Rise of the Unmaker Present: Zenith of the Daystone

By Ethan Somerville

On this parallel Earth the Soviet Union never fell, and the hardline communists took over in 1991 to continue the Cold War. The planet has become a grim, conservative place; dominated by religious zealots and teetering on the verge of nuclear war. In the city of Sydney, the streets are ruled by devil-worshipping gangs and terrorised by serial killers.

One morning, gay teenager Joey Lombard discovers a strange vagrant youth named Daniel sleeping in his garage. He befriends this quiet, introverted boy who seems to have lost his memory.

Meanwhile, an ancient being named Aktherion, exiled for diabolic crimes, detects the arrival of an extremely powerful and unholy force. Determined to achieve salvation, Aktheron unites five young adults and grants them the powers they will need to defeat the invader. Their leader is Arnie Selwyn, but Aktheron calls him the Daybringer.

Daniel Sheridan wants only to discover the truth about himself. However, a priest tells him that he is possessed by the devil, and if his memory is ever restored Satan will rise claim him. Daniel is horrified by the thought and struggles to be a good person. Unfortunately he has strange, dark powers and appetites that threaten to pull him from the path he has chosen.

Arnie and his companions have their own problems. They must set aside their differences and unite before they can hope to defeat their foe.

The Nightbringer's coming has been foretold by dark prophets and is eagerly awaited by the city's cultists. They believe he is coming to destroy the world and bring them their unholy salvation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storm Publishing
• Release date: Mar 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370271399

Ethan Somerville

Ethan Somerville is a prolific Australian author with over 20 books published, and many more to come. These novels cover many different genres, including romance, historical, children's and young adult fiction. However Ethan's favourite genres have always been science fiction and fantasy. Ethan has also collaborated with other Australian authors and artists, including Max Kenny, Emma Daniels, Anthony Newton, Colin Forest, Tanya Nicholls and Carter Rydyr.

Book preview

The Eridon Chronicles Book 7

Rise of the Unmaker - Present

Zenith of the Daystone

By

Ethan Somerville

And

Max Kenny

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Storm Publishing on Smashwords

Rise of the Unmaker Present – Zenith of the Daystone

Copyright © 2017 by Ethan Somerville and Max Kenny

www.stormpublishing.net

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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Prologue

Punishment for Infidelity

Graham Bailer, a short, plump accountant with a bald patch developing at the back of his head, paused outside Museum Station’s Castlereagh Street entrance and glanced down at his watch.

Oh shit! He smacked a podgy hand against his forehead. "Eleven fifteen already! I’m really going to get it this time!" Yanking a timetable from one pocket of his rumpled suit jacket, he hurried down the station’s steep concrete steps. He scanned the booklet near-sightedly, swore again, and then shoved it back.

Nine and ten o’clock Mary could handle, but twelve thirty? Shoving his clammy hands into his pockets he started down a gloomy tunnel. If the old bitch had been suspicious before she would be certain now! He knew as soon as he walked in through the front door he would get a real bawling out.

More sweat beaded on Graham’s brow as he pondered on what would follow his wife’s tirade. His fears were justified. Mary Bailer was one hundred and ten kilos of middle-aged suburban housewife with the ferocious right hook of a professional boxer. She terrified the living daylights out of him.

To ease his mounting terror, the accountant filled his mind with pleasant memories of his beautiful new girlfriend He had never thought, at this stage of his life, that such a pretty young woman would be interested in him.

But Annette Capelli worked in his building, for a migration agent on the fifth floor. She had masses of bouncy brown hair, a smile that went from ear to ear and the most gorgeous pair of legs Graham had ever seen. And she liked short, older men with bald patches. She actually thought he was sexy. They had gone out several times already; to dinner, to the movies - and to the nearest hotel to exercise some bedsprings. Each time Graham had had told his wife he wouldn’t be home for dinner because he was working late.

The images inside Graham’s mind grew more erotic as he relived the evening’s activities; mentally undressing Annette’s supple young body again and again. He was actually starting to fall in love with her. He wished he didn’t have to go home to fat old Mary.

Like it had a hundred times before, the word divorce popped into his mind. He shuddered. Mary was a very old-fashioned and religious woman, obsessed with maintaining a respectable reputation. Divorce was something other people did. She would never consent.

There was another solution. But Graham doubted he had the intelligence to carry it through. Forensic scientists were far too thorough these days. Besides, he couldn’t kill her no matter how odious she was. Killing was wrong. He would just leave to gather his courage and leave.

