Victor 3-9

The moon was high overhead, jaundiced and sickly. It shone down on the earth like a cold, bright searchlight. Mike looked at his watch. 11:35p.m. He looked up at the clock to confirm it and having it confirmed, sighed. Time was stranger at night, it seemed slower, as if the time between the tick and tock became longer as the night went on. Sometimes between three and four felt like the hour that would never end and Mike often wondered, rather feared, what it would be like to be trapped in that hour as the flow of time hardened to a solid stop and one became bound in an infinite, timeless moment forever, like a fly in temporal amber. He'd heard others say a similar thing about their shifts. “Night can be elastic or concrete.” one of the other guards had told him.

Most people thought security guards were losers and, to be fair, most of them were fuck-ups but Mike had known his fair share of would be philosopher poets amongst the drunken sectarian bigots, bitter divorcees with a chip on their shoulder and sexual deviants who'd most likely be in prison if they weren't stuck out in the middle of nowhere guarding landfills.

The endurance of another night-shift was bad enough but Mike wasn't even sure where the fuck he was. The night had began as normal, he'd come into the gatehouse, exchanged some work info with Terry, the guy on permanent day shift. Terry looked like Santa with his curly hair and beard but his manner was more misanthropic than Scrooge and as always he left as soon as he could. That was fine with Mike, he'd heard the old pricks stories a million times over the years. Mike settled down to a night of radio four, the Times crossword and numerous cups of tea. He seldom did much else, perhaps, on the rare occasion he found something in the library, he'd read a book. His job in security was not usually a demanding one. Occasionally there was the odd bit of trouble with some of the staff pilfering stuff but most of the time it was letting the trucks in until midnight, then the main gates were closed until seven at which time Mike's shift was over with the rest of the foundry's staff's nightshift.

It had been a cushy number for nearly three years. Yet when that creepy wee frog, McPherson turned up about half an hour into his shift he knew there was going to be trouble. McPherson was the dogsbody of the control team who sat at base office and barked demands down the walkie talkies at him. Mike knew the moment McPherson waddled out the car that this was a repercussion for calling Gallacher in control “a jobsworth arse-licking cunt”.

They couldn't touch him any other way so the moved him from his nice comfortable gatehouse with all its modern conveniences to a portacabin with fuck all but a redolence of dampness, a cheap kettle, a bank of screens and a walkie talkie charger. They'd dumped him in an old hospital which was to be demolished. He was miles away from anywhere. “The Mounds.” What sort of name was that for a hospital anyway?

Mike guessed it wasn't a General, probably had been used as a dumping ground for old folk or mental patients. McPherson had told him nothing, just drove all the way out of the city and into the back of beyond with a big shit-eating smile on his face. To make matters worse he insisted on listening to The Eagles, which really was beyond the pale.

Mike cheered up when he recalled that. At least he didn't have to listen to those boring fuckers all night. He looked at his folded paper and the crossword and decided he couldn't be arsed. Instead he wheeled his cheap plastic chair over to the bank of screens. The hospital had shut down and most of the stuff moved out a while before but there was still some heavy equipment that while not valuable, needed protecting. McPherson had told him that.

That was code for “It's cheaper to pay you than the extra insurance if the place is left unguarded.”

There were twelve six inch black and white screens in front of him, three rows of four squares. On top of them another four screens were laid out in a line. Those four were labelled alphabetically while the others were numbered 1-12. A, B,C and D, showed grainy black and white images of the exteriors of the hospital. The other twelve were set up with eight in the main building and four in the extension. They were all set up to swoop up and down the crumbling corridors and into dark and bedless wards. There had been a third building but it had mostly been torn down, a few large fragments of the exterior walls remained as if embedded in the rubble, still even with the third building gone this was a two man job. Everything was set up that way, two walkie talkies, two chairs by the screens, two fluorescent yellow jackets and yet McPherson had stuck him here alone.

That was typical of control they were always half-assing things. It wasn't even a mean spirited exercise in profiteering with them, Control was just staffed with idiots. Like governments and business, he thought, fuckwits from the top all the way down. He recalled the day he'd been poked and cajoled by that old bitch Shortner at the dole office to go for the interview and smirked as he recalled the glaikit boy with the overbite of a claw-hammer ask him “How many Tees ur thur in British?”

