BLACK FRIDAY

10

The man that gripped the steering wheel of the battered SUV as it tore through the wilderness was a very different Peter Brockland than the one that had entered his father’s cabin the night before.

His personality seemed to have experienced an evolution in the limited hours of sleep he had allowed himself, as his subconscious obsessed over his fellow train survivors. Many would be oblivious to what had happened to them, sleeping calmly as dawn approached, unaware of what might be coming to finish the job.

Peter had made his decision quickly. He knew something within himself had changed that night. The knowledge that a secret group was after him did not particularly frighten him, but rather refuelled his journalistic instincts. Who were they? What did they want?

Peter had waited patiently for his father's snores and pulled himself to his feet, quietly, grabbing the news clipping from the wall before tiptoeing out of the cabin. He had brushed aside any hints of guilt as the SUV growled into life and drove away in the early hours of the morning with a distinct, heroic intent.

As he pulled onto the main road, Peter pulled the news clipping from the passenger seat and read it again. He scanned down the column, flicking his gaze intermittently every so often to check the road ahead and focused on a particular paragraph detailing the survivors and, more importantly, their addresses.

Why had the reporter deemed such personal information appropriate? It was almost as if he was inviting someone to... and then it made sense.

“They really are everywhere…” he muttered to himself.

It felt like a personal affront to Peter to think that one of his own was complicit, but, with his father’s story in his mind, things began to connect. On the off chance that this organisation had not already been aware of their victims’ addresses, it appeared that they had people within the media in their employ, aiding wherever they could.

It was clear that the survivors detailed in the clipping were in serious danger, and Peter felt an overriding personal responsibility to ensure that they at least knew, were at least prepared for, what was coming for them.

Peter checked the addresses in the clipping and clicked open the map in the car’s GPS.

Lucy Fisher, 29, of Shere in Surrey, proved to be the closest survivor to him and set to be the first fortunate recipient of his newfound heroism, or so he hoped.

He reprogrammed the GPS, his excitement building, and set his mind to a deeper contemplation of the new world in which he found himself so heavily immersed.

Driving towards danger to save a woman he had never met before from a secret society. It was like another scene from the bizarre Hollywood blockbuster he pictured himself in; all he was missing at this point was a cape and a mask.

Before his mind could drift to thoughts of superhero names and catchphrases, Peter imagined the countless deaths and disasters that this group might have been responsible for in their quest for - what? Human perfection?

Wild thoughts of potential activities or random celebrities and high-ranking officials who might be linked to the group made his journey pass by quickly and belayed any gut-wrenching guilt he might develop towards his stranded father.

Before long, the GPS notified him that he was just ten minutes from his destination. His proximity to Lucy Fisher began to sink in, pulling him abruptly from his conspiratorial daydream. He felt his heroic surge dwindle.

As he scanned the houses outside, he realised that he had driven there with absolutely no idea what he was going to do or say to her.

The insanity of his lack of planning was quickly dawning on him. What had he expected to do? Was he just going to knock on the woman’s door and hope for the best? What could he possibly say?

‘Hi Lucy, sorry to bother you, but a maniacal secret organisation is coming to kill you because your genetic code doesn’t quite shape up.’

He took a glance in the rearview mirror and pictured the scene playing out, pictured the woman’s bemused expression. For Peter, it had taken the shock return of a long-lost father and two assassination attempts before he had even begun to contemplate the validity of his father’s story.

All he was doing was walking up to this woman’s house, armed with a scribbled newspaper clipping to exhibit a questionable data privacy violation.

“You have reached your destination,” came the calm, robotic voice of the GPS.

Peter pulled to a stop and scouted out for number forty-seven – the article had certainly been specific.

He had to do something, he thought, regardless of the insanity of his approach. There was no time. She could be targeted any day now; he had to do something.

He spotted Lucy before he found the door number, recognising her bright, pink hair from the train as she walked past one of her upstairs windows.

She had been one of the few to look at him with polite amusement, rather than outright derision, as he had advanced crotch-sodden through the carriage.

Peter stared up and watched as she rustled around upstairs, completely unaware of the danger that she was in. He took a deep breath and cut the ignition.

“Now or never,” he muttered to himself, checking his car mirrors nervously for any sign of movement from outside.

Peter unbuckled himself and stepped out of the car quietly. With another glance up and down the suburban road, he began to make his cautious approach towards Lucy’s front door, his ‘evidence’ clutched tightly in his hand.

When he explained the events that he had been through and the story his father had told him, she would surely believe him. Besides, she may have even had a narrow escape herself.

Peter took a steadying breath as he reached Lucy’s front door and opted to allow his subconscious to decide upon the opening line as he carefully pressed her doorbell.

He heard the chimes echo from the other side of the door and he looked around anxiously, waiting for her response.

The street was deadly quiet, though he supposed that was perfectly normal for three o’clock in the morning. He wondered what Lucy was doing awake at all.

He listened again for any movement inside. There was no reaction; not a murmur; not a sound.

Peter pressed the doorbell again, gritting his teeth anxiously. He heard the chime reverberate through the house again and out towards the silent street behind him. Finally, muffled footsteps approached, creaking as Lucy walked down the stairs inside.

He turned again to look up and down the street outside, his paranoia taking hold of him once more. Still, a deathly silence.

For the second time in his life, Peter felt an intense heat on his skin. He was thrust backwards, forced from his feet, and landed in a crumpled heap several feet away.

He heard a familiar ringing in his ears, deafening all else. His body felt broken, and his mind completely disorientated.

He could barely move but managed to lift his head slightly to see slowly twisting clouds of thick, black smoke disrupting the night sky above.

Peter let out a growl and felt pain shoot through his body at his attempts to move. With an immense effort, he managed to lift himself to rest upon his elbows and saw the remains of Lucy Fisher’s small village home, engulfed by flames.

He had been too late.

Peter’s neck weakened, and he fell back to the spongy grass beneath him.

He lay still, utterly defeated, his strength leaving him, his eyes starting to water.

The dull sound of alarms interrupted his bout of tinnitus, but just as his hearing began to return, the black smoke continued to blacken his vision.

He was sure that the pain would soon see him pass out, and it would all be over. Some heroic spell, he thought to himself.

Peter turned his head weakly towards the street outside, as he felt the blackness take over him. He managed to make out the faint blurred outlines of shocked onlookers frantically running from their homes to offer whatever help they could.

He tried to shout out, to tell them that it was too late, that Lucy was gone, but he had lost the strength even to speak.

Peter felt his eyes become heavier as unconsciousness closed in, but before darkness took him, he noticed one of the blurred figures edging closer towards him.

The figure approached slowly and stopped ahead of him, sinking the ground beneath Peter. Peter watched helplessly as a hooded figure leant down, and through his blurred vision made out a hint of a grin before he fell into nothingness.