Chapter 23

“Samuel, come to me,” Sariel said. His voice was different; it was not the voice which had chided them as they were – what was it that Nemamiah had called it again? – enlightened. Now it was a voice that was gentle and soft, one that beckoned you to it like a Pied Piper’s flute. The words formed a melody so glorious to your ears that you couldn’t help but smile and obey. Sammy took a step forward, yet he didn’t relinquish his hold on Becky’s hand. She had to take a small step with him to stop their arms from becoming too stretched.

Sariel said, “Your eyes were wonderful things. The gift of sight cannot be overestimated. Yet it is not noticed or appreciated until it is gone. We did not reach you in time. You were hidden away better than the others, for some reason.”

All around them now the ground shook, harder and harder – not quite like an earthquake, this felt to all of them like something they had ever before experienced. The ground wasn’t quaking; it was being ripped into bite sized pieces. Sariel continued, his eyes fixed on Sammy. He felt it, could see the immense white stack of energy beckon him. Sammy felt Sariel’s hypnotic gaze was held captive by it. “I cannot give you your eyes back – that is beyond even our reach – but we have a gift for you...to make things easier.

Sariel raised his hands and brought them towards Sammy’s face. The group saw this; they saw the bulging, swollen fingers hook around Sammy’s face. All Sammy saw was a bright light which enveloped him in its embrace and held him tight. He couldn’t move, yet he felt no fear or apprehension. Sammy felt his body begin to rise upwards, straighten until he stood to attention, his back so straight that it felt strange to him. The curve of his spine had straightened out into one vertical mass of bone and nerves.

His face felt hot, he felt relaxed, at peace, until an image flashed before his eyes. It was Mandy. She was in a park. She wore a white jacket; a dentist’s coat. She stood still, looking at the world around her. Then she glanced up at the sky. Sammy would have sworn she looked right at him, although he knew she wasn’t there. His heart pulled tight in his chest. Her face had aged, not a lot, but enough that Sammy noticed. She looked even more beautiful than ever. She raised her hands up to her face, her eyes filled with tears. She clutched at her face, hands forming a tent over her nose and mouth. Her eyes reddened by the stinging tears. She lowered her hands again and began picking at the tips of her fingers, a habit Sammy had often told her to stop.

”Sammy,” she mouthed the word.

There was no sound.

There was nothing – only the warmth which came from being trapped inside an angelic embrace, a distant shuddering of the ground and, even more distant to that, locked away inside his mind, was the humming sound. In Sammy’s mind he heard the screeching of car tires, of metal bodies engaged in an ongoing collision course that nobody can stop. Yet he saw the word on her lips, he saw his name spat out, cried out. Her lips trembled as did the hands she raised skywards, palms away from her. She reached towards his face. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but before she could touch him she began to fade. ‘Sammy, Sammy’ she mouthed, her lips trembling harder now, hands shaking. Sammy could feel them, he could feel them reaching for his face, millimeters away from being reunited with her. He knew that if she reached him, if she could, then they would be together again. Yet her image continued to dim.

“I’m sorry, Sammy. I’m so sorry,” she mouthed to him, calling, he could see from the way her jaw seemed to strain. Then, like a reverse developed Polaroid photograph, Mandy disappeared from his life, wiped out for a second time.

Before she disappeared completely, Sammy saw her body change, like a ghost appearing in a semi-serious horror movie: her imaged flickered, moving between the Mandy he knew in life and the one he had left in death. Her once sweet face alternated like a piece of stop-go animation with that of a corpse. It was wet and rotten, well on the way to total putrescence. She smiled at him: although her lips were gone, eaten or rotted away, the muscles remained, and they tightened, pulling what skin remained of her cheeks upwards.

“Mandy,” Sammy called, filled with a despair that knew no limits.

He tried to move but couldn’t. His arms and legs were locked in place, held together by this angelic embrace. Then, as suddenly has it had started, it was gone, and Sammy was thrown back into a world that was dying. A burning pain ate away at his face, while tears with no possible outlet stung his soul.

