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Authors: Iain Rob Wright
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water.
They’re in the harbour… dragging… dragging people under. Burned… They’re so badly
burned. They pulled Williams and Biggins overboard. We’re returning fire, but they
keep popping up out of the river… They keep grabbing us. Oh God. Ensign Smith
is wounded, she needs help. Lost visual with Rapid 2…. Saw them being boarded.
Permission to retreat. Over. Please help. Over. Over.”
Guy opened all channels and shouted his command. “All
units, get the hell out of there! Rapid 2, if you’re reading me, get out of
there now! All personnel return to the Hatchet ASAP! Return to ship immediately!”
He turned to the Lieutenant. “Tosco put those MGs to good use. Over.”
“He said they were burned,” Frank said in a
haunted tone.
“Yes, I heard him,” said Guy.
“So do we take what Simon told us as truth? He
said there was an army of burned men.”
“I think we have to take him seriously until we know
different.”
Frank shook his head and swallowed loudly. “Then
does that mean the Devil really is stomping around Central Park?”
“Either it’s the Devil,” said Guy, “or something
that looks a lot like him.”
~RICK BASTION~
Devonshire, England
After learning that his
older brother planned on staying with him for a while, Rick had needed some
air. That was why they were heading on over to The Warren, a local inn just a
short walk down the road from where Rick lived. It was early evening, warm and
balmy, and so the perfect night for a pint down the pub. When Rick thought
about it, he realised it had been months since he’d last had a drink outside
his house.
The Warren came into view as they rounded a bend
in the country road. The Tudor building was as quintessential as an old English
pub could be, and the amber glow of the setting sun made it blur like an oil
painting.
Braaaarr…
Rick and Keith had to hop back into the hedges as
a red transit van whizzed past them. The limit was 30 mph, but the driver
seemed to think otherwise.
“Someone’s in a hurry.” Rick tutted.
“Probably forgot to pick his wife up from spinning
class,” said Keith as they cautiously crossed the road and headed into the
pub’s car park. “So, you drink at this place often?”
“No, I haven’t been here in a couple months. It’s
a nice place though. Wood burning fires and horse brasses, that kind of place.”
“A dusty old relic, you mean?”
“What’s wrong with the way things were?”
“Huh, you would say that.”
Rick frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You’re always looking fondly backwards instead of
brightly forward. It holds you back.”
Rick ignored the comment and headed inside the
pub. Warm shadows embraced him as he left the sunlight and approached the old
oak bar in the centre of the room. A single barmaid stood behind the brass taps
and smiled as he approached. “What can I get you gents?”
“I’ll have a pint of lager, please. What do you
want, Keith?”
Keith winked at the barmaid and said, “I’ll have a
large cognac, please, sweetheart.”
There was a brief flicker of contempt in the
barmaid’s eyes, but she nodded politely and went to get the drinks.
Rick turned to his brother. “Thought you were off
the booze.”
“Got a taste for it after that tipple at yours.” He
leant on the bar and looked around. “You know, this might be my kind of place
after all.”
Rick followed his brother’s gaze over to a suited
businessman sitting next to an older man in a tweed jacket who was reading a
broadsheet newspaper. “You mean, because the people who drink here are snooty?”
“Not at all, not at all. I just like the
atmosphere. Bet it’s lovely in the winter with the fires going. It must get all
sorts in here—farmers, vicars, local doctors. Not like the pubs you get in the
city. Yes, this is my kind of place all right.”
The barmaid returned with their drinks, and Rick
paid her. Then they headed around the corner of the bar to a seating area with
sofas and
They’re in the harbour… dragging… dragging people under. Burned… They’re so badly
burned. They pulled Williams and Biggins overboard. We’re returning fire, but they
keep popping up out of the river… They keep grabbing us. Oh God. Ensign Smith
is wounded, she needs help. Lost visual with Rapid 2…. Saw them being boarded.
Permission to retreat. Over. Please help. Over. Over.”
Guy opened all channels and shouted his command. “All
units, get the hell out of there! Rapid 2, if you’re reading me, get out of
there now! All personnel return to the Hatchet ASAP! Return to ship immediately!”
He turned to the Lieutenant. “Tosco put those MGs to good use. Over.”
“He said they were burned,” Frank said in a
haunted tone.
“Yes, I heard him,” said Guy.
“So do we take what Simon told us as truth? He
said there was an army of burned men.”
“I think we have to take him seriously until we know
different.”
Frank shook his head and swallowed loudly. “Then
does that mean the Devil really is stomping around Central Park?”
“Either it’s the Devil,” said Guy, “or something
that looks a lot like him.”
~RICK BASTION~
Devonshire, England
After learning that his
older brother planned on staying with him for a while, Rick had needed some
air. That was why they were heading on over to The Warren, a local inn just a
short walk down the road from where Rick lived. It was early evening, warm and
balmy, and so the perfect night for a pint down the pub. When Rick thought
about it, he realised it had been months since he’d last had a drink outside
his house.
The Warren came into view as they rounded a bend
in the country road. The Tudor building was as quintessential as an old English
pub could be, and the amber glow of the setting sun made it blur like an oil
painting.
Braaaarr…
Rick and Keith had to hop back into the hedges as
a red transit van whizzed past them. The limit was 30 mph, but the driver
seemed to think otherwise.
“Someone’s in a hurry.” Rick tutted.
“Probably forgot to pick his wife up from spinning
class,” said Keith as they cautiously crossed the road and headed into the
pub’s car park. “So, you drink at this place often?”
“No, I haven’t been here in a couple months. It’s
a nice place though. Wood burning fires and horse brasses, that kind of place.”
“A dusty old relic, you mean?”
“What’s wrong with the way things were?”
“Huh, you would say that.”
Rick frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You’re always looking fondly backwards instead of
brightly forward. It holds you back.”
Rick ignored the comment and headed inside the
pub. Warm shadows embraced him as he left the sunlight and approached the old
oak bar in the centre of the room. A single barmaid stood behind the brass taps
and smiled as he approached. “What can I get you gents?”
“I’ll have a pint of lager, please. What do you
want, Keith?”
Keith winked at the barmaid and said, “I’ll have a
large cognac, please, sweetheart.”
There was a brief flicker of contempt in the
barmaid’s eyes, but she nodded politely and went to get the drinks.
Rick turned to his brother. “Thought you were off
the booze.”
“Got a taste for it after that tipple at yours.” He
leant on the bar and looked around. “You know, this might be my kind of place
after all.”
Rick followed his brother’s gaze over to a suited
businessman sitting next to an older man in a tweed jacket who was reading a
broadsheet newspaper. “You mean, because the people who drink here are snooty?”
“Not at all, not at all. I just like the
atmosphere. Bet it’s lovely in the winter with the fires going. It must get all
sorts in here—farmers, vicars, local doctors. Not like the pubs you get in the
city. Yes, this is my kind of place all right.”
The barmaid returned with their drinks, and Rick
paid her. Then they headed around the corner of the bar to a seating area with
sofas and
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