Panic (9 page)

Michael nodded.

"Very good."

There it was again, the trace of an accent.
Wery Gut
. Eastern Europe? Germany, maybe?

"So, O
fficer. Why are you here?"

Michael searched his mind for some plausible reason, something that would mollify the crazy man with the gun, but came up empty. He felt like he had wandered into the middle of an argument that he knew nothing about and was asked to pick a side, when both factions seemed dangerous.

"Look, I'm a police officer and-"

With power that belied his slight frame, the hooded man struck like a snake, lashing out a hand, scooping up another rock – bigger this time – and whipping it against Michael's forehead. Again, he proved unerringly accurate.

Michael's skull rang dully, like a muted bell. He suddenly felt nauseated, and wondered passively if he was suffering from concussion, and whether it would even matter if the hooded man was intent on hurling increasingly larger rocks at him.

"I know what you are
, Officer. I did not ask you
what
you are. I did not ask you
who
you are. Pay careful attention to the words I am using:
why
are you here?"

Michael was dismayed to find himself stammering.

"I...I don't know what you want from me, I don't even know where ‘here’ is, for Christ's sake!"

The man said nothing for several seconds,
and then hefted the shotgun, taking aim.

Michael squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and saw, briefly
, an image of his estranged wife and child standing before him. He felt a warmth return to him, something that had been missing for so long that even its absence had been forgotten, and then the deafening roar of the shotgun enveloped him.

*

Jason Roberts was a giant.

He had always been tall:
a growth spurt that began aged ten, and which his teachers joked never seemed to actually stop, seeing him tower over his classmates. By the age of sixteen he stood six feet and five inches and finally gravity decided it had had enough and called a halt.

In response, his body merely decided that it would grow horizontally.

If he had been American, he would no doubt have had college football coaches swarming all over him, but the truth was that in St. Davids his size merely made him unusual.

He played for the school rugby team, of course, and though he didn't possess much in the way of actual talent, he
quickly made a name for himself across the county by virtue of his size and strength. His kicking, catching and running were all sub-par, but he was a one-man scrum, and his team mates loved nothing more than seeing a team from another school visit for the first time and watch their faces go white when they saw they were lining up against
Voorhees
.

That's what they called him.
Voorhees
. After the hulking monster – also called Jason – in all those dumb horror movies. Jason watched a couple, but they were truly ridiculous, full of stupid teens running away from a guy in a mask who always seemed to catch them despite never moving quicker than a man out for a leisurely stroll.

He didn't mind the name
at first; found it kind of funny really – and for a while all his mates loved those movies, sneaking hold of copies on DVD and watching them without their parents knowing. It made him feel a bit like a hero, he supposed, until everyone grew out of it, but the truth was that the name could hardly be less apt.

Jason was a behemoth, but he didn't have an aggressive bone
in his body. In fact, his size - the way it made him stand out in a crowd - just made him feel self-conscious and embarrassed. He spent most of those teenage years, when he stood almost a foot taller than his peers, wishing on a nightly basis that he would just stop growing.

Most of the time he slouched, trying to shave off a couple of inches, and he became quiet
and distant. Previously an outgoing, happy child, he became a teenager that wanted nothing more than to fade into the background.

Girls made things worse.

Jason remained oblivious for a long time, and when finally he did develop an interest, he found girls
terrifying
. He had no idea that half the female population of the school nursed a secret crush on him, nor that he intimidated them. All he understood was that occasionally he would catch a girl staring at him, and when he made eye contact they would quickly look away or begin to giggle with their friends. He was, it was obvious, a freak.
Voorhees
.

It wasn't long before the boys who had originally been in awe of Jason, and terrified of his size, realised just how fragile he was, and how easily led.

To an outsider, the notion of this giant being bullied by kids that he dwarfed would have seemed preposterous, but Jason's mental maturity lagged way behind his physical. Maybe it was because he was so embarrassed about standing out; maybe it was just karma, some form of cosmic balance that denied him the awareness to understand the mind games and cruelty that form a large part of high school, and to leverage the power he did not know that he held.

He found himself in trouble often, his attempts to fit in leading to his hanging out with the kind of kids who sniff out weakness
like bloodhounds. Nothing major - after all, this was still St. Davids - but whether it was getting caught smoking by the teachers, or shoplifting, or dabbling in drink and drugs, Jason always seemed to end up involved.

It was Rachel who was the strong one, always had been, and Jason understood that even as his biceps began to bulge and his neck thickened.

Two years Jason's senior, Rachel manoeuvred her way through secondary school with a clear mind and enviable focus. Jason's sister was determined, single-minded, and had balls of steel. When one lunchtime she found Jason on the verge of tears, being mercilessly tormented about girls by a group of his so-called friends, cruel guys who knew the gentle giant would never respond in the only way they would respect, Rachel waded in, slapping one guy so hard Jason thought it sounded like a gunshot ringing out across the yard, and then delivering a solid knee to the testicles of the smirking ringleader.

“Who's afraid of girls now, bastard?”

He remembered the diamond-hard edge to her voice as she spoke those words often, the way her jaw jutted out, challenging the bully to get back to his feet, showing no fear whatsoever, and it always made him smile.

