Eldren: The Book of the Dark (3 page)

R.N.A.D. BUNKER 186A/2

NO UNAUTHORISED PERSONNEL BEYOND THIS POINT

“RNAD...that’s part of the Navy. My Uncle Tom works for them. Morlocks my arse...it’s just an old air raid shelter.”

Leaning over he pressed a light switch at the door-side. To their surprise the light in the room beyond came on, pale and flickering but enough to light the room’s contents.

The room was twenty feet long by ten feet wide and the only furniture in it was six bunk beds...twelve berths in all. Anything else that might at one time have been stored there had long since been removed.

Tony turned off the torch and attached it to his belt as they moved into the room.

Billy was entranced.

“Hey, this is some place. We could turn it into a secret den...you know, bring food and cigarettes and stuff up here and nobody would ever know where we were...wouldn’t that be great?”

Tony wasn’t so sure. “But what about the Morlocks?”

“Morlocks schmorlocks,” Billy said. “Haven’t you sussed it yet? Your senile old Granddad was having you on...spinning a tale to keep you happy.”

He shook his head at Tony’s gullibility as he bounced on a bunk on the other side of the room, slapping his hands against the wall behind him. Suddenly he stopped and began to tap on the wall, concentrating on a different part of it each time.

“Hey. It’s hollow behind here,” he shouted across at Tony. “There must be a secret tunnel or something. Help me find something we can use to break through.”

“I don’t know about that” Tony replied while backing away. “We don’t know what’s on the other side. What if Granddad was right?”

Tony was still shaking his head as Billy started to unscrew a leg from one of the bunks.

“Don’t be so daft,” Billy said, his face a picture of concentration as he worked on a wing nut. “There’s no such thing as Morlocks...your Granddad got the story from a film...my Dad told me about it.”

Sudden tears welled in the corners of Tony’s eyes.

“And what does your dad know about anything...he’s just an old drunk.”

As soon as he said it he clamped a hand over his mouth. That was one of the things they never spoke about.

Any other subject was fair game, but the two taboo subjects...Billy’s dads’ drinking and Tony’s fathers’ use of his fists...they were never to be mentioned.

Billy didn’t even seem to have noticed though...he had succeeded in getting the metal leg off the bed and started to attack the wall, knocking chunks out of the plaster with fast, furious jabs. Soon he had reached the wooden struts behind the top layer. He turned back and smiled at Tony, and Tony almost ran then...Billy’s face was caked with sweat and plaster...a dull gray coating through which only his blue eyes showed with any color.

“Come on Tony, give us a hand here...we’re nearly through.”

But still Tony didn’t move. Behind his eyes pictures were playing, lurid scenes of bloodletting as a hand came from the other side, a gray hairy arm that tore at Billy’s face even as it pulled him dragging and screaming down to the bowels of the earth.

It didn’t happen…not in that way.

Tony watched as Billy smashed his way through the loose timbers and poked his head and shoulders through the resulting gap.

“Hey,” Billy shouted, his voice muffled. “Come over here with that torch will you...it looks like there’s a cave through here, and it’s dark.”

At first Tony still refused to move. It took another shout from Billy, more insistent this time, before he could join his friend at the hole in the wall.

As he approached the hole his legs started to tremble again, but he forced the fear aside as he peered through to the space beyond the hole.

“Here,” Billy said, pointing off to the left. “Shine the torch over here.”

The torchlight showed the boys a rough-hewn chamber, some ten feet wide. Lank gray mosses hung from the stone, wafting sluggishly in the slight breeze that flowed through the hole. But what got Billy excited was the thing he’d pointed to.

Over in the left of the room was another entrance, a passage off the blackness.

“Hey. Caves. Come on.” And, before Tony could stop him, he had pushed himself through the hole and down into the chamber.

“Well?” Billy said, his blue eyes shining in the reflected torch beam. “Are you coming? Or are you still waiting for the Morlocks?”

He turned his back to Tony and shouted, his voice ringing harshly against the rock walls.

“Come out come out wherever you are.” He put his hand to his ear and struck an exaggerated listening pose that he held for long seconds before turning back to Tony.

“Nope. No Morlocks here. Come on...there’s only the two of us here, and there might be treasure and stuff down here.”

The thought of treasure was what got Tony moving.

“Indiana Jones would’ve been in and out already.” Billy said, and that was what got Tony over the lip of the hole and down to join Billy.

