Night falls over the desert. Dunes - some as high as a thousand feet - become dark silhouettes, menacing presences looming over the small encampment.

The air is still, the wind which has blown hot air into the faces of the men gathered here throughout the day, which has blown sand from the peaks of the dunes to shower over them, has disappeared. With the setting of the sun the temperature plummets. The unbearable heat of the daylight hours will be replaced by bitter cold. The camp fire which crackles and sparks is a necessity if they are to survive the night.

A gibbous moon hangs in the sky amidst a sea of constellations which in turn hang from the spine of the Milky Way. Here Andromeda, here Orion, here The Plough. In the distant constellation of Perseus the binary stars which men have called Algol orbit around each other, aligning themselves in such a way that one eclipses the other. One light among thousands winks out but its passing goes un-noticed.  Its absence is temporary anyway, in ten hours the eclipse will be over and Algol will reappear.

He stands apart from the camp. Whilst others ready the evening meal he stands alone, gazing into the darkness, listening to the shifting of the sand, its susurration relaxing him. He has come here - to the Empty Quarter - to forget, or to try and forget. Except he knows that he can never forget - the things he's seen, the things he's done.

A noise startles him, snaps him out of his meditation. For all the world it had sounded like a dog's yelp. Despite its forbidding nature, the Quarter is able to maintain life - maybe the sound had come from one of the species of bird that manage to eke out an existence in this harshest of harsh environments.

Another sound - this time a low growling. He tenses, his fight or flight mechanisms have been honed to perfection after years of military training. He carries no weapon tonight, however, and is at once all too aware of this.

And then a scuffling noise as the source of the sounds approaches him across the sand.  In the darkness he sees two red orbs, seemingly hovering above the ground, moving towards him. Eyes, he realises, the red surely some trick of reflected light.

The Hyena steps out of the shadows, halts in front of him. A low growling emanates from the animal, the sound filling his consciousness.

It is as much a stranger here as he is. This wilderness could never provide enough sustenance for the carrion-feeder. Fear runs its icy fingers down his spine as the hyena snarls, its snout furrowing to display fangs that drip saliva to the desert floor.

He takes a step backwards, away from the snarling beast - the fear of Rabies adding to that he already feels. The hyena takes a step forward, then another. It barks, loudly, again and again. As it leaps, the barking turns to a howl.

II

He awakens to darkness.

Slowly, awareness of his surroundings comes back to him. He lies in bed, just like all the other men who share this hospital ward with him. His companions sleep on, the air filled with the noises of their slumber - snores, grunts, the occasional low murmuring from those indulging in subconscious conversations with their dream companions. 

Green and red lights glow dully beside him, indicators on the array of equipment at his bedside which monitor his vital signs. Vital - the mere word makes him smile. Fully awake now, the reality of his situation returns to him - as it always does, a constant companion during his waking hours - the realisation that he is going to die, that his time here in this ward is limited, that soon he will be gone and someone else at death's door will take his place in this way-station to the afterlife.

That much is apparent in the eyes of those who care for him. They try to hide it of course, but he can see what they really think when they stand at his bedside offering compassion and reassurances. His own body has turned traitor, the cancer that first grew in his lung has now spread around his body. The lung is long gone, removed months ago - followed not long after by a fair sized chunk of his liver - he will go to his grave less than whole. What is left of him is awash with chemicals, toxic drugs pumped into his body to seek out and destroy any last vestiges of the disease.

Too late, he thinks, too late...

A cough from a nearby bed distracts him from his morbid thoughts. It is little more than a clearing of the throat - nothing like the hideous rattle he himself produces when the cough reflex hits him. The cough that has haunted him since that first day when he brought the handkerchief away from his mouth to see those terrifying flecks of red staining the white cloth, the cough that sends waves of pain through his body with every visit. The same cough that greets him every morning, accompanies his every awakening...

...and yet here he is - awake - and no irritation deep within his chest, within the empty space and scar tissue where his lung used to be. Truth to tell he feels better than he has for a long time, certainly since the first symptoms of the killer disease presented themselves, perhaps since a time before then..?

His body tingles - as if in nervous anticipation. An energy floods through him like an adrenalin rush. For the first time in oh so many months he is without pain. The constant nausea which is a gift of the chemotherapy regime that has become his life is gone.

Emotion fills him - one so overwhelming (and for such a long time unfamiliar) that tears prickle his eyes. He is happy. Some kind of miracle has occurred here, the sickness has left him. God - with whom it has to be said his relationship has evolved from childhood fear through adolescent resentment to adult indifference - has seen fit to cure him, removing the malignancy that has been eating away at his body.