“Jist the wan.” Mike had replied helpfully.

“Cheers big man, I've always been shite at maths.” Claw-hammer answered, gratefully.

Mike didn't know what to say to that but it as an anecdote it described perfectly everything that was wrong with Armour Security Group. Idiots unable to differentiate between concepts. The result being he was stuck here on a two man job alone. Not only would that invalidate the owner's of the hospital's security but if anything happened he'd be up shit creek without a canoe let alone a paddle. He had to report that another man was needed.

He had tried to get through before but “The Mounds” was so far from control that communication was difficult. He wasn't sure if he'd been successful in relaying the message that he needed another guard. That had been over an hour and a half and he'd had no response. Mike thumbed the button on the walkie talkie and it immediately switched back on to the hissing garbled noise of a detuned radio. He pressed speak and said “Control, this is Victor 3-9. Any word on another man for out here on “The Mounds” at all?”

There was crackle, static, a whistling sound and a voice “Mikey!” This was followed by further signal distortion and loss and then replaced with a crystal clear. “be there in about an hour and a half, sorry for the mes...” and off into noise it went again.

Mike consoled himself with the fact that at least they were aware he was out here in the middle of nowhere, alone. He walked over to the kettle flicked the switch and listened for a second to see if it was working. Success was followed by his opening of the lid to check and make sure it wasn't filled with plague juice or something worse. The water inside was clean and fresh looking with the occasional tiny bubble shooting to the surface. He placed the lid back on and walked to the exit of the portacabin and stepped outside to have a smoke.

The portacabin was just inside the gateway to the hospital, an old red sandstone wall surrounding an old iron fence, partially rusted. This facade gave way back to red brick walls which were the perimeter of the hospital's approach to the roads. The hospital itself was late Victorian, Mike assumed, knowing very little of the history of architecture, the annex was probably built after the war. It certainly looked like an asylum.

The moon still glinted off the top floor windows. Mike found it's presence comforting amongst all the looming shadowy hills and farmlands that stretched until they were dissolved into darkness. He really was out in the middle of nowhere. Not strictly true he knew, the hills over to the west had small clusters of dim orange lights spotted upon the black. Small villages and towns that were in many ways like the hospital, either villages born in the late 19^th century and tarted up after the war.

He stood there for a couple of minutes listening to the night's silence and enjoying a cigarette along with the atmosphere. He didn't get out the city often. Its exhaust fumes had been replaced with fresh air and Mike found it quite pleasant, even though it was damp and bitterly cold. He finished his cigarette and threw the end into a muddy puddle and went back inside just in time for the kettle to click off. He made a cup of tea and sat down in front of the CCTV monitors and picked up the crossword. Just as he was about to start trying to figure out 4 down again he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Something on one of the screens was moving. Mike's attention immediately focussed on screen two where in the middle of one of the corridors was an empty metal bin, it had toppled over and was rolling back and forth on it's axis. He could see another view of it on screen four, in the distance. Camera four was at the end of another corridor that was intersected by the first and the side of the bin could be seen at the top right, rocking back and forth in time with the other image on camera two.

Mike assumed it was probably rats or foxes. Mind you outside the city it could be any kind of small wildlife. Mike watched the screens diligently, hoping to spot some wild cat or wolf. There was no sign of any animal nor anything else. Mike watched the camera's do their slow120 degree arcs throughout the inside of the building until his tea was drained and saw no changes, no movement, no ferrets or bears or masked assailants. He picked up his crossword again and just as he did the walkie talkie crackled into life. Hiss crackle.. “3-9... pick up Mikey.”

He did as control suggested. “3-9 here control, what's up?”

Almost immediately the response was distorted into the sounds of electronic chaos. Mike shook his head in dismay, thumbed the speak button said “Say again Control” and pressed release.

Silence. All of the noise dropped out as if totally disconnected. Mike looked at the walkie talkie, shook it -knowing it would do no good- and then pressed speak again “Control if you can hear me, phone me, I've lost signal here.”

