Old Nick

The town of Pike sits on the edge of a great sea-battered cliff-face. It huddles behind a tall, buttressed concrete wall, dark and grey, and cut at intervals by leering little slits for riflemen. Behind the smooth, dark wall are furrowed fields, now covered in glittering frost, that extend all the way to a huddle of houses, which subsequently spills down into a rocky rift and out onto a pebble-strewn beach and harbour. Approaching the town from beyond the wall, newcomers might just glimpse the top of a whitewashed lighthouse, a weathered sentinel that watches over Pike from a peninsular cliff that cuts out into the sea. 

A figure in a long, tattered red coat walks along the suggestion of a gravel road that leads up to the gate. He has a great, grey-white beard and long moustaches and carries a towering old backpack; little more than rough sacking attached to a frame, with a patchwork of flaps and pockets covering all sides. The man in the red coat raises an arm in greeting as he approaches the great steel gate, covered in ancient green paint. Long stripes of rust slash the gate’s face where rain has trickled down over mean little windows, like mascara ruined by tears over the course of a long, long night. The man correctly assumes that in one of the mean little slits someone is trailing him with a rifle. 

"That’s alright," he whispers to himself, his breath steaming in the cold air. His journey has been blessedly uneventful and he expects no trouble upon arrival. Still, it will be good to set down his burden for a while. The man’s gait is springy and jovial as he walks on towards the wall. "It is what it is," he whispers once again.

Attached to the foot of the great, green gate is a battered old shipping container faced with a single, heavy door. It screeches as the newcomer opens it with a grunt and steps inside. The container is split in half by iron bars and coldly lit by a pair of fluorescent tubes. The floor is iron grating that rattles as the man steps onto it.

"Hey Nick," says a woman on the other side of the bars. She is wearing a canary yellow haz-mat suit, high green wellingtons, white latex gloves, a sky blue surgical mask and a plastic face shield. Over all of that she is wearing combat armour; black and grey pads that cover her torso and limbs.

"Heya, Suri. Long time, ey?" says the man as he begins to strip down. 

"Too long," says Suri. "Making a kid takes a while."

Nick smiles at this and nods as he folds his coat neatly over the back of a lonely wooden chair. The rest of his clothing; a thick woollen turtle-neck, faded jeans and patched underclothes, he simply piles on the chair.

"How are you and the baby holding up?" asks Nick.

Suri nods, her eyes crease into a smile, hidden behind her surgical mask. "I’ll tell you this; I prefer being a new mother to being pregnant, you know? At least now Daris can carry him too."

"So it’s a boy, eh?" asks Nick as he begins to unlace his boots. His breath mists on the air that smells of cold, damp iron.

"Hey, you can leave your socks on. That’s alright."

"You sure, Suri?"

"You run into any trouble?"

Nick remembers the previous night, spent huddled under dead leaves in the shelter of a gully, without so much as a spark for warmth, listening as the croaking, hissing creatures stalked through the forest around him. He had held his breath as one of them had stopped and cocked its head not twenty metres away; its stringy hair long and fetid, its skin pale and shot through with black veins and its pearly eyes reflecting the moonlight as it turned to face him. It had looked right at him and blinked, closing one eye at a time as if the action required concentration, and then crept away, chittering to itself. Some of them could be excellent hunters, creeping along with hardly a sound, while others seemed like rebellious puppets being strangled by their own strings. This was one of the latter. He remembered wondering who she had been. They had all had names once - it was important to remember that, yes it was.

But no, Nick hadn’t run into any trouble. Not by his reckoning. 

He shakes his head at Suri, causing his stiff, grey curls to bob back and forth. "Quiet as I’ve ever known it. I made most of the journey in daylight - short as that is these days. They don’t like the light so much," he says.

Suri nods. "Then just pull them down below your ankles. Wouldn’t want you to lose a toe on that cold grating there."

"I appreciate that," says Nick and pulls his socks down as far as they’ll go. He steps up to the bars as Suri flicks on a powerful LED light and he spreads his arms and legs. She looks him over under the sterile glare of the lamp. Nick wonders why he feels more naked wearing only socks than if he were wearing nothing at all.

"So does your boy have a name yet?" asks Nick.

"Siddartha, after my father. We just call him Sid for now, though, tiny as he is. Turn around please, Nick. Thanks."

"Siddartha," says Nick with a smile as he turns away from Suri. He lets the word hang in the frigid air for a moment. "Now that’s a name you can grow into," he adds and nods.

Suri does not respond. She is looking for wounds; scratches, bites or scrapes of a certain colour that ooze an oily black pus. On darker skin, such as Nick’s, the wounds will have a yellow-green discoloration.

Nick blinks in the sudden semi-darkness as Suri flicks off the light. "We good?" he asks.

"We’re good," she says and removes both her surgical mask and her face shield. They reveal a warm, toothy smile that draws thin creases about her brown eyes. "Get dressed, will you? We’ve been waiting." She turns a key in a clanking old lock and the bars swing inward with a singing whine.

"You know, it’s a pity the only person who gets to look at that backside is me."

"Hey now, that’s not quite true," says Nick as he pulls on his long johns and then his jeans. "The guard’s at Wight’s Watch get a good look every now and then too, you know. Makes their day, I’m sure."

"Hell, I know it made mine," says Suri and pulls Nick into an embrace. "Welcome back, Nick."

"Good to be here, Suri. Good to be here."

She bangs on the inside door as Nick hefts his backpack onto his back. Someone on the opposite side of the door slides a panel away from a slit in the door and a pair of bloodshot grey eyes peep through.

"He’s clean, Darryl," says Suri.

"Ok, Suri," says Darryl. "Hey Nick."

"Heya Darryl," says Nick.

"Glad you ain’t spookified," says Darryl.

"Me too."

Darryl slips the slider back over the slit. A long series of clinks and bangs follows and then the door opens. Darryl is a thin, balding man with a great red beard and is dressed in a tattered old down parka. He is armed; he has an assault rifle slung across his back and a heavy black revolver clutched in his slim, grimy fingers. 

"Bloody hell, Darryl. Put that cannon away, will you? I told you we were good."

"What?" he looks down at his own hand. "Oh hell, sorry Suri. Just being careful." 

He holsters his revolver and waves them to step through the doorway. Nick has to crouch down so his backpack will fit through the opening. He blinks in the sudden daylight, and heaves a heavy, misty sigh as Suri follows him through the entrance. 

Safe again. 

For now. 

To his left is a shack where smoke rises from a crooked chimney. To his right an old iron staircase leads up to the ramparts. 

"Heya!" Nick calls and waves at the woman who sits up on the catwalk, next to a crude brazier. As anticipated she is indeed clutching a long rifle with a scope - the glossy black lens reminds Nick of a spider’s eye. She waves back.

"Come on over to the guardhouse. You can warm yourself while I change out of this," says Suri and gestures down the length of her insulated, armoured body with gloved hands. "Then I’ll escort you into town, alright?"

