Thrillobytes: bite-sized horror Read online

  Kath cleared her throat. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  Jess didn’t respond. She pushed open the door leading into the stark white night and poked her head through. Immediately a chill entered the building, rushing quickly to all corners like a horde of fleeing rats. Kath waited impatiently as the girl looked left then right then left again, before turning back inside and pulling the door closed.

  When Jess turned back to face Kath, her company-supplied fleece was peppered with snow. “The weather out there is craaaaaazeee!” she said. “With a capitol zee”

  Kath sighed. “What about the lights? Are anybody else’s on? What about The Trumpet across the road?”

  “No,” Jess replied. “I can’t even see the pub! It’s too dark. I can’t make out Blue Rays Video Rentals or any of the other shops either.”

  “Wonderful!” Kath shook her head and felt a migraine coming on. If the whole area was out then she would be forced to sit and wait for the electricity company to get off their overpaid be-hinds and do something about it.

  …and God only knows how long that will take. Two minutes? Two hours?

  Either way, until she could cash up, Kath couldn’t set the alarms and go home. Not that she had plans other than catching up on the episodes of Desperate Housewives that she’d recorded over the weekend, but staying at a dingy council-estate mini-mart on the coldest night of the year wasn’t her idea of fun.

  How did my life turn out so wrong? To think I spent four years at university… I make one little mistake and I’m condemned to a life of pointless mediocrity.

  Kath breathed in deeply then let the cold air out through her nostrils. What a wretched waste!

  “It’ll be back on in a jiffy,” said Jess from over by the exit. “It never takes long, Kathleen. I’ll take a little walk over to the pub and see if anyone knows anything.”

  Without pause, Jess left through the fire exit and was immediately swallowed by the shifting snow and darkness outside. Kath sighed, leaned back into the torn-padding of the cashier-desk stool, and rubbed at her aching forehead. Shivers ran up her spine and made her think about the store’s heating. With the power off, the store’s electric fan heaters would be too. It was Britain’s worst winter in history and she was stuck in a building with no warmth.

  Just gets better! Probably why the power went off in the first place. All those lazy slobs, cosy at home in front of their fan-heaters, are over-taxing the grid while people like me, who have shown some commitment to work, suffer.

  Well screw this, Kath decided. She’d give her manager, Mr Campbell, a call, and see if there was any chance he would allow her to cash up in the morning. She slid her fingertips along the cold surface of the shop’s counter, searching for the phone but finding only biros and a stapler. Eventually, the side of Kath’s hand found what it was looking for, knocking the receiver from its cradle and off of the desk. It swung on its coiled cord, jerking up and down like a bungee. After a couple of swipes at knee-level, Kath caught the handset and pulled it up to her ear. She tapped at the buttons on the phone’s cradle, waited, and then tapped them some more. No dial tone. Perturbed, she placed the handset back down onto its cradle, before picking it up and trying to ring out once more.

  Nothing.

  “Oh please, for the love of God!” Kath patted down the pockets of her work shirt. When she found her mobile phone she plucked it out and slid up the illuminated screen to expose the keypad. From memory, she entered Mr Campbell’s number and pressed the green CALL button, before putting the phone to her ear and waiting.

  After ten seconds, Kath pulled the phone away from her head and looked at the display. She could barely contain her frustration when she saw NO NETWORK COVERAGE scrolled across the top of the screen.

  What the hell is going on?

  Before she could put her thoughts in order, Kath was interrupted by a voice in the darkness. It was male. “Ms Hollister?”

  The voice had a Polish twang and there was only one person at the supermarket that ever called her by surname. “Peter,” she said, calmer than she felt inside. “Have you checked the fuses?”

  “Yes, Ms Hollister. Something I have show to you. Come.”

  Speak properly for God’s sake. If you’re going to come here then at least learn the language. And show me what exactly? Bah, I’m never going to get home at this rate!

  Reluctant, Kath followed the boy down to the back of the store, ducking through the strips of clear plastic that separated the cramped warehouse from the shop floor.

  “So, what is it that’s so important, Peter?”

  “One moment, Ms Hollister. I will show to you.”

  Peter turned a corner in the cramped warehouse and Kath stayed close behind, lighting the way with her mobile phone. It didn’t work particularly well but at least illuminated the piles of over-stacked boxes she would otherwise bump into.

  Kath was getting impatient. “Come on now, I’ve got to find a way to call Mr Campbell so we can all go home tonight. Unless you want to spend the night sleeping in the staff room?”

  Peter stopped at the far wall and pointed upwards, just above the height of his shoulder. Kath glanced at the area a few inches away from the boy’s outstretched finger. She didn’t understand and felt her patience thin even more. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?”

  Peter rolled his eyes in the faint glow of his phone display and then moved the light source toward the area he was trying to highlight.

  Kath sighed. “The fuse box? Yes, very impressive.”

