Panic (6 page)

The scream
seemed to go on forever, rising in pitch, seemingly bouncing off the fog and multiplying until it was the world, filling his head, enveloping him in rolling, crashing terror.

It was the kind of noise that Michael imagined men had made hundreds of years before, in the days when battles were fought up close and personal, and the death of your enemy was a warm liquid that spilled over your hands. A noise
that might have been designed to instil terror.

Carl staggered backward in surprise, and pressed his palms to his ears, his expression a cocktail of pain and mortal fear.

Michael persisted. The noise was human, or at least had been human when it started. What could drive a man to unleash such a noise he did not know nor did he want to speculate, but he had to know where it came from.

Close by, that was for certain. Given the volume almost certainly within fifty yards.

Danger close by. But in which direction?

Michael craned his neck left and right, seeing nothing
out of the ordinary.

The scream wound down as though powered by failing batteries, and the resulting silence roared in Michael's ears. The effect was somehow even more insidious, even more unsettling, in a way he couldn't quite identify.

Carl uncovered his ears and stared at Michael, eyes wide. When he spoke his voice was a whisper, almost reverent.

"What the hell was that?"

Michael shook his head wordlessly. For the moment the more important question was where the hideous noise had come from. He cocked his head, listening intently.

The reason for his increasing unease hit him like the absence of pain.

A few years earlier Michael had wrenched his back, slipping a disc in the process. He hadn't been doing anything in particular, bending down to pick up a dropped pen. Just one of those times when the human body rebels, reminding its owner to pay a little more attention.

The pain: excruciating;
all-encompassing, had been his travelling companion for a couple of weeks, riding roughly on his every action. It had taken mere minutes to acclimatise to the fact that the pain was now the dominant force in his life, so constant were its nagging reminders.

And then one morning Michael had woken up, left his bed, made some coffee and had breakfast, and was halfway through a shower when suddenly he realised that the pain had departed. All that time spent focusing on something only to find that one day it had slipped out of the back door, unnoticed.

The silence was like that. It crept around his consciousness for a while before realisation dawned. There was no noise. Nothing at all. At the very least the scream should have startled every bird in a radius of half a mile, sending them flapping away into the skies.

But there was nothing. Just the scream, and then the absence. Even the howling wind seemed to have held its breath. The effect was unsettling.

The fog, off which the noise seemed to have bounced and echoed, made it impossible to guess where the scream had come from.

Michael saw Carl open his mouth to speak and raised a hand to hush him,
his ears straining to catch any sound.

He suddenly had the unshakeable feeling that somewhere, out there in the trees, wreathed in a blanket of thick fog, something else was listening just as intently, waiting for him to make a sound that would give away his position.

His skin crawled, and for a moment he felt his throat constrict in terror, certain that the painful thudding of his heart must be ringing out into the grey morning like the beat of a kick drum.

Michael held himself frozen for what felt like an age, before reason returned. He had to do something, had to flush out whatever was out there in the woods.

He motioned again to Carl, raising a hand in the universal gesture that said 'wait' and bent down, silently snatching up a pebble from the ground at his feet. It was small, barely weighing anything in his hand, and for a moment he doubted that, when thrown, it would make any sort of noise at all.

Yet if there was something out there, something listening for any sound, something waiting...

Michael's need to do something –
anything
– took over, and he launched the pebble into the fog to the left of the Café, well away from the tiny car park.

The world kicked back into life as though recovering from a power cut.

The pebble landed with a whimper; a barely audible
thud
, and suddenly something was crashing through the fog and trees to their left, seemingly oblivious to the branches and undergrowth, tearing toward the noise.

The shape burst from the trees, perhaps thirty feet in front of Carl and Michael, just close enough to make out in the fog. Michael squinted, trying to make out anything beyond the rough silhouette.

It was a man of average size. Alone. Yet there was something unusual about the figure, something awkward about its movements that seemed more animal than human.

The figure
paused in roughly the location that Michael had tossed the pebble, head whipping back and forth violently, swinging left and right like a radar dish. Whoever it was, it was quickly apparent that the shape in the fog had not seen the two men standing to its right.

Michael raised a hand again to warn Carl to remain silent.

A beat too late.

"Christ!" Carl cried, his voice choked, "It's Craig Haycock."

Michael felt his stomach drop.

Things happened quickly then.

The silhouette's head whipped in the direction of Carl’s voice, and with lightning speed the figure sprinted toward them. Michael had an instant to take in the man's features, his mind recoiling in horror. Haycock's chest was drenched, black with blood, but his face...

