Max Gilbert

by Simon Clark

  At last Chris could make out the bones of the wrecked fishing boat through the clouds of mist. He quickened his pace, bringing himself level with Tony.

  "Tony, I'll go on ahead. If the gates are already open we'll get this lot inside quicker."

  "All right, Chris ... Be careful. This mist'd hide a bleeding dinosaur."

  Chris's pace turned into a jog. He wanted to see if David and Ruth were all right. They should be. But the surf sounded louder-the tide was coming in; and fast.

  His imagination began firing up images of the sea-fort doors flapping open; the place deserted; David crying somewhere, lost in the mist; Ruth lying on her back on the sands, one of those things from the sea on top of her, cutting...

  He cut off the mental image. But it would come back. Soon, if he didn't see that the pair were all right.

  He ran along the causeway, the dark blurred shape hardening into the solid stone building.

  "Ruth!" he called up at the sea-fort.

  He waited an anxious twenty seconds before a head looked over the wall.

  "Ruth, open the gates."

  Seconds later Chris heard the metallic snap of bolts, then the gates juddered open.

  "Dad!" David hurled himself at Chris so hard he nearly lost his balance.

  "Whoa, hang on, kidda."

  Ruth put her arms around Chris in a fierce hug. "You seemed to be gone ages."

  Chris smiled. "Well, I ended up bringing this lot back." He turned as the group plodded up to the gates. Without a word they continued walking into the courtyard. Last of all, Mark Faust with the shotgun resting over one shoulder.

  He nodded solemnly at Chris then walked inside.

  Chris took one look along the beach, slowly being engulfed by white mist, then he swung the gate shut and drove the bolts home.

  Safe.

  For now.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chris swung open the main door to the sea-fort building. The air that rolled out over him felt cool, but dry. He entered, followed by Tony and Mark. This place was going to be home for around twenty people.

  "This way." He led the two men along the corridor and up the staircase.

  The caravan would hold eight people. He, Ruth and David could share the double bedroom. Some of the other villagers could sleep in the twin-bedded room David had used with two more on the bed-settee. Those would be the ones who were sick or the most elderly. The rest would have to make themselves comfortable here. He walked into the largest first-floor room.

  "We'll get them organized to make up beds out of blankets when they've come around a bit." Tony's shrewd eyes appraised the room. "At least we'll be on timber floors. Kipping on stone wouldn't do anyone any good."

  "For how long?"

  "At the most a day or two, I expect."

  Mark Faust shrugged. "This is all new to us, Chris."

  "But you do know something. You certainly know more than I do."

  Tony's smile was half-hearted. "We thought we knew lots. But events seem to have overtaken our expectations."

  "And what did you expect?"

  "What we didn't expect was those things. Not to come back and smash up the place."

  "Something occurred to me," said Chris, wanting answers. "Why didn't you just leave? Back in the village you said you were in the shit. You knew something was happening, something that would put you-us-in danger because you've been preparing for it. Supplies of food, the shotguns, sleeping fully dressed."

  "Yes, we were expecting something, but ..."

  Mark finished the sentence. "But we didn't expect it to be... bad."

  "You could still have left. When it was first light this morning."

  "I tried," said Mark. "The only road out is blocked at the bridge. They've piled rocks across it."

  "You could have walked."

  "We could have," agreed Tony. "But you see, Chris, like the ugly old troll in the story, one of those things was sitting in the stream beneath the bridge. And even though I'm ashamed to admit it, I was afraid-bloody afraid-to cross the bridge with that thing an arm's length away."

  Chris sighed. "So, for a few days anyway, we're trapped. Until when? Monday?"

  "Why Monday?"

  "Well, it's Saturday today. So barring casual visitors, the first certain visitor is the postman early Monday morning."

  "And God help the poor sod." Tony removed his glasses and massaged the red pressure marks on the bridge of his nose.

  "And God help us," added Mark quietly.

  Chris was about to try to pump more information from the two men when he heard the sound of a shoe scraping across the timbers. It was the Reverend Reed. The expression on his red, blotched face looked suitable for a funeral. He said nothing, didn't even acknowledge the three of them. Slowly, he walked around the perimeter of the large room, looking it over. In his hand he carried the fat leather briefcase, his knuckles white from the pressure of clasping the handle.

