Max Gilbert

by Simon Clark

  At last he straightened and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Where his mud-slimed hand had rested against the timber post it had left a large dark palm-print, the fingers outstretched.

  He breathed deeply, trying to ignore the pain in his leg.

  No doubt about it. He would have to go on. It would take longer, but he could make it, jumping from tussock to tussock as if in some holiday-camp game. Keep out of the water; and get to a phone. The prize?

  Survival.

  For him and the others back at the sea-fort, waiting for him to bring help.

  He thought about the Stainforths-"nice folks," he had told Tony. The thought of them ending up like Wainwright and the Fox twins sent him leaping from mound to mound across the mud.

  He had to do it.

  He didn't even pause when a misshapen hand thrust up from the mud at his leaping feet, the fingers snapping shut-a clumsy grab. But Mark heard the crack of fingers against palm.

  He ran on.

  "That's the first time you've kissed me in days," said Ruth with a smile.

  Chris kissed her again. "When all this is sorted out we've a few things to catch up on."

  They had snatched a few minutes alone together in the room where the gas bottles were stored. Alone apart from David's goldfish which still torpedoed around its bowl, churning the greenish water until it frothed.

  "Jesus ... That thing will have to go. We can tell David it--"

  "Forget the goldfish for a moment, Chris." She pulled lightly at his t-shirt. He felt the electric trickle of a desire he'd not felt for a long time. For the last few days they had simply ticked over as if in hibernation. Mark's breakout that morning had brought everyone back to life. They talked, moved about the place. He had even heard the sound of laughter echoing down from the gundeck room. The big man would bring help. They would be going home soon.

  He kissed Ruth on the soft skin of her throat, pushing her hair away with his face, enjoying its cool wash across his skin. Her hand stroked down his spine and she tucked her fingers into the back of his jeans.

  He bound her to his chest with his arms, holding her tightly. God, he'd missed this. The physical closeness. It was as if his senses were coming back to life. Even though they were existing on smaller and smaller portions of food, today was the first day he had felt really hungry. He wanted to eat a huge piece of sirloin steak. The desire burnt so strongly he could almost taste the meat on his tongue, hot and savory; he could imagine his teeth working through the meat, devouring it.

  "Chris, I want you to make love to me."

  Waves of hot blood surged up through his body. He'd never felt so excited ... or alive.

  It was as if the volume control of his senses had been turned up full. With the heat flooding his body, his sense of smell and taste heightened, he could taste her saliva, the sharp tang of salt on her skin. His sense of touch, somehow amplified, transmitted the delicious silk feel of her bare arms up through his fingertips. This felt good. His body-motor revs were high; something was pressing his accelerator hard.

  Her hands worked at him through his jeans. Christ... He'd never felt like this before. He felt as if he were going to explode right there in her hungry hands.

  Rabbits shit here, he thought as he ran doggedly on.

  Like handfuls of dried currants it littered the marsh grass. Rabbits had found a route through the stagnant pools and expanse of liquid mud. If only to shit.

  With a grunt he jumped to the next tussock.

  Christ, how long now? Soon the ground should dry out as it rose into meadow. Then an easy jog to the nearest road. A phone or house shouldn't be far away after that.

  If only he could see further. The fog thickened. Visibility dropped to a dozen yards. All around him at the edge of the thick white muck he imagined (hoped he imagined) that he saw shadows; the shades of dead men or worse following him, waiting for him to fall exhausted so they could move in-and make him one of their own.

  He made a terrific leap across a pool of liquid mud.

  Surely he must be nearly there. The marsh didn't go on forever.

  The pounding of his running feet juddered up through his torso and neck; his eyes blurred; his forehead bled sweat; his breath was torn from his lungs in panting gasps. Soon, Mark, he promised himself. Soon.

  Here comes another mud channel; jump to the next tussock and-

  Oh, Jesus, sweet Jesus!

  He'd nearly run into it. He twisted to avoid the dark shape rearing out of the turf and slid to his knees.

  Arms up to defend himself, he slithered back, blinking the sweat from his eyes. The dark shape towered above him.

  Shit.

  He shook his head, a choking laugh rising in his burning throat.

  A post. Just a stupid old fence-post.

  A thought slid into his brain with all the menace of a poisonous snake.

  No. Don't believe it, Mark ... Jesus. The fence-post. The rotten post sticking up in the middle of this bastard swamp.

