One hundred and two miles per hour. Had been for the last twenty miles. The Driver had been on the road for two hours, keeping that speed when he could. The road was empty. Not even the occasional other lost soul, flitting in and out of the light. The roar of the wind ringed in his ears. It whistled and rattled through the window. It was angry, determined to enter, violate the car. Get Inside. The car was too hot to shut the window; the whole area was undergoing an Indian Summer. Even the cloak of darkness failed to relent the heat. It was a hindrance the Driver could cope with.

The scenery was nothing. Just five cat's eyes in front, five cat's eyes behind. The Dark ate everything. The Driver looked at the speed-o-meter. Like the road, it never changed. His attention was elsewhere. Stuck on the Passenger. It was all he could think of. He tried once more to catch a glimpse in the mirror. Once more he failed. The Driver reasoned with himself that the lack of light was to blame. The Driver hadn't even seen a face. If he had, then he had forgotten. He told himself, deep down inside, he had not.

No reflection. No face. The Driver wondered if he was imagining the Passenger. No. He had heard. He remembered a voice. The door had been opened. He remembered the click of the lock as it shut, the handbrake warning light burning into the world. The air had changed, he had felt it. Move and settle, a sensation only a small world could offer. The Driver was aware of the presence, even now. A voice had said, "Dyson." And here they were. No questions, no thinking. Just driving. The Driver hoped he had remembered to put the meter on. A quick glance drew signs of relief. Ninety-Five, climbing. Something told him the fare wouldn't be a problem. He stared out at the road. The Dark began to eat his thoughts.

The rain began life as drizzle. Falling lightly on the windscreen. It was tiny, nothing, invisible. The Driver hadn't even noticed. Now it was raging. The windscreen wipers tried to no avail. Valiantly they swung from side to side, sweeping away rivers and torrents. But still the flood came. It had been five, now he could barely see one. Behind him, the Dark licked the bumper. The world was out of focus. If there was any world left. Surely the Dark had it all by now. The speed slowed. Seventy-Five. The Driver knew he would have to slow again.

"We are near."

The voice crawled from the darkness of the back, spreading its grip across the seat. It clasped his neck with cold hands, penetrating his ears. Raspish, cruel and contemptible. It filled The Driver's heart with joy. Serenity was his for he was not alone any more. The rain was cleansing the world, cleansing the car, cleansing him. One Hundred and Sixty-Five dollars.

The exit came, and the car left the Freeway. The lonely cat's eyes, blinded once again, winked a final farewell. The town of Dyson lifted into the heavens. The rain faded. Light filled the Driver's gaze. His heart began to rise.

The building was a remnant of the town's heyday, two centuries ago. Its design was gothic, the brick jet-black. From its perch it surveyed all before it, a thousand eyes staring bright, cold, distant. The rain had left its cloak, now dripping and shining on the grimy black stone. Already the merciless heat was at work. The rising steam choked the air. The cab pulled up. Its yellow design far removed from Dyson's own. The Driver looked up at the huge building. His bones froze. Only the nearby ambulances waiting patiently gave away its identity.

The air moved and settled. Sly and delicate. Sharp and hard. Strange. Travelling deep. Once. Twice. The finger was darkness once more. Sly, delicate. Instinctively the Driver looked at the meter. One Hundred and Ninety-Four. The air filled his lungs swiftly. The journey had been expensive. Too expensive. The eyelids fell slow. Something moved. The delicate crunch of crisp paper opened him. A gloved hand, as one with the darkness, held out a wad of neatly folded notes. Nervously the Driver snaked the money. His world almost complete.

The world grew smaller. The whole universe shrank. Darkness everywhere. The star burned brightly, glowing across his eager face. His lips curled upwards. Five Hundred. The world was big again. He turned around swiftly, the gratitude already on his lips. The seat was darkness. Disappointment filled The Driver. He looked around unsure. Then he smiled. He could see Him, walking through the doors, basked in the holy glow.

