Terminal Transit – Irish, Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Horror Novel

Synopsis

A brilliant research student discovers a plot fulminated by demons from another dimension and kills himself in the process. The fate of the world is left in the hands of an elderly academic and a mysterious orphan.

Using the facts surrounding Ireland’s economic collapse in 2008 as its starting point, Terminal Transit is an apocalyptic adventure dealing with death and destruction in a Dublin slowly devastated by demonic intervention.

Can the end of the world be avoided?

Or is this planet simply scheduled for Terminal Transit?

Terminal Transit,

Chapter II ‘A New Signal’

Verse 2

The audience never came home from the homecoming concert. Not one single member. For a country well versed in statues bleeding, springs springing forth at the roadside, and many other modern-day miracles and mysteries, the disappearance of the audience left everyone totally baffled. A thorough forensic sweep of the stadium didn’t reveal a single, solitary clue. The newspaper headlines took up the story.

‘VANISHED, PRESUMED DEAD’

‘WHERE HAVE THEY GONE?’

‘AND THEN THERE WERE NONE’

‘WHO HAS SEEN OUR CHILDREN?’

‘LOST IN MUSIC?’

‘A NATION MOURNS’

‘‘MY BUS WAS DELAYED’ SAYS LUCKY ‘SURVIVOR’’

‘IT SHOULD’VE BEEN ME!!!’

‘THE NEW DISAPPEARED’

‘(WITH OR) WITHOUT YOU?’

ROCK BAND IN CONCERT MYSTERY’

‘PROMOTERS BAFFLED’

‘THE CONCERT OF DOOM’

‘WHO ARE THE5?’

And has always happened at the site of any disaster, friends, families, relatives and complete strangers marked the tragedy with candlelit vigils and public masses. And then the posters started; handwritten, typed, taped, photocopied, cheaply printed – the faces of the missing were stuck to fences and lampposts and anywhere else that a poster could be placed. Handbills as well, flyers, holy cards, medals, banners, balloons, photographs, portraits, paintings and bouquet. Like countless doom-weighed blossoms falling from the most hopeless of trees, the streets around Croke Park very quickly filled with these petals of despair. Though he knew it was helpless, Mac carefully pinned his card with the rest of them.

Loss always hits hard and holds firm and deep and long and even after a lifetime of solitude Mac now found he was unable to deal with a brand-new loneliness. There simply is no substitute for presence. Not ever. Mac had first met desolation the morning he lost Sibeal. The choking crushing numbness of her death broke him into a million desperate pieces and forced him so deep into his grief-shaped heart that he thought he was sure to drown in the throbbing, choking pain. It took him years to fish himself at least partially free, one lonely saddened sodden piece at a time. And each piece he rescued became a new word in a new sentence and then a new sentence in a new paragraph and then a new paragraph on a new page and then slowly these new pages grew to be new chapters. And so the Miscellanea became eventually Mac’s carapace, his shell, and like an elderly tortoise discovered on some far-flung archipelago, Mac carried the weight of his barely-repaired life heavy on his bent back. It was a price to pay and an obviously obvious weight to bear but it was something. In fact, it was everything. Now, Inteachán gone and his integument ruptured, Mac feared for the pieces of his frangible heart once more.

‘I’m a selfish cowardly fool,’ he told himself. ‘That a man should send a child to right the breaking world.’ The urge to punch his face with a bony fist was almost impossible to resist. Or pull the last of his straggled hair free from his temples.

‘I had no right, no right at all.’

Mac’s eyes filled with tears.

‘And now she is gone like all the rest.’

As he walked across Front Square the morning after the concert Mac felt that the world was now only different in every imaginable way. He knew the First of the TheFive was here. The disturbance was unignorable and as if his original burdens were not enough, Mac now carried the fact of Butler’s fears coming true like a sodden overcoat clinging stupidly to his sorry shoulders. This fact was a distant bell that tolled everywhere he listened. It was a newly damaged nerve that caused his eye to always gently twitch. It was a trouser cuff that kept getting caught on the heel of his shoe.

