The Shepherd – Hefted (Chapters 8 & 9)

Chapter 8
Wednesday afternoon to midnight.

The library had been warm. That was about all John Shepherd could say. The computers so slow and inefficient that it was not worth even attempting to get into the police files that he hoped might hold some clues to his situation. He had spent a couple of hours reading newspapers and journals, enjoying the silence and the peace, but, eventually hunger and unease drove him back to the security of the world that he had known for the past few days.

He felt his heart beating faster, felt the anxiety mount as he walked back, past the crowded shops with their Christmas displays that filled him with such apprehension. He kept his head down, staring at the pavement, careful to avoid looking up in case he caught a glimpse of whatever it was that had spooked him earlier. At last he reached the shabby side street and, with a sigh of relief and glad to leave the noise and bustle, he headed for the security of the underground Shelter.

He spent the rest of the day in quiet yet busy activities, doing the numerous yet minor repair jobs that had been allowed to accumulate, before helping the middle-aged, and slightly inexpert, receptionist set up record systems on the staff computer. Then he talked Dale and a couple of younger men through the intricacies of computer languages.

Rebecca did not reappear that day. He had not expected her to, but he missed her.

Late that night, feeling chilled, he left the solitude of his room to get a hot drink. The common room was deserted, although the television was still switched on, its screen illuminating the empty room with flickering images of wars and terrorists, and gratuitous photographs of corpses and bloodstained earth. Perhaps it was the unexpected chill of the room that made him shiver. Whatever it was, Shepherd watched a few minutes with a faint grimace of anguish before stepping forward to turn it off. The silence and darkness embraced him, and he stood there, unseen, a mysterious shape in the shadows of the room, listening to the hum of the ventilation and the occasional gurgle of water moving through the radiators.

Enough. He was tired; it had been a long day. Time to sleep and maybe he would remember something else tomorrow. Maybe, if he was lucky. Or; and the thought was deeply frightening, if he was unlucky.

In the quiet of his room he undressed, pulling back the covers and lying down before cocooning himself in the thin blankets against the coldness that seemed to be leeching body heat from him. Eyes closed, he forced himself to relax as warmth began to spread through tired limbs until sleep overtook him.

Their hands were tight on his arms. Digging in, crushing flesh against bone. He knew he would have bruises there later, if there was a later. And despite all his struggles, all his desperate attempts, they were too strong, too determined. There was no point in crying out for help, the silence around him spoke volumes. He was alone.

They hauled him up the ramp, the greasy oil-stained surface slippery under scrabbling feet. A single irrational thought flooded his mind, even as he fought to free himself.

How were they going to get him to their craft?

And then he saw it. And he wanted to scream until his throat was raw, to scream until his heart burst, until his lungs died. Anything other than the horror, the utter and absolute nightmare that loomed ahead. That lay there, gaping open, waiting to accept his body.

A steel-grey cylinder. Its dull surface gleaming under the dim lights. A metal coffin; his coffin. But he was not dead. Would not be dead within it either. He would be alive. Breathing, unmoving, trapped, but all the time aware. Until they got him back to wherever they had come from. And then?

With one burst of frantic energy, dragged from resisting muscles that burned and screamed with the effort, he wrenched himself free of their clawing fingers and fled.

The outside world loomed dark and threatening ahead, but the blackness behind held far greater gut-twisting terror and so he ran, on legs that refused to move fast enough, as if they were no longer under his control. Out into the light with the sinister maw that led to the underground carpark now behind him, his lungs burning with the effort needed to breathe.

A noise behind. He turned to see them, and froze. Closer and closer while his treacherous body ignored the command to move again, to flee. They paused as they reached the light, as if the dull sodium glow was harmful, and in that second of respite, he forced his feet to move, to shuffle one tiny inch. It was enough, as if he had been released from captivity. And he ran, again, across the lanes, to scramble over the barrier that split the dual carriageway, dodging a lone vehicle speeding towards him, before slithering down the slope at the other side, out of sight, away from them, bending over, hands on his knees gasping for air. Surely he was safe now. They would not follow him.

But they did.

Hands fluttering with anxiety, taking hesitant steps into the sickly yellow flush of street lighting, they trailed him. Over the grey tarmac, over the grey metal barrier, moving with a determination that shook him to his core. Sobbing with despair he turned, heedless of where he was, desperate to escape from the two silent predators that moved with such ruthless purpose. The cylinder was waiting for him, waiting to wrap him in its cold, suffocating embrace.

And so he ran.

