Bleeker Hill

by Russell Mardell

  Turtle bent his legs and then jumped, his right hand slapping hard on the lowest rung of the ladder, his fingers coiling over the metal, holding firm. For a couple of seconds he hung there, swinging back and forth, and then his left hand went up to join his right and then he was slowly, methodically and with considerable difficulty, pulling himself up into the shaft.

  The hole was barely five feet across, and the ladder was thin and narrow, the rungs giving barely enough space between for his shoeless feet to slip in. His body blocked out the hatch high above as he shuffled up, and then Mia was underneath him, on the chair, bending her knees, wiping off the sweat from her hands on to her trousers, fixing her focus on the lowest rung of the ladder.

  ‘Hurry!’ Turtle said over his shoulder. ‘We must hurry.’

  Mia lunged forward at the ladder with a satisfied grunt and her palms slapped down hard on the metal, her fingers closing around it as the momentum swung her legs forward. She moved her left hand up to the next rung, and then her right, strengthening her hold and delicately yanking herself in. Again she laughed and the laugh echoed back, a hundred Mias all experiencing the same unconfined joy. The other ninety-nine were still laughing as she stopped, and then as she screamed, they all screamed together.

  Hands gripped her ankles, dangling at the tip of the hole, and she was pulled off the ladder with one quick, powerful jerk, slipping out of the hole and landing in a crumpled heap on the floor. Thick and heavy boots were in front of her. A rifle barrel was teasingly brushing her face and then the smell of stale cigar smoke was wafting at her nose. Her heart sank and she closed her eyes, the brief dalliance with hope a nasty and spiteful dream. He had a hand at her hair, and then the elastic band holding her ponytail was yanked off and he was lifting her to her feet, moving his great boulder of a face to hers, breathing his stale scent all over her, and moving in for a kiss.

  ‘Not right to run out on a date when he got all cleaned up specially.’ Maddox licked her chin and then clamped his mouth over hers, pushing her into him, chewing and biting at her lips. She pulled away and spat in his face but he seemed only to enjoy it more. ‘Fight, Mia. Please…’

  She screamed as she tried in vain to release herself from his hold. She shouted Turtle’s name but he made no move to look back or even acknowledge it. He was far above them now, growing smaller, getting nearer to the hatch at the roof.

  Maddox pulled her over to the hole and stared back up through the turret.

  ‘Hey, short arse, where you going?’

  Maddox’s booming voice echoed like canon fire around the shaft and Turtle stumbled on the ladder, swinging out on one hand before throwing himself back and regaining his hold. He climbed on, a hand reaching up for the handle at the top hatch.

  ‘You two sneaking out on us? Where’d you think you’re going? You two got a little thing happening here, huh? Tell me.’ Maddox pulled Mia’s face into his own and flashed her the baby blues. ‘Troublesome little lady aren’t ya?’

  Turtle was at the roof hatch and short determined grunts were wafting down the shaft as he yanked and pulled at the handle. Again Maddox moved under the hole and stared back up at him.

  ‘Hey, Turtle, you clear this with the suits? What you doing up there? Where are your boots?’ Turtle’s short arms were pumping back and forth at the handle, the grunts of exertion getting louder as the handle began to give to him. ‘Answer me, Turtle! What you doing?’ Maddox swung Mia back to him and pulled down hard on her hair. ‘The fuck you two doing here? What are you up to?’ He lifted up the rifle and prodded the barrel against the underside of Mia’s chin, pushing in hard. ‘Am I gonna have to shoot you before we’ve even had chance to have any fun?’

  The top hatch opened high above, and through the shaft came a shriek of tired hinges and a triumphant yelp of excitement. Beyond them was the wild and untamed howl of an unforgiving winter wind. Maddox looked back up the hole and saw Turtle half in the hatch and half out, one foot on the ladder, one on the wall of the shaft, as his upper body and head leaned over and looked out. He seemed frozen in the position.

  ‘Turtle? What the fuck is going on here? Huh? Someone want to give me some answers? Am I gonna have to get angry?’

