by Mark Morris
Moira tugged at Libby's sleeve as a bed erupted into flame. "Come on," she shouted above the tortuous squeals of the creature, "let's go."
Libby was already on her way out, but had stooped to grab a pair of Converse trainers from the floor at the foot of Portia's bed. Taking one last look at the dying alien, she followed Moira from the room, slamming the door behind her.
There was blood up the walls, across the bed, on the carpet. Steve looked around in disbelief. It was as if someone had come into Brian's room with buckets of the stuff, intending to cause as much mess as possible. He spotted Brian's specs on the bedside table; there was blood on them too. Some of the streaks on the carpet were already drying to a black crust.
"Nothing we can do here," Max said dully.
Steve nodded. Even with the stench of the burning alien still in his nostrils, he could smell the blood; it was meaty and coppery, and it turned his stomach.
He followed Max from the room and the two of them jogged down the corridor to check on Daphne Mclntee and Jean McGregor. A quick sweep with the torch revealed the older woman's room to be empty. Any hopes she might still be alive, however, were dashed when they entered the McGregors' room. There was even more blood in here than there had been in Brian's, and it seemed to be concentrated in two areas-on the bed and on the carpet by the door. Lying in the blackening blood on the floor was a walking cane with a black plastic handgrip.
"Fucker got them all, didn't it?" Max muttered.
"Looks like it," said Steve, sickened. "Come on, let's get up that tower."
"At least we got the cunt," Max said, as the two of them hurried back towards the door that led out into the courtyard.
"Yeah, but there may be others," said Steve.
"I know it," said Max. "It's like on The X-Files. We can't trust no one now-except each other."
It was an awful thought. Assuming they survived this, how long would it be before Steve was able to look at his children again without suspicion? And what about Libby? Could he sleep in the same bed as someone who he couldn't be entirely sure wasn't some alien predator in disguise?
After Sue's death, Steve and Max had discovered that not only were the main doors to the castle unlocked, but also that all the padlocks and keys that had previously secured them were now nowhere to be found. Additionally, the huge top and bottom bolts had been ripped clean from the wood, which effectively meant that the castle was now defenseless. The two of them had briefly discussed building a barricade, but had quickly come to the conclusion that the idea was impractical. In the end they had decided that the best solution was simply to round up as many of their fellow survivors as they could and head for the helicopter.
They exited the block of buildings housing the now empty staff quarters and moved back out into the open. Despite the incessant drizzle, the stink of cooked alien was still heavy on the air, and ash still swirled like black snow among the silver raindrops. Glancing left and right, Steve and Max moved across the small cobbled square towards the arch that led into the larger area of the main courtyard. Steve was in the lead, torch in one hand and his Glock in the other.
Suddenly he stopped. "Listen," he said.
Max halted by his shoulder. They both heard it-a faint but telltale fizzing sound coming from the courtyard ahead.
"It's one of them, isn't it?"
Steve nodded. "Grab a bottle out of my rucksack."
He felt Max unbuckling the top flap and tugging at the cords of his rucksack. But before the younger man could even reach in for a bottle the fizzing sound abruptly increased and the crackling blue-black mass of an alien appeared in the archway.
Steve and Max backed up, leveling their guns. For the next few seconds the night air rang with the echoing din of gunfire. The alien shuddered under the barrage of bullets, but continued to move forward, forcing the two men back.
"There's another one!" Max yelled.
Directly behind the alien that was taking most of their flak they could see another of the creatures.
"This is hopeless," Steve shouted, lowering his gun.
"Let's torch the bastards!" said Max.
"We haven't got time. Come on, back this way."
Together the two men retreated, forced back in the direction from which they had come. Inexorably, like shapeless, shambling masses of negative energy, the creatures now swarming into the castle through the open main doors flowed after them.
Adam cautiously made his way through the castle corridors. Five minutes after saying au revoir to the others, he had heard gunfire-at least half a dozen shots, maybe more. A couple of minutes after that he had heard further gunfire, closer this time, perhaps only a couple of floors below. Which could only mean that the aliens, or slugs, or whatever you wanted to call the vile buggers, had finally managed to breach their defenses.
Now that it had actually happened, Adam couldn't help thinking there had been a whiff of inevitability about it from the start. They must all have been crackers (himself included) if they had honestly thought they could stay here indefinitely, ensconced within their magical kingdom.
Ah well, he thought, it was fun while it lasted. But what was it they said? Onward and upward. Literally, in fact, if he could make it to the copter without being gobbled up by some ghastly monster en route.
It was funny in a way, because although he felt distanced from the firecrackers below, there was a part of Adam that genuinely wanted to be down there in the thick of the action. There was, after all, something to be said for standing shoulder to shoulder with his friends, fighting for the right to survivebesides which, it was bloody creepy up here on his own. It was quiet, and there were great long shadows all over the place, and he kept thinking some horrible beastie was going to jump out at him. He wasn't generally the sort of chap to suffer from the heebie jeebies, but it was different when the monsters were actually real. Even having a torch wasn't much of a blessing. All right, so without it he would have been as blind as a bat, but on the other hand it made him a sitting target; in fact, rather than creeping about, he might just as well have been wearing a luminous suit and announcing his whereabouts through a megaphone.
