The information hovered above the desk as if projected onto thin air. ‘Catherine Eddowes’ was at the top above smaller writing in green. There was an image; he studied it carefully mouthing ‘Fourth victim, Mitre square, September 30th.’

Turning from the screen he said ‘open’ to the opposite wall. Instantly metal shutters began to retreat upwards into the ceiling, letting in light from the window behind. A block of yellow slowly crawled across the floor toward him and slid over his desk and his body before burning into his eyes. The sun was setting; darkness soon.

As details of timings, distances and coroners reports ran through his mind, he stood and walked over to the window. The city stretched out below him and continued as far as he could see. The red sky was reflected on the dark shiny water of the Thames. A long winding artery.

A ship passed his window, its anti-grav engine rattling the glass. It was a commercial transport and wasn’t supposed to fly so close to this skyscraper. He considered contacting the authorities then laughed at his stupidity. ‘Bad idea.’

The descending sun threw London into shadow; long dark columns were cast from the base of each tower, each spire and tall structure. He thought about the people living in the shadow of his building. It was already night-time for them.

Two hundred stories below him, lights began to blink on as the ex-capitol prepared for the darkness, for the end of the day. He had only just woken. Turning, he made for the kitchenette and spoke ‘coffee, usual’ to the counter. He waited for the machine to process his beverage.

‘Catherine Eddowes,’ he recited, ‘fourth victim, discovered 1.45am, September 30th, 1888, Mitre square. Last seen 1.35am, approximate time of murder: 1.40am. Mitre Square, Mitre square, Mitre…’  The machine announced his drink was ready. He sipped it straight away, ignoring the burn.

‘Map,’ he said to the wall beyond his desk. A current image of the British Isles came into being. ‘Temporal image; AD 1888.’ The image flickered and changed; the shape of the country altered, grew. Land reappeared that no longer existed. ‘Zoom, London, east, Mitre Square’. The black smudge that was London in the late 19th century immediately filled the floating screen. A red, slowly rotating circle highlighted an open courtyard surrounded by small brick buildings. A synthesised female voice declared: ‘Mitre Square, London, as of AD 1888.’ It looked alien to him.

He stepped closer to the image and studied it. ‘Add terrain; put me at street level. Immerse.’

The flat image warped and wrapped itself around his head, lowering the angel of view and adding detail to each building. As he turned his head, so the image responded, showing him what it was like to stand in Mitre Square in 1888. He recognised a doorway from an old photograph. ‘Zoom’. The feature came to him, focussed and clear. ‘That’s it. Exit.’

The image disappeared. He finished his coffee.

*****

The sun had gone, replaced by light from the city itself; far brighter, far more dangerous.

His phone rang; he ignored it.

Sitting at his desk once more, he entered the final computations. He used a touch-board, one from storage, still with a thick layer of dust in the corners. He couldn’t risk entering the data vocally in case one of his neighbours heard. His fingers ached; they weren’t used to typing.

As he pressed the final ‘execute’ command, the ceramic ring on the floor in front of the window began to vibrate gently. He quickly adjusted the volume controls knowing the computer was about to say: ‘Gateway activated. Drop zone acquired. Saint Botolph Street, London EC3A. Distance from target: 0.3 miles.’

He spun on his chair to face the blank wall. ‘Show on map.’ London returned, the London he knew. The map focussed, again with a red circle, on St. Botolph St. It still existed. Mitre square did not. ‘Overlay AD 1888 image.’ That strange place returned and lined up, as best it could, with the map of the present. As he had suspected, Mitre Square had been consumed beneath a giant tower. The map label designated the building as ‘Purpose Unknown’. That meant it was a Government building.

‘Time?’

‘Twenty-three forty-two hours.’

He should get going. He placed the energy cell into the circle on the floor and watched as the blue liquid within began to bubble and churn. He dressed: black trousers, white wing-collar shirt and bow tie, black frock coat and black leather shoes. He regretted not breaking the shoes in; if he had to run they might be uncomfortable. Finally he placed a black Top hat upon his head. Considering himself in a mirror, he removed it instantly. He fiddled with the hair on his upper lip; it had taken him a month to grow the moustache. He hadn’t left his apartment much during that time.

As he checked through the contents of a leather briefcase he had bought especially, the computer told him ‘The Energy Cell is primed’. He collected the small metal canister from the floor. As he placed it carefully in the case he could feel the power emanating from the liquid within.

He left. In the elevator one of his neighbours commented on his strange attire. ‘Fancy dress party’ he answered.

*****

The data-tablet told him he was standing in the right location. St. Botolph Street today was a bustling retail and entertainment sector. As he stood quietly on the pavement hundreds if not thousands of people passed him. Many ignored him, some smiled at his outfit; he smiled back. Through the glare of street lights, holographic adverts and the shroud of night-smog he could see the darkened Government building looming above him. He considered the distance to the building’s base.

The implant in his ear gently said ‘Prepare for transit’.

He tensed and shut his eyes, remembering that this always hurt. The cell in his briefcase burst open and he was engulfed in blue light. His ears popped. His eyes stung. His stomach rose. To the people all around him, he just faded into nothing. To him, he was torn, wrenched backwards and forced through an icy blizzard of sensation. Buffeted this way and that, he felt compressed and contorted.

It stopped. He opened his eyes.

St. Botolph was dark and quiet before him. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils; an odd scent. He flexed his fingers and put a hand to his forehead to soak up the sweat. Taking several deep breaths he ran over the speech in his mind; the one that grounds him, calms him, congratulates him.

The sound of vomiting stirred his body into motion. He turned to see a man leaning against a gas-powered lamp post, brown liquid issuing from his mouth. He looked about the street:  just as the computer had shown him; brick or timber buildings, no higher than three stories and a road of gravel. He found himself fascinated by the sight of a pile of animal faeces in the middle of the street; the smell brought back childhood memories of museums.

He whispered ‘Time?’ The implant answered ‘Zero-one Twenty-three hours’.

He started walking, noticing the gaping hole in the sky where the Government building was not.

*****

Mitre square was just that; a square of empty open land, fenced in by decrepit buildings on all sides. He stood in the shadowy shelter of a doorway, his body pressed against the wood. As predicted, it was a perfect place to conceal one’s self. Although he’d only been there a few minutes the cold had penetrated his period clothing. He’d never felt cold like this before and made a mental note about thermal underwear for his next trip.

A woman entered the square. She was clearly intoxicated and he was expecting that. He’d read the coroner’s report which detailed the events of that night; how the victim had been previously arrested for drunkenness. He knew it was her before the implant confirmed: ‘Alpha subject acquired. Facial match for Catherine Eddowes.’ He smiled at his own tenacity.

He watched the woman stagger along the far side of the Square and then stop. Something had caught her attention. A man appeared behind her. He wore a short black hat and carried a small leather bag. He called over to the woman. She approached him, placed a hand upon his chest and giggled. The implant said: ‘Beta subject acquired. Descriptive match for unknown assailant’. That was his cue.

Immerging from the shadows he walked calmly toward the couple. The woman saw him first and said ‘ello?’ He smiled at the cliché. The man in the hat then turned and frowned.

The Taser was already in his hand and charged. He fired, striking the unknown man in the chest. He fell. The woman gasped. He fired again, hitting her in the face. She fell.

Pocketing the stun-gun, he grabbed the woman’s wrists and dragged her to the spot he had identified earlier from the photographs; the place they found her.

‘Time?’

‘Zero-one thirty-seven.’

He had seven minutes before she was discovered by a Policeman walking his beat, and just five minutes until the man in the hat woke up. Plenty of time.

He set his leather case next to the woman, opened it and took out a six-inch steel blade. The first cut was deep and to her throat, this was the cause of death. Next were several smaller incisions to the eye lids and ear lobes. Then, after opening the woman’s petticoat and changing to another larger knife, he cut along the y-axis of her torso to reveal the internal organs. Fluids leaked and steam erupted as warm escaping gases conflicted with the cold night air. His attention focussed primarily on the intestines before moving to the genitals.

After four and a half minutes, the sleeping man stirred. He groaned and reached a hand to his brow. Time to go.

Satisfied with his work, he stood, placed the bloodied implements back in the leather case and shouted loudly, in an accent he had learnt from old films ‘Oh my goodness!’ knowing it would attract the attention of one PC Edward Watkins who will enter the Square via Dukes Place. He turned and walked off in the other direction.

As he made his way down Mitre Street and back toward the Drop zone he considered what the poor man in the hat made of all this; beaten to it every time. He also considered who’s M.O. he was now actually copying, but causality made his head spin so he gave up.

The End

Howard has worked as an actor, stand-up comedian, cinema usher and Roman history tour guide. His influences include H.P. Lovecraft, Ray Bradbury, Alan Campbell, the creepy cycle path near his house and the month of October. He writes science fiction, fantasy and slipstream. He lives at www.howardmosleychalk.com and welcomes you to visit. He has a wife and a baby daughter who likes to point at him.

16th September 1861
It is not regarded as common practice for officers to keep a detailed log of each journey. All that is generally required by the company – and all that they truly care about – are hard facts: cargo and the quantity of it, a headcount and register of the crew members, and a tally of any illnesses or deaths amongst them. Some Captains like to keep a personal diary as a memento of their nautical exploits; something to look back on when they are old and infirm. I do not. I have my memories to comfort me, and if my mind should ever falter, my career will be nothing but a mere irrelevance anyway. I have always remained true to that philosophy, however, on this occasion I have decided to make an exception. So far, the events of this voyage have been so…strange I feel that it is my duty to record them, just in case, God forbid, anything should happen to us all.

We set sail from India on the 26th of August. Our time in dock was enjoyable and relatively uneventful; none of the crew had been either injured or imprisoned – the latter was a genuine rarity! Of course, they indulged in all of the hedonistic pleasures that men crave after five hard months at sea, but thankfully I still had a full and healthy crew when it was time to depart. Our cargo (as usual) consists mainly of tea and various exotic spices. Although I have completed this run numerous times, I always find it to be a joy. The fragrant smell that spices produce is a welcome alternative to the stale, damp musk that has permeated the timber of the ship.

The first few days of our journey were as close to perfection as it gets. The weather was fine, the wind filled our sails, and the calm open sea glistened all around like a deep blue jewel (I have always thought it strange how being ‘imprisoned’ on a small vessel can induce a feeling of such utter freedom). We were making good time, and our progress was ahead of schedule. However, in spite of our high spirits and exceptional luck, I do not harbour complacency. I know that circumstances can change rapidly at sea. Unfortunately, (as happens so often) this proved to be the case. About two weeks after we set sail problems started to arise.

A large number of the crew started to become sick. Of the ninety eight men on board, about forty had fallen ill. Shepherd (a stout Scotsman and also the ship’s doctor) was mystified by the apparent outbreak and was unable to diagnose the cause. He checked the inflicted men and noted that all of them were suffering from identical symptoms; a swelling around the neck and shoulders, accompanied by a dangerously high temperature – which in turn had caused many of them to experience frequent convulsions.

Today – just one week later – the men that had first exhibited symptoms of the illness are in a mortally dire state. They scream constantly, complaining that their bodies burn with agony.

The worst of them have also been rendered immobile. Shepherd is fearful that they may have contracted a rare disease whilst we were in port. He suggested that we should quarantine the wretched souls in the hold to minimise the possible spread of contagion. His proposition filled me with trepidation. I contemplated the morality of imprisoning the unfortunates- would it not be more humane for the sick to endure their final hours in the freedom above deck, not imprisoned in the dark belly of the vessel like dangerous animals?  The decision placed a heavy burden on my conscience, but with the well-being of the remaining crew in mind (and ashamedly my own) I sanctioned the action. Shepherd stated that he would honour his duty and stay with the infected men in order to attend to them. Three other crew members; Lock, Skrivens, and Murphy also volunteered to assist him.

Just ten minutes ago, as the copper light sank in the horizon, the four men ventured below. I have to admit that I respect their bravery and integrity. It shames me, but I cannot say if I would have put myself forward should our roles have been reversed.

18th September

The infection that the crew are suffering from has not spread so far; perhaps the quarantine measures that I authorised have been effective? I converse with Shepherd on an hourly basis to ascertain how the situation is developing. He informs me that both he and his assistants exhibit none of the symptoms of the illness, though the infected sailors are in a dreadful way. He concluded that the majority of them may have only hours to live. I pray that they do perish soon, as their agonising screams relentlessly echo throughout the ship. Unsurprisingly, the morale of the crew is extremely low. First mate Barker and I are trying to remain positive in order to motivate the men, but we too are suffering from the impact of this tragic situation. I fear that we will have to dock at the first opportunity as we cannot risk being stranded should more of the crew fall ill. We have reached a point in our passage where it is illogical to turn back, our only option is to head for the Cape and pray that good fortune favours us.

19th September

The crew and I were woken in the dead of night by a blood-curdling scream. The cry was made even more striking by its urgency. It shared no similarity with the groaning of the sick (which itself had become almost perversely mundane), it was more…visceral; the sound of utter terror. I knew that it came from the hold. Barker and I gathered the remaining crew members out on deck. There was a cruel chill in the air that seemingly cut to the bone. The darkness was alleviated only by the cool blue light of the stars. Barker and I handed out a few lanterns. We selected ten sailors to act as a search party; their primary task was to investigate the source of the howl. They congregated around the entrance which led down to the cargo hold. One of the men slowly opened the weather-worn oak door and I shouted into the darkness, calling for Shepherd and his companions. There was no reply. I tried to rally the men but we all feared the worst. They cautiously descended the creaky staircase. I joined them at the rear of the party and Stanson (a brash young cockney hand) led the way. His lantern cut through the eerie gloom as we ventured further down into the depths of the ship. The hull groaned under the relentless pressure of the sea.

