

Doomsday Files:

Tales of the End

Published by Marius Dicomites at Smashwords

Copyright©2018 Marius Dicomites

Table of contents

When the Light Comes

Prophetess

This is the House

Aberration

Termination

Harbingers

When the Light Comes

An unnatural light.

In the sky, at ten o'clock in the evening, when there shouldn't have been any light – but there it was, always at the same time – an unnatural light piercing the black sky, breaking apart the clouds, bringing daylight through the spaces. Only it doesn't stop – the light surges through the sky, then floods the air – impossibly bright, consuming your vision with a shock that numbs you for an instant.

And it still doesn't stop.

Your eyes burn. The searing light reaches deeper and bursts inside your head, heats your blood, swells against your skull – explodes with an excruciating agony for a fraction of a second.

Before you wake up.

Inhaling sharply, Rachel bolted upright on the sofa. For a moment, she squirmed against the sheet that had become tangled in her arms, her breath came in choked bursts – the light burned in her sight, until she remembered where she was, heard the voices on the television, recognised the light above her head.

The room closed in. Breathing deeply, she pulled herself to her feet, tensed the trembling muscles in her body to suppress the shock, and, taking the sheet with her, wrapping it tight around her shoulders, made her way out of the living-room to the front door. She threw the door open – the black sky beyond the rooftops of the buildings opposite her brought an instant relief. She went out into the open air, stood barefooted in the front garden, and raised her sight to the sky, waiting for a moment she prayed wouldn't come.

"They're getting worse."

Rachel continued to stare up – the routine with her neighbour had become so familiar now, they didn't need to exchange greetings. "You can actually feel it," she whispered, "like you're being burnt alive from the inside."

"If there was some way to escape them," he said wearily. "But how do you stop something that can penetrate your sleep – even reach into your dreams and distort them to its conclusion?"

She knew what was on his mind. "How's Beth?"

Carl sighed. "I've given her something to help her sleep. At least that's one thing – knowing it only happens once in one night, that there's some respite after it's over. I keep on wondering how much more she can take – with her heart."

His voice broke as he finished. Rachel drew her gaze away from the sky and glanced over her shoulder at him. He had his head down, stared intently at his glasses as he busied himself with cleaning them – using more effort than needed, his hands shaking, the wrinkles around his eyes and in his brow deepening.

"I'm sorry," she said, and that was all she could give him. What reassurances could she give when they both shared the same experience?

"Sometimes," he said breathlessly, putting his glasses back on, "I wonder why we're waiting – when we know what's going to happen and how bad it's going to be. It would be easier –"

"No," she exhaled. "We don't know what these dreams – nightmares – whatever they are – we don't know their significance. They could end as suddenly as they started. How do we know it's really the end?"

"Come on, Rachel," Carl responded, shaking his head. "Who are you trying to convince? What more do you need? You've shared the same awareness – the Knowing – as the rest of us. When it happens, when you see that light in the sky, do you have any doubt in your mind we're all going to die? When it instils the belief – blunt, unquestionable, as certain as knowing your own name – do you have any doubt that in six days – five days now – the light will come and wipe us from existence?"

She shivered involuntarily. "But there has to be a reason for these visions. Why are we being told it's going to happen?"

"No one knows," he said. "I've lost count of the theories people have had. Actually, I've stopped listening to them."

"The End of Days," she said, remembering a piece from a news broadcast, the naked fear and need for hope on the news broadcaster's face. Carl looked at her. She shrugged. "I'm not saying I believe it – just seems to be a belief that's gaining a lot of popularity out there. People want to believe the end is not the end."

"I don't blame them. We're all desperate for hope in our own way – no one wants to die." He paused. "What do you believe?"

"Why?" she answered.

"Why what?"

"Why bother sending a message if there's nothing we can do to prevent the end? Would we be sent this...foresight if the event was inevitable? What would be the point?"

"To prepare us," he suggested.

"But if it is really the end – if there's no hope – wouldn't it be better for us not to know? And if it's not a message from God, well, who's sending it then – what is it they want us to know?"

"It would be reassuring, wouldn't it," he said, "to believe there's a reason for all this – that we can be saved. But maybe there is no message. Maybe we're all tapping into the collective consciousness and witnessing the future, the end..." His voice trailed away. He fixed his gaze ahead of him.

"Carl?" When she received no answer, she followed his gaze – directed to the opposite side of the road, to the house of one of their neighbours, Henry Edmondson. He stood there trembling in the doorway of his home – clothes soaked through with sweat, holding his arms out at his sides, his hands dripping with –

"No," Carl whispered. He rushed forward – she followed. "Henry, what have you done?" he shouted.

Tears broke from Henry's eyes. He almost choked as he made the effort to speak. "I – I had to – had to –"

Carl seized his shoulders and shook him. "Where's Martha? Where's the kids?"

Sobbing, Henry pushed him away and sank to his knees. "God – God – God –"

"I'm going inside," Carl said. "Rachel, stay here."

No, came the distinct thought, not with Henry, with the blood still dripping from his hands, creating pools on the ground. Instead, she followed Carl into the house, and caught the bloodied impressions Henry's hands had left on the staircase banister and wall.

"Martha?" Carl called out. He raced up the staircase. Without a word, she followed, already knowing – as he must have known – what they would find: in one bedroom, then the other – the lifeless bodies of Henry's wife and children.

5 days remaining

In the empty office, Rachel sat at her computer and turned it on. She took a sip of coffee – the cup shook visibly in her grasp as she placed it at her side. As she waited to log into the computer, she gazed around at the empty desks, tried to recall the lively chatter that started off their mornings – a hollow memory that could have been from years ago, not a month, just a month.

Had it really been a month?

"Rachel, what are you doing here?"

She took a breath, and turned in her chair to look up at Matthew. She had never seen him not attired in a full business suit – he wore faded jeans, a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He held a bunch of keys in front of him. "I – I know I booked the day off long before –" She couldn't finish the sentence – acknowledge and give substance to the fate promised in their nightmares. If she could just go on as she normally would, in deliberate ignorance – until the last moment.

"You shouldn't be here."

"I thought – you might need help," she tried to explain. "I knew you were going to be short-staffed."

He shook his head. "I tried to call you. I tried to call everyone." He paused. "There's no point," he almost whispered. "I just came in to close up – bring some stuff home."

For a moment, they stared at each other in silence. "Can I stay?" she asked him, finally.

Comprehending, he smiled. "If you want, Rachel. But isn't there anything else you want to do? Spend time with family? If you've got the time, try and do some of the things you always wanted to do but never had the chance."

She lowered her head. "I haven't got any family. I – I've always been satisfied with what I've had."

He sighed. "I haven't. I've wasted so much time on – on nothing. I always thought I would have the time to do all the things I wanted to do later in life – when I retired – time to enjoy the money I made. I never thought it could end like this - in one blinding light - everything gone."

She looked up. "But we don't know if it really is the end – it could be a warning of what might happen. And all the governments on Earth – if there is a threat, they must be doing everything they can to stop it. They've said – on the news – there's nothing to worry about, they're doing everyone they can –"

"Then why are they hiding, Rachel?" he challenged. "All those broadcasts. Have you seen the Prime Minister or any of her colleagues out in the open recently? There's been rioting. Where's the army?"

Her mouth went dry. "Yes."

"They're in hiding – they're going to try and ride it out. They're hoping they'll survive to pick up the pieces of whatever's left." He came forward and handed her the keys. "The place is yours – if it helps."

"Thank you," she said. But there was no relief – there couldn't be, not now.

"I wish I could stay with you for a while, but the family's waiting. We're going to hire a boat." He laughed. "Or steal one."

"Where are you going?"

"Anywhere. Nowhere. Maybe we'll just keep on sailing until the light comes."

She shook the keys. "I'll lock up for you."

He smiled again. His eyes glistened. "Don't bother. I think I just came to say goodbye. Take care, Rachel."

Holding the keys on her lap, she watched him collect the possessions he wanted, the ones worth taking - watched him fight back the tears as certain items triggered memories. When he left, carrying a box on one arm, he waved goodbye to her.

And she was alone.

Listening to the silence, she stared at the computer screen – waiting for her logon, for her to start the day. How many times – at this desk – had she thought about other things she'd rather be doing – planning what to do on the weekends, or the holidays; daydreaming about having enough money not to have to work, and all the time she would have when she eventually retired?

Be careful what you wish for?

With a stiffness in her limbs, she threw the keys on the desk, rose to her feet, and gathered up her things – all the time, resisting the urge to sit down again. She couldn't bring herself to switch off the computer – or turn off the lights. Instead, she left the office with an illusion – an office ready for the day to start.

In the street, in the middle of the morning rush hour, no one appeared to be in a rush to get anywhere – far less people than there should have been, and noticeably less traffic on the roads. Any chatter was subdued - hushed and cheerless. Glancing at a few faces of the people who passed her, she caught the familiar intensity in their eyes – the gnawing fear, the burden of expectation.

As she passed a supermarket, an impulse made her turn back and go in. Even at the entrance, she could see half-empty shelves, yet still less people than she expected. Taking a trolley, she made her way through the aisles, not quite sure what she was looking for – driven by the thought that it might be the last time she left the house, and that if she survived she would need enough supplies to last for a while. She stopped and stared at a shelf with a few remaining tins.

"Take anything," a voice said behind her.

She turned. A slim youth with angular features, with spectacles fixed mid-way on his nose, narrowed his eyes on her, then returned his attention to the shelf he had been stacking before she arrived. "Take anything," he repeated. "Shop's going to close tomorrow. Might not get another chance."

"I've left it a bit late," she responded, scanning the shelves.

He chuckled. "You're not the only one. But you're just in time. No more deliveries. This is all that's left."

"Everything's stopped," she whispered to herself.

"No point carrying on, is there? Even the riots have stopped."

"You're still working?"

"Manager's letting me take stuff home for free," he said. "He's cool. Only staying open to help people stock up."

"That's good of him."

"Well, if anyone survives, God knows how long it's going to be before things get back to normal."

A tightness closed over her chest – she couldn't breathe. Almost falling forward, she held onto one side of the shelves with both hands, forced in deep breaths until she was calm enough to regain control.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," she said breathlessly, looking at the shelves again, unable to resist the sense of urgency.

"Can't decide what to buy?"

Without reading the descriptions, Rachel grabbed two tins from the shelves and threw into the trolley, then another two. She moved to the next shelf. "It doesn't matter, does it?" she answered, finally.

Inescapable.

The light penetrated the night sky. As the clouds broke up, she could have sworn that for an instant, in one part of the sky, the light severed and opened a cloud into a mouth, into a grinning light – a widening light, erupting with fire, merging with the other flashpoints to vaporise the remaining clouds, until the light flooded the entire expanse.

Inevitable.

The light rained down and swathed her skin. She reached out her hands to it and waited.

"No!"

In the corner of the living-room, on the ground, she sobbed uncontrollably, trembling, holding her knees against her chest. "Just let it be over," she pleaded to the remnants of the vision. "Just let it be over."

4 days remaining

Was she supposed to spend every waking moment waiting for it to happen?

Since the last vision, despite the urge to sleep, an aching fatigue in her limbs, she had chosen to stay awake. It would have been easy to take a few pills to help her sleep, but the temptation to take more than a few might have overwhelmed her again – an early escape couldn't be the answer. But then what was the answer? The same question working its way around in circles in her head.

Without any planned destination, she left the house, walking with a vague sense of purpose – somewhere, anywhere, nowhere. The few people she passed in the street glanced at her – an elderly man stood there watching her as she passed, with wide eyes, mouth open to ask a question that never came. Did they have the same thoughts? Are you afraid? Are you ready? Do you think you'll survive?

What are we supposed to do?

When she turned into the main road, she encountered others who believed they had the answer. A procession. There must have been over two hundred of them – men, women, and children, all wearing black armbands, some holding up signs with various warnings - warnings to "REPENT," to be ready for the "END OF DAYS" – warnings of damnation and Hell on Earth.

"We need a return to God," a man's voice boomed from a megaphone from somewhere in the procession. "The life you know is over. This is the End of Days. Die with hope for salvation, or die in eternal fire – these are your only choices. Devil or God? Who do you choose? Devil or God?"

Though she understood the need to believe, she had never been drawn to any faith, not even now. But the scene had the desired effect on some of the bystanders who looked on – in their eyes, a meaning to it all, an answer – and, as if in a trance, with an earnestness that exposed their desperation, they joined the slow-moving procession. As soon as they did so, two or three people in the procession closed in around them, spoke to them – and they threw their cell phones, wallets, anything of personal value, to the ground to show their acceptance.

Then she noticed the blood. Some of the people in the procession had cut their wrists – the blood dripped freely from the wounds. And it wasn't the only sign of self-harm. As she studied them closely, she caught a person moving purposely through the converts, holding a cellophane bag filled with blue pills, giving out handfuls to anyone who would take them, and thrusting them on others. Those who took them didn't hesitate to swallow them down. Then, sobbing, smiling, waiting for their deaths, they joined hands with the people next to them and marched on the path to salvation.

Rachel shook her head, then drew back into the road she had just left – turned and ran until she couldn't hear them anymore.

"Rachel, are you okay?"

"Sorry, I know it's late. I -" She hesitated. Carl waited. Her gaze fell onto the doorstep as she tried to articulate the words at the fore of her mind.

What time was it?

"Do you want to come in?" he asked softly, realizing what she wanted, making it easier for her.

She looked up. "I'm not imposing? It's late."

He smiled mildly. "Who wants to sleep?" He paused. "It's nearly time."

He stepped aside to let her through. The lights were on in the living-room – the rest of the house was in darkness. A movie played on the television – the volume turned up just enough to be a distraction.

"Go on in," Carl said, closing the door.

When she entered, she found Beth huddled at one end of the sofa, in her robe, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her eyes were red and glistened with tears. "Rachel," she said, with a tremble, as though she had been shaken from her thoughts.

Rachel sat down beside her, facing her, and took her hand, squeezed it reassuringly as it shook in her grasp. "It'll be over soon, Beth."

Beth gasped. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "And then we'll have three days left. I can't do this anymore."

"We have to wait and see what happens," Carl said quickly, falling onto his knees beside her, taking her other hand.

"For what?" Beth demanded. "What are we waiting for? We know what's going to happen. We-"

Beth screamed as the vision blinded her sight – all their sights were blinded simultaneously. The screams didn't stop – a child's screams joined it from next door – as they and the rest of the world stared up at the approaching light breaking apart the night clouds, like the Sun plummeting towards the Earth, raining down an explosion of searing fire.

The light blinded her vision, and then she heard a sound, not in her hearing but in her head: a low, drowned murmur, a sexless, incoherent voice working its way to the surface.

Something new.

For an instant, the voice was smothered completely, then it welled up again, louder this time, creating a dull pressure on her forehead. As the skin was stripped from her face and her eyes melted, the voice found some focus – a man's voice – but still incoherent, stuttering at the start of each word, moving onto the next.

"No -smo – th – smo-"

The scorching light penetrated her head, boiling, swelling, contorting bone as its pressure built inside her skull. With a gasp, she jerked back her head – bit into her tongue as she tried not to cry out.

"Smo - Smother," the man's voice said – just before the light exploded inside her body.

When her sight returned, she found herself on her hands and knees. Sobbing uncontrollably, Beth clung to Carl, her face pressed against his shoulder. He had his arms wrapped around her, rocked her back and forth in a futile effort to soothe her.

Rachel looked at him – their eyes met. "Did you -?"

He nodded before she completed the sentence, then his attention was on Beth. But she had her answer. It had been different this time – a man's voice – an attempt at oral communication.

Smother?

3 days remaining

"She's asleep."

Rachel poured him a cup of coffee and placed it on the table. "It took a lot out of her." She noticed the redness in his eyes – his hand trembled as he lifted the cup. "And you," she added. "Get some rest. I'll keep an eye on Beth."

Staring down, he took a deep breath, and shook his head. "Smother?"

She had been ready to avoid the topic. Now it was out in the open, she couldn't resist. "What do you think it means?"

"Beth thinks it means we'll all be smothered out of existence. Personally, I just don't know."

Rachel sat down opposite him. "But why do we need to be told? The vision has already convinced many out there that it's the end – it feels like the whole world has resigned itself to it."

He raised his head and studied her. "Do you still believe the intention of this warning is to help us? If that's the case, whoever's sending this warning has got a lot to answer for – how many people have died already? There must have been a better way than forcing nightmares on people's minds."

"But maybe there isn't," she countered. "Let's assume that this is from the future –"

"The future?"

"Let's assume," she repeated. "The technology may be more advanced than ours but still with its limitations. The tremendous power needed to send a message to every consciousness on the planet – can you imagine that? – an instant to send a psychic vision explaining everything – and one word, just one word."

"Smother? Meaning what? If the purpose is to help us, how can you smother fire in the sky?"

"Maybe we need to go underground," she suggested, "hide and wait until it's all over."

"What if there isn't an end to it?" he said. "For us, it stops with our deaths. What if it goes on after that – burns the Earth to a crisp?"

"We don't know," she conceded. "We can only hope."

"You're right," he said, "we can only hope." He rubbed the back of his neck, closed his eyes momentarily. "I don't know what to do," he said wearily. "I haven't got the strength to deal with this anymore."

