Read Online The Kimota Anthology by Steve Lockley, Stephen Gallagher, Neal Asher, Stephen Laws, Mark Chadbourn, Mark Morris, Paul Finch, William Meikle, Peter Crowther, Graeme Hurry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steve Lockley, Stephen Gallagher, Neal Asher, Stephen Laws, Mark Chadbourn, Mark Morris, Paul Finch, William Meikle, Peter Crowther, Graeme Hurry
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and angular.
The pain churned in his gut, and as he slipped back into semi-consciousness, he had the sudden, alarming feeling that there was something he had to do. Someone he had to warn.
And then he thought of his son, Christopher, and his blood ran cold.
Gill pulled herself sluggishly into waking from dreams of snow. She was shivering. The curtains were still open and the world outside was white, crisp and unmarked by footprint or tyre track. As she rubbed her arms to warm her, the fuzziness in her head cleared enough for her to realise that it shouldn’t be cold; they had been leaving the central heating on all night since Christopher’s problems had begun.
Her immediate thought was for her son. The baby monitor was still broadcasting the sound of his breathing, although it seemed a little slower which she attributed to a deep sleep. Satisfied he was okay, she walked over and felt the radiator, her muscles aching from the uncomfortable position in which she had been slumped on the sofa. It was stone cold.
She swore under her breath and went to the kitchen to investigate. The pilot light in the boiler had gone out, the first time it had ever done so, and although she followed the instructions to the letter, she couldn’t get it to re-ignite. Finally, her tiredness turned to irritation and she gave up; she would have another attempt in the morning when she was refreshed.
Wandering into the dining room, she realised how hard John’s accident had hit her. Her head was thick like she was walking through oil, and an almost dreamlike quality pervaded everything, in the sparkling of the lights or the muffled sound her feet made as she shuffled across the floor. She slumped into a chair, her eyes wandering to the clock without registering the time - 3.30am - as a powerful feeling of regret for all the lost hours of argument swept over her.
She sat there for what could have been ten minutes or an hour wrestling with her complex emotions when her gaze randomly fell on something glistening. It was above her, on the ceiling. She stared at it blankly for a while, watching it curiously without even thinking what it was. Suddenly her mind snapped to awareness.
It was an icicle. There was another one nearby, and another, each about three inches long, the light from the standard lamp sparkling off their frozen surfaces. Icicles. Her mind jumped and stumbled. In the dining room? It was cold, but not that cold. On the ceiling. Coming down from above.
Her mind stumbled once more before the terrifying realisation dawned on her, and then she was up and running, through the house, up the stairs, along the landing. She paused for the briefest instant outside Christopher’s room before she steeled herself and swung open the door.
The blast of cold air hit her like a howling wind across the arctic wastes. Her skin went numb, her teeth chattering instantly. The room was sparkling, the walls and ceiling and floor alive with glittering pinpricks of light. It took Gill a second to realise that everywhere was covered in a sheet of ice. Every square inch of Christopher’s room had been frozen, and in some areas the ice was almost half an inch thick.
Christopher’s cot stood in the centre, its wooden bars shiny with a sheath of hoar frost. Over it, the ice-covered dummy spun slowly, glittering in the rays of the landing light.
“Christopher!” Gill shrieked as she propelled herself across the threshold. She stopped almost instantly. It was like being in a meat freezer; the cold sapped the energy from her limbs. Despite her violent shivering, her only thought was that Christopher was dead, frozen rigid in his sleep.
It was only then that she saw it - for it was certainly not a him. It was sitting against the wall staring at the cot, its long, thin arms supporting it as it leaned forward slightly. When Gill broke the silence, its huge, white eyes flicked in her direction and then, slowly, it started to laugh. The noise was high-pitched
The pain churned in his gut, and as he slipped back into semi-consciousness, he had the sudden, alarming feeling that there was something he had to do. Someone he had to warn.
And then he thought of his son, Christopher, and his blood ran cold.
Gill pulled herself sluggishly into waking from dreams of snow. She was shivering. The curtains were still open and the world outside was white, crisp and unmarked by footprint or tyre track. As she rubbed her arms to warm her, the fuzziness in her head cleared enough for her to realise that it shouldn’t be cold; they had been leaving the central heating on all night since Christopher’s problems had begun.
Her immediate thought was for her son. The baby monitor was still broadcasting the sound of his breathing, although it seemed a little slower which she attributed to a deep sleep. Satisfied he was okay, she walked over and felt the radiator, her muscles aching from the uncomfortable position in which she had been slumped on the sofa. It was stone cold.
She swore under her breath and went to the kitchen to investigate. The pilot light in the boiler had gone out, the first time it had ever done so, and although she followed the instructions to the letter, she couldn’t get it to re-ignite. Finally, her tiredness turned to irritation and she gave up; she would have another attempt in the morning when she was refreshed.
Wandering into the dining room, she realised how hard John’s accident had hit her. Her head was thick like she was walking through oil, and an almost dreamlike quality pervaded everything, in the sparkling of the lights or the muffled sound her feet made as she shuffled across the floor. She slumped into a chair, her eyes wandering to the clock without registering the time - 3.30am - as a powerful feeling of regret for all the lost hours of argument swept over her.
She sat there for what could have been ten minutes or an hour wrestling with her complex emotions when her gaze randomly fell on something glistening. It was above her, on the ceiling. She stared at it blankly for a while, watching it curiously without even thinking what it was. Suddenly her mind snapped to awareness.
It was an icicle. There was another one nearby, and another, each about three inches long, the light from the standard lamp sparkling off their frozen surfaces. Icicles. Her mind jumped and stumbled. In the dining room? It was cold, but not that cold. On the ceiling. Coming down from above.
Her mind stumbled once more before the terrifying realisation dawned on her, and then she was up and running, through the house, up the stairs, along the landing. She paused for the briefest instant outside Christopher’s room before she steeled herself and swung open the door.
The blast of cold air hit her like a howling wind across the arctic wastes. Her skin went numb, her teeth chattering instantly. The room was sparkling, the walls and ceiling and floor alive with glittering pinpricks of light. It took Gill a second to realise that everywhere was covered in a sheet of ice. Every square inch of Christopher’s room had been frozen, and in some areas the ice was almost half an inch thick.
Christopher’s cot stood in the centre, its wooden bars shiny with a sheath of hoar frost. Over it, the ice-covered dummy spun slowly, glittering in the rays of the landing light.
“Christopher!” Gill shrieked as she propelled herself across the threshold. She stopped almost instantly. It was like being in a meat freezer; the cold sapped the energy from her limbs. Despite her violent shivering, her only thought was that Christopher was dead, frozen rigid in his sleep.
It was only then that she saw it - for it was certainly not a him. It was sitting against the wall staring at the cot, its long, thin arms supporting it as it leaned forward slightly. When Gill broke the silence, its huge, white eyes flicked in her direction and then, slowly, it started to laugh. The noise was high-pitched
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