"That would be grand, Suri," says Nick and nods. "Just grand."

"Hey, Babs!" Darryl calls to the woman on the catwalk. "Are you alright? You need anything?"

"No, love. I’m fine, thanks," she says.

The three of them walk along a short path through tall yellow grass, glittering with frost, to the shack - the guardhouse. It is warmer inside - if only slightly - and Suri immediately begins to unzip, unclasp and unhook her protective gear. Nick watches dust dance in a clear white sunbeam that cuts through a gap between door and frame. Darryl lights paraffin lamps and then crouches down in front of a blackened brick stove, roofed with an iron plate dappled with the grease of many meagre meals. He places a log on a mound of white ash, populated with a constellation of embers like dying old stars. Nick looks on from the comfort of a hard stool as Darryl pokes, prods and blows and soon the log is blazing and crackling.

"Oh, that’s nice, Darryl," says Nick as he extends his knobbly old hands towards the fire. "Very nice indeed."

Suri grunts and swears under her breath in a dark corner of the smoky room.

Darryl cannot seem to keep his gaze away from Nick’s backpack, leaning against the wall next to the door.

"Say, eh … Nick?" says Darryl, now sitting on a stool next to Nick and staring very intently at the burning, blistering log.

"Yeah, Darryl?"

"Any, eh … anything for me this time around? Any mail, I mean?"

A smile shines out from behind Nick’s beard as he watches Darryl wring his hands; the body language of a proud man who cannot help but to ask.

"I mean, I could swing by town later if that's better for you, no problem," says Darryl, almost as if to himself. "Just, you know, if it was anywhere near the top of your pack or something…"

Nick always packs the parcels to Darryl and Babs at the top. Every year. A memory echoes down the weathered passages of his mind; 

Same procedure as last year, Miss Sophie?

Same procedure as every year, James.

And bless old Darryl for it, he thinks to himself.

"I’ll have a look, shall I?" says Nick.

"If it’s no trouble."

"No, not at all. Not at all."

He unties the knot on a string looped into the mouth of the backpack and opens it. There is a small parcel there for Darryl - a jar, probably, wrapped in an ancient tartan tea cloth. He hands it to Darryl, whose nose and cheeks are red, as well as the letter addressed to Babs.

"How is she? Do you know?" he asks.

Darryl’s daughter moved to Wight’s Watch with her mother when their marriage broke down. She sends him a jar of red currant jam every year for Christmas.

"She’s well Darryl, really well. She sent you this too, as well as her regards." I hand him another tartan wrapped jar which I happen to know contains his daughter’s brandy. It's excellent. He blinks and wipes a tear from his weathered cheek.

"Thank you, Nick." he says and sighs. "I’m much obliged to you, truly."

Nick waves a dismissive hand and smiles.

"Not if you put another log on that fire, you aren’t. Anything you want sent back?"

Darryl places another log in the flames and then nods. "Yeah, I carved a little something for Tristan. But no sweat, it’s waiting with all the other mail over at the Pub."

"I’ll look out for it." says Nick.

Darryl pours a dram of crude gin into a cracked mug. "You want some?" he asks. 

Nick imagines swallowing the burning liquid in one go and then breathing blessed heat through pursed lips. He looks up at Darryl and smiles.

"No, not for me, thanks." Nick hasn’t touched the stuff since before … well, before everything.

"Damn it, Darryl. You know he doesn’t drink," says Suri and steps into the light. She is now wearing a big duffle coat, as well as a woollen hat and mittens.

"Hell, I was only being polite," says Darryl and stares into his mug. "Sorry Nick, I didn’t mean anything by it."

He never does.

"That’s alright," says Nick. "I haven’t got very long either way, even if I did fall off the wagon now."

"Ready?" asks Suri, before adding: "This isn’t the day to be morbid, Nick." 

"Ah! Quite right," says Nick and rises. "Just a moment." He stretches and sighs, buttons up his big red coat, closes his backpack and then bounces slightly as its weight settles on his shoulders. "Ready!" he beams.

"Good to see ya, Nick," says Darryl, clutching both tartan parcels, and sniffs.

"You big softie," Suri whispers and squeezes his shoulder.

"Yeah, I know …"

"See you soon, Darryl. Don’t open that until tomorrow," says Nick. "There are rules, you know."

Darryl nods and wipes away another tear.

Nick follows Suri out into the crisp air. It must be near noon and the sky is endless and blue, traced with thin, wispy white clouds. He waves to Babs up on the wall and then follows Suri along the road towards Pike. The frozen white fields lie up the slope of a long, even incline and Nick pauses at the crest to admire the view; the little houses that huddle together along and above the ravine, the little sheltered harbour and beyond that the sea itself, like so much rippling steel.

The lighthouse sits on the edge of a cliff overlooking the town, like an ancient stone bow with a rocky figurehead, heading out to sea. It is weathered but solid, like Pike itself. Nick remembers long shivering nights spent in that white tower, frantically, desperately defending it against the mindless fury that consumed the world. That was where so many had fought and died - and then died again as they turned against their friends and family, all those years ago. Such is the founding myth of Pike; a ragged congregation of misfits had held out at the lighthouse until the remnants of an army arrived. The army had built walls and fortified the old fishing village, just like they had at Wight’s Watch and a handful of other places, scattered across the wild. Nick had been nineteen then, a lost boy, strung out on every drug known to science … 

Funny, that; if not for the apocalypse he probably wouldn’t have lived this long.

"You alright?" Suri asks. She knows the story of Pike and of Wight’s Watch. They all do. Nobody knows much else.

"I always like this view," Nick responds, and smiles. "Yes, I do …"

The air is as salty and familiar as tears.

"Welcome back," says Suri.

Together they walk into town.

"It’s Old Nick!" says a piercing, lisping voice.

People had started calling him Old Nick in his late twenties, when ashen stripes had begun to grow into his curly black hair. It was all white now, so he supposed he must be old at that. Certainly older than anyone else he knew.

The name Old Nick drifts along the street before the man himself, carried from house to house on shrill little voices. Suri and Nick are soon in the midst of a wild, whooping procession of children, even a few teenagers who naturally had long ceased to be impressed by the old postman - they were just minding their siblings, that’s all … 

The houses on the edge of Pike are newest and meanest. There are curved barracks, rusting old containers and squat, ramshackle little buildings of wood and corrugated iron. Further along the cobbled high street, however, down in the ravine and facing the sea, the buildings are made of old whitewashed stone. Some of the windows are boarded up and some of the roofs need new tiles, but these buildings will be here long after Nick is gone. 

The thought comforts him.

The procession comes to a halt at its inevitable, traditional end; the Crowned Hag. The pub is the beating heart of Pike, such as it is. It leers out at a street corner in one of the old stone buildings. It still has glass in its windows and the door is still made of old, dark wood that welcomes Nick with a groan, followed by the tinkling of a small doorbell.