The tunnel, under the railway that ran alongside the road, was dark and held its own terrors but any fear, any invisible threat, was preferable to what was behind him. A headlong dash into the black stench-filled interior, then he slipped, stumbled and fell, cutting hands and knees on the rough pot-holed pathway. He forced himself to stand on numb feet, his palms stinging, and leaned, for a brief respite, against the slime-covered surface of the wall. The opening of the tunnel was a faint arch of light in the distance behind him, and as he looked, their silhouettes appeared, nightmare figures getting larger as they moved closer and closer. His scream choked in his throat, he could not whimper let alone call out for help. But there was no help. No one there to protect him. He was alone.

Darkness and unseen horrors ahead, but behind, the cylinder waited. Trailing one hand along the wall on his left he headed deeper into the unknown, heart pounding, struggling to fill his lungs with air, trying to move sluggish legs that threatened to betray him.

‘Damn.’ Rebecca swore as she opened the outer door and headed down the stairwell to the basement. Yet another late night call. But she had some sympathy for the Night Worker this time. Having to call out an emergency plumber at this time of night was no easy thing to do and the cost would be prohibitive. So it was her responsibility to authorise the work. Great, she grimaced.

The reception area was cold. Very cold. Sam was wrapped in a coat, shivering. She looked up, grimacing as the door opened. ‘Sorry Rebecca, the damned heating has gone on the fritz. And it’s going to be minus 6 tonight. Too cold, especially down here. I’m bloody freezing already. Everyone’s in for the night and all in bed, tucked up safe and sound, lucky things. ’

Rebecca looked at Sam, concerned, ‘You look awful. Go home and get warm. I’ll stay here tonight.’ There was no argument from Sam, the chill in the building had sapped her of the energy to make even the most feeble and unconvincing protest.

Rebecca waited until the engineer, surly at being called out so late, had repaired the fault. Then once alone, the bone-numbing chill fading as radiators at last began pumping heat through the basement, she made herself a coffee in an attempt to stay awake, wrapping stiff fingers around the thick mug. She would do a quick check in a while, just to make sure that there were no problems.
Chapter 9
Thursday early am

However fast he tried to run, he could still hear their footsteps behind him, gaining on him, and he could sense those hands clawing out. How could they move with such speed? Then he was out of the tunnel into fresher air but still in darkness, unlit by streetlights, but out of the suffocating gloom of the tunnel.

A choice to be made, which way to run? Ahead there was wasteland; open spaces where he would find nowhere to hide, but the wall of the railway embankment ran to either side behind him. Left or right? He panicked, unsure, hesitating in his fear. A fatal move. They were there, a hand touching his shoulder, digging deep to restrain him. A silent scream from his stifled choking throat. He lashed out, wild blows without reason, without control and they fell back.

Left. He ran to his left, bumping and bruising his shoulder against the brickwork as he raced, his steps slipping and scrabbling in the frantic struggle to get away.

One hand against the wall pressing him onwards, until he came to another opening, his hand reaching out and finding nothing. He nearly fell again but the thought of them close behind him gave him the strength to twist his body upright, to turn inwards once more into yet another tunnel, heading back, back to the road, to what was there. In an agony of indecision he stopped.

Ahead. The cylinder, open….

Behind him an even greater dread. Once they had seized him, he would be powerless. No choice. He ran into the tunnel.

He was close to exhaustion by now, too tired to move yet too frightened to stop although his body screamed for relief. It seemed to take forever to get back to the roadway, and with every step he expected to feel those gloved hands touch him, pull him back, lift him into the steel casket, and close the lid while he screamed, unheard.

The brightness of the street lights made him blink. Back where he started. Well, not quite, the dark opening of the underground car park was over the road, to his left, maybe a hundred yards away. But there, ahead, was safety. A petrol station. If he could reach it. Across the road, running with some caution now, aware that any slip, any fall might bring him within their reach. Onto the forecourt, heading towards the welcoming brightness of the all-night shop. The door ahead opened and he saw a red jacket, a face hidden by darkness. His enemy. Coming for him, even here.

Sobbing with utter despair he hid in the shadows beside a truck. They were here. They were everywhere. There was no escape.

He was dead.

And he staggered, leaning against the side of the open pick-up as his adversary walked towards him…….

One chance, only one chance. Hauling himself over the lip of the truck he huddled in one corner, curled up as small and as silent as possible, waiting, listening, heart pounding so loud that they must surely hear it, hear his stifled breaths. Rigid with terror, just waiting for the hand to paw at him, and drag him back. Back to ..it….a slow suffocating death in a steel tomb, unable even to see to hear or be heard however much he screamed until blood filled his mouth and throat and he drowned in his own fluid. Images of red suits, of grasping greedy hands, of grey metal. Of a still, silent man stepping out of the shadows. His head hurt, pain stabbing through like a knife as the vehicle moved off, jolting over speed bumps.

Coiled up, child-like, in the sheets, he whimpered as his body tried to waken, tried to free itself but the nightmare was deep within him, mastering his thoughts, and despite his efforts he was trapped by the pervading memories of that night.

