The Dystopiaville Omnibus: A Dystopian Sci-Fi Horror Collection Page 12

  “So why are you worried about a few fingerprints?” Terri asked.

  “Just standard procedure,” Reggie said. “Now who’s going to do it?”

  Joseph, who’d been standing awkwardly in between the feuding husband and wife, stepped up. “I’ll do it.”

  “No,” Terri said, watching the cars leave the garden. “It has to be someone in the family. Someone who knows where he went, what he touched. I’ll do it.”

  Reggie shook his head.

  “I want you at the Bluff. You’ve got the best eye for detail Terri. We need you there when we run over the plan.”

  “Then who?” Joseph asked.

  “I’ll do it,” Fern said, walking over to the house. She’d left Ellie alone beside the car.

  “You?” Terri said, a puzzled expression on her face.

  Fern shrugged. “You’re right Mum. It has to be one of us.”

  Reggie smiled at his eldest daughter’s suggestion. Despite Ellie’s overt, Baker-like dedication, Reggie had always believed that out of his two girls, Fern would make the better leader. Ellie was a trooper but she was far too eager to please. She lacked the necessary prudence in her decision-making abilities. Fern on the other hand, was a more flexible thinker. The Wards’ eldest girl saw the world three-dimensionally and this, along with her calm demeanour, would serve the movement well. Fern also disguised her affiliations better than Ellie. There were no Marjory Baker books in Fern’s bedroom. But Reggie knew that she’d read them all.

  Fern also knew that one of the Wards had to stay behind and clean up. Ellie wouldn’t have volunteered for the job in a million years.

  “Thank you Fern,” Reggie said. “I appreciate that.”

  “Yeah,” Fern said. “Well, somebody has to do it.”

  Terri stared at Fern. She was the image of the weary, troubled parent. At the same time she must have known it was their best option because she didn’t raise any opposition when Fern volunteered.

  “Joseph,” she said. “Get a gun for Fern will you please?”

  Fern’s eyebrows stood up. “A gun? I’m only cleaning the house Mum.”

  “Just take it,” Terri said.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’ll make me feel better. I don’t like this.”

  Fern pointed her thumb at the house. “Is it because of him? Morgan? He’s tied up remember?”

  Joseph raised his hands, politely interrupting.

  “Hold on a second,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He walked over to the BMW and opened the boot. There were only two cars left in the driveway now, not including the Wards’ SUV. A silver Audi was parked next to Joseph’s car, which belonged to Carl, the young man with the long red dreadlocks. He was waiting for the all clear from Joseph before setting off for the Bluff.

  Joseph rummaged around in the boot. When he returned to the house he was carrying a black pistol.

  He offered it to Fern.

  “Do I really need it?” Fern said, looking at the gun with a grimace.

  “Better safe than sorry,” Joseph said. “That car crash today, it’s screwed everything up. We don’t know how long it’s going to be before someone finds it.”

  “Oh Jesus,” Terri said, knitting her brows anxiously.

  “We’re playing guessing games,” Reggie said. He thought about putting an arm around his wife’s shoulder but decided against it. If Terri wanted to give him the cold shoulder then he’d reciprocate. She’d come to him when she needed him. And perhaps Reggie Ward wouldn’t be there.

  “But I’m sure we’ve got plenty of time to do what we need to do,” Reggie said. “As long as we get moving that is.”

  Joseph nodded.

  “I didn’t mean to worry you Terri,” he said apologetically. “It’s been quiet so far, which means it’s likely no one’s found the prison van yet. And even after it’s been called in it’ll be a long time before the police get this far north in numbers. We’ll be long gone by then. All of us.”

  Fern took the Ruger pistol.

  “Thanks Joseph,” she said.

  “Still go to the shooting range?” Joseph asked.

  Fern’s fingers curled around the rubber grip. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “You won’t need a gun,” Terri said to her daughter. She was staring intensely at Fern as she spoke. Reggie could see that the decision to leave Fern behind had wobbled his wife. “But hold onto it anyway okay? I just wish we didn’t have to split up.”