“Shine the torch over there,” Billy said, pointing at the entrance they’d noticed previously. Tony did as he was told, but the light seemed to be soaked up by the blackness, barely penetrating a foot into the passage.

“Looks like we’ll have to go in,” Billy said, and stepped forward. He stopped when Tony failed to follow.

“I can’t Billy. I just can’t,” Tony said, trying hard to keep back the tears. “Granddad said they were in there. Don’t go…they’ll get you…I know they will.”

Billy snorted. “Just stay here,” he said, taking the torch out of Tony’s hand. “I won’t be long.”

Billy moved off down the corridor and Tony was left alone in the half-dark, only the dim glow that managed to seep through the hole to give him light. Soon silence fell around him as Billy’s footsteps receded into the distance.

The pictures were back behind his eyes again…Billy being carried by a gray, hulking thing…Billy being taken down to where the giant rats ran…Billy being fed into some infernal machine. He had already turned back to the hole, to his escape, when he heard heavy footsteps running up the corridor towards him. He closed his eyes and screamed as a gray thing lunged at him from the blackness, a scream that stopped as soon as Billy slapped him across the cheek.

“Stop that,” Billy said. “It’s only me.” He took Tony by the hand and led him towards the corridor. “Just wait till you see what I’ve found. Fame and fortune...that’s what.”

Tony let himself be led, but his nerves were jangling and adrenaline pumped through every muscle, ready to run at the first sound even while they went deeper into the dark.

“It’s just along here,” Billy said and, despite his fear, Tony felt curious. He’d never seen Billy so excited. It must be something special to get him this worked up.

He saw just how special a minute later when they emerged into a narrow, musty chamber and Billy shone the torch around.

The room was ancient. Even Tony, with his limited experience in such things, could see that it was older than the rest of the house...by a long way. The stone was gray and somehow slimy, glistening in the light from the torch. But that wasn’t what had Billy so excited.

Billy moved to his left and directed the torch to the center of the room, to the thing that sat there.

It was stone, seven feet long, four feet wide and four feet high, carved out of one block of green, almost translucent marble. From where Tony stood, it looked like there was a sword stuck into the top of the block. The hilt gleamed golden in the torchlight and a large jewel refracted the light and sparkled.

“It’s a diamond,” Billy whispered. “That’s what it is...a diamond.” He pushed Tony towards the block. “But that’s not all. Come and have a closer look.” He took Tony by the arm and, keeping the torch on the sword, they shuffled forward.

It was only when they moved closer that Tony saw the truth of it...the stone had been hollowed out from the top and the sword was not sticking out of the marble. No…it was struck through the ribs of a skeleton.

The boys moved closer, eyes wide as Billy moved the torch beam down the length of the body, taking in the gray bones, the shriveled, wiry strands of hair and finally, the great wound in the ribs where the sword had struck.

Billy went closer, shining the light into the chest cavity.

“Look. There,” he pointed. “His heart.”

What was left of it was an encrusted, blackened mass, three inches of sword splicing it so that it was almost in two pieces. But Tony had noticed something else; something that looked like bound black leather. He leaned forward to get a closer look.

“No…I saw it first,” Billy shouted.

Before Tony could stop him Billy clasped the sword hilt with one hand and, with no apparent effort, drew it from the body. He danced away from Tony, and tried to lift the sword above his head but it was too heavy and the weight carried it backwards over his shoulder to fall to the floor with a clang that resounded around the chamber.

Tony took one step forward, ready to berate the older boy so he only caught a glimpse, a fleeting movement, of the skeletal hand which grabbed him round the neck, cutting off his words and flinging him, sprawling, to the ground.

He lay there, stunned, listening to the cracking, whispering sounds from above him, the shifting of weight from within the sarcophagus. And then he saw the first finger tip, the first finger, then the second, then the whole broad hand as the fist clenched, slowly.

The skeleton rose, up and up, like a phoenix from the ashes, jerking and twitching, as if filmed in stop motion. Soon it stood above him, looking down over the rim of the sarcophagus, the dead skull grinning inanely as the creature clenched and unclenched the old cracked bones of its fists, the ribs creaking as the arms moved slowly, testing their strength.

Bones banged together like dead wood as it jumped, falling to the ground like a bird with a broken wing, ungainly, bent and ugly. More bones cracked.

