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Roy’s hands were tied to bars attached to the doors. He started to cry and beg again.

Fiona ignored him for the next half hour, dropping bottles and tins along the way. They finally came to a solid rock dead-end. She turned the vehicle around and shut it off. The headlights died out and Roy was suddenly in the blackest black he’d ever experienced. The sudden silence was overwhelming. He jumped when Fiona spoke again a minute later. “Scary as hell, hey? It can drive you frigging crazy… this all-encompassing dark. It presses in on you real fast.”

“Please… I’m so sorry for the things I said.”

“Did you really kill a bunch of defenceless people, or did your buddy make that up?”

Roy paused. “It’s bullshit, all of it. He’s a dirty little fucking liar.”

“That’s what I thought.” She fired the buggy up again and the tunnel ahead lit up. “I would give you a flashlight and some extra batteries if we could spare them, but you know how it is… times are tough.”

Fiona exited the vehicle, the big rifle in one hand, the knife in the other. She cut the ropes. “Get the fuck out.”

Roy tried to stand, but fell onto his side in the dirt when his knee gave out.

“Have a nice winter, Piggy.”

The buggy sped away and Roy coughed on the dust. The headlights started to dim. Seconds later they disappeared altogether.

The blackness pressed back in.

All-encompassing.

Chapter 46

Two weeks later

Fred cast out again and watched the hook plop into the still water. He hadn’t caught a fish in days, but it didn’t much matter. They had enough food to last for months without his contributions. He sat at the end of the dock and fished because it made him happy. Soon the lake would freeze over, and Fred’s casting days would come to a close. He wouldn’t bother fishing during the winter. Sitting on the ice, dangling a line into a three-foot deep hole didn’t appeal to the old doctor. Besides, he hated the cold.

Caitlan sat down beside him. “Hey, Doc. You gonna catch me a big pickerel for supper?”

“It doesn’t look all that promising.” He reeled his line in. “How’s the book coming?”

“It isn’t. You’d think living in a spooky cabin where a couple of folks offed themselves would be inspiring.”

“Does it have to be a horror novel?”

“It’s what I write.”

“Maybe you should be keeping a journal… a record so to speak of everything we’ve been through and what’s to come.”

“Real life horror? Nah, that’s too depressing.” The sun poked out under a heavy orange cloud in the west. “Look, doc! A sunset. I haven’t seen once since before Brayburne.”

“Brayburne. Don’t remind me of that place.” He cast out again. Plop.

“You think that disease will be wiped out when we leave this place?”

Fred shrugged. “We can hope.”

“Yeah… Hope. It’s all we got left.”

* * *

Roy pulled himself along in the darkness. His hand fell on something cold. A can! The third one in two days. He giggled and crawled towards the tunnel wall. He smashed it repeatedly against the rock until he felt the mealy juice inside spill over his fingers. He sucked at the rip in the metal. Tomato paste. Again. Hopefully he would stumble upon another bottle of water in the next few hours to wash the acidity down.

Roy would survive. It’s what he did. He would crawl and claw his way back to Shaft 168 and meet up with Louie Finkbiner again. And the women. The woman. Oh, what he would do to them all. He sucked on the tin again and cut his tongue.

Fucking bitch. She could’ve at least left me a can opener.

End of Book 1

Other Books by Geoff North:

Live Again (Out of Time Book 1)

Last Contact (Out of Time Book 2)

Lost Playground (Out of Time Book 3)

All Inclusive (Out of Time Book 4)

Ambition (The Long Haul Book 1)

Retribution (The Long Haul Book 2)

Annihilation (The Long Haul Book 3)

Thaw (CRYERS Book 1)

Burn (CRYERS Book 2)

Twisted Tales

Copyright

Copyright © 2019 by Geoff North

www.geoffnorth.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.