“Sammy, are you okay?” a voice asked him. It was Becky, although she sounded a long way away.

“What did you do to him?” another called. It was either Marcus or Graham; he couldn’t tell which. The only thing he knew was that it was a man’s voice and it was angry.

A hand grabbed his, fingers locked within his, and he was pulled backwards, stumbling over his own feet, which felt as if there were embedded in the earth, already being pulled back down below...to him...to them and their games...to...to...

“Sammy, Sammy, are you okay?” the voice asked again, not as distant this time. Her voice came from beside him. It was her hand that held his. The sensation of their skin touching was electric. Much like when the wires in a hotwired car are first introduced they create a spark, a similar jolt travelled through Sammy’s entire body and succeeded in pulling him back into the present.

“Mandy,” he whispered, the words coming out as little more than an exhaled breath. Sammy looked around; his vision was a haze, a swirl of pastel colors all merged together. He saw a shape, a head – it was a woman’s head, dark hair, yes, brown maybe, not black. It wasn’t Mandy. He knew that. Then it came back to him: her name jumped to his lips and made him want to smile.  “Becky.” No sooner had he spoken her name and his world went black, as if the lights were just turned out.

Sariel stepped back from Sammy, while the others simply stood, their mouths gaping, a look of horror frozen on their faces. Through it all, Sammy had stood motionless, calling out a name none of them could hear, and he kept throwing glances over towards Becky, looking right at her, his face finding hers despite the blood that streamed down his face. The black sockets that had housed his eyes stared ghoulishly at Becky’s. His arm reached out, groping towards her. Sariel stepped back even further and Sammy fell, stumbling backwards. He kept his feet and Becky moved without flinching to stand beside him once more, steadying him. Marcus and Graham had both made the move to offer aid, but had pulled up automatically when they saw the pair together; they weren’t needed.

Becky’s hands were soon sticky with Sammy’s blood as she brushed his cheek with her thumb, cupping the left side of his face, asking him repeatedly if he was alright. She got no answer at first, then after a few moments he seemed to come around, like a man waking up from a deep sleep. Becky threw her arms around him and held him tight. She stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck. When they pulled away from each other there was a bloody face print on the shoulder of Becky’s shirt.

While Sammy was lost in a pain-free dream world, enveloped by the pure spirit of the angel Sariel, the angel of healing, the others in his group of new friends stood by and watched what really happened. They saw the healing hands of God’s servants at work in raw reality.

Sariel had beckoned Sammy to him, and with a speed that took them all by surprise he grabbed Sammy’s face and forced his thumbs into Sammy’s eye sockets. The crust that covered them broke and thick maroon blood spurted out.  It ran down Sariel’s arms with the lumpy consistency of milk left out in the sun. The worst thing was that Sammy stood stock still, not even flinching or seeming to feel the way Sariel worked his thumbs deeper and deeper into his skull until the palm of his hand was pressed against the corner of each eye socket. A sickening wet sucking sound belched as Sariel began to massage the inside of Sammy’s skull. He muttered something incoherent in a voice so low Marcus was amazed they heard it at all.

Behind them, for they had all turned to face the scene as it unfolded, Nemamiah stood impassive, arms now folded across this chest, his face looking drained and tired, worn thin in fact.

His work done, Sariel the healer stepped back, his head tilted to one side as he examined the end result. He studied Sammy like a sculptor, staring at the lump of clay he had just manipulated, wondering, ‘Is this my masterpiece, or do I need to just take this off here, or that bit there mayhap?’

Before he had any time to make that editing decision the ground exploded around them. The dried earth cried out with a weak crunching sound, and fire erupted into the air, shooting upwards until they could no longer see the sky. The group all cowered; it was instinctive. Becky pulled Sammy down onto his haunches beside her. She clapped her hands over her own head, still refusing to release their interlocked arms.