Tony could only see it in silhouette, jet black against the shadows, as it pulled itself up to its full height, filling the space between himself and Billy.

The bony arms spread out to their full extent, almost touching the walls on either side, two vast, black shadows, framed darker against the walls, flickering with tension as the fists creaked open and shut, open and shut.

Billy screamed, a yell of defiance, and the torch beam swung wildly around the room as he thrust the sword forward, spearing the skeleton through the pelvis. The yell turned to one of triumph, then just as quickly to despair as the skeleton yanked the sword free from his grasp and threw it aside.

There was a creak, as of old bones shifting, and the creature’s jaw dropped open, twin gray fangs sliding from the ruined bone as its head lowered to Billy’s neck.

Tony was only able to watch, rooted to the spot as the razor sharp fangs tore through Billy’s skin, leaving twin grooves nearly four inches long, grooves which welled blackly with blood.

The skeleton’s head bent further, neck bones cracking in protest and the jawbone began to chew. Tony stood, frozen in horror, as goblets of flesh and blood passed through the wasted gullet.

His eyes widened as the tissue fell through the rib cage, but didn’t stop…it hung, a boiling mess of gore, just under the ribs, growing as more blood joined it, pulsing in time with the chewing motions.

And still the creature chewed, and still the ball of Billy’s blood grew. As Tony looked on it began to writhe with its own life. Twin tendrils, as fine as hair, grew from the ooze, twining themselves round the aged bones, growing thicker with every pulse, threading their way through and around the skeleton, knitting flesh onto the frame.

Thicker strands, three of them, grew upwards, surrounding the blackening mass of the heart which seemed to soak up the blood, throbbing and pulsing as its color changed: to purple, then to maroon, then to shining, living red. More and more material flowed into it as Billy’s life was drained and the ancient heart grew and, slowly, began to pump.

Billy’s body lay in the creature’s arms, his torso now strangely deflated, growing more so with every second. Finally, after what seemed an age, the creature raised its head and dropped the lifeless body to the floor. The head turned...no bones creaking this time, and Tony looked into the face of evil.

Red flesh hung loosely from the cheeks. The hair, so recently merely wisps of gray, was thick and vibrant, shot with streaks of blackness. But it was the eyes that did it…the eyes that caused Tony to flee, shrieking in terror…the red, bloodshot eyes that stared at Tony with naked hunger.

THE HILLS behind the town were fading softly from brightest green to watery yellow as the chill days of autumn crept closer. A smattering of bulbous chestnuts had been precipitated on last night’s winds, the mahogany interiors peeping tantalizing from their green overcoats. The avenue of elms were getting down to the serious business of shoring up for winter, the tips of their leaves just barely beginning to curl and brown. Over to the west the rain clouds were beginning to gather on the hilltops, the gray tresses falling to caress the barren windswept peaks.

Down near the town it was still dry, the clouds seemingly pasted to the blue stone of the sky and a cool breeze was the only thing to disturb the long grass on the roadside.

Thin plumes of smoke rose from the houses in the valley, rising almost straight from their source and all was silent and calm.

Sandy had been born and brought up in this town. Seventy years and more and a lot of living had passed since then. He had never regretted leaving, but he felt something turn over in the pit of his stomach as he got his first sight of the town.

No matter how long he’d been away, there were still plenty of sights to stir his memories.

Life had been hard then...no, more than hard...it had been well nigh impossible. He was sent down the pits as early as possible...a thin, almost frail figure, white arms chipping away at the black walls, nothing else to do but listen to the wheezing breath of the older men. He had only been saved from living his life out in the dark by the onset of the Second World War. At the time he had been grateful for the chance to escape...war was just about the only way for a lad to get out of the town even then.

Ten years he had been in the Navy, first on the Atlantic run to New York, then down to the Suez area, and after the war patrolling the South Pacific. In all that time he had never been home.

His first homecoming had been for his mothers’ funeral. He had missed his fathers’ during the war, which had been no great pity as far as he was concerned, and after his mother had been put in the ground he had taken to the roads to walk the length and breadth of Scotland. Now, all these years later, he was still doing it.

Coming over the hill and finally seeing the whole town spread out beneath him, Sandy was shocked by the changes that had taken place since his last visit ten years ago. The twin ranks of chimneys and the smoke-blackened sheds of the steelworks...a landmark as old as Sandy himself...had almost gone. Only one chimney, without its previously omnipresent plume, remained, jutting starkly out of a landscape of what were euphemistically called ‘small business units’.