The Light. The Pain. Numb. The Passenger knew it would come. Angry and volatile, ravaging his soul, seeking its penance. But it was nothing, it was weak. It left him swiftly, without a word. The thoughts and preparation of the last hour had stood him well. One enemy fell, another rose. His legs were stiff from the cramped confines of the cab. His mind dulled by the dreariness of it all. But The Passenger was strong. He walked tall, elegant, and proud. His clothes, his manner alien to this world of the sick. Alien to this world of Dyson. Lined against the walls, the sick and wounded. Strapped tight in, hands out-stretched for forgiveness, for relief, for repentance. All but decoration. The Passenger knew his purpose.

He stopped at reception.

"Maternity Ward?"

Cruel, cold, callous. She, they, nothing. They were all beneath him. The smile hurt his face. The Passenger waited patiently as The Receptionist managed to tear herself away from the celebrity gossip magazine long enough to lazily point towards a corridor, before being pulled back between the glossy covers. She did not have the energy to look at him. He decided he did not have the energy to thank her.

The Passenger moved quietly. Screams and cries filled his soul. The reluctant future, the impending past. He ignored them. They were not real. A large woman in white approached, her frame filling the corridor. Her skin a gentle black. She too was not Dyson. She was in his way. She stopped, forcing him to mimic.

"Can I help you, sir?"

The tone carried the same underlying threat her body language was screaming at him. Forties, maybe Fifties. Weak. The Passenger looked down one and a half-foot. He had the edge, she was nothing. Nothing!

"I'm looking for Miss Franklin"

The Nurse looked him up and down suspiciously. His greying hair suggested mid-Fifties. Old enough for her? His face was thin and drawn, the life sucked dry. Lips thin and pale, ready to split with the slightest touch. Skin smooth and pampered. Pale. Sick. He could see all of this in her. In all of them. So quick to judge, so quick to dismiss. Meaningless. Nothing. Thoughts so insignificant. Their opinions obsolete. Hatred flowed. The bile rose.

"You the father?"

Red. Blurred. She thought nothing of him. Anger. Perhaps it was his age. After all - Miss Franklin. The taste on his lips. The Passenger nodded. He was already staring past her. There was no love in his eyes. The Nurse looked him over again. He felt the air move. Crimson. The wait. Nothing. He opened his eyes. The Nurse had passed. Without sound The Passenger moved on. He stopped at a door, and listened. Terrified screams flowed from within. Joy. The black leather fingertip brushed the door open. His nostrils flared. Disinfectant raged within.

Judy Franklin lay on the table. A beautiful star. She shone bright, even in this incarceration. The world slowed to a timeless waltz. Everything fell silent. The Passenger smiled.

Piercing and Hurtling and Vicious. The scream smacked him hard. More followed. Pain and Fear and Anger. Piercing. The Passenger felt the freeze. Inside, his world revolted. Outside - Too real. No romance. The waltz ended.

Judy Franklin's tiny frame heaved and wretched with the pain. Eyes rolled white. Sweat swamped and drooled. Skin pale. A planet spun around her head, offering temporary relief. It could never be enough.

The Passenger's heart sank. He had loved this thing. Now he hated himself. She was purity embodied. An eternal ray of light. Warmth and beauty. He gave her this. Something eclipsed. White. Clean. Moving quickly.

"You're not allowed in here, sir"

Unknown words flowed. Correct. The Passenger watched. The eclipse passed. And Judy Franklin saw him. Seconds of Joy, Hope and Love. Piercing.

The room was cold, medicinal, clean. Judy Franklin lay on the table, her legs thrust in the air. Screaming. Sobbing. Retching. Writhing in agony. Hair matted to greasy face. Fat and bloated. Judy Franklin did not belong.

The Passenger stood at the doorway, refusing to enter. The Passenger did not belong. He stared coldly. Judy Franklin was weak. Judy Franklin was pathetic. Judy Franklin was banal. Judy Franklin was nothing. A waste of time. A screaming waste. And yet Judy Franklin knew. They always knew

It began in her left nostril. As it always did. Tiny. Smaller than a tear. Falling down. Gliding. Spreading its sickly bitter taste. Polluting inside. Another would find its way out. Exposed with a nervous curious crawl. Growing and expanding, blackening. Snaking its way to the lip. A fleeting glance. Horrified realisation. The planets spinning madly. Pouring. Storming. Devouring.

