pppc3

Plots Pilots And Plans

DISTRACTION
“I’m sure you’re more than qualified, Mr Finn, but I have unusual requests for a teaching assistant.  I have an associate who comes here sometimes.  He can be a handful.  I don’t want you to extend beyond your reach.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, Dr Jekyll.  I’ve been a social worker, a care assistant and a security officer at some point in my varied career.”
“Well, if you’re sure, Peter is it?”  Peter Finn nodded, “Then it’s decided.  Welcome aboard.” Dr Henry Jekyll shook Peter firmly by the hand.

#

The afternoon dragged a little for poor Peter Finn.  That was until there was a late arrival.
“Mr Finn.”  The voice was deep, prominent, but carried menace.
Peter Finn turned, “Mr Hyde, I take it?”
“You can take it any way you like, son.”  Edward Hyde sat at Dr Jekyll’s desk, lounging comfortably, feet firmly on the mahogany top, making marks and scratching the old surface like a foreign body decaying the flesh.
Peter took a defiant stance, facing the gruff, well built man with all the practiced skill he could muster.  He had trained in previous employment for troubled types like this man before.  There was nothing Peter had not seen before and coped with, “Why exactly are you here, Mr Hyde?  I mean, it can’t be for Dr Jekyll.  He’s not here.  He left a couple of hours ago.”
“For an appointment, I know.  Thing is, he said you would look after me.  Exactly how are you going to look after me, my boy?  Fists aren’t any use.  I’m like a brick shit house to move.  Just how are you going to look after me?”
“I think he meant – “ began Peter.
“I know what he meant, boy.  I’m not an idiot.  Unless you think I’m an idiot?  Is that it, do you think I’m an idiot?”  Hyde made to get up.
“No, of course not.  I don’t know you.  How can I – “  Peter was cut off again, this time by the remarkable speed by which Hyde bridged the gap between them.
They stood nose to nose, “Then let’s get to know me, eh, boy?”  Hyde dragged Peter by the arm, taking him to a badly parked car, “Drive.” Hyde instructed.
This was getting beyond Peter.  He had been swept up, not knowingly doing as instructed, yet here he was, behind the steering wheel of an undoubtedly stolen BMW, taking this debauched human on a road trip.

#

“Look at her, Finn.  Look at the way she moves.”  Hyde was admiring the current girl on the pole, Candee, which Peter was quite sure wasn’t her real name.
“It’s not my kind of thing, Mr – “
“Edward.  Eddie.  Anything but fucking Hyde.  Hyde was my degenerate arse raping alcoholic absentee Dad’s name.  Call me that again and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean – “
“Spit it out boy.  Stop this stop-start conversation.  It’s very annoying.”
Edward Hyde rose quickly from his seat.  He climbed onto the stage, making to grab Candee mid-spin.  She struggled in his lascivious grasp, ineffectually punching Hyde’s shoulder for him to release her.  The two doormen were on the stage in seconds.  Both made a grab for one of Hyde’s arms, one of the doormen producing an extended night stick, brandishing it in a threatening cock-of-the-elbow.  Hyde seemed to acquiesce, releasing Candee and flinging his arms up in a disarming way, pushing off the attempts of the doormen to grab him.  He dropped from the stage and headed for the door, flanked by the angry doormen.  Peter was so shocked he couldn’t leave his seat; the action virtually atrophied his muscles.  Hyde decided a stop-off at the bar was worth it before he exited.  He ordered a large vodka, grabbing the bottle from the Barman, and taking a large gulp.  The doormen were now beyond their tether.  They went to grab Hyde, but he was ready.
Peter saw again that remarkable speed as Hyde spun on his heels, landing the bottle firmly against the temple of one doorman, who fell to his knees, clutching the mixture of blood, glass and alcohol - pain his only motivation.  The other doorman took his extended night stick and swung it at Hyde’s neck and head.  It landed with a thud.  Hyde turned his attention slowly to the attacker, only indignancy on his face.
“Ow.  Now why did you want to do that?  I’m going to have to hurt you now.  Just know you brought this on yourself.”  The punters who stood watching, their entertainment sated, formed an informal ring around the competitors, these gladiators of late night drinking.
However, the great pitch battle they were waiting for never appeared.  Hyde grabbed the doorman easily by the throat, fingers thick and pock marked from old fights, lined and etched, historically showing the man’s extended career of breaking people’s bones, squeezing, tighter, until the man turned red in the face from accumulated blood with no release.  Then there was a crack.  Everyone heard it.  It was like a small calibre gun shot, the sickening sound of a neck not only being crushed but broken.  Hyde dropped the dead man with little care, moving over to the second doorman, lifting his arm as though to strike him on the undamaged side of his head.  Peter had finally found his feet and moved to stay Hyde’s hand.  One death was one too many.  If he could, Peter would prevent another.  Astoundingly Hyde relented.
“I think we better go.  The Police will be here soon.”  Peter grabbed Hyde by the arm, trying and failing miserably to pull him towards the door.  The room was filled with living statues.  The monotonous music of Candee’s accompaniment mocked the scene.  Hyde followed Peter’s lead.
“That was fun.  Boy was that fun.  Where next?” Hyde panted excitedly, rubbing his hands in glee.
“I think its time you got away.  They’ll be after you now, Eddie.”
Hyde genuinely looked sad, “Yes, you’re right.  I need a nap anyway, after all that fun.”
“You take the car.” Peter added.  He wanted no more of this, all he wanted was to sleep it off and put it down to a bad dream.  He sauntered off in the opposite direction to Hyde, who was already harassing some young girls on a night out.  Peter just wanted as much distance as he could get from this creature.  He made his way into the centre of town and caught a night bus home.

#

The next morning at the University, after a coffee, Peter was accosted by Dr Jekyll.
“Well?” he asked expectantly.
“Well what, Dr Jekyll?”  Peter knew perfectly well what he was alluding to.  He wasn’t going to volunteer anything incriminating.
“You and Ed Hyde?  You went on the town last night?”
“Yes, well – “
“I wish I was there.  It must have been great fun.”
“Not exactly fun, Dr Jekyll.  More like a waking nightmare.” Peter shifted uneasily in his chair.
Dr Jekyll looked visibly disappointed, “Come on.  Something must have happened?”
“Yes, something did.  And in deference to you I don’t want to repeat it.  I’m just hoping – “
“Oh, you mean those two doormen?  Oh, I knew about that.  Ed told me already.”
“Really?  I mean he did kill – “
“No, no.  He isn’t dead.  He’ll never walk again, but he’s not dead.  Hyde hurts but he never kills.”
“How can you be so flippant about this?” Peter asked, looking surprised.
“Listen.  He’s an old friend.  Old friends stick together.  Old friends look after each other.  Old friends protect each other.”
“But – “
“Peter, think about it.  You’re just as guilty as he is.  Keep it shut and keep your job.  Speak out and I’m sure Hyde will pay you a visit.  You don’t want Hyde to visit you, do you?”
There was really no way out of it.  He had been compliant in going with Hyde, driving a stolen car and party to GBH without reporting a crime and aiding and abetting in the removal of a criminal from the scene of a crime.  Why had he felt compelled to do it?  It was out of his nature, to be so reckless.  What had made him so compliant?
He had to find out.  This couldn’t happen again.

#

But it did, for three nights running, the same Modus Operandi.  They would get into a stolen car, go out into town, cause disruption in a club, get thrown out, thrash someone to within an inch of their lives, leave separately and Peter would wake dumbfounded as to why he would be so willing to follow such a brutish oaf like Edward Hyde.  He was none the wiser why he allowed this to happen, but it had to stop, as Hyde was out of control.  Peter almost felt like he was facilitating the man in an addiction of violence by joining him in his ventures.  The simple fact of Peter’s presence may have been the motivation for the hideous Hyde.  He had to find out if this was true.  He needed to know more about Jekyll and Hyde’s relationship.
He caught up with Dr Jekyll as the man was preparing a room for lecture, “Hyde is so old a friend, I don’t think I can remember where we met.  It’s like we’re part of each other.  Why you ask?”  Dr Jekyll was scribbling out an assignment on the large white board, the pen gliding effortlessly under his practiced hand.
“Oh, just something Hyde said last night.” said Peter as nonchalantly as he could.
“What did Hyde say?”  Dr Jekyll stopped his writing and turned his attention to Peter, who was quickly inventing something in his head.
“Just - it’s more what he didn’t say.  He has never mentioned your’s and his childhood.”
“Well, he wouldn’t.  We met after that.”
“Oh?”
“Why all the questions, Peter?”
“Just curious, Dr Jekyll.  I mean I spend nights with Edward Hyde and days with you, Dr Jekyll.  I don’t have a great deal more to talk about, if it’s not too impertinent.”
Dr Jekyll returned to his writing on the board, “I see what you mean.  It was some time after college, but before Amanda.  Amanda Cross.”
“He’s never mentioned her.”
“He wouldn’t.  It’s a very old, very painful story for him.  See, we both loved her.  But she chose me.  He could never get over it.  If I were you, I would never mention Amanda Cross to him.  It’s the one thing that could tip him over the edge.”
“Trust me, I won’t.”  Peter took the words, finished his work and exited the room before the students arrived.  It seemed to be his existence; be there but don’t be noticed.  He wasn’t looking forward to later that night.

#

“Come to the car quickly!” hissed Hyde, a look of concern and pride fighting for purchase on his face.  Instead of moving to the passenger seat, he went to the rear of the car and opened the boot.  Inside was a familiar face, if bruised, swollen and covered in blood.  She had Gaffer Tape over her mouth, her hands and feet bound with the same tape, her eyes open and staring, her clothes ripped forcefully.  She was in the foetal position.
“What the Hell have you done?”
“It’s Candee.  Or was Candee.  She’s dead now.” What scared Peter the most was the smile on Hyde’s face.
“But Dr Jekyll said you never kill – “
“There’s always an exception to every rule.” shrugged Hyde.  He took one last longing look at the dead girl before slamming the boot closed.
“Oh God.  Oh God.” was all Peter could manage, muttered through a hand covering his mouth.
“So, it turns out I need a little help ditching the body.  Don’t want Jekyll finding out.  This kind of thing hurts a friendship you know,”  Hyde grasped a shocked Peter by the throat and squeezed a little, “And you don’t go telling him either.”  Peter coughed a reply.
“Wow, you’re so uptight, aren’t you?  Anyway I’ve got a saw.  We’ll take her to the woods and you can help me chop her up.”  The smile refused to leave Hyde’s face.
What could Peter do?  He was a part of this now.  Peter climbed in the car.

#

The forest was remote.  Only the occasional owl bore witness to the act both Peter and Hyde performed.  Peter was far too squeamish to do the cutting, so Hyde took the saw from the car and hacked away at the corpse, while Peter dug the shallow grave.  It was tiring, but just before dawn, they were done.  Peter rued the day he took the advert for the University job from the paper.  Now he was mixed up in something he could never recover from.  Hyde, on the other hand, seemed to be in his element.  He wiped his hands of the dirt and blood.
“Right, well, I’ve got places to be.” said Hyde, getting into the car.
“What about me?” was all Peter could manage.  He was well aware he was standing by a shallow grave of a murdered Pole Dancer, minutes from a main road.  It wouldn’t take a great leap of faith for some witness to him walking from the scene to pin it on him if they ever found the body.
“What about you?  Well, as long as you keep your mouth shut, then we’ll have no problems.  Hey, Peter!  Don’t look so down, friend.  This was fun!”  Hyde raced off away from Peter, left all alone, except for the recently deposited corpse of Candee.

#

It didn’t take long before the long arm of the law came round.    Peter didn’t know how to react.  He felt he should confess to his part, however small it was, as he was still accessory to murder.  Dr Jekyll pulled him to one side, in a small room off the corridor.
“Peter.  Peter, Peter, Peter.  What were you going to do then?”  Dr Jekyll menacingly stroked Peter’s face.
“I wasn’t –“
You know what will happen if you do it, Peter?  I can’t handle Ed Hyde when he gets the red menace.  We don’t want that to surface, do we?  You think you’ve seen him at his worse?  He’s just playing now.  He’s having fun.  You don’t want to see him when he’s upset.  Trust me, Peter.  Trust me.”  Dr Jekyll tapped Peter’s cheek with a smile, releasing him finally.  But Peter had to speak up, to somebody.
“Dr Jekyll, this is not what I signed up for.  This is not what I wanted to do.  My God, I can’t believe I’m even having to say this!  Please accept my resignation.”
Dr Jekyll laughed, “Don’t be absurd, Peter!  Ed likes you.  And once Ed likes you, he sticks to you like glue!  Oh, no.  Sorry, Peter, but you’re in for life!”

#

The night came, but it brought no Hyde.  Frankly, Peter was grateful.  No insanity tonight.  He thought he even might be able to get away with it and have a real night’s sleep.  He finished the bits and pieces of work outstanding, tidied up and made for home.
As he walked along the pavement, a car came to a screeching halt next to him.  The door was pushed open, almost taking it from the solid metal frame.  There was a familiar odour of alcohol emanating like a cloud of vapour from within the car.
“Get in.” compelled the driver.  Peter did as instructed, again questioning the immediate power Edward Hyde had over him.  Hyde sped off dangerously into the night, “I hear you’re wanting to tell the Cops about our little adventures?”
“N – No.  Of course not.”
Ed Hyde smiled, his eyes taken from the road ahead as he conversed, “Come on Peter, my old mucker!  Don’t shit a shitter!  Of course you do!  And why wouldn’t you?  So I’m going to let you do just that.”
“What?  But Dr Jekyll –“
“Ah, fuck Henry.  He can say what he likes, but you and me – we’re friends!  And friends don’t let friends suffer!  Ah!  Here we are!”  Hyde came to a sudden stop outside the Police Station, “Go on!  No, really!  Go!  With my blessing!”
Peter took himself from the car, careful in case it was another ruse by Hyde, but Hyde didn’t interfere.  He sat in the car comfortably, engine running and radio blasting away.  Peter Finn cautiously took the stairs to the entrance of the Station.

#

“What do you see here, Mr Finn?” the Inspector queried in the manner of all Police Officers.
Peter looked.  It was CCTV footage of the Club.  It showed a moment before Hyde would walk into frame and attack the doormen.  But he didn’t.  It showed Peter Finn.  It showed Peter Finn take the bottle from the Barman, drinking it down.  It showed Peter Finn being attacked and the breaking of the doorman’s neck.  But where was Hyde?  Christ Almighty!  How did they doctor this footage?  What did this mean?
“Oh, and this Dr Jekyll?  There’s no such person at that university.  Mr Finn, what can you tell us about all this?”
And at that point it didn’t seem to matter, because the door of the Interview room crashed off its hinges and the bulky figure of Edward Hyde stood there.
“Come on, then, Peter!” said the man monster, “Get your shit together, and let’s get the fuck out of here!”
Peter felt, yet again, that urge to comply.  What did Hyde have over him?  This Power?  And what did they mean, there’s no such person as Dr Jekyll?
They must be mad.