The tread of each step on the stairs as he returned to his flat weighed heavier now, only slightly but enough to feel the difference each day. In the same way, lifting a cup to his lips, a fork to his mouth, or the sheet at night to cover his shoulder, each and every ordinary movement that accounted for the passing seconds of every day, seemed to have acquired a new and denser gravity than before.

***

That night Mac dreamed he was alone in an empty black desert. Five bright black moons hung low in the endless sky and glimmered like the deadliest of precious metals as they sped through the darkness like the bearings of some infernal gear. Ahead of him loomed seven vast dunes. The temperature was way below zero but even though he was only wearing his pyjamas Mac didn’t feel the cold. The sand gathered between his toes and started to swirl around him as a sudden wind appeared from nowhere and picked up speed.

‘wE R heer,’ said the wind as it licked Mac’s face. ‘wE AV wated 4 This MOMENt for orl tiMe.’

Mac turned his head to one side to stop the sand blowing straight into his eyes.

‘fliNcH nOt,’ said the wind. ‘BeHOLd ouR MAjeSTi!’

The wind gripped the sand and drew it up into the air like a swarm of angry bees. The sand around Mac’s feet eddied and whirled as it formed a column around him and then Mac found himself being lifted off the ground. The wind forced the column higher and higher until Mac found himself floating in the black mouth of space.

‘AlL tHIngs b4FOR uS FaLL,’ screamed the wind. ‘VaST GALAXiES AnD SINGEL trEES. ALL R aS NUFFiN 2 OuR SPLENda. Wee thrUGH a tINy PEBBel acrOSS thE VASt and broKE thE DINOsorS.’

A comet issued from the column and streaked out into the black. Mac followed it with his eyes until he couldn’t see it any more. The wind laughed softly, delighted by its own artistry.

‘ThaTz tHe COMet THAt 3 FOOlish pEEPING Men wiTh teESCOPes WIll FOLLOw TO a FIND a BASTArd BAbY.’

Mac’s mind whirled. He found himself saying things that were not his thoughts.

‘But surely the principles of the galaxy are such that you should be keen to seek balance and not redress? For who has caused you such grievous harm as to render all discourse irrelevant.’

‘NoT wont NO DIScouRse. Not Us. Not ALL. ONLy WONT iLL AnD deSTRUCtion.’

‘That may be so,’ ‘said’ Mac, ‘but ultimately such intent merely signals only malice. Can such energy ever result in maintaining the equilibrium?’

‘Is SUcH. TRUe SEd! MALicE onLEE ORLL. NoT ELLSe heeR. We NO ONlee wUN THINg wICh is HArM.’

Terminal Transit – Irish, Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Horror Novel

Synopsis

A brilliant research student discovers a plot fulminated by demons from another dimension and kills himself in the process. The fate of the world is left in the hands of an elderly academic and a mysterious orphan.

Using the facts surrounding Ireland’s economic collapse in 2008 as its starting point, Terminal Transit is an apocalyptic adventure dealing with death and destruction in a Dublin slowly devastated by demonic intervention.

Can the end of the world be avoided?

Or is this planet simply scheduled for Terminal Transit?

Terminal Transit,

Chapter II ‘A New Signal’

Verse 1

Priory Hall.

Two words that stand as a simple testament to an ignorant nation’s stupid, craven greed – that special kind of breathtakingly galling greed reserved for the self-appointed nobility of this ridiculous island; the bankers and builders and business leaders and breakers and burglars and broadsiders and backsliders and bastards and bollox and buffoons and landlords and layabouts and kiters and cutpurses and swindlers and sweat drippers and debt collectors and drubbers and tally men and tossers and sewage hounds and arse lickers and no-gooders and politicians and pie-dippers and chancers and swindlers and shitflickers and not ever once forgetting the plain and simple good old boys from back in the day.

Now, as befits maps and mythologies everywhere, this particular broken beacon of a building forespeaks, speaks for, speaks of, denotes, indicates, screams, ‘this is a broken country.’ At night the wind laps this particular folly like a poisoned tongue on a mouth of broken teeth. Follies used to be architectural indulgences, used for the flashing of wealth and the winning of bets.

