It was gone midnight and Jeremy was with his closest friend, Ian, in the garden of somebody he didn’t know. There were no lights on; his pal had already snipped the wire that connected the garden’s sensor light to the mains electricity and so that didn’t illuminate the plot of land. The house, just set back from the road, had no lights on inside.

Ian didn’t respond to the question, so Jeremy asked it again: “Ian,” he said, this time more forcefully, “whose house is this?”

Shooting him a look, that Jeremy struggled to see, Ian eventually responded: “Remember a few years ago,” he said, starting to get a little irritated with his mate, “when I lost that contract to a rival company? Remember when it looked like I’d have the deal with National Sports Limited to make their website, but then, for what appeared to be no reason, they pulled out?”

Jeremy was confused: “Yes, but I don’t see…”

Ian interrupted him. “Well,” he continued. “This house and this very garden belongs to the reason why I lost that contract. The lovely lady, Karen, and her husband, Jonathon, decided to inform National Sports Limited that we were being investigated by the tax office.

“We weren’t under investigation and they offered a slightly better deal. And they got it, through nothing more than lies and libels.”

Jeremy nodded. “So, why are we here now and why didn’t you pursue this through the courts?”

“The courts?” Ian scoffed. “Like we could even afford to do that. We haven’t had any decent contracts in a long while, party because of these two. Like the courts would do anything, anyway.”

Jeremy stepped forward, trying to get his friend to move off the garden path. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go. It’s not worth getting into trouble for whatever you’re planning to do.”

“I’m not going anywhere, yet,” Ian replied.

There was nothing Jeremy could do, while he watched his friend, through the darkness, drop his trousers and his underwear and drop one, large poo right in the middle of the path.

“There we are,” Ian added. “I’ve been saving that one up for days.”

As the blast began, it roared in anger, as the electrical charge hurt the creature. Its back bent over and it leapt up onto its hind legs, before emptying its lungs as loudly as it could in a horrifying squeal that was louder than the explosion.

In a matter of seconds, the blast had turned a normally docile sentient being into a maddened, crazed primitive beast. It emerged from the central red cloud at speed. Running as fast as it could, it charged into one of the chamber’s side panels, head first. When the panel didn’t move, it turned and charged across to the other side of the cage, desperate to escape the torture it was experiencing.

In the observation balcony, the signal was given for the test to be stopped. Immediately, the energy expulsion stopped, but, inside the cage, the rat had changed. Its eyes were no longer the eyes of a docile rodent, but the eyes of a crazed killer. They were filled with raw anger and aggression, raw passion and fire… They were filled with insanity.

While it continued to run about the cage from the pain, the staff in the observation area prepared to restart the weapon. As it ignited for a second time, the creature shrieked, once again loud enough to be audible.

The rat charged at the side panel again, trying to force a way through. As the animal’s skull hit the metal, the cage shook. It had hit it with some force. It tried again, slamming its forehead into the main compartment and the cage moved on the floor, once more. It charged across and head-butted the panel again. And again. And again. And again.

Suddenly, it stopped its cries of despair and collapsed.

It had died.

The weapon that was being tested was ready for use.

And it looked like it would be the one that was going to, finally, put an end to the war.

He was sweating and it was dripping off him. Having dumped the shopping in the kitchen, he’d gone straight for the bedroom to change his clothes. The shirt came off, sticking to his back as he lifted it over his head. He dropped his jeans and stepped out of them, throwing them to one side. He decided not to leave it there: it was still too stuffy for that.

Down came his boxer shorts and off came his socks, as he did everything he could to reduce his body temperature. Even at this hour of the day, it shouldn’t be this warm: there’d be no way he’d get to sleep with the weather being as humid as it was.

He had an idea. Before he tried to go to sleep, he’d have an icy cold shower. That should cool his body down and make it possible for him to lie on the bed and not end up tossing and turning under his sheets and getting annoyed.

But, as he turned towards the other side of the room, he suddenly realised that he’d made a complete error of judgement. The light in his room was on, he was standing stark naked with everything on display and his curtains weren’t closed.

Worst of all, his bedroom was on the ground floor and there was a small crowd gathered staring at him in all his splendour. He decided the best course of action was swearing at them all and then rushing over to shut the curtains.