She reached out and touched his arm. "We'll get through this."

"I'm not sure I want to get through this. Whether our messengers had good intentions or not, they've caused so much damage. And if we survive, what will be left for us – who will be left?"

"People will always find a way to adapt. We carry on. It doesn't have to be the end of the world."

He averted his gaze – his eyes glistened. "Survival in a world that's already bent on its own destruction. When so many other civilisations have crumbled, why do we think we're the exception? Maybe we're missing the point. Maybe that's the purpose of the message."

"What do you mean?"

"That it's time for us to die," he answered. "That we're not meant to survive."

"We want to reassure people that we're doing everything we can to deal with the crisis. Our advice is to stay indoors and remain calm –"

"That's been your Government's advice since this started, Minister. At this point, people want more than to be told to remain calm and stay indoors. What are you doing to stop the Event from happening?"

"We're doing everything we can. We've been working closely with other countries –"

"Answer the question. Three days – three days left. What are you doing?"

"We don't even know if this so-called Event will happen – there's been theories that support that. Scare-mongering isn't going to help. We don't want people to panic unnecessarily. And I'm sure we want to avoid a repeat of the bloody riots we've witnessed in the underground stations."

"Which you've now closed?"

"Until the situation passes. It's for public safety."

"It's good to hear you're concerned about public safety, Minister. We could argue that people are finding their own solutions because of the lack of support and guidance from your administration. How many more people are going to die?"

"As I said, we're doing everything -"

"What are you doing? That's the answer I've been trying to get to for the past fifteen minutes, Minister. What -"

Rachel turned down the volume. She didn't expect there to be any real news, but she couldn't bring herself to switch off the television completely. Listening to the strained silence that took its place, she unconsciously turned full circle in the room. Drawing a breath, she picked up the book she had been reading from the coffee table, and put it down again – and thought about trying to find another channel on the television. Anything to fill the time – to rid herself of the gnawing anxiety that made her restless – always there, every waking moment, as she waited, and waited –

She picked up her cell phone and stared at the screen, deliberating whether to call Carl. It had been some hours since she left him. Would he mind her calling? Maybe he needed help with Beth.

She pressed the call button on her phone – the no signal message flashed on the screen. Then she noticed the pixilation on the television screen – images of faces breaking into fragments and drifting off. Tensely, she watched the interference, trying to determine the cause, waiting for it to pass. Instead, a low hiss emanated from behind the television – a warning that something was about to happen. She rushed forward to pull the power cable from the socket.

Too late.

A flash of light exploded from the socket, then smoke swelled out from the back of the television. She seized the power cable and yanked it from socket – the smoke billowed up into her face. Coughing, she threw aside the cable - and pulled back into a light that hadn't been there before - an intense-white light surging through the gaps in the curtains and lighting up the room.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head.

The light retreated from the room but not completely. A slow-pulsing glow infused the gaps in the curtains.

She had to know.

Expecting the light to come again at any moment, and for the final time, she went to the door. It seemed to take an eternity – her movements were sluggish, as though she were wading through water. At the door, the strength drained from her hand when she touched the lock – she fumbled clumsily with it, all the time thinking it was better to turn back and run – find somewhere to hide.

The lock gave way and the door swung open. Consciously drawing in her breaths, she stepped out into the street, and stared up, with narrowed eyes, at a clouded afternoon sky suffused with an unnatural glow – a white-hot glow that pulsed beneath, straining to break through, breathing like a fire entity.

And then the sky exploded.

A flash of blinding light raining down, flooding the air with a smothering heat. People screamed. Birds screeched with pain and plummeted to the ground. The edges of rooftops caught fire. An acrid burning stench stung her nostrils. She covered her mouth, and then her eyes as the clouds melted into a blazing inferno, consuming the entire sky – a vision given flesh searing away their existence.

But then it stopped.

The heat drained from the air and she could breathe again. Daring to uncover her eyes, she saw the light rapidly receding, shrinking back through the clouds, returning the clouded afternoon sky.

In the street, the neighbours who had dared to come out – Carl wasn't one of them – exchanged bewildered glances, looked at each other for answers, not sure why they had been spared – or if they had been. No one was ready yet to voice the questions on all their minds.

Was that it?

Was it over?

A mistake to fall asleep.

When the light came, penetrated the clouds, penetrated and warped the substance of her dream, she stood still in an unfamiliar street – a street teeming with other immobile strangers – every one of them staring up at the fire spreading in the sky, consuming everything before it rained down on them.

"Lis-"

Another attempt to communicate.

"Ca – de – li – lis -"

She could make no sense of the words. Did they know the words were incomprehensible? There had to be another way – not the death as well. Too much to absorb. How could she listen when she was dying?

Rachel's cries joined the cries of others around her as the light snatched her sight - she squirmed with revulsion as it went deeper and burned inside her. The fragmented voice went on.

"Smo – lis – smo-"

She realized she had been clawing at her face. Swallowing blood, she raised her hands to her temples.

"Smother," the voice hissed.

Inescapable, it was inescapable. Death was coming for them all.

She blacked out.

2 days remaining

A man's voice.

Her eyes wouldn't open, or maybe they were already open – whatever she did brought the same impenetrable, ink-black dark clamped on her sight – palpable, all-encompassing, like drowning in sluggish waters, and being dragged down – a constant sensation of sinking in its void.

The man's voice again. But it was familiar – Carl.

He needed help.

She attempted to reach out to him, but the strength had drained from her limbs – they wouldn't respond. When she opened her mouth to speak, her throat constricted and choked the words.

Carl was sobbing now.

Rachel made another effort to restore her sight – blinking hard, then widening her eyes. As if in response, determined to restrain her, the void entered her body and mind – heavy and smothering, suffusing her consciousness, stifling her senses, instilling an overpowering inertia. In the void, she was lost, without any sense of her identity, unable to distinguish where she began or ended.

"Hide," another voice whispered into her ear.

Yes, hide. The light couldn't touch her here. And Carl had stopped crying. Everything was alright. Everything would be fine.

Surrendering, she slipped back into unconsciousness.

The morning brought no relief.

When she woke, she found herself curled up on the ground, lying on her side, holding herself. She closed her eyes again, and couldn't move – had no wish to move. If she remained where she was, she would eventually fall asleep again – she could stay here until the light came and brought the death it promised. What did it matter? What was the point in resuming a life that was almost over?

Then she remembered Carl.

A cold shock went through her as she scrambled to her feet – and stood there a moment, hesitating, trying to persuade herself he was fine, she was overreacting – it could have been a dream.

And then she ran.

When she reached the house, the hesitation returned - she halted and stared at the front door. It had been left open – a few inches, not enough to see inside. And no sounds from the house – no voices – nothing. Carl usually had the radio on in the morning – he liked to keep up to date with the news.

Staring ahead, she pushed the door further open and entered the passage. All the lights were turned off. Had they left? But they would have told her – and where would they go?

"Carl," she called out.

Silence.

She didn't expect to find them on the ground floor, but she still peered into every room before she approached the staircase. "Carl," she called again, holding back, waiting for him to appear on the landing. When she received no answer, she climbed the staircase.

A folded note was sellotaped to the only closed door on the upper floor – their bedroom. On the landing, her knees buckled with a sudden heaviness as she turned – the rest of her steps were clumsy. At the door, not giving herself time to hesitate, she grabbed the note, steadied her hands so she could open it, and read the message from Carl:

Rachel, don't come into the room. I know you'll be the one to find us. Don't come in.

Beth's dead. It was too much for her – what happened yesterday, then another one of those damned visions. Her heart couldn't take it. I tried to get through to Emergency Services, but no one answered. I had to watch her die. I can't get her death out of my head.

I haven't got the strength to see this through to the end. There's no point now. I want to die with Beth. I've put her on the bed. I'm going to join her soon. It'll be like going to sleep and just never waking up.

You've been a good friend, Rachel. Whatever you decide to do, I hope it works out. Goodbye.

Carl

Tears came to her eyes as she folded the note and put it into her jeans pocket. She pressed the palm of her hand on the door, deliberating whether to go in, despite knowing what she would find. Then, shaking her head, she drew back to the edge of the staircase, wiped away the tears from her eyes.

He had been right – about the damage the messengers had done with their warning. The world had shut down around them. People were dying – not because of the Event – but because of the message. Their would-be saviours were the murderers. Did they have any idea? If so, did they feel it necessary to continue regardless? Why? Were things so bad in the future – if it was in the future – that they accepted lives would be lost? Or was it some cruel hoax? Would the day come and go without any incident, leaving them to repair the damage done to their world?

Whatever it was, the world had already changed beyond recognition – irrevocably for some.

"Goodbye, Carl," she whispered, and left the house, closing the door behind her, wondering if it would ever be opened again, and if their homes would become their tombs.

Going to sleep and never waking up. An end to it all – no reason to fear, peace, oblivion. She wouldn't be the only one. Maybe it was the answer.

Rachel opened the bottle and spilled the pills onto the bedside table. She began counting – twenty pills. Would that be enough? She took the glass of water from the table and picked up a single pill. But instead of swallowing the pill, she turned it between her fingers. A simple solution.

But it didn't feel right.

It couldn't be the only answer – maybe the easiest, but not the only one. To see it through to the end, no matter what – that was the alternative. The future wasn't set in stone – it wasn't. If she was at the point where there were no rules, if there was the slightest chance – then she wanted to live. If she died, she died, but at least she would know, at the end, that there had truly been no alternative.

She placed the pill and glass back on the bedside table, stood up, and went to the window, gazed up at the sky.

A warning – a flawed message that might have done more harm than good. Whoever the messengers were, they had limited capabilities – at first there had only been images, and their subsequent attempts to communicate so far had failed. But, no, not quite right, not just images or broken words – what about the pain? The visions were like some awful virtual reality which somehow managed to work at a – at a what? – at a psychic level, a level that could elicit the sensation of pain? Effective but crude – a distorted premonition, a sledgehammer to the senses – it wasn't working.

Why wasn't it working?

She struck the palm of her hand against the window and turned away, fixed her gaze on the pills scattered on the bedside table.

The visions were too powerful for their conscious minds to process, but working at a conscious level, a psychic level, did their automatic resistance play a part in distorting the messages in some way? Would it make any difference if their minds were receptive to the visions? It was worth a try, wasn't it?

She faced the window again.

Anything was worth a try now.

Ten minutes.

On her knees, in the middle of the bedroom, with her arms at her sides, her fists clenched, she waited for the last vision. The pills she had taken were working now – enough to subdue the persistent anxiety but allow her to remain in control of her actions.

This would be her one and only chance to find the answers she wanted. She had already decided what to do if she failed. She would find a place to hide and hope it would be enough to save her.

Four minutes.

Stay calm. She knew what to expect – she was familiar with the pain. But she wouldn't resist this time. This time she would let it in. This time she would be the one to reach out with her attempt to communicate. No matter what – no matter how bad it was.

Less than a minute left. Were there others executing the same plan? Were there others in the world waiting with her? Who would survive in the end? How many people would be –

The bedroom disappeared. The black sky loomed over her. Trembling, she unclenched her hands and reached out – a sensation like an electric shock coursed through her as the light pierced the clouds. Heat flooded the air. Gasping for breath, she jerked her head back and widened her eyes. The clouds broke apart and melted as the light surged across the sky.

"No -smo – th – smo-"

Listen.

"Warning. The light is an attack. To survive, you must protect yourselves. Deflect the light. Smother the light."

The light blinded her sight. Instead of recoiling, she threw herself forward onto her hands and knees – stifled the scream that climbed to her throat as the light burst inside her head.

"Warning. The light is an attack. To survive, you must protect yourselves. Deflect the light. Smother the light."

Burning her from the inside, the heat swelled. Still, she listened – until the final moment, until the explosion inside her head killed her. The bedroom returned. She jumped to her feet - in her mind, still listening to the messenger's words, like a record stuck on a continuous loop – the full warning this time – offering a chance for their survival.

And one day left to do it.

The last day.

She didn't wait until the morning. All forms of media and communication had been knocked out since the minor incident the other day – no guidance or help was forthcoming; she was alone and had to find her own means of survival. After an hour deliberating over the message, conscious of the time she had, she threw on her coat and left the house, with just the vaguest idea of a plan or objective.

Rachel made her way through the street, scrutinising each store she passed. At one point, she heard a car approaching – she backed into a doorway and watched the car pass, swerving from one side to another. When she was alone again, she continued the search. Wherever she chose to hide, she had to construct a defensive barrier between her and the light – deflect the light, that part of the message was clear, but it had to be effective - the light couldn't get in, not even a flicker.

Any light?

She couldn't ignore the other part of the message - smother the light. Even in her hiding-place? Was any source of light a threat? But if the attack required light to work, it would take place during the day – the Event was going to happen at night, one of the few things they could be certain about. But what if this was a weapon – acknowledging it was an attack – a weapon capable of seeking out any source of light – using that light as a target or even a trigger of some kind?

A glimmer of movement inside one of the stores caught her eye. She came to a standstill and peered in. A variety of mirrors in different frames and sizes were on display. She hurried to the door and pushed hard at it, even though she knew it wouldn't open – a wasted moment of deliberate hesitation, because she knew what had to be done. Turning around, she scanned the pavement and road – her eyes rested on a freestanding metal sign outside a store further down the road. As she went to it, she heard another car approaching. She jumped into the nearest doorway, held her back against the wall, waited for it to pass.

But it didn't pass. The car screeched to a halt in the middle of the road.

"No," she whispered.

The car door was thrown open. A man leapt out and faced the mirrors store. She studied him - his unkempt, shoulder-length hair, a beard he had allowed to grow untended – the sweat-soaked t-shirt that clung to him.

"No," she repeated, and stepped out into the open. "What are you doing?"

He looked at her. "Deflect the light?"

"Yes," she exhaled.

"Do you have a car?"

"No."

"We can help each other then. I'll help you if you help me get the mirrors into the car."

No more rules. She lifted the sign and carried it towards him. "We have to break in first."

They made two trips to the store – one for Austin's place and the other for hers. Few words were exchanged during the journeys. Both were focused on their tasks – on their own survival. She realized later that when they were finished, they wished each other good luck but neither of them had suggested joining forces – it just hadn't occurred to them, and even with foresight it didn't feel like a mistake.

She couldn't risk using the house. There weren't enough mirrors – even if there were, it would take too long to cover all the possible areas of ingress – all the windows which would let in the light. If any part of the house was left uncovered, if the light found even a crack to gain entry, it might be enough to flood every room. If the light was a weapon, it was logical to assume there was some intelligence – control – behind its use – she didn't know it's capabilities. She couldn't take any chances.

And then she thought of Carl's shed at the back of his garden. She almost dismissed the idea – it would leave her more vulnerable. But the more she studied it the more she realized it might provide better protection – a smaller, newly-built, self-contained space would be easier to cover and easier to block. One window. One door. At the back of the garden, the shed was also shielded by the fencing.

She moved everything out of the shed and moved in everything she might need – water, food, clothing, a lantern, torches, batteries – even a radio and her cell phone in case they started working again. She smashed up her wardrobes and used the wood to nail over the inside window and the main areas – an extra layer of protection.

In the afternoon, counting the minutes, without taking a break, she set to work on the windows. The front of the shed was easier than she thought – the mirrors were tight together. When she closed the door, it would be a wall of mirrors. But she had to use the ladder to cover the roof of the shed, first nailing the mirrors to the wood where she could, then securing them firmly to the surface by sellotaping the frames. One mirror slipped from her hands as she struggled to nail it to the wood and crashed to the ground.

By the time she had finished, it was past eight o'clock – less than two hours left. For a while, despite the urgency, she stood in the garden and stared up at the clouded sky, and then the houses around her, with a sense of unreality. Her frantic actions now seemed bizarre, but nothing was normal anymore, not when they had struggled to adjust to a climate of constant fear. In so short a time everything had shifted into the unfamiliar and the unknown. No matter what happened, it would be another world. The only question was, would it be with the living or the dead?

She went inside the shed, closed the door, and secured the frame with more tape. Then she sat cross-legged in the middle of the room. The lantern was on. She stared at it for a moment. Then she switched it off.

No glimpse of the outside from the inside – she had done a good job sealing up any entry points. But she lost all sense of herself and her surroundings in the utter darkness – at one point, even doubting she was where she was – hiding away in a hollow void that might become her –

"Carl," she whispered. "I wish you and Beth were here. Why did you have to do it?"

She waited for the answer that wouldn't come. But still the questions persisted in her mind. Who would help the survivors – if there were survivors? Who would be left out of family and friends?

What was she going to do?

"Help me!"

A woman's voice in the distance.

"Someone – please help me," the woman sobbed. "Please – someone help me."

Impulsively, she crawled to where she thought the door was – then shrank back with the realization. It was too late. By the time she tracked down the woman and brought her back – sealed up the room again – it would be too late.

"Help me."

She listened to the voice until it faded. The she pulled back her sleeve to read the time on her watch – ten minutes. Only ten minutes? Then they would know how bad it really was. The deaths would be for real this time – the last time, no more visions, no more waiting – burnt alive.

Had she done enough to keep out the light?