Brit West
This was a harsh place for the lonely traveller, where morals were dubious, and life had no value.  This was Tempston; a desolate, arid town in the South West of Engerland, where men were men, and women were too.
The doors of Tempston Community Hall and Bar swung open, rustling papers and ire’s from the Officials on the Registration Table.  There, cast in silhouette, a man stood with his back to the sun, slowly striding in, the change in his pocket jingling rhythmically with every worn step.
“Yes?” asked the First Official, eyes unblinking at the gruff and dusty man.  The roads had been rough, and the man’s Steel Horse was locked up outside.
“Name’s West.  Brit West,” there were audible gasps, “I’m here for the Championships.”
“The Regional Championships?  Right.  Brit West?  Okay, what is the name of your team?”
There were those in the vicinity, sitting with baited breath, waiting for the name he chose.  And then it came, “The Bone Ragers.”  which elicited another set of gasps.
“Bone Ragers?” asked the Official, “I seem to rememb – oh, you’re that Brit West?” asked the Official, the penny dropping.
“One and the same.”
“Where are the rest of your team?”
“There is only me.”
“Are you sure?  It’s a difficult Tournament this year.  A number of strong new teams are already registered.”
Brit West took the name badge from the Official and smiled a wryly from the corner of his mouth, “I only need me.” he expressed, walking toward the Main Hall, which was slowly filling with people.  The music that tinkled through the broken speakers stopped as he entered, until someone gave the speaker a whack on the side, and the music returned, if still a little tinkly.
Above the door, the sign read; Bone Shards Edition IV Regional Championships: South West.  Brit felt in his waistcoat pocket for his deck.  There they were.  Laminated these days, not like the old times, when a dog-ear was a badge of honour and a Biro scribble a mark of respect.  There were Bone Shards International Card Gaming Ltd posters everywhere.  Some enterprising people even put alternative posters up, showing the word Wanted, and a list of cards they needed.  Interesting.  Of course everyone wanted the Wrinklemonster, but it was rarer than hen’s teeth.  Only a handful of people had managed to find them and they rarely brought so rare a card to tournaments.  The price of even a tattered one was in the thousands.  Someone had even put up a poster stating, ‘Wanted – Wrinklemonster, 10,000 Reward’.
A silence seemed to fall, tense in its nature, in a ring about Brit, “Brit West?  ‘A maverick professional player of Bone Shards since the First Edition, is now jaded and on the brink of retiring from the game.  He is honourable, noble, and runs by his own rules, abiding by a strict Code of Honour set out by the Officials of the Championships since –‘“
Brit West turned round to the mocking voice, “Anyone can read my Wikipedia page.  So what?”
The man laughed, flanked by his chuckling cronies.  The badge on their identical shirts denoted they were of the Black Hat Team.  Some of them Brit recognised.  And they certainly weren’t from this Region.  They must be Ringers, “Oh, nothing.  Just reminding you of who you used to be.  So, old man, you taking part this year?”
“Yes.”  Brit was a man of few words.
“And where’s the rest of your team?”
“There’s only me.  There only needs to be me.”
The Black Hat Team fell about in fits of laughter, “On your own?  Wow, you’ll be out Round One!”
“Let’s wait and see.”
“Yes, let’s.” laughed the man, as he led his cronies away.  Brit made for the bar, getting himself a shot of Whiskey.  He sat there, nursing it.  People who remembered the name just stared at him, wondering where that maverick had gone.  To the bottom of a shot glass, as far as Brit was concerned.  There was one person, however, who didn’t think like those others.  This one sat next to Brit, much to his chagrin.
“Weren’t you the man who stood up to the Frack Hand Gang?  Back in the early days, when cards were not laminated?  What happened, Brit?” said the squeaky voiced boy, far too young to remember the old days personally.
Brit West answered simply, “That was a different time.  I was a different man.”  He took another sip of his shot, staring into the optics, as though they had a divine answer for him.
“But you could be him again?”
“Look, kid, you weren’t there.  You didn’t see the real truth.  Your view of it is through rose-tinted glasses.  It was a wild time back then.  Maybe, just maybe a few years ago, but now?  I’m here for the money kid.  Nothing more.”
“You used to be somebody, Brit.” the kid said disappointed, sloping off the stool to leave Brit West alone with his thoughts.  Sure, the kid might be right.  Used to be somebody.  He was no one anymore.  Just a washed up Bone Shard Fighter, and nothing to show for it other than a motorbike and a pot belly.  He finished the Whiskey and asked for a double.
The morning spread on.  Through the dozens of Teams, slowly, but surely a hierarchy began to emerge.  Noble players, some of great note, went out to young players.  It was the nature of the game.  A Filch Meddler’s Spell Value always outweighed the Horpander’s Defence Against Magic Value.  But the young were quicker, they were brighter, and many of the old folk stuck to the same tired old cards that had always won for them in the past.  But newer, greater value cards were coming out all the time.  A Dusty Whompster struck a Red Spitter here, a Bendy Hopespin sliced at a Perpet Worm there.  It was a bloodbath, and the quicker, younger mind was winning.  Brit stuck to tactics that had always worked, doing well in the earlier rounds, but faltering a little when he came across some of the newer players.  Of course they bowed to his experience and his name, which helped a little bit in the intimidating steaks.  What wasn’t right, though, were the tactics of the Black Hat Team.  They would cause trouble, be disruptive during matches, mainly trying to put off other players, making them take wrong moves.  It was legal, sure, but it was morally wrong.  There was a Code Of Conduct to uphold.  Otherwise it would be the Wild South West.  And nobody wanted that.  Not again.
Brit found himself, between matches, refreshing himself at the bar.  He watched the small groups that remained, each sweating blood, willing the opponent to pick that worthless card.  People were tired.  It had been a long day.  Then suddenly the cry went up in the Hall, “He has a Wrinklemonster!”
This got Brit West’s attention.  He looked to the table where the shout had come from.  It was one where a Black Hat Team player was against a member of the Cheeky Legs Team.  It was the Black Hat member who had put the Wrinklemonster card down.  Brit picked up his glass and wandered over to the table, observing from the outskirts of the crowd, who had gathered just to see this magnificent card in person, perhaps for the only time in their lives.
“Roderick of the Black Hat Team has put down a Wrinklemonster.  Do you surrender?” asked the Table Official of the Cheeky Legs Team member.  The young girl nodded reluctantly, her bottom lip quivering.  Brit cared not for the disappointment of the young girl.  It was the nature of Bone Shards - it left devastation in its path.  One had to learn to get over it, or get out of the game.  It could swallow up the weak.  Brit West’s attention was, however, on the Black Hats.  Something rang alarm bells of suspicion.  Brit began to speak before he realised he had opened his mouth.
“Contention.” he called.  It was an old term, very rarely used in the modern game.  It went back to a time when it was possible to replicate a card, when there weren’t so many security features inbuilt into each new one.  The Table Official had to consult a colleague, not himself acquainted with the term, but it was agreed as a valid one, so the card was removed for inspection.  If looks could kill, Brit West would be dead ten times over from the stares of the Black Hats.  He was right.  He had to be right.  There was something – off – about that card.  Back in the day, fifteen Wrinklemonsters had entered the market, all fake.  It nearly brought the game to its knees.  Those were dark times.  Something like that shouldn’t happen in the modern game.  The Table Official returned to the table and declared, “Fake!” to a thunderous noise of derision, of boos and sneers.  The leader of the Black Hats rose and stomped over to Brit.  The crowd parted for him to do so.
“What the Hell – who the Hell do you think you are?  How dare you –“
“I call for an All Or Nothing Challenge.” said Brit West, arms crossed, unblinking eyes staring into the Black Hat Leader’s own.  The Black Hats were stunned.  The Official needed to consult a colleague again, for its meaning.  An All Or Nothing Challenge was a call no one ever made, not anymore - for it meant the loser of the Challenge was banned for life from Bone Shards, in any iteration, and must relinquish their cards, to be dispersed on a first come first served basis to those around the Hall.  Brit West had nothing to lose.  And it was the only answer, to bring those Black Hats down.  They must be brought to justice.  In the world of Bone Shards, justice was doled out by the people and the Organisation of Bone Shards International Card Gaming Ltd.  It was personal, private and direct, as a lifetime ban was considered something worse than death.
Brit West sat at the bar.  It was five minutes to the match.  Had he done the right thing?  Was he the right man to take on the task, or was he simply too old and slow to survive this time?
“You can do it.  You know you can.  You’re Brit West.”  It was the kid again.  He was smiling, confidence brimming from every pore.  Maybe the kid was right?  Maybe he could?  Well, it was too late now.  It was almost time.  He knocked back the rest of the shot and stood, moving towards the table, which was ready and waiting for him to do his moral duty.  The kid slapped him encouragingly on the back, and Brit made his way to his seat, sitting heavily in it.  The Black Hat Leader was already there, his cronies about him, staring down Brit, who was on his own amongst the chanting and baying crowd.
“Please remove cards from packs and shuffle, three times.” said the Official.  The crowd counted out loud the three shuffles as the players made them, “First card chooses –“
“Let the old man go first.” interrupted the Black Hatter.
The Official nodded, “Brit West, you are to draw first.  Frank Gorst, you are to draw second.  Fight!”  The cheer rose as the two opponents prepared.
Brit drew a conservative Gund.  Gorst drew a Sepple.  Round one to Gorst, with a cheer of approval from his cronies.  Next, Brit drew an Undrump.  An unusual move, as the gasp of the audience contested.  Gorst countered with an Ipik Caster.  Second round to Gorst.  Brit was on the ropes.  He drew a Xerad Gulper.  All Gorst had was a Viss.  Third round to Brit.  The crowd were on tenterhooks.  Over the next few intense minutes, Brit West went on to win the next three rounds, and then Gorst for a couple, eventually back to Brit.  It was tiring work, and the cards began to slip in Brit’s fingers.  He rubbed his hands on his trousers, trying to wipe away the sweat.
“What’s the matter, old man?  Need your sleep?” teased Frank Gorst.  Even his cronies had thinned out a little.  It was too much for them, and their intimidating tactics didn’t work on Brit West.  He had written the book on Table Tactics.  Literally.  There was a signed copy behind the bar.
They had a small toilet break, which Brit spent in the bar, before the game resumed.  Once back at the Table, Brit came back strong.  He took the first couple of rounds, then Gorst for the next three.  The game was tied.  Brit West rolled his head to try and release the tension that had built up over the vast minutes of play.  Frank Gorst, however, looked fresh-faced and ready to go.  It was true - it was a young man’s game now, and people like Brit West were the dinosaurs.
“How about we make it interesting?  Next round is a Winner Takes All.” said Frank Gorst, with his ever-irritating smile.
Brit stared at him.  A thin line of sweat formed on his cheek, where a bead rolled down, splashing onto Brit’s deck.  It seemed to bring him to a conclusion, “Okay.  Winner Takes All.  Three card rule.  In case you didn’t know –“
“Oh, I know the three card rule.” smiled Frank Gorst, “Sure, why not?  Let’s see what you got, old man.”
Brit drew a Doggle.  Gorst smiled wickedly as he put down a Well Worm.  Brit contemplated his cards.  He put down a Krowner.  Gorst put down a Neenee.  Pretty much evenly matched.  It all fell to the last card.  Brit took out a Gobling Steer Strider.  Gorst almost laughed out loud as he quickly put down a Frozen Eptic Seal.  Nothing could beat that!  Then Frank Gorst saw it.  He also saw the smile creep onto Brit West’s lips.
“Wait.  A Gobling Steer Strider has a higher motivation.  No!  No, it can’t be!?”  But it was.  Gorst had lost.  He had gambled on a valuable strike, forgetting the lesser statistics.  Most people did.  It was considered old hat.  No one used them.  Unless they were an old man like Brit West.
Still smiling, Brit West stood, stopping only to pick up his deck and place it back, securely, in his waistcoat pocket.  He scanned the crowd and saw the kid alone, amongst the cheering people.  He gave the kid a wink.  The maverick had returned.  And the kid saluted him correctly; long way up, short way down.
Brit West, New Champion of the Regional Heats of Bone Shards for the South West and going onto County Heats in the Spring, left the Hall, his change still clinking in his pocket.
And the doors to the Tempston Community Hall and Bar remained open as he steadily climbed upon his Steel Horse, kicked it into gear, and rode off into the sunset, the crowd waving him on his way.



The Bromance
“Uh.” he said, quite beside himself.  He shuffled the streets, the occasional bit of him falling to the ground, already clogged with detritus.  He couldn’t help that - what with being dead, he had little choice in the matter.
“Murr.  Murr.” said another.  These two had found themselves walking, hoard-like, for a few days now.  Those around them made their own comments, in their own particular argot, but he and his colleague, they understood each other, even with their limited vocabulary.
Let’s call the first one Bits and the second one Shuffle.
Bits found Shuffle purely by accident.  They had bumped into each other, literally.  Shuffle had all his limbs at this point, so was not overbalanced.  Bits had made a comment, and Shuffle replied.  They had been inseparable ever since.
The hoard, for want of a better word, had formed a few days previously, when two groups collided with each other, on their entrance to the Big City.  None of the hoard knew why, but someone up the front must know something, so they followed mindlessly.
“Uh.” said Bits, to break the monotony.
“Murr.” agreed Shuffle, none the wiser.
If he could express it, Bits would have talked about how varied the modern undead was.  There were the tall, the bald, the fat, the hirsute, old, young, middle aged; and such varied fashions.  Greys, browns, vomit stained, long, short, but ultimately tattered in some way.  It was the current fashion trend for the modern Zombie.
The line halted again - for Suit, as usual.  Suit was another Zombie.  This one was tall, but always falling over.  His balance had been off since he tore the flesh from his right calf on the razor wire, way back on the outskirts of the Big City.
As it turned out, it was a lucky thing this time, as further forward, deeper in the hoard, there was the sound of gunshots.  Bits moved, as did the rest, in all directions at once, instinct alive if nothing else was.  They scattered, to the four winds, even as the gunshots drove closer.  Bits was off in a direction.  He called out to Shuffle, but there was no reply.  Always the same.  For Bits it was always the same, even when he had been alive.  All the people he cared for had left him.  Although in his case, it was because he ate them.  But that was beside the point.
“Uh.  Uh.  Uh.” called Bits, but nothing.  He was now wandering down an alleyway, following others of his ilk.  It was his nature, now, to follow.  Eventually the alleyway came back out onto the main road.  There was much chaos now on the street, but amongst the melee, Bits spotted a familiar, if decayed, face.  Shuffle.  His old mate, Shuffle.  Still the same old falling to pieces friend.  Bits ambled toward him, as did Shuffle in return.  They met awkwardly in the middle of the road, surrounded by twice-dead comrades, mostly cranially challenged.
“Uh.” said Bits.
“Murr.” replied Shuffle.  But the good times didn’t last.  The humans were all about, shooting this, spiking that, chopping the other - when, against all luck, Shuffle caught a spike in the back of his head.  He tried to speak, but he couldn’t find the words, so he just moaned as he collapsed to the ground.
Bits was distraught.  He turned, screaming, “Uh.” as he walked, or shuffled, along.  The others in the hoard were on the humans now, devouring them, eating their hearts out.  Bits didn't feel sorry for them.  They killed his friend.  If he had tear ducts, or the capacity to feel emotion, he might have shed a tear at that moment, for a fallen comrade.  Sure, he could meet another like Shuffle, one who understood him, but it was unlikely he would ever find again that one who understood him as much as Shuffle.



All Able Bodies
First they recruited those who had left the service under a cloud, then they let loose the dangerous from the prisons.  After all this was war, and every able body was needed.
They came from within, that enemy, then they came from without.  Hundreds, thousands of them.  They attacked the major cities first, of course.  Then they reached out into the boroughs, the estates and the countryside.  They didn’t stop until they controlled the land.  They didn’t control it all, however.
There was still the village of Cortvale, nestled in the foothills of the Mendips, once a mining town way back to the Iron Age.  There was a network of tunnels and caves which only the locals knew extensively; a tale told from Father to Son, Mother to Daughter, but never to an Outsider.  The caves were a local legend, believed once to be the home of an old Pagan god.  Now they were home to the families of Cortvale.
John Hale stood with the sun setting behind him, standing on the ruins of what once was the local pub, the Drop Inn, scanning the horizon.  There seemed no recent sign of them.  They hadn’t been seen for many days, but it never hurt to stay alert.  Neither he nor the Gang had needed to go out on scouting trips for a while, and the Gang at least was glad.  They had seen too much blood, too much death and far too much danger.  Too many of the young were gone.  Most of them had been taken in the first wave of conscription.  Of those boys and girls, nothing had been heard.  Communication lines had been severed a long time ago, nearly as soon as the invaders came.  No Runner had been close in three months.  One of the Gang had seen a Runner distantly while on perimeter duty, but they had been heading in the direction of London.  Away from Cortvale.
“There’s nothing.  There’s no one.  And there hasn’t been for some time.” explained John Hale to the Collected.
Alan Derrick spoke above the murmur, “So what are you saying, John?”
“I’m saying that – I don’t know – I think I’m saying it’s all over?  They’ve gone.”
Margaret Sowell then took her opportunity to speak.  She was the senior member of the Victory Collective - the action committee set up weeks after the beginning of the invasion.  They essentially controlled the village survivors, set up protective duties, allocated heat, food, blankets and the like.  Ultimately they controlled the Gang, of which John Hale was leader, “John, your contribution to the people of Cortvale cannot be measured, but surely this is pure speculation?”
“Yes, I can agree with that, Margaret.  That’s why I’m asking for the Gang –“ said John Hale.
“You know we cannot spare those men, John.  Absolutely not.” interrupted Margaret.
“If that’s the case, may I ask for permission to go by myself?  I’ll take minimal supplies.  Everything else I need, I can get on the road.”
Margaret was about to reply when the circle was broken by a distressed woman bursting into the group.  She dragged with her two small children, both bewildered beyond comprehension, “John!  Don’t do it!  We need you!  Please!?”
John Hale broke protocol and walked over to his wife and children, “Susan.  You know I have to do this?  It’s what I do.  Oh, don’t look so worried!  I’ll be back in a couple of weeks, a month tops.  You know I have to, don’t you?” John asked, looking pleadingly into his lover’s eyes, imploring her to understand.  Susan Hale stared into his eyes for a few seconds, before she broke into a fit of uncontrollable tears, nodding her head vigorously, resigned to a choice made long ago, which was never going to be overturned.  She knew her husband too well.  John Hale looked back to the Victory Collective.
Margaret tried to suppress an exacerbated sigh, “Alright, John.  I think we can see what this means to you.  But just you, minimal supplies, and the understanding that this is a voluntary venture.  And I express thanks to you, John Hale, for coming to the Collective first, before simply picking up sticks and going anyway.  You are our best and brightest, John Hale.  Please, come back to us?”
John Hale hadn’t gone more than a day when he came upon the first of the invader corpses.  It looked almost posed, dressed as a statue to establish the invaders of Earth.  John Hale made sure it was dead.  He tapped it with his steel toe caps once or twice, eventually leading to a half dozen swift powerful kicks to its torso, releasing some of the tension he had built up over the long dark days.  He only wished it was he who had killed it.
Corpses of the dead defenders lay about, rotting, decaying into the earth, feeding the yellow grass back into life.  They were splayed around the invader, like decomposing petals around a long despised flower.  Each village or town he entered was the same; the houses, the shops, the factories and the schools.  They were all mingled together as a collage of different coloured bricks.  Practically nothing remained of the infrastructure - the bones of the buildings.  The invaders had done a good job of destruction.  There were  bodies everywhere - most of which were women and children.  John Hale only wished he could feel sad for the death of the innocent, but he had seen men crushed, women eviscerated and children ripped apart before his very own eyes.  He was hardened to it now.  Not even a tear escaped his eye - not a lump in the throat.  Just a longing.  A longing to be right.  Otherwise, why was he taking this trip?
More shells of the invaders mottled his passage, each of which John Hale assured himself was dead, with rapid boot kick.  It was becoming increasingly obvious to him that he was walking through a wasteland, depleted of its natural resources, its beauty and its people.  No living souls.  Not even the call of a bird, or the bark of a fox, just a thud-thud sound of John Hale’s own heartbeat.
He looked about him as he walked through those streets and abandoned roads, remembering how these places looked at one time, and how they could look again - if only he was right, and they were gone.  So far all he had seen were dead ones, and those were at least a week dead.  Some perhaps a lot older.  But there was a lack of people too.  Perhaps they hid as the people of Cortvale had?  Safe and hidden waiting for the all-clear?  Perhaps there were no people to sound the horns of Victory?  Perhaps they were gone too.  This was why John Hale had to know.
On the outskirts of London, the area most hit and where the predominant war was fought, John Hale got his first glimpse of what remained.  The invaders bodies littered the path of John Hale’s route; the big, the small, the in-between.  Out near Cortvale, only the large were seen - harder to kill and more intelligent.  But they managed, the old and young, the infirm and differently abled.  They took the fight back to the invaders, when the conscripts were dying by their hundreds every day.  This was, in fact, the first time John Hale had seen the vast differences in appearance and size.  At least they were dead, rotting away, but they had been hurtled haphazardly into a pyre to rot away out of sight.  Then he heard voices.  They were distant at first, the rumble of an engine masking the conversation.  John Hale was in two minds, but ducked into the ditch just in case.
The car, battered and decorated with graffiti, missing its doors, trundled past John Hale.  The people inside carried guns.  When they had driven from view, John Hale pulled himself from the ditch, continuing his journey, but his steps were filled with caution.  Why did they have guns?  Were there still invaders alive?  Or, please no, those guns were for other people?  Really, had civilisation fallen so far so quickly?  Was this the true legacy of the invaders?  He pushed on, determined to find out the truth.
Along the way, John Hale had to hide himself from a number of other patrols - same types of car, same guns.  Some of the people inside the cars wore paint upon their faces, a pallid imitation of William Golding’s classic, bullies to a one.  The roads were thicker with rotting flesh too, now difficult to distinguish between them and us.  But that didn’t seem to matter as much now.  Roaming  and organised gangs of people meant one thing - that people were still not  safe.  The people of Cortvale would need to know.
John Hale finally reached the centre of London, pockmarked with destruction from powerful military weapons.  The river no longer flowed.  It was packed with debris to the brim.  Distinguishing what constituted the debris was something John Hale refused to speculate on.  Ahead of him was the seat of Government.  If anything was going to inform him of the future of the country, it was there.
The wrought iron gates were covered in notes, photographs, teddy bears, toys and memories of the lost.  People longed to know the truth about theirs, about their kith and kin.  The parade of bright colours that constituted the patchwork of desperation led to a collection of hurriedly constructed boards.  The writing upon the placards sang a tune John Hale had been longing to hear.  They said things like, “WE WON!” and “Invaders Have Gone Home!” to the more obscure, “Now They’ve Gone, What Becomes Of Us?”  Yes.  What would become of us, John Hale thought to himself.  He was so reflective that he failed to notice the man with the gun.
“Who are you?” asked the man.  He thrust the barrel at John Hale, in emphasis.
“I just – I wanted to speak to those in charge.  Is it true?  Have they gone?”
“Where have you been?  Living in a cave?” asked the man with the gun.
“Well, funny you should say –“
“Why shouldn’t I shoot you?” asked the man purposefully.
“I have people relying on me.  I need to get word to them.  This is the news they’ve been desperate for.”
“Are you a cannibal?”
“Uhm, no?”
“Turn around!  Hands on the fence!”
“How old are you?  Fourteen?”
“Turn round!”
“Careful with that gun.  You don’t want it going off –“
BANG!
And the boy dropped the gun, running away, deeper into the City.



The Diary of Kate Providence 
I.
The girl woke bleary eyed.  She walked over to the chipped metal bowl on the sideboard, which contained a tiny amount of water, and splashed it over her face.  No more than a pinch of precious water did she allow herself.  She continued to the kitchen, where she took out her own personal stash of batteries from her drawer and inserted them into the CD Player.  Once inserted and the devise was turned on, she selected Track 15; In My Life by The Beatles.  She then took down her red bowl from the shelf and poured a tiny amount of cereal into it, and spooned it distractedly into her mouth as she listened to the song.  Once done, she took the Strong Room key from its little hook by the stove and unlocked the door, searching  amongst weapons; the machete, the spent rifles and the compound bow.  There amongst them was her golf club, a 2 wood, tarnished on the round end where it had struck   many times.  She took it out it, closing and locking the door behind her.  Suited, booted and weaponised, she went to the main door of the building and opened it to greet the morning sun.
The girl was Bianca Innes, young and barely beyond her youth, burnished here and there inevitably by her experiences to date, and she took a deep breath of the sharp morning air.  Living with others was tough; the closeness, the smells and the lost tempers was beginning to grate on her nerves.  The deep breath allowed sea salt to rake against her olfactory senses, embedding deeply in her sinuses.  It was difficult not to look about her without the feeling something was waiting to be wrong, but that was how time was spent nowadays - expecting the worst to happen at any moment seemed to be the best way to survive these days.  She noted, not for the first time, that the metal of the fences was rusting.  Soon they would need replacing.
She carefully opened the gate closest to the building end of the Pier.  This was always to be the last line of defence, if it was ever needed.  On the other side of that fence was the covered walkway, from this end of the Pier to the ramp and inevitable horror beyond the front gates.
She took to her designated task for that day with little enthusiasm.  It was for her to check the locks and fences, placed at twenty foot intervals within the long covered walkway.  They were simple latch gates, not designed to stop Them, but to slow Them down.  She was about half way down the Pier when she noticed one of the gates hadn't been latched properly from the previous watch.  It must have been Joel.  Damn him, always taking risks with other people's lives!  She closed it, double checking the latch wasn't broken.
On the outside, either side of the covered walkway had been placed at regular intervals massive detritus barriers, made up of the useless things that no longer powered within the Pier, or had no further practical use, like the Pinball Machines, the Fruit Machines and the Penny Falls.  She was sure that nothing could get through those half dozen barriers; absolutely nothing, not even Them.  Frankly, this job was an odious task at best.
The streets beyond the Pier looked a little sparser than normal.  Maybe they had found a new feeding ground?  Finally she came to the gates to the entrance of the Pier.  They were definitely and firmly closed.  They met in the middle with a heavy chain snaking intricately amongst the criss cross of bars that made up that very secure gate.  Three heavy padlocks secured the chain, and all were in good working order and undamaged.  Bianca couldn't help but look at the corpses beyond the gate.  They continued to rot where they had fallen.  It was true that there was definitely no dignity in death these days.  She spotted the two she had killed herself, almost gone now, down to the scaffold of the body; the ribcage weathered, no longer bone white.  She spared a thought for those who didn't make it and was about to leave when she noticed a corpse she hadn't seen before.  This one was a youngish woman, her jacket and skirt dirty and ripped, much like Bianca's.  The new corpse was clinging to the gate with one white hand, the other limp by its side.  This one must have come within the last twelve hours, she surmised; otherwise Joel would have informed the group.  Or would he?  Perhaps he wouldn't have noticed something like this, his mind somewhere long dead and several long months ago.
Bianca sidled up to the body and with the daring only enabled by youth, she reached through the bars of the gate, to frisk the corpse.  It was dangerous - deadly dangerous.  She knew she couldn't be sure the corpse was completely dead.  But Bianca found something in one of the jacket pockets.  It was a Diary.
The room was frantic with anticipation.
"Where did you say you got it?” asked Alisa Sage, the Mother Hen of the group.  She was halfway through Don Caddarik's breakfast, "And why haven't you put your weapon back in the Strong Room, young lady?"
"Oh, forget that." Bianca caught a look from Alisa, tutted and returned the weapon to the Room.  Joel Kelsey was already sitting in her seat when she returned.
"Nice little book.  What's it about?" Joel asked.
"It's about a person, Joel?" replied Simon Brogan sarcastically.  Joel ignored him.  Don, the defacto leader, entered.  It seemed Terry Cain, his right hand man, had gone to wake him upon Bianca's return.
"Anyone read it yet?" Don asked, taking his usual seat near the kitchen.  Terry took the Diary from the communal table and handed it to him.
"Not yet, Don.  We were waiting for you.  Breakfast?" Alisa handed Don his food, which he thanked her for.
"Well, I suppose there's no time like the present?" said Don, turning the dirty and bloodied faux leather book in his hand as though inspecting it for further clues.  He opened it to the first page and began to read.