  “Me too,” Fern said.

  Reggie placed a hand on her shoulder. “How long sweetheart? How long do you need to wipe the surfaces down?”

  Fern looked at the house.

  “Give me thirty minutes,” she said. “I’ll wipe off the prints and put the living room back in order. Then I’ll lock up and I guess that’s it. What then? How do we reconnect?”

  Reggie and Joseph exchanged looks.

  “We’ll tell one of the drivers to stay behind,” Reggie said. “They can patrol the back roads while you’re cleaning up. When you’re done, they’ll take you down to Cromness and drop you off there. We’ll meet you at the bus station on our way back from the Bluff. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Fern said. “Where do I meet the driver?”

  “What about the old northern road?” Terri said. “Beside where O’Brien’s bench overlooks the hills. You know it don’t you? It’s not that far to walk from here.”

  Fern nodded. “I know it.”

  Reggie turned to Joseph. “You’ll sort a car?”

  “Might as well use Carl,” Joseph said, pointing at the silver Audi in the driveway. Carl was sitting in the driver’s seat, waiting for the order to go. “He knows the area. He can keep an eye on things while Fern’s cleaning up.”

  “He knows O’Brien’s bench?” Reggie asked.

  “If I know it Carl knows it.”

  “Thanks Joseph.”

  “Yes boss.”

  Joseph walked off to relay the message to Carl.

  Terri wrapped her arms around Fern, squeezing tight. She clung to her daughter for a long time.

  “Love you,” Terri said, finally letting go. “See you soon.”

  “Love you too,” Fern said, stepping back.

  She waved over at Ellie.

  “See ya creepo.”

  Ellie waved back.

  “Proud of you,” Reggie said, embracing his daughter.

  She wasn’t shivering anymore.

  “Don’t worry,” Fern said. “We’ll be back together in no time.”

  Chapter 12

  The blindfold pushed tight against Morgan’s eyes. Everything in his world was now black.

  And yet, he could still see her.

  His mother.

  She was shoulder-deep, burning in the fires of Hell, looking up at him with eyes that yearned. Morgan watched as she pointed a scorched finger up at her baby boy. She was laughing, singing happy songs, all the while preparing a space beside her in the red-hot flames.

  But it was going to take a while. Carter Morgan wasn’t going to die for a long time and until then he was stuck in the cupboard under the stairs, which at the moment felt like Hell’s waiting room. After this, the big ‘H’ itself would feel like mercy.

  It was so damn quiet. Morgan had heard Silentia leave the house not so long ago. How long? Was it five or ten minutes? Longer than that? He’d heard brief spurts of chatter from the garden.

  Then the cars began to leave.

  Morgan pushed at the gag with his tongue and tried to cry out in terror. The result was pitiful. The gag reeked of stale chemicals, which made Morgan want to puke but where would the puke go except back down his throat? Not good. Don’t puke. He could feel a powerful knot digging into the back of his neck, mimicking the chokehold of a jiu-jitsu master. The blindfold wasn’t much better. It pressed mercilessly against his skull, adding to the headache that had been Ellie’s parting gift.

  The air inside the cupboard smelled like old wood. D
amp. There was a hint of rotten fruit lingering somewhere.

  Morgan heard yet another car engine firing up outside. The crunch of rubber tyres on the driveway crescendoed and faded.

  They were doing it. Really doing it. Silentia were burying him alive in the quiet lands.

  What a shitty way to go out. Carter Morgan, legend of the Northern Prison, scourge of authorities and record holder for the longest successive number of days holding screws hostage on the prison roof, was going out with a whimper. Not even a whimper.

  Nobody would ever find him. He’d be the fugitive who simply just disappeared. They’d come up with wild tales of Morgan fleeing to the mountains of Switzerland, to India, or to the islands of the Caribbean, living out his days as a free man. There would be alleged sightings of him all over the world. Somebody would write a book. Maybe there’d be a movie about his life.

  Morgan choked on the foul tasting gag.