Now, the same indulgences related to the winning of a different bet, one that has nothing to do with anything other than avarice. The same bets that forced a government to add a levy to all insurance policies. The same bets that allowed the country to never learn from its mistakes but just kept making them again and again and foolishly again. But not anymore, the country has run out excuses and these mistakes will be among the last that the country and, indeed, the world will witness. For these same bets have now been collected by a brand-new bailiff.

Priory Hall stood empty now, a monument, a gravestone, a mausoleum, and a warning to the people who passed it by, not that they knew it yet, that this particular gravestone now stood as a marker as well to what was about to commence, indicating in no uncertain terms that the end was beginning.

In one of the many badly designed flats on the fourth floor of the building a black, shiny, unknown stone of clearly alien origin sat glowering on the bathroom floor next to a leaking toilet bowl. The flats of Priory Hall had been closed down due to fire safety issues but clearly the inspectors responsible for closing the building had not factored in alien cosmogeology as another reason for declaring the properties unfit for human occupation. A trail of liquid waste flowed out from the cracked toilet pan. All this piss and shit and spittle and drip and bodily issuance wet the shiny stone which, in turn, due to its peculiar porosity, added its own cosmic foulness to the now freely flowing stream of sewage.

Now on the move, the porous flooring and cheap bricks were no match for this unholy water and in very little time the main waste outlet system was breached and as the flow got greater so did the pressure on the already broken system and in very little time the sewage began to puddle and pool on the grass above the pipes.

Inspired, suffused, attuned, the natural world met a new stimulus with the black stone’s outflow and as the sewage seeped into the earth around it so the hated hectares of Priory Hall became the site for a total recalibration of an old burden, Fallopia japonica, more likely known as Japanese Knotweed. As this new flow continued and found other new water systems to infect so the roots and shoots and rhizomes, the small delicate flowers with petals like crystals, the broad oval leaves, and the red stems began to assemble aggressively all over the city with a vigour never experienced before.

Japanese Knotweed has always been one of the most voracious herbaceous perennials known to gardeners, posing a chronic danger to foundations and flood defenses, forming dense and deadly colonies that choke the life out of their riparian rivals for light and space. This new alien stimulus imbued the weed with a renewed compulsion, an urge to begin further accelerating, out-stretching, entwining, redoubling its unsighted efforts to bury this pathetic island beneath a vast sea of its ruby racemes.

Across the history of the planet, cities normally surrender themselves to the natural world long after their final desertion. For example, waves of sand will eventually level even the tallest towers. Other architectural edifices inevitably fall inwards towards their own cancerous centre of gravity, as if opening their own navels and ingesting themselves. All civic buildings of import and significance eventually lose these same values and become the halls of apes and other primates whose behaviour on the whole speaks of a more measured approach to city life than those of the previous occupants. Fountains fall silent, choked, strangled, barren, and unable to sing anymore.

Slowly, troublingly, desperately, inexorably, inspired by the black stone’s issuant, the weeds of Priory Hall began to exert their new cosmic choke on the now barely breathing city.

Terminal Transit – Irish, Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Horror Novel

Synopsis

A brilliant research student discovers a plot fulminated by demons from another dimension and kills himself in the process. The fate of the world is left in the hands of an elderly academic and a mysterious orphan.

Using the facts surrounding Ireland’s economic collapse in 2008 as its starting point, Terminal Transit is an apocalyptic adventure dealing with death and destruction in a Dublin slowly devastated by demonic intervention.

Can the end of the world be avoided?

Or is this planet simply scheduled for Terminal Transit?

Terminal Transit,

Chapter I ‘The Song of the NotBeSpeak,’

Verse 12

With the terrible truth now trickling from beyond, it is fair to say that the world has reached a dreadful juncture for this is the exact point in the very small history of this very small planet that every single ever prediction of doom, of death, of absolute destruction, every crackpot scheme and half-heard death knoll, every religious rune, sign, portent and symbol ever associated with the apocalypse has now come to pass and anyone in the history of the world who has ever laughed, or scoffed, or doubted and discredited, or mocked and ridiculed, terrorized and tortured or in any other way not seen that the end of the world was indeed coming after all must now be fully prepared to eat their entire words letter by miserable mouth-filling letter as the NotBeSpeak begin their cataclysmic entry.

