Coldbrook(56)

In his hands was a squat pistol.

And he had been paying attention to the news, because it was aimed directly at her head.





Part Two



AMONG THE LIVING


The universe has as many different centres as there are living beings in it.

Alexander Solzhenitsyn





Monday



1


HOLLY STARED ABOUT her in disbelief, the words ‘Welcome to Coldbrook’ echoing inside her head. She started to panic, her palms growing damp and her heart racing. Just as shock threatened to overwhelm her there was a brief sting on her neck that spread to burn through her entire being. And then, darkness.

When she woke her whole body felt as though it had been subjected to an intimate, thorough medical examination – she seemed to be naked and her limbs ached.

She was too scared to open her eyes, terrified of what she would see.

Her senses swam. She could smell musty wool and stale bread, and the unmistakable scent of her own body odour. Her breathing seemed to reverberate, the whole space around her gasping in time with her exhalations. She clenched her fingers, rucking up a rough blanket, and then her arm came painfully to life with a thousand pins and needles. She gave a shuddering sob and tears dribbled into her hair.

At last Holly opened her eyes to see what they had done to her.

The cell was small, a cave more than a structure, with a floor hewn flat and the raised bed she lay on hacked from the wall. Layers of animal skins and holed blankets softened the bed, and she was swathed in a heavy quilt. She wiped at her tears and glanced beneath the covering. She was not naked after all: the dark green smock she wore resembled the clothing worn by her rescuers.

‘Rescuers,’ she croaked, and wondered how wrong she might be.

Holly sat up, coughing, wishing for a drink. Her eyes felt gritty, her mouth and throat dry, and there was a pressure in her bladder that she was doing her best to ignore. The room contained no toilet area, and the only other fixture was an oil lamp high on one wall. It threw out a surprising amount of light and heat but, when she stood to examine it closer, dizziness hit her.

‘Oh shit,’ she muttered, leaning back against the rock surface.

One wall of the cell had been built up rather than carved out, heavy concrete blocks cemented together in an even, pleasing pattern. And there was a light switch. She flicked it quickly, but nothing happened. Looking at the ceiling, she saw an empty bulb socket, green with rust.

Welcome to Coldbrook, the tall man had said. But perhaps she’d misheard him, or placed words that she’d wanted to hear in his mouth.

The door was solid wood, its hinges hidden, no handle. There was a locked viewing slot.

Holly hugged herself beneath the quilt, breathing deeply as the nausea receded. Her arm had been pricked a dozen times, leaving small raised scabs. A scrape of skin had been taken from her shin – the edges of the excision were square and neatly cut.

What have they done?

The viewing slot in the door slid open but by the time she’d realised it was already closing again.

The lock clicked, tumblers turned, and Holly backed up to the head of the bed.

The door opened and the man who came in was a walking corpse. The silence was tainted by his soft hooting and he slashed at the air with his hands. The room filled with the stench of old things and forgotten rot. He lurched for her, but she had nowhere else to go. His face was wrinkled leather. His jaw hung down so far that his chin touched his chest, and what teeth remained were black. But his eyes were the blackest.

Holly screamed, cowering against the wall.

The man flipped back, his head jarring forward over the wide metal band around his neck. He sat down heavily, and Holly heard bones crack. The man made no other sound.

Shadows filled the doorway, instructions were shouted, and the zombie was dragged out of the room. They had it restrained on a long collar and stick. Once in the hallway outside, one of the shadows kicked the wasted man over and brought something heavy down onto his head. The crunch was sickening, but in the silence that followed everything felt different.

What the f*ck?

Holly slid down the wall to the floor, bringing her knees up to her chest. The tall man who had welcomed her stood at the cell door and provided an answer.

‘I apologise for that,’ he said. ‘We had to check, but you can come out now. The furies never sing to their own.’

‘You bastard! You could have just asked.’

‘You came from somewhere else,’ he said. He’d told her his name was Drake Slater, and Holly thought she knew him from somewhere. Stupid, but the idea persisted. He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t take the risk. We know how the furies work in this world, but in yours . . .’ He held out his hands and shrugged.

‘How long have I been asleep?’

‘Almost a full day.’

‘You drugged me.’


He held out his hands again, half answer, half apology. It seemed as though he couldn’t stop staring at her.

Holly closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. The food spread before them on the small plastic table in the room that Drake had led her to looked simple and smelled mouth-watering, but Holly had yet to eat. Her thoughts were in turmoil – the reality of her situation threatened to overcome her. And this Earth, this alien place: their food, their water, anything here could kill her.