The Descent to Madness (4 page)

             
He stopped and turned – the light from the entrance barely visible here, just a faint glow. This would be far enough. He slowly, creakingly, knelt down, easing his aching form to the ground where he lay prostrate, his tired muscles grateful despite the hard floor. It
was
warmer here, for certain.

             
Smiling at this change in fortune, the man closed his eyes and drifted off into the dreamless sleep of the exhausted.

***

Stone awoke with a full bladder, as one often does of a morning, but as he made to move, some deep, reptilian part of his brain recognised that something was wrong. He lay on his side, eyes open, not moving, ears and nose scanning for whatever had intruded on his sleep. The light from the cave entrance was stronger now – he must have slept through the night. He gave a tentative sniff with his nose, nostrils flaring as they brought in a scent he must have been too tired to notice the night before; a pungent, musky aroma, reminiscent almost of wet dog, spoiled meat and faeces. His ears, filtering out the sound of birdsong that came from outside the mouth of the cave, picked up a deep, bassy rumble from behind him; a slowly, regular rhythm like the pumping of bellows. Like the drawing of breath of some great beast…

             
A deafening, bestial roar washed over him, rebounding off the walls of the cave. Sheer, primal terror flooded his system with adrenaline and his trousers with urine, the first true warmth he’d felt in all his short memory. Half rolling, half scrambling, he dashed towards the entrance of the cave and the light. His legs and feet were dead, numbed from the cold, and he stumbled as he reached the mouth, his foot giving way beneath him and sending him sprawling out in the snow. Coughing out a wet mouthful, he turned onto his back and, blinking in the bright morning sun, watched in abject horror as a vast creature from his worst nightmares crawled out to meet him.

             
The monster was akin to a bear, only enlarged to gargantuan proportions, bedecked with a fearsome pair of curved horns that sprouted from the sides of its skull, each stretching the length of a man’s arm. Its hugely muscled body was covered in dense black fur and its four thick limbs ended in splayed claws like kitchen knives. Its head possessed the short, squat muzzle of a hyena, with chunky, sharp fangs for rending and crushing. Atop its snout, two red, beady eyes that shone with a raw and bestial hunger.

             
The beast reared up onto its hind legs, its head ten feet above the ground, looming over its paralysed prey. With a rushing intake of breath the beast let out another roar, battering the poor man’s eardrums and shaking the snow from nearby branches, the foetid breath washing over him in a foul wave that reeked of corruption and decay. The monster dropped back down onto all fours, the ground shaking, betraying the hideous weight of the creature, before slowly and surely it paced towards him.

             
  Adrenaline fuelled his actions, letting him spring up from the ground despite the stiffness in his limbs. He backed away slowly, one step at a time, not daring turn his back, not daring move too quickly for fear of sparking a chase. A crunch underfoot and he chanced a glance down, spying a hefty branch; some of it smooth, the bark torn away, a good handle for grasping, but the end of it covered in the same barbed thorns that clad the trunks of some of the trees. A ready-made weapon. Slowly he reached down and picked it up, hoisting it in both hands, the weight substantial in his tired arms. The beast began to circle him slowly, eyeing him up as a cat does a mouse, confident in the advantage of its size and power. The man swayed his make-shift club from side to side, all the while casting about with his eyes for a suitable escape route should he have the chance to run.

             
Without warning, the beast charged, its bulk moving with shocking rapidity for an animal of such size and weight. With a flurry of snow it was almost upon him, covering the gap of ten five yards in a heartbeat.

             
To Stone, the instant seemed to take an age, the unstoppable charge of the monster happening in slow motion, as though it were charging through treacle; every detail of its rippling form visible in majestic and terrible detail as the snowflakes lazily drifted by, but try as he might he could not move out of its way. Willing his muscles with all his might, they seemed to be weighted down with bones of lead, as though mired in the same time slip as the charging beast.

             
With a snap, the normal flow of time reasserted itself and the bear slammed into his chest with all the force of a train. With a casual flick of its boulder-like head the monster threw him through the air to land heavily twenty feet away.

Stunned, Stone groggily lifted his head from the snow and cried out, blood speckling his white t-shirt as it sprayed from his lips, a flaring pain in his chest telling him that ribs were broken from the blow. His weapon had landed several feet behind him, beyond his reach.

              The bear gave a great snort, almost as though laughing, and slowly padded its way towards him, confident of an easy meal but determined to toy with him first. Grimacing with the pain in his chest, Stone peddled his way backwards on his back, feet and hands slipping in the snow, in desperation to get away. The bear snarled once again, then leapt to pin him down, just as Stone’s right hand brushed against something familiar and welcome.

             
With a cry equal parts rage and desperation, Stone swung the branch to meet the pouncing predator, even as it bore down on him. The strike lacked power but by sheer luck the razor sharp thorns dragged across the beast’s face, snagging on its left eye, the momentum driving the barbs deep into the flesh. The bear leapt away, shaking its head with a roar of rage, ripping the branch clean out of Stone’s hands. It shook its head furiously, like a dog and with a great tearing sound the branch tore free and was flung away to land in a drift. Its eye seeped fluid and blood, matting the fur of its cheek.

             
Seizing the moment, Stone turned and sprinted as fast as his tired legs could carry him, splintered ribs grating in his chest, the bellow of rage behind him all he needed to steel him against the pain. The ground thundered with the juggernaut charge of the monster at his heels and he channelled all his flagging energy into his life or death sprint, asthmatic lungs burning, legs tiring, flaps of skin tearing from the soles of his feet in his sodden trainers. Slipping and sliding over rocks and ice, narrowly avoiding twisting his ankle, he risked a glance back over his shoulder.

