Bright streetlamps of orange and yellow light the way home, along the backroads of the city. My boyfriend always cautioned me each day before heading to work to take the main roads on my way home. But after eight hours in an office I want to get home quick. He says that the darkness brings out the devil in people; but I think he's simply paranoid. It's sweet, but unnecessary.

I slip past a ruined bakery and turn sharply down a road lined with cheap apartments. It's a clear night, though the stars are masked by the artificial lights which stand all over the city. The roads are empty and only the occasional pedestrian is strolling along the pavement. All in all, it's a pleasant night for a bike ride; the wind gently soothes my free-flowing hair, and the wheels are smooth against the tarmac.

I swerve around a corner onto Mitchell Road, but you can barely tell the difference. All the roads in this area of the city are so similar that you can easily get lost if you don't know your way - and despite the hundreds of time I've returned this way, I still occasionally made a wrong turn. There is one distinct difference of this new road though. The sound. Before the only noise was the cool rush of air blowing past my ears, but a new sound overshadows the calm. A beat. Like a drum. I glance my head around to find the origin of the sound, and then screech to a halt.

Tucked between two building's staircases is a trio of individuals, no older than twenty, crowding around another person lying on the floor. The drumbeat is the rhythm of fists and feet breaking the poor soul lying on the ground. From one of the trio's pocket a glistening object is removed and gripped tightly. It could be a number of different things, but the way they swaggered closer to their victim gave me one distinct idea: a knife. On instinct I call out, 'Hey!' They swivel and for a moment we all lock eyes. There are two men and one women; their black hoodies are pulled over their faces to try obscure themselves, but they weren't effective. The man in the middle with the knife has coal's for eyes, which is juxtaposed by blonde hair and accompanied by a crooked nose - probably broken.

The moment lasted for an infinite second, then we all move to action. I push myself off from the tarmac and begin peddling for my life. Checking behind me I see the trio smash a car window and promptly enter and rev the engine. Twenty is such a dangerous age for those with no direction; you're old enough to realise the power and authority you have, but too young for life to teach you how to control it.

I push hard against the pedals and spin them as fast as I can. The blare of an engine catches hold of my ears, and now it's the only thing in the world I can hear - even my breathing goes silent. It's a silver car, small but undoubtedly faster than a bicycle. I curve around the corner, and a second later hear my pursuers. I take another corner, then another. But after each turn the engine follows quicker.

There are no alleyways in this part of town, no small lanes unavailable to cars, nowhere to slip away. But where am I even trying to slip away to? I can't pedal forever, and I can't lead them to my home: I've seen their faces, I've seen their actions. And they don't seem like the type to forgive and forget. So, there is only one place to try for, a sanctuary, the police station. It isn't far. And I hope it's not too far tonight.

All I hear is the car. It's persistent, and strong. My legs ache. Though I cycle regularly to work, I don't tend to push myself. But now I have to. There isn't time enough to think; only instincts and movements. Acting on those instincts I slow down slightly, I fear if I stop I'll never start again. My head lingers behind me and I see my pursuers: they're all tucked into the front of a car, the man with the knife at the wheel and snarling like a deranged animal. They are close. Closer. Closer. On a dime a yank the handlebars and swerve around, right past the car.

It isn't a good enough manoeuvre to lose them, but if I head straight on I will meet the motorway which cuts through the town centre, and lead me to the police station. I peddle hard. My legs scream and tears well in my eyes, but I have to persist, if I don't then I may have an unpleasant meeting with that knife.

I don't look back. I can't. I'm afraid that if I do I'll see it, and I'll panic. I just need to head straight. There are no tricks which get me closer to sanctuary, no secret roads to weasel my way through. Only the open, empty road. Once more I head the car. Or a car. I can't tell the origin of the sound, whether it's the chasing machine, or the first whispers of the motorway. It takes all my will to focus on the pedals and not turn my head. Just focus on the pedals. On each push.

My breath is silent. I can feel the panting escaping my lips, but it's overshadowed by the pain in my legs, and the fear coursing through my body. I've never been in a fight before, let alone had to run for my life. But the sound of the car gets louder, and louder, and louder, until the blaring consumes me.

