Welcome To Hellville - Part 11 By Rich Mills 24th November 2040

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I don't know how to explain this, or if there is anything to explain. Something happened last night, but I'm not quite sure what it was, or what it means. If anything! All I can do is document it. I've been up a couple of nights, working, writing, digging through more of Alan's files. I fell asleep at some point I think, had this sharply vivid dream. It made such an impression, that even now when I close my eyes I can still see the white tower, like a lighthouse, standing in-front of me. When I came back from dreamland I was sat in front of my screen.

However in place of the blank white screen I remember leaving, there now sat a wall of words. I don't where it had come from, I can only assume it is one of Alan's files that I'd pulled up without realising, but I can't be sure. It has no discernible document history I can track. That may be due to it being damaged over time, but I just have a feeling that something is not quite right with this file.

There is something about the passage that has drawn me in, I want to know more, who wrote it, what it is all about, and how it came to be on my screen. Another odd thing that I think is worthy of mention. I did a word count on this piece, and it is 667 words long. I know that this number is significant, I cannot for the life of me think why at the moment, but I just know that it is. I did a search on the significance of the number, and all I came up with was a now closed down New York based public access TV channel that some apocalyptical religious group ran for a while.

I should maybe ask Keith if he knows anything about this Channel 667, although I may well be clutching at straws, and even more than that this may just be an indicator of my insomnia-induced madness rather than anything else.

"In the beginning Godhead created the heaven and the plan..." The re-creation of a Utopian paradise halted by the white noise roar of a de-tuned car radio. Mikel gripped the steering wheel tight, holding his right arm with the rigidity of an iron bar so as to keep the car aimed straight down the ditch banked country lane. His left hand fumbled around in the dark, attempting to search out the next radio station along the airwaves. Screams, squeals, roars and howls, interspersed with telex chatter. "... Direct and exclusive from Metatron, our word is our promise. Now available in handy throwaway byte size chunks!" Silence…

A seemingly prolonged pause in the radio broadcast, breathing in a stagnant lung full, he felt no soft warm breeze on this oppressive summer night. An audible silence hung heavy on the ears of those who would dare to listen, each in their own way unwittingly forced to define the 'Mad March' road kill that lay before them. Unable to distinguish the fine outgrowths massed together in matted carnage on the poor unfortunates ravaged surface. Ghoulish curiosity swept away by an unconsciously anticipated dread, lead to a collective state of unrest. No longer sitting comfortably waiting for the story to begin, the brief period of dead-air had given him time to think!

All was beige with nicotine and age, both taxi office and drivers. Fighting an eternal, internal battle with the Sandman, his weapons of choice being duty free, freely elicited, soft pack of Camel cigarettes and plenty of weak coffee, dispensed from the ticking, whirring and gurgling nineteen-sixties drinks vending machine. Of all the things Gabi had done for money this had got to be one of the lowest, he thought as he tapped the Camels, a butt-end appearing out of the small tear in the corner of the packet.

Continued ....next page,

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