pppc2

Plots Pilots And Plans

The Four Admin Of The Metropolis
“Let the sun shine – let the sun shine.  Isn’t that what they say on the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius?  Yes, it’s a beautiful day in sunny Flockbury this morning; a barmy 31 degrees out here in the sticks!  So get out there and feel the world come alive with KC and the Sunshine Band, with I’m Walking On Sunshine!”
Graham Roper wasn’t so sure he wanted to be anywhere today, first days usually felt like that.  Flockbury was going through a state of renewal of late.  Many of the high rise buildings of the Sixties and Seventies were being pulled down, due for replacement by a large injection of cash into the Council’s coffers.  The Mike Angel Group hoardings were already up, that smug prick’s gawping face looking down on the less thans.  A hundred and forty four new houses promised, apparently.  Still, anything to make this shit heap look better was fine with Graham.  Quite frankly, anything was fine with Graham Roper.  He couldn’t care less.
He carried a fish, wrapped in paper, under his arm, as instructed.  He had tried to get the fish they asked for, but he couldn’t find it in the local supermarket.  Walking beside the river, still stained red from the massive chemical spill, made Graham Roper wonder if this fish had come out of there.  If it had, he certainly didn’t want any of it, no matter how well it was cooked.  The spill had created a public relations nightmare.  Graham had a sneaking suspicion that in his new job, he was going to have to deal with its backlash somehow.  For Graham Roper, it never rained but it poured.
It was far too hot to wear a jacket, but Graham was nothing if not about appearances.  New job meant new suit.  Pit stains included, free of charge.  Along with the chemical spill, news was about the riots in London, led by the fractious outspoken advocate, Dan Babel.  The riots were about the attack on local man John Daniel.  The fighting was in its third day.  Graham Roper only hoped it didn’t spread countrywide.  He couldn’t cope with all that fighting and it being his first day.
The office block was huge.  Huge, yet ordinary.  Despite its size, it would be easy to walk past it and never even recall it was there.  Which Graham had done, twice.  If he hadn’t started out an hour earlier than he needed, he would be late by now.  As it was, he was twenty minutes early.  He tried to find a shop to buy a bottle of water, because his throat was dry.  When he returned to the office block, only missing it once this time, and only because he was coming from the other direction, he was only five minutes late.  Still, close enough.  After a few hurried inquiries to some dazed employees, Graham Roper eventually found the Logistics Department, bursting through the doors and into the common room, where three other men sat sipping tea from cracked and stained mugs, the logo for Flockbury Council emblazoned cheaply on the sides.  Graham Roper threw the wrapped fish down onto the table.
“Do you know how hard it is to find – no – to remember you’ve found this building?  I think I’m a bit late.  Graham Roper, by the way.  Pleased to meet you.” blabbered Graham breathlessly.
One of the men approached the fish conspiratorially.  He slowly began to unwrap it, “Surely not - ?” he spoke, lifting the last of the paper from the fish.
“What is it?” asked another of the men.
“It’s a sign.” said the unwrapper.
“It’s a fish.” said the third man.
“It’s a fishy sign.” said the second man, basting in his own stewed joke.
“Meaning?” asked the third man.  He had come forward to investigate the fish, examining it like it held a clue, written in the scales.
“We have twelve hours before it starts.” said the unwrapper, reverently.
“Oh, shit.” said the second man, less reverently.
A short time passed as the men came to terms with the revelation.  Then one of the men spoke.
“So, Graham Roper, is it?  What’ve they told you about your new job, exactly?”
Graham Roper sat now at the table, where the other three men were, looking into the oracle of the fish.
“That this is about facilitating and logistics.”
“So nothing then.” said the man who had introduced himself as Dennis Noir.
“Well – “ began Graham.
“He’s right, Gray – can I call you Gray?  Oh, okay – Graham.  He’s right.” added the one who called himself Walter Vivenzio.
“Don’t worry, you were obviously chosen for a reason.  They don’t make mistakes up there.”  This was the voice of the unwrapper, Josh Karsten.  He had an Australian drawl to his words.  He also seemed the most sensible of the bunch.
“Says you, Josh.” accused Dennis
“God’s law is the only real law.” said Josh, staring a hole into Dennis.
Walter jostled Graham by the elbow, “Ah, he says that, but really, come on, when’s He going to notice, what with the end of the world and all?”
“The end of the what?” Graham asked out loud, looking to each man in turn.  This day was really turning out to be quite shitty.
Dennis leaned in and exaggeratedly enunciated every word, “End – of – the – world.”  Dennis shook his head, “Seriously, they told you nothing!”
Josh leaned in also, but his words were calmer, sweeter, especially in Australian, “We, that is the three of us, and now you too – we’re, well, we’re –“
“We’re the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, son.  The mother effing lifters of the veil, the keepers of the revelation.  Gray, my boy, we’re the riders on the storm!” enthused Dennis.
“Right,” snorted Graham with a laugh, “Pull the other one.”
“Why?” asked Walter sarcastically, “Does it have bells on it?  Like the bells at a funeral?  The death knell?  Graham, me old mucker!  You’re Death!  The Black Rider on the Pale Horse!  The reaper of souls!  The, erm –“
“The guardian of the gate to Hell, or Hades.” helped Dennis.
“Thanks, mate.” said Walter, slapping his friend on the arm in appreciation.
“You’re welcome.”
“Okay, bullshit out the way, yeah, I’m afraid the job you’ve taken is indeed that of Death, in the last great battle.  They tricked you mate, I’m thinking, by the look on your face?” said Josh, a lot calmer.
“Certainly looks that way,” expressed Graham excitedly, “What a bunch of bastards!  So what I got to do?  Chop people’s heads off or something?  I’m not sure I’ve got the stomach –“
“Oh, no.  Nothing like that, mate.  Nah, it’s mostly phone stuff, some computers, the odd visit.  Mostly Admin work.  See, we’re facilitators of the End of the World.  It’s our job to make sure those who need to be in their places are in their places - troobleshooters if you will.  We sort out problems and crises, ensure a smooth running of the Apocalypse and liaise with the essential parties involved.  Our purpose is to ensure the message will be delivered.” said Josh.  Graham was visibly relieved.  At least that is, until he remembered he was fucking Death.  Holy shit.
Josh patted him on the arm, “Okay, well, we’ll leave you for a few minutes to acclimatise.  When you’ve got a chance, go to HR to pick up your equipment; the Kolasin Onion, a hooded cape, scythe – “
“Kolasin Onion?” asked Graham.  Of all the things to ask, this intrigued him the most, somehow.
Josh chuckled, “That’s a funny story, apparently.  A clerical error.  Someone misspelled it on an inventory once and the name’s stuck.  It’s an actual onion.  Funny, eh?  It’s actually an object that contains Hell.  It’s the Greek form for everlasting punishment.  Kolasin aionion?  No?  Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”
It hadn’t been easy, but Graham Roper eventually found the Human Resources Department.  There were departments for just about everything in this building.  Some doors opened to a brick wall, others opened to a cupboard.  Human Resources had apparently been mislabelled Keepers of Secrets.  The overly efficient clerk down there made Graham wait while he journeyed to the darkness beyond, coming back a few minutes later with a tattered suitcase, leather with worn straps, its passage marked by the odd sticker and the even odder stain.
“Used to belong to the Death some four people back.  Goes through a lot of hands, that case does.” squeaked the man, unaware of the weight of his words.  How many other Deaths had there been?  And why weren’t they Deaths now? Graham reluctantly signed for the suitcase and returned to Logistics, not a minute before he found it again.
Graham sat heavily at the table in the common room, putting the suitcase on the table where the fate-filleted fish once held court.  He opened it cautiously, with one eye on the thing that made the Deaths not Deaths anymore coming out and attaching itself to him somehow, sucking his blood, or his life, or whatever it was that killed the other Deaths.
All that escaped was a slight whiff of mothballs.  In the brown tartan floor of the case was a medium sized onion, a collapsible scythe and a note, which read, “Cape perished.  Replace one cape.  One size fits all.  M.”  Whoever M was, it frankly didn’t matter.  Graham took out the scythe.  It instantly grew to full size, the air singing as the impossibly sharp blade cut through it.  Graham dropped it, scared of cutting himself, where it returned to compact size on the floor.  Graham took out the onion.
“Mmm.  Fish and onion.” said Dennis from the doorway.
“Hands off my onion.” said Graham sharply.
“That’s the way, mate!  Taking to it like a duck takes to orange!”
Graham sighed, “I don’t know about all this.  You sure I’m Death?  You sure the world’s ending tomorrow?”
“Afraid so, mate.  Hey!  Don’t look on the downside!”
“There’s an upside?  To total destruction?”
“You may have a point.  Hang on, I used to remember why it was a good thing?  Shit!  Shows what the job does to you.”  Dennis joined Graham at the table, “Perhaps this isn’t as good as it sounds after all.  We’ve kind of been programmed to look forward to it.  Hard not to be swept up in the excitement when you meet all these famous names from mythology, theology and scatology – wait, scratch that last one.”
“Famous people?”
“Funny you should ask.  We got a big client this morning.  Big job.  Wait here, while the others prepare.  You’ll see how the other half live, that’s for sure.” beamed Dennis.
The small hatchback pulled up outside the ostentatious façade of the infamous Club Abaddon, when four crumpled figures unfolded themselves from the interior of the vehicle and onto the pavement before the door.  If it was possible to ostentatiously exaggerate exaggeration, this place managed it.
“Nice, isn’t it?” smiled Dennis to Graham.
“We’re here on business, Dennis.  Remember?” If Josh could have emphasised Dennis’s name any more, he would have rubber stamped it on Dennis’s forehead in his own blood.
“Doesn’t hurt to look.” expressed Walter, standing up for his buddy.
“Look, yes.  Leer, no.” said Josh, staring at Dennis, who shrugged it off and walked through the door, whooping.  Josh rolled his eyes and followed.  Graham and Walter were close on his heels.
Graham wasn’t prepared for this.  He was prepared for new-boy pranks, or wedgies from the bigger boys of the office, it being the first day of a new job, but not the sight that slammed colourfully into his face, like a paintgun applying makeup.
Graham Roper had never seen such deifying beauty like this before.  And that was just the men.  Before Graham had to make a lifestyle choice, Dennis leaned into him conspiratorially and somewhat amused by the wide eyed and gaping mouthed Graham, he imparted some vital information, “This is Club Abaddon, my friend.  The hottest hotspot this side of Valhalla.  See, you have the beautiful and Chthonic Gaia, still dusty, I see.  Got past the doorman with that, apparently.  Oh, the doorman?  Heimdall.  Great bloke, but a bit heavy handed.  And don’t mention the Rainbow Bridge to him.  Gets a bit sensitive about that.  Anyway, over there we have Artemis and her seven Pleiades, Zeus, Aphrodite, Poseidon – definitely don’t talk to him about the Kraken.  Go on for hours about that thing.  Very clingy apparently.  Clingy?  Get it?  Because it’s a giant squid?  Never mind.  Freyr, Odin and Thor there, propping up the bar as usual.  Vishnu, Buddha.  How’s it going Buddha, me old mate?”
“You know, I don’t even know why I’m here.  I’m not even a god.” said Buddha, talking to Graham.
“Hey, neither are them over there.”  Dennis pointed to three sheepish men, sitting on a table by themselves, “Achilles, Heracles and Jason.  Demigods.  We got all sorts in here.  Different kinds of nymphs –“  Dennis swished his arm out as though to encompass the room, “We even have a couple of Pagan Gods too.  That one’s Cernunnos.  God of the forest, apparently.  No one knows what forest though.  Not so sure he does.  Watch out for them horns though.  Stabbed a Norse God the other week.  Couldn’t stop the bloodshed.  Horrible, it was.  Horrible.  Oh, and that one’s Taliesin.  Welsh.  Musician.  Go figure.”  The Four Admin eventually came to a stop at the booth containing three very distinct and very familiar men.  There contained were the Town Council Leader, Councillor Samuel King, the brick-outhouse that was Councillor Aiden Temple, Deputy Town Council Leader and Councillor Levi Wafisch, Town Mayor.
Dennis continued his guide to the otherworld, “Samuel there, he’s the Bringer of Light, the Morning and the Evening Star, or in other words, the Devil himself.  Aiden Temple there is actually the good old Lord of the Flies -Beelzebub when he’s at home - and the wonderful Mayor?  He is the Leviathan,”  Graham shot him a look, “No, we don’t know what that is either.”
“I wondered why they weren’t in the Council Offices, dealing with the chemical spill.” muttered Graham Roper.
“So why aren’t you on Sheol Street, Samuel?” asked Josh as way of introduction.
“Ah, Josh, Joshy Joshington!  And Dennis!  How’s my Dennis?  Oh and is that Walter the Warmonger?  Nice of you to drop by, boys!  And who’s this new face?”
“Erm, Graham.  Graham Roper.  Sir?”
Samuel King laughed, “I like him!  I do!  I really like him!  He’s a keeper!  Sit!  Drink!”
“War is something I do.  It doesn’t define me.” pouted Walter.
“It’s a business trip, I’m afraid –“ began Josh, ignoring Walter’s protests.
“Fuck business!  Fuck it right off!  Right to the hinge end!  Am I right, Graham Roper?”
“Erm, well, I –“
“See?  He knows!”
“It’s serious Samuel.  We got the fish.”
“You should see a doctor about that.  Talking of which, any of you know a cure for chicken pox?  Dennis?  I’m looking at you, my boy!  It wasn’t you, was it?  Ha ha!  Sneaky little ponce –“
“No, I mean it’s the fish.  The sign.  It’s begun.”
Samuel King looked serious, “You’re shitting me.”
“Sorry, Sam.” shrugged Josh.
“No fucking way.  No, no, no!  This can’t be happening!”
“So, I take it, all you’re people are in place?” asked Josh professionally.
“You don’t get it, do you?  It’s the end of times!” said Samuel King incredulously.
“Yes, I do, Sam.  I understand it totally.  It’s what I’ve been prepped for all my life.” said Josh.
“You’re not thinking straight, Josh!  Stop and think about it!”
“No need to –“ began Josh.
“He may have a point,” interrupted Dennis, shooting a glance at Graham, who was lost in the headlights right now.
Josh turned to him, “What do you mean, he may have a point?”
“Think about it.  We’re heading towards destruction.  There’s no upside to destruction.”
“Well, I do have –“ tried Josh.
Dennis continued, “We were told to look forward to this day for so long, we forgot that they never told us why.  Seriously, do you want to die?  Do any of us?”
“Again, I do –“ tried Josh a second time.
“Yeah, you’re right, Den.  This sounds like a very shitty idea, now you come to mention it.” added Walter.
“So what do we do?” asked Dennis of anyone who would hear.  Josh knew he was outnumbered.  He took a seat and picked up a half-full glass and drank from it.
“The disease-ridden one has a point.” said Samuel King.
“Hey!” said Dennis in annoyance.  Samuel King merely shrugged it away.
“So what do we do?  It’s less than a day away now.” said Walter.
“You want to know what you should do?  Really?  It’s not pretty.” said Samuel, the merest of smiles cracked his eon old laugh-lines.
“Go on.” said Dennis, intrigued.
“You need to stop the Archangel Michael from completing his mission.” said Samuel simply, holding his arms out, palms up and shrugging.
“Archangel Michael?” asked Graham Roper, forgetting himself.
You know, I’d take pleasure in taking your soul, Graham Roper, but I don’t think I could do the job.  All that scything.  Bad for the shoulders, I hear.” said Samuel, amused.
Walter turned his head and spoke over his shoulder in explanation to Graham, “Mike Angel.  The builder.  Well, currently the Destroyer.  Whatever.  It’s Mike Angel, okay?”
“So –“  Graham had no idea where he was going to go after that so.  Luckily he was saved.
“It’s the towers, Gray.  The opening of the Sixth Seal.  Did you do any Religious Studies at school?” asked Walter.
“Funnily enough they didn’t dwell on Revelations back at Brockle High School.” said Graham, cutting with sarcasm.
“This one’s grown balls all of a sudden.” said Samuel.
“Too fucking right I have, mate.  Gods?  Deities?  Demigods?  Four Horsemen?  Who wouldn’t feel a little fucking weird at this moment?”
“You need to get him laid.” said Samuel, “Not like there isn’t enough to choose from in here.  Mind you, steer clear of Freyr.  Shield Maiden that one.  Nearly had my wobbly bits off the other day.  Odin wasn’t too happy either.  Still, she’s worth it.”  Samuel smiled to himself over an old and probably very dirty memory.
Graham sat down at the booth, took the first drink in front of him and shot it back.  Then another and another.  This amused Samuel no end.
“Well, that’s as maybe.  And I’m glad you’re on the same page as all of us now Graham, but we still need a plan.”
Graham suddenly flashed an idea across his slowly misting up brain.  The drinks had helped him accept this absurd whirlwind he had been thrust up into.  He accepted it all because it all seemed plausible.  How could all this seem plausible?  Yet he had seen it with his own eyes.  If this was some kind of psychotic delusion, well, fuck it.  Might as well play along.  And this was where Graham Roper thrived; problem solving.  He only needed a couple of questions answered before he concreted the plan, grafittiying the wet cement a little for the other’s understanding.
The eclipse had begun.  It sounded a very quiet but obvious klaxon to the Four Admin.  Almost Apocalypse o’clock.  The car, barely one by description, shuddered up to the office block, way off the main road and some fifty feet in height.  It was the wings that bookended the name Mike Angel Group that stood out.  Graham wondered why he never made the connection before.  Probably because he wasn’t meant to.  He wasn’t entirely sure he would be able to see the building or the wings if he wasn’t Death.  The job had a way of lifting the veil from the eyes, so to speak.
The doors were locked.  Time was running out.
“We could just break them down?” said Graham, to anybody.
“They’re bonded by a Heavenly order.  You’re more likely to get into the Queen’s knickers –“ began Walter.
“Okay, enough of that,” cut in Josh, “If were doing this, and are you sure you want to do this?  Anyway, if were doing this then I say we take the Tradesman’s Entrance.”
“You mean the back door?” asked Dennis.
“If you like.  It has to be open in case some bigwig wants to see him.  Try that, but let’s watch out for security.” said Josh.
The backdoor opened with no resistance.  Dennis had already begun a joke before Josh cut him off.
The four climbed the interior stairwell, not entering the office space in order to avoid interruptive encounters.  So, and for the expediency of narrative, they met no one.
“There’s his door, Graham.” pointed out Walter.
“You not coming with?” asked Graham.
“It was your idea mate.” shrugged Dennis.
Josh, Dennis and Walter spread out in the corridor, blocking the way and allowing for Graham to enter the office.
The door opened easily as it was not locked.  Graham Roper didn’t know why he thought it would be.
“How did you get past my security?  Oh, never mind.  I see why.” said Mike Angel, as Graham shut the door behind him.
“You have to stop it, Michael.  You have to stop the tower coming down.”
“Don’t you see it?  The Cosmic Disturbances?  The Heavenly Signs?  The sun is already in its eclipse behind the moon.  Only the earthquake remains.  Then you and your Brothers will fulfil your duties - become the Four Horsemen and ride across the land, doing what you’re destined to do.  I will then lead the Army of God to the victory that is assured, when I kill the dragon of corruption –“
“Look, mate.  You obviously love the sound of your own voice, but there’s some people who aren’t so keen on this happening.  Just not now.  Fuck, I was clueless yesterday, the most pressing thought was, can I wear those pants another day before they need washing?  Now I have to contend with the Apocalypse.  You have no idea how stinking my headache is right now, and it’s only getting worse.  Do a mate a favour and call it off?”
“I can’t.  Wheels are set in motion –“
“Then put the sodding brakes on then, mate.  Look, I didn’t want to have to resort to this, but if you don’t stop it right now, I’m going to have to peel the onion,” Graham took the Kolasin Onion from within the folds of his jacket, holding it aloft for Archangel Michael to see.  Graham only wished there was some kind of ping! sound, or zap! or at least something more than a plop!
“You would release the dead from Hades?  You would unleash the serpent?  That which drinks a cubit of water from the sea every day, which is four miles in length?”
“If you mean am I going to destroy the onion, then yep.”
Archangel Michael reached for the phone and dialled, “Phil?  Mike.  Cut it.  Cut the engine.  We’re going in another direction.”  He returned the receiver to its cradle, looking to Graham Roper, still thrusting the onion before him like it mattered, “I hope you know what you’re doing.  The Boss may want a word.  A big word.  One that might cause a great deal of pain.”
Graham shrugged, “I come from Flockbury.  I’m used to it.”
And Death, the Reaper of Souls, was complete.