Judy Franklin could taste it. Flowing thick and fast down her throat. Pain gone. Time the enemy. The Four-Minute Death. Confused worried voices calling out to each other. Frantic. Tense. Chaotic. Flesh blue. Eyes white. Lids humming. Breath struggling. The blood churned and bubbled. Alarm.

The Passenger turned and closed the door. He had seen what he had come for. It hurt. Every time. More surged past into the room. A hand pressed against The Passenger's chest, pushing him against the wall. Tiny, serenely looking up. She held no power, yet the pressure was enough. Crimson lips moved calmly, soothingly. Staring attentively. Full of sorrow, regret and hope. The world slowed to a timeless waltz.

Susan Connelly hated this part of the job. Always felt responsible. She was beautiful. He wanted to listen, hear her kind words, hear her soft voice. But they meant nothing. He knew the outcome. He relished the outcome.

The Passenger sat, cherishing the instant mechanised hot drink. It tasted foul. He waited. The room was empty. Waited for her. He wanted to see Susan Connelly again. Feel her warmth. Sense her innocence. Watch her tired eyes swell with tears. Her voice would break. The guilt would pour. The Passenger had seen Judy Franklin's eyes. They gave him hope.

The Passenger looked towards the window. Dark blinds shutting out the night. He could hear the wind lash against the glass. Hear the rain. It had never left.

Susan Connelly stood silently at the door, watching The Passenger. Judy Franklin had watched him too. Susan Connelly felt guilt. The Pity. The Responsibility. She hadn't done enough. The guilt dug deep. She wanted to reach out to him.

Gentle. Warm. Cautious. The Passenger smiled, for she had come. He turned to face Susan Connelly, her hand already retracting. The Passenger smiled anxiously. Outside - Sadness. Sorrow. The Act. Inside - The Joy of the Outcome. The Inevitable. The Rush. The Hunger. The Passenger looked up at Susan Connelly, searching for a glimmer of hope. Susan Connelly's heart shrank. The air filled her lungs.

"Mr Franklin, I'm afraid there was nothing we could do."

The Passenger turned away. The smile roaring across his face. He knew what he was. This was his moment. This was his Joy. This was The Passenger.

"I'm sorry, Mr Franklin. We're all sorry".

The Passenger turned back to Susan Connelly. Tears welled in her eyes. She was purity embodied. An eternal ray of light. Warm and beautiful. The Passenger extended his arms, embracing Susan Connelly. Embracing his eternal ray of light. Susan Connelly felt joy, warm, and safe. She held The Passenger tight.

THE END

An old story...

Okay, I don’t really have, well; I’m not sure how much time I’ve got left. It could be five minutes, five days, God knows how long. But they will find me. I’m certain of that. I don’t even know why I’m writing all this down. Oh yeah, ‘cos I got nothing better to do, that’s why, nothing to do but wait. You may think it’s a noble attempt to warn others, but it’s not. I’m bored, simple as that, there is nothing, absolutely nothing to do in here, just sit and wait and breathe. Christ, I’m so hungry as well. Maybe writing this will take my mind off it? Although writing that I’m hungry doesn’t help either. Guess I should start at the beginning. But the beginning of what? Erm….

Right, I’ll start with me. My name is Carl Stevens. I’m 42. A Scouser, obviously. Erm, I live in my hometown of Kirkby. Oh Christ Carl, you’re being obvious again. You found the letter here after all, so you know where I’m from. I work, worked, part-time at the 24hr garage, no weekends though. I was adamant about that from the start. Too many kids, drunks and freaks. Just couldn’t be arsed with the hassle. Nope. I worked weeknights. Taxi drivers, drifters and potheads with the munchies and 10 Lambert & Butler and a pack of Rizzla. Easy work. Money was shite but I did have free pasties. Though the microwave didn’t work when I joined and was never fixed. I’m not buying a new one. Cheese n Onion was alright, but Cornish were rank. Though the Taxi drivers never complained.