The concrete beneath the accountant’s scuffed shoes vibrated as a distant train departed. The gloomy tunnel was littered with cigarette butts, crushed cans, scrunched-up tissues and old newspapers. It stank of urine. Stained and graffitied walls rose on either side, tiles flaking off at various intervals. Up ahead a fluorescent light flickered, and beyond lay a dark patch where several lights had been ripped off the ceiling.

Most of the multi-coloured wall-scrawls were illegible, probably the names of ephemeral street-gangs. The few coherent images were typically demonic, depicting skulls, crossed bones, pentagrams, inverted crucifixes, mock blood-splatters and the usual 666 - number of the Beast. Someone had spent considerable effort on a particularly lurid mural of naked people writhing in a fiery pit. The blood-red chant above it ran;

ARMAGEDDON IS NIGH

AND THE NIGHTMARE IS COMING FOR YOUR SOULS

GIVE HIM WHAT HE NEEDS-

OR DIE!

Graham shivered and grabbed the tiny silver cross he always wore beneath his collar. What is this world coming to? he wondered. How can juveniles get away with painting such obscenities?

He hated children. They were either good-for-nothing delinquents who stole cars and took drugs, or mewling milksops who stayed at home all day, killing their brain-cells with mindless computer games and too much TV. His own offspring were no different; eighteen-year-old Katherine was a pregnant, high-school dropout, and twenty one year old Michael was a criminal - currently residing in Long Bay gaol for shooting a 7-11 clerk in the kneecaps with a sawn-off shotgun.

He couldn’t think what he’d done wrong.

The tunnel began to slope upwards towards a small junction of five other passages, most of which were no longer used. As Graham approached the convergence, he heard the unmistakable sound of someone coughing. His weak heart lurching in fear, he stopped and searched the passage ahead. He couldn’t see anyone. Had he just imagined that sound?

Then the mysterious person coughed again, a wheezing, gurgling sound, like a long-term smoker’s hack. It had come from the junction ahead. That sounds sick, Graham thought as he cautiously approached the fork. Who’s up there? Some bum who couldn’t find a place to sleep? Some runaway kid stoned off his bonce?

Graham wished he had a weapon. Maybe he could bean the bastard with his briefcase. He didn’t want to have to walk all the way back around to Museum Station’s other entrance. Clutching the handle of his case in his sweaty fingers, he stepped into the intersection. The mysterious individual coughed some more. When he looked to his left, towards the closed-off Elizabeth Street tunnel, he saw a small woman, knees hugged to her chest, huddled in a grimy corner. Both hands were clamped over her mouth as she tried to keep the hacking spasms down. She was wearing a black dress with a plaited belt, short leather ankle boots, and had lots of long, curly reddish-brown hair falling from a topknot over her shoulders and down her back.

Graham’s fear faded, replaced by more chivalric instincts. Do you need any help? he asked as he moved carefully towards her. He didn’t want to scare her.

Still coughing, she looked up from her fingers. Graham recoiled in horror. Her pale, bony hands were dripping with blood.

I think you need a doctor.

The woman didn’t answer, her pallid face strangely blank. Save for her big, dark grey eyes, long, curling lashes and full lips, she wasn’t pretty. Her mouth was too big, her cheekbones too pronounced, her nose too pointed. A strange tattoo, shaped like a bird in flight, marked the space between her upswept brows, and a pair of star-shaped earrings dangled from her earlobes.

Do – do you want me to call you an ambulance?

The woman opened her mouth to speak, but could only croak. She lifted her arms, and Graham saw that both of her forearms were wrapped in ferocious wrist-to-elbow armbands, studded with pyramidal crystals. Her fingernails looked like bird claws, painted black and curled over at the ends. Was she some sort of witch? Perhaps she was responsible for that awful mural he had just passed!

But the accountant couldn’t refuse her universal cry for help. Wh-what do you want me to do?

Again she didn’t answer. She simply continued to reach for him with her filthy hands, eyes brimming with pain. As Graham approached, she dropped onto all fours and started crawling weakly towards him, leaving hand-prints of blood on the concrete. A necklace hung with a small animal skull and fangs fell down in front of her chest. The tattered black cloth beneath parted to reveal pale, bare flesh to her navel.

Unable to resist, even now, Graham looked. With a cold jolt of horror, he realised that this creature wasn’t female at all. It was a man, no - a boy!