The Everything Shop
It is said that in this unusual shop, which was situated in a side street, enclosed by a wool shop on one side and a religious bookshop on the other, that looked no bigger than a corridor, with the door barely wide enough to enter, with the writing above the door that was to denote its propriety small and barely visible, a very easy a shop to overlook, to walk past and miss, and inside, the walls, ceiling and floor were painted white, while towards the back of the shop there was a single white counter, behind which a man stood, with a ready smile on his face - inside this shop, they could get you anything.
Literally.
“Colin!  Keeping well, I hope?”  Gary Hanrey put his son down from his lap, letting him run about with the other children in Gary’s friend’s beautifully tended garden, currently the set piece for that friend’s own son’s Birthday Party.
“Gary!  You know, this and that?”  The friends hugged with plenty of manly slaps.
“Wow, you put on a party and a half!” grinned Gary.
Colin offered his friend a Cold One, “You know, if you can’t spoil them when they’re young –“
“Ha!  Quite!  I see you managed to get a Kraterman doll.  How’d you swindle that one?”
“It wasn’t as hard as you think.  You heard of The Everything Shop?”
Gary took a swig from his bottle, “Can’t say I have, mate.”
“You know Wentry Road?” Gary nodded, “Well, about half way down there, on the left – you know, by the Rose and Crown?” Gary shook his head with furrowed brow, tugging back more on his bottle, “Anyway, two shops down from there is this tiny shop.  All white inside.  They promise they can get you anything.  Anything at all.  I had another trip there a couple of weeks ago.  See, the Missus was watching this nature documentary.  She saw this rare orchid, called the Rotchschild’s Orchid.  I thought I’d give it a go, see if they could find one.  They only did!  Don’t know how they do it, but they do.”
“Yeah, plants and toys?  They’re easy to get if you know the right people.  If they say everything, I bet they don’t mean literally anything.”
“I don’t know, mate.  I’ve heard they found some really weird stuff.”  Colin took a large drink from his own bottle.  And Gary dropped into contemplative thought, watching his son dodging a hand to make him It.  Gary decided that  tomorrow he would go to this shop and find out exactly what they could or couldn’t get.
Some time later -
“So, I went into this shop, and there was the bloke – are you listening?  I said there was the bloke –“
“I’m listening.  I’m listening.” said Ken Loft, almost as drunk as his drinking companion.  He didn’t know him all that well, though.  Ken had just turned up at the bar and saw this drunkard propping it up.  Gary Hanrey was insistent he talk and Ken listen.  As Gary was buying the drinks, Ken felt obliged.
“So this bloke, he was standing behind the white counter.  Anyway, he looks at me, I look at him, as you do.  He says to call him Paul.  So I do.  I say, Paul, can you get me anything, like anything I want?  And he says yes, just give him a couple of days and he would have it.  He would have it and he would have it, see?  Oh yeah, where was I?  Right, so I asked for the first thing that came to my head.  I’d been watching this camera in the street moving about.  I thought to myself, I thought, I bet they see a lot.  So I said to the man, Paul, behind the counter, I want to be able to see what every camera can see.  So he says, leave it with me, he says, and come back in two days.  By then I will have what you require.  So –“
“So you went back in two days?”
“Who’s telling this story?  Me or you?” Ken Loft shrugged with growing disinterest, “Anyway, I go back two days later, and I expect Paul the man to be, like, sorry, mate, couldn’t do what you wanted, and I would go, ha!  Told you!”
“And did he?  Did you?”
“No.  He got this laptop from under the counter and presented it to me with a smile.  What a smug smile that was, I tell you.  Anyway, he opened the laptop, fired up the screen, and there it was, lots and lots of camera feeds.  So I selected one.  It was an office.  Turned out to be an office in Downing Street!  Yeah, like the Prime Minister’s!  Yeah, yeah.  I can see you don’t believe me.  I brought up another, and there was the American President.  He was all arms and everything.  I can tell you’re not impressed.  Then it took a direction I wasn’t expecting.”
“Go on.” Ken’s interest was re-piqued.
“Nah, don’t think I wanna tell you the next bit.” Gary went quiet, reflective, staring at the optics behind the bar as he took another gulp of Lager.
“Come on, mate!  You gotta now!”
“Don’t think I want to.”
“Please?”
“Okay, as you ask nicely.  So I click on another window.  What do I see?  Dick Richard’s house.  You know him?  Dick by name, Dick by –“
“Yeah, I think I know who you mean.”
“So it was Dick’s room.  The feed must’ve been coming from his webcam or something.  So he walks in, taking his clothes off.  Course I was about to change it, but then I noticed someone else.  Becky.”
“As in your Becky, Becky?”
“As in my Becky, yeah.  I think you can guess the rest.  Been in here ever since.  I mean what’s the point?  There isn’t, that’s the answer.  Whatever.”  Gary finished off his drink and ordered another, with a whiskey chaser.
Some time later -
“Here you go.” said the man behind the white counter in the white painted shop.  The young child took the Moky Bear Doll from the man’s outthrust hands.  He smiled in kindness.
“Thank you!  Thank you so much!  I only wish I could repay you –“ said the child’s Mother, close to tears.
The man put up his hand, “Your Daughter has already paid me, in smiles.” he said.
Ken Loft watched the scene unfold with mild contempt at the lack of imagination of the child and her Mother.  But he waited for her to leave before he approached the man behind the counter.
“So, I hear you can literally get anything?” asked Ken.  The man merely pointed to the plaque with the shop’s motto, ‘We can get you anything.  Literally.’  So Ken decided to chance his arm.
“Well, there’s this Woman –“
“Say no more.” said the man with a smile.  But Ken did say more.
“Well, there’s this Woman, called Beth Cassidy.  I’ve wanted her to notice me, but she never does.  Can you get me that?”
“Let me get this right, Mr –“
“Loft, Ken Loft.”
“Mr Loft Ken Loft, matters of the heart are rarely an aspect we deal with –“
“You did say anything.  It’s right there, in your motto.”
The man stared deeply into Ken’s eyes until Ken felt uncomfortable, “Alright, Mr Loft Ken Loft.  If that is what you want, then that is what you shall have.” smiled the man, “Just give me a couple –“
“A couple of days.  Yeah, I got it.” said Ken, expecting nothing in return.  That would show this shop keeper to not make promises he can’t keep.  In fact Ken was considering reporting him to Trading Standards, when he inevitably would go back in two days, only to find there was nothing.
Some time later -
“You’re looking better there, Ken.” said Owen Quinn.  Owen was picking at the grapes he had brought for his friend, while visiting him in Hospital.  It seemed Ken Loft had been quite severely beaten.  There was no part of his body that wasn’t afflicted, be it by bruise or broken bone.  Still, he was on medication, so it didn’t hurt as much as it could.
“Yeah, well –“
“So, they arrested her then?  Beth Cassidy?”  Ken nodded, “Yeah, shame that.  You did have a good few months together though.”
“Yeah, until she became possessive, beating up any girl who so much as looked at me.  Started hitting me.  I was afraid for my life, I tell you.  I blame that Paul.”
“Paul who?”
“This bloke who runs this shop.  Between the wool shop and the religious book shop in Wentry Road?”
Owen Quinn looked at the floor, in thought, “Hmm.  Don’t think I recall –“
“Yeah, you know it.  Anyway, I asked for Beth to love me – “
“Exactly what kind of shop is this?”
“It’s not a knocking shop!  It’s an Everything Shop.”
“What’s an Everything Shop?”
“It’s a shop that gets you anything you want.”
“Nah, that’s not possible.”
“Well, it is.”
“Okay, say I believe you –“
“Believe me.”
“Say I believe you, what if I went and asked for something?”
“Try it,” said Ken as smugly as he was able, given his affliction.
“I will.” replied Owen, equally as smug.
Some time later -
“So, your name’s Paul?”
“Yes, call me Paul.” said Paul.
“I’ve heard from a friend that you can get anything?”
“No, sir.  We can get everything.”
“Alright, if you can get everything, how about world peace?”
“Is that what you desire, sir?” asked Paul, his head on a slant.
“It is.  Can you get me that?” asked Owen Quinn.
Paul stared at Owen an uncomfortable few seconds, but Owen didn’t flinch, “Give us a couple of days, sir.”
And so Owen left, obviously sceptic yet curious.  Paul seemed certain.  Owen remained unconvinced, however.
Some time later -
The news reports started on the Saturday.  First the British Prime Minister died, unexpectedly.  Then the US President.  Then the Arab Spring.  Many African Countries were soon without leaders, followed by the Asian Continent, the Australian Prime Minister, the Canadian Prime Minister, the German Chancellor, the Russian President; it went on and on, over a disturbing number of days.  The news media couldn’t keep up.  Reports were coming from every Country, every Nation, every Continent.  They were all dead.  Every leader of every country was dead.
And Owen Quinn believed.



The Cassette Tape
The Cassette Tape fell from the mishandled cardboard box.  The Case was worse for wear in places, cracks from age and the rapid temperatures of the loft marked it with white streaks of stress lines at the corners.  Paul swore as it fell, caught in his attempt to throw or give away some of the lost sentimentality of his childhood.
It hadn’t been the best.  Not for him.  He recalled the years of depression brought on by the unfortunate death of his friend, Ben.  He hadn’t been there when it happened.  He couldn’t even pass that place, that spot, not even up to and including this day.  See, some things cut deeper than others.  Some things remained within, long after everyone else has forgotten their name.  Ben Hove.  Paul would never forget that name.  How could he?  They were once inseparable.
Paul crouched to pick up the Cassette Tape.  It seemed undamaged.  He didn’t recognise it, and yet it felt familiar.  Perhaps it was the penmanship, or the doodles around the track names on the insert card in the cover?  There scribed were distinctly songs from the Eighties, but what yanked at a memory long since compartmentalised was its very distinctness.  He immediately went to the box it had fallen from, digging deeply, tossing artefacts and miscellany about him, trying to find something of the Tape’s provenance in the depths of carded memory.
Unsatisfied, Paul took the Tape and forced a memory forth that was buried deep within him.  Ben!  It was him!  It was his Tape!  Why did Paul have it, though?  And then he remembered; Ben’s parents had given him a few of their son’s keep-sakes - a school exercise book; that keyring he always carried.  Paul couldn’t immediately recall all the items his parents had given him, but he certainly didn’t remember a Cassette Tape.  Perhaps he was too distraught at the time to notice.  A little fiddling through another of the lowered boxes produced an old Cassette Player.  Amazingly the batteries still worked.  Paul took out the Cassette carefully, as though transporting an antiquity of immense value.  It was, in a kind of a way.  An object of infinite value - irreplaceable.
The speaker clicked, scraped and whirred as the muffled sounds of one of Paul’s and Ben’s favourite Eighties tracks began to play.  Paul hadn’t listened to this song for such a long time.  The memories were too raw.  All of a sudden, the music stopped, replaced by muffled sounds of movement, then a familiar voice.
“Paul, me old mate, me old mucker.  Sorry for breaking into the music, but for some reason I felt compelled to record this, what I’m about to say.  I know you’ll think it sad or stupid, or just weird, but, like I say, something is telling me to record these words.  So, here goes; Paul, I love you.  You are my best friend, and without you my life would be empty.  I hope we never leave each other, that we will always be friends as long as we live, and hopefully long after, when we’re both flecks of dust or unanchored energy, floating like flotsam among the stars.  I couldn’t imagine a life without you, and I hope you never have to imagine one without me.  But, if for some reason I die, or you do – sorry for weirding you out, Paul – I think we should understand that we once were two parts of a whole, and that as long as we remember that, the other person’s energy will always be with us.  Or we just die and go in a hole.  It doesn’t matter, because we once were friends.  Just think of those people who never met their own Paul or Ben?  Just think how empty they are, never having experienced that kind of indescribable love one friend can have for another?  But we did.  We had that.  No one and nothing can take that from us.  Okay, I said what felt like it needed to be said and I await your teasing and ridicule when I get back from the trip.  Right.  Got to remember to drop this Tape to Paul’s house later.  Okay, well –“ Click.  Another Eighties Classic synthesised its way distantly through the old tarnished and mildly rusting mono speaker of the Cassette Tape Player.
Paul listened to it over and over until he couldn’t listen anymore.



The Nineteen Thirty Fours
The Ministry was located in a large conurbation to the south east of England, referred to as the City.  It nestled neatly amongst the other indistinct grey buildings that surrounded it.  Recent activities had not changed it.  Access to the Ministry was granted through the double oak doors, opening into the marble-floored reception, where normally he would wait.  Times were different, however.  This time someone was waiting for him.
“This way, Minister.” bade a man in a grey suit, taking the Minister by the arm and leading him carefully to the elevator.  The grey suited man took a key from within his jacket and inserted it into the panel, selecting Lower Basement.  The elevator juddered onto rarely used and infrequently greased runners.
Upon reading it’s destination, the doors reopened to a dark concrete space, where echoes of dripping water thundered around the emptiness.  The grey suited man led the Minister to the centre of the floor, where a portion of the concrete slid aside to reveal a metal staircase illuminated in muted light.  The Minister followed the grey suited man to a door at the end of the staircase,  which the grey suited man opened and led the Minister to a single metal table in the centre of this new sanitised chamber.  Half the room was in darkness and obscuring the features of a man who sat at the table, gesturing with a gold watch covered arm at the spare seat opposite him.  The Minister sat as comfortably as he could, reacting marginally to the clang of the only door into the room closing behind him.
“Daniel Moss.” spoke the man.
“Yes sir.” replied Daniel, answering the question not asked.
The man opened the folder before him, reading a little, flipping over the odd photograph, while Daniel Moss remained patient.  The man arched his fingers under his chin and leaned into the light, eyes focussed on Daniel, “Report.”
“Where do you want me to start?” asked Daniel.
The man shrugged.
“Well, when first they appeared, all we saw were their eyes.  They were white.  Whiter than the deepest drift of snow on the highest peak.  Next came their clothes, dressed as gentlemen in three piece suits, muted colours of charcoal and grey.  Last came their features, craggy, stern, stoic, and almost certainly serious.
“’We come in peace.’ the Leader stated to me convincingly.”