And then he's getting out of bed, the energy that courses through him preventing him from remaining laid down. He swings his legs out of the bed, feels the cold of the linoleum floor on his bare feet and then he's standing, revelling in the sensation of simply standing upright, feeling the weight of himself through his spine.

He takes a step forward, then another and soon he's striding purposefully through the ward. Those less fortunate than himself slumber on around him. His good fortune is their misfortune, his gain their loss. He is the chosen one, he has been saved.

A figure emerges from the gloom in front of him and he stops, momentarily taken aback. Dressed in white, the apparition moves towards him and he believes that this must be an angel, further proof that this is a night of miracles. But then he sees that this is no divine being, his seraphim has an all too familiar face. His night visitor is the nurse on tonight's ward duty. In the past she has bathed him, dressed him, applied medication, given injections. Many times he has seen the truth badly hidden in her eyes as she chats to him about inconsequential things.

He raises a hand to greet her (and revels in how easily the limb moves, how smoothly) smiling in anticipation of the surprise it will give her to see him standing here. "Hello..." he says.

She gives no reply, does not even stop. She gives no indication of having heard - or seen - him. Instead she walks past him, a purposeful stride taking her towards the bed from which he has just risen.

He turns to follow her. "Hello!" he repeats, but again no response is forthcoming. 

He's a pace or two behind the nurse when she arrives at his bed. As she pauses he reaches out towards her to tap her shoulder, get her attention - but stops.

The bed - his bed - is still occupied. The nurse is crouched over the figure lying there, hiding its face so he moves around the bottom of the bed to get a better view.

Except, of course, he knows who it is lying in the bed, knows with a certainty that sends a coldness through him. The nurse turns to check the bedside monitors and he sees his own face, eyes closed, an apparent look of contentment playing across his features.

"Oh dear God..." he whispers as the nurse reaches up to draw floor-length curtains around the rail above the bed, hiding the ward's latest death from the rest of its residents.

He steps backwards, retreating from the scene of his passing. As he watches, everything becomes brighter as if someone has turned all the lights in the ward on. The brightness intensifies until all becomes a white so bright he must shield his gaze from it.

"No," he cries out, "not yet, I'm not ready - not yet..!"

III

The tendons in Gary's neck make a loud crack as he rotates his head in a vain attempt to ease the tension that has been developing there since the start of his shift. No delicate click this, more a meaty clunk as something between his shoulder blades shifts back into place. Three hours in and this is the first chance he's had to take a breather. A mug of tea sits on the table in front of him, strong and milky and containing more sugar than could ever be considered healthy.

Bloody night-shift. He hates it. It's not natural for a man to work through the night - knocks his body-clock all to hell. Gave you cancer - he'd read that somewhere, Nuts or FHM maybe. It's only because he's new here that he's gotten lumbered with it so often.

He slurps his tea noisily as behind him he hears the toilet in the Porters' Room flush. The door creaks open and Ron steps out, newspaper folded beneath his arm, the front of his regulation blue shirt hanging out over his belt.

"Give that a few minutes if I were you!" He says - as indeed he says every night following his ritual evacuation. The truth inherent in those words has meant that Gary has never found them funny - not the first time he heard them, nor on any of the many occasions since. Certainly not tonight.

Ron sits - or rather collapses - into the chair next to Gary. He is the oldest porter in this hospital's employ and is a permanent fixture on the night shift. "Still, better out than in!" 

Gary slurps some more tea, pointedly ignoring his companion's other stock phrase. As if just being on night shift wasn't bad enough, he's lumbered with bloody Ron - "I'd give that a minute" - Wallace. What has he done to deserve this?

The phone rings, interrupting his melancholy. Ron remains immobile in his chair. "I'll get that shall I?" Gary says.   "Good lad!" replies Ron, ignoring the sarcasm.

Gary places his mug back on the table and rises to cross the room to the insistent phone.

"Porters," he says and waits for whatever the caller's request will be. With any luck it'll be a specimen to take down to Pathology - nothing too heavy and a chance to get away from the malodorous Ron. 

But no. Not this time. As Gary listens to the sombre voice at the other end of the line, the realisation that his night is going to get a lot worse is mirrored in his expression and Ron, noticing, shrugs his shoulders and gives a sympathetic smile.

*

The empty corridors amplify the squeaking of the trolley wheel, the irritation caused by the noise adding to the tension the two porters already feel. They themselves are silent, neither is in the mood for conversation.  Gary is at the rear, pushing while Ron walks at the front, guiding the trolley and its load through the internal maze of the hospital.

At night, with no staff or visitors milling around the corridors, the hospital is an eerie place. The quiet lends it an other-worldly atmosphere, the silence somehow sacrosanct like that of a church or library. In acknowledgement of an unwritten rule, co-workers who pass each other by at these times simply smile or nod in acknowledgement of each others' presence - no words are exchanged.

