The Blood Eagle by Newton Webb

A Supernatural Horror Short Story: When construction workers unwittingly unleash an ancient evil from its crypt, unsuspecting friends Jack and Carla find themselves at the epicentre of a grim battle.

Chapter 1

Jack walked through the massive trench carved into the dense Midlands soil. Beside him, his friend Carla checked her phone and hummed. Together, they strolled, kicking the thick clumps of sun-baked clay. The enormous construction vehicles, painted in the predatory colours of black and yellow, towered on both sides of them, creating the impression that they were walking through a gigantic steel rib cage.

The torn remnants of ancient woodlands loomed beside them as the relentless progress of HS2, Britain’s premier road-building project, bulldozed its way through the historic landscape.

“Quick pint?” Carla pocketed her phone.

Jake winced. “The pub will be full of lagered-up protesters. I’m just going to go home today.”

“Today? You’re always heading straight home. When will you join Lucy and me for a pint, eh?” Carla stopped to face him. “You and I have lunch together every day, we are basically work wives at this point. Come on, a little drinkie will be fun.”

“I’ve got to prep for a presentation tomorrow. Some other time, yeah?”

Carla strode after him. “How about showing us your flat sometime? Must be lovely, the way you dash off to it every night.”

Jack lifted his head as a gentle breeze broke the summer heat and cooled his face. “I’m sorry, I’m just not much for socialising. It’s not you, honest. I’ve got to focus on my job, you know why I have to work harder to prove myself. I’ll bring you a bacon butty tomorrow, though…”

“Lame, pathetic, useless,” Carla teased, her eyes sparkling with good humour. “You spent six years in prison. Don’t you want music, dancing? You might even find yourself a girlfriend—but you can’t have mine.”

Jack laughed. “That does sound fun, but no, I really must get this presentation done. Then I can reheat some pizza and fall asleep in front of the TV.”

“What a wild night. I don’t know why they bothered punishing you. You’re doing a cracking job of it yourself. My brother has more fun, and he is still inside.”

“Oi, give it a rest, yeah? You’re getting brekkie out of this,” Jack said.

Carla smirked. “Yeah, I am. Brown sauce and a wholemeal bap, remember?”

“Of course, you are so healthy.” Jack paused to look up at the herringbone pattern in the sky. “A storm is coming.”

“It’s a thousand degrees. The weather forecast is beer garden weather every day this week. Stop being a grump.”

They turned left into the staff parking lot. Banners hung on the trees surrounding them.

Eco-Terrorists! Stop Raping Mother Nature! Save Our History!

Jack purposely avoided looking at them. 

What do they expect me to do? Nobody else will hire an ex-con.

Carla and Jack separated, heading to their respective cars with parting waves. Jack clambered into his beat-up Volvo. The scent of mould never quite disappeared, no matter how much he shampooed it. 

Maybe I shampoo it too much?

He selected his favourite playlist, ‘Driving Rock Classics,’ and soon was nodding his head to Uriah Heep as it belted out of the old speakers. The trees lining the road felt oppressive, like bars to a cage. When he turned onto the motorway and the terrain opened up, he felt as if someone had lifted a weight from his shoulders and he could breathe again.

#

Leaning back onto his threadbare sofa, Jack arranged his plate, cutlery (wrapped in a piece of kitchen roll), and his can of Coke in precise order. He turned on the TV and flicked through channels until he found David Attenborough’s Blue Planet. Turning the volume up to sixteen, he placed the remote at a perfect angle on the corner of the table next to his mobile phone. A strict routine and a sense of order had helped him survive prison. He hadn’t always had an orderly life—Stop it! He took a deep breath and focused on turning his Coke can round so the logo faced the table edge perfectly.

David Attenborough’s smooth voice emanated from the tinny speakers of his rented flat’s LCD TV. Jack saw beyond the beauty and chaos of nature and found mathematics and symmetry instead. David's voice soothed him and he sank back, feeling a level of relaxation that he'd not achieved all day. When the episode had finished and he’d eaten his reheated supermarket pizza, he washed his hands and returned to the sofa.

His phone taunted him with its lack of messages. Picking it up, he unlocked it. He had sent his ex-wife nearly ten messages with no response. Despondently, he typed another one to her. 

[Please answer your phone, Helen. Knowing I'd see our kids again is what got me through prison.]

The phone mocked him with its silence.

With regret, he picked up his laptop to update the inventory system. In his past life, he had worked in IT he hoped to impress the site manager, Frank O’Malley, by incorporating a full bill of materials and a streamlined system, providing the construction company with an integrated logistics solution.

Jack mentally ran through the proposal in his head. His boss was notoriously old-fashioned and belligerent. Jack needed to convince him that his new solution was better than the creaking spreadsheet Frank had tasked him with maintaining. If all went well, he might even get a raise out of the tight-fisted old tyrant, especially when he pointed out the missing equipment that his new system highlighted.

He took one more lingering look at his phone. 

No new messages.

Chapter 2

The clouds had given an accurate forecast. The rain came down in torrents. A surprise summer storm  hit the sun-hardened ground. Unable to be absorbed by the rock-hard clay, the rainwater flooded the area. Jack drove cautiously down the slip road, past the ever-resilient protesters bellowing at him stubbornly from underneath their colourful mackintoshes. The miserable conditions fuelled their outrage as they competed with the sound of pounding rain. Carrying his laptop in his bag, he sprinted to his locker to retrieve his hardhat, work boots, high-visibility jacket, and trousers. The gendered Portakabins were humid, reeking of damp men and wet steel. Jack quietly got dressed, politely replying to his co-workers as they bitterly commented on the weather. He hadn’t bonded with his workers. He was an isolationist by nature. Carla was the exception. She had adopted him, without his consent, as her best friend and confidant. 

She probably has a soft spot for me, as her brother's in prison.

With his gear on, he braced himself for the weather and opened the door. The rain slashed into his face. He raised a hand to see properly, blinking away the water. As he walked down the short metal steps, his jacket absorbed a sharp blow to his ribs. He turned his head to see Carla looking unreasonably happy for these grotesque conditions.

“Come on, tea break. Let’s get some rocket fuel, and you can tell me all about your banging night last night.” Carla set off towards the packed, designated kitchen Portakabin. “I’m gasping for my butty. I was fairly restrained last night, but then we bought a bottle of wine from the kebab shop. I’m willing to admit that was a fuckup.”

They sloshed through the flooded ground to make their way to the kitchen. As they jostled inside past the other construction workers, Carla aggressively negotiated a place for them next to the tea urns and poured two cardboard cups of strong tea, emptying two sachets of sugar and a glug of milk into hers. Jack had his black.

“Right, come on then, let’s exchange gifts.” Carla reached into a pocket and passed him a heavy parcel wrapped in brown paper. He looked at it dubiously as he passed her the promised bacon butty. “Oh God, yes.” She hastily unwrapped her sandwich and tore a chunk from it. “Not bad. Even in these miserable conditions, bacon is bloody lovely.”

"I added fried mushrooms."

She paused mid bite and looked confused. "Oh, lovely."

Jack narrowed his eyes. "Did you even notice?"

Carla smiled, "Nope." She returned to her sandwich, chewing in ignorant bliss.

"For someone who loves their food, you have no appreciation of it." Jack gave her a reproachful look before opening the paper wrapped gift from Carla. He held its contents, a solid brown brick in his hands and regarded it with suspicion.

Licking the excess brown sauce from her lips, Carla nodded at the parcel. “It’s banana bread. Lucy made it for you. Don’t eat it, it’s rock solid, but if any of the protestors break through, then it’ll be a useful weapon. Lob that, and you'll kill a cow at ten paces.”

“I don’t think this is an equal trade.” Jack looked around for somewhere to put it. “Anyone here like banana bread?” He received a muted response from his colleagues until someone chimed in, and he gratefully passed it onto them.

“What the fuck is this?” The worker hefted the loaf with disgust. “Er, thanks, mate.” He then left the Portakabin, no doubt to find a bin.

Carla watched him go impishly before leaning in to confide in Jack. “Believe it or not, Lucy is the good cook amongst us. We are more microwave people than stove people.”

“I believe that. I one hundred percent do.” Jack adjusted his laptop. “Right, well, wish me luck.”

Carla slapped him on the back. “When you inevitably stun him with your words of nerddom and receive a meteoric pay rise, please remember the little people and buy them rosé.”

“Of course. Your generosity is underwhelming, as always. But this time I might take you up on the offer.”

“You’d better. I’ve been asking for long enough. It makes a girl look desperate, which is ungentlemanly,” she said, utterly ignorant of the brown sauce stain on her cheek. 

Jack smiled, pointing to the sauce and watching as she wiped it off and licked her hand clean. Finishing the last of his tea, he tossed the cup in the bin and headed back out into the storm to find Frank.

#

Jack stood outside the door, the rain pounding relentlessly on his hood. After knocking for the second time, more aggressively this time, he heard a bellow to wait. So, he waited: cold, wet, and miserable.

The door opened, and a man in an immaculate black suit and rimless glasses looked down at him. Jack stepped back to avoid a large black umbrella being opened and splashed into a sizeable puddle. The man glanced at him, visibly annoyed, and then stepped out gingerly, as if trying to protect his shoes from the weather.

Seizing his opportunity, Jack knocked on the door again, eliciting an irritated “Come in” from Frank. Two empty whisky glasses sat on Frank’s desk. He regarded Jack with a suspicious look as he puffed away on a cigarette. The whole Portakabin reeked of smoke. It was only just past nine, and already Frank’s ashtray held four butts. “What is it?”

Jack smiled nervously and stepped up to the desk. “I found some irregularities with the inventory spreadsheet—”

“—No, you didn’t,” Frank said sharply.

“But I…” Jack withered in front of his boss, his voice dying out.

“Do you know the only conceivable reason a company would hire an ex-con?” Frank asked. He poured a measure of whisky into each glass.