#

Three Months Previously…
“It must have been important for you to call me in Professor Hill?”  Daniel Moss put the stout in front of the Professor, who took a gulp of the thick liquid, sucking the froth that tinged his off white beard.
“Surely Robert by now, my boy?” Daniel nodded an apology, “Certainly it is important, or I would not waste your valuable time, Daniel.  It’s expanding.”
Daniel took a sip from his dry cider, taking the time to eyeball the Professor for signs of humour, “You’re serious?  Come now, Professor – “
“I know how it sounds, Daniel.  Truly I do.  But I assure you I am fully compos mentis.  It’s getting bigger, exponentially.”
Daniel reached out with both his hand and his heart, “Professor – sorry, Robert.  You need some rest.  Take some time in the Algarve, or that little place in Scotland – “
“He’s not lying.  You should know that.”  Her voice was as familiar as the cock crow or first blackbird of the morning.
Daniel Moss turned on his stool, not quite sure if he hoped he was right, or was worried because he might be right; “Katrina?”
“Somebody had to continue his work after you left.” said Katrina, sitting next to her Father.  She hadn’t changed in the meantime.  Perhaps a little older around the eyes.
“It wasn’t like that – “ tried Daniel.
“No, it never is, is it, Danny?”  Katrina took a sip of her gin and tonic, re-enacting the same eyeballing at Daniel as he had done to the Professor.
“Just – take a look at these.” cut in Professor Hill, removing a thick folder from within his leather messenger bag, relieving none of the tension, and offering it to Daniel Moss.  He took it and began sifting through the comprehensive data.  There was a distinct spike in the readings.
“An anomaly?  Surely they – “ began Daniel.
“It’s too significant to be an anomaly, Danny.  It’s grown fifteen times greater than what it was just five years ago.” said Katrina.
“And those readings are from yesterday, Daniel,” included Professor Hill, “I have yet to gather the readings over the last eighteen hours, but initial findings point to it expanding at a rate of nought point six percent a day.”
“If these figures are right, what does it mean?” asked Daniel Moss, eyes flitting from Father to Daughter nervously.
“I can’t say with any certainty, but – “ started the Professor.
“Something is coming through, Danny.  Something from beyond that rip in the dimension.”  Katrina grasped Daniel’s hands involuntarily.
“I have to see this for myself,” said Daniel Moss, standing and grasping his coat, “But first I need to make a phone call.”

#

The air was crisp with a light chill coming from the horseshoe hills that surrounded Rockmount.  The verdant ground glistened with crystal like tears of water that clung to the foliage, a low hum of nearby activity mingled with the almost imperceptible crackle of static electricity the closer one got to ground zero.  The split in the dimension was close to a copse of trees, secluded and thus able to remain undetected for millennia.  It started at an atom thick, expanding infinitesimally over the intervening years.  People like Daniel and the Ministry had kept little secrets like this hidden from the public for as long as the Ministry had existed.  In fact it was because of a dissertation Daniel Moss wrote under the tutelage of Professor Robert Hill that he came to the notice of the Ministry in the first place, becoming employed in protecting the National Security interests of the country ever since.  He wasn’t able to tell Katrina that at the time, nor could he tell her Father.  They were Official Secrets.  He simply and slowly drifted from her life.  It seemed the right thing to do at the time.  There wasn’t the opportunity to regret, not on his part.  He had been swept up in his work so quickly.  Professor Hill’s Land Rover was parked a few feet from the rift.  He opened the back door and from it, Professor Hill pulled a heavy duty laptop.  He tapped away absently on the keyboard.
“Put these on.”  Katrina handed Daniel a pair of goggles she had retrieved from the car.  He did so.  The light became subdued and turned an unusual pitch of lilac.  Katrina directed Daniel’s gaze to a point some two feet in front of them.  It was a vertical crack, completely visible, diamond like light twinkling dangerously around the edge of the crack, with nothing but blackness beyond.  Daniel slid the goggles down his nose, looking at the space without filter and again with filter.
“It’s right there.  Tangible, almost touchable – “
Katrina grasped Daniel’s arm before he reached the crack, “Not a good idea, Danny.  We don’t know what it is yet.  Not completely.  It’s all still very theoretical.”  Daniel drew his arm back, as though touching the dancing flames of a fire.
Daniel took the opportunity he had been waiting for since seeing Katrina again after so long, “Look, I know you weren’t expecting me to come – “
“On the contrary.  I expected you to come, if only for Father’s sake.  Let’s not make it weird.  You have a job, I have a job.”
“Professional then.” agreed Daniel Moss.  Instantly the moment was broken.
“Come,” called Professor Hill from the tail of his vehicle, where the laptop displayed a frequently moving set of readings, “Look.  It’s still expanding.  And at a quicker rate.”
Daniel stared at the readings briefly, coming to a conclusion, “This looks troubling, Professor.  I think I’m going to have to call in a squad for this.  We need to isolate the area, just in case.”

#

Within a couple of hours, a portion of the fields west of Rockmount were tented in thick white plastic sheeting.  In the centre was a canvas-like tent large enough for the Professor’s experimental equipment and reading apparatus.  The crack was kept within an isolation booth made of metal and a glass of the type used in the goggles Katrina had given Daniel, which made the crack visible.  The tent was outlined by wooden tables, and one which faced the booth.  Minister Daniel Moss, Professor Robert Hill and his Daughter, Katrina Hill, sat in vigil, with a plethora of notes, graphs and electronic equipment before them.
Time and tiredness loosened their tongues.
“I remember when you first broached the subject of inter-dimensional rips.” began Daniel, absently reminiscing.
“It was that lecture, lost to time now, I suspect.  The one where you first saw Katrina.” continued Professor Hill.
“Don’t start, Father.  That’s ancient history.” admonished Katrina.
“You used to come over to my house, under the pretext of learning more about the unusual and theoretical.  Of course I knew you were there to see Katrina.” said Professor Hill, now amused.
“That’s it Father.  Enough.”
“Regardless, it was true, Kat.” said Daniel.
“For some time as I recall.” said Professor Hill.
“Yes, then he became ambitious, and left both of us behind.  I do remember, Father.  I just choose not to recall it.”
“Katrina, it wasn’t like that – “ Daniel stopped in his tracks as half the lights in the tent extinguished.
The feeling akin to a large object being sucked into a vacuum took their breaths.  It was like their eardrums were about to explode, until pressure was re-established.  Silence the length of an inhale-exhale settled about them.  And they were not alone.
“We come in peace.” the man with the white eyes said.

#

“Why didn’t you inform me of this earlier?”
“It didn’t seem a danger then, Colonel Cooper.”  Daniel stood his ground.  He had worked frequently with Colonel Evan Cooper, a bluster of a man, famed for his bark and his quickness to anger - he was a dangerous man when cornered.  The two men stood outside the flap of the tent, with the crack and five well dressed men beyond, all of middling age, and not one had pupils in their eyes.  Even though impossible to discern accurately, the pure white eyes bored into their subjects with an intensity of concentration leading to uncomfortableness.
“Regardless, rules dictate – “
“Don’t shout rules at me, Colonel!  It happened.  They’re confined.  I did my job, and now it’s time for you to do yours.”  Daniel pushed past him and entered the tent, to stand next to the Professor and Katrina, who were still mesmerised by the visitors.  The one who had spoken, the one they currently regarded as the leader turned his focus to Daniel Moss.  Daniel felt a shiver down his spine, the probing eyes giving nothing away.  He studied these men, searching for visual cues or signs of emotion.  Minutes later, the Colonel entered with half a dozen armed men.  He walked up to the isolation booth where the white eyed men stood motionless, releasing the catch on the front of the booth.
“If you please, gentlemen?  Would you follow me?”  The armed men flanked the visitors, weapons loaded and pointing.  Colonel Cooper began to walk out of the tent, followed by the squad and their visitors.  Daniel rose but his protests fell on deaf ears.
The visitors were moved to a more secure and recently erected steel shed, which currently housed Military Operations.  Daniel realised he, the Professor and Katrina were slowly becoming surplus to requirements.
“This doesn’t feel right.” mused the Professor.
“You can say that again.” agreed Katrina.
“But an opportunity nonetheless.  Katrina, my instruments.”  The Professor clapped his hands together in excitement, taking some of the reading instruments from the tables that surrounded the tent and placing them at strategic points around the crack, “There is clearly more to investigate here.  Leave them to those white eyed people.  This inter-dimensional rip has more to give.”
Daniel nodded, “Well, I need to call back to the Ministry, for a briefing.  Keep me informed, Professor?  Katrina?”
“Will do, Danny.” replied Katrina.

#

“This is troubling,” spoke the voice of Daniel Moss’s Immediate Superior, back at the Ministry and on the other end of the telephone, “Without further conversation, it’s difficult to ascertain their threat level.  I mean, why are they here?  What do they want?  Just how dangerous can they be?”
“I agree, sir,” added Daniel Moss, “There must be a motive, or why bother?  Surely crossing dimensions isn’t that easy to accomplish.  They must want something we have.  But I do have to say, they’ve shown absolutely no signs of aggression.  I just hope Colonel Cooper isn’t antagonising them too much.”
“Colonel Cooper?  That blowhard?” sighed the Superior, “No, let’s hope he’s keeping his distance.”  The Superior’s voice lowered and his words seemed more carefully chosen, “Go back into the field, Moss.  Keep them locked up, for their own safety of course.  Don’t take your eyes off of them.  Find out what they want.”
“Will do, sir.  Over and out.”  Daniel replaced the receiver, aware that Army Personnel were watching him.  He didn’t know if this was an order from Cooper, or military curiosity over civilian actions, but he picked the receiver up once again and dialled his office.  Karen, his secretary, answered.
“Anything occurred while I was out?” asked Daniel, dispensing with the pleasantries.
“There have been a few recent attacks on the general populace.  The unusual part of it is whoever is attacking them is taking Cerebrospinal Fluid.  Reports of one dead at scene.” explained Karen.
“Very odd.  But top priority goes to the Rockmount Incident.  Everything else is below this.  Send a small team to investigate this CSF theft and death.  And I want everything we have on white eyed cross dimensional men.”
“On its way, sir.” answered Karen, hanging up.

#

Time was moving on and the sky suggested late afternoon.  There were a few clouds visible, but it didn’t threaten rain.  Daniel exited the Communications Tent into slightly cooler air, but almost immediately was accosted by a shabbily dressed man who had obviously been waiting for this opportunity.
“Daniel Moss.  I must speak to you.  I know what’s going on.”
Daniel dismissed him and continued walking, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.  This is private property.”
“Have you heard of the theft of CSF?”
“What if I have?”
“Do you know who is doing it?”  The man tried to keep pace with Daniel, jogging sideways just in front of him.
“Even if I knew what you were talking about, I couldn’t possibly comment.”  Daniel gestured for the two nearest guards to take the man away.
“Minister Moss, I think you’ll want to hear this.  People are saying the ones stealing the CSF have no pupils.  Their eyes are pure white – “
Daniel stopped suddenly in his stride, causing the other man to lightly trip over himself, keeping to his feet and facing Daniel, “Listen, Mr – “
“Ian Thompson.”
“Listen Mr Thompson, things are going on you can’t possibly know or get involved in.  For your own safety we are going to have to arrest you.”
“But I can print it?”
“Ok, I don’t have time for this.  Take him away.”

#

The tape in the old silver Dictaphone clicked and whirred, the squeak of old overused spools chorused with the mechanical whir.  Someone cleared their throat.
“For the record, this is Daniel Moss, Minister, with Colonel Cooper of Rapid Response, sitting opposite Mr Basil – “
“Just Basil will do, Daniel.” smiled the Leader.  The action was made creepier by the whiteness of his eyes.  Daniel Moss left the voice recorder running, despite the lapse in protocol.  It was only the second thing any of the visitors had said since arriving.
“Well then Basil.  What can you tell us about yourself and your people?  For instance, these other gentlemen’s names who sit at the table also?” said Daniel, gesturing with a fountain pen at the others.
“I am Basil, I lead these people.  This to my left is Loeb, to his left Abel, to my right Azeal, to his right Elias.  Including these men, there are one thousand nine hundred and thirty four of us.”
There was an audible gasp on the tape.
“That many?  How can you say then that you come in peace?” jumped in Colonel Cooper.  One of his aides was already hurrying from the tent.
“We mean no harm.  Our intentions are not destruction.”
“So what are your intentions?” asked Daniel.
“I will talk to your Leader, Nathan Hughes.  I will reveal our intentions to him alone.”

#

There was the click, click, whir.  The familiar sound of the tape recorder.
“You look troubled, Daniel.”  The white eyes of Basil, the one identified as Leader, gazed invisibly on the Minister’s face.  Daniel shifted uncomfortably.
“Can you tell me why you’re here?”
“This matter has already arisen.  I will speak only with Prime Minister Hughes on this subject.”
“Nathan Hughes is busy.” cut in Colonel Evan Cooper.
Basil kept his white eyes fixed on Daniel, “And yet I will speak only with him.”
“You must understand we cannot simply get the Leader of this country to leave his Office and travel to an unsecured location?”
“I assure you we mean no harm.”
“Even still, you must allow us to investigate your intentions to see if you prove a risk – “
“Is my word not enough?”
“Not a chance in Hell, friend.” said Colonel Cooper.

#

The spools squeaked rhythmically; one, two.  One, two.
“Basil, I have good news.  Prime Minister Nathan Hughes has agreed to talk to you over conference call.”  Daniel Moss pulled out the laptop, the screen flashing ‘Awaiting Response’ in sans serif, white letters on black background.
“Daniel.  Why do you antagonise us so?” asked Basil, his expression never changing from the deep stoic, stern and passive features.
“We meant no offence – “ tried Daniel.
“Look, it’s the best you are going to get.  Press the button, Minister.” spoke up Colonel Cooper.
This elicited a response from Basil and his men.  The tent darkened, the lights flickered and blew.  The place was plunged into sudden darkness.  Colonel Cooper reacted on instinct, instructing his men to surround the visitors.  He himself fumbled for a torch, flicking it on and darting the strong beam around the tent.  There was no sign of Basil and his men.  Nothing at all.  Daniel pulled himself from his shock.  He rose, and as he did so, there erupted shouts from another part of the Confinement Camp.  Daniel rushed out to see where the noise had come from.  A guard was running toward the Communication Tent.  He called to anyone who would hear as he ran.
“The reporter, Ian Thompson.  He’s dead.”

#

There was murmur of activity everywhere.
“The whole camp was in blackout, Minister.  We still can’t ascertain its source.”
“Thank you, Officer.  But I think I may have a suspicion.”
“Sorry, sir?”
“Never mind.  Carry on.”
Daniel Moss clapped the Officer on his shoulder and entered the tent where Professor Hill and his Daughter were still carefully taking readings and testing the inter-dimensional rip, despite the recent activity.  Thankfully the Professor’s equipment was unharmed by the blackout.  Daniel crouched beside Katrina.
“I need you for something.” said Daniel, excitedly.
“Danny, I don’t have time, Dad needs – “
“This is important, Kat.” explained Daniel.
“Alright, what’s more important than the rip?”
“You’re not going to see it as such right now, but I need you to go into the Colonel’s tent and bring out some evidence for me?”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?  Come on Danny, there’s too much to do here – “
“I can’t go in, Kat.  If I did, it would raise too much suspicion.  I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.”
“I still don’t see why not.”
“You have to look at it this way; in my work for the Ministry, the military is a necessary evil.  My job is only to detect the danger and report it to NatSec.  After that, I’m kind of in the way.  And the military have a way of steamrollering into a situation and destroying the chain of evidence.  If I remove the evidence, it’s a National Security matter.  If you do it, then its par for the course for the military, losing evidence.”
“I swear Danny, if I get arrested – “
“You won’t.  Just go in there and take the evidence pertaining to the Reporter Ian Thompson.”
“The dead man in the brig?”
“Yes.  He mentioned something very important before he was arrested.  I need to see what he knew.  Kat, we could be in serious trouble here.”
“Alright.  Just this once.  And don’t expect any more favours.” teased Katrina with bright eyes.

