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  HUSH

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  This edition copyright © 2012 Tim Lebbon & Gavin Williams, Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: [email protected]

  Published by BadPress Pub.

  Cover Illustration by Chris Nurse

  HUSH

  BY

  TIM LEBBON & GAVIN WILLIAMS

  All that we see or seem

  Is but a dream within a dream.

  “A Dream Within a Dream”, Edgar Allan Poe

  Part One:

  Blind Spots on the Sun

  1. Storm Warning

  “Hush,” says a voice from the darkness. “It’s started.”

  He senses it, too, and shifts his balance, crushing neatly clipped grass flat against the wet earth. The light from the guttering braziers is thin and uncertain, revealing only glimpses of his surroundings: the shoulders of his companions; a cheek or nervously twitching eye; the tips of branches bowing nearer in the wind. Arrayed on the ground at their feet luminous designs have been painted, a constellation of glittering symbols woven in a tight, distorted spiral.

  He grips the precious object which he carries even tighter, feels its cool smooth surface slip slightly in his grasp, and debates whether to wipe his hands on his trousers. Yes, but quickly: one, two, a nimble motion, skin momentarily rasping across cotton. But this doesn’t work. A beat later the prickle of sweat is back again. The garden is cold, but he is damp with fear. Someone curses, terrified-- perhaps the man who spoke? This is quickly followed by the unmistakable ker-clack of a shotgun cartridge being chambered. A woman coughs.

  He can hear the noise now above the asthmatic wheeze of the wind. Not quite the rumble of an earthquake, nor really a tidal wave. Not an avalanche in the distance, nor a chanting crowd. It is all of these things and none of them, a ghostly white noise rising in ferocity.

  The attendant change in atmosphere is hardly subtle. It actually feels as if the air has congealed, adhering in syrupy clots to his eyelids, forehead, throat. He suddenly finds it difficult to breathe. Pinpricks of light percolate on the film of his eyes.

  Jesus, don’t let him faint. Not now, not when so much depends on him.

  Thirty feet to their left the undergrowth begins to churn. The trunks of trees creak hysterically, then splinter ... crack ...burst! Jagged shards of wood leap up into the air before shredding to inky shavings and spinning away to nothing. It feels as if a land-borne whirlpool is coming their way.

  At that moment one of their crew lets out a desperate scream and steps back, across the hidden security of the gleaming spiral ...

  ... into blackness ...

  **

  Jacob awoke to disorientation. The bedroom was dusky, the curtains still closed, which lent the gloom a strangely granular quality. Early morning, he concluded, then started violently as he realised that Maria was standing at the foot of the bed. She had a nylon rucksack over one shoulder and a collection of other day bags by her side. He couldn’t see her face properly.

  “What you doing?”

  “I didn’t want to wake you,” she confided quietly, her tone subdued.

  He grunted and tried to free himself from the tangle of sheets.

  “You cried out,” she said.

  “I was dreaming,” he croaked, rubbing at his eyes. “Something was coming, or I was going towards it. Dunno. A noise, like thunder.” He shook his head like a drowsy dog. “Just another dream.”

  Maria said nothing. Jacob squinted at the alarm clock and winced: 5.30. He swung his gaze back to her.

  “Bags,” he muttered, staring dumbly at the colony around her feet, the confusion of waking still making a moron of him.

  “I’m going.”

  “Work? It’s damn early ...”

  “Leaving.”

  There was a long pause. Jacob just stared at the bags, breathing heavily. “Fuck,” he finally managed to heave out. “No.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, Jake. It’s too late. I didn’t want to wake you--I mean--”

  “No, goddamnit! What, you were just going to walk out?” He flung himself out of bed to confront her. She flinched at his sudden belligerence. Despite the fact that he was naked and cold--and now realised that he desperately needed a piss--he glared aggressively down at her, shaking with rage. She endured his hostility with resigned control.

  “Jake, I don’t want a fight,” she said half-heartedly. She averted her eyes, as if the platitude had disarmed her, made her vulnerable.

  Angrily, Jacob pressed at the opening.

  “What is this, M?” he demanded. The emotion had begun to vibrate inside him, and he spoke with a rigid jaw. “I thought we’d done this. Sorted it out. Time, you said. That’s all it needs. We only talked about it yesterday. We talked about this. Please, M--”

  Maria sucked hard on her lower lip, avoiding his gaze, eyes locked on the corner of the door jamb. She shook her head, and he could see that she was trying not to cry. The fury caught him fully then-- fuck, the least she could do was cry! He tasted anew his hatred of her job, her therapist’s discipline, its airless gulf of detachment.

  “Today of all days!” he found himself shouting. “What kind of timing is this? Janey’ll be here in two hours. It’s half a day’s drive for us to hit the demo on time, you know that. And we’ve got to pick up Morris and Bob on the way. Jesus! Why today, Maria?”

