Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Bray

  The Blood shall feed the earth so that the dead need not feast.

  Petrov let his eyes take in the words, committing them to memory, before looking back to the despicable creation on the table, its form as shocking as it was disgusting. As more and more of the room was revealed under the sweeping light of the torch, symbols appeared, adorning the walls, accompanied by words which he didn’t understand, written in a language he had no comprehension of. Something snapped in him then, perhaps from a combination of the mental strain together with the visual horror in front of him, and Alex Petrov lost his nerve. He turned and almost fell, then ran back toward the hatch, grateful to see the rope waiting for him. He grasped it and climbed, unable to shake the feeling that those crawling things from the walls were burrowing into his skin, or the human-headed abomination from the table was half running and half flying as it gave chase. He scrambled up the rope, dirty and breathless, as Warren and the crime scene officers looked on. Not content just to be out of the chamber, Petrov stumbled outside and into the car park, where he threw up by the wall, stomach lurching as his lunch hit the ground. Around him the trees groaned in the wind.

  CHAPTER 2

  A flash of silver as the blade touched the boy’s throat. He could feel it, cold steel against his skin. As confused and afraid as he was, the boy couldn’t take his eyes off his dead father, or the blood pooling on the ground around him. Isaac looked to his mother, who was sitting on the ground, and knew she couldn’t help him. The man at his back pushed the blade a little harder, almost enough to split the soft, delicate skin. The knife didn’t concern him, and the words being exchanged between his mother and the man went unheard. Isaac was instead listening to the other voices, the ones drifting in and out of his head. He couldn’t understand the things they were saying, but was frightened nonetheless.

  What happened next was a blur. A hazy flash of bright light and warmth after which the man was gone, leaving him standing alone. In his dream, the man at his back remained, and dragged the knife across his skin, severing nerves and arteries, spilling his precious blood onto the ground. It was at this point he always woke, screaming and thrashing in his bed, smothered and confused until he kicked the blankets off and gulped in fresh air.

  Melody hurried into the room, hair a knotty tangle, eyes dark and tired. She sat beside her son and held him, stroking his sweaty, matted hair as she tried to calm him from the nightmare. He grew quiet, comforted by her presence. She stroked his head until he settled back down, drifting off to calmer waters. Soon enough, he was asleep, arms thrust out at his side, mouth open as he snored gently.

  The routine was the same every night. She stood and picked up his duvet, untangling the Ninja Turtles on the material and covering her son. Going to the door, she paused at the threshold and looked at him for a moment. Her seven year old son meant everything to her, and yet she could no longer deny that he was having serious problems dealing with what had happened.

  She closed the door gently and made her way to the kitchen, slippers padding softly on the wood floor. After grabbing a glass from the drainer, she lifted the bottle of whisky from the top shelf of the cupboard and headed back to the sitting room to try and figure out what she was going to do. She set the glass and bottle down, and poured herself a generous shot, trying to ignore how much her hands were shaking, and how thin and leathery they’d become. She perched on the edge of the sofa and glanced toward the empty chair. People said it would get easier, yet she knew well enough that it didn’t. If anything, it became more difficult. It had been almost six months since the massacre at the hotel when she’d lost her husband. Although she’d been sure it would never happen, she had already started forgetting little things about Steve. The way he spoke; the way he laughed. She scanned the room, hating the fact that she had no photos of him. Like everything else of their lives together, they’d been destroyed, and he had refused to take new ones after the fire, which she completely understood. Even so, she would have given anything to have just one picture, one memory of the time before they’d moved to Hope House and inadvertently changed their entire futures. Even though it was over, she still felt the intense burden; the guilt that she was still alive and healthy, while Steve had paid with his life in order to save her.

  There was a knock at the door.

  She didn’t move at first. She never had visitors, especially so late. Memories of Donovan and his wide, white grin flashed in her mind, and she shrank against the seat. Knowing he was dead made no difference. He still lived within her, haunting her in death as much as he had in life.

  Another knock, louder this time. She couldn’t face having to put Isaac back to bed if he woke, so forced herself to get up, pausing to drain the glass of whisky, which simultaneously burned and soothed. She walked to the door and looked through the spyhole, feeling ridiculous for being so afraid. She slid back the deadbolts and unhooked the extra chains she’d had installed before turning the doorknob.

  “Are you okay? I heard some commotion?”

  Melody nodded. “I’m fine, Mrs. Richter. Isaac was just having a bad dream.”

  The short, prune-like old woman glanced past Melody, her devious, sunken eyes scanning the apartment before coming back to rest on Melody, false smile in place.

  “Are you sure everything is alright? I heard it loud and clear. Right through the walls. I wasn’t eavesdropping, not at all. It’s just that the walls are thin and…” her words dried up, faded away, leaving just the smug expression behind.

  Mrs. Richter was one of those women who it was impossible to pin a specific age to. Broad at the shoulders with a flabby neck and wide, bulbous eyes, she was reminiscent of an ugly, wrinkly fish. She pursed her lips and looked past Melody to the apartment beyond again.