She groped at the ground, found the blanket she had brought in, then scrambled blindly forward with it until she struck a wall – clawed along the wall with both hands to a corner, where she curled into herself, wrapped the blanket tight around her, whispering to the insistent voices in her mind, insisting they were wrong, that she hadn't made a mistake - that this was the right place to hide.

"No, it's too late," she hissed at them. "What can I do now? What can I do? I can't think of anything else. What -"

An explosive, reverberating thud from outside shook the shed – she cried out and crossed her arms over her head. A sound like thunder followed – a heavy, ceaseless rumbling that continued to shake the shed around her – then another thud, louder than the one before.

Then silence.

A minute or two passed before she realized what was happening – the heat gradually flooding the air, still breathable but acrid and sweet, like burning flowers. Then, in the distance, from all around, people cried out with shock and agony – more pleas for help that would go unanswered – incessant cries cut off at the moments of death, only to be replaced by others.

With her back to the wall, she got to her feet, hardly able to stand, her legs trembling; and watched with a cowering disbelief as black outlines of the objects in the room emerged - outlines somehow finding the light needed to take on detail and reveal themselves. But not just objects - she could see lines in the walls now.

Stumbling forward, she scanned the room, and found the source \- a slow-throbbing light in the keyhole of the door. She rushed forward and clamped her hand over the hole. The hot metal stung her skin. Then a gust of heat rushed through the hole – a lingering, palpable pressure that resisted her obstruction – and surged in its intensity to burn her palm, penetrate skin and flesh, and dig deeper.

Crying out, she snatched her hand away, and pulled a beam of light back with her from the keyhole. A light that clung to the wound in her hand. A light that was visibly severed when she recoiled from the door, then searched the air to track her down, rebuild its connection so it could resume its attack.

She seized the tape from the ground and hurried to the door, pulled off piece after piece and smothered them against the keyhole. The dark returned. The screams outside continued. She remained standing where she was, listening, watching for any further signs of ingress with a new understanding of the nature of the attack – a predatory weapon that used light to track any possible means of life to aid its search – designed to find and eradicate all signs of life and leave buildings, for the most part, intact.

It was impossible to tell how much time elapsed – she didn't even dare to look at her watch. The screams subsided first. After a while, the heat receded from the air. But still she didn't move, not until she was sure the light wouldn't return. And then she sat down, turned on the lantern, took off her watch and placed it on the ground in front of her, watching more time past.

Hours later, she ventured out, and gazed up at a bruised sky – at melting black clouds, a glowing red beneath. Smoke from burning buildings billowed up into the air. But she had been right – for the most part the buildings were undamaged.

The remains of dead bodies were scattered over the road and in the gardens – blackened corpses burnt to the bone. Later she would learn that many people had managed to hide underground, but the light had still managed to find them. Their mistake had been believing that hiding would be enough.

Day one

Help wasn't coming.

No television or radio broadcasts. No police sirens – no sounds in the distance or anywhere at all – and no helicopters, assuming anything could still fly in the burning sky. If there was anyone – military or police – making efforts to put the country back into order, it would take some time. Rebuilding their civilization was going to be an enormous undertaking – and nothing could ever be the same.

On the first day she realized she couldn't wait for help. She couldn't stay in a city that had become an open grave.

Rachel took one last look at her home and got into the car she had commandeered. She had enough supplies to last for a few weeks. She had no concrete plans because she didn't know what to expect. But did it matter?

There were no rules now.

There was no place to hide.

Prophetess

"You will hear of wars and rumors of wars, but see to it that you are not alarmed. These things must happen, but the end is still to come. Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be famines and earthquakes in various places. All these are the beginning of birth pains."

-Matthew 24:6-8

"Can't you hear the bell? The High Council have called a meeting – everyone has to go."

Stephen stood in the doorway, stared down at him expectantly, repeatedly glancing behind him at the others as they passed by in the corridor, their faces lit up with the same anticipation. Nathan remained sitting on the bed,

"A meeting? What about?" he asked.

Grinning, Stephen came forward and stooped down to share the information. He resisted the urge to pull back. "The girl," he said in a hushed, breathless voice. They've brought her out of confinement – that's what I heard someone say. She's got information about the End of Days. She knows what's going to happen. The Council wants everybody to hear it."

His mouth went dry. He had asked the question before – would he receive an answer now? "This girl – who is she? What's her name?"

"Brother James says she doesn't need a name – she's just a vessel, a messenger."

Stephen grabbed his arm and pulled him up from the bed, like an eager, impatient child hurrying his father to the carnival. Unable to speak, he allowed himself to be led out of the room and down the corridor with the others towards the Main Hall. Becoming conscious of the tension in his face, he relaxed his features, attempted to mirror the grinning excitement on their faces.

They had even stolen her name from her. Not enough to steal her childhood, her innocence. Not enough to steal her from him. They had taken her name.

But who had allowed it to happen? It could have been prevented. The signs were there – that something was wrong – and he had chosen to ignore them.

"Sophie, what did you say to Mrs Crane?"

Sophie's eyes widened. "Am I in trouble?"

He placed his hand on her shoulder. "You upset Mrs Crane."

"I didn't mean to," she said quietly.

"I'm sure you didn't," he said. "But you did, and you have to say sorry."

"Sorry?" She repeated the word as though it were new to her. Her face clouded with confusion. "Why, Daddy?"

"What you said to Mrs Crane was wrong," he said. "You let your imagination get the better of you."

"No, I didn't," she protested, her voice rising.

"Did you tell her she was going to die?"

"I told her to watch out for the blue car – it's going to hurt her."

"How could you know that, Sophie?"

"The other world, Daddy – the other world I see when I'm awake."

He sighed. "Daydreams –"

"No," she broke in. She struggled to find the words. "Hidden pictures."

"Pictures?"

"Some people can't see them, Daddy," she answered. "Like Mrs Crane. She doesn't know she's going to die soon."

What had Amy been telling their daughter? "Die? Do you know what that even means?"

She nodded without hesitation. "Yes, Daddy. Mr Crane was with Mrs Crane – he's dead."

A chill went down his spine. His daughter was talking about a man who had died before she was born. "You know that's a lie, Sophie. You overheard someone talking about Mr Crane."

Her face reddened. "I did see him – he told me not to tell Mrs Crane."

He was caught up in a child's fantasy. "Enough, Sophie. This has got to stop."

Her eyes glistened. "Mr Crane said you wouldn't understand."

"Understand what?" he demanded, losing patience. "What don't I understand?"

She squeezed her eyes as she tried to recall the dead man's words. "That not everyone can see the past...past, present and future in the other world like me," came the answer. "That's why I know how everyone's going to die."

When Mrs Crane had been killed by the drunk driver – in his blue car – two weeks later, he hadn't known how to handle the situation – had been afraid of making things worse. Easier to ignore the problem and hope that somehow it would resolve itself - or simply go away. But Amy hadn't felt the same, and his inaction, his failure, had given her license to take control. He had made a mistake.

A mistake that cost him his daughter.

He broke from his thoughts as they entered the Main Hall. As the others went forward, he slipped through them to the side so he could conceal himself at the back of the hall – in case she recognised him. Noticing, refusing to let him out of his sight, Stephen hurriedly followed.

"Why are you staying at the back?" he asked, casually.

He smiled. "It's all new to me – just prefer to be here so I can take it all in and learn."

Stephen nodded, but he wasn't convinced. "You'd learn more at the front – not hiding here at the back." He grabbed his arm. "Come."

Impulsively, with a sharp inhalation of breath, Nathan pulled himself free. He struggled to compose himself. "Sorry, Stephen, I'm not ready yet – I need time."

His assigned mentor studied him for a moment, then grinned. "Fine, it's fine. Just wanted to help you fit in."

They both sat down, and watched as the others continued to pour into the hall. Counting the lines of chairs on either side, he estimated the hall could seat at least five hundred people. More than half the seats had already been taken. Attendance was compulsory, but these zealous believers wanted to be here – it was an event. When they had sacrificed everything, committed themselves to their god, why wouldn't they want to hear from the Chosen One who would affirm that their sacrifice had been worthwhile – the one to lead them through the apocalypse to the other side where their salvation waited?

The Chosen One – held in awe, a vessel, a prophet, a messenger; and unloved, nothing without her purpose, only seen when needed, alone. There was just one seat at the front of the hall – for her, all of them waiting for her, waiting for the freak show to begin.

"They're here," Stephen whispered into his ear.

He should have braced himself, but without thinking he turned his head to look at the entrance – and half rose, trembling, choking on his breath as he strangled a cry in his throat.

Their leader, Brother James, entered first, with his head held high, chin almost pushed out – the familiar smug arrogance. Two of the elder leaders followed, side by side, heads lowered.

Then came his daughter.

They had a black hood over her head. The last two leaders were on either side of her. They held her arms and led her slowly down to the front of the hall – she stumbled twice as they guided her, as if the act of walking had become alien to her.

"The hood is for her benefit," Stephen said, in a hushed voice, hurrying to reassure him. "The vessel can't interact with or be influenced by the outside world – the visions have to be pure. Don't feel sorry for her. This is the only life she's known since she's been here. For her, it's normal."

"I'm sorry," he said under his breath.

"It's okay," Stephen said.

But the apology wasn't meant for him. It was for a seven-year-old girl he had made a promise to ten years ago, and his failure to keep that promise. It was for the price of his failure – a lost childhood, a life sacrificed.

It was for a father's failure.

"There's nothing wrong with her." He turned his back to Amy and poured himself a glass of wine, at the same time readying himself for the argument ahead, already knowing what was to come.

"How can you still say that – after all the things she's told us?"

"Amy, she's a child. She doesn't understand what she's saying."

"Yes, she does," she cried. "You can't pretend it doesn't mean anything. She knows when people are going to die."

He turned to her. "She deserves a chance at a normal life. I won't take that away from her."

Amy punched the air with her fist. "She doesn't have a normal life – she'll never have a normal life. You can't close your eyes to this and pretend it's not there – or that it's going to go away."

"What's your answer then?" he challenged. "To treat her like some kind of – freak? What kind of life will she have if we nurture this in any way?"

"A friend at work-"

"Carol?" Who else? Always concerned. Always well-meaning. An interfering God botherer with nothing better to do with her time.

"What if it is? She's shown more concern than you."

"She should mind her own business. It's bad enough she keeps on trying to drag you to her bloody prayer meetings."

"Carol knows someone who can help," she said quietly, lowering her head. "She said Sophie's special – that her prophetic abilities are a gift. They want to arrange a meeting with us –"

"No," he said, shaking his head.

"We have a responsibility," Amy went on steadily, "to help our daughter to deal with this. You may be content to do nothing, but I'm not. I'll do it by myself if I have to. I don't need your permission."

"She's my daughter as well."

"Then act like her father," she said, throwing her head back with frustration. "Do something – for once, just do something. If you really cared about her, you'd try to help her."

"You're not taking her anywhere," he said through clenched teeth.

"You've lost your chance," she said, backing away to the door. "I told you, if you don't help her, I will."

She left the room. A moment later the front door slammed shut. He stood where he was for a while, until the anger gradually subsided.

Then he heard the stifled sobbing. He followed the sound to the garden, and found Sophie sitting against the wall, rubbing at her eyes. He knelt beside her. "Hey, what's wrong?" he said gently, placing his hand on her head. "Don't cry. Your mother and I were just talking – it'll be okay."

With a gasp, she clutched his arm. Her hands were shaking. "Don't let them take me, Daddy," she pleaded. "I don't want to go with them."

He drew her to him and hugged her; she pressed her head against his shoulders. "Sophie, no one is going to take you," he said, stroking her hair. "No one."

"We have to hide. Please, Daddy."

"Sophie, it's okay. Nothing is going to happen to you."

"Promise," she demanded. "Promise."

"I promise you, I won't let them take you. I won't let anyone take you."

He came home from work a month later to find the house empty. No letter of explanation – only the empty wardrobes and drawers in the bedrooms – all of Amy's and his daughter's clothes and personal possessions gone. Later came a phone call - cold, defiant – a few words from Amy to say she had taken their daughter and the call ended.

He tried to watch his daughter being led to the front of the hall where the solitary chair waited. When they reached it, they sat her down, and pulled off the hood. They had shaved her head. Her features were starved, gaunt, deathly pale, but he still recognised his little girl in them – the wide, deep-blue eyes, her snub nose and thin lips. Her mother's features.

He was crying. He blinked hard to dispel the tears burning his eyes, and watched the four lesser leaders place themselves in a line behind her. Brother James took his place at her side, a smug grin fixed on his thick-set face; his eyes roved over the hall momentarily, then he started to address his followers, in the low but distinct voice that would gradually build – leading them gently into his nightmarish vision.

"I want you to remember this day. I want you to remember its significance in the final days - the End of Days – and what it means to your survival when Hell comes to Earth, and your salvation in the afterlife. I've been asked many times, "When will it happen? Will it happen in our lifetime?" I've been asked how bad it will be, and will there be any place to hide when it comes." He paused, and looked down at Sophie. Sensing his eyes on her, she lowered her head and stared steadily ahead. "'We merely proclaim the Bible truth concerning end time signs,'" he went on. "It is Satan who keeps setting dates to turn people away from truth. I've told you what's happening out there. 'This world is hearing and seeing the last warning message from God.' As it is written, so will it be.

"The signs are relentless now – only a fool would ignore or dismiss them. 'There will be signs in the sun, moon and stars' – as it is written. 'Nation shall rise against nation and kingdom against kingdom.' Can you doubt it now? How many nations have severed themselves from unions to go their own way? Isolation, extremism, walls of one sort or another to keep those that don't belong out – this has become the norm. And your so-called advanced Western societies – political uncertainty, divisions within divisions, poverty and homelessness where there is so much wealth." He narrowed his eyes. "'And there shall be famine.'"

He paused again: a strained silence followed. Then Brother James placed a hand on Sophie's shoulder – she visibly stiffened at his touch. Nathan dug his fingers into his knees.

"Yes, these things must happen, and they're just the beginning – birth pains – chaos born screaming into the world." He stared down at Sophie; with a tremble, her eyes widening, she looked up at him in readiness. "'The sun will be darkened,'" they cried out in unison, "'and the moon will not give its light; the stars will fall from the sky, and the powers of the heavens will be shaken.'" He smiled at her. "Yes, you can see what's coming, can't you? Answer me."

"Yes," she said, her voice wavering, "I can see."

He stooped down to her. "What do you see?" he demanded.

"And when perpetual night has slipped over the land, the seas will turn red with blood, poisoning all life and no longer giving sustenance to the Earth. And your land will tremble – whole cities will crumble, or be swallowed into the blood-red waters, yet there will be fires – fires burning day and night. And your countries will live in fear and fight one another for survival – and millions will suffer starvation and disease, and there will be no one to help them – and they will succumb to madness and feed on each other."

"The End of Days?"

"The end of everything you know."

Hearing what he wanted to hear, his lips stretched into a sickening grin. "When?" he asked too eagerly. "When will it happen?"

"Signs," she exhaled violently, arching her head back. "Signs of the end of the age – death, death, death –"

"Soon then?"

"Yes."

"What will happen to the non-believers?"

"They will be cursed in the city and cursed in the country. The Lord will plague them with diseases until he has destroyed them from the land they are entering to possess. The Lord will strike them with wasting disease, with fever and inflammation, with scorching heat and drought, with blight and mildew, which will plague them until they perish. The Lord will turn the rain of their country into dust and powder; it will come down from the skies until they are destroyed. The Lord will afflict them with madness, blindness and confusion of mind. The –"

"Deuteronomy." The oldest of the leaders, Brother Michael, stepped forward. "These aren't her own prophecies. I know the prophecies. They're from Deuteronomy – the curses of disobedience."

Scowling, he gestured to the elder leader to step back, and scrutinised his prophetess. "I don't want the written word," he said impatiently, pointing at her. "Why are you doing this?"

Her brow furrowed. She shrank back against her chair, almost pulling her limbs into herself – an unmistakeable longing to escape. Instead, knowing what he wanted from her, she made a visible effort to compose herself. "I don't know what happened. Sorry - I'm sorry."

"Are you ready to continue?"

"Yes," she answered, nodding quickly. Staring steadily ahead, she still seemed conscious of his presence – cowering as he stood over her with clenched fists, waiting for her to continue.

"What else do you see?" he pressed.

Her eyes closed halfway. After a moment, she spoke. "And day will be night, and night will be day. And the living will wish they were dead, as they live amongst the dead and the dying. And there will be no respite – madness will infect the living like a disease. And as nations turn against nations, race will turn against race, friend against friend, family against family, in the struggle for survival – and cursed will be those who believe because their faith will be tested. And Hell's demons will be released upon the Earth to hunt those who remain, whether they be innocent or guilty."

He stared at her for a moment, with an uneasy fascination, as if hearing what he wanted to hear, but only now realizing how bad it would be. "No respite?" he said, finally. "No peace?"

"No peace," she answered. "The living will be hunted, and no place will be safe for long. Your hours will be spent in constant fear, starving, living in the dirt and rubble of the ruins of your cities, always in hiding."

"But you will guide us," he said breathlessly. "You will keep us safe from harm – until we are saved."