Three whole days to do with whatever he wanted. Granted, he’s probably spend them in bed, watching TV and scoffing on whatever chocolate snacks he could find, but still that made for an enjoyable three days off work.

That was all going on in his head and he was beginning to smile at the thought. But then, suddenly, the smile was wiped from his face. He had delved his hand into his pocket to take his mobile phone out in order to send a text message. That wasn’t the problem; his portable hard-drive, with all of his last six month’s work saved to it, was not there. Neither was it in his other pocket. Nor his jacket.

It was still on the bus.

He turned to see that the bus had departed and was speeding along the road towards the next stop. Without hesitation, he followed, sprinting as quickly as he could in order to try and get there first. He wanted something to help him: a red light, an old lady on a zebra crossing, a large queue at the next stop.

He got none and the bus carried on past it, with nobody getting on or off.

It stopped briefly at the next stop, but it wasn’t enough for Tim to catch up and he had to continue along the route even further.

When he finally did get to the stop before the bus, he was shattered and sweating like he had never sweated before. He held out his arm and stopped the vehicle. After stepping on, the driver, not believing his story, made him pay another fare just to check where he was sat previously.

His hard-drive wasn’t there.

He screamed when he discovered it was in his bag.

There were two hours of the working day to go until all of them clocked off. And they wouldn’t get paid anything more if they stayed for longer than their working day lasted, so each of them was eager to depart the lift before the clock hit five.

The woman with the cactus was the first to speak and she was looking at the man with the bottle of water: “Call for help, would you? The emergency phone’s just there.”

He did as he was told and spoke to the reception desk. He relayed the message that the engineers were working on it, but they didn’t know how long it would take for them to fix the problem. There was another round of sighing from everyone.

In the rear corner, the fat man was starting to get even sweatier. He was silent, but it was noticeable that he was beginning to fidget and move uneasily. And, of course, the stuffy and musty smell that was filling the lift was coming from him.

The man with the water bottle was the next to begin moving awkwardly. With a combination of panic and boredom taking over his senses, he drank the remainder of the bottle pretty quickly and, with just twenty minutes of being stuck having passed, he was starting to need to use the toilet.

The woman with the papers was moving uneasily, too. She, it turned out, was claustrophobic. She used the lift because her knee was bad and her office was on the top floor.

When maintenance finally got the doors open, at ten past six, every one of the four lift passengers sprinted out into the office, knocking the engineer to the floor.

And he certainly wasn’t trying; he didn’t need to – if he stood still, he could be carried along the street simply with little nudges and pushes from the crowd. All he wanted to do was stop and take everything in. And cool down, obviously.

But he had one other great need: his back was itchy and he had to stop it. With one hand, he tried to reach under his shoulder and touch the part of his body that was causing him a problem. He couldn’t reach that way, so he attempted to go over the shoulder instead. But that didn’t work either.

He moved to the back of the street and dropped his briefcase onto the floor. Once there, he tried with the other hand, first under his shoulder and reaching upwards and then over the top and reaching downwards. But, again, both methods didn’t give him the necessary reach to scratch the part of his back that was itchy. He was getting desperate.

He leaned back against the building behind him and tried rubbing his back onto the stone. It touched the spot on his body that he wanted it to, but it didn’t end the itchy sensation. He couldn’t deal with this for much longer; it was going to drive him insane.

He stopped the first person he saw – a policeman.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Could you scratch my back?”

The policeman carried on, giving Matt a strange look.

They scanned the area, but could see no sign of the man they were supposed to meet. They had no description of what the man looked like, but they couldn’t have missed him in such a sheltered spot.

Jonny looked straight at his companion Damien. “He should have been here by now,” he said. “We should head further up the path and see if we can see him; he shouldn’t be this late.”

Damien agreed and turned back to the helicopter. After opening the door to the pilot’s cabin, he told him to hang around for a short time, while they went on ahead.

After only ten minutes or so, they came to the top of a slope and were able to see a cliff face at the bottom. He’ll have had to climb that to get up to them, so perhaps he was still in the process of working his way up.

But, as they began their way down, they came across a trail of blood, leading into a nearby cave.

“Doesn’t look good,” Jonny commented, turning to his colleague.

They followed the ever thickening stream of red, haphazardly splashed onto the white of the snow. As the light from the outside decreased and the two mountaineers rounded the first corner, they could hear moaning. They glanced at each other and sped up their pace.