A trip to the mortuary is never pleasant, to do so at night makes the experience even worse. They turn a corner in the corridor and Gary feels the weight within the metal box shift, sliding to the side. He is - or so he thinks - too young to have to deal with shit like this. Confronting death is not something he should be doing at the age of twenty two. Creeps him out, so it does. All those polite whispers on the ward and then having to pick up the body (already cooling) and put it in the transport box. This one had been smiling he'd noticed - at least someone appeared to be having a good night. Worse was still to come though, unloading in the mortuary, surrounded by all the other bodies...

"Okay Mate, we're here" - even Ron was being nice to him now, although in reality the older man's efforts were actually making him feel worse.  Just get on with it, get in and out. Cut the bullshit.

Ron holds up his ID badge to the lock mechanism on the mortuary door. A bleep followed by a click signifies that the door is open. He pushes the door ajar and guides the trolley into the mortuary.

Fluorescent beams flicker and ping into life, illuminating the entrance area of the mortuary. Doors surround them, leading to offices, the Chapel of Rest, the Autopsy Suite.

"Come on lad," says Ron, "let's get it done..."

A crash from beyond the door - the Autopsy Suite door - echoes through the stillness. Both men jump, Gary lets out a startled cry. "What the..?" he turns to look at Ron, sees the shock (and fear) in his eyes, sees the colour draining from his face - an effect rendered starker still by the harsh fluorescent light. "Ron..?" He gets no response, "Ron..!"

"I don't know lad," he replies, "if that's what you're asking."

"Is this some kind of wind-up? 'Cos if it is, it's not funny - not in the slightest."

Ron shakes his head, "No, it's not a wind-up" and from the look in the older man's eyes Gary knows he's telling the truth.

"Let's just leave him here," says Gary, petulance in his voice, "no way am I going in there!"

"We can't do that! Show some respect! Anyway, we do that and we'll get the sack."

"I don't care, I'm not going in there."

Anger flares in Ron's eyes. "You'll do as you're told! What's the matter with you - what you frightened of?" Indignation has chased away his fear. "Listen! Hear anything?"

They stand in silence. "No" Gary finally answers.

"There's a hundred and one reasons for that noise," says Ron, smiling now in an attempt at reassurance, "it's just because of where we are that our imaginations are running riot!"

Gary remains unconvinced but has to grudgingly admit that they need to get this body into one of the fridges in the Autopsy Suite. Jobs are hard to come by these days - especially with his lack of qualifications. He can't afford to lose this one. "Okay - let's just get this over with."

Ron smiles and nods. Already fear is starting to creep back into his thoughts but he's said too much now - he made a stand, he has to go through with it. Nervously, he approaches the door to the autopsy suite. The beep of the door unlocking is the loudest sound he's ever heard. Taking a deep breath, he pushes the door open...

Stepping inside, he reaches for the light switches. More fluorescents flicker into life casting white light over the three autopsy tables in the centre of the room and the banks of fridges against the wall. One of the three ceiling lights continues to flicker - the far end of the suite alternates between shade and light. 

Ron's heart hammers in his chest but as he scans the room it gradually slows.

"Come on Lad" he calls out, "nothing here."

Reluctantly, behind him, Gary begins to push the trolley.

IV

The room is sparsely furnished. A two-seater sofa - threadbare, the stuffing protruding from multiple rips and tears in the upholstery - alongside a wooden chair, incongruous, lone member of a set but lacking a dining table to be pushed under. The floor is exposed boards, the only covering a rug in front of the gas fire, multi-coloured with intricate Middle Eastern patterns. 

A bare light-bulb hangs from a ceiling yellowed by years of exposure to cigarette smoke. The flock-wallpapered walls are unadorned save for a mirror hung on the chimney breast above the fire. The mantelpiece bears three items, a pewter coffee pot - spout curving from the rounded body, a framed photograph and a small digital camcorder, red light glowing dimly. The picture shows four men, grinning, one with an arm raised to give the peace sign. Sunglasses hide their eyes. All are dressed in desert fatigues. Behind them the rear end of a tank can be seen.

A figure sits on the wooden chair. Unmoving, his eyes closed, still as the dead. Not dead though, get close enough and faint breath sounds would be heard. Not sleeping either, he sits bolt upright in the chair, not slumped to the side. Orange light from the streetlamp outside casts shadows across the room. All is silent - the only noises the passing of cars in the street below, a rare occurrence at this late hour.

And then, suddenly, he screams, clutches his head - the movement rocking him back on the chair which topples backwards, throwing him to the floor.

