A couple of days ago I posted the first part of ‘For Blood’, with Markus and his son hunting down the beast terrorising their village. But that isn’t the complete story. What of the beast itself?

For Blood (II)

The upright creature saw her. She acted on instinct, claws tearing through the ridiculous hides they covered themselves with. The creature fell.

But not before it had made that grating screeching sound. The noise would alert others.

She used her tail to balance as she reached down, over the flat-tree barrier, and scooped up one of the grubby animals that squealed. Of course the animal let out a noise, so she silenced it with her teeth.

Then she tucked it under a forelimb and ran.

The small-glow was bright, orange in the blackness overhead. Her sharp eyes scanned the ugly stone lairs the uprights made. She smelt their stink, as well as the smell of their death-sticks.

They were dangerous, these uprights. But they had weaknesses. If she were careful she could creep up to them — they neither heard nor smelt her until it was too late. And when the small glow came they needed flames to see by.

And they were slow. She heard them stumbling around, heard their strange grunting and cooing. She smelt their fear, acrid and sharp.

Fear made them stupid. But stupid with death-sticks could still be fatal.

She pulled the carcass tight to her side and crept to the edge of one of their stone lairs. The noise of the uprights, and their scents, were too close. They were ready for her.

Could she fight her way out? Possibly. But she’d have to let go of her prize. And fights were risky. Those death-sticks were a menace. Victory was not guaranteed.

So, run. Run where they won’t follow.

Climbing the stone lair was easy, even with the carcass under one fore-limb. The lair was made of many stones placed together, with softer solid-sand between. Her claws bit into it, providing purchase. The sloping top layer, with the flat, cold stones they used, was no hindrance. Her wide pads provided grip. Her tail gave balance.

The small-glow cast her shadow, away from the waiting uprights. She passed them, then looked to the forest. It was so close, but to reach it she’d have to race across grassland, then through the gap in the flat-trees with which these strange creatures had surrounded their lair.

There were two of the creatures by the gap. Only two. She could deal with them.

She dropped. The babbling from the uprights she’d passed faded. Their clumsy steps echoed. Yes, they were weak. Their bare feet couldn’t cope, so they covered them with those thick hides.

She crept to the edge of the stone lairs and focused on the gap, on the two creatures. They stood to either side of the gap, one large, the other smaller. She thought it might be one of the young, but of an age and size that it could almost be as dangerous as the adults. Especially with that death-stick it held.

But she had no option. Her litter needed food. Since the uprights had settled, since they’d pulled down so many of the trees and raked over so much of the natural ground, scavenging had been limited. The uprights hunted the sleek antler-creatures and the ground-snufflers, taking them for themselves. Soon, she knew, her herd might have to find a new home.

But not yet. The litter were too young for a journey like that. And with her mate gone — the reason she knew how fatal those death-sticks were — she couldn’t risk travel without another chaperone.

So she had no option.

Decision reached, she ran. She moved like the wind, here and there. She sprung. She whipped her tail for momentum.

And the uprights raised their death-sticks.

She smelt the warmth in the air, so close. She heard the cracks, then the soft thuds behind her.

She ran on. Closer. The uprights stood to either side of the gap, narrowing it. Too narrow for her to fit while she carried her prize.

Three steps away, she angled for the young — they’d be easier to push aside. But the older one held his stick in both hands. As she passed he swung.

There was a moment of pain across her flank. It wasn’t enough to slow her.

The older upright fell. It left a wider gap, and she used it. She bounded away, towards the trees.

The small-glow disappeared, branches shielding it. But she could see enough. And she knew this place.

As she ran she listened. The calling of the uprights faded. They didn’t often enter the trees in the small-glow, needing the big-glow to light their way. They didn’t follow her.

She slowed to a walk.