II.
The Diary Of Kate Providence, Age 36
15 March
I haven't written one of these since I was twelve, but in light of recent events, I decided I better keep some record of what's going on; for prosperity, if not for history.  It’s just, well, things are very odd, and getting odder.
Let's start at the beginning.  I work for a large pharmaceutical conglomerate, as a personal assistant to Mr Gregory, the top boss.  I noticed a flurry of unusual activity one day, and I knew things were beginning to happen.  See, I knew this because of my position; the things I typed, memo's I passed along, and things I overheard all led to discussion about some global epidemic.  The general public are being kept in the dark.  I don't blame them.  From all accounts it’s going to be something big - something devastating.  Think swine flu and bird flu mixed with small pox and you wouldn't even come close.  Anyway, I have to leave for work now and I'm not looking forward to it.

16 March
People are beginning to get suspicious.  I saw a man on the corner of the street where I work - he was hawking a pamphlet, all about the hidden agenda of pharmaceutical companies.  It was titled, 'The Coming Pandemic'.  Did he know?  It is entirely possible for internet groups to find out these things.  In fact we used to receive a death threat almost twice daily, and those have increased.  Now up to eight or so.  I don't know if this is relevant, but I put it in this Diary, in case it is.  The group threatening us is called the PAG, or Pandemic Awareness Group.  Maybe it’s relevant - I don't know.

17 March
It's spreading.  The thing is spreading.  People get sick, buboes or black spots rise up on their skin, then they slowly die.  It's quite horrible.  But there's something else - something even higher than Mr Gregory; something else is going on and the voice traffic I hear is about a secret deployment of troops, in nearly every country.  It's not here yet, thank God, but it only takes one.  They're thinking of closing down the Airports and docks.  Oh my God, people are going to panic!

20 March
I've been ill for a couple of days now, in bed, under the covers.  No buboes, thank God.  I just think I've been run down and overworked.  The phone has been ringing non-stop, but I knew all I needed was a little rest.  I forced myself though to get up, go to the Hospital to keep that appointment.  I hadn't heard anything to the contrary, so made my way there.  Even though my appointment at Outpatients was early, the distinct lack of people was unnerving.  It wasn't that there were no people, it was just that those who were around at that time of day were listless and shaky.  The Hospital was only a few streets away, so I made good time.  When I got to the entrance, I was nearly run down by an Ambulance hurtling around the corner, raising the hackles with screeching wheels and siren wailing.  There were more Ambulances the closer to the entrance I got.  Further in, it was pandemonium.
The Ambulances rushing in had to dart amongst discarded cars and motorcycles.  Through the entrance there was a general hum of excitement.  People pushed each other out of the way, in order to be seen first.  Every man for himself, it seemed.  I felt I was watching the fall of society.  It was too much for me, so I left.
  

23 March
It's been a few days, but I have been busy.  It finally happened.  The first cases of the disease are here now.  Mr Gregory and his colleagues are trying to do damage control, but it’s too late.  A plane came in Tuesday with a suspected case.  It spread like wildfire.  They haven't even given it a name yet.  Some are calling it a new Black Death, but it’s too rapid for that.  This is something else, something more sinister.  It’s got Mr Gregory on the phone almost morning, noon and night.
Yesterday it hit us all, worrying Mr Gregory the most.  Two of my colleagues died of it and now we're being screened for it.  Unfortunately I was too busy for my screening, and by the time I could find a minute to spare, they had left.  I don't have time to scare myself.  There's a big video conference set for this afternoon and I need to prepare it.

25 March
I am finding it hard to write this, but it needs to be recorded.  My sister, Emily May Providence, is dead.  Poor Emily.  Mom is devastated of course, and more so now that she's noticed a few buboes on her own skin.  That's how it starts, those horrible black spots.  What do I do now?  Do I go to Mom, or do I stay here?  I'm safe here.  But is she safe where she is?  How can I be so selfish!  I have to go to her!

26 March
Couldn't travel today, and I was going to see Mom.  The trains are out of service, and the roads are chock-a-block.  I can barely bring myself to write this down, but I noticed a bubo this morning, when I was taking a cold shower, the electricity being very erratic these days.  Damn it!  Why didn't I just get that screening when I could?  Maybe if they catch it early - what if it gets bigger?  What if I get more?  And, oh God, you won't believe the rumours!  I so hope they are just rumours, because I don't think I could bear the alternative; people are saying, quite seriously, that some of the dead people are coming back!  How is that possible?  If you're dead, you’re dead, right?  Is this what they've been hiding, way back then, with the troops and the cover-ups in those other countries?  I have to get to Mom as soon as I can, but they say the Army control the streets now.  What if they're not letting people through?  It doesn't matter.  I have to try.  Mom, I'm coming for you.  Hold out a little longer.

27 March
Strangely, this time it didn't hurt as much.  Maybe I'm too tired, maybe I'm getting more ill.  Maybe in these days it doesn't matter as much, but I got a call from Mom's next door neighbour, Jean.  Jean told me through tears that Mom died last night.  I couldn't cry.  Maybe I had cried all the tears I had left for Emily?  Now I have no one left.  It looks like it'll be me next.  I need to sleep now.  That's what I need - a good night's sleep.  I'll have more perspective on everything after that.

3 May
Can I still do this?
I don't know if I can explain what has happened, but it has been some while since I last wrote in this book.  There didn't seem much point until now, but it occurred to me; what if they can use this Diary, after I've deteriorated?  If they can use it as some kind of aid in finding out what happened then it would be worth it.
You see, I died.  Or is that, I am dead?  How I am still coherent and writing this down, I have no idea.  It's a very odd feeling.  My brain tells me to breathe, but my lungs no longer function.  My brain tells me to eat, but it's a different hunger; a dangerous hunger.   Animated dead.  Don't expect me to explain it in this Diary how it's possible.  I know only basic biology, enough to know this shouldn't be possible, but it is.
I felt life ebb from me - I felt death - I felt the emptiness and somehow opened my eyes where I had died, still with a brain to reason.  How?  Why?  Am I an anomaly?  Am I the only one?  I know I'm not an animal, but many others act as if they are.  How am I not like them?  I hunger, just like they do?
But I noticed I can hold that feeling down.  They can't.  They walk like alabaster angels until they taste flesh.  Then they turn into rabid dogs.  It's disgusting, it's horrific; and yet - and yet I want it too.  I need that flesh.  I'm not a cannibal, but I desire it.  I desire that moist, rich flesh like no other hunger I have ever felt.  I sate my hunger with dogs and cats, or any small animal I can get my hands on.  I know it's beyond the pale, but if I don't, I feel the animal in me rise.  And I will never let that happen, to become one of those ravenous creatures feasting on human beings!
If I could I would kill myself.  But how could I when I'm already dead?  A thinking, reasoning - dead - human.  I have to go.  I have to leave.  There's nothing for me in this city anymore.  I seem to remember that there's a disease control facility near a seaside town not so very far from me, one of Mr Gregory's facilities.  Time to go.  No point hanging around as I'm guessing I don't have a job anymore?

5 May
It's odd to wander the streets unmolested.  When I was alive there was fear, of being attacked, infested, overrun by this disease, but there is no fear now; the only thing left to fear, strangely, is the living, and their number is dwindling, I'm ashamed to say.
In my walks, I have noticed three distinct types of creature; those like me, who I call the Brains, those who hunt in packs of three or four, sharing the kill, which I call Hunters and finally the Mindless Drones; those who walk aimlessly, with no direction and grab what comes close to them.  They make up the largest contingent.  It seems in death as in life they are compelled to follow the herd.  Death imitates life - I look at a scene of, say, a coffee shop, where the same people sit at the same seats as they always have, but this time, they're dead.  A strange diorama - a snapshot of life in death; dirtier, more blood-stained and very dead.
The Hunters descend on pockets of humans like rabid beasts, tearing them limb from limb.  It leads me to suspect that there is something diminished in the dead that only the living can provide.  I call it death, but of course it's more than that.  It's a living death.  Or, as I am beginning to realise, a different state of life, one that requires the flesh of the uninfected.  But we humans like to label things, calling them alive, and us dead.  Frankly, we shouldn't call ourselves anything, as we are principally dead.  Or thereabouts.
I have noticed something else of the recently deceased.  Upon reawakening, they have a fully functioning brain, as I do.  It is the speed of deterioration that defines their type.  The Brain types maintain it longer, the Hunters reverting to an earlier version of humanity and the drones bereft of all but motor function.  So it makes me think; what future is there for me?  Will I turn into one of those?  Will I loose function and become the animal that tears, or the mindless drone, wandering aimlessly?

12 May
Today has made up my mind.  I am some distance from the City now.  I have seen much, and most of it I wish never to put into words here.  The actions of my fellow man, even if infected, and the retaliation of my fellow man even if uninfected has made me ever despair of humanity returning to some kind of normality in the near future.  One such example was when I came upon a pitch battle between the infected and the uninfected.  I hid, naturally.  But I observed.
A group of uninfected had found themselves a sanctuary of sorts, in a campsite bordered with strong fences.  They had obviously underestimated the energy these infected still had in them.  The uninfected were beating the infected with sticks, clubs; any weapon to hand.   Some even had guns.  Nothing stopped the onslaught though - and I have to say I was tempted.  I was tempted to join in!  There seemed so much flesh, so much goodness.  It became unbearable; the hunger, the temptation.  The only thing that stopped me was the sudden realisation of what I was saying to myself, what I was thinking.  I wanted to join in with the murder, the death, the killing - the massacre?  What was I becoming?  We were, in essence, two types of humans with differing definitions of what defined life.  It wasn't the so called Dead against the so called Living.
And there and then it showed itself to me, the way that society had finally crumbled; man with difference to man, one determining that the other no longer mattered.  So, I was tempted.  So what?  Everyone lives with their temptations daily.  Some would forego, some would justify following their desires.  That wasn't me.  That was never me, even before I became infected.  Me in either state was essentially the same person.  I decided at that point I would make something of myself.  I would put myself forward body and soul, if I still had one, to aid in finding a cure.  I just had to get to that disease control facility.  There would be people there who knew what to do.  So I must make for the coast - to sacrifice.  Oh and I saw that man from the Pandemic Awareness Group again.  He was a Mindless Drone, gnawing on his own arm.  Funny how things work out, isn't it?

15 May
Finally! I've made it!  I'm here, in the seaside town, yet I know I'm weak and my strength is ebbing from me.  I need help, if I'm to complete my goal.  The fog has dropped and I see the outline of the Grand Pier crowning out of the mist like a modern castle, of sanctuary and aid.  I hope they see me.  I hope they understand.  I just need to rest.