Long ragged tears ripped down the man's face, starting at the hairline, ending at the jaw. Tears made by fingernails.

He's ripped his own fucking eyes out.

"The car!" Michael cried, turning and sprinting toward the parking area.

He heard Carl's feet pounding behind him, and the crashing, chaotic footfalls of the eyeless, bloodied man. Getting closer.

Michael reached the car first, yanking open the passenger door and diving inside, his hip landing painfully on the handbrake. Even as the pain blossomed he heard the scream, a gurgling yelp of pure terror, and knew his partner hadn't made it.

Michael turned to see Carl stagger to one knee, Craig Haycock hanging from his neck, teeth buried into the big man's shoulder, blood washing over the smaller man's jaw.

For a moment Michael felt
like he was watching one of those incredible
BBC
nature documentaries; watching in slow motion as some fierce creature, all teeth and claws, brought down its much larger prey through force of will and relentless animal aggression.

Carl tried to haul himself back to his feet, took another half step, unable to shake the smaller figure away, and then went down hard, his face smashing into the gravel.

Michael slammed the door shut and brought his elbow down on the lock. Outside, Carl moaned, low and bubbling, then fell silent. The silence made Michael's skin crawl almost as much as had the feeble, gurgling cry. He clasped his hands to his temples in horror, shaking his head, hoping to wake from the nightmare.

Outside, he saw Haycock leap to his feet – again that rapid, unnatural motion – his head swinging back and forth and blood oozing down his chin, searching for a sign of where the other part of his meal had gone. Michael felt his mind veering close to breaking point and clapped a hand over his mouth, suddenly afraid that he would not be able to keep himself from screaming.

Wide-eyed, Michael watched as Haycock began to prowl around, searching. Blind, yet terrible and dangerous, stalking about like a caged beast. He was maybe fifteen feet away from the car.

Only a matter of time...

Michael thought about the radio, but knew it was useless. Glenda would provide no help whatsoever, and he did not fancy his chances of surviving long if he had to wait there for backup to arrive. Coming from Haverfordwest, the best case scenario was half an hour. Too long.

Filled with remorse,
his eyes welling up with burning tears at the thought of abandoning his partner, Michael took the only decision he had available to him.

Get away. Get help
.

Michael reached into his pocket and felt a fresh surge of terror.

Carl had the keys.

So much blood
.

Rachel let out a small, painful sob.

Something, she was now certain, was very, very wrong here.

A dark crimson pool sullied the otherwise pristine white tiled kitchen floor. But worse was the long smear that stretched some six or seven feet to the small closed door in the corner of the kitchen. The door that was marked by a clear red hand print just below the handle.

The door to the basement.

*

The car had become a prison cell.

Barely an hour earlier it had just been a car like any other, a place of empty coke cans, Carl's
variable attempts at humour and MOR radio. Now it felt like a bear trap; like it had snapped metal jaws shut on Michael and would not let him go. Outside, the heavy fog sat, blocking out the light, turning the open clearing into a tiny, confined space.

He felt exposed. Long forgotten memories returned, of sitting in his grandfather's musty, quiet house, listening to his tales of working in the coal mines. Tales of unending darkness, of isolation so complete that the world on the surface began to feel like a half-remembered dream, of the omnipresence of
death. Death watching, waiting; circling like a vulture.

He had to do something.

He was hunkered down low in his seat, as much as his six-foot frame would allow, though he knew the maniac outside could not see. Some relic of humanity's primitive past, he supposed. Some childlike superstition that if you could not see the boogeyman stalking you, then you would be safe.

The car offered more protection than hiding under a duvet cover
like a frightened child, but not by much.

Judging by the savage way the blood-soaked, eyeless horror had attacked Carl, Haycock would not give a second thought to smashing his way through the windows and into the car to get at Michael.

Even as he hunched, holding his breath until his lungs felt ready to explode, Michael's mind searched for answers. What could have driven the sad, placid fisherman to this? He couldn't even guess. Drugs, perhaps, but everyone knew Haycock had hit the bottle hard after his wife had passed. Yet he was a morbid, morose drunk, never a violent one. As for anything harder than alcohol, it just didn't seem likely.

Michael forced himself back to reality. The stimulant for Haycock’s sudden transformation into a monster would be important later. Of far more importance now was getting away from him, and getting some medical help for Carl.