  “If it wasn’t this, it’d be something else, somewhere else. It’s one thing after another. Animals, roads, disarmament--”

  “It’s important. These things matter. If we’re caring, feeling people, they must do!”

  She looked directly at him for the first time. Her eyes were very bright.

  “No. Not with you. Not really, not wholly. Just look at yourself.” She stepped forward and tenderly traced the violet crescent of an old scar looped across his ribs. “Poll tax riots,” she said, then she touched a ragged white mark on his temple. “Dockers’ dispute.” Then, a snag of scar tissue on his shoulder. One by one she ticked off his old wounds. “Legalisation of cannabis. Miners... euthanasia... argument over South African oranges....”

  Her hand fell away. She looked sad and weary. “You’re all revolt, Jake. You’re a scream made out of skin.”

  Jacob seethed. “Look, Maria. Just listen! You couldn’t be more wrong. See...” He limped on, but the words simply burnt away on his tongue. He cried out, spun around and lashed out at a nearby bookshelf, knocking a bracket from its mount. Roaring, he swept everything off his desk in one furious motion, as if trying to prove the sincerity of his initial violence. Maria punched him on the shoulder, and the red mist cleared. Jacob blinked the emotion down, appalled by his own lack of self-control.

  “See, here it is!” Maria shouted. “This is exactly what I mean. These... spasms of unfocused rage. You spit in every direction at once, Jake, but the only person you ever hit is me!” She regarded him steadily, mouth tight, tears quashed.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Jacob growled through his teeth, the words like grit in his throat. “Look, just ... just stay there a minute.” The urge to piss had become intolerable. He hurried into the bathroom, and as he urinated he pursed his lips, trying to force it quicker. He felt the familiar heat at his temples, the prickle of impatience... and maybe this was what Maria was on about. Maybe if he closed his eyes, breathed deeply...

  He heard movement by the front door.

  Still naked, he ran through to the living area. Maria was at the door, her palm resting on the handle. He stood about four feet from her, forlorn, his emotions tugged in every direction, from tears to rage and back again.

  “Another day,” he implored. “Give me that. When I get back we’ll talk it through, M. We’ll make it right. You know we will, we always do. I mean, what’s one more day?”

  “One more day is sticky tape, J. It’s over. Face it. You’re trying to put TCP on a gunshot wound.” Her face softened. “Really... Please, J...”

  “One day,” he whispered. “I’ve just got this last demo. It’s important.”

  Maria looked at the floor. After a heavy breath she opened the door and began backing out, the bags slipping from each shoulder, straps tangling round her slim frame like even they didn’t want her to go.

  Desperate, Jacob tried to call her back, “Who’ll save me, M? Who’ll save me from myself.”

  “Oh, Jake, I have a job, a life. I’ve tried to help you, I really have... I’m sorry. You’re on your own now, baby.”

  Jacob followed her and stood shivering in the communal lobby. Maria had started to cry after all, but it seemed almost unexpected, as if she we
re willing herself not to notice. Tears streaked her cheeks but her expression remained perfectly calm. She reached out to brush his face. Her fingertips felt like the sofest of feathers.

  Without another word she turned and fled, sobbing loudly. The outside door slammed after her with a dull hand-clap. Jacob stayed there for a long time, naked, at the centre of the deserted lobby. Somewhere nearby a toilet flushed and the pipes whispered very softly, laden with regret.

  2. Peaceful Protest

  The crowd roared. Faces flashed before him. Hundreds of bodies jostled and bumped and shoved in their anger. Despite the chaos all around him Jacob felt more alone than ever-- the eye of an approaching storm.

  The voice of the crowd mingled with the residue of his dreams until he couldn’t be sure which screams were real, and which were uncertain memory. His anxiety brought with it images of a lawn at night, the grass splashed with glittering designs. He tried to recall more details, but all that persisted was a sense of impending dread. He thought of Maria and his disquiet intensified still further. But Maria was gone. So all these fractured thoughts must be down to that. Must be.

  The crowd shifted suddenly and Jacob was dragged along with them, his feet barely skimming the ground. There were renewed shouts from his right as protestors and police lines nudged each other, bumping like magnets of opposing poles. He raised his placard and began shouting himself. The venting of rage and frustration felt good, so cathartic that he ramped the volume higher and higher until he was bellowing himself hoarse.

  “Stop vivisection NOW! End the cruelty! Vivisection is scientific fraud!”

  He jerked the placard skyward, fighting for space with all those who wielded similar messages. The impersonal grey face of the complex beyond the fence stared back. The police held them from the gate, but everyone could sense the dangerous undercurrent, a wound spring of violence just waiting to uncoil.

  The building stood about twenty metres back from the security fence, long and low and vulgar. Its one concession to aesthetics was a glazed central section which housed the main entrance. Otherwise, the walls were ash grey, two storeys high, punctuated at regular intervals by square, steel-mesh windows. There was no character to the building, it was aggressively utilitarian. Almost actively in-your-face with its functional crudity, and this made it seem intimidating, rather than simply neutral.