“Holy shit!” she screamed, looking around for the others.

Marcus was crouched down, his head up looking around, eyes wide with fear – yet somehow he managed to keep himself calm. Helen was next to him, lying flat on the floor, with her arms over her head, hands interlocked at the base of her skull. Graham was a little further away, crouched down much like Marcus. His face, however, told a different story; Marcus sought a way out while Graham seemed at ease, not looking for anything, simply just waiting for it to blow over before they made their move.

The fire flew into the sky, thundering upwards before crashing down on itself and falling back into the chasm from which it burst. At the same time more continued to rise, creating a wall that ran down the length of the town, or what remained of it. There were several loud explosions as the larger buildings gave up the fight and collapsed on themselves, sending up a cloud of dust and wood so rotten it had been reduced powder on the inside many years ago. The heat was intense yet didn’t burn no matter how close the blaze seemed to come to them. After what felt like an age, the wall of orange heat finally began to fade.

“It has begun. Quick, Sariel, we must pass on the word,” Nemamiah called out, his voice booming above the agonized scream of the earth. “You have been told. You must track down those we seek. Those six souls are a part of this and they must be removed until we know why our brother is so keen to locate them. Find them, and keep them safe. We will find you when the time is right and take you all to safety.” Nemamiah spoke with renewed urgency now. He sweated profusely, Marcus noticed... no, he wasn’t sweating, he was melting.

The air around them roared. The sky above their heads echoed the dying call of a forgotten world. The group flinched but nothing more; it was a sound they were used to, like a jet plane flying overhead, a lot lower that you would expect but certainly not a sound that was completely foreign to them. However, none of them were prepared for the sight they saw when their raised their heads. The sky had ripped open, the blue peeled backwards from itself, creating a long, thin oval in the sky. Clouds were cut in half and fell to the ground, descending like a strange mist only to burn up in the heat with nothing but a slight puff of smoke. The oval itself was black – jet black. With another bellow the sky cracked even further, the oval widened, and they all began to feel the atmosphere change: the air thinned fast, gravity began to falter. One moment they felt weighted down and squashed and the next they felt as though they would float away on the slightest breath of wind.

“Quick, join hands!” Nemamiah called, having roar to now, not only because of his sudden decline in condition but because the crack in the sky and ground had unleashed the skull penetrating groaning sound at full volume. It was the combined screams of two planets as they merged. It was nails being dragged along a blackboard and cutlery being scrapped on a china plate all combined into one cacophonous din. “Don’t look at it!” he called. Was it panic in his voice? They couldn’t tell, and had no time to dwell on the matter.

They could all feel it grow inside them like a craving; a desire, a hunger to look up. It called to them, whatever it was. It began its existence in their lives as the humming of underground power cables and had grown into sounds that reminded each of them of their time in Hell. There was a strange pressure that emanated from above their heads. It coursed through their bodies, tearing at them on the inside, the way the moon pulls at the oceans, creating the tides that govern so much of our lives.

“Join hands!” they heard Nemamiah calling, his voice once again distant.

Somehow they all managed to obey his commands, moving to form a small, odd-shaped circle. There was a flash of light, a rustling of feathers, a fierce cool breeze – and they were gone.

Had they been any later in making contact with each other, then they would have been sucked out of existence. They would have seen the split in the sky twist into a smile, they would have seen it open in a yawn and then collapse inwards on itself, and the last thing they would have seen would have been the stars themselves, deepest, darkest space as the world they were on was pulled away and fused into the underworld as the newest extension to an already overloaded kingdom.

They landed with a strange, stomach shifting feeling, much like going over a gentle, rolling hill in car travelling just too fast. The light that enveloped them left, and for a few moments they were blinded. Children born into a new world, one that was foreign and alien to them, and made them all feel like babes fresh from a mother’s womb.