The motorway beckons, the yellow light signalling the hope of making it to the sanctuary alive. I approach the beasts of road and pause. I place my foot on the ground and observe for a moment; despite the time of day the motorway is as busy as every, with four busy lanes of cars, trucks and buses rushing through the city. And on the other side of the chaos, illuminated in white lights is my sanctuary. The police station.

Finally I check behind me. There isn't a second to process, I stomp my foot off the ground and sail to the motorway. It was there. Right behind me.

As soon as my wheel crosses onto the motorway it's as if the roads immediately fill with two ton bullets. A loud blare warns me and I curl away from an incoming truck. Then I swerve around a car, then another. I'm not in control of the bike. Not really. Something takes over me and just turns and turns, like a slalom skier. All noise blends into one, my only focus is surviving.

And I do. If asked to recreate what I just did I'd be unable to, for even I have no idea how I survived. But I did. But just because I pass the motorway doesn't mean I let up, I can't. My legs won't slow, even if I want them to. They just pedal, and pedal.

Sanctuary. The white light of the police station illuminates me. I try to slow my legs, but they have a mind of their own now. Instead, I slam the brakes. Rather than sliding to a halt, the wheels jam and throw me from the saddle. I roll along the pavement; perhaps I'm bleeding, perhaps I'm fine. The part of my brain dedicated to self-preservation is occupied by getting me through the door of the station. I'm so preoccupied that it isn't until now that I turn my head back around. The car is no longer pursuing me.

How long has it been since the car stopped? Did it lose track across the motorway? Was it even following me to begin with? Maybe that bright light chasing me was nothing but my tired mind mocking me. But then I recall the body on the street. I never saw their face, if they're dead now I wouldn't be able to identify the body. Did I really do anything? I called out their aggressors and then tried to escape.

I take a final look behind me - still nothing. I hobble up the steps to the station, it's only now that the pain in my legs is really taking hold. It's as if they've been crushed by a car. The station is warm, in stark contrast to the cold, white lights. At the desk I stumble into the arms of an officer. 'Mitchell... Knife... Ambulance.' The officer looks concerned, but she wraps her arms over my shoulders and asks, 'What's going on, sir?' Mitchell. Knife. Ambulance. Mitchell. Knife. Ambulance. I take a breath and let my voice settle. 'I need to report a crime.'

Ryan dragged his feet down the high street. He remembered when it had been a bustling hub of interconnectedness, with people from all walks of life running for the bus, sliding in and out of shops, and strolling with friends. They were no more. No more busses, no shops, and no friends.

It was still unsettling to know that he was alone. That he alone had outlived the rest. He was the last human - the last creature - alive.

A flurry of natural disasters had plagued the Earth in one vicious month. A meteor struck the centre of Asia and Africa, earthquakes carved the Americas and Oceania was flooded. Europe was spared that initial tragedy, it had been a miracle. But the natural disasters were nothing compared to the human destruction. Instead of uniting, governments turned on one another each competing for the finite resources. Wars were triggered and nuclear destruction was incurred. Ryan didn't know that he was the last organism on the planet - no one had taken a census in the recent years - but he had wandered what remained of Scotland alone for six months. Or maybe it had been a year. Perhaps it was just a day and he was losing all semblance of sanity. Regardless, Ryan was alone.

For a while he tried to keep himself occupied, found a working television and collected whatever books he could find. But what purpose did the arts serve, what meaning could remain when there was no one left to indulge or contemplate. The pages were useless, the film a waste of material. There would be no one to discuss the works, no one to have outrageous opinions, and no one to agree with him. Ryan tried to force himself to indulge for as long as possible, he had hoped that seeing and reading about all those people would provide some kind of comfort. It only made him realise how alone he was.

There were a couple positives to being the last person in the world. There were no queues and no need to pay for groceries, or to get into different facilities - those which hadn't been destroyed. The roads were also empty so Ryan could finally enjoy the city without traffic. He could also give in to curiosities he wouldn't have dared to whilst everyone was alive. Ryan had discovered a knack for breaking and entering - he wondered if he would have been a good burglar when there were people to burgle. He had even dared to occupy some of those houses - sometimes he'd pretend there was a threat of the homeowners returning to add a spice of excitement. But no matter where he moved to, it was never grand enough to keep his interest. He'd tried quaint townhouses, spacious mansions and even Edinburgh Castle for a couple of days. Regardless of where he went, one fact followed: he was alone.

