Panic (Wildfire Chronicles Vol. 1) Read online

  Thump.

  Elsewhere in the house.

  Rachel still clutched the socket wrench in white-knuckled fingers. Probably she should have searched the basement for something better to defend herself, something with a cutting edge. But her thoughts had become as foggy as the town's streets, her mind slowly filling with blinding anger. She had a pretty good swing on her. The wrench would do.

  She turned to face the stairs. At the summit, the door to the basement had swung almost closed, but a gap remained, letting in cool, grey light.

  She moved slowly, trying to remember from her descent whether there was anything on the stairs that might trip her, or that she might stumble across and alert whoever was in the house to her approach.

  In her mind she saw something mirroring her actions, creeping slowly toward the other side of the door, drawn by the commotion her fight with the dog had caused. She wondered whether it too had a weapon, something that dwarfed the potential of her wrench. Something that had torn open the stomach of her father.

  Gripping the wrench, the cold, hard metal against her sweating palm feeding her courage, she reached the door and stopped, listening intently.

  She heard a click, something she couldn't identify. It sounded like it came from the entrance to the kitchen.

  Rachel grimaced, and charged out into the light, her right arm already swinging as she dashed into the kitchen. A hulking, enormous figure stood in the doorway, head bent, staring at something in his hands.

  Rachel's mind pieced together the information too slowly to stop. It came in fragments, glimpses of the facts, like a stop motion animation running at half-speed.

  Jason, her brother. Checking his mobile phone. Looking up, startled, eyes wide in shock at seeing his sister, hands and chest covered in blood, rushing toward him, swinging.

  Hitting the ground hard as the wrench connected with his temple with a dull thud.

  “Oh my God!” Rachel cried out as she watched her giant little brother fall to the floor, felled like an oak. “Jason! Are you okay? Oh, please be okay, please...”

  She dropped to the tiled floor beside him, leaning over his chest and searching his face. Jason lay flat on his back, blinking at the ceiling. From the expression on his face, it was surprise more than pain that had dropped him.

  “Hey Sis,” he grunted, sounding bewildered, “Nice wrench. I'm afraid I only got you some chocolates.”

  Rachel smiled despite herself. It was so good to hear Jason voice, to hear anything normal on the morning from hell. She half laughed, then burst into tears, wild, heaving sobs that tore through her, making her shake uncontrollably.

  Jason leveraged himself upright and looked at her, mystified.

  “Sis? Rach? What's wrong?”

  Rachel threw her arms around him, feeling him tense for a second and then relax, and buried her face into his shoulder.

  “He's dead, Jase,” she gasped between sobs, feeling his T-shirt grow quickly damp as she wept, “Dad's dead.”

  *

  Michael dreamed of betrayal. The dream was nothing new. It coiled around his consciousness, embracing him like an old friend. The words it whispered to him were steeped in familiarity, and each time the pain of them grew, filling the dark chasm in his soul. The places changed, the faces differed, but the unmistakeable message remained the same: the people you trust will hurt you.

  For a while after The Cardiff Incident, Michael had been obliged to attend sessions with a therapist, an elderly woman by the name of Susan.

  Susan had a nice smile and a kindly manner, and it was possible to forget, listening to her softly-spoken tones, that she was a healthcare professional at all. The ease of the conversation, the familial nature of their 'little chats' – like Susan was the grandmother Michael had lost years before – were impressive. The illusion never quite drew Michael in, since he spent a good deal of time wondering how long Susan had studied in order to develop those subtle skills, but he appreciated the effort, and the 'little chats' were a pleasant way to spend an hour.

  Never felt like he learned much though. He went into therapy with a preconceived notion that he would be unravelling riddles in his psyche that he hadn't even known had existed. That each session would bring some Eureka moment, a sudden revelation of the self that would feel like the lifting of a lifelong burden so intrinsic he hadn't even known he had been carrying it.

