Holiday of the Dead (11 page)

Action Dan lay on his stomach, peering at Steven through the gun slit of a bunker made of sand and seashells   Steven too was lying on his stomach, affording him an extra inch or two of reach when digging.  He was struggling to reach the bottom of his hole and the difficulty was beginning to chip away at his enthusiasm for the task.  He was close to giving up and going to chase some gulls when the spade hit something hard.  Surprised, he slapped the flat head of the spade into the hole and was rewarded with a solid thump, not the harsh crack of rock against plastic.  Perhaps it was buried treasure?  Buried pirate treasure!?  Steven gave a high-pitched squeal of excitement, that roused a “Ssssssh” from both his mother and father in unison.

With great care, like he had seen in films, he let the corner of the spade rest against the edge of the object and began to slowly follow the outline to determine its size.  It was big; and ovoid.  Steven knew that treasure chests were boxes, not egg-shaped, so what could it be?  He scraped the flat edge of the spade over the top of the object, dragging the sand away to reveal a lump the colour of spoiled milk.  Several long, straggly hairs were plastered wetly against its surface.

Steven was non-plussed.  No matter how he tilted his head, or from which side of the hole he looked in from, it was still just a hairy lump that reminded him a little of his granddad’s head when the wind worried at his combed-over hair.   He needed to know whether it was worth digging out or if he should go and eat his packet of Wotsits.  He puzzled over his options for several moments before taking action.  He hit the lump.  Hard, with the edge of the spade.  There was a percussive thump, heavy and wet.  A split opened slowly in the object releasing a cloud of foul air and a viscous red substance that began to slowly ooze from the tear, blackening as it trickled down into the sand.

The lump moved.  Only slightly, but with enough force to create cracks in the wet sand around it.  Steven scuffled back from the hole in surprise and hid his face behind Action Dan’s bunker.    Several tense seconds passed before he felt brave enough to venture back, even then moving only in a slow shuffle and with his neck craned high so that he could peer into the hole from a safe distance.  Nothing had changed.  The lump was still, the cracks were no wider and the red sludge still stained the sand black.    Steven picked up Action Dan in one hand, clutching him close to his chest for comfort.  The other hand reached out beside him and closed around the red plastic handle of his spade.  He advanced.

Steven’s face contorted in pain.  Sweat beaded his brow and tiny veins stood proud at his temples.   Wiry little arms shook uncontrollably as though in spasm.  The pile of sand on his spade was far too large for him to comfortably lift, but he was eager to continue unearthing his discovery.

Steven paused to wipe his forehead, leaving behind dirty streaks of sand where it clung to the sweaty skin.  Eyes closed, he let the chilly, rain-specked breeze soothe his reddened face.   It was a rare moment of tranquillity for a six year old, and one that was interrupted by an incessant clacking.  Opening his eyes with the weariness of an old man, Steven looked down in the hole.  Yet again the nameless head was gnashing its jaws, trying desperately to bite into haft of the spade. 

“No!” Steven admonished the head with a slap from the flat of his spade against its forehead.  As he pulled the blade away a long, translucent strip of flesh was torn free, dangling momentarily from the red plastic before dropping down into the water-logged sand.  A thin, watery liquid dribbled from the wound and trickled down over a lidless eye, staining the dead, clouded orb pink.

“You know you’re not meant to do that.  Stop being naughty!”  The head tilted upwards, gazing silently towards Steven.  The mouth opened and closed several times as though the creature were trying to speak but the only sound that passed its lipless mouth was a watery gurgle. 

Satisfied that the creature would behave for at least a little while, Steven recommenced the excavation.

“Dad, do you want to come and see what I’ve dug?”

“Yes, yes, that’s lovely.  Why don’t you show your mum?”  Dad hadn’t even bothered to look up from his book.  The gusting coastal wind had long since claimed his magazine and he had resorted to one of Mum’s romance novels out of boredom. 

Steven looked over to his mum, cocooned beneath the rug and snoring soundly.  He didn’t bother to wake her and walked back over to the hole alone.  By now the whole of the creature’s head had been uncovered, along with its shoulders and the top of its chest.  Everything else was still trapped beneath the crushing weight of the sand.  Steven wondered how long it would take for him to fully uncover the thing.