#

“I first heard of these attacks three weeks ago.  My instinct told me to investigate, and I never ignore my instinct.
“Her name is Theresa.  This is how she explained it to me.  She had just got in from work, and she already felt tired.  She changed into something more comfortable and prepared her meal, hoping for an early night.  Then came the darkness and the shadows.  All she remembered before she awoke again was the intense feeling of pressure sucking her into the chair, the shadow falling over her and the feeling she wasn’t alone.  When she did wake, she was considerably weaker, her food was burning, and much time had elapsed.  She explained her neck gave her pain and when feeling for the cause, found a small puncture wound.  After a visit to hospital, she was informed her Cerebrospinal Fluid was very low, dangerously so.
“The next report I had was similar, but this time the intruder was caught.  The shadows fell as before.  The potential victim is called Jack.  He turned to see three men dressed in suits.  He leapt for one, the other two pulling him from the one holding some kind of silver like contraption, with a big thick needle on one end.  A struggle ensued and one of the men struck his head sharply on a wall.  There was no blood, but the other two picked up their partner.  Jack says he was confused at this point as the shadows seemed to soak into the room, an unnatural kind of darkness.  When it left, the men were gone.  The overriding thing he remembered about the men was they all had white eyes.  No pupils.  Just white eyes.”

#

“Danny.  You know what this means?” asked Katrina, having just finished reading the notes which Daniel Moss had handed to her.  They were sitting in the small tent designated as Daniel’s quarters.
“It means whatever they are here for, it isn’t peace.  And why spinal fluid?”
“It also means we are in great danger.  We have to get away, while we can.  These people, these creatures, they’ll be after us.”
Daniel Moss rose and moved to his desk, sifting through the drawers, “I have to – “  His words were cut short.  The lights blew, fizzing electricity.
“We don’t have time, Danny!  Let’s get Father!”  Their exit from the tent was accompanied by screams and shouts, and the rapid shots of automatic fire.  They pushed through the scattering people and made for the tent where the Professor was guarding the rip.  They slipped inside.
“Daniel!  Katrina!  Look, the rip is reacting – “ began Professor Hill.
“We know Professor!  Come on!  We have to go!”
On turning to leave, Daniel saw that their exit was blocked by Basil, flanked by Loeb and Abel.  They looked passive, “Daniel?  Is there something wrong?”
“You know perfectly well what’s wrong!” spat Daniel.
“If you had done as I asked and brought Prime Minister Nathan Hughes to us – “
“Then what?  You weren’t going to talk to him.  You were going to control him.” said Daniel.
“You underestimate us, Daniel.  That is your downfall.  I told you we came in peace.  Then one of you killed one of us.  That was a declaration of war.”
“And you killed Ian Thompson!”
“Now that, that was because he knew too much.  As do you, Daniel.  As do you Professor Hill and your Daughter Katrina.  I had hoped we could have worked together, Daniel.  It is a shame.  We could have used someone as gullible and trusting as you.”
Katrina grabbed Daniel by the arm, already holding tight to her Father’s, and pulled them to the rear of the tent.  She let go of Daniel’s arm long enough to pull a small pocket knife from her coat, tearing a hole in the thick fabric, “Enough talk!  We should get the Hell out of here!”
They ran and the words of Basil followed them; “We are patient.  We can wait.  But we will find you, and we will kill you.”  It fell to nothing however, as the trio could barely make out the last word.  They were already running.  Running anywhere, just away from this destruction.
It was true.  Earth was at war.

#

Two months pass…
In the two months since the Rockmount Incident Daniel and Katrina had grown inseparable.  Generally, also, things had moved on a pace.  A resistance had built up, led by Prime Minister Nathan Hughes, and manned by those still able to fight; man, woman and child.
Fighting had been slow and difficult.  It was discovered these 1934’s could travel by shadow.  And if they travelled by shadow, light became the resistance’s only defence.   The remainder of the day was spent collecting Intel on the interlopers.  In the time available, Katrina and Daniel had learned new skills, including the use of ordinance, hunting and spying.  Katrina made a point of never being without explosives in her rucksack and alternately Daniel was never without a compass.
A group of scientists, led by Professor Robert Hill, were looking for a way to harness the light as a permanent weapon against the 1934’s, to either kill or return them to their place of origin.  No one had been able to return to Rockmount for some considerable time and those who tried had been destroyed.  Surprisingly and luckily, some of Professor Hill’s instruments were left running, and continuing to take readings.  Professor Hill had at least been able to ascertain no other visitors had come through.  This allowed the scientists to devise a hypothesis that one thousand nine hundred and thirty four was the limit for inter-dimensional travel.  And yet the rip was continually changing shape, fluctuating from a few inches wide to a few feet.  The current understanding by the Professor and his colleagues was that the rip was in flux, meaning it had only a finite time  before it would collapse.  If they didn’t figure out a way of destroying or sending back these 1934’s, the scientists surmised that they could be stuck with them permanently.  Whether the 1934’s too understood this was pure speculation.  The Professor also speculated that they would likely be too focussed elsewhere to notice.
The time was early and the resistance HQ was slowly waking up.  Daniel and Katrina were seated in the Prime Minister’s makeshift office, where Nathan Hughes was pacing uncontrollably.
“We lost some of our best people in that food raid last night.  They’re getting closer.”
Daniel looked to Katrina and spoke, “We’re well protected here sir.  Don’t worry.”
“Not the point, Dan.  If they are getting closer, it means the outlying counties must be down.  If they are down, we have weeks at best.  Without food, frankly we have days.  We’re desperate for rations and I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important – “
“Say no more,” expressed Katrina, rising from her seat, “Danny, let’s go.”  She made for the door, and Daniel responded to the Prime Minister with a respectful nod.
“You can count on us.” said Daniel, following Katrina.

#

The roads were treacherous and precarious in the outlying county borders.  Daniel and Katrina kept to areas of illumination while attempting to also keep hidden, an act that quickly turned into an instinctual art form.  Daniel still knew a few places to go, despite the near blanket coverage the 1934’s had over the country.
As Daniel and Katrina neared an old popular spot, a commotion drew their attention.  It occurred that once the 1934’s had begun their war, people that were lucky managed to escape.  People that weren’t so lucky left their houses abandoned in a bid to escape.  Many didn’t make it alive.  And the commotion was coming from one of those abandoned houses.
Spying through the window, Daniel and Katrina could see four humans, two being held down by 1934’s.  The other two were struggling to free themselves from being held and prepared by the other 1934’s.  The 1934’s held needle contraptions, already deeply inserted into the held down humans, pulling convulsively the CSF from their captives.
“Leave them.” whispered Katrina, crouched and turning.
“Kat!  You know we can’t.  What does that make us if we abandon these people?  Does it make us different from them?”  Daniel pointed vaguely at the 1934’s.
“I know where your compassion is, Danny, but we can barely cope as we are.  Do you want to be burdened with four more?”
“Kat, you’re thinking with your head and not your heart.”
Katrina’s face tensed in a combination of supplication and regret; “I’m sorry, Danny,” she said at last, “These times harden a person.  But you’re right.  We must preserve human life, whatever the cost.”  Katrina gestured for Daniel to lead on.
The house’s front door was wide open, jammed as such by the fetid pile of old newspapers and leaves that had drifted unopposed down the lanes and into the housing estates.  Katrina and Daniel crept into the house, through the hall, and up behind the two 1934’s preparing the humans for CSF extraction.  With a well timed and well practiced act, both Katrina and Daniel inserted their knives into the base of the skull of each 1934, a quick kill learned by great trial and much error over their time in the resistance.  The two 1934’s dropped to the floor lifeless, allowing the two freed humans to rain an attack on the remaining 1934’s, saving their friends.
When it was done, everyone took a second or two to relax, “Thank you very much for – “ began one of the four humans, a woman with fair hair, out of breath.
“Wait a minute.  How can we trust you?  You might be after our supplies.” interrupted the greying man, one of those who had been held down and the needle inserted.
Katrina wiped her knife on the remains of the 1934 she killed, “If we wanted that we would have waited until the 1934’s had drained you and just steal it while you were helpless.”
“1934’s?” asked the youngest, a man barely out of boyhood.  He rubbed his fingers at the point where the needle had been inserted into his neck.
“That’s what they’re called.” said Katrina.
“Why?”  the young man quizzed.
“Because when they came, there was one thousand nine hundred and thirty four of them.” explained Daniel distractedly.
“There’s less than that now.” put in the last of the group, a more mature woman.
“Considerably less, yes.  Soon, none.” said Katrina.
“How can you be so sure?” asked the older man.
“Because we are part of the resistance, and people like my Father, a Professor, are working hard on taking them out.”
“You’re resistance?  So you’re out here for a reason?” asked the older man.
“Yes.  Our Headquarters is desperate for food.  We had no choice but to make a run.  There is supposed to be a spot up here – “ started Daniel.
“The supermarket?  I’m afraid that place has been picked clean.” explained the younger man.
“Damn it!” said Katrina.
“There is a village not far from here, though.  I heard tell there’s an untouched supermarket there.” said the young man.
Katrina looked to Daniel.  He nodded.
“You should come with us,” said Katrina, “Safety in numbers.”

#

They made camp a few miles from the town they had come from because it was getting more and more dangerous to sleep in houses.  That was always the first place the 1934’s searched when hunting humans.  A tent in a field at least made it considerably more difficult for them to detect humans.
Daniel and Katrina shared rations with and talked to the group about the resistance movement, leaving out their own personal history and involvement with the introduction of the 1934’s.  They learned each others names; Ben was the youngest, Sal the young woman, Tess the older woman and finally Frank, the older man.  The group’s stories were varied and as simplistic as the story of many displaced humans in the short period that was from peace to war.  Eventually the sun began to rise and they decided to grab a few hours sleep before they moved on.  Tess and Sal shared a tent, Ben and Frank having their own.  Daniel and Katrina rarely trusted tents, so slept under the tarpaulin they carried with them.  It was damp, but at least it was safe.
No more than an hour’s sleep passed before someone in camp screamed.  Everyone who could, exited their cover and rounded the dying fire.  Everyone except Tess.
“What the Hell happened?” spluttered Daniel, barely conscious.
Sal was inconsolable.  She wept as she spoke, “One came in!  It got her!  Her head’s the other way!”
Daniel forced his way to the tent flap.  He pulled the blue nylon aside.  No blood.  But yes, Tess’s head now faced the wrong way.  It was unmistakable who the perpetrator was.  No human had the strength to do that.
Ben looked around wild eyed.  Some spirit took him and he ran - in any direction other than where he was now.  Sal, still in tears tried to call him back.
“Calm down, Sal.  What’s done is done.  It’s hateful, but it’s done,” Frank turned to face Katrina and Daniel, “I have to go.  You know – “
“Of course, and here – “ Katrina passed Frank her knife, “Base of the skull.  Instant.”  Frank nodded his appreciation and took Sal by the shoulder, leading her off in the direction Ben had fled.
“We are nothing if we do not look after our own.” said Daniel to the disappearing figures, like a personal mantra.  It had happened so fast.  Things didn’t stand still in this world any more.  If they did they were swept up into some kind of tragedy.
It took most of the rest of the next day to find the village Ben had mentioned, but it was there.  The Supermarket was too, but not quite as untouched as Ben had said.  Resources were becoming scarce.  They had to do something about the 1934’s soon, or there would be nothing left and no one to resist the 1934’s.
Picking a trolley each, Katrina and Daniel separated, collecting only the most essential items; canned food, bottled water, first aid kits and anything else useful.  They rested up in a field adjacent to the supermarket, watching the sky and reminiscing about how strange it was that the universe looked the same regardless of what was occurring on Earth.  And currently it was Hell on Earth.  Katrina pointed out that the universe had finite energy, and that while the 1934’s occupy this universe, some of this one must be occupying their’s.  Otherwise this universe was fit to burst.  Daniel was distracted though, by the lights that sparkled on the horizon.  The pair hid their supplies under their tarpaulin and went to investigate.

#

Upon approach, it turned out to be a warehouse, or at least had the appearance of one.  Daniel and Katrina looked through the cracks in the wall that bled luminescent light, putting a cautious eye to them.  It only needed the briefest of inspections to see it’s function.  It was a human farm.  The warehouse was filled with naked humans, suspended in mid air, fed through and held by the multitude of clear tubes inserted everywhere into their bodies.  One chrome looking tube came from the base of the skull, clearly an extraction tube.  It seemed the humans were being kept alive in order to perpetually harvest CSF.
“Danny!  Look up there!” said Katrina, pointing to the gantry.  There, joined by Loeb and Elias, was the unmistakable form of Basil, “We have to do something Danny!”
“Like what?  Blow it up?  There are human beings in there, Kat!  Human beings!”
Katrina grabbed Daniel by the shoulders and forced him to look into her eyes, as he himself had done to her back at the abandoned house, “They aren’t humans anymore, Danny.  They’re sacks of blood and bone, and little else.  Their muscles have atrophied, they’re being kept in a half coma - think of the pain they must be in!  We could perhaps save half a dozen, but then what?”
Daniel looked at the people.  Each one was a human being, with thought, love, emotion and, it would seem, pain.  Of course it went against everything in every fibre of his body.  But they were lost, and Katrina was right.  Better to put them out of their pain, while trying to take some of the hierarchy of the 1934’s with them.  Now, surely, that would be something for these people to die for?
Katrina worked quickly.  She set up some explosive charges she had manufactured herself at resistance headquarters, placing them at strategic points outside the warehouse, “Come on,” she pleaded with Daniel, “We have to go!”
“But, aren’t you going to check on the explosives?”
“Danny, by the time they blow, we want to be far away!  That explosion is going to light the sky over the next county!  I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be evaporated!  Plus once it goes, 1934’s are going to be crawling all over this place!”
And of course Daniel didn’t need much persuading.  The pair returned to their hidden stash and made the treacherous trip back to headquarters.

#

The light was disappearing and the air felt crispy with the promise of rain by the time the pair returned, carrying their haul behind them.  And, due to their efforts back at the Farm, they were greeted back with battle subdued celebration.  The explosion had taken out a sizeable chunk of the 1934’s.  For reasons only known to them, many 1934’s had congregated in that particular area.  Katrina, Daniel and others presumed it was something to do with the location of the CSF.  Once the first explosion hit, other 1934’s came to investigate and protect the harvest, only to be taken out by subsequent explosions.  It must have been an important strategic place for the 1934’s.  Simply put, it was the single greatest hit on the 1934’s since the resistance had begun.  And, as it turned out, that wasn’t the only good news.
Professor Hill and his Think Tank had made a breakthrough.
The briefing room was cleared of all but those on a need-to-know basis, namely the Professor, the Prime Minister and the duo Daniel and Katrina.  Discussions had begun almost as soon as Daniel and Katrina had returned.
“So, what is it you need from us?” asked Nathan Hughes of the Professor.  Professor Hill had described to them, using simulations on the limited computer capacity they had, how he and his colleagues had determined that with the use of a particular sonic resonance, they could disrupt the atoms that made up the 1934’s, assuming they functioned in a similar way to how this universe did.  The educated assumption was that the 1934’s universe would resonate at a different rate.  If it was correct and used efficiently, it would leave the atoms in this world undisturbed.
“It’s untested, you see.  So far it’s all theoretical.” answered the Professor.
“So you need live targets?  That’s going to be difficult and dangerous.” expressed Daniel.
“I can see where Dad is coming from though.  This really could work.  We have to test it.” said Katrina, proudly clutching the Professor’s arm.
“Then we have no choice,” said Prime Minister Nathan Hughes, “We have to make our position aware.”
The trio looked to each other in surprise.  No one had expected Nathan to say this, “Surely there’s a more sensible answer than that?  What about light?  Have you exhausted all avenues there?” said Daniel.
“He’s right, Danny.  We have a chance of containing it here.  Out in the open we would be overwhelmed.  Besides, as Dad told me, light is too unpredictable and unstable to be a viable weapon.” said Katrina.
“But it means we’re exposed.  The resistance is exposed.” said Daniel.
“And if it works, we won’t need the resistance for much longer.” said Nathan Hughes.
“It’s suicide.” said Daniel, his eyes searching those of Nathan Hughes.
“We each have our role.  Daniel, my friend, you know this to be true.  Move out as many people as you can.  A voluntary skeleton crew will be enough.  Go, do as instructed.”  Katrina nodded acceptance of her orders and left the briefing room, “We have to take our chances where we can, Dan.  Surely you understand that?”
“Of course, but I find it hard to watch someone I care for throw their life away.”
“For a good cause, Dan.  For the best cause; for freedom.”
It was true and Daniel was somewhat comforted by that.  Things had to be done quickly and Daniel needed to make himself useful, so used his university education and aided the Professor and his colleagues with putting the finishing touches to the sonic device.  It was a rudimentary collection of circuit boards, wires and buttons, with a strong speaker as its barrel.  The Professor adjusted the frequency modulator, setting what he assured himself to be the approximation the mathematical algorithm designated to be the sonic frequency of the 1934’s universe.