  Nothing of the sort ever came, and Michael wondered if somehow his cynicism had sullied the process and denied himself the epiphany. Susan had gently coerced him into talking about his childhood, about his relationship with his parents, his lifelong battle to keep the depression that had claimed his father at bay, the increasingly strained relationship with Elise, the stress of the job. All factors, she said, that had led understandably – perhaps inevitably – to The Cardiff Incident. The dreams, of course, stemmed from his mother's departure, and the years he had spent being raised by a man preoccupied with fighting his own legion of demons. Textbook.

  Michael had smiled and nodded, and eventually even began to play out a role as a man astonished to discover such revelatory information. A man now ready to begin a life of positive action and self-fulfilment. In the end, those last couple of sessions, he felt that he consciously led the conversation to places that would appease Susan, places that would allow her to tick the boxes on whatever forms she would need to fill out to release him, satisfied that she had done her job. He delivered an approximation of a Eureka moment in the end, mainly for Susan's benefit, and so he could bring the sessions to a close.

  It struck Michael that her failure to uncover his obvious deception meant that he was either a very good actor, which he doubted, hearing the falsehoods that slipped from his own mouth; or that Susan, and by extension her entire profession, was a charlatan.

  Sometimes, in his darker moments, he wondered if maybe Susan had known all along, and was as glad for their sessions to end as he was. Maybe Michael was too lost even for therapy to bring him back.

  He returned to work cleared for active duty, and still broken.

  And still the dreams stalked him. He had become used to waking from them now, rarely troubled by the shakes and sweats that had often accompanied turbulent nights at the start. Nightmares had become routine.

  Waking to find a shotgun levelled at his face, however...that was new.

  It was the pain that hit Michael first, even before he opened his eyes, the insistent pounding in his head that felt like some mighty blacksmith had taken up residence within and was using his brain as an anvil. He opened his mouth to groan and another pain clamoured for his attention: the right side of his jaw felt like it had been dipped in molten metal.

  And finally, a third pain. Far less crippling than the first two, yet at the same time far more troubling: a burning ache that started at his wrists and ran up to his shoulders. Michael was tied to something, something large and cold; something that scratched at his wrists when he tried to move them.

  He sat for a moment or two, keeping his head bowed, hoping that his captor had not noticed him stirring, straining his ears to pick up any sort of clue about the situation that might swing things in his favour. All he heard was distant birdsong, sounding strangely animated, almost hysterical, as though the bird in question had just spotted a cat sneaking up on it; and leaves rustling in a faint wind.

  Finally, he opened his eyes, letting painful light rush in. That's when he saw the gun.

  Things swam sharply into focus. Michael was still in the forest, though the last thing he'd remembered – the strange squat building in the clearing – was nowhere to be seen. His arms were tied behind the trunk of a tree, which explained the pain in his shoulders, tendons straining to accommodate the awkward angle of his arms.

  Four feet away, sitting on a stump, sat a small figure dressed in black, face obscured by a hood pulled low, looking for all the world like the grim reaper with an updated arsenal. The man holding the gun was slight, and his clothes looked a size too large
for him, as though he hadn't bought anything new in years, or was unaware that he had dropped a few pounds.

  Michael coughed, tasting blood and feeling a couple of broken teeth wobbling in his gums, and tried unsuccessfully to find the man's eyes under the hood.

  The figure did not move for a long time, save for the slight motion of his gloved fingers, which turned over a small pebble with surprising dexterity.

  It was Michael that spoke first.

  "Who are you? What do you want with me?"

  He had aimed for an authoritative tone, but was disappointed to find he had missed. Fear was clearly evident in his voice, amplified by the eerie calm of his captor, who simply sat, almost nonchalantly regarding him from the depths of the hood.

  "Look," Michael continued "Whoever you are, whatever you've done, we can talk about it okay? What you're doing here will only make things worse. So why don't you put down the-"

  The hooded man flicked his wrist and Michael was silenced by the pebble he had been toying with catching him flush in the centre of his forehead. An infant pain, a new member of the family.

