Tania Carver - Cage of Bones

She tried to find another entrance or exit to the chamber. Felt all along the walls, the floor. Found a tunnel. She knelt down, listened.

Heard voices. Screaming, shouting.

‘Phil… ’

Giving a quick glance behind her to make sure Glass wasn’t following her, and wanting to get out of the chamber as quickly as possible, she crawled inside.

Mickey ran. Through puddles and potholes. The rain was still lashing, the lighting in this part of the yard pooled and sporadic. He viewed the night like a static-filled TV screen.

He ran away from the warehouse, down an alleyway between the stacked containers. Fenton still ahead of him. The night, the rain, covering him. Fenton ducked round a corner. Mickey increased his speed.

He ran round the corner. Stopped.

No sign of Fenton.

Mickey slowed, stopped running. Looked round.

The area had opened out, enough space for a truck or two to get between the stacked containers. Open ground. Nowhere he could hide.

But he had gone. Disappeared.

Mickey looked up, thinking he might have climbed above him, tried to escape that way. Squinting against the rain, hand shielding his eyes from the lights. Couldn’t make out anything. No figure was there.

He looked round again. There was nowhere Fenton could have gone. Nowhere.

Mickey sighed. Shook his head.

Impossible.

He looked again. Walked down the side of the containers. On his left-hand side, at the base of the biggest stack, there was a shadow that didn’t seem to belong. Mickey moved closer. Stopped beside it.

It was a slight shadow, and if he hadn’t been looking, he would have missed it. He moved nearer, examined it. A doorway had been cut into the metal side of one of the containers. Secured with two bolts. Padlocked. The bolts were undone, the padlock open. The door hung slightly ajar, casting the shadow.

This was where Fenton had gone. He had tried to close the door behind him but couldn’t bolt it.

Mickey opened the door, stepped inside. Gun drawn. Ready.

He was completely unprepared for the sight that greeted him.

Phil froze as the blade came towards him.

Finn screamed. ‘No… no… he’ll kill you… no… ’

The boy’s voice undid the spell. Phil jumped, moving quickly out of the way as the sickle cleaved the air he had just occupied.

His head spun. His arm was beginning to feel numb.

The Gardener came again.

Phil pivoted once more, moved just in time.

He couldn’t keep this up. He was weakening, blood loss making him faint. Adrenalin was pumping hard round his system but that just speeded up the rate at which he was losing blood.

He stumbled, almost fell. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t allow himself to. Willed himself to keep upright.

The Gardener was coming again. Nearly as bloodied as Phil was, but still going. Phil knew that this time would be it. Either he would go, or the Gardener would.

He tried to stall him.

‘Take your hood off… ’

The Gardener ignored him.

‘Take it off. I want to see your face… ’

The Gardener made a sound that could have been laughter or could have been him clearing his throat. Still holding the sickle with one hand, he reached up, tugged the hood from his head.

‘That’s better. I can see you now.’

The Gardener threw the hood to the floor. Smiled. ‘I’ll get you this time.’

‘You’ll have to,’ said Phil, hoping he could remain upright long enough to finish this. ‘It’s getting late. The equinox is nearly over. You’re going to miss it… ’

Enraged, the Gardener moved swiftly forward.

‘Phil… look out… ’

A voice. Behind them. Phil recognised it straight away.

The Gardener turned, surprise etched on his features.

Phil didn’t stop to think. He was on him straight away. He sliced the blade across the Gardener’s throat. Jumped quickly back as the blood arced out of his neck, spraying him.

The Gardener dropped the sickle, put his hands to his throat. Gurgling sounds coming from his mouth. He tried to stop the flow of blood by pushing his fingers into the wound. Pushing and pushing. More gurgling. The blood spurted faster. Harder.

Phil watched him. No emotion in his face.

The Gardener sank to his knees, hitting the flagged floor with a thud. He looked up at Phil, eyes asking for an explanation.

Phil had none to give. Just stared at him.

The Gardener pitched forward. Head hitting the stone with a thud. He lay there, eyes wide, staring, as the blood slowed to a trickle, stopped altogether.

Phil sighed. Felt his legs give way.

Marina ran to his side. ‘I’ve got you,’ she said. ‘I’ve got you.’

He put his arm around her, let her take his weight. He looked at the cage, at the boy inside it. ‘You… you saved my… my… life… ’ Phil smiled.

Marina walked him across to Finn.

‘Let’s get you out of here… ’

Finn had stopped crying, stopped screaming. There was disbelief in his eyes.

He wouldn’t – couldn’t – believe it was all over.

It wasn’t.

Mickey stopped dead. Stared.

The breath knocked from his body.

Inside the container was like a shanty town. Old mattresses were spread over the rusted wet metal floor. Stained, disgusting and damp, they had old blankets on them, people lying there.

And what people. Filthy. Emaciated. Barefoot. Wearing clothes that were little more than rags. Strings of low-wattage bulbs hung from the ceiling, some blown, casting pale, depressing pools, a shadowed glow.

Mickey walked further into the container. The few people there stared at him, pulled away from him. No one spoke. He stepped into the centre. Peered ahead. It wasn’t just one container. He could see where the back wall had been cut from the first container, the jagged, rusted edges welded to the next one along. Light bulbs were strung through there too. More mattresses, more walking-dead people.

He felt like one of the Allied soldiers at the end of the Second World War, walking into Belsen.

He realised, horrified, where he was.

In the Garden.

He walked slowly ahead, looking around all the time. Looking for Fenton, eyes, senses taken by what was before him.

The smell was appalling. Human decay, human waste. The noise, a low moaning, keening. The terminally unwell, too tired to cry out. Adults shielded children as he passed. He communicated terror by his presence. Another smell in the background: food. A rotting vegetable soup smell. Like reheated three-day-old kitchen waste.

He moved forward, eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom. He knew there would be no point asking if Fenton had come in here. He didn’t even know if they could speak English.

Finn came from here. Poor kid, thought Mickey. Poor, poor kid.

He stepped through into the next container. This one had a square hole cut into the ceiling. A metal ladder had been placed there. Mickey, looking around and not seeing Fenton, climbed upwards.

He came out on another level, much the same as the ground floor, though this one was slightly better. Washing was strung out – old, worn, but with a semblance of being clean – and the mattresses weren’t quite so stained as the ones down below. But then these ones didn’t have pooling rainwater soaking through them. Water ran down the walls, though. Mickey felt the damp in his chest immediately.

He looked round. The same layout as downstairs, but still no Fenton. He was about to begin walking round that floor when he felt a tugging on his leg.

He froze, stared down. A woman, huddled and scared, was looking up at him. Flinching away, too frightened to make direct eye contact. His first response had been to pull away. But he fought it. Stayed where he was. The woman didn’t want to hurt him. She was telling him something.