Bart felt a gentle whispering wind wrap around his foolish pride-bulged heart.

‘The5 have come,’ Bart said inside himself. ‘I am complete and ready to be washed in the warmth of Their love.’

The whispering wind filled him with a comforting darkness.

Inteachán imagined that she was lying safely in her bed. Everything was quite and still and as it had always been. Her parents were asleep in the room beside her and no one was trying to kill anyone. But then her bedroom door opened and in stepped her father.

Mac woke from the tangle of his elderly dreams. He sat up straight in his narrow bed.

‘And so it starts,’ he whispered in the darkness. ‘Butler was right. They are on their way. Inteachán has failed.’

Mac reached over and picked up his spectacles. He swung his tired legs out of bed.

‘And so this is what the end of the world feels like, inevitability and disappointment together.’

Mac looked out into the darkness.

‘We tried. We really did.’

Mac paused and a small tear began to form in his tired eye.

‘I suppose it was always the case that an old man and a young child would be no match for all the cosmic terror that the world has never seen.’

Mac smiled in resignation.

‘When the inevitable darkness comes for you, please be assured that it wasn’t the whole world who simply surrendered.’

***

‘Listen to me,’ said the enraptured Rock Star and the crowd fell silent. Bart spread his holy arms out wide, inviting his flock to worship.

‘The5 are here,’ he cried. ‘The5 are really here.’

Even though they didn’t fully know why, the crowd began to clap and cheer. Banners were unfurled and began moving, furling slowly in the darkness like the limbs of poisoned trees. Bart punched the air and whooped.

‘Yeah!’ he yelled. ‘Alright! They’re here. They’re really here.’

Bart played the crowd now. He climbed down off the stage and crossed the security divide to where the crowds were pressed up against the fences. He walked along the line, scattering blessings as he passed. A worried roadie followed behind him to make sure that the microphone cable didn’t get snagged. Burly security guards stopped the crowds from getting over the fences.

‘Listen,’ whispered the Rock Star. ‘Who wants to join The5?’

‘We do,’ someone yelled.

‘Who wants a new anointing?’ Bart continued.

‘Yes please,’ shouted someone else.

‘Some new gods to please?’

‘Me.’

‘And me.’

‘A brand-new cross to bear?’

‘Me too!’

Bart smiled and headed back up onto the stage.

‘Are you listening, children?’ asked Bart as he took his position in front of the band. Bart pulled out the Flute of Thelema.

‘My beautiful chosen children,’ he purred. ‘This next song is for all the world to sing.’ Bart put the Flute to his lips and signaled to the band.

Now we are at the heart of the matter.

What would you do to save the world?

How far would you go?

Would you go all the way?

Inteachán estimated the gap between her and the Rock Star. It looked an awful long way down. Bart turned around to look up at her. He winked. He knew that she had been up there all along. Their eyes met and held for a very brief second before Inteachán

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

jumped.

Terminal Transit – Irish, Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Horror Novel

Synopsis

A brilliant research student discovers a plot fulminated by demons from another dimension and kills himself in the process. The fate of the world is left in the hands of an elderly academic and a mysterious orphan.

Using the facts surrounding Ireland’s economic collapse in 2008 as its starting point, Terminal Transit is an apocalyptic adventure dealing with death and destruction in a Dublin slowly devastated by demonic intervention.

Can the end of the world be avoided?

Or is this planet simply scheduled for Terminal Transit?

Terminal Transit,

Chapter I ‘The Song of the NotBeSpeak,’

Verse 11

With a dramatic sweep of his hand, Bart signaled for the film to start. A series of cursed emojis flashed across the giant screen and bathed the crowd in their infernal light.