The route he was taking to the Watch Tower was convoluted (Jean McGregor had described it as being "all up hill and down dale"). It involved working his way along various corridors, up a couple of staircases and even through several rooms, all of which would eventually bring him to a long stretch of corridor known as the Whispering Walk. At the end of this corridor was a section of curved wall inset with a wooden door, which opened directly onto the halfway point of the Watch Tower's spiral staircase. Adam knew the route by heart; he had walked it regularly, in preparation for such an eventuality as this.
He was currently about halfway to the tower and, despite all the commotion below, had not yet encountered a soul. So far so good, he thought, creeping up a narrow flight of stairs and entering what had probably once been a bedchamber, but had now been converted into an IT suite, complete with ranks of now obsolete computers. Looking at them, gathering dust, their screens a pearly gray in the light from his torch, Adam felt a brief pang for his old life. He wondered what had happened to his girlfriend, Lisa. No doubt drowned along with almost everyone else he had ever known. He quashed the thought. In general he was a pragmatic man who coped the best he could with whatever life threw at him, and who tried not to dwell on his failures and disappointments. Onward and upward, he thought again, passing through the IT suite, and opening the door in the opposite wall onto yet another red-carpeted corridor.
Sweeping his torch side to side to satisfy himself nothing was lurking in the shadows,Adam turned left. The wall on his left-hand side was inset with doors at regular intervals. On the sections of wall between the doors was a series of Gothiclooking portraits, all murky browns and forbidding expressions. To Adam's right was a thick outer wall occupied by wide, evenly spaced windows in deeply recessed alcoves. Curtains were pulled across each of the alcoves, and it occurred to Adam that the deep, wi
de windowsills provided ample space for someone to hide. He glanced nervously at each one as he walked by, half expecting the curtain to suddenly billow out and something to leap at him. His rifle was over his shoulder, and he wondered whether he ought to carry it, ready to fire, just in case. He was still wondering when he heard a creak from the far end of the corridor.
Instantly he switched off his torch and pressed himself against the wall on his left. There was a wavering light up ahead, splashed across the wall like an elongated moon where the corridor took a sharp turn to the right. It was evidently torchlight, and whoever was casting it was maybe halfway along the next corridor, heading in Adam's direction. It crossed Adam's mind to call out, but then he decided it was best for now to keep a low profile. Even if this did turn out to be someone he knew (and Adam assumed they had made it up here via the courtyard), how would he know it was really them? For that matter, how would he know whoever made it to the helicopter was the genuine article? The simple answer was, he wouldn't. He would just have to play it by ear.
Thinking quickly, he darted across the corridor to one of the alcoves. He fumbled with the long curtain in the dark, searching for the opening in the center. After a moment of panic he found it and slipped through the gap. A little hampered by his gun and rucksack, he clambered onto the kneehigh windowsill, trying to be as quiet as possible. He crouched there in the dark, facing the back of the curtain, trying to breathe as shallowly as he could. It was dusty in the recess, and he felt a desperate urge to clear his throat. It would be typical, he thought, if he did that cliched thing of sneezing as the newcomer walked past.
For perhaps thirty seconds it was pitch-black, and then Adam saw the faintest glimmer beyond the curtain. The glimmer became brighter as the figure approached. Adam held his breath, listening to the pad of footsteps, the occasional creak of a carpeted floorboard. When the beam of the torch swept directly across his hiding place, he couldn't help but hunch his shoulders. The involuntary movement caused the gun to shift on his back, its butt tapping the windowsill. Adam winced. It had only been a gentle tap. Maybe whoever was out there hadn't heard it.
There was a moment of silence-and then the curtains were yanked back and a torch was shone full in his face.
He threw up his hands, dazzled. He couldn't remember ever feeling more scared or helpless.
Then the figure behind the torch said, "I thought you'd be around here somewhere."
Adam squinted, but the light of the torch was still blinding him. "Who are you?" he said.
"It's me," the figure said, sounding surprised that he had to ask. "It's Dylan."
"Which way?" Libby said.
Moira flashed her torch up the corridor. At the far end was the beginning of a curving staircase, the first three steps fanning out from the central spindle like overlapping wedges of cake before disappearing around the corner.
"I think we go up there and turn left."
"You think?" said Libby. "Don't you know?"
Moira glared at her. "Don't you?"
"You've been here longer than I have."
"That doesn't mean I know the place like the back o' me hand, though, does it?"
"Please," said Abby, "don't argue." Her voice sounded tired and strained. As instructed by Moira, she had rushed back to her room and dressed in double-quick time, dragging on jeans, sweater, jacket, socks and boots. Portia was less ideally clothed, in Abby's blue hoodie, which came to her knees, over her yellow pajamas. At least, though, thanks to Libby's foresight, she had shoes on her feet.
After checking the boys' rooms, and finding no sign of them, the four girls had headed upwards, trying to remember the route that led to the tower. It hadn't seemed too complicated in the daylight, but at night it was a different matter. It made Libby realize how little of the castle they utilized, how much of it remained abandoned on a daily basis.