The world they found themselves in was a stark contrast to the one they had just left. This world was alive with vegetation, grass that was a vivid green and smelt as sweet as the first cut of summer. Each blade glistened with drops of morning dew, the sky above them was a deep azure, ocean of brilliance which, when compared to the deep blue emptiness of the previous world, seemed to be much more alive and hopeful. The grass was soft and spongy under their feet, holding natural warmth from its days in the sun. There were trees of all description, from towering oaks to pines with cones the size of melons hanging from their branches. Wild trees grew bearing a strange looking – but later, they would discover, wonderfully tasting – fruit. It was a strange shade of blue; near purple, with a yellow stripe that ran through the center of it. It looked like a strawberry in its shape, yet was the size of an apple.

Somewhere close at hand was the source of the new sound that filled their ears, only unlike the humming of the Hell worlds, this was the pleasant sound of a small stream or brook as it followed its course, either flowing into something larger or quite possibly just looping back on itself and continuing the circle of its own existence. When they found it, the water was impossibly clear; the bed of the stream was dotted with rocks and small fish whose unending game of tag saw them dart from one place to the other with amazing speed and agility. They skimmed over some, around others and even under a few. Marcus even saw one of them jump out of the water and slide across the top of one rather large stones as though it were a slide at the local waterway’s park.

“Jesus, they just melted them,” Becky said in a whispered voice from behind them all. The others turned their heads towards her, and saw for themselves.

On the floor just in front of, where the angels had been standing before they made their strange, stomach turning trip, were two piles of what could only be described as liquid rubber.

“I’m gonna be sick.” Helen put her hand up against her mouth and turned her head, gagging. “How could they do that to people?” she asked, the words muffled by her hand but clear enough to be heard.

“They’re angels. I think they can do whatever they want,” Graham answered, but his words distracted him as he stared at the pile of melted skin and bone on the floor with a mixed look awe and fear.

The clothes had disappeared, burned away by the power of an angel’s touch. A few small strands of material remained, and most of those had blown away and lay in the grass a few meters further into the meadow. The bubbling liquid was peach colored, with a ripple of red running through it. Bubbles of fat had risen the surfaced but cooled before they could burst. Dotted around the mass, some hidden deep down inside and some protruding from the surface still as if nothing had happened at all, were teeth, some capped with shiny metal crowns, others simply gleaming in their own right, enjoying the warm midday sun. A lone eyeball lay on the right – Nemamiah’s – pile. It topped the skin cake like a horror shop cherry.

Turning their attention away from the two melted bodies – none of them quite realized just how easy it was for them all to put the issue out of their minds – they saw that in the distance there was a thick wooded area. Dense trees towered into the sky at unequal heights, their green tops standing out in contrast to the blue sky. There was a small wisp of smoke that rose from somewhere in the distance. Marcus saw it first but heard the gentle gasps of his party not long after.

“That means people, right?” Helen said. Even their voices sounded sweeter in this world, if that were even possible.

“I guess so,” he mumbled, his eyes busy surveying it. “If there are people here, we’d better be ready. We don’t know which type of world this is,” he added without thinking.

“Is it me, or are there lights in the trees?” Helen asked, squinting to see if that changed the way the trees seemed to glisten at regularly spaced intervals.

They all looked, squinting in unison without even realizing it. That was all of them besides Sammy. Why the angels did it, none of them knew, but Sammy’s eyes had been removed and replaced with nothing, the sockets’ now unguarded entrance or exit points into and out of his skull. That being said, he knew exactly where the forest was, and he knew that the people living there were friendly, but also scared. The ground where they stood was the same eternal blackness that Sammy had become accustomed to, however in the distance – this was where he assumed he faced in the same direction as his friends – he saw a hazy green cloud which seemed to rise from the ground and ascend into the sky. He saw a lime green cloud that shimmered and danced like the tarmac on a long, straight road in the middle of summer. Then, above the trees, was a warm orange glow, like the embers of a fire as it starts to die down. From this orange cloud fell an amber rain, or so it looked; small embers floating down, mixing into the green, being enveloped by it.