He curls into a foetal position, head still in hands. He heaves breath into him like a drowning man surfacing for the third time.

Slowly his breathing slows. Gingerly, he gets to his feet. Pain fills him - as it does every time he is re-awakened in this way. He rights the chair, runs his hand through his thick mop of hair. "Shit..." the word no more than a whisper.

He picks up the camcorder from the mantelpiece, presses the button to stop the recording. Glancing at the mirror on the wall in front of him he sees the red glow in his eyes slowly diminishing.

V

Day breaks over the city. Winter bares its teeth, a vicious gale hurls sleet against buildings, into the faces of those already out on the streets at this early hour.  The wind howls between buildings, the sound of it at times like the cry of the banshee, at others more the low moan of a ghost destined to an eternity of haunting some derelict, deserted house.

Through the cemetery it blows, toppling urns and vases filled with flowers, many of which reflect the essence of the place, petals withered and browning, dying things as ornaments for the dead.  Death and decay above ground mirroring that below. 

Here, a blue and white tape flaps and flutters, the hum of its vibrating lost in the noise of the wind. Repeated at regular intervals along its length are the words POLICE LINE. DO NOT CROSS. Strung between metal poles, the tape cordons off an area of the cemetery itself further concealed beneath a large tent. Tarpaulin sheets flap in the wind, adding more noise to the cacophony in this place normally steeped in silence.

Hands in pockets, head bowed to hide his chin behind his scarf, he stares at the tent. Deep in thought he fails to hear the footsteps approaching him, crunching gravel.

"Bloody disgrace" his new companion says. "What kind of person could do something like that?"

He does not reply, doesn't even acknowledge the presence of the other man. A moment passes before he hears a tut, a sigh and then the sound of footsteps moving away from him. Whether the sounds of distaste were for him or the perpetrators of the desecration that lies hidden in front of him he does not know. Truth to tell, he does not care.

Sleet continues to fall, driven by the wind it hammers into the tent, into his face. He turns to walk away, reaching into his pocket for his mobile phone. The cemetery wall provides some respite from the elements and he selects a number from his list of contacts. 

"I need to see you - now."

A crow, black as night, takes flight from the wall, flaps away to a more sheltered location.

"Yes it's important," he continues, "I wouldn't bother you otherwise."

His posture betrays the tension and discomfort he is feeling. He shuffles from foot to foot as he listens. Slowly, a look akin to anger crosses his features.

 "Remember Basra?" He says, his raised voice not just to be heard above the wind and rain, "Remember Gav? What we did, what we said?" He lowers his voice again, composing himself.

"That's what it's about."

VI

The buildings which constitute the oldest part of the hospital were originally a workhouse. When the "charitable" organisation finally closed its doors in 1952 (some twenty two years after the laws abolishing such establishments were introduced) the conversion to a place of physical - rather than spiritual - healing began.

The church linked to the workhouse still stands, indeed still functions as a place of worship. A mere stone's throw from the hospital, its cemetery was the cause of much head-scratching for the planners of this northern town's then recent addition to the newly formed National Health Service.

It would not do to have the cemetery visible from any of the wards and so the hospital site was designed in such a way that the laundry and incinerator provided a barrier between the place where people were healed and the place where those who weren't ended up.

The cemetery is a short-cut for Dave on his way to work. Even in the darkness of Winter mornings and evenings he makes his way between the graves, en-route to and from his day's labours. The place holds no fear from him, death holds no fear for him. Twenty one years working in the mortuary has given him a pragmatic view of mortality - and whatever comes after.

The driving rain quickens his step, it will be a relief to get out of this howling gale. As he hurries, he thinks about the man he passed in the cemetery, staring at where those graves had been dug up the other night. Bloody rude he'd been, hadn't even looked at him when he'd spoken. No need for behaviour like that, courtesy costs nothing...

His thoughts have returned to more mundane matters by the time he uses his staff ID badge to unlock the mortuary door.  He steps into the vestibule, flicks on the lights. As always, his first act is to check the list of new arrivals - bodies delivered to the mortuary during the night. Just the one he sees, a quiet night then. Whistling, he takes off his wet coat and makes for the staff room, thoughts of hot coffee filling his mind.

*

"Bugger!" says Dave as he watches the far light flicker on and off. Another job for Estates to sort out - when they can be arsed to do it. Sighing, he crosses the floor of the autopsy suite to the fridge containing last night's delivery. 

Unlocking the door, he swings it open, pulls out the drawer containing Len Stephenson, late of Ward twenty four, delivered and signed off by Ron Wallace. Pulling down the sheet that covers the body of the old man he checks the details on the armband wrapped around the skeletal wrist, verifies that they correspond with the paperwork he carries with him. Checks also that Len's false teeth are in-situ - they are, no need to force open a jaw locked in rigor mortis to replace them.

