One Second To Midnight

By Tony Hart-Wilden

Vampires, zombies, things without a name...From the back alleyways of London’s East End to the Hollywood Hills, the adventures of a monster-hunting cockney James Bond.

At 23 years old, Michael Anderson's life was just beginning, but eleven years later he’s still searching for whatever it was that murdered 17 members of his family at one second to midnight on Christmas Eve. But the hunt is over, because now it’s after him.

On a blood-spattered trail of retribution that takes him from Los Angeles to New York, from Stonehenge to Vlad the Impaler’s Romanian castle. But will his own secret finally be revealed, one that’s more lethal to “them” than any gun, something that even the dead would fear and will unleash hell itself to prevent?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Hart-Wilden
• Release date: Apr 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9780992874315

Book preview

pic2

One Second to Midnight

Copyright © 2014 by Tony Hart-Wilden

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, or events used in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, events or locales is completely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-9928743-2-2 (pbk)

eBook formatting by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

DECO

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

DECO

CHAPTER 1

In a sprawling house perched on the hills above Los Angeles the youngest generation of the Anderson family slept soundly dreaming of when they would awake to a Christmas tree, a sea of presents, and all the cake they could possibly eat. Except for one. He was worried that Father Christmas might not come or that the rain might slow him down. It was a problem that could only be conjured up in the mind of a seven-year-old. The boy listened as the droplets beat upon the window panes, and below him the sounds of laughter drifted up through the ceiling, muffled by a large pink and blue throw rug spread across the floor. Peter didn’t like sleeping in a room by himself. At home he always shared one with his brother. He didn’t like being in someone else’s house away from his toys and comic books. And where was Father Christmas? Where was Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer? He pulled back the covers of the bed and the warmth beneath his blanket instantly slipped away. He swung his feet down quietly to the floor careful not to make any noise as he tiptoed over to the window. He looked anxiously at the stream of light that flowed under the doorway afraid that his shadow would pass over it and he might be discovered. A floorboard creaked slightly, and he froze for a moment wondering if the sound had been heard by the grown-ups in the room below. He could barely see in the darkness; nothing was where it was supposed to be. None of his stuffed animals lay scattered on the floor; there were no books on the bedside table. What if Santa went to his house and found out he wasn’t home. How was he going to find him? He had to get to the window and look out for the reindeer. Tears started to fill his eyes. This is mommy’s fault, he thought. I’m not going to get any presents and it will be because of her. Peter reached the window and began parting one side of the curtain to peer out into the sky. He wiped the condensation from the glass and pressed his nose against its cold surface. The lights from the living room below crept out on to the garden. Silhouettes flickered upon the ground reflecting the movements of the people below. To a seven-year-old the shadows looked like monsters hiding in the darkness waiting for him. He was scared. What if they saw him as he peered into the sky to look for Father Christmas?

The moon was hidden that night. Only a few stars managed to shine brightly enough to penetrate the storm clouds overhead. The boy looked across the garden. The intensity of the wind picked up as it howled around the house, to him it sounded like faceless creatures were roaring at him from the darkness. He was now too scared to even move. He knew if he didn’t keep perfectly still they would see him. Maybe he could try and run to the door and scream to his parents for help. But what if they couldn’t hear him?

Tears started to roll down his cheeks. He looked straight ahead across the garden to the lights in the valley below. It reminded him of Christmas tree lights as they sparkled in the rain. And wherever there was a Christmas tree, there had to be a Santa Claus. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the dancing shadows, the hedgerow at the end of the garden waved back and forth, mimicking the rhythmic swaying of the trees. His gaze dropped and he traced a path back from the horizon and towards the bottom of the steep slope that led up to the house. It was there that he saw something glowing. It was several-hundred-yards away and he didn’t know what it was, he only knew it shouldn’t be there. It was as if someone was drawing a huge luminous blue circle in the earth with their finger; like making pictures in the sand at the beach. The long grass at the bottom of the slope moved to and fro like an angry sea. In its midst, mounds of earth began spiraling downwards. The boy watched as the first circle of earth ran to its conclusion, then in a single, continuous motion, increased its perimeter to form a secondary one. Rocks and vegetation flew several feet into the air then crashed down onto the ground making a series of dull thuds that carried across the empty field by the wind. The window in front of him began to steam up as his breath became heavy and erratic. Even as what he saw became momentarily hidden from view, he knew that it was more than just a half-seen shadow in the darkness, or a bogeyman conjured up in his dreams. He closed his eyes and called out to the only person that could take him away from the horror that lurked behind a fraction of an inch of glass.

