by Simon Clark
The rain had almost stopped. Not that it mattered. Bolter knew that thousands of tons of water had been dumped on to the hills. All that liquid power would cascade into the valley, and then into the Lepping. The Lepping was his vengeance monster. His destroyer of all these useless bastards’ homes. The Lepping was going to wreck Danby-Mask. And he was going to love watching it. Bolter slapped his hands down on the stone wall that ran along the edge of the bridge.
‘Do it!’ he screamed at the water. ‘Wipe those shitheads out!’
Bolter dragged a handful of pills from his pocket and stuffed them into the mouth. He gulped down those nuggets of power in pill form. Amphetamines were igniting his veins. His heart roared with the ferocity of a jet engine. The drug made him feel like he could fly.
Of course, drug abuse had turned his face into deep-fried pizza. Red blisters popped through the ratty stubble on his face. A line of yellow-headed pimples followed the line of his eyebrow like he was some kind of mutant. But he loved, just loved, the nuclear blast of energy through his body.
And, man-oh-man, if he took enough of those pills, he stopped screaming inside. They distracted him from obsessing about how that animal had sped out of the forest to rip his friends to pieces. The way their blood squirted over the driveway at Mull-Rigg Hall no longer freaked him. Amphetamines were power. They gave him the power to forget the horror. They filled him with the strength to do whatever he wanted.
Right now he wanted to watch the river. Already, it burst its banks into the road. The idiots in the houses down there had piled up their stupid sandbags. They hoped to stop the river smashing into their houses. ‘Morons!’ The Lepping had its own kind of power: thousands of tons of rainwater.
If the flood was anything as bad – as good! – as last time, then some of these shitheads would be swept away never to be seen again.
‘Ha-freaking-ha!’
He loved this. The energy: the speed: the force. Nothing’s going to stop this animal! Animal river’s got the claws to scrape houses from the face of the planet, and it’s got the claws to scrape the smug, self-satisfied grins from everyone’s faces.
Bolter watched trees being swept downriver. Huge willows, with masses of green leaves, were zipping along like they were nothing heavier than shitty little blades of grass.
‘Cool.’ This was turning out to be the best day of Bolter’s sorry, drug-fuelled life.
River water now gushed along the street, a regular tsunami. Already, a guy was knee-deep as he tried to reach his car. The shithead wouldn’t get that pile of crap to safety; no way. Within moments, the force of the inundation pushed the vehicle backwards along the road. There was nobody in the car. Pity; it would have been lovely to have seen screaming faces at the window. They’d howl that they were going to drown. Yeah, that’d be absolutely amazing!
The car’s owner nearly lost his balance as the force of the current became more intense. He was forced to grab hold of some iron railings and haul himself clear. If he hadn’t, the river would take him. Probably not hand him back, either. His bones would lie rotting in the mud forever and a day.
With enormous excitement, Bolter watched the car drift off the road into the river. The Lepping swallowed it. Gulp! And gone! Bolter’s hands were wet with perspiration. Drugs and adrenalin were pushing him higher than he’d ever been before. His heart was a shrieking jet motor caged by human ribs.
A voice yelled, ‘Hey, you! Get off the bridge!’
He turned to see a cop calling to him from the other side. Bolter laughed.
‘Come off there,’ shouted the cop. ‘It’s starting to collapse!’
The cop daren’t come on to the bridge, Bolter thought. Just look at the big scared eyes!
The structure shuddered under Bolter’s feet. Cracks appeared in the road. He’d love to stay and watch. The river would cause mayhem. It would kill people today.
But it was high time Bolter caused some mayhem of his own.
‘Mayhem! Mayhem! Mayhem!’
Bolter raced away into the maze of village streets as the bridge began to collapse. He laughed as loud as he could while punching the air. This is the best time in the world. And just you wait and see what happens next. It’s going to be amazing. Absolutely AMAZING!
FORTY-THREE
The warning howl of the siren filled the room. Tom Westonby panted as he stared at the locked door. He’d tried kicking the thing down. No luck. The hinges and lock had been designed for a strongroom. It didn’t help matters that his phone was in his jacket pocket, and that jacket hung over a chair out in the workshop.