Jack paused. It wouldn’t be for philanthropic reasons, that’s for sure. “Because we accept lower rates?” he asked hopefully.

“Nah, there's tons of cheap labour out there. It’s because ex-cons aren’t stupid enough to put their head above the parapet.” Frank held out the second glass to Jack, the used second glass.

Jack regarded it, trying to conceal his disgust as he begrudgingly accepted the dirty glass.

“I showed you how to maintain the spreadsheet. Just do as you were told.” Frank slugged back his whisky.

Jack turned the glass to the cleanest side and did the same, coughing at the fiery liquid. “I have a background in IT. If I could just show you—”

“No need. I’ve seen all I need to. Just focus on keeping the spreadsheet maintained. Evidence of a crime means an investigation by the authorities, and neither of us particularly wants that.” Frank waited for Jack to reply. Jack, however, wisely remained silent. “A new system means new training, especially given the average IQ of the dolts who work here. If we lose the odd hardhat, then I don’t care as long as we don’t get delays.” Frank lit a cheap roll-up cigarette. “Look, you still don’t seem to understand. The eastern branch of HS2 is very much in the public eye, what with the budget and the protesters. If we have delays or cost overruns, then we risk the entire branch being cancelled.Then we are all out of work. That was our local MP, Richard Barton. Even he is breathing down my neck. Do you bloody understand now?” He glared at Jack, who nodded reluctantly.

“Innovation adds uncertainty to an already unstable situation,” Jack said, looking down at the floor.

Frank scoffed. “If that’s how you want to phrase ‘Just do your sodding job,’ then go for your life. I only need to know if someone is taking the piss. Then I’ll deal with them myself. Are we understood?”

Jack nodded.

Frank’s phone started ringing. “Then get the fuck out,” he said, picking it up.

Jack withdrew quietly. His attempts to prove himself had backfired. Wherever he went, he still felt like he was in prison, the walls closing in around him.

#

“So, it went well then,” Carla said. The rain had stopped, and now the sun gleamed over the vast puddles that had formed. “Yeah, splendid.” Jack sat slumped, nursing a cup of tea. “So much for getting promoted. Everything I do seems to come back to being an ex-con. What’s the point in rehabilitation if everyone treats you as if you’re still a convict?”

Carla slipped her arm around him. “If it helps, I just see you as a loser who never comes out. Jack Turner, the Excusinator.”

“Thanks. That helps.” He managed a weak laugh. “You cow.”

“Moo,” Carla said, gripping his arm tight before releasing him.

Jack’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Frank: [Get to plot 504. Big bloody problem.] Frank needed him on the far side of the construction site. “Gotta run, something’s up.”

“It’s tough at the top.” Carla winked at him, then scowled at her watch. “And I suppose I’d better get back to my plot. There’s a limit to how long even I can stretch a toilet break. See you for lunch?”

Jack grinned. “Of course, the usual?”

“Pot noodle, can of coke, packet of crisps, banana, and a satsuma. The diet of champions across Britain.” Carla stood up, stretching. Dumping her cardboard cup in the bin, she waved at Jack as he reluctantly marched towards the far end of the site.

# 

Jack arrived to find a group of people standing around, staring at a hole in the ground. Such a sight was not unusual in a project of this size. Nor was Frank’s swearing. However, the presence of security guards was. "Frank?"

"Good, it’s you. Massive sodding problem." He dragged Jack to one side. "We've uncovered an underground structure of some kind, and these idiots have put photos of it on Facebook. Now everyone knows. There's no way out of it. We have to wait until a specialist comes to examine plots 502–504. No construction until we get the all-clear. The local planning authority, Historic England, they're all kicking off." He puffed on his cigarette, cursing. "I'll reallocate what I can, but I need you to suspend rental on all new equipment and send home any contractors you can. This is going to cost us, Jack. We can’t cover this up."

"Do we know what we uncovered? Roman or—"

"Do you need to clean your ears? I told you what we found. A disaster. The protesters have already seen the bloody photos on Facebook." Frank shook his head, chewing his lip. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. We are all fucking fucked."

Two of the builders were being led away by security.

The price of a Facebook photo. I hope the likes are worth more to you than your jobs.

"Get this area taped off," Frank barked, stomping through puddles.

Jack marched back to his Portakabin office to see what he could do with the staff and equipment rental. Frank isn’t going to be happy about this. The majority of the heavy equipment would cost more to have collected early than to keep on site and continue paying. He tapped a rapid beat on his laptop keyboard as he sought a solution. He drafted a report detailing the few pieces that he could return.

Frank will have to find a use for the remaining machinery.

As he updated his spreadsheet, he received a text from Carla.

[Where are you? Frank has blown his top. Come and grab lunch!]

Jack grabbed his bag and hurried to the kitchen Portakabin where the workers sat outside, watching as Frank swore into his phone, his face red and blotchy.

"The protestors broke through. They're chaining themselves to the machinery round the hole," Carla said from behind him. "Here." She handed him a scalding pot noodle.

He pulled his titanium spork out of his jacket and performed the ritual finger dance, shifting his fingers around the pot noodle to prevent them from burning until it cooled. "Do they know what it is yet?"

"Police are on their way to disperse the protesters. Some bigwig from the University of Nottingham is coming down to examine the hole." Carla opened the lid of her lunch and blew on the noodle broth. "Can’t see what all the fuss is about. Unless… Do you think there's treasure?"

Jack scoffed. "Treasure? No mate. You can barely see anything in the photos. They're just grainy shots of a carved stone hole, maybe some coins I suppose. It's probably a plague pit, a Roman ruin, a grave—" He stopped when he saw the fear on Carla’s face. "We’ll be fine. Any plague will have degraded by now."

Carla looked at him dubiously. "Well, I’m glad it’s not my patch, anyway."

"What the hell are you doing?" Frank stomped over to them.

"Just grabbing some lunch. How can I help?" Jack replied innocently.

Frank glared at him. "How can you—" He bit off his sentence, his face contorted with rage. "Get back over to plot 504 and perform a full fucking inventory. Make sure the protesters haven’t been looting."

"The spreadsheet isn’t really—" Frank’s expression silenced Jack. "Heading over now."

"Good luck, plague boy!" Carla called cheerfully as Jack handed her his now perfectly tempered pot noodle and jogged towards the dig site.

At least I’ve still got my packet of crisps, banana, and satsuma.

He was grateful that he couldn't hear Carla slurping his noodles.

When he arrived, he found a scene of chaos. The chained protesters were shouting at the construction workers and security guards, who remained quietly sullen. Frank had left standing orders that the protesters were to be ignored to avoid legal problems, but his co-workers weren’t trained diplomats, and tensions were running high.

He pulled out a notepad and manually walked around, making a list of the remaining equipment to compare to the list in the plot 504 tab of his spreadsheet. He smiled politely at the chained protesters, moving past them to enter a storage cabin. "Excuse me."

"You’re destroying our countryside!" a tattooed man yelled into his ear as Jack struggled with the lock.

"We don’t even need more capacity. Train transport capacity has fallen since the pandemic," a girl in a thick Primark hoodie remarked.

"If you offered me a paid job, I’d take it immediately," Jack said patiently as the lock clicked open. "I’ve just got out of prison, and I don’t have many options."

"He just threatened Suzie. Get your cameras on him! He said he’s an ex-con." The man shouted. The other protesters brandished camera phones at Jack.

An elderly gentleman held his phone to his ear. "One more nine! Go on, take your best shot. One more nine and the police come running."

Jack bit his lip, his sympathy for the protesters evaporating.

I guess prejudice is universal.

"Don't be alarmed; the police are already coming." He locked the storage cabin door behind him and carried on with his stock take. The sound of rain driving down on the roof of the metal structure helped to mute the sounds of the protesters' outrage to a more bearable level. Pulling out a box of hard hats, he counted them one by one, checking them for cracks and signs of wear and tear. When he’d finished the box, he slumped in the corner to munch on his banana. He grinned. It was going to take him most of the day to finish up here: hot, smelly, but peaceful. More shouts started up from outside.

Peaceful-ish.

The scent of sweat and drying soil permeated the air inside the storage cabin as Jack clunked about in his work boots. Outside, the cacophony of shouts, the rattling of chains, and the squelching of boots in mud formed a discordant soundtrack to his day as he scribbled down numbers on his notepad. The noise reached a fever pitch when the police arrived, before dying down as the protesters were successfully removed.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting elongated shadows across the construction site, Jack finally finished his inventory. He stepped out of the storage cabin, greeted by a rush of fresh air carrying the scent of damp earth, petrol fumes, and metal. He stretched, his muscles aching from hours spent hunched over and counting equipment.

A new and even more excited group now  clustered around the dig site. Bored-looking security guards loitered nearby. Jack wandered over to peer over the shoulder of a gawky, elderly woman in a tweed jacket and turtleneck sweater who was staring at a laptop screen mounted on a wooden pedestal. A canister stood next to her, and she occasionally paused to breathe through a mask connected to it. Her colleagues were slowly removing the soil from around the hole.

“Hello.” He looked closer, his eyes widening at the footage of the underground structure. They had run a camera down there. He had been wrong. It wasn’t a plague pit. Stone chests were clustered around a stone wall which was covered with engraved runes and pictograms.

The woman looked over her shoulder, her blue eyes narrowed, causing Jack to step back, suddenly aware of how much he was invading her space. She had a quick, sharp smile. She removed the mask and held out her hand. “Dr Evelyn Grover, Head of Archaeology at the University of Nottingham.”

He shook the proffered hand. The strength of her grip belied the size of her small, thin hand. “My name’s Jack, I’m the Logistics Manager for the site. A local bean-counter.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jack. I suspect your workload is due to be curtailed somewhat. This is an important find. Construction is going to have to halt while we do a full archaeological assessment.”

“Is that a—” Jack peered at the screen, his eyes widening.