Mommy, help me, he screamed.

Thirty miles away, just beyond the faint neon glow of the sign above the door of the mini-mart, a black ‘58 Cadillac Coupe Deville had tried to escape the isolation of the adjacent parking lot. Like many people on this particular night, its lone occupant had only thoughts of being at home in more familiar, less inhospitable surroundings. Light from a distant moon glinted on the highly polished chrome bumper but failed to penetrate the tinted windshield where a tall, dark-haired man sat behind the steering wheel. The sound of the ignition echoed across the empty forecourt, gradually fading as the charge from the battery slipped away, and the V8 engine refused to roar. The man and vehicle blended in style, both from the same past as the pink, fluffy dice that draped from the rear view mirror. The man’s carefully swept-back hair and black leather jacket represented a time that for him would live on forever. But this night his thoughts were fixed in the present. It had been a hard semester at university and he had not seen his family in five months. But palm trees and sunshine didn’t really put him in the Christmas spirit. It just wasn’t the same as a cold frost and a pint at the local pub. His last Christmas in London was almost five years ago, and despite his parents insistence that he fly back home to LA, the thought of having to borrow his mother's Chrysler for a few weeks – and having someone he knew see him driving it – meant that a long road trip back from Chicago was the only option. It would be just him, his Cadillac, Jerry Lee Lewis in the CD player, and two-thousand miles of open road. The drive had taken him almost half a day longer than he had planned, and now it was December 24th. He turned the key in the ignition and pumped the gas pedal a final time. The barely audible whirr of the motor told him his effort was a futile one. He had also succeeded in flooding the engine, as there was no such thing as an automatic choke back when this car rolled off the production line. He could almost hear his father saying, I told you not to drive that piece of shit! The cheeseburger that had been the reason he stopped was already getting cold on the seat beside him. Some people told him he looked like Elvis Presley, and his swept back dark hair combined with his passion for the 1950s made him look the part, although his East End cockney accent was far from a southern drawl. His eyes were a dark brown, not blue like the King's, and Elvis didn’t have a tattoo of a British Flag with a skull and crossbones on one arm and West Ham Football Club on the other. He wasn’t on his way back from music school, but rather had been studying software engineering and business management in order to one day run the family empire. But this wasn’t like most family businesses. It wasn’t taking over the local butcher's shop, or following in the footsteps of a long line of furniture makers. Just fifteen years ago, there hadn’t been a business, but now his father was the president of one of the largest video gaming companies in England, and the expansion into the American market had been rapid since they moved to this side of the Atlantic. The promise of him being paid to work on something that he would normally have to pay for was a prospect that at twenty-three-years-old he was looking forward to. So far, however, Michael Anderson’s Christmas had been anything but merry.