Reason I did nights? I don’t really have a reason. By the way, the question assumes you are interested. Maybe you are, maybe you are not. But I’d like to think that you are. One reason I suppose was that I managed to improve my reading levels to heights I never imagined. And my knowledge of sexual positions (thank you Fiesta & Cosmo). Not that I had sex. I don’t think anyone who works nights in a 24hr has sex. At least I hope not, it can’t just be. Oh Christ, that thought’s starting to depress me now.

Anyway, I’m saving myself. Her name is Tracy. Now she is class. Beautiful. Blonde bobbed hair, not a single black root in sight, proper professional job, no hanging over the sink, stinking the house with bleach for hair, hell no. Even her tan looks real. Only the two kids an all. Still has a great body. Oh Christ I miss her. Wish I hadn’t done it. She was, well she was.

That’s about it. Everything you need to know about me. Name – Age – Address – Occupation – Sexual Orientation. I’d give you my National Insurance number too if I hadn’t lost the card. Looking at it on the page, it ain’t half depressing isn’t it? In fact, it’s pretty shite. Make’s me wonder why I was saved. If you could call it that. Anyway, this is taking too long. I keep hearing them. They must be close. Unless I’m just hearing things. It’s shit in here, so quiet, really uncomfortable too, plus it smells pretty bad. You know when you’re in bed and you wake up suddenly swearing you heard something? I used to always do that. Lie in bed, clutching the quilt tight around my neck, trying to hide as much flesh as possible, one eye closed, breathing as slow and quiet as I can, desperate not to make a sound, ears cocked. Though I really don’t know how to that. You know, like dogs do. In fact I don’t think I can move my ears at all. Hang on I’ll check. Nope, I can’t. Anyway, you know what I mean. It’s quiet in here, but every move I make sounds like thunder. God I hope I’m imagining things outside.

Should I describe where I am? No, what’s the point? You’re reading this, you know where I was. Unless you’re one of them, Congratulations. You got me, bastards. Though, I doubt you can even read it, probably just slobbering all over it – mongs. Oh Christ, why did this have to happen to me? What makes me so fucking special? And why has Barbie Girl just come into my head? Was that the last song I heard before I left the house? This is annoying. I don’t even like it. Shit, I’m gonna die to a soundtrack by Aqua. What the –

That was close, really close. Jesus. It’s alright for you, you’re just reading this. I’m sitting here with my arse on the line. If only I was a better writer, I could have you here sitting next to me. Then again, this is the first thing I’ve wrote. Is it wrote or written? I don’t bother with letters. Don’t really know anyone to write to. Anyway, that was too close. Closer than before. Arse in mouth time. I’m arsing about here, need to focus, tell the tale and hide it. The light is starting to fade, really hard to see what I’m doing. Plus it’s so cramped in here.

Right, it happened yesterday. Tuesday. It was miserable, raining all morning. But not good rain. That piss wet stuff that just kinda falls whilst somehow staying in the air for like ever. Just soaks you right through. I know all rain soaks you, but this bastard does it in a sly way. I’d hardly slept all morning. I finished work at 6am, went home and banged on the cartoons. I’d ate a dodgy pasty and didn’t feel like any breakfast. So I settled for a can of Dandelion & Burdock. Love that stuff. Anyway, I just lay in bed thinking about Tracey. I do that a lot. Couldn’t sleep so I just lay there, imagining… well, I won’t go into that. Then again, one person I know you are not is Tracey. But that doesn’t make me feel better.

In the end I got up and went out. Wish I had stopped for a shower in hindsight. But when you’re caught up in the heat of the moment, you don’t stop to think. I went the library, used the internet. It was down and the prick in there wasn’t even arsed. None of them have got a clue in that dump. Can’t stand the library, full of old people reading the obituaries. Me mum does that, and my aunties. All them, scanning for someone they know. I just don’t get it.

I didn’t fancy going back the flat so I headed to Iceland. Bought bread & milk, even though I didn’t need it. But if I ever need to waste time, buying bread and milk seems to do the trick. The checkout girl doesn’t look at you funny for a start. Stood in the queue for about twenty minutes, loads of bearded women with ugly kids running amok, even on school days. The little bastards running and shouting and crying, and the ma’s smacking the shit out of them, roaring ‘don’t you dare make a show of me’. God.

