Dread

By S Wharton

This is a deeply unsettling collection of British horror offering three starkly different takes on the post-apocalyptic theme.

A Slow Burn:
"Shah has done it again [...] The characters are so realistic that it's chilling. I will admit to having read this with the lights well and truly on!! Such vivid imagery ... I highly recommend this novella to all lovers of this genre." 

The Dead Party:
"One of the best political satires that I've come across in a long time!" 

Rosa and Bella's Journal Of Decline:
"Brilliant and addictive. Enjoyed from the first paragraph' second paragraph and I was hooked. Yet another fantastic book from this author."

*All are UK based and are available individually.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WordsinSync Publishing
• Release date: Oct 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502263414

S Wharton

S. Wharton (Shah Wharton) is a British freelancer and author/publisher of dark fiction. She's a psychology graduate and in 2016-2018 she enhanced her creative and professional skills by achieving a Masters in Creative Writing. Her work has been published by Siren's Call Publications and by numerous anonymous clients. Her husband and their two dogs are the loves of her life. Some say she is mildly obsessed with Bob Dylan, and although she hated school, she's fantasised about attending Hogwarts. She adores fine red wine and robust coffee and lives in the West Midlands region of the UK. http://shahwharton.com Tweet: @shahw1

Book preview

A Slow Burn

MY HEAD THUNDERED WHEN I lifted it from a sticky, woolly surface. My fingers decided the rough low pile belonged to carpet. I had to squint to see through a kind of mesh draped over my eyes, though the world around me remained a fuzzy black. An eerie silence enveloped the space around me. It became stifling, claustrophobic, and static sizzled beneath my skin, making me itch. Although goosebumps weren’t helping. God, I was cold.

Movement, even a slow wriggle, set my head bobbing like an apple in a barrel of boiling water, and when the back of my head brushed the underbelly of something located an inch or two above me, the pain journeyed over my back in jolts.

‘Shit. Shush...’ I assumed it was a bad idea to make too much noise until I found out what was happening. These were not my usual circumstances. I snaked forward, keeping my head nearer the carpet this time, feeling with my hands for an opening. Once found, I managed to stand, though banged my spine a few times in the process. Leaning against the small bedside cupboard, I caught my breath and squinted, trying to see in the blacked-out room. All I could make out was the large bed I’d been under and large piles of...clothes, maybe, on top.

‘Why am I here?’ I whispered, just as a foetid stench hit my guts in the worst way. ‘Wow, someone needs a doctor.’

Using outstretched hands acted in place of sight, I tiptoed through the blackness. On my third step, I stumbled over a hefty lump a few feet away from where I’d been lying. ‘Oops, sorry,’ I said, nervously snorting. ‘Can’t see a bloody thing in here.’ There must have been a party the night before and this was a drunken mess at my feet. What else? ‘Haven’t dealt with this sort of thing since college. Well, it’s been a while at any rate.’

Before resting any weight on each step, I tapped my foot on the floor so as not to kick any other party revellers. Kicking anyone with a roaring hangover was never a great idea. Embossed wallpaper passed beneath my eager fingertips as I slid them across flat horizontal surfaces, hoping to find a door, a window, or a light switch. All the time, my head-wound burned.

Thinking aloud, I mumbled, ‘Maybe I knocked myself out? Maybe I’m concussed? Christ, I like fizz like the next girl but I’m never this bad.’

The thick meaty stench stuck to the roof of my mouth like cement dust; I wanted to rinse and spit. When my finger found a wet slimy residue covering parts of the wall, I snatched my hand away, wondering what filth I’d exposed myself to.

The dank room, an all-over dull ache, not knowing where I was, and silent darkness made the room feel like a tiny box, its walls closing in on me inch by inch. Panic hummed inside, until a thought could no longer be ignored

‘What if someone assaulted me? What if hiding under the bed saved my life?’

My grasping hands searched and found fabric hanging on a wall. Curtains mean a window. I snatched the curtains aside, but shutters still locked out most of the light. I worked on the latch. It wouldn’t budge. ‘Who locks these things?’ My heartbeat seemed to echo between my ears.

My eyes whizzed around until they caught site of a tiny silver key twinkling from the window sill. After unlocking the shutters, I pushed them back quickly hoping to avoid the inevitable creak. Still sounded like a whining cat, but reassuring daylight flooded the room. It stung my eyes, despite heavy grey clouds obscuring the sun. Once they adjusted to the light, my eyes stopped watering. Panic eased a little when I acknowledged that it’d be a stupid kidnapper who left a key to any exit, even a window on the first floor. Making it more likely that I was just another party guest who overstayed her welcome.