They became closer that day, the day that Rachel realised that her little brother needed protecting despite his physique, and he leant on her a lot over the next few years. Even when he grew into himself a little, leaving school and starting a decent career in construction, he'd call or text her most days, and when he sought advice or reassurance or validation, she always provided it.

Rachel was a pillar of Jason's life.

Looking at h
is sister now, sitting on the tiled floor, covered in blood and crying, damn near hysteria, Jason felt that pillar crumble a little, as though someone had pulled back some great curtain to reveal that the world he knew was just some illusion, some software being played out on a vast computer.

“Dad's dead.”

He understood the words, but they made no sense to him. Dad's dead. Dad's. Dead.

He shook his head a little, as though it needed rebooting.

Their father couldn't possibly be dead. Jason had driven down this morning to celebrate his dad's birthday. There was a cake. Jason had bought a funny card, one that said
I wanted to buy you a Ferrari
on the front and then when you opened it up you found one of those packs of tiny screwdrivers that you get in Christmas crackers and the words
but I could only afford the tool kit
.

It was funny. Jason knew dad would find it funny, and he had driven there that morning thinking about how his dad would roar with laughter when he saw it, looking forward to him clapping Jason on the shoulder and grinning
broadly.

How could
Dad be dead?

He rubbed his head, feeling a small bump forming at the edge of his hairline where Rachel had pounded him with the wrench.
She must have hit me harder than I thought. Sounded like she said Dad's dead.

“I don't und
erstand,” Jason said. “Where's Dad? Where's Mum? Is that blood?”

Rachel sobbed, and nodded, and Jason felt his stomach drop like an elevator.

*

A storm of shredded bark whirled around Michael's head, falling softly on his hair and face like dry snow. He breathed in, feeling the dust coat the inside of his mouth and throat, and coughed painfully.

He'd felt the impact of the shotgun blast, though not as he had expected. Instead of the shredding of muscle and flesh, it felt more like a hammer blow, vibrating through his back. The hooded man had aimed high, blasting the trunk of the tree that Michael was tied to.

A warning shot.

"Let's try that again, Officer, and remember that I have a fondness for fast learners. Why are you here?"

Michael coughed again, working saliva around his mouth, clearing out the dust.

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Oh?"

The hooded man sounded amused.

"They'll be coming."

The hooded man's voice dropped to a sibilant whisper.

"
Who
will be coming?"

Michael drew in a deep breath, and took the only option he had. The truth.

"I am here because I was running for my life. From two men I have known for years, one of whom I would have trusted with my daughter’s life until this morning. Two men who ripped out their own eyes and began killing people with their teeth. I ran from them, I ended up here. The end."

The gun lowered, just a fraction.

"How were they chasing you if they had no eyes?"

"They move like animals. Seem to
navigate by sound. They weren't that far behind me, half a mile or so I'd guess. That little show you just put on with the shotgun? They'll have heard it, and they'll be coming."

The hooded man said nothing. After a moment, he stood, striding over to Michael, looming over him.

"Then it has started. Eight years of waiting, and when it finally happens, I feel unprepared. Funny, huh?"

"What do you mean?" Michael asked. "What do you know about what's happening here?"

The man pulled back his hood. When the grey light diffused through the ocean of mist fell upon it, Michael found that the man did not look like the grim reaper, or some sneering caricature of a terrorist. He looked about fifty: a craggy, nondescript face under a thick tuft of hair long since turned a dull grey. Just another guy; someone that would not receive a second glance in a crowded bar or on a busy street.

There was something in the man’s eyes though, some slippery quality that made Michael’s nerves jangle.

"What I know," said the man, "is that there is little point now in me killing you, no more point than shooting a beached whale. The die has already been cast, and there are already enough voices whispering at my conscience to add yours to the list. All I really need to do is persuade you to leave my property in a manner that ensures you will not find your way back."

Michael's brow creased.

"What? I don't understa-"

The butt of the gun filled his vision again then, moving at lightning speed, and the lights went out.

*

Rachel's heart twisted in fresh agony as she watched her brother's face contort in dismay and incomprehension. They stood in the cellar, staring down at the ravaged body of their father. The air felt thick, as though she couldn't quite get enough oxygen from it.

Jason's eyes misted up.

“What happened?” He said, his voice heavy, as though the words were a little too wide for his throat to comfortably accommodate.

Rachel reached out and squeezed one enormous shoulder.

“I don't know
, Jase. I got here and he was...like this. And the dog was...the dog went crazy and attacked me. That's all I know.”

“What about Mum? Where's M
um?”

In a way, Rachel found herself feeling glad that she had no answer for him. Jason had always been much closer to their mother than she had, and the thought of leading him to her lifeless body was too much to bear.

“I don't think she's here. I haven't been upstairs yet, but-”

Jason didn't hear the rest. He turned, and shot up the basement stairs, heading quickly past the blood in the kitchen and out into the hallway.

By the time Rachel made it to the kitchen, he was already upstairs. She could hear heavy footfalls as he pounded into each of the three bedrooms and the bathroom that made up the first floor. She followed him up, trepidation increasing with each step.