More silence when he released the button. It was then he realised he'd need to find the phone and it was shortly after he realised the cabin had not been fitted with one. Such a basic, stupid error, he hoped one of them had the wits to try and call his mobile but doubted it. He held on to the walkie talkie and planted his arse on the shelves next to the charger. There was a small crackle coming from the speaker, some tiny sound was getting through. Mike listened to it but it sounded more like electrical interference than a signal.

“Come down here, down the stairs.” It said, the voice said, her voice said. It was quiet, almost a whisper, child-like and utterly without any feeling or emotion. Her voice, whomever she was, had been as cold as a blade of ice slicing down the spine from nape of neck to buttocks.

Mike pressed speak and said “Hello?” before he even considered it foolish.

“3-9. Are you there Mike?” A more familiar voice boomed in response.

Mike was startled but relieved. “Aye. 3-9 here control. Can you hear me now?”

“Loud and clear. Listen you've to delay first patrol until McPherson arrives with your second man, you hear? Stay in the cabin, McPherson's late enough without having to wait twenty minutes for you to come back, okay?”

“Roger Control.” He replied. It wasn't really necessary, he could've just said “aye” but what was the point of using something as dated as a walkie talkie if you couldn't use the lingo along with it? Something came to his mind then. “Control, could you tell McPherson we need a phone and a radio?”

“Will do 3-9. Out.”

Mike looked at his watch. 11:56 p.m. It was going to be one long fucking night. Mike wondered if he should have his sandwiches before the other guy turned up, just in case he was a mooching bastard. It would certainly kill some time. He decided against it, he wasn't really hungry and had most of his shift left. Instead he went and sat back down at the screens picked up his paper and once again looked at the crossword. Mike was disappointed he'd not uncovered a single clue. Normally he'd have it half finished by that point but driving half way across the country and being stuck alone on a two man job in what were fairly creepy surroundings did not get him in the mood. Normally, he'd be able to reach a zen state where he'd scan the screens think about the clues, glance at another if he was stuck and then back to the screens. No matter how he tried his brain could not even grasp hold of the clues.

He could read them but the part of his mind that could take 12 across: A clockwork spoof (4,2) and turn it into something meaningful had vanished. He concluded, without much consideration, that he was too alert. The screens were unfamiliar, those long corridors and dark empty rooms they displayed were almost mesmerising in their unfamiliarity. He kept looking up at them as if some part of himself expected something to happen.

Nothing did.

And so it went on. He'd look at the screens pull the paper up, give up again and stare at the screens. After quite a while he gave up on the crossword and drifted into something that was somewhere between a doze and a trance. He seemed to be aware of watching the screens but it encompassed him entirely, no-one was home otherwise. Occasionally his eyes would flick to another screen or scan them in a sweep but there was no thought, no inner narrative, even his breathing slowed. Something moved. A shadow, a flicker of limb perhaps. The eyes targeted the screen and the image showed that flicker vanish into one of the darkened rooms.

Mike's heart began thumping rapidly and a chill sweat beaded the back of the neck. He moved back a bit, reached for the controls to realign camera G to get a better look in there. As the camera slowly, slowly turned towards the doorway of the ward he began to feel nervous. Part of him begged himself to stop, not to look but he ignored it.

At first he saw nothing but then, he was sure something was moving in that darkness, something human sized. Mike began to worry that someone else was here, was inside the hospital. He tried zooming in but there was nothing he could discern. He wondered if he should contact control. The last person in the world he wanted to be messing with was someone who's idea of a good-time was kicking about a disused mental unit at midnight.

Still, he hadn't actually seen anything and there was no doubt he'd been dozing off. He preferred to consider it a trick of the mind but knew that he'd need to keep an eye on the screen. He'd need to make sure that it wasn't some murderous psycho. He didn't think it would be, even a psycho would need to be mental to go out on a night like that, if there was anyone it was probably local teenagers trying to scare the shit out of each other. Local to where though? The nearest town was miles away.

“3-9.” Cut through the silence, scaring the shit out of Mike. He jumped up from his seat muttering angry curses to himself as he made for and grabbed the walkie talkie.