  "You like movies Officer?"

  Michael remained silent. The hooded man's voice was off somehow: guttural, forced, as though he was growling through his teeth, trying to disguise it. Michael thought he could detect faint echoes of an accent, though he couldn't place it.

  "Sure you do. Who doesn't like movies right? I watch a lot of movies. Modern day parables: little bite size lessons on how we should react to almost any circumstance. You know that 95% of people, if they find themselves in a dangerous and unfamiliar situation, will be subconsciously scanning through their memory banks, trying to remember what Will Smith or Jean Claude Van Damme would do? Tragic, really, but understandable. These days, our field of experience is very narrow you see, very sanitised.

  "Tell me, Officer. I'm sure you've seen lots of movies, lots of cop movies right? Justice catching up with the bad guys, big cheer, lights go up.

  "You ever seen a movie in which the guy tied to the tree asks the questions?"

  Michael shook his head slowly. Jesus, he thought, the guy's a lunatic.

  "That's right." The hooded man said. The tone of his voice shifted a little, and Michael thought he could hear the man smiling smugly.

  "I will take your silence to mean that you are a quick learner, and that is very good. Because, officer, this is not a movie, and there is no convenient sharp rock for you to cut through those bonds with. There are real bullets in this gun, and I am fully prepared to use them. Will Smith is not coming to save you. All of which means I ask the questions and you answer them, yes?"

  Michael nodded.

  "Very good."

  There it was again, the trace of an accent. Wery Gut. Eastern Europe? Germany maybe?

  "So, Officer. Why are you here?"

  Michael searched his mind for some plausible reason, something that would mollify the crazy man with the gun, but came up empty. He felt like he had wandered into the middle of an argument that he knew nothing about and was asked to pick a side, when both factions seemed dangerous.

  "Look, I'm a police officer and-"

  With power that belied his slight frame, the hooded man struck like a snake, lashing out a hand, scooping up another rock – bigger this time – and whipping it against Michael's forehead. Again, he proved unerringly accurate. Michael's skull rang dully, like a muted bell. He suddenly felt nauseated, and wondered dimly if he was suffering from concussion, and whether it would even matter if the hooded man was intent on hurling increasingly large rocks at him.

  "I know what you are Officer. I did not ask you what you are. I did not ask you who you are. Pay careful attention to the words I am using: why are you here?"

  Michael was dismayed to find himself stammering.

  "I...I don't know what you want from me, I don't even know where here is, for Christ's sake!"

  The man said nothing for several seconds, and then hefted the shotgun, taking aim.

  Michael squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and saw, briefly an image of his estranged wife and child standing before him. He felt a warmth return to him, something that had been missing for so long that even its absence had been forgotten, and then the deafening roar of the shotgun enveloped him.

  *

  Jason Roberts was a giant. He had always been tall, a growth spurt that began aged ten and which his teachers joked never seemed to actually stop seeing him tower over his classmates. By the age of sixteen he stood six feet and five inches and finally gravity decided it had had enough and called a halt. In response, his body merely decided that it would grow horizontally.

  If he had been American, he would no doubt have had college football coaches swarming all over him, but the truth was that in St. Davids his size merely made him unusual. He played for the school rugby team, of course, and though he didn't possess much in the way of actual talent, he quickly made a name for himself across the county by virtue of his size and strength. His kicking, catching and running were all sub-par, but he was a one man scrum, and his team mates loved nothing more than seeing a team from another school visit for the first time and watch their faces go white when they saw they were lining up against Voorhees.

  That's what they called him. Voorhees. After the hulking monster – also called Jason – in all those dumb horror movies. Jason watched a couple, but they were truly ridiculous, full of stupid teens running away from a guy in a mask who always seemed to catch them despite never moving quicker than a man out for a leisurely stroll.

  He didn't mind the name, found it kind of funny really – and for a while all his mates loved those movies, sneaking hold of copies on DVD and watching them without their parents knowing. It made him feel a bit like a hero, he supposed, until everyone grew out of it, but the truth was that the name could hardly be less apt.