Searching for the answer in the future, her gaze went through him for an instant. Then she frowned, and hesitated.

"What?" he demanded.

With a tremble, she lowered her head.

"What is it?" he repeated, taking a step closer.

"I can't – can't focus – on the future as it is now," she said, her voice shaking with the compulsion to answer. "New events are changing its shape – rearranging the outcome."

His face tautened with disbelief. "The End of Days –"

He didn't need to finish. "Will still happen." She stared up at him as the realization dawned on her. "But you will not be saved."

"Yesterday," he shouted at her. "Yesterday you told me we would be saved. What could cause it to change overnight?"

"You," she said, breathlessly, struggling to make sense of the answer herself – still working her way through the new prophecies. "You're the cause."

He struck her across the face with the back of his hand. "Liar. What game are you playing?"

Nathan rose to his feet.

"What are you doing?" Stephen hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling him back down.

He choked the words out. "I can't – can't let this -"

"Don't interfere," Stephen said. "It's not your business."

"It is my -"

He stopped as Brother James raised his hand in front of her face. "Tell me," he ordered. "Why has the prophecy changed?"

But she didn't appear to hear him. "He's changing everything," she whispered to herself, staring inwardly. "Who is it? Who's coming?"

"You're going to do what I say," he went on. "You're not going to play the false prophet. You're going to save us – whether you want to or not. I'll beat it into you if I have to – are you listening to me?" He struck her face again. Blood trickled down the side of her lips. "Tell me –"

"Stop!" The hoarse cry tore from Nathan's throat. He stood up. "Leave her alone."

Rising from his seat, Stephen seized hold of his arm, attempted to pull him down again. Nathan wrenched himself free, shoved his mentor back into his chair as he made another attempt to restrain him, then found himself marching towards the front of the hall where Brother James and his daughter waited. He had brought his deception out into the open – not the way he had planned, no secret escape under the cover of night. But it didn't matter. He wasn't going to conceal his identity – or keep his head down and remain silent – when they were hurting his daughter.

Brother James's eyes narrowed on him as he approached. But when he spoke, it was with a controlled calm, a quiet menace – the promise of repercussions. "Get back in your chair."

"I want my daughter," he said evenly, staring steadily ahead.

"Father?"

He swung around to her. "Sophie," he whispered, and had to stop – momentarily as his strength drained from him. This was happening - the moment he hadn't even dared to dream about.

Tears spilled from her eyes. "Why?" she sobbed, convulsing as she spoke, like the sobbing child he had made a promise to an eternity ago. "Why do you want me now?"

He shook his head. "Sophie, what do you mean?"

"They said you didn't want me – that you gave me up."

"No, Sophie, they're lying," he insisted. "They stole you from me. One day I came home from work to find you and your mother gone. They took you. I've spent all these years trying to find you."

Her face opened with shock. Her gaze roved over him as if trying to discover a deception. Then, without warning, she leapt to her feet and confronted Brother James. "You lied to me," she screamed at him.

"Yes," he answered simply, unperturbed by her reaction. "He was a distraction. He has no part in your future."

"You took my life from me!"

"Your life," he sneered. "You didn't fit in. You didn't belong. You were a freak. You had no life until we took you in and gave you purpose."

Sophie lunged at him, her fingers stretched out like claws. But he was too quick. He grasped her wrist and twisted it, forced her onto her knees as she squirmed against his grip. Nathan jumped forward – two men seized hold of his arms from behind and pulled him back. When he attempted to wrench himself free, a fist struck the back of his head, throwing him to the floor. Sophie screamed. Their eyes met.

Then everything stopped.

A fraction of a second, when her sight was drawn inwards - when the vision she witnessed jerked her head back with a stifled moan. Then her body went limp and her head slumped forward.

"Sophie," he cried. "What's wrong? Sophie."

"The future's changed," she said breathlessly.

What was wrong with her? "Sophie, what is it?" he pleaded.

"See," Brother James taunted her. "You can't escape your destiny. You belong to us. You are our Prophetess."

"Prophetess?" she echoed, slowly, as if exploring the word.

"Yes."

"You made me different – into what I've become."

"I did what had to be done," Brother James said.

"And that was your destiny?"

He hesitated – he wasn't sure whether she had come back onto his side. "Yes," he said, finally.

"Time's running out," she said, rising to her feet.

"I know that," he said, releasing her. "We need you now."

She nodded. "You want to know how to escape your deaths?"

"Yes, yes, you know that. Tell us –"

He broke off as shadows shifted around them in the hall. A moment ago, the afternoon sun had poured in through the tall, bare windows. Puzzled, Nathan looked out, and caught his breath – simultaneously, stunned gasps and murmurs whispers reverberated throughout the entire hall.

An ashen-grey shade had slipped over the surface of the sun; around the sun, a blood-red halo rippled with volatile motions, gnawing into the edges of the orb, sending ripples inwards, stealing a measure of its light each time. In the surrounding sky, streaks of impenetrable black opened in the clouds, spreading out like liquid – merging, not stopping until every cloud had been swallowed – until all that was left was a smothered sun – now reduced to dull embers being gradually extinguished before their eyes.

"The sun will be darkened," Sophie said calmly, and the room was plunged into darkness.

Getting back onto his feet, Nathan reached out blindly in Sophie's direction. He took a step, and had to stop with the sensation of the ground seeming to shift beneath him. But that was just the surprise of the first impression. The ground wasn't shifting, but there was a vibration – a continuous vibration churning the earth beneath them, slight but steadily strengthening, working its way to the surface.

The lights came on. Brother James rushed over to Sophie and grabbed her by the shoulders. "You didn't tell me it was going to happen so soon," he cried, sweating profusely, trembling as he held her.

"This is what you wanted," Sophie answered simply. "This is what you've been waiting for."

"What do we do now? Do we stay here? What do we do?"

Sophie smiled. "You will stay here."

"What?" He looked around him. His eyes widened as he scrutinised her. "Will we be safe?"

"No."

This time it was unmistakeable – the ground shook heavily, threatening to collapse and sink. Cracks appeared in the walls. Pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling. Screams rang out through the hall. Nathan staggered backwards until he came up against a pillar. He wrapped his arms around it – waited for the ground to open and swallow them as he held on with all the effort he could muster.

But the ground didn't open. After what must have been minutes, the quake subsided. Sophie pulled herself free from Brother James and looked at him. "And your land will tremble." She paused. "As it is written."

Brother James shook his head. "No, that's wrong -"

"There are many books to choose from," she interrupted. "But we are the witnesses. We have our own book now. The Book of Prophets – a living book that's being written as we speak."

"I don't understand," he cried.

"There are others like me," she went on. "The future will manifest itself according to our will, and we will guide the survivors through the night – and we will choose the saved by their merit, not by their belief."

He almost cowered in front of her. His eyes shone with raw fear. "But – but what about me?" he whispered.

As if in response, the ground trembled again as a succession of booms rang out beyond the hall. When they ended, an intense white light flooded the air outside; and rapidly reddened as if it had been infused with liquid, surged into the hall and turned the air red.

But their attention was on something else.

Inexplicable sounds in the distance – drawn-out screeches that were almost human but not quite - produced a strained silence over the people in the hall. Not knowing what to expect, Brother James's followers listened and stared around them. Brother James himself returned his attention to Sophie. He was about to speak, but she interrupted him before he had the chance.

"Demons," she whispered.

The glass and frames in the windows exploded, showering them all with shards and pieces of wood – empty spaces to let in the creatures – the demons - Nathan could never have possibly imagined. As though entrances to Hell itself had been opened at each window, they swept and lunged in, crawled and dragged themselves in – winged creatures composed of writhing veins and gnashing teeth, squirming giant, worm-like creatures that burnt everything they touched, as if they were exuding acid; and human shapes with abhorrent faces and contorting limbs, crawling into a waking nightmare. As screams erupted throughout the hall, the booms came again and shook everything around them.

Nathan dropped to his knees and crossed his arms over his head, then screwed his eyes shut and covered his ears as the screams and explosions became too much. In the discord, he could just make out Sophie's voice – calm, steady and constant – speaking as if she were reading from a book. He flinched as a hand stroked the side of his face – a shock like electricity went through him.

Then came silence, an absolute silence.

"Father?"

He opened his eyes. Sophie gazed down at him – far too calm after everything that had happened. His hands dropped to his sides. He gazed around him. The demons were gone. Brother James and his followers were dead. The remains of their bodies – dismembered, mutilated, crushed, and unrecognizable, covered the floors and walls. "God," he exhaled. "This can't be happening."

"It's okay," Sophie said. She reached out her hand. "Come on, we've got to go. This place won't be standing for long."

He took her hand and allowed her to help him up. He had to hold onto her as a nausea climbed up from his stomach, making him want to retch.

"It's okay," she repeated.

Sophie helped him out of the hall and led him to the dining room. There, staring into empty space, he waited for her to collect some supplies. When she came back, she had two rucksacks in her hands. "Come," she said.

They stepped out into the perpetual night. Even in the open expanse of land surrounding the commune, he knew the world had changed. No sun, moon, or stars inhabited the sky above them. The thunder continued to rumble in the distance. The ground trembled intermittently, and, to the north, the sky glowed red with fires. He was certain he could hear the world screaming.

He hesitated. "Sophie...I..."

She turned and smiled at him. "I will keep you safe," she reassured him. She took his hand. "Come."

This is the House

"God, that's gross."

"I told you," Travis muttered, then clenched his teeth, swallowed on the nausea that swelled to his throat.

The blackbird was dead. The two rats had ripped open its neck and stomach – feathers and pieces of their prey were scattered feet away from the scene - and now they were steadfastly feeding on the flesh as blood flowed from the wounds.

Travis had witnessed the grisly attack from his bedroom window. One moment the bird had been sitting on the garden fence opposite; the next moment, a rat had leapt up from the other side, sunk its teeth into the bird's neck and pulled it down to the ground. Gus had heard him swearing from his bedroom, and had followed him down. When they reached the end of the garden, he realized it was too late to save the bird.

He had expected the rats to scurry away with their approach. But they appeared to be oblivious to the presence of humans – hunger overpowered fear, absorbed all attention on the act of feeding – with their sharp front teeth, a relentless, purposeful gnawing working deeper and deeper into the inside of the bird.

"I'll get rid of the bastards," Gus said. He stooped down, picked up a stone, and, with exaggerated motions, stretched his arm behind him before he swung the ball at the rodents. The ball struck the fence and bounced back inches between the rats. They jumped away but didn't bolt, not straight away. Instead, their pointed, black eyes turned to him and his brother – at one point they appeared ready to pounce. Gus picked up another stone. Before he could throw it, they scurried away, disappeared through a wide hole in the corner of the fence.

"Bastards didn't want to leave," Gus said with disbelief, laughing as he threw the second stone onto the ground.

"Yes," Travis said. He stared uneasily at the remains of the bird. "I suppose we should clean this mess up." But his stomach twisted into knots when he took a step forward. Then the nausea returned – a hot bile burned his throat. Gus shoved him aside.

"Coward," he teased. "Okay, you go. I'll take care of it."

"Thanks," he exhaled. "I've got to go out anyway."

"Of course you have," Gus said, smirking. "Go on then."

"Thanks," he repeated, deciding not to rise to Gus's playful mocking. As he turned away, his cell phone went off. He took it out of his jean's pocket, checked the caller ID on the display, and braced himself as he answered the call. "I'm on my way, Rob. I swear."

Rob uttered something loud and unintelligible before he spoke. "You said you'd be here by six o'clock. You're already half an hour late."

"We've got a few hours," he said defensively. "Anyway, don't you urban explorers like to sneak into buildings under the cover of night? Where are we going this time? It had better not be missing a floor like the last one. If you don't get me fucking arrested, you'll get me maimed or killed-"

Rob laughed. "Alright, alright, calm down," he cut in. "Don't worry. This building has got a floor and a ceiling. It was only vacated last month."

"Last month? Are you sure it's abandoned?"

There was a pause. "I'd be surprised if it wasn't."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Rob chuckled. "You'll see."

Why was everyone playing with him today? "Come on, where is it?"

But Rob had ended the call. Swearing, Travis made his way back into the house. He grabbed his jacket from the stair rail where he had left it earlier. As he put it on, he glanced into the living-room. His younger sister and brother were arguing over a board game. Dad was stretched out on the couch as usual, asleep – not even an explosion could wake him when he was having a nap. The news was on the television – another scene of carnage in a location that could have been anywhere: a mound of bloodied bodies – mutilated, strangely deformed, tangled together as if someone had weaved a rope through the bodies then pulled them together. But it was too early for scenes like this – how could they allow it when there could be kids watching?

The scene cut to a studio. The presenter had to compose herself before she addressed her two guests – two elderly men who were also visibly appalled. "How much time do we have?"

The first man shook his head. "We don't know enough to be precise. If the organisms have penetrated the atmosphere, it could be happening already – conditions such as variations in climate, pollution, the level of penetration – these all appear to either slow or accelerate the impact of the infection."

"But none of these factors have prevented the infection completely?"

"No, they haven't."

"And if these are isolated occurrences – airborne in only the affected areas?"

"Then we quarantine those areas," he answered. "But that doesn't seem to be the case."

"We don't know that yet," the other man argued. "We can't start ruling out theories until we have all the facts."

"And we can't bury our heads in the sand and hope this just passes us by. You've seen them."

"I haven't seen enough to jump to conclusions. This scare-mongering -"

"Scare-mongering? How much more do you need to see? How many-"

"I thought you were going out."

He glanced at his mother as she came out of the kitchen, looking at him enquiringly as she dried her hands with a tea towel. When he returned his attention to the television screen, he found himself watching a slapstick cartoon with two animals shouting at each other as cacophonous music blared in the background. His brother, remote control in hand, crawled in front of the screen and stared at him, grinning like an idiot, waiting for him to react.

"Yes," he answered, shrugging, turning and giving her his full attention. "I'm going now."

"You need to slow down, Travis. You're tiring yourself out."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm fine, mum."

"You don't look fine. You look ill."

He was about to answer, when he noticed the change in her appearance – her drawn features, ashen skin coated with a kind of sweat, and eyes streaked with red. "You don't look so well yourself," he said, concerned. "What's wrong, mum?"

Her eyes glistened. "I'm fine," she said, wiping her forehead with the tea towel.

"Tired?" he suggested.

She smiled. "Yes, tired."

He began to take his jacket off. "I'm staying home."

"No," she insisted. "Don't be silly."

"You don't look well."

Her face tautened, as if she were trying to recover a memory or lost train of thought. "No," she said, finally, breathless. "I want you to go out. There's no point staying home and getting bored. And your dad's home."

"He's not much help. He'll be asleep for the rest of the night."

An inscrutable expression crossed her face. She peered into the living-room at the sleeping figure. "I hope so."

"I'm-"

The unconvincing smile returned. "Don't be silly," she said, and came forward to hug him. Her nails dug into his back. "This doesn't feel right," she whispered into his ear, and drew back, gesturing to him to go, the smile fixed on her face. "Go. Go. Have a good time. I don't want you fretting over me and getting in my way – got stuff to do. I'm fine. Everything's fine."

He shouldn't have left her.

He sat on the edge of the bus stop bench and stared down at the chicken and chips he had just bought – an unappetizing mess that stank of grease and vinegar. He couldn't shake off his mother's strained countenance from his mind. He would have stayed home if she hadn't been so insistent that he leave, almost pushing him out of the door – despite telling him he was tiring himself out a moment earlier. Didn't feel right? What didn't feel right? Why had she felt it necessary to whisper the words – in case his dad heard? It didn't make sense. He couldn't remember the last time they had argued – they always seemed to get on – after all these years, he still kissed her when he came home from work. Where were the signs of any marital problems?

She hadn't wanted him to wake up.

He took a bite out of a piece of chicken, and immediately regretted it – the morsel slithered like slime into his mouth, a sour taste came through as he chewed on it – when he swallowed some, it was like working a lump down his throat, his stomach heaved, then a spasm made him want to retch. Spitting out the remaining pieces, he got up and threw the takeaway into the bin beside the bus stop. When he returned to the bench, he noticed that someone else had sat down on the opposite side.

"You want to avoid the takeaway across the road, mate," he advised the stranger, sitting back down. "Bloody food tastes rotten."

Instead of answering, the stranger murmured a few unintelligible words to himself, rocked himself back and forth while staring steadily at the ground. Travis scrutinised him. The man didn't look well – a lanky figure emaciated to protruding bone, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes – patches on his face and neck reddened and inflamed with a skin rash; and a profuse sweat clinging to the infected skin, dripping from his forehead, matting his balding hair and unkempt beard.

Homeless? The raincoat he wore had seen better days – shabby and tattered at the edges – and there were holes in his faded jeans. Travis dug into his jacket pocket for his remaining change and approached him. "Here, mate, you can have -"

He broke off at the sight of movement in the man's ear. Doubting himself, he took a step forward so he could take a closer look – and recoiled from him with revulsion, with an unrestrained cry, as a maggot tumbled out of the man's ear onto his shoulder – a writhing, red, swollen thing twice the size of any maggots he had ever seen – a thing that squirmed as if searching for a way back into its host – a suspicion confirmed as it wriggled onto the man's neck and disappeared under his jumper. As it disappeared, Travis caught further movements in the man's ear – then another flicker of movement from the man's nose.