  Panting, he rose slowly to his feet and limped forward to look at the timber post.

  The post, old, rotting at the base, leaned slightly toward him. Near the top of the post a round female hole which long ago took the male fence-rail. Just below the hole a muddy palm-print, fingers splayed out. Trembling, Mark held out his hand and covered the handprint perfectly.

  For the last hour and a half he had been running in one huge circle.

  Tony looked up into the sky. Is that the color of real cloud? Or is it changing? Has it begun?

  "More evidence of your god, Gateman?" the Reverend Reed's voice was a rasp. "He's coming, isn't he? He's on his way. Following his well-worn track down here to Manshead."

  "What do you think, Reverend?"

  "Down he comes, Gateman. What footprints does he leave on his garden path? Are there toes, a heel? Or are they the hoofprints of a goat? Does he have a fine head of hair like a Greek god? Or does he have horns ... here and here?" Reed pressed his fingers to either side of his head. As if they were horns.

  Chapter Forty-six

  To the rhythm of his running feet words thudded through his brain. "Move in a straight line. ... a straight line ... move in a straight line. ..."

  He ran on, leaping from tussock to tussock rising like islands from the marsh. Most were within leaping distance from one another across the pools of mud. Some were not. Mark would leap as far as he could before splashing down into the swamp mud and water. Its wet-earth stink oozed up through his nostrils. It squelched through his clothes, splashing his face with what looked like cold diarrhoea; it coated his teeth and tongue with a gritty paste.

  And he bled sweat.

  "Keep that straight line. ..." he muttered to himself, glancing back to judge whether his crater-like footprints through the mud were straight.

  Damn... no sun. No landmarks. Nothing to guide him.

  But the thought kept him going.

  Get help. He liked the Stainforths. Nice folks ... Nice folks. The words echoed around his brain like a chant.

  If he'd ever married and had a family he would have wanted it to have been like them. He had never got close to marrying. He'd had some good relationships with women, but they always became platonic friendships. He could never establish a deeper involvement. He knew why. Part of him had died that night thirty-odd years ago when he killed the Mary-Anne and all on board her.

  Not much further now, then he would be pounding up the meadows. He imagined himself gratefully falling down into the meadow grass, then lying there hungrily sucking at the cool air. He would grab five minutes' delicious rest before moving on. Not running. A steady jog. Get to the road. Maybe flag down a passing car. A police car would be like Christmas come early. Then help would be on its way. As he ran he nourished himself with this mental picture.

  He took a huge leap over the next stretch of liquid mud. He fell short of the tussock, his hands grabbed at the rough grass; his legs sank knee-deep into slop.

  Hell.

  Hea
ving himself out, he moved on, panting until his ribs ached.

  When he reached the next expanse of mud he noticed something moving in the center of the channel. Like a seal. It turned slowly over and over with a heavy squelching sound. Although too far away for him to tell exactly what it was, Mark had a damn good idea.

  He swallowed. Perhaps it really was a seal-sick, lost ...

  Was it hell. It was one of them. Not Saf Dar. Perhaps it was Wainwright, or Fox, or one of the long-dead encrusted with barnacles or seaweed or sea anemones spreading across its naked body like a disgusting disease.

  Mark dropped forward, supporting the weight of his body with outstretched arms against his knees, panting noisily and shaking his head. A thread of silver snot slid from his nose to stretch down to the grass.

  He would have to work around the thing rolling manically over and over in mud in post-mortem ecstasy.

  He turned left. Soon the splashing seal-shaped thing was out of sight, and he turned in what he judged to be a half-circle before moving forward-again in a straight line.

  "Come on, old son. Nearly there." Soon the level of the land would rise up from this squelching muck. There would be fields, a few trees and-

  The post.

  He stopped.

  Standing out like a lone ghost sentinel guarding the swamp was the post.

  Near the top, the around hole.

  Below that, a muddy handprint. Fingers splayed out.

  Shit!

  Back where he started. He dropped to his knees and punched the turf. He punched again and again, his mind a boiling mess of confusion, frustration, anger.

  Shit...

  Which way now?

  The time was ten minutes to two.

  Chris glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to two.

  He stood in the courtyard, watching what seemed the full complement of villagers moving restlessly to and fro. An exception was the Reverend Horace Reed, who sat on one of the cannon that had been fired that morning. The man himself, lost in a gin-sodden haze.