"Heya, Tanner. It’s me," says Nick and waves at the bald, sour looking man behind the bar.

"I know!" says Tanner. "Nobody else makes such a bloody racket when they roll into town." The man stubs out his cigarette in a battered tin ashtray.

"You smoking again?" asks Suri.

"Just the one, to mark the occasion," says Tanners and cracks a smile as he walks around the bar and approaches the newcomers. To Nick he looks like a grinning, dappled egg.

"Agh, but me eyes aren’t what they were. Come here and let me look at an old friend," Tanner grabs Nick by both shoulders. "Bloody hell, why does he look better than I do?" he asks Suri.

"Clean living," says Suri and nods at the ashtray.

"Everybody lives clean!" says Tanner. "Hardly any of the dirty stuff left."

"You can still pour me a pint, can’t you?" says Suri and puts her mittens and woollen hat on the counter.

"Oh yes. I can, at that. Quick now, close that door before the whole bloody town arrives," Tanner says and totters off to find a glass behind the bar. He pours without looking.

"Nick, you can set up in that booth over there."

"Same procedure as last year?"

"Same procedure as every year."

The booth Tanner has indicated occupies a dim corner farthest from the door and is the only one that faces it. Nick lights a lamp, opens up his backpack and adjusts his coat so the broad lapels, with their golden stripes, frame his bearded face. Tanner brings a mug of hot tea.

He scratches the back of his head and gives Nick a mournful smile. "I know you like your Rooibos, but all we have is Earl Grey I’m afraid."

"Oh, that’s alright," says Nick.

And it is. It’s just what Nick needs. He takes a sip and sighs, cradling the mug in his long, bony fingers. The tea is, in fact, pretty bland stuff indeed - but at least it’s hot.

"Only we haven’t had any boats come in since summer and - "

"It’s perfect, Tanner. Thank you." 

"How are things looking outside?" he asks Suri, who sips her beer as she leans against the bar. She turns to look through the misty old window set into the door.

"Street’s empty," she says and shrugs.

"What?" Nick sits up straight, his eyes bright and worried 

She cracks a smile.

"I’m kidding! There’s a line across the street, same as usual."

Nick sighs. "Bloody hell, Suri … who’s first?"

"Ehm … the Graham kids, front and centre."

"Graham kids …" Nick mumbles and then plunges an arm into his bag. He gazes up at the ceiling as he rummages, the pink tip of his tongue protruding from underneath his white moustache, and then pulls out a cube wrapped in creased, brown paper. He puts the parcel on the table. "Parent’s too?" he asks.

Suri nods and wipes foam from her lip.

He places a letter under the parcel on the table.

"Ready?" Suri asks.

Nick nods.

"Tanner? What about you?"

"Aye, let’s get some bodies in here. Otherwise I’ll have to use more wood."

Suri saunters over to the door and the bell tinkles as she opens it.

"Oi!" she shouts out into the street. "Nick’s ready! Now, I want you all on your best bloody behaviour, alright?" 

Mumbles of consent drift in through the doorway.

"Beadle, if you vomit again it’d better be into your fucking hat, are we clear?"

This is followed by a ragged chorus of gruff laughter.

Suri looks down at the foremost Graham child. "Alright, love, you first. In you pop."

A small, shaved head with big grey eyes peaks in through the doorway. Nick waves from the illuminated depths of his booth and elicits a smile from the boy as he approaches, followed by his siblings as well as a loud, boisterous procession of adult Pike natives.

"Oi, Tanner! Give us a beer, mate!" says one.

"Old Nick! You look well, eh?" says another.

"Merry Christmas!" says a third.

The guests pour in but the boy and his sisters stop at the opposite end of Nick’s table. Their parents wait a metre behind them, holding hands and trying vainly to hide their amusement at their children’s sudden shyness. 

Such is the power of the red coat. 

Nick regards the children from across the table. Last year their eyes had been sunken and dark, their cheekbones sharp and pronounced. It seems this year’s harvest has been better; they are still skinny little things but their faces are rosy and full.

"Your name’s Tim, right?" says Nick to the boy. His little chin is barely visible above the edge of the table, but he nods.

"We’re supposed to give you this," says an elder sister and places a letter on the table.

"And you would be Edna, if I remember correctly, and your name is Sylvia. Yes?"

The siblings nod.

Nick leans forward and makes a show of narrowing his eyes. "And you’ve been good, have you?"

The sisters nod. Tim begins to shake his head but changes his story once he sees his sisters’ reactions. He nods vigorously and his mother bursts into a fit of giggling.

Nick takes Edna’s letter and slides the parcel and letter, from their mother’s sister, across the table. Tim reaches out to take the parcel, but hesitates when Nick’s hand remains on top of it like a great spider.

"Remember now. It isn’t Christmas until tomorrow … can you wait that long?"

"I waited a whole year," says Tim, as if gleaming civilizations might rise out of bitter ignorance and crumble to ash and dust once again on such a timescale.

"I can’t argue with that," says Nick and nods. He raises his hand off the parcel. "Merry Christmas," he adds with a smile, and then raises his mug in greeting to their parents as well.

"Merry Christmas, Nick!" says their father. Their mother gives a little wave.

Nick sips his tea and then clears his throat. 

Now, to business; the business of Christmas. He pulls another letter from his backpack, holds it at arm’s length and narrows his eyes so he can read the scrawled address.

"Kirsten and Thomas Martin!" he reads loudly so his voice carries through the din and laughter.

"Tom! Kirsty! Next one’s for you!" Suri repeats loudly.

The couple squeeze through the throng, both clutching mismatched mugs of beer.

"Heya Tom, heya Kirsty. Merry Christmas," says Nick. 

"Merry Christmas!" They reply and slosh beer on his table. He hands them a letter and accepts one in return before the couple returns to their revelries. 

Nick extracts the next present from his pack; a beeswax candle embossed with a florid pattern and a deck of playing cards in a dog-eared box - tied together with a piece of string. There is a letter attached as well, addressed to the Guthries.

"Sasha, Franklin and Rebecca Guthrie!" Nick calls.

"That’s us, daddy!" a child squeaks, her voice cutting through the chatter and the clink of glasses. Franklin steps up to the table, clutching Rebecca Guthrie, a child of three or four, in his arms. Sasha is nowhere to be seen. Nick knows better than to ask.   

"Good to see you, Nick," says Franklin. A warm smile transforms his gaunt, grey features and touches his red eyes.

Nick smiles back. "Good to see you two as well. Has she been good, Frank?"

Rebecca nods frantically, as does her father. "She’s been an absolute gem, haven’t you?"

Rebecca nods again, then she leans her tiny head into the crook of her father’s neck and whispers something.

Frank stares into space as he listens and nods. "Mhm … mhm … ah! Good question. I’ll ask him, shall I?"

The girl nods.

"Rebecca was wondering where you got your famous coat."