#

It was creeping into night when the non-essential personnel had been removed, taken far away, locked safely in predetermined safe houses, and the emotional protests of family and friends had died for those who chose to stay behind.  The two dozen volunteers marked the danger areas in the headquarters of the resistance and waited.  The Prime Minister was ready by that time to drop the security protocols to make their location visible.  The sonic device was at the ready, and so was the trio of Daniel, Katrina and the Professor, with Prime Minister Nathan Hughes, his face a stoic impenetrable visage, held a steady hand on the control panel.  He nodded to the others curtly and deactivated the security systems.  The sound of motors powering down was joined with a number of sirens ringing their pulsing, buzzing noise.  From that moment the change took only a second or two.
The Briefing Room quickly descended into half darkness, shadow sucking the atmosphere out of the immediate area, light returning enough for the four of them to see three smartly dressed 1934’s, their white eyes burning with an intensity, advancing swiftly on the Prime Minister.  The Professor fired the sonic device.
It was a success.  The 1934’s were halted in their tracks, appearing frozen in space, their atoms disrupted enough for them not to animate.  The Professor turned up the power.  The 1934’s shimmered, their atoms dispersing, making a collage of once humanoid figures, until there was nothing.  A split second later, three more 1934’s appeared.
“Fire again Robert!” called out Daniel.
The Professor shook the device, “It needs to charge up again, Daniel!  The power depleted the charge!  Do something!”
Three more 1934’s appeared.  Daniel could see the way this was going.  He forced Katrina and the Professor to make for the door, while he tried to reach the Prime Minister.  Nathan Hughes shook his head at Daniel.
“Self Destruct PM one dash one dash zero.  Initiate.  Run, Dan!  Run as far and as fast as you can!”
Daniel didn’t need telling twice.  Even with further protestation from Katrina and the Professor, Daniel forcibly pushed them to escape through the emergency tunnels, out onto the Downs.  It was Nathan Hughes’s choice.  It was his position.  It was his obligation.  He would die a hero.  And take out a large number of those 1934’s as well.  What a way to die!

#

The sky seemed darker at that moment, the odour of rain recently finished and the small mud enclosed puddles showed that right now, even in this time and place, life went on.  They emerged from the tunnels.  Katrina kept looking back into the darkness, a desire to return, to help, in her posture.  The desire may be there, but Daniel knew she would never leave her Father.  The Professor himself was crouched, examining the device for damage, and something else.  In the explosive silence, he spoke up.
“You know, with a few teaks, this could work on the rip?”
Daniel looked to him surprised, “You sure?  You mean we could end all this?”
“It seems perfectly logical.  Yes.”
“To Rockmount then?” asked Katrina, now standing next to Daniel and smiling at her Father with pride, a little bounce of excitement in her steps.

#

Even over such a short period of time, it was positive that things had changed.  The streets would be more dangerous now and there was no telling the presence of 1934’s in Rockmount.  So it was left to the trio to come up with a plan.  Daniel would go to a highly populated area and cause a ruckus, drawing attention to himself, while Katrina and the Professor would attempt to sneak around the outskirts of towns and villages, in the less populated areas, to eventually reach Rockmount where they would set up the sonic device in front of the rip.  The Professor would make his teaks, and it would be job done.  They would be kidding themselves to think of it as anything but an emotional decision.  Katrina and Daniel knew this might be the last time they saw each other, but they could both see how it was for the good of the human race.  Nothing was more important than that.  Not anymore.
“Damn it, Danny!  When did you get so brave?” said Katrina, holding on to him, clinging like she didn’t want him to leave.
“When I first met you, Kat.  There’s something about you that makes people brave.” answered Daniel.  He kissed Katrina gently on the forehead.
“Look after yourself, son.” said the Professor, shaking Daniel by the hand.  It was time to leave, and Daniel took one last look behind him at the Professor and Katrina before disappearing into the darkness.

#

If it succeeded then it would all have been worth it.  Daniel consoled himself with those words, wandering in the opposite direction to where the Professor and Katrina were heading.  His role was simple, but full of hazard.  And it was the best plan they had, given the circumstances.  They were running out of ideas and running out of people.  The human race had to survive, if only to repel the invaders.  It was an imperative.
Daniel chose his point of attack - a town near the east coast, the name lost to history.  There were many hiding places, but also many entry points for the 1934’s.  He was prepared, however.  Minister Daniel Moss was always prepared.  It was how he had lived so long in his job.  Many didn’t survive the hunting of oddities, as he described what he did for an occupation.  Quite a few suicides were recorded in the Ministry files, from those who had seen what the world was really like and couldn’t bear it.  Daniel spared a quick thought for people like that.  Had they been the first to succumb?  Surely not.  Or had they accepted that there were things beyond their understanding, all around them?  Things like this outbreak happened all the time, but mostly they were contained to a tiny area.  The 1934’s had taken the Ministry by surprise.  They got out of containment and spread like a disease.
Daniel would continue to use his instinct, however.  It had kept him alive thus far.  He didn’t have to wait long for his chance, it turned out.  During the two month growth of 1934’s power, Daniel had spent time watching their collective tactics, their movements and noted their hunting patterns.  Their number was certainly depleted, as Daniel had suspected, and the 1934’s had taken to hunting alone.  One such 1934 walked into Daniel’s trap.
Daniel took the initiative presented to him and leapt onto the back of the 1934.  It flung about, throwing Daniel over it’s shoulder, crashing him into the rubble of a wall.  Fine dust rose, clogging the air and covering both Daniel and the 1934 with a thin coating.  Daniel rose quickly, tackling the 1934 to the floor.  The surprised 1934 didn’t know how to react.  Daniel tied it up, only stopping briefly against the struggling 1934 to knock it unconscious on the hard pavemented ground.

#

It was an hour before dawn when the 1934 awoke.  It was tied to a banister in the house Daniel had prepared for it.
“You are Minister Daniel Moss.  Basil is very keen to speak to you.” said the 1934.
“I bet he is.  I’d quite like a word with him too.”
“You will be dead before then.”
“Says the tied up one.” said Daniel.
“Already they come for me.” said the 1934, with a touch of humour in its voice.
“I’m counting on it.”
“You know it is just a matter of time, Daniel Moss.  The human race is almost over.”
“So it would seem.” said Daniel.
“You surprise me, Daniel Moss.  Those of your race I have encountered so far screamed and begged for their life.”
“That’s because I know something they don’t.”
“And what is that Daniel Moss?” asked the 1934, tilting it’s head to one side.
“Wait and see.”
Suddenly, the room dropped it’s light.  A deep darkness descended, engulfing the 1934’s side of the room.  As the light returned softly to the rest of the room, standing behind the hostage were seven equally smartly dressed 1934’s.  Daniel had been waiting for this.  He flipped the switch at his side and four halogen lights clunked and buzzed into life, chasing away the darkness from the room.  Daniel knew he only had limited power for the lights, so he moved quickly.  The illuminated 1934’s tried to move, but they were weakened in the glare.  Taking full advantage, Daniel stood and in turn, made sure to kill all but the hostage.  Calmly and with some delight, he plunged his knife into the base of the skull of each 1934 in situ, with the hostage left in hell to the glare of the light.  He was done.  They would come now.   It was time for Daniel to return to Rockmount.

#

Daniel had been cautious and did well to mostly miss any more hunting parties.  It seemed his subterfuge had worked to some extent.  The word was most certainly out.  And that word was ‘Kill’.  With numbers depleted, the 1934’s were in disarray.  Even still Daniel took no chances.  There was nothing so dangerous as an animal cornered.
Rockmount had hardly changed.  The buildings of the town were still intact, the outlying farmland untouched.  Early afternoon light burned through the trees and warmed the ground a little.  It was relatively cloudless and the air still.  Daniel approached the clearing near the trees where the whole caper had started from.  The centre tent was still intact, but the umbilical plastic tubes and the makeshift containment and research tents were long since destroyed.  Daniel could see the Communications tent in tatters and he wondered if the personnel had managed to escape.  He spared a thought for Colonel Cooper - bluff as he was, he had his role.  He must have been one of the first to go, way back those two months previously.  Daniel cautiously lifted the flap on the large tent that housed the rip.  It was as they had left it, save for a few hastily strewn pieces of equipment.  There had obviously been nothing of value to the 1934’s.  Nothing but the rip, surely.  And there were no guards surrounding it.  There was nothing.  Daniel heard muffled movement outside the tent and crouched behind a desk.  The tear at the rear of the tent, where they had made their escape a lifetime ago, shook.  Daniel braced himself.
“Danny?  Are you in here?”  Daniel relaxed, letting out a sigh of relief.  It was Katrina.
“You are just what a weary traveller needs.” expelled Daniel, coming from his cover.  The tear slipped aside and Katrina rushed in, jumping into Daniel’s arms.
“And you have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this moment.” she said, her voice muffled by Daniel’s shoulder.  Professor Hill slipped in also, almost unnoticed.  He wasted no time and began to set up the sonic device facing the rip.  The familiar odour of that other world filled the tent and the air pressurised.  Daniel turned instinctively.
“Such a shame.  You tried so hard Daniel.  I could almost applaud your effort.”  The voice was Basil’s.  There he stood, with Loeb, Abel, Azeal and Elias.  The hierarchy.  Basil remained motionless and emotionless, “It seems as a race you have depleted our ranks, but others are waiting just on the other side of that.  As you see, there is nothing you can do.”
Professor Hill cleared his throat, “There’s one thing we can do.” he explained.  He picked up the sonic device.
“You think that thing will stop us?  Perhaps you kill one, two or perhaps three.  But what then?  We still come.”
“Who said anything about firing it at you?” said the Professor.
Daniel noticed Katrina’s movement and held onto her, “No!  Dad!  You can’t!”  She grasped for her Father, but Daniel held her back and the Professor cautioned her not to come any closer.
“Again, Robert?  That will be a futile gesture.  Firing into the rip will do practically nothing.” said Basil.
The Professor turned the device to maximum.  He looked to his Daughter.  She looked to him with a touch of pride and desperation.  She mouthed, “I love you,” as he stepped into the rip.

#

It was true to say many things happened all at once.
Time appeared to stop, or at least slow down considerably.  As the Professor disappeared into the rip, the corona dazzled diamond-like, strong and blinding.  The light caught the 1934’s in mid action, attempting to escape, but there was none.  They were caught by the light.  The rip burned brightly, burning itself out.  Only a pinprick of light remained.  The 1934’s, however, were changing.  They were dissolving, like a broken biscuit in a tea cup, until all that was left was a mass.  A mass of what was surely up for debate, but the loss of connection with their own dimension had obviously reverted them back to their original form.  Soon there was nothing left as the mass smoked, fizzed and evaporated into nothing.  The 1934’s were gone.  The rip was gone.  A bird, perhaps a wood pigeon, heralded the trumpet of triumph.
Katrina dropped to the floor, Daniel followed her, comforting her.  She cried.  For a long time she cried.  She cried for herself, she cried for her Father, she cried for humanity.  Daniel simply stared, the whole horrible affair gone, in an instant.  It was like nothing had happened.
An all of a sudden, a darkness exited the world; a darkness no one really noticed had been there.  Everything shone now.  Everything was illuminated by the flame of freedom.  They had won.  The human race had survived.
At least, that is, until next time, thought Daniel Moss of the Ministry, privately and to himself.



Teutonomy Tautology
“They will, or will not attack.  It’s too early to say, My Lord.” explained Figgle, the Lord of Penham’s Chief Advisor.
“That much is obvious.  Where’s my son?” said the Lord of Penham.
“He is – upon the Field, My Lord.” explained Figgle, head bowed.
“Damn him!  Just like his Mother; impetuous!”
“He is a Mother’s Son, My Lord.” agreed Figgle, cautiously.  The Lord of Penham glossed over that tautological comment, surveying the lie of the land from his battlements.  A steel-clad hand rested on the crenelations, while his other rested on the pommel of his great sword, the monster of a weapon forged for his Grandfather, from a cast down throne of a long forgotten King.
“If battle begins, send Sir Grandol to retrieve him from the Field.  I’m not having another of my heirs cut down for their stupid bravado.”
“They only follow the bravery of their Father, Lord.” explained Figgle.
The Lord of Penham wheeled on Figgle, “I earned my bravery from the pissing child I was when I was forced to fight, right to the battle for Harshal.  I shat my way through those skirmishes Figgle.  I don’t want that for my son.  He has a brain.  I want that to remain intact.  I want an intelligent Lord when I am gone.  Not a broken, battered and brain dead one, like myself.  Do as I have instructed, Figgle.”  Figgle nodded and backed away.  Best to be out of sword range when the Lord was like this.
“Where do they sit now?” asked the Lord of Penham, after he allowed himself a few seconds of calm deep breathing.
“They are a few miles from the Border, Lord.” explained Reygard, the Lord of Penham’s War Chief.  He was pouring over a slew of maps, each with many lines and scribbles of Army movements throughout the land.
“So, if they attack, it will be early tomorrow.” said the Lord of Penham.
“It would seem so, My Lord.” agreed Reygard.
“Why is my Brother so stubborn?  He knows he holds no claim to my seat?  Does he do this to threaten me?  Or is he simply that stupid?  He knows I hold a far superior force!  The fool will get himself killed, and for nothing!”
“He truly is dim-witted, My Lord.” put forth Figgle.
“Watch your mouth!  He is still my Brother.  And he is not dim-witted, but he is easily led.  It must be some silky whisperer who has sold him on this insanity.  I do not want to fight my Brother, but I will if he leaves me no other option.  Yes, boy?”  A Messenger, a boy of no more than twelve, stood expectantly for the Lord of Penham’s attention.
“Sir – Lord – Sir.  I have a message for you?” stuttered the boy.
The Lord of Penham snatched the note from the boy’s hands, quickly remembering himself and patting the boy calmly upon his wobbling head.  It was unmistakably in his Brother, Teabol’s handwriting.  It was scrawled and snake-like, barely legible, but the Lord of Penham read it.
“I have your son, Brother.  I hold him above the Valley of Grace, dangling there, pissing his little pants.  Surrender, or I shall drop him.  Know that I mean what I say, Brother, for I have the fealty of the White Lady.”  That was all.
“The White Lady.  Isn’t that the witch from the Mountains?” said the Lord of Penham out loud.
“It is, My Lord.” agreed Reygard.
“She and my Brother have my son.” said the Lord of Penham further.  It was matter of factly spoken, either from shock, or a certainty of decision.
“My Lord –“ began Figgle, mock concern etched on his pathetically scrawny face, bent over at the shoulder from so many fawning bows in his illustrious career.
“Reynard.  Bring six of your best men.  We ride for the Valley of Grace.  Immediately.”  The Lord of Penham strode from the battlements with disregard for the calls of caution.  Within the half hour, he, Reynard and his six best soldiers were out of the Castle and heading for the Valley, post-haste.

#

It took the best part of the morning, but the party reached the Valley of Grace.  There was no one.  Not a man, woman or child.  The party rode round the rim of the Valley, but there was no sign.  It was a trap.
“Swing the mounts around!  Quick ride to –“  The first arrow struck the Lord of Penham in the upper chest.  Within seconds he was covered with feathered shafts.  The horse collapsed beneath him.  The Lord of Penham landed hard on the ground, as the rest of the party were forced from the lip of the Valley to the jagged rocks of death below.

#

Back at the Castle, the young Sir Warley rushed past the guards of the battlements.  He made directly for Figgle.
“Quickly, Figgle!  Where is my Father!  I need to speak with him!”
Figgle looked dumb-founded, “Your Father went to rescue you.  He received a note you had been captured by your Uncle!”
“Uncle certainly tried to capture me, but I escaped.  Where is my Father?”
“He went to find you at the Valley of Grace, Sir?”
Sir Warley shot a look at the surrounded men, “And you let him?  You idiots!  Not a brain between you!?”  Not one could meet his gaze.
Slowly, the throng parted and the Lord of Penham was returned, but upon his shield.  He was mortally wounded.
The Lord of Penham smiled when he saw Sir Warley.  He painfully thrust out a hand to grasp his boy’s, “Son.  You are safe.  It is your place to rule now.  No mercy.  Destroy them all.”  And thus, Lord Yoval, Lord of Penham, breathed his last.
“I will, Father.” agreed his son to his dead Master, “Goodbye, My Lord.”



Consequences Of Temptation
Lo.  The enlightened mind sees all, yet does it anyway -
“You press it.” said A.
“No, you press it.” replied B.
“We’re not supposed to, though.” said A.
“You do everything you’re told?” asked B.
A shot B a glance, “No, but this is important.”
“Maybe you’re right.  Maybe we should leave it alone.  Maybe we’re just weak followers.” said B.
“Reverse psychology doesn’t work on me, my friend.” smiled A.
“No, it doesn’t, because you’re not a follower.  You’re a leader.  Hence why you’re in this position.” said B.
“Okay, why don’t you press it then, if you’re so much better than me?” said A, turning to face B.
“Because –“ said B sheepishly.
“See?  You’re no better than me.  You won’t press it either.” laughed A.
“I will, you know.  I will press it.  Unless you press it first.” said B.
A’s hand hovered over the big red button, risen up from it’s white plinth, shiny and inviting, “No!  You press it!”
“Ha ha!  You can’t, can you?  I knew it!” laughed B, uncontrollably.
“Damn you, B!  I can if I want!  I just don’t want to!” said A, crossing his arms in defiance.
“I don’t believe you.” mocked B.
“Frankly I don’t care if you do or don’t.” said A.
There was a long pause, broken by B, “Go on.  Press it.”
“No.” said A.
“Okay then.  Let me tell you about the story of E.  E was given the opportunity to have everything he ever wanted.  All he had to do was press a big red button.  He prevaricated, he procrastinated, he eschewed the chance.  He got older, the button got dustier.  Eventually E died, not knowing what would have happened if he had simply pressed the button, at some time in his life.  By the time he felt it was right, he was too weak, and he died.  Isn’t it a shame about poor E?  All he had to do was press the button.  But he didn’t.  His life lost unfulfilled.  Can you imagine living a life like that?” said B.
“I know what you’re doing, B, and it’s not going to work.” said A.
“Why not?” asked B.
“Because, well -”  A struggled for the words, “Oh, whatever.”  A reached out his hand, slamming the button nearly into itself.
Next to him B dropped down dead, “That’s why, B.  That’s why.”