“Yes, and no.” Dr Grover grinned. “It's not a swastika on the wall, it is a fylfot, and over there we have its mirror image, the gammadion. The Nazis appropriated it for their own symbology when they created their hateful flag. It's a common design used across the globe. The word swastika is actually derived from the Hindu Sanskrit, meaning 'conducive to well-being,' which is not, sadly, how it is remembered in Europe. Look closer, it is Norse work. Can you see the gripping beast motifs, the knotwork?”

Jack pointed at the screen. “Thor’s hammer, I recognise that one.”

“Along with iconography reminiscent of Freya and Odin, in particular, the valknut, the three intersecting triangles.” She zoomed out so they could see the door in its entirety. “Your company has found a Norse burial site, not overly surprising given the extent of the construction and the history of the area. Nottingham was an important part of the Danelaw, during the Norse occupation.”

“Why did the Norse use swastikas?” Jack asked, looking intently at the screen.

“A better question would be, why would the Nazis copy it? But, to answer your question, the swastika is theorised to represent Thor as a symbol of protection. It’s sometimes found on Norse tombs and cremation urns.”

“Well, it clearly wasn’t designed to ward off JCBs,” Jack said, fascinated. He glanced at the time on his phone. “I'm sorry, I have to deliver a report to my boss. It was a pleasure meeting you. I’ve always loved history. I look forward to seeing the dig progress.”

"A pleasure meeting you, Jack. Tomorrow, we are hoping to have excavated enough to enable  someone to climb down there safely."

Jack headed back down the site towards the offices. His intention to head home and complete the report in front of the television with a freshly microwaved slice of pizza and a coke was derailed when he saw Frank's cabin door ajar.

Might as well deliver the report in person.

Jack knocked politely.

"What?" Frank's voice bellowed with a noticeable slur. "Get the fuck in or get the fuck out."

Fixing a smile on his face, Jack entered the cabin to find the office thick with stale cigarette smoke. He could see it hanging in the air.

Frank poured two glasses of whisky from a heavily depleted bottle. "So, go on then. What did the thieving bastards take? Other than our jobs."

"Sorry, Sir, I'm driving," Jack said, swiftly changing the subject. "I didn't find anything out of the ordinary in the inventory, certainly nothing that couldn't be assigned to the usual levels of workplace equipment consumption and attrition. Of course, there is a limited level of precision in the current system." Jack hurriedly pulled out his notepad as Frank's face darkened. "I will finish typing up the report tonight, but I wanted to let you know the initial findings before you went home, so you'd have some good news."

"Some good news?" For a moment, it looked as though Frank was going to blow a gasket. But then, he just seemed to deflate. "Some good news... This project has been struggling for a while. Finding some historical rubbish in our plot is literally the worst thing that could happen."

"I'm sure it won't slow us down too much. They'll probably just take a few photos and then move any treasure to an appropriate museum." Jack slid his notepad back into his bag.

"No, I've seen it happen before. These dig sites have a habit of spiralling out of control. Trust me, Jack, this is the worst possible thing that could happen to a construction project." Frank knocked back his whisky and picked up Jack's glass.

Chapter 3

"What is it?" Jack closed the car door behind him as Carla grinned from ear to ear with a lit cigarette in hand. 

The protesters were howling at them with rage: "Murderers! Savages! You can't intimidate us!" A large portion of the site had been taped off. Police officers were everywhere.

"Frank is being interviewed by the police at the moment." Carla's eyes gleamed with excitement. "One of the protesters was murdered and mutilated."

Jack recoiled in disgust.

"I mean, obviously, it's gruesome. But in a dark way, it's kind of exciting, don't you think? You know the best bit?"

"There's a best bit?" Jack said, his eyes wide.

Carla nodded. "Apparently, he was still alive when the killer cut him up. It was on the news."

"Frank wouldn't do that. If he murdered someone, he'd keep it simple. I'm pretty sure he'd know how to hide the body." Jack bit his lip and looked around. "This is a construction site. There are a ton of places he could hide one."

"Who would do that to a protester? Was one of the contractors angry at losing his job?"

"Torturing someone is an emotional response, or someone is making a statement." Jack looked at the taped-off area with a sinking feeling. The protesters were only being held back by a strong police presence. "Why didn't they tell us to stay at home? They must have known the protesters would blame us."

Carla's eyes widened as she moved closer, a conspiratorial look on her face. "Because we're all being interviewed." Seeing Jack's expression, her face fell, and she grew serious. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be insensitive. It's nothing, Jack. They're just going to ask a few questions, that's all."

Jack slowed his breathing as mounting panic grew within him. "It's never just all. Whenever someone looks at me, they see an ex-con, even you, my best friend."

"No, I—"

"—you relate to me because your brother is inside, but still, you're treating me differently because I'm an ex-con." Jack gave her a grim smile. "Any kind of attention from the law is automatically worse for me because the 'innocent until proven guilty' maxim, which works in your favour, works against me. I was guilty. I know I was. I did time for it. But it will never be enough. I will always be 'Jack the Ex-Con'."

Carla regarded him thoughtfully, then lightly punched him in the shoulder. "Bollocks. You are the excusinator that keeps jilting the missus and me. Chill out, they'll ask you a few questions and then we'll have the day off. The sun is out, which is the universally agreed sign that it's time for a beer garden, preferably at a nice remote pub far away from here." She looked over at the protesters.  This time, I've brought rope, so make any excuses and I will hog-tie your dainty, little, pale ankles and drag you to the bar."

A thousand excuses whirled through Jack's mind, beginning and ending with 'But I don't want to.' They died in his mouth as he saw the pleading look on Carla's face.

"She's been good to me. I should probably have a pint with them."

"Okay, but just one pint." His face assumed its sternest expression.

Carla's face lit up, and he couldn't help but smile along with her until her eyes drifted over his shoulder and his smile froze.

"Jack Turner?"

Jack looked over his shoulder to see a pair of uniformed officers. He took a deep breath.

"Do you have a few moments to answer some questions, please?" the youngest of them asked. He was a slight, dark-skinned man, dwarfed by his uniform.

Jack nodded. "Certainly, officer." With heavy steps, he walked with them to Frank's Portakabin, now an impromptu interview room. It still reeked of stale tobacco, a situation not helped by all the doors and windows being closed.

Inside the Portakabin, Jack took a seat opposite the officers, who were quietly exchanging notes before beginning the interview. He couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu from his previous encounters with the law. The air inside the small room was stuffy; under the heavy tobacco scent lingered the faint odour of stale coffee and a general underlying dampness.

Jack looked at the younger officer's name badge and saw 'Officer Patel'. Officer Patel cleared his throat and began. "Mr. Turner, we understand you're employed as the Logistics Manager for this construction site. Is that correct?"

Jack nodded. "Yes, that's right."

Officer Patel continued, "As you're no doubt aware, there's been an incident involving one of the protesters. We're speaking to everyone on-site to gather information and rule out any potential suspects."

Jack's hands tightened into fists under the table.

Don't act nervous. It'll make me look suspicious.

"I understand, officer. I'm happy to help in any way I can."

The older officer, a grizzled man with a greying beard and the name of Officer Thompson, chimed in. "We've been reviewing your record, Mr. Turner. It says here that you served six years?"

Jack's heart sank, but he tried to maintain a calm demeanour. "Yes. I served my time and deeply regret my actions."

I'd do it again in a heartbeat, he thought.

Officer Thompson leaned forward, his piercing gaze fixed on Jack. "We're not the judge, Jack, and we aren't accusing you of anything. We just need to make sure that all our facts are in order. What do you know about the incident?"

“A protester was murdered and his body mutilated… that is the word going around,” Jack said cautiously.

“Dr Grover mentioned you spoke to her yesterday. Do you have an interest in history?” Officer Patel continued making notes as Officer Thompson questioned Jack.

Jack paused, biting his bottom lip. "I have an interest in mythology, history, geology, anything really. I love learning."

“So, it’s fair to say that you have at least a rudimentary knowledge of Vikings?” Officer Thompson leaned forward.

“Not really, just the basics. The horned helmets were a myth. They occupied Nottingham, Dublin. Worshipped Odin and Thor,” Jack reeled off.

“No horned helmets?” Officer Patel looked up from his notepad, shocked.

Officer Thompson smiled. “I’d say that is a fairly good knowledge of Viking mythology.”

History, not mythology.

"It really is just the basics, it isn’t that I don’t have an interest, just that I’ve not spent much time reading about them." I’m talking too much. Shut up. "Just the stuff everyone from the East Midlands learns." Shut up.

“Did you know any of that, Officer Patel? You are from Nottingham.” Officer Thompson asked.

“I’ve seen the Thor movies, but other than Marvel, I wouldn’t say it is common knowledge.” Officer Patel resumed his note-taking. Jack couldn’t see what he was writing, but from the pencil strokes, he could easily recognise three exclamation marks. His feet started tapping on the floor, and he could feel his forehead sweating.

"We are just asking questions; you understand that we have to consider every possibility. Can you account for your whereabouts during the time of the murder?"

Jack knew he had no alibi. "After finishing my work at the site, I went home. I got home at six-thirty-ish, then spent the evening alone, eating pizza and watching television... There was a nature documentary on."

Officer Patel raised an eyebrow. "So nobody can verify your whereabouts during that time?"

Jack shook his head. "No, I was alone. Look, I know it's not the strongest alibi, but I swear I had nothing to do with the murder—wait! I bought the pizza at Tesco. I’ll be on the cameras around six."

“Nobody said you were a suspect, Jack.” The officers exchanged glances and jotted down some notes. "But thank you. We’ll ask Tesco to verify your location."

"There is a fair amount of tension between the construction workers and the protesters. After all, they are trying to stop you from doing your jobs," Officer Thompson said delicately. "Do you know of any colleagues who have expressed anger towards them?"

Jack coughed to clear his throat, his shoulders tight with tension. “You are joking, right? They detest us? Of course, some of the workers here are going to be pissed off at them. But nobody would murder one. Mutilating a body implies absolute hatred. We are just trying to do our jobs.”

