Don't follow the Leader.

Pregnant black clouds consume the night sky, concealing stars, presenting a darker void than usual. Those clouds birth, discharging a steady stream to careen down the slopes and curves of the dreary moor. 

Two men hike; one a few strides further ahead of the other and struggling to plant his feet in the steadily water-logging grass. His torch lights a trail through nature’s obstacles. The follower observes carefully where the leader’s footfalls settle, tracing his path for a smoother trek. 

Leader ascends a hill but loses his footing and slips, dropping his light source on the sodden ground. He mutters out, “fuck”, and grumbles to himself as he picks up the torch and wipes his filthy hands on his jacket. He’s starting to resemble a non-threatening kind of swamp-monster, his black scruffy beard stained brown, his face speckled with the remnants of his misplaced tread on the hill. 

He’s presumably thinking, “fuck it, it’s too late to turn back now, I might as well get stuck in,” as he digs his fingers into the grass embankment and begins to crawl.

Follower halts at the bottom and chuckles. He shakes his head then shouts at Leader. “Why? Why are we doing this?”

Leader continues dragging himself up, struggling like he’s a heroic pioneer climbing Everest. With a frown, he puffs out a breath of angst and carries on, regardless. 

Follower follows Leader up on his hands and knees, too, when an abrupt blast of light hits him in the face, inflicting temporary blindness. Follower shields his eyes. He’s bleeding from the top of his head; it’s a nasty one. Dried blood runs its way from his hairline down his cheek. The fresh blood at the source of the wound is thick and viscous and is calmly seeping out. 

Panicked, Leader shifts back around to reach the top. Once up, he stumbles into a narrow basin dressed with a thicket of shrubs and assortments of foliage intending to claw at your skin. His feet stick to the ground like glue, shoes caked in inches of mud and grass. Between the vegetation stands a shovel, planted in the ground like a victorious captured flag. 

Follower eventually reaches the top, and treads carefully down after Leader, his face flushed with displeasure.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” he growls “Turn yourself in… It’ll only get worse for you! Think about Katy and the kid.”

Leader looks up at the sky, letting the rain rinse the earth from his pores. He screws up his face and screams internally, some of which escapes through his pursed lips. 

“It’s not too late,” Follower continues. “Once the shovel pours that dirt in, though, it’s game over. You’ll get caught. Mark my words.”

Leader pushes a long bundle into the shallow grave he must’ve dug earlier and looks in to see it filling with the unforgiving downpour. Rain climbs the sides, slowly submerging the pale cadaver rolled up in the bloodied rug. He takes the shovel from the ground; it slides out with ease. He peers at the pile of dirt melding together into one large moist clump.

“Don’t,” Follower pleads. 

Leader slaps himself upside the head and wails, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”  

He strikes the shovel back into the soft mound. 

Follower moves nearer. “If only you made this much effort to fix things before turning to a senseless murder!” 

Leader scoops the mud onto the shovel and piles it into the grave, hiding the bashed-up ashen face and dead eyes staring up at him in judgement. He shovels again, and again, and again.

“I can’t believe you did this,” Follower murmurs. “I really can’t." Disgusted, he turns away and saunters to the top of the hill.

Leader drops the last of the brown sludge onto the grave and turns back to where Follower was standing. “I’m sorry, alright, I didn’t mean for it to turn out this way.”

“Bit late at this point. I don’t think your ‘sorry’ quite cuts it anymore, do you?” Follower responds bitingly.

“He... He just... Pressed the wrong buttons. He always knew which ones to press and when to press them.” 

“And that warrants death?… Right.”

“I put two and two together and came up with eight. I thought he... did her, and, I-I mean, h-h-he didn’t exactly help his cause!"

“Because you always place the blame on people and only believe what you want to believe!”

“Please forgive me!”

Follower scoffs. “You want--“

Tears fall from Leader’s eyes as he finally cracks. “Please, God, forgive me. Please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to go to hell!” He plunges to his knees, adding to the downpour. He puts his hands together, bowing into the mud. 