"I think Moira's right," Abby said. "I think we go up that staircase. At the top I think there's a sort of hall, and then another corridor where the IT suite is. This is like the back way to it, which we never used, did we, Portia?"
Portia looked at her solemnly and shook her head, though Libby got the impression the younger girl had not even heard the question.
They hurried along the landing and up the staircase, torches in their left hands, guns in their right. Moira still had possession of Abby's gun. When the women had n et up with the girls in the corridor, Moira had offered her gun back to her, but Abby had told her to keep it.
At the top of the staircase was what might once have been a baronial hall, just as Abby had said. It had a wooden floor and a huge fireplace at the far end and there was an impressive collection of shields and swords and medieval breastplates on the right-hand wall, which reflected their torchlight in steely flashes. There was a long table, with perhaps two dozen chairs arranged around it, in the center of the room. It was difficult to imagine what the hall had been used for prior to the floodboardroom, perhaps?
They were hurrying across the hall towards the door in the far corner, their feet clomping on the floorboards, when a croaking voice shouted, "Mum."
They whirled in unison. The voice had come from a particularly dense clump of shadow at the base of the wall beyond the central table. It was only when they shone their torches upon it that they realized the shadow was in fact a crumpled figure. Now, in the harsh light, they could see its white face, the eyes screwed up and blinking, and the hand reaching out to them. And they could see the blood, which the figure wore like a glistening bib on the chest of its black hooded jacket.
"Oh my God," Moira gasped, and stumbled towards the figure. "Oh, sweet Jesus, Andy, what happened to you?"
Andy Poole tried to rise. He grimaced, and they saw he had blood on his teeth too.
"It was Dylan," he said weakly. "He attacked me."
"Dylan?" repeated Abby. "No... why?"
Andy glanced in her direction, but his eyes were glazed. "He's one of them. He went for me. I managed to fight him off. I came up here and hid."
Abby was shaking her head. "No," she said in a tiny voice, "not Dyl. He can't be."
Moira ran over and crouched beside her son. It wasn't until she reached towards him that she seemed to realize her hands were already occupied. She put her torch and gun on the floor and tried again, reaching towards his blood-soaked jacket to unzip it, assess the damage. In one fluid movement Andy sat up and shoved her hard in the chest. Even as she was rolling over backwards, he snatched up the gun and shot her in the face.
Moira's feet jerked wildly for a moment and then the life went out of her. Andy raised the gun again, but Libby, astonished by her own reflexes, shot him in the chest. He made an urk sound and the gun flew out of his hand.
"Grab it!" screamed Libby, but Abby didn't need telling. She went for the gun like a cricketer diving full-length to take a catch. Andy was already beginning to transform, sparks fizzing and flickering around his darkening face. Libby shot him twice more, and then Abby, her gun back in her hand, pumped several more bullets into the writhing form.
Libby grabbed Abby's gun arum. "We need to burn it before it can get up," she shouted.
Abby nodded, but even as the two of them were reaching towards their rucksacks, there was a familiar fizzing noise from the far side of the room. Portia screamed as a fully-formed creature came sliding through the door they had recently entered.
"Run!" Libby yelled, and turned towards the far door.
Abby fired once at the new arrival, and then she grabbed Portia's hand and the three of them ran for their lives.
Steve and Max ran back into the wing of the castle that housed the administration offices and staff quarters. Steve was trying to work out how they could escape, where they could go. This building was pretty much a sealed unit. As far as he knew there were no secret doors or hidden staircases leading into other parts of the castle. The upper floors could only be accessed via what had now become the no-go area of the courtyard.
Thinking furiously, he
shoved open the door of the former head teacher's office. Max, who had been about to run straight past, skidded to a halt.
"What you doing, man? Those fuckers are right behind us. We can't hide in here."
"We're not going to hide," Steve panted.
"What we gonna do then?"
"Jump out the window"
Max looked at him for an instant as if he were crazy, then gave an abrupt nod. "Okay."
There were two windows at the back of the roomthankfully not the narrow archways that proliferated in most parts of the castle, but wide square modern windows that let in plenty of light during the day.
"Aw, man, they're locked," Max moaned, trying them both.
"Stand back." Steve picked up the heavy swivel chair under the desk and hurled it at the left-hand window. The explosion of shattering glass momentarily drowned out the angry fizzing of their pursuers. The chair went through the window, trailing chunks of frame and glass fragments. Max began to bash out the last potentially lethal jags of glass and spars of wood with the butt of his rifle, whilst Steve swung his rucksack from his back and grabbed a petrol bomb.
"You get out!" he yelled. "I'll slow them down!"
Max shone his torch out the window, drizzle falling across the bean. "It's a fucking long drop."
Steve was moving across to the door, bottle in hand. "But we're on the ground floor."
"Yeah, but there's a dip and, like, a banking. There used to be a moat out there, remember. Must be... twenty feet down, at least."
Steve was at the door now, pulling it open. "What do you want, a ladder? It's either jump or engage these guys in hand to hand combat"
