crimson glow.
Illumination cast by the two red eyes which hovered directly over his own, the terrifying stare which seemed to pierce down through him, lodging itself deep into his brain like a needle. The force of the stare, drilling down into him, felt like it pulverised a vast part of his mind, smearing it across the inside of his skull like putty.
Ross opened his mouth to scream.
Almost managed it.
Whatever was left of Ross’ mind braced itself for the tearing of those terrible teeth, praying that death would come quickly.
But it wouldn’t.
Instead, Ross’ body rose, and began to robotically climb the stairwell. He was no more than a passenger as his legs carried him into the power plant, past the banks of ancient equipment that ran the place, looking like a bad set from an old Star Trek episode.
He walked right past Fred Darnell, who glanced knowingly at his wristwatch.
“Better things to do today, Carney?”
Ross wanted to say something. Anything .
Couldn’t.
Without a word, his expression not even registering the contemptuous, baffled look his supervisor shot his way, Ross’ body made its way toward the generators; toward their fragile innards. Externally, the power plant was a tank. Inside, a delicate flower. A fine balance that had to be maintained at all times.
A balance that Ross Carney’s hands would work furiously to disrupt, while somewhere inside his head, locked away behind invisible bars, his soul screamed endlessly.
5
The Craven ranch was a blemish on the barren Colorado landscape; a human stain on nature’s perfect canvas.
Set against the backdrop of the Rocky Mountains, with the dense foliage of the White River National Park nestling against its northern perimeter, the ranch existed in near-total isolation, with no sign of civilization apparent for thirty miles in any direction. Only a single winding track—only the most charitable observer could label it a road —offered any indication at all that there might be something to see in this part of the country. Yet the track was little more than a scratch in the dirt, really, and only those few who knew to search for it would ever truly see it. Fewer still would even consider attempting to steer a vehicle along its treacherous length.
Where the Rennick family had been forced to carve out a hiding spot for their compound at the heart of a thick forest in the overcrowded south east of England, the Cravens had encountered no such difficulty. The vastness of America handed them obscurity on a plate.
Hundreds of years earlier, the Craven compound had begun life as a single large ranch house surrounded by smaller farm buildings, growing slowly over time until recent years, when it had swelled up like an out-of-control infection.
Roughly circular in shape, and with a high wall that ran around the entire circumference, the ranch was comprised of three main areas. The largest, the initiates’ area, was at the edge of the circle.
There, widely-spaced, single-level buildings provided a home for the new recruits, as well as training and recreation areas. The initiates’ area, which those at the ranch called the Outer Ring , was the newest part, and it was still a work-in-progress, always building. One of Jennifer Craven’s key methods for instilling loyalty was to put new faces to work on constructing their own homes and infrastructure. Making them feel invested in their new home. It made the eventual realisation that they were serving a strange new religion all the easier to take.
Beyond the Outer Ring, the road led to another wall, and to the clerics’ area. Only those who had passed the Ascension Test—murdering one of their fellow initiates in a grim re-enactment of a medieval duel—lived in that part of the ranch; all wore the tell-tale black robes that marked them out as true believers. Yet even they didn’t know the whole story, not even close. The truth—or, at least, what Craven and her forebears had believed to be the
Illumination cast by the two red eyes which hovered directly over his own, the terrifying stare which seemed to pierce down through him, lodging itself deep into his brain like a needle. The force of the stare, drilling down into him, felt like it pulverised a vast part of his mind, smearing it across the inside of his skull like putty.
Ross opened his mouth to scream.
Almost managed it.
Whatever was left of Ross’ mind braced itself for the tearing of those terrible teeth, praying that death would come quickly.
But it wouldn’t.
Instead, Ross’ body rose, and began to robotically climb the stairwell. He was no more than a passenger as his legs carried him into the power plant, past the banks of ancient equipment that ran the place, looking like a bad set from an old Star Trek episode.
He walked right past Fred Darnell, who glanced knowingly at his wristwatch.
“Better things to do today, Carney?”
Ross wanted to say something. Anything .
Couldn’t.
Without a word, his expression not even registering the contemptuous, baffled look his supervisor shot his way, Ross’ body made its way toward the generators; toward their fragile innards. Externally, the power plant was a tank. Inside, a delicate flower. A fine balance that had to be maintained at all times.
A balance that Ross Carney’s hands would work furiously to disrupt, while somewhere inside his head, locked away behind invisible bars, his soul screamed endlessly.
5
The Craven ranch was a blemish on the barren Colorado landscape; a human stain on nature’s perfect canvas.
Set against the backdrop of the Rocky Mountains, with the dense foliage of the White River National Park nestling against its northern perimeter, the ranch existed in near-total isolation, with no sign of civilization apparent for thirty miles in any direction. Only a single winding track—only the most charitable observer could label it a road —offered any indication at all that there might be something to see in this part of the country. Yet the track was little more than a scratch in the dirt, really, and only those few who knew to search for it would ever truly see it. Fewer still would even consider attempting to steer a vehicle along its treacherous length.
Where the Rennick family had been forced to carve out a hiding spot for their compound at the heart of a thick forest in the overcrowded south east of England, the Cravens had encountered no such difficulty. The vastness of America handed them obscurity on a plate.
Hundreds of years earlier, the Craven compound had begun life as a single large ranch house surrounded by smaller farm buildings, growing slowly over time until recent years, when it had swelled up like an out-of-control infection.
Roughly circular in shape, and with a high wall that ran around the entire circumference, the ranch was comprised of three main areas. The largest, the initiates’ area, was at the edge of the circle.
There, widely-spaced, single-level buildings provided a home for the new recruits, as well as training and recreation areas. The initiates’ area, which those at the ranch called the Outer Ring , was the newest part, and it was still a work-in-progress, always building. One of Jennifer Craven’s key methods for instilling loyalty was to put new faces to work on constructing their own homes and infrastructure. Making them feel invested in their new home. It made the eventual realisation that they were serving a strange new religion all the easier to take.
Beyond the Outer Ring, the road led to another wall, and to the clerics’ area. Only those who had passed the Ascension Test—murdering one of their fellow initiates in a grim re-enactment of a medieval duel—lived in that part of the ranch; all wore the tell-tale black robes that marked them out as true believers. Yet even they didn’t know the whole story, not even close. The truth—or, at least, what Craven and her forebears had believed to be the
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