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Sample Chapter | ||
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Sunday October 31st 1880. Hell had just broken loose in there. Ricard Cox kneeled down beside his younger brother, Theodore, who lay completely dazed and zombified. Ricard’s fashionable Victorian ginger hair that ran down to the lower part of his neck, fluttered fiercely against a swirling, howling wind: even his thick ginger sideburns were ruffled and agitated into life. His face was beaten and bloodied as if he had just had a few rounds of Queensberry Rules boxing: a thick and bleeding cut below his right eye, a bloodied swollen lip and a badly–bruised right cheek gave witness to his beating. Blood from his lip trickled onto his brown lower–class jacket which flapped furiously against the wind. Howling wind whooshed fiercely around Ricard. Flashes of lightning flickered constantly as if conducted by Thor himself. Ricard was trapped, but not in a violent storm. He was inside a building. Ricard helped his younger brother to his knees. Theodore had darker hair and less bushy sideburns than his older brother’s. They were a few years apart, as Ricard was close to the world of thirtysomething. Theodore crept back into consciousness and his eyes widened and then gazed at Ricard, who held his breath as he waited for the outcome that he had feared. Theodore started to hug himself as he began to smirk repulsively. ‘Uhhh ...’ Theodore spoke clearly and perfectly. ‘Oh God! ... I can speak! I can talk!’ Theodore grasped Ricard’s jacket with delight. Ricard agonised as he watched. Theodore’s’ mood became questioning. ‘Who are you?’ Theodore queried, again in perfect speech. ‘No!’ Ricard mouthed agonisingly and started to cry. Theodore let go of Ricard’s jacket and then touched his mouth as if to embrace it. His movements seemed to have been zombified though there were signs that his mind remained intact. Something had just changed Theodore, and Ricard seemed to be too late to help his younger brother. Ricard looked to his right, towards the fierce howling wind and the lightning flashes. A large and electrifying vortex portal swirled around almost the entire side of a wall. Strands of electromagnetic waves and streaks of smoke looped through the outskirts of the vortex. The blue, white and green ripples of the vortex spun round just as water swirls down into a plughole. There was a very bright glow at the centre of the vortex: so bright that it lit up the large hall, even though the lightning flashes still dominated the brightness. The large hall enclosed one simple space, capable of holding at least three hundred people. The narrow windows, which ran the entire length of the building on both sides, were either shattered or completely empty. They offered no shelter from the dark night and the pitiless rain. Thunder and lightning roared outside. However, the ‘storm’ inside the building produced a less desirable effect than the actual storm outside. Ricard became less concerned about the storm which continued to rage outside, but increasingly troubled by those within the dark and threatening hall. One storm filled his head: the other appeared to have invaded the building. The wooden pair of front doors had been forced open. Rain splattered heavily on the cobbles. At the opposite end of the hall, where the large vortex seemed to be on a form of a raised platform – that spanned the width of the hall – except for enough space to allow for the opening of a small rear–door. The ceiling seemed to be quite high as it was supported by arched beams. Ignited oil–lamps swayed on the wall and fire burned on patches of stone–laden ground upon which fallen and smashed oil–lamps burned in their separate infernos. Cloth bags, sacks, personal possessions, broken bits–and–pieces were strewn everywhere. All hurriedly left behind: abandoned. Walking bodies of thirty–odd people of all classes – what were left of them – wandered round the hall, arms slumped and looking like zombies, as if they had just risen from the grave. Some were completely lost in their own way; although they seemed to enjoy that and embraced their mouths with their hands. They mouthed and spoke in perfect voices. They had just been changed. Just as Theodore had been. The inside of the large hall seemed to have gone through a battle: though not quite over. In front of the swirling vortex, the last of the people had just jumped into the portal and disappeared into its brightly glowing centre. A distressed young girl was the last to jump in, assisted by an older, short and chubby woman. The woman was dressed like a prophetess in white robes that swept and wavered over the vastness of her dumpy body. She looked to be in her middle age. She wore gold jewellery decorated with unusual, circular symbols. Her long black hair flailed ferociously against the powerful howling wind; yet her glistening gold tiara held fast to her head. She was bug–eyed and had a rather oversized plump neck which grotesquely dwarfed her head. Trying to control her flailing hair and flapping robes, she glanced at Ricard, who was kneeling beside his “zombified” younger brother, and waved her thick–skinned arms and small hands to get Ricard’s attention. Ricard could just about see this woman silhouetted against the blinding vortex behind her. ‘Forget him! It’s too late!’ the woman blurted out in sign and stole a quick glance at the vortex. It seemed to be getting smaller and smaller. It was closing. ‘Come on, we haven’t much time left!’ The woman turned back to Ricard. Ricard looked back to Theodore and felt reluctant to leave him, but he knew that he had no choice but to leave him. He stood up quickly, still crying; the trickle of tears stung the cut below his right eye. Ricard ran the length of the hall and leapt onto the raised platform, not wanting to look back nor stop for anything else. The woman turned and jumped into the closing portal and disappeared into it. Feeling vengeful, Ricard stopped by the portal and turned round and raised his finger at someone, his long ginger hair swaying feverishly against the intense wind and feeling vengeful. ‘You!’ Ricard pointed wrathfully. A tall figure wearing a black hood and cape, was helped to its feet by two other similarly dressed figures. Both were male, but very much shorter than the central figure. The tall figure’s hood seemed to have been on fire as black smoke rose from it and a pair of chillingly chalky white feminine hands patted the head as if to put out the remaining fire. The other two figures helped the tall female–like figure to smother the smouldering remains of Hell–fire. The tall female figure looked at Ricard pointing at her. He captured her attention and used his hands to convey in sign his last message. ‘I’ll be back to get you! That is a promise!’ Ricard turned round, held his breath for a moment, ran and dived into the closing vortex and disappeared into the fading, glowing central point. The howling wind started to die down; the lightning and smoke streaks withered quickly, and the vortex spiralled down as if escaping into the wall behind. The glowing central point burst into a death–defying glow and fizzled out. Everything became quiet again. The mysterious female figure revealed a white face under her charred hood. It appeared that the right side of her face was burnt. A melted–looking dark visor over her eyes reflected eerily in the dying glow of the vortex. Her bright and thick crimson lips shaped slowly into a smile. A cold smile that one was. © Milan / Nick Sturley | ||
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