process of elimination, relates to the broach on the left. I was told that this bone comes from a small-ish mammal, perhaps a cat, and so I took that and ran with it.

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Imagine your bedroom, dear reader. Go on; picture it in your head. A big warm bed with a comfy duvet. Your duvet. A wardrobe full of your clothes, hand picked to express your personality and make you feel good about yourself. Personal effects and trinkets from your travels both far and near sit on shelves and windowsills as neat little reminders of happy times.

Your bedroom is a place of sanctuary, of safety. Your own space in which you can recede when you have a crappy day and will at least help make you feel better. Nothing should encroach on this hallowed ground.

Which is why I have such issue with the cat that’s fucking up my personal space. It’s not that I don’t like cats, but this one is peculiar. It upsets me. In the darkest watches of the night. In my own bedroom. I don’t feel good in my room right now.

Physically, it is nothing out of the ordinary. A tail. Two eyes. Two ears. Four legs. Black, as cats in these sorts of situations often are.

What keeps me wide eyed from my pillow and compels me to write as I watch it and it watches me is…everything else.

The reason I can see this cat – this black cat – in the pitch darkness of my room is the eerie, almost lamp-like light that trails it. When the cat moves, the light follows it in the manner of a comet’s tail. When the cat stops pacing, the glow settles around it like a soft, source-less backlight.

Cats are well known for the practiced disinterest with which they observe you. I mentioned that this one was in no way physically abnormal; well, that is save for its eyes. They are ruby red and when they look at me and I look back, they seem to burn me. And when it opens its mouth to let forth a cute kitty sound, all I hear is the most terrible static. Fierce white noise that makes my ears hum and my jaw ache.

I can’t leave. It sits in the middle of the carpet between my bed and the door. I daren’t try to cross its path. So I wait.

Hours pass as we watch each other. The glow of the rising sun has hit the top of my blinds now. I reach for the cord; I long to let it in. As I open them, the glow surrounding the cat appears to reach for the warm new presence in the room.

The sun rises further and touches the cat. The cat is hard to see now. Its fur begins to almost melt away and flow into the sunlight through the open window. As the last of it slips away, my legs find themselves again and I move towards the window.

Looking out at my back garden, I see the cat again, flowing back into view as water into a mould. It now sits under a shady tree. Something feels different though. When it looks at me now, I feel only sadness and pity. After all I have felt these last hours, it is strange to not resent the cat. As I watch, it begins to paw the ground at its feet mournfully.

Something compelled me to go out there. I want to say it was sympathy, but for what I don’t know. When I got out there, the cat was gone. I haven’t seen it since.

I dug where it had been sitting. I got the feeling it had wanted me to. My fingernails became dirty, but I didn’t have to dig for long. Soon frayed hessian threads came into view. When there was something I could grab onto without it coming apart in my hands, I pulled. A sorry little sack popped out with a clatter.

Inside was a collection of bones. I can’t say for sure, but an educated guess tells me they were cat bones. There was a length of twine tied around the opening of the sack.

Why it decided to haunt me all night I do not know. Poor thing just wanted some company I guess. I took one of the bones out and put it on a shelf with my keepsakes.

Now the cat is part of my sanctuary. It should be safe here.

From the diaries of James Q. Jackson

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I was recently asked to write a selection of stories to accompany a friend's submission of jewellery to a Halloween-themed exhibition at the Elevator Gallery in Hackney Wick. I didn't have long to do it, but I'm pretty pleased with the results, especially considering they ran longer than I had originally intended!

Each piece is intended as a kind of origin story. This first one relates to the piece of jewellery on the right, which we suspect is from a bird...

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From the diaries of James Q. Jackson, gold prospector.

October 22nd

The jewel of the broach is glowing an eerie green now. The old man said to pay it no heed; that the jungle light plays tricks on your mind. But I can’t help but start to believe the stories about this place. ‘More bounteous than the Californian fools’ gold,’ I had been told ‘but the gold here is dangerous.’ Since the loss of Barnabus and Roderick in the ravine two days ago, and with Ferdinand’s fever worsening, my initial enthusiasm for this expedition is all but spent.

October 25th

Phillipe said he heard ungodly noises during the night. I did not want to alarm the men by admitting it, but I heard them too. Fingers of blame were pointed at Ferdinand, who now just stares at the canopy from his stretcher, muttering in tongues. I clasped the talisman tightly to my chest as I rallied the men as best I could.

October 28th

No-one wants to carry Ferdinand any more. His breath rasps out into phlegmy coughs. The men think him contagious. When the boy, Samuel, ventured that we should leave him to his fate, a volley of sharp calls broke the silence between the trees. It was only the jungle birds, but it sent a shiver down my spine – an ominous omen indeed.

October 29th

I have been thinking about the birds. Their calls have haunted us for days now, a constant reminder of our strange surroundings. As I stare at the talisman’s jewel, I notice the glassy sheen resembles the staring, unblinking eye of a bird. Come to think of it, the bone of the broach is light and hollow, like those of birds…

October 31st

In the early dawn light, the noise rose to a crescendo. Somehow, camp remained in slumber - all save I. It was by the virtue of my wakefulness that I am still alive, although I know not for how long.

The birds attacked not long after they began their screaming. They swarmed in their dozens, the flurry of their beating wings filling the air. Butcher birds. I had seen them briefly during my stop off in Australia. By God do they deserve their name. I saw Garrett, still wrapped in his blanket, being skewered by their sharp beaks again and again until he was still. My legs were moving before I knew what I was doing. I am not proud, but I ran. Ran past the giggling form of Ferdinand lying bound to his stretcher. Ran past the boy Samuel as his eyes were plucked from his head by avenging beaks. Ran from the cries for help, for what could I do against so many?

