His eyes twist and sparkle when I look at him, the colour around unnaturally expanded pupils flickering blue and green and amber. They are like lights against a window pane, distant and impersonal, as inhuman as I had expected and yet not so awful and alien, more beautiful and hypnotising. I glare at him, a futile gesture; he remains unresponsive in the snow, pale skin against pale ground. There are droplets of red on his face and in his hair, glistening on his dark suit and I realise through a kind of dullness that it’s my blood and not his, that my shirt and Kevlar are torn apart and my blood is freezing against my chest. I put my hand out, suddenly dizzy with the realisation, my head crackling with the cold, but the anger lifts me up away from the frozen air and the unexpected pain.
I drift out of myself, a daydream of numbness, and watch disinterested as I lift the still body of the pale creature on the ground and drag him to the truck. He tumbles clumsily into the backseat and I slump heavily into my own seat, one hand on the wheel. Snow falls from the roof as I slam the door, and when I turn the key ice dislodges from the keyhole. The engine isn’t designed for temperatures like this. Distantly I regard myself fighting to start up. In the rear view mirror I can see the three crumpled bodies left spreading red against the white, and I can see the unconscious figure of the monster lying sprawled just behind me. I drive ferociously and thoughtlessly back to the northeast.
He is inhumanly beautiful. I am glad that when he opens his eyes, whimpering and shivering, it is dark and I don’t have to see him in daylight. Instead I hear him struggling against the plastic bands around his wrists, belts pressing his elbows to his sides and his knees and ankles in on each other, hear him shift and groan in what sounds too much like genuine pain and fear. I see in the mirror that he has shuffled to an awkward sitting position, just a silhouette of a thicker shade against the false dark of the endless snow stretching away from the back window.
“You’re bleeding,” he tells me, his voice hoarse and thick and shaking. I have never heard him speak before, his accent is untraceably foreign and lined with hurt. I wonder with a kind of strange fascination if he has a home, a family, a town that he grew up in, playing in the sand and running in the park just like me, just like my kids. I decide not to offer him a reply, keep my head forward and drive. He stays silent for a long time and I listen to his ragged breathing, waiting for him to speak again. “Where are you taking me?”
“Where do you think?” There is more venom in my voice than I meant. His head drops back against the seat and the sudden jerky movement makes him gasp and murmur. The sound does something to me, a kind of softening. He sounds too much like a person.
“Do you know what they’ll do to me there? I don’t want to...”
What he means is he doesn’t want to die. I have to force myself not to sympathise. He isn’t a person. I remember the stories, the scenes of carnage he has left behind him for people like me to pick through and document, helpless. I almost laugh at him. I want to spit in his manipulating, lying face.
“Do not mess with me. You killed my colleagues back there, my friends. You killed them in cold blood. Don’t try and get any sympathy from me.”
He growls then, a deep-throated earthy and terrifying growl, a sound so primal and murderous that it reaches straight down my neck and sends shivers and tremors through my body. The air in the truck moves unnaturally, rushes back towards him. Darkness rides up around his chest and neck, twisting through his pale hair and licking at his face.
“You don’t know a thing,” he spits, and the darkness retreats abruptly. His tone turns to a pitiful whine. “God, god, it’s so cold, I don’t understand.”
There is no sound for a while. I realise he’s passed out again, head rolling loosely against the headrest with every bump and movement of the truck.
The wind has increased, pulling and pushing us, a steady swirling wrath. When I see the little bunker squatted beneath an overhanging of rock I pull over to it and the noise and shaking lessen instantly. It’s still a trial to get him out of the truck and into the place. I worry if by the time the storm has calmed our ride out of there will be buried, but there’s no other choice. The bunker was probably left there from battles here twenty years before. It’s dark and the air is damp, but at least when I close the door the glazing keeps the noise out. It’s cold but not so cold that I can’t breathe. There are two single beds beside each other, metal frames with bare mattresses.
I haul the monster onto one of them, handcuff him to the bar above his head, and check for supplies. There’s wood, thank God, some food in years old tins and a burning oven that I light up with shaking hands and huddle close to, defrosting slowly. Reality has gripped me again, my chest and stomach hurt like knives stabbed into my every time I move. He stays asleep, or something like sleep, spread out languid and untidy, the firelight turning him golden. I stay away from him, resisting the softness of the bed beside the one he is on. I remain resolutely huddled by the stove feeling like a man in mourning all over again.
