Don't Fear The Reaper Page 2

  ‘But if what the prophet has foretold is in fact gospel then we’ll have no hope for survival. What good will our faiths do then?’

  ‘There is always hope,’ Rector John Hayes said. ‘For the prophet has foretold that there shall be another child born unto the world before the apocalypse. The child of God. It is up to the servants of God to protect this child from death itself. For it is this child, and this child alone, that shall set us free and save the world.’

  Rev Perkins did his utmost to absorb every detail of what the Rector had told him this fateful morning in the most tranquil and mundane of surroundings. It was due to sitting peacefully outside a local café in the resplendent sunshine that made their conversation seem otherworldly. Yet if the prophet was true to his prediction then in the very near future the otherworldly would be mundane and peace and tranquillity would be something wished for in prayer and hope.

  2.

  SAMMY BENULLO was weary and sore but elated an hour and a half after giving birth to a baby boy in The London Welbeck Hospital. Home wasn’t far away. She and her husband lived on Harley Street. He’d been present at the birth, holding her hand dutifully all through labour. Yet upon leaving their home in a mad hurry, Frank Benullo remembered he’d left the TV and computer on.

  Sam had been a renowned plastic surgeon for four years, Frank a general practitioner and qualified chiropractor. Both of their careers took years to get financially comfortable. Sam was born and raised in London. Her parents would be at her bedside later today to see their first grandchild. Frank was Italian and had come to the UK to study medicine at Cambridge University.

  They’d met by chance one evening waiting for a bus and began talking to pass the time. Before either of them knew it time had flown by and evidently the bus wouldn’t be arriving that evening. Frank had hailed a cab and offered to take her to her home free of charge. Half an hour after later they were exchanging mobile numbers and arranging to meet up and go out.

  Fast-forward five years and Sam was lying in a hospital bed, channel surfing absentmindedly while she gazed wonderingly at the tiny bundle that was her newly born son, Elias.

  He looked so tiny and fragile lying in the coat wrapped up in his white blanket, fast asleep. Sam felt the urge to reach out and trace her fingertips over his soft-as-silk face. If she did she’d wake him. Yet even the sound of his cries upon leaving the womb and being born unto the world was dulcet music to Sam’s ears.

  Elias had been alive for approximately two hours and had done nothing more than cry and sleep. Sam too had cried. Now she fell asleep…

  *

  Catherine Hughes the midwife who’d been present at the birth of baby Elias Benullo had finished washing him. She sat in the staff changing rooms on a bench with her back to the lockers. In a daze, she’d managed to remove her uniform and get dressed into casual attire.

  The birth of baby Elias had been routine. However, an inexplicable dread had overcome her since holding and washing the baby. She couldn’t explain the emotion herself, in her own mind, never mind to anyone else.

  There had been no complications whatsoever during the birth. In fact, it had been surprisingly easy. As soon as Sammy and her husband Frank had burst through the entrance into the hospital and rushed into theatre, everything had transpired swiftly. No more than forty-five minutes later the couple became parents.

  Since then everything for Catherine had not been easy and stress-free. Baby Elias had wailed in protest at being washed of blood. He still cried when Catherine had dried him and wrapped him in a blanket. Yet as soon as she returned the baby to its doting mother the crying ceased. Elias evidently knew who his mother was from a stranger, although Catherine did feel a pang of hurt. She hadn’t done anything wrong. The crying at being washed was to be expected, she reasoned. But when she wrapped him up nice and snug and held him close he continued to cry.

  There was something else too. It sounded ludicrous but her conscience insisted it was true.

  When Elias had opened his eyes, she didn’t know how she was certain of this, but she saw pure hatred. That had to be impossible. Elias had no awareness of how he appeared. All he knew was the water was wet and that’s why he’d cried. Understandable. Yet even at that precise moment Catherine felt the hairs on her arms and neck bristle. A sensation not related to physicality coursed through her. A presence so dreadful she shuddered involuntarily. They said that dead bodies did the same when someone walked over their grave. Catherine didn’t believe in the supernatural or hocus-pocus. But whatever she’d felt was as real as anything else in her life up until that point.

