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By Adrian Barnes

Arthur C. Clarke Award Nominee for top Novel (2013)

Dawn breaks and not anyone on this planet has slept the evening ahead of. Or virtually nobody. a couple of humans, might be one in 10000, can nonetheless sleep, and they’ve all shared an analogous mysterious dream. A handful of silent teenagers can nonetheless sleep besides, yet what they’re dreaming is still a secret. worldwide panic ensues. A scientific truth: after six days of absolute sleep deprivation, psychosis units in. After 4 weeks, the physique dies. in the mean time, a extraordinary new global arises and swallows the previous one complete. an international referred to as Nod

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He became and confronted the angel-watchers, smiling grimly. Cupping his palms round his mouth, and with no even bothering to aim to sound like he intended it, he yelled, ‘Holy shit! these aren’t angels. They’re devils! ’ The impression was once instant. There isn’t a lot distance, as soon as you’re pressured to consider it, among a grin and a grimace of terror. simply a little bit diverse units of facial contortions. in the street in the back of us, 100 expressions shifted, and all of us entered one more hell. a guy started to scream in a bit lady voice whereas the skeleton girl dropped to her knees, nonetheless looking at upward, and started to deepen the injuries on her forearms with ragged fingernails. inside of seconds, the remainder had swimsuit, falling to the floor and grovelling one of the glass. i started to show away in horror, yet one screamed note stopped me at the same time it iced up all people else inside diversity. ‘Satan! ’ The hundred or so haggard figures appeared made from gray stone, them all fastened by way of 4 limbs to the floor. 2 hundred eyes swivelled, locking at the solitary determine of a muscular younger guy with a shaved head and a hoop of black tattoos round his neck. He had simply emerged, shirtless, from the shattered entrance window of a boutique, stepping via a thicket of toppled and denuded mannequins, a litre bottle of vitamin Coke clutched in his correct hand. He stopped and surveyed the scene. 100 shaking hands lifted and pointed at him. My first effect used to be that he was once a person who were an boastful prick. His tattoos and his gym-moulded physique mentioned somebody dedicated to the darkish arts of public presentation. or perhaps these have been simply my flabby prejudices exhibiting via. ‘Satan…’ 100 whispers wavered, discovering a strange type of concord in a drawn-out recitation of that identify. The tattooed guy stood there surrounded through a briar patch of empty gestures shaped via the mannequins’ palms and elbows, grinning and listening because the crowd murmured. His head jerked somewhat up and down as he seemed to provide his consciousness to a whole parliament of disembodied advisors. Then a choice was once made. losing the bottle and splaying his arms a long way aside, he confirmed the gang his arms. ‘I…’ ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I whispered. Dave shook his head. the entire pressure had fled from his face; his typhoon had handed, and he stood beside me, muscular fingers crossed throughout his chest, an oasis of calm. ‘Nah. this could be enjoyable. ’ ‘Satan…’ the group hissed. ‘…am…’ ‘Satan…’ They willed him ahead. ‘…Lucifer! ’ he cried, then laughed hysterically. He leaned ahead, palms on his knees, and shook his head. ‘Fucking A! Oh, why didn’t I see it sooner?! Kiss the airborne dirt and dust, you motherfucking items of…’ A cracking sound virtually deafened me as Dave raised his rifle and shot. The newly-minted Lucifer fell amid the bare mannequins, and the mob recommenced its worm-frenzy. ‘Why did you—? ’ ‘Ah, fuck him. Let’s move. We’ve received miles to move prior to we sleep, my pal. ’ To my—literally—shell-shocked ears, his voice seemed like it got here from an extended, good distance away.

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