The pleasant aromas of cumin and coriander still hung in the air, but the prevailing smell was now far more macabre. It was foul, the smell of disease, of rot, of decomposition; it was the stench of death. Muffled groans emanated from the hold below. Stanson looked back at me but I ushered him forward. He reached the foot of the stairs and dubiously entered the chamber. As he glanced across the breadth of the cargo bay his face suddenly contorted into an expression of revulsion and horror. He dropped the lantern and frantically scrambled toward us, shouting for us to retreat back to the deck. The men were consumed by panic and began barging and clawing their way toward the starlit portal. None of us were aware of what Stanson had witnessed but the frenzy in his demeanour was enough to convince us to comply with his demands. Members at the rear of our party screamed for help but terror had defeated us. Inhuman noises sounded from the stairs as the last men jumped out onto the deck. We slammed the door shut and secured it. Frantic bangs came from the other side. They were delivered with such force that the hardwood frame shook and creaked from the impact.

Some of the men braced the door with their shoulders in an attempt to lessen the damage. It took about five minutes of physical exertion to repel the onslaught but eventually the banging ceased. When the mania had died down, Barker conducted a headcount. Only six of us had escaped. None of the survivors, including myself, had caught eye of what lurked below. The only witnesses had no doubt succumbed to a horrific fate in the depths of the ship.

I know now that we have to get off this ship. A malignant evil is among us. Unfortunately, we are at least a week away from reaching the Cape. I am unsure if we will be able to survive until then but we have no alternative. I plan to keep the hold sealed until we dock. We only carry a small selection of arms; twenty cutlasses and my hand pistol. Despite this I fear that we have little chance of defending ourselves should anything escape. God help us all.

20th September

We have no food and very little water. The merciless sun is unbearable. I am now aware that amidst the panic yesterday I made an error of judgement; our supplies are kept below. They are now entombed with…what, I am not sure. Maybe it is possible for us to endure a lack of food until we dock, but without drinking water (and in this sweltering heat) we cannot survive. There appears to be no sign of rain. Ungodly noises frequently reverberate from the decks below, seeping through every gap in the timber, like a plague-ridden fog. The crew are sure that the Devil is amongst us. Barker – who is usually a man of shrewd intellect and cast iron resolve – has become manically irrational. Just this morning he needed to be restrained from throwing himself into the ocean. He was adamant that the foam in our wake would cleanse him of all sin. Whether he was suffering from delusion created by a lack of fluid, or mental infirmity is uncertain. If only Shepherd were here to assist my good friend. Our only option is to continue on our current course and pray for mercy.

21st September

We are all becoming weak from dehydration. I regret that we must venture below deck once more and attempt to retrieve some supplies. Thankfully, Barker has regained some composure after his temporary breakdown. He is now determined that we should face our fate like men. Everyone is fearful but the crew and I concur with his statement. The arms have been distributed. It is time for action.

21st September

We have been over run, only I remain. I have barricaded myself within my cabin. I am unsure how long I can endure this but there is no hope of escape. It all happened so fast.

Barker and I had once again organised a party of men (the twenty who had been issued cutlasses) to venture below deck. The atmosphere was thick with dread as the men were aware that something lurked down there. Barker joined the party. I looked away and handed him my pistol. I felt consumed by guilt and embarrassment but I could not go down there (I am a sailor but I am no soldier). Barker dutifully accepted the weapon but his eyes seemed to unearth the emotions that I desperately tried to conceal.  I embraced my friend and wished him good luck as he descended into the dark abyss. The remaining crew and I waited in silence as their footsteps echoed from the staircase. For a minute all was quiet, only the creaking timbers of the ship disrupted the morbid tranquillity. Then suddenly, a scream, and instantaneously chaos erupted below us. The sound was surreal; like a living nightmare –guttural inhuman cries, agony, terror, shattering bone, tearing, ripping… Then frantic footsteps, clambering up the staircase.

The men and I prepared ourselves as four of our companions burst forth from the gloom. They were blood-splattered and covered with gore. Some of their clothing had been torn and hung from their bodies like flayed skin. I shared a brief glance with one of them (it was Robson- a towering, robust Welshman) his face had been consumed by insanity. He ran past me like a man possessed and hurled himself into the ocean. Two more of them followed him into the water. I ordered the men to secure the door. As they reached the portal I heard my pistol fire, and then Barker appeared in the doorway. The flesh of his right arm had been badly torn and bone protruded from just below his elbow. He looked me in the eye and opened his mouth as if to speak, but he was instantly pulled back into the darkness with savage ferocity. Rational thought escaped me and I turned and ran. I dared not look back as I reached my cabin and lurched thorough the entrance. I sealed it with haste and retreated to my desk. I could hear the men shouting. They had failed to lock the door in time and…it (they?) had broken free. A sailor banged on my door, screaming for me to let him enter but I dared not move. He fell silent.

The noise is unbearable. I cannot describe it but I know that no one is alive out there. I have set a new course to take us away from land. I pray that our ship remains undiscovered.

22nd September

The night was horrific. I could not snatch any sleep. At first it was constant, but then intermittently something would bang, or scrape at my chamber door. I am exhausted, and dehydrated. Maybe it would be easier to just open the door and succumb to my fate? No, I will not. I will remain here until my body gives in. I pray to God every hour but my calls are unanswered. Perhaps this is the work of the Devil as the men insisted? The ship is still set toward the open sea. My will is weak.

23rd September

My door shook viciously at dawn. It remained secure. I did not attempt to brace it. No strength remains. My head pounds….the banging, I hear it even when it ceases. I cannot write any longer. Vision is blurry. I….must…rest.

AN UNTOLD CHAPTER TO COMMEMORATE THE 60TH ANNIVERSARY

OF ‘THE ILLUSTRATED MAN’

FOR MY GREAT FRIEND AND MENTOR RAY BRADBURY

It was a hot summer day in the magical month of July. An endless time of fun and adventure all ten-year-old boys reveled in. Running, swimming, fishing and the best of all… fireworks, for it were the day before Independence Day.

With the combined earnings of many laborious Saturday afternoons mowing lawns, searching for treasured soda pop bottles turning them in for hard, cold cash and what little pittance I made from my paper route; I had a king’s ransom.

Ten dollars and twenty-seven cents.

I was rich beyond my wildest dreams!

With my best friend in tow; Snorky; a Boston Bull Terrier; the smartest, fastest dog on the block, off we ran down the street heading towards any adventure that awaited us.

Snorky and I came to a grinding halt, like the third gear shifting into reverse on my dad’s Edsel,  gazing, hypnotically in awe towards the landscape at the edge of the sidewalk surveying an enchanted land of wonderment.

There it was in all its glory my Shangri-La that would only appear once a year.

The fireworks stand!

It was packed with families looking for the best bang for their buck carrying away large assortments of bags and overflowing boxes filled with colorful pyrotechnics that would light up the nighttime sky. A night that seemed to last forever.

A sudden chill crept over me. If I didn’t hurry and make my purchases there would be nothing left!

There, lined up in order, were Smokey Joes, Glow Worms, Sparklers, Piccolo Pete’s, Gyroblooms and Wild Bats to start the night off ending with the grand finale of one’s choice; the Roaring Lion or the Holy Grail of fireworks; the Old Glory!

While moms and dads were walking away with large, spectacular assortments such as the “Blockbuster” and “Forty-Niner,” the excited children screamed in delight and I knew that my mere ten dollars and twenty-seven cents would not go far.

Then I discovered the sign that gave me hope; “BUY ONE, GET ONE FREE!”

I sighed with relief. I knew a bargain when I saw one so I rushed up to the booth eyeing my future treasure trove.

After careful consideration of the vast selections pressing over the issue of whether or not to buy an extra box of “Snakes” or the “Mini Volcano,” I presented my money to the burly man with the tattooed arms as thick as tree trunks behind the steel meshed counter as he handed me my cherished bounty in a brown paper bag including enough change that would allow me the luxury of an ice cold soda, two comic books and a 50/50 bar!

“Young man,” the big, burly tattooed man called out.

“Yes, Sir?” I answered.

“How’s the fishing ‘round these parts?”

“Should be some good fishing tomorrow, Sir. Every year they bite on the Fourth of July. You can count on that,” I proudly answered.

“Tomorrow’s my last day here. I have to move on. Find another job,” he replied. “Thought I’d try my luck before I do.”

I stared at the tattoos on his arms. For a moment, they seemed to move, but it could have been the light through the screen on the windows of the fireworks stand playing tricks on my eyes.

“Where’d you get them tattoos? We’re you in the navy?”

“No, son.”

“The circus?” I quizzically asked.

“I got them a long time ago from a witch woman in the future,” he answered. “’Sides, I don’t refer to them as ‘tattoos.’ They’re, ‘skin illustrations,’ young man.”

“Skin illustrations,” now that’s something you just didn’t hear everyday and that he got them from a witch woman in the future, well that just didn’t plain make any sense, but far from me to disrespect my elders and pry into this man’s business.

“But, don’t look too close,” the big, burly tattooed man said. “They come alive, tell people’s futures and sometimes they don’t like what they see.”

“Like what?” I said.

“Their destiny.”

I pondered the thought of what my future would be and was going to choose an image to stare at when he suddenly changed the subject.

“Need any punk?”

I was told that punk was always good for lighting fireworks, but I never had any luck with it.

“Thank you anyway, but I have a box of matches. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow. It was a pleasure taking with you, Sir,” I said as Snorky and I ran down the street with my hard earned swag in hand.

The big, burly tattooed man smiled to himself as he watched me leave.

I had walked away with an assortment of fireworks that would last me all night.

It was an end to a perfect day.

The next morning Snorky and I got up bright and early. It was going to be a good day for fishing. With my pole slung over my shoulder, and a hunk of cheddar cheese from my mother’s refrigerator, Snorky and I ran down to my favorite spot on the lake on the old wooden dock.

I brought the cheese for two reasons. One; I always had great luck in catching fish using cheese as bait and two; in case Snorky got a little hungry. I could never understand why fish and dogs were attracted to cheese, but I imagined it was one of those mysterious secrets the universe kept to itself.

There we saw the big, burly tattooed man walking towards us holding a bucket of worms marked BAIT and another filled with fish. He had taken off his shirt, perhaps to enjoy some of the morning sun and there I beheld a most incredible sight. The big, burly man was covered with an assortment of exotic tattoos on his chest and back.

“You were right, young man. The fishing is good here,” he said.

“But, where’s your pole?” I asked.

“It was no different from yours; a bamboo reed with a string and a paperclip for a hook. When I finished with it, I gave everything back to nature.”

I looked at the large amount of fish he caught in his bucket. “And you caught all those fish with just a paperclip hook?”

“It was the bait. It’s special. Try it. It brought me luck, so now it’s your turn.”

“Thanks, Mister,” I said as I took a worm from his bucket and placed it on my hook, casting it into the water.

“We’re going to get a lot of fish today,” I said to Snorky who was busy looking across the lake at the other fishermen trying their skill.

“Say, mister, can I stare at one of your tat…,” I caught myself in mid-sentence and quickly corrected myself not to offend the big, burly tattooed man, “…skin illustrations to see my destiny?” I asked.

He looked down at me and smiled, “No, they’re not for you. You haven’t lived life yet and your destiny is still changing. But, because you were kind to me, as very few people are, I have something special I want to give you.”

He reached into his hip pocket and produced a small book.

“I give this gift to you because it has a special power to only those who can see it. I believe you are worthy of that power. But, you must not open it until your day is done and you can focus on its contents. Then, and only then, will you see the power you hold in your hands. You’ll be able to choose your own destiny without having to see it though my skin illustrations.”

I took the book from him and placed it next to me on the wooden dock.

“Thanks, mister! I’ll read it tonight,” I said.

He smiled at me and said, “live forever,” as he turned and disappeared into the woods.

I never saw him again.

That night, after the bar-b-que, fireworks and festivities died down, I went to my bedroom and prepared for a good night’s rest. Snorky was fast asleep on the floor at the foot of my bed content with his juicy steak bones from Mr. Tindall’s butcher shop dreaming his own dreams only a dog could imagine.

I opened the book the big, burly tattooed man had given me as he instructed and when I did, a bright light shone from it into my eyes. I quickly closed it, then slowly opened it once more thinking that perhaps I had looked at too many fireworks in the sky letting my imagination run away in my mind with spots before my eyes.

The bright light was there again emitting from the book’s pages as I began to read it.

It was a book that was written by a magician that took me to faraway worlds that would be or could be a thousand pasts ago or a thousand futures from now filled with spectacular wonders ranging from dinosaurs to rocket ships.

I was hooked. I could not stop reading and I didn’t even need my trusty flashlight that I used to read my comic books under my blankets at night the light was so bright the book emitted. I read it from cover to cover that night.

I read in awe and wonderment. I could feel a change in me. The big, burly tattooed man was right.

I had been given a gift by the Illustrated Man… the Bradbury Ray and I haven’t stopped reading the author’s works since.

Considering that nothing which had happened that day had so far come anywhere near to even approaching making sense, this latest development seemed quite at home in what had quickly become the natural order of things. We were, putting it simply, trapped. Behind us lay the smoking, smouldering remains of Rambo’s grenade attack and the road was blocked off by an avalanche of glass, stone and bits of concrete. In front of us, barring our way back to wherever Rambo had left his transport, were the wraiths – nine unreal ghostly figures drifting unhurriedly towards us.

Rambo started to scan our surroundings, eyes darting back and forth, up and down, searching from some alternative escape route. His eyes fell upon my crippled car, still crumpled where I had left it, just a few feet away from the barricade of rubble. ‘That’s your motor?’ he said.

 

I nodded dumbly, reluctant to tear my eyes away from the apparitions in the road ahead. They weren’t moving with any sense of urgency; it was as if they knew they had us boxed-in and that they didn’t have to work up much of an ethereal sweat.

 

‘Is it fucked?’ demanded Rambo, edging backwards in the direction of my car, his rifle raised and pointed menacingly – if, ultimately, rather pointlessly – at the wraiths.

