James Loscombe: The Bitter End

She stopped in front of him, her soft body pressed against his. He found that he couldn’t move. He felt her leg touching his but he refused to look down, that at least he could manage. “You could stay with me,” she said. “Keep me company.”

A part of him wanted to tell her that no, he didn’t want to stay with her, but another part realised that was a lie.

“We could have such good fun together you and I,” she said. She moved her head towards his, her lips brushed against his ear. “Wouldn’t you like that Ben?”

He reached for her waist, meaning to hold her close to him so that she could take him. Take his life with a bite to the neck that he welcomed. But when he touched her he found her cold. It was like holding a body that had been pulled from the river.

“You don’t need your wife,” she whispered, her mouth tracing kisses down his neck. Her cold lips and her cold body and he realised that he did, he did need Mary and he did need his boys.

He grabbed her waist hard and pushed her away.

She let out a squeal as she fell to the floor and the spell was broken. When he looked at her now he saw a dead girl who had been dressed in a funeral gown. Her skin was pale but blotchy, swollen as if she had been dragged from a watery death. Her eyes were sunken and her mouth a monsters hole full of teeth.

She also looked scared and that was the worst part of all.

Ben raised his crossbow. He said a prayer for her and then he pulled the trigger. She cried out in agony and surprise and before his eyes she changed.

He saw her whole life cycle, the one she would never have. She grew up and became beautiful, for a moment she was the woman he had imagined when he first arrived in the room. Then she was old but still beautiful in her way. Then she was ancient and crumbling and he could see her body rot before his eyes. She turned to ashes on the floor and then rose up from them as a terrible monstrous shape.

She cried out and the room shook. Rock fell from the ceiling onto the ground around him and he knew that if he didn’t get out soon he would be buried alive, down here with her forever. Just as she had wanted.

He pulled out the gun from his pocket and fired at her. She writhed and lunged for him but he was already moving, running back the way he had come. He needed to get to Mary and the boys, he needed Mary and the boys like he never had before.

She came after him but the ceiling was crashing down on both of them now. He dodged falling rocks and turned back to fire his wooden bullets at her. Mostly he hit her. She ket coming, the heavy rocks crashing into her, knocking her from side to side.The door he had come through was in sight. He turned meaning to shoot her again, because if she followed him into the tunnels she would catch him, no question, but he found that he didn’t need too.

It seemed like more of the ceiling was on the ground than above them and she was trapped. Screaming and scraping desperately at the floor but unable to move. He watched her try to change shape again but she couldn’t. If she could have turned into smoke it might have saved her.

Ben walked back towards her, dodging falling rocks that were now letting in streams of water. He stood above her and prayed to a god that he had never believed in. He aimed for her heart and without a hint of regret he delivered the killing blow.

He would have stayed and watched. Would have waited for her body to return to child size and even taken it with him to return to her family with his deepest regrets. But there was no time: water was now filling the chamber and if he didn’t get out now he would drown and be just as dead as she was.

Ben turned and started to run.

He scrambled through the tunnels, waded through the water that had already started to fill them and made it back to the bottom floor where the prison cells were. He didn’t see anyone in the holes and made it to the door, breathless and wet but grateful to be alive.

The village couldn’t be saved. Those who had been turned fell dead alongside their queen. A ceremony was held. Ben tried to remember his mother as she had been when he was younger, not as the woman who had been losing her mind and not as the woman who had handed him over to Nicholas.

The village couldn’t be saved. The water had sunk into the tunnels built beneath the dam, the decaying boats had sunk to the exposed river bed. Using the Robinson Crusoe they saved what they could which was more than enough for the hundred survivors.

The village couldn’t be saved. They made a new life together, boats on the river never staying anywhere for more than a single night.

Ben climbed on deck and saw Zack and Adam working the tiller between them. One reached up to move it while the other gave instructions for which way they should turn. Ben smiled at them and sat beside Mary.

She took his hand and smiled at him. The wind had made her cheeks red and he leaned towards her and kissed him. The village couldn’t be saved but perhaps the world could.

I loved writing The Bitter End and I really hope you enjoyed reading it. If you would like to be the first to know when new stories are available, and get an exclusive offers, then you can join the tribe by signing up at:

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James Loscombe was born in Crawley in 1983 and now lives in Reading with his wife Tamzin and son Jude. He was first published in 2012. You can find out more about the author on his website at www.jamesloscombe.netwhere you will also find news about upcoming releases.

Copyright © 2014 by James Loscombe

The rights of James Loscombe to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are ficticious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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