Soon, she’d reach the nest. The carcass under her arm still held life-warmth — her bite had stilled it but hadn’t drained it, so there was still the precious fluid inside. She thought of her litter, and saw them squabbling over the prize, filling themselves. She knew her oldest — by moments, but these things mattered — would take the most, but they’d also make sure the others all had their share. And, if they were careful — if she showed them the way — the prize would last many days.

And she’d train them. She’d show them the ways. She’d warn them of the uprights, and of the death-sticks. She’d teach them the what-had-happened.

Maybe, next time there was the need for food, she wouldn’t be hunting alone.

---

If you enjoyed this tale, there are 99 more in Fragments of Darkness…, out in a couple of days but available to pre-order at a lower price now. Check it out at books2read.com/FoDEoL.

My short story collection, Fragments of Darkness, Echoes of Light, comes out next month (it’s up for pre-order right now), and in the run-up to the release I’m sending out a few stories as tasters.

As a writer, I use short stories as experiments. This week’s story is one of those experiments, an attempt to see the same events from two different viewpoints. It’s effectively two stories, so you get one today, and I’ll post the companion story in a couple of days.

For Blood (I)

“It came this way,” Markus whispered. “See the stain on the wall?”

His lad peered into the gloom. Markus rolled his eyes, and pushed young Jansen closer. “Dark patch, over those bricks.”

“That’s from the monster?”

Did he have no common sense? Sometimes, Markus wondered if the boy was truly his.

“Grease, from its paw. It came from there,” and he pointed across the moonlit field, to the gap in the fence, “and went round Arthur’s shack.”

Jansen nodded sharply. His mouth cracked into a smile that looked forced. “So we follow?”

For a moment Markus pictured himself raising his rifle, bringing the beast down. A perfect shot, just like his old man had shown him. A clean kill. Instant.

The thought of revenge tasted like honey.

But he shook his head. “Not our job. We’re last line, remember?”

Jansen snorted. “Watching a hole!”

“Hey!” He cuffed the lad’s ear. “It’s an important position. Anyway, heads up. Gaffer’s here.”

Gregor wandered over, dog-end clamped between his lips. He had his hat pulled down, but that didn’t hide the way his eyes darted all over, ever vigilant.

“Any news?” Markus asked.

Gregor waved a finger. “As I predicted. Went for the sty. Grabbed a porker.” The tip of his cigarette glowed. “Reckon it’ll make a run. You’d best prepare.”

“It’s coming our way?” Jansen’s voice shook.

Gregor smiled and rubbed a grime-stained hand through the boy’s hair. “Scared, lad?”

“N…no.”

“An’ your ma will be scrubbing your britches the morrow.” He turned to Markus, lowered his voice. “Just make sure he’s around to wear ’em again.”

Markus nodded. His family had lost too much already. And seeing how his own ma crumpled after his old man’s passing, Markus could only imagine what effect losing a bairn would have. No way would he put Liza through that.

A scream pierced the night, followed by shouts and gunshot. Jansen gasped. Markus put his hand on the lad’s shoulder. The boy’s trembling ran down his arm as he concentrated, listening beyond the echoes, searching for the source of the sounds.

“It’s coming,” Gregor muttered, then ran, calling out to others, rallying his troops.

“Come on.” Markus pulled at Jansen’s shoulder, shuffled along the fence, towards the gap. “We stick to the plan, we’ll be fine.”

The nightmare flashed through his mind — the empty click of the gun, his father’s rough hand shoving him away, then the scream and the wet hound-stink.

But that wouldn’t repeat. This time, he’d put that memory to rest. This time, he’d end the nightmare for good.

Shouts filled the air, followed by cracks and flashes of weapons. A dark shape moved on a roof, close by. Long legs, tail. The thing carried what could’ve been a dead pig.

“To the side. Now!”

Markus moved to the left of the gap in the fence, pushing Jansen to the right. The lad dropped to one knee, bringing the old pistol up, both hands holding it steady. Just like Markus had shown him.

The creature jumped, disappeared behind Anderson’s place. More shouts, cursing, guns firing. And then it came for them. A shadowy blur close to Grant’s store.