"God bless Len," he says, pulling the sheet back over the waxen corpse, pushing the drawer back into place. "See you later," as he locks the door.

The flickering fluorescent strip continues to buzz and ping. Dave wanders over to it to take a closer look but can see no obvious signs of damage, no loose wires. He sighs again, absent-mindedly counts the dead flies lying inside the plastic tube.

Turning away, he notices the dent in one of the fridge doors. Bugger! They'd only been installed a few weeks ago and some clumsy bastard's gone and damaged one already. He approaches the fridge and, in so-doing, sees that the dent isn't the only damage to the metal door. 

Around the lock, spreading out from the dent, are a series of scratches - deep enough to expose the bare metal beneath the white paint.

VII

"Nice place, I see you've done a lot with it!"

"Yeah, well... Look, here's your coffee. Grab a seat."

He takes the proffered mug, collapses into the distressed sofa, shuffles to try and find some comfort on the flattened cushions. "Not planning on staying long then?"

"No." A simple answer but somehow the tone of voice in which it is delivered, the thousand yard stare that accompanies it, adds weight to the word, a significance.

He sips his coffee, grimaces at the bitter taste. He nods towards the mantelpiece. "Still got the picture then?" He raises his mug in a toast, "absent friends." Unexpectedly, he feels tears prickle his eyes. "To Gav and Jonno" he says, "good friends".

A silence hangs between them, the conversation they must have weighs heavy, waiting to begin.

"Two down, two to go." His host stands, crosses to the mantelpiece and picks up the framed picture. "You know sometimes... Sometimes I think we've been cursed."

"Oh come on Steve, that's bollocks, and you know it!" He stands too, better to confront his friend. "You think what happened to Jonno is because of what we did to Gav? You're wrong mate, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been any one of us on duty that day when that bastard blew himself up. Bollocks mate, bollocks. Anyway, we got out okay didn't we? We're okay!"

Steve stares him straight in the eye, the faintest of smiles plays across his lips. He shakes his head. "No mate we're not okay, I'd say we're far from okay." And then the smile is gone, replaced by that blank look, that thousand yard stare. The same look they'd all seen in Gav's eyes on that day...

...that day when they'd found the mass grave. In the suburbs of Basra, that hole in the ground full of bodies, most reduced to bones but some still bearing flesh, decomposing, melting, rendered into a composite mass. They'd all been affected, how could they not have been, but it had hit Gav worst of all. He was the youngest of them so that was understandable. He'd changed on that day - they all had - but it was Gav who took it the worst. Something inside him died, something deep in the core of him. They'd watched him transform from a happy-go-lucky kid (dear God, he was only a kid) to a soul-less, indiscriminate killing machine.

He'd only come back to them the night he died. Cradled in Steve's arms, colour draining from his face as his blood poured from the wound in his chest. For a moment, the hatred and madness in his eyes had gone and his features had become those of the scared young man he really was. And then the hint of a smile had played across his lips and he'd mouthed the words - his last words - "thank you..."

"Here - look at these." Steve hands him some newspapers. The headlines differ, (How Could They? Ghouls!), but the story covered is the same.

He shakes his head, "What are these Steve? What's this all about?"

They both sit, Steve on the wooden dining chair, giving him a height advantage over his companion. "Those stories, the graves getting dug up - it was me, I did it."

For a moment he is at a loss for words. Is this some kind of joke? He almost laughs but the look on Steve's face chokes it before he has a chance to begin.

"What do you mean mate? You're telling me that you're..." he waves the newspapers, "responsible for this?"

Steve smiles - though the effect is more hideous than humorous - "responsible? Let's say I did it, but as for being responsible..."

He gets to his feet again, anger flaring in his eyes. "Stop talking in riddles Steve. Tell me what this is all about. What's this got to do with Gav? Fuck me, when you phoned this morning I thought someone must have found out - I've been in a panic all day and now I'm here I get this, some bollocks about grave-robbing! What's going on Steve?"

"Sit down Pete. Sit down and calm down. Sorry I'm being so obtuse but I'm having a hellish time of it here mate, a hellish time..."

Pete sits, settling down into the moribund sofa. "Go on then."

"First up, no one's found out about Gav." He sighs, "how could they?"

From outside, a screech of brakes, the sound of a horn.

"Since I've gotten back," Steve continues, "I've been having these blackouts. Actually, they started before I came home - out in Saudi..."

"Ah yes, your little jaunt out into the desert. Me - I was desperate to get home, don't know how you could bear to stay out there any longer."