He knew now was the time to reach for his triple A card, not his toolbox; he didn’t have to look under the hood to know the battery was finally shot. It was just another one of those last minute things that he had left a bit beyond the last minute. The only options now were to have the Cadillac arrive behind a tow truck, or to have the battery charged up and try not to stop (or even slow down along the final miles home). Even in California it got cold at night, and without the warmth from the heater it was becoming uncomfortable sitting in the car. Beneath his jacket, he only had on a white t-shirt (a sweater just didn’t look right even if it was a lot more practical). He leaned back against the burgundy upholstery of the driver's seat, stretching out his arms. The car was larger than most, but it was still not built to accommodate his six foot, three inch, two-hundred-fifty-five pound frame, and sitting behind the wheel for almost five hours was causing a cramp in his legs. Worse than the cold – and the drive – was the fact that he was going to have to go the entire last hour without any music. He looked through the windshield; the smell of the burger made him hungry as he unwrapped it, peeling away the silver foil to reveal the cheese-covered patty. It was cold, but edible enough to keep him going through the next few hours. Christ, he shook his head, even the great American cheeseburger had been reduced to a mass-produced, flavorless piece of meat, served to him by a bored salesclerk in a twenty-four-hour convenience store instead of a blonde waitress at a drive-in. Although he hadn’t been born in the ‘50s, even in England he had seen enough B movies and heard enough songs from the era to at least figure out what the coolest parts were. He was a bit disappointed that when he finally moved to where it all began, that it no longer existed. It was just like his father's video game business; a pinball machine was now out of place in a shopping mall arcade. And although it was always entertaining to look back at the past, trying to live in it just wasn’t that practical.

He started to hear the faint patter of raindrops on the roof of the car. Glancing through the side window at the convenience store he could tell the clerk behind the counter would rather be somewhere else as well. Michael shivered, picked up his cell phone and imagined himself being at home with his family with the heat turned up and a bottle of Wells Bombardier beside him. But instead, he was on hold, waiting for roadside service.

All of our lines are busy at the moment; please hold for the next available operator.

Michael hung up, redialed, got straight through, gave them his card number and location, and now just had to wait. He shifted back in his car seat, the rain now beginning to pummel the windshield, and he could see his reflection mixed with rain; his mouth curved down slightly towards a square jaw. He only smiled when absolutely necessary. His teeth may have been a bit straighter if he hadn’t spent a large part of his youth brawling along with the other football hooligans amongst the back streets of London. Sometimes his eyes looked so dark that in certain light they appeared black. The wind rushed through the gaps in the car's side panels; they no longer aligned with the doors as perfectly as they had sixty years ago. He watched as the rain ran off the waxed surface of the hood.

He was tired, happy bloody Christmas, he said to no one in particular.

Where’s Michael got to? said the gray haired man in the red sweater. He looked more annoyed than concerned. I told him to take a plane home, and you know how he never calls if he’s going to be late. Michael’s father was certainly getting in the Christmas spirit and was by this time on his fifth glass of it.

C’mon dad, you know he’s going to be here, a much younger man with a crew cut interrupted.

You and your brother, the other man continued, One thinks he’s Elvis Presley, the other joins the Army.

The Army was good enough for you wasn’t it? Anyway it’s not the Army, it’s the Rangers, Michael’s brother said arrogantly. I don’t find playing video games for the rest of my life that exciting.

Well Gregory, it bought all this, his father replied, gesturing with his hand to show the huge, lavishly furnished living room in which they and almost a dozen of their relatives gathered. It also bought you that Jeep, you know, the one that gets you all those college girls. There was a silence from a few members of the group within earshot.

Come on guys, it’s Christmas, you don’t know who’s listening, said Michael’s cousin who nodded towards the figurines of the nativity scene placed around the Christmas tree. Several of Michael’s relatives were American. His uncle had married an American that he met when she had spent a few months in London on a backpacking holiday, almost twenty years ago. The Anderson family still made some effort to think of Christmas as a spiritual celebration as well as a commercial one. But for most of them it was never about religion, it was just about getting everyone together once a year and having a good piss-up. It was now almost ten o’clock. Michael’s younger relatives had already been sent to bed, waiting for Santa Claus to visit. But what would awaken them would not be a jolly, bearded man in a red suit.