I must have slept without meaning to, I wake in the kind of fading darkness that tells me it’s early morning. The monster’s eyes are on me. His eyes are grey now and his pupils pinpricks that leave him almost faceless, white eyes against white skin and white hair. He is cross-legged, his arms twisted behind him and still attached to the bed frame. I don’t bother to look at him, I know all there is to see there. Endless beauty and perfection, he could tip a person over the edge, send them into a raving, loving madness only to abandon them then, after the loving was over, bring up the darkness and slice them in two. I’d seen it happen, watched from afar as strong men and women succumbed to insanity.
“I’m cold,” he says, “Let me closer to the fire.”
“You deserve to be cold,” I hiss back at him, “this is a war, cold is part of it. You’re my prisoner now, you don’t get to make demands.”
“I know that, but you don’t want me dead. Then what would you have to hand over.” He sounds like he’s trying to be clever and it sickens me. I glare at him again, straight into those filmy lifeless eyes,
“I do want you dead.”
That shuts him up; he lowers his eyes from mine almost demurely, as though he has the decency to look ashamed.
I check the door and find it’s stuck, frozen and barred by snow and ice. From the window I can see the truck is barely even visible any more, the weather must have worsened in the night. I keep an eye on him as I click another message through to command; he doesn’t move at all and I don’t get an answer. Hours pass, he stays so still I go and check and see if he’s still alive. I find a fast, twittering pulse in his neck; my fingers seem impossibly hot against his frozen skin, and when I touch him he turns to look at me. His expression is so bleak and miserable it surprises me.
“How did you get so cold? It’s not that cold in here.” He doesn’t reply, only shudders a little as I take hold of the bed frame and drag it closer to the oven and the warmth, which he seems to melt into like a child coming in from the rain.
“How old are you?” I ask him before I really mean to, his face looks so clear and angelic.
“Twenty-five,” his answer comes too fast, I laugh at him,
“No, I’m twenty-five. You’re what? Nineteen, twenty?”
“Seventeen.”
“You have got to be kidding me.” I stare at his expression and see no lie there. The monster is a kid. The biggest threat to our whole damn civilisation is sitting in front of me warming himself against the fire and he’s only seventeen. “This is just ridiculous,” I’m speaking to myself, but he answers me anyway.
“But I’m not like the others. I don’t just call the dark; it is me, it is part of me as much as I am part of it so ... so I can tame it better. Do you understand? I don’t have a choice.”
“You know, neither do I. I have to take you in,”
“I know.”
I pull a cigar out from my coat pocket and light it through the grate in the oven, studying his expression.
“You’re not like the others. I’ve brought a couple of your guys in before, they spent the whole damn time trying to bite me or something. You’re not insane like that.”
“I told you, they can’t tame it. It sends them crazy after a while, and you just cut it off and that’s like...cold turkey. It hurts.” His hair has fallen forward over his face and his voice sounds sweet like fine rain on water, no more than a whisper, “You’re still bleeding. If you die, I’ll die too.”
“How considerate.” I puff on my cigar. It’s true in a way, I stuck some steri-strips on it to hold it together last night and they haven’t quite soaked through yet, but I still feel torn and sick. “So what do you suggest I do about it?”
“I can fix it,” he still hasn’t looked up, “if you let me.”
I laugh at him again, just because he’s a kid doesn’t mean I can trust him. I can’t let myself forget that.
“Yeah, right. I’ll just let you go so you can treat my wounds. The wounds that you inflicted, by the way. I’m sure you won’t just break my neck and smash this whole place down, escape.”
“Die in the snow.”
“My neck’s still broken either way.” I shrug. “I’d rather die from this than have you kill me.”
He seems resigned, glancing up from underneath his hair and then down again, huddling closer to the fire. He seems to fall asleep, I can hear his breathing even and deep. I wish I could sleep as well, but it isn’t safe. Instead I smoke another cigar and drink some tomato soup from a tin.
For the rest of the day he dips in and out of sleep, remaining foggy and distant. I try and talk to him again and he hardly responds, making strange irrelevant replies to my questions. I wonder if he’s dying anyway.
At six I receive a message from command. They’ve found my location and they’re sending people in, I have to wait until the next day. At almost eight the monster wakes again, eyes flickering around the bare room. I put a hand beneath his chin and try and get him to look at me.
“What’s wrong? Why are you sleeping so much?” I sound angry, and when he replies so does he.
“I’m cut off.” He does that growl again, just like the night before in the truck, and I snap my hand away from him. He keeps his head up and his eyes on me, frustration rumbling in his throat. He seems truly bestial and wild. I turn away, and then back, forcing a cup of soup into his face like a peace offering.
“Energy then. Drink it.” I snap, tipping the cup against his lips. He drinks, terribly slowly, like an invalid. He never removes his stare from me, chilled by resentment and anger.