An anorexic teenage boy with curly, waist-length hair and long black fingernails!

Graham stopped. Who - who are you? He didn’t like being deceived by long-haired boys. A few weeks earlier, he had been enjoying himself immensely, examining a pair of nicely rounded buttocks encased in tight black leather. They had been bouncing beneath a shimmering mane of long blonde hair. When the individual turned to reveal a masculine face and bare chest, Graham had actually turned and fled.

The boy sat up, gazing up at Graham through those huge, expressive grey eyes. Please help me, they seemed to beg. He started to cough again, clapping his hands over his mouth over his mouth.

But the accountant didn’t move. Was this strange-looking witch-kid in genuine distress?

Suddenly the child’s eyes narrowed in concentration. Graham jumped back as the boy leapt to his feet with a remarkable agility and charged towards him, his skinny hands hooked into claws.

Graham flung up his arms to throw the kid off – and baulked at the sight of the youth’s mouth. All his teeth were pointed, his canines the gleaming, inch-long fangs of a vampire.

Shock had stolen Graham’s will to resist. The vampire boy cannoned into him, knocking him onto the hard, cold ground. The air whooshed from his lungs.

Dear God, this can’t be happening! the accountant thought. The brat’s far too small and skinny - he couldn’t possibly have pushed me over! I weigh ninety-eight kilos!

He looked up into the child’s eyes. What he’d previously thought was pain wasn’t.

It was need.

Insatiable, unholy - and so desperate it resembled pain.

Leering in anticipation, the boy wrapped his skinny, icy hands around Graham’s throat, digging his sharp nails into his flesh. He squeezed. The accountant tried to struggle free but he couldn’t move. The boy felt like he was made of iron, arms like steel girders pinning him to the concrete. Again his brain refused to accept what was happening. The boy was much too small to hold him down and strangle him! Too frail! Too weak!

Help - me! he managed to croak, feeling his bladder start to loosen. Warm liquid gathered in a puddle beneath his buttocks.

God, please let someone walk past, he thought desperately.

Still grinning, the boy lifted his hands from Graham’s throat. The accountant sucked in great whooping breaths. With a single flick of his sharp nails, the youth ripped the man’s shirt collar open to expose his thick neck. Graham sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, readying himself for a final terrified shriek.

Then the child lunged forward, his long curly hair whipping across Graham’s cheeks. Needle-sharp fangs tore hungrily into the accountant’s flesh. Knives of white-hot agony sliced along the length of every nerve inside his body.

He tried to scream, but couldn’t. Somehow the kid had paralysed him.

His last coherent thought ran; oh Mary, Mary - I’m so sorry...!

In the boy’s embrace his victim started to wither; middle-aged body aging years in seconds. The flesh dwindled away until only a lifeless skin-and-bone skeleton remained, completely devoid of moisture.

When the boy was sure he’d drained every last possible morsel of life from the creature, he sat up and licked the blood from his face and hands. His canines retracted into his upper jaw. The dark liquid tasted warm and good, but not nearly as wonderful as the pure life-force he’d just absorbed.

That had been liquid ecstasy, sending so much pleasure through his body that he was sure he’d come physically as well. He was sorry that it had had to end. But as he’d anticipated the life-drain had restored his strength and power. Even the pain in his scrawny chest had faded to a more acceptable background ache.

However he still did not know who – or even what he was. He couldn’t remember anything about his true identity. It was as though he’d started life in this dingy junction of five tunnels, equipped with nothing but a desperate need for … something. Only when that fat, ugly creature appeared had he discovered what he craved.

Blood and life!

In that being’s hazy mind he had found only confusion and conflict.

Although it was surprised by my appearance, it didn’t think I was alien, the boy thought as he climbed to his feet and self-consciously smoothed down his dirty robes. It didn’t think I was ... monstrous. No more than a skinny child... He smiled. We must be the same species!

He touched his chest and face, needing to confirm his conclusion. Yes, he had a similar body and face; two arms, legs, eyes, one mouth, nose... Only his long hair and fingernails had been out of place.

He turned back to the withered husk at his feet, its torn throat gaping open, distressingly empty. He had to examine it thoroughly. He dropped down beside it and began taking it apart, marvelling at its bone structure, and how close it was to his own.

I could see inside its head when it was alive, he thought as he yanked the skull from the spinal column and held it up to the feeble light. Maybe I still can, even though it’s dead. But how?