Downstairs, Michael’s mother, Janet Anderson walked over to the patio doors. She had seen the first droplets of rain splatter against the glass as she stared out across the half acre of ground at the back of the house. The lights of the living room threw shadows across the garden so she couldn’t see more than a few yards beyond. She was worried about her son, but something else was bothering her, and her apprehension would not go away no matter how many drinks she had or bad jokes she listened to. Although the house was full of people, it suddenly felt isolated, not just from the neighboring properties, but also from the city below. Beyond the perimeter of the garden, the ground sloped sharply towards a desolate expanse that seemed at that moment to be holding back the beckoning lights of the San Fernando Valley. It was beautiful on a summer day, but on a cold night in winter it made their home seem like the only one perched on the hill beside the long winding road known as Mulholland Drive. She could hear the wind picking up outside rustling the leaves of the fruit trees that grew at the rear of the house. She looked at her own reflection in the glass doors. Her eyes were dilated from the drink, but unlike her husband, she knew when it was time to stop. She turned away, putting her half-empty glass upon the windowsill. Despite her unease she still managed to smile as she looked over to where her husband Mark and his brother Daniel were attempting to arm-wrestle each other at the coffee table.

Mind the flower vase, she said stepping quickly across the cream-colored carpet to steady the object as it began to wobble. I thought all the kids had gone to bed.

Across the room on the couch sat two elderly women and a man talking to Michael’s brother, Gregory. They were his grandparents, which meant four generations of the family were now present. Gregory always enjoyed talking to his grandfather, Thomas Anderson. He was ninety-two-years-old and had seen active duty during World War II, and Gregory had always been fascinated by his stories. His grandfather had been very supportive of his choice to enlist, despite his parents’ insistence that he didn’t. It would have been very easy – and very safe – to just become a part of the machine that was the family business. But to him it seemed very dull. He still didn’t understand his younger brother Michael’s enthusiasm for wanting to ‘play video games’ for the rest of his life, but despite their career differences they had been inseparable right up until the time he had enlisted. They had been best friends as well as brothers, and he was looking forward to seeing him again. He had already planned out what they were going to do in the final few days of leave he had left. They were going to hit a few nightclubs, get wasted and maybe do some off-roading in the deserts around Palm Springs. He ran his hand back over his short-cropped hair. Unlike his brother, he didn’t spend half his life looking in the mirror, making sure that it looked just right, and the other half working on some fifty-year-old car that spent more time in a garage then it did on the road. Sometimes he wished he could do that as well, but there had to be more to life than just trying to be cool. He looked over at the clock on the wall. It was almost 11:00 pm. He knew Michael was late, but unlike everyone else in the room, he knew he’d get there. He’d been through enough with him to know that something as trivial as a thunderstorm and crossing two-thousand-miles from Chicago to Los Angeles in less than three days wasn’t going to stop him.

Michael had been waiting for the tow-truck for almost an hour. He picked through the pack of Gummy Bears he had gotten from the mini-mart. There were only a few of the green ones left, but he only really liked the green ones. He dug down deep into the multi-colored candy, reaching for the lime-flavored bears. He wished they sold them by color, but for some reason it seemed the rest of the world didn’t share his tastes. He could barely see through the windows of the car now; the rain splattered against the glass and pounded upon the roof. It sounded like someone was playing an out-of-time drum. From his parking spot, Michael could see the intersection of the street through his side window. There were a couple of small stores and restaurants along side of the mini-mart but they had closed their doors hours ago and he hadn’t seen another vehicle in almost ten minutes.

There were few people out that night; every now and then he would see the headlights of another car in the distance. The hiss of tires on the slippery surface of the streets increased as one got nearer and then faded away again. The rain illuminated momentarily before returning to darkness. It was now ten minutes past eleven and Michael was down to his last gummy bear. Where was the Automobile Association? How many mini-marts south of Junction nine with a black ‘58 Cadillac Coup Deville parked outside, could there be? It was now too late to call his brother to pick him up as he would be several pints beyond driving. He should have made that decision an hour ago. In the hour and a half he had been parked outside, only two other cars had pulled into the lot beside him. But they had just stopped by to pick up a few six-packs or potato chips to carry on to the festivities at whichever party they were going. At that moment a pair of headlights shone into his rear view mirror and he felt the vibration from the vehicle idling directly behind him. He glanced over his shoulder immediately recognizing the blue and white logo on front of the tow-truck. He knew the driver was going to wish him a Merry Christmas and he really didn’t want to be reminded that so far it wasn’t.