Sammy looked at the strange colors, which looked something akin to the northern lights in their movements and beautiful vivacity, and it was only when he turned around and saw the tidal wave of red, a blood cloud, swooping towards them that he realized that the trees were safety.

“We need to move,” Sammy spat the words out. Beside him he felt Becky jump.

When they looked at him, he had his back to the trees, and they would have questioned him if it hadn’t have been for the look of complete horror that was etched into his face. Much as a look of evil is carved into every devil head found in pawn shops, gift shops and antique shops the world over, there was no question that Sammy was not certain and right in his statement.

“What is it?” Marcus asked.

“You get psychic all of a sudden, kid? See something we don’t, or can you smell it coming like a thunder storm?” Graham asked, his already accustomed pessimistic tone replaced by one so cynical and vicious that it shocked them all. “Sorry,” he added honestly, and not just because of the way they all looked at him. “Old habits die hard.” He chuckled to himself as he said this, a private joke no doubt.

“I don’t know how to explain it, but there isn’t any time. We need to move...now,” Sammy said again. He could feel his heart begin to increase its tempo, gathering speed like a stampede.

“Okay, Sam, let’s go,” Marcus said, leading the way, Helen following close behind him. Sammy and Becky were further back and Graham once again took up the rear, holding point with the same diligence he always had.

“I really am sorry, kid,” he whispered to Sammy. “There’s something about all this that doesn’t quite sit with me.” He continued to explain his actions, although Sammy didn’t seem to give an answer. He just kept glancing over his shoulder, his face becoming paler and paler with each check and double-check.

For it was over his shoulder that Sammy could see the red cloud as it drew closer and closer, its form changing to that of a giant hand, with large chunky fingers stretching out, reaching for them as they made their way towards the trees. The cloud moved fast, their pace was slow, and from what Sammy could gauge, the trees were too far away.

“We’ll never make it!” he shouted, grabbing Becky and pulling her close to him.

“What is it?” Becky asked him, squeezing him just as tight in return. She looked around like a deer ready to take flight at the slightest noise, but she saw nothing; she only felt the warm breeze as it rushed over them.

“Red.” It was the last word Sammy said before his world exploded with a bright flash. Once more Sammy fell. The usual sense of weightlessness was gone; he was heavy and fell faster and faster, the wind rushing past his face, until, without any warning, he stopped. The sensation was gone, and he realized that he was still on his feet. It was not him that had fallen, but rather everything else around him.

Sammy reached out with his hand, trying to find Becky; their embrace had been broken as he fell, or thought he fell, at least. She wasn’t there. Sammy turned a full circle, sweeping his arms in ever more wild circles as panic began to set in. A voice spoke inside his head; it was HIS voice, Xirmon, the creature who had welcomed him with such open arms upon his arrival in Hell. It was the same voice that spoke to Sammy in the dark. It whispered to him now, told him he was alone, they had left him behind. Dropped the dead weight. Panic arrived. Sammy called out over and over again but nobody gave him an answer.

He began to feel dizzy. The colors were gone. He was enveloped by a red mist which held him captive. Disoriented, not knowing which way he faced or which way he should turn, Sammy began to walk, groping for things that weren’t there. He hoped that his chosen path would lead towards the trees. He kicked something, something solid and heavy. He stumbled, taking several large lumbering paces, bent forward like a hundred meter sprinter ducking down to cross the line first.

“Becky, Marcus...Graham.” He added the final name after a moment of hesitation. The old man had been good to him when they first met in the house, and deep down he meant well.

“I’m sorry, but your friends are gone,” a voice said from behind him. Sammy turned, but before he could do anything, he felt hands seize him in a strong grip and hold him steady.