He didn’t see the ledge.

His stomach lurched as the ground disappeared beneath his feet and he plummeted like a stone. With a sickening crunch he landed hard on the sloped snow and rocks. Over and over he rolled, bashing his head, his elbows, his knees on unforgiving ice and stone, feeling gashes and tears opening all over his punished body, all the while his broken ribs grinding agonisingly together. At speed, he clipped a tree, the thorny bark grating his flesh as he rolled past. Finally, he ploughed into a snowdrift and lay there, bleeding and broken, breath gasping wheezily, wetly from lacerated lungs.

The world was greying, colours bleeding from his sight as his body finally succumbed to the heinous combination of injury, fatigue and cold. His brain was shutting down, striving to block out the pain and the indisputable fact that he was dying. As the world faded to black, the last sound he heard was the frustrated roar of a hungry monster denied its meal.

***

His senses were muted and his body far off, but this wasn’t the soundless, dreamless oblivio
n of before. This was more real; a subsection of his mind as it cordoned him off from whatever grisly state his body was lying in. As his lifeblood bled into the ground in a reality far distanced from his mind, Graeme Stone found time to examine how he felt about the prospect of his own mortality.

             
Was he scared of death, he pondered? No, he decided. But why then run from the beast of earlier? Why had he sought shelter from the storm? Either could have claimed him but he chose to resist. Why run if death held no fear? It wasn’t the fear of death that drove him, he understood. It was the fear of pain. And more than just the pain of physical harm. The pain of failure, betrayal and suffering beyond his control. Though his short memory precluded him from knowing for certain, he felt sure that the past few hours were indicative of his previous life. Not, he was reasonably confident, in terms of drama. But he somehow knew that recent events were only the latest in a long chain of misery. So it was mere pain that continued his existence?  If so then how pitiful, how pathetic a life that was, to be ruled by fear and fear alone. He should let it end now, just sit back and wait for the release as his body slowed to a stop, to an end of all his suffering.

             
And yet… and yet…

             
He didn’t want to die. Despite everything he just didn’t want to die. He could not put his finger on it (in a quite literal sense at the moment), but for some reason he had an urge to keep going, even knowing that, from past experience, life might not get better. That didn’t sounded like running away. That sounded more like running
to
. That was almost verging on sounding like
hope
. Despite the setbacks, the betrayals, the suffering, he was carrying on, not fleeing but hoping against the odds that things would get better. That things would somehow, finally, begin to
change
.

             
Change.
And a ripple passed through his consciousness, mighty but muted, like the shockwave of a depth charge felt through the vast emptiness of a cold, dark ocean.

             
Change
. And, like a sleeping giant rousing from its millennia long slumber, the potentialities lying dormant in his genes rose to the surface, having waited so, so long for this precise moment.

             
Change
. And his consciousness rushed back to the surface, stripping away the fluffy half-life of the dream-world and roaring back into the cold light of day to find Graeme Stone reborn.

Chapter Three

A snowflake described a slow and lazy arc as it descended, before finally settling on a small, white nose. Whiskers twitched but otherwise the little creature carried on as it was, rooting through the thick snow in search of the hardy green plants beneath. Eyes on either side of its head kept look out, whilst its long, upright ears scanned this way and that for any hint of danger. Nonetheless, it didn’t see him, didn’t hear him.

For he was getting better…

From his concealed vantage point in the bush at the base of a spiny tree, Graeme Stone watched the rabbit with rapt and hungry attention. Its soft, white fur positively bulged with the promise of the warm flesh beneath. With the back of his hand he wiped away the drool that threatened to spill from the corner of his mouth.

It had been days since he had awoken screaming at the bottom of the slope. Blood had stained his torn clothes and scabs encrusted most of his bare flesh, but somehow, miraculously, he had survived. How long he had been lying there, comatose, he did not know, but his chest, which he had
distinctly remembered shattering – he grimaced at the memory of his ribs cracking  – had felt strong, his breathing deep and steady. He should have perished, if not from his injuries, then exposure. But even the cold had seemed diminished, despite the snow and frost that told him otherwise. Yes, even now, his torn and stained t-shirt long since discarded, the cold barely affected him, quite comfortable with his skin exposed to the elements. Even his feet were bare, his ruined trainers fit for nothing. Only his trousers remained to preserve his modesty and they were a tattered shadow of their former selves.

His limbs had felt revitalised, if not strong then at least far less fatigued, as though infused with a sudden and long-lasting shot of caffeine. But now, a couple of days later, this initial energy was starting to diminish, his body crying out for sustenance in order to keep him going. Water was no problem – the snow in these mountains pure and crisp - but his empty stomach demanded solid fare. His early experiments with the plant life of the region had met with little success – the grass beneath the snow was insubstantial, everything else either frozen solid, horrendously tough or else barbed to withstand predation by the giant, white deer which sauntered the forest and were far too big for him to have a hope of tackling.

And so it was that he found himself here, crouched and coiled like a bound spring, eyes focused purely on the warm, meaty prize in front of him.

This was the fourth time that he’d stumbled upon a suitable creature, his ears somehow picking up the subtle and delicate clawings of the rabbits as they dug for food, guiding him subconsciously in the right direction. But each rodent so far had proven too fast, too nervous to catch, his rough and clumsy movements telegraphing his ambitions and leaving him frustrated and hungry as each successive rabbit had fled. This was the closest he’d got so far and, edging closer millimetre by millimetre until he sensed that he was close enough, he tensed his legs in readiness for his dash.