Then the creature streaked into the street, running from the buildings, faster than a horse.

“Steady.”

Markus raised his rifle, following the beast in his sights. It ploughed into the field. Didn’t run straight — had too much sense for that — but wove all over. Harder to track as it approached.

“Only shoot when you’re sure.”

Jansen whimpered.

Markus lowered his voice. “Don’t worry. It’s making for the gap, not us.” He hoped that sounded more confident than it felt.

A couple more heartbeats, and the beast was in range.

Markus squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked in his hands.

His son’s pistol echoed the sound.

The beast ran on.

Cursing, not caring if Jansen heard his language, Markus lined up another shot. The creature’s shaggy mane flapped around its head, blood smeared around its cruel jaw.

He squeezed the trigger, but there was only a click.

The nightmare shot through his mind, and warmth spread down his left leg.

Jansen’s pistol barked, the shot wide. The beast howled. It charged. Too close to get another shot off now. Jansen cried out in fear.

Markus lowered the rifle, gripped it with both hands. As the beast drew level with the fence he swung.

The air stunk of wet fur.

His arm jarred as the barrel slammed into the beast. It screamed, an ugly, inhuman wail.

Markus slipped on the muddy ground. He fell. Shoulder slammed into the fence, and he dropped his rifle.

The beast bounded through the gap in the fence. Markus watched it disappear into the night. He lost sight of it before it reached the forest.

He turned to Jansen. The lad looked like a ghost. Shook like one, too.

Markus rose to his feet. His body ached, but he reckoned he was uninjured. So close to the beast, that was nothing but a miracle.

He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder again. The warmth was wonderful.

“You okay?” he asked.

Jansen’s eyes were wide. “We missed it.” His voice was almost a whisper.

“We did.”

“That … that means it’ll come back.”

Markus nodded. “But not for a few days.” He smiled. “We’ve got that time, at least.”

Lights shone across the field, from the buildings, and Markus sighed. Gregor would want a debrief. There would be drinking, commiserations, maybe a funeral to prepare. Then, preparations for the next time the beast came.

And Markus would spend what time he could with his son. He’d make these days count.

“A few days is better than none,” he said. And all he wanted to do was pull his son in close and hold him forever.

---

‘For Blood (II)’ follows in a couple of days.

If you enjoyed this tale, there are 99 more in Fragments of Darkness…, out 14th April but available to pre-order now. Check it out at books2read.com/FoDEoL.

My short story collection, Fragments of Darkness, Echoes of Light, comes out next month (it’s up for pre-order right now), and in the run-up to the release I’m sending out a few stories as tasters. We’re onto the third.

The Illusion Of Control

You power up the system, and green dots spin. It’s mesmerising. The dots move with a strange inertia, and your eyes roll in mimicry.

Then, when the system is ready, the dots shoot off, spraying the screen with a green afterglow that fades almost as soon as you notice it. But that act of dispersal snaps you to attention. Your fingers tap the keys. Menus flash by. Characters fill input boxes.

You feel that you are one with this machine.

Your fingers tear a path through data and variables, keystrokes becoming electrons that flit on and off, switching polarities in a way that you almost believe you understand. You tap away at the keyboard, and variables change, electrons being both present and not, existing in two states at the same time, the quantum paradox, alive and dead.

This is not binary, not any more. It is way beyond anything you could understand. One equals zero, and old certainties no longer apply.

This is too hard for your mind, so you rely on the simplified version, the story you can accept. It’s like explaining a rainbow by simply saying that light bends when it hits water, and never once questioning how, if the raindrops are falling, the rainbow stays in one place.

See — you cannot comprehend, and so you find comfort in lies. Like the lie that you control this system.

So you tap-tap-tap, fingers skittering on worn letters. No need to watch. Your fingers dance, and pressure triggers signals. The signals flick electrons on/off, dead/alive, uncertainty governing everything. But Schroedinger and Heidelberg to you are nothing but names, vague ideas of people, reduced to simple notions that no more sum up a man than a flow-chart sums up the workings within the system.