Officer Patel narrated as he wrote. “Mutilating a body implies absolute hatred…” After what felt like an eternity, Officer Patel looked up. "Thank you, Mr. Turner. Your cooperation is appreciated. We may need to follow up with you if we have any more questions."

As Jack left the Portakabin, he felt a mixture of relief and lingering anxiety. Although he had been cleared for now, the interaction with the law weighed heavily on his mind. The darkness of his past continued to haunt him. He wouldn't go back. He had missed six years of his children growing up. They would be leaving school soon, dating, going to university, getting jobs, having children of their own.

I won't go back under any circumstances, he thought.

Carla was waiting for him outside, her expression a mix of concern and relief. "How did it go? Were the hot coals suitably sizzling? Oh, I hope they tie me to the rack."

Jack winced. "They asked about my whereabouts, mentioned my priors, as expected. But I think they're satisfied for now. Let's go to that remote pub you mentioned. I could really use that pint."

“That’s the spirit!” Carla slapped him on the back.

“Oh, not to drink. Just at the moment, I think it would do me some good legally to be out in public as much as possible.”

Carla stopped and looked at him. “Stop it.” She jabbed her finger towards him. “This isn’t a pity party. You are not a criminal. You are just a man of below-average street smarts and acceptable looks going for a pint, or six, with two obscenely attractive and charismatic women.”

“Fine,” Jack snorted, "but we are having crisps as well."

“Obviously, I’m not inhuman. Play your cards right and we’ll get nuts.” Carla pulled a sour face. "Urgh, I immediately regret saying that. Don't twist my words into something sordid."

Jack started walking towards his car.

“Oi, no, no. I haven't had my turn under the thumb screws. Chill out here until I’ve had my interview.” The police officers came out to request another member of the construction crew. Carla regarded them critically. “I wonder which one is the bad cop? They both look a bit scrawny to me. What if I tried to run? Which one of them is plausibly going to stop me?”

#

Jack pulled up in the tarmacked car park outside The Archer's Mutt. The pub sign was a faded painting of an Irish Wolfhound,  hanging motionless  in the stifling heat, betraying the absence of a breeze. Carla had chosen a good pub; it was a classic old man's pub, replete with rustic charm and real ales. The walls were covered with old, framed photographs of the surrounding countryside. With a pang of guilt, Jack realised that several of those scenes were now ruined, gutted by the inexorable progress of the HS2 construction project. The warm glow of sunlight shone in through the windows, catching the motes of dust in the air. The low hum of conversation between patrons couldn't hide Carla's presence; he could recognise her laugh from a mile away. Navigating his way past the other drinkers, he found her at a table with a muscular woman, a bit older than she was, and wearing denim dungarees and boots. Her red hair fell  in loose waves over  her shoulders.

That has to be her girlfriend.

Carla waved at him. "Grab a pint and settle down with Lucy and me!"

Yep, confirmed.

Jack bought a bottle of Becks, much to the disapproval of the landlord and the older drinkers at the bar who were supping real ales. He could smell the rich aroma of chips and gravy emanating from the kitchen behind the bar. It had a pleasantly overpowering scent.

When was the last time I ate something that wasn't supermarket pizza?

Jack settled down on a stool by the table, trying not to stare at Lucy, who had an earthy kind of beauty to her. "Er, hi, I'm Jack."

"The Excusinator?" Lucy said with a laugh.

"Yep, that's me all right," Jack grinned sheepishly. "I don't come out a lot; I'm a private person."

"Don't worry; one of the reasons I love being a landscape gardener is because I like the peace and quiet, and the fresh air."

Carla raised an eyebrow. "You like the fresh air because it's good for your hangovers."

"Nothing, not even major surgery, can save me from hangovers. People who don't get hangovers are weaklings who don't put in the hard graft." Lucy raised her pint of cider as if to make a point. "How was your interview?"

"Lucy!" Carla said, giving her a warning look.

"No, it's okay. It was a little rough, but nothing a packet of crisps won't solve," Jack looked down.

Dammit. I forgot the crisps.

Carla rolled her eyes. "Jack once texted me proudly to say he'd drunk three beers and hadn't been sick. More of a snacker than a drinker."

"Oh, bless you," Lucy reached over and patted his hand. "I suppose they don't exactly have a bar in prison."

"Oh my days." Carla gave an annoyed look at her girlfriend. "This is Jack's first day out in God knows how long; let's not make it his last, eh?"

Jack gave a nervous laugh. "It's okay, how about I run to the bar and get some crisps to soak up all this booze?"

"Go for it." Carla winked at him.

As he headed to the bar, he heard Lucy say, 'All this booze? This is my first pint.' Ordering three packets of crisps, one of each flavour, he picked up his phone and texted his ex-wife. [Helen, can we talk? I miss Beth and Henry. Please, please let me see them again.]

The read symbol appeared. Then three jiggling dots indicating that she was typing. Then the dots disappeared. He waited. But no text appeared. She had changed her mind. Once again, she had ignored him.

He returned to the table, opening the packets of crisps so everyone could munch on them.

"Fuck me," Carla said. She whistled softly as she looked at her phone.

There was silence at the table until Lucy broke it. "Well, what is it?"

Carla looked up. "It's Frank. He's been taken down to the station for questioning."

Chapter 4

Jack’s tyres crunched across the  packed earth of the car park. Once more, the sun was beating down on the East Midlands site. The weather was unseasonably warm, but the oppressive heat only magnified the mood of Jack’s fellow workers. They were milling around, finding corners to whisper in, casting dark looks around the site. With Plot 504 monopolised by the archaeology team and a heavy police presence between the protesters and the construction workers, there was a limit to what  work could usefully be done on the project.

Adjusting his parking, Jack turned off his car engine and emerged into an atmosphere that was thick with tension. Without anything to distract the workers from the murder, the air was almost electric, sparking with conspiracy theories and dark rumours.

“You’re unusually late,” Carla said, walking towards him.

“I’m only three minutes late,” Jack replied, confused, checking the time on his phone.

Carla grinned. “Sorry, unusually late for you.”

“Yes, well, I only got four hours of sleep.” Jack motioned to the canteen cabin.

“I am not surprised. You only had two pints, then you were on cola the rest of the evening. You must have been buzzing by the time you got home.” Carla looked at his pockets, poking them with her fingers. “No bacon rolls today?”

Jack snorted. “I know better than to go drink for drink with you. I woke up late, so no bacon rolls. But, I got you this.” He handed her an oatmeal breakfast bar.

“What’s this? A little plastic wrapper of disappointment.” Carla turned it over in her hands, disgust evident on her face. “That’s not going to help this morning’s hangover.”

“You are hungover?” Jack peered closely at her. “You look alright.”

“That’s because I'm the most powerful person alive,” Carla said smugly before tearing open the wrapper and devouring the bar. “It’s not bad,” she mumbled with her mouth full.

“You are disgust–” Jack started.

“Jack Turner?”

Jack turned with a sick feeling in his stomach. It was Officer Patel. "Erm, hello, Officer, how can I help?"

This time, the officer didn’t take him to the interview room. In the background, he could see Officer Thompson moving around the groups of construction employees with his pocketbook. Officer Patel looked stressed as he pulled out his pocketbook. “I wonder if you could help me. We are trying to ascertain the location of Frank Turner. Has he been in contact?”

Carla immediately butted in. “I thought you arrested him?”

“He was brought in for questioning but was released under the condition that he remained local in case we had any follow-up questions.” Officer Patel tapped his pen against his pad. “We tried to contact him today, but his phone is dead, and he wasn’t at his apartment.”

“He’s done a runner!” Carla grinned. “Oh my days, this is brilliant. Like a proper crime drama.”

Jack cringed at Carla’s enthusiasm.

“It is a proper crime; it is a murder,” Officer Patel said coldly.

“I’m sorry Officer. The last we heard, he'd been arrested. We have just arrived, so I haven’t been to his office yet,” Jack kept his voice as calm and professional as he could. “I haven’t seen or heard from him. But, Frank was a drinker; he could just be off on a bender.” Even as he said it, the words sounded hollow.

Why am I defending him?

“Thank you for your time Mr. Turner, if he does contact you, then please do get in contact with us.” Officer Patel handed Jack his card. Jack politely nodded and took his leave.

A light breeze had risen as Jack walked to Frank's Portakabin. The door was held ajar with a piece of blue twine. Jack entered to find a beleaguered site manager from one of the other plots. She was seated, trying to bring some semblance of order to Frank's paperwork.

"Yes?" she said curtly.

"Jack Turner, Logistics Manager."

She visibly sagged in her seat. "Oh, thank goodness. Amelia Bench. I am filling in for Frank today, with no notice and no handover. Just a text at six in the morning telling me I've been reassigned."

Jack approached her desk. The scent of coffee and whisky had been replaced by industrial-strength builder's tea. All the windows were open, presumably to ventilate the cabin. “Frank reassigned all those that he could before he left. I think you should be okay to just firefight. I've sent back what equipment we can, or horse traded it to other sites. We still have a lot that we can't return, so  it’s just  lying  unused at present.”

"This is affecting the whole project, you know that?" She motioned to the chair. "HS2 is over budget and overdue. They were already talking about axing the whole Midlands branch before this."

"Then all of this will have been for nothing?" Jack looked out the window at the torn and sundered countryside.

"All 'this' provided tens of thousands of jobs across the UK, boosting the local economy. We can't just reassign everyone to the other branches of HS2." She looked down at the paperwork. "Excavating ruins we can deal with, the local boffins come along, take some photos, move any relics to a local museum and then we bulldoze over the top of it, but a crime scene and murder investigation on top of that when we are already overdue? This is  a disaster."

Jack fixed his expression in place as she casually discussed the destruction of yet another ancient heirloom in Britain's history. Just another casualty in the nation's quest for industrialisation. "I'll resend the logistics report I sent last night to Frank and then see what I can do to stall the equipment replenishment. I'll send you a list of the emergency items that we can't do without."