III.
Wilma Zareb turned 44 yesterday.  It was of little consequence to her, as age meant nothing in these times.  She had been a University Lecturer before it all happened, Swarm Theory being a passion of hers during her tenure; something she found she could apply to the dead of today.  She had assessed a kind of termite like pattern to their hunting and feeding, but she was yet to determine the genetic makeup of them, as she hadn't the equipment to hand.  But she knew with it, the living could better understand the dead and their motivations.  Perhaps they could find out how the infection manifested?  They could find a cure.  It was speculation, of course, but an educated guess.
She was showing Lily Umeko, the 23 year old social butterfly who was becoming a blossoming flower, how to make a bed.  Wilma didn't do it out of some kind of obligation to the next generation - she did it because she wanted Lily.  She had a crush so intense for the girl it was impossible to hide.  And Lil knew this, but never spoke of it.  She was used to using people.  It was how she survived.  She didn't do it on purpose though; it was all she knew.  And Wilma enabled Lily's habit to a fault.  The announcement of the Diary finally drew Wilma's attention.  She left the girl to it, joining Zander Bernarr, cross-armed and curious, at the doorway to the communal area where the group sat in discussion.  An intelligent one?  Was it possible?  And how soon could she find out?  Her eyes burned into Don so much he sensed it and turned to face her.
"What do you think, Wilma?" said Don, "I would appreciate some counsel right now."
Wilma calmly strolled into the room, joining the group, but remained standing, "It needs investigation, that much is obvious.  Maybe I should take a look at her?"
"That's to be determined, Wilma.  Don, do you think it’s safe?" asked Terry.
"Is anything safe nowadays?" asked Simon.
"Good point." conceded Terry, his contribution completed.
"I agree with Wilma, that we should at least look at this, but I'm doubtful.  One of them is one of them, even if it speaks." said Zander, coming into the room proper and slumping into his usual chair.  He picked absently at the tufts of material broken through the well-used upholstery of the armchair.
Don rose from his own chair, handing his plate to Alisa.  She took it venerably and put it on the counter, "Right, that's decided then.  Bea, Ally, Wilma, you're with me.  Terry?"  Terry walked over to the Strong Room and took out his ball pein hammer, quickly falling into line behind Don as they exited the communal area and out into the light of the day.
Bianca led the group through the various locks and gates, to the front gate.  The corpse was now sitting up, leaning it’s back against the wall.
"Are you - are you Kate?  Kate Providence?" Don could hardly believe he was asking this.
The corpse slowly lifted it’s head.  Nothing else moved.  The eyes, dark and soulless, looked to each expectant face in turn.  The mouth moved up and down, out of some forgotten memory of the motor function of the muscles of the face, and a croaky yet coherent voice came, not like the breath of a hundred year old grave, but the tone of a woman of her time, if a little tired and unused, "Yes, I'm Kate.  Please, I have to -"
"We read your Diary." Don blurted out almost apologetically.
"So, you know?  Can you help me?" Alisa dropped to a crouch, examining Kate closely, looking at her as she would an animal in a cage.  Kate ignored this.  Wilma leaned over the top of Alisa, a more respectful look in her eyes.  Kate raised her eyes to meet Wilma's and attempted a smile.  She hadn't had much to smile about lately.  In fact she hadn't smiled for a very long time - since before the pandemic, even.  Life had been too hectic.  Then life stopped and there didn't seem to be any point in smiling anymore.  There was something calming about the look from Wilma, like the long dead memory of people Kate worked for and with.  This Wilma was obviously a scientist.  And a scientist is what Kate had been seeking.  But she understood it was early days and she didn't want to scare these people off.  At least they weren't immediately trying to kill her, so that was a bonus.
Don stood back and whispered something to Terry.  Then Terry came to the front of the gate, his hand behind his back, obviously holding something.
"Give us one reason we shouldn't kill you on the spot." said Terry, menacingly.  The arm behind his back twitched a little.
"Didn't you say you read my Diary?" she asked.
"Yes, we did.  That doesn't answer the question, though." insisted Terry.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Terry, grow up." hissed Wilma, despite herself.
Terry stood fully erect, his hand now coming forward to reveal the hammer, which seemed aimed at Wilma now.
Don cut in quickly, "Terry?!  Leave it!  Ally?"
Alisa looked to Don, "We need to talk about this, Don.  This isn't an everyday event.  No offence, Kate, but this is odd - if not to say astounding.  This is unprecedented.  Wow, I can't believe I'm apologising to a dead person?"
"I'm not dead.  I'm differently alive." burst out Kate.
"She has a point, if made a little sarcastically." said Wilma.  She had not removed her eyes from Kate during the whole conversation.
"What do you mean, she has a point?" asked Terry heatedly, "It's a dead thing.  A dead thing that talks, admittedly, but it's still just a walking corpse."
"Terry, stop and think about it?  How can a dead thing talk?" teased Wilma.  She enjoyed playing against Terry's slow wits.
"Don't get all scientific on me, dyke.  Maybe a dick or two would change your mind?"
"Enough!" shouted Don, "Terry?  Go back to the communal area and tell the others.  We are going to have a discussion about this."
"What's there to discuss?  Kill the dead bitch!" insisted Terry.
"I said enough, Terry!  Now go!" Don knew he could only push his luck so far with the volatile Terry, and for now Terry would listen.  But Don also knew as did Alisa, as did Wilma; what if this woman who came to their door was actually the cure?  This world was fine enough for people like Terry, but Don had been a High Street Shop Manager.  He had a family once.  This current path without alteration led to only one thing; eradication.
Bianca was bright, and she kept well out of the arguments.  She hid, as she was prone to do, when the others got rowdy.  She couldn't cope with it.  But she looked to Kate, weak, who was just gazing about at the commotion around her, and it reminded her of the animals Bianca used to tend when she training to be a vet.  She knew she had an affinity with animals because they listened, and they were eager when she was around.  Maybe she could be the same for Kate, be a communicator?
The others wandered back to the communal area, but Bianca remained behind.  Kate returned to a corpse-like state as Bianca approached on the tips of her toes.  She sat the opposite side of the fence from Kate, cross-legged.  Eventually Kate felt her presence and she turned her head carefully to face Bianca.
"Shouldn't you have gone back with the others?" Kate asked.
"They don't care.  They don't notice me most of the time."
"I'm sure that's not true." put in Kate.
"So, what's it like?" Bianca asked, with the exuberance of youth.
Kate chuckled, an action that caused her discomfort, "You mean, what's it like being dead?  Or do you mean, what's it like being infected?"
"There's a difference?"
"Oh, of course there is.  If I was dead, I wouldn't be talking to you now.  I'm infected, and there's the difference.  I have a condition, I suppose you could call it.  My body doesn't work like it used to.  Blood doesn't flow through my veins.  It's all this sludge-like stuff.  I'm sure that scientist you have could tell it to you better than me."
"So, how do you get better?  Can you?"
"I'm hoping so.  If I am too late for a cure, so be it, but I hope what's left of me can help in finding that cure.  That's my motivation.  That's why I'm here."
"They all think you're dangerous.  I'm not so sure whether you are or you're not."  Bianca heard a call, from Alisa, back at the communal area.  They had obviously now noticed she was missing.
"Go.  They'll be worried." ushered Kate.
Bianca looked abashed.  She looked at the floor, then to her arm.  She thrust it through the fence, right under Kate's nose.  Kate twitched with a hunger so deep it was practically animalistic.
"Eat.  It's what you need, isn't it?  You look so weak."
Kate grabbed her wrist with a strength that made Bianca wince.  Kate held it there for a long second, before she thrust it back through the fence, "Don't offer what you can't afford to lose." said Kate, releasing her death grip on Bianca's wrist.  Bianca rubbed it, trying to release the whelp that was rising there.  She stood and returned to the communal area, and Kate returned to her corpse-like state.
Someone had put the radio on, and the dulcet tones of Aaron Evangelyn, the so-called Voice of the People rattled off the casualty reports from Paradise, the only place not infected.
"That's where we need to be, in Paradise, not this place." muttered Zander, mostly to himself.
"This place, as you call it, has kept you alive until now, Zan, and don't you forget it." barked Alisa.  She was making a pot of something resembling tea by name only.
"Sorry Ally.  I know what you do for us all, but it does sound good.  They have proper tea there." Zander added, teasing Alisa with a smile.  She scowled at him, but returned the smile, if reluctantly.  Bianca had finally arrived back.  She was still rubbing her wrist from where Kate had grabbed her.
"What's wrong with your wrist, Bea?" asked Alisa, concerned.  She took out the well-used first aid kit from under the sink and moved toward Bianca, taking her arm a little too roughly.
"It's nothing.  I just fell, that's all."
"That looks like more than a fall, Bea." said Alisa.
"It doesn't matter!" insisted Bianca, pulling her arm back and covering it with the sleeve of her cardigan.
Don then entered the melee, not seeming to notice the contretemps, gesturing for the others to gather.  When they had, he began.
"So, what do we do?  I have to admit, I’m flummoxed."
"She just wants to help.  I think she was trying to get to that disease control facility nearby." said Bianca, a little timidly.
Terry snorted, "Kill it.  Sure it's an anomaly, but it's still one of them.  I say don't trust it."
"Wait a second,” cut in Zander, "We can't just kill her!  What if she's the cure?  We need to discuss this!"
Joel jumped in, "What do you think we're all sat here for?"  Simon slapped Joel on the arm, showing appreciation for his joke.
"Grow up you pair," said Wilma, "You all know where I stand. I would relish the opportunity to study her.  I say we bring her in, put her in a cage and let me study her."
"That's barbaric." said Bianca, "She's still a woman, just with a condition."
"Don't fool yourself, little girl.  It's a monster and it needs to be destroyed.  What's the point of studying it?  We need to kill them all, every last one of them, until there's only the living left." said Terry, finally standing on his soap-box.
"Don't call me a little girl!  At least I can remember to lock the gates after me!" spat Bianca.
"What are you inferring?" said Joel.
"He who smelt it dealt it." chuckled Simon.  Joel cut him a scowl of disapproval.
"Where's Lily?" Don asked, cutting across the others.  He remained a little concerned for that girl as he knew quite well she was not an independent person, "I want to hear her opinion too."
The self-same Lily Umeko was outside.  She couldn't care less about what they were talking about.  It didn't seem to matter in this world anymore.  Things hadn't changed all that much for her.  People killed for her, people comforted her and people tended to her.  People loved her.  So what if she couldn't go to clubs anymore?  And what if she couldn't have men lying at her feet and buying her things?  So what.  She had the kind of look that caused people to just look at her and know she needed help - it was a look she had cultivated over a long time.  It got her jewellery, cars, money and even paid her rent.  Really, all that had changed in these latter days was the type of gift she received.  She still got what she wanted.
Wilma was generous with her time and her affection.  Lily didn't care if she was gay.  It didn't matter.  Be it man, woman or dog, they all loved her.  They got something out of it - they got her company.  For them, that should be enough.
Her instincts told her that someone was coming close.  It was a familiar odour, a smell that made her flesh creep.  And she waited for the noise that escaped from that thing.  Like an old tired creature from a time gone by.
Terry put his hand on her shoulder.  She naturally flinched, but turned and smiled her best coquettish smile at him, which made him reciprocate and forget her pulling away from him.
"Lil, Don wants your opinion on this thing at the gate.  He wants you inside." The corner of Terry's mouth lifted as he realised the pun he had just made.
"Oh, you know, Terry.  It's all too much for me.  Whatever you all decide is fine with me, you know that.  I trust you."
Terry seemed to not hear, or not care about the answer.  He went for her shoulder again - any skin he could touch.  She felt so good, so soft.  Just a touch.  But Lily grasped his hand before he could reach her shoulder, "You feel cold, Terry.  You looking after yourself?"
"Oh, you know.  Push-ups here, muscles there." he pointed to his crotch.
"Terry, you really should go back to the others." she said, knowing he wanted to take it further.
"Come on, Lil.  Just a touch?"
She chuckled, "You know I can't.  Not yet.  I'm still not over my fiancé."
"I don't care, Lil.  Just a bit.  Come on you cock-tease?”  Terry reached for his crotch again.  Just then Alisa appeared at the doorway.
"Terry, back inside.  Leave the poor girl alone.  And you Lil, come inside.  It's chilly out there."  Lily was getting fed up of being ordered around, but she didn't show her disapproval.  She merely smiled and followed Alisa back inside.
Aaron Evangelyn had moved from casualties to the weather.  It seemed in the north it was wintry.  Wasn't it always?  Many of the dead had apparently slowed down in the chill.  It seemed they were just as affected by the cold as the living.  Down in the south, where this group was, it was going to be fine, with a chance of precipitation.
"She was someone once, you know.  Think about it, she had her own family, just like we did.  She's really not that different to us." Joel put in.
"Who are you kidding?  She couldn't be much more different from us if she tried!" countered Simon.  The two sat side by side, friends by convenience only, and sometimes their opinions differed.
"Si, don't be so contrary.  Don't you want a cure?" asked Joel.
Simon reeled on him, "Don't be so ridiculous!  Of course I do!  But who says she's it?"
"No one, but so far she makes us one step closer than we were yesterday!"
"Yes, but - Joel, you're reckless!  You take too many chances.  Why take this chance with our lives?"
"Don't be so God-damn melodramatic." hissed Simon, turning from his friend and crossing his arms in frustration.
"Si - Joel has a point, and yes, granted, you have a point also.” said Don, the index finger of his left hand tapping his cheek thoughtfully.
"Well, thanks for that contribution." muttered Simon sarcastically from his arm-based cocoon.
"Look, it’s simple.  Let's not waste any time, any resources or any effort.  Let me go down there, put a spike through the bitches head, and ta-da!  Problem solved?" said Terry, already rising from his chair.  Alisa put a hand in front of him to stop him.  He slumped back into his chair red faced with anger.
Wilma stood, taking a well-rehearsed position amongst the group, something she had used effectively from her University days.  It often garnered attention back then, as it managed to do this time, "You may or may not believe me, but you do trust me?  Or I hope you do.  Just give me this opportunity!  It's so unique.  We never know when something like this will happen again.  What if she's the only one, and we miss this perfect chance?  You can't deny this.  Look, it's not for me, but for the future of mankind.  We owe it to the living, don't we?" The words caught in her throat, but she understood it was said in a way they would understand and appreciate.  She sensed the room was turning to her side.
Don shifted in his chair, "Really, I think as long as we're careful, I don't see where we can go wrong.  I say we vote - majority decides?"  Of course there would be dissenting voices, but finally democracy spoke.  Each made their choice.
Don abstained for obvious reasons and Bianca, of course, voted for Kate to live, as did Wilma, Joel, Simon and Alisa.  Alisa couldn't, with good conscience, think of anything being made to suffer - even the undead.  Terry was very vocal about his desire to kill her.  Less vehemently perhaps, Zander and Lily agreed with Terry.  It was carried.  It seemed they were to bring Kate Providence inside.
They spent some time constructing a cage, strong enough to hold Kate, but not so restricting as to prevent Wilma access to her.  Soon after, the group of Terry, Joel and Simon, with Bianca bringing up the rear, returned to the front gate, where Kate Providence still sat propped up against the wall.  She was motionless and her chest didn't rise, as her organs refused to function anymore.  Even so, Terry felt it necessary to poke Kate with the tip of the golf club.  Kate opened her eyes and Terry pulled back instinctively.
"Still here, I see?" tried Simon.
"Where else would I go?  Have you decided?"
"We have,” added Joel, "And - we decided to let you in."
"Yeah," spat Terry, "But we're gonna put you in a cage."
"Are you going to help me look for a cure?" asked Kate hopefully.  Then Bianca pushed through the group.
"Wilma says she wants to study you.  As long as she does, I think a cure is on its way."
Kate smiled cautiously as she pushed herself to a standing position.  The effort was obvious, tiredness bending her over.  Her movement was like a scrape or sidle, rather than a stroll, "Good.  If I can help stop this, then you can quite happily cage me up."
"Trust us babe, you're gonna be in a cage, and I'm gonna make sure you stay there.” said Terry.  Simon unlocked the gates and cautiously moved aside for Kate to enter, going against every instinct he had.
The logistics were simple, remaining slow but safe.  Terry made sure the others were at least a gate away from Kate.  Only he stayed in the same area as she, his eyes never leaving hers with his weapon at arm’s length, his feet shuffling slowly backwards as he had been trained, back in the Regulars.  The Army had taught him much, but mostly how to survive.  And Kate gave no resistance - she hadn't the energy.  She followed Terry and the group to the communal area, slowly and with effort.
The biggest trust, and therefore the biggest caution, was the final gate.  As Kate stepped through, it almost felt like betrayal; that one of Them had got past the last post.  And she was walking through the door and into the building.  Lily stood to one side dumbfounded.  It wasn't until now she realised what was happening.
One of Them was in here.
She let out an involuntary squeak.  Kate looked at her and smiled in understanding, which just made Lily more nervous.  Don stood with folded arms at the door off the main room, where they had set up the cage.  Alisa fussed around, trying to make it seem like this was in no way strange.  Zander hid in the shadows of a door jamb, almost out of sight, but Kate knew he was there.  She could smell his flesh.  It was fear-flavoured.
Wilma herself stood by the cage door, holding it open.  She had found out her old white lab coat from the many discarded clothes and put it on.  It was creased and smelled a little musty from being stored away for so long, but it felt right.  She smiled awkwardly as Kate was led silently to the cage and, once it was closed and locked, Terry rattling it once or twice just to be absolutely certain, everyone let out a collective sigh of relief.
Kate dropped to the floor awkwardly and presented herself in an uncomfortable sitting position.  She looked to the group expectantly.  From where she had come, way back then - being stuck in a cage, watched and examined wouldn't be so bad.  It served a purpose.  And that purpose was the cure.  Surely that was enough of a purpose to accept her fate?  It was better than dying for nothing, surely?
Over the next few days, Kate became a curiosity.  Many of the group would come in to see her.  Most would not speak and some would simply scowl.  Others would use her as a confessional.  Kate didn't have that much to contribute herself.  It wasn't like she was some great oracle - she had just been a woman with one bedroom, one cat and no relationship to speak of.  That was her complete life before all of this.  Despite that, she tried where she could.  It was the constant questions from Wilma that tired her.  Kate understood the reason for it, but sometimes it became a bit much.  Where did you come from?  Have you killed any humans?  How do these types act exactly?  Are they herding?  How did you travel?  So many questions.  And yet she tried, dutifully to answer them all, even if, after all this time, she was beginning to forget some of the basic things from those early days.  But she tried her hardest.
Kate had one constant, though, and that was Bianca.  She would come daily and hide herself just in the shadow of the door.  Sometimes she was more blatant.  Kate made sure she smiled at her, to assure her it was all going to be fine and that Kate was fine where she was - because she was helping.
Then, on the fifth day, Bianca eventually came in.  She sat cross-legged, opposite Kate, as she had nearly a week ago, "I wondered when you were going to come all the way in, Bianca.  I'm sorry if I scared you back then, when I grabbed your wrist?  Something bad came over me, but I stopped it.  It won't be happening again."  At that Bianca visually relaxed, dropping her shoulders and allowing a smile to timidly creep upon her face.
"I just wanted to help." Bianca managed.
"I know, and I appreciated the sentiment.  But these are dangerous days, and someone like me should be locked away from someone like you."
"Rubbish!  You're no different to me, not really.  I bet you can remember happier times, if you tried?"
Kate laughed.  It was a difficult motion, shaking her whole body, "You could say that."
"Go on then?" goaded Bianca with an excited smile, all tension and fear escaping.  They were just two people talking.  That's all it was.
Kate looked thoughtful, "You know what gave me the best memories?  You know what I miss?  Family holidays."
"Okay," said Bianca, "Give me your best."
"I'm not sure it's the best, but it was memorable.  Funnily enough I can't remember where it was now, but it was on the eve of my 30th.  Just me, my Mom and Sister.  Dad was gone by then.  See, I spent far too much time concerned with work to notice my family.  They tried, but the phone calls kept coming and taking my attention."
"It sounds better than mine so far." said Bianca.
"How so?"
"Well, it was a couple of years ago.  Mom and Dad were having a rough patch.  They would go hammer and tongues, morning, noon and night.  Arguing.  Always arguing.  We were in a Caravan Park.  Everyone could hear them, swearing, shouting.  It never came to blows thankfully.  My Dad was a hard man on the Estate, but he was a coward with my Mom.  He wouldn't temper his racial slurs either.  Still -"
"You can't help but love them." added Kate.
"Exactly.  So one day I had heard enough.  I walked away from our Caravan, wandering anywhere within the Park.  I was fed up, but I wasn't mad - I wasn't going to leave the safety of the Park.  Anyway, I stopped after a short stroll, coming to an illuminated patch of grass.  The light was coming from the window of another Caravan.  Inside, a perfect nuclear family was playing cards, or some board game.  It didn't matter which.  It was the utter feeling of freedom, just being away from my parents, watching another family being happy.  It strangely made me feel all warm inside.  I suppose it was there when I realised not everybody was like me; like my family wasn't the norm.  You know what I mean?"
Kate smiled and nodded, "I know exactly what you mean, like with my story?  See, they kept trying to get me to join in, and I would prioritise work over them, until the eve of my birthday, and Mom persuaded me to have a cocktail or two.  Just to relax, you know?  Unbeknown to me, my Sister had been dropping doubles into those cocktails all night.  Of course, naturally I got drunk and I would forget to check my phone when it buzzed.  The three of us finally started laughing like we used to on earlier holidays.  I had forgotten how important that time was - work could wait.  The overriding memory was of me, Sis and Mom all wailing away in Karaoke.  I think we were that rowdy, the Hotel Manager made us stop.  I didn't care.  I was me again.  And I never lost that feeling."
Bianca was looking at the floor, picking at a loose splinter in the Pier's wooden floor, "You know what I regret the most?  Not saying goodbye to them.  I miss them."  She said the last sentence quietly, wiping a stray tear from her cheek.  Kate wanted to reach out, to comfort her, but she knew she couldn't.  Instead she too looked inside.
"You know what I regret?  Not going to the last family gathering, out on my Aunt's farm?  Everyone was there; Cousins, second Cousins, even an Uncle from Australia.  But I didn't go.  I couldn't go.  I had work commitments."  Kate, more than anything at that moment, wished she too could cry.
It turned out that the two of them didn't talk to each other again much after that.  The memory had been harder on Bianca, and Kate had every sympathy for her.  She would see Bianca at the door again, while Wilma was working, trying to get her in again, to talk and to reminisce.  But Bianca's heart wasn't in it any more.  Remembering her family, in whatever state, had hurt the 16 year old girl deeper than even she realised.
Slowly, but surely, Bianca relented a little.  She was never quite that bouncy energetic girl again, but Kate and Bianca would talk about life before the pandemic.  Bianca had happier times, happier recollections, but none as memorable as the tale she told Kate that day.
Kate herself was getting frustrated as well.  She would start to forget things, Bianca providing the words in order to keep continuity in her story telling.  Eventually Wilma became more insistent that Bianca keep out of the way.  But she would ever be there at the door, with her smile, reciprocated by Kate within the cage.  Bianca knew Kate was just trying to reassure her that everything was okay, that everything was fine and soon they would be able to talk again.  Always with the smile.
Time had passed a while when Wilma called the group back into the communal area.  She was desperate to relate her findings so far.  Time meant nothing anymore - it was simply the rising and waning of the sun; at one point it would be dark, at another light.  Simon was playing knuckles with Joel and Joel was losing badly.  Terry suggested he could join in, and the game quickly stopped.  Terry chuckled to himself.  He sat on the arm of the chair Lily occupied.  Nobody said anything, least of all Lily.  It was best to leave it alone.  Alisa called for quiet and nodded to Don, who sat monarchical on his armchair, a mug of tea-substitute resting on the arm; his Goblet of Power.
"So, what is it you've found, Wilma?  Is there a cure?" Even in all this time, he didn't really believe there was.  He was simply going through his Lordly duty, as far as he was concerned.
Wilma nodded, clearing her throat, "So, you understand I have limited equipment, but what I can say is this -"
"Get on with it!" goaded Simon humorously.  Alisa shot him a cutting glance.
"Right, as I was saying, she was right up to a point.  Kate I mean, in the Diary?  Anyway.  The disease is certainly contracted.  It turns the blood into a sludge-like liquid and normal functions stop; the heart stops pumping, the bladder stops functioning, and so on.  Then they go through this dying process, which is painful by all accounts.  It has the hallmarks of a kind of wasting disease, like Ebola.  It seems the liquid in their system acts to keep them alive still, feeding done not by burning of caloric intake as we do, but by a distribution of proteins and amino acids.
"Essentially, they don't die.  They rot away from the inside as normal cellular regeneration is halted.  It hasn't been out there long enough for us to witness complete degeneration yet.  At the point of so-called rising from the dead, the need for these proteins and amino acids is at its strongest.  It is also when they are at their most infectious.  Kate in there refused human flesh, instead eating animal flesh.  The required Protein X, as I'll call it, isn't nearly as abundant in animals, hence why she is so weak.  They eventually deteriorate from being human to something resembling an animal, which is mostly what we've seen out there.  As for a cure, it would be a matter of turning the sludge back to blood, which isn't beyond the realms of possibility, given the right facility and the right people, such as that disease control facility nearby.  As for all the bodily functions returning, I can only speculate."
"So, is there a cure or isn't there?" asked Zander, brow furrowed.
"Theoretically, yes.  But we would have to get my findings to the right people to make use of it."
"You mean Paradise?" asked Lily.
Wilma nodded, "Eventually, yes.  That is if the disease control facility is overrun.  But we would need a newly infected intelligent one."
"What do you mean?  What about Kate Providence in there?" asked Simon.
"Oh, she's too far gone.  Thing is, even though her mind is no more, she still sits there with the same inane smile on her face."
Alisa looked quickly around the group, "Where's Bea?" she asked suddenly concerned.  As one, the group rose and made for the room where Kate Providence was.  The door was ajar.
Bianca was bored.  She didn't care what they were and she didn't really care about a cure right now.  She just wanted to see Kate.  While Wilma went on about her research, Bianca slipped into the room where Kate was caged up.  Kate immediately smiled at Bianca, but initially she didn't really look directly at Kate.  She was too busy in her own mind thinking things over.  She had been thinking about this for a long time.
Kate was her friend.  Kate wouldn’t hurt her, not now.  They knew each other.  She was, as she had often said, differently alive.  Why not just let her out?  Surely she had been in that cage for far too long.  Let her walk about.  Maybe it would improve her outlook?  It was true their conversations had got very samey of late.  A change of scenery, at arm’s length, of course, and Kate would be better.  At arm’s length because she still had that rabid instinct.  Bianca absently rubbed her wrist as she talked to Kate.
"I've been thinking, Kate.  I think you should get out of there for a bit, a change of scenery." Bianca reached for the latch to the cage, "I can see you approve.  What do you say?  A little walk?" said Bianca, unlatching the cage and swinging the door open.
They raced to the door, Terry first.  He yanked the wooden object nearly off its hinges, but all could see it was too late.
What used to be Kate Providence was now bent over the bloodied mess of Bianca, gnawing at her throat.
Terry lifted Kate bodily from the girl and he reined fists over and over again, down on the hissing creature - the mindless, ravenous beast, with big hungry eyes and blood stained mouth. The wails of the group who stood around too shocked to move, watched the scene play out and called a rhythmic beat to each and every fist strike.  Terry brought down so many blows it became difficult to ascertain which was Terry's blood and which was Kate's.
He rose then, spluttering sputum flecks from his mouth like a rabid dog; he looked about him for another to take down - what had once been Terry, was now gone.  He had switched; that delicate balance between rational and psychotic now thoroughly smashed.  Lily and Joel rushed to him, grasping him and holding him back.
Alisa cried.  She broke down when Don pulled her closer.  Simon and Zander could only stare.  Such a horror as this demanded it.
Then Bianca began to rise. 




The Five Men Of Beacon Hill
It starts.  I feel it creeping up me, from the deep dark thump that triggers the moment.  I can't stop it, because it's inevitable.  It grips me and shoots the poison all around my body; pump, pump, pump.  Each one rises in intensity and force, until I feel it in my throat, pounding away and waking the creature that evolution forgot.  It wakes, it hungers for adrenaline and I can't help but feed it, as is its want.  It tears at my nerves, fires the incorrectly matched neurons, until my muscles tense and I feel my whole body buzzing.  I cannot close my fist, I am trapped like a tractor beam is holding me, rooting me to the spot.  My muscles are aching now, the facsimile of shooting pains run down my arms and I feel it, I know it; I am going to die.  But I can run!  I can run from it!  But to where?  Once I begin running, it follows me.  A vicious circle that feeds on itself, it spins, pulling me inexorably to its centre, into the event horizon, where once I slip inside I am lost in the singularity.  And then it begins abating.  Perhaps I will live after all!  But what’s this?  It comes again!  Just as hard as the first, it pushes my heart to the epithemial layer of skin in my chest.  It’s going to burst!  There’s nothing I can do to stop it!  So now I know!  It's here, it's now when I die!  Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?  But I don't want to die?!  I cry, tears involuntarily streak my cheeks.  I don't want to die!  Please, don’t let me die!? Please ...


