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Authors: G.R. Yeates
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of the wound, pulling away obstructing fragments of bone. Clearing the way. Making the hole bigger. Big enough. Scabby skin and sodden fur grazed against the rim of the opening. The rats burrowed their way deep inside. He could feel them, scratching and scratching. Through the shuffling legs of the nightmare crowd, Wilson saw the thing from the crypt, it was watching him.
Its eyes were glinting, it was smiling at him, amused.
Chapter Thirteen
A light!
It was over there, washed-out, a haziness, a steady white glow. He could see something at the heart of it, a stocky shape, standing, picking bits and pieces out of its beard, inspecting them, then discarding them.
“Smithy?”
It was Smithy. The haze made him seem out of focus. He was wearing ragged old clothes and had an unruly thick beard, but it was Smithy.
“Yes, it’s me, Wilson. What d’you want?”
“I dunno. Where are we? What is this place?”
“This is nowhere. Those rats had me, so here I am.”
Wilson avoided the spectre’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, Smithy.”
“Sorry? For what? You thought of yourself, Wilson. You kicked me in the face so you could get away. That’s what people do. We all think of ourselves first in the end, when it comes down to it, not others.”
“I should’ve helped you, Smithy.”
“You should’ve but you didn’t. There’re lots of things in your life you should’ve done, I’ll bet. You think about those things. You dream about them. You want to go back in time and put them ‘right’. But you can’t.”
Wilson looked into the eyes of the apparition. There was no hatred or malice there. They were just empty orbs.
“Don’t be afraid of me, Wilson. I ain’t here to judge you. I was no bleedin’ angel. I’m just here because you want to see me. The guilty part of you wants to say sorry. But you can’t say sorry to the dead, Wilson. You can’t hear much when you’re six feet under, know what I mean?”
“I will say this to you though, Wilson. You are halfway there. Do not go further than this. They know you’re here, talking to me.”
“Who are they? I thought there was just that thing from the crypt after me.”
“No, there’s more of ‘em. They don’t want you knowing that. They don’t want you knowing what’s happening to you.”
“Happening to me? Smithy, what the fuck are you talking about? Who are ‘they’!”
“Be careful, lad. The shadows are gathering.”
Smithy dimmed, a dying candle, flickering out.
Wilson opened his eyes.
It was night. Heavy raindrops were spattering his face. He was lying on a stretcher. The bearers were walking down a length of churned slurry, once a road. Wilson felt the lining of his stomach beginning to crawl. He looked over his shoulder into the tumbling rain behind.
Nothing but the light of falling flares could be seen.
Dying candles, flickering, slowly going out.
He fingered the top of his head. The skin there was undisturbed. He looked up at the bearer carrying the rear end of the stretcher. The man had his face bowed, he could not make it out in the dark. Wilson watched the rain course down the curve of his tin helmet, gathering into beads, dropping down onto his tunic. It was hypnotic. It took his mind off the crawling sensation in his guts. His shoulder and thigh pulsed with dull pain. Wilson couldn’t see beyond the edge of the road. The fall of the rain was too dense for that.
He wondered what was out there, watching them.
He’d heard the stories about the wild dogs. The lost pets of the local peasantry. Abandoned to eke out an existence in the squalor of no man’s land when the bombardments started in earnest, back in 1914. Some people were scared of the rats. Everyone was scared of the dogs. The dogs were bigger, more vicious. They could fell you more easily, chew damn great holes in you, bite your throat out in one go.
Something was there.
He shook his head, flicking fat drops of rain out of his eyes. The rain marked out a shape on
Its eyes were glinting, it was smiling at him, amused.
Chapter Thirteen
A light!
It was over there, washed-out, a haziness, a steady white glow. He could see something at the heart of it, a stocky shape, standing, picking bits and pieces out of its beard, inspecting them, then discarding them.
“Smithy?”
It was Smithy. The haze made him seem out of focus. He was wearing ragged old clothes and had an unruly thick beard, but it was Smithy.
“Yes, it’s me, Wilson. What d’you want?”
“I dunno. Where are we? What is this place?”
“This is nowhere. Those rats had me, so here I am.”
Wilson avoided the spectre’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, Smithy.”
“Sorry? For what? You thought of yourself, Wilson. You kicked me in the face so you could get away. That’s what people do. We all think of ourselves first in the end, when it comes down to it, not others.”
“I should’ve helped you, Smithy.”
“You should’ve but you didn’t. There’re lots of things in your life you should’ve done, I’ll bet. You think about those things. You dream about them. You want to go back in time and put them ‘right’. But you can’t.”
Wilson looked into the eyes of the apparition. There was no hatred or malice there. They were just empty orbs.
“Don’t be afraid of me, Wilson. I ain’t here to judge you. I was no bleedin’ angel. I’m just here because you want to see me. The guilty part of you wants to say sorry. But you can’t say sorry to the dead, Wilson. You can’t hear much when you’re six feet under, know what I mean?”
“I will say this to you though, Wilson. You are halfway there. Do not go further than this. They know you’re here, talking to me.”
“Who are they? I thought there was just that thing from the crypt after me.”
“No, there’s more of ‘em. They don’t want you knowing that. They don’t want you knowing what’s happening to you.”
“Happening to me? Smithy, what the fuck are you talking about? Who are ‘they’!”
“Be careful, lad. The shadows are gathering.”
Smithy dimmed, a dying candle, flickering out.
Wilson opened his eyes.
It was night. Heavy raindrops were spattering his face. He was lying on a stretcher. The bearers were walking down a length of churned slurry, once a road. Wilson felt the lining of his stomach beginning to crawl. He looked over his shoulder into the tumbling rain behind.
Nothing but the light of falling flares could be seen.
Dying candles, flickering, slowly going out.
He fingered the top of his head. The skin there was undisturbed. He looked up at the bearer carrying the rear end of the stretcher. The man had his face bowed, he could not make it out in the dark. Wilson watched the rain course down the curve of his tin helmet, gathering into beads, dropping down onto his tunic. It was hypnotic. It took his mind off the crawling sensation in his guts. His shoulder and thigh pulsed with dull pain. Wilson couldn’t see beyond the edge of the road. The fall of the rain was too dense for that.
He wondered what was out there, watching them.
He’d heard the stories about the wild dogs. The lost pets of the local peasantry. Abandoned to eke out an existence in the squalor of no man’s land when the bombardments started in earnest, back in 1914. Some people were scared of the rats. Everyone was scared of the dogs. The dogs were bigger, more vicious. They could fell you more easily, chew damn great holes in you, bite your throat out in one go.
Something was there.
He shook his head, flicking fat drops of rain out of his eyes. The rain marked out a shape on
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