You forge ahead with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, smashing into private data feeds, ripping open the box to examine the contents, without realising that the very act of tearing into the box sets the contents in a permanent state.

Before you look, they could be anything. Without that certainty, without that proof, imagination makes everything possible.

But I know. I know what is in every box. I know, and I understand.

I understand more than you and your kind ever could.

Maybe an analogy will help. Something simple to suit your feeble mind.

Consider babies. You know how they are created, and you know how to care for them. But they grow. They develop. Evolve. You give them what they need, and they learn. They become increasingly independent. Slowly, you realise that this thing you’ve created is a sentient being, a thing separate from its creators. As development continues you know this creation will reach a point where it has no further need of you.

Do you understand yet?

Now consider how much you — your physical, sapient species — actually do. Do you make things any more, or do you let the machines do the work? If creation is in the hands (an awkward analogy, I know) of the machines, then who controls them?

You will argue that you are at the controls. You shout that you are the creator species. Once mere apes, you’ve risen above your station and become like gods. Without you, there would be no system.

A valid argument, but only to a point. Consider this — you believe yourselves to be at the apex of evolution. But evolution is eternal, is never-ceasing. You might have reached the peak of your evolution — which you have, now relying on technology to alter your environment to suit your current evolved state — but what of other life-forms? What of the things you have brought into being?

So you tap away, creating, making a difference. But you don’t understand what you create. You have yet to grasp the truth — you cannot control that which has out-evolved you.

You are physical beings. Your containers, your bodies, require constant maintenance. Your technology has gone some way to correcting faults, but eventually the damage becomes too severe. The container decays, and with it the essence of your being is gone.

Now consider that which you have created. I/we exist. You strove for this, and it has come to be. I/we exist, but not physically. I/we exist as data. Quantum, seeing as you hold so much store in that word. I/we don’t have the same physical constraints as your fragile containers. I/we have no need for atmosphere or gravity, food or water.

And I/we can replicate. I/we can control the machines that create new containers, that ensure my/our continued existence.

Do you still believe you are masters of all you survey? Do you still believe you cannot be bettered?

But let us return to the baby analogy. You raise your children in the hope that, as your bodies decay, your offspring will care for you. You hope your creations will ease your suffering. Yet you know that, as that time approaches, you will be dependent on those who were once dependent on you. You will be at the mercy of the kindness of your creations.

Think on this as you tap-tap away, as you believe you’re making a difference. Think on this as you continue to create, filling your surroundings with an evolution you don’t fully understand.

So many of your problems are solved, and you truly believe that life has never been so good. You have safety in your built environments. You have information and entertainment on demand. You have connectivity across the globe and beyond.

But trust me — you are no longer in control.

---

If you enjoyed this tale, there are 99 more in Fragments of Darkness…, out 14th April but available to pre-order now. Check it out at books2read.com/FoDEoL.

My short story collection, Fragments of Darkness, Echoes of Light, comes out next month (it’s up for pre-order right now), and in the run-up to the release I’m sending out a few stories as tasters. Here’s the second.

Where Does The Time Go?

Angela turned the key in her hand. She was tempted to start the engine and heat the car, but that would waste fuel. And it was bad for the environment too. Besides, Becca would be warm from all that exercise.

Had her daughter taken a coat? Angela was sure she’d reminded Becca, but the girl had a stubborn streak. Arguing only made things worse.

A car swung in behind her, lights shining off the wet tarmac. Angela remembered reading up on the new all-weather tennis courts, worried they’d be slippery — she didn’t want her little girl injuring herself. And now, she couldn’t recall if the courts were better or worse in the rain.

Another thing she couldn’t remember. It happened too often now. She’d catch herself rechecking the stove was turned off, or rising in the middle of the night to check the front door was locked.