Suicide Solution
The wind had picked up over the last half hour.  It was blowing North-Easterly, collecting pace from the South West Coast, outwards into the Country at large.  Night was upon the City and the rowdy sound of revellers passed by on the streets below.  Whoops and hollers came from the jolly patrons, perusing the parties, passing by, prancing.  Children were returning from their late night School Concerts, musical instrument and bag to hand, moving through the streets and roads they were conveyed cautiously, carried by their Parent’s cars.  Workers at large were commuting home, waiting for the Train that was always late, or the Bus that never came.  There was no rain, and the Season was Autumn.  A Season of decay and death.
The Office Building was up the hill from the centre of Town, remaining well in the path of the passer-by.  He stood upon the edge, watching the passage of the City and the outlying districts come to life, burn their lights and welcome home the weary traveller, with warmth and an evening by the TV, cosy in their little, pointless, naked lives.  He dared himself to step closer, yet closer, to the edge over several earlier hours.  Pointedly, he was but a mere step from the rapid descent, and for his hopes and dreams, a quick end.  Done.  Oblivion.
It mattered not how, or why, or even what caused him to be on that roof that night.  Rarely are the reasons akin to the action resulting from self-analysis.  Other methods were more sympathetic, but a high fall was a certainty.  It was an act of definite decision.  Pills or slit wrists were less an inevitable action or reaction.  They were a statement, a statement of choice.
He stood there willing himself to fall.  Surprising was the hardship that followed the decision, because survival was a constant, while choice to die wasn’t.  A mental correlative decision, against a natural physical response.  Yet he was there, a step away from nothingness opposed to a giant leap away by being somewhere else; safe.  These thoughts didn’t bother him, though.  It was all he could do to remain on the edge, contorting his brain and its thoughts into a heap of detritus, to be disregarded if his decision to end it all was to be uninterrupted and successful.
He wasn’t in a hurry.  All he had now was time.  He wanted his last thoughts to be of happy, jolly things - but they alluded him, even as his sense to step away from the lip of the building and a compulsion to live to a natural death rather than a self-inflicted one was too high function an idea to deal with for his instinct right now.
Then they came to him; the faces, dancing before him in the mid air.  And the voices -
The Street Cleaner said, “Look at all that mess!  Who’s gonna clear that lot up?”
The Mother in the car as it passed by said, “Who shrouds my child’s eyes from something they will never forget?”
The drunken reveller said, “Poor bastard.  Maybe he should have got out more, made friends, did things.  Life really isn’t that bad.”
The Policeman said, “God.  Not another jumper.  This is going to be the rest of the night in paperwork.”
The Paramedic said, “Wow.  I don’t think I can do this job anymore.  I got into this to help people, not scrape selfish idiots off the pavement.”
His Father said, “What did he do that for?  There was nothing another few minutes of thought couldn’t solve?”
His Sister said, “My Brother!  Why?  What was there so bad that he couldn’t talk to me about?  He always knew he had a place here with me if ever he needed it.  He was my Brother after all.”
And his Mother said, “I don’t think I can go on.  Why?  Why did he want to hurt me this way?  I am his Mom and I would have died for him.”
There were other faces and voices floated before him, filling the space between him and the ground.  Faces of history, faces of popularity; words and phrases about everything and nothing, all drifted there, before his eyes.  They, as one, decried the act.  The truths that hurt; cut and sliced like a razor-sharp knife.
Eventually the wind was dying, and so was he inside.  It was now or never -



Peckish
Varra was a little peckish.  He had fed no more than two hours ago, but the closer the dawn approached, the more he salivated for blood.  He was not a follower of the Antients, their antiquated laws and rules of feeding.  He was superior to them, the blood-givers.  He needed not the warnings, the tales, and the stories of the tricksters.  He was hungry, and there was no more to be said.  He would feed as the sun rose, the burning sensation leaving him raw and desired of the sun setting once more.
He picked his victim carefully.  There was the man returning from a late night session, of bawdiness and carousing, tasting the women, and in some cases, the men too.  Next was the early riser, fresh from sleep and already working the streets, much like the prostitute, with one final trick before turning in, one more coin into the saving pile, for a better day, one bright day when they no longer needed to whore.
Varra saw his victim them.  He followed her over the rooftops, around chimneys, crossing the streets.  She was fair dressed, with fair hair and skin to match.  A delicate meal before the long day of rest, for Varra.  He watched the pulsing carotid artery strain against the pumping muscle within her chest as it bumped once, twice.  Varra nearly lost his footing, distracted by the beauty of the movement of the blood around her body.  It shone, it tingled.  It spoke to him, like the Antients did, through whisper in the corrupted language they spoke, broken vowels and sharp cutting consonants, muttering their approval, the voices crashing and mingling together in a cacophony of desire, of desperation to own that blood.
She was closing in on the underpass, where Varra would lose sight of her.  He needed her now.  If he ever needed anything, it was her, right now, right this instant.  The horizon was already changing from black to blue and the stars, as few as there were, were beginning to disappear, outshone by the galaxial life giving star.
The chill of the night was already starting to dissipate as Varra alighted on the pathway.  Even though he needed to rush her, he kept reserved.  The chase was all the sweeter when they were caught.  Savouring that feeling was orgasmic for Varra and his kind.  Deliberate denial was tantamount to torture.  Desperation made the blood juicier.  Fear tainted it, haste spoiled it.  Animals hurried.  Varra and his kind measured their pace, as the hunt was almost as good as the taste.
She was cautious, but not afraid.  That was good.  Her steps were even, click clacking on the concrete slabs, at a fair pace for the time of day.  Once she entered the graffitied and well lit underpass, her steps echoed all around, rolling along the stone walls, hitting Varra’s ears like the beating of a heart.  He too entered the underpass, matching her footfalls, so that she wouldn’t suspect he was stalking her.  He was shrouded in clothes blacker than coal, a disguise, a camouflage of sorts, but it stood out starkly in the brightness of the artificial lights of the underpass.  Varra involuntarily flinched, his instincts fooled by the brightness into thinking it was day.  But he kept pace with her, closing in, waiting for his moment.  And then he seized her.  She screamed, loud and short, but shock stole the rest of her voice.  He was, in relative terms, hideous to look upon.  A long face, pointed features, a beak like nose, long sharp pointed teeth, a forked tongue inside the darkness of the mouth.  He was pale.  Whiter than the ash he should have been.
“You – you’re a –“ she began, not finding the words to describe him.
“I am your death this night, my sweet, sensuous tasting thing.” he hissed, gripping her tightly.  He preferred his food to fight a little, but she seemed so calm.
“But, why me?  Out of all you could choose, why me?”
“You smell of the thing that brings my hunger satiation.” he continued.
“But why now?  Surely it is so close to daybreak –“
“Food should not talk as much.” Varra opened his jaw, preparing to bite down on the woman’s neck.
“Please don’t kill me?” she began to plead, now struggling against his hug.  He smiled, or at least slipped back his lips, revealing more of his long sharp teeth.  She began to whimper, to tear up, to shake against his hold.  A sound released, like a rattling hiss that replicated laughter, as it was represented by Varra’s kind.  He bit, deep.  Blood spurted, and the woman gurgled.  Varra drank up, making the most of it.  Once he had filled up, he dropped the blood-vessel that used to be the woman to the floor, where she hit like a half-filled plastic bag of thick red liquid.  Varra licked, slurped at his bloodied claw-like fingers with his forked tongue, savouring every drop.  It was time to return to his ground.
But as he turned in the twisting part of the underpass, he noticed he had spent so long in words with the woman, he had talked right into daytime.  Daylight, even at this distance, burned his eyes.  He shaded himself, lifting his clothes over his arm to cover his burning skin.  He returned to the woman, went past her to where he had entered.  Same thing.  He was too late.  There he was, again, standing over the woman.  Then the lights of the underpass automatically switched off on their timers, leaving the underpass in shadow.  Varra was trapped, so curled into a cocoon, bringing the folds of his clothing around him.  He would have to stay here, in this stinking tunnel, until the sun fell once more.  Then he heard footsteps, from either side of the underpass.
People.  He pulled the carcass of the woman to him and waited.  As one of the people passed him, sitting there, dirty and huddled, they dropped a few coins at his feet.  As they began to move away from him, to continue their day, to continue their lives, the trapped animal rose, clouding the air behind the person, until they were bathed in darkness.  Like an animal with the instinct inbuilt, Varra struck.