“3-9 here, control.”

“3-9, McPherson should be wae ye in five minutes. If ye want to go and unlock the gates to let him in, over.”

“Will do control.”

The keys sat snug in his trouser pocket and were warmer than his hands. He fished them out and then walked out of the portacabin and lit another cigarette. He walked over to the gates and rattled the heavy iron padlock and chain. Sliding the cover off he inserted the key and twisted. The device came undone and he pulled it and the heavy chain from the gate. As he pulled the gate open and turned he noticed a dull light from one of the upstairs windows of the hospital. A black shape, tall and horribly thin stood in front of it. Mike was transfixed by the cold fluorescent blue glow from where it's eyes should have been. A cold spread through him, a fearful chill but he could not remove his gaze.

“Follow. Follow down.” A gasping voice said floating in from somewhere on the night's wind. In his mind Mike saw a tunnel, stairs down into a clicking, chittering darkness.

A car horn snapped him out of his vision. Mike looked around to see McPherson and some messy looking fat bloke illuminated by the interior lights of the car as they drove up to the gate.

McPherson waved and gave Mike a wink as the fat bloke collected his stuff and exited the vehicle.

“Awright.” Said Mike.

“Hiya.” Panted the fat bloke. He was young, still in his twenties, his eyes were still keen, still had hope in them. Mike thought the lad better shift that weight fast if he wanted to remain hopeful.

McPherson stuck his head out the car and shouted. “I'll be here with the morning crew at quarter to seven. Don't suck each other's cocks raw now, y'hear me?”

Mike gave him a “fuck off” smile as McPherson cackled at his own humour.

“Aye, away ye go.” Mike responded and McPherson did as he was instructed. Mike watched the car drive away as he finished his cigarette.

“So...” the fat kid started. “I'm Joe, Joe Kerr.”

“You're shittin' me, right?” The fat kid looked bemused. Mike could not believe no one had reacted that way before and attempted to explain. “Your name... Joe Kerr, Joker right?”

“Oh that... Yeah no one's really mentioned that to me since school.” The fat kid deadpanned.

He had wits about him, Mike liked that and found himself smiling. “Come on let's get inside.”

Joe also had a shit-load of stuff about him too. A laptop, a six bag of crisps, two two litre bottles of irn-bru, a box set of some science fiction show Mike had never heard of and four microwavable curries which he explained were just in case that bastard McPherson left him stranded for 36 hours again. Which was exactly the kind of vindictive behaviour McPherson revelled in.

Joe wasn't very talkative, which suited Mike. He could sit all night with his headphones on watching Farspace or whatever, just as long as Mike had company on patrol. The hospital was already getting to him and it was only quarter to one according to his watch. He decided to wait until one and then shift his patrols to three and five at which point he could open the gate for the construction company guys who spent their daylight hours tearing the place apart. It broke up the night better anyway. He sat down and looked at the crossword again, hoping to find inspiration and was lucky. Cassandra and interloper came to him in quick succession followed by isomorph and muttering. The left quarter of the crossword was beginning to look quite healthy by the time it hit one.

He tapped Joe on the shoulder and said “C'mon let's do our patrol.”

The grounds weren't huge but enough to have Joe produce a sweat even in the cold night air. The exterior perimeter was probably about half a mile in total, mostly car parking and portacabins filled with tools and the like. Each of the two remaining buildings had to be checked. Joe didn't like that idea. “The site is condemned, are you sure it's even safe to go into those buildings without proper protection?”

His protestations were bollocks but Mike understood why he was so reluctant. Who in their right mind would gladly wander through a dark and abandoned mental hospital at night? Mike felt his skin crawl as an image came to his mind, the dark figure at the window. He shook it away and complained internally to his own mind about it running away from him, but what if, what if? Like every idiot in every bad horror movie Mike went against his own better judgement.

“These two buildings are safe, stop being such a wee pussy. Besides, we don't go in, jist check tae make sure aw the doors and windaes are locked” He answered, mockingly.