 

‘The car?’ I responded absently. ‘I ran into the benches and bins. I think I buggered the radiator…’

 

‘It’ll have to do. Come on.’ Rambo turned and bolted towards the car. I thought I’d better do likewise even though I wasn’t keen on turning my back on the wraiths.  By the time I reached the car Rambo was already in the passenger seat, using the butt of his rifle to take out the shattered windscreen. I slid into the driver’s seat and, force of habit, fumbled with the seat belt.

 

Rambo stared at me wide-eyed. ‘You have got to be  joking, man,’ he said. ‘Get this crate moving, for Christ’s sake.’ He swivelled in his seat, hefting his rifle into a firing position.

 

I gazed at the dashboard. The keys were still swinging in the ignition column. For a moment the dashboard looked like the flight deck of some alien interplanetary cruiser and I had no idea what to do to get this crate moving. ‘Start the bloody thing, man,’ growled Rambo, squinting into the rifle-sight as he trained it on the line of wraiths as they moved closer.

 

‘All right, all right,’ I said. I started the bloody thing. To my surprise, the bloody thing started. It wasn’t exactly a showroom-perfect ignition; there was some coughing and spluttering from under the dented bonnet and something somewhere was rattling.  Steam began to hiss out from the radiator grille. But we had power which was just as well because as I pushed the gearstick into reverse I glanced into the rear mirror and saw that the first of the wraiths was just a few paces away.

 

The car heaved, jolted backwards, disentangling itself from the mangled bench as I let out the clutch as quickly as I could. Rambo and I were both thrown back into our seats as, with a protesting screech, the car shot back into the road with a squeal of tyres which wouldn’t have disgraced an episode of ‘Starsky and Hutch.’ I spun the steering wheel, turning the car so it was facing the wraiths. I slammed into first gear, quickly down into second and the car juddered forward. For one awful second I thought the engine was going to die but I pumped the clutch and the car found its second wind and accelerated. Several of the wraiths had fanned out as if to block our path and I instinctively swerved to avoid them. I heard Rambo swearing again as he reached out, grabbed the wheel and wrenched it back in the opposite direction. The car lurched like a dodgem and headed straight towards the nearest trio of wraiths.

 

‘What are you doing?’ I shouted. Suddenly the wraiths were right in front of us and then the car just seemed to run right through them. I heard the oddest sound – a gasp, a sigh, like air being expelled from a balloon. The wraiths seemed to dissipate like an early morning fog,  white vapour surrounding us for just a second and I’m sure I felt some of it, cold and clammy, like the touch of death itself, against my exposed skin. Then it was gone and we were through, the car swerving across the road as Rambo released the wheel and I realised that someone really ought to be steering.

 

But then more wraiths came into my line of vision. One or two of them seemed to move away, others were caught glancing ‘blows’ and I saw them drift apart like mist. I didn’t really want to look back to see what happened to them afterwards, to see if they somehow reconstituted themselves or if they just faded away. At that moment I still had no idea what they were or where they were from and I just wanted to get away from this as quickly as I could.

 

The car was careering wildly across the road by now. Rambo shouted out a warning but I was too distracted by my fear and I hit a big refuse bin and sent it spinning through the air like a skittle. ‘Turn the bloody wheel, turn the wheel!’ shouted Rambo. I turned the wheel furiously but the car seemed to be spinning in a circle, the engine screaming its displeasure, the smell of burning rubber rising up through the gaping windscreen. Rambo had turned back again and he had raised his rifle. He started letting off round after round, taking out the rear windscreen, and he was yelling and whooping like some over-excited schoolboy playing a computer game.

 

Rambo twisted back in his seat. ‘Waste of bullets but it’s good to see the bastards blowing apart,’ he said gleefully.

 

‘Yes, but what’s the point? They just… come back,’ I shouted above the clamour of the engine. Now they were ranged out in front of us – the same wraiths or different ones, who could tell? Another line of them had appeared in front of us. I spotted a gap in their defence wall and, without a world to the wild-eyed Rambo, shot through it, taking the car out of the confines of the main street and onto a side road leading towards the civic centre.

 

We seemed to be in the clear. I slowed the car down. In reality, the car slowed itself down. She was struggling and I could tell there wasn’t much poke left under the bonnet. There were more clattering, rattling noises and the smell of petrol was starting to make my eyes water. ‘I think we’re done,’ I said, my foot jabbing at the loose clutch pedal. The car trundled to a standstill, hissing and steaming. Rambo glanced behind us.

 

‘Can’t see any more of ‘em,’ he said. ‘We need to find my transport.’

 

‘Where is it?’ I said.  He jerked a thumb back in the general direction we’d just come from. ‘Access road off High Street,’ he said. He stroked the barrel in his rifle in a fashion which some might have called affectionate. ‘I liberated this baby and a few others bits and pieces from a gun store. The jeep’s full of this shit.’

 

‘So how do we get to it?’ I said, noticing that the slightest edge of girly hysteria was creeping into my voice which had risen by about an octave. ‘Because I am not going back that way, thanks very much.’

 

Rambo shrugged as if he didn’t really give a shit what I was going to do. ‘Suit yourself, sunshine,’ he said. ‘My cargo’s bloody precious to me and I’m not leaving it where it is.’ He started to heave himself out of the car. Alarmed, I reached out and grabbed his arm. He glanced down at my hand and I quickly drew it away. ‘Look, there’s no need for you to wander off on your own,’ I said, as calmly as I could manage. ‘And you don’t need to go back there, either. Not yet.’

 

‘What do you suggest, hero?’ he said. He was out of the car now and I had no choice but to get out too and conduct my conversation with him across the roof.

 

‘Wait until things cool down a bit,’ I said, floundering a bit. ‘We were lucky to get away with our lives back there. If we go to ground for a while maybe those things will just… you know, lose interest and wander off. We can sneak back and pick up your jeep later.’

 

Rambo’s eyes flared and he gripped his rifle more tightly than he needed to. ‘I’m not big with the sneaking around shit,’ he growled. But then he seemed to mellow a bit, as if he was considering the idea. ‘But maybe you got a point. Maybe we should take five and cool it.’ He looked around and his face broke into a disturbingly broad, toothy grin. ‘Fancy a pie and a pint?’ He saw my puzzled expression and nodded at something he’d spotted just behind me. I turned and, despite my utter bewilderment at the impossible situation I’d found myself in, couldn’t help smiling as I saw the little brown stone building set back just off the road alongside us, nestled at the very edge of the concrete sprawl of the business heart of the city. It was ‘The Half-Moon’, very probably a trendy drinking hole for the city’s lesser movers and shakers, the place where they all trotted off for their power-lunches and post-work martinis. A board advertising the pub’s name – a colourful depiction of a grinning, winking crescent moon – swung in the slight breeze. But, of course, the doors were shut and the place was dark.

 

I realised how hungry and thirsty I was, my throat caked with dust and grime. ‘I could murder a lager,’ I said, thinking of pub lunches washed down in the past.

 

Rambo couldn’t resist a sneer. ‘Lager? Poof.’ Then he swung his rifle over his shoulder. ‘My round, I think.’ He strode towards the doors of the pub and I set off after him. He wasn’t exactly my companion-of-choice in a situation like this but the only other option was being back on my own and at that moment that was a prospect I just couldn’t face again.

 

Once we gained access to the pub by the simple expedient of Rambo smashing a side window and reaching in and throwing open the bolts on the door, I found myself in one of those rather pretentious, unconvincing modern bars full of plush seats, cosy alcoves and uncomfortable circular pedestal tables. Big TV screens were set into the walls and there was a bank of fruit machines and a small dining area set off to one side. The bar was an oval affair against the far wall, two doors leading into the kitchen and, presumably, storage rooms. Nothing special, nothing exceptional – but that day of all days it was the place to be, a free house in the most literal sense, the finest pub I’d ever parked my carcass in.

 

Rambo wasted no time in opening one of the fridges and dispensing a handful of bottles of beer, still chilled despite the fact that the fridge itself had  stopped working a few hours earlier. It was as quiet in the grave inside the pub and for the first time that day the silence didn’t really bother me. Rambo and I sank the first two beers in contemplative silence, a selection and crisps and nuts strewn across the table to provide sustenance. We just sat there, at a table facing the main door – just in case.

 

As we started on our third beer the silence suddenly felt uncomfortable. I’d know this bloke for…what, half-an-hour?…and we’d already been through some pretty weird stuff together. Sitting there like strangers seemed a bit odd and I decided it was time we took advantage of this unexpected downtime and filled in a few blanks. After all, I didn’t even know his name and I was hardly going to call him Rambo to his face. Before I could think of a way to start up a reasonable dialogue between us, Rambo swigged back his beer, wiped his mouth with his hand then let out a spectacular belch. ‘Wonder if there’s anything decent on the jukebox?’ he said as he nodded towards the machine bolted to a supporting pillar in the middle of the pub. He took the top off his fourth bottle of beer. With his teeth.

 

‘I doubt it,’ I said, scooping up a handful of salt peanuts. ‘Decent music finished about 1988, didn’t it?’

 

‘You’re forgetting Metallica,’ he said, matter-of-fact.

 

‘Oh how I’ve tried,’ I said. I smiled as I said it but he looked at me as if I’d just suggested a quick grope to pass the time. I shuffled in my seat and made a mental note to never ask him about his favourite films. ‘So what’s the story then?’ I said. ‘You. Who are you? Where are you from?’

 

Rambo was guzzling again. When he finished he eyed me contemptuously. ‘I don’t do autobiographies,’ he growled.

 

Frankly his relentless macho posturing was starting to get a bit tedious. ‘I don’t think yours would sell too well at the moment,’ I said, as dismissively as I could manage. ‘You can play the mean’n’moody type as long as you like, mate, that’s fine by me. But whatever the Hell is going on around here is pretty fucked-up. You’re practically the only person I’ve seen all day and I just thought it might help us both if we compare experiences, stories, whatever you want to call them. But if you’d rather stay strong and silent…’

 

Rambo put his bottle down on the table with enough force to set the assembled savouries dancing. ‘I’m not one for much talking,’ he said. ‘I’d rather get things done.’ He eyed me curiously and then I’m sure I spotted the hint of a smile on his pock-marked face again. ’But I suppose all this has been a bit of a shock for you, yeah?’

 

‘And this is the sort of thing you take in your stride, I suppose?’ I said. ‘All in a day’s work?’

 

His eyes were suddenly sparkling, his face strangely animated. ‘I was born for this, mate. This is my time.’

 

‘What’s that supposed to mean?  How can you – or anyone – be born for this madness? What about all the people who’ve vanished?’ Lis’s smiling face flashed into my mind. ‘Don’t they mean anything to you?’

 

Rambo grunted. ‘They meant fuck all to me when they were here so why should I give a damn now?’

 

It was a cold, dispassionate reply but it didn’t really surprise me. But it wasn’t a response I could leave unchallenged and it seemed like the perfect opportunity for me to get him to open up a bit, as much as he might have preferred to remain a closed book. Maybe we could start to understand each other as human beings, rather than just survivors. Maybe we could even appreciate one another as people. But we’d never become friends. I leaned forward. ‘You sound like a bitter man,’ I said. ‘I can’t believe you’re really glad that all those people are… gone or whatever the hell has happened to them. Not really. So what’s the score? How come you’re here, now, with me, after all this?’

 

‘I don’t do bedtime stories either,’ he grunted. Yet I could tell he really wanted to talk; there seemed to be things he needed to say.

 

‘Then I’ll get the ball rolling,’ I said. He rolled his eyes and feigned a yawn. ‘You don’t have to listen but I’d like to talk.’

 

So I told him about me. Just a bit about me and my life and Lis and my job and… well, when he started to looked genuinely bored I brought things up to date and recounted my experiences since I’d woken up that morning. When I finished I sat back and took a long gulp of beer. Rambo was looking at me as if he thought I was a complete waste of space – and maybe he was right. After a moment or two he sat back, muscley arms folded across his chest, and looked as if he was struggling to find the words. I suspected he wasn’t a natural orator.

 

His story came out in stops and starts, punctuated by increasingly-imaginative profanities. But I managed to piece it all together and we got there in the end. Of course he had a real name – but when he told me what it was I was inclined to stick with ‘Rambo’.  His birth name, he seemed embarrassed to admit, was Blake Villiers (pronounced Villas) and, despite the fact that he sounded as if he’d sprung out of some cheesy daytime US soap opera, he was about as twenty-first Century British as you could get. Blake was a car mechanic by trade, living alone in a small bedsit in the student quarter. Although he had a casual girlfriend whose overnight fate he seemed entirely indifferent about, he didn’t seem to have an enormous circle of close friends. His family were from Hampshire but he was otherwise noticeably evasive about his background and his upbringing but I got the distinct impression that his family was quite well off and that he didn’t really approve of their wealth. Maybe he’d fallen out with them at an early age, maybe they’d disowned him. I’ve never found out and I suppose it doesn’t really matter all that much.

 

It was only when Rambo… sorry, Blake… started talking about his military career that he became really animated and it was clear that he felt that his life hadn’t really started until he joined the Army. It was obviously a source of great frustration to him that he’d had to accept a medical discharge after only three months’ basic training on account of an asthma condition he hadn’t thought to disclose when he joined up. So he moved away from home at nineteen and had been making his way in the world ever since. Unfortunately, he hadn’t really got very far and, perhaps even more unfortunately, he didn’t seem all that bothered about it. By the time he was twenty-one the asthma was more or less under control and he’d applied to join his local Territorial Army unit, the 19th Battalion of the Parachute Regiment. The TA became his life to the exclusion of virtually everything – and everyone – else. He never missed weekly drill nights and he was always available for weekend training.

 

Nine years rolled by and Blake became a highly-proficient infantryman. He took a self-confessed fanatical interest in weapons skills and personal fitness and his loyalty was rewarded by promotion to the rank of Corporal. In addition he’d been allowed to enrol in more special courses such as unarmed combat, sniper skills and explosives. He was, he told me, a force to be reckoned with in any crisis situation.