SKULL. SMILE. TURD. SKELETON. SKULL. GLOBE. WITCH. SMILE. CRY. FEAR. DOUBLE TEARS. SKULL. ZZz. ROBOT. SCREAM. X-EYES. SKULL. ALIEN. THUMBS DOWN. EYE. DOUBLE EYE. PRAYER HANDS. FINGER POINT. BABY FACE. RED LIPS. UNICORN. SHAMROCK. HALF MOON. RAIN. SNOW. LIGHTNING. LIGHTNING. FIRE. BLAST. DOUBLE SKULL. STONES. STARS. DESERT. SKULL. SMILE. TURD. SKELETON. SKULL. GLOBE. WITCH. SMILE. CRY. FEAR. DOUBLE TEARS. SKULL. ZZz. ROBOT. SCREAM. X-EYES. SKULL. ALIEN. THUMBS DOWN. EYE. DOUBLE EYE. PRAYER HANDS. FINGER POINT. BABY FACE. RED LIPS. UNICORN. SHAMROCK. HALF MOON. RAIN. SNOW. LIGHTNING. LIGHTNING. FIRE. BLAST. DOUBLE SKULL. STONES. STARS. DESERT. SKULL. SMILE. TURD. SKELETON. SKULL. GLOBE. WITCH. SMILE. CRY. FEAR. DOUBLE TEARS. SKULL. ZZz. ROBOT. SCREAM. X-EYES. SKULL. ALIEN. THUMBS DOWN. EYE. DOUBLE EYE. PRAYER HANDS. FINGER POINT. BABY FACE. RED LIPS. UNICORN. SHAMROCK. HALF MOON. RAIN. SNOW. LIGHTNING. LIGHTNING. FIRE. BLAST. DOUBLE SKULL. STONES. STARS. DESERT. SKULL. SMILE. TURD. SKELETON. SKULL. GLOBE. WITCH. SMILE. CRY. FEAR. DOUBLE TEARS. SKULL. ZZz. ROBOT. SCREAM. X-EYES. SKULL. ALIEN. THUMBS DOWN. EYE. DOUBLE EYE. PRAYER HANDS. FINGER POINT. BABY FACE. RED LIPS. UNICORN. SHAMROCK. HALF MOON. RAIN. SNOW. LIGHTNING. LIGHTNING. FIRE. BLAST. DOUBLE SKULL. STONES. STARS. DESERT. SKULL. SMILE. TURD. SKELETON. SKULL. GLOBE. WITCH. SMILE. CRY. FEAR. DOUBLE TEARS. SKULL. ZZz. ROBOT. SCREAM. X-EYES. SKULL. ALIEN. THUMBS DOWN. EYE. DOUBLE EYE. PRAYER HANDS. FINGER POINT. BABY FACE. RED LIPS. UNICORN. SHAMROCK. HALF MOON. RAIN. SNOW. LIGHTNING. LIGHTNING. FIRE. BLAST. DOUBLE SKULL. STONES. STARS. DESERT. SKULL. SMILE. TURD. SKELETON. SKULL. GLOBE. WITCH. SMILE. CRY. FEAR. DOUBLE TEARS. SKULL. ZZz. ROBOT. SCREAM. X-EYES. SKULL. ALIEN. THUMBS DOWN. EYE. DOUBLE EYE. PRAYER HANDS. FINGER POINT. BABY FACE. RED LIPS. UNICORN. SHAMROCK. HALF MOON. RAIN. SNOW. LIGHTNING. LIGHTNING. FIRE. BLAST. DOUBLE SKULL. STONES. STARS. DESERT. SKULL. SMILE. TURD. SKELETON. SKULL. GLOBE. WITCH. SMILE. CRY. FEAR. DOUBLE TEARS. SKULL. ZZz. ROBOT. SCREAM. X-EYES. SKULL. ALIEN. THUMBS DOWN. EYE. DOUBLE EYE. PRAYER HANDS. FINGER POINT. BABY FACE. RED LIPS. UNICORN. SHAMROCK. HALF MOON. RAIN. SNOW. LIGHTNING. LIGHTNING. FIRE. BLAST. DOUBLE SKULL. STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

As the images flickered and repeated so the terrible truth began slowly pouring from beyond. The crowd went wild.