  She had no idea how long she’d been sitting there on the bench. It felt like an age but couldn’t have been any longer than five-to-ten minutes at the most. She was about to rise when from behind her and the rows of lockers, a door opened and then closed. The noise was deafening in the silence.

  Catherine swivelled round keen to know who it was. She listened intently and still could hear no footsteps across the tiled flooring. Nevertheless, she intuited a powerful presence nearing, regardless of being unseen and unheard.

  Her cheeks quivered as though static electricity danced. Heat from within flushed her face. She had no idea what was transpiring, yet knew it wasn’t at all positive. Strangely, when she rested a hand to her ample bosom she couldn’t detect her heartbeat. Icicles of profound dread swam through her veins but her heart beat slowly, calmly. Probably the only aspect that kept her feet rooted to the floor was the normal beat of her heart.

  She tried to call out, to get the individual’s attention, but the saliva in her mouth had dried. Her lips had sealed shut. And when she did moisten them with her tongue and pry her lips apart she didn’t trust her mousy voice in the quiet.

  And when she saw the source of the presence that had entered the changing rooms, Catherine’s last coherent thought was, It wouldn’t have made any difference.

  The Grim Reaper swarmed into her vision. Nothing else existed. Her peripheral vision narrowed and zoomed in on the huge figure drifting towards her. Catherine didn’t quiver but shook, as though she were suffering from a seizure. Her eyes bulged from their sockets like two cue balls. The entity in a long black cloak crowded over her. Its pallid skeletal visage glowed incandescently. Then it reached out with the bony hand not holding the long-handled scythe and rested upon the midwife’s brow.

  Instantly, the shaking ceased and Catherine became motionless. Her protuberant eyes reflected what lay beyond the valleys of the hood, into the chasm of darkness.

  *

  Dr Simon Tait was anticipating retiring for the day with only ten minutes before the end of his shift at 5:00am. He usually went straight home and slept until midday. Then he’d have a few hours to himself at his own leisure, which consisted of a good DVD and Chester, his feline friend, sitting either on his lap or next to him. It was surprisingly relaxing, especially after a long shift. Simon worked four twelve-hour shifts and then had three days off. By the fourth day he was usually out on his feet and needed the extra day off work to recuperate and remind himself there was a life outside the hospital worth living.

  He’d just finished stitching a drunken husband’s cheek up (after his wife had thrown a beer bottle at him which had smashed and sliced him). He’d given him some anaesthetic, although the consumption of alcohol he’d filled his body with the night before numbed him. He could barely speak coherently. His wife had apologised but also added he needed to cut down or stop drinking altogether. And yet it was her rage – not the booze – that had induced the vicious wound in the first place. Dr Tait chose not to voice his opinion and concentrate on the task at hand.

  He bade the nurses a good morning as he ambled down the corridor towards the changing rooms. His shoulders and neck were taut with strain. It would be good to get home and have a hot bath.

  Dr Tait was thinking pleasant thoughts as he pushed open the door to the changing rooms and went to his locker. He got his tracksuit bottoms and Nike T-shirt out and sa
t down on the bench. He cried as soon as his bum touched the timber and jolted to a standing position. When he whirled around he saw that it wasn’t just the bench that was wet but the far side of the tiled floor. The puddle glowed beneath the fluorescents.

  That’s strange.

  What the doctor considered strange was even if the water had presumably come from the shower then the water would have to pour over the lip into the stall. Either that or the toilet was blocked. Yet as he edged out of the aisle he noticed the trail continued away from the showers and toilets to the far wall.

  Curious to find the source, Dr Tait ventured forward. He halted when something in his peripheral sight got his undivided attention and he turned his head.

  He reeled backwards, blinking but unable to look away from the crumpled form with its legs curled up, leaning against a row of lockers. However, the most horrifying aspect was the face belonging to the body of a uniformed nurse. The sight of the face made Dr Tait’s, who’d seen his share of awful sights and cadavers, mouth hang open.