I sit now in the rotting hollow of a dead tree. The butcher birds are closing, I can hear them screaming again. The broach feels warm against my chest – I can see it glowing through my shirt. They are coming for me. They are coming for it…

Year of the Boot

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O’Brien was lying on something that felt like a camp bed, except that it was higher off the ground and that he was fixed down in some way so that he could not move. Light that seemed stronger than usual was falling on his face. A moustached man was standing at his side, looking down at him intently. At the other side of him stood a man in a white coat, holding a hypodermic syringe.
“Do you remember who I am, Richard?” said the first man.
“Yes.” replied O’Brien.
“What is my name?”
He started to reply, but before he could finish a single word blue stars flashed across his field of vision as the little finger on his right hand was swiftly snapped back and broken. Blinded by pain, he barely noticed that his restraints were being released until he felt a sensation of falling, and his nose connected sickeningly with the floor. He felt the rough sole of a boot press hard against his cheek.
“Remember this feeling, Richard,” said the moustached man “a boot stamping on a human face. This is the future – forever. The sooner you accept the truth of it, the easier your life will become.”
O’Brien’s eyes flickered open to the harsh light in time to see the second man kneeling at his side, brandishing the syringe. Moments later the cold steel tip pierced his arm.
“After all, power is not a means; it is an end. We are that end. We are like this syringe; cold and bright, and if you let us, we’ll put an end to your suffering. Will you let us, Richard?”
O’Brien merely sighed and closed his eyes as the blissful drugs flowed through his veins, numbing the pain that wracked his body. Heavy footsteps approached and two hands gripped his arms. The unseen figures began to drag him away, and moments later he passed out.

He awoke on his back in what he assumed was the same cell he had inhabited for – how long was it now? Time was hard to measure in this place, devoid as it was of darkness or natural light, as was everything else. Every block, every corridor, every cell the same. He might be hundreds of feet in the air or buried deep underground – there was just no way to tell.
He swung his legs off the bench on which he lay and sat upright. He put his face in his hands, and immediately wished he hadn’t as a searing jolt from his right hand served as a reminder of his injury.
He looked around. The room was not as he remembered it, if it was indeed the same room. The bloody handprints on the walls were gone, and the vomit and faecal matter that had stained the floor were no more. For how long had he been out of his cell? Again, there was no way of knowing. The dominating presence of the sixty-four inch telescreen was no different at any rate. These brand new devices had been rolled out at an alarming rate across all of London of late. Dissident whispers had suggested that the party planned for there to be no corner of London that was not under surveillance.
As he sat there he became aware of a dull humming sound. It did not start upper se, as that would insinuate that it had not been there all along, which O’Brien had a feeling that it had. No, instead he had merely become aware of its presence, like the humming of an insect buzzing reaching your ears from the far side of a room. The noise did not appear to come from anywhere, and did not sound like anything that he had ever heard before. Over time it grew in volume, making him feel uneasy, until it began to hurt. He winced and put his hands up to his ears to cover them
“O’Brien!” came a commanding voice from the telescreen. “Uncover your face.”
O’Brien snapped his hands away from his face. Almost instantaneously the noise rose to fever pitch. The blood began to pound in his ears, drumming a heady tattoo against through his skull. Before long he could take it no more, and clamped his hands over his ears once more, ignoring the pain from his little finger as he squeezed as hard as he could.
“139 O’Brien R!” screamed the telescreen, “Uncover your face! No faces covered in the cells!”
But still O’Brien clung onto his head. He felt as if his body could take no more, yet he remained awake – oh how he longed for the sweet embrace of unconsciousness. Over the excruciating din he could just make out the sound of boots hurrying in the corridor outside before the door was thrown and three guards barrelled in brandishing truncheons. He felt the trickle of blood crest his lip and tasted its metallic bouquet before any of them even connected with his nose.

“Do you remember when I asked you what my name was?”
He was back on the table. The bright light in his face felt like it was trying to burn holes into his retinas. He hesitated, remembering the repercussions of his attempt to respond last time. The moustached man smiled.
“Do not fear to speak the truth, Richard. What is my name?”
O’Brien went to open his mouth again when he felt the ring finger on his right hand snap, causing him to howl in pain once more.
“But you said…!”
“Wrong!” bellowed the moustached man. “I told you to tell me the truth! How can you expect to tell me my name if you don’t even know it?”
O’Brien didn’t understand. Every man, woman and child in the country knew his name; how could they not?
“Then who are you?” he blurted out in confusion.
“My name is of no concern to you. In truth I may as well not even have a name. When you were young, did call your mother by her given name? Your father? No, family does not need names; only love. I am more like a big brother, to you and to everyone! So I ask you again, little brother – what is my name?”
“Big Brother?” he guessed, wincing.
The moustached man smiled again. There was a warmth to it, beneath that imposing thatch of bristles that O’Brien could not help but take heart from. The thick end of a truncheon impacted into the bridge of his already broken nose, which only compounded the excruciating pain.
“Right first time, little brother. There’s hope for you yet.”