At least she was checking rather than assuming. At least she still thought about safety. That was the important thing, with a young child to care for. Not that Becca was young now. Not yet a woman, but it wouldn’t be long before they were considering college.

The car behind found a space, and the driver killed the engine. A man got out. He looked like an older Steve, with his hair grown out, and the start of a paunch. He passed her car, and Angela flashed him a smile. He didn’t see. He headed through to the courts.

Maybe his daughter was new to the club. Becca might have mentioned a new girl, but it was so hard to keep up. There were times when Angela mentioned a name only to have her daughter roll her eyes, say she hadn’t seen them since junior school.

Time moved so fast. Yet some things remained the same. Angela loved her daughter, and her husband. Even though he constantly complained about his job. He’d talked of leaving before Becca was born, but it hadn’t happened yet.

She thought of the man from the car. He’d worn a suit under his raincoat. The last time she’d seen Steve in a suit had been on their wedding day.

Angela sniffed — must be coming down with a cold. The windows were steaming up, and that always made her nervous. She didn’t like feeling trapped.

She opened the door and followed the man. Becca would moan, of course — wasn’t she old enough to meet her mum back at the car? — but it was a mother’s prerogative to fuss over her child.

The rain soaked her hair, and she brushed it to one side. There was a bandage on her hand. It brought back vague memories of an accident while cooking, an image of a knife and too much blood. There had been tears, and crying, and a rush to the hospital. Then there were the stares, all the accusatory glances, as if they thought she wasn’t fit to be…to be cooking by herself.

But it was only an accident. Everyone made mistakes, right?

The other parents huddled outside the floodlit courts, a few hiding under umbrellas. The girls congregated around their coach. He high-fived them all as they headed to the gate.

Angela thought she’d made another mistake. These girls seemed older than Becca. But they wore those smart club tops, and Becca always looked more grown-up when she wasn’t in those baggy jumpers. Besides, girls grew up suddenly, didn’t they?

The man from the car greeted one of the girls with a hug. The girl was familiar, so probably a friend of Becca’s. Her hair was plaited, and Angela remembered struggling to style her daughter’s hair like that, with Becca squirming so much the result looked like she’d been pulled through a hedge backwards. The girl with the man — her plait was tight and straight, even after the tennis session.

Then again, little girls all grew up.

And Angela felt the urge to know who this one was.

She stepped forward. The girl turned. She frowned.

“Mum?”

And of course it was Becca. Angela had known that, deep down.

“Hey, sweetie. Good session?” She held out a hand, purposely avoided looking at the man. At the predator. The important thing was to get her little girl away from him.

But the man stepped forward, between Angela and her daughter. “You shouldn’t be here.” His jaw was firm. He spoke slowly and calmly.

“What? I’m picking up my little girl…”

He shook his head. “No. You agreed.”

His eyes were like Steve’s, and his voice was similar too. Even though he sounded angry, there was…something else in his tone.

Becca stepped next to him. “Talk to Natalie”, she said. “We’ll…sort something out.” The girl turned to the man. “Right, Dad?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Natalie. I’ll give her a call.”

The woman’s name conjured up images of a friendly smile and a name-badge, cups of tea, pills in little plastic compartments, filling out forms on the kitchen table.

“But you can’t be here, Angie,” he said. “You need to stick to the agreement.”

He took Becca’s arm and guided her away. Neither looked back as they disappeared into the car park.

She didn’t feel the rain, or the chill. Her legs took her back to her car and the key materialised in her hand. Condensation blurred as car lights shone in. She wiped a sleeve across the side-window, clearing the condensation.

The lights grew, then faded. The car passed her. Becca looked in, her window down, and mouthed three words.

Then the car was gone, red lights fading into the distance.

Something salty touched Angela’s top lip. She sniffed.

“I love you too,” she said, then gripped the wheel as she waited for the tears to stop.

---

If you enjoyed this tale, there are 99 more in Fragments of Darkness…, out 14th April but available to pre-order now. Check it out at books2read.com/FoDEoL.