There was more kids outside the Iceland – hundreds of the fuckers from college, just standing around. Skitting people. Skitting me. Fuckers. So there I am, bread & milk in hand, standing in the middle of the precinct ignoring the little bastards, ignoring the desire to run at them and bash their skulls through the Sayers windows, when I heard it. It was like a low whistle. Seemed like miles away. Thought I was imagining it at first, no one else seemed to be hearing it. Then I saw it. Down the other end of the precinct, slowly sweeping forward. A cool blue laser. About 3 ft off the ground, heading straight towards me. It was arcing out, covering everything. And no one else saw it; they just carried on, waiting for it to hit them. And when they did, they just fell down. In slow motion. And still no one saw it. This made me laugh.

I stood there as this light passed through everything, knocking people gently over. Old people, tramps, kids, mothers, bastard school kids, every one. It even went through the buildings. And then it passed through me. I can’t remember feeling anything, if it actually felt like anything. But I watched it pass through me. Without breaking. And everyone fell. Apart from me. The weird thing is I thought nothing of it; I just stood there smiling at all the people. Don’t know what it was, don’t really care. Guess I was just tired.

After it passed I ran to the multi-storey car park and went to the roof. On every floor, people were lying on the ground. On the roof I could see for miles. And it was everywhere, left to right, heading off to God knows where. It looked really nice. I watched it for a couple of minutes and then went home. I was tired now and hungry. I was glad I had bought the bread.

I had noticed the ray, or laser, or light whatever it was, had passed through the bag with the bread and milk in. Having seen it pass through brick walls I pretty much assumed that it had gone through them too. Thankfully the tea and toast was fine. Afterwards I realised that everything had been touched by the light. I still wonder if it affects things by touch alone of just by touching a part of it. Cos the more I think about it, the light only touched the carrier bag and my flat is on the top floor. Then again, I don’t think it matters now.

The thing I can’t get me head round was the fact that I didn’t think nothing of it. The people were still on the ground when I went home, and when I looked out of the window, they were still on the ground. Finally I had a sleep. I woke up late, and ran like mad to the garage. I was half an hour late, but it didn’t matter. Trevor, the owner, was lying on the ground. He smelt funny. There were no customers. I figured no one would buy anything from a shop with Trevor stinking up the place so I dragged him out the back and put him in the storeroom. It was when I returned I caught a whiff of my armpits. God they stunk! I checked on Trevor again, and then nicked a can of lynx. Trevor would kill me if he found out. I grabbed a mag and sat down. It was a surprisingly quiet night. Boring in fact. The Cheese n Onion was off so I had to much a Cornish, wasn’t happy.

Four o’clock in the morning I was bored. I couldn’t get a signal on the radio, and Trevor’s too tight to get a telly. I’d read every mag in the shop and didn’t fancy looking at the porn. It makes me think of Tracey, and I’ve had a few close shaves with customers in the past. And then I saw the first person since the light.

There is a pub across the road from the garage. Shops to the left. Just a little detail to set the mood. Of course, if you are from Kirkby then you know what I’m talking about. If not, well, then you’ll just have to use your imagination. Anyway, I see this figure staggering across the road. Coming towards the garage. Having the only light on in the whole area, I wasn’t surprised. Tell you the truth I was made up. Finally someone to talk to. I pretended I hadn’t noticed him and waited patiently for him to arrive. Trevor told me that you should always act like you never noticed them. Oh and to always act a little deaf. I don’t know why. Guess Trevor was weird. But he was the boss so I did what I was told.

The guy was a slobbering mess. Scruffy looking. Smelt funny. I could smell him through the slidey-drawer. I refuse to learn what it’s called. I have a life. Disappointment washed over me. I grabbed a packet of skins and a Twix and slid them through. I didn’t even care if he paid or not. He didn’t take them. I returned to my mag. It was an article on Pygmies in the Congo. I had tried reading it before, but it bored me shitless. That night though, I was enthralled. You know they believe that a dinosaur still lives in the forest. Makes you think what other stuff is in there. Though I have never been bothered by all that green whinging stuff. People need their paper. And I’ve seen too many happy faces leaving MacDonald’s to ever curse it.