‘Let’s face it,’ he hissed, ‘I’m locked in here. I’m not going anywhere.’
Chester had been gone ten minutes. He’d promised to be back in five. Meanwhile, the flood siren continued its desperate wail, warning everyone to get out while they still could. Every so often, an amplified voice from a megaphone – a voice that sounded taut with anxiety – would drift into his makeshift prison cell.
Tom could almost reach out and touch the menace that pulsated in the room; every instinct warned him to escape this death trap.
The amplified voice suddenly became much louder and clearer. The police car must be passing right outside the workshop. ‘. . . situation is serious. The bridge has collapsed. Floodwaters are rising fast. Residents must leave their homes.’
Tom pounded on the door. ‘Hey! I’m in here!’
‘Make your way to higher ground. The river has burst its banks. Leave your homes . . . I repeat: leave your homes now. You are in danger. Do not collect possessions. Do not wait for neighbours. Focus on your own safety . . .’
‘I’m in here! I can’t get out!’
‘You must leave your homes immediately. There is danger of . . .’
The megaphone voice faded as the police car headed along the street to warn the people of Danby-Mask to flee for their lives. Tom knew only too well that the volume of the megaphone, coupled with the scream of the siren, had drowned out his voice.
Here comes the flood, he thought grimly as he stared down at the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. Any moment now, I’m going to see water trickling in. What then?
When he woke this morning the River Lepping flowed along its channel as it had always done. Now the river had broken out and was invading the village. People who normally lived peacefully alongside the Lepping were running away as it swirled through the streets to their houses. The river seemed to be committing an act of betrayal on its human neighbours.
Tom found himself listing other betrayals that weighed heavily on his mind: his mother and father had fired him, their own son, from a job that would provide vital funds for the dive school. Previously, they’d always welcomed the girlfriends he brought home. Now they were busily scheming to part him from Nicola. Just minutes ago, the man who he considered to be his friend, Chester Kenyon, had locked him in this storeroom. He even found himself half-believing that those embittered, vengeful deities of the Vikings were behind this. Mrs Bekk would certainly claim this was the case: that, in short, he was being punished, because he’d fallen in love with someone from the chosen bloodline of the gods.
He thought: what day is today? Wednesday. The name means ‘day of Woden’. Woden, sometimes called Odin, is chief of the Viking gods and the father of Thor. So it’s Woden’s day. The day of disaster.
He kicked the door again. ‘Let me out!’
Who was left to hear his yells? The police were evacuating the village. Even the dead in the graveyard would hear the damn siren. His head ached like fury. He pressed his hands against his temples – and that’s when he started to laugh. In fact, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Well, laughing’s a good start. After that, he’d cry. Ultimately, he’d start screaming. He could feel madness creeping up the spinal column towards his brain.
He laughed so loud that the noise shook dust from the rafters.
The door abruptly swung open. ‘What’s so funny?’ Chester stared as if he was
afraid that Tom really had lost his mind. ‘Are you alright?’
‘I’m starting to go stir crazy.’ However, the sight of his friend – and that open door – made him feel normal again. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘I had to get my grandad to his friend’s house. They’re saying that the flooding’s the worst it’s been in a hundred years. The water’s already reached the churchyard across the street.’
‘So, are you going to let me out?’
‘Sure. Sorry about keeping you here. I just wanted to . . . you know? Help you.’
Then the gods, if angry, vengeful gods were behind this, decided to inflict three more savage blows.
First: the light went out.
Second: Chester grunted. Someone had shoved him from behind, sending him crashing forward into Tom.
Third: the door slammed shut.
Even though the siren still howled its warning, Tom clearly heard the key turn with a solid metallic clunk. Now both men were locked in the room. This time they were plunged into darkness. And the floodwaters were relentlessly moving closer and closer.