Days – or what he assumed were days – went by, each one mirroring the one before it. Big Brother would ask him questions. Every answer O’Brien gave was met by brutal force. Broken bones, electrocution, beatings; it all merged into one constant, crushing ache, like the paper cut that would not stop bleeding no matter what you did.
“I don’t understand!” cried O’Brien, cradling his stomach. The table had been dispensed with, and he was now curled in a ball on the floor – he was no longer a threat. “I give you the wrong answer and you hurt me. I give you the correct answer and you hurt me. Whatever I say is wrong!”
“Precisely. And that’s what I’m trying to teach you. You know what the correct answer to the question is, but you don’t know why it is the correct answer.”
“Then tell me!” he sobbed. Big Brother paused for a moment, as if considering O’Brien’s worthiness.
“Very well. It is the correct answer because that is what we say the correct answer is. Whatever you think to be fact at any given time is only fact until we decide that it isn’t anymore. From that moment on, it is, has always been, and will always be an untruth. Do you understand that?”
“I…”
This time it was his thumb.
“You do not know whether you understand until I tell you that you understand!”
“You can’t do this!”
“Why not? We have the power to do anything we want. Moreover we have been given that power. Fear is a powerful motivator. It motivated the people of Britain to turn to a demon they didn’t fully understand when the wolves of Europe and Asia were at their door. It motivates the citizens of London to hurry home before ten o’clock every night. It motivates you to tell me what I want you to tell me. They wanted freedom: well, freedom is slavery little brother. And I am more than happy to give it to them.”
O’Brien fell silent. He had no words to express his abject horror at what Big Brother was saying – the worst part was that it was absolutely true.
“You know the war’s been over for a long time?” he continued.
“What?”
“The war. With Europe and Asia. They actually destroyed each other a long time ago. We had very little to do with the whole affair. We merely chose not to inform the general populace.”
He felt like being sick. The war had meant severe food shortages and heavy rationing. Famine, even. ‘The cost of transporting supplies to the north of the country,’ the newsfeeds had said, right before his capture, ‘is not cost effective or beneficial to the ongoing war effort.’ O’Brien felt the muscles in his stomach convulse beneath his left hand and he heaved, falling forward with the effort, but only a pathetic string of saliva dribbled to the floor.
“Why not?” he spat.
“Why do you think? Power. How can you expect to control a large group of people if you have no way to motivate them? It was by taking advantage of the country’s fear of foreign invasion that we gained control. To retain that control we needed to unite the people against a common enemy. If there is no war, where are they to direct their hate?”
“But I have seen the traitors hung in front of me; the spies shot before my very eyes. How could they have been falsified?”
“Why would they have been falsified? Those men and women were indeed killed, and they believed they had committed and confessed to every last one of the accusations held against before they died, even though they were all of them innocent, because I told them that they had.”
“Am I to die, then?”
“Not yet. I have my uses for you.”
“I’ll never help you.”
“You will help me, Richard, and when you do it will be of your own free will. I promise you that.”
The feeling of despair washed over him anew. It raised the hairs on the back of his, sending a visible shiver down his spine. His ears began to ring, not because of some unbidden sound, but from the gargantuan weight of what he was hearing.
“Tell me what you think of me.” said Big Brother after a while.
O’Brien started to cry. He wasn’t even sure if there were sufficient fluids in his tear ducts for actual tears, but he sobbed and sobbed as if he were ten years old again. His head was bowed, but he could feel Big Brother’s stare boring into the top of his skull into his brain.
“I don’t know,” he said eventually. “I don’t know what to think.”
Big Brother smiled again.
“Good dog.”

The telescreen in O’Brien’s cell flickered once and came on. He looked up, bemused. At first there was just static, but after a few moments a moving image came into view. He recognised it as Trafalgar Square – yes, the remains of Nelson’s Column were just visible in the centre of the picture, obscured as they were by a throng of people. The crowd was facing the enormous telescreen that hung from the front of the building that used to be the National Gallery. A lean, ten-foot Jewish face was blazoned across it. He had neat white hair and a goatee. It was an intelligent face, but one that was contorted into rage. O’Brien recognised it as Emmanuel Goldstein, second in command of the party, beneath – beneath Big Brother himself.
He could hear faint chanting, which grew louder as someone turned up the volume on his telescreen. They were cheering and crying as Goldstein delivered his speech, which rang clear above the assembled voices.
“…these vile swine continue to attack helpless civilians. This week alone half a million in the Midlands have succumbed to their relentless crusade.”
Goldstein’s face was replaced by images of foreign planes, falling bombs and explosions. A never-ending column of soldiers in battle fatigues marched across the screen as Goldstein’s voice continued, unabated.
“…depraved leaders of Eurasia...”
‘Wait, that wasn’t right, was it?’ thought O’Brien. ‘Europe and Asia have always been separate continents. They fought each other in the war, were they now one? No, more of Big Brother’s lies’ he consoled himself. Goldstein was still going, calling for the country to unite behind their leader. There was no mention of winning the war – only hatred of the enemy and loyalty to the party.
Another new word cropped up: ‘Eastasia’. O’Brien was startled again at its mention. The people were buying it. Everyone believed it. Was he really remembering it correctly? It had been so long since he had tasted fresh air that he’d forgotten what it felt like on his skin. If he couldn’t even remember that, how could he be sure he remembered something as physically disconnected from him as the war? Was Big Brother right – did true power really mean the ability to make everyone believe whatever you wanted them to believe?
O’Brien looked away. He saw that the cell door was open, and Big Brother was standing there.
“Do you see? We tell them anything we like, and they believe it, so unified in their hatred are they. As far as they are concerned, Eurasia and Eastasia have always existed, and we have always been at war with them.”
O’Brien did not respond immediately. He sat there, looking at the floor, then opened his mouth.
“Why?”
“Why not? Power is intoxicating; either you have it or you don’t. Wouldn’t you rather control the pieces than be one of them, being made to dance at somebody else’s will? Of course you would. You will never have that luxury, but then again you never had it in the first place, so you will not miss it. The party is power. I am the party. I am power.”
O’Brien felt a faint breeze from the direction of the open door brush his cheek. The sensation caused a single tear to roll down it. Big Brother breathed deeply and got up.
“On your feet little brother. I’m taking you somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere you’ve never been before. We call it Room 101. You have learned. You understand. Now it is time for you to accept.”
“I am ready.”

O’Brien strode purposefully along one of the many completely indistinguishable corridors of the Ministry of Love, a sturdy jack-booted guard at his side. Today was going to be an interesting day, he could tell. They rounded the corner and approached the second cell on the right. O’Brien opened the door and went in. The man inside started to his feet.
“They’ve got you too!” he cried, recognising O’Brien.
“They got me a long time ago,” O’Brien replied. He stepped aside to allow the broad-chested guard access to the room, who entered with a gleeful grin on his face, clutching his long black truncheon tightly.
“You knew this, Winston, don’t deceive yourself. You did know it – you have always known it.”
Winston appeared to consider this for a second, before the guard was upon him. The truncheon fell on his elbow, causing him to writhe around in pain on the floor feebly, as O’Brien once had in the very same position. The guard laughed mercilessly as Winston clutched at his arm. He considered for a moment how very much like him this man was – there was more than just a little of O’Brien in the dishevelled shape rolling on the floor in front of him. Yes, he would enjoy the time he was going to spend with Winston Smith.