It was now 11:45 pm, and the black ‘58 Cadillac cornered sharply skidding slightly on the wet surface of the street as the speedometer climbed towards sixty mph. Michael left the 405 freeway and was now headed east along a particularly desolate section of Mulholland Drive. As he proceeded further into the hills above the San Fernando Valley, the mist that often clung to its upper reaches seemed impenetrable.

The multi-coloured flames painted on each side of the car fenders gave the appearance of a fireball being hurtled through a very long black tunnel. The headlights barely illuminated the road for more than a few yards ahead. The trees and bushes that grew wild by the road side served only to heighten the feeling of confinement as they reached skyward hiding the occasional glimpses of lights from the few homes visible from the road. But for some the party was already over. The windshield wipers tried desperately to sweep aside the torrent of rain that washed down onto the glass. Michael leaned forward in the driver’s seat trying to scan ahead as far as he could. He figured that the battery had charged enough that he could risk blasting Jerry Lee Lewis from the CD player for the last few miles home. Fuck, after all it was Christmas. He had to drop his speed down to forty mph as he rounded another curve. It was 11:55 pm, but as the hands of the clock fast approached midnight, something was already reaching out to stop them forever. If he had been able to peer through the mist to a barren piece of land at the bottom of the hill several hundred yards to his left, he might have pressed down a fraction harder on the accelerator or made a hurried call on his mobile phone. But it was to late for a warning, and maybe it was better for those in the house, now less than half a mile away, that they were allowed one last drink. As his Cadillac fought its way along the final stretch of the journey, the storm slowed him down enough to take a few precious seconds that in return would give him back an eternity. But at a price paid for in blood.

The mounds of earth in the field continued spiraling inwards at an ever increasing velocity, each cut in the soil becoming ever deeper like a corkscrew twisting into the ground penetrating the inner layers of rock and silt many miles beneath. The perimeter of the hole had now expanded to several hundred yards. The rain hissed as it fell upon the opening, evaporating on contact like cold water splashing on to a hot stove. The final countdown had begun.

For a brief instant, just before midnight on Christmas Eve and the first second’s of Christmas day, there was a void in the universe that could be torn apart by whoever struck first. It was a time when mankind let down its guard. Where the assumption of good allowed evil to slip between dimensions and tear the world to its very core. From many miles beneath the spiral of earth at the bottom of the canyon, a red ball of light shot up towards the opening above scorching the earth as it ripped a path to the surface. Thousands of tons of earth spilled down into the hole turning into a black dust and poisoning the air like a toxic thundercloud. It was 11:59 pm. Less than half a mile away, inside the house on top of the hill, several figures were silhouetted against the windows.

Three-quarters of a mile west, the black Cadillac Coup Deville raced home along the final turns of Mulholland Drive. Michael looked at his watch averting his eyes from the road just long enough to see the second hand tick towards midnight. The engine roared as he pressed his foot down on the accelerator and gripped the steering wheel while he tried to maintain control of the car on the wet surface of the street. He wanted to at least make it to the house where he had spent the last five Christmas Eves before it was no longer Christmas Eve. The Cadillac’s headlights swung wildly back and forth as the vehicle careened along almost out of control. Jets of water flew skywards as the car strayed towards the embankment. Beyond the beams from the headlamps, Michael could make out the dark area of hedgerow that marked the borderline of his house. Between the gaps, he caught glimpses of a rooftop and light from an upstairs window. His journey was almost at an end, and the tension that had been building inside of him during the last hour and a half began to slip away. He shuddered at the thought of being able to get out of the cold and sit down in a warm, comfortable room with a bottle of Bombardier, but as he stared through the rain that fell above the house, he knew that whatever that eerie light was flooding the hill behind, it sure as fuck wasn’t the glow from Rudolph the Reindeer's nose.