FORTY-FOUR
Tom Westonby stood there in the dark. Just seconds ago, someone had pushed Chester into the room. The door had slammed shut again. Now here they were: locked in the storeroom at the back of Chester’s workshop. Tom could see nothing – nothing apart from blackness, that was. He did, however, hear the click of a switch.
Chester hissed, ‘Damn it, there’s no power. The flood must have got into the substation.’ Even as he finished the sentence, the siren died away with a feeble croaking sound.
‘And it’s put the siren out of action, too,’ Tom told him. ‘So who the hell’s locked us in here?’
Chester found the door in the dark. After giving it a good kick he yelled, ‘You better let us out of here. I’m warning you!’
Tom tried to be optimistic. ‘Might be one of your friends? Playing a joke on us?’
‘No, it isn’t. I got a call from a pal that was driving over here. The cops are stopping people from coming into the village. The flood’s brought down the bridge.’
‘Use your phone . . . Call someone to get us out of here.’
‘Sorry, Tom. I left the phone with my grandad in case he needed it.’
‘Great. Just great. And mine’s out there in the workshop.’
Chester pounded the door. ‘Let us out or I’ll rip your bloody head off!’
A voice came back at him – all fast and breathy, as if the guy was so excited that he’d burst wide open. ‘Yeah, yeah! Try it, Chester Shitting Kenyon. My head’s right here. Go on, reach through this bit of wood, rip it off . . . rip off my head and wear it like a hat on your stupid head!’ The laughter that came through the door sounded more like a high-pitched screech.
Chester growled back, ‘Bolter. I know it’s you.’
‘That’s intelligent. OK, you know it’s me, so what?’
‘Bolter, let me out.’
‘Nope.’
‘I’ll break your neck.’
‘Still nopey nope.’ Bolter squealed with laughter.
Tom whispered, ‘He’s high on something.’
‘Yeah,’ Chester whispered back. ‘Speed. Amphetamines. He lives on that junk.’
‘He’s the one that attacked me. There were three other guys there, too.’
‘I heard that!’ Bolter switched from laughter to rage. ‘Yeah, we were up at Mull-Rigg. We pounded your face to crap. Then you did something . . .’ His voice adopted a hollow quality, as if he remembered something traumatic. ‘Now my friends are dead. All that blood on the ground, man – all that blood.’
‘Jesus,’ hissed Chester. ‘Those pills have sent him crazy.’
Bolter snarled. ‘My friends are dead . . . It’s all your fault, Westonby.’
‘Open the door,’ Tom said. ‘We can talk about this.’
‘Talking’s for shitheads. I’m going up there. This is something I can sort out myself.’
‘Bolter—’
‘I know that bitch Nicola Bekk’s got something to do with my friends being murdered. She’s going to get a visit from me, Westonby. Do you hear? She’s going to a get a real visit. She’s going to get my ace, number-one calling card! Do you follow?’
Tom continued to speak softly: ‘Open the door. We’ll discuss this calmly.’
‘Do you think I’m calm after what happened to me? After what I saw!’
Tom Westonby stood there in the dark and shuddered. He had the dreadful feeling that Bolter was on the verge of admitting that there really had been a creature, which had emerged from the forest the night he was attacked. After Tom had been beaten senseless by those thugs he’d either dreamt or hallucinated that a monster had ripped Bolter’s friends apart. So could it be some bizarre coincidence that Bolter’d had a drug-fuelled fantasy about his friends being murdered? Or had there really been a . . .? Tom suddenly felt uneasy about even finishing the thought. Helsvir isn’t real, he told himself, so don’t fall into the trap of believing it is, or you’ll end up as insane as Mrs Bekk.
Bolter made strange sounds at the other side of the door: crying and laughing at the same time.
The sound both sickened and shocked Tom. That was a human being sliding into total psychological breakdown. A man in such a state could do anything his sick brain told him to do. That was the kind of mental state where people committed murder.
Chester grabbed Tom’s arm. ‘What’s all this about people being killed? What really happened at your house the other night, Tom?’
Tom realized he needed to play this shrewdly. Chester must stay focused on the problem that they faced now: being locked in a room by Bolter, a man close to meltdown.