  With the conscious effort of someone changing the subject,. Tony said, "This is our dormitory, then. We'll get what bedding is available. Then we'll get everybody in here and get them as comfortable as we can."

  Ruth must have caught the last few words as she came through the door. "And we really need to have some kind of group meeting, Tony."

  "Why?"

  "I think everyone has a right to know what is happening."

  "I'm sorry, Ruth. We don't know what is happening. Other than the fact that we are effectively trapped here by those things outside. I think it's clear to everyone that those creatures don't want us to leave."

  The Vicar spoke for the first time: "And it is abundantly clear that you and your pagan neighbors have no intention of leaving now-just when your sordid little god is about to visit."

  "Excuse me, Reverend Reed," asked Chris, puzzled. "What do you mean? I don't understand."

  The Vicar made the snarl that passed for his smile.

  "Ask that man, Gateman. He's behind all this."

  The Reverend Reed walked out of the room.

  "What did he mean by that?" Ruth asked Tony.

  "He says some bloody foolish things ... He makes it sound like we're a pagan sect. We've done nothing. We just happened to be here. Whatever happens will happen anyway ... We've done nothing to make it happen."

  "Before we do anything," said Ruth, "I think the four of us ought to sit down-then you tell us everything you do know."

  Chris said, "I agree. Look, Tony, stop holding back. We're not kids. Tell us."

  Mark smiled. "It's all a question of belief. Will you believe us?"

  "We'll believe you all right," said Chris. "Now, tell us."

  As Tony unwrapped a cigar, one of the Hodgson boys blundered in breathlessly, his feet thumping heavily against the boards.

  "Mr. Gateman! Mr. Gateman! My dad says you'd better look at this." The boy's face burned an excited red. "They're out, Mr. Gateman, they're out!"

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chris looked out over the beach.

  He saw that they were indeed out. A cold sensation hung heavily in his stomach.

  He looked at the others. The villagers stood on top of the sea-fort's walls, gazing silently over the sands, now blurred white with mist.

  The tide had begun to retreat. This time the dark figures had not retreated with the water. Those at the top of the beach were now completely free of the sea and sat cross-legged on the beach, looking like ancient Red Indian warriors, their naked bodies a dark red, the color of ripe cherries.

  The things looked brutally strong, their long, powerful arms resting across their knees. Again their hairless heads gave the impression of Easter Island statues with their sharp chiselled profiles. Each had its head turned so it faced the sea-fort, eyes shut.

  Eventually the tide slid back, leaving eight figures sat randomly spaced alongside the causeway.

  "The Saf Dar," murmured Tony in awe.

  "The what?" asked Chris in a low whisper.

  Mark's voice rumbled. "
Saf Dar. It's Urdu. For a special kind of warrior."

  "An extraordinarily violent warrior," added Tony, staring at the figures. "Exceptionally violent-the Saf Dar were the breakers of the line. In battles they would hurl themselves at the enemy in a kind of human blitzkrieg."

  Chris heard a sigh that expressed pain as much as anything. He saw the Reverend Reed look away from the figures on the beach, his Adam's apple twitching above the dirty-white dog-collar.

  Then Ruth was at Chris's side, her hand finding his.

  "Where's David?" he whispered. "He mustn't see this."

  "He's asleep in the caravan. What's happening to them? They seem to be changing color."

  "I don't know. But they seem to be acclimatising themselves to the open air. They don't need the sea now."

  Chris glanced around at the villagers. With the exception of the Reverend Reed, no one could take their eyes from the figures.

  "Thank God they can't get in here," said Ruth. "Hatred. You can feel it, can't you? They're sitting there just hating us."

  An hour passed. The tide slid back, exposing the top of the causeway.

  "I'm going home."

  The sudden voice startled everyone. It was Wainwright, the accountant, who had spoken. He still wore the bandage like a white headband.

  "I'm afraid you can't, Mr. Wainwright," said Tony. And Chris heard Mark hiss under his breath, "Pain in the ass."

  "No ... I've had enough of this." Wainwright's voice was quick and clipped. "I'm going home. This-this is obviously some kind of confidence trick. We've been duped. There are probably criminals stripping our homes even as we stand here."

  " 'S not safe out there, old boy," said the Major. " 'S dangerous. You wait till we get the er... er..." He tailed off.