"Tea bags and facemasks?" Amelia snorted. "Thank you. I'll see if the other site managers can help out. We aren't the only ones at risk from this."

"If you need any help, just call me. I'll come back. I'll be working from storage cabin 42, down on Plot 504." Jack turned to leave.

"Don't you have an office?" Amelia asked, looking shocked.

"It was never a priority for Frank."

Amelia nodded at that sympathetically. "Thank you, Jack. I appreciate the assistance. If we manage to get out of this without being closed down and Frank doesn't return to work, I'll make sure you get an office."

Jack walked through the dusty mid-morning air. Around him, workers sat idly; there was a limit to what they could do and with Frank gone motivation had collapsed. Carla's team will be hard at work. She'll make sure of it. As he approached his storage cabin, he saw Evelyn in her usual position, standing and supervising the dig with her ever-present mask and oxygen tank. He glanced at his makeshift office, then headed over to her.

"Jack? What a pleasure," Evelyn offered her hand to him. He shook it carefully.

"Hello, Evelyn. I just thought I'd check in with you, see what you'd found."

"Ah yes, plenty of pottery fragments. We've fixed a ladder down now, found some beautiful jewellery—no corpses so far, though, which is surprising. Come." She led him over to a van, where boxes were being loaded. He saw a heavily tarnished golden torc and coins.

Treasure? Carla was right.

"Thor's hammer?" Jack pointed at another box with several heavily corroded hammer-like objects.

"Hilts," Evelyn said. "The Norse are famous for their axes, but they were still partial to swords, particularly for decorative purposes. These would have been iron swords with bone hilts. The iron has rusted away, leaving the hilts behind. We have gathered what we can."

"Do you know the purpose of the building?" Jack asked, looking at the shards of pottery in another crate. "If there are no bodies, it can't be a tomb."

"No bodies that we have found yet. Bodies can also decompose or be removed for a variety of reasons. However, it could be a treasure trove, a warlord's storage to protect it from thieves or raids. It was a bloodthirsty time back then, and now, apparently."

Jack looked up sharply. "You mean the murder?"

"More than just a murder. The police asked me to view the crime scene to confirm. We have a Norse enthusiast, I'm afraid."

That's why they wanted to know what I knew about Norse history.

Jack's heart thudded in his chest. "What do you mean?"

"The corpse wasn't merely mutilated; it was sacrificed in a very specific way. Have you ever heard of the Blood Eagle?" Evelyn coughed and quickly brought up her oxygen mask, breathing deeply until the coughing stopped.

Jack held up his hand, dashed into the storage cabin, and returned with a bottle of water. He opened it and handed it to Evelyn, watching her take a gulp. "I could find a chair." He looked back behind him.

"I have chairs, don't worry. I prefer to stand and keep an eye on things." She nodded at her assistants as they continued to excavate the area.

"Sorry, you asked about the Blood Eagle. I've seen it in an episode of 'The Vikings.' I thought it was a myth, though?"

"The evidence is inconclusive, which is a very different matter. However, the important thing is that our killer believes in it." Evelyn held up her mask, obscuring her expression.

Jack looked at her assistants. "So it could be someone from the university?"

Evelyn removed her mask to give him a dark look. "Even if you had evidence, that's a horrific accusation to make. Needless to say, the police have all the information they need. I doubt any of my people is secretly a murderer, no matter what their beliefs are. But we'll all be investigated, regardless. Even me."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply—accuse anyone." He looked at the oxygen tank. "They don't suspect you, do they?"

"In many ways, I'd be flattered if they thought I was physically capable, but they'd be remiss if they didn't. I certainly possess the knowledge." A small man dressed in overalls approached her, holding out a box with something inside. Evelyn's eyes lit up. "You must excuse me, Jack."

Jack politely backed away. "Of course. Let me know if you find anything exciting."

Evelyn was, however, engrossed by whatever was in the box.

Jack returned to the storage cabin and sat down with his laptop. He was pulling together the promised report for Amelia, having almost finished when Carla texted him with the tea emoji.

'Five minutes'

He diligently went through the report one last time to ensure it  was as accurate as he could make it, then he headed back to meet Carla for lunch.

At The Archer's Mutt, Jack sat munching on a packet of crisps.

"I just think that tonight could be the night." Carla said, before taking a pull from her cider. "I think that tonight, we could see you drink the fabled four pints."

Jack grinned. "No, mate, not a chance. Just the usual two pints for me. I need to be fresh for tomorrow. With Frank out of the picture, Amelia is expecting me to help her during the transitionary period."

"So, how are you and Carla friends?" Lucy asked, her eyes gleaming impishly.

Carla raised an eyebrow. "Because I see the potential in him to become an actual human being, and he knows that I'm the only person who can teach him how to have fun."

"Yes, by encouraging me to vomit in the gutter," Jack said.

"Four pints has never made anyone sick," Carla retorted indignantly. "Back me up, Lucy."

Lucy nodded. "She's right, Jack. But the problem is, after four pints, the shots start."

"You're not helping," Carla grumbled, taking a long drink from her cider. "Don't listen to her, Jack. Four pints doesn't automatically mean tequila."

Jack finished the last of the crisps and rolled up the packet so he could tie a knot into it. "That's your fourth. Are you telling me that your next drink won't come with a tequila chaser?"

"Why are you in the mood for a little cheeky tequila?" Carla asked, beginning to speak in a sing-song fashion. "Tequila, it makes Jack happy."

"No, absolutely not, and definitely not on a work night." Jack stood up. "Wait here." He disappeared to get more crisps from the bar.

"Those aren't tequilas," Carla muttered as the packets dropped onto the table.

Jack winked at her. "Even better, they are—"

Suddenly, within a few seconds of each other, Carla's and Jack's phones went off.

Jack opened the email just as he heard Carla swear softly.

Subject: Indefinite Leave and Temporary Closure of Work Premises (Plots 502-504)

Dear Jack,

We regret to inform you of a tragic incident that has occurred at our work premises. Our esteemed colleague, Mr. Frank O'Malley, has been found deceased under suspicious circumstances, and a police investigation is currently underway.

In light of this unfortunate event and to ensure the safety and well-being of our staff, we have made the decision to place all employees, both permanent and contract, on indefinite leave with full pay, effective immediately. Plots 502-504 will be temporarily closed down until further notice.

We understand that this news is distressing and may cause uncertainty. Please be assured that the Human Resources department will keep you informed of any updates and will provide guidance on the next steps as soon as possible. In the meantime, we encourage you to take care of yourselves and your loved ones.

Should you require any support or assistance, please do not hesitate to contact myself or HR at Amelia.Bench@shieldconstruction.co.uk, 0115 496 0821. We are here to help during this difficult time. Additionally, you may contact Mental Crisis Action at 0115 496 0405 for any emotional support you may need.

We appreciate your understanding and cooperation.

Sincerely,

Amelia Bench

Site Manager

Shield Construction

"Someone killed the poor bastard," Carla said, her eyes fixed on her mobile screen. "I thought that drunk would live forever."

"Two murders... Does that mean a serial killer?" Jack held up his phone. "I wonder if he died the same way?"

Carla looked up, her eyes fierce. "Who cares? Frank was one of us. It could have happened to any of us."

"The professor from Nottingham University said it was a ritual called 'The Blood Eagle'."

"The Blood what?" Lucy asked. Carla was still angrily reading her phone as all the contractors' message groups on WhatsApp lit up.

"It's from the TV. It’s a form of ritualistic, sacrificial worship. It was only performed on the Norse people's most hated enemies," Jack said.

"That's sick. Can you, for once, not treat this as an intellectual exercise?" Carla looked up, distraught. "He was a hateful bastard, but he was one of us." She rose from her stool. "I don't care what you say, you are raising a glass of bottom-shelf whisky to him."

"Do you know why they killed him?" Lucy asked.

"Because whoever it is, is an evil, sadistic prick, that's why," Carla sneered, heading to the bar. "I can't believe I thought the murder was exciting."

Lucy looked at Carla's retreating back before turning to Jack. "I just don't want to see her in danger."

Jack gave her what he hoped was a comforting smile. "Don't worry, the text also said work is cancelled tomorrow. With immediate effect, the site's temporarily closed down. The protesters, the archaeologists, we're all forbidden from attending the site."

"Good. She'll be safely ensconced on the sofa, drinking our wine and eating chocolate while I bring home the money." Lucy flexed an impressive bicep. "Nobody is messing with us in our castle."

"If anyone comes after me, I'll smash 'em myself," Carla snarled.

Jack had his phone in his hand as he texted his wife. [Please, Helen, I need to be sure that Beth and Henry are safe. There is a murderer in the area, a serial killer.]

"Oh, shit." Lucy stood up and raced to the bar. Jack looked up and saw Carla crying. He had never seen her cry before, just seconds before she had been a ball of rage. Jack hastily rose, pocketing his phone. He joined Lucy in giving Carla a hug. Carla's face was wet with tears as she wedged her face between the two of them.

"I'm sorry, mate," Jack said. His voice was drained, but his thoughts weren't of Frank, they were of Helen and his kids.

The barman finished pouring the drinks. Jack passed over his credit card and then downed the whisky immediately as he glanced again at his phone.

"What is it? Are you okay?" Lucy asked.

He watched as the three dots appeared, showing Helen typing. His breath caught as he waited. This time, his phone pinged with a new text message.

It was from Helen. [I know there is a murderer. You. Stop texting me. Stay away from the kids.]

Jack bit his lip to hide his emotions and he slipped the phone into his pocket. "It's nothing. I was just confirming that we aren't working tomorrow," he lied. He gave Carla a hug and forced a smile.

Jack was drunk. He had left his car at the pub and got an Uber home. As he stumbled out of the car, he thanked the driver profusely and then staggered up the short path towards his front door. Two small evergreens in large plant pots flanked his front door and he vomited profusely over one of them. He coughed as tears stung his eyes from sickness. Then vomited again over his 'live, love, laugh' doormat, sinking down onto the steps leading up to his door.