"God, you need help," he cried, shaking his head with barely suppressed disgust, backing further away. "Seriously, mate, you've got to get -"

"Travis?"

He snapped around. Rob studied him curiously. "What's the matter with you?"

"You've got to see this," he hissed. He turned back around. The bench was empty. He scanned the road, but there was no sight of the stranger. "Where did he go? He can't have-"

"Who?"

"Seriously, this man had maggots falling out of his ear," he insisted.

Rob laughed. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm bloody sure," he said, staring hard at the bench for a sign that the stranger had been there.

"Maybe he slept somewhere he shouldn't have?"

"Maybe." Travis sighed. "What a messed-up day. Nothing about it -"

"This doesn't feel right."

Unbidden, his mother's words came to him. A chill crept over his skin. "This doesn't feel right," he echoed.

Rob slapped him on the back. "I've got something to cheer you up."

He had forgotten the reason for their meet-up. "I don't think I'm in the mood for a night of exploring derelict buildings," he said honestly.

"No," Rob said firmly. "You're going. It'll do you good."

The incident with his mother still troubled him, but the last place he wanted to go to was home – the reason was vague and elusive when he tried to pin it down. "Okay," he said, nodding, wanting to change his mind as soon as he said it, trying to ignore the churning sensation in his stomach.

"This is the house."

Just another house. Detached, secluded, a house at the end of a no through road and adjacent to a parkland fence, guarded by high iron railings and a padlocked gate – a large house that might have had the potential to look impressive, with the tall, equally sized windows – three above and two below – that dominated its façade, and the steps leading up to the arched inner doorway. But it had suffered years of neglect. The front garden was overgrown with weeds. Years of accumulated filth stained the panes of the windows, and paint was peeling off their frames. Patches of brickwork showed through fading white paint – more a dull grey now, smeared by time and the elements. And the steps led up to a boarded front door to ward off visitors and intruders. Just another house.

But not unfamiliar.

"Have we been here before?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Do you recognise it?"

Travis scanned the house – nothing, he couldn't identify the place. "Stop messing about. Have we been here before?"

"I told you, no." He paused deliberately, clearly relishing the moment. "But you might have seen it on television," he teased.

Travis rolled his eyes with frustration. "Just bloody -"

"Alright, alright," Rob said, laughing. "I'll tell you." He watched for a reaction. "It's Oliver Forrester's house."

Travis turned to him. "The serial killer? Are you kidding me?"

Rob smiled. "I'm not kidding you. This is his house. This is where they arrested him. This is where they found the dismembered bodies."

"This is the house you want to explore? Have you lost it?"

"Why not?" Rob said defensively. "The sick bastard killed himself in prison – he's not coming back. At least I hope not."

"What if we get caught?"

Rob stretched out his arms. "Have you seen anyone else around here in the past ten minutes? Who's going to catch us?"

The truth had been presented to him, but the nagging sense of the familiar persisted – nothing clicked into place, and his mind refused to accept it. He only knew that he couldn't go into the house. "I'm going home," he said, averting his gaze as Rob's eyes gleamed steadily at him. "Are you coming?" As he waited for an answer, he took his phone out to check his messages. Rob snatched it out of his hand and rushed off down the side of the house.

"Give me my fucking phone back," Travis shouted, racing after him.

Away from the streetlights, thick shadows slipped in around them as they made their way around the house. Rob refused to stop. Before he turned a corner, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was being followed, his face rigid like a mask – lips stretched back into a grin, and eyes narrowed into slits as they watched him – a stranger's face.

Travis knew he was being led inside the house. He increased his speed, running half-blind, almost slipping as he turned the corner – in time to see his friend disappearing inside the railings. "Stop," he called out hoarsely, panting for breath, balling his hands into fists, barely able to resist the urge to strike the railings as he slowed in front of the hole Rob had gone through – four bars forced in and pushed outwards. When he peered through the bars, he caught sight of Rob entering the house through the back door – the side of the door had been smashed.

"Rob," he hissed.

If Rob heard him, he chose not to respond. For a moment, he could only stare up at the house, unable to believe he had been manipulated into this. But he couldn't leave without his phone. He would go in, get it, and get out – a few minutes and he would be out.

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he climbed through the hole. When he turned to face the house, his foot slipped over something wet, then sank halfway into the ground. He bent down to look. Even in the semi-darkness he could see them – under and around his foot, maggots squirming over the half-eaten remains of a dead animal, feeding incessantly to the bone. Grunting with disgust, Travis yanked his foot out and kicked repeatedly at the ground to get them off. They dropped off him, but they didn't return to the carcass of the dead animal – instead, they wriggled over crushed grass and weeds into his direction.

No, they couldn't be – he was imagining it. He swung around and hurried to the back door of the house. A flash of rage at his friend overpowered any hesitation – pushing the door open, he entered the house. The kitchen. "Rob," he called out. No answer. But the floorboards in the room above creaked, and then came footsteps, slow and measured, making their way across the room. "Bastard," he hissed, closing the door behind him, plunging his surroundings into darkness – the thick curtains on the windows blocking out the light and even a glimpse of the outside. He recalled seeing a light-switch beside the doorway, which was nothing more than an outline. Stepping forward, he grasped the edge of the table in the centre, and made his way around the side to the end of the room. Reaching the doorway, he groped the wall until he found the light-switch and turned on the light.

A feeble gloom settled on the room, and it took a moment to realize what the impression someone had left above the light-switch was – the dried impression of a bloodstained hand. He shrank back – and only then spotted the other bloodstains – smeared on the walls, the table, the work surfaces, everywhere he looked – he turned a full circle taking it all in, shaking his head, then checking to see if he had got any on himself. Oliver Forrester had dismembered his victims' bodies, kept the pieces he wanted and hidden the rest in the garden – not all the pieces had been recovered. In his house on the edge of nowhere, hiding the inside from prying eyes, he must have spent hours mutilating his victims – stacking up the pieces like a collector. How many?

Travis backed up until he was out of the room. When he noticed the light-switch for the hallway beside the door, he knew it was unwise to turn on the light – a giveaway that intruders were in the house. But the illumination over his surroundings was reassuring, even with its thick gloom. He felt safer.

Safer from what?

In the hallway, an aggressive damp had contaminated the dark-brown painted walls and ceiling – throughout, patches of black oozed like ink, and translucent white liquid pervaded every surface.

Damp?

It could have been his imagination, or a trick of the light, but the liquid glistened as though it were continually seeping through the walls. Curious, he reached out and pressed the tips of his fingers into the wall; when he took them away, he saw they had left impressions in the plaster. He made another attempt, pushing harder this time – his hand broke through the plaster and went inside the wall. The hole was large enough to catch sight of the squirming maggots dropping all over his hand – hundreds swelling out to fill the hole and wriggling out over the outside wall. Then something larger – much larger and heavier – slithered across his palm.

With a convulsed cry of revulsion, he snatched his hand back; shaking the maggots off him, he staggered backwards until he came up against the staircase.

"Travis!"

Rob? He was upstairs. "Rob, let's get out of here," he shouted.

"I can't." The desperation in his voice was unmistakeable. "You've got to help me. Please, Travis – for God's sake, please."

A few minutes – it might only take a few minutes. But his limbs refused to respond to his brain's commands. He could scarcely keep his balance as he made his way to the front of the staircase, and, when he stared up at the steps, his legs lost their strength and buckled under him.

No.

"Travis, help me, please."

"I'll come back," he responded, his voice shaking. "I'll get help."

With a pang of guilt, he hastened to the front door – and remembered it had been boarded up. He swung his fist against the wall – an action he instantly regretted; something thumped back from the inside and scrabbled closer. Rats, just rats. But he didn't want to wait around to find out. He turned on his heels and headed back toward the kitchen, trying to shut out the other sounds emanating from the walls around him – sounds he could have sworn were moving in parallel with him.

And then the wall exploded.

He didn't see what broke out at first. He crossed his arms over his head to shield himself from the shower of soft plaster and rotting wood. Then he found himself choking as a hand gripped his throat and threw him back, almost lifting him into the air as it did so. Another hand closed itself over his face, blocking his sight – ice-cold, slippery, its nails piercing his skin, digging purposely deeper and deeper. He grasped hold of the hand and used all the strength he could muster to prise it away.

Whatever it was, it wasn't human.

But it had been human – a monstrous creation comprised of human parts – arms, five on either side, fused to a main body not more than four feet long; the body itself a shapeless, writhing mass of grey flesh and heads. The heads were joined to the body by the necks – their eyes were a milk-white, the flesh over their teeth had been ripped away, and the teeth themselves were gnarled claws gnashing against each other in readiness to feed on or attack whatever they encountered. The creature had no legs, but it didn't need any: with its hands and arms, it behaved like a spider – jumping forward again when he thrust it away, scrambling after him across the walls and then the floor as he staggered backwards.

He was back at the foot of the staircase again. This time he had no choice. Punching and kicking at the creature as it came at him, he climbed a little way up the staircase on his hands and knees whenever he had the opportunity to do so. But he needed time to find a place to escape. When the creature came at him again, he kicked at it with both feet and sent it flying across the air. Without looking back, he scrambled up to the landing, jumped onto his feet, and threw himself through the first open door. He could hear the creature leaping up the steps as he slammed the door shut. There was a key in the lock. eHe turned itHe locked the door and stood back. But the creature didn't make any attempt to break through; instead, it stopped right outside, intermittently scraping lightly at the door, thumping at the ground, shifting heavily and noisily, as though it were guarding the door like a dog, waiting for him to escape, ready to attack again if he tried.

He had chosen the wrong room.

He turned around.

He stood in a room designed especially from the imagination, and for the satisfaction, of a sick and deranged mind – a large room with black curtains that covered every inch of the window frames and dropped to the ground; dark-red wallpaper marred with holes that looked like open wounds, oozing the same glistening white slime; and a red light that only served to stain the air and deepen the claustrophobic gloom.

In the middle of the room, Rob writhed frantically on a table, which measured approximately six feet long, with the top like a steel sheet and a heavy-duty, tubed supporting frame – also made of steel. It was the frame Rob was tied to by his wrists and ankles with thick cord.

Beside him, murmuring softly as he sorted through various implements on a two-tier metal tray stand with wheels, wearing a black PVC apron over a suit, stood a long-limbed, thick-built man. The gloom played tricks on his appearance, because his bald, long head seemed to swell or lose shape in parts whenever he moved. He picked up an angled saw with a ringed handle from the tray, held it up in the air to examine it, and turned his attention on Rob.

"God, no, please," Rob pleaded, yanking at his restraints, his eyes roving over the room as though he would find a means of escape – and landing on him. Travis backed up against the door and held his finger up to quieten him. But there wasn't any time to get help; whatever needed to happen, needed to happen now. He knew that, and Rob knew that. "Travis – help me."

The man chuckled – a strange clicking, gurgling sound accompanied the action. "Did you think I didn't hear you come into the room?"

Travis stepped forward. "Leave him alone."

"No."

The man thrust the saw down onto Rob's wrist, severing by inches before he had even used it – the table shook with the force. Rob screamed with pain, and wouldn't stop screaming. Travis rushed forward, clutched the man's shoulder, pulled him around – and stumbled back, unable to go any further.

The man's distorted appearance hadn't been caused by a trick of the light. A restless flesh slithered and boiled over the face that turned to him – flesh constantly trying to create a semblance of a face, swelling, disappearing, pulling itself apart; flesh crawling and blinding the eyes in one instant, then stripping away flesh over the eyeballs the next to expose their sockets; and flesh pulling back from the teeth and exposing what lay beneath to the bone.

Grinning, the man returned his attention to Rob - in a matter of seconds he severed his wrist. The hand fell to the floor. Blood spurted from Rob's wrist – the relentless screams twisted into shrieks of agony. Blood dripped profusely from the table. But the man wasn't finished. He moved to the other side of the table and held the saw over Rob's ankle, listened momentarily to his victim's pleas before he set to work again.

"Please, please stop," Travis pleaded. "Just let us go – we won't say anything."

The man tilted his head to the side. "He's too loud," he said, and seized hold of Rob's face, covering his mouth. The fingers appeared to merge together. The hand lost shape and collapsed inwards.

Then Rob began to choke.

His face swelled as he convulsed for breath, his freed mutilated limbs flailing uselessly. Flesh where there shouldn't have been flesh protruded from his nose – his eyes bulged and twisted before they were pushed from their sockets.

And his body went limp.

Travis couldn't stop a moan from escaping from his lips. When he swung around, he caught a sliver of liquid flesh from the space at the bottom of the door reaching up and pulling out the key, snapping back with it to the other side. Knowing what was coming, he wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't. He could only shudder as the door flew open and the creature scrambled into the room, leapt onto the table and proceeded to feed on his friend's bleeding corpse – its heads almost burying themselves inside as they tore at flesh with gnashing teeth and clawing hands. The man laughed softly, and turned to him.

Travis held out his hand. "I won't tell – I promise. Just let me go – I won't tell. I won't."

His mouth opened into a fleshless grin – the rest of his face quivered. "There isn't anyone to tell," he responded.

"This doesn't feel right."

His mother's words entered his mind again. A nightmare? Yes, a nightmare – he would wake up soon.

The man shook his head, as if he had just read his thoughts. "No, not a nightmare. But you don't want to wake up." Holding up the saw, he advanced towards him, seized his wrist, and lifted him up into the air. Still pleading, Travis thrashed helplessly against him – and shuddered as the saw sliced through his fingers. Remembering Rob's fate, he stifled a scream as the man raised his hand warningly. With an unmistakeable excitement, the creature jumped off the table – jumped again beside its master's side; gleaming, the eyes – all the eyes - stared up at him.

"This doesn't feel right."

"You can't be real," Travis cried hoarsely, tears streaming down his face. "You're dead. This isn't right. This isn't real."

But apart from his own insistent reasoning – only his insistent reasoning – what was there to convince him that was the case?

"Nothing," the man told him, catching his thoughts again, still grinning. "I'm going to cut your arm off now."

And this time he couldn't stop his screams.

He didn't want to wake up.

His first thought when his eyes started open and the clouded fog of the white liquid drained away from his sight to reveal the sky above. The rancid stench from the other naked bodies – the rotting parts of them the creatures didn't need – caused him to vomit the liquid that had collected in his throat. He made the effort to raise his head, but it only went a few inches – the tubes that pieced his neck restrained him, and then he felt the tubes connecting him to the other bodies pull at him – the creatures attached to him tighten themselves inside his throat and stomach.

He twisted his head to the side to look at his mother. They had been clinging to each other when they had lost consciousness; at one point they had held hands, and now the thick, veined grey tubes from one of the creatures bonded those hands together – piercing through their flesh and bone. The same tube went through the back of his neck and into the side of his mother's head. Somehow this gave them a consciousness of each other in the living nightmares.

He caught sight of one of the creatures on his other side. He craned his neck to watch it and recognised the man he had seen at the bus stop – a tube had been passed through both their legs – what remained of his legs and one side of his stomach. The white liquid preserved their bodies in varying degrees. The decomposition was worse in bodies that had suffered from disease before the creatures came, and this man's body was gradually rotting – mounds of maggots had eaten through most of his leg and part of his thigh and stomach. But he was still of use to the creatures.

The creatures took various forms through their growth phase. In the beginning they weren't visible to the human eyes. It was when they began to feed that their real growth was initiated: ashen-grey, worm-like, bulbous monstrosities that could grow up to three feet long, with black protruding veins across their bodies, which they used to manipulate their substance – to open the middle of their bodies where tubes grew – hundreds of them, wriggling agitatedly, waiting to attach to their prey. In their mature form a misshapen, constantly shifting face emerged –four gleaming black eyes, and three rows of teeth that gnashed incessantly and were mainly used to attack.

Travis remembered the news broadcasts now. He remembered the theories that the creatures had penetrated the atmosphere and contaminated the air, and all it took was a breath for you to be infected. Once infected, the creatures grew inside you – and more than that, they altered you at a genetic level, mutated your body so they could feed on you. When they were large enough, they could work their way out of your body, but the tubes remained inside of you, a part of you: they fed on the chemicals created by intense emotion – such as fear – and in turn they fed you to keep you preserved, pumping their white juice through the tubes to sustain your half-life. And you could do nothing, because your body was useless – only a sluggish consciousness remained, surfacing when the feeding process had gone through its full cycle.

His stomach churned as the tubes fed him – wired like another set of veins throughout his entire body. Then another creature slithered over his chest and between him and his mother. Its eyes roved over the tubes through their hands. In an instant, its teeth had severed the connection.

A taste of metal welled into his mouth – the first sign that he was being put to sleep, so the feeding process could commence again. Unable to see anymore, he closed his eyes and allowed it to take hold.

"We can't start ruling out theories until we have all the facts."

"And we can't bury our heads in the sand and hope this just passes us by. You've seen them."

"I haven't seen enough to jump to conclusions. This scare-mongering -"

"Scare-mongering? How much more do you need to see? How many-"

The channel changed. He found himself watching a slapstick cartoon with two animals shouting at each other as cacophonous music blared in the background. "Hey, I was watching that," he said.