 

‘Corporal Villiers, Number 2476 3451, 4 Platoon, Company, 19th Battalion (V), Parachute Regiment,’ he said almost wistfully, leaning back in his chair and staring into the middle distance, gazing back through time into his own glorious past.

 

Having dispensed with all he felt prepared to reveal about his background – ‘That’s done and dusted now, so who gives a rat’s ass, eh?’ – he went on to tell me his own experiences of the night before, the night it all started (or the night it all ended, depending on your own perspective). This was the first time I actually heard about the phenomenon people have come to call the shudder. Now I was blissfully unaware of it because, as you may recall, I was a bit the worse for wear at the time, wrapped up in my cocoon of alcohol. Blake had been up half the night watching war DVDs (I kid you not) and studying what sounded like an unhealthy collection of  military memorabilia. Blake reckoned it happened around three-thirty in the morning. He remembers laying on his bed when he felt a strange sensation. He couldn’t describe it properly but then no-one I’ve met ever has. It was, he said, a kind of ripple, a  quiver a bit like the physical effect of an earthquake, a sort of displacement. He remembers his vision blurring, a wave of nausea and, interestingly, the strangest feeling of sliding, like being on a fairground big dipper suddenly plunging out of control. The light flickered, the TV picture rolled… and then the moment was gone.

 

The lights went out completely and the TV died a few minutes later but Blake didn’t read too much into it. He decided to get some sleep and was roused by his alarm clock at around six-thirty whereupon he embarked upon the rigorous fitness regime he set himself every day before he set foot outside the flat. It was probably very similar to my own routine but with less tea, toast and sitting down coughing. Venturing outside after his found of sits-ups, press-ups and assorted other-ups he discovered that the world he’d closed the door on the night before had been replaced by  a very different one in the morning.

 

His own first encounter with the wraiths came a little later in the morning as he wandered around deserted streets crammed with slightly-seedy Victorian two-storeys and tatty maisonettes. Two ‘fucking lunatics in white sheets’ (his words, not mine) rushed at him from a basement flat. His first instinct was to laugh at them until he realised they weren’t drunks or tramps or refugees from some unimaginative fancy dress party. They lunged at him and he felt them on him, pouring themselves over his body and he gave me a somewhat hair-raising description of a biting cold sensation which chilled him to the bone and an uncomfortable out-of-body experience as if he was being forcibly ejected from his own person. He managed to rouse himself and shake the wraiths off him – out of him? – by running into an alleyway and scaling the fence of some factory or other.

 

Pausing for breath in the factory’s secure compound Blake realised that his beloved TA centre wasn’t far away. Quickly surmising that the balloon had gone up overnight and that something pretty cataclysmic had happened, he decided to make for his second home where he expected to receive emergency instructions.

 

‘Chemical weapons,’ he said at that point in his narrative. He took a slug from his sixth or seventh beer. He was starting to slur. ‘Gotta be. Bloody Middle East, see. We always knew this was on the cards. Ragheads. We never knew what shit they had and now it’s hit the fan.’ He gave a mirthless laugh and reached for another bottle.

 

‘What sort of chemical weapons could do all this?’ I reasoned, gesturing around the bar which was starting to darken in the encroaching evening gloom outside. ‘Chemical weapons which make people disappear? Chemical weapons which create…’ I struggled to find a word to adequately describe the ghastly things we’d seen outside and decided to opt for the sort of terminology Blake might appreciate, ‘…those fuckers out there?’ I shook my head slowly. ‘I just don’t see it.’

 

Blake gave another indifferent shrug. ‘Fuck you then,’ he said. ‘You give me a better explanation, I’ll give you the time of day.’

 

‘Fair enough,’ I said. He had a point, sharp as it was. And at least he had a theory. I was still confused and, if I’m honest, shit-scared despite the reassuring sense of calm engendered by the warm alcohol coursing through my veins. I didn’t really have a clue what had happened or why but this shudder Blake had spoken of surprisingly vividly was setting off raucous alarm bells in the back of my mind. I didn’t know why and I certainly didn’t know what it all meant but surely this was the key to what had happened to my world? Blake’s eyelids were drooping and I gently urged him to carry on with his story before he slid off the chair he was already slouching in.

 

Blake admitted, in his own way, that when he arrived at the TA Centre and found the place empty and unmanned he was absolutely flabbergasted – or ‘fucking buggered’ as he rather more indelicately put it. The barracks were empty, the mess and squad rooms vacant, jeeps and land rovers parked up around the parade ground. But he didn’t catch sight of a living, breathing human being. He quickly broke into the armoury, loaded up a jeep with some rifles, grenades and flashbangs (later picking up some hand weapons and ammo in a gun shop in town I didn’t even know existed) and drove out of the TA Centre without bothering to raise the security pole. ‘I’ve always wanted to do that,’ he said with a self-satisfied grunt. He spent the morning cruising the outskirts, bumping into wraiths here and there and avoiding them as much as he could until he could work out  a way of ‘taking them out’ – which, on the evidence I’d seen, seemed to consist of dropping the fronts of buildings on them and then hoping they’d go away. When pressed, Blake was quite adamant though; ‘They’re fucking ghosts, man. Ghosts.’ I wasn’t too minded to enquire where this conclusion fitted into his chemical weapons theory.

 

Our stories more or less dovetailed at this point as he explained how he was just making his way back to his jeep from another foraging expedition in the city centre when he’d heard the commotion which had brought me to Dave’s side.  At the end of his oration we both fell into a sullen silence. He may well have been pissed and away with the fairies by now – certainly he’d become less lucid towards the end of his tale – whereas I was quietly contemplating what he’d told me and the fact that much of his story mirrored my own experiences. He’d been through the same disorientation process as me only with more guns and violence. But basically it boiled down to the fact that we’d both woken up to a world gone mad, a world turned upside-down and inside-out, a world now over-run by… well, something unnatural. Something… supernatural? I’d casually coined the term wraiths whereas Blake preferred to call them ghosts – which in a way maybe amounted to much the same thing. But unlike Blake I couldn’t really see these things as supernatural beings, spirits roaming the Earth from the Beyond. My sense of the rational wanted something more logical, something that just made sense. But then I reasoned that there was no rational because nothing made sense any more. So I just tried to piece it all together from what I already knew but what I didn’t know just left me more frustrated than ever.

 

It hit me like a sudden rush of cold water. Could it really be true? Was this really how it was all over the world? My mind flashed back to that morning; the dead television, the radio crackling with static, the silence.

Jesus Christ, I found myself thinking. It’s true. This is happening all over the world – right now. It must be! This is it, this is really, really it. It’s the end of the world.

The end of the world.

 

THE SHUDDER continues in the next issue of Starburst Magazine.

 

Keep it pacey, get to the good stuff. Don’t fret – I’ve no intention of boring you with a detailed account of my drive around Shackleton Close and co that mental morning. Let’s just say it was a Godawful, life-sapping experience and probably even would have been even if everyone in the world didn’t seem to have disappeared in a puff of stuff. I appreciated for the first time how depressingly identikit those red-brick modern estates were, Shackleton Close photocopied over and over again with near-identical people living near-identical lives behind near-identical closed doors. Deserted and desolate they looked even worse, these cheerless charmless mausoleums. All I took from the drive was the realisation that whatever bizarre catastrophe had  overwhelmed my safe little homestead had obviously done for the whole area too.

So I set off for the city. I threaded my way out of the estate and into one of the more picturesque parts of the outskirts; huge Victorian hotels rubbing shoulders with incongruous glass-fronted out-of-town office blocks and anonymous official-looking buildings which didn’t seem to see the urgency in advertising their purpose to passers-by. I was driving down St Willows Road where most of these uneasy architectural bedfellows jostled for attention. Despite the fresh-faced new boys on the block, there was a timelessness about most of the old  buildings lining St Willows. Some of the hotels had been there for a hundred years or more, many of the occupants probably half as long again. Even though, as I drove past the Bernice Hotel with its narrow gravel drive and ornately-colonnaded entrance I could see no sign of animal, vegetable or mineral life, I felt my spirits lift. It was as if the faceless new estates deserved to have some strange disaster visited upon them; it seemed almost inevitable, in fact. But St Willows Road seemed to be indestructible; it was the gateway to the city itself – another great urban sprawl of aesthetically-confused new developments flung together in the names of commerce and progress – and it seemed to lay down some unacknowledged barrier between the real world and the plastic, apparently-temporary world I’d become used to living in without even realising it.

For some inexplicable reason I found myself in somewhat cheerier spirits as I turned off St Willows Road and onto the road bridge which arched over the muddy waters of the river which sliced through the city. I could already see the grey towers of the so-called commercial quarter of the city itself – in reality an angry square of rather characterless tower blocks with identical frontages. Just beyond, for it wasn’t a big city by early twenty-first century standards despite its affectations, were the fussy shopping precincts, a few open streets through which traffic usually sluggishly trundled, the inevitable covered malls, a handful of gruesome multi-storey car parks crow-barred in here and there for good measure. It was hard to ignore the fact that, although there were some cars and vans at the kerbs, I was alone on the road and nothing else was moving. Furthermore, there were no pedestrians on the streets; not a soul in sight.

A few minutes later I was pulling up alongside a long line of bus stops outside a row of granite-brick department stores. It was starting to rain, a fine drizzle, and I turned on the windscreen wipers and watched as the water smeared across the glass. I waited for a moment or two, listening to the purr of the engine, reluctant to turn off the ignition for fear of being swallowed up by that bloody silence again.

I felt a familiar shivery trepidation as I sat alone in the car, surrounded on all sides by tall and forbidding buildings. They were mostly three or four storey affairs, probably dating back to the early 1900s although I’m hardly an expert in these things. You may have been to one of the cities and you may have seen the sort of place; gawping display windows and fussy, angular nooks and crannies. Nowadays, of course, the buildings are starting to crumble and they’re covered with a film of moss and lichen so the grand effect isn’t what it was. Even then, thinking back, buildings like these were coated with filth and grime, our gift to them for surviving into the machine age.

Big, wide display windows were festooned with garish coloured banners advertising sales bargains and price-slashing extravaganzas; in one or two of the larger windows mannequins togged up in the latest unlikely fashion accessories had been contorted into awkward and self-conscious poses as their sightless eyes looked out onto streets as lifeless as they were themselves.

It’s hard to explain the novelty of seeing a normally-bustling city centre totally deserted. Early-morning street cleaners and crack-of-dawn commuters might have found little out of the ordinary; but to me, the cold empty streets looked alien and uncomfortable. There really was no sign of life; not a car, not a bus, not even a damned  skateboard.

In time – and time was already beginning to lose its meaning for me – I turned off the engine and decided that squatting in the car feeling apprehensive wasn’t doing my spirits any good and certainly wasn’t getting me close to any answers. Trembling, afraid of the silence which seemed to have rushed at me like a well-built rugby player, I opened the car door and stepped out onto the street. Sheer force of habit caused me to turn and lock the door with my automatic key fob.

The ‘beep’ of the fob and the sharp ‘clack’ of the doors locking reverberated together around the barren streets, bouncing off the high walls and ricocheting back at me. Then there was just silence again and I stood for a while gazing along the main street.

I really wish I could remember exactly how I felt at the time; I mean, exactly what was racing through my mind, what I was thinking as I stood there alone, my jacket pulled up against the breeze, staring up and down the road like a man who’s just missed the last bus in the world. But I just can’t remember and truth is that there are plenty of occasions over the last few years where, whilst I can recall the mechanics of what I was doing and how and why I had come to do it, I just cannot recall the emotion of it. Others I’ve spoken to  have said much the same; it’s as if those of us who lived through the shudder unconsciously taught ourselves how to set aside our own feelings and just got on with the business of moving on. I think we probably became so inured to the horror of it all that we couldn’t really stop to think about what we’d had and what we’d lost. I believe that if we did, if we sat and remembered and allowed ourselves to grieve for the world, we’d probably all go barking mad.

Sorry. Bit of a digression there – but I happen to think it was a worthwhile one. If this chronicle of mine is going to be of any worth to what’s left of Mankind I really think it’s got to be a bit emotive, don’t you agree? You need to get to know the real me, otherwise you might just as well read some fanciful work of fiction and what would be the point of that?

So there I was, standing at the side of the car wondering just what to do next. As it happened, the decision was largely taken for me by a sudden sound from somewhere not too far away. It wasn’t a very encouraging sound, in all honesty, but at the time it was music to my ears. I could have jumped for joy and I can’t say for certain that I didn’t.

The sound?

Well, it was more a series of sounds. From about a quarter of a mile away, somewhere in the city centre I estimated, came the throaty roar of a motor bike engine. This was suddenly cut off, replaced by a loud crash and then, a split second later, by the unmistakable cacophony of a lot of shattering glass.

Then the bloody silence was back and I think it was even louder this time.  I’d had enough of it by now so I gathered up my courage (after I’d managed to locate it hiding in the vicinity of my bladder) and set off at a brisk, cautious trot along the high street, trying to ignore the gaudy shop fronts with their reminders of the day before. It was only when I turned a gentle curve in the road that I saw what I later realised was my very first wraith, or at least the remains of one.

I stopped in my tracks. It was more a sensation that something was there, loitering at the edge of the kerb,  rather than an actual sighting of something substantial. You see, it wasn’t a body or a shape or even an essence; it was a sort of hazy, indistinct fog, a gauzey haze hanging in the air and for just a moment or two when I saw it it looked as if it was vaguely man-shaped. Then it seemed to dissipate and disperse like a wilful unwanted  cloud on a  bright and sunny day. I suppose it was gone before I’d even really registered it as anything particularly out of the ordinary.

I just stood and gazed at this peculiar apparition – this shifting, shimmering, nebulous thing – until my attention was caught by a groaning sound from somewhere very nearby.  I saw for the first time that the huge display window of the adjacent electrical retailers store had been totally demolished. There were jagged splinters of glass all over the pavement and the  window displays themselves – laptop computers, mobile phones, DVD players – had been thrown everywhichway by the big motorbike which was laying just inside the window, steam hissing from its fractured radiator. There came another groan. I crept closer and could just make out a figure, clad in leather (but wearing no helmet, I noticed) pinned underneath the buckled chrome of the bike.