He got back to work

With tireless effort Steven had been able to dig away enough sand for the creature to free an arm.  Scraps of clothing hung to a skeletal limb that shed folds of water-pruned skin with each movement.  Steven had thought it looked rather sad waving around in the air with nothing to do, so the thing now held Action Dan in its putrescent grip and was dashing the toy’s head repeatedly against the wall of its prison.

The head of the spade sliced sibilantly into the sand again and again.  The sound was given the rhythmic counterpoint of Action Dan’s head slapping against the higher, drying sand.  Steven was having fun and it seemed that the creature was too.

Steven looked over to his parents, wondering if they’d like to join in with the fun.  Mum was still fast asleep and Dad was engrossed in the tawdry paperback whilst eating a packet of Wotsits.  Steven’s packet of Wotsits!   He slammed the spade down petulantly and opened his mouth to shout out in protest, but the creature beat him to the punch.  A loud, ululating cry filled the air, sending the seagulls into a frenzy and causing Steven to jump in fright.

“Steven!  I won’t tell you again! Play quietly!” snapped Dad without as much as a glance up from the book, even the animalistic nature of the howl failing to rouse his attention.

Steven looked back into the hole and was shocked to see the creature’s second arm was now free but that the hand was missing all four fingers.  A bloody ichor seeped from the stumps, coating rotted flesh and tattered clothing.  The fingers themselves were trapped beneath the edge of the spade where they continued to twitch of their own accord.

The howl ceased and was replaced by a low, mournful moan that made Steven’s skin crawl.  The creature scrabbled ineffectually for its missing fingers with a hand bereft of digits.  With its remaining hand it began to claw ineffectually at the sand; fingernails cracked then peeled noisily away from the fingers, its hand tearing into a red ruin as it fought to gain purchase and drag itself free. 

The jerky marionette movements frightened Steven and he decided that he didn’t want to play this game anymore.  In fact, he wanted to go home.  He was cold, wet, hungry and he didn’t think that he wanted to be friends with the thing in the hole after all.  It smelled funny and it hadn’t played with Action Dan properly.

Action Dan!  He couldn’t go home without his toy!  He looked around in the hole and spotted Dan lying half buried in the sand near the thrashing thing.  He wouldn’t be able to reach it with his hand from up high and the creature’s movement would prevent him from scooping Dan up in his blood-slicked spade.    He glanced over to where his parents sat wondering whether to ask for their help, but he knew that they were in a bad mood and that he’d get in trouble for not looking after his toys. 

Despite its efforts the creature remained stuck fast and gave a growl of frustration.  The sound very nearly made Steven turn around and run back to his parents, leaving his toy behind to remain stuck in the hole with the thing.  But Action Dan was his favourite, his walls at home were covered in Action Dan wallpaper and his duvet even had Action Dan covers.  He’d never be able to forget what he had done.  No, he had to be brave and get Dan back.

The creature had grown very quiet.  It was watching Steven intently as he sat perched on the edge of the hole.  The bloody tatters of its fingers wiggled in the air, grasping at nothingness though it made no attempt to reach out to him.  Dry sand began to billow over the lip of the hole as Steven edged himself forward.  Seeing his movement the thing began to slowly open and close its mouth, teeth clacking together with a snap.  Still it made no sound. 

Steven’s feet touched the floor and he paused expecting the thing to lurch forward, but it remained still, save for the awful writhing fingers and piston motion of its jaw.  Pressing tightly to the wall and with his eyes scrunched fearfully shut, Steven began to squat down to bring himself in reach of Dan.  His hand swept across the sand, searching blindly for his toy without looking at the nightmare vision buried in front of him. 

His fingers brushed against something.  It felt like Action Dan’s leg so Steven made to snatch it away quickly.  The object moved and a watery moan began to grow slowly in volume.  Steven opened his eyes.

“Can that kid not keep quiet for one minute?” snapped Dad. 

The piercing shriek woke Mum with a start but was snatched away by the wind before her eyes had even opened.  She looked over to where Steven had been playing and watched with sleep-fogged eyes as a body hauled itself slowly from the hole.

