Abyss

Abyss

Night wind blows in from the sea covering those out on the Downs in a fine spray. A full moon hangs like a winter lantern lighting a trail across churning waves; an illuminated pathway to the Heavens. Conditions are bleak yet beautiful, a rawness to nature that a midnight meander might encounter. From Brean Fort, the Bristol Channel stretches out into a yawning yonder beyond clusters of rocks and, eventually, the Atlantic Ocean. As near as the island of Steep Holm appears, to swim the five nautical miles to get to it is a folly shrouded in danger. Riptides and mud banks, swirling eddies and deceptive currents lie in wait should anyone be mad enough to attempt such a feat. 

It all started a few days ago with media reports of the appearance of the Northern Lights over England. Unusually, the Borealis would be visible as far south as Wiltshire. Skies were clear on the night in question resulting in random gatherings of people wanting to see the ethereal colours of one of nature’s phenomena. Families gathered in house windows, revellers in parks turned their heads to the sky and astronomers excitedly viewed through telescopes as a cross-section of society was brought together under the metaphorical roof of a minor miracle. A writhing phantasm made of greens, blues and purples, a sky captured by dancing atmospherics that left those lucky enough to see it transfixed.  

With so many watching, a shower of meteors appeared. Uncharted by astronomical agencies, they blazed across the horizon. For a few minutes, the white phosphorous trails turned the sky an odd shade of white before fading away, allowing the colours of the Borealis to reappear once more. During that time, the eyes of the collective audience had glazed over, thoughts suspended in a brief period where memory no longer functioned. People could recall the appearance of shooting stars but nothing after that; not until the return of the diaphanous, pulsing sheets of Northern Lights. It was all very curious.

With the reinstatement of normal skies, drifting clouds once again strung out across a candescent moon and people returned to their routines. Most felt a kind of euphoria at what they had seen. Many wondered whether the experience had changed them somehow. Things did feel different but it was hard to discern what exactly. It was like the subtlest of changes in physiology that could be detected but not identified. Those affected dismissed it as just a feeling.

Nobody could predict the aftermath from the earlier vanilla skies. Once things started to happen they did so quickly.

At 10:46pm on Friday 3^rd December, a random incident occurred outside The Beachcomber pub. A couple leaving having spent the evening with friends were attacked by a middle-aged man wearing a white fedora, polo shirt and chinos. Anybody watching on would have thought the assailant to be just a run-of-the-mill citizen who would blend absently into any crowd. On this occasion, the interloper was raging as though on spice, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth, eyes bulging and arms wind-milling, ripping and tearing at the unfortunate duo who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fortunately, the alarming situation was saved by two men from the pub and the subdued aggressor was duly arrested after a crowd had gathered.

The man and woman, both in their fifties, were taken to hospital as a result of the injuries inflicted on them. Bizarrely, human teeth bites were found on both of their faces as though the crazed attacker was some kind of animal. Taken by ambulance to the Weston General Hospital in Weston-Super-Mare, Mr and Mrs Foley were subjected to a thorough check up.

Within an hour, another odd event unfolded.

Treated in separate cubicles the doctors involved were, themselves, attacked. Both victims had become enraged in the same way that their aggressor from earlier had. Curtains demarcating treatment areas became sluiced in blood as the formerly mild-mannered couple transformed into snarling, snapping, rabid creatures. Neither of the medics stood a chance, taken by surprise, unaware of the changes apparent from the sudden glazing of eyes and the emergence of mania.

Hospital security did its best to quell the disturbance and brings things under control but, by then, the onset of madness was too late to supress. A chain reaction of infection had been triggered and those bitten by the infected became enraged themselves, a bloodlust unleashed with all reason abandoned. Soon patients were attacking other patients, hospital staff also affected and transformed into demented destroyers.

Emergency services tried in vain to isolate the site of the unfolding carnage but couldn’t prevent themselves from becoming diseased. Armed officers were called in but there were just too many of the now rampant creatures for them to keep things under control. Violence had fanned out and incidents started to be reported across all districts of town. Roaming packs of incoherent people hunted in roads and streets, smashing house windows and breaking down front doors. No differentiation was made between men, women and children; all subject to unconscionable atrocities.

Scenes on television were apocalyptic. It looked like war had broken out and expectation was that, sooner or later, the army would be called in. Other villages, towns and cities were experiencing similar stories of randomly affected people going rogue and attacking others. Watching it, I wondered whether this was the world as it is now in microcosm; a volatile tinderbox of ideology where politics subsume an individual’s rights. Where those in power flaunt their corruption with lethal force.

I tried, like most, to remain calm following the advent of this mass hysteria or whatever this was. My home is an old static caravan situated at the edge of Brean beach and I live alone, my wife Mary having died a year ago. Days since her death have been melancholy; perhaps more sanguine of late. There have been times when I contemplated on the point of living. She was my life, after all. I have considered the darkness; reflected on the point of existence and my place in the scheme of things. Nihilistic musings whilst glaring into a tumbler of scotch. The light had invariably overcome the night by dawn and the morbid pondering would be parked once more. I would carry on for now. The madness of the world would infiltrate my life sooner or later. No man is an island.

Whilst out walking along the beach late at night, I had spotted people running towards me in the gloom. They were a few hundred yards away and probably numbered a dozen or so. The sight of them induced a panic in me; my instinct to turn and make for the shear, wooden stairs that lead up the side of the cliffs and to the Downs high above. The climb had been marked by ragged breathing that went with being terrified.

At the top, I could either turn left and make for the old fortifications or go right and make my way towards Weston-Super-Mare. I opted (in haste) for the former, the old Fort a remnant from a previous war. It had always struck me as a place of latter-day sanctuary, a place where (maybe) people wouldn’t follow on a wretched night like this.

The gravel pathway that circles the edges of the Downs was a faint beacon in the moonlight. On one side, crumbling screes on cliffs; on the other, bushes and trees. It was still a serious jaunt to make it to the haven of the fortifications. As I ran, I could see the nearby town was on fire. It was like something from Dante’s Inferno, a bonfire of vanities mocking the sanity of the sane. My legs kept pounding away, unsure of how close behind anyone was. My mind was telling me that lunatics from an unseen asylum would pull me to the ground any second. The concrete of the graffiti-strewn monument finally came into view.

Now I find myself standing and staring out at dark waters; concrete fortifications behind me offering implied protection. Notwithstanding, turning to face the headland, I see blurred shapes in the darkness. There’s a hue and cry, guttural noises of pursuers intent on blood. They are close to the Fort now.

An island sits across the estuary. I wade into the sea at the foot of the rocks and stare into the abyss.

Image free to use at: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Stholm2.jpg