The Schreibach Estate
By Kyla Ward (kylaw@tabula-rasa.info)
Edited by Thom Marrion (xnbach@yahoo.com)

The kid hadn't been joking. The double fences he was facing were ten feet of security mesh topped with razor wire, and they ran through the trees with about twice that distance of no-man's-land between them. But fortunately the kid hadn't been joking about the place where the mesh had come away from the metal strut and Alex paid him without demur.

The kid pocketed the money and rubbed his nose. "I went a long way, that way." He pointed south, in which direction Alex knew lay the gate.

"What did you see, Jamie?" he asked. A good journalist despises no source.

"Just trees."

"Not the house?"

The kid shook his head. "Peter says he did, but I reckon he's lying."

Alex's research had indicated that the double fence completely surrounded the estate. He had to admit he was a lot less confident now about being able to breach the inner perimeter, but his camera had a good zoom lens, and his research had also indicated the value of pictures of the reclusive heiress. And what was the worst that could happen? A bit of fast-talking and maybe he could even get some gossip out of the security guards. Alex lowered his head and approached the tear.

"If they catch you they'll kill you," came a sudden call from behind him.

Alex managed to turn partly and smile, but working his fully-grown bulk past the raveled edges demanded his full attention.

Jamie waited for a while, once the man from out of town had disappeared. A badness gradually began twisting through his stomach. The man had gone in, he'd really done it. He'd said that all he wanted was to take a peek, like they had. The badness rose steadily up Jamie's throat. Shouldn't have told him. Shouldn't have brought him here.

Was that a sound? Jamie started wildly, but all there was to see were the fences and the trees beyond, all perfectly still. Torn between fear and the fascination of the tear, he hovered in place.

Without doubt that was a sound, of feet thudding, lungs gasping. Pounding along the no-man's-land came Alex, eyes bulging from a white face. He flung himself at the fence, trying to force his way through.

"Help! They're coming!" he screamed, managing to push one arm through the tear. On the end of its strap he waved his camera. "Don't you know, they're all DEAD!"

The camera landed with a thump on the grass, about a meter away from Jamie. Jamie turned and ran, back up the slope, faster than he had ever had run in his life.

The Schreibach Estate is the original landholding of German immigrants who came to this area around 150 years ago. They came to make beer and grow rich, and achieved both objectives triumphantly. Today, Schreibach stout is brewed (by the original method) and sold only as a regional curiosity. The family interests are vast and managed on behalf of the only descendant, Miss Elsa Bornhilde Schreibach. A woman of middle years, she lives on the estate in almost total seclusion. There has never been an interview, no photographs are known and all financial dealings are conducted by Golding Investment Brokers. Her servants-the Schreibach manor is large and presumably opulent-must be well-treated and very well paid to have never spoken to the press. Recently, some reports have issued from tradesmen brought onto the estate to conduct repairs and install security devices, but their movements were strictly controlled and none spoke to or even saw the heiress.

Belburg is a pub and post-office town servicing the farms around the estate. The people of Belburg are not a talkative bunch, but someone who takes the time and effort to win confidences may hear about the towering fences, the razor wire and the night patrols. He may hear how no stray animal is ever seen again; how, on the apocryphal times a young steer or dog has managed to break through the fence, appropriate reimbursement was delivered under letter from some big city firm. He may hear how no person claiming to be a worker on the estate has ever been seen in Belburg, opinions ranging from illegal immigrants to prison labor. He may hear how the only visitor, apart from the monthly trucks that collect the stout and deliver supplies, is some fellow in a flashy car who comes through once a quarter. He may hear all this and more, as long as he does not offer to buy a round of Schreibachs.

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