Terminal Transit – Irish, Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Horror Novel

Synopsis

A brilliant research student discovers a plot fulminated by demons from another dimension and kills himself in the process. The fate of the world is left in the hands of an elderly academic and a mysterious orphan.

Using the facts surrounding Ireland’s economic collapse in 2008 as its starting point, Terminal Transit is an apocalyptic adventure dealing with death and destruction in a Dublin slowly devastated by demonic intervention.

Can the end of the world be avoided?

Or is this planet simply scheduled for Terminal Transit?

Terminal Transit,

Chapter I ‘The Song of the NotBeSpeak,’

Verse 10

Inteachán woke to find the dressing room in darkness. She slowly got to her feet, all the while waiting for her eyes to adjust. Inteachán moved towards the door and tried the handle. The door was locked.

‘You never know,’ Inteachán said to herself. ‘In all the excitement he could easily have forgotten.’ Inteachán turned on the light and looked around.

The room was almost the same and the rock star’s aftershave still hung in the air like an unwelcome guest. The chicken and chips were left on the table and one of the bottles of cola was half-empty. Above the table, half-hidden by a tobacco-stained curtain, was a small broken window. Inteachán climbed up on to the table and as she did so she nearly slipped on a piece of fried chicken skin. The window was rusted and the hinges were broken and it took very little time for Inteachán to work the window free sufficiently for her to be able to squeeze through the frame.

Working her hips and stretching her hands out and down in front of her Inteachán carefully slipped through the window and fell two metres into a filthy alleyway. Inteachán found herself behind the main stage. Cables and boxes were scattered everywhere. The band had just started their set and the noise where Inteachán stood was deafening. She felt momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the sound waves that crashed upon her like an angry sonic sea. Inteachán gathered herself and looked around.

To one side of the alley stood the base of a control tower and as Inteachán approached she saw a thin ladder that led straight up into the lighting rigs high above her. With no other obvious options currently available Inteachán began to climb the ladder. As she did so Inteachán noticed that the she was also behind the giant back of plasma screens that formed the backdrop to the stage show. A complicated nest of cables and leads hang down like so many tangled digital vines. This was when the full extent of the difficulties Inteachán faced in her bid to somehow disrupt the show and bring it to a halt before the climax revealed themselves to her.

Bart was enjoying the gig of his life. He wore a t-shirt beneath a leather waistcoat that read ‘#TheFive’ and each note he sang reached deep down inside the heart of every member of the crowd gathered in Croke Park. Bart felt connected with them in a way that he could only feel and not ever explain. The band behind him played with a verve and alignment that they had hitherto only ever dreamed of achieving but had never yet fully realised. Every move they made was simply immaculate.

‘They are coming,’ Bart ad-libbed. ‘They are here,’ he sang as he artlessly changed the words to every one of their hits to accommodate his excitement at what was about to unfold.

‘You won’t believe your wondering eyes.’

Bart trilled.

‘If only you knew what I knew.’

The unsuspecting crowd went wild and greeted every ad-lib with a cheer. For them it was all part of the show. The only person not fooled by the performance was watching high up from her perch in the gantry above the back of the stage. As the next song came to end Bart raised his arms and stretched them out wide.

‘Hush!’ he whispered. ‘Hush, my special children.’

The crowd fell silent. Inteachán marvelled as the countless tiny lights of thousands and thousands of phones and cameras taking photographs punctured the darkness in the stadium. The night sky sparkled and danced, shimmering with a digital haze.

‘Welcome everyone,’ whispered Bart into his microphone. He removed his waistcoat so that everyone could see the message on his shirt. The crowd roared.

‘We have a real treat for you all tonight.’

The crowd roared again.

‘Something so amazing that it is going to change the world.’

The crowd roared once more.

‘Forever!’

Terminal Transit – Irish, Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Horror Novel

Synopsis

A brilliant research student discovers a plot fulminated by demons from another dimension and kills himself in the process. The fate of the world is left in the hands of an elderly academic and a mysterious orphan.