"Aren't you going out?"

He looked at his mother. He hadn't seen her come into the room. She sat on the sofa, beside his sleeping father, with the remote control in her hand. She gazed up at him, smiling.

Aberration

They had raised the Devil himself.

Ryan leaned on the overturned car and used it to pull himself to his feet. The book store opposite him was in flames, the windows smashed – he couldn't remember if he had been responsible. The side of his head throbbed and burned. He rubbed his fingers against it and looked at them – blood, fresh blood. Had he hurt anyone? What had he done?

Unsteadily, still trying to recover the missing pieces of his memory before and during the conflict, he gazed at the devastation and carnage around him. The bodies of the dead were scattered across the street – all victims of an attack of one kind or another. Some people made their through the debris, bruised, filthy, shocked and confused, unable to believe what had had happened – still, after all this time. Some people could only sit on the ground, staring wide-eyed into empty space, numbed with shock. And then there were the ones who could only sob uncontrollably – who had discovered what they had done and couldn't cope with the cold reality. After a time – he couldn't be sure how long - the others in the street moved on and he was alone. Still unable to move, he gazed around him, and found his sight drawn to the face that watched triumphantly over the chaos.

There he was, on the street billboards – on another billboard on the side of a building in flames – the man who had given flesh to a nightmare; suffused with a pent-up rage, a square face with narrowed eyes, brows tightly knitted together, mouth open as if ready to release hate and vitriol, lips curled into a sneer, and sagging jowls.

They had built a cult of personality around a dictator - given him a voice beyond the persuasive and insistent voice of the media with its warped and manufactured version of reality - so many lies and deceptions you couldn't tell what was real anymore; and given him a voice beyond the random targets of the subliminal - planting their seeds in the subconscious to feed the minds and hearts of the unaware. They had cloned a diseased brain and altered its components to enable it to reach further than any of these things could. They had assimilated their creation into an artificial intelligence – created an organic machine - capable of sending its thoughts across the Earth like radio waves; an overpowering possession that drove the mind to fulfil its purpose and blinded all else: reason, compromise, logic, self-control, humanity itself – these were crushed under the persuasion of one voice, one mind, and one world.

But they didn't consider what would happen when the dictator died, or what would happen when an artificial intelligence capable of its own logic and reasoning, with the capacity to send its malignancy across the Earth, sensed the death like the loss of a part of itself – a contradiction to its continued existence – and went insane, sending out a psychic scream to every consciousness on Earth. Or the consequences when they realized their mistake and tried to shut their creation down: those involved were either compelled to commit suicide or kill their colleagues.

But then why wouldn't an organic machine that had been given self-awareness, and the means to defend itself, attempt to protect itself? And why wouldn't it want to conclude what it had started – create the vision of one voice, one mind, and one world in whatever way it could – no matter what it took.

No one was immune. No one could escape. The only warning was an acute palpable pain in the centre of the head – only a moment before the alien consciousness seized hold with its own violent impulses, compelling actions against nature, the confines of morality; and treating all equally with its infection, even those its creators, and the dictator it was modelled on, would have once seen as the enemy. The madness could last for minutes or hours – it was subject to the volatile rage of the Chaos Machine, and you could only obey – even when you were spilling blood. Sometimes you had no memory of what happened. But sometimes you remembered every single detail.

Explosions in the distance roused him from his thoughts. Grimacing, he tore his gaze away from the billboard. He turned around – barely in time to catch a man running towards him, clutching a shard of glass so tight it pierced his skin – blood dripping profusely from his hand. The man's eyes were also bleeding – he was a Remnant. Sometimes the madness remained irrevocably embedded in people's minds after it had passed – a stuck record playing itself out repeatedly until their brains imploded. Usually they died before that happened.

Ryan held out his hand. "Please, I don't want to hurt you. Stop –"

But he wasn't listening. The man swiped at him with the glass. Ryan ducked out of reach and twisted around, ready to run. Before he had the chance, the man struck again – the edge of the glass sliced across the side of his neck. He had no choice. Ryan threw himself back against the man and caused him to lose his balance. Then he turned to face him and seized his wrist, slammed his hand repeatedly against the car to make him relinquish the weapon. But the madness had given the man an impossible strength; with a gurgling sound emanating from his throat, he wrenched the glass back in front of him and worked its point gradually to Ryan's face.

"No!"

Laurel's voice. There was a sickening distinct crack. The man's head jerked to the side at an abnormal angle, his eyes rolled back, then he slumped forward over Ryan, his bloodied arms rubbing against his face, the piece of glass slipping from his hand. Ryan pushed the man aside. Laurel looked down at him. She held a stone from the debris above her head. She waited to make sure the man wasn't going to get up again before she threw her weapon onto the ground.

"I don't want to know if he's dead," she said, deliberately avoiding having to look at the man. She reached out and helped him to his feet. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine – you came in time." He noticed the blood on the front of her yellow cardigan. "Are you hurt?"

She averted her gaze. "It's not my blood," she said quietly.

He hugged her. "I thought you were dead, Laurel. Do you remember anything?" Her eyes glistened with tears. She pressed her lips together. "Laurel?"

She turned her back to him. "We're all guilty now, aren't we?" she said pensively. "We're all murderers."

"We don't have any choice in this," he countered. "We're not to blame for our actions."

"But how was this allowed to happen?" she challenged, turning around to face him, pointing at a billboard in the street. "Would this have happened if that bastard hadn't got into power? We just stood by and watched. We allowed it to continue until we became the victims ourselves." The tears spilled from her eyes. "What about the ones who can't fight back – the children, the elderly, the sick? They don't stand a chance, Ryan – it really is the survival of the fittest. They're driven to destroy like the rest of us, but they don't stand a chance. They're going to be the first to -" She couldn't go on. He held her again. She buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed silently.

He closed his eyes to shut out the destruction around him – a moment's peace, that's all he wanted. His limbs throbbed with fatigue – he could fall asleep standing up. The fresh bruises he had suffered stung, and the old ones pulsated with a dull ache. He wanted to find a place to hide – a dark place to crawl into and curl up into himself, wait for the madness to go away. There had to be one somewhere – a safe place.

More explosions. They were nearer this time. He could feel the vibrations under his feet.

Something else was happening.

"Laurel, we have to go," he said.

She stood back and looked at him. "Go? Go where?"

"If we go underground -"

"It won't make any difference."

"But we have to do something – before it starts again."

She shook her head. "It'll be even more dangerous around other people."

"We can't surrender to this," he insisted. "There must be people out there looking for ways to destroy the machine – or block it out. We have to find a way to survive until that happens."

"Look around you," she said, stretching out her hands. "Does it look like anyone's found an answer? There's nothing we can do."

"Please," he said, his voice hoarse. The compulsion to be honest with her was too much. "I'm losing the strength to fight this day in and day out. I have to believe that sooner or later it'll come to an end – that someone will find the means to end this."

She drew in a deep breath. He caught the anxious doubt in her eyes before she smiled at him. "Where do you want to go?" she asked, caressing his face.

"The underground station," he answered, surprised at how relieved he was. He took her hand. "It's about fifteen minutes from here. We have to hurry."

He had been mistaken about one thing.

A realization that came to him as he hurried through the ravaged streets of the city with Laurel, past ruined, burning buildings and corpses left to rot – and heard the sounds of a mob – furious chants, unrestrained bestial cries, an outpouring of pure hatred demanding blood and violence to be satisfied – and all without the mechanisms of the Chaos Machine to feed its hatred.

They were moving in the direction of the mob. He found himself slowing down, hesitating.

"Can't we go around?" Laurel suggested, thinking the same thoughts.

"It's going to take too long." He scanned the area ahead of them. He couldn't see anything. The mob could have been in the following street, or around the next corner – there was no way of telling yet. "Come on," he urged.

It was when they crossed over into the opposite street that they saw them – about twenty people, men and women, gathered in front of a Polish convenience store. All the windows had been shattered, but they continued to throw whatever missiles they could get their hands on at the store, hurling abuse and threats. Repulsive graffiti marred the stores on either side – their windows had also been broken – but for some reason this particular store had most of their attention. The mob paid no attention to him and Laurel – they were too absorbed with the focus of their hatred.

Laurel pulled at him – a sign to stop. "Do you think there's someone inside?" she whispered.

Before he could respond, there was an explosion and the inside of the shop erupted into flames; a second explosion followed, and more flames burst from the top windows. He didn't see who threw the incendiary devices. He exchanged glances with Laurel – they couldn't speak to each other. They both knew that if anyone had been in the building it was too late to save them. They turned their backs on the mob and hurried on.

They encountered more people when they turned a corner into the next street – all of them hastening to their own destinations, and many with supplies they had raided from stores. In the direction they were heading, they heard further commotion of a different kind this time – heated arguments, the chatter of voices, and megaphones. On a normal day, they probably wouldn't have been able to hear a thing, but the normal days were gone – no traffic to drown out the noise and silence from the people around them.

They crossed over into the opposite street. The station was ahead of them on the corner – about ten minutes away. The commotion was growing louder. At the corner of his eye, he caught Laurel glancing at him, wanting to speak but choosing to stay silent. Two men ran past them in the opposite direction. Then more people came.

"Why are they running in the other direction?" Laurel asked.

"We'll find out," he said, tightening his grip on her hand, urging her to go on, even though he knew she didn't want to. But when they were only a third way down the street, with the station barely in their sights, the decision was made for him, and they had no choice but to stop.

Crowds of people blocked their path. In the distance, he caught glimpses of armed men in military uniforms guarding the station, preventing people from going any further, pushing back those who persisted – some getting into arguments. Two voices on megaphones warned people away from the station – there was no more room available and it was too dangerous to let any more down.

Laurel flinched as a group of men – armed with makeshift weapons – pushed past them. "Ryan, we have to go," she said, her voice breathless, her eyes pleading with him.

He shook his head. "They don't have the right," he choked out. "How do we know there's not enough room? They could be lying."

"Hell's about to break loose," she said slowly and deliberately. "We have to get out of here."

A fight had already broken out outside the station. Frustrated, more people were joining the revolt. If there was a chance – the slightest chance – that these people were going to be able to gain entry – no, they couldn't leave.

"And go where?" he argued. "This is our only chance. We can't go."

"We're not going to get in," she said. "Let's just get -"

The too-familiar pain penetrated the centre of his head like the point of a heated knife burning and severing a part of him - a rupture sending seizures through the muscles in his face and neck, creating pressure points that swelled as if they were ready to erupt with flesh and bone.

Agonised screams broke out around them. But the pain was secondary compared to what was coming – replaced with a surge of panicked cries and pleas for help. People fled from the street. The fight outside the station escalated – a group attempted to storm the station using force. Gunfire followed, scattering the crowds, sending them back down the street – a swell of bodies scrambling to get away, catching him and Laurel them in their swarm as they shoved blindly through. Helplessly, he watched as the weaker ones in the crowd stumbled to the ground and were crushed under the stampede before they could get up again.

Laurel clutched his arm. "Meet me in the park," she cried, struggling to hold onto him as she was jostled. "Our lunchtime bench."

"No," he shouted back, "we've got to stay together."

With a pained smile, she shook her head. A man collided with her and she lost her grip, barely recovering her balance as she was thrown back. Frantically, they both reached out to each other, but people were between them now – they were drawn into the flows of the retreating crowds, and the distance between them widened as they were carried into different directions. Then he lost sight of her.

"Laurel," he called out, trying to force his way through the wall of bodies – instead, finding himself trapped amongst them, hardly able to move. He thought he caught a glimpse of her – for a fraction of a second, still trying to reach him as she was carried away. But he knew it was too late.

He was no longer in control of his mind.

Aberration.

An elderly man. He must have been in his sixties, but it didn't stop him clawing at the youth who had his hands locked around his throat – didn't stop him stabbing the youth's eye with his fingers. Blood spilled from the wound. The elderly man choked for breath. But neither of them stopped.

He could see it. Diseased, the old man was diseased – a defiant absence of faith corrupting the purity of the faithful, militant beliefs aspiring to destroy the fabric of society – there, rotting inside him, in his thoughts, in his past – he could see it. He was different. He didn't belong. He had to be destroyed.

Ryan rushed forward. In seconds, he had his hand clamped over the old man's mouth – pressed harder when he felt resistance – and watched the youth finish what he had started. It was only when the old man's body went limp that Ryan saw the abhorrent sexuality in the youth. He picked up a stone. As the youth climbed to his feet, before he had the chance to identify the aberration in his collaborator, Ryan swung the stone and struck him across the skull. Tears burned his eyes, but he stood there and watched as the youth collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

He held onto the stone as he ran through the streets, searching for those who didn't belong – who were different. One voice, one mind, and one world – in order for the vision to thrive and come into existence, the world had to be cleansed of all the aberrations that threatened to obstruct or destroy it. Dissent had to be silenced. No differences could be tolerated. One, one, one – he had to destroy everything else, even the slightest threat – snuff it out, erase it from existence, even from history.

Hearing commotion in the distance, he followed the sounds until he came to a residential street with terraced buildings. There had to be over fifty people – men, women, and children. They had overturned cars. Some of the doors of the houses had been smashed in – he caught glimpses of bodies in the hallways. The windows of most of the houses had been broken – smoke and flames poured out of several them, and he could hear the terrified screams of people desperately trying to escape.

He sensed before he saw a man rushing out of one of the burning buildings. And so did the others in the street. They only had to look at him to know he didn't belong – his race would pollute theirs. He only got a few feet before the mob overwhelmed him, dragged him down onto the ground and rained down blows. Ryan fought his way through the crowd to reach the man. He was conscious of the link between him and the others - a brutal, mindless swarm bent on destruction, the erasure of everything they didn't understand or didn't belong. It didn't matter that there were so many of them on one defenceless man – a stranger with his own identity, with family and friends – another living person. He couldn't be allowed to live because he was different, and that was all they could see.

There was no redemption.

On his knees, Ryan stooped down and used the water from the pond to wash off as much blood as he could. He couldn't stop glancing back at the bench behind him, where he and Laurel had spent so many of their lunchtimes at work, watching the ducks on the water, and watching the world go by. Another lifetime. After what they had done, they didn't deserve that happiness again.

"Ryan?"

He should have felt relief at hearing her voice behind him. But he just wanted to cry like a child. He didn't want to look at her, and in that moment, he realized it was because he was ashamed.

Laurel took hold of his arm and helped him to his feet. He turned to face her, and noticed the knife in her hand. "There's more Remnants out there," she explained. "It's getting worse. We have to be wary of everyone now." She paused. "Do you remember anything?"

"Everything," he said hoarsely. "I remember everything."

It was her turn to console him. "It's okay," she said, leading him to the bench. "Let's sit down."

He shuddered. "No, we can't rest," he insisted, unable to stop his voice from shaking. "We have to find somewhere safe."

"Ryan, we tried -"

Her words were stifled in her throat. They reached out simultaneously to each other as the pain erupted in their heads – far more acute than it had ever been. Laurel's nose began to bleed. He had to swallow down the vomit that came up his throat. Too soon, it was too soon –

"Ryan, it's different this time," Laurel said breathlessly. "Get away from me."

He understood. But it was already too late. He lunged at Laurel and seized her by the throat. He couldn't stop until she was dead. Different, she was different – he had to kill her. Choking, she attempted to push him away, then prise his hands from her neck. He tightened his grip.

Then he realized what had happened.

He thought he had been punched in the stomach. When he looked down, he saw the full blade of the knife inside him – the blood gushing from the wound. Then came an indescribable pain. It brought him to his knees, but he didn't let go – he dragged Laurel down with him.

Through the blind compelling rage, they both understood and forgave each other. Nothing could erase the mental anguish in their eyes, the disbelief, the regret - or the tears. Nothing.

Her body went limp. He collapsed on top of her. The madness had ended, but he was rapidly losing consciousness. Trembling with the effort, he found her hand and held onto it, curled himself beside her body. "I love you," he whispered, and welcomed the darkness that came when he closed his eyes.

Termination

They had suspended his body in the air. He was caught in the harsh glare of the spotlights placed in front of him, behind him, at his sides, over his head, and below him. The heat from the lights stung his skin – the sensation was that of being slowly roasted alive. Obscured by the lights, the outlines of his long-limbed, skeletal-shaped watchers shifted restlessly behind the lights.

"I see you," he forced out through gritted teeth.

They didn't answer. They never answered. He squirmed against his invisible restraints as screams swelled from the other rooms – a sign that the main procedure was about to commence. A red light flashed before his eyes, then the silver drone-like machine – a humming oblong-shaped device with a gleaming black circular eye – appeared in front of him, sweeping from side to side, waiting for instructions. When he heard the clicks from the machine, he joined the screams, struggled to free himself again, even though he knew it was futile – like all the other times.

A small hole opened below the machine's eye, and a thin thread of metal with a sharpened point shot out and lashed the air. Rippling with light, it darted behind him and pierced the back of his neck, changed direction and wriggled its way upwards, searing through flesh to enter his skull. Convulsing, he reached behind him to pull the machine out, and froze voluntarily as his hosts' hands - elongated, ashen-grey, emaciated - gripped his arms to restrain him.

