Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes

R.
M. GRACE

FALL
OF

HOPE

©
1977 Warner Music Group.

Copyright
©
R.
M. Grace.

The
right of R. M. Grace to be identified as the author of this work has
been asserted by her

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All
characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

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For
more information about the author and her other books, please visit
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For
Brendan, Siobhan and my Tipp Boy. For my father and nan, thank you
for everything. For my Pappy, it wasn't your favourite, but whenever
I think of you, I remember you quoting 'Leisure' by William Henry
Davis. So, this is for you.

What
is this life, full of care,

We
have no time to stand and stare

No
time to stand beneath the boughs

And
stare as long as sheep or cows

No
time to see, when woods we pass,

Where
squirrels hide their nuts in grass

No
time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams
full of stars, like skies at night

No
time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And
watch her feet, how they can dance

No
time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich
that smile her eyes began

A
poor life this if, full of care,

We
have no time to stand and stare.

I
stand amid the roar

Of
a surf-tormented shore,

And
I hold within my hand

Grains
of the golden sand - -

How
few! Yet how they creep

Through
my fingers to the deep,

While
I weep - - while I weep!

O
God! Can I not grasp

Them
with a tighter clasp?

O
God! Can I not save

One
from the
fruitless wave?

Is
all
that we see
or seem

But
a dream within a dream?

A
dream within a dream,

Edgar
Allan Poe

Chasing
Leftovers

Under
the fading sun,

Searching
for shelter.

I
feel my time has come.

Delight
and Angers,

In
Flames

PROLOGUE

The
sky stretches in endless waves of contaminated scarlet above Bobby's
head. Vivid palpitations of light scatter within the clouds as though
a storm is brewing in the depths of heaven.

The
sombre breeze slaps spittle against his cheek as the waves creep upon
the shore. His bare and blistered toes sink into the sand as he drags
himself along.

He
cannot save himself from the thought he is striding through others'
blood. Instead of the usual salt stench from the ocean, the poignancy
of charred meat fills his nose.

As
he scans the water, he spots an object bobbing on the waves which
could be a log, or a burned limb. Yet, after he wipes his eyes in a
hypnotic state, his vision clears and he finds nothing.

Whatever
it was must have gone under.

Against
the horizon, vertical silhouettes sprout from the dunes like painted
cardboard. It's not the Ferris wheel, or bumper cars that steal his
attention, but the figure that materializes before the metal
carcasses.

Featureless,
it stands looking toward the sea with all the honesty of a mirage.
Whoever or
what
ever
it is, the figure is staring his way, but not at the sea.

No,
it is staring at me. Through me.

He
cannot be sure if that's the truth, besides the ache echoing within
his bones that tells him so.

Screeching
blares from behind the foreboding shape of a man who is much taller
than him.

The
inky lucidity of the fairground against the crimson reminds him of
his mother telling him shadow-puppet tales by candle-light as a
toddler. It is like watching his childhood drift into the past.

Over
his shoulder, he sees the tide swiping the footprints closest away.
Yet, he spots his trail further over the dry mounds in erratic, red
patterns.

That's
why I came down to the water—to get clean.

His
t-shirt hangs from his bones and the black jeans droop at his hips.
He pats the material to check for wounds, but he appears unscathed.
Yet, he finds dried blood on the braces he wears—one flung over
his shoulder and the other hanging at his side.

Finger
smudges and scratches dirty the denim. The red marks glow against the
black where he must have rolled the cuff over his ankles to below the
knees. It's like waking from sleepwalking to find an unknown place.
He doesn't recall having come this far. But as much of a freak
occurrence this is, he is calm.

The
markings lead into the crosses erected in the sand. Wrapped around
one wooden arm is a piece of bloodied cloth that lifts on the wind
like a wounded ghost.

The
thought he should remember what came before this point wriggles
inside his head along with muffled voices, shrill screams and gagged
sobbing.

“
A
premonition.”

Snapping
his attention to the path not yet taken, he cannot find the source of
the voice anywhere. No one stands before him. It is only he and the
figure in the distance. Yet, the words spoken come like a lover's
greedy hunger at his neck.

“
Who
are you?”

The
figure remains unmoved by the question. His hair twists and curls
away from his head like he is an animation.

As
the sea recedes, his ankles sink into the soggy, dim gold grains and,
once more, he catches an object washing up at his feet. Fishing it
from the water, he is thankful it is not a limb. Yet, it is something
he recognizes in an instant—a gift he once owned.

Holding
the gift by the arm brings an unpredictable grief, but he fights the
urge to embrace the memories that want to surface.

Where
did these come from?

The
sky rumbles overhead with scars of lightning branching out through
the burgundy clouds. The noise increases, and he searches the
landscape, aware that whatever is causing the commotion is coming
closer.

Bobby
scrambles further up the shore, but the shadow figure doesn't shift.
The beach is nothing like the ones he conquered as a child in diapers
with a paper sword and an eye patch. There's no warmth, or love in
this place.

The
grains stick to his feet to make wet sandals and, although
weightless, they irritate him. As he is about to give voice to his
displeasure, the booming accumulates. The sound is like thousands of
raging hooves echoing from his surroundings.

“
You
will all die here.” The voice is numb and uncaring, but free of
the anger Bobby feels the words hold.

A
slither of light slices through the air to stop Bobby in his tracks
with an equal mixture of fear and awe. Every question circling about
his head of what he is witnessing shatter as the glowing slit widens.
It's as though an enraged critic is ripping through a painting to
reveal a sunrise too bright to bear with the naked eye. Each end of
the tear peels away and four shadows enter. First sight suggests he
is seeing horses.

His
Adam's apple pulls tight against the striped t-shirt as he
contemplates where—if there is anywhere—to run.

The
plastic in his clasped hand throbs as he watches the four horsemen of
the apocalypse shrouded in gloom. Only, as the wind stretches over
the land, he soon realises the figures are much worse than any omen.

His
brunette hair dances upon his scalp and his eyes sting as the sand
flies at his face.

The
strand of light across the floor retracts as the light seals behind
the figures, and they ride clear of the opening.

Without
blinking, Bobby stares dumbfounded as the four shapes blend into one.
As the darkness slips from the horror, its true hideous form reveals
itself.

The
bulky body speeds toward him at a rapid pace. Every muscle bulges
with a sinewy sheen. No rider straddles it, but the lower half moulds
into the upper to give the impression there is one.

Despite
the patches of uneven surface and tumour growths, the flesh is
unnaturally human. Yet, whatever face sits atop the robust shoulders
hides behind a mask that matches the shirt on his back. The blade it
brandishes above its head is enough for him to assume it does not
come in peace, so Bobby turns and bolts in long strides.

Sand
flicks against his calves as he tries to outrun the hooves. With his
feet heavy, he dips and rises in line with the sea before veering to
his right. Heading toward the graves, he can hear the thumping
against his ribs above the galloping creature. The scars of light
pulsate within the clouds in sync with each step he takes.

When
he spins back, realization hits that he doesn't have a hope in all
the worlds combined of escaping. He doesn't even see the blade as it
slices through skin, severing arteries and bone.