  Even if the police came knocking on the farmhouse door, all they’d find was an empty holiday home. There was no sign of forced entry. No cause for alarm or suspicion. And if the cops wanted more information they’d trace the building back to its owners, Reggie and Terri Ward, whose false identities were undoubtedly spotless. With one brief conversation the Wards would expertly steer attention away from the house and from the quiet lands. Everyone knew Morgan was going south. The law would be clueless, unaware that whilst talking to the Wards, they were talking to monsters hidden in plain sight.

  A muffled scream.

  Morgan fought against the ropes that bound his wrists. But this wasn’t the crappy old rope that Terri had fobbed him off with earlier. This was an anaconda wrapped around Morgan’s arms and legs. It was Kevlar rope. Silentia probably had a ton of it lying around for tying up people like Morgan. They’d probably tied up more people than the mafia.

  Morgan wrestled with his chains but it was hopeless. He’d already escaped one prison that day. Twice was a big ask in anyone’s book. His energy, mental and physical, was slowly fizzling out.

  Reggie fucking Ward.

  Behind those thick horn-rimmed glasses, Reggie boy was a killer. Morgan saw it now, far too late. And to think he’d been around cold-blooded killers all his life, but then again, Reggie Ward was next level. He’d fooled Morgan from the start.

  It was all her fault. The old bitch.

  Carter Morgan, fifteen and a half, had soaked the downstairs hallway of the little council house from top to bottom with a stolen can of petrol. He’d swiped the can from the local garage, taking it from a display shelf outside the shop. This was after he’d bundled his mother into the cupboard under the stairs. After he’d tied her up and gagged her. Morgan knew how to tie the knots, knew how to put the gag in – he’d seen the old bitch do it so many times that he was practically an expert on his first try.

  She never stood a chance. Morgan might not have been a skilled runner like his brother but even at fifteen and a half, he was a powerfully built young man, a tank in the making.

  She’d begged with her eyes, cried, fought and moaned. But she didn’t deserve pity. Not after everything she’d done to the boy. The boy who did nothing wrong apart from existing and resembling the man who’d broke her heart. Yes she was sorry now. Everybody’s sorry when the shit hits the fan and they get caught or called out or locked in the same dungeon they used on others.

  Why couldn’t she be sorry before?

  Morgan recalled the smell of petrol as he’d drenched the hallway, spilling every last drop out of the can. Even the memory of that odour was enough to give him a headache years after the event. He’d stood by the door, forefinger and thumb pinching the match. His hand had trembled.

  She must have been able to smell the petrol. Maybe she even heard him strike the match.

  Her baby boy.

  The flame burned slowly down the wood. Then it sped up. For a moment, Morgan panicked. He thought about calling the whole thing off. He’d scared her good and that was enough wasn’t it? Now he could run away from that house and never come back. He’d made his point. His mum would never forget it – never forget how Morgan had taken his revenge.

  But what if she found him? What would she do to him? She’d skin him alive. Or worse, she’d put him back in the cupboard under the stairs and leave him there to rot.

  The boy wept as he dropped the match. It was confusing because he hated her and was supposed to be revelling in his revenge. Crying? He’d never fantasised about that part.

  Morgan ran outside, the deep roar of a newborn fire in pursuit.

  He’d crossed the quiet suburban street in a daze. It was about nine o’clock at night. Morgan parked on the Ferguson’s immaculate brick wall and watched the light show from a distance. Somebody would call someone soon – firefighters, police, someone. He had no intention of running away.

  Where would he go if he did?

  That council house went up like it had been made to burn.

  When the fire engines showed up Morgan calmly walked over to the firefighters and introduced himself. He told them what he’d done.

  Jesus, the look on their faces.

  Everything was a blur after that. Over the following weeks his brother Graham, out of some enduring filial loyalty, had informed the authorities of what their mother had put Carter through. He told the police that she regularly locked her youngest son under the stairs, gagged and in silence.

  Maybe Graham was glad the old bag was gone too.