He closed his eyes and started to think; life ... life ... life... His hands grew warm, and energy began to throb through his body, pulsing into the dead flesh in his hands. The cold, dehydrated head began to throb in time with his heartbeat. He opened his eyes and laughed with joy. The head’s dried, opaque eyes stared blindly at nothing, mouth gaping in its last soundless cream, but he’d done it! Instead of blood, it was powered by the mysterious energy he’d released from his hands. The brain was thinking once more. He could see thoughts of pain and terror dancing across the surface.

Ignoring the disembodied brain’s distress, the child started to leaf through the surface images, searching for more information.

what happened to me goddamn little bastard bit me on the neck god it hurts where is my body i cant feel my body i can’t feel my body christ i can’t feel anything except cold so cold on my face i cant hear my heart can’t feel myself breathing can’t see can’t hear can’t feel oh mary im so damn sorry i never meant to cheat on you jesus it hurtsithurtsithurts

The words and pictures were incoherent and useless. He needed to travel deeper if he wanted more comprehensive information. He concentrated on sliding through the screaming into the quiet beyond.

He found nothing. Beyond the surface lay darkness. Either the brain had been dead too long, or he lacked the power to cross the barrier between surface thoughts and memories.

CHRISTITHURTSITHURTSITHURTS

The boy tossed the useless skull away in disgust. As soon it left his fingers, its artificial life died, as though someone had extinguished a candle. It clattered to a stop against a far wall. The child stood up, deciding he couldn’t learn any more from this mysterious junction or the desiccated corpse at his feet. He had to leave in case someone stronger than him arrived and tried to drain his life-force.

He was about to depart when something caught his eye. Partially obscured behind a heap of mouldering rubbish bags lay what looked like a horned skull. The boy started towards it, suddenly feeling like he’d seen the object somewhere before. In excitement he tossed the bags aside, scattering putrefying garbage everywhere. When he reached the skull he discovered that it was attached to a black, ornamented wooden staff.

This is mine, he realised with conviction. With a whoop of triumph, he snatched it up. The warm wood felt good in his hands. The skull glared sightlessly down at him, mouth open just enough to display its sharp fangs. A pair of enormous horns sprang from its temples, curling gracefully upwards. It was beautiful. And it was his. Of that much he was certain.

But it still did not tell him what he wanted to know.

Who he actually was.

He sighed and turned away, holding the skull-staff close to his chest. I must find some answers, he thought, heading towards the tunnel his victim had emerged from.

He drifted into the graffitied wilderness, gazing at the painted walls, marvelling at their vibrant colours and crude depictions. He had no idea what they meant, but in a strange way they appealed to him. Occasionally he paused to stroke the texture of the paint. When he closed his eyes for a better sensation of touch, vague mental images flowed into him. He saw surly-faced youths painting the walls as though marking territory. He had no idea where the telepathic pictures were coming from, but didn’t question. He assumed that like everything else he had already learned about himself they were perfectly normal.

He ascended a set of steep steps at the end of the tunnel and stepped out into a warm, still evening. Impossibly tall buildings shot up all around him, almost touching the clear, star-speckled sky. He could only stop and gaze at these massive constructions of steel, concrete and glass; wonder eclipsing all other emotions. He clasped both skinny hands around the smooth shaft of his staff. What are they? What is keeping them up? What are all those tiny lights hanging in the air above them?

He stepped forward, gaping at the constructions for several minutes. Then he turned to look over his shoulder. More mysterious constructions towered into the sky behind him, dwarfing him. He was surrounded and suddenly felt very small and insignificant.

It was an unusual sensation. Suddenly he realised that he’d never ever felt small before!

Whoooonk!

He spun in horror at the sudden noise. He saw a pair of bright, circular lights coming towards him. Suddenly frightened, he dived out of the way, his momentum almost propelling him headfirst into a brick wall. He scrambled to his feet as something small and metallic whizzed past. One hand clapped to his chest, he watched it disappear between the tall buildings.

What was that? he wondered. I’ve never seen anything like it before! I’m sure of that, too!

The thought disturbed him. More things should have started becoming familiar by now. Maybe his amnesia was more advanced than he’d first thought. He continued on down the street, unsure of where he was heading. I hope I recognise something soon, he thought, his initial wonder fading into concern. What if he never learned his true identity?