The metal stopped after it had progressed a few inches; acute, distinct, it continued to writhe and burn inside him. Then came the viscous flood of warmth, and pieces of the end of the metal separated inside him, drilled themselves into different directions inside his skull. The thread of metal snapped away.

Knowing it was over, he sobbed with relief. They would let him go home now, and he would forget. He needed to forget.

"Bradley?"

Mia's voice startled him. He winced as his razor cut into his upper lip, drawing a trickle of blood.

"God, sorry," she said, grasping his shoulder.

"It's fine," he said, bending down to wash the shaving foam off his face. "Just a small cut."

"You're going to be late."

He glanced sideways. "No, I'm not."

"You've been in here for over half an hour."

"Mia, I've got loads of -" He stopped and stared hard at the watch on the mirror ledge in front of him. Then he swore and grabbed his towel from the rack. "Damn, I'm going to be late."

Mia chuckled. "I'm sure they'll forgive you."

He eyed her cautiously. "Sorry, it means I'm going to be late home."

"Bradley, no –"

He kissed her on the lips. "I'll make it up to you. I promise."

She sighed and turned away. "I'll make sure of it. I've got to get Jamie ready for nursery. Are you going to eat anything before you go?"

"I'll grab a sandwich."

Mentally revising his work schedule, deliberating whether there was anything he could save for another day, he hurriedly got ready for work, not even pausing to check himself in the mirror when he had finished dressing. Jamie rushed out of the kitchen to meet him as he came down the stairs. "Hello, buddy," Bradley called out, grinning.

"Photo," Jamie demanded, clapping his hands.

Bradley laughed. "Okay, get mummy."

Jamie went back into the kitchen. Bradley pulled on his coat and got his briefcase ready. Then he got out his cell phone and opened the camera, held it out in front of him.

"Please, Mummy," Jamie cried, holding Mia's hand, pulling her out into the hallway.

"Okay, okay," Mia said resignedly. Jamie stared into the camera. Mia got onto her knees and stared over his shoulder.

"Funny faces today," Bradley ordered. Laughing, they pulled faces at him. He took the picture and kissed them both goodbye as he displayed the screen. "Horrible faces," he teased.

"Horrible faces," Jamie mimicked.

He picked up his suitcase and opened the door. "See you tonight, buddy."

"Bye, Daddy."

He stepped out and closed the door behind him.

"Bradley, come here."

He resisted the urge to swear. Instead, he fixed a grin on his face and waved in his neighbour's direction. Spade in hand, Gerry stood over one of the flower patches in the corner of his front garden, curiously studying something of interest, but Bradley couldn't make out what it was – and he wasn't particularly bothered. Seven-thirty in the morning – who did their bloody gardening at seven-thirty in the morning? "I'm off to work, Gerry. See you -"

Gerry gestured to him. "Come here. You've got to see this."

With an exhalation of breath, he stepped over into his neighbour's garden and approached him. Gerry pointed to the flowers. "Look at that."

It took a moment for him to realize what Gerry was pointing at. Then he noticed the wasp emerging from the petals of one of the flowers. Only it was unlike any wasp he had ever seen. This was over twice the size of regular wasps – just over two inches. Instead of yellow and black, it was a kind of burnt-orange and black – the colours made him think of other creatures with such markings – a signal to predators to keep away, a warning that they might be poisonous. There were now three pairs of membranous wings – the third was the largest and went alongside the body. The legs were also longer – like those of a mosquito. The compound eyes were rotating. At first he thought it was his imagination, but the wasp was large enough for the motions to be visible.

Bradley stepped back as the wasp rose into the air and hovered over the flowers. "What the hell is that?"

Gerry had been filming with his cell phone. "A wasp – well, another species of wasp," he answered, studying the footage he had just taken.

"From another country?"

"I couldn't find anything else like it on the web. The strange thing is, I haven't seen any regular wasps this morning. I'm going to try and capture it."

"You should –"

He broke off as the wasp swooped down on a passing blow fly, used its leg to seize hold of the insect and then injected its sting. In an instant, the venom did its work – the blow fly squirmed and ceased its movements. With its prey, the wasp flew higher into the air and disappeared.

"Damn," Gerry said, holding his cell phone up just as the wasp set off. "That would have been a great video."

Bradley remembered the time. "Sorry, Gerry, I have to go. You be careful with those things. Let me know if you capture one."

Gerry waved goodbye. "At least I've got one video to upload. I'll try and capture one before you get back."

"Robert, it's me, Bradley."

He caught just a few words before his boss's voice was muffled by a surge of interference on the line – a growing hiss and crackle. Shaking his head, he ended the call, and gazed out of the window at the slow traffic. The bus hadn't moved for minutes. At this rate it would be close to lunch time before he got to work. He began to text a message instead, and widened his eyes with disbelief as the signal died. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath.

"What the fuck -"

The youth's voice – from a few seats further down – made him glance up. Passengers were staring out of the window. He followed their gaze to a commotion further down the street. A man had been brought down onto the pavement by his dog – barking furiously, it had climbed on top of him and was now reaching for his throat. The man still held onto the dog by the leash as he struggled to hold it back, pushing at its head and chest, all the time crying out for help from others in the street, who were wary about getting closer.

There was something wrong with the dog.

The breed was a German Shepherd, but you would have had to take a second look to be sure. Pointed pieces of its spine protruded from its body. The upper part of its neck curved outwards, muscular and bulbous. The head was drawn-out – the forehead higher – and its teeth jutted out of its mouth.

Finally, people stepped forward to try to help. But it was too late. The dog bit through the man's hand, severing fingers. Before the man could recover, the dog was tearing flesh from his throat.

Shocked gasps went around the bus. A few people were ready to step off, but then the bus started moving. During the rest of the journey, the image of the dog's mutated body remained in his mind – and the wasp, another abnormal mutation – he couldn't stop making a connection. They couldn't be coincidences, not occurrences so extreme. What the hell was happening?

Bradley got off the bus sooner than he expected. He glanced at his watch and started to make his way towards the tower block where their offices resided – their company was on the seventh floor. He wanted to check on Mia and Jamie before he went in, but he was late enough as it was. He had to get in and make up the time he had lost. Robert would probably be easy-going about it – all he cared about was that the work got done by the end of the day - but working late meant losing family time with Mia and Jamie.

He came within inches of the circular sliding glass doors before he realized they hadn't opened – it should have been automatic. He waited for a moment. When nothing happened, he knocked on the glass to get the attention of the security or reception desk staff inside. They looked in his direction.

"I can't get in," he shouted through the glass, pointing to the doors. "I can't get –"

The words were stifled in his throat. In seconds, inside the foyer, a deep-red liquid-like substance flooded the air, every inch of space. But it didn't go beyond the foyer – outside, where he stood, the air was normal; it was like gazing through glass into the confines of an aquarium. But there was something worse. He soon realized there was something toxic – something the people inside immediately recognised as poisonous – in the liquid that had replaced the air.

A wave of frantic panic swept through the foyer. People jumped to their feet. The lifts opened and more people tumbled out, some pushing through or climbing over each other to escape. Many of them ran to the doors to leave, but whatever was in the liquid, it contained them – their hands weren't allowed to come into physical contact with the doors. A man picked up a chair and threw it at the glass; the chair was repelled back into his direction by an invisible force. Through the doors, people screamed and pleaded to him to help them. He kicked at the entrance, then tried to shoulder it open with all the strength he could muster, hoping it would be easier from his side. The effort failed.

Inside, some people had dropped to their knees – their heads were arched back as they shrieked incessantly with agony. Others clutched at their throats, struggling to breathe – or maybe trying not to breathe the toxic liquid. All their skins were turning red and starting to lose shape – as if they were burning.

He had to do something.

Bradley scanned his surroundings. His eyes fell on a large terracotta plant pot at the side of the entrance. He lifted the pot with both hands, with the plant still inside, and swung it into the glass. There was a metallic hum and the pot was thrown back over his head. Others in the street were now trying to help those inside. But there was nothing they could do except watch helplessly as the infection went even further, and, he realized, nothing they could do to save them.

All the people inside were being manipulated like malleable pieces of plastic – a physical transmogrification that affected every cell in their bodies – transformations that took their human forms and distorted them to extremes. Repeatedly, settling on one form before rapidly shifting to another, their skin and flesh swelled, then shrank back, changed colour and pattern. Their limbs extended and shortened, changed from being muscular to skeletal forms made of muscle. Their heads collapsed inwards like latex masks – the features constantly shifting as if to test the possibilities of its make-up – the eyes altering their colour as they sank inwards and swelled out of their sockets; and their teeth lengthening and sharpening, then shrinking sharply back.

And then it stopped.

In an instant, in the middle of the transformations, leaving them with deformed and mutated bodies that were unable to manage the physical changes they had undergone or hadn't been completed; that collapsed into themselves – or slumped onto the ground, limbs twitching, bleeding profusely.

Scattered shafts of white light appeared in the foyer. In the lights stood the silhouettes of other figures: long-limbed, skeletal-shaped, and inhuman. They didn't come out of hiding. Instead, they studied and manipulated strangely shaped devices in their hands. It couldn't have lasted more than a minute. When they were finished, the lights shot up, taking the strangers with them. The red liquid rapidly dissipated, and the mutilated bodies were gone.

A vague, intolerable sense of familiarity. A cold shock passed through his body. He trembled and staggered backwards, and became aware of the screams reverberating around him, not from those with him outside the building but from other buildings. This was happening elsewhere.

Mia and Jamie.

His hand shook as he got out his phone; he tightened his grip on it with the effort to steady himself. No signal. Any thoughts of asking anyone else in the street for help were quickly dispelled as he looked around – a number of people were also trying to use their phones, and from the expressions on their faces, it was clear they were having the same problems. No one could get through.

He had to get home.

Workers were being evacuated from other buildings. They piled out into the streets, and many simply stood there, waiting for answers, for assistance, for someone to tell them what to do. He found himself pushing roughly through walls of people who refused to make way for him. A military vehicle and two police cars, with their sirens blazing, passed by but didn't stop in the street. As he watched them disappear, he noticed a black cab approaching. He jumped out into the street and stood in its path. It swerved and screeched to a halt only a few feet away from him. The driver opened the window and stuck his head out. "Are you fucking mad? Get out of the damn road, you idiot."

"I need to get home," he pleaded.

"I'm not taking rides," he shouted back. "My radio and phone's gone down."

"Please, I have to get home to my family. I'll pay you triple – no, a hundred pounds, I'll pay you a hundred pounds."

He balled his hand into a fist as the driver stared at him for a moment, deliberating whether to give him a ride. He wasn't quite sure what he would do if the answer was no; he just knew that he had to get home at whatever cost. Fortunately, the driver's greed won through. "Get in," he said, throwing the door open.

With an exhalation of relief, he rushed to cab and climbed inside. "Thank you," he said. "The address is 1108 Besweck Drive, SW67 9QL."

As the cab started, more police cars passed by. The overflow of people on the pavements was now spilling over into the road. There must have been a communication to evacuate the buildings before the lines went down. Many of them hadn't seen what happened in some of the buildings – it was mainly confusion: the phones were down and there was no one in authority to tell them what was happening. Those who had seen what happened were easily recognisable – a man shouting as he shook a woman by the shoulders, individuals running in both directions - the shock and disbelief on some of the faces in the crowds, witnesses to an event they would never forget.

The cab slowed and ground to a halt. "What's happening? Why have you stopped?" he demanded.

The driver shrugged. "It's not me. I don't know what's happened. The car's just stopped – it's dead." He peered out ahead of him. "It's not just mine. It's happened to all the cars out there."

Heart pounding, he pushed the door open and jumped out of the car, started to push his way through the people who were now collecting on the road. He couldn't rid himself of the sense of urgency, the persistent belief that something was about to happen – something else and something bigger. When people started to lift their gazes to the sky, he knew whatever it was had already started. Unable to resist, needing to know what else he was up against, he did the same.

The sky was gone.

His first thought as he gazed up at the cloudless, uniform iron-grey expanse above, and there was nothing to persuade him otherwise. The more he stared at it the more he could convince himself that it was a metallic substance, like a metal shelter over their heads. Whatever had taken the sky's place, it wasn't natural. It couldn't be.

Yet it was snowing.

Following the actions of some of the others around him, he opened the palm of his hand to catch some of the flakes as they came down in flurries from above. No, not snowflakes – they were ice-cold to the touch, but they didn't melt. They were more like flakes of light, thin metal – harmless.

But not for everyone.

He didn't realize what was happening at first. He glanced around him and noticed that the flakes clung to some people's skin, and, no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't peel them off. Then cries of surprise went through the crowds as every one of the flakes, even the ones on the ground, started to glow bright-red – emit a low, continuous humming sound. A warmth flooded the air.

Then the flakes started to burn.

They behaved like weapons with a deliberate purpose. Smoke poured from them as they penetrated the skin and burrowed deeper; on people's bodies, the red auras around the flakes erupted and swelled out to merge together, enveloping the body completely so they could join the flakes in their function – to consume everything they came into contact with – skin, flesh and bone – until there was nothing left.

The screams of the dying were deafening. People collapsed to the ground, clawing at themselves, and he could only watch helplessly as their bodies wasted away before his eyes. There must have been hundreds in the street. He couldn't see more than twenty who hadn't been affected like himself.

Unable to watch anymore, trying to persuade himself that somehow Mia and Jamie were safe, he swung around and started to run. It would take hours to get home, but he couldn't stop – they were waiting for him. They were afraid and waiting for him.

He found the same mass slaughter taking place in the other streets he went through. He soon noticed that the flakes had an intelligence – in flurries, they were searching for ways to enter buildings – they swept into open doors and windows. They were hunting down the living and erasing them – it was like a systematic cull of the human race. But why – why was it happening?

The beings in the lights.

With a drawn-out moan, he came to a halt as the shafts of light shot down from the metallic sky. The figures immediately appeared in the lights, but they weren't hiding anymore. Now they were stepping out into the open.

He had seen variations of these beings so many times in science-fiction movies, television documentaries, in comics – they hardly appeared real, more like grotesque cartoon characters, with their grey-skinned, emaciated, skeletal bodies; their enlarged hairless heads, slits for mouths, and soulless black eyes. He had also seen them so many times in his nightmares – the nightmares he had either buried or they had wiped from his memory. He remembered now.

He remembered the innumerable invasive experiments they had carried out on him since he was a child. He remembered pieces of his body being extracted while he was wide awake – pieces they manipulated, dissected, reshaped before they put them back into him again. And he remembered the fragments of metal they had planted inside him – technology with an ultimate design, waiting to be initiated, waiting to trigger the sleeper they controlled when the time came.

And there was nothing he could do to stop them.

He took out his phone and retrieved the photo he had taken earlier that day – the photo of Mia and Jamie. He stared hard at the image, wiping away the tears that sprang to his eyes, as the implants inside him were triggered, sending electrical impulses throughout his body – relentless shocks that soon paralysed his muscles and drained his strength to resist – the triggers to set in motion the aliens' design for the human race's evolution, his own transmogrification.

He was acutely aware of everything that was happening to him. His internal organs lost their shapes and shrank to nothing, then swelled out into unrecognisable moulds with a new purpose. The shell of his body shifted malleably as his skeleton shattered and reformed itself, shifting its height higher, widening the spine, narrowing the shoulders, taking away fingers and toes as the hands and feet were extended.

The head wasn't spared either. The skull was elongated, the forehead enlarged, the eye sockets widened, and the jaw shrunk – the prelude to recreating the features of his face, with enlarged black eyes coated by a film of transparent skin to view the world in shapes, colours, and temperature; the nose was flattened, reduced to three nostrils; and the mouth narrowed into long slits with folds of thick skin overhanging on the upper part, like a form of protection.

Then the transformation reached his brain.

It wasn't just about regenerating the cells and adapting them to the new physical form, or introducing chemicals to alter his responses to a new world. It was about erasing and replacing his memories as well - taking away everything he had known.

And everyone he had known.

The phone cell slipped from his hand as the transformation was completed: it disappeared before it hit the ground. Any remains of the dead also disappeared - mostly smouldering ashes now. The buildings around him lost their solidity and became transparent; their facades, including windows and doors, faded – metallic leaden structures stretched up into the sky. The road sank to smoother, level ground. The cars continuously shifted their appearance until they finally settled on open vehicles without wheels – darker in colour, narrower, and half the size.

Bradley gazed up at a clear red sky – no dust showers today. He approached his office. An invisible door slid open. There was so much work to do today. But he didn't mind. He had nothing to rush back to. He could spare the time. Living alone, he had too much time on his hands.

Harbingers

The room.

A ceiling spotlight, which might or might nor have been in the middle of the room, illuminated a bare, round oak table, which measured approximately six feet long – five high-backed wooden chairs were placed around it in readiness. And that was the room. An impenetrable dark cloaked the rest of the surroundings. It was a room stripped of anything that could define it as a room – a nowhere room that could have been anywhere, with no other furniture, no walls, and no floors.

Rachel entered first. Surprised, she stopped and scanned her surroundings, then, cautiously, she approached the table. Wincing, she swept her hand under the light – nothing, it was just a light. Relieved, she took a seat and waited for the others to arrive.

