[The Game] Run Like Hell

Chapter 4

"It's not true that nice guys finish last. Nice guys are winners before the game even starts."
- Thomas Addison

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The man shifted in his chair.
'Michael, do you remember how you got here today?'
Michael paused, his mouth wide open. 'No, no I don't'
'Hmm. Seems there are some gaps in your head. As though even talking about this is shorting your short-term memory. You've been infected with a powerful virus.'
'Virus? What? What virus?'
'A language virus. Relax, it'll make sense in time. The main thing is, you're with friends here...'
'Here?' Where am I?'
They spoke for a few minutes, of many things. Things that left Michael reeling.
The man leaned forward, smiling. 'To show you, I need to touch you. I need to put my hand on your head. You okay with that?'
Michael nodded. 'Sure' he said.
'Good. Now, close your eyes, and let me show you'

Two weeks earlier

Photographing graveyards isn't everybody's idea of a healthy hobby, but Michael had found it to be one. He found it, for reasons passing explaining, relaxing. He'd been doing it for five years now, starting with a graveyard in Clontarf, Dublin and spanning cemeteries in Paris, Marrakesh, New York, London, Valencia, Barcelona, Zurich and Edinburgh he'd become reasonably good at it. He'd learnt to read graveyards in that time, the subtle signs of grief and guilt contained in the choice of epitaph or headstone. And now he was back where he'd started. The small graveyard on Castle Avenue, in Clontarf, located just beside Clontarf Castle. The graveyard dated back to early medieval times, but most of what could be seen there now came from the 18th century or later.

He'd been there about a half hour and had been waiting this last five minutes for a particularly stubborn set of clouds to pass over, giving him, he hoped, some better light with which he could pick up the fine detail on a headstone at the top-left corner of the graveyard. It was a small, unremarkable grave with a simple engraving, reading 'Jane Mullen. Aged 14 years. Departed this world 1867'. The script was crudely carved, perhaps by a family member. He couldn't have told you why, but it was one of his favourites from anywhere in the world.

Michael moved around the headstone, picking away leaves and some small shreds of rubbish. As he removed a crisp packet, the wind blew and shifted some leaves. He glimpsed something sticking out of the dirt. A corner of what looked like a plastic envelope. He looked around him, checking if there was anyone else there. Seeing no-one he slowly pulled the plastic loose, clumps of dirt falling away to reveal a single word written on a paper envelope inside the plastic. 'Michael'. He felt his heart thump in his chest. He looked around again. Still no-one there. He lifted the plastic envelope towards himself, looking closer. No mistake. It said his first name. Coincidence. Has to be a coincidence. Must be. Can't be anything else. He shook his head and took a deep breath. Carefully, he opened the plastic and drew the paper envelope out. It was yellowed at the edges, suggesting it had been there a while, but it was dry and intact. Taking one last glance around him, he pulled the envelope open and removed a single sheet of paper, covered in a beautiful copperplate handwriting. He read.

'Michael, by this time you will no doubt be aware that something is happening to you. Something which you can't explain, not even to your self. Something frightening and illogical...'
'This is fucking insane' Michael said aloud, glancing around him again, his breathing quickening. He turned his eyes back to the sheet.
'... No, it's not insane. Strange yes, but insane no. There's no time to explain to you just now what is happening, but rest assured that you are not losing your mind. Quite the contrary. But that must wait. Now, you must leave here. Leave this graveyard immediately. They are coming for you Michael. As sure as those clouds above you will not move and as sure as the girl who was once in this grave is dead, they are coming for you. Right now. At this instant. You must run. Run as fast as you can. We're coming for you too Michael. To protect you. We are. But right now, you have to run. Don't stop until you are clear of here and everything around it. Run until you find the gate. You'll know it when you see it. Run Michael. Run like hell. We'll be waiting.

Your friend, G.

P.S. Stop standing there panting like a twat. Run.'

And he did.