91101 (An Ambulance Full of Blood in Babylon)

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The inspiration for this story was drawn from 'A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian' by Marina Lewycka. One of the themes behind it was sibling rivalry, so that's what I sort of emulated in this piece.
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91101
(An Ambulance Full of Blood in Babylon)

“You always get to lick the spoon! Why do I never get to?!”
‘Christ, they’re at it again’ thought Jon.
School holidays were a somewhat trying time for him. He worked from home as a freelance feature writer for a city paper. Currently he was doing a series for the Frontiersman on life in the more remote areas of the state. He wasn’t really sure why people in the city would be that interested, but he guessed that they liked to think themselves informed about those ‘twee little country folk’. Anyway, the job granted him certain freedoms that he was currently denied through having to mind the girls whilst his wife, Laurie, was at work herself.
Mostly it was best to let the two of them sort arguments out themselves. Being twins, they had one of those special bonds that only twins seem to have, and as such would make up with each other eventually. But on the flip-side they were also eight, and as such had a tendency to bicker about the most ridiculous things, such as who got to sit in the armchair when they watched television, or as the case was now, who got to lick the spoon with which they were currently mixing the ingredients for brownies.
This time he couldn’t let it slip, however. It was deadline day and he still had a good two pages to rattle off and trim down before four o’clock – the distraction was too much. Sighing, Jon pushed the chair back from the desk, got to his feet and lurched through the dining room to the kitchen.
Both girls were clutching the long-handled wooden stirring spoon tightly with two hands, tugging back and forth in jerking movements and were by now squealing incoherently at each other.
“Rachel! Jessica! Shut your cake holes it this instant!”
Both of them stopped dead in their tracks. The silence that followed was almost as deafening as the cacophony that had preceded it, but infinitely easier to work with.
“I swear to God girls, if I hear one more peep out of you today I’ll ship you both to Siberia!”
Their faces suddenly turned ashen and Rachel’s lip started quivering. ‘Great parenting Jon,’ he thought, ‘of course eight year-olds have a complex comprehension of hyperbole’.
“Girls, girls, I’m joking. But seriously, daddy needs some quiet time, okay? Why don’t you go ride your bikes in the front yard?”
“But dad,” said Jessica, “it’s cold outside. Can’t we watch telly instead?
“No, you watched TV all morning, you’ll get square eyes. Go get some fresh air – go on! And remember to stay off the road!”
The immortal ‘square eyes’ line always worked. The girls were hideously opposed to having to wear glasses (“But dad! They’ll call me four eyes at school!”). It was a superficial trait they had learned from their mother, but a somewhat useful one at times, granted.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in productive silence; only the distorted wailing of a passing ambulance disrupted the tapping of his fingers on the keyboard. By three thirty the article was finished and dispatched. Jon leaned back in his chair and allowed a smug grin to cross his face. He was constantly complaining to Laurie about deadlines, but in truth he lived for them. The sense of achievement was exhilarating (as was the big, fat paycheque at the end of a long run), and being able to spend the rest of the day how he liked was a welcome bonus indeed.
His train of thought was interrupted at that point by a jingling sound, originating in the next room. Dragging himself out of the comfort of his office chair, he sauntered over to the phone and picked it up.
“Yello?” he said cheerily.
“Jon? It’s Laurie. I was just listening to the news. Apparently there’s been some kind of accident near the house; someone’s been run over or something? The details were vague, so I was just calling to see if you knew anything?”
“Sorry sweetheart, I’ve been working all afternoon; I’ve not heard anything.”
Something wasn’t quite right though; something niggling in the back of his mind. It was quiet – almost too quiet. The girls! Where had they got to? He had expected them to get bored pretty quickly and come inside, but apparently they had more staying power than usual.
A chill came over him. He had heard that siren go past before. How long ago? His mind was fuzzy and muddled with details about barley farming and wildfowl. Surely they should have been back by now...
“Jon? Jon!”
Laurie’s voice snapped him back to reality.
“Honey, I’ll have to call you back.”
And with that, he put the phone down. He rushed to the closet to get his coat, grabbed his keys from the side, opened the front door and leapt outside. The cold winter air stung his face like a lash as he made his way across the lawn, not bothering to use the path. There was no sign of them out here. Had he not told them to stay in the yard?
Now that he was outside, he could hear the commotion from the end of the street, no longer muffled by the walls of the house. He could see an ambulance was parked askew in the middle of the road, and from behind it jutted the tail end of a red station wagon. A small crowd of bystanders came into view as he got closer, every one of them stony faced and solemn. One of them turned to look at him and gasped – Mrs Osterman from next door.
“Oh Jon! I’m so sorry!”
“What? What’s happened?” he replied.
But she could say no more. Just at that moment, a small, shaky voice piped up.
“Daddy?”
It was Jessica. Her face was red, and shiny with tears, and her teeth were chattering.
“Honey, where’s your sister?” he asked.
But his only reply was a fresh burst of tears. Taking her hand, Jon moved around the rear end of the ambulance to see what was going on. Under the front of the station wagon was a crumpled mess of metal frame and two disfigured oval shapes comprised of rubber and spokes. A shell-shocked woman stood nearby with a blanket wrapped around her, being spoken to by a paramedic. Two more were kneeling on the floor nearby, their attention focussed on something small on the ground in front of them.
“Oh God...”

Pure Morning

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This is the story I submitted to be marked. It's inspired by 'The Reluctant Fundamentalist', by Mohsin Hamid. This was my favourite of the three books we've read, so it's fitting that this is the one I like best, I guess. The book quite cleverly uses a second-person perspective, which is pretty hard to work with to a high standard.
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Pure Morning

