Spiral by Andy Remic Page A

woods. The silence welcomed Carter into its embrace and he groaned internally at the strain of such early morning exercise—
    And yet he felt the need. The need to work, to feel the exhilaration and power that only came with hard exercise; to feel the trail beneath his running shoes, to feel the burn of lactic acid, the strain of muscles, the tearing of strained lungs ...
    Soon, calves burning, he crested the first rise and entered the woods. A frozen stream cracked with a gunshot sound under the immense mass of Samson jumping from the top of a gentle rise. The dog rolled in the cold water, then sprinted around in circles with his tail between his legs before rejoining Carter further up the trail between the sparkling trees.
    ‘What was all that about?’
    Samson panted with a wide dog smile.
    ‘Well, come on, tell me what’s going on in your dumb canine brain?’
    Samson looked up, head tilted. Carter patted him and increased the pace, watching bemusedly as the dog suddenly sprinted off to the left, flashing between the trees, legs heaving, tongue almost on the ground, nose occasionally touching a smell and then veering off at random angles at some stimulus that Carter was - thankfully -immune and blind to.
    Carter frowned, his run slowing, his pace faltering. His head snapped to one side, breath pluming in front of him, a spray of sweat stinging his eyes. He halted, breathing deeply, and Samson cantered round and gazed up at his Master.
    ‘You hear it too?’
    Samson grinned - a dog grin.
    ‘Come on.’
    The distant engine noise indicated a large vehicle. It could just be passing by but Carter had a bad feeling gnawing his stomach - ever since the events in Germany only hours before and the low-flying race back home to Britain ... The pursuit had ended without event but Carter could still feel weariness, a sense of being drained after those bloody unexpected events at Schwalenberg—
    The engine changed pitch. Carter ran along just below the tree line as he heard the vehicle turn up towards his house. He reached the rise and gazed down at the old van, rattling and pumping diesel fumes from an engine that had seen much, much better days.
    A van? It had to be...
    Jam, smiled Carter. ‘Come on, Sammy!’
    They ran back towards the house and, ever careful, paused to watch the visitors disembark. Jam, Slater and Nicky, all grumbling and stretching after the obvious ill effects of a long journey. Carter checked back down the track - nobody following - then stepped out and jogged slowly down to his three old friends.
    ‘Carter!’ yelled Jam, and embraced the sweating man. They clasped hands, patting one another on the back. Slater grinned gormlessly, and Nicky smiled warmly. ‘Any chance of a party, my man?’
    ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? I remember the last one!’
    ‘It wasn’t my fault Slater got thrown from the bedroom window!’
    ‘ You threw him!’
    ‘Hey, just our little tiff! It’s good to see you again.’
    ‘Come on in,’ said Carter, forcing another grin through his mild depression. ‘I’m ready for some breakfast, if I can entice three of my old friends to join me?’
    ‘Slater is hungry,’ rumbled Slater, kneeling and wrestling with Samson who began to growl and bark, play-fighting with the large man who pinned the Labrador to the ground and tickled the fur between his pads.
    ‘I seem to remember that you’re always hungry, Slater.’
    ‘Aye. I’m a growing lad.’
    ‘You are forty-six years old, Slater.’
    ‘Aye. Like I said, still growing.’
    ‘You don’t often pay me a visit, Jam. I assume there is a reason?’ Carter’s eyes were hooded, his mouth a grim line. Recent events had removed much of his humour, and this unsummoned gathering felt somehow ominous.
    ‘Oh yes,’ said Jam softly. He lit a cigarette, rested his head back and rubbed at tired eyes. ‘Something bad is going down, old friend. Have you logged on with your ECube? Checked out the coded info on your escapades