He briefly considered attempting to hot wire the car, then dismissed the notion as ridiculous. It looked deceptively easy on TV, pop a panel, twist some wires together, commence cruising, but Michael was certain it took skill and knowledge that he did not possess. In any case, simply attempting the manoeuvre would make noise, and draw Haycock straight to him long before he could get the engine turning over.

He could sit and wait, hope than something else caught Haycock’s attention or that he lost interest and wandered off.

He raised his head above the dashboard again, and saw Haycock prowling around some ten feet beyond the bonnet. As Michael watched, the mutilated face lifted toward the sky, face wrinkling.

He's sniffing
, Michael thought, and felt an icy rush in the pit of his stomach.
Surely he can't
smell
me?

Michael had heard that blindness c
ould increase the effectiveness of the other senses. He had no idea whether it was a myth or not, but surely loss of sight didn't instantly boost the sense of smell or hearing. The thought was crazy. What on earth was Haycock doing?

Evidently Haycock’s sense of smell had not improved supernaturally, for he took two steps in the wrong direction, away from the car, and let loose a guttural roar of rage that made Michael's heart leap painfully against his ribs.

Maybe he
would
just wander off...

Michael's gaze
fell on Carl. His chest was still rising and falling, but weakly, irregularly. A bubble of blood escaped his lips, popping and running down over his cheek.

To wait it out was to sit and watch Carl die.

Michael shook his head.

He would have to hope that Haycock would fall for the same trick twice.

He popped open the glove compartment as silently as possible, and fished out a small book of local maps. All he had to do was open the car door quietly, and throw the book into the trees, away from the car and Carl, and then head in the opposite direction.

Once he was out of the car, all he had to do was remain silent, and slip away. Use the killer's blindness against him. He began to feel a little more confident.

Carl was off to the left of the car. If it were possible, Michael would tell his friend to hold on for his return as he passed him. He focused on the fallen man again, made sure he was still breathing. He was.

Michael turned back to the right, to the driver
-side door, readying himself to lift the lock button as slowly and quietly as possible.

And screamed when he saw Haycock’s bloodied face just millimetres away from the glass.

Michael leapt for the passenger door even as Haycock reared his head back before whipping it forward with a crunch into the glass. Cracks spread across the pane, but it held firm until the second blow.

Then it fell apart.

Haycock launched himself into the space, seemingly unaware of the shards that tore into his abdomen.

Michael grasped for the passenger door lock with sweat-drenched palms, feeling it slip in his grip, and then the door was open, and he dove out, pulling his knees toward him as he felt fingers grasping at his boot.

Michael was on his feet instantly, taking off toward Carl, throwing a look back over his shoulder at the car.

Haycock was caught awkwardly in the window, struggling to pull himself into the car, apparently unaware that the quicker option would be to withdraw and run around the
vehicle.

Michael slowed as he approached his fallen partner, and knelt, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the man thrashing in the police car.

"I'm going for help, Carl," he whispered. "I'll be back, stay quiet okay? He can't see you so just stay completely-"

Carl's eyes flew open, and Michael's mind went blank.

The whites of his partner’s eyes were gone, replaced by a furious, livid crimson. The lids were stretched back, tearing, as the eyes seemed to swell to at least twice their normal size, seething in their sockets, looking like angry infections ready to burst.

With a cry, Michael stumbled back, away from his partner, Haycock temporarily forgotten. As he watched, mouth wide in horror, Michael saw his partner claw at his own bloodied face, tearing out the malignant tumours that had once provided his vision.

For a moment Michael was paralysed as his partner, thick blood oozing from the hole that Haycock's teeth had left in his neck, lifted himself to his knees. Only when Carl roared like a stricken animal and swung a hand violently through the empty space that Michael had filled just moments before, did the paralysis depart, taking with it all semblance of conscious thought.

Dimly aware of Haycock finally exiting the police car to the right, and Carl lurching to his feet behind him, Michael put his head down.

And ran.

*

When Rachel was ten she had become fascinated with the Olympic Games held in sweltering Atlanta. The time difference meant that often when she woke during the long, glorious summer without school, she would make her way downstairs, head full of possibilities for a day of freedom, and find herself greeted by the sound of her parents, sitting together in front of the television at 8am, cooing over the amazing feats of endurance or skill.

There was something unique about it. Maybe it was just her age
; something to do with leaving the happy fog of childhood behind, or maybe it was the effect of seeing her parents so relaxed, happy and smiling, cheering on the country's athletes, instead of stressing about the day ahead. The chores that needed to be done, the bills that needed to be paid. For that one month, which seemed to stretch out endlessly before her, Rachel's house had the same wonderful, intangible feel as the small cottages or chalets her parents had always rented on the North Welsh coast for week-long holidays each June.

