Darren Shan: Hell's Horizon

For:

Bas, Biddy & Liam — my personal chakana

OBE (Order of the Bloody Entrails) to:

Helen Johnstone — the Paucar Wami of publicists

Editors:

Sarah Hodgson — the Ford Tasso of the present

Simon Spanton — the Frank Weld of the past

And all the villacs of the Christopher Little order

In Room 812 of the Skylight Hotel a woman lay close to death. She was sprawled facedown across the bed, naked and lacerated. Her back had been cut to fleshy shreds. Dark blood seeped from the wounds, trickled down her sides and gathered in the folds of the crumpled sheets beneath. A spider crept across her face, sensed death and scuttled away to safety.

A maid entered. A thick-limbed, middle-aged woman. She spotted the blood-drenched body instantly. Anyone else would have shrieked and bolted. But death was nothing new to this lady.

Closing the door gently behind her, she moved closer to the body. A dripping knife lay on the floor close by. She was wearing plastic gloves but didn’t touch it. Instead she stood over the corpse, gazing down appraisingly.

Kneeling, she pressed two fingers against the victim’s neck and checked for a pulse. Nothing. She was about to leave, when…

A slight vibration. She prized an eyelid open. The pupil dilated in the light and when she took her finger away the lid twitched and the woman’s mouth moved a painful fraction.

The maid frowned, then picked up the knife and scanned the wounds. She settled on one near the heart. Leaning over, she prized the flesh apart with her fingers, inserted the tip of the blade and wriggled it around in gentle circles, holding the woman down with her other hand, until she felt the body shiver for the final time.

She checked the pulse, the eyes, the lips.

Dead .

The maid dropped the knife, went to the bathroom, rinsed the blood from her gloves, balled them up and pocketed them. She strolled to the door, opened it, mussed up her hair, took a deep breath, then let fly with a scream, bringing staff and guests running.

Bill reeled in his line and switched hooks. We’d been fishing since Friday and all we had to show for our efforts was an undernourished trout we’d have thrown back any other time.

“Reckon that’ll change our luck?” I asked.

“Probably not,” Bill sighed, tugging at the collar of his jacket. He wasn’t enjoying himself. I was happy to sit and chill, but Bill was a demanding angler and grew impatient when things weren’t going his way. “I told you it was the wrong time of year.”

“Quit moaning,” I retorted. “What else would you be doing? Reading or fiddling with fireworks in your cellar. At least here we can enjoy the fresh air.”

“Long way to come for that,” Bill grumbled.

“There’s the view too,” I noted, nodding downstream at the trees and fields. In the distance we could see the hump of the city’s skyline, but it didn’t distract too much from the beauty of the open countryside.

Bill’s expression softened. “Know what we should do? Build a shack and move out. Fish from dusk till dawn.”

“Sounds good to me, Huck Finn.”

Bill smiled and jiggled his line. “We should do it.”

“I’m with you all the way.”

He sighed. “But we won’t, will we?”

“Nope.” He looked so miserable, I had to laugh. “We’re city boys. We wouldn’t last pissing time living wild.”

“Speak for yourself,” he snorted, but he knew I was right. Bill thrived on city life. Take him away from the metropolitan buzz and he’d shrivel up and die.

We were silent awhile, thinking about the lure of the simple country life. Then Bill spoiled it all. “How’s The Cardinal?”

“You know I don’t see much of him,” I muttered.

“It’s not too late to get out,” he said. “There’s plenty of security jobs going. A man with your experience could make a—”

“Bill, don’t.”

He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Conscience pricking you, Al?”

“We’ve been through this before. I like what I do. I’m not gonna quit.”

“What if you’re asked to kill a man one day?”

I sighed and stared into the cool night water.

“Maybe you’ve already been asked,” Bill said softly.

I maintained my silence.

“Have you killed for that monster, Al?”

I looked over at him. “You really want to know?”

Bill chewed his lower lip, studied my face and shook his head. “No. Guess I don’t.”

Bill was a cop. I worked for a gangster. Our friendship eased along nicely so long as we didn’t discuss work. He’d only raised the subject now because it had been a long weekend and he was irritable.

I checked my watch. “Monday morning beckons. We’ll have to be on our way soon if you want to beat the rush.”

“I should have taken the day off like you.” Bill sounded regretful. He reeled in his line and began dismantling his rod. Stood and gazed off at the city, then said, “Fog’s up.”

I squinted and saw banks of thick green fog billowing over the roofs of the city like a dome. The city was famous for its mysterious green fog, which blew up at random and made a mockery of meteorology.

“Great,” I groaned. “That adds a couple of hours to our journey.”

“Roads are fairly quiet this time,” Bill said. “Shouldn’t delay us too long. Want me to drive?”

“You drove coming. My turn going back.”

“I know, but it’s my car — I don’t want you wrapping it around a tree. I’ll take the wheel if you’d prefer.”

I shook my head. “I don’t mind.”

“In that case, I’ll treat myself to another beer.”

While Bill was cracking open a can, I began tidying everything away. It didn’t take long. I asked if he wanted the trout but he said I could take it. I put it on ice and loaded it along with the gear.

I looked at the distant city again, which had all but disappeared under the fog. A stranger to these parts might have missed it altogether, mistaken it for a shrouded lake.

“Looks like it’s down to stay,” I noted.

“Yeah,” Bill agreed, rolling up a sleeping bag and sticking it in the back of the car. “Could be a bad one.”

I hit bed as soon as I got back. Since I’d booked the day off to make a long weekend of it, I left the alarm off and slept in late, a luxury I rarely enjoyed. I woke about twelve and spent the next hour propped up on the pillows, listening to the sounds of the street outside. It wasn’t as busy as normal — the fog kept a lot of people inside.

I turned on the radio. A DJ was talking to a woman with piles. She was sick of the attached stigma. She wanted to build a society where people could discuss such matters openly, without fear of embarrassment. The DJ was on her side and invited listeners to call in with their own — as he elegantly put it— piles files .

I surfed the airwaves. Found a couple of politicians arguing about the fog. One wanted to know why more wasn’t being done to make life easier for the citizens during times of siege. He wanted extra-strong streetlights, emergency buses and trains, home delivery services for the elderly and single mothers.

I didn’t stick around for the counterargument. I’d heard it all before. You got these idiots on the radio every time the fog rolled in. If I kept on searching, I’d find a thin-voiced professor of whatever explaining how the fog formed, how long we could expect it to last, what the authorities should be doing to prevent future upsets.