Casting the rug from her shoulders, she allowed herself a long, luxurious stretch, face aimed skywards as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes with balled fists.  She could hear the susurration of weary feet dragging through sand and allowed herself a small smile.   The poor thing had obviously tired himself out.  Perhaps now they’d all get some peace?

THE END

APOCALYPSE NOO

By

Vallon Jackson

Getting away from it all was an idea that Josh Linaker prescribed to. Now in his mid-thirties, the haunts of Ibiza and Benidorm and the other party spots he’d once graced had lost their appeal. In fact, some of the lads from work had asked him to go on a booze cruise with them around the Balearics; to him that sounded as appealing as having a six inch nail hammered through his nut sack. No, he’d done the drinking and wenching thing, the staying up all night, and sleeping through the hottest hours of the day, and he was sick to the back teeth of it. He’d been working hard, sometimes fourteen hours a day, and all he wanted now was rest.

When he was a kid, his dad used to take him fly fishing on the Tyne, out Hexham way, not on the muddy flats that ran through the Toon. He recalled hazy, lazy days on the riverbank, a sense of peace and tranquillity invading his usually overactive child’s mind. Going fishing sounded like a great plan. He always remembered his dad extolling the virtues of the rivers and lochs of Scotland, and when he was younger, they had planned on taking a trip and hiring a cottage somewhere, and wasting a full week or two dangling their rods in the water. Josh had sniggered at the innuendo, and laughed hard when Dad didn’t get the joke. Of course, those plans never bore fruition. Josh grew up, became a man with his own ideas of a good time, and took his holidays with the other piss-heads from ‘the job’. He wished now that he’d taken up his dad’s offer. Unfortunately, his dad was dead and gone, almost ten years to the day.

This was a trip of reconciliation. Things had grown fractious with his dad towards the end. His dad didn’t approve of his career choice, couldn’t understand why his lad had chosen to join the coppers, an enemy he’d fought tooth and nail when Maggie closed the pits. Dad didn’t understand that the police service was different than during the miner’s riots, that PACE had changed everything and these day’s coppers were decent blokes. Dad couldn’t get past the “bad old times”, though, and had never fully recovered from the beating he’d taken in the back of a Black Maria. The fact that Dad had been snatched while kicking the shit out of some poor bloke who had chosen to feed his kids instead of the Unions was beside the point. When he first saw Josh in his uniform, his son could tell that his dad was thinking only of the ruptured spleen and broken hip that had made him an invalid. They had turned away from each other and didn’t speak again. Josh regretted it now, wished that he’d gone to his dad’s funeral; made his peace. That’s all he wanted now, peace. Maybe if he was sitting on the shores of a loch, his dad’s spirit would be close to him and he’d be able to tell his dad he loved him, always did, despite their differences.

On the drive up from Newcastle he’d had the radio on, and it must have been fate or something because the
Mike and the Mechanics
lament about the living years had come on; maybe his dad had joined him for the ride after all. He had to pull over at a Little Chef while he got a grip of his emotions. A cup of tea and a fruit scone that cost him nearly eight quid had put him in another state of mind and he’d continued his journey north without stopping. It was a long run, up the A1 and over the Forth Road Bridge. The traffic was horrendous. Part of him wished that he’d taken the A69 over to Carlisle and up the west side instead, because it would have cut his journey by an hour or two. Things got a little easier once he approached Perth and he followed the Inverness road towards Pitlochry. His sat-nav told him to take a left, but he’d a mind to see the famous salmon ladder at Pitlochry and continued on. The trail to the ladder was closed, the local council re-laying the cinder path, and he made do with stretching his legs in the town. A sausage and bean melt from the local Greggs made up for his over-expensive breakfast, but not for his disappointment at missing the first landmark on his trip. Back in his car he headed off for the remote Loch Tay and the cottage he’d hired.

He cut through Aberfeldy, and along a winding road. Bolfracks Garden, four acres of woodland and flowers planted by the Menzies clan during the eighteenth century, held no interest for him, other than the name was decidedly odd to his Geordie ear. Another two or three miles on and he couldn’t remember its actual name, having transformed to Bollocks Garden in his mind.