Berserk by Tim Lebbon Page B

let fitness take a second ranking in his life, below food and drink and frequent bouts of self-indulgent misery. Events carried him on, even though he knew this was madness. Perhaps, he thought, he had never even left home.
    He saw the fence from some distance away, glinting in the moonlight. Stars glimmered more powerfully than he ever saw back home. Here there was no light pollution to distort and lessen the stars’ impact, no stain of humanity on the skies, and ten thousand sources of ancient light were hazed across the heavens. Grateful though he was, Tom felt even more lost in time than ever.
    He turned left and began to follow the fence toward the woods. He was not sure how far he had come, but even if he had neared the fence where Mister Wolf had climbed over, the woods would only be a few hundred yards further on. He could make that distance. He to. His arms were growing numb now, and his shoulders sang with pins and needles, circulation rebelling against the strain being put on his muscles. His legs were aching as well, and with every step his knees were becoming more rubbery, less certain of their soundness. If his legs buckled beneath him now it would be over, he would fall and not be able to get up again until he’d had a rest. And however long that lasted, it would be too long. had
    That feeling in his mind again, the sense of another consciousness, and Natasha said, Keep going.
    “I’m not sure I can,” he said.
    You can, Daddy. Just think of me . . . think . . . aim your thoughts down . . .
    Tom looked at the shadow in his arms, but soon realised she did not mean that at all. The contact in his mind lulled him, whispered words that he did not understand but which had a calming quality all their own. If it was a lullaby, it spoke of little that he knew. If it was something else—
    A spell? A hex?
    —then he was simply glad it worked. The pain in his muscles grew distant without lessening, and the growing agony in his knees became more remote than his toes, so far away that it could not belong to him. He looked in and down, and Natasha’s presence was palpable.
    Tom walked on. He kept the fence-topped bank to his right, moving away from it only where there were clumps of trees or heavy shrubbery barring the way. It may have been minutes or an hour later when he came to the small woods. He plunged straight in, unafraid of the dark—
    Not while she’s here with me, in me, guiding me and comforting me.
    —but cautious with his footing. He could so easily stand on a rock or step into a small hole, and would go his leg or snap pop would go his knee. Natasha’s calming thoughts could do little to prevent his bones from breaking.
    When he came to the crawlspace beneath the fence he became dizzy, swaying on his feet, skin suddenly cold with fresh sweat. He knelt and lay the bundle of bones and chains on the ground, then fell onto his hands and knees, retching but bringing up nothing but bile. He realised that he had not eaten or drunk anything for hours. He was dehydrated, hungry, and terrified.
    “So can you stop me being thirsty?” he asked, shaking his head at the idea that he was talking to himself.
    We have to go, Natasha whispered, cool psychic fingers stroking across the inside of his mind. They were exploring there – he suddenly realised that, wondered why he had not seen it before – touching places that were dark to him, hidden ideas and memories long since consigned to the past.
    “What are you—?”
    awake, We have to go, Daddy! Mister Wolf is up, the bad man is and he’ll be coming for us soon!
    “I threw his gun,” Tom gasped. The nausea had given way to an intense tiredness. Reality was more distant than ever. The only thing that kept him awake was the dead girl’s voice in his head.
    He’s a killer. He’ll have more than one.
    “Don’t call me Daddy,” Tom said. Natasha did not answer, and he pushed her across the ground toward the fence. The chains caught on ferns and trailing