That was the killer. The loneliness. No friends, no family, no lovers and no strangers. He wandered Edinburgh streets and found no one. And it wasn't just Edinburgh; Ryan took a two month trip going as far as his car would go searching for anyone - but from Caithness to Cornwall there was nothing. So Ryan returned home. And why not? There was no access to the mainland, and even if there was, it was too dangerous given the fallout of the wars.

Ryan had never thought of himself as a particularly popular individual. He had a small friend group and occasionally had a girlfriend, but no one else. His parents had died before the apocalyptic year. But he supposed, at that moment, that he was the most popular and lonely man on Earth.

He visited all the people he had known's houses first, hoping that somehow they had made it through. But all he was met with was desolation, photographs, and memories. The cruel thing was that in exploring where they each lived he felt like he'd grown closer to each of them than he had been when they were all alive - he even found out a few secrets. But what were secrets worth when there was no one to keep them from.

Each day was a struggle. It was a struggle to wake up, a struggle to choose to eat, and a struggle to move. Ryan had contemplated the obvious solution - to meet the eternal darkness by his own hand. It would be quicker than slowly dying whilst walking amongst the graveyard of Earth. And if an afterlife did exist he would be reunited with all that had been lost. But no matter how lonely it was, Ryan couldn't. He'd prepared for it multiple times: climbed to great heights and raided pharmacists - but each time he was stopped. No matter how low he felt, he never made the final choice.

It was a perplexing choice that even Ryan couldn't wrap his head around. The greatest fear of cutting ones life short was the pain it would cause those left behind, and the fear that you would miss something great, something that would pull you out of the hole you were buried in. But those were no longer factors. There was a slim possibility that others had survived, but Ryan knew they weren't in Edinburgh - he'd set off flares at the castle and posted signs around the city for everyone to convene in one location; no one appeared.

But, despite the pure isolation Ryan could never. Perhaps it was an innate instinct, a human drive to fear death. A survival instinct which had been taken to the extreme. Ryan had gone over his options thousands of times, and almost every time he came to the same conclusion that his best chance at happiness was to reunite with all that were lost. Almost every time. Because for reasons which may always remain elusive - Ryan fought to survive. He survived wars unlike any that had ever been seen, he survived Mother Nature at her darkest. Maybe he survived for a reason.

Or maybe there was no reason. Maybe life never held one to begin with. You live, you die. But Ryan hoped for more. He hoped when hope was meaningless.

And so, he dragged his feet down Princes Street. Alive.

Something cold and raw ripped into me. Without thinking my left hand clutches at the base of my throat, while my right is anchored by the overwhelming weight of my gun. My eyes stutter across the desert surroundings. Strong winds have picked up and swirl the sand into a fog barrier, barring my view of whatever caused the rupture in my body.

Pulling my hand away I see the causation of my shock - blood. My left hand shivers as if it has been plunged into ice. Then I feel that cold rise through my forearms, tendrils of the icy feeling shocking through me. My right hand falls numb and the gun clatters silently to the sandy bed.

I try to take a breath, but all I exhale is blood. My legs go numb, and in a solitary motion I buckle onto my knees before collapsing onto my back. The helmet lands awkwardly, causing a crook in my neck - but in that moment the comfortability of my neck is not a priority. I feel a pulsing in my throat and a thick liquid pour into my mouth. My continuous attempts to breathe cause a pain unrecognisable and unfamiliar. It’s as if a tennis ball is being jammed in my throat.

Helpless. That’s all I am. Helpless.

Tears well up in my eyes. I knew the risk when I agreed to a second tour; we both did. In a madness only possessed in a dying man my left hand rips at my left breast pocket, and from it removes a photo of my pregnant wife. The ball is getting deeper, the liquid is rising, the pain intolerable. I caress her face with my bloody fingers as if I were wiping her gentle brow for a final time.

I hope my child knows their father died for his country, died for them, died for the mission. I feel the other soldiers reach into my pocket and take my piece of the device. I feel the picture slip from my grasp. I feel…

Between my palms the oars screeched as they cut through my skin. The wooden handles were rough and unforgiving, if I pulled my hands away I would see my blood splattered across them, painting a picture of my pain. Splinters had sprung and began digging into my skin. My strength had sapped from my soul after only a few strokes on the river, will was the only thing powering my movements - and luckily, I was aided by the current.