‘Shit,’ I muttered. I looked back towards the strange white fog and could see that it had almost completely faded away, just a few wisps of vapour dancing on a breeze. More pained groans drifted out of the shop. Looking up at the ugly shards of glass protruding from the window frame, I began to clamber over the debris. I circled the bike, stood on a fractured display of mobile phones, and made my way around to the biker’s head.

I didn’t know what the Hell to do. He was still groaning and moaning and I didn’t know if he even realised I was there. I couldn’t see any blood but of course that didn’t mean a thing. He could have been hemorrhaging to death for all I knew. God knows what bones may have been broken. I crouched down, reached out and touched his shoulder. He groaned again but at least he managed to turn his head towards me. He stared blankly at me for a moment. He was a whiskerless ruddy-faced lad of about twenty-three (although he looked about eight) with a mop of messy ginger hair and a bloody nose. His eyes looked cloudy and he squinted up at me as if he was trying to focus. Then a look of terror swept across his face and he tried to move, wriggling away from me but barely moving due to the weight of the bike spread-eagled across him. He winced in pain from the effort. I put a hand to his shoulder.

‘Take it easy,’ I said. ‘You’re making it worse for yourself.’ The sound of my own voice startled me for a second. I realised I hadn’t spoken to anyone for hours.  ‘Let’s get this thing  off you.’

‘You…’ he said, his voice dry and agonised. ‘You’re…okay?’

I ignored the question, concentrating instead on maneuvering around the bike, trying to find the best place to get a decent grip on it. It was a big, extravagant-looking thing with a bright red frame decorated with flame decals and heavy-metal motifs. The handlebars, impact-buckled, were huge rubber affairs, jutting at awkward angles from the body of the bike. The windscreen was missing and it was apparent from the plastic shrapnel all over the boy’s body that he’d been thrown off the saddle and had fallen in front of the bike which had, in turn, smashed them both into the window display and then toppled over onto him. I straddled the bike and gripped the handlebars, trying to twist them back into place. Grunting like a weightlifter, I heaved and huffed but the bike barely shifted. I moved slightly to take up a better position and tried again. Something juddered under the bike and the machine slid back a few inches but the effort left me gasping for breath, my hands on my knees.

Meanwhile the boy had managed to twist onto his side, looking up at me with disbelief. He pushed his gloved hands onto the glass-littered floor and, biting his lip, tried to wrench himself out from under the bike. His right leg came free but the other was still trapped under the metal.

‘Are you all right?’ I said. It was an inane question and I realised it straight away. He’d just smashed through a glass window and had a couple of tons of motorbike fall on top of him. I suppose he’d had better days.

‘Fucking hurts, man,’ he groaned. ‘My bloody leg’s killing me. My guts are aching too. Christ, I feel so hot.’  I didn’t like the sound of any of this one little bit. The kid needed medical help as soon as possible and in the absence of screaming ambulance sirens or pushy paramedics it was left to me to save the day and maybe even the life. Great.

I redoubled my efforts, struggling to lift the bike enough for him to ease out his other leg. ‘We’ll soon get you sorted,’ I gasped between ragged breaths. I felt every muscle in my arms and upper chest (both of ‘em… who said I can’t do self-deprecating?) bulging with the effort of shifting the bike until suddenly, with a terrific wrenching of metal, the machine moved freely and I staggered back, colliding into a tottering display and sending myself and a couple of oversized flat-screen TVs and Blu-Ray players crashing out onto the street.

I quickly regained my footing and climbed back into the shop where, in the gloom, I could see that the boy was already hefting himself unsteadily to his feet, balancing himself against some nearby crooked shelving units. He was still wincing with pain and his left leg looked ominously limp. I could see a collection of scratches and gashes on his face and his leathers were torn in several places, exposing bleeding skin. I went over to him and put an arm about his shoulder to steady him. ‘We need to get you outside,’ I said. The biker was listing drunkenly and progress was difficult because he was clearly having trouble with that damaged leg.

‘I think my leg’s buggered,’ he said.

‘Looks like it,’ I had to agree. ‘I need to get you to a hospital or something. My car’s just up the road.’

The boy looked sharply at me. ‘Your car? Then let’s get the Hell out of here before we run into more…’ We’d reached the window frame and the boy became noticeably more agitated, glancing anxiously up and down the length of the street.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

The boy shrugged. ‘That bloody thing,’ he said, practically spitting the word. ‘It just sprang out in the road in front of me. I’ve seen a few of them. Fuck knows what they are.’

‘What thing?’ I asked as we stumbled out onto the street. I kicked a few splinters of glass out of the window frame and sat him on the ledge so we could both get our breath back.

‘Haven’t you seen them? They’re all over the bloody place. They just…appear. From nowhere.’ The boy shook his head. I could smell alcohol on his breath. I had no idea what he was talking about and could only conclude that he was off his face and delusional. Just the sort of person I didn’t really need to spending too much time with in the circumstances I seemed to have found myself in.

‘Look, have you got any idea what’s going on? What’s your name anyway?’ I said.

‘Dave. Dave Dutton,’ he said. He was rubbing his dead leg with one hand. ‘I’d shake your hand but…well, you know…  I’m as in the dark as you are. Got wasted last night at my mate’s place. Woke up this morning, they’ve all gone and there’s just me left. I got on the bike and went cruising… All I’ve seen are some dogs and all these floaty things floating around.’

‘Look, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said testily. I made a quick decision. Suddenly I didn’t feel at all safe out on the street. ‘I’m going to get my car and get us out of here. I don’t know if there’s anyone around who can help you but I think we ought to get off the streets for now.’

‘Damn right,’ said the boy. He tried to get up but the effort was too much and he sank back again. ‘But you can’t  leave me here.’

I put my hand to his shoulder. ‘You’ll be all right. I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’

‘No, but…’

‘Just stay there,’ I said, rather pointlessly as his injuries had left him with little choice. I started to walk back down the road in the direction of the car. It’s odd, now, as I look back. He was clearly in distress, he was obviously in extreme pain. But I walked away and I didn’t look back, give him a reassuring wave or even a high-five. I just called out over my shoulder, a rather callous-sounding ‘Sit tight, I’ll be back in less than five.’

‘Wait…’

But I didn’t wait. I just carried right on. Of course I suppose I was glad I’d met him really – if the circumstances of our coming together could be described as a meeting. He was human, he could speak the same language as me, he was company; these were the upsides. The downsides were just as self-evident. He was a bit knocked about and clearly confused and he was going to need the kind of medical help I was suspecting wasn’t going to be immediately available.

I was back at the car in about three minutes. I stopped as I opened the door and looked up the street again, up towards the bridge I’d driven over thirty or so minutes earlier. The city was as cold and silent as before, frozen like some tableau in a museum of paralysed cities. I slid into the driver’s seat, crashed into first gear and moved off down the main street at a leisurely pace, my earlier fears replaced by a morbid curiosity as I looked at the shops and buildings  surrounding me.

Then I heard the screams.

At first I don’t think I registered them. I could barely hear them above the throaty throb of the car engine. Then they became louder and more desperate. As the car turned the curve in the main street I could quite clearly hear blood-curdling screams of terror.

It was Dave. Dave was screaming.

I put my foot down hard on the accelerator. The car shot forward and took the corner at a bit of an  angle and with an impressive screech of tyres.

OK. I’ve seen some sights since all this madness started; sights that human eyes really shouldn’t witness, sights I’d never have imagined in even my darkest nightmares, sights I’d never seen in even the stupidest of fantasy films. Some of those sights have faded because others which came afterwards were far, far worse; some have disappeared because there were just so many others. But that one, as the car hurtled back towards the electrical store, was one I’ll remember until I die and maybe even longer – if that makes any sense and I’m entirely aware it probably doesn’t.

Dave was where I’d left him. But he wasn’t sitting patiently waiting for me at the remains of the  window. He was on his knees on the pavement, but he wasn’t alone now. He was surrounded by four figures, tall, man-like ethereal figures, their features indistinct and shimmering like polished silver. It was as if they were there and I could see them and yet they really weren’t there at all. They looked like ghosts – there, I’ve said it. Tall, formless, human-like things which seemed to be moving without walking. These were my first impressions of my first proper wraiths and if the description is a bit inadequate then I can only apologise because I’m trying to tell it like it was and frankly I’d never seen anything like them in my life and my vocabulary was and still is singularly under-equipped to explain what I was looking at.  Whatever they were, they had gathered around Dave, crowding over him. They seemed to be trying to swarm onto him and he was thrashing about with his arms, trying to cover his face whilst brushing them away. They fell back for a moment and then moved closer again, surrounding him and overwhelming him.

I mouthed the ‘f’ word. Sorry, kids. My hands came off the steering wheel, a shocked reflex. The wheel spun out of my control and the car swerved away, taking the sight of Dave and his attackers out of my line of vision. The car jerked forward and I saw a line of weather-beaten benches clustered around a group of half-neglected tubs of flowers and plants at the edge of the far kerb, just a moment before the car smashed into them. The radiator crumpled and the car ground to a halt. Something thrown up by the impact had turned the windscreen into a jigsaw.

I was winded for a moment or two. I pushed open the door and fell onto my knees.

‘No, no, stop… Christ alive, please, no… help me, somebody… someone!’ Dave’s screams had become long and anguished, filled with a terrible hopelessness. Still shaken, I clambered to my feet.  I moved to rush to Dave’s aid but my legs were like jelly. My eyes began to focus and what I saw was something so incredible, so extraordinary, that I’m sure my mind really couldn’t take it in just then.

Dave was sprawled on the ground, on his back by now, his hands covering his eyes. The four wraiths had closed in around him completely…and then they seemed to overwhelm him, to roll over him and swamp him and… God, this is tough. They seemed to become one with him, as if they were occupying his space, his body. I could seem him hidden in a strange white haze, a confusion of the four bodies which had themselves melted into his. Dave himself was writhing in a suddenly-silent agony. His face was contorted in pain as the four entities invaded his tormented body.

Then it was over. Dave gave a long, blood-curdling scream, there was a blinding white flash, lightning without thunder, and the wraiths were gone. Dave was lying there, twitching, his eyes rolling in their sockets.

He was still alive. I ran over to him, crouched alongside him. I lifted his head. He lolled towards me and his eyes opened. I almost dropped him. His eyes were white, his retinas had disappeared. His body started shivering.

‘Dave! Dave, can you hear me? Dave, are you all right?’

Dave’s mouth opened, slowly. He seemed to be trying to form words and I remembered my own predicament, drunk and alone, a few hours ago back home. He suddenly swung his arm across his body and gripped my own forearm in a surprisingly tight grip.

‘I‘m… broken,’ gasped Dave in a voice which sounded strangely unlike his own. ‘Useless. I’m useless.’

I tried to pull free from his grip and was alarmed to discover that Dave seemed to have developed superhuman strength and his fingers were digging deep into my soft flesh. ‘Look, Dave, you’re not well. Let go and I’ll try and find some help…’ It sounded lame and I knew it. Dave tightened his grip. He had no intention of letting go.

‘Get the fuck out of there!’

This was a new voice and I had no idea where it was coming from. Dave looked away from me and he drew back his lips, baring blood-red gums, hissing and growling like a trapped animal. His body began to glow gently with a white iridescence which was becoming all-too familiar. Dave began to convulse, foam bubbled at his bloodless lips.

‘GET THE FUCK AWAY!’

Dave’s grip began to weaken as his body shivered and shook. I pulled free and fell back onto my haunches. I looked around to try and find the source of the new voice.

‘Move, you stupid fucker, unless you want to end up like your mate!’

Shuffling away from Dave’s glowing, shivering body, I looked quickly up the road in what I had established to be the direction of the voice which wasn’t mine. I don’t know what I expected to see but I certainly didn’t expect to see Rambo standing in the middle of the road a couple of hundred yards away, a vicious-looking automatic rifle cradled at his shoulder, swaying gently as the bullet-headed man holding it took careful aim through the telescopic sight.

Rambo? Oh, never mind. Some of our old pop culture icons are best forgotten. Suffice to say that I caught a quick, confused glimpse of a well-muscled young man with heavily-tattooed forearms and wearing  army-fatigues. He turned aside from the rifle sight and glared at me, his stubbled face red with fury. ‘Get your head down or lose it!’

I managed to roll along the kerb until I found myself near the benches on the other side of my car. I sprang to my feet and dived for cover. I turned just in time to see what appeared to be the four wraiths literally flowing from Dave’s body and reconstituting  themselves slowly nearby. Dave’s body was still, his head turned to my side, his cold eyes staring and yet sightless. He was clearly dead. I only became aware seconds later that the four wraiths were drifting – and that’s what it was, drifting, as they didn’t seem to walk although they had what looked like legs – in my general direction. Understandably, this perturbed me.

Then a couple of things happened in very rapid succession. I saw Rambo quickly drop to one knee and bring the rifle up to his shoulder. He took aim and let off three fast bursts of automatic  fire. The sound was deafening. I saw the bullets slam into the wraiths. It didn’t make any sense but the bullets seemed to rip through them and their bodies seemed to disperse like clouds, puffs of smoke rising up where they’d been hit before their bodies came together again, like a piece of film shown in reverse. Rambo fired again and again. The street reverberated with the sound and echoes of gunfire and I put my hands over my ears. The wraiths were taking a pounding but still they seemed intent on moving towards me.

‘Run for it, you clown!’ came the cry from Rambo. He was taking a fresh magazine from his chunky belt and replacing the spent one clipped into the rifle. Then he pulled what looked like a dull grey pineapple from a rucksack slung over his shoulders.