Nick scratches the back of his head. He chuckles. "Well, eh … that’s rather embarrassing actually. I came across an old museum once, far out in the wild. I’m afraid I, eh … well, I stole it … I can be rather naughty sometimes myself, you know."

"Wha’s a moo-zeem?" she asks, curiosity overcoming her shyness.

"Right. A museum is a place where people used to keep lots of old stuff for other people to look at. Like this coat."

"Not s’pposed to steal …" she says and raises her eyebrows in an earnest expression.

"No, I know. You’re quite right," says Nick and wears a look of deep contrition. "That’s why I didn’t get any presents that year. Hopefully, though, if I’m particularly good this year, then maybe I’ll get something next Christmas, eh?"

Rebecca gives her ascent to this verbal contract with a single, grave nod and Nick hands the gifts and letter to Franklin.

"Merry Christmas, you two."

"Merry Christmas, Nick," says Frank.

" … gris’mus" says Rebecca and waves with pudgy little fingers.

Nick grabs the next letter …

… and so the afternoon passes and the sun sets. Laughter and lamplight spill out into the cobbled streets - as they have for centuries, and will for centuries yet - come hell or high water. 

Pike has seen plenty of both.

Gail scratches out a tune on an old fiddle, accompanied by the jaunty clang of an old piano that hasn’t been in tune for decades. The people of Pike sing, some even dance.

Suri’s husband, Daris, shows up with little Sid, their son. He is a rosy, healthy looking baby who stares out at the world. His great, gleaming dark eyes are fixed in a critical expression until, every so often, a big toothless smile appears.

The pair have only just left when Suri sits down at the far end of Nick’s booth while he quietly arranges the outgoing mail in his backpack. She is in her cups.

"There’s, eh … nothing in there for me, is there?" she asks. Suri has a half sister at Wight’s Watch, seventeen years her junior. Their parents died when the world did.

"Afraid not, Suri," says Nick.

She nods, her head hanging low as she stares at the small measure of amber whiskey in her glass. The heady scent of it is a smoky, antiseptic siren call to Nick. He sips his second cup of tea - now cold.

"I suppose I might have been …" Suri hesitates. "Maybe I was …" she shrugs and looks at Nick with red eyes.

"Domineering? Imperious? Overbearing?" Nick suggests.

She chuckles; a single sharp, rueful expulsion of air, and then she smiles. It’s a good smile, too.

"Yes, that. I fucked up as a sister, I think."

Nick shakes his head. "Nahh … she’s a really good girl, Suri. I mean, she doesn’t like you very much, that’s true."

She gives a faint scoff. "Oh, don't hold back. Please."

"No, really. You raised a good one, Suri, and you on your own too. Believe me, it would have been hard enough before, when people had everything …" Nick trails off and then shrugs. "And so she bears a grudge? Well, as long as she’s good to the people around her then that’s fine, as far I’m concerned."

Suri sighs. "And Nelly’s good?"

"Fantastic," says Nick. "She was a great help to my Belle when she was pregnant. They’re really good friends, actually. I think they mostly talk about boys - and them with kids bouncing on their knees."

Suri cocks her head at Nick. "Your Belle?" she asks. "Nick, you old dog, are you married?"

"Hm? Oh! No, it’s not like that. See, that useless husband of hers got himself chased out of town last winter because … oh, I swear, Suri, it was awful. She was all black and blue and yellow, and her pregnant and everything …" Nick shakes his head. "And I was good friends with her parents, since all the way back when, eh … yeah. So I took her in, didn’t I? She and wee Nicholas live with me now, and I said to the General, I said; you make sure Belle keeps that big, draughty old house of mine when you put me in the ground."

Suri leans towards him and takes his hand in hers.

"Nick, that’s wonderful," she says.

Nick beams at her and gives her hand a slight squeeze.

"And now there’s laughter in the house, and Nicholas is learning how to walk …"

"So you get to be a granddad now. I mean, you’ve looked the part for years …"

Now it is Nick who scoffs. "Oh, don’t hold back, Suri. Please."

Suri smiles. "No, really Nick. That’s wonderful. God knows you deserve it."

Deserve. What a word. Who in the world ever gets what they deserve? Not Old Nick, that’s for certain. All he deserves is a cold grave - and he’s long past due, at that.

Suri notes his change in expression; the blank stare that seems to glaze his eyes as he looks at their joined hands.

"Is anything the matter?" she asks.

Nick blinks and clears his throat before changing the topic.

"Actually, eh … yes. Yes, there is," He lowers his voice. "We’re running low on antibiotics over at Wight’s Watch …"

Nick trails off when he notes Suri’s gaze. She stares for a long moment, her expression perfectly neutral.

"Could you spare any?" he adds.

"You can’t make it yourselves anymore?" she asks, her voice flat.

Nick shakes his head. "Not until we can get new supplies from Threetrees."

"A trip you can’t make until spring …" she finishes for him.

"I’m sorry. I know it's a lot to ask."

"Bloody hell, Nick," she whispers between clenched teeth. "I mean, you make a lot of people here really happy, but …"

"Not that happy?"

"Fuck. I’ll try, alright? Just …"

"Keep it quiet?"

"Not a fucking word, mate."

"Alright, alright …"

"I’ll talk to Alistair once everybody’s left. Stay here, alright? Be cool."

Nick nods. "I’m cool, I’m cool …"

***

There is a sharp rapping at the door that cut’s off Nick’s ragged snores. He coughs.

"Fuck." 

His knees pop as he rises from the bed, then he stretches and everything else pops as well.

There is another rap at the door.

"Nick! Wake up!" Suri hisses.

"I’m awake, I’m awake … fuck’s sake …" he mumbles and opens the door to face Suri’s arched eyebrow.

"You need some new jammies, Nick," says Suri.

He is wearing a long sleeved undershirt and a pair of tattered long johns with holes in inconvenient places.

"Fuck off," he answers, before asking: "Is that it?" and pointing at the box under Suri’s arm. She hands it to him.

"It’s not much, I know, but it’s all I can - "

"All you can spare. I know, Suri. It’s fantastic …" He cocks his head at her as she looks away. "What?" he asks. "What is it?"

"How important are those antibiotics?"

Nick glances down at the box. It is an old toffee tin that rattles faintly.

"They’re for Belle, actually. She, eh …" Nick’s mouth is suddenly very dry. "She has something in her lungs. She had a fever when I left and, eh … her breathing, Suri. It was awful, the sound she made." 

"Pneumonia?"

"Something like that, yes."

"Then you’ll have to leave now, Nick. Otherwise you’ll never leave with that box."

"What? Why not?"

"Things might be changing here in Pike … oh, for fuck’s sake - get dressed, will you? I’ll explain on the way."

"Alright, alright!"