Using the facts surrounding Ireland’s economic collapse in 2008 as its starting point, Terminal Transit is an apocalyptic adventure dealing with death and destruction in a Dublin slowly devastated by demonic intervention.

Can the end of the world be avoided?

Or is this planet simply scheduled for Terminal Transit?

Terminal Transit,

Chapter I ‘The Song of the NotBeSpeak,’

Verse 9

‘There are many privileges to being the biggest rock star this country has ever produced and courtesy of off-shore accounting and other tax tricks, the biggest one of them is having enough money to spend however I like.’

Bart smiled.

‘Some stars spend their money on sports cars and beachfront properties in California or racehorses or islands or hotels in Dubai. I prefer to collect things; not the sort of ordinary things that ordinary people collect but the sort of extraordinary things that only extraordinary people like myself are able to collect.’

Bart looked very pleased with himself.

‘After years of spending more money than you could ever hope to even see, I currently have one of the world’s biggest collections of occult paraphernalia. I have cloaks and wands and books and globes and fetishes and familiars and gems and spells and curses and any other splendid arcania that takes my fancy.’

Bart smiled as he thought about his extensive collection. He pointed at Inteachán.

‘As you also know, I have recently acquired the Flute of Thelema and of all the things I have collected over the years this is the one thing that gives me the most pleasure.’

Bart paused.

‘Do you want to know why?’ he asked Inteachán.

‘Not really,’ answered Inteachán. Bart laughed.

‘Because The5 gave it to me as a gift.’

‘The Five?’ said Inteachán.

‘Not The Five, The5,’ corrected the Rock Star. ‘I’m sure that Mac has told you all kinds of ludicrous stories about the NotBeSpeak.’

Inteachán nodded.

‘Well,’ said the Rock Star. ‘He doesn’t know the half of it.’

Inteachán said nothing. Bart was thrilled to share his knowledge.

‘You cannot begin to imagine what I have seen and heard,’ he boasted. ‘Your tiny little mind would simply shatter.’

Bart cracked his knuckles.

‘The5 first spoke to me during a late-night recording session in our studio. The rest of the band had gone home hours before but I wanted to re-record a vocal so I stayed behind. As I mixed the track I kept noticing a slight vibration in the background.’

Bart stared at Inteachán, convinced he was impressing her with his knowledge.

‘It took me a while but eventually I was able to isolate the vibration and digitally transpose it, re-modulating it as I did so. At first I still couldn’t make anything out but by further transposing across four of the channels I was finally able to convert the vibration into legible sound.’

Inteachán wasn’t sure if Bart really knew what he was talking about. Unperturbed, he continued with his explanation.

‘I first heard a series of garbled voices whispering about stones and stars and other things that I couldn’t understand. It quite freaked me out, I can tell you.’

Bart mock-shivered. Inteachán didn’t laugh.

‘I must have fall into some kind of sleep at that stage because the next thing I knew I was standing in a pitch-black desert looking up at five shiny black planets in splendid orbit. A sudden wind appeared from nowhere.

‘We aRE The5,’ the wind whispered. ‘YoU ARe OuR fuTURe.’’

Bart looked extremely pleased with himself.

‘Then I was back in my studio as if nothing had happened.’

Bart smiled.

‘It isn’t everyday that beings from beyond our consciousness ask for help and so naturally I couldn’t say no.’

Bart kept crowing.

‘The5 must have seen one my concerts and realised just how much messianic potential I truly possess. They told me about the Flute and where it could be found. They also told me how to play it and why.’

‘Why?’ asked Inteachán.

‘Precisely,’ said Bart mystically. ‘Why, indeed.’

He put his hand inside his jacket and pulled out an ornate wooden box. He opened one end of the box and took out a small silver flute. Inteachán fancied that she saw its outline shimmer slightly. Bart put the flute to his lips and pretended to play it.

‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’ he said boastfully, ‘but I mustn’t play it now. I have to wait until later.’

He put the flute back in the box and placed the box upon the table.

‘Only then will the time is exactly right.’

Bart looked at Inteachán and raised an eyebrow.

‘What do you think will happen when I play the flute during the concert?’