I.
Jacob Eriks had hit forty three, which frankly was not much of an age those days.  But it affected him and it played on his mind - plus he had no wife, no child and no real job to speak of.  Of course he never really wanted children, having not found the right woman, but the job?  That was true.  It wasn't much to speak of.
He had spent most of his twenties and some of his thirties trying to break through the tough veneer of the writing profession.  He had peddled his writing CV, achieving some minor recognition with some minor stories for minor magazines that had published him; the world class novel still a far distant prospect.  He had written the odd blog on varying subjects from weddings to flytipping.  But the work that paid the rent was that of a Ghost Writer - writing books for those who couldn't, or wouldn't.  He was currently employed by Gerard Aimerey Publishers, working on the memoirs of a well-known adventurer, which was entitled, "Arman Bruadar: The Call to Adventure."
That said, he wasn't completely disappointed with his work.  At least when he went into a bookshop or browsed online book sellers, he would see one of his books, even if someone else's name adorned the spine.  He had books on shelves though, which was more than some other writers could say.
A recent bout of illness had suddenly brought Jacob's writing to a grounding halt.  Those at Gerard Aimerey Publishers, in particular Gerard Aimerey himself, were becoming concerned that deadlines were being missed.  It was the stress of just such a deadline looming that was part of the cause for Jacob's illness in the first place.  But he was a deeply conscientious man, his word his bond.  Besides, writing was his whole life.  He had nothing else so he needed this.
His publishers had sent Jacob Eriks to one of their many globally placed writer's retreats, in the hopes it would reignite the passion in his work.  The cottage they had sent him to looked idyllic, placed just on the outskirts of a Town where there would likely be little traffic and less people wandering about.  It was peace such as this that Jacob thrived upon.  He just hoped the good weather would hold.
The name of the cottage was burned deeply into the gate, which was white and picketed as one would expect.  The name upon it was Tutolocus; a place of safety, if Jacob's Latin hadn’t escaped him.  Above the door was a weather-worn green plaque with the face of the Green Man.  He seemed amused, glaring down at Jacob as he walked up the garden path.  A line of horseshoes nestled within the growing moss, marking his passage.  Once inside the cottage, Jacob noted a Besom broom propped in one corner, while triskeles were picked out on the wainscot and a painting of a pentagram sat above the mantle.
It was still fairly early in the day and something about the clean, fresh air made Jacob desire a walk.  He had heard that close to the cottage stood five standing stones, perhaps some thousand and more years old that locals called the Five Men of Beacon Hill.  It was one of the reasons Jacob had chosen this particular retreat.  He had a penchant for early English folklore.
It was said that these Five Men were warriors turned to stone, trapped by a witch who would one day return to reawaken the warriors to do her bidding.  It was like most folklore; full of superstitions and half-truths, yet it was still a sight to see.
Walking up the short hill was becoming heavy going for Jacob.  He certainly wasn't used to this much exercise and the thump thump of his heart fell too loud in his ears.
Once at the top, he could see the stones clearly.  They were a little more than human height, smoothed on top like a bullet sitting proud of a flat surface.  On each of the five closely-knitted stones, about two thirds of the way up, was carved a rudimentary face that resembled a simplistic recreation of a Nordic warrior.  Close to the stones sat a solitary bench, which faced them.  Jacob took the opportunity and good fortune of the bench, sitting down heavily, aware his body was shuddering with exertion.  It had perhaps been too much for the first day, and he had only just recovered from his illness.  But the loud thump of his heart was decreasing, his body settling.  Then he heard noises from within the stones, and the sound of laughter.  A girl's laughter.  Curious, Jacob rose from the bench and peaked within the circle of stones.  There was a man and woman, both flushed of recently departed youth, involved in coitus.  Jacob caught himself staring at the woman.
"Pervert!" she called, dropping into a fit of laughter.  Jacob pulled back, the sudden shock enough to bring the thump thump back in his chest.  He could still hear her laughter as he began his descent down the hill, but now he sensed something else.
It was in the corner of his eye at first; some dark shape.  His adrenaline rose and his pace quickened, as the dark shape visibly turned into a huge black menacing figure.  Jacob was walking quite fast now - his breath heavy, matching his speed.  He could see the cottage, just there, but the monster was close.  He felt like it was sat on his shoulders, heavy and menacing, begging for attention.  Jacob was practically in a run by the time he reached the cottage, and during all that time he didn't once lose the sense of that dark thing - still there and chasing.
He crashed through the door of the cottage, quickly closing it and locking it.  He fell into a heap on the woven rug floor, and in a natural movement, Jacob found himself cross-legged, his mind racing with imagery - there were five armed Viking Warriors manifest in spirit-form, holding their weapons drawn right before him, slowly circling him.  Then the full form of the Green Man pushed through the mist that had built up - behind him, there were voices muffled, accompanied by the punishing sound of laughter.
Then the scene darkened, until all that was visible in the blackness were two red eyes, followed by a low rumbling growl.  The wings of a large raven crashed through the dark, dissipating it.  The bird slowly turned into a spinning cartwheel, rolling endlessly, and then there was silence.  A tree grew in the centre of the greyness, accompanied by a rhythmic death knell.  The tree itself swirled and changed colour into a large solitary gold ring.  In the silence, the ring shattered into a million pieces, and throughout the ordeal, Jacob's eyes were closed and his chin sat on his chest, his breathing remaining laboured.  Every part of his body buzzed and he felt like he had drifted into another realm.

II.
Suddenly, there were three knocks at the door, one a measured time signature to the other two.
Jacob opened his eyes.  He was still on the rug where he had fallen.  His pulse was calm, his exertion now rested and he had obviously fallen asleep, because as of now he felt refreshed and relaxed.  And the knock at the door still demanded attention.  He stood slowly, letting the waft of dizziness dissipate before walking the few floorboard creaking steps to the door.
There, on the other side of the door, stood a woman, dressed as a Post Deliverer.  She was of similar height to Jacob, yet her frame was slight, almost athletic.  She had a broad and welcoming smile below her naturally and tightly curled dark hair, the curls of which dallying with the curves of her face.  It brought out her cheeks in a natural rosy complexion.   She held with her left arm and tightly to her bosom a box, longer and wider than it was deep.
"Mr Jacob Eriks?" Jacob nodded, "I have a package for you?  Looks fragile."
Lost in her penetrating brown eyes, Jacob almost forgot himself, "Ah, thank you.  I think it's the laptop from my publisher."  Jacob carefully took the package from her.
"You write?" she asked.
"If you can call it that.  I ghost write."
She flashed a smile, which lit her face, "What's the current project then?"
"Have you heard of Arman Bruadar?" he asked.
"No.  Should I have?"  Her brow furrowed in attempted recollection.  It only made her look more vulnerable.
Jacob chuckled, "Not particularly." he shrugged, "It's just a job."
She never lost her smile, not once, "Still, it sounds fascinating.  So is this your place?"
"Oh, no.  No.  It's one of my Publisher's properties." he explained.
"Very nice." she said, nodding in approval while snaking her eyes over the doorway.  In time honoured fashion, the old style telephone inappropriately rang.  It made Jacob jump.  He turned his head to face it, as he had not expected it to sound.  He turned back to face her.
"Sorry.  Give me one sec." said Jacob, lifting the receiver, "Hello?"
The voice on the other end was muffled and clipped, "Mr Eriks?  I am calling on behalf of Gerard Aimerey Publishers."
The girl at the door turned as to go, "I'll leave you to it then?  Good luck Mr Eriks."
"Wait, please!  One sec," Jacob begged of the girl.  He turned frustratedly to the other on the phone, "What do you want?"
"I was enquiring as to whether the computer had arrived?"
"What?  Oh, yes. Thank you." he said, almost apologetically.  There was a click as the girl from the Publishers hung up.
"Difficult call?" asked the girl at the door.
"Sorry about that." explained Jacob.
"Look, I can see you're new to the area.  I still have a few deliveries to make, but how about when I've finished, I show you around?" she asked.
"Well, my work -"
"That can wait at least a few hours, surely?  Come on!  Live a little?  We don't bite!" she said with a flash of her long eyelashes.
"I - okay then.” he relented.
"Good!  Good!  See you later then.”  She genuinely seemed excited at the prospect.
"Yes.  See you later -"
"Oh yes, of course.  Emma Keeler."
"Well then, see you later Miss Keeler."
"Emma, please.  I'm not quite that old yet." she said playfully, eventually turning and walking away.  Jacob watched Emma leave the cottage garden, taking up her Postal Wagon and disappearing down the lane.
Finally Jacob remembered to replace the receiver.
When finally Emma returned, Jacob was dressed and prepared.  He had spent the intervening time unpacking his clothes, changing into something more comfortable and more fitting for the country.  Of course Emma was dressed the same, but that didn't bother Jacob.  She still looked as effervescent as she had upon his first sight of her.  Once outside and on the road, Emma took the lead and Jacob was quite willing to follow.  Conversation was laboured at first, but Emma was more ready with a topic than Jacob.
"Okay, how about this?" she began as they strolled, "Do you want to hear the legend of the Five Men of Beacon Hill?"  Jacob nodded, his fascination with folklore piqued.
"Well, legend has it that there were five warriors tasked by their Lord.  One was set a task of travel, another a task of life affirmation, and so on.  They were promised by the Lord that after their tests were complete, they would be given this part of the country - this very land - only if they committed for the rest of their lives to protect it.  The five of them saw that there was nothing to lose and very much to gain, so when they had completed their tasks and returned to the Lord, he kept to his word.  What those five men didn't know was that the Lord had employed a witch to turn the five men to stone, tasked forever to keep vigil over their land.
"Worship sprang up around the legend, and white witches would evoke a Guardian Spirit to watch over the five men and the land they occupied.  To commemorate the men's sacrifice in watching over the land, locals set up a festival - a tradition never once broken."  She smiled meekly after she had finished.
Jacob looked at her, "You've told that story quite a few times before, haven't you?"
The smile broadened to a grin.  Her face lit up every time she smiled, "Many times. I learned that patter long ago for the tourists."
"So, you're teasing me?" asked Jacob.  She shrugged and playfully nudged him with her elbow.
"Maybe a little.” she smiled.
But Jacob didn't hear her reply.  Something crossed his vision, "Wow!  Did you see that?"
"See what?” she asked, looking to where Jacob was pointing.
"Two huge black dogs just ran across the road in front of us!"
Emma shrugged, "Neighbourhood hounds I expect.  This is a farming community, Jacob.  There are lots of animals running around here."
Jacob's attention was still at the spot where he had seen them, "They were definitely dog shaped.  Just large dog shapes."  Emma ignored him and continued walking, but the dogs were still forefront in Jacob's mind.
Without warning, a soft topped sports car whizzed around a blind corner in front of them.  Strapped inside were a middle aged couple, dressed ready for the country.  The car came to a halt just in front of Jacob and Emma.  The driver, a balding man, perched in his seat to grab their attention, "Hey! Do you have to walk in the road?  Look, is this Trowcroft?  The wife and I have a cottage there abouts."
Emma leaned over to the man, "Just follow this road until it forks.  Then follow the road less travelled.  Or go to the right, if you prefer.”
"Is all this bunting really necessary?" asked the female occupant of the car, "It looks so - tawdry."
"It's for the annual festival of Julamass." Emma explained.
"Oh dear." expressed the woman, "I cannot abide local village festivals.  So gauche."
The driver didn't look in the least bit embarrassed by his wife's outburst, "To the right you say?"
"Yes.  To the right." explained Emma, a little less calmly.
"Does that happen often?" asked Jacob, as the car sped away.
"More often than you think.  We get a lot of visitors here.  It's an idyllic little rural Town, you see.  I mean I came here not so long ago myself, and was compelled to stay.  This is my home now, and these visitors just come and go as they please."
"So that's a common occurrence then?  Rude out-of-Towners?"
Emma glared at Jacob, "There are always the odd exceptions.” she said, cracking a wicked smile.  Jacob reddened.
Their meandering stroll eventually brought them to the outskirts of Trowcroft proper; the Town to which Beacon Hill was connected.  Preparations for the festival were ongoing.  Bunting criss-crossed the streets, where the fluttering triangles of red, blue, yellow and green, danced in the light breeze, “Can you see those two crows up there? On the bunting?" asked Jacob, his attention immediately brought upon them.
"Sorry?" It was clear Emma didn't seem to notice, but at least they had arrived on the outskirts of Town, "Here we are - welcome to Trowcroft, our small, yet humble Town.  If you peruse the area, you will see we have everything a thriving rural Town needs; shops, a pub -" Emma chuckled, enjoying her little act as a guide, "See, the Whale and Harpoon?  It is said that the name comes from the first settlers to this area, who were fishermen looking for a landlubbing change of scenery.  They chose here, and I think they chose well.  It's a beautiful Town, with beautiful people and a beautiful view."
"You should work for the Tourist Board, you know." joked Jacob.
Emma grabbed him by the arm and gently pulled him, "Come into the pub.  I'll buy you a drink and introduce you to some of the locals!"
Inside, the pub was a good size, with several dining tables, benches that edged the saloon bar and the familiar dark-stained wood of many old pubs, with trinkets and knick knacks of rural life upon the high shelves, like tankards, wooden wheels, old fashioned prints of local long dead Lords and the regular odour of hops soaked carpet.  There was raucous chatter inside, despite it being still early afternoon.  No sooner had they entered the pub than Emma disappeared into the throng.  Jacob was alone in a sea of people.
He just stood there as the room kept getting smaller and smaller, closing in on him.  Deep shadows crept about the walls with purpose, and the common laughs began to sound suddenly much louder, playing upon Jacob's state of paranoia.  His pulse began to rise and his face turned hot - his breath became laboured and haggard.  He began to twitch and fidget, rubbing his hands together to release the pent up adrenaline rising in his system.  His eyes darted everywhere, catching the slightest of movements.  He was on the verge of leaving, running out the door, when he became aware of two people, Eastern European in appearance.  The lady wore dark clothes of National origin; she also had dark hair and her dark eyes bore into Jacob.  The man was more formally dressed and in brighter tones - if on the muted side - with something akin to prayer beads or rosary beads spilling out of his waistcoat pocket, jangling as he walked.
They whispered, but not to each other.  Their eyes kept Jacob's captive almost hypnotically.  The whisper seemed only for him, as a mantra, a prayer, or perhaps a curse.  All of a sudden a hand dropped onto his arm, and the pull of the couple was broken.  Jacob looked down and saw into Emma's own bright welcoming eyes, "I'm sorry for leaving you then, Jacob.  Are you okay?” she asked, concerned.  Jacob nodded his ascent, "Good." she said with a smile, pulling him further into the pub, over to a cubby that contained three ageing folks.
Each one of the elderly folk had a twinkle in their eyes that sang mischief and youthfulness recently lost like an old friend, as they comforted a glass of sherry each before them.  Emma sat on a spare seat and bid Jacob do likewise, "This is May Swan, Oliver Lutin and Granny Wells.  Three of the nicest people you will ever meet."
"Very much pleased to meet you all." said Jacob, and to each he nodded.
Oliver Lutin gestured Jacob closer, "You Emma's new man then?"
"Oh, it’s nothing like that." expressed Jacob defensively, "We're just friends.  I only met her this morning."
Emma patted Jacob on the arm, "I told him I would show him around.  He's a writer from out of Town?"
"A writer eh?  Anything we would have read?" asked May Swan.
"I'm not sure.  I mostly write non-fiction." said Jacob quite honestly.
"Ah.  Lost me." smiled May Swan.
"He means text books." offered Oliver helpfully.
"Well, not quite -" tried Jacob.
Presumably sensing a conversational cul-de-sac, Oliver spoke up, "Talking of wakes, I see our drinks are empty?" he said, shaking his glass meaningfully.
"Oh, I'm sorry." expressed Jacob, "Are we intruding?  I didn't know this was a wake?  Was it an old friend?"
"You could say the oldest." said May, "It's part of the festivities, kid.  The wake is for the death of the old season.  It's kind of a tradition."  May too shook her glass meaningfully.
"Oh, right.” Jacob said, the penny dropping.  He stood and made his way to the bar.
"I'll give you a hand, Jacob.” said Emma, following him, "Don't worry about them.  They're mostly harmless.  And they're fond of winding up coiled springs like you.  You need to relax.  You look so tense all the time."
"Comes with the territory I guess." said Jacob, "My world is full of deadlines and stresses.  This Town is much more laid back.  You know, I think I like it?"
Then, as though on cue, the plump barman, with short hair and sideburns interrupted their conversation, "What can I get you?"
"Whatever they're drinking," said Emma, gesturing to the three by the door, "And something for my friend here.  Jacob, this is Nick Harold - the landlord of this fine establishment."
Nick Harold respectfully wiped his hands on a tea towel tucked into his thick belt and offered his hand across the bar.  Jacob shook it, "Pleased to meet you Jacob.  Seems you caught us just at the right time.  The festival's only just starting."  A young and comely woman with long blonde hair, gathered in a pony tail that was fighting against the constraints of an elastic hair band, came up to the landlord, "This is my good lady wife, Elena Selkie,” she smiled warmly, "What she doesn't know about the history of this Town is not worth knowing.  You up at the Tutolocus cottage, I take it?"
Jacob looked quite surprised, "How did you know?"
Nick smiled, "Oh, nothing sinister.  It’s one of the only places visitors stop at these days.  A writer, I hear?"
"Yes." Jacob replied, feeling a little transparent.
"Interesting.  Well, here's your drinks."
Emma took the tray burdened with alcohol, turned and made for the table.  Without notice, she came to a full stop, almost causing Jacob to fall into her, "I've had an idea." she said, facing Jacob, "Shoot me down if you don't think it appropriate?"
"Ask away." said Jacob, "If the last few hours have shown me anything, it's that I seem to be open to new experiences."
"Well, you see, I make regular deliveries daily.  It could be a good distraction for you, and company for me?   Accompanying me, that is?"
Jacob surprised himself, "Actually, that sounds like a great idea.  We writers are nothing if not procrastinators." he shrugged. She seemed cheered at that.
As they returned to their seats, Jacob noticed another pair of locals in disarray.  The man obviously had some learning difficulties and the noise and crowd was concerning him because the girl who was much smaller and less strong than him was comforting him and soothing him with gentle words.  He seemed to calm down, but the girl couldn't help but apologise profusely to anyone who would listen.  Nobody seemed to notice nor to care, except Jacob.  Everyone else just blanked them.  The girl led the man out of the pub to little or no commotion or concern.  Jacob felt bad for them, but apathy quickly took over.
Something else was pressing on his mind, "This festival?  I see the point in a little bunting here and there, but I noticed flowers trailing all over the Town as we came in?" he said as he placed the sherries in front of the trio.
Granny Wells spoke up, "It goes all round the Town, my boy.  It is the Unbroken Circle; protection for the Town and its people."
Oliver seemed a little put out, "Something amusing, lad?"
Apparently Jacob couldn't hide his amusement, "Surely you know all that Pagan stuff is utter nonsensical superstitious claptrap?"
The pub fell eerily silent.  Conversations stopped mid-sentence and eyes turned to Jacob.  Oliver spat his words of reply, "There is a time and place for rational thought, my boy, and here and now ain't it."
"I'm sorry.  It's just -"  Jacob was shocked at his own rudeness.  He knew he deserved the admonishment.
"Don't mock what you don't understand." said Granny Wells, "You're an outsider, boy.  We've held these traditions for hundreds of years.  Hundreds of years, I tell you!  And nothing adverse has ever happened!"
Jacob couldn't help but mouth his opinion, "Yes, but the lack of anything happening supernaturally isn't an indicator of the truth -"
The atmosphere was tense.  Jacob thought he could see men actually rising from their chairs, people clutching glasses a little too tightly and fists clenched in anger.  When the door to the pub swung open, banging against the wood of the jamb, it was a blessed relief.  A man came halfway in, his breath a few yards ahead of him, "It's back!" he screamed, "I just saw it!  Come quick!"
Almost instantly the Townspeople began crossing themselves with protective gestures.  A murmur joined the gesture, lifting the people from their feet and out of the door, following the breathless man as he led them like the Pied Piper of Trowcroft into the streets.
"It's the curse!" yelled Oliver.  He looked accusingly at Jacob, "Let's hope you're right and this is just superstitious claptrap, eh, Jacob, my boy?” he said, following the exodus.  Jacob followed also.  He didn't quite know why, but it felt like the right thing to do.
The group eventually reached an alleyway to which the breathless man had been leading them, but there was nothing there.  Whatever it was he saw or thought he saw was there no longer.  As though one person, the crowd began to disappointedly leave voicing a few groans, a chuckle or two and with a sense of anticipation unfulfilled.
The time was late.  Jacob felt compelled to return to the cottage.  He also felt his energy had been spent over the last few hours and he was quite tired.  The air was still and the walking was calm in the dusk light as the odour of pollen stung Jacob's nostrils.