  Public sympathy began to trickle in for the boy. People spoke up for Carter, despite the horror of what he’d done to his mother. His story was all over the news, at least for a while. That was his fifteen minutes – ‘The Morgan Family Tragedy’ – a story in which there were no villains, only victims.

  After a short trial Carter Morgan was sent to juvenile prison for three years. That was a reduced sentence, influenced by the suffering Morgan had experienced at home. It was supposed to be at least eighteen months before his case got reviewed but his lawyer told Morgan that he’d get out at his first parole hearing. Just in time too, before the teenager was old enough to get transferred to an adult prison.

  All he had to do was behave.

  Morgan’s life quickly wandered off script. In juvie he developed a reputation as a troublemaker. It wasn’t long before his original three-year sentence was extended for another year but by that point Morgan didn’t care. He’d given up on life on the outside having discovered something better inside. Nobody could hurt him. In that strange insular world behind bars, bad behaviour was rewarded and it earned Morgan respect amongst his peers. Respect was like currency inside and Morgan was a rich man. His wealth enabled him over time to develop a long overdue sense of self-worth and to live like a king, albeit one without liberty.

  To hell with the outside. He felt safer in prison.

  The parole board didn’t even bother to review Morgan’s case when he turned eighteen. He was shipped off to a real prison and trouble followed him like a bad smell. The king of juvie shined amongst the big boys. Fighting, stealing, and terrorising guards – just like in junior prison it was all about earning respect. And Morgan was good at earning respect.

  Now, as he sat blindfolded in the cupboard under the stairs, Morgan’s life played out like a grim, silent movie. There was just one regret in his mind about the way things had played out. Only one thing he would do differently.

  Next time the cage door flew open he’d be a good bird and stay put.

  Chapter 13

  At first Morgan thought the scratching was just another figment of his imagination. His way of coping with the grim reality of being well and truly fucked.

  But the scratching didn’t go away. It sped up, the rhythm getting more and more frenzied. It was like a giant rat on the other side of the door, desperate to get in. A rattling noise replaced the scratchiness. Then a short, sharp click.

  Morgan rocked the chair back and forth, trying not to tip himself over in the process. He yelled through the gag but it soun
ded more like the veiled scream of a frightened child.

  What was that?

  Footsteps?

  A moment later he felt something graze the back of his head.

  Morgan tried to talk but he couldn’t. His ears pricked up. There was a soft whispering in the cupboard that at first he couldn’t pinpoint. He listened closely. Yes. It was the sound of somebody breathing.

  Adrenaline soared through his body. Morgan sat bolt upright as the newcomer wrestled with the blindfold.

  Seconds later, a blur of white light flooded Morgan’s vision.

  He blinked in an effort to adjust to the brightness. Felt like he hadn’t seen daylight in years. He looked right, squinting at a fuzzy shape standing in the doorway. It was a surreal, dream-like vision, so much so that Morgan began to wonder if he was dead already.

  “Mum?”

  A fuzzy hand reached over and with a sharp tug, pulled the gag out of Morgan’s mouth.

  Morgan gasped for air. He lapsed into a coughing fit and tried to see who was there in the cupboard with him. Don’t let it be the vengeful ghost of my mother. Please God, no not that.

  “Fern? Is that you?”

  Fern backed off towards the doorway. There was a padlock in her hand – a hand that was visibly shaking. Her wide-eyed gaze skipped back and forth between Morgan and the front door down the hall.

  “Fern,” Morgan said. “What’s going on? I don’t understand.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Morgan cleared his throat. It felt like he’d swallowed a box of nails. But all his aches and pains, including a splitting headache, were the least of his worries. Morgan didn’t know if Fern had come back to torture him by teasing him with escape or if she was here on merciful business. Mercy would undoubtedly involve dispatching him with a swift bullet to the head using that gun she had tucked into the waist of her jeans.

  “Why did you come back?” Morgan asked.

  Fern shook her head. “I’m still trying to figure that one out myself.”

  Morgan inhaled a deep lungful of air. It tasted damn good, especially after sucking on that gag for so long.