The Advent Killer by Alastair Gunn Page B

confined space, and kicked out, twice, three times. But the structure held, while the toy sentries howled mock encouragement.
    ‘Oh, dear.’ The girl leaned closer. ‘Maybe you should use this?’
    She posted a small hatchet through the gap.
    He took it, seating the handle carefully in his palm, wrapping his other hand on top, the way his father showed him. So he wouldn’t get blisters. He searched the cell’s inner surface for signs of weakness. Then he lined up the weapon and drew it back.
    He brought the hatchet down, flinching as it cracked into the blackened limb. The blade jerked and dug in, firing splinters as a cheer rose from the horde. In the same instant, his bedroom window erupted inwards, its shattered glass slung across the room by the huge gust of wind that swept in behind, knocking him off balance. But he gripped the wooden handle and hung on.
    When the wind had died he steadied himself and pulled the hatchet free. The wood had fractured.
    ‘Harder!’ The crowd chanted.
    He raised the weapon and took aim again. The toys roared as the blade closed on its target, but then everything switched into slow motion: the trees outside froze at perilous angles; the wind tearing at his skin became a gentle push; and the surface of the cell wall began to change.
    He tried to stop, but the hatchet moved on.
    The branches were reordering themselves, their craggy shapes blending into a familiar form, becoming recognizable as a woman’s face.
    Her
face.
    He cried out as the weapon made contact, and her perfect features exploded into tiny wooden fragments that hung before him in the heavy air. The girl’s laughter filled his ears for a split second before the rest of the world suddenly reverted to its normal pace.
    The spectators shrieked anew, and the wind became a brick wall once more, driving the shards of her shattered face into his skin, where they stung like hot needles. He screamed.
    Then, as suddenly as it had started, the pain was gone. The wind stopped and he blinked his eyes open. The wooden cage had disappeared and his toys no longer stood. The sky had cleared, and moonlight glowed gently through the undamaged window. Once more the room looked just how he remembered it.
    ‘Good.’ The girl pointed towards the landing. ‘Now you can go. Just try not to get scared,
OK
?’
    He stared at her for a second before she nudged him. ‘Go on, silly. I won’t watch.’
    She skipped out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
    He waited till her footsteps had faded before he climbed out of bed, and stood looking at the door. There was nothing stopping him now. He took a tentative step.
    Everything remained still, the silence in the room broken only by the swish of a gentle breeze stirring the fields of corn out on the farm. He looked outside. The sky was calm, and to the south he saw the bridge that marked the edge of his father’s land.
    His bed socks skimmed the floorboards as he approached thedoor, but a familiar knot grew in his stomach as he reached for the handle. Would things be any different this time?
    There was only one way to find out.
    He pulled, and the door swung open.

17.
     
    He stared into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. It took him a moment to realize he was looking at the ceiling of a room not from his past, but from the present.
    Awake.
    Feeling now the cold sweat on his skin and the rapid beating in his chest, he lay still, waiting for the dream’s intensity to fade. Somehow, he had been spared the harrowing experience that concluded his recurring nightmare. And, beyond its immediate distress, at least his body felt rested.
    He began using logic to calm himself. Psychological trauma was necessary; he had begun this campaign for a reason. No individual’s suffering was too great a sacrifice. And in order to release his mind from its shackled state, it was necessary to complete the entire sequence.
    To eliminate
all
his tormentors.
    With that thought his strength began