  Turtle was suddenly pulled out of the top of the shaft, his little legs flopping up over the edge and then disappearing from sight with the rest of him. Maddox rocked back in surprise, the rifle instinctively swinging away from Mia and thrusting up through the hole. Snow skittered down at him through the shaft and with it a few stones came like an afterthought, clanking against the metal and dropping at his feet.

  ‘Turtle?’

  Mia slowly followed Maddox’s eyes up through the shaft, and then both of them were gazing back at the hole of sky; the dirty and thick white smeared with daubs of diluted blue. The light was starting to close off and give into evenings hold. There was a muffled sound across some unseen horizon, carried in broken pieces by the wind. Above them Maddox’s rifle held rock steady, his index finger finding the trigger and stroking its gentle curve.

  ‘Turtle?’

  There were small pops in the distance like fireworks, and then through the shaft a howl like a ravenous animal, yet it was too deep, too human. The sky seemed to suddenly be eclipsed by a cloud, something cut from the deepest night, and then the cloud was thinning, cresting the edge of the roof and dropping into the hole.

  Turtle’s stocky body tumbled forward through the top hatch, struck the ladder and then fell through the shaft, bouncing from side to side in a series of dull, aching thuds before landing with a harsh crunch on the floor at Maddox’s boots. High above them there were now heavy footfalls on the ladder and then loud, triumphant shouts coming in waves through the hole. Three bodies were climbing down the ladder, descending through the shaft, fast and assured. Two more were climbing over the open hatch and getting a foothold. There was a gunshot from high above, and then Maddox was responding in kind.

  6

  Kendrick stood alone in the middle of the first floor corridor, his feet frozen in a stride, one hand up before him as if in greeting. Beyond and above him was the huge sealed entrance, and just to his right the partially opened door to the communications room. He saw the small blood pool gathered on the floor, Davenport’s right hand slapped down in the centre. He saw the open bedroom door to his left, the room he had put Mia and Sullivan in. The scratches were unavoidable along the walls, the sheared straps too. Yet it was none of these things that had stopped him mid-stride.

  For several heavy minutes his mind sought to deny it, until it came again; it was a noise just below him at the base of the stairs. It was a shuffling sound at first, scuffed shoes skimming the floor, and then beyond it there slowly came the unmistakable sounds of sobbing. It was a young child’s broken tears and they were coming from somewhere behind him. He suddenly felt his jacket move, just briefly, as if something were there tugging at it, and the sensation was enough to shatter through what held him rapt. He spun around on the spot and prepared to greet whatever was there with a heavy sweep of the arm but as he swung he combed through thin air, lost his footing thudded into the wall and then fell to his front on the floor. He ignored the pain and shoved himself back, hauling his body away from the stairs. His eyes darted across empty space. There was nothing there, nothing to be seen or feared.

  ‘Get it together, Joe. Get it together,’ he mumbled quietly to himself.

  At first he refused to see what was lying on the ground just before him. Closing his eyes tight he gently moved his head from side to side, and then peered out again through small slits. It was still there.

  ‘No,’ he demanded of himself and shuffled back on the floor even further. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  Again he looked back, and again it was there just before him as if it too had moved across the floor. It was a small cut of rope formed into a tiny noose at one end. The noose was big enough, just, for a grown man’s wrist or the tiniest of necks. Kendrick glared back as if furious with its presence.
His head was still shaking as he reached out across the floor to touch it. The rope looked old, felt fragile, the thickness somehow a deception that would wither if held. His fingers ran quickly across a few frayed strands in the knot and then lightly around the edge of the noose. His overworked mind was sat on his imagination, holding it back, working desperately to offer a rational reason for it, sure that there was something obvious that it had missed, yet the more Kendrick caressed the noose, the more his fingers played around it, stroked it and picked at it, the less he had to offer as explanation. Then, suddenly, all logic blew out of his mind as the noose yanked closed around his hand.

  He tried desperately to get to his feet, but the noose jerked back as a force took hold of the base of the rope and pulled him roughly forward across the floor. His other hand shot out and felt for the noose, the fingers pulling at it, yet the more he fought the tighter its hold grew. He was yanked ungraciously to the top of the stairs and then with one hard and vicious tug, he was pulled over, moving off the steps and then hitting the air, arching over and then finally smacking the bottom step with his back.

