The Descent to Madness (3 page)

Darting into a dark alley
between two factories, he stopped for a second to catch his breath. The voices crowded in on him and he fell to his knees, hands clutched to his ears.

             
“Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!”

             
Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!

             
The mocking voices copied him like schoolchildren.

The splashing
of feet through puddles heralded the arrival of the monsters and he leapt up, adrenaline lending fresh haste to his weary limbs. Eyes darted about the alleyway for an escape route, finally settling on a ladder, and a quick dash saw him five rungs up, even as the monsters rounded the corner in pursuit. Eyes screwed tight against the stinging rain, he hauled himself up the three storeys the ladder climbed. Clambering over the parapet and onto the flooded roof, he risked a glance down.

The monsters had reached the ladder and were climbing fast.

The lead one looked up and saw him, roaring menacingly. Stone backed away from the parapet, turned and ran. Leaping over a pipe, he looked ahead and saw some large air-conditioning units at the far edge of the roof. Acting on pure instinct he ran and scrambled up the slippy metal machinery. Sheer momentum nearly carried him clean off the edge and his feet squeaked to a stop, his arms waving in the air as he balanced precariously on the precipice before taking a step back. A bestial roar from behind made him turn.

His insides turned to ice as his two pursuers, slowly, purposefully
, stalked towards him.

***

The lightning flashed, illuminating the windswept rooftop and the monsters closing in. Suddenly clambering up on the narrow air-conditioning units with a sheer fifty foot drop on one side didn’t seem such a good defensive move. The voices mocked his rash decision. They were clearer now, stronger, more insistent, as though sensing some climax soon to come and wanting to get in as many jibes as possible before it happened. The deep, booming rumble of thunder drowned them out momentarily and his shaking legs gave way. Falling to his knees, the thin metal flexed under his slight weight as, again, he clasped his hands to his ears and cried out into the night.

             
His fevered mind raced as it sought to understand the rapidity with which events had unfolded. It was as though his life was unravelling, as though everything he had worked for in the last twenty-five years, all his achievements, were crumbling to ash in the space of a few short hours.

             
Achievements?
The voices laughed, like the whispering of leaves on a windy autumn day.
What achievements? The D Grades you got at school, leaving you stranded at home while all your friends went off to university to make something of themselves?

             
“No!” He gritted his teeth and shook his head from side to side like a rabid dog. “Shut up!”

             
Or the girlfriend you held on to for far too long, leaving you to weep quietly into your pot noodle, while all night she was off drinking, dancing, rutting with him… And not just him, but the others too, all the many others…

             
“Why?” he yelled. “Why are you saying these things?”

             
Why?
the voices echoed.
Why did you hold onto that bitch, hmm? Was it to make up for the fact that everyone else had left you? You’d rather have someone who didn’t love you than no-one at all? Think of all those who’ve left you. Your friends, all now high-flyers. Your family, now in Australia. Why do you think your parents left you behind, Graeme? Why? It’s because you’re a loser…

             
The lightning flashed again and, with a stomach-churning jot, he realised the monsters were slowly climbing up the side of the air-conditioning units, making their way inexorably towards him, growling a low, measured, menacing growl.

             
“What do you want? Go away!” he screamed, backing slowly away, always facing them.

Under the trainer of his back foot he felt the metal edge of the machine and, looking down, he felt a sudden wash of vertigo at the drop below.

             
We only want the best for you, Graeme. You were born a loser and always will be a loser. Do you think life will get any better for you? No; women will always abuse you. Your bosses will always use you. And your parents will never want you. Do you want that, Graeme? Do you want that life?

             
The monsters were on top of the unit now, growling, wings flapping in the gusts of wind, rain pouring down their misshapen domed heads as they inched their way closer.

             
These things want you to suffer that life, Graeme. They want you to stay in misery, alone and unwanted. A nothing.

             
Tears rolled down Stone’s face as he blubbed uncontrollably. Unbidden, images of all his past failures flashed through his mind as though on fast-forward. Lost loves, failed exams, job interviews he’d never heard back from. Twenty-five years of constant struggle and heartache with nothing to show for it but a shitty apartment, a pile of bills and a fractured mind.

             
“No,” he gurgled. “I… I just want it to stop…” The waves of depression rolled over him, powerful, as though a dam had burst somewhere and a massive back-pressure was forcing them in. “I can’t go on like this, I just CAN’T!”

             
Then you know what to do…

***

PC Webb blinked furiously, the rainwater stinging his eyes. Slowly, slowly he edged his way forwards towards the man, his every footstep measured on the slippery metal surface.

             
“Easy, lad” he cooed, softly. “Easy does it. I’m coming to get you.”

             
PC Yearsley was a couple of steps behind him, youthful eyes wide open with fear and tension. Talking druggies down from the tops of factory roofs on stormy nights was not part of basic training at Hendon. Webb inched a tiny bit closer; he was five feet from the man, now, close enough to dart forward and make a grab for him. He raised his hand a fraction. The distressed youth saw the slight movement and screamed.

             
“No! I don’t want it! I can’t take it! You can’t make me!”

             
He span on the spot and leapt into thin air, just as Webb surged forwards, hands outstretched and grasping. Lightning flashed close by, momentarily blinding the two officers, the rumbling soul-shatteringly loud, as though the Earth itself was being ripped in two. Slowly it faded away until the only sound was that of the rain hurling itself against the metal underfoot. The acrid taste of metal filled their mouths, as though they were sucking on a two-pence piece.