Rain struck the rambunctious river waves with a mighty crescendo. Ripples trembled along the surface until they were swallowed by crashing water, all feeding a deathly current, dragging my boat away from where I had begun. I’d been paddling for so long that no sign of my prison was visible. But maybe it was just the storm clouds. The moment I’d pushed through the fire exit a grey cloak had shrouded the sky and thruster a never-ending rain assault on my head. I had stumbled through a forest path, trying not to ware myself out only hundreds of metres away from confinement. To my fortune, washed up ashore the bank of the bordering river lay an old rowboat.

The vessel had seen better days. One of the two benches had ripped from its holding, leaving only splinters in its wake. The paint-job, which at some time must have been a joyful green, was chipped and so only the ghost of a once happy colour remained. It wouldn’t take long for the institution to notice my absence, if I was on the river, they would never catch me. So, I poured all of my strength into my arms and heaved the boat into the water. The current had already strengthened and almost dragged the boat away from me without me in it, but I tripped into it, picked up the oars and began to paddle.

It could have been minutes since my escape or hours, time was irrelevant. I was free. Shivering, sore and bleeding. But free. No more strict meals or limited activity time. I could go wherever I wanted, all I had to do was row to the end of the river.

The river was loud, it was vicious. The constant rattling of rain added to it, as did the thunder. Wind swept through my hair and while its chill pierced though me, I felt alive. All the noises melted together: the rain, the waves, the wind, my screeching of the oar, the heaving of my breath. But through it all a voice broke through. The high-pitched yell of nurse Burns, ‘HE’S OVER THERE! ROB, COME BACK!’ My eyes fixed on the bank where a woman in a thick coat tried her hardest to keep up with the current of the river and following her were two security guards. Their clothes were dark, but the flashlights and bright bold lettering of their job on their tops were a clear indication.

Panic settled in. They couldn’t catch me. They couldn’t take me back. I didn’t want to go back. So, I tightened my hands around the bloody wooden oars, the pain was bold but I gritted my teeth and bore it. Tears broke through and joined the rain on my face when I yanked the oars from the water, flung them forward and heaved the backward.

‘STOP ROB! GET TO THE SHORE! BEHIND YOU!’ It was a struggle to move my head, but once it floated behind me I saw what the nurse did. A drop. I didn’t know how far; I didn’t know how violent. Desperately, I tried to go forwards, or turn. But I had no strength, maybe I never did. Maybe I agreed to this the moment I tripped into the boat. I couldn’t fight the current. My eyes fell on the nurse, her screaming noiseless. And I felt the back of the boat float on air for a moment. And then drop.

His fingers clutched at my forearm and slid down to my wrist, where he pressed against my silver bracelet. I feigned resistance and lightly rugged away, but I was well aware that we would not leave the fair before I faced the psychic. My friend had an affinity for psychics, horoscopes and all the pseudo-magic, ancient symbols telling him to buy milk at the shop, predictions so common that the likelihood of them not being fulfilled was inconceivable. And so, I would amuse him with a visit to the five-pound psychic who rolled with the fair - with the condition that he paid of course.

My friend had already visited the occultist earlier in the day and claimed that this one in particular was immensely gifted. Naturally, he had said that last year too, and the year before that. I valued his opinion dearly, but when it came to mystic arts, skepticism took centre stage.

He dragged me through the purple-red drapes which covered the tent, the golden tassels stroking my face when I didn’t duck in time. There was a faux mysticism decorating the inside, no different to any other stall which offered a psychic reading, and yet to a child it would be mesmerising. A circular carpet of gold and purple was set at the centre of the room, however its visibility shrouded by mysterious smoke which was undoubtedly caused by a smoke machine tucked away somewhere. An explanation to the whirring in the air. A gilded wood table stood upon the carpet, a crystal - glass - ball even sat on it, held up by a metal chalice. Two chairs had also been set up, one towards the entrance, and the other in the opposite side, where a cloaked individual had already taken their spot.

The robe was long and dark, hiding each feature, no trace of an eye through the hood, and no whisper of a hand at the sleeve. ‘Welcome,’ the voice was strained, as if it was being put on. ‘Please sit, John. Your friend must wait outside. We wouldn’t want any mixing of readings, would we?’ I presumed that George had informed the psychic earlier of my visitation. But when I turned to him, he appeared a little frightened, and I had never known him as a particularly good actor. He mouthed ‘good luck’ to me and skulked out of the tent. Tentatively I placed a hand on the frame of the chair and carefully slid into the seat, as if I was expecting eating a reaction to ensue from my seating.

