Start Of An Apocalypse (2)

Rain hit the windows like soft static. The hallway leading to Uncle Reece's flat smelled like damp socks and old plaster.

Ollie knocked once.

The door creaked open.

"'Bout damn time," Reece grunted from the kitchen. "You walk here or get hit by a slow-moving existential crisis?"

Ollie stepped in. Same as always—dim lights, cigarette haze, shelves full of crap no one ever used.

Reece didn't look up as he poured hot water into two cracked mugs. His hands were scarred and twitchy, but precise.

"Sit your emotionally dead arse down."

Ollie slid into the old booth seat near the kitchen table. He looked at the clock. Broken.

"I saw what happened at school," Reece said, passing a mug. "Your mum's still not talking?"

"Nope."

"Figures."

They sipped in silence. Reece smacked his lips.

"Tea's shite. But it's warm. Like life, eh?"

Ollie didn't respond.

Reece watched him. Then leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face.

"You feel anything yet? Y'know… fear? Anger? Guilt?"

"Not really."

Reece huffed a dry chuckle.

"Christ. You're like me then. Hollow. Got that 'slow-burn apocalypse' look in your eye."

Ollie raised a brow. "You think I'm broken?"

"Lad, you've been broken since the day your dad vanished and your mum cracked like cheap china. Don't need a therapist to see it."

He sipped his tea. Winced.

"Still better than American coffee though. Bloody hell, you hear what happened to the Yanks?"

"Yeah. The beast. Killed their president."

Reece snorted. "'Beast.' Like it's a bloody cryptid. Thing ripped through the West Wing like a tin of beans. Clean kill, too. Tactical."

He paused. Looked at Ollie.

"You laughed, didn't you?"

Ollie nodded once. "It was funny. In a messed-up way."

"Good," Reece said, swirling the tea in his cup. "Better to laugh than scream."

Silence returned. The rain grew louder.

Reece leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You been seeing things? Shadows that don't stick to walls. People with teeth too long. Hearing whispers when no one's talking?"

Ollie hesitated. "…yeah."

Reece didn't blink.

"Right. You're one of them."

"Them?"

Reece stood up and opened the cupboard. Pulled out a small black pill bottle. Inside were rusted nails. No label. No explanation.

"Some of us get sick in the head. Others get sick in the soul. You—you're a bloody sponge for the dark stuff."

"Sounds fake."

Reece pointed the bottle at him like a weapon.

"So's the Queen but people still believe in her. Listen, I saw this back in Kosovo. Men tearing off their own skin just to 'get it out.' Friend of mine heard angels whispering numbers before he went blind."

Ollie's hands clenched around the mug. "Why me?"

"No idea," Reece said, sliding back into his seat with a groan. "But the world's cracking, kid. You're just close enough to the fracture to feel the breeze."

He lit a smoke. Took a long drag.

"You're not empty, Ollie. You're waiting. That's the scary bit."

Ollie finally looked at him. "Waiting for what?"

Reece exhaled smoke like a tired dragon. Smiled with no joy.

"Whatever's knocking on the other side."

***

The rain had died down, leaving behind a soaked, grey sky. Reece's backyard was barely a yard—just a patch of overgrown grass boxed in by leaning fences and rusty furniture.

Ollie stood in the middle of it, arms crossed, jacket zipped halfway up.

"You're sure about this?" Reece called from the back door, holding a dented thermos and looking like he regretted everything.

"No," Ollie replied.

"Well, good. That's normal."

Reece walked down the three stone steps and stood beside him, sipping what smelled like coffee but looked like used oil.

"So?" Ollie asked.

Reece shrugged. "No clue, really. Back in the war, we had this lad from Serbia. Said he could feel death coming. Turned out he just had a brain tumor. But he screamed before every attack. That's something."

"That's not helpful."

"Nope. But maybe you've got something better. You laughed when the world cracked. That's something too."

They stood in silence. The wind rustled dead leaves.

"Try focusing. Try… feeling weird," Reece offered.

Ollie closed his eyes. Tried to imagine the strange things—the shadows he'd seen lately, the whispers when he was alone, the flickers of something just out of sight.

Nothing happened.

"Maybe jump? Scream? Do a handstand?" Reece offered with a smirk.

Still nothing.

Ollie looked at his hands. "Maybe pain wakes it."

Reece narrowed his eyes. "Not what I meant, lad."

Ollie was already walking toward the old lawn table, where rusted tools and cracked flowerpots were scattered. He picked up a kitchen knife—blunt, a little rusted near the hilt.

"Ollie."

Ollie ignored him. He brought the blade to his palm and dragged it slowly. A red line opened. Sharp. Ugly.

He hissed in pain.

And then the air cracked.

It wasn't a sound—more like a pressure change. A popping in the ears. A shift in gravity.

From the far side of the yard, near the rotted fence, the world folded in on itself.

Then it appeared.

Small—maybe four feet seven—but wrong. It had the body of a man who'd never been meant to exist: grayish-green skin, stretched over wiry muscle, ribs protruding, no genitals, no belly button, no nipples. No ears. No nose. Just a raw human face, like someone had printed it on a corpse.

Its right eye blinked slowly.

Its left socket was black, like a hole burned in paper.

It stared at Ollie.

Reece didn't even speak. He just lifted his shirt, revealing the Makarov pistol tucked in the waistband of his jeans. He grabbed it, clicked off the safety, and fired.

The first shot cracked through the yard. It hit the thing in the shoulder, spinning it back—but not down.

It screeched. Not like an animal. Like a modem in hell. Metallic and furious.

Then it lunged.

Reece didn't flinch. As it leapt, he took one step forward and kicked it in the chest, hard. It flew back like a sack of bones, hit the fence, bounced, and charged again.

Another shot.

This time—clean, center of the forehead.

The thing paused.

Twitched.

Then crumbled into dust.

Ollie blinked. His bleeding hand throbbed.

Reece lowered the pistol but kept it in hand, eyes scanning every inch of the yard. His breath came fast but quiet.

"Well," he said after a long moment. "That was new."

Ollie looked at the blood dripping down his palm.

"That came from me."

"Sure as hell wasn't summoned by me whistling 'God Save the Queen.'" Reece holstered the pistol and took the knife gently from Ollie. "You okay?"

Ollie nodded, though he felt dizzy.

Reece examined the spot where the thing vanished. "So. Blood. That's your key."

Ollie said nothing.

Reece crouched near the dirt, poking at the grass where it had stood. "Looked like a thing from a butcher's bad dream. No energy signature. No heat. Just… rot."

"I didn't mean to do that," Ollie said quietly.

"No one ever does," Reece replied. "But now we know what you are."

Ollie looked at him. "What am I?"

Reece stood, cracked his back, and lit a cigarette.

"You're a doorway, kid. The kind that doesn't come with a lock."