  The face of the deceased looked as if the life had been sucked right out of it. The eyes were rolled back and the whites seemed to have fallen into a well. Black streaks ran from the oval sockets down the sunken cheeks. The head was a fusion of pale, purple and rotten green. A trajectory of burst blood vessels surfaced on the nurse’s face like lines in a road map.

  Worse than anything else was the bronze nametag pinned to the navy-blue uniform breast revealing who it was that he could no longer recognise.

  Dr Tait recoiled into the wall, buried his throbbing head in his hands and focused on breathing slowly and deliberately to prevent hyperventilation.

  He didn’t succeed…

  *

  THE SUN

  NURSE DIES IN GRUESOME

  AND UNEXPLAINABLE FASHION!

  By Gill Davies.

  At approximately 5:00am on 6 June Dr Tait of The London Welbeck Hospital discovered the body of fellow colleague Catherine Hughes (48) in the changing rooms. There is no explanation for the cause of death and who the perpetrator may have been. ME Michael Morris stated that the cause of death was brought on suddenly by a massive shock; heart attack being the probable cause.

  Mrs Hughes of West London had been an employee at The London Welbeck Hospital for sixteen years. Her fellow colleagues said that she was an affable, funny and well-respected, experienced member of the hospital and was liked by staff and patients alike for her ability to make those suffering laugh out loud.

  Her family have been notified and are equally stunned by the sudden death and the cause. Her brother David said, “It’s a complete mystery. She was a strong, kind, lovable woman and never had an enemy. I can’t imagine what it was that scared Catherine to death. It doesn’t make sense. She hardly drank, didn’t smoke and never took drugs. She didn’t have Diabetes or high cholesterol.”

  Police have assured the family that they will do a thorough investigation, but admitted they were clueless as the ME and everyone else.

  3.

  Saturday 10 June 2006

  THE SUN slinked beneath the horizon, bleeding a maroon hue across the sky. The sight was postcard perfect. The breeze that had been refreshing during the day became chilly at dusk.

  Roland Goldsmith retired to bed at 9:00pm. He ‘wasn’t feeling himself’, he told his mother for whom he was caring in her elderly years. She’d asked him what his symptoms were and Roland found he couldn’t articulate them as physically he didn’t have a headache, or a bad stomach or anything else of that nature. Instead intuition or common sense advised him to go to his room and lie down. Perhaps he was exhausted and nothing more. He’d driven his mother, Aida, to Tesco supermarket earlier, carried all the bags of shopping and unpacked them when they got home. After that he’d pulled up the weeds sprouting through the patio slabs in the back yard then drove to Aberavon beach where he and Aida had some chips and breathed in the sea air.

  Nevertheless, that hadn’t even sounded like a strenuous day. Quite the opposite in fact. Both productive and enjoyable.

  Being at work five days a week (he was a painter and decorator for the council) and coming home to cooking and doing the dishes was tedious and tiring. In the mornings he’d fix himself and Aida some breakfast, make sure there was enough food and tea stocked up in the kitchen; that Aida had her Evening Post and The Sun newspapers. Aida insisted on being in front of the TV watching Murder, she Wrote and Columbo which were followed by game shows.

  He’d noticed this feeling of constant drudgery on Tuesday. He couldn’t afford to put his mother in a care home where she’d receive 24/7 attention. Also, his mother as demented as she was fast becoming was all he had.

  On Tuesday he’d come home to find his mother pouring scalding hot water from the kettle into her handbag. When he inquired what the bloody hell she was doing, she said, “I was doing myself a cuppa tea before I went to Bingo.”

  If it hadn’t been so dangerous Roland might have laughed. Even when he said, “But why would you pour your tea into your handbag?” to which she replied, matter-of-factly, “’Cause I couldn’t find a flask,” he couldn’t laugh about it.

  He retired to bed that night thinking, What the fuck!

  The bed had been made and yielded beneath his weight. Then he closed his eyes and lay supine, welcoming the comfort of sleep.