Neither of us spoke. I knew the nature of these carnival booths, and yet there was a difference to this one. Something more eerie. Perhaps it was the fully cloaked man sitting opposite me, or maybe the swallowing of my feet to the smoke, or perhaps the very design of the tent gave an air of claustrophobia to the room. Either way, my hand twisted at my bracelet, and my eyes remained fixed on the darkness of the hood. ‘I believe you have something for me,’ his throat sounded as if it were squeezing itself tightly. I fiddled with the five-pound note in my hand. ‘I know how this works, if I give you this money, I’ll be more inclined to want to believe whatever you say.’ A moment passed, though his eyes were invisible they were very much piercing. ‘Very well, just this once we can proceed without the transaction,’ a dark smile gleamed through his words. ‘That’s a very nice bracelet you have.’ I seized at my wrist, as if I expected it to have been taken. It was thicker than most bracelets, silver in colour and upon the inside of it wrote five words “I love you - from Dad”.

The hood shifted and his head swayed from one angle to another. I paid close attention to press the bracelet to my thigh and cover whatever was left exposed with my palm. ‘There’s no use in hiding it,’ the air in the room grew thinner. ‘I already know what it says. And no, I didn’t see it on your way in.’ I would not submit to surprise. ‘You don’t have to think so hard. And I know you fear what your mother and sister think about you wearing it so much,’ he paused momentarily, and it sounded as if he were straining himself. ‘They do think it’s odd to keep such an oddity considering who your father is, but this is the only thing which reminds you of the good times. They may judge you, but they understand.’ Emotions slipped away from me and I threw myself up from the chair, knocking the wooden contraption to the floor. I stepped a foot backwards and loosely raided my hands upwards, as if I were expecting a physical altercation after his mental combat. ‘There’s no need for that,’ his voice changed, no longer was there a strain, but now a deep grovel.

The cloaked figure elegantly raised himself and presented his covered arm. He gently pulled back the fabric until his cracked nails were revealed, then the rough skin… and then a bracelet. Again, my hands leapt to my own wrist and studied my jewelry, while my eyes dragged themselves around the psychic’s. I wanted to ask their name, insist upon their identity; but my lips trembled so violently that words were an impossibility. Sensing what I wanted, the psychic reached for his hood and in a swift motion dropped it.

Staring back at me was a familiar. A mirror. Myself.

Sobbing. That’s the first sound that ushered me to her. Through the thin wall the head of my bed rested against I could hear gentle mewling and tears, which were trying to be silenced. It was faint, almost unrecognizable. But it was there, just above my head and through the wall. I let my mouth hang open to quieten my breath, attempting to catch a sound of her mood improving. It did not.

I hadn’t had much interaction with my neighbor. I was fairly certain she was a woman around my age. We only crossed paths through happenstance, and when we did the most we interacted was a kind, ‘hello’, before we slinked back into the roles of strangers. I didn’t think I could even give an accurate description of her appearance. Which is why I was surprised when I opened my mouth to talk to her that night. I sat up in my bed and rested my head against the wall between us. ‘Are you okay?’

I spoke so softly I may have just imagined the words. Moreover, no response was offered back to me. She may not have heard me, or she may have heard me and thought it was weird that the stranger who lived next to her was suddenly talking to her. It would be best if I left the situation and fell asleep, pretend all of this was a dream. Rolling down into bed, the shuffle of my duvet almost caused me to miss her response. ‘I’m okay. Everything is just a lot, you know?’

For a moment I was frozen. She spoke back. I managed to stutter out a response, ‘I get that. I thought it would all be over by now, but two months in and here we are.’ I thought I heard a sharp intake of her breath, as if my comment brought some humor to her. ‘Me too. I just miss my family. It was my brother’s birthday, and this is the first one I’ve ever missed.’ ‘I’m sorry, but I do think he’ll forgive you for missing this one.’ ‘Hopefully,’ I can feel the smile in her response. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry to be keeping you awake with my problems.’ ‘No, don’t apologize. I know we don’t exactly know each other, but you can talk to me whenever, I’ll always be right through our wall.’ ‘Thank you, I’m Zoe, by the way.’ ‘Ben.’ ‘Goodnight, Ben.’ ‘Goodnight.’