As he drifted down the street, he passed a second strange metallic object, parked beside the curb. This one was stationary, inert. He stopped and stared at it, trying to figure out what it was. But only when he leaned in close and peered through one of its thick glass windows did he finally realise its purpose.

It’s a vehicle designed to carry people at great speeds! He laughed at his silly reaction of earlier and gave the contraption’s hard metal roof a good slap with the flat of his hand.

Wheeep! Wheeep! Wheeep!

The boy jumped backwards at the sudden, high pitched sound coming from the vehicle. Oh no – what have I done? Have I activated it?

Stop right there! someone screamed from behind him. The child turned to see a creature – no, a man, similar to the one he’d life-drained in the tunnel. This one was running ponderously towards him, big belly wobbling, short jacket flapping like a pair of wings behind him. He looked very angry. Thief!

Time to leave! The boy turned and started running. Suddenly, mysteriously, he was moving as fast as the vehicle that had sped past him earlier.

Stop...!

Only when the furious shouts had faded into the distance did the youth realise that he wasn’t running at all – but flying. His bony legs were pumping ineffectually a whole half-metre above the ground!

He was so surprised that he froze in midair, expecting to fall flat on his face on the footpath. But he simply floated to a gentle stop on the concrete.

Now how did I do that? he wondered. Simply by thinking about it? He pulled a hand through his long curly hair, then turned and looked over his shoulder, back the way he’d come. He couldn’t see the fat man who’d shouted at him at all. The street was deserted.

Why he didn’t follow me? the boy wondered. Couldn’t he move as fast as me?

I guess not, he reasoned. That’s probably why he needs that vehicle. The youth thought about flying again, and slowly he rose into the air, his tattered robes fluttering around his skinny ankles. I’m doing it! he thought excitedly, clutching his staff close.

Now forward!

He moved down the street, first at a walking pace, then faster, his long curly hair streaming out behind him.

A surge of exhilaration filled him, and he laughed out loud. This is incredible! He lifted his skull-staff above his head. Can I go higher?

Suddenly he was soaring up into the air, the stained cement falling away beneath his boots. The enormous buildings descended to a more acceptable height.

It was so easy!

He screamed with delight as he flew high into the mild night air, swooping above the tallest rooftops. He extended his arms like a bird’s wings, staff clutched in his right hand.

Slowly the city unrolled beneath him, a black velvet blanket dotted with hundreds of tiny lights - an artificial mirror of the more natural dome above. He could see for kilometres!

And he was alone.

Why isn’t anyone else up here flying with me? he wondered as he swept over the buildings’ enormous flat roofs. It’s a beautiful night. Am - am I the only one with this power?

But, entranced by the beauty of the world below and the pleasure of flying, he soon forgot the disconcerting absence of other people.

He whooped again he flew lower so he was passing between the buildings. They blurred past on either side as he dodged through them. Then they parted to reveal a broad, straight road built high above the ground, a dark expanse of water stretching out behind it. More metallic vehicles rushed along the elevated highway. Some were very large and long, others small and open. A few only possessed two wheels. Leather-clad people, their heads encased in strange helmets, sat astride these tiny machines.

Maybe I am the only one with the power to fly, the boy thought as he shot across the road and dropped low over the foam-tipped waves. Maybe I am different...

Quickly he shook his head to clear of it of the disturbing thought. He didn’t want to be different. Not when he’d just worked out what he was.

As he sped towards the built-up landmass on the other side of the channel, a flock of big white birds started to follow him. He giggled and soared upwards, leading the raucous birds in a complicated dance across the waves. Eventually they gave up trying to compete with his gymnastics and flapped away.

I feel so good, the child thought. And I don’t want this feeling to stop. Ever.

He turned in a sweeping arc back towards the city he had left behind. Buildings began to blur past again, faster than before. He wanted to see more of the mysterious place.

Unfortunately, fatigue began to set in, tingling in his fingers and toes and spreading up his arms and legs. Angrily, he willed the discomfort to pass; it had worked with everything else. But the strange pain increased until he could no longer stand it. He felt like someone had set fire to his nerves. He realised that if he didn’t land soon he would fall out of the sky like a rock.

He found a narrow, tree-lined street, flanked by tall, neat dwellings, and landed in the middle in a clumsy sprawl of arms and legs. For a few minutes he lay on his stomach on the warm tar, coughing painfully, waiting for the agony in his limbs to ebb to a more acceptable level. Then he hauled himself to his feet, glad of his staff.