Inside the house, Michael’s mother looked at the clock on the wall. It’s almost midnight, I do wish he was here, she said softly. But, fill up your glasses everyone, it's going to be Christmas day in another few seconds.

There was a flurry of movement in the room as drinks were topped off and people gathered around the clock on the wall watching as the second hand ticked its way towards midnight. But time was not the only thing the clock was stealing away; it was also signaling an end for everyone who could hear the faint tick of its hands as they got closer to twelve. There was a rumbling sound from outside of the house like a distant clap of thunder. But instead of fading, it grew in intensity.

What in hell’s going on? screamed Michael’s uncle, Daniel.

Through the living room windows, the entire horizon was now bathed in an intense blue light. The rain hadn’t stopped but it was as if it were falling upon the pulsating roof of an invisible tunnel leading from the bottom of the hill towards the rear of the house. There was an unseen arc reaching one-hundred-fifty-feet into the sky that it could not penetrate; within another three seconds, that arc had expanded a thousand feet in either direction. Michael’s grandmother pressed against the glass. It was like daylight outside. The entire room was now bathed in eerie blue neon glow.

Someone call the police, right now, she shouted. It was like being caught in a flash of lightening that instead of fading away grew in intensity until it was a continuous burst of energy.

I’m going to get the children, said Michael’s mother. A look of incomprehensible fear swept across her face.

Get away from the windows, screamed Gregory. A shaking finger frantically dialed 911, but it was a call that would never go through. The telephone lines were obliterated by massive surge of static electricity that burned through the steel cables and then took out the power grids for five miles around plunging the entire area into darkness. It was eight seconds to midnight. The ’58 Cadillac screeched to a halt outside the house, its driver stumbling out of the car, the sounds of Jerry Lee Lewis and High School Confidential fading behind him as he flung open the door. Michael felt the sting of the rain hard upon his face. His heart beat frantically; his mouth was dry. Blood pounded through his head like a hammer pummeling his brain. The terrible blue light threw shadows across his path as if to slow him down. It was now six seconds to midnight. His feet thudded across the driveway, the heels of his motorcycle boots digging into the rain-soaked gravel. It was now five seconds to midnight. Above the rain, Michael could hear people screaming from inside the house. Only a few yards ahead of him at the end of the path was the front door. He knew it would be unlocked awaiting his arrival. But as he raced towards it, something was hurtling up the hill at a speed that was little more than a blur. Inside the house, its terrified occupants knew that the strange light enveloping the room was about to drown them. Several-hundred-yards away, an enormous blue sphere of fire was cutting through everything in its path, guided through the darkness towards them by unseen hands. Those inside closed their eyes in fear but could still see the blinding blue light as it slammed into their subconscious and sliced it to pieces. The huge ball of neon flame was now only yards from them. As it loomed though the windows something was beating within its fiery heart. The living room began to implode as the light distorted the Christmas decorations into hideous shapes that seemed to make them dance like demonic puppets. Michael’s brother had seen the Cadillac’s headlamps through the front window a moment before. He knew who the driver was and he also knew that if they set foot in the house they would be as dead as he was going to be. He had stumbled the few yards across the living room to the door feeling his way along the wall, his eyes filled only with the blinding blue light. Outside, he could hear the sound of feet running towards the house. He turned the deadbolt to lock the door and then pressed his back against the heavy wooden panels. He heard the footsteps stop and the brass handle begin to turn. But as Michael’s brother looked back into the house he was also staring into the face of a nightmare, one that was reaching from deep within the ball of fire that had enveloped everything around him. He alone knew what it was. He had seen it several times before but until then it had been only in his mind. The hands of the clock were at three seconds to midnight. From miles below the Earth, the vast hole that spiralled into the ground erupted a final time and sent a bolt of energy hurtling towards the house. In the last seconds of Christmas Eve, it smashed into the luminous pulsating heart of the blue fire ball and unleashed something that turned what was once a home into a tomb. But that violence would give birth to an avenging angel a thousand times greater, one that even the dead would fear and for whom the hands of the clock would always be midnight.