  “Are you sure you haven’t had too much to drink?” she asked.

  “I haven’t had anything to drink, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Are you sure? I can smell it on your breath. With that boy to look after, are you sure it’s a good idea?”

  “I’m not drunk, Mrs. Richter.”

  “And the boy? Is he okay too?”

  The boy. She always referred to him as that. Never as Isaac. It was always just ‘the boy’ when she made her semi-regular visits to stick her nose into business that didn’t concern her.

  “Look, Mrs. Richter,” Melody said, forcing herself to remain calm and friendly, “I appreciate you checking in on me. Isaac just had a nightmare, that’s all. Everything is fine.”

  “Are you sure?” Richter said, still bobbing and weaving to see inside the apartment. Melody pulled the door closed and leaned on the doorframe to block her bug-eyed view.

  “Everything is fine,” Melody said, keeping her tone cold and sharp. Before Richter could say anything else, she closed the door and rested her head on the cool wood.

  Out in the hall, Mrs. Richter waddled back to her own apartment next door. She closed the door, walked to the desk in the corner of the sitting room and powered up her computer. As much as she didn’t want to interfere, she was worried about the child. Perhaps a quick word with child services would at least let her feel as if she had done something to help if things took a bad turn. She had already decided that she would make the call anonymously just as soon as she found the number.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dane Marshall strode through the corridors of the hospital, the cheap roses he’d purchased in the gift shop by the entrance swinging by his side. They were something of an afterthought, and one which he was sure would be as unwelcome as he would be. Either way, what was important was the envelope in his pocket. That was all that mattered. He took a left, leaving behind the chaos of the accident and emergency ward with its army of sick and needy patients wanting attention. He passed doors, labelled with black signs and white text: Radiology, X-Ray, Orthopedics. It was quiet now; quiet enough to hear himself think. His shoes clacked against polished floors, and he scratched at his cheek, half wishing he had made the effort to shave.r />
  It became apparent to him that he had been one of the lucky ones, and had managed to come out of the ordeal at the hotel unscathed, unlike the person he was here to visit. As much as he knew how well off he was, he also knew that some scars were worn on the inside, like badges, reminders of a life changing event that could never be forgotten. He had discovered that some, like him, were able to wear the scars well, and some days he could even forget he had them. Others, however, were less fortunate, picking and scratching at them until the wounds opened and they bled to death. Of course, the memories of what happened that night still lived within him, lingering in the back of his mind along with the guilt that festered alongside it, and occasionally lurching into his consciousness to remind him of their presence. Mostly they were images, snapshots of that night forever burned into his memory. When those awful recollections decided to present themselves, they were mainly of the tree in the forest ¬¬¬¬– the gnarled giant stretching toward the heavens. He recalled the way he hadn’t quite understood what he was looking at until he saw the bodies, slick with rain and blood, writhing against the nails and barbed wire that held them in place.

  He remembered the way his cameraman Sean had screamed, high-pitched and filled with a raw terror which was almost as terrible as the carnage displayed ahead of them. Sean’s scars had run just as deep as his own, but sadly, he’d been a picker, and as a result, the wound had stayed open and become infected. He’d been discovered just a week earlier by his mother, hanging in the closet in the bedroom of his apartment, his bloated body freed from the horrors of that night.

  Dane reached the elevator, just managing to squeeze in as the door closed. He stood, staring at his warped, hazy reflection in the polished steel doors, thinking it was a good approximation of how he’d felt inside since the incident at the hotel. The doors chimed and opened, his distorted mirror image disappearing to reveal a tranquil pale green corridor. Unlike the chaos of downstairs, this part of the hospital was infinitely calmer. He knew exactly where he was going. He’d been here several times before. Taking a left, he passed private rooms, some shrouded in darkness, others lit subtly by discreet lamps. The silence here pleased him, and other than the whir and hum of life-support machinery, it was total.

  Room 411 was at the furthest end of the corridor. Like the others, it was designed to be as homely as possible, a feat almost achieved if not for the presence of an ugly grey hospital bed and a large bank of expensive equipment keeping its occupant’s vital organs functioning . He didn’t knock as the door was open when he got there. Instead he waited, looking at the broken slab of meat being kept alive in the loosest sense of the word by the network of tubes and wires snaking out of his body. Not for the first time, it struck Dane that Bruce Jones would have been better off if he’d died at the hands of his maniac brother. Instead, the machines whirred, clunked and beeped, and Bruce Jones’ heart kept beating, and his lungs kept inflating and deflating. No machine, however, could save his brain. It had been damaged beyond repair when Henry had attacked, and the doctors had said there was no hope of recovery. In spite of that, Bruce’s wife, Audrey, sat as always by his bedside, holding his limp and unfeeling hand. Dane thought it odd how his face was so worry free (apart from the misshapen skull, that was) as he slept through an ordeal from which he would never regain consciousness. Audrey bore the burden enough for them both, appearing nearer to fifty than her thirty seven years. She noticed Dane standing by the entrance, and turned away, stroking her husband’s hand.

