Dan Abnett - Border Princes

They run faster than he does. Of course they do. They were made that way. They run faster, faster… faster than he could ever run. Leaping, bounding, they close the distance. They are catching up with him.

They are silent. They make no sound. Not even footsteps.

Still running, he looks over his shoulder. The shades are there.

One leaps-

He wakes. Bolt upright, wet with sweat.

‘Babe, what is it?’ she asks, head buried in the pillows beside him.

‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Weird dreams. Go back to sleep.’

Thursday morning, six o’clock. Still dark. Dean Simms gets up, and makes tea by the light of his single bulb. The B amp;B is quiet. He sneaks along to the bathroom and takes a quick shower.

Back in his room, he suits and boots as he sips his tea and checks over the electoral roll. Tovey Street. As good as any. He does his nails, digging the quick with the nib of a fresh orange stick. A splash of smelly. He pulls on his jacket and flicks his tea bag into the bin. Got everything? Keys? Briefcase? Secret?

He strokes the soft lump for a moment before zipping his briefcase closed. All set.

He goes out, locking the door behind him.

Outside, it’s sharp and clear. Frost on the pavements. Glitter in the bushes. He hears a milkman clinking on his rounds down the street, the rising then falling hum of the milk float coasting point to point.

Dean crosses the street. The milkman nods good morning as he whirs past on his chinking float. A good day, a clear day. Dean takes a deep breath. Cold air.

A tabby cat slinks by along a wall, tail down. Dean reaches his vehicle and unlocks it.

He gets in. The vinyl seat is cold. The hard plastic wheel is cold. When he starts the engine, cold air breathes through the vents. There’s frost on the screen, but nothing the wipers can’t handle.

Mirror, signal. He pulls out of his parking slot into the street.

Gonna be a good day, he promises himself. Game on.

As the kettle boiled, Davey Morgan spooned out cat food into a bowl. He set the bowl down on the kitchen floor. There were two other bowls there already, untouched. He picked them up, banged their contents out into the bin and washed them up.

He hadn’t seen the cat since Tuesday. Some one else was feeding him, Davey decided. The cat had got a better offer somewhere. Cats were like that. Fickle things.

Davey went into the bathroom and studied his face in the mirror. There was a scab of blood under his nose and his left eye had blackened. Bloody bastards. He’d come home from Normandy looking healthier. Still, his skin hadn’t been translucent then.

‘I’ve got old,’ he told the picture on the hall table. ‘I don’t care what you say. Old.’

He wondered if the cat was all right. He put on his digging jacket.

Out in the yard it was brisk. His breath steamed. He rubbed his hands and pulled on his mittens. There was a proper mist that morning, swaddled all over the backyards and beyond. The sun was climbing reluctantly above Seraph Street, a thin, molten slice of light.

He limped up the path to the allotment gate. There was a funny smell in the air, like compost.

The grass was wet. As soon as he passed through the gate, he knew that something was up. Broken flowerpots, upturned planters, uprooted veg. The yobbos had been in overnight, ransacking. To get back at him, no doubt.

He reached his own plot and came up short. He blinked. He started breathing hard, breathing in short, sharp gulps. Oh no, no, no…

The windows of Davey’s shed had been smashed in. Those responsible — Ozzie and perhaps four or five of his fellow yobs — were still outside.

What was left of them.

Taff Morgan had seen death, first-hand. The bloody debris left in the aftermath of a well-ranged mortar bomb. An entire advancing section atomised by a shell from a Nazi 88, nothing left behind except charred scraps of kit and pink mush. Friends he’d known cut up by heavy Spandau fire that sectioned them like hot wire.

He thought he’d been forced to see his share.

The bodies — there were no whole bodies, just pieces — had been scattered in front of his shed. It looked like a direct hit by an 88 round, except there was no crater, no litter of cordite ash. The poor bloody bastards looked like they had been pushed through a wood chipper. Bits of bone and half-limbs, some still partly clothed in meat, protruded from the soil as though they were heads of celery, carefully planted. Davey saw blood-black ribs, wet lumps of marrow, yellow, intestinal ropes glistening in the daylight.

Worst of all, whatever had killed them had preserved their faces. A row of Davy’s gardening implements had been staked out in front of the shed door: spade, fork, hoe, shovel, rake. From the top of each handle swung a limp, meat flag; the flesh of a skinned human face, scalped off, lank and heavy in the dawn breeze.

Davey gagged. The stench of blood and ordure took him back to ‘44, and he had no bloody wish to do that. Hadn’t he seen his share? Why was he being forced to confront this again?

Why?

Ozzie’s boneless face stirred in the wind.

Davey threw up. Hot, acid tea spattered across the cold frame.

He staggered over to the shed door and pushed it open.

‘What did you do?’ he demanded, his throat hoarse. ‘What the bloody hell did you do?’

The thing in the barrow wasn’t in the barrow any more. It was standing by the broken window on slim, metal, legs it hadn’t previously possessed. It turned its ovoid head to regard him.

It let out a low hum.

The hum changed pitch, then changed pitch again.

‘Don’t you give me that,’ Davey Morgan snapped.

‘Here you go,’ said James, handing the serviette-wrapped object to Gwen. It steamed in the dank morning air.

‘Ta,’ she said. ‘Oh, it’s chilly.’

Leaning against the SUV, arms folded, Jack looked over. ‘That’s chilli? For breakfast?’

‘No, I was saying today is chilly.’

‘Oh. OK.’

He looked back at them a moment later. ‘So what is that?’

‘It’s bloody delicious is what it is,’ said Gwen, taking another bite.

‘Did it once have a name?’ asked Jack.

Munching, James turned his own order over and read off the printed serviette. ‘It’s a… “Croiss-ham-wich®”.’

‘Uh-huh. Like a croissant? With ham? Sandwiched in?’

‘You’re grasping the basic concept, I believe,’ said James.

Jack shook his head.

‘You could have had one,’ said James. ‘The place is just around the corner. Breakfast served until ten. I did ask you if you wanted one.’

‘No, thank you,’ Jack said firmly.

They ate on.

‘You know what that stuff is doing to your arteries, I suppose?’ Jack asked.

Gwen nodded.

‘Croissant. That’s like… butter in shrapnel form. Not to mention the processed flour. That’s going to make you sluggish later.’

‘At least,’ replied Gwen through a mouthful, ‘I’m not hypoglycaemic and tetchy.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Jack archly. ‘My body is a temple.’

‘Of course,’ said Gwen.

James sniggered. He balled up his empty serviette and, with no bin in sight, put it in his pocket.

‘Crumb,’ said Gwen, and brushed his lip. She finished her own Croiss-ham-wich®, screwed up her napkin, and looked around for somewhere to throw it. James took it out of her hand and put it in his pocket with his own.

‘You two are so sweet,’ said Jack. ‘Makes me want to barf.’

‘So, are we going to do anything?’ Gwen asked.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jack, ‘shouldn’t that be: “Thank you, Jack, for letting me come out with you today”?’

‘Hypoglycaemic and tetchy,’ Gwen murmured sidelong to James.