I looked away from him and back towards the wraiths. They were alarmingly close now, just a few paces away. I could see them far more clearly  and I was terrified to see that, despite the amorphous nature of their rudimentarily-human bodies, they seemed to have faces – faces with recognisably human features. They couldn’t really be defined as either men or women, they were too vague and ethereal for such specific distinctions. But I remember their features and the fact that they looked afraid, as if they were genuinely terrified of what they were. Mouths were twisted into ugly contortions, their black, sunken eyes looked like deep wells of sorrow and despair. But their arms were outstretched, reaching out to me.

‘RUN!!’

I ran. I was on my feet and haring away from the wraiths, zig-zagging across the street with my hands over my head not daring to look either behind me or in front of me.

I stumbled over my own feet and fell to my knees, cursing my ungainliness. But I realised that Rambo was just a few feet away from me, drawing his right arm back behind his head. I saw the green pineapple flying through the air and then Rambo rushed towards me, hauled me to my feet and threw me  behind a line of concrete bins. He dropped down beside me. ‘Cover your ears,’ he said gruffly.

I covered my ears just as the sky lit up and an explosion caused the ground to vibrate beneath my feet. I heard the clatter and crash of debris raining down perilously close to us and I flinched as fine sand and gravel cascaded over us.  The roar of the explosion bounced around the street and seemed to take forever to fade. By the time I was ready to open my eyes Rambo was already on his feet, rifle in his hands, surveying the devastation. I stood up next to him. A thick fug of smoke was rolling along the high street and as it started to clear I could see that the hand-grenade Rambo had thrown had blown out the front windows of a nearby department store and effectively buried Dave and the  creatures which seemed to have violated his body under a tangle of twisted, smoking debris.

Rambo gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘I don’t know if that’s going to have done for them but it should give us a bit of time. This location isn’t safe, friend. Time to move out. You’re lucky I heard the commotion. Not so lucky for your pal.’

Guilt and shame rushed me and I couldn’t sidestep them. I’d only known Dave for a handful of minutes and yet I’d let him down. If I hadn’t left him there alone maybe those things wouldn’t have been able to do whatever the Hell it was they’d done to him. Maybe. But then if I’d stayed what could I have done? How could I have defended either of us? He wasn’t the first to die and God knows he wasn’t the last. I tried to convince myself I really wasn’t a heartless bastard as I tried to put Dave out of my mind, as I tried to tell myself I’d done The Right Thing. I’ve never really believed it.

‘There was nothing I could do for him,’ I said, aware of my own inadequacies even as I spoke.

Rambo shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘My vehicle’s about 200 metres back. Let’s ship out of here.’

He turned away. I turned to join him. We both stopped dead in our tracks. I heard Rambo swear quite creatively. I nearly wet myself.

In the road behind us, moving forward like spectres, were eight or nine wraiths, almost identical to the quartet I certainly hoped Rambo had managed to bury. They started to fan out across the road, blocking our path to Rambo’s vehicle, whatever and wherever it may have been.

Rambo gripped his rifle tightly. ‘Bollocks,’ he said.

Do you ever get days when you really wish you’d stayed in bed?

THE SHUDDER continues in the next issue of Starburst Magazine.

Grub rattled the wooden stick along the wrought iron fence, each spoke flicking the stick back out as he walked along.

Considering the warm bathing glow of the sun on that early Saturday afternoon, Grub’s attire was peculiar. He wore a pair of black tracksuit bottoms, flayed and ripped in several places, so that as he walked the milky flesh of his legs beneath peeked through with each and every step. The mucky trainers that hid under the strips of

fabric at the bottom had long seen their best days behind them. Their original colour was impossible to guess. His dark grey hoodie fared no better, the elbows threadbare and worn, the pull-string from the hood itself long since lost. Grub had the hood draped over his head, and it leapt with each step that he took, threatening to jump off of his skull and droop down his back. But it stayed exactly where Grub wanted it to. His face was hidden, swathed in shadow.

If it wasn’t for his timid four foot nine frame that seemed to be enveloped by the clothing, a quick glance of Grub walking down the street would make you think that he was on his way to a costume party as the grim reaper, a small sharp stick standing in for the ubiquitous scythe.

Yet, regardless of temperature and clothing, Grub did not sweat. His forehead was bone dry, as if he were in his own little climate zone, oblivious and immune to the heat.

Most of the town knew of Grub, so called because of his bedraggled and dirty clothing and the fact that no one actually knew his real name. They knew of him, but knew nothing about him. All they knew was that he was trouble.

He had never actually been caught red-handed doing anything illegal or violent, but there was a strange aura that followed him about. Something that warned others to stay away. Like the feeling you get when you see a canine lying in the mid-day heat. They knew Grub was a mad dog waiting to bite, so they kept their distance. They told their children to do likewise, to avoid playing with the child with no friends.

Schooldays were easy. Grub never attended school and the authorities never managed to successfully follow this up. No matter how hard they tried, they could never work out where he lived or who his parents were, or even if he had any. Every time they tried to catch up with him and to ask him some questions, he would disappear. Not literally of course, but it was like he could blend into his surroundings, invisible to the naked eye. They would take their eyes off him for a second and he would be gone. Grub would turn a corner, or their line of vision would be obscured by a passing car or van and when they looked again, he would be nowhere to be seen.

So Grub was avoided but he was tolerated as well, like an embarrassing village drunk who everyone wishes would go away, but no one is prepared to ask.

Like a playing card that has been attached to the spokes of a bike, Grub continued to rattle the stick along the fence. The metallic clink of each pole sounded dull in the sunshine but they fulfilled their purpose.

Grub could feel the eyes on him without looking to see who was watching. Adults watched and tutted under their breath. Families upped their pace and even passing car windows were wound up.

He walked up and down the iron railing, clanging the stick at different speeds, slowing up and picking the pace back up again indiscriminately. If the people watching could see inside the hoodie, they would see the apparent disinterest that was etched across Grub’s face.

It was on Grub’s fifth passing as he was turning back for another run that Kady Simmons saw him and watched him with intent.

Her parents had told her to stay away from Grub, just like every other parent had told their children. Kady had promised to obey and until now, she had stayed true to that promise. It had been easy enough, she had never seen him before, either with her parents or by herself.

Now she saw him, a figure covered in dark fibres, walking up and down alongside the railing. The noise he made with the stick made her smile. It was, after all, the sound of benign youth. A noise made for no particular reason, with no malice or anger that was just being made because it could be.

It caught her attention and she stopped outside the butchers shop window, transfixed in the sunshine. She shielded her eyes from the glare and watched Grub walk up and down the fence, dragging the stick along as he went.

Although she was across the other side of the street, two lanes of traffic between them and the high street they were on was awash with other people, making noise and going about their daily business, she heard him.

It was impossible, but at the same time she knew it was him. He was saying something. Kady was unsure if he was saying it to her directly, but she was certain he was saying it nonetheless. A number whispered, yet all so clear.

Fifteen.

She frowned, unsure of what to do next. She didn’t want to break her promise to her parents, and yet she found herself suddenly filled with childish curiosity. This fabled boy was right in front of her and regardless of the ambient noise, he was somehow saying something that she felt only she could hear.

Fifteen.

The number repeated itself in her head, reverberating in her brain as if was the most important word in the world. As if forgetting it would mean the end of life itself.

Kady found herself spurred on, her feet carrying her between two parked cars. She had the forethought to pause and wait for a break in traffic, but the waiting was killing her. Interspersed with checking for traffic, she glanced at Grub and realised that he was no longer at the fence. Looking in both directions and spotting a gap, Kady rushed across the street and skipped up the opposite kerb. She peered down the pavement, back towards the town centre and then back again, towards the industrial estate. A second later and she’d have missed it.

She caught a glimpse of Grub’s tattered tracksuit bottoms evaporating between a pair of broken wooden fence panels. Like a child caught in the hypnotic sway of the Pied Piper’s tune, Kady followed and squeezed through the gap.

Once she was through to the other side, the noise of the main road seemed to vanish and Kady looked around desperately, afraid that she had lost sight of Grub, just as so many before her had. Her fears seemed to be true as she saw no sign of the figure she had been following and she sighed to herself.

But then, just as she turned back towards the fence, she heard the word again. This time it was so much clearer, as if it were being said straight into her ear.

Fifteen.

Spinning around on the spot, she scanned left and right and finally saw him sitting upon a tyre that had fallen onto its side. She thought it strange that she had not seen him before, the tyre brazenly lying all by itself, unhidden. In fact, Kady remembered seeing the tyre on her first viewing of the rubbish strewn ground, but swore that Grub had not been perched on top. His head was bowed as if he was in prayer, the stick still clutched in his hand, tracing shapes in the dirt.

Kady looked down at her clothes and realised that they were polar opposites.

Grub couldn’t be any darker with his clothing, whereas the fabrics that encased her body were light colours. White and cream. Almost virginal.

“Hello?” Kady said, her voice shaky as if she were in the presence of her favourite celebrity.

Grub paused his tracing for a moment, like he had been surprised by her voice, before carrying on.

Kady mustered the courage to walk forward a few steps, to edge closer to the ghost of a boy who she had wondered even existed.

She spoke again, “Hello? Grub?”

He paused again and the hoodie raised slightly. Kady couldn’t see his face in the gloom offered by the hood, but she could almost feel him looking at her, staring at her. She felt naked, as if her clothes had fallen away, torn asunder and stripped off by his eyes. Kady hugged herself, suddenly feeling cold, regardless of the overbearing heat of the day.

He rose from the tyre and stood as straight as possible, his diminutive frame being made to stand as tall as it could. His lack of height did not dilute his presence and Kady felt slightly afraid, as if she realised exactly why her parents had forbidden her from seeking him out.

She managed to raise the confidence to speak once more. “What does it mean? Fifteen?”

He did not respond. He did not shift or move in the slightest. Still Kady hugged herself.

“Is that your age?”

The hood shook to confirm to the negative.

“Do you have any friends or family?”

Grub raised the stick skywards, pointing straight up into the clear blue sky.

“I’m sorry.” Kady said.

She felt sad for him. It was obvious to her now that he was a misunderstood orphan, his family dead. He was alone. Maybe she could be his friend.

“Do you want to play a game?”

Grub tilted his head to one side as if pondering the question.

“We can play whatever you want to.” Kady offered.

Grub bent over and drew something in the earth. Kady took a step closer and looked down. She could see a number one followed by a number 5. Glancing back up at Grub, she smiled.

“Fifteen is a game?”

Grub nodded again.

“How do you play?” Kady asked, her interest piqued now.

Grub stepped aside and motioned Kady to sit on the tyre.

She moved forward, careful to watch her step to avoid tripping over on the debris beneath her feet. She had always wondered why the council had never done anything to clear this patch of land, to turn it into something useful.

As she sat down on the edge of the tyre, Kady realised that it was larger than it had looked from where she had been standing before. It was undoubtedly a tyre from a tractor or other similar industrial field vehicle. Perched on the side of it, she looked up at Grub to see what the next part of the game was, but he was standing two steps away, shaking his head again.

“But I thought you wanted me to sit down?”

He nodded slowly, but pointed his finger toward the ground and waved it around in a circular motion.

“Oh, you want me to turn around?”

Grub nodded once more.

“Okay then.” Kady said, lifting her legs over the tyre so that she sat down with her feet inside the rubber circle, her back to Grub.

“What now?” she asked, waiting for next set of instructions.

For what seemed like an eternity, Kady waited patiently, forgetting that Grub had not uttered a word to her, except for the almost telepathic announcement of the number fifteen.

She started to grow impatient and wondered if he would still be there if she turned around, when she felt the tyre move ever so slightly, the giveaway sign that Grub had knelt down on the edge behind her. Kady felt a tingle of excitement as she waited for the next part of the game.

She was about to talk again when she felt Grub’s hand clamp itself over her lips, covering her mouth. Surprised by this move, she frowned and tried to turn her head, but Grub held it firmly in his grip. Kady let out a muffled moan, trying to ask Grub exactly what he was up to.

Then, she felt his breath on her neck. The smell was rancid, as if he had eaten offal that had been left out in the sun to rot and then never brushed his teeth. She tried to break his grip but found that Grub had now pressed his chest up against her back and he held her tightly in his grip.

Kady heard Grub’s breathing, heavy and deep as he moved his mouth next to her ear.

Movement out of the corner of her right eye caught her attention and she strained to see what it was. Her eyes widened with fear as she realised that Grub was holding the sharp stick like a knife.

He lifted it up in a sweeping arc and thrust it downwards, plunging the splintering wood into her neck. Her screams silenced by the hand still covering her mouth, Kady’s vision faded and she lost consciousness as she heard Grub speak for the first and very last time.

“Sixteen.” He hissed.

So you’ll want to know about the end of the world. That’s why you’re here, that’s why you’ve picked up this… well, I suppose chronicle is as good a word as any. I’ve been asked to set down my thoughts and recollections for the sake of posterity so here they are, warts all present and correct. I suppose I could be pretentious and call it “the diary of a survivor” but it’s really not a diary at all and I’m barely a survivor. Days and weeks and months don’t seem to matter any more and these days it’s hard to remember why and when they ever did.

So this is it. My story of the shudder, the event which changed the world forever. The event which ended the world forever; well, it ended my world forever, my old world at any rate. And when it happened, this thing, where was I? I’m only slightly embarrassed to have to admit that when the world ended – the night of the shudder – I was completely and utterly pissed. You may not be familiar with the term because it’s not a condition many of us have time for these days. It’s all to do with alcohol and the imbibing of too much of it. You may need to ask someone else for more details. No, the fact is I was out of it that night and as the world slipped away into the darkness I was sprawled in my marital bed, a tangle of arms, legs and bedsheets.