  Peter rolled his eyes again and she was about to scold him for his insubordinate attitude when she realised what he wanted her to see. It was the fuse box alright – at least it had been in a former life. Now it was a black, melted decay of wires and bubbling plastic. The green metal box that housed the circuits was untouched, but the area within looked as though it had been subjected to a hellish blaze. The smell of burning rubber lingered in the cold crisp air, but not as strong as might be expected after an electrical fire.

  “I don’t understand,” said Kath. “What could cause this?”

  Peter shrugged at her. “I am not sure. Fire maybe?”

  “Well obviously not, Peter. There hasn’t been a fire because the alarms would have gone off. Not to mention it would have spread. This place is full of cardboard and paper.”

  “Blowtorch?”

  Kath considered the boy’s wild suggestion, her thoughts wandering off into the dark, insidious alleyways of her mind. Could someone have really taken a welder’s torch to the fuses? Was someone lurking in the darkness intending to have their way with her in the dark? Had some hairy beast of a man been watching her for months, planning something like this? It was certainly an opportune time with all the snowfall. The police would never make it in time, even if she managed to call them. It seemed ridiculous, but for a moment so plausible in her anxious state of mind that she actually started to believe that someone was intending to murder her. It was like something straight out of a Richard Laymon novel she had once read by mistake, thinking it was something else. Horrible, disgusting book.

  It wasn’t until Kath’s next thought that she considered herself ridiculous for letting her overactive imagination run away from her. “Well,” she finally said, “if it was someone with a blowtorch then how on earth did they manage to do it to the pub’s fuse box at the exact same time? They have no power across the street either. Same with Blue Rays on the corner.”

  Pete shrugged and walked off.

  Nothing ever seems to concern that boy, just another lazy foreigner. Someone ought to use a blowtorch on his backside! Maybe then he’d show some enthusiasm.

  Alone, Kath tried to make sense of the situation. Was some deranged madman really stalking the neighbourhood, cutting off everyone’s electricity? Or was her biggest threat merely freezing to death on the coldest night of the year? Neither outcome was appealing. All Kath knew for sure was that the fuse box didn’t destroy itself and that the rea
l cause had yet to make itself known.

  She shivered, the chill in the air thickening suddenly, like a crushing, physical thing that squeezed at the gristle on her bones. There was no way she could stay there any longer. Not without power. Not in the dark. She made a decision. “Right, Peter, where are you?”

  A scuffling sound from the far corner of the warehouse drew closer. “I’m here by the beer crates.”

  “Well make sure you’re careful. You break anything and you’ll have a record of discussion before the week is out.”

  Peter didn’t respond, but Kath was certain she heard the boy sigh. She enjoyed getting under people’s skin and let loose a smile as crude as the oil-slick darkness that surrounded her. Suddenly she felt more in charge, more like her usual self. “Peter,” she shouted. “Place some pallets against the back shutter. We’re going to call it a night but we need to secure the building as best we can before we leave.”

  “Okay, I will do this, but where is Jess? She can help.”

  “She’s wandered off somewhere,” Kath snorted. “Least of my worries right now, so go do as I’ve said – and make sure you’re careful.”

  Peter scurried away, mumbling something in Polish. At least Kath imagined it was Polish. Could be Russian or Hungarian, or whatever it is they all seemed to speak – ugly, primitive language that hurt her ears to listen to. How had Britain gotten so weak? There was a time when it had invaded third-rate nations, but now the once-great empire seemed to be more interested in letting them all in and keeping them fed and warm. It made her stomach turn to think her Government cared more about benefit-seeking immigrants than educated citizens like her.

  Kath left the warehouse and re-entered the supermarket, happily listening to the loud scraping noises of Peter struggling in the warehouse as he attempted to shift pallets. The thought of him blindly bumping around on his own made her chuckle as she walked over towards the supermarket’s exit. She leaned against the glass fire door and looked outside. There wasn’t much she could do to secure the building without being able to bring the electric shutter down from the awning, but she could at least lock up with her keys. It would have to be enough. She didn’t expect many people would be desperate enough to brave the cold just to steal some groceries anyway. There wouldn’t be anyone unscrupulous walking around in snow this deep. At least she hoped so...

  Yet deep down in Kath’s gut, a dull throbbing that was not her stomach ulcer, told her that tonight could well turn out to be a very long night.

  Chapter Three

  “B’jaysus, it’s nice to finally be in the warm. Cold as a nun’s pussy out there so it is.”

  Harry looked in the direction of the stranger’s voice over by the pub’s entrance and found himself at a loss. The cheery Irish accent was not what he expected. In fact, when Harry had first realised the presence of a stranger, he had felt something…ominous. But that seemed silly now.

  “Hey, who is that?” asked Steph from behind the bar. “Anyone we know?”

  A hearty chuckle floated over from the doorway as the stranger spoke once more. “No Lass, I do not believe we’ve had the pleasure. The name’s Lucas Fergus and I am on a vital quest to get some beer down me neck.”