"Yeah, well, I felt I owed it to myself to learn a little about the region - given that I'd just helped invade it."

"You mean liberate."

Steve smiles, "I know what I mean. Given that Iraq wasn't exactly pushing the tourist trade I had myself a couple of nights in Riyadh and then booked myself on a GPS guided tour into the Empty Quarter." He takes a sip from his mug, Pete does likewise.

"It was great, the isolation, those empty expanses of sand stretching away as far as you could see. Anyway, three days in we found these ruins - not buildings or anything, just these little stone entrance holes in the ground. The guides said it was a cemetery, though God knows why it was all the way out there in the desert." Another sip. "So we set up camp for the night nearby and that, that's the last thing I really remember properly."

"That's when the blackouts started?"

Steve nods. "That was the end of the tour for me. They found me flaked out on the sand. Stayed the night there but they brought me out the next day."

"And you're still having them now?"

"Yeah - except I think there's more to it." He stares Pete in the eye with an intensity that sends a shiver down the other man's spine. "I'm starting to remember stuff, just fragments, images - but enough to know that it was me in that cemetery. I went out there this morning, never been in the place before in my life - well, not awake anyway - but I recognised the graves, the headstones." He sighs, "I don't think they're just blackouts, I think I'm - I don't know - sleepwalking or something, and doing these terrible things..."

"Shit mate, I don't know what to say... Maybe it's just..."

"Just PTSD? Yeah, crossed my mind too. Hope not - got fuck-all chance of anyone taking that seriously!"

They both smile, knowingly.

"All these... incidents started when I got back home. I thought maybe I did just have some PTS, that my subconscious was getting reality mixed up with stuff I was reading. Shit, I even videoed myself one night so I could see what was actually happening."

"And..?"

Steve shrugs. "Useless. Ten minutes of me sitting like a prat on the chair then static and white noise."   His voice is wavering, his shoulders slump. Tears prickle his eyes. 

"It's just like Gav, all over again." Suddenly, he rises, strides into the kitchen. 

"What you doing mate?"

Steve returns, the knife he holds in his hand is not to threaten Pete, rather he holds it out to him as an offering.

"Remember the pact we made, after we killed Gav? How we'd do the same for each other if and when the need arose?"

Pete stands, apprehension ties knots in his stomach as he realises what Steve is saying, what he will ask him to do, "no mate, no... I can't..."

Steve pauses, slowly nods, "yes you can," stares his best friend straight in the eye, "yes you can."

VIII

Night has claimed the world. Storm clouds gather above the city, obscuring the constellations high above, masking the light of distant stars - thousands of years on its journey to Earth only to be extinguished at the final moment. Rain begins to fall again, lightly at first but then as a thunderous downpour, flooding the streets, washing away the grime and dirt of the day.

They sit facing each other, all conversation long since ended. What hangs between them now is a sense of awkwardness, of unease. Rain hammers against the window, the noise of it filling the room. 

Pete checks his watch - ten-thirty. He looks at Steve, sees his friend leant forward on his chair, head in hands. Poor bastard. A broken man, a man of sorrows. He's promised to stay with him tonight, to keep watch over him. Promised too to honour the commitment he made in Iraq, in the heat of battle. Honour - yeah, that was the word. The friendship between the four of them had been forged amidst the constant fear and pressure of their time in the war-zone. A trust had grown between them, a knowledge that they would all - to a man - do anything for any of the others. Anything. He reflects on how easy it had been then to make the pledge, how it had been such a reasonable thing to say. Yeah - just after you'd killed one of your mates in cold blood... 

"I can't go on like this" - so Steve had said, "don't let me..." And the pleading in those haunted eyes had convinced him, he would honour the pledge. Better this, he tries to convince himself, than an inevitable lonely suicide.

But still he clings to the hope that all this really is in the mind of his friend, that the blackouts are down to whatever shit they injected into them before they left for Iraq. That, come morning, they can both laugh at how he'd passed out and fallen off the chair, rambling on about graves and corpses...

He glances at his watch again, hoping that the black-out comes soon, dreading the moment it does.

"Another drink?" he asks, making to rise from the sofa but, even as he speaks, sees the change in his companion. From his crouched position, Steve snaps bolt upright, his back thudding against that of the chair.

"Steve..?"

His friend now sits as if frozen in place and, as Pete watches, a dim red glow slowly brightens in Steve's eyes.

"Steve, mate..."

No reply as still the red intensifies. The temperature of the room increases, in a matter of moments it has become stiflingly hot. And with the heat comes a smell - one Pete is all too familiar with, the stench of dead things, of corruption and decay.

