Berserk

Berserk

Tim Lebbon

Those who go for cold, queasy horror will embrace the latest shocker from Stoker-winner Lebbon (Fears Unnamed). When a dangerous military experiment on England's Salisbury Plain goes fatally awry, the authorities hastily and secretly bury the bodies of a dozen soldiers and a few other victims. The body of one soldier, Steven, is supposedly returned to his parents, but the coffin is empty. Ten years later, Steven's still grieving father, Tom, locates the place of burial. But when Tom excavates the site, he discovers not his son's remains but the moldering corpse of a little girl animated by a peculiar form of life. Lots more nastiness follows. Fans who prefer their horror to have a sense of humanity should look elsewhere.

The dead thing slithered toward him as he pulled, connected to the first headless body by the thick metal chain, and then another, smaller corpse followed it up. Tom stood and backed away, only partially realising that he still had a hold of the first body's mummified legs.

He was about to drop the legs, back away, run away, when he saw that the chain was wrapped around another corpse. This one still seemed to have its head attached. He pulled again and it popped free of the ground, wet and filthy and yet obviously whole. It was chained to the three headless corpses, the metal wrapped around its chest, under its armpits and between its legs, thoroughly entangled.

Tom faltered only for a second before moving slowly down into the pit again. The first skull stared at him as he reached over the two adult bodies, grabbed the child's skeleton and pulled it across to himself. The child was as light as a pillow, its body seemingly whole and yet dried out and desiccated. The only thing that gave it weight was the chain. Tom placed the corpse gently between the headless adults, clasped the chain and pulled. He lifted, grunting with the effort, tears and sweat blurring his vision as he tried to make out what was wrong with this thing's head, why it was shaped like that, why it was turning....

And then the tiny corpse reached out and grabbed Tom's arm.

Tim Lebbon Berserk

'Dead men tell no tales.'Proverb

Chapter One

Ten years after Steven's death, Tom never thought that his son would change his life again.

Tom held dear every precious memory of Steven, especially those times that affected him so much that he believed they had altered his perception of things forever. His toddler son, pointing to the sky in wonder and gasping his first word: Cloud! Older, learning to ride his bike, Tom letting go and Steven only falling when he realised he was riding on his own. At thirteen he won a bronze swimming medal for his school in the national finals, and the photograph of the presentation showed a boy on the cusp of manhood: his expression delighted yet reserved, full of self-awareness. At seventeen Steven joined the army, and at nineteen he was accepted into the Parachute Regiment. Tom still had the photograph of his son wearing that red beret hanging above his fireplace at home. It made him proud. It made him sad. It was the last picture he took of Steven before he died.

Tom sat staring into a half-empty glass, listening to the bustle of the pub serving after-work pints and meals, wondering whether he should go home to Jo or stay for one more drink, and Steven suddenly popped into his mind. This often happened—he had been their only child, and his loss had stabbed them with a blade that time kept twisting—but mostly it was when Tom least expected it. He blinked tears into a blur, drained his drink and tried to imagine what Steven would be like now, were he still alive. After ten years in the Parachute Regiment he would have likely seen action, either in Eastern Europe or the Gulf. He would probably be married; he had always been one for the girls, even as a youngster.

Maybe Tom would be a grandparent.

'Hello, wherever you are,' he muttered as he stood and walked to the bar. He often pictured the ghosts of those not yet born, shades of lives unlived, and sometimes he craved to be haunted by his own grandchildren. He hoped they would be proud, but he thought not.

'Same again, Tom?'

Tom had placed the glass on the bar with every intention of going home, but now he nodded and handed over a handful of change. Glass replenished, he returned to his table, but two men had taken his place. He considered asking whether he could join them, but the thought of entering into conversation with strangers did not appeal to him right now. Not when Steven was so fresh in his mind.

It's almost ten years. He sat in a window seat close to his original table and sipped from his pint. Ten years since he died. Jo has changed so much in that time. Gone from a lovely young mother into middle-age, barren of all but her hollow hobbies. And I still love her. He drank again and closed his eyes, tears threatening. She loved him, too. It was strong, their bond, and passionate; perhaps the single positive outcome of Steven's death.

He wondered just how much he had changed.

The two men were talking quietly, yet Tom could not help overhearing some of their conversation. He had never been the sort who could shut out background noise, and even if he had no real interest in what was being said, the words still found their way in.

The men were talking about their time in the army. They looked around thirty. Steven's age, were he still alive.

Tom drank some more ale, already beginning to regret this third pint. Jo knew he stopped off for a beer on the way home every Friday. What she did not know was that he was invariably on his own. He had led her to believe that a few colleagues from the office went along, and that small white lie did not bother him greatly. There was no reason to make her think otherwise. She would only worry. And for Tom it was just a couple of quiet pints, during which time he could muse upon the week gone by and contemplate the weekend ahead. He sometimes chatted to the couple who owned the pub, and occasionally he entered into conversation with one or two of the regulars. But more often than not this was his own time. It was when he could really think about whether or not he liked himself. The answers usually came in thick and fast, and that was why he was often home after just a couple of drinks, to immerse himself in life with his wife once again. Smother his thoughts. Bury the aching feeling that he should have done much, much more with a life so scarred by Steven's death.

'… never knew what it was all about,' one of the men said. The other nodded meaningfully and drank from his pint. He caught Tom's eye momentarily, then glanced away.

'Well, if he didn't know what they did there, he deserved it.'

Tom turned to the side in an effort to hear more of the conversation, but somebody won jackpot on the fruit machine. The celebratory clunking of their ejected winnings drowned the bar for thirty seconds, and by then the two men were once again sitting in silence.

Tom looked around the pub and felt a familiar disquiet settling in. He spent only a couple of hours here each week, and yet sometimes it seemed more familiar than his own living room. Perhaps this was the only place he ever truly relaxed. He closed his eyes and sighed, and when he opened them somebody said, 'Porton Down.'

He looked at the two men. They were hunkered down over their drinks, leaning in close, but they were not