The guy was still there when I finished the article. The Twix remained. I pulled the drawer back in but he grabbed it and held tightly. He groaned or moaned or did some mouth noise. I could see slobber trails on the window. Looked like he had been licking it. Christ I hate people who think by having a spliff they have to act all weird and trippy. I got the Twix back but I left it in the drawer, there was drool all over it. It smelt funny too.

I stared at him and he stared back. His eyeballs were like saucers. I moved closer to the window. Beautiful 2 inch thick plastic glass stuff. Robbery proof or something. He moved closer too. I moved, he followed. I thought it would be funny, moving my head, him acting like my reflection. But it was shit. Annoying. Suddenly he let out a childish squeal, rushed towards the window, smashing his skull full force. He fell to the ground. I laughed and returned to the mag – fucking junkies. There was an article on some painter. It was boring.

At the end of my shift no one turned up. This really pissed me off. Trevor hates people being late. Plus he’d kill me for leaving the shop empty. But I was fed up. I was tired. Needed a kip. Even though I hadn’t been sleeping properly I was still knackered all the time. Wait, that doesn’t make sense, does it. Of course I’m knackered if I’m not sleeping. Anyway I reckoned Trevor would thank me for doing him a favour by putting him out back, so I helped myself to a couple of Mars bars, some ciggies for me mum and a 2litre bottle of Dandelion & Burdock for breakfast. I waited twenty minutes till I got pissed off and left. I opened the door and the guy was still lying under the window. He seemed quiet. Looked asleep. Thought best leave him alone. So I went to me mums.

It’s really dark now, can’t see what I’m writing. It must be night time. Great, stuck in here in the dark with them outside. I’ll finish this tomorrow.

I'm so hungry. So tired. Don't know what, don't know anything. Haven't slept. Haven't eaten. Its been light for about an two hours. Just didn't wanna write. I just wanna go home. I want things back to normal. It’s been quiet around here. I thought they had found me this morning, just before dawn, but it was my mind playing tricks. Can't really concentrate. Just gonna have to write stuff down, try and stick to the point.

That guy I wrote about. The one at the garage. He was one of the fallen. I had thought he been asleep. But he wasn't. A load of them wasn't. I took the ciggies around to me mum. 40 Berkley, her favourite. Red ones of course. I've got a key so I let myself in. It was about 7o'clock. She was still in bed. Or at least the bedroom. I walked in. She was lying over the edge of the bed, knees on the floor. The bed was half-made. I opened the curtains and put the ciggies on the table next to the bed. She always liked a smoke first thing in the morning.

I opened the bottle and poured a glass while I watched the cartoons. They were really old ones, Channel 5. Think they were Canadian or Australian. The Dandelion & Burdock tasted funny. A little flat. I could hear mum waking in the bedroom. She was groaning and coughing. I shouted out to her that she should pack in the ciggies. She groaned back.

I carried on as normal. Till I felt her icy fingers around my neck. And it wasn't nice. "Brains!" she groaned. I leapt to my feet and looked at her. Her face was pale, and she stunk. Thick drool poured over her lip. Her eyes translucent. That's one a few big words I know. Always makes me happy when I get to use it. Anyway, there's my mum, stinking away, wanting to eat my brains. I dropped my Dandelion & Burdock. I remembered all the horror films I watched as a kid, on dodgy pirate copies, and grabbed a vase. I ran shrieking at her and smashed it over head her head. She groaned but didn't go down. She started to come for me. I legged it into the kitchen.

I grabbed a rolling pin and swung it across her face. Each time I hit her I apologised. After all it wasn't her fault. It took a good ten minutes and afterwards I needed a ciggie. I don't even smoke. I sat there, next to her on the couch, coughing with every inhale. It was the first time things had dawned on me. I was in trouble. The more I thought about it, that guy wasn't a Pothead. He too desired my brains. I asked myself why? Then I realised I didn't have the answers. It was a waste of time asking me. I wondered if I was the only one left. Who had done this? Why had they chosen me? Was I chosen or was I freak accident? I wondered if I had killed my mother, or was she technically dead already. In the end I fell asleep.