I suppose I’d better introduce myself. I’m Paul Moorland and my name is just about the only thing I brought with me from the old world. What I did for a living back then isn’t really important now but I think we’ll get on better, you and me across the printed page, if I tell you a bit about myself, contextualise myself so you can get a perspective on my old life and then, as they used to say in school in my day, compare and contrast it with the not-exactly whoop-de-do lifestyle I enjoy these days. Way back then, in a very different world, I worked in the legal profession. Nothing cutting edge, I was just a rather lazy and unambitious junior solicitor in a bargain basement bucket operation High Street law firm. Day after day rolled by, filled with the detritus of what passed for humanity; drugged-up shoplifters and wife-beaters at court in the morning, company searches and land registry enquiries in the afternoon with the odd bit of will-drafting and personal injury thrown in to add a bit of spice to a rather stodgy legal diet. It means less than nothing to you, I realise, but believe it or not I spent seven years studying to reach such dizzying heights of tedium. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a career to aspire to because, as my old Dad used to say “You can never have too many lawyers.” By the time I realised he was taking the piss I was wearing a cap and gown and shaking hands with some ancient geezer from the Law Society.

Let me tell you a bit about Lis. I can say her name now, I can even write it down without feeling cold in my heart. It wasn’t always that way. I still want her, of course, possibly even more now than I did when she was… well, I can’t really bring myself to say alive because I won’t let myself believe she’s dead. It’s been… wow, three and a half years now since the shudder and I’ve spoken to countless poor bastards who feel much the same way; their loved ones aren’t lost they’re just mislaid. I think it’s one of the few things that helps keep some of us sane amidst all the madness.

Lis was my wife. We were married and I was proud of it. None of that smug “my partner” bollocks for us; we were man and wife and had been for over four years. Lis was my soul-mate and without wishing to bore you with the history of our courtship and our relationship because I know you’re here for the good stuff, the end-of-the-world stuff, I knew I wanted to spend my life with her within twenty minutes of meeting her in a bar on a Friday night. Who said romance is dead, right? Anyway, Lis was a graphic designer; it means nothing now but back then she was a fantastically-talented and imaginative illustrator and she earned a good wedge providing pretty pictures for kids’ books, mainly pre-school stuff about talking rabbits and unfeasibly-large and over-friendly bears. She did book covers too, and that paid the money that sent us on nice foreign holidays two or three times a year. Her job (she called it a vocation and I think she was serious) afforded her the luxury of staying at home all day, working in her attic studio avoiding all the high-pressure stress which made my working life such unbearable purgatory. But I never really resented it or her, even when I staggered home from work night after night crushed by the unfairness of it all to find her relaxing in front of the TV with a nice glass of chilled white wine in her hand and a couple of sketches of robot rats to show for her day’s labours.

Which sorts of leads me back to where I started. You remember; me, pissed, end-of-the-world. Lis and I had been out celebrating her commission to provide some sketches for a proposed high profile run of books about magic dwarfs. It was going to be a good earner, a very good earner indeed. We went out with a couple of close friends – God, I can’t even remember their names now, how fucked-up is that? – and a quiet Indian meal and a bottle or two of red wine turned into a noisy night in some flashy out-of-town restaurant with what felt like a crate of monstrously-overpriced champagne. I can still remember Lis and I blundering home in the wee small hours, attempting a bout of celebratory sex and then falling into bed sweaty and exhausted and laughing at our good fortune. I can clearly recall the boozy euphoria as I drifted into a deep and contented slumber, a feeling that everything was right with the world and couldn’t really get much righter. Yes, Lis was doing so much better than me professionally but at the time I was feeling so selfless I didn’t really care; she was happy and, by association, so was I. That was really all I ever wanted.

I don’t know if I dreamed that night but if I did I reckon my dreams must have been so, so sweet.

But the next morning the nightmare began.

It should have been seven a.m. My eyes rolled open like shop window shutters and the ceiling and its discrete silver light fitting swam with unnecessary clarity into my field of vision. It took me a minute or two to work out who I was and where I was and what I was doing flat on my back wearing just a pair of boxer shorts and a grubby old T-shirt. I wondered why I felt so groggy – and then I remembered the night before, the glasses of champers, the ill-advised vodka chasers. I groaned and tried to raise my head but I felt as if the entire weight of my body had rushed directly to my cranium, leaving my body just a lifeless dried-up husk. My aching brain spewed out a name – Lis – and I tried to contort my mouth so that I could actually speak it. Instead I gave a weak, heaving gasp and I settled out to reach out across the bed with one hand. Lis wasn’t there. Her side of the bed was empty and the sheets were neat and apparently undisturbed. You’d think a bell would have rung even then.

Then I managed it. ‘Lis?’ I croaked through Sahara-dry lips.

She’s up and about, I concluded. She’d be there in a minute or two, ready to force strong, hot coffee down my arid throat. I’d resented/hated her for it in the past but it usually did the trick and got me back on my feet and into the shower where I’d begin my slow recovery from my alcoholic excesses. So all I really had to do was just lie there until she came creeping through the door, that mischievous-yet-sexy grin on her face. Lis never got hangovers no matter how much vodka she slung down her neck – and she could sling a lot. So while I usually spent the day post-bender wishing I belonged to some order of religious zealots which didn’t believe in alcohol, she’d be buzzing around the house as if a drop had never passed her lips. I suppose it was all part of her irresistible charm. Now where’s that coffee…?

As I lay there patiently waiting I noticed how quiet it was. It wasn’t just the normal quiet of the room, relieved only by the steady tick-tock of Lis’s old-fashioned Mickey Mouse bedside clock and the odd creak from the house itself; it seemed peculiarly quiet outside too. We didn’t live in an especially raucous part of town but there was usually something going on, even early in the morning; the whirr of a milk float, the stutter of a stubborn car engine, the wail of some neighbouring baby, the excitable yapping of a distant dog. But this morning there was nothing. Not a whisper, not a sigh. You get the general idea…

I didn’t like it. It made me feel uncomfortable. Even my befuddled brain couldn’t get a handle on the absolute absence of sound. You see, my generation – the last adult generation of the old world – lived in an era where there was rarely any real silence. Our background soundtrack was the early twenty-first century itself, the sounds of life, an ambient throb which is so difficult to explain to those of you who didn’t live with it. Nowadays, if you’re really careful and you’ve got plenty of ammunition along with your death wish, you can walk for miles and miles and miles and you won’t hear a sound except for the chatter of Nature herself, and I’ve lately noticed that even that seems a bit muted these days. Sometimes, though, it’s as if Nature is laughing at us, at the state we got ourselves into, at the state we allowed Her to get us into. But back in the days before the shudder life was one big bloody constant racket and it was a shock to the system when the volume was turned right down.

I forced myself upright. Bad idea. My body screamed ‘Lay down, you are still very drunk!’ My brain chimed in with ‘You are pissed, please return to your previous prone position. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible’. My vision swam, my eyes rolled in their sockets, my stomach churned. I shivered and shook and felt a damn sight worse.

‘Lis?’ I said again, a bit louder. I glanced across at the clock. For a moment I couldn’t make any sense of the enormous face and the numbers Mickey’s extended gloved hands were pointing towards. Ten-something? In a rush I remembered how to tell the time and I realised what the time I was telling actually meant. Somehow I was able to spring to my feet. I felt sickeningly dizzy and I clutched at the edge of the bed for support.

‘Ten thirty-five? Jesus!’ I croaked. A word popped into my head. It’s never been a favourite of mine but it’s still there and it comes back to haunt me every now and again when I really don’t want it to.

Work.

I was late for work. Not just ‘Oops, sorry, got stuck in the traffic, I’ll make it up at lunchtime’ late for work, but two fucking hours plus late for work. My boss Mr Clarke was a stickler for punctuality; there’d be terrible reprisals – docked pay, a verbal and/or written warning, my balls on a chopping block if I was lucky. Something in my battered body clicked into gear and I found myself moving around the room like one of those speeded-up silent comedy films. Suit out of the wardrobe, shirt and tie out of the cupboard. Decision: shower or rush into work stinking of last night’s good times? All the while I was talking – loudly and croakily – to my absent wife.

‘Lis, why the Hell didn’t you wake me up? It’s not bloody Sunday, for Christ’s sake. I’m supposed to be covering that sodding trial today, the one I told you about. Oh God, oh Christ, I’m stuffed, I am history. Clarke’ll take me apart and put me back together in the wrong order – if he puts me back together at all. Lis, why’d you let me sleep? You could have made some coffee or something, yeah? You could have bloody thrown it over me. Lis? Lis?? LIS???’

My T-shirt was off, a towel was in my hand. I was ready to throw myself on the tender mercies of the shower and then it occurred to me that I could always phone in sick. But then I remembered that Clarke and all my so-called friends at work knew I’d been out boozing the night before. So surely by about eight forty-five when my tardiness must have become a bit of a talking point one of the miserable bastards could have picked up a phone and rung to ask me if I intended to grace Carter, Markham and Clarke with my presence today?

‘Lis??’ Now I was getting annoyed. But I thought I’d worked out what had happened. Lis had woken up supernaturally early, wandered downstairs to make coffee and toast and then fallen asleep watching the dishy chef on morning TV, the one I delighted in telling her was gay just to annoy her even though I had no idea or interest in whether he was or not. She’s down there now, I thought, covered in toast crumbs and snoring contentedly while some TV ponce in a hat is smugly making cheesecake as if he’s found the cure for cancer.

I went out onto the landing, towel over my shoulder. It sounded even quieter downstairs. Still feeling distinctly queasy I tottered down the stairs and wobbled into the living room. It was just as we’d left it the night before; coats were thrown haphazardly across the leather sofa, a newspaper was splayed across the glass coffee table, DVD cases were strewn about the floor, last night’s half-consumed mugs of coffee on the windowsill.

I went into the kitchen – the breakfast room as Lis liked to call it when we had visitors. The square white room was spotless, crockery and groceries hidden away in wall-units and cupboards, work surfaces gleaming. The portable TV was off and I soon discovered that the kettle was cold and the toaster hadn’t seen serious action in a couple of days.

I shuffled across the kitchen and pressed my nose up against the glass of the door leading out into the garden. It was a small, pretty garden; a little patio outside the door and a neat lawn split by a narrow path, a small shed huddled against the far wall. I didn’t really know what was in the shed; a lawn-mower, a few plant pots and the odd bottle of Baby Bio I expect. How should I know? The garden was Lis’s domain; neither of us had green fingers but hers were rather greener than mine. She liked to potter around the garden wearing ill-fitting rubber gloves on Sunday mornings whereas I preferred to sprawl on the sofa covered in supplements and with half-an-eye on the goings-on in Hollyoaks. But there was no Lis out in the garden on this particular morning.

This is the moment at which, it’s probably worth pointing out, I first felt a sense of genuine dread, a feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It certainly hadn’t occurred to me yet that something might be wrong with the whole world

but certainly my little bit of it wasn’t working properly. I know I had a sense of foreboding, a feeling which, as you can see, I’m making a pig’s ear of trying to describe.

My panic at being late for work had receded. I decided that it I was going to be hung for a lamb I might just as well be hung for a sheep (or something). I needed to find my wife more than I needed to go to work so I decided to phone in sick and to Hell with the consequences. On the way back out into the hall I filled a beer glass with cold water and swilled it back in one gulp. My system began to judder back into life so I filled the coffee machine and flicked the switch. I noticed that the red light didn’t come on. I flicked the switch on and off again. Then I flicked the wall switch a couple of times.

Bloody fuses.

It was early September and there was a chill in the air. As I picked up the telephone receiver I noticed that my nipples were like bullets (thought you ought to know; the devil’s in the detail, after all) and I could do with putting a shirt on. Let’s get this done first.

The telephone was dead, of course. I barked ‘Hello, hello’ about three times into the mouthpiece and then I gave up. I went back into the sitting room and looked around again. ‘Lis?’ I said as if I expected her to burst out of the TV cabinet. I’m not sure what was running through my mind at the time; whatever was happening was illogical, way beyond my immediate comprehension, certainly in my addled state of mind. I wasn’t yet terrified – that came later – but I was certainly getting increasingly cheesed off. I turned on the radio on the shelf above the television. The sound of static filled the room. I winced, turned the volume down, turned the tuning dial. Static. Nothing but static.

I picked up the radio and shook it about a bit. I went up and down the dial a few more times; once or twice I thought I could hear the sound of voices, distant, desperate garbled words that I couldn’t even be sure were English. But they were gone almost as soon as I heard them and then there was just the static again. I turned the damned thing off and stood there, scratching my sore head.

‘What the Hell is going on around here?’

It was all getting a bit much for me. If I was going to get to the bottom of all this I’d have to start dealing with things one at a time. It wasn’t getting any warmer in the house so I sloped back upstairs. Out of interest, I tried the taps in the bathroom. Water was running but the pipes were sputtering and rattling and the actual flow was becoming a half-hearted trickle. There seemed to be no hot water and I couldn’t yet face a cold shower, much as it would probably have done me some good. I raided the bathroom cabinet, doused myself in body spray, deodorant and Lis’s talcum powder and splashed my face with as much cold water as I could tolerate and went back into the bedroom to get dressed.

I ignored my working clothes and fished out a thick sweater with some fashionable symbol splashed across it and I struggled into a pair of old jeans. I went to the window and threw open the curtains. Bright daylight dazzled me for a moment but I managed to look down into the street. Nothing exceptional down there; a row of semi-detached houses, red-brick, almost identical, three-up, two-down, garage, drive, cars dotted here and there. Suburbia in microcosm.

But there were no people. There was nothing moving. The very fact that the road was full of cars was disturbing in itself. I’m not and have never been a snob (to the best of my knowledge) but Shackleton Drive wasn’t a cheap and nasty estate; the houses were fairly expensive and the area was full of bright young professionals with good jobs and two cars or else retired couples who’d invested in nice new homes for their twilight years. By now – and a quick glance at the clock reminded me we were creeping towards eleven a.m – half of those cars should have gone, their thrusting young owners busy doing whatever it was they did to keep their identical roofs over their heads – and there should have been some sign of life out there, someone out in their front garden, someone walking a dog, someone going out shopping. But it was Wednesday morning and yet the street looked as if it thought it was Sunday.