“Get the fuck off me!” he called out, struggling and kicking with his legs. He kicked and scraped at the legs of whoever held him, but never made contact. The grip held firm. “I’m not going back!” he spat the words out as they rushed from his body like vomit. “I’m not fucking going anywhere!” he called. His words cut off before he could add a second sentence when a strong hand clamped over both his mouth and nose.

Sammy continued to struggle right up until something cold and wet was pressed against his mouth. It didn’t take long for unconsciousness to take over his world, and only a few moments after his friends disappeared, so did Sammy.

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Who is Alex Laybourne?

Born and raised in the coastal English town Lowestoft, it should come as no surprise (to those that have the misfortune of knowing this place) that I became a horror writer.

From an early age I was sent to schools which were at least 30 minutes' drive away and so spent most of my free time alone, as the friends I did have lived too far away for me to be able to hang out with them in the weekends or holidays.

I have been a writer as long as I can remember and have always had a vivid imagination. To this very day I find it all too easy to just drift away into my own mind and explore the world I create; where the conditions always seem to be just perfect for the cultivation of ideas, plots, scenes, characters and lines of dialogue

I am married and have five wonderful children; James, Logan, Ashleigh, Damon, and Riley. My biggest dream for them is that they grow up, and spend their lives doing what makes them happy, whatever that is.

For people who buy my work, I hope that they enjoy what they read and that I can create something that takes them away from reality for a short time. For me, the greatest compliment I can receive is not based on rankings but by knowing that people enjoy what I produce, that they buy my work with pleasure and never once feel as though their money would have been better spent elsewhere.

An Extract from Diaries of the Damned

Paul Larkin sat in his seat and fastened his seatbelt. His body was caked with sweat and dried blood. His ears rang from the gunshots, and his ankle was swollen again; remnants of an injury he acquired jumping from the first floor window of his suburban home. At least, it used to be suburbia, before everything went to shit.

He sat back and let out a long, deep breath. Shock threatened to take hold of him, so he closed his eyes and waited. The plane filled up and the cries of those refused admittance echoed down the walkway, swiftly followed by the sound of their execution.

Paul spared but the most fleeting of moments thinking about it. He found it strange how killing and death had become such a large part of his life.

“Excuse me,” a fragile sounding voice stirred Paul from the calm place he had just started to settle into. “I believe this is my seat.” An elderly woman, late seventies at best stood before him, her face was smeared with blood, while one eye had been covered by a filthy rag that had been hastily secured to her face with what looked like duct tape.

“I’m sorry...” Paul asked, confused.

“Seat 17b. This is my seat.” The woman waved the ticket in Paul’s face.

Paul said nothing, but gave the woman a look which screamed, ‘the world as we knew it has ended, are you seriously going to complain that I’m in your seat’. If she could read his expression, she showed no signs of it. So with another heavy sigh, this one of frustration, Paul undid his belt and scooted one seat over.

“Thank you. I don’t mean to be rude, but after all that has happened, I feel the need to remain proper about some things,” she said as she sat down. There was an odor to her person that Paul found distinctly repelling, yet she had clearly gotten through the scanners at the gate.

“It’s fine,” he answered her, closing his eyes once more.

The seat he had taken was a window seat, just before the wings of the Boeing 737, which the military had been using as an emergency evacuation vehicle for the past two weeks. Looking out across the tarmac, Paul saw the troops standing guard at the perimeter of the small airfield. The sun had begun to disappear beneath the horizon, and in the dull afterglow of yet another survived day, Paul found himself staring at the firework like bursts of gunfire and wondering how it could have all gone so wrong, so quickly.

He tried to stop himself, but before he knew it, his mind was cast back. He saw his wife, Julia and their two children, Doug and Maddie. They were outside, Paul standing behind the barbeque as Julia busied herself by setting the table, while their kids played in the garden enjoying the summer weather. He blinked, trying to force the image away. It worked, but was replaced by the memory of his wife’s battered, bloody corpse lying on the floor in their living room; her face blackened and swollen by the sickness, her body broken from the repeated strikes he had delivered with his son’s baseball b