DECO

CHAPTER 2

The rain fell upon the gravestone, running down the vertical slab of black marble and through the chiseled indentations of the two names etched in gold lettering on the surface. At its base, a stone vase held a dozen freshly picked white roses that contrasted with the wet green grass of the cemetery. But the names on the grave did not go unread; a figure kneeling beside the headstone pictured the faces to which they had once belonged. It was almost eleven years since he first walked the same twisted path through the rows of tombstones. The landmarks were the same: the double arched gateways at the entrance, the avenue of trees along the driveway, even many of the other mourners. But any he passed quickly turned away somehow knowing his purpose there was more than just to shed tears.

The rain made him recall that last Christmas Eve and a time when the memories and images that now haunted him had not yet been created. But those memories had burned within him for as long as he could remember, and they left no room for doubt, self-pity or any of the other emotions that would have stopped him from walking what was now an increasingly long trail of revenge. A droplet ran hurriedly down the folds of the man’s black leather jacket as if trying to escape the tall hulking figure as he rose to his feet. He stood in silence, his thoughts on a mother and father and an entire family that had been taken from him by something that no judge could convict and no jail could hold.

He looked out upon the rows of headstones and the unread epitaphs, all ships lost in a sea of rain-soaked grass. All he could hear was the rain; all he could see were the dead. But it was the dead that he now walked amongst; the violence had consumed him and when he slept he dreamt blood. It was a world he no longer feared. It was one that like any could be observed, studied, and understood. And if you understood it, then you could destroy it. He took a drink from the bottle of Wells Bombardier that he was holding. Several yards to his left were two more graves, side by side. He walked slowly over to the one closest. His motorcycle boots dug into the moist ground as he looked beyond the cemetery and into the ominous gray storm clouds above, where distant bolts of lightning reminded him of that strange blue light he had seen many years ago.

Gregory Anderson.

He read the words on the gravestone out loud like he had done a thousand times before, knowing that no matter how many times he did, there would still be no reply. But the last eleven years had also taught him that despite what people wanted to believe, the dead never truly rested in peace. Whatever it was that had taken his brother's life – and the lives of everyone else in that now derelict house on Mulholland Drive – could never have imagined a future where they were the ones being pursued.

He crouched next to the gravestone and allowed himself a brief smile. The memories he recalled weren’t of picnics in the woods or summer outings at the beach. They were from more than fifteen years ago when, in the third round of the F.A cup, West Ham had won 3-0 against Millwall. He and his brother had supported West Ham football club since they were kids and the grounds were just one stop on the tube from where they had lived in East London. They had fought a hundred battles on those terraces and on the streets surrounding the stadium, but with Millwall you could guarantee trouble, win or lose. One particular Saturday, fighting had erupted hours before the match had started and as the day wore on, you could tell that whatever the result on the pitch, all hell was about to break loose off of it. They had been separated from the rest of their firm, and were surrounded by a group of eleven rival supporters, but neither of them had run. Before the police intervened and threw them both in jail for the night, at least four of the Millwall crew needed hospital treatment and the rest had turned tail and fled. He knew from that moment that whatever trouble he got into in the future, his brother would always be there to back him up. Or so he thought.

Both the memory and his smile once again faded into an oblivion that for him had begun one particular Christmas eleven years ago. He spread out his right hand and placed his palm on the wet grass pressing it against the moist soil a few feet down from the headstone. The rain trickled through his outspread fingers, and he watched as it passed into the earth. Somewhere below, his brother once lay and if he thought long and hard enough, he sometimes imagined he