Black Night

Black Night

Prologue

She ran.

Abject panic grasped at every nerve. Fear clung to every cell. It was close to midnight, and as dark as it could get.

Still she ran.

All those people. Dead. Or worse.

Blind luck had saved her.

She had been out of the facility, inspecting a suspected fault. Then hell erupted.

The sirens, the slamming of doors, the screams as her colleagues realised and confronted their inevitable doom.

Then she ran.

Her lungs were burning. She was on the road leading away from the facility. From the outside, the building looked innocuous. Disguised, even, as if it was designed to blend in with its wooded surroundings.

That had not been accidental. The nearest town, almost a mile away, largely ignored it. Those who deigned to take an interest believed it to be a chemical testing plant. Which is why the organisation behind it had designed it that way.

What their real purpose was, however, would be described as an affront to all things holy, unholy, and everything in between.

And now it was loose.

Which was why she ran.

Every fifty metres or so, she glanced back over her shoulder. Not that there was much to see. Faint moonlight barely lit the road ahead. After a half-mile, she stopped, hands on knees, breathing heavily, saliva gushing, legs shaking, ears pricked for the slightest hint of movement.

The night was dark, and cold. February in Yorkshire. There had been snow only a week before. A dusting, granted, but the weather had not improved a great deal since then. Her car keys had been left in her bag, in her office. Otherwise she would have been driving as far away as possible at great speed.

Instead, she ran. She was not in the first flush of youth nor at the peak of fitness. She enjoyed swimming from time to time, but that was as far as her physical endeavors went.

She took several more breaths, and continued, albeit at a slower pace, as her thoughts began to form into a more cogent narrative. She realised that she needed to inform the authorities. Which would result in her death.

Telling nobody and running would yield the same result, albeit much later.

With many more deaths.

The proverbial rock and hard place.

Crack!

Had that come from the woods? Or her imagination? She jogged on.

Creak!

Was that a tree limb, complaining of the cold?

On she went.

Snap!

OK, that wasn't natural. Not at midnight. The only things in these woods were squirrels and a couple of deer. Were deer nocturnal? She didn't know. And squirrels couldn't break twigs with their weight.

She stopped again. Held her breath. Turned to her right.

Nothing.

The ancient part of her brain, honed and evolved over millions of years, told her the danger was behind her.

She knew she shouldn't turn round. She knew what would inevitably be there.

She turned.

Chapter One

Alison Pryde flew in as the fog was getting thicker. As the pilot had just announced, they would be the last flight landing this evening owing to the worsening weather. You got lucky, folks, so get your lottery tickets on, he had quipped.

Dickhead, she had thought, mentally running through the fastest possible disembarking routine as her hand went to the seatbelt release catch. The loud, mouthy cow in the seat in front, who had been complaining since they left Portugal, was obviously the type who would dither and fanny around getting their shit together, blissfully unaware of the inconvenience she and her massive arse were causing others.

The landing was mercifully smooth, and Alison managed to get out of her seat and ready to leave before the insult to femininity in the seat ahead. The fog had gotten even thicker in the intervening fifteen minutes. It would make riding back an even bigger challenge: car drivers had tunnel-vision when it came to motorbikes even on clear days.

Clearing customs was easy – she only had a small rucksack – and shortly after she was unchaining her bike and squashing the rucksack into the pannier. The fog was thick and visibility was going to be a massive hindrance. Thankfully she only lived in the next town over; the risk would be minimal, no need to change into leathers. She texted her partner to meet her at their favourite pub, started the engine, and rolled slowly out of the airport parking.

It was good to be back on home turf. Visits to her parents in Portugal were uncomfortable enough without the added solemnity of terminal illness. Even that, however, would not heal the rift that had festered away for almost four years. A drink was not just welcome, it had been earned. Several times over.

The main road out of the airport was almost deserted. At least, Alison thought it was. The fog was so dense she didn't dare go faster than twenty, hoping that any other drivers out there were doing the same. She had less than two miles to travel, but it would still be a guessing game half the time. She knew the route so well the fog wouldn't be much of a factor.

At the crossroads, she hung a right, heading for the all-downhill stretch of her journey. Very few buildings had lights on, so far as she could tell, even on a street with so few residences.

She reached the mini-roundabout that signified the beginning of the downhill leg of her journey. The pub on the corner had its lights off. The supermarket had them on, though she couldn't see anyone around through the combined gloom and helmet visor. Again, she put it down to the now-cloying fog.

She reached the bottom of the town's high street and hung a left, then took a long, sweeping, downhill right. Just as the road straightened out, someone ran across the road in front of her.

“Bastard!” she yelled as she instinctively jerked left. The front wheel hit the kerb and pitched her over the handlebars. Given she was only going at twenty miles an hour, tops, the landing on the grass banking was soft, and the slope gentle. She lay in the wet grass, hardly able to see, and caught her breath for a few moments.

What an utter dickhead, she thought as she picked herself up slowly. Her old ankle injury was flaring up a little, but she could hear the bike ticking over, which was a small mercy; there was no way in the hells of all religions that any taxi would come out to collect her in this weather, and walking would be madness.

She felt the grass turn to concrete, and knew she was on the path she had just sailed over. The bike was about ten yards to the left of her, idling patiently, awaiting its mistress. At a guess it was in the middle of the road. She navigated largely by sound, the bright lamp-posts barely cutting through the gloom.

As she was picking up her bike, Alison heard a sound behind her. A shuffling, grunting noise. She half-turned, expecting to see the inconsiderate cocksquatch who sent her flying coming to check on her. Or apologise. Or hit on her. She hated it when it was the last one.

Instead, through the darkening gloom and the hazy beacons of the lamp-posts, she saw two bright red lights. Small, about eight feet from the ground. Spaced a few inches apart.

And they were moving.

Terrified instinct kicked in. She leapt back on her bike and gunned it as hard as she could, hoping her knowledge of the local roads and the reluctance of anyone else to be out on such a shitty night as this to keep her from further crashes.

What the fuck was that? She thought as she nudged the bike close to thirty, subconsciously checking behind her despite the low visibility. It's eight months too early for Hallowe'en, so it can't be kids pissing about.

Whatever it had been, she was moving away from it. As soon as she arrived at the pub she would call it in; her former workmate was a Detective Sergeant and would know what to do. If it was some kind of wild animal, especially in this fog, the area needed to be put on alert, if it already hadn't when someone realised the escape.

She navigated the route back to town easily enough, the familiar undulations and turns helping calm her heart rate. Her only thoughts were for her partner and their safety. After the family cataclysm, she only had them left. Doubtless some psychoanalyst could define exactly what she was doing, but it was beyond her knowledge and understanding. She was human and limited by human constraints.

Within ten minutes Alison pulled up outside the pub. The lights were on and music was playing. She hadn't seen one single vehicle on her route back. She kicked the stand down, turned off the engine, removed her helmet and walked to the door.

Which was locked.