Joe shrugged and fumbled with his torch which came on. He started to wave it around adding a light-sabre noise. Mike just glared at him and shook his head. The two of them left the portacabin, Mike remembering to lock it, just in case all the lack of valuables were stolen.

Joe looked at the buildings and said “that's a creepy fuckin' place eh?”

Mike nodded. “Nae doubt aboot that son but I've patrolled worse.”

That was a lie, a bit of bravado which had more to do with convincing himself than the fat kid. He set his walkie talkie into the pocket in his yellow jacket and nodded. “C'mon, let's get this done quick, it's fucking freezing.”

As they walked the perimeter Joe kept asking questions, mostly trying to find out more about Mike, small talk, nothing more. Mike hadn't the patience for it and so asked him instead about the show he was watching. It was some spaceship shite with muppets and a bald blue bint but Joe rattled on about it like it was I Claudius or something. Mike let him, it was better than his stupid questions.

Eventually they'd done a complete circuit of the perimeter and they walked back through the alley between the main old building and the secondary annexe, checking each of the doors to make sure they were padlocked. The main building was locked tight but the second last door in the annexe, a fire exit, had not been padlocked and swung open with a creak as Joe tugged on it. The lad almost freaked. “Shit, shit!”

Mike sighed. “Shit indeed. Noo we're gonny huftae check the place oot.”

“Fur whit?”

“Fur intruders, ya tolly.”

Mike could see by Joe's face that he didn't like the sound of that. Mike wasn't too pleased either and hoped that when he called it in that control would tell him to sit tight, that they'd get someone out.

“Control, this is Victor 3-9. We've found an unbolted and open door in one of the buildings here, do you want us tae proceed?”

A crazy static whistled and screeched from the speaker. “Three… will… continue… over”

Those were the only intelligible words that came through.

“Control. 3-9 here, could you repeat? Reception here is shocking.”

“Come down the stairs.” a voice said, clear as a bell. Mike's reaction was a cold shudder, so violent that he almost dropped the walkie talkie.

“You alright?” asked Joe.

“Aye, that voice just spooked me a bit.”

“Whit voice?” asked Joe, with a genuine look of confusion on his face.

“You didnae hear that voice telling us to go doon the stairs?”

Now Joe was shaking his head and looking at Mike like he was daft. “I didnae hear

anythin'”

“You windin' me up?” Mike said, accusative and angry,

“Naw, serious, I thought ye were goin' intae a seizure or somethin'. Didnae hear nae voice.” Joe pleaded.

Mike scowled at Joe, a clear warning. He lifted the walkie talkie again and said “Control this is 39, are you receiving? Over.”

“Just… the fucking… sake… make sure the place is secure.”

Mike shrugged. “Ah fuck it, we're gaun in.” He decided. It was better than attempting to communicate in such an obnoxious fashion. Joe looked like he was going to protest the decision but said nothing. Mike decided he was going to have a laugh at the kids expense.

“Efter you.”

As Joe walked into the dark and musty corridor Mike could tell the boy was shitting himself, which was perfect. Seconds after Mike grabbed the two doors and slammed both of them shut, pressing his body against them.

“Hey!” Joe shouted. Mike could hear the muffled echo of his cry and chuckled. The boy tried to force the doors open. “That's no funny, let us oot.”

Mike said nothing just pushed all his weight against the door and laughed to himself as Joe thumped behind it.

“Let us oot ya prick.” He demanded, thumping all the while. Mike didn't take kindly to being called a prick and so he waited even longer as the boy's nervous protestations escalated. They then stopped.

They remained stopped but Mike thought Joe was just waiting for him to let his guard down before trying one last push but it never came. After enough time had passed for his malicious amusement to have subsided he opened the door and said. “Sorry about th...”

Joe wasn't in the corridor.

“Joe?” he shouted. His own voice echoing down the long corridor.

“Joe?!”

There was no response. Mike imagined the lad had decided to get his revenge by winding him up but he wasn't falling for it. “Awright, very funny lad, you win.”