Chester shook Tom’s arm again. ‘Tom, what did he see?’
‘Humour him,’ Tom whispered. ‘We’ve got to persuade him to open the door.’
‘I’ll persuade him . . . with my fist!’
Tom’s heart sank. Chester’s anger was understandable, but this would only provoke Bolter.
Tom was right. ‘Yeah,’ Bolter sneered. ‘Your fist’s going to persuade nothing, you shithead. I’m going to pay Nicola Bekk a visit right now . . . I just know I can make her talk.’ His voice got all oozy and gloating. ‘Pillow talk, Westonby. A little bit of pillow talk . . . she’ll fess up about everything.’ The voice faded as he moved away. ‘Bye-bye. I’ll tell you all the exciting details when I get back.’ His high-pitched laughter reached them. ‘I’ll even have some gory souvenirs . . . ha-ha. Gory, gory, gory!’
‘He’s crazy,’ Chester muttered. ‘Totally crazy.’
Tom shuddered as he pictured what Bolter might do to the woman he loved. ‘He’s going to hurt Nicola. We’ve got to get out of here right now.’
‘We need some light. Stand back.’
Tom heard shuffling in the dark. Then clanks of metal as if Chester searched through the mess of engine parts on the shelves.
After Chester blundered into him a couple of times, Tom stood back to give the man space to work.
‘What are you looking for, Chester?’
‘Something long enough to reach through the window bars. There’s only boards over the opening. If I can knock those out, we’ll be able to see again.’
Tom took another step back. There was something about the way his foot sounded that made him pause. He lightly tapped his foot twice.
Plish-plash.
‘Oh no.’ Quickly, he bent down. The darkness made it impossible to see what was there on the floor – he felt it, though.
‘Chester. Hurry up. There’s water coming under the door.’
‘I don’t understand it . . . The floods have never reached the workshop before.’
‘Maybe the gods are angry with us.’
‘Yeah, and I’m getting angry with them.’ He’d responded as if Tom had made a flippant comment. ‘Ah, this should do it.’
Tom heard a series of loud bangs. After the fifth BANG, daylight jetted in through a gap in
the boards that covered the barred window. He screwed his eyes up at the sudden glare. When his eyes functioned again he checked the floor and found that a brownish pool was spreading around his feet.
Chester’s eyes bulged. ‘This’s really bad, Tom. At this rate, the whole village is going to be underwater.’
‘Then we’re going to have to get out before we drown.’
‘How?’
Tom tugged at the iron bars covering the window.
‘You’ll never shift those. My dad cemented them there ten years ago when he planned to use this as the cash room. That’s why we put in the safe.’ He gave a shrug. ‘But Ma persuaded him the bank was the best place for the money after all.’
Tom remembered the truck jack that stood on the safe. ‘Give me a hand with this.’
‘What you going to do with that?’
‘Rest the jack on its side between the bars, then pump the handle.’
‘Ah, like the jaws of life! You’re a genius, Tom.’
‘Call me a genius once we’re out of here.’
The heavy-duty jack was a formidable chunk of steel. Even with both of them lifting together, it was still tough to manoeuvre the mechanism so it rested on its side between the vertical bars. As soon as it was in place, Chester pumped the handle.
Slowly, the formidable steel brace, which would normally raise a truck off the ground so one of its wheels could be changed, moved outwards. Chester used all his strength to keep pumping.
‘Keep going,’ Tom shouted. ‘The bar’s bending.’
‘Stand back.’ Chester really put some beef into the job. He pumped the jack handle until sweat bled from his face. A moment later there was a terrific bang.
‘Damn it,’ Chester yelled. ‘I’ve bust the jack!’
‘No, you haven’t. That’s the bar breaking. Look!’ He tugged at one of the window bars. It came free in his hand.
‘Reckon you can get through that gap?’ Chester panted.
‘Try me.’
Tom quickly wriggled through into the workshop. After a struggle, Chester managed to squeeze his muscular body through, too. When the big man dropped feet first on to the floor he sent a wave running across the flood water that was about an inch deep.