I hate alcohol. I am too old for this.

Jack never drank to excess; he hated being drunk and he hated hangovers. But tonight had been different. He didn't want just the casual buzz from a pint of beer. Jack had sought oblivion and found it with his willing wingmen, Carla and Lucy. He heard a pair of teenage boys coming up the road behind him, cackling and shouting at each other.

Oh, just fuck off.

The cold stone step felt comforting to him, a soothing balm against his cheek as the world spun around him and his stomach continued to rebel. He knew he was going to be sick again; he just had to wait until he had got enough out of his system to make his way inside to the bathroom.

It started to well up inside him. Closing his eyes, he opened his mouth and coughed to try to hasten the vomiting, when a scream sounded behind him before being abruptly cut off.

Jack rolled over, struggling to stand, the vomit on the tree coating the back of his jacket. He lumbered towards his small wooden gate without thinking, the world spinning around him. He steadied himself on the gatepost, shoved open the gate, and emerged into the street. One of the teens was on the floor, his stomach torn out as if by a wild beast. The pavement was covered in blood that looked black in the moonlight. His friend stood braced against the wall, screaming in terror. Jack looked around but could see nothing. Warily, he advanced on unsteady legs, and then the other lad's neck exploded with blood. The victim's eyes were wild, rolling in his skull, locking onto Jack in his last few moments of life,  before he collapsed to the ground  like a rag doll.

Jack fell back in horror. He bounced from car to wall to car until he was back on his soiled doorstep. He waited, staring down the driveway. It felt like hours, waiting to see if the invisible attacker was going to kill him, too. Summoning the courage, he half-crawled down the pavement until he collapsed on his knees next to the corpses of the two teen boys.Their expressions were frozen in a look of fear. He sobbed in horror. He looked down at his hands, covered in their blood, and then vomited again, coating the corpses as he scooted back on all fours.

Jack collapsed onto the pavement, pulled out his phone, saw nineteen percent battery, and prayed it was enough as he dialled the police. Slurring into the phone, he said, "Police, please. 12 Maythorpe Avenue. Someone's murdered two boys. They are... they are dead." Adrenaline kept him conscious as he leaned against his neighbour's wall, confirming he couldn't see anyone else around.  He was kept  talking on the phone until the police arrived,  then bundled unceremoniously into a police car.

The journey was a blur; he remembered vomiting again. He was questioned, his clothes were taken from him, and  he passed out in a cell.

Stirring from his uneasy slumber at the break of dawn, he felt a relentless pounding in his head. A sickening realisation washed over him. He was in a cell. His back pressed against the cold, unforgiving wall, he drew his knees close to his chest in a futile attempt to quell the panic coursing through him. As fragments of memories from the previous night started to fall into place, the horrifying truth dawned on him. He wasn't in prison. He was locked up in a police station.

A wave of nausea washed over him as he remembered the tragedy that had struck his street. Innocent lives, snuffed out in the most heinous way possible. His head dropped onto his knees in despair. The gut-wrenching sight of the lifeless bodies, his hands coated in their blood, his stomach rebelling against the gruesome scene. His gaze dropped to his hands, now clean and unmarred. He wasn't wearing his own clothes anymore, but a paper jumpsuit. He ran his hands down the unfamiliar, rough material, a stark reminder of his grim reality.

The realisation hit him like a punch to the gut: his clothes had been seized as evidence. He was in deep trouble. With a criminal record already against him, he knew the odds of convincing anyone of his innocence were slim. The harsh reality of his situation was as unmistakable as the barred window in his cell.

He sought some comfort in the cool, rough texture of the concrete wall against his forehead. The sudden sound of his name pulled him from his thoughts, making him wince.

"Hello, Mr. Turner."

It was Officer Patel, his tone matter-of-fact.

"You've had quite the night."

And with that understatement, Jack's morning truly began.

Officer Patel guided him into an interview room where Officer Thompson was already seated. "Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?" Officer Patel offered with a genial smile. "You're entitled to breakfast. We could even whip up some toast and jam for you."

Officer Thompson leaned in, his face devoid of emotion. "Help us comprehend what happened last night, and we might even throw in a yoghurt."

"I didn't murder those children," Jack blurted out. His mind was shredded by the events of last night and compounded by a crippling hangover.

Officer Patel raised a finger and inserted a new tape into the recorder. "This interview is being conducted under caution and is being recorded. I am Officer Patel, accompanied by Officer Thompson. We are located at Central Police Station, and the date is 15th July 2021." He glanced at his watch. "The time is 08:46. Also present is Jack Turner." He met Jack's gaze. "Before we commence, it's my duty to remind you that you have the right to remain silent, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention something during questioning that you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be used as evidence. Do you comprehend the caution I've just explained?"

"I didn't murder those children," Jack repeated.

"Sir, I need you to confirm that you understood the caution," Officer Patel said carefully.

Jack nodded, then turned towards the tape recorder and articulated slowly, "I understand." The two words echoed like a verdict in the silent room. He turned a weary look onto Officer Patel and hung his head. "And I would very much appreciate a cup of tea."

"Certainly," Officer Patel said. "You have the right to free independent legal advice. You can speak to a solicitor of your choice, or we can arrange a duty solicitor to provide free legal advice. Do you understand this right?"

Jack nodded again. "Yes, I understand. I'm okay for now."

Officer Thompson directed his voice to the recorder. "We are pausing the interview for a break. The current time is 08:47."

Officer Patel departed, returning after a few minutes with a cardboard cup of strong, sweet tea. Jack typically drank his tea black and unsweetened, but he gratefully sipped the sugary brew without protest.

"Can we resume, Jack?" Officer Patel inquired.

Jack nodded.

Officer Patel activated the tape recorder and announced the current time.

"Why don't you explain to us what transpired last night? In your own words," Officer Thompson said, his tone icy.

Jack stared at his hands, imagining the bloodstains that were no longer there. "I'd been drinking, which is not a usual thing for me, but we were all distressed over Frank and..." He trailed off. Officer Patel leaned in. "And?"

"I've been having some issues with my ex-wife recently." He left it at that. "I haven't consumed that much alcohol in my entire life. I could barely stand when I staggered out of the taxi." He inhaled deeply and then took a sip from his tea. "None of it makes any sense. I heard kids, then I heard screams, and by the time I made it to the street, they were dead."

"So they were already deceased when you found them?" Officer Thompson queried.

Jack hesitated. "One of them was, I believe. He was lying on the ground with his stomach slashed open." He shuddered, taking another sip of the burning hot tea. "The other one, he--" Tears welled up in Jack's eyes as he recalled the scene. "His throat just burst, as if he'd been shot."

"Did you see anyone else at the scene?" Officer Thompson inquired, jotting down notes on his pad.

"No one. I don't believe the teenagers saw anyone, either." Jack's hands trembled. "I was too intoxicated to see clearly, but that was the impression I got. I think. The surviving teen looked absolutely terrified before he died."

"Jack, you must understand that this doesn't look good for you. We have two deceased teenagers, no identified perpetrator, and only one suspect: you," Officer Thompson stated matter-of-factly. "Your DNA is all over them and of course, your history doesn't exactly help."

"We have footage from a Ring doorbell that partially corroborates your account, but the autopsy indicates that the wounds were inflicted by a blade, not a firearm," Officer Patel explained patiently. "We need your help in understanding how two boys could be so brutally slashed in front of your very eyes by an unseen assailant."

"It must've been a gun. There was no one else close to him when he died," Jack insisted.

"Except for you?" Officer Thompson countered.

Jack shook his head vehemently. "I was at least ten metres away."

"This 'phantom'," Officer Thompson leaned in closer. "Why target the teens? Why not you?"

"Perhaps the killer didn't notice me?" Jack suggested, his voice barely more than a whisper. He sipped his tea in a despondent manner. "I don't know. I doubt I was very stealthy. I was... I was in a bad state."

"That doesn't provide us with much to work with, Jack." Officer Thompson reclined in his seat.

"I'll tell you what, Jack. Let's get some breakfast in you and reconvene later," Officer Patel suggested, reaching over to the tape recorder. "The interview is now concluded. The current time is 09:03."

Jack found himself escorted back to the confines of his cell. A tray was delivered shortly after, carrying two slices of toast, a plastic pot of jam, a strawberry yogurt, and a freshly brewed cup of tea that wafted a comforting aroma into the cold cell.

"Thank you," Jack murmured in gratitude to the custody officer, who nodded curtly before retreating, leaving Jack alone once again.

Finding a corner, he began to consume his breakfast with slow, deliberate bites, taking his time to settle his queasy stomach. The hot tea provided him with cold comfort.

Once he had cleared his tray and wiped away the last crumbs, Jack found himself slumping against the cold, hard wall, the intensity of his hangover dwindling to leave him with a sharper sense of his predicament.

Once again, he was trapped behind bars. His past was repeating itself. The echo of steel doors closing reverberated ominously in his mind as he remembered that fateful night when his life hit its nadir and changed completely.

Chapter 5

Beth and Henry had been engaged in their usual sibling squabbling in the back seat of the car, wrestling over Mr. Floppit, Beth's cherished rabbit. "Enough, hand it back," Jack admonished gently. "Henry, you have your own toys."

Henry relinquished the toy, throwing his sister a sullen look.

"Good. Don't you want me to tell Mummy how well you've behaved this weekend?" Jack manoeuvred the car onto the curb with a little bump, parking it neatly. "Alright, everyone out. Use Beth's door to get to the pavement, okay?"

They are good kids.

Jack got out of the car, watching with a fond grin as the children clambered out of the vehicle, landing on the pavement with a clumsy thud.

"Mummy's here!" Beth's voice rang out, her eyes lit up with excitement.

Jack followed her gaze, a pang of longing shooting through his heart. He'd done everything he could to save their marriage, but she'd left him for someone else. Someone who, apparently, knew how to enjoy life.