I was wearing a lacy, navy cocktail dress; something I would normally wear to meetings – distracting male clients from my high fee had been a pretty worthwhile policy over the years. Use what you got, I always said. When I craned my neck to see the room I found two people face-down on the bed—the bed I’d been under for however long. Another person, the one I’d stumbled on, lay coiled at my feet. Shade still veiled most of the room, but I could see similar dark blotches on their clothes and walls. ‘Wow.’ What is that? And where’s the stink coming from? ‘Must’a been a good night,’ I said jovially, feeling anything but.

My head injury radiated pain which grew with each step, as though standing and the thud of stepping added enormous pressure to the skull. Even frowning made my face itch and when I scratched, a crusty layer clogged my fingernails. Felt like a mudpack, which made absolutely no sense. ‘Not sure a facial fits with this scene.’

The door on the opposite side of the bed looked tempting. First, I searched through the window, hoping to attract attention from a passer-by or to see if I recognised where I was. The view outside appeared as strange as inside felt. Grey skies—nothing new there for

the UK in October—but at four in the afternoon, not a soul. No one grabbing a coffee, commuting, meeting up with friends. The second hand was moving on my wrist watch; it hadn’t broken.

No traffic? Cars, abandoned and parked haphazardly on the road, some crossed pavements as if frozen mid-route, as though...’No. This is not okay’. Empty shops with doors left ajar and an atmosphere thick with grey particles added to the unnerving sight. Panic once again wrapped around my chest until its vice-like grip made me gasp. I shut my eyes and asked myself, what’s the last thing I remember?

‘Think, Bernie.’ Right, Thursday night in a taxi on my way home from a meeting at Joule’s Nightclub. It went well, I think I shared a taxi...who with? How did I get here? Where is here? Maybe I’ve lost time...maybe even days? ‘Okay, keep it together. Help’s out there, somewhere.’ I looked through the window to a tiny front yard. ‘This is the first floor of a house or apartment but the street doesn’t seem familiar.’ I listened for movement elsewhere in the house, but intimidating silence encased me, along with the putrid stink. Right above my nape, the wound concerned me more with each throb, and a wet patch suggested it still bled. The tiny dress I wore did little to protect me against the cold. ‘Got to clean the wound, get a warm jumper, get out of here.’

Desperate for help and answers, I risked tapping the nearest body with my foot, hoping he’d open his eyes and be helpful. When he offered no response, I crouched on shuddering bended knees. My breath held against body odour, I placed my index and middle fingers where his neck and jaw met. His clammy skin implied he was alive, but he had no pulse. I checked his wrist—no pulse.

‘Fuck...’ Fear launched me backwards against the window sill. My breathing hiked, and I glared at the two men ‘sleeping’ fully-clothed on the bed. Please be alive. On tiptoes, I stepped over the corpse and one by one, I repeated the search for a pulse. Nothing. Were they all taken by the same clammy death? What was it? An infection? Could I be dying?

My bladder jerked. I’d slept in a mortuary with an open wound for god-knows-how-long and had no idea who they were or why I was even with them.

A surge of anxiety seized me; I wanted to run anywhere this death was not. But I needed to clean my injuries, avoid infection. The thought of dying with strangers, rotting and unloved, and even worse, unmissed, made me want to scream the loudest possible plea for help but the cause of death could be sleeping in another room...and the door to this room was open.

On light steps, I moved towards the door but peeked over my shoulder before leaving. The stain on the bodies, on the carpet, and the sticky residue on the walls...’Blood?’

I stepped over the threshold, fingers crossed. I’d learned a new level of terrified.

Another door stood ajar on the tiny landing. A few more steps—hoping for a bathroom and a complementary loaded gun. I was at least partially in luck. A white tiled wall welcomed me at its entrance, and I sniffed the fresh pine scent instead of more dead bodies. I never used to like pine, but this smelt divine.

The hinge squealed and I squirmed as I pushed the door into the room and flicked the light switch. No bulb (or gun), so I opened the window blind, allowing just enough light in for me to make use of the loo. While having the quickest piss ever, an ornate silver framed mirror loomed over me, above a white basin. A message written in soap on the glass demanded my attention:

‘Death is not the end!’

I gripped the basin to help me balance, yanking my knickers in place, one-handed. My head spun, my knees bowed, and I pivoted around to sit on the icy bite of the bathtub.

Sweat and undoubtedly, my scowl, pushed blackened flakes from my face into the sink. They offered a stark contrast to the white porcelain until dribbles of water from the leaky tap diluted them, revealing their true colour—claret red.

‘Dried blood? Whose blood? My blood?’

The bathroom gleamed, apart from another dark muddy patch on the slate grey floor tiles. A white, fluffy towel folded on the wicker basket offered the opportunity to clean my wound while I had the chance. How long till I see a doctor? Outside looked far too ominous to take a guess.

Water ran from chrome mixer taps while I swayed in a haze. Several splashes made most of the crusty