Zoe. The woman who lived behind the wall. Our wall. I had called it our wall. And it quickly became our wall. After that first night it became part of a routine to check in with Zoe each night to make sure she was doing okay. But it evolved as quick as it began. The conversation shifted within a week from comforting each other through the hardships of being cooped up all day into laughing and learning about each other. She had just graduated from the same university I was about to start my penultimate year at and had been in the process of being hired as a child psychologist when the pandemic struck. She had a younger brother and an older sister - both of whom were lovable yet excessively annoying. Her singing voice was even more angelic than her speaking voice, and she wanted to live in Australia one day. Zoe was easy to talk to, easy to get along with. Easy to fall for.

It had been almost a month since our initial interaction that I decided to ask if we could somehow meet. There was no way to go on an actual date, in fact I hadn’t even phrased it to sound as if it was a date. For all I knew she just wanted to meet the guy she’d been speaking to through a wall for the past month. We came to the decision that we’d just go to the local supermarket together- socially distanced, of course, but together.

I slipped on my mask and slung my backpack over my arms, with a shopping bag crinkling within it. My hands shook as I reached for my door handle, and I was breathing heavier than reasonability. I could feel the sweat as my skin made contact with the cold metal and it took three deep breaths of encouragement before I took the plunge and opened my door.

The hallway was quiet, as was expected. The décor and colour were minimalistic at best. But standing just a few feet to my left was Zoe, the woman I’d spent the past month revealing everything to. What outrageous dreams I could have, or the dark thoughts which whisked through my head. The highest points of my life and that one time I broke my leg and was bed-ridden for what felt like an age. It was easy. She was the woman through the wall. Almost imaginary at how perfect she was. But there she was. Real.

Her long, brown hair fell over her face, but I could still see and was enthralled by her oceanic blue eyes. She must have sensed how tense I was - that or she saw it painted on my face, I found it difficult to hide my emotions. But, through her mask, I spotted her sweet smile and a slight flush of her cheeks, when she brushed away her hair; and finally seeing her in person made me relax. ‘Hey,’ she breathed out, her eyes squinting slightly and mask shifting as her smile grew. ‘Hey.’

She tightened her fist and hardened herself. The journey to the Tilting Tower had been almost a week long trek and all of her energy had been sapped. Stale blood crusted along the breaks in her skin and if she focused she could still smell the singe of her hair from that unfortunate encounter with an overzealous dwarf. Dirt decorated her skin and a swelling still burned and bubbled over her poignant brow.

And yet she hadn’t felt the shudder of fear until she passed the mountains and her eyes first laid on the tower. A mist - which she had previously assumed to be just fallen clouds - enraptured the base of the building, like an evil trying to shroud itself. Trees stood strong behind the structure, but in front there grew only mushrooms, which Eilidh assumed to be poisonous and - despite her rumbling belly - chose not to test her theory. Half-formed wooden graves and rotting bones marked the front garden of the tower and jagged rocks lined the pathway to the tower’s entrance. The tower itself was structurally impossible, leant so far to its left that the only explanation for its standing must be magic: Eilidh was in the right place.

She swerved up the stone path and rapped her knuckles against the deforming wooden gate - which still held together miraculously well. Silence. She pounded against the door once more and, again, no response. She was about to let loose a third series it knocks when a raspy voice yelled, ‘Go away!’ The voice surprised Eilidh, this man was meant to be a great wizard, she had expected a domineering, bass, not a weak rasp. ‘I need your help!’ ‘I don’t care!’ ‘Please, the Kingdom is on the verge of destruction,’ she begged, with a slight of aggression in her tone. ‘Not my problem.’ A frustrated anger rose up through Eilidh. When she had set off on her journey all who had once known the great wizard called her a fool for trying to duel with his arrogance. But there was a reason only she could recruit the legendary figure.