‘Something rotten,’ Inteachán replied. Bart laughed.

‘Something rotten? Something rotten? How about more like something mightily amazingly magnificently marvelous?’

Bart clicked his Cuban heels together.

‘When I play the Flute of Thelema The5 will know that their entry into this world is assured.’

Bart rubbed his hands together.

‘As Mac has no doubt explained in his clumsy, geriatric way, The5 exist in the spaces between things,’ explained the Rock Star. ‘The white between the words on a page, lines of a book or the cuts of a film.’ Bart continued.

‘Tonight, The5 will first reveal their intentions towards the world via the specially-commissioned video that will be playing on the massive wall of screens behind the band.’ Inteachán said nothing. Bart leapt to his tiny feet.

‘As the concert’s crescendo is reached I will play the Flute of Thelema and The5 will anoint me with their magnificence and then turn their attention to the audience. They will also be anointed by The5,’ said the Rock Star, ‘but obviously not quite as much as me for they have chosen me especially. The crowd will go wild and this dirty old town will be taken by sunrise.’

Inteachán didn’t see the fist that hit the side of her head and knocked her to the floor unconscious.

Terminal Transit – Irish, Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Horror Novel

Synopsis

A brilliant research student discovers a plot fulminated by demons from another dimension and kills himself in the process. The fate of the world is left in the hands of an elderly academic and a mysterious orphan.

Using the facts surrounding Ireland’s economic collapse in 2008 as its starting point, Terminal Transit is an apocalyptic adventure dealing with death and destruction in a Dublin slowly devastated by demonic intervention.

Can the end of the world be avoided?

Or is this planet simply scheduled for Terminal Transit?

Terminal Transit,

Chapter I ‘The Song of the NotBeSpeak,’

Verse 8

The city at night is a dark and dangerous place. Revellers and ruffians vie for space. People die in dirty alleys while others walk past and laugh. Sadness turns to anger turns to murder. And for many people the streets where they walk are also where they live and so go about their business unhindered by public eyes as they share needles and doorways and grimy bottles.

Small enough to pass unnoticed and alert enough to walk unhindered, Inteachán enjoyed the freedom that the darkness of the city usually offered. Tonight, however, the streets were full of hordes of people all heading towards Croke Park. This was nothing unusual and the various finals played out at the stadium meant that the streets were regularly full of crowds of singing fans. As Croke Park loomed in the distance Inteachán found herself swept along by the horde of fans thrilled by the prospect of the country’s biggest band making their triumphant return.

It was a relatively simple process for Inteachán to use the crowd to enter the stadium and once inside she made her way towards the area behind the stage. Security was very tight but no match for such a determined child and it wasn’t long before Inteachán found herself in the main dressing room backstage. Clothes and bags were scattered everywhere. A giant poster of Bart was carelessly taped crookedly to one of the walls. Directly beneath the poster a low table groaned beneath the weight of plates and plates of cheap fried chicken with thin salty fries in greasy paper bags. Large bottles of corner shop cola completed the pre-gig tableau.

‘Well what do you know?’ said a voice behind her. ‘What have we got here?’

Inteachán turned to find Bart standing in the doorway. He was smaller than he looked on the television and Inteachán wrinkled her nose as the smell of his aftershave began to fill the room. Bart stepped forward and closed the door behind him. He smiled and pointed at the groaning table.

‘What do you think of our spread?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure the band won’t mind if you help yourself to a chicken wing and a couple of fries.’

Bart laughed at his own generosity before falling serious.

‘I know who you are and I know why you are here, Inteachán,’ he said. ‘They told me you were coming.’

Inteachán didn’t reply. Bart took another step closer.

‘They also told me that you are being manipulated by that old doddering fool of a professor.’ Bart stopped right in front of Inteachán and tried his hardest to loom right over her. It didn’t work. Inteachán stepped back. Bart put his hands on his hips.

‘Mac may think he knows what is going on but let me tell you he hasn’t got a bloody clue.’

Bart sat down on a plastic chair and put his cowboy boots up on another. He motioned for Inteachán to sit down. She stayed standing.