  "The Major's right," said Mark calmly. "Stay put."

  "Until when? ... until our homes have been emptied, and-and the crooks are driving away laughing at us?"

  Tony Gateman sighed. "Mr. Wainwright, those people, and I use that word loosely, those people out there have ceased to be like us. They are dangerous. You know that, Mr. Wainwright. Don't leave the sea-fort."

  "I'm going home. And you'll all come home soon enough. When you realize Gateman is making a fool out of you all. He thinks this place is where some old pagan god has put-has made his den. He's mad. Isn't he mad, Reverend Reed?"

  Reed, staring into space, said nothing.

  "Don't worry. I'll see myself out."

  Chris followed Tony down the steps as he tried to persuade Wainwright to stay.

  He was wasting his breath. Within five minutes they'd had to admit defeat and let the man out through the gate and onto the causeway. Chris locked the gate after him, before he and Tony climbed back up the steps to see what would happen.

  Chris noticed that some of the figures had moved. Six still sat on the beach in a line along the side of the causeway, a twenty-yard gap between each one. The furthest sat at the point where the causeway joined the coast road. But the two nearest the sea-fort were now kneeling on the beach, flanking the causeway. Like a pair of statues guarding the entrance to a tomb.

  He shivered. The sharp, chiselled faces with the closed eyes were expressionless. Yet he had the feeling that whatever happened, whatever he did, these alien figures would know, and be ready to react.

  He wondered what that reaction would be.

  He did not have to wait long to find out.

  Wainwright stepped out onto the causeway in clear view of everyone. He looked straight ahead at the dunes.

  Then, as if he'd consciously blocked out everything but his destination, he began to walk-a quick, stiff pace.

  Chris did not like the man. When he looked at Wainwright he remembered his old maths teacher, stiff-necked and gray-skinned like Wainwright, delivering a full-blooded slap across Barry Mitchell's face. And the boy had done nothing wrong.

  It had knocked the lad flat against the classroom floortiles. He had been ten years old. The memory of that had fueled Chris's sense of injustice all these long years. Wainwright was a man who evoked those memories of stiff-necked, repressed bastards who make themselves feel good by making people in their power feel bad.

  Yet at that moment Chris wanted to shout at Wainwright to get himself back to the sea-fort. But the man would not have listened. He had excluded the possibility from his mind that the things on the beach could pose a threat. For him they simply did not exist.

  Wainwright approached the first two figures which closely flanked the causeway. Two sentinels-unmoving, sinister. Not a flicker of movement betrayed that they were even aware of the stiff-necked accountant's approach.

  But Chris knew they sensed him.

  Wainwright slowed, his feet hardly moving.

  He passed between the two sentinel Saf Dar and walked on. Suddenly he stopped and looked back. The two didn't move so much as an inch.

  Visibly the man relaxed, his shoulders dropping. He continued walking, now looking as if he was just keeping an appointment at some high-street bank.

  Chris heard some of the villagers let out pent-up breath.

  It didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to guess what was running through their minds.

  Look. If he can walk across there, we all can. ... We can go home. ... No point in roughing it here. ... It's safe. ... We're going home. ...

  Wainwright passed another of the Saf Dar. No movement. Not a flicker across the expressionless face that might have been carved from burnt brick.

  He walked confidently now. A stiff-legged figure growing fainter in the mist. He was going to make it.

  "Way to go, rubber-neck!"

  It was one of the Hodgson lads. The other whistled, then both clapped their meaty paws together over their heads.

  The spell was broken. Some of the villagers shouted encouragement. The Harbour Tavern's landlord chuckled. "Home in time for opening time, eh, Tony?"

  Conversation rose in an excited buzz. They were going home. They'd woken from the nightmare.

  Jesus!

  Chris saw it. Most must have seen it, because the sound of their voices cut to a sudden silence that rang in the ears.

  As he looked along the line of dark figures on the causeway, they changed, as if an electric current had been jolted through their bodies. Then, one after another, the eyes of the Saf Dar snapped open. Chris's blood turned to ice.

  Inexplicably there was something awful about it, merely the sight of eight sets of eyelids snapping back to expose eight pairs of bright staring eyes, the whites gleaming like splinters of glass.