Lying in a heap at the back of the cave, looking beaten, battered and bruised, was the man they were expecting to meet; he’d been attacked. They rushed towards him to see what state he was in. His stomach was in tatters and his leg was hanging off; Lord knows what had done the damage.

“Run,” the man said. “You can’t get me out of here before it returns.”

“Before what returns?” Damien asked, beginning to panic.

The man just looked past his shoulder. Behind him was a creature twice their size. It displayed huge teeth and claws. It eyed them up and then growled in hunger.

“That.”

Wayne really wanted to struggle to try and free himself, but he would rather release himself on the roof of the block of flats, rather than whilst dangling over the edge. He’d already witnessed his mobile phone slide out of his pocket and descend to the concrete below. He hadn’t been able to see the impact, but he heard it. And it didn’t sound good. He didn’t want that to happen to him.

“Now,” Jackson said, stepping towards his two friends and towards the edge of the block. “I’m not going to ask you again. I’ve asked you once politely and I’ve asked you once with force. This is your final chance: Where is the money?”

Wayne knew exactly where the money was. But he wasn’t entirely sure if revealing it was the correct thing to do: How could he trust Jackson? He was a criminal and he’d tried to rip him off. If he told him where the money was, then there was no need to keep him alive and so he could just have him dropped to the ground. But if he didn’t tell him, he might well decide to drop him anyway.

“Three,” Jackson began. Wayne knew exactly what it meant.

“Two.

“O-”

Wayne shouted from over the edge of the building. “Okay!” He yelled. “Okay, I’ll tell you… It’s hidden at my gym. It’s in a bag, under the office floorboards!”

Jackson smiled: “Alright,” he said, calmly. “Let him go.”

The two men released Wayne’s ankles and watched him plummet, screaming, to his death.

Jackson suddenly ran to the edge: “No, I didn’t mean for you to… I meant…

“Nevermind.”

He did. Death was in the air.

Nobody knew why it happened. But, for the last few years, anybody who was out and not safely locked inside their houses after nightfall was in danger. They were taken by something or someone malevolent. And they were never seen again. All of the cases had two things in common: those who were attacked were always travelling alone and it was always after the sun had set.

“I know,” John replied, but he wasn’t having any of it. He broke free from her grasp. “I’ve got to be in work earlier than normal in the morning and I’ve got a couple of things to finish off before I go to bed tonight. So I need to go.

“But, look,” he continued, kissing her on the cheek. “You can virtually see my house from here. I’ll be fine. I’ll even give you a call when I get home.”

Carrie sighed, but reluctantly agreed.

“Lock up as soon as I’m out,” he added, opening the door and stepping outside. She did as he side, while he followed the garden path and stepped through the gate onto the road. After checking both directions for traffic, he crossed and headed for the corner, around which his house was.

Carrie watched him from her front window, all the way until he was at that corner. He offered a little wave before he walked around it and out of sight.

The phone call, though, never came.

Carrie never saw him again.

It was slowly coming back to her: there had been a party. She had been there and had been drinking and dancing and having a very good night. She’d met a man. They’d talked. And laughed. And they’d danced together. And then they’d gone back to his place; they’d drank more wine, talked a bit more and then gone to bed. She didn’t really remember what he was like, but, as the previous evening’s events came flooding into her memory in no particular order.

She looked at her watch, which was sitting on the bedside table. It was just gone half past ten – she was late. She was due in work at nine o’clock every morning, so she needed to get out of bed and get there (after making up some spurious excuse). She leapt out from under the covers and raced to get her clothes on. She managed it in a matter of mere seconds.

As quickly as she could, she dashed down the stairs and to the front door. Bizarrely, when she pushed on it, it was locked and wouldn’t budge. Even more bizarrely, the man she had gone back with last night wasn’t in his own house. He’d gone out and locked the door. Something didn’t feel quite right; he didn’t seem like he was a dangerous person, but, then again, he didn’t seem like someone who would lock a sleeping woman inside his house.

She looked around the living room for a clue. It leapt out at her almost immediately: there was a note on the coffee table, next to the half-empty coffee cups from the night before and yesterday’s newspaper.

‘Gone to work,’ it read. ‘Back about six. Make yourself feel at home.’