Oh Jesus Christ. Oh Jesus fucking Christ. Oh God. What do I do? Just keep moving. Run man run. Run for fucks' sakes. That's it. Just keep moving. Just keep one foot moving in front of the other and keep going. How did they do that? How was that letter there? They must have seen me coming up the road and planted it. Just keep moving. Jane Mullen. 14 years of age. Dead. One foot after the other. That's it kid. Just keep moving your legs. Run man run. Plastic. Can't think. Up the road. Where do I go? I need to hide. I need to sit, think. No, just keep moving. No, I need to sit down. I have to sit down. Work this out. Breathe man, breathe. Up the turn to the right. Move it you fuckstick, move it. Keep running. Keep your legs moving. Up towards The Castle. The bar. Get in there. Get a drink. There are people in there. Sit down. Breathe through this. That's it. Just keep moving. Open the door. Left man, left. Open the next door. The bar. Get to the bar. Need a drink. Just one.

'What can I get you?' a young lounge girl asked him, as he slumped into an empty seat.
'W-whiskey' he stuttered. He looked around him. Faces he didn't know. No-one looked at him. No-one seemed to notice him.
'Here you go' she said returning after a few minutes.
'Thanks' he said, lifting the drink to his mouth. She started to clean the table he'd sat at, wiping away some glass stains.
'You're welcome' she said with a smile. She looked at him a moment, a smile nudging the corners of her mouth open. He drank. And breathed deeply. And drank.
'Rough day?' she asked.
He looked at her. 'Little bit' he said, forcing a smile. He noticed how young she looked. No more than sixteen, tops. Maybe younger. He looked at her name badge. Looked back at her. Looked back to the name badge. 'Jane Mullen'. His breath caught in his throat.
'About to get a bit rougher' she said with a grin. And all hell broke loose.

Lights out. Darkness. Words. Breaking down. Shapes shifting. Can't construct. Dead light. Can't see. Can't breathe. Above. From the walls they crawled, coming down from the ceiling. Wraiths, squirming in their stitched meat suits, flashes of light revealing black, razor teeth and torn, stretched skin. Eyeless faces, tongues lolling, licking and snifing at the dark. The stink of shit and fear. Hands on the floor, the carpet writhing and slipping, feet scrambling. Mullen. Jane. Girl. Poison. So this is him, is it? The one they want to find? Poison. They fucking poisoned me. This is him? This is the best they can do? Fucking pathetic. Feeble little waste of skin. Claws. Nails scraping, breath rattling in rotten lungs, hissing as they came, the blood pounding in his head. Can't find. Can't find floor. Hold on. Can't hang on. I want to eat him. Me too. Not yours to eat said another, a hiss in the dark. Mine. A hand on his throat, his head shoved to the floor, his eyes forced open. The smell of death being breathed on him. I'm gonna tear you a cunt and fuck you. Then eat your insides. While you watch, you disgusting little...
'Excuse me' said a deep voice, the whole room falling into silence, 'but if I've told you scumbags once, I've told you a thousand times. Nobody. Fucks. With the Jesus'.

In an instant, the hand was gone from Michael's throat and the space around him erupted into a deafening blast of screams and roars, a series of teeth-rattling blows shaking the floor below him. Bodies flew through the dark, limbs torn from sockets. The voice speaking. Unintelligible syllables. Alien phonemes. Sounds from somewhere else. A language from a different time. Every word a weapon. Glass smashing. Wood splintering. Explosions and screams. Limbs frantically scuttling away, dragged backwards and dashed against the wall like rag dolls. A howl of terror almost burst Michael's eardrums as a streak of light sent a great sheet of blood spattering across the glass of a window. A crash on the ground nearby, bones cracking as they landed, hissing from a mouth and calm, loud footsteps coming towards it, stepping between the twitching bodies. It tried to crawl away, its nails slashing the carpet. The creature fixed Michael with a snarl, its sightless face a broken mess of blood and shit. Michael stared, his mouth gaping. It whined at him, a talon raising to strike. A foot came down with a crash, the sound of a skull being crushed like an egg ending the screaming.
Quiet.
Michael lay there, panting, his head pounding, every heartbeat like a hammer was hitting him, words falling from his mind, his memory shredding with each second.
'I did tell you to run like hell, didn't I?'
Michael wheezed, his hand flailing in the air. A hand took his. A smiling face looking down at him.
'Hello Michael. My name is Gabriel'.

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