Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 19

Jamie thought Mum was pleased he was using the darkness in the band rather than on the streets. He was carrying on the Shade line, but in a different way. His father could drop through a skylight and make terror blossom in a dozen wicked souls; Jamie could float onto a tiny stage in a pokey venue and fill a dark room with a deeper shadow that enveloped audiences and seeped into their hearts. When Jamie sang about long, dreadful nights, a certain type of teenager knew he was singing about them. Because of Transhumance, they knew — if only for the forty-five minutes of the set — that they weren't alone, that they had friends and lovers in the dark, that tiny pinpoints of starlight were worth striving for. They were kids who only liked purple lollipops because of the colour they stained their lips, wore swathes of black even in this baking summer, would drink vinegar and lie in a bath of ice cubes to be as pale as Gene, lit their squats with black candles bought in head shops, and read thick paperback novels "from the vampire's point of view". Teenagers like Vron — who, come to think of it, he was supposed to be seeing this evening. If the world survived the week, she'd make him pay for standing her up.

Gene had found Vron's dog-eared Interview with the Vampire under a cushion in the back of the van, and was performing dramatic passages. Read out with a trace of (sexy) French accent, it sounded sillier than it did when Vron quoted bits of Anne Rice's «philosophy» at him. Vron wrote Transhumance's lyrics, and everyone said — not to her face — the lyrics needed more work. Bongo said, "You can't rhyme 'caverns of despair' with 'kicking o'er a chair' and expect folk not to laugh their kecks off." About the only thing the band could agree on was that they didn't want to be funny.

So what was he doing on the road? In a van with four weird strangers — weird, even by his standards.

Gatherings of disparate talents like this little lot were unusual. Fred had said they needed "everybody". Jamie wondered how far down the list the likes of Sewell Head came — though he knew enough not to underestimate anyone. According to Gene, the Diogenes Club was calling this particular brouhaha "the Winter War". That didn't sound so bad. After the last few months, a little winter in July would be welcome.

Beyond Yeovil, they came to a roadblock manned by squaddies who were turning other drivers away from a "military exercise" barrier. The van was waved out of the queue by a NCO and — with no explanation needed — the barrier lifted for them. A riot of envious hooting came from motorists who shut up as soon as a rifle or two was accidentally pointed in their direction. Even Gene kept mum once they were in bandit country — where they were the only moving thing.

As they drove along eerily empty roads, Susan continued to relay Head's directions. "Follow Tapmoor Road for two and a half miles, and turn right, drive half a mile, go through Sutton Mallet, then three miles on, to Alder — and we're there."

Jamie spotted the signpost, which was almost smothered by the lower branches of a dying tree, and took the Sutton Mallet turn-off. It should have been a short cut to Alder, the village where they were supposed to rendezvous with the rest of the draftees in the Winter War. The van ploughed to a halt in a four-foot-deep snowdrift.

The temperature plunged — an oven became a fridge in seconds. Gooseflesh raised on Jamie's bare arms. Keith and Sewell Head wrapped themselves in sleeping bags. Susan's teeth chattered, interrupting her travel directions — which were academic anyway. The road was impassable.

Only Gene didn't instantly and obviously feel the cold.

Jamie shifted gears, and reversed. Wheels spun, making a hideous grinding noise for half a minute or so, then the van freed itself from the grip of ice and backed out of the drift. A few yards away, and the temperature climbed again. They were all shocked quiet for a moment, then started talking at once.

"Hush," said Gene, who was elected Head Girl, "look."

The cold front was advancing, visibly — a frozen river. Hedges, half-dead from lack of rain, were swallowed by swells of ice and snow.

They all got out of the van. It was as hot as it had been, though Jamie's skin didn't readjust. He still had gooseflesh.

"It'll be here soon and swallow us again," said Keith.

"At the current rate, in sixteen minutes forty-five seconds," said Sewell Head.

It wasn't just a glacier creeping down a country lane, it was an entire wave advancing across the countryside. Jamie had no doubt Head knew his sums — in just over a quarter of an hour, an arctic climate would reach the road, and sweep around the van, stranding them.

"We have to go ahead on foot," said Gene. "It's only a couple of miles down that lane."

"Three and a half," corrected Head.

"A walk in the park," said Gene.

"Thank you, Captain Scott," said Susan. "We're not exactly equipped."

"You were told to bring warm clothes."

"Naturally, I didn't believe it," said Susan. "We should have been shouted at."

Jamie hadn't been told. He'd take that up with Fred and Vanessa.

"Fifteen minutes," said Head, unconcerned.

"There's gear in the back of the van," said Jamie. "It'll have to do."

"I'm fine as I am," said Gene. "Happy in all weathers."

Jamie dug out one of his father's black greatcoats for Susan. It hung long on her, edges trailing on the ground. Head kept the sleeping bag wrapped around him, and looked even more like a tramp. He must be glad he came out with his scarf and gloves. Keith found a black opera cloak with red-silk lining, and settled it around his shoulders.

"Careful with that, Keith," Jamie cautioned. "It was the Great Edmondo's. There are hidden pockets. You might find a dead canary or two."

Jamie pulled on a ragged black-dyed pullover and gauntlets. He fetched out a hold-all with some useful items from the Legacy, and — as an afterthought — slung the Shade goggles around his neck and put on one of his Dad's wide-brimmed black slouch hats.

"Natty," commented Gene. "It's the Return of Dr Shade!"

"Sod off, Frenchy," he said, smiling.

"Burgundina, remember?"

The cold front was nearly at the mouth of the lane, crawling up around the signpost. He rolled up the van windows, and locked the doors.

Gene climbed onto the snowdrift, and stamped on the powder. It was packed enough to support her. Bare-legged and — armed, she still looked comfortable amid the frozen wastes. She held out a hand and helped haul Susan up beside her. Even in the coat, Susan began shivering. Her nose reddened. She hugged herself, sliding hands into loose sleeves like a mandarin.

"Come on up, lads, the water's 1-lovely," she said.

Jamie, Keith and Head managed, with helping hands and a certain amount of swearing, to clamber up beside the girls.

Ahead was a snowscape — thickly carpeted white, trees weighed down by ice, a few roofs poking up where cottages were trapped. Snow wasn't falling, but was whipped up from the ground by cold winds and swirled viciously. Jamie put on his goggles, protecting his eyes from the spits of snow. The flakes were like a million tiny fragments of ice shrapnel.

Gene pointed across the frozen moor, at a tower.

"That's Sutton Mallet chapel. And, see, beyond that, where the hill rises… that's Alder."

It ought to have been an hour's stroll. Very pleasant, if you liked walking in the country. Which Jamie didn't, much. Now, it seemed horribly like a Death March.

Susan, he noticed, stopped shivering and chattering. She was padding, carefully across the powder, leaving deep footprints.

Gene applauded. "Now that's thinking," she said.

Jamie didn't know what she meant.