Osmosis
“That’s post Thatcherite Britain for you!” he expressed vehemently, “Too much them, and not 
enough us!  Led this country to ruin, she did!  Socialism a bad word to those with power over the little man!  No class structure, that’s what they taught!  But that’s nonsense.  Always has been!  Those with, have!  Those without continue to be oppressed by a system outdated by a moralism based on the Bullingdon concept!  Every man for himself, is what she taught!  And so it has been fulfilled, the prophecy she set out to manufacture, making Britain a nation full of selfish solipsistic morons, with no compassion for their fellow man!  I’m glad she’s dead, but the legacy she has left will suppress the downtrodden for decades yet!  Nothing can halt it now.  It has to fizzle out of its own accord, be allowed to die as she has!  I would piss on her grave, but I don’t want to travel –”
Some people just loved the sound of their own voice, even if the words they used held a modicum, if not a demijohn of truth.  Personally?  Alan Zuma himself, a man of infinite patience - and he had to have an abundance of patience for the role he chose in life - even he had a place reserved in the Hell of his mind for that woman.
Alan Zuma was a man in his early thirties, a Community Worker for the local Deever Estate, and he had given up a social life for the benefit of the people around him, in his community.  He knew them all - the old ones, and even the quiet ones.  All knew him by name, and this pleased Alan Zuma completely.  He had always held on to the notion that people essentially cared for other people, when it came right down to it.  Alan Zuma fought to defy the lack of community spirit, one soul at a time.  He wasn’t preachy, he wasn’t in-your-face.  He was there when they needed him, at all times of the day.
He finished his one daily pleasure - a pint of mild - and made for the pub door.  The Dog and Trap had been so far firebombed three times in the last five years, and that was since Alan Zuma had come to the Estate.  Each time, he rallied the troops, and got the local community involved in cleaning up the pub.  People were willing, of course, because this was their local; the meeting place of the downtrodden and disaffected.  There sat the Old Boys in the corner, the Old Dears in the other, and the kids sneaking in under age hiding in the shadows; it all contributed.
It was a short walk to the Community Centre, something Alan Zuma had fought tooth and nail with the Council over.  They dragged their feet for much too long over the budget for renovation.  Eventually Alan Zuma made them agree to put seventy five percent in if he himself raised the other twenty five percent.  Not all the Estate got behind the plan, but enough hard working volunteers came through for Alan Zuma, and the Community Centre was renovated to a better condition than it had been in; repainted, with a pool table and foosball, along with amenities for food and drink, and the re-organisation of a crèche for the desperate single mothers of the Estate.
One of those mothers stood waiting for Alan Zuma, arms akimbo and a scowl on her face as her child, little Vernon, shouted up a storm, which she ignored.  Her name was Brianne Yatten, and she was somewhere in her early twenties.
“Brianne!  There you are!” Alan Zuma hugged her and leaned down, cooing at the child, who, surprised, temporarily forgot the reason for the tears, “And how’s little Vern?”
“Where the Hell were you?” she demanded.
“You know, just in the pub –“
“Whatever!  You gonna open up, or what?”
Alan Zuma smiled patiently, taking the ring of keys from his pocket, selecting the right one and inserting it into the lock, turning and opening the door for Brianne Yatten, all in one fluid practiced move.
“Yvonne here yet?” asked Brianne, jangling the pushchair through the double, reinforced glass doors.
“I doubt it, Brianne.  I’ve only just got here myself.” explained Alan Zuma, bringing down the bolt on the other door and opening them wide, invitingly.
Brianne had lived on the Estate all her life.  She was born here, not twenty foot from this very Community Centre.  Mom had been out selling, when she went into labour.  Had Brianne right there on the grass.  There was a bench there now, and Brianne often sat there, remembering her Mom, who had died three years ago of Cancer.  Right around that time, Brianne got pregnant with Vernon.  She named him that after Vernon Kay, who she quite fancied at the time.  She also quite fancied Beckham too, but her ex was called David, and she didn’t want to be reminded of him.  Basically, all men were bastards, but sometimes she needed one of those bastards - just for the night.  So what?  She was young and she had needs - even if the men were often put off by Vernon screaming his head off in the other room.  But, whatever.
Alan, now, there was a man.  He was probably gay, because all the good ones were.  Didn’t matter, though.  What he did with this Centre damn near saved her.  She was going down the same path her Mom took, into drugs, drink and partying.  It took Alan Zuma and the volunteers of the Centre to bring her back to life, realise she had a responsibility, being that of her son.  So she cleaned up, got into some Community Projects, like the Mother’s Club, and got back on track.  Still no man, but whatever.  That didn’t matter.
Vernon wouldn’t shut up, so Brianne left him in the Hall, while she opened up the café for the Mother’s Club.  She rattled up the shutter, fiddled with the counter top, arranging the snacks and such, moving back into the Hall, to where Vernon was beginning to tire himself out.  She collected the tables and chairs from the other end of the Hall and began to place them out in their usual positions.  Just then, another woman came into the Hall, followed by Alan Zuma.
“Brie!  You old slapper!” the woman laughed, almost braying.
“Yvonne!  Lend a hand?”  Brianne answered, a smile on her face, moving a round table into position.  Yvonne left her Gary in his pushchair, coming closer to Brianne.
“Nah, can’t.  Need to go get formula from the shops.  Forgot this morning, and that dick of a man of mine hasn’t even got out of bed yet.”
“I’ll go get it.” suggested the ever helpful Alan Zuma, unlocking the slots on the machines.
“Let me, please?  Had Vernon screaming his head off all morning.  I need a couple of minute’s break.  You mind?” Brianne asked of Yvonne.
“No probs lovey.” smiled Yvonne, “Leave Vern with me.  Go, go.” she shooed, and Brianne Yatten took the Note from Yvonne, leaving the Community Centre by the same door as she had entered it.  There was a certain kind of freedom, not having the constant screaming of Vernon.  Not to get her wrong, however.  She doted on that boy.  He was her whole life, and she didn’t want to think, couldn’t bear to think what she would’ve been without him.  She loved him with absolutely all her heart.  And this place, the Deever Estate; it was her whole life too.  She didn’t know anywhere else.  Still, she revelled in the temporary freedom, allowing the child in her own mind to come out a little as she made for the shops.
A man, dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit and thinning hair, was coming in the opposite direction.  Brianne wouldn’t have noticed him at all, except for the fact he looked entirely out of place in the Deever Estate.  He bumped into her as he went past, walked as though she wasn’t there.  And to him, she probably wasn’t.
Colin Xylander was successful.  Eighties money kind of successful.  He had taken everything the Thatcherite Government had taught to his heart, making something of himself, driving a Porsche and splashing the cash.  Things had changed over the years, but not by much.  Now he was in Property, which he very much saw as the Stock Market of the Noughties.  These people, that woman he bumped into, he despised them.  They didn’t apply themselves.  They didn’t take opportunities and race with them.  Once he finalised his bid for this Estate, out they would go.  Then they’d be forced to get off their collective arses and do a decent days work.  That’s what he did, and he had proved a little hard work got you what you wanted.  True he had been married three times, divorced each time, but he could easily afford the Child Support.  Frankly, he hadn't wanted kids in the first place.  Just happened.  Now Rory was going to University in a couple of months.  How time flies, eh?
One thing that put this Country into the state it was in was the unfortunate tenure of Labour in power.  Brought this Country to it’s knees.  And where was the support for people like him?  No, when Cameron got in, that’s when this Country woke up again.  Damn scroungers dragged out of their beds and made to work.  The disabled?  Lazy is a better description for most of them.  His Granddad had to work after the war, and he lost a leg at Ypres.  And immigrants?  Don’t get him started on those immigrants!
And here comes another one.  Someone in a wheelchair.  Still, he could at least hold the door open for the guy?  Even though the man could probably do it himself.  Oh, no.  Colin Xylander was not a hypocrite.
Des, Desmond Ward, he saw it differently.  The Department of Works and Pensions, they saw only a number.  They didn’t see people.  They saw statistics.  It was the attitude of the types of people like this man holding the door open for him that worried him the most.  They smiled with one face and condemned with the other.
Des was one of those types of people who needed – were desperate to get into work.  But what with one illness or another, he was bound to the chair.  Not the life he had chosen for himself, but circumstance made life interesting.  He saw it as a challenge.  He could have quite easily seen it as a kind of death, of himself and his dreams, but he realised there was very little he wanted to do that he couldn’t, even from a wheelchair.
Des was born in the Nineties, so missed all that stuff; the Thatcherite oppression.  But he could feel the effects of its legacy, by the devotees of that ideal; the current Government.  Back to work, back to work.  If only he could, but they just wanted the numbers down, the figures massaged.  They didn’t care about those it affected.  They didn’t care at all.  Governments rarely did care about the little man.  Big business, the rich, those who could give them something; they were the ones a Government cared about.  A Government for the people, by the people?  Our representatives in Government?  Bullshit.  They were out for themselves and whatever they could get.
But then, by juxtaposition, there were those who did work for the common good.  Trouble was, they were too few and far between.  Swallowed up by the oppressive pressure of central Government, when local Government should be the focus.  Individuals.  That’s what we all were.  People.  Not numbers.  Politically correct?  An antonym if ever he heard one.  Again it was to massage the numbers.  It was the people who needed the massaging, for without them, the Politicians would be nothing.  Look at this man, for instance?  Brought low by circumstance.  Who would Des be, if not a hypocrite if he didn’t spare something for the lone man down on his luck?  Des Ward dropped a Note into the man’s cup, patting him on the shoulder in comradeship.
And it was appreciated, if silently.  Ed Ventry wanted to move but couldn’t.  Apathy condemned him to his contemplation.  Things had been so good once.  Once.  The word that cuts deep into the heart of every depressive - every man, woman and child oppressed by addiction.  Ed’s peccadillo was alcohol, once the good stuff, now the cheap stuff.  And that’s what it did to the person; took pride away and stomped it to death, took dignity and drowned it in a puddle, took a respectable man and turned him into a vagrant, for want of a couple of quid.  But circumstance took his job, took his wife, and took his home from him.  It left a mind trapped in an alcoholic’s body, the poisoned liquid the only thing that took him from one day to the other.  He would kill himself, but he feared death too much.  And he was drinking himself into the grave anyway.  He knew he was, yet felt compelled to feed the disease, rather than escape it.  It was the only thing he could rely on; the drunkenness, the headaches and the vomit down his jacket.  Nothing to write home about, of course, but it was strange how one got used to punishing themselves when they believed there was no point to it all.  He had nothing to live for.  Nothing at all.  They never had children, him and his wife, so there was no one to care for him now.  No, he would wait for it to end, whenever that was, but would do nothing to prevent it happening.  Death was inevitable, but Ed, in his peculiarity, still wanted to see how it all ended.  If he killed himself, it would cheat that outcome.  What a thing to while away his thoughts on, he thought amusingly to himself.  What a way to pass the time.
He began to hum an old song, a favourite of his, to himself.  Another immutable pleasure.  Music.  Something everyone owned, something that belonged to no one person.  Something even he could make and take pleasure in.  Ed Ventry felt a hand on his shoulder, causing him to look up, into the sun, where a figure was framed in silhouette.
“Frank.  How goes it?” expressed Ed, seeing a familiar face.
“Not bad, Ed.  Could be worse.  Sorry, mate.  Got to move you on.  They’re coming down on us hard these days.” Frank Ullman explained, pointing to a roving CCTV camera.
“Always with the Man.” Ed agreed, rising from his seat in the carpark bay he frequented every day, long before the company bought the space and turned it into a private carpark.  Frank helped him stand, reaching down for Ed Vantry’s odd and ends, his bags and the roll of a dirt stained sleeping bag.
“Too true, Ed.  Too true.  But you know how it is?”
“Yeah.  I do.” said Ed in agreement, his voice low and full of dark clouds.
“See you tomorrow?” called Frank Ullman, after his friend, who was already walking to his next pitch, his back to Frank.
“Maybe.  Was thinking of trying that spot by the Supermarket tomorrow.  Bit shadier.”
“Don’t blame you mate.  Seasons changing, and the suns out, I know.”
“No more than me.” joked Ed Ventry, with the raising of a hand in farewell.
Frank laughed in response, “Too true, mate.  Too true.”
Frank hated to have to do that to him.  He was a friend of sorts, for many a year.  Way back when, he and Ed were often to be found down the Dog and Trap, holding up the bar.  Frank stopped because of a stomach ulcer.  Ed continued to drink, losing him everything.  But Frank was no fair-weather friend.  No matter the circumstance the friend found themselves in these days, they were still a friend at heart.  If he could, he would help Ed more.  But he could barely afford to keep himself.  The Council didn’t pay as well as they used to.  At least Frank’s means didn’t outstrip his desire.  He had everything he needed.
It was true he had seen it all come and go; the era of the Tory rule, the coming of the Labour messiah, the return to Conservative Government.  Very little had changed for him.  The same routes, the same work.  Only the names changed.  That’s how it had been in his Father’s time, and in his Grandfather’s also.  Both of them had worked for the Council, in fact; Granddad on the Roads, Dad on the Committees.  Frank knew little else.  It was an insular world, working for the Council.  A place of hard work, sure, but it also provided job security, and that was a precious commodity in these days.
Frank’s route around the City carparks brought him neatly to the café, where he always dropped in to see his friend, Graham Temple.  The man was on his uppers.
“Graham!” Frank called from the open door of Meg’s Coffee House, just off the High Street and within view of Graham’s shop, Temple Books.  Graham gestured for Frank to join him at the table.  There was an old couple sitting at the back of the café, quietly contemplating life so far.  Graham sat near the counter.
“Want another?” Frank asked Graham, seeing his drink about half full.  The oily tea created rings within the cream mug, showing points of rest.
“No, you’re alright, Frank.  Can’t be away from the shop for long.”
Frank shook Graham’s hand in greeting, calling for Meg from the back room, who came swishing through the multi-coloured plastic trails, warming the urn.  She enquired if it was Frank’s usual, to which he assented.
“So no change then?” said Frank as way of introduction to the conversation.  Meg placed the mug in front of Frank, who thanked her for it.  Meg returned to the back room and her ‘Homes Under the Hammer’.
“Nope.  Talked to the bank last evening.  No go.  Trouble is, there’s no want for an independent bookseller nowadays, Frank.  They’ve all gone electronic with these Kimble things.”
“Give me the smell of a freshly opened book any day.” said a reminiscent Frank.
“Try telling them that today.  No one reads anymore, Frank.  Off their heads on drugs, partying all night.  I tell you, the brains of this Country have been soused away.  Bloody education system, if you ask me.  In our day, you had to put your nose to it, else you got caned.  Trouble with people these days, they’re too soft.”
“I’m not quite your age yet, if you don’t mind.” joked Frank.
“Don’t dream of it, Frank!  You’ve nearly caught up with me!” said Graham with a playful wink.
“Cheeky bugger!” laughed Frank, “Any road up, got to get back to it.  Keep your pecker up, mate.”
“And good fortune to you, Frank.  See you tomorrow.”  Graham Temple watched his friend disappear from view.  He finished off his lukewarm coffee with one swig, rose to his feet and put the two mugs from his table on the counter, calling out to Meg his farewell.  She was too engrossed in her programs to care.  Graham gave a further friendly nod to the couple in the corner, but they barely flickered recognition.  It was Graham’s way.  Friendly to a fault.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Stone!” Graham called, as though to prove the point.  Helen Stone, early into her Septuagenarian decade, started at the call.  She was passing the café as Graham called to her.  She had been lost in her own thoughts, and his far too amplified voice cut right through her.  She felt like telling him she wasn’t deaf, you know, but decided against it.  The poor man was down enough as it was, what with his shop going into liquidation.  She felt compelled to enjoin with conversation.
“Graham!  Good to see you!  How goes it?”
“You know.  This and that.” Graham gestured with a wavering hand, a gesture of uncertainty.
“Be a love, help an old lady across the road, will you?”
Graham took her arm, looking both ways for traffic, before crossing, “Surely not!  You’re barely a day over sixty!”
She really wished he wouldn’t shout.
“So where are we off to?” asked Graham.
Helen certainly hoped he was referring to the Royal We.  She could only take so much patronising before she set off, “Oh, just popping in the Dog and Trap.  My usual.  Then off to the Community Centre.  OAP Callis – Callas – Exercises.”
“Ooh!  Nice day out for you, then?!” Graham said with further patronage.
“Yes.  Thank you, Graham.  Good luck now.” said Helen abruptly.  Cheeky bleeder!  She could run rings round him any day!  But he didn’t need admonishment, not when he meant well.  No.  Compassion.  That’s what he needed.  He shouted a farewell before going through the door of his shop, the jingle of the bell alerting his entry.  She didn’t hear it.  She was already back in her own thoughts.
Ah, if only her beautiful Vic was still with her.  They were inseparable from the first day they met.  Fell in love instantly, they did.  Never had time to stop, to have those children they always talked about.  Still, it didn’t matter.  They had fifty three wonderful years together, and she regretted none of it.  She refused to mope about his absence, however, giving herself a self-administered admonishment for her sadness at his being missing - not beside her as he always had been.  No, they made a pact long ago that whoever went first, the other would not mourn them.  They would only celebrate the life they had spent with each other.  Helen Stone did all she could to uphold that tradition, even if there were those around her who thrust sympathy upon her when she didn’t require it, making her think of him in any way but with her.  That was why she kept her regular appointment at the third table by the door in the Dog and Trap, every day without fail – well except for that time she was in Hospital after that fall.  But she couldn’t complain, if all she required was a tot of Rum once a day and a bit of the old exercise.  Then she got to see old friends.  Their number may be thinning, but at least a few of them kept the memories alive.  And they were like her, refusing to dwell on sadness.  There was precious little life left as it was, without spending time in regret.  No, if it hadn't been done, it was never meant to be done.
The change in light from outside to the dimmed interior of the pub, in its fluorescent illumination, took a second or two for Helen to get used to.  Roger, the Barman, was ready for her, drink in hand and a polite, gentlemanly way of guiding Helen to her seat.  They had stopped charging her, after Vic died.  They didn’t have the heart, despite Helen’s protestations.  They wouldn’t have it.  So she shut her mouth and took it.  Couldn’t be helped.  And she quite wished that loudmouth in the corner would shut his gob too.
This vocal man was sat in the corner, ranting and raving about some Politics or other.  Something else Helen Stone took no regard of anymore.  Despite what the Government tried to do to her, lessening her money, fuel bills, God only knows what else, she had seen it all, done most of it, and quite frankly bought the T-shirts along the way.  Let him have his voice.  It’s what people like her Vic fought wars for.
And so the man spat his vitriol to anyone who would hear; anyone at all, “You know what gets me?  Thatcher’s economic structure, and the deifying of a murderer of class, who turned this country to crap!  And for who?  The rich get richer, and that’s the way it’s always going to be!”  Helen Slater just left him to it.



The Sixty Fourth Note
A young butterfly landed on the rugged shelf beside Waller, gently probing the air with its antennae, wings brushing the musty odour of the Gun Turret Cabin.  It danced amongst the rusty cans and discarded, tarnished tools and the valve for the water tank.  Waller watched it flutter about in the confined space.  He had been on duty for fourteen hours, and this was the first sign of life he had seen in all that time.
It could be lonely on the Turret.  Long hours spent watching the skies, waiting for something that might not come.  It had its own inbuilt tension, a pregnant pause that lasted for weeks, months even.  There had been no reason to fire the Big Gun of late, and Waller hoped he would never have to do so in anger.  But they were on their way, that much was certain.
Working the Gun was a position of honour - or at least that’s what his Commanding Officer liked to say.  Days were pretty much spent on cleaning and maintaining the Gun, Turret and Cabin.  So many working parts, so many circuit boards that would wear away in the inclement weather of the Yover Ridge.  Snows covered these parts in the cold months.  Then it was all about keeping warm.  Staying alert was essential.  Everything had to be logged by hand, despite the trillions spend on guidance systems and sensors.  Still, it kept his attention, and also kept him from the front line - which was all his Mother ever wished for him.
He had joined the Academy out of a sense of teenage courage, peer pressured into it by his childhood friends.  They all joined on the same day, expectant of bravery and bravado.  Frepp and Escar died in training.  Tromson, Weir and Defisch were sent to the front line.  Only Waller himself and Gospon were alive, as far as he knew.  Gospon was back at HQ, though.  Invalided out to a desk job.  Maybe he would live through this?  At least one of the boys should.  Otherwise it was for nothing.
Waller began his hour-long maintenance check.  It killed the time, at least.
“Alert!” crackled the hum-drum radio.  It sounded like the usual, broken recorded voice that rumbled out of the grating at least once per hour.  The Turret Gunners had learned simply to ignore it.  An easily forgettable distraction.  Waller watched keenly as the butterfly escaped through the window, half open and stuck since last year, when one of the older Gunners forced it open once, and it had never clicked back into place.
The alert voice sounded again.  It was unusual to sound more than once in an hour.  Weller climbed out of the Gunner seat and walked to the maintenance panel.  Upon opening, he noticed a red flashing light.  Proximity alarm.  The circuit for that warning sound had obviously fried.  The alert alarm had cut in as an emergency.  Waller moved back to the seat and fired up the sensor array.  It buzzed with static at first, but a swift whomp on the side woke it up.  It showed seventeen Cruisers and fifty eight Bombers on the digital readout.  This was it!  They were here.
Waller was frozen for a minute or two, lost in remembered life, seeing no future ahead - but he had a duty.  He could hold back the fleet, only for a short while.  And the other Turret positions?  They must know.  He shook his head to relieve himself of his self pity and clicked on the radio.
“Attention, Turret Gunners; check sensors, sixty degrees, south west.”   The replies came quickly.  The other stations registered shock.  Really, no one ever expected this day to come.   Waller, if he be the only believer, would do his duty this day.
Waller leaned over to the tactical console and fired it up.  The lights twinkled in sequence, like fairy lights on a tree.  Up came the Fleet on screen.  He flipped the switches in order, a swallow caught in his throat.  He took in one last shuddering breath.
He started the slow motor, the clicks and whirrs of activity - the ascending whine of power warned him that this was really real.  It was now.  And the Gun fired a hemidemisemiquaver progression into the cool blue sky.



Gods Rule With Dice
So it is written, in the ancient Tomes of the World, that every millennia, the Gods of Kraas compete in the Temple for the fate of all across the land; from simple Farmer to King, from lowly gnat to mightiest creature - all are within their grasp.  And two such Gods sit now about the Table, the land spread before them, with tiny figures to represent the inhabitants, or more especially the God’s Emissaries, or the Priests of Kraas.
“I despair utterly at your skills, Brother.” spoke Edil, the Swollen-Footed One.
“Alright.  You win the peninsula.  But I will win the island.” was the words of Feg, the One with the Beard of Souls.
“You can have it, Brother.  What do I want with a petty island?”
“That’s just ‘cause you concentrate on the big spiky things.  Lots of islands make a Country.”
“Well, in that case, I’m playing for the island.”
“You bastard.”
And thus it was that they played for the island of Dem, the home of the one time epic hero, Mellard.  Mellard was the Slayer of the Crin Dingler, the Worrier of the Gothank and Desolator of the Figetie Plains.  He knew of the God’s game.  He had once entered the Temple to look upon the Table.  He had been thrown out of the Temple, of course, but not before he took the Thimble of Rendila.  The Thimble allowed access into the Great Temple.  Mellard was in a mind to confront the Gods, for their piety and standards lacking; he would want to teach them the error of their ways; the disregard for the people they professed to serve.  But Mellard knew, they only served themselves.
Look to the example of the God Wer, who took a mistress of the Hau People.  She died giving birth to a three headed swan.  Then Wer killed it and ate it.  The warrior People of Hau took arms against the Gods, and Wer wiped them all out, so that not one Hau remained.  What they didn’t realise was that Mellard had yet the blood of the Hau in him, diluted of course, but still there.  He had a reason to enter the Temple.  And he prepared for it as the two Gods in the Temple fought over the Table and the island where Mellard readied himself.
Edil and Feg were soon joined by Safa, who was the One who Protected the Mould of the Fathers, “You two not done yet?”
“Feg here is bloody useless.  Takes him ages to have his go.  Swears he has a system.”
“I do.  And it’s a sound one.  Gimme a chance, mate?”
“It ain’t bloody rocket science, buddy.” spoke Edil, spreading about his chair of wood.
“It might as well be.  Tons of maths.” spoke Feg.
“Come on, Feg!  Me and Toflog want a go!” spoke Safa, expressed with a Mighty Sigh.
Mellard took the thimble up, now prepared to enter the Temple.  He spoke the incantation, his body turning to light, a thin column of illumination that rose unto the Temple where the demigod did return to the form of man, but half the size of the Gods he was amongst.
“Sod it.  Knew I mispronounced that last bit of the incantation.” spoke the Mighty Mellard, brushing himself from the tokens of ash that enveloped him to his flight.
“What the bloody whatsit is he doing here?” spoke Edil, rising as though confronted by a rodent.
“Eww.  Humans!” spoke Feg without a realisation.
Mellard came to what remained of his full height, “I am Mellard, the Slayer of the Crin Dingler, the Worrier of the Gothank and –“
“Alright!  We do actually know who you are, titch!  We are the Gods of Kraas, after all!” spoke Safa.  Upon hearing the commotion, Toflog the Flaker of Skin, and Jolber the Slightly Dented, entered the Temple.
“Who let him in?” spoke Toflog, “Is he going to make me miss my turn?”
“He is the Mighty Warrior, Mellard, of the Hau Blood.  You know, the annoying git who keeps having a pop at us?  Come on, you remember?  He took Verx down with a blow of his Greatsword?  You know, the time we all had to keep redressing Verx’s wound?  And you, Feg, said, ‘if I ever catch the pain in the arse who caused me to touch Verx’s nether regions, so help me –’.  You never did finish that thought, Feg.” spoke Jolber, with arms crossed and torso at an angle.
“You’re right, Jolber!  Come here, you little –“ spoke Feg, rising from his Throne of Trees.
“Oi!  Sit down!  Finish your go, or forfeit!  Bloody amateurs –“ spoke Edil.
“Alright.  Alright.  Calm down, Edil.  It’s only a game.” spoke Feg.
“It may be a game to you, but its bloody life and death to some people!” spoke Mellard from his vantage point amongst the knees.
“Feg.  Take your bloody turn, so we can deal with the human here, then procrastinate all you bloody well like!” spoke Edil, fury rising in the God’s demeanour.  His Fists did Clench and his Nose did Snort.  Thus Feg Tutted and took his go.
Edil then did Gasp, Jolber did Fluster, Safa did Croak, Toflog did Clamber and Mellard did chuckle.  So it was that Fate did have a plan.  And that plan was for Mellard, as did the Dice roll in his favour; and he was not even in the Draw for the League Table.  Thus did Fate, the One-Eyed Woman, walk from the shadows.
“Serves you all bloody right.  Now none of you get it and the human goes free.  Mellard, I implore you; make more Hau.  I quite liked them and they get to look quite fit.  What?  A Girl needs something to look at for Eternity!”
And thus ended the tale of Utter Despair.  At least for the next thousand years.