I need to find somewhere to sleep, he thought as he studied the dark houses. I doubt I can stay upright for much longer! Growing weaker with each passing second, he trudged towards the nearest dwelling, a tall brown construction with a gently-sloping roof and a neatly pruned square of garden in front.

Strange animals of various sizes appeared at iron-barred gates and started to jump and make loud noises. But the boy was too tired to notice them. All he wanted was a warm, dark cubby hole to crawl into.

Up ahead, past the tall house he was heading towards, was a low wooden building with a gleaming metal vehicle parked inside. The dark spaces beside the contraption beckoned. The youth headed eagerly towards them. In the alcove behind the machine he found a tattered old couch, covered with boxes.

Wonderful, he thought. He shoved the boxes onto the floor and curled up on the cushions. They were damp and stank a bit, but he didn’t care. Something deep inside him told him that he’d experienced far worse odours during his mysterious past life.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and descended into a blissful world of darkness.

A few hours later, a railway clerk on her way to work found the decimated corpse of Graham Bailer, scattered in numerous pieces in an ocean of rubbish. His head, arms and legs had been ripped from his body, his abdominal cavity torn open and his internal organs spread out across the intersection. The hysterical woman managed to phone the police. Without delay they cordoned off the entire area.

The only statement the media received was that the bizarre murder had been the work of an extremely dangerous killer. The police didn’t dare release the knowledge that the victim had had his throat ripped out and all the liquids drained from him.

An early morning autopsy revealed that Graham Bailer, an accountant from East Hills, had been attacked by an exceptionally powerful opponent, who had easily held him flat while mutilating him. It didn’t take long for bizarre speculations to arise, concerning vampires and other blood-sucking freaks.

To solve the dilemma, a famous professor of pathology from the University of New South Wales was called in to thoroughly examine the remains and put all the wild theories to rest before they leaked out to the media. His name was Dr Samson Kale, and despite his apparent youth he had more letters after his name than in it. The police had called on him in several times in the past, to help solve mysteries of a similar, although not quite as gruesome, nature. He was known as the Necromancer, because he was so proficient he could make the dead speak.

He would be performing the examination early the next morning at the Prince of Wales Hospital.

* * * *

Part One

Night of Innocence

Chapter 1

The Day before Dawn

Last night at eleven thirty pm, a man was found murdered at Museum Station, decapitated, disembowelled and dismembered. His remains were discovered early this morning by a railway clerk, who described the scene as ‘something out of a horror movie’. Police are questioning several people, but have no real leads at the moment.

Twenty-six year-old Arnold Selwyn rolled onto his back and knuckled his fists into his eyes. Eww, gross, he told his clock radio. Who the heck could possibly have done something like that? he wondered as he laced his fingers together behind his head and gazed up at the off-white ceiling. Only a total psycho! What a thing to wake up to!

Police say this could only have been the work of an extremely dangerous psychopath, the newsreader continued.

Arnie swung his muscular legs to the floor and shook his long blonde hair out of his face. Then he leaned across his bed and flicked off the radio. That’s about all the bad news I can handle for today! He stood up and stretched, his powerful muscles seeming to writhe like snakes in honey. Then he searched through the piles of clothes on the floor beside his bed for a clean pair of undies. When he finally found a set, he stepped over heaps of books and magazines and vacated his bedroom.

In the doorway he glanced over his shoulder at the impressive mess. One day I really ought to tidy this sty up, he thought. One day. He yawned and thrust the unpleasant thought into the bowels of his mind. He hated cleaning. He padded into the bathroom to scrape some pale blonde fuzz from his chin and pull his wavy hair into a pigtail at the nape of his neck. Then he stepped into a lounge room almost as untidy as his bedroom. He switched on an enormous sound system, and the sound of Guns ‘n’ Roses filled the small old Summer Hill flat. Clearing a space on the floor, Arnie started his vigorous morning exercise routine.

Some kids from the local high school were visiting the Workout World for sport today, and he wanted to be ready for them. He and a young woman named Jodie Free were the new co-owners of a large modern gym called the Workout World, located on Carlton Crescent. They were a perfect couple; he a handsome blonde weightlifter, and she a beautiful aerobics instructor with a powerful dancer’s body and thick golden-brown hair that fell to her waist.

Unfortunately for Arnie, they were partners in the business sense only.