Panic filled him when the vehicle finally stopped after an age of bouncing and shuddering. Were they here as well? He flung himself over the edge, falling heavily onto the pavement, crawling into the scrubby undergrowth that crowded the edges. And he hid, sweating, trembling, the pain in his head almost unbearable, until strong hands grabbed him. They were all around him, restraining, holding, dragging. He couldn’t move, couldn’t free himself, couldn’t breathe. The cylinder open, its cold metal waiting to encase him. He managed one anguished scream before they lifted him into……
The warmth made her eyes tired, made her head weighty, her limbs relaxed. The mug, slipping from her fingers, fell, bounced twice on the carpet and woke her.

Shit.

She stretched, yawned, stood and picked up the mug, scuffing the spilled dregs of coffee into the stained carpet with her toe. It was time for a quick look though the building.

The muffled shout startled her into action. Pulling the master key from her pocket
she hurried down the corridor listening, trying to work out from where the sound had come.

Again, that desperate yet muted cry, as if a person was trapped underground, or was stifled by hands across their mouth.

Fingers fumbling with tiredness she unlocked the door to John Shepherd’s room and went in.

The dim light from the corridor was insufficient to disturb the man asleep. Yet she could see he was not sleeping, restless and twisting in his bed. His hands were reaching out as if to push away unseen forces, his face contorted with fear, sheets tangled around him.

He was silent now, as if the horror that was filling his dreams had muffled him, but she could see his mouth open as if to scream, his back arching as if in agony.
She had no idea what to do, apart from close the door so that he did not disturb any other sleepers.

The room was chilly. A deep bone-numbing chill that made her shiver. She rubbed her arms, more in trepidation than from the cold, fearful of what might happen if she tried to wake him. Stepping forward she leaned over, daring, her heart pounding, her breath now gasping with his breaths, her hands trembling. He wasn’t aware of her.

She took off her coat, shivering in the chill of the room, and perched, uneasy, on the edge of the bed. She had no wish to wake him, to distress him further with awareness of what was happening, besides, she had been here herself, been in this situation before and she knew what was needed. Not an abrupt awakening, but a slow gentle return to warmth and wakefulness and the feeling of security, safety. Reaching out she touched his shoulder with her fingertips. Cold. Far colder than he should be. His body shuddering.

She held her breath, knowing what she had to do, and despite her fear and her reluctance, wanting that contact again. To trust someone. To be so close to them.

A memory returned; of his hand, gentle on her face, holding her, making her safe and she acted instinctively, slipping off her shoes and then tugging the damp and twisted sheets away from him. She waited until he moved again in his nightmare distress to roll away from her, his back exposed, pale skin glistening with a sheen of sweat despite the pervading chill in the room. She lay down behind him, daring, holding her breath against that panic that she was expecting to flood through her. But it was not there. With a shiver of hesitation she moved closer, one arm reaching over to clasp him to her, his shoulders his back pressed against her, cold skin against warm material, her hand over his arm, her questing fingers feeling the clammy sweat on his breastbone, his muscles quivering beneath her tentative contact.

The cold surface was hard against his flesh as he lay shivering in darkness, awaiting that silent airless death.

 

Then, slow warmth spread through his numb limbs, softness replaced the harsh touch of unyielding alien metal. A breath of air on the nape of his neck, a welcome touch on his shoulder blades, just the slightest caress. The terror subsided, leaving a memory of red and silver and white in sinister dark shadows.

He stirred, shivering still, but more from uncertainty than cold now, and his awakened senses probed and questioned and sorted their findings.
He was not alone. He could sense soft breaths behind him, ever-so-slightly cool on his neck, an arm around him, over his chest but not restraining him, just holding him against soft fabric, and a warmth that smelled not of perfume or scent, but an inexplicable yet familiar fragrance; a scent that filled him with comfort and consolation and the feeling of shelter and protection. A body that was embracing him, and shielding him from the horrors of his nightmare as that deathly cylinder was, even now, fading into obscurity. No longer cold or shivering from fear, he knew without doubt that someone was protecting him and in those safe hands he slept.

Rebecca loosened her hold as he relaxed. He was no longer shuddering with cold and terror, his breathing now slow and regular, and he was once more comfortable and deeply asleep. She had wondered what he might do when he awoke to find her so close, but she was reluctant to disturb the warmth and stillness that surrounded him. With a rush of affection that surprised her she leaned to kiss his shoulder, his sweat deliciously sharp on her lips and she snuggled a little closer, her cheek against his skin, one hand still on his chest, still touching those few sparse hairs. There was a sense of reassurance in being so near to him, and the growing awareness, that here with this man she would not be hurt.

And she too, closed her eyes.