I tried to put the pieces of this fractured jigsaw together. No electricity, no telephone, precious little in the way of running water and, most disturbingly, no Lis. Options? Maybe there’d been some sort of massive localised power cut and Lis had gone out to investigate. But where could she have gone? And why had everyone else in the neighbourhood gone too? Maybe I’d been in such a state Lis hadn’t been able to rouse me…maybe she’d gone to find help. No, it just didn’t make sense, there was too much which didn’t ring true. What about other options? Number two was a bit more fanciful. Perhaps there’d been some sort of accident at a nearby nuclear power station (there must have been one out there not far away) and a radioactive cloud was rolling across the countryside and Shackleton Drive, right in its path, had been evacuated in the night. In the excitement and panic – and most probably still half-drunk herself – Lis had forgotten all about me and was now cowering in some nuclear bunker, slapping her forehead and cursing her lousy memory. Not incredibly likely, in hindsight, but you must understand how confused and disorientated I was, not just from the after-effects of the drink but from the sheer illogicality of what was going on, the simple fact that I had awoken to find myself in a situation I just couldn’t rationalise in any real way. It’s not surprising my imagination was running away with me. Right about now it found its second wind and set off like a marathon runner.

Option three occurred to me in the shape of a scenario where there had been sudden, unexpected suburban kidnappings by political extremists. They’d crashed into the house, swept up Lis in their muscley tattooed arms, taken one look at my recumbent, insensible form, tongue lolling out of my mouth and drooling onto the pillow, and decided I wasn’t likely to raise much of a ransom. Hmmm…Bruce Willis movie, maybe, but real life? No, I didn’t really think so…

My mind was racing so fast now I was starting to feel sick again. I went up to check on Lis’s attic studio, just in case she’d been struck by a sudden bout of early-morning creativity, only to find that the attic’s retractable ladder was still flush to the trapdoor in the ceiling, just as we’d left it the evening before. I decided I needed some fresh air and, while I was at it, maybe I could see if there was any sign of life next door. Having established that Shackleton Drive was filled with young upwardlies (as they were once known) our next door neighbour, inevitably, was a shrunken old lady called Mrs Gerrard. She had a plastic hip, and, so she said, she suffered ‘something chronic’ in the cold weather. Personally I found her hard-going; she was, after all, an old person and I wasn’t and I didn’t think I functioned on the same wave-length as her. She also kept forgetting to switch on her hearing-aid which tended to make even the simple business of saying ‘Good morning’ a performance not unlike a sitting of the United Nations. Lis was a bit more tolerant; there were old biddies dotted around her family so she was used to talking down to pensioners. She’d even been known to spend an hour or so in Mrs Gerrard’s company of an afternoon when work was sluggish and she felt like a bit of a natter. So the chances were that Mrs Gerrard, if she was at home to visitors, would be sitting in her dusty living room with her hearing aid off. I’d probably be wasting my time but I had to do something to try and find out what the Hell was going on and the house next door seemed as good a place as any to start.

I went to the front door and I saw, with an ever-sinking heart, that the safety catch was still in place from the night before. The back door was locked, the windows firmly closed. Unless Lis had developed the uncanny ability to pass through solid walls it was beginning to look as if my wife hadn’t left the house after all. I threw open the front door and wandered halfway down the path, pausing only to stop and listen, my head cocked like a curious dog listening for the mewl of next door’s cat.

The silence really was awesome. I’d never imagined anything like it. There wasn’t a sound to be heard; even Nature seemed to have fallen silent for once. It was still morning with just a touch of breeze but even so sound always carried from the main roads which led onto our estate and sometimes, when the wind was in the right direction, you could hear the roar of traffic from the motorway five miles away. But today there was nothing; just a silence so absolute it was painful.

‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ I muttered, more from the need to hear some sort of sound than any particular need to say those particular words. It was time to see what was going on at Mrs G’s. I sprang over the low wall separating our properties and rapped determinedly on the old-fashioned lion’s head brass door knocker. The sounds echoed up and down the street like gunshots, shattering the silence like a big bull let loose in a well-stocked china shop. As I waited for some response from Mrs G I glanced over my shoulder, hoping against hope that my racket would have roused my deeply narcoleptic neighbours. I would have jumped for joy if bedroom windows had been flung open and angry red faces had emerged, shouting at me to keep the noise down and reminding me about the Bank Holiday. But it was Wednesday. It was eleven a.m. It wasn’t going to happen. It didn’t happen.

After a few moments which might as well have been hours, it became obvious that Mrs G wasn’t rushing – or even shuffling – to answer the door. I crouched down, pushed open the letterbox and squinted into the hallway. It was dark and dank and full of curios accumulated during a long and probably unremarkable life. I could smell the mustiness even through the letterbox. As I let it snap shut I realised that I knew nothing at all about Mrs G except that she was old, she was deaf and she had a dodgy hip. Her life had come and almost gone and I knew next to nothing of it. Had she been married? Had she ever worked? Did she have any family? Where the Hell was she now when I needed her?

I went back indoors. I felt a little better, a little less exposed. It was as if by shutting out the silent world it had somehow ceased to exist. Maybe I could just go back to bed and hide under the covers until everything put itself right again? I was about to slink upstairs when I saw the car keys on the shelf of the hall table. My confused brain made the connection with surprising speed. Keys on table+car outside house=means of transport.

I abandoned the ‘back to bed’ option. There was obviously nothing to be gained by twiddling my thumbs and waiting for everyone to jump out of a cupboard and shout ‘Surprise!’ at me. It was time to grip this situation by the scruff of its inexplicable neck and get out there and try to find out what the Hell was going on. I’d take a little spin around the estate, check out the neighbourhood. Then I’d go a little further, into the city centre itself. I’d find some answers there, I was sure of it. Wednesday morning? Shoppers galore. Idling business types preparing for their extended lunch-breaks. Bleary-eyed students wandering from Starbucks to Costa and back again as they waited for that irritatingly-timetabled midday lecture to start. Gangs of surly teenagers in unfeasible trousers and hooded tops – the uniform of youth – lurking on street corners. As I busied myself for my little expedition I rallied a bit, certain I’d find the answers once I got into the city.

Answers? Well, as it turned out, not as such. More questions though… oh, yes. Plenty more questions…

THE SHUDDER continues in the next issue of Starburst Magazine.

I have heard people say that I am lying, that the story I tell you now is not how it happened, but I swear to you that this is the truth.

In a time when everybody still called the First World War ‘The Great War,’ and we all thought the Wall Street crash wouldn’t affect us in our small corner of Europe, I was busy clearing tables. It was late afternoon, in a week where the rain had been falling long enough to soak through your socks and put you in one hell of a bad mood. My shoes had mostly dried out by the end of the lunchtime rush and the small cafe was sparsely populated with the usual bearded subjects.

Karl and Sigi were half-heartedly playing chess in their usual booth. My boss Freidrich – Fred – doesn’t mind the old guys playing quietly and as long as they keep ordering coffee and keep their sex chat to a minimum, he is fine.

My God, the things Sigi comes out with; he once told me about this young boy and a horse! Enough to turn a girl’s hair blue, not that anyone had described me as a girl for years now, but I digress.

The bell on a spring above the door rang as a new customer strode in and paused next to the truly ugly wooden hat stand that Fred had rescued from the barber’s next door the day after they had been evicted. 

Karl and Sigi’s hats were aligned in parallel until the newcomer shoved his dripping coat and homburg onto the stand, knocking Sigi’s hat to the ground. Luckily, Sigi was too engrossed in examining his bishop to notice.

I grabbed the fallen hat and replaced it as I asked the newcomer; “What’ll it be?”

He removed his round, rain-splattered spectacles and wiped them, smudging the water into smaller droplets and blurring his vision.

Standing long enough to gather himself, I watched him almost silhouetted against the plate glass windows. He had the same haunted expression my sister Joice had worn when her fiancée walked out on her a week before the wedding.

It was around now I noticed the odd looking box under his arm.

“You can leave that at the door,” I said helpfully.

“I’ll keep it with me. Your coffee fresh?”

Near the kitchen was a long wooden bar complete with mismatched stools. Nothing in this place was new and the customer who ended up with a knife and fork from the same set was considered lucky.

Without further ado he squelched and slumped onto one of the more sturdy looking stools while I poured him a strong black. Silently, he took a napkin and wiped his face before lifting the menu and scanning the day’s specials.

“The onion soup is good today.” Fred had told me to push the soup this week as he had made far too much of the foul stuff and like he’s always saying – “If it doesn’t kill them…” Like the good little waitress I am, I did what I was told.

The guy with the box stood like a statue, while a drop of water worked its way along a rogue hair and dropped onto the counter.  In the kitchen, I heard the gentle buzzing come to an abrupt stop with a reassuring thud as an out-of-season fly discovered whether there was an afterlife.  In the street outside, an unseen tram trundled past about its business.  The bell above the door rang once more announcing the arrival of another customer, while Karl let out a moan, losing another piece to the grinning Sigi.

The newcomer strode purposefully to the counter, just as drenched as the first and carrying another, different box.  Its mesh window made it look as if it should have had an animal inside. “You haven’t seen a cat have you? Ginger thing? Mine has run off.” He took a deep breath as if realizing how heavy the rain actually was. A brief smile. “Hey, is that onion soup? I’ve not eaten for hours.”

The man worked his sodden way to the counter and sat down next to the first guy, still studying the menu.

“How about a sandwich?” I said to anyone with the courtesy to listen.

The first guy looked up as if I’d just said a magic word and asked for a cheese number on rye. I told him we were right out of Rye bread but I’d see what I could do. As the second guy had seemed so set on the soup so I headed off into the kitchen to kick Fred into action.  On my return, the guys struck up a conversation. 

“Ok, I’ll go first,” said the second guy with a smirk. “What’s in the box?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled into his mug and then considered for a moment. “Radioactive sauce and poison.”

“What?!” I exclaimed, letting the usual Waitress/punter relationship slip for a moment.

“It’s all right, it’s a tiny amount. Harmless.”

Now if you told me that someone had a harmless amount of radioactive poison these days I’d tell you straight, ‘…there’s no such thing as a harmless amount of radiation,’ but this was decades ago and we didn’t know better.  I did however ask him “How can it be a harmless poison?”

“Oxymoron” shouted Sigi and let out another of his girly giggles as Karl sacrificed another bishop.

The guys at the counter ignored the occupants of the booth and continued.

“It’s a harmless amount. Unless…” He tailed off. “Look, it’s easier if I show you.”

He lifted the suitcase-sized box onto the desk, released some metal catches and removed one side.

What I didn’t expect to see was a puppy. Curled up in a ball of cuteness, one of the tiniest puppies I’d ever clapped eyes on – it must have been no more than a day or two old.

“You shouldn’t take them from their mothers when they’re that young you know,” the other guy said and I agreed.

“Oh, that’s the least of my problems. Here, let me show you.”

Flicking more metal catches, he revealed the inside of a sealed compartment at the top of the box.  Inside was a combination of an extremely small bottle and a hammer placed precariously above it, with a spring and wires leading in and out of a smaller box. This smaller box was clicking at an alarming rate.

He started pointing at various parts and described what I can only call his torture device.

“It’s to demonstrate a theory.”

“What theory? Whether you can kill a puppy or not?” I whispered, feeling more than a little uncomfortable.

“No you don’t understand,” he began, defending himself. “I may OR may not kill this dog.”

The other guy was clearly on my side “What, are you going to toss a coin or something?”

“It won’t be my choice. I’m trying to prove how ridiculous the standard vision of quantum physics is.”

“You lost me at ‘killing a puppy.’” My gut told me there was something very wrong.

There was no stopping now he had started. “Standard theory says that until someone looks inside this box the possibilities of the dog being alive or dead are equally likely. The animal is locked into the box with a fifty-fifty chance of this radiation detector,” he pointed at the clicking box, “…breaking this bottle of poison.”

“Or not breaking the bottle?” the other guy joined in, horrified yet intrigued.

“Exactly.” The guy with the open box continued, “We have a superimposition of states. The dog is as likely to be alive as dead, until we open the box we don’t know if it’s alive or dead so logically – it’s both alive and dead.”

“Proving what…?” the other enquired. “That you have flawed logic?”

“That’s clearly loopy thinking.” I was having none of it from this puppy killer.

Fast asleep, the tiny dog flipped its tail as we talked. “Wouldn’t you hear the bottle break? Then you would know if it was dead or not.” asked the other guy.

“Can’t you see this could be the start of multiverse theory? It could lead us to a whole new understanding of electron behavior, leading us to new horizons…to thinking machines!” It was clear he wasn’t going to let this go.

“What are you – some sort of magician? Is this part of your act?” I hoped, waiting for a punch-line I’d understand.

“No – I’m a scientist,” he declared, as if that would explain everything. “Erwin S…”

I stopped him dead. “Look Erwin. That looks very much like a machine for killing puppies and we don’t serve sickos like you. I think you’d better leave.” I grabbed at the puppy.  “And take your death box with you.”

Like a spoiled child, Erwin snapped the box closed and started mumbling something about ‘…using the other guy’s missing cat instead,’ as he headed out of the door and into the rain, stopping only to take his hat and coat.

“God, some guys are just sick in the head.”

A joint “Thank God,” followed by a peal of laughter came from the booth.

I stared at the sleeping puppy in my hands. “What are we going to do with you?”

“Well, I could take him.” offered the remaining customer with a shrug. “I can’t see my cat coming back.”

Fred slid the soup and sandwich through the serving hatch and slapped the top of the service bell.

In my palm the puppy sprang into life, blindly licking at my thumb.

“Magnificent! That’s exactly what I’m trying to research,” said the remaining customer with a wide grin.

“God – you’re not a scientist too, are you?” I asked dejectedly.

“Yes. But I really look after my animals.” He smiled, lifting his empty animal carrier onto the table and knocking the remainder of his coffee to one side.

Gently, I placed the bundle of cuteness inside.

“I try feed them exactly when the church bell rings; oh by the way my name is Ivan.  Ivan Pavlov.  Pleased to meet you.” 

In all probability… a true story.