Schism
“The Hell I went through; Father you don’t know.  How could you?  You were never faced with the challenges I was.  From knowledge I was born.  Not from Woman.  How can I attend to my soul, when I have none?  Father, I am owed, by you.  I am owed a soul.  If I cannot have one of my own, I must take it from another –”
A letter from Creation to Creator
“This is a clear break with traditional science and medicine!”
Dr Stone smiled at him, with secret knowledge, “That it is, but where would we be without experimentation?  The world of medicine - and science come to that - was built on the backs of those who took a chance.  Besides, what’s the harm?  They are volunteers.”
“There is a moralistic question here, Vic, not to mention a whole slew of ethical problems.  We couldn’t possibly sanction such an action.  I’m sorry, but it is the ruling of this council that we reject your proposal at this time.  Sorry Vic, it has to be done.”
“This is ridiculous, Peter, and you know it is.” muttered Dr Victor Stone, under his breath, but audible enough for his colleague.  Victor rose from his chair and made for the door, “There will come a time when you eat those words, Peter.  This is right!  It is just!  It’s the future!”
“Not at this Hospital, Vic.  And not at any other in the Country.  I doubt anyone would allow it.  Too many implications.”

#

“How did it go?” asked Ingvar Drendr, Dr Stone’s loyal disciple.  Ingvar sifted through the dirty and soiled sheets, loading the humungous washing machines.
“He’s an idiot.  They all are.  I can’t believe I subject myself to this profoundly backwards-looking Hospital Trust.  Surely they see the benefits?”
“I do, Sir.”
“You don’t count, Ingvar.  No offence.  Do stand up straight, man.  You’ll develop kyphosis.”  Ingvar involuntarily did as instructed.
“So, what’s the plan?” asked Drendr, closing the large door of the machine, where it instantly fired into life, the dirty material mingling with the soapy suds.  It was hypnotic.
“You know the plan, Ingvar.  There is only one plan.  If we cannot perform our invaluable work sanctioned, we do it on our own terms.”   Dr Stone slapped the diminutive Ingvar on the shoulder, “You and me, my man!  The future of medicine!”
“Anything you need,” smiled Ingvar, “Anything at all, I am at your beck and call.”
“Good.” said Dr Stone, “Good.  My hands are tied, Ingvar.  You know I have no choice?”
“It has benefit, Sir, your idea.”
“More than an idea, Ingvar.  A solution.  A life-saving solution.”
“Of course, Sir.  Forgive my impertinence –“
“Say no more about it, Ingvar!” Dr Stone smiled and clapped him on the shoulder once more, “I know where your heart lies.”
Ingvar winked.

#

Ingvar Drendr did his work at night.
“Ingvar!  How goes it?”
He almost slipped his grip on the gurney, releasing it down the corridor to crash into a wall.  Instead he took a firmer grip, fussily adjusting the bed sheets that held the unconscious man to the thin rubber mattress, “Don!  Didn’t know this was part of your route?”
Don Tealy took off his hat and brushed invisible fluff from it, before replacing it on his head, the badge with Security emblazoned on it now skew-whiff, “Nah, they just put me on it tonight.  Been some strange activities around here recently, apparently.  You not heard anything?”
“Look, Don, everything’s weird in a Hospital at night.  If it wasn’t, how’d people like you and me get jobs around here?” Ingvar winked at Don, who was concentrating on his answer.  It was followed by a laugh.
“Too true, Ing.  Nowt stranger than us, eh?”
“Exactly!  Now, if you’ll excuse me, got to get this bloke to surgery before he goes cold.”
Don suddenly remembered himself and nodded vigorously in ascension.  He knew, or thought he knew, in a Hospital time was of the essence.  He waved Ingvar on, who high-tailed it to the operating theatre, where Dr Stone stood waiting, scrubbed up and hands aloft.
“What kept you?”
“Bloody Security.  They’ve started new routes, apparently.”
“Hmm,” commented Dr Stone, “Couldn’t be helped.  Still, only a couple more and were done.  Isn’t it exciting?” enthused Dr Stone.  Ingvar moved to the anaesthesiology position, even though he knew the patient was dead.  Well, almost dead.  He would be actually dead in a few minutes, and then foot first into the incinerator, along with the rest of the medical waste.  The fantastic cycle of life in Beaufort Hospital.

#

“How’s Mrs Kelp?”
“Ah, Ingvar!  No change, I’m afraid.”
“At least she has someone like you to look after her, Karen.  Angels, the lot of you.”  Ingvar sat down beside the bed of Ginny Kelp, plugged up everywhere with wires and chords, connected to instruments that went whoosh, whir and ping.  One beeped a chime to her weakened heartbeat.
ICU Nurse Gill placed a friendly hand on Ingvar’s arm, “Aw, you’re so kind, Ingvar!  I tell you, not even her family spend as much time as you do with her!  You’re a saint, you know that?”
“Rubbish!  If I can be there when they go, well, I only hope someone would do that for me when it’s my time.” fluttered Ingvar with a smile.
Nurse Gill sat back in her chair, “If I live that long.” she said as way of agreement.
It was Ingvar’s turn to put his hand on her arm, “Karen, just the thought of you there when I go, it’s enough to keep me going.”
Nurse Gill slapped Ingvar’s arm playfully, letting out a chuckle, which Ingvar answered with a smile.  Ingvar had to wait for a good few moments though, before Nurse Gill was distracted enough for him to do his thing.
Dr Stone had given Ingvar a syringe filled with a concoction of his making; something that slowly took the life from the inflicted.  It was untraceable, and worked as death would, yet preserving the integrity of the organs within.  After all, destroying the body and the organs with it was counter to their purpose.  Ingvar injected the solution into the intravenous drip.  Watching with disguised compassion, he reacted as he should when Mrs Kelp began to weaken.  When Nurse Gill came in to administer to Mrs Kelp, Ingvar showed the correct amount of concern.  When finally Mrs Ginny Kelp died, Ingvar showed the appropriate amount of grief.  Even as he helped Nurse Gill remove the tubes and wires from the woman, he shed the right tear at the right time, so that Nurse Gill could show concern for Ingvar, her face one of sympathy, as Ingvar Drendr wheeled the seemingly dead Mrs Kelp from the Intensive Care Unit, straight into the Operating Theatre, where Dr Stone waited, prepped for Surgery.

#

“We are almost done, Ingvar!  We are almost complete!” Dr Stone laughed heartily, “All that we require now is a brain!  Any ideas?”
“Get a body with the brain attached?” mused Ingvar, pouring himself and Dr Stone a mug of tea.  He placed Dr Stone’s tea on the table before him, on top of a Beaufort Hospital coaster, complete with the remnant brown circles of previous incumbents.
“Good thinking, Ingvar!  Lot less fuss than a donor brain.  Not entirely sure my surgical talents are up to that –“
“Surely not!” indignantly interrupted Ingvar, spilling a little tea in his excitement.
“It’s nice the faith you have in me, but no, even I am not that good.  Not yet.”  Dr Stone patted Ingvar on his comb-over head, like a puppy.  Ingvar, out of Dr Stone’s grasp, smoothed his hair down to its disrespectful normal.
“But who?  Or whom?”
“I do like Nurse Gill –“
“Of course!  Peter!  Dr Peter Hunuary!  Who better to demonstrate my concepts and ideas, but to the man who rejected my proposal out of hand!  He shall be the truth, with his own eyes!  Feel it with his own hands!  Smell it with his own nose –“
“You sure we couldn’t at least have Nurse Gill’s hands?” asked Ingvar hopefully.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ingvar!  Make a body up from various parts?  How ludicrous!  And what would be the point of that?  Once we have the complete body, why on earth would we then swap out the odd arm, or foot –“
“Was just an idea.” moped Ingvar, retiring to his chair in the dark corner.
“Well, it was an absurd one.  Now, on to dear Dr Peter –“

#

Dr Peter Hunuary, Chief of Medicine at Beaufort Hospital, Head of the Medical and Ethical Board, said his natural farewell’s to the staff in the entranceway, who merely tolerated him.  Such was the lot of the Big Boss of everywhere; sometimes one simply didn’t make friends.  But then the patients were of his prime thoughts.  It was for them he worked to improve the Hospital Trust.  He swapped his briefcase from one hand to the other, reaching into the pockets of his Cashmere coat.  The night was chilly, and a puff of air clouded before him as he withdrew his hand from his pocket.  The sudden rag over his mouth, dripping in chloroform, was certainly a surprise.  He fell unconscious with little struggle, only a grunt to mark his disapproval.
Dr Stone waved hurriedly for Ingvar to bring the body over to the car, where the boot lay open, “Quick!  Come on Ingvar!  Before we’re seen!”
Ingvar huffed and puffed, “I could do with a hand.  He’s not exactly light, you know.”
Dr Stone ignored this, “Come on!  In the boot!”  Once Peter was inside, Dr Stone slammed it shut.  Then Dr Stone began to laugh.  Ingvar obediently climbed into the passenger seat of the car, without a word.

#

The Security Guard, Don Tealy, looked flushed from activity, “The car’s been there three days now.  Unusual for him to be missing?”
“And you leave it until now to report it?” asked Inspector Fawn, examining the lock of the car door up close.
“Well, it’s these Doctors, you see.  Very private people.  The likes of me don’t get involved.”
“Have you checked the CCTV cameras?”  Inspector Fawn pointed to the camera mounted on a pole in the middle of the car park.
“Oh, that?  No.”
“Well, shouldn’t we?”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Well?”
Don Tealy looked puzzled, “Oh, the security room?  Follow me.”  Inspector Fawn had infinite patience, but this was testing even his.  He followed in silence, through the entrance, to the left, through the double doors, second door on the right, marked Security Room, Do Not Enter.  They entered.
“So, the camera?” asked Fawn.
Don Tealy looked confused, until he remembered himself and selected the correct file from the computer.  He reeled it back, until a figure was seen dragging another in reverse, standing him upright and walking backwards, brandishing a cloth.  Don paused the file and played it forward.
“Can you zoom in on that face?” asked Fawn.
“Probably.  Given time.  See, I don’t usually use this - Ted does.  Ted’s on holi –“
“Forget Ted.  Can I have a copy – I know, Ted does that.  Never mind.  Can I have the chair?”  Fawn sat at the chair before the computer and deftly manipulated the image.  He focussed as much as he could on the face.  He printed it out.
“Bloody Hell.  Looks like Ing.” remarked Don Tealy.
Fawn looked sharply at him, “This Ing, who is he?”
“Ingvar Drendr.  He’s a Porter at the Hospital on night shift –“
“Do you know where he is now?” asked Fawn, with haste.
“Should be down by the incinerator.  He’s off in five.”
Fawn rushed from the room, before he caught himself, “Where’s the incinerator?”
“Down the corridor, down into the basement, behind the door marked Private –“  But Fawn was gone.
Fawn was down the stairs already, taking two or three at a time, using the bannister to turn sharply, reaching the door marked Private.  He pushed it, but it was locked.  There was no time for propriety now, so he kicked it in.  Ingvar was throwing a bag full of medical waste into the incinerator.
“You!  Stop there!”  The shocked Ingvar did anything but.  He dropped the bag and ran.  He ran to the right.  Inspector Fawn followed, with barely enough time to see the backside of Ingvar disappear through the tiny window.  Fawn straightened his coat unnecessarily and strolled with dignity from the incinerator room.

#

“He nearly had me!” spat Ingvar breathlessly.
“But he didn’t, did he?  Besides, we are all but done.  What can he do then?”  Dr Stone went over to Ingvar and held him by the shoulders, “We are the new Fathers of medicine, my friend!  They will speak our names in eons to come!  We were the pioneers, like those first biologists who dared to experiment, when all around them saw no value in it!  We have accomplished much, and when we are revealed, we will be lauded as genius explorers!  Explorers into the advancement of medicine!  Ingvar, we will be but Gods - immortal, and forever!”
“Fine, but it was me they saw, not you.  It’s me they’re going to find and prosecute, not you.”
“It is a sacrifice worth making, my friend!  For the greater good!”  Dr Stone was shaking Ingvar a little too vigorously by the shoulders.
“Okay, if you say so.”  Ingvar was beside himself.
Dr Stone let Ingvar go at last.  He quickly turned and strode from the room while calling, “It begins, Ingvar!  The new dawn begins!  Fetch my instruments!”  Ingvar took up the old and worn Gladstone bag and followed as instructed.  He was standing on the shoulders of giants, he decided.  Or at least one giant, in this case.

#

Fawn was looking through the file on Ingvar Drendr, back at the Station.  Forty five year old immigrant, worked as a Labourer and now a Porter.  Known associates, none.  Referee, a Dr Victor Francis Stone, celebrated Organ Transplant Surgeon, of Beaufort Hospital.  No next of kin, no fixed abode.  Fawn turned to Dr Stone.  Fifty six years old, residencies and properties around the City, arrested once for malpractice, acquitted.  Never married.  Fawn looked for likely places to take a body, for a Surgeon and a Porter alike.  And the intent?  Fawn was unsure.  It turned out there were three such places, but only one that had the potential facilities for medical practice.  Castle Hill Veterinary Surgery.

#

It was late in the evening, or potentially early in the morning - inside the operating room there were no windows, so it didn’t matter.  A bang came to the door of the Vets.
“Damn it with these interruptions!” spluttered Dr Stone, “Ingvar!  Get rid of them!  I’m almost done and I need no more damned interruptions!”  Ingvar left his anaesthesiology station, washed his hands briefly, and went to the front door of the Veterinary Surgery.  The doors and windows were covered with flattened Venetian blinds.  Ingvar separated a couple of them with finger and thumb to make a gap big enough for his eyes.  He saw the same man who had chased him back at the Hospital.  He snapped the blinds back into place, giving no doubt as to the Surgery’s occupancy.
“Hello?” called out Inspector Fawn, looking to the transom for the only source of light.
Ingvar flattened himself against the counter, shocked out of his mind.  He had to warn Dr Stone.
“Hello?” asked Fawn even more insistently, rattling the door this time.  Ingvar moved towards the back room where the surgery was taking place.  Fawn reverted to type and barged the door open, cracking the jamb.
“Dr Stone!” burst out Ingvar, as he thrust open the door to the Theatre, “Dr Stone!”
But Victor Stone was laughing.  Laughing quite hard.  A little too hard.  His patient was awake - first was a twitch of the fingers of the hand, next a jerk of the arm, followed by the eyes opening to a new world.
“He’s alive!”  Dr Stone couldn’t help congratulating himself.  Ingvar closed the door and leaned against it, against the onslaught of Inspector Fawn.
The patient spoke, “Wh – What is your - ?”
“Command?” ventured Dr Stone maniacally, “Why, I wish you to be a demonstration to all who doubted me!  I command you to go forth, and show the world –“  But the Peter Creature was on his feet, running naked and covered in blood through the back door, “Go forth, my creation!”  Dr Stone called after him, “Go forth and teach the world!”  Dr Stone laughed for a good few minutes, even as Inspector Fawn burst through the door, throwing Ingvar to the floor.
However, it was certainly over.  The Creator had let go his Creation.  Sunrise and sunset, the order of things; life.  A veritable proof of life.
And Inspector Fawn went drop bollock ballistic.

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