Jack didn't just enjoy life, he loved life. He loved spending time with his wife and kids. But for Helen, that had never been enough. Their differences had been too stark: his preference for quiet nights in versus her love for boisterous nights out. He'd accompanied her to nightclubs, but with a low tolerance for alcohol and an early work schedule it was hard to be too enthusiastic about it.

Everything he loved about their life together, she despised. Their marriage, lasting nine years, had been a miracle. Jack knew that, but he adored her. He wished they could still be together. He glanced at her through the window. Jack looked closer, concerned. She looked enraged.

Oh great, what have I done now?

A hand appeared out of nowhere, striking her across the face.

Crack.

Instincts suppressed his rage, Jack turned to the kids, forcing his expression to remain calm. "Get back in the car and lock the door now." He helped them back into the vehicle, locking them inside for safety. "Henry, you need to look after Beth, okay?"

With the children secure, Jack dashed towards the front door, unlocking it swiftly. A sense of dread filled him as he entered the house, his eyes blazing with fury.

"...you're a filthy whore! What? Did you really think I wouldn't find out?" A voice thundered from the kitchen.

"I didn't do anything, you're imagining things! I love you, baby," Helen pleaded.

'I love you, baby.'

A phrase Helen used to say to him. Jack felt a surge of adrenaline as he sprinted through the familiar house to the kitchen. A burly, bearded man towered over his ex-wife, his hand poised to strike again.

Without a moment's hesitation, Jack lunged at the man, shoving him against the refrigerator. The man looked bewildered at Jack's sudden appearance. His eyes were glazed, and he stumbled clumsily, obviously drunk. Yet, he wasted no time in attempting to land a punch on Jack, who narrowly avoided the blow.

"Stop it, both of you!" Helen pleaded through her sobs. "Jack, Ted, please stop!"

Retreating to the rear of the kitchen near the sink, Jack watched as Ted lurched towards him, a menacing growl escaping his lips. Ted lost his footing, slipping on a wet patch on the floor and falling to one knee with a roar of pain.

Jack's hand shot out, grabbing a saucepan from the sink. He swung it at Ted's head once, then twice. The cheap pan snapped under  impact, leaving Jack holding  a broken handle.

"Don't you dare touch him!" Helen shrieked, falling to her knees to cradle Ted. "You're going to be okay, Ted. It's just a bruise."

"He hit you," Jack said, his breath steadying, "I was protecting you."

"I never asked for your protection. I had it under control," Helen retorted, her eyes filled with nothing but raw, unfiltered loathing.

Chapter 6

"Jack." Officer Patel's voice echoed in the prison cell.

Jack looked up slowly, managing a weak smile. "Yes, Officer?"

"You're free to go." Officer Patel handed him a plastic wrapped bundle of his clothes, newly laundered.

Is this a trick?

"Sorry?" Jack blinked, taken aback. He watched as Officer Patel unlocked the cell door, motioning for him to leave. But Jack remained rooted in place, suspicion etched on his face.

"You're being released under investigation. We're not keeping you in custody, and you're not required to return to the station unless we find new evidence that necessitates your presence," Patel explained.

Jack stared at the officer, his suspicion fading into confusion. But slowly, he rose to his feet.

"Another neighbour's surveillance camera corroborates your account," Patel explained, his voice strained. "And there have been another seventeen murders around the Midlands, several of them fitting your story."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Jack replied, his voice barely a whisper.

Seventeen murders? Bloody hell.

He stood up slowly, walking towards the exit with wariness in his eyes, as though expecting the door to slam shut in his face at any moment. "So, I can really leave?"

"Yes, Jack, you can leave. But ensure you're reachable, okay? We don't want to waste resources tracking you down if it comes to that," Patel warned.

"No problem, I promise, Officer." Jack crossed the threshold of the cell, freedom beckoning him. "You said there have been seventeen murders?"

Patel nodded solemnly. "Same method of killing. Bladed weapons."

"No ritualistic element?" Jack asked.

"None, just savage, efficient murders," Officer Patel said. "Some of them occurred while you were locked up."

Jack left the cell and watched as the door closed, waiting until he heard the clink, until he felt secure. "Could it be a cult?"

Officer Patel looked tired as he gave the stock answer. "The investigation is ongoing." He gestured to lead Jack to the outside world. "Best to put it out of your mind."

Chapter 7

It was midday when Jack got home. He plugged his phone, with its long since drained battery, into the socket and went to find himself some pizza in the fridge. Popping the kettle on, he whacked two slices of pepperoni pizza into the microwave and waited.

His mobile phone chirped.

It won't be Helen.

Waiting until the kettle was ready, he poured himself a cup of tea and carried both it and the pizza over to the sofa to look at his phone. It was an unknown number, probably spam. He turned on the television and successfully found a nature documentary on the life of puffins. Leaning back on the sofa, he closed his eyes. His home was his safe space, the scent of pizza, the warm cup of tea. Lured by the salty, greasy aroma of his food, he opened his eyes and took a large bite, burning the roof of his mouth on the boiling hot, molten cheese. He picked up his phone, now at eleven percent battery, and opened the texts.

No.

It was Lucy. Carla had left the pub and gone to the building site. Said she wanted to say goodbye to Frank. Pour a bottle of whisky by his Portakabin in tribute.

Idiot.

She still hadn't returned. He quickly texted a reply saying that he would investigate.

She drove last night?

Jack left his tea untouched and grabbed the remaining pizza as he phoned for a taxi. He remembered bitterly that he'd left his car at the pub and had got a taxi back home. He took his phone with him, despite its thirteen percent battery. The taxi didn't take long to appear. He climbed inside, his stomach churning at the scent of three of those hateful scented tree decorations dangling from the rear-view mirror. He'd prefer the smell of cigarette smoke that the elderly driver was trying so desperately to hide.

When he recovered his car, he drove fast, but deliberately kept to the speed limit despite his mounting fear.

Seventeen murders.

Jack prayed that Carla was safe. He could see her handiwork when he arrived at the site. The gates should have been securely locked, instead they were swinging open. Pausing by the gate, he could see the lock had been torn off.

Idiot.

Fear swelled within his chest as he looked up at the cameras.

No, I am a manager, it's perfectly within my remit to investigate this.

He would have investigated anyway. Carla wasn't just his only friend, she was his best friend. He parked next to her car, a beat up VW Polo. It was a miracle that she had even made it to the car park, the state they had all been in. She was a good drinker, but they'd hit it hard and she hadn't waited around for him to catch up. He walked the familiar walk towards Frank's Portakabin, the site was deserted. His pace quickened as he saw the door shut. Grabbing the handle, he shook it, but the door was locked tight.

There was smashed glass on the floor. The remains of a bottle of whisky.

She was here then.

Jack checked the kitchen Portakabin. It was cold and vacant. His phone chirped again. It was at six percent battery.

Carla, she is okay.

[I'm here.]

The text was accompanied by a location pin in the woods. Jack hissed.

The hell is she doing in the woods?

His battery wouldn't last all the way out there, he would have to just hope for the best.

As he emerged from the Portakabin, the rain was thundering down around him; the ground was flooding as he splashed through it. The remaining trees loomed large,  a gloomy collection of ancient timbers that had escaped the HS2 massacre. The protesters had upped and gone. With the site inactive and now closed, they had nothing to protest about. They'd left behind mounds of nitrous oxide canisters, the tiny silver bottles looking like silver shell cases from a warzone. Scattered tents were left behind, rubbish, bottles and the remains of old fires littered the previously beautiful and unspoilt ancient woodland.

The protesters are always so keen to shout about saving nature, but when it comes to cleaning up, their morals go out of the window. 

He curled his lip at the state of the woods. The disorder and hypocrisy of it tore at him. Jack headed uphill towards where he expected to find Carla. His phone was now completely drained. He increased his pace, hoping she wouldn't wander off. 

 He was relieved to be leaving the protesters' camp, finding himself immersed in the real beauty of the woodlands. Even with the rain crashing down, the forest radiated a primal energy. He looked back at the remains of the camp.

Activism is easier when you just have to write or even copy and paste some angry tweets.

Trampling through the thick loam, branches cracking underfoot, he saw something in the distance. He picked up speed,  tearing aside the brambles and twigs that attacked him as he raced urgently through the undergrowth..  Rain ran down his face in rivulets  as white twigs pulled at his face like skeletal fingers. Jack threw his arms out, pushing away the undergrowth in his haste as he tore towards the clearing. Crows took to flight as he raced on.  

Suddenly, his knees gave way and he sank to the ground. He stared in abject horror. His best and only friend, Carla, was naked, held suspended between two poles. The skin on her back had been flensed. Her ribs had been shattered and opened up. Her lungs had been lifted out and draped over her shoulder. She looked like a giant, bloody eagle in flight.

Jack screamed in fury and loss, his hands grubbing in the soil as he clenched his fists. Her eyes had been removed by the same opportunistic crows who even now cawed down at him for disturbing their feast.

Carla’s phone lay on the ground between the two pillars. Jack looked at it. Even as he rocked back on his knees, crippled by grief, his mind was working.

Someone sent that text. It can't have been Carla.

He looked around, then in amongst the trees, watching him, he spotted a robed figure. Needing a weapon, he grabbed  a sizable rock in the palm of his hand and ripped it out of the ground  as he tore off towards the watcher. He stumbled in the first steps as he adjusted to standing, but soon  built up to a pace as the figure turned and ran. Jack puffed as he tried to catch up, but he was always at the same distance. The person flitted between the trees, heading back towards the building site as Jack raced after  him. He wiped away the rain and tears from his  face, trying always to keep the  figure in his line of sight.  Tripping and falling, he pushed himself up and continued to run. The lancing pain in his ankle was barely noticeable in his fury and anguish.

The trees thinned as he approached the building site, the chain-link fence had been torn open, a tiny voice in his mind didn't recall seeing it before, but it was silenced by his singular, bloody need to catch the murderer and avenge Carla’s death. 