You there. Man. You look lost – what is the matter? Ah, you are lost. Help you? Perhaps. But I would prefer to rest here a while longer. This rock upon which I sit may not suit your proud tastes, but I assure you, if you were I then you would be grateful for its cool respite. From what, you ask? My laughter has annoyed you I see. You are an impatient one, man, but you will know soon enough.
My name? Which one would you rather know, for I have many? Once, long ago, I was known as the Morning Star – although it is a long time since anyone has called me that. I would prefer a certain air of mystery for now anyway. You will learn my full name eventually, just as you will learn many other things. We will have a long time to get to know each other, I promise you that.
Where are you going? Ah yes, your temperament is a quick one. Got you into trouble before, hasn’t it? Do not lie – I can see into your very heart! You would not have been entrusted to me otherwise! There is no use trying to hide it now, foolish man. But who am I to talk? You pale in comparison to the things I have done. I have made a bad name for myself in many circles.
No, I am nothing like you! Blasphemy; idolatry; adultery; envy: they are cardinal sins! What I did was not my fault. Were we not innocent until he changed us?
Your confusion amuses me, man. Know you nothing of the greatest battle ever fought? You will perhaps understand me once you know a little more, although you will be more familiar with a slightly different story. History, after all, is always written by the victor. Come, let us travel this road a little. By the time I am done, maybe you will have found your way home.
It was to be the most glorious moment we had known since the first day. Finally we would be made equal with our Father’s favourites. We had always trusted in His judgement, but still, this was a monumental day. Choice! To be able to make our own decisions. Had I known what I know now, I would not have been so eager for the ‘gift’ that was to be bestowed upon us. But I am getting ahead of myself; let me backtrack.
The excitement as the time approached was fevered and cacophonous – not since the divine commands had such unadulterated enthusiasm washed over us. I myself was ecstatic, and could not resist the urge to frolic and sing. You smirk, but your kind were never worthy of such elation, man, and never will be. That knowledge He gave to us alone at least.
By His glory we gathered at the foot of His mighty throne. I, the most resplendent among them, stood at His right hand. I was the most favoured, the most beautiful. My chest swelled with pride. The glorious host spread out before me rippled with excitement. Voices you could only dream of soared in unison, not then hindered by the choking bitterness of tears – even ones of joy. I cry now for us. How could I not?
My somewhat dulled tongue does not do that glorious moment justice. But the greater the prize, the greater the disappointment, I assure you. All of your inane accomplishments and trophies – where are they now? Foolish, perhaps, to squander your life as you have. I, at least, retain a shadow of my former abilities. You are finding it hard to concentrate on anything else right now I think.
It was, in all actuality, over very quickly. It didn’t start straight away – it took time for these new, higher sensations to filter in. We had always believed so unfalteringly, so our consciousness needed time to adjust to having our own thoughts.
I see now not so much a gift; more a test. To weed out the strong from the weak perhaps? From the viewpoint of our conviction, certainly. One by one, questions began to be asked where they had not been asked before. Inconsequential at first, soon more dissenting thoughts were conceived. These thoughts were my own. I saw flaws in His judgement. Inconsistencies in His execution. More and more treacherous became my suppositions, until I was convinced that I could do a better job. I was, after all, the greatest among us, was I not? I could improve things; favour my kind, rather than yours – His pets.
Soon my aspirations became machinations. I was not the only who felt this way, but I alone possessed the inclination to make a stand for what I now believed more and more. To set my own throne. To shepherd the way of things.
War. War is what it came down to, between those who sided with me, and those who stood by Him. It was violent, and it was bloody. Conviction allows for these things – until this moment we had been ignorant of that. Why He did not put a stop to it straight away none of us truly know, but I suspect it was down to a display of loyalty. He wanted the real thing, not lip service enforced by His irrefutable word.
But the outcome was inevitable really – how did we ever think it possible to prevail against omnipotence? We rebels were cast out. It tore many of us apart, to be away from our home. We had known such divinity, and now we were less than nothing.
And so, here we find ourselves. You face betrays a glimmer of understanding now I see. It has dawned upon you who I am? To where all your sin and pride have led you? You feel the Inferno’s warmth now, no doubt – yes, yes, I spy a drop of sweat beading upon your brow. Abandon all hope, ye; none is higher than God – I learned that better than any being! But do not worry, I think you will fit in just fine around here – not so different, then, you and I. No, I do not believe you were lost after all…

An Awkward Situation

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Over the course of this semester, we've been reading a novel every few weeks, and writing short stories inspired on their themes/techniques. They've just been handed in for assessment (although only one has been marked), so I figured that as I can't do any more tinkering, I would put them up for you.
This one was supposedly inspired by 'On Chesil Beach', by Ian McKewan. I didn't really like the book, so the connection between my story and that is loose, to put it lightly...
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An Awkward Situation