She hadn't ever paid much attention to sport before, whether on television or thrust in front of her face by eager PE teachers, and in truth, when that summer ebbed toward autumn, she never would again. By the time the next Olympics rolled around she was older if not necessarily wiser, and her head was dominated by thoughts of the boys in her class and fears that her body, somehow, was different to that of all
the other girls, and they all knew it.

Still, for that one month, she became obsessed, devouring all the amazing events that took place under the baking Georgia sun, before rushing out to try to replicate them in her garden or the local park, staying out for as long as the remnants of the summer sun would allow, before hurrying home through the gloom in a vain attempt to avoid her mother's wrath at her staying out so late and arriving home long after dinner had cooled.

Her best friend at the time, Jeanette, had little interest in sport, and resisted Rachel's infectious enthusiasm for several days, but Rachel knew she was the leader out of the two, and she knew that eventually Jeanette would follow her. It wasn't long before Jeanette was rushing over to the Roberts house each morning and they would watch together, before devising how to go about recreating whichever event had caught their attention.

The feats of strength and speed were impressive, of course, and ofte
n got their young blood pumping; adrenaline coursing through them as their chosen favourite stumbled to a glorious victory or a noble defeat, but it was the gymnastics that truly entranced the two girls.

Watching the girls, barely older than they were, hailing from exotic
-sounding places like Yugoslavia or Czechoslovakia, as they twisted and contorted in a dazzling cascade of colourful ribbons; dancing across the screen with such poise and grace, the two girls instantly made their minds up: they would become gymnasts.

They immediately scurried out into the sunlight, practising handstands and rolls, twirling sticks tied at the end with string in place of ribbons, and squealed with glee when their motions reminded them of the otherworldly beauty they had seen on the TV.

It was only natural that once they had conquered throwing and catching the sticks and colourful string, Rachel would suggest that they needed to up the ante.

So it was that
on one late morning in August, Rachel found herself clapping hands in delight as she watched her friend walking the high beam.

The wall they used wasn't quite narrow enough, of course, but it was high – maybe six feet off the ground – and dramatic enough that as Jeanette placed one foot confidently in front of the other, Rachel could almost hear the roar of the capacity crowd.

Jeanette beamed as she reached the end of the wall, her ten foot journey a raging success. She held her arms aloft, saluting the invisible crowd, accepting their rapturous cheers.

“Do a turn!” Rachel squealed, and Jeanette nodded.

It was as she turned, that brief moment where the difficulty curve suddenly shot up, where her balance was truly challenged, that it happened.

For a moment Rachel felt as though a small, manic laugh might escape her lips as she watched her friend fall from the wall into the neighbouring garden. But then she heard the crashing glass. And the scream.

When she climbed the boxes they had used as a makeshift ladder to get to the top of the wall and looked down at her friend, Rachel felt her head swim, and her stomach suddenly did not feel good at all.

Jeanette had fallen straight into the plat
e glass greenhouse belonging to the neighbours; the smashed shards tearing into her left leg near her hip, shearing it almost clean off.

The horror of the moment would stay with Rachel forever, the sickening twist of fate, the way the world turned upside down in an instant. The way a brilliant summer's day could suddenly feel so very cold.

There was so much blood, its metallic stench filling the air. Rachel screamed with her friend then, screamed until the neighbours and her father rushed into their gardens, their faces ashen as they saw little Jeanette torn apart in the wrecked greenhouse.

The ambulance came promptly, and the doctors were able to sew the decimated leg back together. Jeanette, it turned out, would be fine. She limped for a while, and heights would make her uneasy for the rest of her days, but the physical damage was not as calamitous as it appeared.

For Rachel though, things were never quite the same. She didn't speak much to Jeanette after that, and they slowly drifted apart, occasionally crossing paths in high school, their meetings marked by embittered stares and simmering anger that they didn't truly understand, and could never overcome.

If anyone were to ask Rachel – and as a teenager rebelling more than most, they often did – what it was that caused her violent, rage-filled outbursts, she would struggle to put it into words, but the image of that day would
always float across her mind. That bright August morning was the moment her childhood really died, the moment at which, on some subconscious level, she began to understand that life is like a fire: comforting, warming, nurturing, and ready to burn the instant you let your attention drift.