III.
Jacob was standing in the cottage doorway, drinking a cup of tea in the calmness of early morning, when Emma appeared in the lane.  Like it was her totem, she pulled her small, yet heavily laden, wagon behind her.  Her smile was particularly bright this morning, exuding that natural energy it was difficult not to feed from.  Her countenance was always happy and receptive and her walk bouncy and full of effervescence.  She wore the same clothes as the day before; her daily uniform.
"Awake then, I see." she said, bounding down the path to the cottage.
"Yes, and quite anxious to explore, I have to say." Jacob said, finishing his drink and placing the cup down on a table.
"Well, that's good to hear!" she smiled, "Oh, and I hope you don't have hard feelings about last night in the pub?  The locals are quite set in their ways, you see?  It's a Town of great tradition, I'm afraid.  They observe the festivities here quite religiously."
"And you're a little more jaded, I take it?" asked Jacob, curious.
"I prefer to fall on the side of caution.  Doesn't hurt to follow them if it in turn doesn't hurt anyone." she said, taking up the reins of the wagon once more.
"Let me pull the wagon." said Jacob.
"It's no trouble.  It's my burden, after all." she said with an almost indiscernible wince of pain.
"But I would feel better?" Jacob insisted.
"Chivalry isn't dead, I see?" she said with a sarcastic smile.
"There's that familiar teasing." Jacob reciprocated sarcastically.
Reluctantly, she slapped the reins into his waiting hand, "Well, okay, if you insist, gallant sir.  Here."  A flash of a thought hit Jacob and he realised that part of her pride was in the carrying of this burden; something he had now stolen from her.  But she didn't mention it, and he was too much a man of principle to give it back now.  It had turned out to be a burden in fact, the like of which he hadn't expected.
"Ah.  A little heavier than I thought." said Jacob, breathing a little deeper.
"Don't worry.  The load gets easier the further on we go." she explained.  They hadn't walked more than a few yards before Jacob stopped suddenly in his tracks.  All of a sudden there was darkness before him, briefly broken by red hungry eyes.  It was the sharp red eyes of the Beast he had seen before.
Suddenly the darkness encompassed the whole of his consciousness.  The eyes penetrated into his being, searching for something.  It was so vivid he began to fear for his life.  A hand gripped firmly onto his wrist, enough to bring a sense of pain.  He realised in a moment of clarity what and who it was.  It was Emma, pulling him from the vision.
"Are you okay?  You seemed to drift off there for a moment?” she said, still maintaining the tight grip.
"Fine, fine." Jacob insisted, "I think I may just be a little dizzy.  I forgot to have breakfast."
"I don't want you collapsing.  Perhaps I should have the reins back?" she said, concerned.
"No need.  It was momentary.  It’s gone now." he lied.
They followed a similar route to that of the previous day.  It felt familiar - comfortable, like an age-old trodden path with someone who would walk beside him, desiring nothing more than his company.  And that was all he really was; Emma's companion.  She was the Great Deliverer.  That was the role she was purposed for.
Eventually they reached the centre of Town.  The familiar visage of the pub inevitably loomed in front of them, "Here we are," said Emma, with an almost carbon copy of the words she used the day before, "The Whale and Harpoon.  You can wait outside if you want?"
Jacob considered the suggestion for a moment, "No, it's alright.  I'm going to be in this Town for a while.  Might as well bury the hatchet.  And really I need to gain their trust and acceptance if I'm to be comfortable here."
Emma smiled warmly, "Nice answer.  You got one on your side at least," she winked and jostled his arm playfully, "Me, of course."
"And that should be enough for any man." he said, but as soon as he did, he realised the phrase could be misconstrued, and he blushed involuntarily.
Emma chuckled, "Now who's the tease?"
They parked the wagon carefully outside the pub and pulled back the tarpaulin that covered the goods inside.  Emma took out a cardboard box that contained a couple of loaves of thick-sliced bread and half a dozen small cartons of milk.  She handed this off to Jacob while she rifled through her post bag, pulling out a medium sized parcel and two windowed envelopes.  These she took herself, then gestured for Jacob to follow her into the pub.
Nick Harold was hefting and huffing his way around pipes, switches and valves, in an attempt to connect a barrel to the pump contraption.  Elena Selkie, was vigorously scrubbing at the many tables in the bar area.  Nick sensed their entrance and looked up.
"Ah, wonderful.  Could you put it over there on the bar?  Thanks."
As Jacob did so, he looked at the concoction of pumps, "You having trouble there?"
"It's okay.  Sometimes it gets stuck.  It works free eventually.” grunted Nick.
"I've got a spare pair of hands.  Want help?"
Nick stopped and wiped his sweating brow, "It would be gratefully received."
Jacob jumped into position and tried to lift the barrel himself, "Wow, that is heavy."
"It's a new barrel." said Nick, "They're always heavy."  Together they wrestled the combination of pipe, valve and barrel into its working position, "Well, that's done at last." said Nick, "Look, if you don't have to rush off I have a couple of things that may require a second pair of hands?  Sometimes there's not enough hours in the day, you know?"
"Not a problem, if it's okay with Emma?  I don't want to leave her running late?” said Jacob, looking for Emma’s consent.
She seemed reticent at first, then relented, "It's not a problem.  You see, Jacob?  This is what it's all about; helping those in need.  Anything you want, Nick."
"Knew I could rely on you, Emma." said Nick with a smile.  With that, Jacob naturally sauntered over to Elena, where he grabbed a spare cloth and followed her actions on the other stained tables.
"Don't worry - he's harmless." Elena said reassuringly, "It's good to see we didn't scare you off last night.  You know, sometimes this Town can be too much for some people."
"How so?"
Elena gazed off, "Odd little occurrences, you know?  People say they've spotted this big black shape around the Town."
"I thought I saw a black shape behind me up at the stones." Jacob added.
"Well, there you go." said Elena, gesturing her cloth with resignation, "And it's not just that.  There's a strong witchcraft following in this county.  I think it's because the history of this area is full of Pagan worship, what with the Five Men, and all?"
"You know, I didn't mean to imply people in the Town were stupid to believe in superstition last night?" apologised Jacob, "Tiredness does odd things to my conversational filter, you know?  It's not my place to tell people what they should or shouldn't believe in."
Elena shrugged and continued her work, "Drink does odd things to the best of people.  Trust me, I've seen all sorts in here over the years.  People I know quite well and people I've never met?  I just take it all with a pinch of salt."
"I'm still not sure I believe in the superstitious nature of festivals, but I know people do and it brings them comfort.  So, for my time here in Trowcroft, I will engage in the aspects of the festivities that come across my path.  It's the least I can do for the hospitality I've been shown so far."
Elena smiled warmly, "And we can't ask for more.  Just don't listen to the gossip of folks.  It's just a knee-jerk reaction.  Some people aren't flexible, too set in their ways to see the bigger, global picture of where this little Town sits in the grand scheme of things."
"There's gossip already?" asked Jacob, surprised.
Elena wrinkled her nose in disgust at the notion, "Like I say, pay no attention.  A few people will cross themselves aggressively when they see you, but they're harmless.  It's the younger ones you have to watch for.  More confrontational.  Best just to avoid them really.  I tell you, I think you are a breath of fresh air in this stodgy old cantankerous place.  Trust your instincts, and they won't let you down."
Suddenly, Emma appeared at his shoulder, "I think we need to push on now.  Thanks Nick - Elena?"
"You'll be back in tonight I have no doubt?" said Nick, equally vocal.
"It's pretty much a foregone conclusion." laughed Emma.
"And you Jacob?" continued Nick.
"Sounds like a plan." he added.
"Good!  Glad to hear it!" And with that, Nick and Elena returned to their work.  Emma and Jacob returned to the wagon outside and they pushed on with the deliveries.
Not far from the pub sat the old Victorian Town House, at some time converted into a Senior Citizen Home.  Jacob and Emma pulled up to the front steps with the wagon, where Oliver Lutin greeted them on the doorstep.  Emma removed a medium sized package from her wagon and Jacob took another.
"Ah.  The prodigal son." pronounced Oliver with a broad grin, turning his attention to the boxes as he led them into a large room with high-backed chairs, "What did you bring this time?"   He greedily picked a book at random from one of the boxes, "A little dog eared, but they'll do.  Come.  Come."  Thereupon Granny Wells rose to greet them, "My two favourite people!  Come to lend a hand I see?"
Jacob smiled warmly, "Of course.  What do you need doing?"
"Look at that garden!” May Swan announced, suddenly arriving behind Jacob and leading him by the arm to the patio doors, "Look at it?  It needs a little care.  Those weeds are choking the life out of those beautiful flowers!"
Granny Wells came alongside then, "We have so precious little.  Sitting out here and looking at the garden is one of the only things that gives us joy, you see?"
"Proof of life." explained Oliver, sifting through both boxes’ contents.
"Very much so." agreed Granny Wells.
So Jacob took to the shed, removing several implements from within, and started work on the garden.  It had never been an ambition of his, nor a planned weekend event to become a gardener.  Space was at a premium in the City and every green patch was either a drop spot for fly-tippers or a toilet for dogs.  Yet strangely, he began to enjoy himself and the occasional encouraging statement from a giggling Emma, who would occasionally come from within the house with a sandwich or a glass of water, made him smile also.  Whatever it was he was feeling, he was feeling it for Emma.  She was good for him, and he had so precious little of that lately; goodness, or even happiness at its base level.  Eventually Oliver arrived, drinking from a mug with flowers on it.
"You know at your age, I wasn't sitting inside writing, letting life pass me by.  I was out there, having adventures, getting into trouble, larking about with friends.  I wasn't cooped up like the kids of today."
"We each choose our own path in life." said Jacob, wiping a build-up of sweat from his brow.
Oliver chuckled, "Nonsense, my boy.  You need to get out there."  Oliver then pointed to the amused Emma, who had appeared at the patio doors with her back to the pair of them, sharing a joke with a resident, "Look at her.  You should court her, you know?  You could do a lot worse, my boy."
"It's - not like that.  We're just friends."
Oliver laughed, "Utter drivel.  You telling me she doesn't excite you in the least?"
Jacob stood straight up, working an ache from his knees and a crick in his back, "I'd be lying if I said there wasn't something there, but I don't have time for that kind of thing at the moment.  My schedule's far too hectic."
"Well, you're here now.  That counts for something?"
Jacob wiped his dirty hands inefficiently on an already filthy rag, "True, and this has been a pleasant distraction from my work, but I will have to return to it soon."
Oliver put a strong arm around Jacob's shoulders and steered him towards the patio doors, where Emma stood, her arms folded and a look of pride on her face, "Not until you and Emma join us for tea." insisted Oliver, smiling broadly.
Pretty soon after, tea was dutifully made by Emma and Jacob, and presented on a silver tray to the residents.  Emma included some unusually shaped bread from within a basket.  Curiosity got the better of Jacob, "What are they?"
Granny Wells picked up one of the loaves and broke it in half, "They've got lots of names, but we call them Corn Gods.  They're seasonal, but then I wouldn't expect you to understand.  We do have our traditions, you know."
Jacob felt her words cut him, "I can't apologise enough for my rudeness yesterday.  Really, I can't.  I blame it on tiredness - my mouth just moves before my mind engages sometimes."
May Swan shrugged, "It happens to the best of us, I suppose.” she said as she took a bite of her Corn God.
After that little exchange, things settled down, and both Emma and Jacob spent a goodly time swapping anecdotes.  The older people would tell stories of the old days, reminiscing on Festivals past, while Emma spoke of residents passed, keeping their memories alive with stories of antics driven by joy.  Once they had finished their drinks, Emma gestured for Jacob to stand.
"We really must be making tracks." she said.
"Yes, we should.  Oh, and yes, if you need anything more, don't hesitate to ask?  I have nothing but time on my hands." smiled Jacob.
"You're welcome any time for a visit, my boy." said Granny Wells taking Jacob's hand, "We've also got nothing but time -  just ours is a little more limited than yours, so make it sooner rather than later, eh?"
"Of course.  And that's a promise." smiled Jacob in affirmation.
"They're a lovely bunch of people." commented Emma, as the pair returned to the road.  The sun was out and a gentle breeze took the heat from it, while the smell of flowers arrested the nose.  The pair of them came up to another old-looking house.  This one was certainly smaller than the last, appearing a little run down.  The grass had grown to the height of corn; here and there in the tall grass was discarded furniture and rubbish bags, some split by wild animals with their content spilling out and onto the rough footpath.  Jacob walked up to the front door, a light blue paint barely noticeable amongst the ridges of rotted wood.  He knocked.
"There's no answer." he said, looking to Emma for inspiration.
"Give it time.  Poor girl has her brother to look after.  Their Mother abandoned them, you know.  Look, she sent them a card," said Emma showing Jacob the front of a brightly coloured postcard, with an idealised picture of a Town called Ashlynn upon it.
"Surely that's private?” said Jacob, pushing the postcard away.
"I'm aware of that, Jacob.  I only looked at the post mark." Emma looked at Jacob slightly hurt, but it quickly passed and her face returned to normal.
A face appeared in the window above the transom of the door.  It was a girl's face and she must have been standing on a chair.  It was the girl Jacob had seen in the pub the previous night; the girl who supported her brother, soothing him while he was agitated.
The sound of locks and chains rustling on the other side of the door stopped, allowing for the door to open slowly, revealing the slight and probably malnourished form of Susan Irons.  She first looked to Emma, as though expecting approval, "Sorry I took so long." she said timidly, "Jack is refusing to eat."
Jacob could feel her pain, "Look, let us bring in the groceries.  Maybe we can help?"
Her voice cracked almost imperceptibly with emotion, "Oh, please?  You're a life saver."
Jacob meandered through the slalom course of Jack and Susan Irons's life.  He reached the kitchen, perhaps the only clean area of the house so far, where he placed the box down on an empty counter and began to unpack it.  Emma had disappeared again into some other part of the house.  Upon his compassion, Jacob felt compelled to ask, "Are there any little jobs you need a hand with?"
Susan put her hands to her cheeks, looking about the room thoughtfully, "Plenty!  If you don't mind?"
"Of course not." smiled Jacob, "Fire away."
Susan gave Jacob a recitation of jobs to do.  Taking one at random he began in the garden, tackling it to the point of respectability.  Gardening was becoming an undesired skill for Jacob, yet he found he was good at it.  Susan pointed out a few odd but essential repairs that needed to be done inside as well as out, which Jacob dispatched with surprising speed and ease.  It was astounding even to him exactly what he really knew about the most random and menial of things.  While in the midst of a repair job, Emma approached him, "I'm impressed.” she whispered gently into his ear.
"How so?" Jacob felt compelled to ask.
"Wow, you really can't take a complement, can you?  That you are helping these people you don't even know?" she continued.
"I have to admit - you're my inspiration.” he said, turning to face her, looking deeply into her penetrating eyes.
"Stop it," she said, "My face is going red."
Jacob didn't seem that aware of her embarrassment, or at least he chose to ignore it, "Before I came to this area, I was lost.  I suppose I was lonely out of choice, really.  I kind of felt I needed to keep people at an arm’s length, because someone always seems to want something for nothing.  Then I came to this place - a house like this with a struggling young girl looking after her older brother without a by-your-leave; how can I stand by and do nothing when I have so much to give?"
Emma smiled, "This place does have a tendency to do that to people, you know?"
"I have to admit though, it's not wholly altruistic.  I'm getting this sense of pleasure from helping others."
"As it should be." nodded Emma.
"You know, it shows me there are more important things in life than deadlines?  If that's all we have to live for, well, I think we become less of a person."
Susan Irons chose that moment to join Emma and Jacob on the landing, "I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't come by today.  Things've been so hectic.  And Mom's away for another month.  I don't know how we're going to keep our heads above water."
Jacob put his hands on Susan's shoulders and looked into her eyes - a sense of purpose in his, "Anything you need, and I mean anything, don't hesitate to ask.  I have too much for one person as it is." he said, humbly.
Susan took his hand warmly and with grace.  She looked back into his gaze and nodded, "You really are a kind soul." She gave him the warmest of smiles.  It was payment enough for his melting heart.
Eventually, when all jobs were done, they left the Irons House better than they had found it, and Jacob could feel a warmth of pride and accomplishment which quickly became tainted by a familiar laugh and the return to that word.
"Pervert!"
It was the young couple Jacob had been plagued by since his first few hours in the Town.  They strolled past, bold as brass, carefree to the world.
"That's Grant Humber and Mara Kriksy; a more irritating couple of young lovebirds I've never seen." commented Emma as they watched the couple disappear down a country lane.  Jacob noticed out of the corner of his eye Emma was staring at him, "You know, you could turn a girls head." she said with furrowed brow.
"Look, I'm only doing what anyone would do in my situation." Jacob wasn't sure of who he was trying to convince more - but Emma came to a sudden stop, where she yanked Jacob round to look at her, a scowl on her face.
"Don't you - ever - believe that!  You are unique and generous.  You have goodness straight to your core.  Never lose it."  Then she softened again and nudged him playfully by the shoulder.
They soon crested the bridge that separated the old Town from the new Town.  A man and a woman were coming in the other direction, also on foot, but the man seemed more blustery than the woman.  She faithfully followed his every footfall and the path inevitably brought the four of them together.  The man thrust out a hand, his shake a white-knuckled experience.
"Names Alan Merrow.  This is the wife, Dana Merrow O'Shea.  We're visiting this quaint Town.  Can you tell me, does this - festival go on for long?  Everything seems to be closed?"
Dana Merrow O'Shea, the painted wife, added, "Yes.  It's an awful inconvenience."
Emma addressed the question, "I'm afraid it goes on for several days yet."
Jacob felt Alan was looking unwaveringly into his eyes.  He felt he had to break the stare by way of reciprocal introduction, "We met, earlier."
"Did we?  How odd." replied Alan.  Jacob chose to ignore the obviously antagonistic quality in his voice.  His attention drifted from them to a nearby shop.  An anxious man popped a head and an arm out of the doorway.  Jacob had seen him before, in the pub - one of the couple who had hypnotised him with their eyes.  The man gestured for Jacob to come to him.
The conversation with Alan and Dana was dull and pointless, so Jacob decided to investigate.  Besides, Emma seemed to have it well covered.  A sense of curiosity bid Jacob to find out what the man wanted.  As Jacob approached, the man opened the door enough for him to enter.  Inside it was dark, but there was no feeling of danger, just a sense of calmness and peace.
"Come, Jacob," gestured the man, "We have much to tell you in such a short time, while she is distracted.   Please, come?" Jacob entered the shop.  The man introduced himself as Ivan, "This is my wife, Marya." Marya sat on a stool carelessly fiddling with a chain of beads.  She didn't rise to greet Jacob, but her smile said all it needed to.
"It is a pleasure to meet you Jacob." she said, her accent a little thicker than Ivan's.
"Likewise." Jacob replied.  He turned his attention back to Ivan, who gestured for him to sit.  Jacob politely waved it away, "What do you mean, you have much to tell me?"
Ivan stood firmly planted to the spot, "You must know the truth before you are dragged in too far." he said thickly.
"The truth?"
"It is forbidden for us to tell you directly, but we can point the way.  It is for you to forge your own path, Jacob.” spoke Marya.
Jacob sensed this conversation was going nowhere, "Look, I'm sure you're both well meaning, but -"
"She is not what she seems." Ivan said suddenly, "She is as integral to it as is everything else.  Jacob, you must listen.  The Beast is not what it seems.  True, it is a Guardian Spirit, but it is so much more.  It is also Anathema."
"The festival is a veil for its activities beneath." explained Marya, grasping her beads to her chest.
"This is ridiculous." Jacob snorted.  He stood at the door, but not beyond it.  It seemed it was then that Emma spotted his absence.
"Jacob?  Where did you go?" she asked, concern in her voice.
Jacob turned to Ivan and Marya, "That's it. I'm -"
"Jacob.  All we ask is you take nothing for granted.  Here, take this."   Marya passed her beads to Ivan, who passed them to Jacob, "They may help.  Observe the visions - they may be your salvation." punctuated Ivan.
"How do you know about those?" Jacob asked, suddenly interested.
"We know more than it may seem." said Marya conspiratorially.
"Jacob?  Are you in there?” Emma asked from the outside of the shop.
Ivan made a shooing gesture with his hands, "Go!  Before she gets more suspicious!"
Jacob did as bid.  He returned to Emma.
She had eventually got rid of the annoying Alan and Dana and was now pulling the wagon along the main road to the centre of Town, "What were you doing in there?"
"Oh, just introducing myself to a couple of nut-jobs." Jacob replied.
Emma nodded, "Right.  Those Old-Country people.  They're a strange pair.  Always keep to themselves.  Some say they're white witches.  Around here that wouldn't surprise me."
"They gave me these." said Jacob, presenting the crumple of beads to Emma.
She sniffed and looked quite dismissive, "I'd throw them.  Looks like they'd turn green after a few minutes.  You know those nuts claim to be Demon Slayers?" Emma laughed, "No, leave them well enough alone.  Harmless, but distracting."
"You don't deliver to them?"
"No. they've got their own supplier who comes every now and then.  I just leave them be.  They seem to do the same with me."
"Oh, well, okay." Jacob nodded in understanding.
"Look," she said, "I've finished the last of the deliveries for today.  How about we retire to the pub for a few?"
"Sounds like a plan." smiled Jacob in response.
Sudden was the darkness, all encompassing, broken by those red hungry eyes.  Within the shining crimson marbles he saw a wolf, on its hind legs.  It was tussling with an armour clad warrior.  Somewhere the Green Man laughed like a maniac, through sudden green mist forming behind them and consuming the battle worn pair in its extraordinarily large mouth.  A wheel spun into the centre and rotated at a blistering pace.  Out of it a ring appeared.  He tried, so desperately, to make a grab for it.  It was barely within grasp when it shattered once more.
And so, again, he was left in confusion.  What did it all mean?  Why was he having these visions?  Was he going mad?  And would he know if he were?
Emma and Jacob entered the pub during a healthy debate that looked like it showed no signs of abating.  May Swan currently controlled it.
"I tell you - it's the curse.  Two of my friends have been confronted by the apparition only this morning."
"And they're - how old?" asked Nick Harold, absent-mindedly wiping a pint glass with a towel.
"Enough of your cheek, Nicholas.  I've known them for many years, and they are honest people." argued May.
"You do know it’s like saying that ghosts exist, along with the Abominable Snowman and the Loch Ness Monster?" said Nick.
Oliver Lutin fired a shot across the bow of the battling ships, "You know what happened last year, with the tourists?  It's one year to the day, in fact."
"That was all nonsense and you know it.  All they did was fall down Beacon Hill and break their necks.  It's not supernatural, Oliver." said Elena Selkie.
And Granny Wells was defiant, "When you have been around and seen as much as we have, my girl, then you can comment.  Until then keep it shut, eh?"
Oliver admonished his friend, "That's a bit much girl.  She was only expressing an opinion?"
Granny Wells then turned on Oliver, "You've never been able to see the truth, have you, Oliver?"
Emma looked at Jacob and gave a cheeky smile, "Glad you came now?"
"I wouldn't miss this for the world.” said Jacob cautiously, leading the way to the bar.
May seemed to become reflective, "You know, I feel for the couple holidaying in the cottage yonder?  They seem a little careless and don't know our ways.  Outsiders are often like that - no offence Jacob."
"None taken?" said Jacob, ordering himself and Emma a drink.
"It was that Ivan Tsarevich and his lady, Marya Morevna, you know." said Granny Wells, "They invoked the evil spirit upon us - this Anathema."
"That's just more nonsense.  There's no such thing as the Anathema." said Nick, handing over the drinks to Jacob.
"Well, you should remember our tales better then, Nicholas Harold.  If we do not appease the Guardian Spirit, the Town is cursed and the Anathema rises from the dirt." said Granny Wells, scripture-quoting.
Mary agreed, "That's why we'll have the Vigil up at the Stones, to try and cleanse the spirit.  We'll do it after the Fayre tomorrow."
Granny nodded sagely, "Many of the signs are here.  We need to do this or it'll destroy us."
"Such a melodramatist.” muttered Nick, under his breath, but obviously not quiet enough to escape Granny Wells's sharp ears.
"When the Beast is staring down at you and pushing on your chest, stealing your breath, turning your brain to mush and eating out your liver, don't come crying to me Nicholas Harold!"
"That told you." chuckled Elena.
The hustle and bustle had quietened down quickly and people had returned to their drinks soon after.  Throughout the evening, there held that mild feeling of resentment of an age-old dispute, but the drink soon flowed and Jacob was again forced to walk home drunk.
The night was a little crisp and Jacob cursed himself for not bringing a warmer coat, so he used his jacket to its maximum effect; collars up, lapels meeting in the middle and him hunched against the chill.  But he hadn't walked far before something crossed his vision.
A black shape formed in the lane before him, stark against the diminishing light.  Jacob stopped in his tracks.  The dark shape reciprocated.  Jacob's drunken mind immediately assumed he was somehow looking at a distorted reflection of himself.  He then moved tentatively forward.  The shape followed.  Jacob drunkenly tested the dark shape and attempted a sidestep, but what the shape did next, he didn't expect.
It raced toward him at a blistering pace.
Jacob involuntarily put his arms up before him in defence.  But the shape just ran through him, bringing with it a sense of time slowing and a sharp chill right to his core.  For a split second he was covered in complete darkness and within that darkness Jacob felt the epitome of fear.  As it gradually left, Jacob found himself quickly turning on his heels, but the shape had already gone.
In that moment, a thought came to Jacob.  What if this was all an illusion - or even a delusion?  What would that mean for him?  These questions needed answers, and he was determined he was going to find them - tomorrow, at the Fayre.