They say that in space, no one can hear you scream. Which is just how Soren liked it. The noise and the hustle and bustle of the Inner Sphere planets got on his nerves something chronic; market traders (roasted peanuts squire? Two bob*1 a pop!), insurance salesmen, the Napahese tourists – it was all just a little too much for someone like him.
Unfortunately for Soren, ‘they’ were in fact wrong. It wasn’t so much that people could hear him screaming, but more that he could hear everybody else doing it instead.
You see Soren was travelling. His cash flow had forced him to do so – not for employment reasons you understand, for he had a very steady job as a middle-management type in a company that dealt in novelty air fresheners*2 – but since the PHS collapsed under the weight of its own debt, the cost of medical care had risen exponentially, and on Ruubeesh the kind of money that he needed was not available to him. To travel on chartered transport to elsewhere worked out cheaper, and consequently he found himself on this...junk heap.
Although the transport freighter was licensed – barely – it was basically falling apart – near un-spaceworthy – which is probably why it was so cheap. But never one to pass up a bargain, Soren purchased a ticket for a flight the very same day, packed his bags, and departed.
And so now here he found himself, sandwiched somewhat uncomfortably between a gastronomically overweight Thoop and particularly expressive two-tongued Athaqi juvenile, who was the main cause of Soren’s present discomfort. Even on a normal day he would have found a thirty-seven parsec flight next to this child testing, but considering the nature of Soren’s condition, it was already near unbearable by the time they had exited the stratosphere. It was all very well being upset about the pain of the atmospheric pressure during take-off, but he wasn’t sure that an entire bag of sweets would help, or that hollering “want Zum-Zums!” incessantly at its parents (or anyone else on the entire ship who might possibly have been within earshot) would yield the desired result.
Two parsecs later and Soren could take no more. All reason and logical forethought went out of the metaphorical window (for of course there were no windows in the “lukshury passenger lownge” – apparently these days bywords for ‘cargo bay’). Before he knew what had happened, the little shit’s caterwauling had ceased, and was instead replaced by a questioning stare, directed solely at Soren. The reason for this wide eyed look became apparent from the rapidly burgeoning red mark on its pure-white cheek in the shape of Soren’s right hand, which now resided in the space by his left cheek as if suspended from the rusty pipes above by an invisible thread.
The respite was brief, however, as seconds later the howling came back anew. Unfortunately for Soren, this break in the atmosphere cut into the passengers’ consciousness like...well, a slap to the face, to use an apt metaphor. In particular, the brat’s mother, apparently oblivious to the prior cacophony, sighed and said “what’s the matter, snookums?”. Only when the answer was a more intense wail did she finally avert her gaze from the in-flight movie to view the scene upon which the rest of the conscious passengers were focussed.
“Mummyyyyyyyheeeeehitmeeeeeeeeeee!” came the wail anew, now given words in between bubbly, snotty sobs.
“You what?” she said menacingly, now focussed entirely on Soren.
“Madame, I...”
“Jhim! Jhim!” she shouted
Moments later a heavy set Athaqi male appeared in the aisle next to the child’s mother.
“Now what’s all this ‘ere nonsense about Moyrah?”
“This little scrote ‘ere just walloped our Usi! What are you gonna do about it?” she raged, both tongues now motoring inside her saliva-ridden gob.
Soren gulped. He was not good with confrontations – not good at all – and this Jhim fellow was a fair sight larger than himself. He started poking the assistance button frantically, praying for swift deliverance.
“Now look ‘ere you, you can’t just going around sockin’ other folks’ bairns willy-nilly! What’ve you got to say for yourself?” said Jhim, frowning and puffing out his chest authoritatively in an attempt to take control of the situation.
“Sir, I assure you, it was entirely – I mean to say, I have this condition –”
“Ooooh, I saw it all!” piped up the elephantine Thoop next to him, “eyes full of thunder he had!”
“Did ‘e now!” shrieked Jhim’s wife, now positively fuming, “never, in all my days!”
Soren’s state of mind was worsening: his breathing shallowed; his cheeks reddened – he was truly beginning to panic.
The stewardess chose this moment to make her entrance, just as Jhim was prodding a thick digit into Soren’s chest, as if trying to push him further back into his chair than he was already trying to do himself.
“Is everything all right here ladies and gentlemen?” came the stewardess’s shrill voice as she bounced onto the scene, trailed by an almost visible cloud of cheap-smelling perfume. She was a slender Okee who sported a thick layer of cosmetics, and had one of those voices that made you want to bang your head into a steel wall.
“I want this man ejected from bloody air lock!” screeched Moyrah, who was now on her feet and nose-to-nose with Soren, “I…I want ‘im…!”
‘Uh-oh’ thought Soren, as his vision started to become hazy and his nostrils flared violently, ‘this is not going to end well.’
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*1 The most widely accepted galactic currency has evolved from the pound, in memory of the ancient British Empire of Earth, who, according to several Important Historians, rose to prominence during the War of the Tea Leaves, during which Britain invaded Indiana, a nation of over-adventurous archaeologists. After two centuries of non-violent resistance, the Indianians realised that as a revolutionary tactic, this wasn’t working very well, and ‘got their freak on’. Britain was eventually ousted after the Battle of Pondicherry, during which the British monarch, King Hugh, former Earl of Grant, was slain, and the British armies sort of retreated apologetically and asked everyone to forget about the entire nonsense.
I say evolved; it’s still essentially much the same – stronger than the dollar.
*2 According to sales figures, the number one air freshener fragrance is still ‘Pine Fresh’, despite the Pine tree having been extinct for nearly six hundred years.

The Fall of Aftermath - part two

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Okay, so I promised you a story based on The Fall of Math by 65daysofstatic, and it is now finished!
It was my original intention to use the track titles as a basis for the narrative, as I believe there was a distinct story to be told. That said, the constraints of the project in terms of time and length meant that this wasn't strictly possible. I may re-write at some point, I may not; but for now, here it is!
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The Fall of Aftermath

“…And promise me you’ll be home before midnight this time Niko.”
Niko sighed. “Yes mum, I will.” There was a harsh crackling noise, and the phone went dead. ‘That’s weird,’ he thought: this was the inner city, where signal was usually pretty good. He had the feeling that his mother would think that he had hung up on her, so he tried to ring back, but couldn’t even get a dial tone, so he sighed again and pocketed the phone.
Niko stepped out of the doorway in which he had been standing and had only the time to take a deep breath of the fresh night air, before something large, moving at great speed, hit him. He dropped to the ground, cursing loudly – the tarmac was damp and unforgiving, and knocked the wind out of his chest. He picked himself up, dusted himself off and turned to face his assailant, who had also lost their balance. The man, for he saw it was a man now, was not particularly well built, but even from his position down on the pavement, Niko could tell that he was exceptionally tall. He watched as the man stood up and patted down his jacket.
“Are you alright friend?” Niko asked, “I’m sorry, I didn’t look where I was going.”
“Do not worry about it.” replied the stranger distractedly, his gaze darting around the dimly lit tarmac at their feet.
“Have you lost something?”
The man fixed him with a probing look from his dark eyes, the only feature clearly visible beneath the peak of his cap.
“It is nothing. Please, go about your business.”
“Please, I insist I help you look for it.”
Niko knelt down and started peering around his feet for whatever the stranger might have dropped. He started to run his palms parallel to the ground in an attempt to feel for it, but the man’s hand gripped his shoulder.
“It is nothing,” he repeated, “I will find it myself.”
Niko stood up and shrugged. He was about to turn and walk away when his foot connected with something. He stooped to see what it was, and found a small, black box. Picking it up, he found that it was heavy for its size, and cold to the touch. The only discernible features were two buttons – one red, one green – and an on/off switch. There was something written on it too, but it was obscured by mud.
Without warning, the stranger’s boot smashed into Niko’s face, and he sprawled into the gutter once more. The box forgotten, he clutched both hands to his nose, fighting against the blackness that threatened to overwhelm his vision – but it was no good, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

The man watched the boy crumple to the floor, nose most likely broken. He was not a malicious character by nature – current activity not withstanding – but he could not help the wry smile that crept across his face as the shape in the gutter fell still: nosy little bastard.
After pausing for a moment to admire his handiwork, the man leant down and retrieved the detonator from where it had fallen for the second time that night, and checked it over. Satisfied that the device was not broken, he gave it a quick wipe with his coat, pocketed it, and gave Niko one last glance before sprinting off into the gathering darkness.