Sandy had encountered this too often on his travels...the bustling life work of thousands of men steadily eroded until all that remained were storehouses for luxury goods, timber yards and makeshift repair shops. They almost seemed to have been designed to turn tatty as soon as the first winter hit.

The fifties-built housing scheme at the front of the hill had been topped with
‘private luxury bungalows with stunning scenic views of the pastoral valley
’...little boxes that in ten years time would be uninhabitable due to damp and soil erosion.

On the far side of the valley, from horizon to horizon in a thin line of gray, ran the new by-pass, a ten meter wide strip of wasteland populated with heavy goods lorries on their way from the west coast harbors to Glasgow with their daily load of consumer goods.

The only thing that pleased Sandy about this view was its sharp clarity. A clear, blue-sparkled skyline now replaced the gray fog that used to hang over the town.

It was obvious that since the closure of the steelworks some five years ago the quality of the air had changed for the better, but a braying laugh from the golf course on his left only served to reinforce the fact that this was no longer a working man’s town.

Sandy had walked this road many times in his youth. Over the hill to the sea to watch the fishermen bringing in their catches and then back, stopping at the old pub on the moors for a pint or two before strolling back to the town in the moonlight or, as was more often the case, in the rain.

The sight of these hills had always held a fascination for him, their rounded sensuous features drawing him forwards, funneling him through the valley into the town.

He had reached the outskirts of town. The golf course had invested in a clubhouse.
More pleasures for the elite who could afford the club’s extortionate fees and who could put up with the cliquishness
– he thought, when he noticed, for only the third time in his life, the black sleeting rain slanting down onto the bone-dry road in front of him.

The black rain was something that Sandy had managed to explain away as pure coincidence after his original sightings had never been repeated

The previous occasions had both happened during his time in the Navy.

The first time had been at Southampton Docks. He’d been standing on the quayside watching the fleet come in when the black rain started. At first he’d thought there was something in his eye but no amount of rubbing or teasing had altered the view. The rain, looking just like oil falling from the sky, surrounded one of the destroyers just coming in. The sighting lasted for a minute or so, but Sandy immediately knew that something would happen to the boat.

He couldn’t tell how he knew but it felt as if someone was walking over his grave.

He’d later found out that the ship had lost ten of her crew in battle two weeks after his vision.

The second time he didn’t like to think about, even all these years later. He’d been drinking with a group of shipmates in Australia on the night before they were due to leave. The black rain had come down again, indoors in the bar. Sandy got the shakes, so much so that the Medical Officer who happened to be in the bar at the time pronounced him unfit for the trip. He had raved and screamed.

The whole bar and probably half of Sydney had heard him tell the men that they were going to their deaths. Of course they had done just that, and that was the end of Sandy’s career in the Navy.

As he walked past the first tee of the golf course he realized that if past experiences were to prove any guide, death would be following him into this town.

It was not going to be a happy homecoming after all.

The sight that met him when he reached the High Street only laid another burden on his already heavy heart.

The evidence of unemployment was everywhere in the town center. The main crossroads had, at its center, an area of grass and long wooden benches swarming with aimless people, a large proportion of who seemed to be already, at eleven in the morning, under the influence of alcohol. As if to reinforce this, most of the men suddenly ambled across the road and into the nearest public house.

The local co-op, once a large thriving furniture store, now had seventy per cent of its windows boarded up, and the rest were plastered with three-foot posters proclaiming SALE NOW ON.

Even here in this scene of urban decay, Sandy could still see the black rain hanging in the air ahead of him. This was the first time a sighting has lasted longer than a few minutes. A warning, an omen, or merely a sight defect? Whatever the cause Sandy Brown was a very frightened old man.

~-o0O0o-~

Seven thirty a.m. on a cold autumn morning. The sight of his face in the mirror always brought home to Brian Baillie how much he had deteriorated with time.

Wrinkles had firmly established themselves in the corners of his eyes, far too firmly to be passed off as laughter lines. Hair at temples and forelock were graying slightly, but the thing which always annoyed him more than any other was how gray his beard had become.

The beard had been his pride and joy since university days and had gone through many mutations of shape. As some people have worry beads, Brian had a beard, pulled and twisted into strange tufts of varying lengths.