  “We should tear the fucking fence down,” Morris growled from behind him.

  Jacob managed to turn his head and smile at the big Cornishman. He had to shout above the crowd to make himself heard, and even then he had the uncomfortable feeling that Morris had only really been speaking to himself. He was passionate, that was for sure.

  “We’ll have our chance, mate. Their time’s coming sooner than they think!” He grimaced as the crowd rippled again. “Anyway, wouldn’t do any good. We’d just get nicked. No publicity, just a fine. “

  “Fine,” Morris echoed, though the context was unclear. “Get in, cause a bit of rumpus. Shit in their beakers.”

  “All in good time,” Jacob said.

  “Tie one of those bastards up, stick perfume up his arse ’til he bleeds. Stick needles in their balls, see how they fucking like it! Bastards! Nazis.”

  Jacob laughed fiercely, joining in the chant for a round or two. He punched at the air so hard that his elbow began to burn.

  With a roar the crowd surged again, this time against the police lines. Jacob stumbled and lost his grip on the placard, watched it tumble away across the sea of arms and heads. He hung onto the shoulders of those around him, struggling to stay upright while wondering what had brought on this unexpected charge. He felt Morris’s big hands on his own shoulders, steadying them both. They kept slipping sideways, moving like a crab scurrying across a beach of melting tarmac, their roars turning to grunts of pain as the police line started to crumble.

  The crowd haemorrhaged through a break in the police cordon, and Jacob was permitted a glimpse of what had suddenly enflamed the protestors: the main entrance gaped, and he could just about make out several people strolling briskly through the laboratory gardens. The rose bushes growing alongside the pathway were obviously flourishing. Rumour had it that the corpses of animals “used” by the facility were incinerated and then scattered over the grounds to encourage such hearty growth. That was so much ardent nonsense, he knew, but still, the lush red flowers did look like open wounds.

  Jacob was one of the first to reach the gate. It was at least eleven feet high and virtually impregnable -- certainly unscalable -- but it could be shaken and pounded, and it was. The crowd screamed their fury between the metal slats, profanities and statistics mixed in with improvised speculation on the dubious lineage of the laboratory staff.

  The small group of people who had come from the complex remained near the security outhouse, seemingly conscious that a fence -- however strong -- might not be able to restrain emotions as primeval as those vented by the crowd. There were seven of them, all bar one dressed in dark suits. The exception was a tall, slim woman, somewhere over fifty, whose imperial bearing made her seem to tower head and shoulders above the rest. Her face was drawn, yet dignified, her hair twisted into an elaborate bun on the top of her head, giving her the look of a firm disciplinarian. She wore a bright scarlet dress with what appeared to be a matching cloak clipped around her neck.

  She was facing the gate, scanning the crowd intently, as if searching for something. She turned and Jacob saw that one side of her face was branded with a vivid pink slash-- either the evidence of a terrible burn, or some breed of disfiguring birthmark. Her gaze tracked on and then seemed to linger... Shit, was she looking at him? Something cold trickled down his spine and grabbed his balls.

  She continued her slow pan of the crowd but muttered something to her companions, one of whom took a camera from a small case at their feet and proceeded to video the assembled protestors.

  This ignited a fresh burst of anger from those at the gate. Screamed threats which could never be realised stabbed at the group behind the fence. Jacob held onto the gate as the pressure built, passions flaring. His ribs grated against the unforgiving metal, but he did not shout. He stared at the woman.

  The person with the camera--Jacob saw it was another woman, younger, and attractive after a stern, militaristic fashion--stepped forward a few paces and swept the camera along the fence. He frowned, wondering how clear those images would be with the speed she was moving. Surely not sharp enough so you could identify anyone? Or were they simply filming in order to provoke, and thus spur the demonstration into a full-scale riot that would require the employment of harsher tactics by the police?

  Then the camera settled on him, and Jacob realised it was neither of these. He stared into the shiny black lens from ten steps away, imagined his face reflected there. The woman thumbed a switch and the lens swivelled, nosing closer to him as the zoom came into play.

  There was motion behind her. The woman in red dropped a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder, causing her to shift her camera sights along the fence once more, panning on. Only there was something wrong with the tall woman’s hand-- obscurely, it seemed too small, its colour too strange and its shape all wrong. Together with her scarred face this confirmed for Jacob the likelihood that she was a burn victim. But though it disturbed him he felt no pity for her. She was one of them.

  He continued glaring at the group, hairs prickling up along the back of his neck, balls shrivelled up into his body. None of them looked at him, but he sensed in this a pointed distraction. Within seconds they had turned and strolled purposefully back indoors, much to the chagrin of the crowd. As they closed the door Jacob stared into the cold darkness of the interior, and a flash of something dreadful--too vague to be memory, too intense to be imagination--cooled him to the core.

  **