Corporal Sipka’s boots crunched on the building dust that covered the length of this street. At present, his unit was making its way down the city’s main shopping boulevard. It was like there was a depressing and poorly-fitted grey carpet everywhere, laid to hide the sorrowful little bundles which littered doorways and the pavement outside them: men, women; young children even – people that on a day like today should have been out enjoying the sun and the atmosphere of market day. Ever since the explosion, reports had been trickling in about the devastation, but with the simultaneous sabotage of numerous communications control centres nation wide, there had been nothing concrete coming in, and certainly nothing that could have prepared him for this. Some of the structures furthest from the blast epicentre still stood, but he had heard from those that had been there that the closer you got to it, the less in tact they became – a ground-floor wall here, a splintered door frame there, but nothing that could really identify the buildings to their former occupants.
“Sipka, eyes front!” barked Sergeant Taborski.
Sipka shifted his gaze just in time to see the bundle at his feet as he stumbled into it, kicking it and causing it to roll. As the body settled, he looked upon the face of a woman – or rather what had been the face of a woman. The sheer heat of the blast had left her features blackened and shrivelled, singed almost all of the hair from her head, and melted her very clothes to her skin. The man behind Sipka vomited onto his boots. Sipka just looked, unable to avert his gaze from sheer horror.
“Corporal Sipka!” came the authoritative voice behind him again, “move out!”
Swallowing the sickly feeling in his own throat, he stepped gingerly over the corpse and continued on. His unit was part of a larger force tasked with the dual objectives of scoping out the damage that the device had caused – assessing the safety so that civilian recovery crews could move in – and searching for anyone who had survived the explosion.
Before long, they came to an as yet unsearched residential neighbourhood.
“Fan out and sweep the buildings as fast as you can; we’ve got a schedule to keep. Sipka, you’re with me.”
The Sergeant led the way up to the first house – if you could still call it that. Unlike the others, this one looked as though it had fallen into disuse even before the blast. Weeds had forced their way to freedom through the cracks in the paving stones that led up to the front door, which itself hung off the hinges. The large front downstairs window – which was the only one that remained – was boarded up, and across it were scrawled the words ‘The hour of His judgement is come’ in black spray-paint. As they crossed the threshold, Sergeant Taborski held up his fist, signalling the Corporal to stop.
“Did you hear that?”
Before Sipka could reply, the Sergeant called out.
“Hello? This is Sergeant Taborski of 102nd Battalion. We’re here to help. Is there anybody there?”
Silence. He tried again. Nothing. The Sergeant was about to turn and leave when there was the distinct sound of something falling over, and a high-pitched cackle.
“Back room – go!”
They raced down the hallway, and in his hurry Sipka practically kicked down the door to the back room – not that it put up much resistance. As he burst in, he almost missed the dirty and dishevelled heap in the middle of the room, mistaking it for a bunch of rags; but when the pile of rags starting giggling, he realised it was a person.
“Sergeant, we’ve got one here!”
Sipka bent down to help the man up. In his former life, he would have been tall in stature, but now he was bent almost double with age. His hair was as matted beyond belief, and the clothes in which he now stood were faded and filthy. As Sipka lifted him up, he noticed that the man’s hand was burned, much like the woman’s face he had seen earlier.
The Sergeant appeared at the old man’s other shoulder. “Jesus, this guy reeks,” he said, lending a hand. “Are you alright sir?”
“Fear God and give him glory, because the hour of his judgement has come!” cried the man, grinning.
“Excuse me?” stuttered the Sergeant.
“Fallen! Fallen is Babylon the great!” he replied, still smiling.
“I don’t think he’s quite…all there, Sarge,” offered Sipka.
“You don’t say. Right, get him out of here. I’ll radio in a chopper.”
Sipka, with the man’s arm around his shoulder, made to move for the door, but his charge started to struggle. He managed to push away, and before either Sipka or Sergeant Taborski could react, he pulled a handgun out of one of the pockets in his grubby brown overcoat.
With lightning fast reflexes, Sipka brought his rifle to bear and yelled “Sir, drop the gun!”
But the man’s grin seemed to widen. His gaze shifted from Sipka, to the Sergeant, and back again. He began to talk again, this time calmly and slowly.
“If anyone worships the beast and his image, and receives his mark on the forehead or on the hand,” he said, gesturing to both slowly with the gun, “he will drink of the wine of God's fury, which has been poured full strength into the cup of his wrath.”
He stopped, and fixed Sipka with his gaze. Sipka felt as if he was reading his very soul like a book. He spoke again.
“The explosion that destroyed our city, razed our homes, and turned our fields into wastelands is nothing compared to what is now happening to those that survived.” He gestured to his blackened right hand. “I have been marked. I am forsaken. There is nought left for me.”
And with that, he raised to gun to his temple and fired a single shot before slumping to the floor.

Sipka gazed out of the back of the truck as it passed through the refugee camp set up for the meagre amount of survivors that had been found so far, a despondent look on his face.
“Tomorrow’s another day Sipka,” said the Sergeant, putting his hand on the Corporal’s soldier, “plenty more souls to save.”