The words seem to be coming easier again. That felt good to write about. Takes my mind off things in a weird way. When I write it down it seems to make it less real, more a dream than reality. I didn't sleep long. Mum's alarm clock came on around 8. It was just white noise, the way she liked it. She was really starting to stink so I decided to leave. I made some breakfast first, bacon and eggs, and having checked outside, left. I wandered the streets, in the direction of my flat. I felt I would be able to grasp things more clearly there. I had taken the rolling pin from me mum's though.

It was on the way that I saw Tracey. It hurts to even think about it now. I'm not even sure if I should write about it, the shame of it all. She was leaning against a lamppost. She was wearing a lovely pair of tracksuit bottoms, Nike, bright white. A pair of Nike tennis shoes. Trainees to you and me. She was wearing a pink boob tube, with a yellow coat. My heart leapt when I saw her. I've never told her how I feel. Usually when I see her I hide. Get dead embarrassed. But it was a weird day, and she seemed to be in need of assistance. I plucked up the courage and walked over, hiding the rolling pin.

I called to her, and she swung around to face me. She seemed to smile. Good sign. She looked good. And the perfume hid the smell well. Even the drool seemed classy. I smiled and said hello as I walked closer. She stared at me blankly. I couldn't believe it; I was actually talking to Tracey Jones. The love of my life. My reason for living. She went for me, mouth open. Never knew she had so many fillings. And I don't think she has ever brushed her tongue once. I moved out the way and she automatically swung around. So graceful and athletic. But I had to act quick. Without thinking the rolling pin was out and following her head. It smacked hard into the blonde hair. Her head bounced towards the lamppost and bounced back. The skull cracked on the spot. I swung the pin again.

I had killed her. Mum was suspect, but this. She was alive. I was sure of it, and yet I still hit her. Was this why I was saved? To finish off the survivors? I sank to my knees and tried to cry. I felt sad but in the end I got up. I looked around, then pulled her head away from the post. The perfume was fading. I held me breath as I lay her on the ground. Above the nose nothing was left. She felt soft and tender. So did me mum now I think about it, guess I over did it on the beatings with her. I felt terrible for doing this to Tracey, so I kissed her on the lips, careful not to breathe in. I resisted the urge to look at her naked boobs and ran.

I ran to my flat, but outside was three more. They were just standing there, doing nothing. They groaned a lot. I hid and watched them. One and against one was easy, but could I handle three? I didn't wanna try so I ran to here. And this is where I have been ever since. Mrs Phillips' cubby-hole. Sitting in the dustbin. I think I've got No Hot Ashes imprinted on my back. Above me is two squares, my only light to the outside world. Unless of course I open the door, but there is no way I'm doing that.

This paper, a notepad I was carrying around for a reason I've long forgotten. The pen in case I ever ran into Tracey and we swapped numbers, though there's a slim chance of that now. I'm not sure why I wanted to write this all down. If I am the last one left then who am I writing it for. I keep thinking of my cousin Joey. Is she still normal? Don't know why I think about her, haven't seen her since we were little. Guess its cos she's the closest I have to family, now that I've smashed mum's skull in. She's probably long gone. Hope she stays fallen.

The more I write the more I think. Sleep and food mean nothing now. I don't feel hunger, I don't feel tired. The more I think about it, the more I smile. I enjoyed smashing my mum's head in. I enjoyed kissing Tracey. Is this my purpose? Am I after all, the one to finish the job? Is that my calling? The one to lay to rest all that escaped the light. I'm good at it. Can't think why they want to eat my brains though. I wonder if it’s my motivation. I mean, I'll probably need them. Perhaps it is. Maybe it is time to leave my prison. I think I will. You, whoever you are, this is my last will and testament.

I, Carl Stevens, when out shopping for bread and milk became the only survivor of a bright light. This light put everyone to sleep. Some woke up. I, Carl Stevens, will send them back. Maybe you will be the one to put me to sleep. Maybe.

Oh well, its gotta be better than sitting in here getting cramp. Wish me luck!

(07.02.2002)