  Steph laughed and Harry found himself amused too. It wasn’t often the pub was graced with such colour beyond old men and their tall tales of the past. “Well,” Harry heard Steph say, “I can only offer you bottles and shots at the moment. As you can see the power is off and that means the pumps are dry. Cash only too, if that’s alright?”

  “Cash is the only way an honourable man pays for anything in my mind so there be no worries there, and I don’t care whether the beer comes from bottle or tap either. It all ends up in the same place.”

  “No argument there,” said a voice Harry recognised as Old Graham’s.

  Over by the fireplace the flickering silhouette of Damien shifted and stirred at the presence of the stranger. Harry had learned from past occasions that Damien didn’t like people he didn’t know. People he didn’t know were usually unaware of his reputation and he did not like that at all. Once, Harry had witnessed Damien carve his initials into some poor lad’s forehead with a nasty-looking blade, just so people would know he was to be respected. The young man had screamed the entire time. The police never came.

  And Harry knew that police would not come tonight either. No matter what happened.

  Thankfully, Damien had been uncharacteristically quiet all night, and Harry couldn’t help but assume that meant something bad. When a venomous snake stopped acting like a snake, what did it mean?

  Does it mean they’re more dangerous?

  “Can we bear some light in here, you reckon?” Lucas asked them all, flicking open a glinting Zippo lighter and illuminating his face in flame. He looked about Harry’s age – early-thirties – boyishly handsome with a cheeky grin to match. The man’s head was tangled with wild tussles of mousy brown hair that crept below his ears. Harry thought he looked like a handsome traveller from the front cover of one of the trashy Mills and Boon novels his wife used to collect.

  “In weather like this I’m surprised you’re not all around that lovely fireplace.” Lucas moved toward the bar, his flame-lit face a disembodied ghost as it crossed the room. “Or does that wee bald fella on the sofa not play well with others?”

  “The less said about that the better,” warned Steph in a hushed voice.

  Harry cringed, worried about the response the newcomer’s comment could possibly elicit from Damien, and was thankful, if a little surprised, when the young thug merely turned away and returned to whatever he was doing. It really wasn’t like Damien to be so reserved.

  What’s he up to tonight? Harry wondered. He’s preoccupied with something.

  Confident that no trouble was going to occur – at least for the time-being – Harry decided he would join the newcomer at the bar. Sitting alone in the dark wasn’t awfully appealing and he needed a refill anyway. His current beer was still flat and smelt like bad eggs.

  “So Lucas,” Harry said, arriving at the bar and propping his elbows against its gnarled surface. “Where have you come in from?”

  Lucas turned to Harry, the zippo still lighting his face. His striking blue eyes were flickering in the shimmering glow of the flame. “I’ve come in from the bloody cold fella, but before that I came from down south.”

  Harry raised an eyebrow. “South?”

  “That’s what I said now, isn’t it? Been here-there-and-everywhere in my time. Up and down, upside down. But originally I hail from the North. Been spending a lot of time in the South more recently though after a falling out with me father. Suits me just fine though; warmer climate, you know?”

  Harry nodded; the gesture pointless in the dark. “I take it you’re talking about Northern and Southern Ireland, or do you mean since you’ve been in England?”

  “Now where is that drink I heard a rumour about,” said Lucas, single-mindedly. “This is a pub is it not?”

  Steph shouted from the backroom behind the bar. “Hold your horses! For a complete stranger you’re pretty demanding.”

  “I’m a growing lad and if ye make me wait I may just fade away. Or worse than that, I may sober up.”

  Harry wondered whether the man had just avoided his question or if he really was just dying of thirst. He couldn’t tell for sure.

  Steph came back through to the bar holding a wooden tray full of mismatched candles. The flames danced around her breasts and Harry tried not to stare at them. Carefully, she placed the candles evenly along the bar and the heady smell of burning wax wafted into the air. The first candle was placed in front of Old Graham, whilst the last went in front of Nigel. In between, Harry and Lucas got candles too.

  “That’s better,” said Steph. “Now, who wants a beer besides our new friend here?”

  “I’m ready for one. This one has gone bad.” said Harry.

  “Mine too,” Old Graham added, pushing forward his pint. “I’m gonna hav
e to have a dozen more just to make up for it.”

  Steph scrunched up her face. “Strange…Maybe there’s a problem with the taps. Not surprised the amount you lot drink. They probably couldn’t take the strain.”

  Lucas chuckled. “Looks like I’ve come to the right place. You’re men after me own heart, and now that I can see a little bit better I can also admire what a fine young wench we have ourselves behind the bar.”

  “Hey, less of the wench!” Steph objected. They all laughed as she went about handing them their bottled beers, all of them swigging deeply as though it was their first of the night. Maybe for Lucas it was.

  The Irishman pointed a finger. “So who’s the beefy fella down the end of the bar that doesn’t talk?”

  “My name is Nigel and I can hear you.”