27th October 2006. Tom awoke and opened one eye. His trusty Great Dane sat silently, next to his bed, staring at him. He whimpered. Tom opened his other eye and turned his head to view the clock on his bedside table. The liquid crystal diode face read, zero five: twenty four. He languidly lifted one arm and gave Brutus a pat on the head. The four moved onto five. An alarm buzzed intermittently: The sound annoyed him at the best of times but that morning it hit a dissonance, deep in his soul. He was drained from a night of restless sleep. It was the last Friday of October, the end of a work-week that should rather be forgotten. He reached over, silenced the noise, and rolled out of bed. He slid into his, black, track-suit in auto-mode. The mountain air was chilly, early in the morning. On the way down the stairs he tripped over his feet and grabbed the railing of the staircase. He was reading the headlines: in his mind’s eye; “Fire Chief Tom Steele; tripped up by staircase: in own home” when he slipped on the bottom step and sprawled across the Persian rug. ‘Oops!’ He was still finding his feet when he heard Brutus pattering down the stairs. He turned, to see where the dog was and his legs whipped out from underneath him. He was airborne. Brutus, sliding on the rug, collided with the opposite wall of the hallway, his gangly legs finding it hard to get a grip on the, polished, wooden floor. He gave up and lay down, his ego bruised. Tom landed on his butt. 'I think I can do this myself Brutus; I really don't need your expertise to show me,’ he sarcastically, scolded, the enormous, canine. Brutus laid his snout on his outstretched front paws and looked at Tom, from under his eyelids, with a soulful expression.His tail tapped the floor. Tom stood up, left Brutus to sulk, turned around and made his way to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, and discovered that he'd forgotten to stock up on milk, on his way home, the previous night. He hung on the door, of the refrigerator, surveying its contents. Brutus arrived in the kitchen from behind the wooden, screen wall, which separated the kitchen, from the dining area. He had a beautiful rhythm when he moved, Tom had always thought. The dog's last few strides into the kitchen, besides the rhythmic footfalls of his sharp nails clattering on the wooden floor, were so graceful; yet they were filled with energy. He focused on his companion, just flicking its paws to propel itself. It reminded him of a ballerina. Brutus, however, was no ballerina: He was more of a hunting, killing machine that stood close to three feet at the shoulders. His thick, short, glossy coat was deep golden-yellow, fading swiftly into black at his snout. His dark-brown, almond-shaped eyelids framed the glint in his eyes and added an air of intelligence to the dog’s countenance. His high held head being his final mark of distinction. Brutus stopped and sat down, his tale straight out behind him, and grumphed. He cocked his head from side to side, tapped the floor with his tale: A slow, rhythmic tap…tap…He lifted one paw, brushed it passed his snout, extended it into the air in front of him, returned it to the floor, and lay down. 'So, you think sorry makes it okay, do you?’ Tom popped two slices of bread in the toaster. Not his ideal breakfast, but it would do. * * * * * Tom closed and locked the front door on his way out of the house. He strolled up the brick paving garden path that led to a, red and black, wooden bridge. The pond below the bridge was fed from an artificial waterfall, nestled deep in an oriental garden to his left. A number of Banzai trees grew freely amidst, three, strategically positioned, granite boulders and verdurous groundcover. A Coy fish left ripples on the surface of the pond as Tom traversed the bridge. Purple and yellow water lilies drifted on the sparkling water. Tom walked another fifty feet to the, massive, garage with its three double-doors facing a paved clearing in the yard. He entered the building through a side entrance; walked passed a fleet of vehicles and straddled the, midnight-blue, rigid-frame, Harley chopper, parked next to the mechanical repairs lift, in the far corner. With a handsome kick of the starter lever, twelve hundred cc of Harley engine roared. Settling down to idle, its irregular thumping filled the room. Tom donned his helmet. He opened the garage door with the remote on the Harley’s key ring. Thunder rumbled through the valley. Lightning flashed across the sky shortly afterwards. He was beginning to get second thoughts about using the Harley. A loud peel of thunder vibrated through the garage, leaving the window panes rattling. He killed the Harley’s motor. Big drops of rain splattered on the driveway. He kicked out the side stand and laid the bike over, to rest for the day, as another flash of lightning, lit up the yard, outside the garage. He walked over to a tiny wooden cupboard bolted to one of the garage walls. He took off his helmet, returned the keys of the Harley to their hook and reached for the keys of his Cobra. He made his way to where the Cobra was parked, slid the soft top over the interior of the open sports car and clipped it onto the windscreen. He climbed in and buried the key in the ignition. The motor rumbled to life with just a flick of the key. He fiddled his fingers over the remote for the gate on his way out. The heater at his feet slowly kicked in, relieving the icy cold that had seeped into his bones. He cruised slowly up the private road that took him to the intersection at the top of the gorge. He was feeling cranky. Charcoal clouds shaved the tips of the mountains as Tom descended through Dead-Man's Gorge. The treacherous pass had claimed the lives of numerous sojourners who became victims of its negative cambers, glass-smooth corners, odd-shaped hairpins and a number of other challenges; that soon put the fear of God in the most capable of drivers. A fuel tanker had entered the pass just a little before Tom and it was right in front of him, belching out diesel fumes enough to cover his Cobra. He nipped passed the tanker and continued on his way. The drive down into the valley usually took him around twenty minutes. Tom settled down, his thoughts turning to work. As he accelerated and swept through the last bend of the pass and onto the highway that entered Coal Brook Bay, mist, cold and thick, swirled around the Cobra. Another ten minutes and he was at the gate of the refinery. Tom Steele, a man with a passion for living, digs deep to overcome the challenges that cross his path on his way to accomplish his dream. His closest friends are drawn into a macabre battle to survive. A year in their lives which they will find hard to forget, starts out with a gruesome incident at the Synthetic Solutions Corporation Refinery one stormy Friday morning. Their lives changed in an instant, but the worst is still to come and the best lies waiting…