Eilidh took a step away from the door and felt her emotional palette clear, like water over dirt. Another gaze around the area forced her to admit to herself that this place enamored her. The eerie mist now only felt like scary face paint over a pleasant face, in fact something about it made it feel removable. And the lack of sunlight appeared to be a purposeful invention. Behind the tower blocks of rock and soil floated, they levitated as if bobbing through the ocean. It was remarkable. And the flock of crows which circled the tower agreed with her, taking rest on those impossible islands. Yet the fantasy of the area didn’t deter her from her mission, it couldn’t. She uttered her ace, ‘Help us. Dad.’

In that instance the door, which looked as if it should have decayed a century ago crumbled to dust. And multiple thuds, like meteors, sent shockwaves through the land. The top half of the tower rumbled and Eilidh almost began sprinting away as she feared the whole structure would cave in and suck her into her grave. But the top of the tower too crumbled to dust. What remained was a small hut with no door and a yellow light shining through from a hallway. The structure was easy on the eye, especially as the mist had dissipated and whatever had blocked out the sun had disappeared.

From the hallway emerged a man - a head taller than Eilidh, bald but with a fierce graying beard and two eyebrows which could burn a hole in someone. He stood there, motionless. His lips trembling as he searched for the right words. Eilidh took the lead, ‘We need to talk.’

‘When we were first briefed on the task I thought it was some kind of joke, as did most of my co-workers. But the boss didn’t let it up if it had been. We ran through a quick refresher of our job - if it was true then this was the biggest job of our lives and I don’t think mistakes would have been appreciated. The day before we were scheduled to start I kissed my wife and baby girl goodbye and was then flown to the Arctic in a military plane - that’s when I started to realise how real the situation was. I slipped into my orange jumpsuit, along with my buff, goggles and a wooly hat. I’ll never forget the moment when I first saw it. I’d read conspiracy theories about them, I always thought they were real, but I never expected to see a real UFO in my life. It was a hunk of metal, with the disk around its equator and a bulb on top, partially covered in snow and ice - implying it had been there for a while. There was also a giant split in the side of it, with mechanisms spewing from it, I supposed that’s where the alien devices we were meant to recover were. The truck couldn’t get there fast enough. Childish excitement and curiosity whizzed through me. Our team leader addressed us and told us that we were going to start surveying the outside - taking samples of everything - then slowly make our way inside. I could survey the ship’s outside from the van, while the metal was surely extraterrestrial what I was desperate to see was the inside of it. I wouldn’t wait for anyone. We hopped out of the van and gathered our equipment. Being closer to the craft, I could see the plowed snow and the man-made holes in the hull - we weren’t the first people to inspect it. Everyone spread around the ship, none of them appeared as awestruck as I was. I made sure to station myself by the crack, which at a closer look appeared to have seared edges, like it was trying to contain something and broke in the process. I spent some time examining the material, it felt like regular metal found on Earth, but it had clearly already been partially stripped of its interesting pieces by some previous group. The differences in lighting blocked me from grazing inside, so I waited for the right moment, when people were absorbed by themselves, to sneak in. It was surprisingly warm, given that the Arctic was on its doorstep. I entered into a dark corridor, again I noticed how depleted the inside looked. Picking a direction I walked towards what I presumed to be the cockpit. My torch partially lit up the room’s darkness, it appeared a charred black, but what I didn’t need illuminated was the neon green tubes scattered along the walls. I stepped towards them, whatever team came to search the ship previously clearly didn’t get this far. Inside the tube was an orange creature animated in suspension. I couldn’t make out any eyes or mouth, only gill-like features in the area which looked like a head. Sprouting off that head were three limbs, but no sign of muscles, hands or feet. I didn’t know what to do, I was staring at an alien. An actual alien from outer space. I didn’t want to take it, what if it died? Or killed me? All I could do was stare in awe. It may have been small, but it was incredible. I just looked and took in the moment. And that was when I saw it. The writing. In English. It was plastered on some kind of warhead. All it said was “Beware! Explosive!” But it was definitely English.’

The Director stands from his chair opposite me and walks to the one-way glass, where I’m sure others are watching us from. ‘Is that all?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ Two days after my discovery I’ve been brought to a room in a city and country I don’t know. The Director has done his best in cloaking himself in darkness, the most I’ve seen is his brown hair, maybe black, potentially dirty blonde. He turns back to me and tells me, ‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful to my organisation.’ I am about to thank him for his kind words. But before I can register what’s happening he draws a gun and pulls the trigger.