“I didn’t mean to kill them,” he says, his words are slow and emphatic. A line of red tomato runs from his lip down his chin. He is vampiric. I reach forward, almost unconsciously, and rub it away. “It takes you over, it’s not like I set out to...” a long, choked pause, “we’re both going to die this way. It’s just my job, I don’t mean to...”
“That’s the way it has to be. You do your job, I do my job and this is it. If I die, then I die doing what I have to do, and if you die it’s the risk you take.”
His eyes seem to look straight through me, into me, and I can see he knows I don’t want to die. I have spent a lifetime close enough to death to know it’s nothing glamorous; there is no honour in dying, reasoning and rationality don’t matter. Death is just death, endlessness and nothingness, the end of me is terrifying. I watch him as his eyes shift colour, grey to pale purple and up and darker, dark blue and dark green and amber. Lips still blue from the cold twitch into a smile.
“You’re ridiculous. You’re all ridiculous, that’s why you’re losing.” His voice isn’t harsh or mocking, only pitying and soft.
“What do you mean by that? Who says we’re losing?”
“You won’t take what power you have, you crush your own ability and so we crush you with ours.”
“But it drives you insane, you said so yourself.”
“I think it’s better to be insane.” He lies back onto the bed, arms behind his head. It is a tangible relief to have his eyes off me. “I wouldn’t want to do this sane.”
“Just shut up.” I snap at him, and he shuts up, eyes half closed, drifting again. I sit and try to feel the pain in my stomach, feel the life leaking out of me. I watch his breath, his chest floating up and down, the life in him curling in condensation through the air. I feel as though my head is full of cotton wool, there is no pain any more, only numbness and an indefinable uneasiness. On some level I am aware that this is a bad sign, my brain coping with the damage and pumping me full of pain killers, the blood loss making me dizzy and dreamy, but somehow it doesn’t bother me. Darkness settles in, creeping across my vision, blocking the fire, the snow, the pale sleeping figure before me. I am glad to see it go.
At six I receive a message from command. They’ve found my location and they’re sending people in, I have to wait until the next day. At almost eight the monster wakes again, eyes flickering around the bare room. I put a hand beneath his chin and try and get him to look at me.
“What’s wrong? Why are you sleeping so much?” I sound angry, and when he replies so does he.
“I’m cut off.” He does that growl again, just like the night before in the truck, and I snap my hand away from him. He keeps his head up and his eyes on me, frustration rumbling in his throat. He seems truly bestial and wild. I turn away, and then back, forcing a cup of soup into his face like a peace offering.
“Energy then. Drink it.” I snap, tipping the cup against his lips. He drinks, terribly slowly, like an invalid. He never removes his stare from me, chilled by resentment and anger.
“I didn’t mean to kill them,” he says, his words are slow and emphatic. A line of red tomato runs from his lip down his chin. He is vampiric. I reach forward, almost unconsciously, and rub it away. “It takes you over, it’s not like I set out to...” a long, choked pause, “we’re both going to die this way. It’s just my job, I don’t mean to...”
“That’s the way it has to be. You do your job, I do my job and this is it. If I die, then I die doing what I have to do, and if you die it’s the risk you take.”
His eyes seem to look straight through me, into me, and I can see he knows I don’t want to die. I have spent a lifetime close enough to death to know it’s nothing glamorous; there is no honour in dying, reasoning and rationality don’t matter. Death is just death, endlessness and nothingness, the end of me is terrifying. I watch him as his eyes shift colour, grey to pale purple and up and darker, dark blue and dark green and amber. Lips still blue from the cold twitch into a smile.
“You’re ridiculous. You’re all ridiculous, that’s why you’re losing.” His voice isn’t harsh or mocking, only pitying and soft.
“What do you mean by that? Who says we’re losing?”
“You won’t take what power you have, you crush your own ability and so we crush you with ours.”
“But it drives you insane, you said so yourself.”
“I think it’s better to be insane.” He lies back onto the bed, arms behind his head. It is a tangible relief to have his eyes off me. “I wouldn’t want to do this sane.”
“Just shut up.” I snap at him, and he shuts up, eyes half closed, drifting again. I sit and try to feel the pain in my stomach, feel the life leaking out of me. I watch his breath, his chest floating up and down, the life in him curling in condensation through the air. I feel as though my head is full of cotton wool, there is no pain any more, only numbness and an indefinable uneasiness. On some level I am aware that this is a bad sign, my brain coping with the damage and pumping me full of pain killers, the blood loss making me dizzy and dreamy, but somehow it doesn’t bother me. Darkness settles in, creeping across my vision, blocking the fire, the snow, the pale sleeping figure before me. I am glad to see it go.