And then Steve's head tilts back and his mouth drops open. Pete is on his feet, backing away but unable to tear his gaze from his friend. As he watches, a cloud of mist - steam? - rolls out of Steve's mouth, flowing as if propelled by some force from within, like ectoplasm from the mouth of a Victorian medium.

"What the..?"

Mist floods out of Steve's open mouth, hovers in the air around him. Sweat pours from Pete's brow and he wipes it away, at the same time gagging at the charnel-house stench that fills the room. Unable to comprehend what is happening in front of him, instinct takes over and he reaches for the knife perched on the arm of the sofa.

The mist swirls around Steve, slowly intensifying in colour, becoming more substantial, taking on the texture of sand.

Pete's hand grasps the handle of the knife as he watches shapes swirl in the miniature sandstorm in front of him, half-glimpsed views of eyes, claws - a beak maybe? He takes a step back, watches as it becomes even more solid. And then all movement ceases, the column of sand simply hangs in the air in front of Steve.

He relaxes slightly, the tension leaves his shoulders. Sweat drips form his brow, the heat of the room has not dissipated.

All at once a howling fills the room, the sound mingling with his own shriek of surprise. The column disintegrates once more to a swirling cloud of sand and rushes towards him. He feels its solidity as it crashes into him, flinging him against the flock-wallpapered wall. There's a moment of dizziness and tears blur his eyes before he falls into the darkness of unconsciousness. 

IX

Dave closes the door of the Chapel of Rest quietly behind him. "This way, please..." He ushers the woman towards the chairs in the small waiting area.

"No, please, I should really be going. I've put you out quite enough already."

"No trouble at all, that's why we're here. It was important for you to see your Dad."

She smiles despite the tears welling in her eyes. "It was very kind of you to let me come so late."

He returns a sympathetic smile. "You've had a long journey to get here and I know if it had been me in your situation I wouldn't have wanted to go to my bed with out... well, without seeing my Dad."

"You're very kind. And thank you again." She sighs deeply, an attempt to regain some composure. "I really have to go, I haven't even checked in at the hotel yet."

"Okay, come on, I'll show you out."

*

His visitor gone, Dave returns to the chapel with the trolley and shuffles the body of Len Stephenson onto it. "Come on old fella, let's get you back."

Ten past eleven - not too late then - still plenty time to get Len back into his fridge and home for a few hours kip. Nice lady he thinks as he pushes the trolley out of the chapel into the mortuary vestibule, such a shame for her. Still, her dad's in a better place now.

Leaving the trolley, he goes to the doors of the autopsy suite, opens them, takes a step into the room...

...and recoils immediately, feels his heart skip beats, feels his legs turn to jelly as he hears a loud hissing from within the darkened room.

His legs give way and he crumples to the tiled floor. His heart - making up for the beats it missed only seconds earlier - now races in his chest.

Another hiss, the sound of something moving in the darkness.

Slowly, using the wall for support, he slides to his feet. Eyes fixed straight ahead (he's sure he can see something in the darkness) he reaches his arm out sideways, groping for the light switches. His fingers find the raised plastic and he flicks the nearest button down.

The fluorescent tube at the far end of the suite flickers into life, then off again, then back on. The slow-motion strobing intermittently illuminates a tableau from Hell.

Atop the far autopsy table a body is laid out. Crouched over it, sitting astride it is a naked man - no, not a man - some creature, wizened with parchment-like skin pulled taut over a skeletal frame.  The thing leans forward over the corpse, one hand on the metal surround of the table for support, the other reaching into the ripped open belly beneath it. Slowly, it pulls a purple rope of intestine from the cavity.

Darkness to light, darkness to light, darkness to light. The fluorescent tube continues to flicker, lending a jerkiness to the creature's movements.

"Oh Dear God no..." Dave slides down the wall, "no, no, no..." Unable to tear his gaze away, he watches as the thing on the table continues to pull the guts from the corpse, watches in horror as it places the glistening tube in its mouth and bites down.

He screams, then screams again as the monster slowly turns to look at him, the red of its eyes intensifying as the light goes off, burning an after-image into his retinas that remains there during those few seconds when the light flickers briefly back into life again.

*

He awakens to a world of pain. His head throbs as does his shoulder, blood has run down his forehead, congealed to stick the lids of his left eye together.

Slowly, he gets to his feet, the pain in his shoulder flares once again with the movement. "Shit," he says, rubbing the dried blood from his eye. "Shit," he repeats, as he sees Steve sat in the chair, still as a corpse.

Ignoring the pain, he strides over to the chair on which his friend sits. "Steve! Steve mate - wake up!" 

There is no response, no indication that Steve has heard the words. Head slumped slightly forward, his eyes are closed.