There was still no response. Mike knew he only had himself to blame and sought to diffuse the situation before it went any further. He walked into the corridor and shone his torch up and down both lengths of it, past the boarded up windows of a half torn down reception and the empty window frames of two darkened wards. The lad was hiding, going to jump out at him and give him a scare, that was for certain.

He shone his torch onto the dust covered floor to see in which direction Joe had went, but his footprints remained scattered around the door and did not travel down either part of the corridor. Now that was creepy.

Mike tried another gambit. “Joe, ye'd better get yer arse movin' or I'm lockin' this door and you inside wae it.”

No reply, no sound nothing but silence, empty suffocating silence. Mike had to make a decision he had to choose whether to leave -which was his favoured choice- or try and find the boy, the merest consideration of which plunged his mind into a sea of increasingly grim what ifs. Mike was no hero, no stage managed character, no protagonist willing to overcome fear and desperate odds and thus his choice was simple.

“Aye… well fuck ye then.” He shouted. It echoed down the hallway as he turned to the fire exit to leave. The door was stuck fast. The arm contraption did not move when he attempted to unlock it and for a second he wondered if Joe had somehow looped back behind him and had locked him in but he doubted it. Mike tried to force it open several times but it did not budge an inch, it wasn't being held shut from outside, it had been locked and the only way to lock it was from inside, using the now rigid and useless locking mechanism which he rattled up and down several times, just to make sure. Once again he shone the torch up the hallway. It seemed longer than before, darker, more oppressive and creepier. Even the thought of walking down it made him feel fear but he knew he must, no matter how afraid he was. Mike took a gulp and began to walk. The sound of bits of broken glass and plaster crunching under his feet seemed amplified by the surrounding silence. This made Mike walk more cautiously, the fear began to seep through his anger. He tried half heartedly to raise his own ire and shouted “This better no be a wind up.”

At that he stopped and laughed as it dawned on him that a wind up was the answer to his crossword clue, a clockwork spoof (4,2). He was in the process of convincing himself that there was nothing to be scared of when he heard the voice. It was a whisper that surrounded him that bled through the walls and dripped into his ears.

“Come down here, down the stairs.”

Panic beset him like a wild horse and Mike had to physically stop himself from shitting. His heart pounded against his chest, drummed in his ears, there was the metallic taste of fear in his mouth and sweat poured from him so quickly that his hands were slick and he almost dropped the torch.

“Jesus.” he gasped managing to grip the thing before it clattered to the ground.

Mike wanted to run but he knew there was only one direction to head in and so he continued down the corridor, to its end, slowly and cautiously. At the end of the corridor he was faced with an intersecting corridor stretching off to the left and right. As he turned right he felt a cold chill come from somewhere and realised it was coming from behind him. He kept moving, dreading to turn, convinced the cold thing was close, so close he imagined he could hear it breathe.

Down the gloomy dusty corridor he continued, his torch picking up little but the stoor raised by his feet. At the end of this he was bordered by two open wards, filthy and all but empty. In the left hand ward there was the remains of a single hospital bed. In front of him was a set of double doors which lead onto the next corridor and another fire exit. Mike knew all he had to do was keep walking, not freak out and he'd be safe. He pushed the doors open and walked a little faster as he approached the fire exit. Pulling at the bar to release it he gasped as with a satisfying clunk it unlocked, the door swung open, perhaps two inches. Mike tried to push it further but it would not budge, there was something solid and heavy blocking it.

Mike realised it was probably a fork-lift or other vehicle parked hastily at clocking off time. He swore about a thousand times, cursing the driver and family with diseases in sensitive regions. He had no choice now, he'd have to turn the corner at the end and go deeper into the hospital. It looked dark and claustrophobic down that corridor, felt it too, but using every ounce of will he had, Mike turned round the corner.

More darkness, more dust, more rubble, more broken glass. This corridor was long and had wards down either side, some with boards where the windows had been, others just frames with jagged shards. Mike had no way to be sure but he thought that at the end of this corridor he could turn onto the stairs on the right or turn left into another set of wards which would then link to the day room. The day room had doors out to a patch of ground that had once been a garden. He convinced himself of that pretty quickly and then walked down the corridor, noticing almost immediately the large lump lying at the end.