IV.
The previous night's antics fell heavily on Jacob's mind, accompanied by a screaming hangover currently being treated with a combination of water and tea.  The sudden and loud knock at the door didn't help him much.
"Emma?"  It was a fairly educated assumption, "I'll be just one more minute!" Jacob rustled up clothes and shoes, finishing his drink.
"No rush," she called back, "There're still some stragglers on the way up to the stones anyway."
"Stones?" Jacob asked as he opened the door.  A handful of people walked past the cottage gate, talking and laughing.  The morning appeared bright and clear.
Emma smiled, "It’s the Calling Forth of the Guardian Spirit ceremony?  It's what we do every year, just before the Fayre begins."
"Oh, right.  Do I need to wear anything special?" Jacob asked with his jacket half on.
Emma flashed an amused smile at his half-clothed state, "No.  Just bring yourself and an open mind." Jacob finished dressing and pulled the cottage door closed behind him.
Coming out the gate, Emma and Jacob fell easily into step with the stragglers.  As they walked, Jacob felt Emma reach for his hand.  He opened his and she took it.  Jacob smiled.  They took the route Jacob had on his first day. He got to thinking; how long had he been in this Town so far?  He couldn't quite remember.  Odd.  They continued walking.  Eventually, they found themselves up by the standing stones, where stood those rustic and pock-marked men of Beacon Hill, and they found a position to witness the unfolding ceremony.
Before the stones, stood a man in Druidic robes.  He held his hands aloft, reciting the tongue of an old, dead language - of a stanza obviously well practiced.  He waited until a large contingent of people had arrived before he reverted back to the common tongue, for those who could not understand the old dead Teutonic scripts.
"We call forth the Guardian Spirit, so wrapped in his cloak of the old harvest and preparing for the cloak of the next.  We call him forth to protect us, as we pay homage to him, allowing him the destruction of that which prevents our journey along the path.  Please hear our call, O mighty spirit.  Turn from the path of destruction, and follow the road to regrowth.  For thou hast the power to guard us in our hour of transition."  His words hung in the air, as though each syllable contained a piece of the magic whole.  It almost took Jacob's breath away with its strength.  Emma informed Jacob that the man who had been speaking was a kind of High Priest, and that description strangely seemed to bring him calm.
Jacob continued, however, to have the odd flash of fear by the stones, as he had that first day.  He half expected to see the big black shape somewhere in the crowd - watching him, ready to pounce on the lame straggler of the flock.  But what did happen was much stranger.
Ivan Tsarevich pushed his way roughly through the congregation, clutching a large book in his hands.  The book had Cyrillic letters embossed upon it with fragments of gold leaf still clinging to the deep grooves left by those letters.  His wife, Marya Morevna, followed behind him timidly.  Then Ivan called out to the High Priest with the same solemnity, the same reverence, the same practiced oratorical ease and volume as he had, and Ivan held as much conviction in his words as the Priest had only moments ago.  He spoke with his thick accent, "Your false words only anger the Gods, small priest!  You are all doomed as long as you walk this route of false worship!  Care should be taken when wrestling with the old Gods!  Intolerance is ugly!  Diligence should always be taken, as there are powerful elements at work, even now plotting your downfall!"
The crowd seemed unfazed by the interruption, contentedly watching the theatre being acted before them. The priest stood as close to Ivan as he could without touching, but did not temper his voice, "You have made your peace, now leave!  It is the way of the witch that you two follow, and that angers any spirit!  Leave, or we must make you leave!"
"We have made our point." said Ivan calmly.  He led Marya back through the crowd and away.
Once the commotion had died down, the High Priest spoke again, "Let us now walk in song and silent prayer through the Town, confirming the Circle is Unbroken!" He then led the procession, singing a lilting, dark and foreboding madrigal in the same dead language as before.  This time there was no translation, but Jacob seemed to get the gist.  It appeared to be about old times - those things that have died and passed into memory - with the speculative desire for a better future.  When that song was done, the congregation as one began to sing local songs of the Old Faith as they passed through the new Town, into the old Town and beyond.
Jacob soon discovered they had come to a part of Town he never knew existed.  Ahead was a large Victorian Institutional building, replete with wrought iron gates and wrought iron fences.  Beyond the gates it was dark and dominating except for the overly garish use of bright flowers and colourful stalls ensconced in the old School Grounds and around the dark, hard blackness of the wrought iron fences.
A Ferris Wheel dominated the rear of the Fayre, its lights twinkling in programmed rhythm around the stanchions and steel of the ride and its carriages, which were spaced equally around the wheel.  The fairground chimes, roars and tinny music joined together to make a cacophonous beat that tore at the child within them all.  Jacob let his own inner child free, following after that ghost with youthful abandon.  Suddenly, children seemed to come from everywhere, and there was something soothing about their shouts; the laughs and playful nature of them.  Jacob moved from stall to stall, reliving a long lost part of his youth.  Except this time, he had a beautiful woman by his side - she too joined in with the frivolity, as was the want of the young and the young at heart.
But of course it was too good to last.
Darkness fell in front of his eyes as the now-familiar sensation of falling into a waking vision was upon him.  He saw the tree, derelict of its leaves - the branches stretching like a skeletal hand, breaking from its soily grave.  The doom bells rang, blending into the screech of a Raven and the howl of a Wolf.  A book, thickly leather clad, fluttered its pages open.  From inside the volume, the wheel spun again, dissolving all behind it into a blurred mass.  This time the wheel fell apart, the spokes being the first to go, followed by the binding around the wheel, which eventually released the wood of it.  No longer constrained, it broke apart.
Then life imitated fantasy and he understood.  It was a premonition.
Beyond the blackness, there were wild and crazy shouts.  They weren't the shouts of pleasure and joy, but of distress.  Just then, the Ferris Wheel ground to a halt.
"That doesn't sound good.” Jacob commented aloud.  He looked frantically about him.  The distress seemed localised, to the area occupied by the Ferris Wheel.  It seemed equally odd that he could hear these shouts above the screams from the ride itself.  Most of the commotion, admittedly, was coming from one particular carriage.  Within were a flustered Jack Irons and his sister Susan.  Jacob ran over to lend assistance.
He grabbed the Ferris Wheel Operator's arm, much to the chagrin of the Operator himself, who looked Jacob up and down, "Can I help in any way?" managed Jacob, slightly out of breath.
The Ferris Wheel Operator looked lazily at him in exaggerated disinterest, "It'll work itself free.  It's an old contraption."
"So why didn't you stop people getting on the Wheel if you knew this could happen?  Listen to them!  They're scared out of their wits!” Jacob said through gritted teeth.
The Operator shrugged, "It's only that Irons girl and her backwards Brother.  Unfortunate, but it happens."
Jacob was stunned to silence for a second by the man's blatant disregard for another's distress, "Watch your mouth!”
The Operator squared up to Jacob, "Or what?  It was, after all, you who called the Beast?!  It was you who insulted our ways and brought forth the Anathema!  It's because of you that we need this at all!" he yelled accusingly.
"Watch your mouth." Jacob repeated, this time with venom gathering in the rage-built sputum.  Then just as suddenly, there was another equally screechy grinding noise of metal and the Wheel began to move again.  The Operator allowed himself a smug grin through pursed lips, defying Jacob's anger, "Okay, it’s moving again now.  Just don't get in my face again or things will get interesting."  Jacob said, returning to Emma's side.  He plunged his hands into his pockets, not allowing her to grasp them.  He was hurt, but much relieved that the premonition didn’t completely come true.
They continued on in an aching silence until coming to an area of the Fayre dedicated to a display of hay bales, complete with a makeshift dance floor.  Some people were dancing, others sitting around on the bails, but all wore masquerade-style masks, obviously home-made.  Even the musicians wore masks, but theirs were simpler, plain with no adornments.  Jacob was becoming nonchalant to the machinations of the people of this Town and their traditions.  The ordeal of the Ferris Wheel still burned in his heart with unanswered questions.  He then turned to Emma as his representative go-between from the realm of this Town and its traditions, to what he considered, lacklustre at best, his real life.
"Why didn't you back me up at the Wheel?" he asked, a little sharply.
"I couldn't." she answered calmly.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Emma, in lieu of his hand, took his arm in a comforting way.  He thought he might recoil from her touch, but instead felt aroused, even if her words were like a mild insult to his sensibilities, "I know you don't get our ways, or just largely disagree with them, but it is our way."
"There's that rural country excuse again."
"Jacob, people around here don't believe in accidents.  They only believe in signs and punishments from whatever spirit relates to that incident.  I'm not saying I agree, but it's an old tradition neither you nor I are likely to change in a couple of days."
"Doesn't make it right, though." Jacob answered her abashed.
"No, it doesn't.  But that's just the way it is." said Emma.  Her tone suggested she had sympathy for Jacob's plight.  And for his part, he felt the ice between them melt a little - not quite back to normal, but somewhere in the vicinity.
They moved on to the craft area of the Fayre, where many of the stalls were adorned with seasonal produce.  Some competing stalls were selling the little twisted loaves that made the shape - and resemblance - of crudely manufactured, tiny yeast laden men; or the Corn Gods, as they were called.  Other stalls contained beautifully, and roughly carved and crafted wood ornaments, such as wolves, birds, stoats and hares.  Within the melee, Jacob watched again as Susan helped her Brother, Jack.  She was uttering soothing words to calm the giant, but he seemed close to the point of breakdown - the efforts on the Ferris Wheel had obviously taken their toll.  Not only that, Jacob had become separated from Emma, her attention taken by a wooden figurine of an owl.  Jacob wandered around the stalls as long as he could, hoping Emma would return, but she didn't.  So he walked home alone.
As he opened the cottage door, the telephone rang.  He picked up the receiver, "Mr Eriks?  I am a representative for Gerard Aimerey Publishers, and I have been asked to remind you that you near the agreed date for the latest draft of your work.”  But Jacob wasn't listening.  Something else drew his attention.
He became distracted by something that was reflected in the glass of a picture above the telephone.  The picture was of a painted cat trying to climb water-coloured ivy by the side of an indistinct cottage.  It remained the reflected shape in the glass that made him pause.  He sucked in deeply, involuntarily - holding it, as though the escape of carbon dioxide might trigger a reaction in the growing dark shape behind him.
"Mr Eriks?" the voice squawked again from the other end of the phone.  Jacob had moved the receiver away from his ear.  He turned slowly, hoping it wasn't really there, that a refraction of light had made a collection of shadows seem more than it was.  But no; it was the Beast - here, in his safe place.
And it had finally come for him.
He dropped the telephone, flung open the cottage door and ran.  He tried to scream, but it caught in his throat.  He ran into darkness - he broke free of the light that enveloped him and entered the world of shadow.

V.
Jacob eventually awoke.  He found he was leaning on one of the Five Men.  However, the name was lost to the weather, but there was the slightest of imprints where a name had once been, heavily eroded.  The sky looked troubled and angry.
Whatever this thing really was, it really wanted him.  What options did he have left, though?  In this moment there seemed to be only one - he needed to leave; leave this Town and leave this area.  Just go and never look back.  So he got to his feet and began running to the west with the camouflaged sun behind him.
Eventually he came to a deep, yet dry, riverbed.  The only egress seemed to be over a bridge which had been broken in the middle.  It looked deliberately smashed; so that option was closed.  A little to the south, while still following the dry river, Jacob hit an area of deep vegetation.  He tried so hard and he pushed through it  exhaustingly, lifting his legs and twisting his body.  But he only got so far before he had to give up.
He felt the presence of something.  Something was following - or perhaps tracking.  Maybe he was food for something, something waiting for him to tire?  He knew it wasn't the red eyed Beast however - he could tell that much.  That monster had a different feel; it felt like fear personified.  This was just a little apprehension rising to tension, that Lizard Brain mechanistic response that never went away.  He continued south, using the thickness of the vegetation as a shield against the animal hunting him.
After some time walking, it seemed to Jacob he had eventually broken free of the cloying vegetation.  He thought he had done it, now that he could see what were likely to be train tracks, or some distant glint of tarmac.
It was a way out.
But as he drew closer, the earth became less sturdy.  He looked down at his feet; they had been submerged under a few inches of murky water.  He took another step, to what appeared to be a solid clump of grass, but his foot slipped and he dropped as low as his calf into brown and bracken water.  Anxiety made him survey the area.  It seemed he had somehow found his way into a swamp-like patch, where the water table had no drainage.  Somehow he had walked into the middle of it, having not paid enough attention to his path.  He could see big patches of mud; the kind that dragged the inexperienced down into its dirt-filled stomach.  And he couldn't go forward or backward.
He couldn't go in any direction.  Everywhere he looked seemed as dangerous and perilous as the last.  Suddenly his right foot, still immersed to the calf, shifted.  An air pocket escaped the clotting mud.  He was being sucked under!  Panicking, he yanked his foot out, which was much tougher than it needed to be.  More air pockets popped up in random spots, like a chain reaction.  Jacob moved as fast as he could, which wasn't that fast at all.  He had to lift his knees almost to his chest just to animate his legs enough to make any kind of progress.  He chose an arbitrary direction, just to escape.  Eventually, the ground began to feel firm and he allowed himself to slow.  As if all that wasn't bad enough, it began to rain.
Then Jacob spotted a building cresting the distant horizon; it was perhaps part of a Farmyard.  He made that his focus.  But along the way he failed to notice a hole - which he fell in, knocking his head badly on the hard ground and falling unconscious.  Thankfully, by that time, the rain had stopped.
Jacob awoke, involuntarily rubbing his head where a big thick lump was forming.  He looked at his hand.  Luckily there was no blood.  Jacob could see the sky had begun to clear through the circular aspect of the lip to the hole.  On the sides of this hole, the earth had become hardened in places, with the earlier rain causing some loosening of dirt, creating microscopic mud slides at random points on the walls.
Why had he started running?  Granted, he often had a will, a desire to run away, but he never actually did it.  Mind you, it occurred to him, running away from his problems had ultimately led to Beacon Hill.  There was much he wouldn't have wanted to miss about there.  No, the desire to run had turned into an actual run, which ultimately led him to this Beast Pit.  Something unseen didn't want him to leave, and right now he didn't want to either.  His eyes caught tiny hand holds where the tiny mud slides had occurred, and he realised he could use them to climb out.  So he did.
The building he was heading for was much clearer now.  The sun crested the roof of a barn, glistening off the tiny droplets of water that hadn't evaporated yet, striking the light out with tiny spikes of brilliance.  As he walked toward it, he noticed the Farm with its Farmhouse, where the door was open and a woman was cleaning the yard.
She was distinct, even at this distance.  She was Emma.  He had stumbled onto Emma's Farm.
As his feet took him closer to her, he didn't notice the two people approaching him; Ivan Tsarevich and Marya Morevna, "Jacob, stop.  You need to realise what this is." Ivan tried, but Jacob seemed not to notice him, ”Back at the shop we told you all we could, but you weren't ready for the rest at that point.  Unfortunately, you are still not ready, but we must proceed," Ivan grasped Jacob firmly by the shoulder.  Jacob tugged against it, "Look at you!  Look at this place.  Do you even know where you are?"
Jacob eventually came to a stop, but still didn't register Ivan.  It was like he was in a trance, yet one from where he began to speak, "Trowcroft?  Near Beacons Hill, in - in -"
"You see Jacob?  You don't even know where you are.  You have simply accepted an interpretation.  The mind is a complex thing, Jacob.  It has many safeguards from stressful places and shocking events," Ivan stood directly in front of Jacob, looking into his eyes, "What you see here - isn't here."
Jacob looked then at Ivan.  The trance became partially lifted, "What do you mean?  I can see it, can't I?  It's there," Jacob gestured.  He laughed suddenly, "Okay, so if I'm not here, where am I?"
"We cannot tell you directly.  It is forbidden." added Marya.
Jacob's brow furrowed in indignation, "What do you mean, forbidden?  Forbidden by whom?"
"We cannot tell you that either.  What we can say is -" began Ivan.
Marya cut in, "What we can say is that you know them.  You have known them all your life,"  She looked to her husband for approval, "Other than that, we cannot tell you, or we would be ejected; eradicated - made extinct."
Jacob snorted derisively, "Is all this to do with that magic nonsense again?  I'm all for scented candles and sticks of incense, but witchcraft?  Utter rubbish!"
Marya shrugged, "We are only as we are made."
"You know what?  I hate you people with your damn riddles!  I’m going down to see her!”
"Please just look at what she does first?  Observe her from a distance.  If you still feel the same, go to her and embrace her - become one with her and our job will be at an end." explained Ivan calmly, "Surely you have already observed as she tends to the wild flowers and weeds of her garden?  But do you see that she tends to the dead and dying things?  Jacob, you see but you do not notice.  She tends to the things that choke and kill a garden.  She nurtures them as she would a rose."
"It shows what kind of a person she is." expressed Jacob, "That she cares even when no one else would.  She took an interest in me when I needed it."
"Yes, and she made you infatuated.  You fell for her, but how did she reciprocate?  She has never actually returned the feelings.  She merely led you down a path she had destined for you long before you came to Trowcroft.  It is no coincidence that she was the first person you saw.  It is also no coincidence that we stand by your side.  We have followed you in one form or another for your entire time here." said Ivan.
Jacob was suddenly intrigued, "In one form or another?"
Marya straightened, as did her husband, "We are one further piece of the puzzle that you yourself identified and tried to solve.  Watch."
Jacob stood motionless as the two of them began to blur; within their cocoon they buzzed, their limbs shifted, spiked out at odd angles and the shape became form, the form became animal.  They escaped their blurry bind to reveal two large black dogs.  The same ones Jacob had seen cross his path.  Jacob's head was spinning; flashes of images experienced danced over his visual cortex - what he had done, where he had gone.  And there it was.
He suddenly realised he couldn't remember how he had got to Beacon Hill in the first place.  He didn't remember a car, or a train, or even a coach.  The first thing he remembered was standing at the gates of the cottage, Tutolocus.
"Stop there!  You and your dogs!" It was the bellowing and booming voice of the irritating Alan Merrow.
"They're not dogs, they're wolves." said Jacob.
"Who cares?  Where is the Beast?" said Alan, still bellowing.
"What are you talking about?"
Alan stood before Jacob, menacingly nose to nose, not tempering his volume, "The Beast!  You know!  You must know?  It comes at your bidding?"
Jacob was genuinely mystified, "You must have me confused -"
Alan's wife, Dana, joined her husband, "We want the bounty!  We're the ones who've tracked it here, in this Godforsaken back-end of nowhere!"
Jacob stood his ground, "You're going to need to be a bit more specific?"
Alan was seething, "The Beast, man!  The monster with red eyes that burns into your soul!  The creature from which bleeds much fear and trepidation!  The Beast!  Where is it?!"
Somewhere unnoticed, Ivan and Marya had transformed back into their human forms.  Ivan came to Jacob's defence, "Leave!  Now!  Your presence is anomalous!  Leave, or I will retake the form of a wolf and kill you, shift into the guise of a raven and peck out your eyes from your body so that the sockets forever more will be in darkness!"
It seemed to do the trick.  The Merrow's took their hunt somewhere else, hurrying away with much heated discussion, most of which was about avoiding being dinner for a big black dog.  Marya stood next to her husband, with the posture of almost canine obedience in their positioning alongside Jacob.
He had seen enough.  He had seen the truth and he knew his path.  He had to return to Trowcroft and embrace his fears.  Now his stride was long, with his faithful guard dogs flanking him through the trees and to the lane - the lane that led to the centre of Town.