“Just when I thought you were talking to me... Praying to God? Bit late for that shit, innit? It’s funny, you know, I’ve never seen you pray before, and have you ever even step foot inside a church? Wait, wait, did you just find God?” Follower laughs. “Oh, my word. You’re the best. The gift that keeps on giving.”

Follower walks down the hill.

Weeping, Leader flounders in the mud. “Please, please, please, please, forgive me!"

Twenty minutes pass when Leader reaches his car parked in a layby at the edge of the moorland. He dumps the shovel in the trunk, opens the front door and gets inside. Follower sits in the back, staring gloomily out the window, arms folded, giving Leader the silent treatment. Leader takes a deep breath and turns the engine over. The car reverses onto the road, makes a U-turn and drives away.

“I hope no one saw you out there,” Follower mutters from the back seat, still glaring out the window. “How would you explain that one? Out on a glorious night like this, just taking a midnight stroll on the moors. I’d buy that.”

Leader drives in silence.

“I’m wasting my time with you, aren’t I?” Follower asks. 

Leader keeps driving, wipers squeak through the awkward silence. He looks in the rear view, glimpsing the follower's bleeding face staring at him. Leader jerks back in his seat, almost crashing his car into a speed-post on the grass verge. “What the fuck!” Leader gasps, regaining control on the wheel.

A further thirty minutes, give or take, and the old red Škoda pulls into the driveway of a semi-detached sitting in a row of semis on a jaded, nondescript street that could be any street in the country; number 45, if you’re interested. Leader heads inside the forty-fifth house on the generic street, leaving Follower to sulk in the car which is cooling down on the driveway. 

Inside, Leader takes a shower, disposing of the physical evidence which smeared his body. On the landing, he leaves his dirty clothes discarded in the washing basket, and boy, is he in trouble when his wife sees this mess in the morning. 

After cleaning himself up, Leader sneaks into his bedroom and climbs into bed next to his slumbering better half. He spoons her; she feels his warmth and smiles, taking his hand in hers.

“I’m sorry,” Leader whimpers.

Katy turns, opening her eyes. “What?” she says in a drowsy state.

“Nothing,” he whispers back.

Dazed, she nods and turns back, still grasping his hand, smiling pleasantly and hoping to get back to her dream, even though she knows it won’t be half as good as it was before he roused her. 

“Nothing?” Leader hears whispered sharply from the other side of the room.

Leader shoots up from bed and yells a terrified sound he doubts he’s ever uttered before. Naked, he dives out of bed, racing down the stairs through the front door to get to his car. 

Katy swiftly bounces back to reality, wondering what is happening around her.  

Follower stands behind the bedroom door, bleeding profusely from his temple, skin deathly white with protruding blue veins mapped out like rivers of blood.  

Katy doesn’t catch sight of Follower as she gets up to grab her crumpled dressing gown from the floor. She rushes downstairs, careful not to trip on her gown, and picks up the house phone by the front door. The dial-tone rings nervously, or maybe that’s just how she hears it. On the other end of the line, she hears, “Hi, you’ve reached Steven, I can’t take your call right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

She hangs up and steps through into the kitchen, not noticing Follower sitting at the top of the stairs watching her, one of his eyes now missing from its socket.

On the kitchen window frame are three photographs in fancy glass frames. A wedding picture of Katy and her man on that blissful summer day, the two of them holding a baby swaddled in pink covers, and Leader and Follower with what seems to be older relatives at a family gathering in a dingy social club. 

A young girl toddles into the kitchen, tugging on Katy’s gown, making her jump.

“Where’s Daddy?” the little girl asks.

“I don’t know, baby.” She strokes the hair out of the little girl’s face. “He had to help Uncle Matt out, but--“

She looks at her daughter, unable to hide her concern.

“But Mummy… Uncle Matt is over there.”

The little girl points out into the dark hallway and holds her glance.

Katy drops the phone on the tiles and screams.