He knew what it was, who it was almost as quickly. Mike grabbed his walkie talkie and thumbed the button. “Control, this is Victor 39, man down on patrol, repeat, we have a man down here.”

He walked quickly towards Joe's body, his fear momentarily forgotten. The kid didn't look as if he was breathing. his face was pale and frozen in a scream, mouth and eyes wide in terror. There was a riot of static from his walkie talkie, snippets of voices and electronic squeals and then from both speaker and stairwell came the voice once more.

“Come down here, down the stairs.”

He wasn't going to do that. He was going to stay with Joe until the others arrived. He checked the lad's pulse; nothing. Mike pushed his ear against the boy's chest hoping for a single thump from within; nothing. He gave the boy a hard whack to his chest having heard that could sometimes restart the heart then he listened again; nothing. He started doing C.P.R. ignoring the darkness, ignoring the dust and his fear, even ignoring the weird echoes that floated up the stairwells from below, the sounds of distant chanting and droning.

After a while it was obvious that even if he could revive the boy he'd been starved of oxygen for so long he'd be brain-dead. Mike stopped trying to save Joe and stood over the lad's body wondering what to do now. He had tried several times to make contact with his base during the last however long and tried so once more. “Control this is Victor 39. If you can hear me, send the cops along with the ambulance will you? The boy's...”

He found himself unable to finish the sentence instead taking his thumb from the button and sighing. Fear and frustration emerged as stinging tears in his eyes.

“Come down here, down the stairs.”

“Fuck right aff ya cunts.” Mike barked but his anger met with no response other than silence. This did not make him happy and he marched over towards the edge of the stairwell and shouted down it. “You pricks want me? You come up here. C'moan ya fuckers.”

The lack of response began to infuriate him and delude him into thinking perhaps whomever was doing this was as unsettled as he was. He took a few steps down the stairs. “Aye, no so tough when dealin' wae somebody that's no frightened wae yer shite, eh?”

At the bottom was a lot of old metal filing cabinets, stacks of chairs and bits of old-fashioned heavy equipment which had purposes he could not fathom, at the end of this stretch of corridor was three doors each with a sign above. Boiler room, Emergency Exit, Stairs Down. Mike could not believe his luck and ran towards the exit, praying it would open. He pulled on the bar and with a loud clunk the door unlatched and swung open, cool night air and moonlight flooded the dusty corridor, around him was several dozen large iron bins, he could hear sirens in the distance, they were coming, he was safe, he was saved.

Mike gave one single breath of relief when from slightly behind him he heard a noise and turned. The door to the right was open somehow. He knew what this was, knew it would be an ambush but the cops were almost here, he'd let them deal with the remains.

Mike walked out into the cold night. The chilly air was such a relief that he felt like an angel, like he'd walked through Hell and came out the other end unscathed. He was almost giggling as he strode away from the building.

He was half way back to the portacabin when he saw them. There were six figures all white bones and gleaming chain-mail illuminated by the moonlight. They had a fluidity of movement he had never seen before in any creature and each had pale ice blue glow instead of eyes. He'd read enough fantasy novels to know them for what they were. Wights. The powerful ancient warriors who lived on beyond death. The denizens of the barrows and the mounds.

“The Mounds” They'd built a hospital on top of their resting place.

One with blazing cold fire in its eyes marched towards him. “We hunger, what offerings have you brought us?”

Mike did not know what to say. It didn't matter, he knew and they knew that the hospital was gone, that there would be no more offerings of mentally ill people or old-folk for them to feed on. They knew they would have to sleep again and wished one more meal before hibernation in the endless night.

Mike laughed. “Fuck all, ya auld pricks.”

He could feel their collective insane fury as he continued laughing, the atmosphere around them seemed to burn with their rage. They approached quickly, surrounding him and bony fingers raked his scalp, tearing at the skin as sirens howled and red and blue lights flashed. Mike collapsed to his knees laughing and looked down, waiting for death but there was only a sigh of wind and a cloud of dust that blew through and across him until he was covered in the particulate remains of prehistoric ghouls.

When the police approached he was still laughing, filthy and with blood running down his face.