Nick doesn’t put on the red coat. Instead he wears a heavy, olive-green parka, and folds the iconic coat neatly into his backpack. It won't serve its purpose if nobody sees him leave. He then finds Suri waiting down in the common room, alone in the deep shadows - and leaning against the old piano, the savage … 

They sneak out into the dark street, with only the moon to light their way through the frigid night.

"What’s up, Suri? Why are we playing at being ninjas?"

"Playing at what?"

Right. She's too young to remember the T.M.N.T.

"Why are we sneaking about? What’s wrong?"

"You know Jess, right?"

"Who was Sheriff while you had Sid? Yeah, I know her … sort of. Prickly, isn’t she?"

Suri nods. "Not without reason, between you and me, but she liked being Sheriff - thinks she could do a better job of it than I do."

"Rubbish. You’ve kept this place safe for years," says Nick and shakes his head. "They’ll never elect her, not while you’re willing and able to ogle weary travellers at the gate."

"I’m not so sure, Nick. Some of the things she’s been saying … they seem to resonate with people."

Nick stopped. He didn’t like that hesitation in her voice. Not one bit.

"What sort of things?"

"That Pike needs to be more self-sufficient. That we share too much with Wight’s Watch."

"Oh, right. She’d never let me leave with the medicine, would she?"

Suri shakes her head. "And I don’t think many would disagree with her position. I’m not sure I’d be Sheriff for long if people found out."

"How did this happen?" Nick is still whispering, but his words come out in sharp hisses. "This sort of bullshit is what caused everything to go to hell in the first place. I saw it happen, I was there!"

"I know you were!"

"There is no us and them, Suri. There’s just humanity, and precious little of it, too."

"I know, I know … look, we’ll prove them wrong, alright? We will. Keep bringing letters from our friends and family. Keep the bond alive. Otherwise we’re lost."

A predatory screech tears up the night. It comes from beyond the wall and echoes across the starlit fields. Another screech answers.

Nick breathes a long sigh, then he nods. "Keep the bond alive. I can do that," he says, his voice a faint whisper - a sonic shadow. "I can do that."

They hurry along the road, down through the long sloping fields that shimmer and glitter with frost. They stop by a line of barren, spidery trees that divides the fields. A thread of smoke rises from the guard house and a lone, dark shadow sits next to the brazier burning up on the catwalk. Light spills out of the shack as the door is opened and illuminates the bearded figure of Darryl, who enters.

"Fuck. That must be Jess up on the wall, then."

It was true. Babs had been at the pub and hadn’t exactly been fit for guard duty when she left.

"She’s early, right? D’you think Alistair told her?" Nick asks.

Suri shakes her head, but her mouth is curved in a doubtful expression. She looks up at the moon - where humans once walked, or so people said - and then considers the long, dark wall once again.

"She’ll definitely spot us if we approach by the road, but look; the wall casts a dark shadow … yes, we’ll sneak along the wall, right down past the guard house. We’ll have to be really quiet while I let you out though, and then you’ll have to keep close to the wall for a while once you're out."

"Shit." Nick turns to look at her. "Think she’d shoot me?"

Suri shrugs. "I don’t know that she wouldn’t." 

They sneak along the line of trees until they reach the ageing concrete wall. Here in its shadow the wall seems to lean in over them. The long dead grass rustles infuriatingly as they creep through the dark together. Nick’s pack already feels heavy on his waist and on his shoulders. He is cold and his breath forms a white mist, and yet he sweats.

There are still screams coming at irregular intervals from beyond the wall; ragged and piercing shrieks that stab at the eardrums.

A faint clang echoes down from the catwalk and both Nick and Suri freeze. The shadow paces across the old iron grille as Nick’s heart beats a thundering pulse that only he can hear. He looks up. It is indeed Jess who looks out across the clearing beyond the wall. Her face is made gaunt and grim by deep flickering shadows cast by the infernal light of the brazier.

Suri proceeds and Nick follows, step by careful step, as they curse their own beating hearts and misty breathing that must surely give them away … until they are standing directly beneath the catwalk. Suri produces a keyring which she clutches in sweaty palms to prevent it from jingling. She places the tip of the key against the padlock’s jagged keyhole … and waits … and waits … 

Her breath forms regular streams of silver in the darkness … and then a wavering beam of horrid sound drifts over the wall. The scream echoes down along the deepest, most primitive pathways of the brain and fear pools like tar at the base of Nick’s skull.

Suri inserts the key, twists it, removes the padlock and opens the door - all before the scream dies down. They enter as another scream answers the former and Suri closes the door ever so carefully. They are inside the container now and Suri uses the next scream to open the iron bars that split the space in two.

"Fuck. Me." Nick whispers as he steps through the doorway.

Suri places a hand on his shoulder. "It’s bad out there," she whispers in response.

"It’s always bad out there."

"I know, it’s just … you’re sure, are you?"

"What else am I going to do? Belle hasn’t got much time left, I think."

Suri shrugs. She gives him a faint smile but her eyebrows are drawn together in sorrow.

"You’re a good friend, Nick." she says, so quietly that he can hardly hear her.

"So are you, Suri," says Nick. Then he cracks a smile and adds: "You’re a shit sister, though."

She snorts with laughter and then embraces him tightly.

"Good luck, old man."

"Good luck, yourself."

And so they part; a hot tear rolls down Suri’s face as Nick, his lined face lit in tones of grey, casts one last glance back into the dark container. He sees only blackness, and then he is gone - creeping back along the wall as quickly as stealth allows.

The screams still echo through the silvery darkness.

The moon is out and the stars add their own cold grey light to the shimmering frost that covers the world. Nick can see plenty without the need for a torch - but then again, so can they … and so can Jess, for that matter.

He has taken momentary shelter in the shadow of a narrow buttress, but now he must strike out across the grassy clearing and reach the sliver of forest which stretches out towards the wall. Nick must do this without drawing the attention of Jess’s scope. Nick must also do this without drawing the attention of the screaming denizens of the forest.

Nick must be lucky.

He strikes out across the tall, frozen grass, his course directly perpendicular to the wall, and does not stop when another scream tears at his ears. A gunshot cracks, echoing against the solid wall, and silences the scream abruptly. Nick throws himself to the ground and hopes he is hidden by the grass.

Silence … 

Until the screams, now united and strengthened in their fury, ring out across the clearing once again.

Bloody hell, now she’s done it.

Nick staggers to his feet and sprint into the woods, straight into the first lonely pines that have ventured to take root in the clearing. He stumbles into their shadows as another gunshot splits the frosty silence and whistles through the branches to his left.  

He doesn’t stop until he has reached the cover of a large grey stone, speckled with dark moss and white lichen.

Bloody close, that. Too bloody close. Fuck.

Nick spits and tries to recover his breath. It comes in heavy, ragged draughts as the cold air claws at his throat, maddeningly loud in the brittle silence. He lays down his burden in the shelter of the stone, just for a moment. Yes, just a quick rest, he thinks to himself as he leans back against the icy cool rock. Oh, this used to be easier … 

Leaves crackle in the dark.