  “You got your way, finally,” she said without looking at him. “I bet you’re glad it’s over at last. I told him not to go to that place. I told him you and your brother were trouble, but he was too stubborn to listen.”

  “We’ve already been through this. None of what happened is my fault. I suffered too.”

  “Not enough,” she said, glaring at him. “That brother of yours should have hung for what he did instead of getting to live out his days in a hospital.”

  Dane said nothing. Instead, he looked at Bruce, trying to understand why he felt no sympathy.

  “My brother is sick—”

  “Don’t you dare make excuses for him or you can turn around and leave.”

  “Audrey, you asked me to come here today.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. Those lawyers of yours have been hounding me since the accident. All I wanted was to be left alone to look after my husband.”

  “I wasn’t hounding you. I was offering you help when I thought you might have needed it. God knows, you don’t need a reminder like that hanging around your neck.”

  “Don’t cheapen yourself by lying. You wanted something Bruce has and you haven’t let it go since,” she said, glaring darkly in his direction.

  “Audrey, please…”

  “You don’t need to beg. I’ll sign your papers. Chalk up another win for the Marshall boys.”

  He made no outward reaction, yet inside his adrenaline spiked.

  “Why the change of heart?” he asked.

  “Why the hell do you care? You don’t know him. You don’t know any of us.”

  Dane looked at his shoes, then remembering he still had the bunch of cheap flowers in his hand, set them down on the dresser. He didn’t expect an answer, and was trying to think of something else to say when she responded.

  “It’s time to let him go. This isn’t Bruce. He’d have hated this… being kept alive by machines. You know, I can’t even remember his voice anymore.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We have a daughter, you know. She’s seven. Every day she asks me when Daddy will be home. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep lying to her? To keep giving her hope?”

  “No, no I don’t.”

  “That’s why I decided it’s time to say goodbye. It’s time to move on.”

  “You’re switching off life-support?” Dane asked, eyebrows raised.

  “I can’t do it anymore,” she said softly, the anger fading out of her voice. “I don’t have the strength. He’s not coming back, I know that. I just… It feels like I’m giving up on him.”

  “He’d want you to move on.”

  “Don’t you dare tell me what he’d want. You don’t know anything about him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, everyone is. It’s just a word though. I’m the one who has to live with it.”

  Dane again decided silence was the best response. Realizing she wouldn’t be able to goad him into an argument, she sighed and dabbed the corners of her eyes with a tissue. “Give me the damn papers. I want to spend some time with my husband before I let him go.”

  Dane handed her the envelope he’d been holding since his arrival. As was becoming routine, he held his tongue, this time not so much out of respect, but interest as he watched her open the envelope. Time seemed to slow as he watched her take a pair of reading glasses out of her bag and look through the documents. As he watched and waited, he became aware of everything going on around him, almost as if he were tuning into his surroundings at a more acute frequency than normal. Everything seemed sharper, more intense: the steady hiss-wheeze of the machines keeping Bruce alive; the overpowering sickly sweet smell of his soon-to-be widow’s perfume; even the distant sound of someone coughing somewhere down the corridor, all of which were secondary to the sight of Audrey as she scanned page after page of documentation. She caught him staring at her and screwed up her face.

  “Jesus, you look like a vulture standing there.”

  “The paperwork is no different to the versions we’ve sent you before. Nothing has changed. I have no intention of ripping you off.”

  “You think I care about a patch of dead land in the middle of an even deader town? As far as I’m concerned, you can have it. I just want to be sure this will be the end of it.”

  “I understand. Your husband didn’t care much for the land either, which is why he’d agreed to sell it.”

  “Yes, to your brother, right before he did this. It would ha
ve been much easier for you if they’d completed the sale before he decided to lose his mind, wouldn’t it?”

  He was shocked by the venom in her eyes.

  “I’m not making any excuses for him,” Dane said. “What he did was inexcusable. I just don’t want to be associated with his actions. I was a victim too.”

  “You were no victim. You have your life; you have your health. What about me? What do I have?”

  “I’m sorry,” he replied, staring at the floor so he didn’t have to look at her. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “I don’t want you to say anything.” Her voice was filled with emotion.

  Before he could reply, she scrawled her signature on the bottom of the final page, slipped the documents and pen into the envelope and held them out to him.

  “There. You win.”

  He took the envelope, unsure what to say or do.

  “Would you like me to stay? For the end, I mean,” he asked, not because he wanted to, but because it seemed like the right thing to say.

  “Are you serious?” she replied, face contorted into a grimace. “I couldn’t imagine anything worse. Just go, get out of here and let me say goodbye to my husband in peace.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I just thought—”

  “Get out!” she screamed.