Lifting the broken metal fence and sliding through the gap, he saw a figure in the distance. Screwing up his eyes in surprise, he accelerated, stomping through the water towards the unmistakable shape of Evelyn. She was standing in her usual position by the entrance, her canister next to her. There was no sign of the robed figure.

As he approached, a shuddering, gasping wreck. She turned and smiled. "Hello, Jack, it's good of you to come. My, my, you are in a state."

Jack struggled to get his breath back. "Have you seen a robed figure? He came through  the gap in the fence," he asked between gasps.

She shouldn't be out in the rain, not with emphysema. She'll...

His thought process was derailed as he realised that Evelyn wasn't even wet, despite the rain splashing against her.

"I'm quite alright, Jack, but thank you for asking. I've been very busy." She smiled at him, a look of sadness in her eyes.

Jack shivered in the cold, suddenly feeling a dark terror mount as he realised he hadn't spoken out loud.

No, I must have spoken out loud by accident.

"You'll find what you are looking for down there. There is a ladder into  the tomb," Evelyn said, reaching down and lifting the plywood trapdoor.

Jack looked down into the hole. It glowed a dull red, as though  from emergency lights. 

Clutching his rock tightly, he peered down the hole.

What if they have a knife?

"It's quite safe. I have the situation in hand."

He looked at the woman in disbelief, but she radiated calmness.

He took one last look before gripping the ladder and descending. The scent of ancient dust filled the air despite the open hole. A chilling sense of foreboding crept over him as he observed the walls engraved with swastikas. The  faint, rusty-red glow was coming from the runes "The runes…" he muttered.

"You can thank Carla for that," came the response.

Jack spun around to see Evelyn climbing down the ladder. He took a step back, his instincts warning him that something wasn't right. Her posture had changed—gone was the frail doctor, replaced by an athletic, confident stance. She leapt the last few rungs, landing gracefully on the cold, stone floor.

"What about your mask?" Jack asked cautiously, his breath quickening as he scanned the area for a better weapon.

She's the killer.

The apparition smirked at him, thin lips and cold eyes scrutinising him critically. "I believe you know that I am not Evelyn. She was the first to die, the first ritual sacrifice to Odin. I had to make quite a mess and remove her teeth to stop them from identifying her."

"What do you mean?" Jack backed away, holding his rock up, preparing to strike. The runes at his back grew warmer as he got closer.

"Who I was, or what I am, would be more appropriate," it said, looking at Jack remorsefully. "It isn't a pleasant job, but it's important."

"I don't understand. Why are you doing this?" Jack asked, his voice lowering as anger outweighed his fear.

 The apparition took a deep breath. "The construction project damaged the runes that was keeping  the dead safely asleep under England’s soil. They were resting in preparation for Ragnarok. I tried to repair them in time, but a few of them escaped last night, even if only momentarily, but still they murdered their way through quite a few of the living before I was able to lock them back in their resting places with the final sacrifice. In her own way, Carla saved the  Midlands from a wave of slaughter the likes of which England hasn't seen for  hundreds of years."

"You don't get to say her name. You are insane!" Jack stated, shaking his head and backing up into the corner. 

"Am I? It would make a lot of sense if I were." It shimmered, its skin erupting into blue flame. "It would also make my job a lot easier, but sadly, I do feel guilt when I perform the rituals. It is a weakness that I just can't seem to shake off."

Jack screamed. His nails clawed at his face as he witnessed the elderly woman's transformation into an eldritch horror, a burning skeleton with smouldering eyes of darkest azure.

"Carla was the final ritual, Jack. The last offering to Odin. The dead are now at peace. The runes have been  restored." The entity ran its bony fingers across the red engravings. "They'll dull soon enough and return to their usual state. Her blood still powers them."

"You killed my only friend," Jack said, his voice shaking, his teeth clenched. "I loved Carla. She was like a sister to me."

"I know. She was chosen for that reason." The skeleton leaned in closer, causing Jack to recoil, his face pressed against the searing hot stone. "She will give you the courage to do what needs to be done."

"I won't do anything you tell me to do!" He spat at the entity, wide-eyed. Rocking back and forwards, he was split between feelings of rage and terror.

"If the dead rise again without me to stop them, then your family will be at risk. You protected them before. Now, you must protect them again," the entity said, its voice hollow and cold as the grave. It had lost the warm, gendered inflection of Evelyn and was instead a dead, cold, inhuman voice.

"You killed my friend," Jack muttered; his voice was calming, the fear was losing out to a rapidly building rage.

"Yes, and now you will kill me, just as I killed my predecessor,"  the lifeless entity said in a mocking tone. "The dead need a guardian, someone who will  stay with them until they are needed.  They need a Draugr." Jack, they need you.

"But they have you as their guardian." Jack looked up, his eyes filled with hate. "You want me to kill you?"

"Like the rest of the dead, I was awoken by your industrial machines. That isn't how it works. We only get to rise once," the Draugr explained. "My work is done. The sacrifices to Odin are complete. My time has been served."

"I won't help you," Jack slurred, his mind churning as he struggled to stand. "I'd never see my children again. They are all that matters to me now."

"But they would be safe. Isn't that what you want?" The Draugr whipped out its hand, its skeletal fingers gripping Jack's wrist. The blue flame felt ice cold, causing him to cry out in pain. With inhuman strength, the creature pulled Jack across the floor.

Jack struggled against the monster; his boots sliding on the engraved stones. He kicked at the skeleton's legs, but the flaming bones were  strong as steel. He roared with fear and rage. He lashed  out with his fists, but to no avail. His voice sounded weak and high pitched as it echoed mockingly around the small crypt.

Lifting Jack's hand, the Draugr materialised an ancient bronze knife from a cloud of blue-flecked, black smoke.

Jack's stomach lurched as the blade came down. He closed his eyes, but the blade only sliced his palm. His blood-slicked hand was pressed against a giant, faded mural of Yggdrasil, the Norse tree of life. The tree seemed to come to life: roots coiled around them, branches erupted from the wall and formed a leafy canopy overhead. The scent of rain-slicked foliage was Jack's last memory before the shocking slap of seawater caused him to look round in both horror and awe.

They weren't in the Midlands anymore. The slate-grey skies revealed a rocky cave opening up onto the frothing, roiling waters.

"Where are we?" Jack asked.

"Gamla Uppsala, Sweden, by Lake Ekoln," the Draugr said. "It is here that you must make your pledge to Odin, in his most holy sanctuary in Midgard."

Jack looked up at the creature. "Why would I do anything to help you?"

"Help me?" The Draugr's mocking laugh drowned out the stormy lake water. It punched Jack in the face, sending him reeling into the rock. "I'd have thought that killing me might bring you some small amount of solace. You know how. I've told you how the old ways worked." It handed the heavy knife, hilt-first, to Jack. "You've seen Carla's body."

Jack took it wordlessly as the Draugr walked to the back of the cave. Two posts stood raised from the rocks, iron handcuffs topping each one. The Draugr gripped each post. "You know what you must do. Avenge your friend, save your children, perform the Blood Eagle. I will need some help with the cuffs, I'm afraid."

Jack wordlessly stood as the flaming entity transformed once again, this time into the form of a tired-looking man. The man's monocle fell onto the floor.

"Who are you really?" Jack asked, approaching the man. "How old are you?"

"It's best if you don't know. It'll make it easier to do what you have to do," the man said in a cockney accent. "Please, avenge your friend and let me die."

Jack stood there, his rage wilting as he saw the man sagging between the poles, looking weak and limp.

"You have to do this. The dead must be watched over and the living protected." The man's voice was stern. "Your service isn't forever. You'll rest until needed, then you must find someone else, someone worthy, to take your place."

Jack looked at the man. He thought of Helen, his children whom he'd never see again, and the terrible night that had started him on this path.

Chapter 8

"Don't you dare touch him!" Helen shrieked, falling to her knees to cradle Ted. "You're going to be okay, Ted. It's just a bruise."

"He hit you," Jack said, his breath steadying. "I was protecting you."

"I never asked for your protection. I had it under control," Helen retorted, her eyes filled with nothing but raw, unfiltered loathing.

Jack looked down at his ex-wife, Helen, nursing her abuser. He thought back to his kids in the car who would be living with this man, this thug. The decision he made wasn't half-hearted. It wasn't spur of the moment, it had the strength and conviction of a clarion bell. He turned to the sink and retrieved a six-inch chef's knife, Sheffield  steel. It had a solid heft in his hand as he returned to the scene of the crime.

Kneeling next to Helen, he ignored her as she screeched at him. "Just go, Jack, you've done enough."

Jack plunged the knife into Roger's black heart. Blood exploded outward, covering himself, covering Helen.

As she screamed. He calmly walked to the house telephone and dialled the police.

"Hello, I'd like to report a murder."

Chapter 9

Jack's face grew dispassionate as he regarded the man who had murdered Carla, and he did what he always did: he protected his family. He clinked the handcuffs tight around the man's wrists and performed the Blood Eagle to the orchestra of the man's screams. Breaking the ribs on his back near the spine was the hardest part.

Jack stood back to survey his handiwork as the man's lungs hung over his collarbones, deflated with his last breath. When the man died, a searing cold shrouded Jack as blue flame enveloped him. Blistering agony overwhelmed him until he passed out.

He woke to find himself sitting  on a granite throne in a small stone chamber  which appeared to have no exit. Once again, he was incarcerated.

He smiled. One way or another, he'd always been imprisoned. As he sat, his mind wandered, filled with the thoughts and dreams of the living as they filtered down through the damp earth to him. He could hear his children's thoughts. Furthermore, he sensed Frank and Carla sleeping, resting until the time they would be needed once more by Britain.

Jack could hear his kids—even if it was just their thoughts, he could see through their eyes and journey with them in their sleep. 

He had a clear purpose, his role in life henceforth, was to watch over everyone. He would be a silent guardian to all. 

Jack commenced his eternal vigil.

If you enjoyed this free short story, then please consider Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1. My first collected works on Amazon containing sixteen short stories and novellas by Newton Webb.