Seconds passed.
             

             
“Steve?”

             
PC Webb turned, his face impassive, his eyes vacant. Looking down at his fist, Yearsley saw the torn remnants of a cheap, blue coat. The younger officer let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes for a second. Drawing deep, he plucked up the tattered reserves of his courage and walked to the edge of the building. He looked down.

             
“Steve…?” No response. “Steve!”

             
“…what?”

             
The younger officer turned to look at his companion. “Where’s he gone?”

             
The older officer stared at him for a moment, disbelieving, then moved to join him. Looking down into the alleyway a lethal fifty feet below, sure enough there was nothing; no mangled body, no grisly remains. The empty, wind-swept alley defying all logic.

             
“…bloody hellfire.”

Chapter Two

It was the cold that woke him. It was the kind of cold that bit and kept on biting, like a terrier with a rat. It howled at him from across oblivion, shattering the silence and bringing white, harsh light into the peaceful dark, like a diver bursting from the calm, serene depths of the ocean into the violent, foamy broth of its stormy surface. An amorphous and vague sense of self was forced into coalescence, as stinging pain outlined the shape of limbs; arms, hands, legs.

             
Stone opened his eyes.

Pure, brilliant whiteness bleached his retinas. With his newly discovered arms he pushed himself upright, hands sinking deep into the wetness of the thick, powdery snow and eyes blinking in the harsh and unfamiliar light. A strange, metallic taste filled his mouth. Looking about, he saw that he was in a crisp, sloped snowfield. All about the edges of the clearing, tall, dark, coniferous trees packed densely, rising off in one direction and, in the other, descending into the hidden depths of a wintry valley. Visibility was poor, his eyes squinting as the gusting wind carried sharp flakes of snow that stung his cheeks. His breath misted in front of him in the arctic air and with limbs stiff from lying in the cold he hauled himself onto his feet.

              A sudden gust of wind staggered him and he nearly fell, the icy chill tearing through his thin, sodden clothes with frightening ease. The shock of the cold  stole the breath from his lungs and he instinctively clasped his arms to his spare frame. Another gust and a flurry of snow; the weather was taking a turn for the worse. He span about, seeking shelter, knowing that he must get out of the open field and find a place to hide from the elements and soon. He took the path of least resistance and started making his way down the slope, gravity lending a helping hand.

             
Entering the treeline, the strength of the wind lessened slightly, but he carried on for another hundred yards until the clustered trunks of the trees that crowded about formed a natural windbreak, shielding him from all but the worst of the gusts. Now, free from the distraction of the wind, he took a moment to take stock of his situation.

             
His clothes were sodden through, from the trainers on his feet to his blue coat. Strangely, they smelt of rain rather than snow. His back, in particular, felt icy cold. He took off his coat and examined it; a torn hole slap-bang in the centre went some way to explaining. He threw the ruined coat to the floor and sighed, attempting to think back to before the snowfield, trying to remember how he’d come to be in this predicament. He knew his name, of that much he was sure. But all before the snowfield was hazy. He remembered the darkness before he awoke, what seemed like an unending void with no sound or light. He remembered the aftershocks of some loud noise and the strong taste of tin.

He tried to think back even further…

              “Aargh!” He fell to his knees, a stabbing pain lancing his brain. Moments passed and it began to fade, leaving but the bitter memory. He shook his head, breathing hard and gave up trying to remember for now. He closed his eyes for a moment and leant backwards in an attempt to get a moment’s rest against a tree-trunk. Leaping forwards with a yelp he turned with incredulous eyes to examine the offending bark. It was not smooth, like that of any tree he’d seen before, but instead coated in thousands upon thousands of pointy thorns. He tentatively reached out and touched the tip of one with his finger, to be rewarded with a pinprick of blood; they were razor sharp. Upon looking at his finger he noticed myriad cuts on the back of his hand, all over his knuckles. They looked reasonably fresh, the blood barely congealed but he couldn’t remember receiving them. The throbbing echoes of his previous episode deterred him from dwelling too long on the subject.

             
The bright, white snow beneath his feet was beginning to lose its lustre and, looking into the darkening sky, he knew that evening must be drawing in. He began to shiver. Soon it would be dark and he knew that his tattered attire would not see him through the night. Shelter must be his first priority. A hollow, a cave, anywhere he could get out of the wind and snow entirely.

             
He set off downhill.

***

The light was all but gone by the time the faint smudge appeared in the distance between the trees, a void in the white cliff face. By sheer force of will, Stone made his way towards the cave, planting each frozen foot mechanically one in front of the other. His arms wrapped about his sides and his teeth a-chattering, it was with relief that he finally stepped out of the snow and onto solid – and more importantly – dry stone. His vision swam with the onset of hypothermia and all he wanted to do was sleep. He made was way inside the cave, slowly, hands outstretched for it was pitch dark. He knew that the tiredness was a symptom of the extreme cold, that he should fight the exhaustion and find either something to cover himself, or better yet some dry leaves or wood to make a fire. But the knowledge of the fatigue’s source made it no easier to resist. Besides, it seemed to be getting milder, nay – warmer, even – the further he ventured into the cave.