  The villagers, excited by the idea that rescue might be on its way, chattered and laughed in overloud voices. Help was coming. Nothing else mattered-just the idea of that first hot bath in days, a square meal then a comfortable bed.

  Chris walked quickly around the perimeter of the walls, looking down onto the beach.

  Already the tide was sliding in, gobbling up acres of sand. Soon the first waves would be licking the flanks of the causeway. Within minutes Manshead would be an island again.

  A hundred yards along the beach three Saf Dar stood, the surf tonguing at their bare ankles, their tomato-red bodies vivid against the sand.

  He passed John Hodgson keeping watch over the beach, and went down the steps to the courtyard full of villagers.

  The excitement. You could almost reach out and run your fingers through it. His pulse raced, like an electric motor whirring away in his wrist. His legs ached, the muscles tensed into hard cords. This was like all the Christmas Eves and last days of school term rolled into one. He knew that nearly everyone felt that way. That sizzling sense of expectancy. Any minute now. ... Any minute now It's going to happen soon This is it.... This is it. ... It's coming now. ... Any minute now. A sense that something immense was straining at a barrier that would give way with a crack and a roar.

  He joined Ruth. She was throwing a tennis ball for David to catch. He missed it and it rolled under the front of the car.

  "I'll get it," called Chris.

  "Are you playing, Dad?"

  "Of course." He threw the ball harder than he meant to, and felt a burst of surprise and pleasure when his son leapt up to catch the ball easily.

  "Good catch."

  "You feel it too." Ruth's brown eyes darted with excitement.

  "I feel relieved that we'll soon be getting out. I'm ready for a bath and a decent meal."

  "It's more than that."

  "Mum ... catch."

  She caught it. "Uph. Well done."

  "His throwing's improved these last couple of weeks."

  "He's changed in lots of ways, Chris. Or haven't you noticed?"

  "Changed? How?"

  "I'll tell you later. What I was talking about is the change in the villagers. Just look at them. Chatting, laughing, moving about. They're different people. It's as if they're high on something."

  "Like someone spiked their tea with cocaine."

  "Exactly. I feel it too. It's hard to explain. I feel good. Look in a mirror. You'll see your pupils are dilated- everything seems brighter. I'm happy. I shouldn't be. With those things out on the beach. But-"

  "Mum! Throw the ball."

  She threw it. David caught it easily.

  "I take it you're subscribing to Tony Gateman's theory of the second coming of the-" He held his hands to his head, poking his fingers out as if they were horns. "... the horny old god who feeds on the souls of sacrificed virgins."

  "See, it's affecting you, Chris. You wouldn't normally talk so flippantly."

  "Maybe."

  "Listen, Chris, this is important."

  Chris caught the ball his six-year-old son had thrown at him, so hard it made his palm tingle. "Wow! I'll need gloves soon." He returned the ball. David snapped it out of the air with one hand.

  "Chris ... Listen. You're forgetting what Tony told us, when he talked about sacrifice-that we had to give something precious-precious to us-so we'd receive something in return."

  "This bloody enormous chunk of energy, this magic power, that's supposed to gush in." Chris laughed, feeling almost drunk.

  "Yes ... Chris, I'm serious. Tony's been right about everything else. Maybe we should work something out with him. To make sure we get this power when it comes through-and not let it fall into the hands of those things on the beach."

  "You mean make a sacrifice."

  "Yes."

  "But what would you sacrifice?"

  "Something that is very important to us, Chris."

  "Ruth, be sensible, love. What on earth can we sacrifice that means so much to us? David's goldfish? Your collection of U2 tapes? If you look around you'll notice we don't have many fatted calves or goats kicking around the place. ... Or maybe we could find some suitable virgin for the sacrificial altar."

  "Don't close your mind to this. We've got to accept something is happening. The evidence it is beginning is out there on the beach. Those red men. You feel the tension in the air. The sheer excitement. It's happening, Chris. It's happening here. Now."

  "Ruth, tell me what we can give-sacrifice-to Gateman's bloody god." He looked across at David. "Are you suggesting that... Christ, what's that now?"

  Suddenly the courtyard was filled with the sound of a pounding that rolled from wall to wall as if a salvo of thunder had dropped from the sky.