  Jason was a behemoth, but he didn't have an aggressive bone in his body. In fact, his size, the way it made him stand out in a crowd, just made him feel self-conscious and embarrassed. He spent most of those teenage years, when he stood almost a foot taller than his peers, wishing on a nightly basis that he would just stop growing.

  Most of the time he slouched, trying to shave off a couple of inches, and he became quiet. Previously an outgoing, happy child, he became a teenager that wanted nothing more than to fade into the background.

  Girls made things worse. He remained oblivious for a long time, and when finally he did develop an interest, he found girls terrifying. He had no idea that half the female population of the school nursed a secret crush on him, nor that he intimidated them. All he understood was that occasionally he would catch a girl staring at him, and when he made eye contact they would quickly look away or begin to giggle with their friends. He was, it was obvious, a freak. Voorhees.

  It wasn't long before the boys who had originally been in awe of Jason, and terrified of his size, realised just how fragile he was, and how easily led. To an outsider, the notion of this giant being bullied by kids that he dwarfed would have seemed preposterous, but Jason's mental maturity lagged way behind his physical. Maybe it was because he was so embarrassed about standing out; maybe it was just karma, some form of cosmic balance that denied him the awareness to understand the mind games and cruelty that form a large part of high school.

  He found himself in trouble often, his attempts to fit in leading to his hanging out with the kind of kids who sniff out weakness like bloodhounds. Nothing major, after all, this was still St. Davids, but whether it was getting caught smoking by the teachers, or shoplifting, or dabbling in drink and drugs, Jason always seemed to end up involved.

  It was Rachel who was the strong one, always had been, and Jason understood that even as his biceps began to bulge and his neck thickened. Two years Jason's senior, Rachel manoeuvred her way through secondary school with a clear mind and enviable focus. Jason's sister was determined, single-minded, and had balls of steel. When one lunchtime she found Jason on the verge of tears, being merciles
sly tormented about girls by a group of his so-called friends, cruel guys who knew the gentle giant would never respond in the only way they would respect, Rachel waded in, slapping one guy so hard Jason thought it sounded like a gunshot ringing out across the yard, and then delivering a solid knee to the testicles of the smirking ringleader.

  “Who's afraid of girls now, bastard?”

  He remembered the diamond-hard edge to her voice as she spoke those words often, the way her jaw jutted out, challenging the bully to get back to his feet, showing no fear whatsoever, and it always made him smile.

  They became closer that day, the day that Rachel realised that her little brother needed protecting despite his physique, and he leant on her a lot over the next few years. Even when he grew into himself a little, leaving school and starting a decent career in construction, he'd call or text her most days, and when he sought advice or reassurance or validation, she always provided it.

  Rachel was a pillar of Jason's life.

  Looking at her now, sitting on the tiled floor, covered in blood and crying, damn near hysteria, Jason felt that pillar crumble a little, as though someone had pulled back some great curtain to reveal that the world he knew was just some illusion, some software being played out on a vast computer.

  “Dad's dead.”

  He understood the words, but they made no sense to him. Dad's dead. Dad's. Dead.

  He shook his head a little, as though it needed rebooting.

  Their father couldn't possibly be dead. Jason had driven down this morning to celebrate his dad's birthday. There was a cake. Jason had bought a funny card, one that said I wanted to buy you a Ferrari on the front and then when you opened it up you found one of those packs of tiny screwdrivers that you get in Christmas crackers and the words but I could only afford the tool kit.

  It was funny. Jason knew dad would find it funny, and he had driven there that morning thinking about how his dad would roar with laughter when he saw it, looking forward to him clapping Jason on the shoulder and grinning.

  How could he be dead?

  He rubbed his head, feeling a small bump forming at the edge of his hairline where Rachel had pounded him with the wrench. She must have hit me harder than I thought. Sounded like she said Dad's dead.