Wickerman Cove

Part 33:Belly of the Beast

Steph's consciousness came in snatches: pain in her hip and shoulder as the Russian dude played tug of war with the Guide, losing his grip on her hand as a cultist slugged him; thrashing as they carried her to the van, frozen from blood loss and the storm, trying to see Penny and passing out from the pain; too weak to move, lying on some sort of trolley as she passed under striplights.

Then there was nothing. A strange sort of nothing – floating in the dark with a glimmer of consciousness that allowed her to know she was in limbo. Something searingly hot nagged at her awareness, like a coal pressed against her shirt.

Steph dreamed about shoals of dead fish, rotting and washed up on the shore in mounds. She dreamed of the slug thing, dead and decaying, a hole torn in the middle of its body. She dreamed of Skinny Fat, Dave Jr., walking around as something awful moved around under his skin.

Then it was gone. A background hum – a faint vibration she'd lived with so long she'd never noticed it – went silent, ending the dreams and plunging her into a more genuine oblivion.

That was it. A jump cut into nothingness.

The next thing she knew was pain. Her back hurt, but not as much as she'd expected. Every bone in her body felt like it had been worked over. And, from the pain in the side of her face, she'd been closer to getting hit by the Angel than she'd realised.

There was no question of moving. The concrete was cold and hard, but it was also the most comfortable thing she'd ever slept on. Opening her eyes revealed a lattice of twisting designs that sent stabbing pains through her eyes.

Steph lay there for a while – too frightened of the pain to open her eyes. Memories trickled in: the Guide had choked her out and Mansfield – who was Marian now? Maybe? – had taken her as a prisoner.

Or a sacrifice.

Against her better judgement, Steph decided to move. Eventually. It was just too much. Even if her body wasn't so screwed, something was bruised in her spirit. There was a point where nobody was tough enough to force themselves through the pain. Maybe she didn't need to? They might just want her out of the way.

On the other hand, what were they doing that meant she had to be on ice? Emil Lenkersheimer was dead. She'd known it when she crawled out of the ocean. Did he die in a room like this? If she opened her eyes, would she see what was left of him?

Steph tried to fight the growing realisation that she couldn't just stay where she was. The smell of rotting fish wasn't just from her dreams. It hung in the air, almost like it had soaked into the floor and walls. Steph concentrated on the texture of the concrete under her hands – old, maybe with too much sand. It turned to powder easily, coming away as dust when she scratched at it.

There was nothing for it. She forced her eyes open – instantly, the pattern hurt. It was on the walls, floor and ceiling – an intricate design of intersecting lines. Every space that wasn't criss-crossed with lines was filled with the angular script of Arctic 4. It glowed, the knife-like pain in her head throbbing in time with the dim, pulsing red light.

The tooth burned in her shirt pocket. They'd taken her jacket, which meant they had her pistol and all her ammo, not to mention the Ka-Bar. The wound in her back felt better than it had any right to be: she wouldn't be competing in any Iron Man tournaments, but she wasn't dead or paralysed, which was something.

Oh, Christ, the pain in her head.

Steph closed her eyes again until it faded. She stood, carefully – the leg the Guide had been holding wasn't great, but it took her weight. No running. Her left arm wasn't great either; Maksym (Yes! That was his name, she suddenly remembered) had almost torn it out of the socket trying to stop her being taken.