  Whatever had held the rope was now moving over him, pushing against his face; an oppressive, suffocating and invisible weight. Fingers seemed to play around his eyes and his nose, and then they were tearing down his cheeks and ripping into the wound on his face. He screamed into the air, as something seemed to enter his cheek wound and run through to his teeth. His hands batted aimlessly around in front of him, like he were trying to swat a cloud of flies. He swung himself to his left but the force brought him back. He felt as if he were sinking, pushing through the base of the stairs ready to be swallowed up by the floor itself.

  There were noises far below him, gunshots, he was sure, and now similar sounds were coming from just above, pulsing along the roof. He struggled for breath; the air that hung above him was empty and thin, the ceiling seemed to be lowering, the shadows growing nearer, brushing at him, and pushing him further down. Once more he shoved himself to his side and this time he wasn’t fought back. He flipped over on the stairs, moving to his front in one clumsy motion and the force lifted off him, moved through him, and died away amongst what was left of the air.

  Kendrick stumbled and swayed back up the stairs, tottering out on to the landing and pinballing drunkenly between the walls towards the partially open door of the communications room. The sounds he had convinced himself he had heard on the roof now seemed to be at the door, the heavy steel vibrating at the mercy of thunderous blows. He fell into the room, shoved Davenport’s’ prostrate arm to one side and then kicked the door shut.

  The knocks at the door came instantly. Small rhythmic taps evenly spaced like a heartbeat. Kendrick was up again, falling into the control panel and rolling the chair to the door, over Davenport’s arm, and wedging the back under the handle. The knocks grew louder, became thumps and as he began bellowing through the microphone, the door began to sigh at its hinges and splinter at the handle.

  ‘Safe house compromised! We need immediate evacuation. Request next team’s status. Over.’ The microphone crackled like applause and then fell to silence. ‘Come in! Request next team’s status. Talk to me! Is there anybody out there?’

  He found himself drawn to the small monitor just before him, and what seemed to be a huge eye dominating the screen, looking into the camera outside. It blinked once and then the image broke apart, sucked into a blackness before that too disappeared and Kendrick found himself looking back at a screen of interference.

  Possession

  1

  Sullivan ran at the scene unfolding in front of him, a stranger invading another’s dream. The steady hollowness emanating from his blasted ear had knocked him off balance both physically and mentally and now nothing seemed to make sense; the bodies dropping out of the shaft, the bulky man fighting them off, the girl lying huddled in the doorway, the lump of bones and limbs on the floor that used to be Turtle, and especially the stupid little pistol he had held up before him. As he pulled up next to the chaos he felt ridiculous, conspicuous – wrong man, wrong place, wrong time. He looked across at Mia, not a look of comfort but a look of questioning. Someone was advancing on him, a small man clothed in rags, smeared in dirt. He was waving a crudely taped cricket bat above a face contorted in fury, yellowed teeth gritted together, and he was pulling back, readying the blow. Sullivan jerked away from him, his hands moving up in an indecisive gesture of submission and protection, and the pistol exploded in his hand, taking him by surprise. The shot hit the stranger in the leg and instantly he was on the floor, the bat skimming across to where Sullivan had come to a cowering stop.

  Another body lay prone on the floor next to Turtle, a rifle shot neatly centred at his heart. Two more danced between the bodies as they punched and clawed and kicked at Maddox. Mia was now up in the open doorway fending off a young, withering branch of a boy, coming at her with a makeshift hammer of stone and wood, swinging slashing arcs at her retreating body. At the hole Sullivan heard more voices and the heavy clanking of footsteps and then two more strangers had dropped down to the floor and were charging his way. His instinct turned straight to the cold certainty gripped in his right hand, yet his hand was a rock weighing it down and he couldn’t seem to lift it. Hatred grew in him, erupted above his heart and oozed its choking thickness down. But it was a perverse hatred. It was hatred of himself – at the ease of instinct, and the animalistic practicality of the kill. But worse than both was the undeniable, horrific pleasure he could feel in that instinct; bought in the moment, paid out over the years.