VI.
By the time Jacob had reached the edge of Trowcroft, it became apparent that the whole place was devoid of locals.  But somewhere, just about audible, came a low radiating hum.  He followed the sound.
The closer he was, the louder and more distinct the noise became.  There were people now, and many were talking about something called the Cleansing.  Of the people they passed, those who gave them any notice were decked out in traditional dress; white linen dresses adorned with garlands of flowers for the women and coarse sack-cloth shirts and dark brown trousers for the men.  The people swung dangerous looking weapons around; bats with nails embedded in them, pillow-cases filled with rocks and toilet flush chains, amongst other equally deadly weapons.  It appeared, as far as Jacob could tell, that all the people of Trowcroft were here present.  Jacob finally reached the eponymous Whale and Harpoon.  Nick, the landlord, spotted him and called out.
"On your own I see?"
Jacob was confused.  Didn't he notice the two huge wolves?  Then he realised; the two big dogs weren't there anymore.  Surely they hadn't abandoned him?   Then he heard the caw of a raven.  It had perched itself above the lintel of the public house door.  Another came along and sat beside the first.
"I - oh, yes." Jacob stammered.  Nick missed the apparent uncertainty in Jacob's voice.  He surveyed the scene, breathing in the crowd with their weapons aloft, like a proud landowner looking over his fields of upright corn.
"Isn't it beautiful?  The way the community comes together like this?" Nick's eyes glinted.
"It is." expressed Jacob uncomfortably. Something definitely wasn't right.  There was an undeniable murmur of madness in Nick's words and actions.
Nick continued, "It's a sight to behold."
"I heard people saying something about a Cleansing?" Jacob asked.
"Oh, yes!  It's exactly what it sounds like.  It's when we cleanse the Town of its unnecessary evils."
"Sounds ominous?” Jacob commented.
Nick smiled, "It's when the Town removes its undesirables."
"Why so many weapons?"  Jacob was determined to find the truth.
Nick laughed, "To kill them with, of course!"  Nick returned his attention to the glass he was busy rubbing with a cloth, "We cleanse the Town of those who would bring down our peaceful place."
"Kill them?  You mean people?"
"What else would he mean?” asked Elena, appearing at her husband's elbow, somewhat indignantly, "Oh, don't look like that, Jacob?  You're fine!  You're a tourist.  We don't kill tourists.  It's bad for the Town's economy."
"So who are you going to kill?"
"Jack and Susan Irons." explained Elena.
"Well, today, yes.  Who knows about tomorrow?" said Nick with a shrug.
It was crazy.  It was unbelievable.  Jacob left the lunatic couple and began walking aimlessly through the crowd, trying to get some distance from the insanity.  Frankly, anywhere would do right now.  Somewhere where he could gather his thoughts.  Somewhere where logic outbalanced insanity.  But it seemed he hadn't gone far enough.
"Run, Jacob Eriks!  You'll be next!" Jacob turned sharply to see who had said it - he couldn't tell.  Soon he would reach the Senior Citizen Home.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?"  It was the voice of Oliver Lutin, the ever present Barker.  He was standing on the veranda of the big old building alongside Granny Wells and May Swan, who were seated at a home-made wooden bench, covered over individually with tartan blankets.  They were watching the procession with glee and excitement.  The smiles had somewhat pulled the experience lines from their faces and they looked like excited children on the eve of a party.
"Do you know about the Cleansing?" asked Jacob, coming to the steps that led up to the veranda.  He stopped from actually crossing the threshold.
"Of course we do.  It's just a shame we're too old for it now.  The beatings!?  Oh, you remember the beatings?!  Those were the days." reminisced Granny Wells.
"Look!  They march!  How magnificent!" said May Swan, gesturing excitedly at the moving mob who walked as one, in ragged formation, along their determined path.
Granny Wells shook her head, "Was better back in the day, dear.  So many young men - so many strong women.  Still, it's a thing to see!"  If they had flags in their hands, they would have been waving them by now.
Jacob was lost for words, "Well, I suppose - look after yourselves?" But they paid him no further attention.  The mob marched on for the Irons's House.
The road was crammed outside that eponymous house.  People were shoulder to shoulder as the calls went out for blood.  Jacob knew he had to get in there - whatever it was the siblings had done or were supposed to have done, murder surely wasn't the answer?  And if this was a construct of his making, then surely he couldn't allow it to happen?  He jostled with the crowd, finding egress difficult, but determined as he was, he finally broke free from the mob and found a pathway that went behind the houses.  Jacob eventually found the back of the Irons house, knowing which one it would be as he had himself tended that garden.  Jacob jumped the fence, right into one of the flowerbeds he had planted.  He silently cursed and made for the back door.
It was locked.  He shoulder-barged it and it gave easily.  He was again in the Irons kitchen.  Jacob raced to the stairs and took them three at a time.  He broke into Jack's room, where both he and his sister, Susan, were huddled on the bed.  Jack was more agitated than normal.
"Hurry!  You've both got to go!" Jacob barked, gesturing to the escape route he had just made.
Susan looked at Jacob as she stroked her brother's head, "Where to?  This is the way it is."
Jacob shook his head, “What?!  You believe that?  You really believe that?!"
"It's the way it is." she repeated.
Jacob sat heavily on the bed, looking at them both, "You want your brother to be ripped apart by these people?  You want to see them beat your brother to death?"
Susan snapped from her melancholy, "Of course not!  But that's the way it is!"
"So you keep saying.  But it doesn't have to be, does it?" Jacob tried calmly.
"But it is!  And you know it is!" she said, emphasising her point by prodding Jacob's chest accusationally.
"Susan?  What's happening?"  It was the first time Jacob had heard Jack speak.
Jacob turned his attention to Jack, "They're coming to kill you and your sister.  You need to persuade her that she must come." Jacob said, looking directly into Jack's eyes.  Neither exchanged a blink.
"I don't understand. Susan?  I don't understand." said Jack, looking to his sister for clarity.
Jacob turned back to Susan, "What do I have to do to persuade you?"
Susan then put a soft gentle hand on Jacob's cheek.  It felt like the touch of a Mother, "Nothing, Jacob.  Life is ultimately meaningless.  Whether I or my brother live today - in the grand scheme of things - it will mean nothing; it will be inconsequential."
Jacob grabbed her hand frustratedly, even though he wanted that hand to remain on his skin forever.  The slight coldness of it left a similar chill on his cheek, making it feel like the hand remained, "Is that a way to live a life?  Believing everything is pointless?"
"It doesn't matter. It is the way, Jacob - she's right." said Jack, a lot more coherently.
Jacob was yet determined, "Susan - Jack.  It's the bit in-between where we live, where we experience.  It's the people we see, and the things we do," Jacob grabbed Susan's arm, "Love has a purpose.  Okay, in the grand scheme we might well be parasites that sit on this planet, eating away the resources before it and we cease, but it's the unknown and random unforeseen part of life that's the bit we strive for.  It's the bit that builds the houses and creates the cars.  It's the bit that writes books, creates TV and makes up jokes.  It's the part that makes music and the people who hear it reciprocate by showing loyalty and pleasure, or being inspired by it to create their own.  It's art - the creative part - or the science that keeps and creates, like medicine or the invention of the combustion engine.  It's everything, don't you see?  That's what makes life worth living."
Susan opened her mouth as though to reply, when a sudden and loud crash occurred downstairs.  The rabid mob had smashed through the front door.  Susan stood and thrust Jacob towards the bedroom door, "Leave!  Go now!  Don't get caught up in this!  And yes, I agree we have a purpose!  Now go!"  She pushed him through the door and closed it behind him.  Jacob could hear her attempt to block the door with a sideboard or wardrobe, but he knew it wouldn't hold for long.  Jack called from within the room, "And we have fulfilled our purpose, Jacob!" he said, followed by utter, deflating silence.
Jacob had no option, even despite those parting words.  He exited through a bedroom window that led to the back of the house, where he dropped to the flat roof of the extension, dropping further to the garden below and jumping over the fence back onto the path that led around the back of the houses.  He stood there for a few moments.  Then he heard the crash of a door within the property and young Susan scream horribly, which was followed by the whoops and hollers of delight from the cruel mob.
And why was he letting this happen?  If he was dreaming this, if it was his brain he was swimming around in, why would he let such cruelty be perpetrated?  Then it became so simple, once he looked at it objectively.  Emma had been distracting him, feeding the illusion.  Perhaps the Beast with red eyes had been doing the same?  And there he was, running from the mob, running from his problems again.  Why did it seem he was destined to repeat this?  The ridiculous rally of running away and allowing the problem to persist?  So he walked out calmly and assuredly to face the mob, strong and alone.
"Pervert!" he heard again, the carrion call of that young couple, followed by fits of uncontrollable laughter.  Then the mob turned, turned to face Jacob - and they advanced, at speed.  All Jacob could do was close his eyes and brace for impact.  But it didn't come.  He cautiously opened his eyes.
Two huge black wolves stood before him, snarling, pawing the ground, holding the mob at bay with the sheer strength of their presence.  As soon as the laughter stopped, the young couple were gone.  Slowly the mob began to disperse and the two wolves followed the crowd, making sure they left.  It was increasingly obvious where Jacob had to go next - to the standing stones on Beacon Hill.

VII.
By the time Jacob had arrived at the crest of the hill, the Vigil at the Stones was already under way.
No one paid him any attention.  Not now.  Not anymore.
It had gone beyond him now.  Each new arrival, each new person slotted into place in the perfect human circle that encompassed the stones.  Then it dawned on Jacob, something he had known all along; the Five Men were the key to his salvation.
In the centre of the inner circle, stroking the pock marked stones gently like a Mother with her Child, was Emma.  She was dressed in white linen - a Summer dress - her hair bouncy and flowing in tight curls and her complexion perfect and displaying the countenance of an angel.  A small channel parted in the perfect circle like the biblical Red Sea.  Jacob stood at one end of the tunnel, Emma at the other.
Right then it struck him.  Look at her eyes!  Filled with desire!  Look at that smile!  Welcoming and longing!  Whatever it took, he wanted her, and now!  He walked down the channel to the stones, and to Her.  Emma smiled the warmest of smiles, warming his heart, making him foolish.
The words tripped over his lustful tongue, "Emma.  I want you.  I need you." he managed at last.
Her smile faded, replaced with a scowl, "You know what you are?  A vessel.  My vessel.  My objective all along was to pull you into my web and trap you here forever, in this dream-state, Jacob.  You made me, Jacob Eriks.  I exist only to feed on your fear.
"But I have tasted life.  I never want it to end.  I used your desire for me as a tool.  If you had only accepted it the first time, it all would have been easier, and I would have been able to trap you in a prison of your own making much sooner.  You see, I am the glue that holds this world together; these people only exist because of me.  They are all aspects of your psyche, Jacob.  But me?  I am so much more.  I am unique.  My power comes from the Five Men as they are my Fathers.  I am their totem; their representation in human form."  Emma lifted her arms aloft.  The sky turned black and the wind swirled about her and a crack of thunder followed the burst of lightning, "Come forth, Fathers, and contain him!  Trap him so we shall never leave!"
Jacob watched transfixed as one of the stone monuments began to crack, from top to bottom.  Light emanated from that crack, forcing the gap wider.  This action triggered the next stone, then the next, then the next, until before Jacob knew, there stood five men, dressed as Viking Warriors towering over him, a few feet above him.  Recognition flashed over Jacob's hind brain - he knew them.  They were the same five men that had haunted his visions.  Oh God!  What did this mean?!
One of the Warriors raced toward him at speed, stopping inches from crushing him, only to tower over him menacingly, splaying its fingers like a puppet master without a mannequin.  Another swung its double headed axe, taking out at least four of the Townspeople in one swipe. The rest of the Townspeople didn't react.  Another approached with hands in a form of prayer, looking no less murderous.  The last warrior spat a guttural word from a throat not yet formed.  And they enclosed Jacob in their imposing shadows, encircling him, providing no means of escape.
A familiar slowness of time filtered through his consciousness.  It was a vision - the Beast with red eyes.  What more horror?!  The Beast looked the same as always, and caused the same apprehension and fear, but this time it spoke.  And when it did, it was one of the sweetest sounds Jacob had ever heard, like the whispering and soothing words of a Mother.
"Father, embrace me.  I am your anxiety made manifest.  You must or you cannot leave.  Once you embrace me you will no longer be in fear of me.  You must understand, it is she that holds the fear; she feeds off of it.  She needs this dream to continue or she no longer exists.  Father, look upon me.  I require only for you to see me for what and who I am, so that you may wake, and continue your life without fear."
In spite of himself, Jacob still looked to Emma.  She was looking exhausted; spent.  The releasing of the Five Men had used all the energy she had accrued over however many days she had kept Jacob here, in his nightmare.  And the Townspeople were no longer animated.  They were frozen in their last pose as they too had taken her energy, as had the Beast.  But the Beast, Jacob was certain now, was on his side.  So he opened up his arms and his heart, and embraced the Beast - giving it a name, giving it an identity; that name and subsequently its identity was that of Salvation.
The Beast and Jacob now occupied the same space, becoming symbiotic organisms with a common desire.  And now the hybridoid could see Emma for what she was - her given name, "I know what you are now, Emma.  I know what you represent.  You are Fear.  You are my Fear.  You are my Fear made manifest and as long as I kowtow to you, I will always be trapped by you and controlled by you.  I am become the controller of my own destiny.  See me as I am."
And it should have torn the world asunder, with thunder and uncontrollable rage, with deceitful words of appeasement, as he had expected.  But whatever it had been, it merely died with a whimper.  The Five Men cracked and fell apart; the embodiment of Fear dissolved.
They dropped like acid onto the ground and then the ground began to dissolve; the Townspeople disappeared, popped out of existence one by one, until it was just Jacob, alone and in a whitewashed wilderness.
And he finally, and forever, woke up.
To the rest of his life. 




Hypocorism, Henry Kite - It’s Euphemistic
It becomes demoralising when one strives for respect, recognition or acceptance, and the river flows right past without one stopping to admire the view.  How can one get motivated when they are increasingly put down, disregarded and passed by?
This too was happening to a meek, generous man – one Henry Kite.  He hadn’t come to the same conclusion just yet, but he well knew the path it took.
“Where’s the life?  Where’s the spark?” they would deride, “Why is it confusing?”
He had no answer.  Well, not one they wished to hear.  Hack, they would say.  Amateur, they would accuse.  Henry Kite was just Henry Kite, by any name they gave him.
And then he hit upon the formula, good old Henry Kite.  He found the solution.  But they talked down to him, lumped him in with the hoipolloi.  He wasn’t just one of those others.  Henry Kite was unique, akin to the many who were tossed aside.  Why did they not band together, united in their rejection?  Good question.  So, what’s the answer, Henry Kite?  No one knows.  Not even him.
That Henry Kite, he’s a man of even temper, snappy when provoked.  He takes the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.  He respects them for that.  He respects their point of view.  He gives the benefit of the doubt, no matter how hard he’s hit.  He doesn’t hate.  He is altruistic and empathetic – to a fault, and that fault is usually his.  Henry Kite gives and gives, but gets nothing in rebate.  He’s a loving man, with none returning to him.  Still, it doesn’t matter to Henry Kite.  He carries on regardless.  How could he not?  He is Henry Kite!
Did they notice?  Did they care?  Of course not!  They never do.  And isn’t that the Way with the World; now, then and soon to come?  Of course it was!  And yet – and yet it continued.  Continues.  Will continue.  Delete as appropriate.
Poor Henry Kite, though.  He looks at the figures, wills them to change.  Do they change?  Perhaps, but to what end?  What do they denote or denounce; determine or disregard?  Are they true, in fact?  Or are they as false as the ones who watch, a painful solipsism with no reward?  The watchers watch, but they only watch for watching the state of play.  One hundred, or one, it didn’t matter.  To good old Henry Kite, it was all about the generosity of spirit, to those who searched their own conscience and were not left wanting.  It was to those few who could cast the first stone Henry Kite praised and loved.  The rest?  They were less and less each stroke they struck.
Alone, it seems, in a world of people, poor Henry Kite strides the halls with soft boot, so as not to wake the sleeping Dragons.  But he strides anyway.  Why?  Because he is Henry Kite, of course!  Silly people!
Look!  There he is!  The triumphant Henry Kite!  He still does, even though he knows they are jealous!  But why be jealous?  He’s only humble and compassionate, that good old man?  Where’s the light?  Where’s the life?  Where’s the spark?  Where’s the good God point?  Inside him, of course!  They can kick him, they can bite him, they can ruff him up and they can ignore him.  But he still remains, as strong as ever.  The spirit of Henry Kite cannot die!
And what does he say, when all is said and done?  Well, the good old soul, he says, “Look inside yourself.  Maybe you have a Henry inside you?!”
Good old Henry Kite!  He does talk some shit sometimes.

END

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