  He woke to find himself standing on a narrow road on a steep incline. When he pivoted he saw he was standing on a road high up in the mountains. His eyes swept the panorama of a copse of larch trees. Also, this vantage point permitted him to see how the environing hills were rolled into one. A herd of sheep were speckled out on the other side of the valley. Roland marvelled at the sporadic farmhouses; three in total. He wondered how tranquil it must be to reside in the wilderness, breathing in fresh air, away from the din of the town centre, main roads and motorways. It was quite literally a different world up here.

  He vaguely recognised the terrain but couldn’t place it until he looked out and saw the Crai Reservoir a few hundred feet below. The dying sun sparkled off the ripples. Two dedicated fishermen were dismantling their rods and collapsing their tents before hauling their belongings into their vehicles. The keen motorcyclists were nowhere to be found. The road below was deserted, not a soul in sight.

  What Roland couldn’t fathom was how he’d managed to arrive here at the Brecon Beacons without any recollection whatsoever.

  A chill turned his exposed flesh to goose-pimples. Darkness descended in seconds, dragging the ebbing daylight out of the sky and reigned supreme. Roland thought it was too fast for it to be natural. Also, the ambience had dissolved into a sinister atmosphere. If asked to explain this, there would be no need for some things need no explanation. The sight itself of the black skies too dark and foreboding to be the work of nature or God swarmed over him, so that he was mesmerised and fearful beyond comprehension.

  As he pivoted, the presence that did not belong to this world towered over him. The pale white horse’s impassive gaze appeared to search his mind and soul. The Grim Reaper stared at him, for how long he didn’t know, from the chasm of nothingness beyond the hood of its cloak and then reached out and pointed. And when it performed this gesture, magically white dazzling light shone the way over the sty and up a steep hill over the brink towards the summit.

  Roland gazed wonderingly at the light shining down on a path to somewhere unknown to something unseen. He knew then what was being asked of him, though no words of guidance were exchanged. There was no need. The understanding was given to him from another entity from another plane beyond the realm of earth.

  Then he woke for the second time… and rose from the bed.

  *

  He descended the stairs vigilantly, mindful to his mother’s whereabouts. Halfway down the stairs his body relaxed at the sound of Aida’s snoring. She’d passed out in her Laz-Y-Boy in front of the TV, the remote still in her gnarled grasp. The world could have been tottering on the edge of the black hole and she
wouldn’t have known anything about it.

  Roland reached the foot of the stairs and, without making a sound, slipped on his Addidas trainers, checked he’d brought his car and house keys with him and kept glancing back and forth from the front door to his mother. He didn’t relish abandoning her at five minutes to eleven on a Saturday night. If she woke and went to his bedroom she’d panic at his sudden disappearance. If he left a message, what would he say? He couldn’t fathom what he was going to do himself. What he knew though was that he had no choice but to do it.

  The tricky part of this would be getting out of the house without causing his mother to stir awake. Fortunately, she sounded fast asleep. Dead to the world. He eased the front door open and closed it, cringing at the sound of the latch clicking shut. Then he waited for a few moments on the doorstep. If his mother had heard the door closing she’d wake and come and see what had happened. Roland prepared himself for that. He’d tell her he was standing outside, needing to get some air. Instead a minute passed uneventfully.

  Wasting no further time, Roland headed to the Ford Mondeo, removed the handbrake and let the car roll down the rutted path. He applied the handbrake again when the front end protruded the kerb into the road.

  Now that he felt at a safe distance, Roland turned the headlights on and drove away, turning onto the main road, glancing in the rear-view mirror. Guilt knocked incessantly in his conscience. In the back of his mind all he could think about was his overprotective, frail mother, searching their home for her son. He floored the accelerator on the quiet suburban roads on his way to the Brecon Beacons to perform his deed. Having no knowledge of what this deed would entail didn’t perturb him in the slightest. All would be revealed upon the time of arrival, and no matter what it was he daren’t refuse. His life and soul depended on it.