"Steve - wake up! You're out mate, but you're still here! You're still here!" He shakes Steve by the shoulders but still no response is forthcoming.

"Steve!"

*

Fear has immobilised him. Bent beneath him, his legs are no more than useless, quivering lumps of flesh. "Our Father, who art in heaven..." he begins to pray as the creature clambers down from the table. "...hallowed be thy name..." it moves towards him, movements jerky - rendered so not only by the slowly strobing light but also by the cloven hooves it has for feet, stepping gingerly on the smooth tiled floor.

"Thy kingdom come..." the creature is smiling at him, the blood of a dead man long turned black dripping from its teeth, "thy will be done..." it still holds a length of intestine, dragging it along the floor to leave a dark spoor on the white tiles.

"On earth as it is..." the words catch in his throat as intense pain fills his chest. "Oh God no..!" - the words little more than a croak...

*

"Sorry mate" he says, and slices down with the knife through the flesh of Steve's arm. Blood wells up immediately and - shocked awake from his stupor - he cries out, overbalances, topples from the chair.

Pete catches him, swivels round to sit on the floor, cradles his friend in his arms. "It's okay mate, you're safe now. It's okay."

Steve slowly opens his eyes, wide then wider still, the fear in them all too apparent. 

"Steve..?" Pete has seen the look in his friend's eyes, sees the fear, the pain. The thought comes to him that his friend is dead already, dead inside...

 

Slowly, Steve shakes his head. When he speaks it is no more than a whisper. "No," he says, "not okay." He turns his head slightly to stare Pete in the eye. "Do it..." he says.

"No mate, it's okay..."

"Do it," a tear wells up in his eye, trembles on the edge for a moment then tips over to run down his face, "please..."

Pete still holds the knife, stained already with the blood of his friend. "Fuck mate," he says through clenched teeth, emotion causing his voice to waver, "how did it come to this..?"

X

It pauses, feels the death of its host, the link between them severed. It is, it realises, a matter of little import now. It had needed a vessel after the long years of isolation, long years with no nourishment, during which the taste of cold, dead flesh had become little more than a memory.

Not now though. Already it feels the strength flowing back into its body, reserves of energy depleted by the long search, the shape-shifting, finally renewed in this place of feasting.

It stares at the food before it - freshly dead, the most sublime of all flesh to devour. A gift from the Gods. Its nostrils twitch, detecting the odour of yet more food. It passes by the freshly dead flesh, passes through the doorway to seek out this latest offering.

Saliva wells in its mouth, spills out over thin, parched lips.

A long night lies ahead.

*

The operator picks up on the second ring. "Police," he replies in answer to the question.

"I need to report a murder."

"I don't know the number - it's on the corner of Station Street - opposite the Greek restaurant, Dyonisia."

"No, you can't have my name."

He ends the call, throws the mobile phone to the floor. He walks to the bathroom and climbs into the bath already filled with water.

Reaching out, he retrieves the knife from the floor beside the bath. Placing the blade on his wrist of his left arm - the arm bearing a tattoo of a red rat, sat on its hind legs beneath a number seven - he pulls the blade across his skin, applying downward pressure.

Blood bubbles up, rapidly becomes a steady flow. He places his arm beneath the water, watches as his life flows out of him, becoming a redness that spreads around him.

XI

One ring.

Two.

"Hello, porters. Oh Hi Geoff, it's Ron, how you doing?"

Gary returns to his crossword, no longer interested in the conversation.

"Yeah - of course I can, no problem. Okay, I'll give you a bell later."

Ron hangs up. "That was Geoff, he wants me to pop down the mortuary, see if Dave's there."

""What for? Why can't he just phone him?"

Ron rolls his eyes. "He's tried. Look, Dave's on call tonight but no one can get in touch with him. He's not answering his pager. Anyway, there's a couple of coroner's cases on their way in. The police couldn't get hold of Dave so they phoned Geoff instead. He's said he'll come in but he asked me to check if Dave's already there - might be something wrong with the pager. If he's there it'll save Geoff a trip."

"Right. Okay, enjoy - see you later."

*

His footsteps echo through the deserted corridors. Three in the morning and not a soul around but him. He swipes himself into the mortuary, steps into the vestibule.

Len Stephenson lies on a trolley in the centre of the room.

"Dave?" Ron calls out, disconcerted at the sight of the dead man left out here in the open, "You there?"

No answer is forthcoming but the sounds of movement come from behind the doors of the Autopsy Suite. 

"What you doing you silly bugger!" - the relief is evident in Ron's voice. 

He strides over to the autopsy suite.

He swipes his staff ID card through the reader. The light turns from red to green and the lock clicks open.

Pushing the door open, he steps into the flickering light.