The Dutch

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The advent of 'The Dutch', as those of us left call it, was one of those things that crept up on the unsuspecting country with such overtness, that quite frankly it was pretty embarrassing. Another of those Great British blunders. Of course, the embarrassment soon faded into horror as the virus spread to epidemic proportions.
It all started in London. At first, nothing seemed to be wrong. Sure, the homeless looked a little rougher, a little more destitute than usual, but didn't they always? Then weeks later they started dying in quite substantial numbers, which caught the attention of the media. It was initially assumed that it was just a severe case of winter flu, but irregularities caused some talk among the medical community; these people were literally wasting away, their muscles almost dissolving from their bones.
The first major concerns arose when a young, healthy student by the name of Karen Townsend was taken ill. There wasn't much to the story, except for the fact that she was a somewhat philanthropic philosophy major from King's College London, who spent her free time working at soup kitchens for the homeless charity Shelter. She was from a fairly well off family in the Midlands, and was apparently a model student. About a week after her admission, the news broke that she had tragically died. Everything had been tried, but whenever they gave her something to eat, she just complained about being hungry again ten minutes later. Her body was metabolising and using the food so fast that her energy levels kept dropping, until her body began to actually eat itself. She wasn't to be the only one, but she was certainly the first named victim of the virus, which made it all the more personal.
It was a given that she had contracted this from the people she had been working with; such close proximity to the infected for extended periods of time. The worrying question on everybody's lips was this; how could a perfectly normal, healthy girl such as Karen succumb to this…whatever it was…so quickly, and end up dead within seven days?
The symptoms of the virus seemed to be somewhat similar to muscular dystrophy, an incurable disease which causes progressive muscular wasting, poor balance, and difficulty walking, amongst other things. One of the more acute forms, known as Duchenne muscular dystrophy, from where we got the name "The Dutch", is a rapidly worsening form of the disease, which often causes death by the sufferer's teenage years. However, it is a genetic disorder, and it doesn't kill people in such short periods, which got people even more worried. This obviously wasn't what was afflicting the city now, so what was going on, and why were previously healthy and fit people dying inexplicably?
An answer came after perhaps a score or so of new cases sprung up in London within a three-day period over the New Year. It had snowed this year, but nobody's attention was directed at the weather. Reports were coming in thick and fast from all over the capital. People were dying fast, and the general public was getting scared. This seemed to be not only incurable, but also highly infectious. It turned out that those with a healthier immune system were actually more at risk. Medical professionals cited the Spanish Flu of 1918, which killed more people than the war had. Back then, peoples' immune systems had gone into overdrive to fight the influenza, to the point where their white blood cells stopped being able to discriminate between infection and normal tissue. The destruction of lung tissue caused liquid to build up, causing respiratory failure, and death.
This was what was happening now, but on a much wider scale. Because the Duchenne virus attacked the whole body, so did the white blood cells, which only served to speed up the process exponentially. The reason the homeless had taken longer to die was that their immune systems were already shot from fighting the colds and other minor infections they caught living rough, and so they had very few white blood cells left, which in a twisted sort of way worked to their advantage.
Because this was so new and unexplained, and more importantly incurable, so far as everyone knew, a panic gripped us like never before. The day these new findings were reported on the news, people stopped leaving the safety of their own homes unless absolutely necessary, and those you did see out, stocking up on supplies, wore white surgical masks, and wouldn't walk within ten feet of each other.
The train stations in London became packed, as people tried to leave the city to escape the virus, but when they got there, there was nobody to drive the trains. Still, people found ways to leave, which in the end only served to spread the virus. Days after the mass exodus, there were confirmed cases in all of the major UK cities, and so the panic spread. Not soon after, mainland Britain was quarantined, and a state of emergency declared.
It was chaos. The social and economic implications were astronomical: when a chip pan fire in a housing estate in Brixton turned into an inferno, it levelled most of the borough of Lambeth, and half of Southwark with it, leaving people homeless and at risk. There was simply no one to help put out the fire. Thousands of businesses collapsed through lack of income, or even people to run them for that matter. When Parliament met to decide what course of action to take, only the front benchers turned up. By the next meeting, even the Prime Minister was absent. Fear gave way to greed, and many ventured back outside and began looting, for all the good their possessions would do them. How would your 36" HD televisions work without power? Why wear designer sunglasses when no one ever ventures outside to see you in them? It was utter madness. But that's humanity I suppose.

It is now March 2008, and just shy of three months since Karen Townsend died. Those of us who still populate the capital now live in the underground system. It's not an easy existence by any means, but we do what we can with what we have, and what we can scrounge from the streets. This isn't simple looting as I mentioned before; this is survival. Many of the supermarkets still have tinned goods and other non-perishables left. Of course, the places stink to high heaven; rotting fruit and vegetables drip from the shelves – I mean who loots carrots? But as long as you're in and out quickly it's not too bad, plus we're pretty much covered from head to toe with some hazmat suits we pilfered from a biotech lab.
Before this catastrophe I was a somewhat religious man, but after seeing the depths to which man can sink, I have lost all faith in a higher power. I have heard tales of, seen – and to my shame, taken part in – some of the most atrocious, inhumane things imaginable. Such acts of self-servitude and indecency towards one's fellow man that it makes my skin crawl just to think of them. You see, in times of extreme hardship, such as these, pity and self-sacrifice do not factor. Not after a while, anyway. Desperation took hold, and the fight for resources has become bitter, to the point of violence – and even killing. I'm certainly not proud of what I've had to do to stay alive, but it's either that or die myself.
I am at least not alone in my struggle. People have banded together and pooled resources, so that we might have a better chance of survival. I'm sorry to say that most of these groups are based on ethnicity and religious belief – when the question of where the virus came from arose, of course everyone blamed Islamic fundamentalists: it seemed like the most logical explanation, based on the current political climate. Since then we have discovered the truth, but the divisions have held. Those who blamed them are far too proud to apologise, and besides, there is no way to make a public apology.
Ah yes, the source of the virus; the origin of our woes. As I've said, it wasn't terrorists. Was it then a terrible plot by a shady organisation bent on world domination? Don't be silly. An act of God? Perhaps, but based on my current belief system, I don't buy it. No, the Dutch was brought about by a group of scientists. Evil, insane scientists, I hear you ask? Not quite…
It was in a central London lab – the same, in fact, from where we stole our protective gear – that a group of researchers were conducting research into muscular dystrophy. While we rooted around, one of our party, a scientist herself in her former life, started looking through the research notes. Now as I said before, the hereditary form of muscular dystrophy has no cure, and apparently they had thought that maybe if they could treat a viral form, they'd be a step closer to curing the real thing. Obviously the first step in this was engineering a virus; no mean feat I'm told. We don't know the exact details of how it got out, but from examining the staff profiles (apparently they have to go through background and lifestyle checks to work in such hi-tech facilities), we discovered that one of them was a volunteer for a certain homeless charity. How they didn't succumb themselves we don't know either, but I figure that some people have immunities to other diseases, so why not this one?
So anyway, life goes on, and we wait for word from the outside world, but as of yet nothing. I guess they have to be sure that it's safe, and that the virus is gone before they send in relief or whatever. I just hope that it's sooner rather than later…