Nick hears the telltale rustle of furtive movement, somewhere behind the stone. Right behind the stone? He grabs the smooth wooden handle of his Bowie knife, but does not draw it. Is there only one? Everything always depended on that single question; was there only one of them?

Another rustle, now slightly further down the slope as the creature steps into view - ten metres away, give or take. This is one of the clever ones. This one is a hunter. It has overly large hands and feet, covered in a web of dark veins, and a knotted mass of dreadlocks grows from the sides of a balding, moonlike head. 

The creature rises to its full height and extends its neck as it peers at the silvery moon, then it looks at something on the inside of its forearm … and whispers to itself.

What in the world?

A sour yellow stink wafts off the creature as Nick listens, his pulse a wet pounding in his ears.

There is only one. He must act now.

Nick pounces.

The creature falls to the ground with Nick on top of it and immediately transforms into a scrabbling, scratching tangle of sinuous limbs. Nick, bringing all of his bony weight to bear on the thing, grabs a handful of the putrid, knotted hair that grows from the base of its skull. He yanks its head back to reveal the sagging white flesh beneath its jaw. It snaps its jaw at him - clicking together nasty, twisted yellow fangs that grow out of blackened gums - and seems just about to howl when Nick rams his knife up through its doughy throat, straight into the wretched thing’s twisted brain.

It gives a faint mewl and crosses its eyes as it dies.

Again.

Nick rises, panting and sweating yet also tense and freezing, and his gaze crosses the creature's exposed forearm. He squints and lifts the dead limb so the moonlight washes over it. A faded tattoo reads: 

Kieran 12/12/2023

Alma 16/02/2019

Robert 19/08/2017

Children, perhaps?

Nick extracts his knife from the wight’s throat. Those names … if they were the names of children, then the man who had become this creature must have been about ten years older than Nick - at least. There are no lines on his face and his hair is dark and lustrous. The curse has twisted his features and robbed him of his reason, yet saved him from the slow decay of time.

Were they all so old? The creatures who stalked through these woods, had they all been transformed in that first, awful wave - all those years ago?

A rustle causes Nick to look up into a pair of pearly eyes and his heart to freeze. The creature screams as it lunges and the discordant shriek rings in Nick’s ears as he falls to his back and cracks his head and bites his tongue. Still, he manages to grab the creature’s throat in one hand and keep those twisted, snapping teeth at arm's length. He plunges his knife into the thing’s flank - again and again and again … 

It has a braid.

Yes, a thick braid dangles down over Nick’s face, ending in a crude stone ring.

The creature seems to feel no pain, only a furious, focused hunger as it snaps and claws and bleeds. Nick clouts the pommel of his knife against the creature’s head with all his might and the creature hesitates for half a second.

Half a second is enough. 

Nick places his blade at the creature’s throat, just beneath his clutching hand, and slices and cuts and digs and saws. Blood like tar, half-congealed and cold, leaks down over him in heavy, glistening blobs and still the creature struggles and bites and growls. Nick’s knife hits bone, slips through cartilage, and the body goes limp. The head still bites, its mad, refractive eyes grim and glowering, as Nick pushes the paralyzed creature off himself. He staggers to his feet and looks down at it. It glares back and bares its fangs.

"Christ, I’m a mess," Nick mumbles to himself. His hands, his sleeves, and the front of his jacket are all covered in cold black ooze. Had he gotten any in his mouth? He wonders and spits. No … no, he doesn’t think so.

He considers the creature once again and kneels down next to it. Yes, that is unmistakably a braid - and a neat one, at that. The stone ring at its terminus also bears the definite marks of craftsmanship. It has been carved - crudely, yes - but for a definite purpose.

What does that mean?

"Do you … do you understand me?" Nick asks.

The thing snaps its teeth. Its expression is one of stale fury.

Nick sighs. "Well, excuse me for asking."

He kills the creature in the same manner as the first. Not out of mercy, but out of respect for the woman she once was. He must leave, for the noise will have caught the attention of more wights. But first he faces a choice; walk with the cloying green stench of corruption that clings to his filthy jacket, or face the cold without it?

He leaves the jacket.

Fortunately, he appears to be relatively clean underneath it - aside from his hands, of course, which he wipes as well as he can, before grabbing his backpack and setting off into the forest. He walks fast up the dark slope, both to keep warm and to put some distance between himself and the two dead creatures.

He ponders what he has witnessed.

The whispered consideration of an old tattoo and a carved stone ring set into a braid.

Memory. 

Craftsmanship. 

Fucking fashion.

In a word: Humanity.

What does it mean?

He comes to a stream, cold and pure, and his hands go numb as he washes them in the dark, shimmering water. He cleans his knife as well. The corrupted black blood dissolves readily, yet he takes a step upstream and does not use his hands when he drinks. Instead, he dunks his face into the water and gulps it down in frigid draughts that make his teeth ache.

Nick regards his dripping, wrinkled face in the water.

What does it all mean, old man?

He crosses the stream via a series of rounded stepping stones and walks on through the night. Quietly, carefully. Always listening, always glancing about. His mind fills the darkness with dancing, capering horrors - as if there weren’t enough of that out there already. He wanders across thick beds of needles and avoids drifts of frozen, fallen leaves that might crunch and snap at his passing. He slips in between broad, furry pines and naked oaks, thankful for the mist that coagulates amongst them; ghostly and glowing in the frail moonlight. He hurries over a rocky crest and … 

What the fuck?

A wavering orange glow pierces the barren trees in long shafts. Firelight. Nick frowns. Who in the world would be daft enough to light a fire out in the wild?

Unless … 

The light is coming from the bottom of a wooded glade, and a change in the breeze carries with it a ripe stench of rot and filth. Nick steps on something brittle and freezes as it snaps, listening intently for a change in the sparse soundscape of the wild which does not come. There is only the faint sighing of the frigid breeze as it rifles through the treetops and a mysterious collection of hisses and grunts. Nick looks down. He has stepped on small bones, still partially wrapped in filmy skin and tattered fur - a half-eaten rabbit, perhaps. There are more bones as he progresses further towards the amber light - older bones from larger animals; badgers, bucks and … is that a horse?

His better judgement rattles its cage to no avail.

Nick skirts the outer shadows of the firelight, picking through bones and corpses. He stops at the sight of pale limbs moving quietly through the trees. The creature blinks its pearly, refractive eyes, then proceeds towards the light. Dark flies, contented and fat, buzz through the smoky, corrupted air, and Nick proceeds as well. He reaches a ridge of broad rocks, like giant’s teeth, and scales them until, peering down through a cleft in the stone, he almost bites his tongue.

They are writing.

Nick is looking down a wooded slope into a small, natural amphitheatre centred around a broad flat rock that juts from the ground like a massive headstone - perhaps belonging to the giant in who’s teeth Nick now hides, a part of him muses. Several fires burn in front of the stone, pouring acrid smoke into the already noxious air. The creatures squat among the bones and fires and watch intently as a small group of them huddle around something beneath the stone.