None of the changes had been so drastic as that of the last year though. His beard, from a sleek black vibrant extension of his face, had become a limp, pale gray collection of separate hairs. This morning as on many others previously, he toyed with the idea of shaving it off, but he was afraid that the chin underneath would be in no fit state to see the world.

He had left university seven years ago with a degree in Botany...a failed zoologist as his girlfriend as the time had so wittily observed...and no idea as to what to do next. He drifted into teacher training college more to avoid unemployment than through any vocational urge. Once finished there, he found, as if by magic, that a place teaching biology had become available in his hometown. He took the job, promising himself that it was only for a couple of years then onwards and upwards to somewhere.

The where he never quite figured out and, five years later he was still in the same place.

Surprisingly, to himself anyway, he enjoyed his work. He hadn’t fallen prey to the world-weary cynicism of the older teachers and hoped he never would. Just before she left him his girlfriend had observed that, as his mental age was the same as most of his pupils why shouldn’t he have a rapport with them?

There, he’d done it again, started thinking about her. Hangovers seemed to bring it on the most, probably because that was when he felt sorriest for himself.

“Ho hum,” he said to the girlie-calendar on the wall behind him. As usual this month’s model didn’t reply but just talking to her always perked him up.
The wonder of self-hypnosis,
he told himself as he left the small bathroom.

The letterbox in the front door behind him clattered just as he turned away from the bathroom, frightening him into a small yelp of surprise. The voice of the postman carried through the door.

“Morning Mr. Baillie, bills again this morning.”

And there were bills. 

Gas and telephone on the same day? Shit! Time to increase the overdraft again
.

There was also advertising, exhorting the benefits of life insurance, ladies handbags, the Socialist Workers Party and the forthcoming jumble sale at St Patricks’ primary school.

Mentally noting the date of the sale, always good for second hand paperbacks, he consigned everything except his newspaper and the bills into the large black plastic bag, ready and waiting to be taken out of the bin.
Sometime.

~-o0O0o-~

The bus was late so Brian had plenty of time to ponder on why he queued at the stop every morning rather than drive himself. He supposed that he wanted to mix with people and not sit locked in his car, removed from the hubbub of life.

Once he got on the bus the drone of conversation from behind him made him think, not for the first time, that maybe he should get his car out of the garage more often.

The woman was, as usual, using her time on the bus as a sounding board for her conversations of the day.

“Is this weather not just terrible, all this rain and wind. I don’t think we’ve had three good days together all summer. I hope the autumn’s a wee bit better. It’ll have to be, or else none of the vegetables will come up. When I was younger it was never as wet as this. Personally I think its them atomic bomb tests that’s done it.”

She stopped to catch breath.

“Are you listening to me?”

Her husband, engrossed in his morning newspaper grunted a reply but she took it for assent and, almost without a break, started again.

“Auld Missus Dunlop died last night, Margaret down at the shop was telling me, just dropped off during Coronation Street. Well she had a good innings anyway, eighty-five she was, and never missed a night at the bingo. Never missed Coronation Street either for that matter. I suppose she must have died happy.”

Next to her, her husband grunted again but this time Brian guessed he’d had enough for one morning. He stood up, grunted one last time and made his way down the bus.

She wasn’t finished yet though. Brian had discovered over the last six months that she always wanted the last word.

“And don’t you be going into that pub on the way home. If you’re not in by six o’clock you won’t get any tea.”

This elicited just one more grunt from the small man before he left the bus, leaving Brian undisturbed to catch up on Saturday’s football results. He often used his fifteen minutes on the bus to read his newspaper, but today he found it difficult to concentrate.

The headlines didn’t make it any easier. Yesterday it had been cattle mutilations...today it was an escaped psychopath…KERR ON THE RUN
,
the headline shouted in bold type…more titillation for the bored masses. His attention wavered, mostly due to his hangover but also partly due to his dreams of the night before.

His dreams of late had been troubled, not just populated with current acquaintances, but with friends and relatives both alive and dead.

He spent his dream-time wandering through strange scenes, like one-act plays but with no posh BBC type linkman to tell him what was happening, no titles to let him know who the cast were.

He felt vaguely aware that he was not sleeping too well. He had dim memories of half waking most nights, punching his pillow into submission. Once or twice he’d woken to voices, shouting almost, before he realized that it was him that was making the noises. Along with that, his sheets and duvet seemed to do a lot of travelling during the nights.