After finally managing to extricate himself from the neurotic clutches of a model named Theresa, Arnie was once again single and looking for love. But Jodie seemed more interested in one of the guys in their employ; a sleazy smooth-talker named Nick Carlos.

Arnie sighed and started on one hundred push-ups. I bet she thinks I’m gay, Arnie thought gloomily. Since the start of the year, Arnie had been teaching some youths the fine art of weight-training. All bar one were desperate to impress the girls with their embryonic muscles. The exception, a confused sixteen-year-old named Joey Lombard, was more infatuated with Arnie. When Arnie had finally managed to tell Jodie about the boy’s obsession, she suggested he simply tell Joey to leave him alone as he wasn’t interested. But Arnie didn’t have the heart to hurt the young man’s feelings. The lonely child seemed like he needed something to hold on to.

When Arnie finished his exercises he ate a big, healthy breakfast, took a hot shower, then pulled on a pair of shorts and running shoes. He grabbed his sports bag and player. He couldn’t wait for the day to be over.

Tomorrow, he, Jodie, Hobbit, Stork and Nick were all going camping in Heathcote National Park. Maybe Arnie could use the opportunity to tell Jodie how he really felt about her. He locked the front door, slipped the player’s headphones over his ears, and hurried down the steep, narrow steps to the street. He set off for work at a steady jog.

Sunlight streamed down through chinks in the Venetian blinds, creating bright stripes across Joey Lombard’s stars-and-moons doona cover. The sixteen-year-old could tell it was going to be a beautiful day. Through the blinds the azure sky was devoid of clouds, and the mid-autumn air drifting in through the open window cool and crisp, perfect.

Brrrinnnnggg!

What a shame he had to waste it sitting in smelly classrooms all day!

What’s the bet that tomorrow, and every day next week, it’s going to piss down rain! Joey thought as silenced the old-fashioned alarm-clock.

Today was Holy Thursday - the last day of school. Joey couldn’t wait for Easter to be over so he could actually enjoy the holiday. He yawned, stretched his arms, and then raked his sand-coloured hair out of his eyes. Seven days of freedom stretched ahead. No agonising school work, overbearing teachers, cruel classmates, playground riots - and hopefully, no after-school fights.

Other kids didn’t like him much. They thought he was too quiet, too much of a crawler. Nothing else, he thanked God. He hoped they never realised his deepest, darkest secret. He lay back to savour the pleasant warmth of his bed for a few more precious minutes.

Then he heard a bedroom door creak open down the hall.

Shit! Joey disentangled himself from his blanket. He had to reach the bathroom before his thirteen year old sister Samantha!

He threw his door open in time to see Samantha, a short, plump brunette in a long flanno nightie, dart nimbly into the little room at the end of the hall and slam its old wooden door closed. "Nya nya nyaah!" she taunted from behind it.

Joey charged up to it. You little bitch! He rattled the door handle. I bet you waited for my alarm to go off before you started running!

Yep! A shower started to run. Right first time, big bro!

Joey smacked the door with both fists. Sometimes he really hated girls! They were all vain and materialistic, only interested in clothes and making themselves look pretty. And none more so than his rotten little sister!

I don’t know why you bother trying to make yourself look good, Sam! Joey continued. If I had your face I’d paint eyes on my bum and walk on my hands!

And if I had your face I’d shoot myself!

Did I hear you call your sister a rude name, young man? demanded a deep voice from behind him.

Joey whirled around. His father stood there with his hands on his hips. Joey was almost one hundred and eighty centimetres tall, but his father was several centimetres taller and almost twice as broad, his short, dark brown hair cropped close to his skull. He was very muscular, but starting to spread at the waist.

S-sorry Dad, Joey mumbled into his chest.

Joseph Lombard folded his arms. They were big, dark and hairy, a real working-man’s arms. He was a construction-site foreman who’d worked his way up through various trades to gain his position. One day he hoped to run his own building company, but only after the house was paid off.

You know the rules, boy, Joseph wagged a thick finger in his son’s face. No swearing.

Yes Dad.

I don’t ever want to hear such language again.

Joey nodded vigorously. Yes Dad.

Good. Joey turned to leave, but a big hand dropped onto his shoulder and spun him around with very little effort. Did you leave the garage door open last night?

Joey rubbed his round chin, pretending to think deeply. It was useless to lie. His father could see right through them. I think so. I’m sorry Dad - I was in a hurry.

Dark creases appeared in Joseph’s brow. Come with me.

Before Joey could answer, his father