A fresh corpse - one of their own, relieved of his organs and entrails and stripped of most of his flesh. They appear to have eaten it.

Those in the centre of the congregation dip their long fingers into the corpse and use its blood to scrawl on the great, grey rock. They write the names of people and places - never phrases or sentences, merely single words in incoherent strings. One draws stick figures and a square house with a triangular roof. His companion adds a shining sun; a circle and beams … 

Memories.

A newcomer approaches the dancing radiance, clutching something close to its chest as it crawls to one of the fires. It places something small and dead in front of another creature and then crawls back, its head inclined. The recipient hisses at the giver as it grabs the animal and tears it to pieces. The giver squats next to it and watches, silent and blinking.

 Nick shudders. They are exchanging gifts … 

And so what? So they remember what they used to be? What does any of this change? They are still rabid, corrupted mockeries of the people they once were. Each and every one of them would murder and ravage every single person they came across without hesitating.

Nick's train of thought is interrupted as he stifles a sneeze, and then another and then his eyes widen. A flaky rock, roughly the size of his fist slips down from the cleft through which Nick is looking. It clacks and clatters as it bounces down the hard surface and then splits in two. A sharp, resounding crack echoes against the bloodsoaked slab of rock and a constellation of large, pearly yellow eyes turns towards him as one. 

Fuck.

Nick lands hard on the bone-strewn ground and has set off at a break-neck sprint before a hideous symphony of shrieks and howls ripples through the night. Bones crackle beneath his feet, branches snap, leaves and needles rustle and whisper. His steaming breath comes in abrasive rasps, his heart fills his ears with a bloody pounding and, above it all; those mind-rending screams.

And he who didn’t carry a gun, because he didn’t want to draw their attention …  

Idiot.

Nick bursts into a clearing and catches a glimpse of the horizon. The sun looms beneath it to the east, bleeding violet into the black, starlit void. That was his only chance; sunlight - and the faint hope that their distaste for it outweighed their furious hunger for him. He changes course, heading for the rounded crest of a long, gradual slope where the trees seem thinner. 

He is pursued by ragged snarls and wavering screams and the crack and snap of breaking branches. He risks a backwards glance and sees white eyes, ashen limbs and yellow fangs mere metres behind him. His mouth is parched and sticky, his lungs burn and his legs feel almost incorporeal, yet still he runs.

Nick bursts out into open grass at the crown of the hill, just as the sun spills gold into a pink sky. Its light is sharp and piercing and causes the frenzied screams behind him to change; there is a minor key in them now, a keen and mournful edge of pain and loathing beneath the caustic fury. 

Nick keeps running.

Only when Wight’s Watch comes into view, at the summit of the next rocky, grassy hill, does he stop. The hill is crowned with a semicircle of twisted firs and hollies and Nick collapses against a rough trunk. His legs shake and tremble as he allows his backpack to fall from his shoulders, then he leans his back against the fragrant, abrasive bark of a fir tree, breathing hard. 

He looks towards the woods from which he has fled and sees eyes glinting in the shadows beneath the trees. Most of the creatures gave up the chase, it seems, yet five white shapes have braved the fresh sunlight and now make their way slowly down the grassy hillside, shielding their large eyes with blackened hands.

Nick drinks from his dented canteen and then resolves to keep moving, setting off again on legs like rubber. His journey is almost over - just down this hill here and across that broad, shallow valley, down to where a high concrete wall cuts the valley in half. Beyond it are the neat fields that surround the town of Wight’s Watch, an old, fortified village built around a castle. Nick has no notion of how old the castle might be. It is made of weathered grey stones, has a twisted old belfry with no roof and the crenelations are broken in places, giving the old keep a leering, toothless look.

"Not that you look much better yourself, Old Nick," he mumbles.

He is halfway down the long slope when a gunshot cracks the biting morning air, followed immediately by an incandescent pain in Nick's chest, just inside his left shoulder. Hot wetness leaks down his belly in sticky streams. Nick staggers and collapses in the yellow grass, and only then does a sluggish realisation form in his mind:

Bloody hell, I’ve been shot … 

He rolls onto his good side, as far as his backpack will allow, and sees a shadow approach. The shadow clutches a rifle and resolves itself into a dirty, weatherbeaten young man as Nick blinks.

Harry. Belle’s exiled husband. "I was aiming for your heart, you old bastard," he says.

Nick coughs blood and tears stream down his face. His bleeding wound burns white and steady.

"You know who I ran into? Oh, it must have been sometime last September … I’ll tell ye, shall I?"

Nick gives a faint, strained moan. Christ, he’s going to give a speech? Now?

Fuck.

"I was walking along when I runs into one of them other couriers. Your colleague, if you like - this one from Threetrees. He’s just been at Wight’s Watch, he tells me. Stayed with that fellow Old Nick and his girl …"

"It’s … it’s not like that," Nick croaks, but Harry interrupts him with a sharp kick that stops Nick’s breathing. He tries to inhale but his diaphragm refuses to comply. That’s what you get for lying, old man, Nick thinks to himself.

"Old Nick? With a girl? Now, whoever could that be, I wonder. So I ask him, and do you know what he says? Says her name was Bonnie or Belle or something …"

"She just lives with me, Harry," says Nick, now breathing in shallow, ragged gasps.

Harry crouches down beside Nick, balancing on the balls of his feet with his rifle lying across his lap, right there, within arm's reach.

Well, that’s convenient.

"Well, that’s awful kind of ye, Nick. Of course, I seem to remember you voting to have me kicked out. Isn’t that right? Wanted a piece of that tail, didn’t ye? You old dog,   you …"

Nick repeats: "She just lives with - "

"SHE NAMED MY SON AFTER YOU!" Nick bellows. 

"You were a shite husband, Harry, and you’d have made a worse father."

Nick’s vision is still slightly blurred, but a stiffness seems to settle over the foggy shadow that is Harry.

"I was just going to shoot you and be done with it, but I think I’ll let the wights have you instead, eh? Quite a few of them on your tail, you know, and in broad daylight too …  Whatever have you done, you old - "

Nick's blade cuts across his face. There is a dull knock as steel meets bone, then the blade rings faintly as Harry screams. The piercing wail quickly devolves into a grisly wet growl as Nick struggles to his feet. Harry swings the rifle around but Nick kicks it away and a gunshot booms into the air, returning from the nearby hills a moment later as an echoing clack! just as Nick kicks Harry again and then leaps over him to grab the discarded rifle. Harry growls and moans as he scrabbles clumsily, desperately at Nick’s legs, who rolls away and staggers upright, panting and grunting, clutching the rifle in one hand and his knife in the other. He can feel his grip on the knife failing as the gunshot wound drains him. The pain burns on, piercing and bright.