Sheriff Buster Hardgrove rarely came down from his office up north to the lowly town he’d been forced to give authority to Town Marshall Horace Fletcher, but today he was there. He had his deputies round up the people of the town and gather in the centre of town where he was to make an announcement about the recent disappearance of the Town Marshall. It didn’t take a learned man to notice the tension between the two on the rare occasion they were stuck in the same room. This would explain his almost religious avoidance of the town, and the scowl plastered on his face when he did visit.

But that expression didn’t line his face when he stepped onto the box to make his declaration. Instead he held a smug grin which made the townspeople worried, he wouldn’t have that expression unless something tragic had happened to Horace. His deputies were standing either side of him, hands resting on the grips of their pistols. He’s making sure that no one bursts out at this news, it can’t be good for the people.

‘People of Padderton, I am here to declare that your Town Marshall, Horace Fletcher, has engaged in treasonous activity and is now considered an outlaw,’ his vigor was frustrating to the crowd of people, whose shocked faces made the Sheriff’s day. ‘He has been charged with aiding and abetting a stage coach robbery, as well as the murder of Baville’s Town Marshall.’ If the town was doubting their Marshall’s innocence before, they certainly weren’t any longer. Everyone in the county had heard about Town Marshall Jonathon Price’s murder last week, and Horace just so happened to have not left Padderton for almost a month. Meaning his involvement in this crime to be feasibly impossible.

But the Sheriff had the power to do anything he so desired, so long as his higher ups approved. Which meant that he didn’t have to convince the townsfolk of Horace’s guilt, only his superiors. And after an entire week of zero suspects or leads connected to the murder, they’d accept anyone the Sheriff claimed as guilty.

‘I’ve been informed that he is trying to escape the county, and I can’t let an outlaw escape without justice being served. I’ve already spoken to most of the town’s in the area and I’ll tell you what I told them: hunt down the traitor, and bring them back to me alive.’ The Sheriff knew the victory he had taken; he could get a bigger search party from anyone who didn’t like Horace, and the entire town had been warned now, so if he suspected them of hiding their Town Marshall, he could take out the entire town and no one would question him. But no one in the town moved, all of them angered by the accusation, which was clearly false. Their lack of movement only made the Sheriff grin more and he held his arms out as if he were a great prophet, ‘Let the hunt begin!’

He turned away from the town and back to his horse. The hunt for Town Marshall Horace Fletcher’s life was truly on.

Detective Harrison Taylor stood on the end of his beach house. It had been over ten years since his appointment to the Devon and Cornwall Police and finally he’d been able to afford a house on the coast, bordered by the white cliffs. He found it relaxing that he was able to wake up each morning to the radiating cliffs, and walk with the sea breeze whenever he wanted to.

It’s the perfect set up for the job he had. After spending most of his days revolving around mysteries regarding deaths and criminal proceedings, he found it cleansing to spend his afternoons roaming by the sea. Sitting on the shores watching the waves roll in and out. It was his place of comfort, away from the trauma of his regular life.

People thought that only those closely involved in murder investigations are affected by the tragedy. But seeing all the death, all the broken families, took a toll on the detectives too. Sure, some became immune to the suffering, became somewhat sociopathic with how they could compartmentalise their work from their lives. But as much as Harrison could put on the straight face and work the case as well as anyone, in his moments alone on the beach beneath the grey clouds of Britain, each body weighed on his mind. Which is why he saw his beach house as a sanctuary. Until that too was broken.

It was a Wednesday, Harrison didn’t have to go into work so he decided to take an extra long stroll on the beach, regardless of the dull clouds. While walking he saw a small red flag waving in the sand. Odd, he thought. It certainly wasn’t from the coast guard or any lifeguards, and it wasn’t the day for kids to be taken to the beach. Curious, he made his way over to the flag and knelt beside it. He tried to slip it out of the sand, but there was an awful lot of resistance, too much. But he grasped the small pole with both hands and yanked it free, sending him tumbling backwards.

He discovered that not only was the flag red, but so was the tip of the mast, blood red. Harrison pounced back to where he’d retrieved the flag and began scrambling the sand away from the area. It took only two scoops for the truth to be revealed. It was a body, very much dead. His sanctuary had been penetrated. In his line of business there was no room for downtime, or relaxing. No time to just enjoy life. So he called in the body, and got to work.