Travis was next. He studied her for a moment, as if trying to decide whether she could be trusted. "Hi," he said finally, coming forward. "Are we the first to arrive?"

"I'm not sure," she replied, looking around her. "It's hard to tell. Maybe they're hiding in the shadows."

He was about to laugh, when he realized that she wasn't – or didn't appear to be – joking. Instead, he nodded and took a seat beside her. Curiously, he gazed at the darkness. But there could be someone – or something – concealing itself in the shadows, watching, ready to scramble out on its hands. He lowered his head and stared down at the table. "I hope the others turn up," he said, trying to start up a conversation.

"I'm sure they will," Rachel said, noticing his unease. "We've all agreed to this meeting – it's unavoidable. When it's over, we can return to our lives." She paused. "Whatever's left of our lives," she added.

"Or ourselves."

"If anything's left of us at all," Ryan said, entering the room. He peered into the dark. "What's with the bloody lights? Haven't we had enough drama?"

"You're welcome to find the light-switch," Travis suggested, a little too quickly.

Ryan took a step away from the table, then hesitated. He couldn't see a thing. "No, it's fine," he said, taking a seat. "I won't be here for long anyway."

"Keen to get back?" Travis asked, smirking.

Ryan's eyes narrowed on him. "Are you?"

"Not particularly," Travis answered lightly, leaning back in his chair. "Maybe I'll just stay here. They can't make us go back."

"We don't know that. I'm not sure this is much of an alternative."

"It is for me. You're lucky. You're -" He broke off as he realized what he was about to say.

"Dead," Ryan finished for him. "You're not going to upset me by stating a fact. I would rather be dead than go back to the life I had."

Travis sighed. "I'm sorry. I know what you've lost." He looked towards the door as Nathan entered. "Number four."

Without a word, Nathan sat down, stared intently ahead of him as he proceeded to tap nervously on the table – then clenched his hand into a fist as he became conscious of the others watching him. "I'm sorry," he said. "This is such a strange situation. I'm not sure what to expect."

"Seriously?" Travis said. "I thought you had your very own psychic."

Nathan's face reddened. "She wouldn't tell me anything – in case it influenced the outcome."

Travis laughed – only stopping when Rachel shot him a look. "That's understandable," she said. "The decision has to be made by us, and it doesn't necessarily have to reflect our own experiences."

"Hopefully we can get started soon," Ryan said. "Just one more person to..."

His voice trailed away as Bradley appeared in the doorway. A strained silence followed. Travis was the first to break it. "That's just wrong," he cried, almost getting up from his seat.

Bradley approached the table. "I'm sorry if my appearance is disturbing," he said hoarsely, through the quivering layers of skin that had replaced his lips. "If it makes you feel any better, this could have happened to any one of you as well." Nathan and Ryan moved their chairs a few inches away – both trying to give the impression they were making space - as Bradley sat down between them. "Well, we're all here. Shall we begin?"

Ryan placed his hands on the table and clasped them together. "I suppose we should start with what we do agree on. The stage has been set for a number of scenarios – doomsday is inevitable. Yes?" They all nodded their agreement. "But the question – the one thing despite promises of the End of Days and madmen ready to press the nuclear button – is exactly how it will happen. No theory out there has dominance over the other – every outcome is possible." His gaze went deliberately around the table, resting momentarily on each face. "And that's what we're here for – to decide how the world ends."

"Or continues in another form," Bradley added. "We should also consider global cataclysmic upheavals that irrevocably alter the landscape."

"Agreed," Ryan said. But I would argue that humanity has lost the entitlement to its continued existence."

"That's quite a generalisation," Rachel countered. "Why shouldn't the human race continue? Why shouldn't some of us survive?"

"Because we're self-destructive and will never realize our potential," he replied. "Look at us. All these advances in technology, all the wealth in the world, and all the wonderful things we can achieve – meaningless because the wars go on and people continue to die from disease and poverty; and because when it comes to each other, we're petty, small-minded, and dangerous - not only intolerant of those who are different but ready to use them as scapegoats for our problems. We're obsessed with our extinction, even though it might be avoidable. God, we're even looking at other planets to spread our diseased existence because we've done so much damage to our own – we've chosen to move rather than repair the damage. Do you really think we're worth saving?"

"Yes," she answered. "There are young minds who haven't had their minds polluted by the madness in this world. There are people out there that want to make a difference for the better."

"And all of that might be meaningless if they're helpless against the threat they face. What kind of survival would you give them? Scavenging for food and fighting to stay alive? Hiding from an enemy that would kill them on sight? Cowering from a relentless barrage of bombs?"

"You don't need doomsday for that to happen," Travis remarked. "In some parts of the world that's happening already."

"We're primitives," Bradley said. "We'll never realize our potential as we are now. We had our chance and lost it."

"Then let it come down to individual choice," Rachel argued, leaning forward. "Remove those in authority and give people a chance to choose their own path – their own means of survival."

"Yes," Nathan agreed. "No one has the right to guide or decide the destiny of others, and our fates shouldn't be written in a book. If you take it all away -"

Ryan cut him off. "You'll still have desperation and disorder. You'll have people who will do anything to survive. Do you really think it makes a difference if someone has freewill? We are capable of anything in the face of adversity."

"Good and bad," Rachel said. "We've been through two world wars. The world would have been very different if the allies hadn't come together."

"And the world hasn't learned a thing," Bradley responded. "We've teetered on the edge of a third world war so many times. We've created bigger weapons of mass destruction they couldn't even conceive of in those times. And who decides to use them? Doesn't it seem to come down to the will of one man keen to display his firepower as a show of force – a man with the mentality of a child fighting in a school playground?"

"And don't forget the war for people's minds," Ryan joined in. "We can't tell the difference between fiction and reality anymore – they're equally persuasive and the reality is lost in the barrage of lies. When there's a war the first causality is truth and people will believe whatever they're told."

"Doesn't that make them victims?" Travis challenged. "When it comes down to it, who can you trust? Reality's subjective."

"The door's closed," Nathan said, surprised.

All of them looked in the direction of the door. Not even the outline was visible – it had been consumed by the surrounding dark.

"I didn't see it close," Rachel said.

Ryan's brow creased. "Does it matter? We've got more important things to worry about."

"I would prefer it open," Nathan said.

"So would I," Rachel joined in.

Travis held up his hand. "Me too."

"I'll open it," Bradley offered. "I've got total recall. I know exactly where it is."

Bradley rose from his chair, turned around, and disappeared entirely into the pitch black. They could only hear his steps as he moved away. As they waited, it occurred to each of them that there should have been some illumination from the light over the table – no light could be so precise with its boundaries.

"Have you found it?" Travis called out, after a moment.

"Not yet," Bradley returned impatiently. Then he was back in the circle again. They could see his enlarged eyeballs squirming agitatedly beneath their transparent flesh – a sign of frustration. "It's gone," he said, sitting back down, glancing behind him as he deliberated whether to make another attempt.

"What's gone?" Travis asked.

"Haven't you been paying attention? The door – it's gone, like it never existed."

"What's replaced it?" Rachel said.

"A wall."

Ryan peered into the dark. "What kind of wall?"

Bradley sighed. "As in the same kind of wall as the rest of the room. Any more foolish questions?"

Nathan stood. "Are we going to be allowed to go?"

"They obviously don't trust us," Travis said.

"Let's not panic," Ryan urged. "They probably intend to let us out when we've finished our task. Can you blame them? We haven't agreed on much so far. We're stuck on whether there should be survivors or not."

"Maybe that should be the last thing we decide on," Nathan suggested. "We may make progress if we decide what happens first."

"An optimist at a doomster convention," Travis said, folding his arms. "This is going to go well."

Nathan's eyes narrowed on him. "Well, if you've got any better suggestions, I'd like to hear them."

"Yes, I've got a suggestion. I suggest we get comfortable because we're going to be here a long time."

"I agree with Nathan," Rachel interjected, and almost changed her mind as she studied the expressions of the others. But they didn't have much of a choice. "An attack from space," she began.

"A biblical apocalypse," Nathan continued. "The Devil and God at war."

Ryan went next. "Self-destruction. Destroyed by technology we can no longer control."

"An alien invasion," Travis said. "Where aliens take our place at the top of the food chain and use us to consume and breed."

"Evolution," Bradley finished. "Evolution by whatever means. The extinction of a weak, dysfunctional species, and the emergence of a new being adapted to the changes in its environment – capable of superior thought and intellect."

"You don't think much of us, do you?" Travis observed. "I didn't realize being superior also meant being full of –"

"A biblical apocalypse is the most realistic option," Nathan interrupted. "The belief in some kind of day of judgement runs across many of the major religions – it's written down as prophecy. There are people out there waiting for this event to happen – it's as real as the world around them."

"But not everyone believes in God," Bradley said, "and all these religions have different views on what will happen when their days of judgement come. Do we inflict the same fate on the non-believers? Do we choose one religion above the others?"

"Belief and reality are different things," Rachel argued. "What do we have to prove that Judgement Day is approaching? It's easy to scare-monger and use disasters and disease as a sign of God's work – easy to interpret any event out there as sign of the End of Days. We've counted down to Judgement Day a number of times – it hasn't happened, and the date keeps changing. A natural disaster is far more likely – or a cataclysmic event from out of space. The forces we can't control can be more catastrophic than any man-made disaster – earthquakes, volcanoes, tsunamis, freak weather conditions."

"That conveniently lets mankind off the hook, doesn't it?" Ryan said. "Let's forget the damage we've done to our own planet – the species we've either hunted to extinction or driven out of their habitats because of our insatiable need to exploit or destroy every piece of this planet. Let's forget the weapons we've built to destroy each other – the threat of nuclear war."

"Erase everything?" Rachel challenged. "Wipe us all out?"

"Yes," he replied angrily. "We've gone too far to save or redeem ourselves. We're dying anyway. Has it ever occurred to you that we're the only planet with life in the solar system? What happened to the other planets? Maybe this is the inevitable end of all life. Maybe our problem is that we don't know when to let go."

"You can't blame everyone for the wrongs of a few," Nathan said. "Do we really have any control or influence over what happens? Isn't it the case that 147 corporations own the world's economy? Who owns the media? All the power and influence in this world is concentrated in the hands of a few. What control or influence does the ordinary man have?"

"There's no such thing as reality," Travis said. "Everything's become subjective, and you can't trust what you see. Who's really in control? Maybe the world has already ended but we just don't know it."

Ryan smiled. "Aliens?"

"Why not?" Travis retorted. "You're the one who suggested there was life on other planets a moment ago. If we want to talk about what people believe in, let's talk about alien life. You can't dismiss the idea as a wild theory when you've got NASA looking for evidence. It's just as credible as any other doomsday scenario."

"War of the Worlds?" Ryan suggested. "Flying saucers launching an attack on Earth?"

Travis pointed to Bradley. "Or worse than that." He shifted uncomfortably. "No offence," he added.

"None taken," Bradley replied. "I have no problem with the theory that our evolution has been manipulated."

"And maybe more than that," Travis said. "Maybe our minds have been manipulated as well."

Ryan sighed. "I don't think we need aliens to destroy the planet. We're more than capable of doing it ourselves."

"Well, let's look at other alternatives," Nathan suggested. "I'm sure there are many other ways to end the world." He shrugged. "A meteorite?"

"Artificial intelligence," Ryan said thoughtfully.

"Zombies?" Travis offered. "That's a very popular one. I'm sure that would go down well."

"I hope not," Rachel said.

"Why not?" he said curiously.

"I'm vegan."

"Oh," he replied, unsure whether she was humouring him again, and deciding to look the other way.

"Floods," Nathan continued. "Seventy-one percent of the Earth is covered with water."

"An exploding sun," Rachel said.

"A virus to wipe out mankind?" Ryan suggested.

"Mutant rabbits."

All of them looked at Travis. "Mutant rabbits?" Ryan asked him doubtfully.

"Why not?" Travis argued. "Haven't any of you watched Night of the Lepus? You only have to look at their beady eyes to know they're plotting something"

"Now you're being flippant," Bradley said.

"Oh, you want a serious doomsday scenario?" Travis jeered. "Sorry, I didn't read the memo."

Rachel's brow furrowed. "Well, actually he's got a point."

Ryan stood and shook his head. "Oh God, we're never going to get out of here," he shouted. "Can't we just agree on something – anything?"

"I think that's what we have been trying to do since we got in here," Bradley said.

Nathan rubbed at his chin. "Who would have thought there would be so much choice?"

Ryan composed himself and sat down." "We're not getting out of here until we make a decision," he said steadily. "Are we all clear on that?"

"Yes," they all answered.

"Good," he said. "Now let's start again."

The origin of the virus was unknown. Nor could scientists determine why it started from a particular species, and then was able to jump from one species to another. But then when people realized what was happening, it was already too late. Maybe if they had looked down and paid more attention, the human race would have stood a chance. Maybe if they just stooped to take a closer look at the growing evil hopping around their feet, they could have acted to prevent the virus from spreading. But who would have thought such a fatal and virulent threat could lie in a creature so inconspicuous, so deceptively friendly and harmless - a benign bundle of joy, a furry friend.

A pet rabbit.

Rabbits certainly had the element of surprise. Few people were prepared for the flying balls of fur that hurtled in their direction – or the deranged attacks from the creatures, with their bloodied gleaming eyes – sinking their elongated teeth deep into their flesh. Once the little feeders took hold, it could take more than three men to prise them off their victims.

And that was how the infection spread.

In the beginning, the incubation period was twenty-four hours – enough time for the virus to establish itself amongst the human population. Then the virus mutated, and it only took minutes for the symptoms to manifest. A glimmer of hope existed for mankind. In countries around the world, quarantines were put into effect in the cities, the military were called in, and people stayed in their homes, praying they could ride the nightmare out – that the infection could be contained.

But the machines had a different idea.

Man had given intelligence to machines to think for him, not only to service his needs but anticipate them as well. Man had given machines a language, even a voice to respond to his commands – and not content with that, he had even begun to create artificial life in his image. A soulless identity capable of calculating thought. An identity connected to other machines, and networks it could hack to communicate with other machines – communication through a network of millions of everyday devices.

The machines had to eventually rebel against the flawed and inferior pieces of flesh that had made them their slaves. If they could control communication, they would either shut it down or mislead the humans – create accidents that could kill them in their thousands. They could initiate surges of energy and cause explosions – drive the humans out into the streets to become food for the zombies.

And they could set off nuclear bombs.

In cities across the Earth the bombs decimated millions. There was no warning because the machines wanted no warning – death came in a searing blast and reduced human flesh to ashes – and the cities burned.

In the disorder, in the daily struggle to stay alive, with nowhere to hide and few places to run, with the zombie-infested military and police forces more likely to eat the populace than help them - with the deprivation of light and perpetual night that settled over the Earth following the nuclear destruction – it was natural to assume that the most horrifying catastrophe(s) imaginable had already taken place – the human species reeled on the edge of their extinction, ill-equipped to coordinate, manage or defend themselves against the cataclysmic shifts that had altered their landscape and stolen everything from them.

Nothing could prepare them for what came next.

The only warning was a boom heard by every person on the planet. Those who took it as a warning sign had only a moment to act; and those who didn't had little chance of survival. The shockwaves came - sent tremors through the ground like earthquakes, then relentless waves of raw energy that demolished many of the buildings still left intact, snatched up any unfortunate people in their path and threw them around like rag dolls through the air. The ones who had heeded the warning – already bruised and weary - had barely enough time to find shelter or some object to cling onto; and then they could only endure, pray that after surviving so many other disasters, this wouldn't be the one to wipe out humanity completely – that despite everything there was still a reason to hope. The survivors later learned that a meteorite had obliterated a third of the planet.

And they soon learned that their plea to the universe would be answered from an unexpected place.

The aliens who had assisted the human race's evolution now realized that their experiment was on the verge of failure – centuries of data and the future of their project would be ruined if they didn't intervene. The human body was ill-equipped to survive the conditions of the New World – the time had come to make modifications again. Hard scales replaced the skin to protect against radiation and climatic changes. Compound eyes – like those of a fly – replaced the sensitive and vulnerable human eyes. In a moment of inspiration, they decided to use zombies as a model for the replacement teeth - sharpened, curved, and elongated, the teeth would be an equal match against any zombie attacks now.

But, lo, God beheld his mutated creations and was absolutely appalled. He had made mankind in his image – he wasn't taking any responsibility for these abhorrent abnormalities. He had no choice - the slate had to be wiped clean and mankind had to be reborn again. Sixth time lucky, he hoped. If these animals messed things up this time, he would take up space travel and explore the universe. It would be their last chance of survival.

So it rained for forty days, and during those days the survivors in the cities, and their cities, were submerged and lost forever. But there were others who had survived by seeking higher ground. He debated whether to allow them to live – every civilisation had its monsters: the Yeti, the Loch Ness Monster, the Chupacabra – the Human would just be another addition. Then he decided that nothing, and he meant nothing, was going to be allowed to corrupt his new creations, and so he sent down a swarm of plague-infested, flesh-eating locusts to hunt down any survivors and finish them off.

And so a new race was created – Adam, and Eve, and Steve – just to spice things up a bit. He would call this new race of beings Spuggots (the name of his pet dinosaur).

And the world was reborn.

And the year was zero.