Nick glances in the direction from whence he came, at the pallid, ashen white shapes that slink down the long slope. He spits blood. 

"See ya, Harry." he mumbles and sets off at what feels like a jog, but is in fact more of a staggering shuffle.

"CUNT!!" Harry screams.

Nick's mother never taught him much, but at least she taught him never to say that.

He is unsure how long he has been trudging along when he hears Harry scream. 

The world is slightly blurred, and populated with scintillating black stars that glitter and burst to the tune of a steady ringing in his ears. His mouth and nose are filled with the overwhelming tang of copper. He has been watching the ground intently so as not to trip on the uneven grass, yet now he looks up. The walls of Wight’s Watch seem to shrink away from him as he groans.

Is he within range of the wall’s rifles? No, probably not … 

He glances backwards. The creatures howl and screech as they feast … all but one. Nick blinks in a vain attempt to clear his vision. Yes, in the middle distance an ashen shape is clearly stalking towards him across the field. It gathers speed.

Nick stumbles along towards the dark wall, breathless, then stops and turns to face the creature, now sprinting furiously. He gingerly extracts his arms from the straps of the backpack and places it on the ground, then he raises the rifle with his good hand. Nick takes a deep breath and then cries out as he raises his left arm to steady the rifle - somewhat. The arm tingles as if alight with static electricity. Nick breaths again and aims down the wavering barrel. The creature is a mere twenty metres away now … ten metres … then the iron sight passes across the flailing white figure.

Nick fires a split-second before the wight pounces. It staggers and howls and Nick pulls the trigger again.

Click!

Empty … 

Hell.

Nick flips the rifle and swings it, one-handed, at the beast as hard he can. It connects with a hollow thud before flying out of his hands and again the rabid thing staggers, allowing Nick a moment to draw his knife. The wight screams again and then pounces; a wriggling, scratching, snapping mass of cold limbs. The two of them fall to the ground and Nick, without thinking, jams his limp forearm into the creature’s mouth. He barely feels it as the rotted fangs puncture and tear his skin, just as he jams his knife up through the wight’s throat, all the way to the hilt.

The creature stills.

Nick groans as he rolls the thing off him to one side, its jaws still closed around his forearm. He extracts his numb, useless limb and holds it to his chest as his breathing quickens, then turns into a sob that wracks his whole body, causing his chest wound to break out in fresh blooms of pain. His forearm is lacerated and torn and bleeds profusely. Odd, that; he didn’t think he had that much blood left … 

Another scream rouses him and reminds him that there are more of the ghouls close by, although they are still gorging themselves on Harry - for now. Still lying on his back, he arches his neck to consider Wight’s Watch, looming beyond its dark concrete walls. The bleached fields seem to him a ragged roof over a sickening blue void and he snaps his eyes shut to let the nausea pass.

"Medicine … Belle … Christmas … fuck …" he mutters to himself and rises slowly, until he is standing upright - more or less - swaying like the grass in the frigid breeze. His knife he pulls from the wight, his pack he slings over his good shoulder, and then he sets off and finds himself humming along to the memory of a song.

" … and this song of mine … in three-quarter time … wishes you, and yours …"

A shadow passes over him as screams ring in his ears and the muffled crackle of gunfire reaches him, as if from a great distance. Behind him the ghouls writhe and stagger in a hail of lead. Still they come, enraged by the taste of blood and mad with ceaseless hunger.

How long has he been walking?

Nick looks up and finds himself standing in front of a massive, rusted steel gate. In it is a wicket gate which slides to one side to admit him as the gunfire crackle continues. He steps inside and collapses against the steel door as soon as it is shut once more. A dull thud sounds through the door as something collides with it on the opposite side, then again, and again. More screams pierce the air, followed by more gunfire.

"Bloody hell, Nick …" says a figure standing beyond the iron bars that surround Nick. His dark hair and strong jaw are hidden beneath the layers of a haz-mat suit, yet he peers his brown eyes in concern. He clutches a revolver in shaking hands.

"Heya, Casper," says Nick with a hoarse sigh.

"You’ve … you’ve been bitten, haven’t you?" he asks. 

No, he pleads.

Nick nods and examines his arm. The wound is a pallid, yellow-green ruin set against the mahogany backdrop of his skin. He looks up. "I’ve been shot, too … oh, and kicked, for good measure."

"What? By who?"

"Harry. Harry Finnegan."

"Christ, he’s still alive? After all this time?"

"Nah, not any longer."

Casper nods - a single, stiff motion under all his protective gear. "How long since you were bitten?"

"Oh, not long …" says Nick. Time, however, has become a mercurial, kaleidoscopic concept, so he simply points vaguely in the direction he has come. "Just out there on the field. I still have a little while left, I think."

Casper steps back as Nick rises, still leaning against the cold steel gate so the flaky paint claws at his back. "Easy, easy …" says Nick. "I’m alright for now, son. You’ll know when I’m not, believe me."

Casper nods again and allows Nick to step up to the door set into the bars. He sets his pack down against the door and then steps back again, retreating to the gate.

"Can you do me a favour, Casper?"

"S-sure … yeah. What do you need, Nick?" he answers, his voice low and full with a tearful coarseness.

"There’s some medicine for Belle at the bottom of the pack. Give it to Duncan, will you? He’ll know what to do with it. My coat is in there too - make sure Belle gets that as well, yeah?"

"Sure, Nick. Yeah … I’ll just take the rest up to the pub then, shall I?"

"Good man," says Nick. "Oh, and one last thing …"

"Yeah?"

"Mind leaving me that shooter? I’ll only need one bullet."

"Nick, I …"

Nick gazes at him with tearful, bloodshot eyes. "Please," he says through a clenched jaw, almost growling. "Please …"

Casper drops several bullets on to the soft, wet earth as he empties the revolver and then picks them up again with fumbling, shaking hands. The door screeches as it swings open, just long enough for Casper to grab Nick’s pack and leave the revolver on the ground. Then the padlock clicks with an echoing finality.

Casper shoulders the backpack and gazes at Nick for a long moment.

"Hey, Casper?" says Nick.

"Yeah?"

"Merry Christmas."

Casper snorts; a wet sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.

"M-merry Christmas, Nick," he says and then walks away before he can change his mind.

***

Suri is dressed in her usual getup when the door swings open with its pained song. She is standing beyond the bars and watches intently as the figure enters. The newcomer wears a red coat that is much too large and carries a full backpack. It turns out to be a young woman who steps into the harsh, sterile light. She has large grey eyes and dark hair, which she has tied into a high ponytail 

"Are you Jess?" she asks.

"Me? No, thank goodness. I’m Suri, love. Nick and I were good friends."

The girl nods. "I’m Belle."

"Nice to meet you, Belle. Did you run into any trouble?"

"No. They don’t like the daylight."

"Glad to hear it. Do you know what happens now?"

Belle lets the backpack drop to the floor and smiles.

"Christmas?"

The End.