Danuta Reah - The Forge - Fire and Ice

Larry wanted to respond but the guard at the top of the stairs prodded him with his club. He could stay and be beaten or move down the stairs. He descended into the hell his world quickly became.

They let him reach the outside with only slaps, punches, kicks and spittle to accompany him. On the steps down to the city square, the mob approached, deafening in their anger. Fingers poked his eyes. Feet pounded his most vulnerable parts. Fists and fingernails wounded his face and torso. Vicious hands gripped his limbs, wrenched him, tore his skin. Burning brands scorched his flesh. Darkness took him some unnamed time before they reduced him to charred body parts, blood and gore.

In the courthouse, Yuko and her colleagues sentenced others, one by sorry one, to their personal doom.

the end

About the author

Stuart Aken counts himself lucky to be a writer. ‘What other job allows you to daydream, record your personal thoughts, make stuff up and then deliver it to the public?’ He has written romance, science fiction, horror, literary, fantasy, erotica, thriller and refuses to be pigeonholed. He and his wife Valerie now live in the Forest of Dean. The surrounding countryside provides opportunities for peaceful walks during which he allows his mind to wander and develop ideas.

Stuart is an invited contributor to this anthology.

A long translucent finger ran down the menu, the words beneath it swelling and contracting in response, restless at such indecision.

‘We have a three-course sampling menu at the moment, if you can’t decide. That way you can try them on ice, hot off the fire… a bit of everything.’

The finger paused, then performed a slight jig to a soundtrack of ooohs and hmmms .

‘Oh, go on then!’

‘Would you like to see it first?’

‘Nah… surprise me!’ said the finger’s owner, relinquishing the menu and picking up a vessel of greenish sludge. A garish umbrella floated within.

‘That’s not like you…’ her companion said, not disapprovingly.

‘Ah, well, we’re on holiday…’ The vessel was swilled absentmindedly, its contents glowing slightly in the candlelight. The umbrella danced cheerfully on the surface, accompanied by the occasional plastic bottle or unidentifiable wrapper – all of them oblivious to the stench emitted by the surrounding liquid.

The owner of the concoction took a sip and pulled a face, all three noses wrinkling with displeasure.

‘Nope, sorry. Call me fussy but I prefer it without bits.’

‘It used to come that way, you know,’ her companion said, taking a gulp of his own identical beverage. ‘Used to be clear. Even came with ice before the planet got too hot. Only took them a few hundred years to turn it into this.’

‘Good thing we got here when we did, then.’

‘Quite. Oooh… here comes the first course…’ He laughed at her face as the platter of ice was set down in the middle of the table.

‘Are they… raw?’ she asked, looking at the flailing creatures.

‘Yes – they’re still alive, silly. They have to be. Always check for audible screams – you don’t want food poisoning.’

He picked one up, slurped on it noisily, and set its now-empty skull back upon the icy platter, mmmm -ing appreciatively.

‘They’re really good, honestly. It’s just that you get the occasional bit of gritty jewellery.’

She picked up the remaining creature by its leg – making it screech even more loudly – and popped it into her mouth. The screams fell silent and the skull was spat back on to the ice.

‘Not so bad, actually,’ she conceded, with a dainty cough. ‘I think I might’ve got an earring, though.’

The slightly bloodstained ice was cleared away.

‘Rare, medium, well…?’

‘Oh, extra rare. Blue. So you can still see the tattoos. And she’ll have hers extra well-done,’ he said, all five eyes rolling with jovial disapproval.

‘I do feel a bit bad. Hopefully they’re ethically sourced… ’ she mused as they waited. ‘I was thinking of cutting down a bit.’

‘Nah, you can’t worry about everything. It helps keep their population in check so they can’t keep destroying their planet. Imagine how much murkier this seawater would be if we hadn’t discovered how tasty they are.’ He knocked back a little more of the stuff.

‘Oh, for goodness sake. I’m paying for a 170-pound human. This one can’t possibly be more than 130. It’s overcooked as well. I mean, look!’ He prodded its lower back with his fork. ‘I can’t even tell if that’s a butterfly or a dolphin.’

Another translucent finger was wiped around the plate and licked appreciatively by a spiny, slightly metallic tongue.

‘Well, I’ll admit it – that was delicious. Not as overcooked as I thought it’d be. Bit small, though. How was yours?’

‘Really nice. I do prefer the bald ones though.’

‘Madness!’ he exclaimed as their plates were cleared. ‘The crispy burned hair is the best bit. Either that or popping the eyeballs in between your teeth. Mmmm…’

A dessert trolley appeared. Yet more screaming humans were tossed into a pan of hot rum and promptly engulfed in flames. The diners looked on eagerly as the chef added fruit, the fire burgeoning theatrically in response.

‘A perfect end to a near-perfect meal,’ one of the duo enthused, scraping burned flesh from within his elaborate crystal dessert dish. ‘Mmmm, you can really taste the caramelised brains.’

He took another enthusiastic mouthful but, to his companion’s horror, spat it back into the bowl, repulsed.

‘Ugh! Oh, that’s disgusting,’ he gasped, taking a large gulp of sludge, in which floated several decaying limbs. He shuddered. ‘It’s got banana in it.’

the end

About the author

Louisa Morillo has wanted to be a writer since she learned to read. She is now studying Law at university. In her free time she enjoys entering short story and poetry competitions and is currently working on her first novel. Louisa has appeared in a previous anthology, The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing .

Howell stood at the panoramic windows on the thirtieth floor and surveyed the London skyline. To the east, heavy black clouds hung above the dirty glass monoliths of the former banking and insurance district. They were now hydroponic farms which fed the city instead of feeding off it. He shifted his gaze to the coal-smoked north, to Kings Cross and Euston where the steam trains were now returning to bring heat and darkness to the capital. He looked across the brown river towards Waterloo where he had once, as a young man, started a journey which would pluck his beloved country from the brink of the abyss.

It was 2037. His connecting train had arrived on the platform bringing a slight breeze that chased the smoke away for a brief moment. There were few people boarding this service and none were in tour class. He had completed his Compulsory Service for the year, four months in the BioMedical research labs in Salisbury. He could relax on the journey home, reset his mind.

The train left right on time and slowly made up speed as it pulled out of London. He sat back, drinking in the first green of countryside through the window. As the train pushed on towards the hamlets of Hampshire, he noticed smoke rising more regularly across the landscape, stubble burning in the fields. Autumn was here. He sighed, the visible prelude to winter dragging him back to grim reality.