  He let the pistol drop from his hand, refusing its approach, and reached down for the bat, prising it from the fallen stranger. He batted the first of his attackers in the side, knocking him into the next, and then swung back and brought the bat down hard across the second man’s back. The body already at his feet was now grabbing at his trousers, pulling at him, trying to get a grip. Sullivan jerked his right hand to his side and brought the bat across the man’s face, splintering off a small chunk of tape and wood from the end. He was suddenly picked up and carried along, embraced by the swirling, manic heat of the moment. He turned to the open doorway, to Mia and what he had to do, and moved on.

  Maddox fired off another rifle shot and one of his attackers was blasted into the wall. Above him a pair of legs was dangling from the hole, ready to jump down. Maddox swung his other attacker around, moved into the shot and fired the rifle’s last bullet between the legs of the body at the hole sending it down on to the steadily growing mound of rags and limbs. Pushing away from the other he spun the rifle butt around and cracked him across his skull putting him on the floor. He jumped forward, lunged his great, bulky body at the ceiling and grabbed the edge of the open hatch. Above him they were pouring through the shaft, the narrow metal turret packed with bodies as even more spilled over the edge at the roof. He reached his hands up, and slammed the hatch on to a woman’s foot, pulling it out again before forcing it back into place. He spun the handle, and felt the lock ease itself into place. At his feet one dazed attacker had hold on one of his legs and was moving in, trying to bite through his trousers. Maddox jerked his leg up nonchalantly and knocked the man away, bringing the boot down hard on to his face as he landed back amongst his fallen comrades.

  Mia had been forced back into the bedroom by her attacker, the stone head of his cobbled-together hammer slashing across her right shoulder and drawing blood. He was grabbing clumsily and chaotically at the outsized fatigues, lunatic’s eyes, leering and leching as they moved over her. Sullivan ran into the room, and swung the bat low into the boy’s ribs. The stranger gave one ugly roar before rolling off Mia and turning his focus on to Sullivan, the hammer swinging in front of his face with such speed and venom that he lost his hold on the handle and it launched itself against the wall, shattering.

  Sullivan was moving back, preparing another swing of the bat when the boy came again, leaping forward, charging him down. They collided with a hefty thud,
slow dancing to the doorway where Sullivan managed to pull away enough to aim a fist into the side of the boy’s face. He gripped the bat and got ready for the stranger to come again, but instead the boy was suddenly yanked away from him and Sullivan swooped hard and fast through thin air, pirouetting on the spot before spinning back around to the open doorway and staring ahead with a slack jawed gait of incomprehension. The stranger was before him but was motionless, cuddled into the enormous frame of Theo Maddox, as blood gurgled over his quivering lips. Maddox was slowly, methodically, drawing his hunting knife up the boy’s back, from the base of his spine to the top of his neck.

  Sullivan backed off, taking slow unsteady steps to the bed, the bat still in his grip but growing lighter by the second.

  Maddox pulled the knife clear with a delicate flick of the wrist, an artist’s final brush stroke, and then kicked the opened carcass of the attacker to the ground. He raised tired eyes and stared absently at Sullivan and then at Mia like a doorman assessing their clothing. Momentarily he looked sad, and with a slow shake of the head came a sigh and the sag of his huge shoulders. Turning in the doorway he wandered casually back to the mound of bodies in the corridor. Hands were rising, legs twitching; garbled noises were seeping out of those that still clung on. Maddox straddled the nearest body and then quickly plunged the knife through his heart, drew it out and then moved to the next. One by one each fallen body, the ones alive and the ones dead, took a knife to the heart or to the neck, Maddox robotically going about his business with a clinical efficiency that had long since sucked out any meaning.

  Sullivan felt a hand touch his back as Mia shuffled off the bed and stood at his side. The coursing anger that had carried him into this self-imposed trap had now deserted him. He felt numb. Somehow it seemed inevitable. He scolded himself quietly for not seeing it.