The Shaking.
by John Curzon.
Copyright
©2016 by John Curzon. All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means - by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise - without the permission of the author.
John Curzon asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this book.
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
...or just hard luck.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my father.
Thanks
Grateful thanks are due to Rachael, who has helped greatly during the writing of this novel as an encouraging critic and someone to bounce ideas off.
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The Shaking.
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The event was long overdue. The pressure building within the earth's crust below the area gradually increased as time too long to measure in fleeting human lifetimes passed, drawing inexorably closer to a critical threshold. One day it would be too much to contain and the pent-up energy which had accumulated over the millennia would be released. This was an inescapable fact of geology: The question was not If it would occur, but When, and how bad would it be when it happened?
The clever mammals who had recently come to dominate the planet they lived on might have predicted what was to come with their artificially enhanced superpowers, but when they looked deeper below their world's surface their limited knowledge and handicapped perceptions prevented them from detecting what was in plain sight. The majority of them believed - quite understandably and for a number of good reasons - that this area was only the site of a insignificant intraplate fault. They considered the risk of anything catastrophic occurring here was negligible, there being scant evidence of anything disastrous having taken place in the past and so no reason to fear a future calamity. The eternally restless earth may feebly shrug and shudder from time to time, but here such rare events were barely noticeable to the average person, and in the very worst case would cause only minor damage and few casualties.
And so reassured there was no cause for concern the majority of scientists and people continued to insouciantly labour under their delusions. Meanwhile, far beneath their feet, the enormous stresses continued to build; until one late August a few years hence...
Monday. 19.39. Bromley Common.
"Rusty!... Rusty!... Rusty!" That bloody dog! It was always running off whenever it got the chance! Ryan Buckland called Rusty's name again, but there was no sign of the rough haired russet and white Jack Russell cross, nor any answering bark.
If it had been up to him the dog would've gone to the RSPCA for rehoming, but his partner Michelle had insisted on taking Rusty in when his former owner - her separated mother - had died of cancer a year ago. It was what she would have wanted... So the Buckland family had ended up stuck with the mutt, and typically Ryan ended up taking Rusty for his daily exercise on the common when Buckland's work as a delivery driver allowed him to.
To be fair Michelle did her share supporting the family working as a classroom assistant during the day and doing an evening job in the local chain convenience store: She needed to in order to help make ends meet, but still Ryan felt as if the responsibility for looking after Rusty had fallen unequally on him.
"Rusty!" Grace, his nine year old daughter who had come along for the walk, joined in. There was still no sight or sound of him which was no surprise as it was normal for the dog to go dashing off out of view when he was let off the leash, but he always came back - eventually.
Rusty was a naturally excitable terrier and Michelle's mum hadn't trained him that well to begin with, but recently he'd been behaving strangely, whining and barking for no apparent reason. At first the Bucklands thought he might have been ill, but whatever was up with him seemed to be affecting the other dogs in their neighbourhood as well. Even Squeaky and Fudge, Grace's guinea pigs, had begun having episodes of madness: Fighting and running around frantically one day; digging furiously at the straw in their plastic cage or refusing to come out of their toilet roll cardboard inner den the next. Michelle was sure the animals were sensing Mum's ghost (she was a bit superstitious like that) but the other dog walkers Ryan spoke to were certain it was something we humans couldn't sense, but our pets could. The thing was, what was making them so edgy? No one knew.
"RUSTY!" This time the dog's name was a short, sharp bellow. Still he didn't come bounding back toward them through the twilight.
"Grace love." Ryan tried to soothe his daughter. "I think we should go home for now and when Mum gets back I'll come back to look for him again; he's obviously run off a bit further than usual today, but he's bound to get bored after an hour or two, he'll get hungry, then he'll want to come home. Don't worry; he can't be too far away."
Grace looked and sounded unconvinced, huffing a childish sigh which said so much without needing words.
"If I can't find him we'll call the Dog Warden and put him up on the lost pets' websites: We'll get him back!" Ryan said with emphasis.
Three hours later, with Grace safely at home being consoled by Michelle, Ryan was back searching the Common. He shouted half-heartedly a few times; and shone his torch around the deserted park, now tinted a dim dirty orange by the glow of distant street lights. But it was clear Rusty was nowhere around. To be truthful Ryan wasn't that bothered if the dog never returned; Michelle and Grace would get over his loss in time, and Buckland would be spared taking him for walks every day.191Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0TYkHMj191
Ryan called a final time, more for the sake of it than expecting any hope of success. Hearing no joyously reunited rustling from the undergrowth he turned for home. Maybe Rusty would be there waiting, but Michelle hadn't phoned to tell him so. If not, then too bad. He'd have to put his foot down with her about not getting a replacement pet; the savings on dog food and vets' bills would come in very useful with their family finances teetering on a permanent knife edge.
"Bloody dog..." Buckland muttered to himself as he considered how to break the bad news to Grace.
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Being free at night was a new and strange experience for Rusty. Up until recently he'd been happy enough to sleep indoors, but over the last few days the atmosphere had changed. He knew it; the other animals appeared to be aware of it as well; yet the people who had adopted him into their pack seemed blissfully ignorant. How could they not feel it? At first it had been a vague sense of unease growing over time; similar to what he'd felt just before his previous owner died, but now it was stronger, more insistent; the foreboding of imminent peril was almost palpable. He'd tried to warn his new family but they just couldn't understand. They lacked the senses to do so and he communication gulf between the species was too great to be bridged.
Eventually the frustration of confinement and inaction became too much for him to bear. He had to escape when the next opportunity presented itself. The moment he was let off the lead in the park was the instant the overpowering instinct took hold and made him run off.
Now he was freed from the cloying restraints of home, Rusty's acute panic subsided slightly. But still there was a sense of wrongness. His fur stiffened and prickled at the roots; as if from the static electricity of an approaching thunderstorm. He could smell the fear and the barely controlled panic in the scents left by the other animals who used the Common. In an eloquent chemical language far too subtle for humans with their poor senses to comprehend; from animal to animal - sometimes between different species - the message spread like a wildfire: Great danger, coming soon; flee!
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