by Ricky Fleet
There isn’t, whispered the voice. There was a subtle change in the tone, though. The boundless confidence was gone, Malachi could feel the first stirrings of anxiety, or even fear in the being. A wave of visceral hostility washed over Malachi from the entity. It’s time to finish this, you impudent whelp, it sneered.
“Holy shit, they are coming!”
“Get your weapons ready, we are going to send these sons of whores back to hell,” shouted Anton, readying himself by the ledge with his trusty table leg.
Most of the group gathered any weapon they could and formed up. The older members looked resolute, standing tall in what could prove to be their final moments. The younger generation drew strength from their elders and stood side by side, ready for whatever was coming. Malachi crawled forward and his testicles shrivelled, a sensation he had imagined existed only in fiction. The sight was incredible and horrifying at the same time; a dark blanket of reflective carapaces which rose to cover every inch of wall. Thousands of legs clicked against the wall like hailstones on a tin roof as they climbed ever higher. The question of how they were able to support their weight during the ascent was answered with the flaking brickwork and cement. They had enough power to drive the tips into the wall itself.
“Oh my God,” whispered Malachi, seeing the futility of their efforts.
He can’t help you now. No one can, gloated his nemesis.
Malachi was grateful for the hated mutterings as they fuelled his anger. Holding out a hand, he felt foolish, but it was worth a shot. Sending out his consciousness, he channelled all of his fear and hate into an invisible slab of energy. Slapping his open palm against the broken wall, the bugs below were crushed flat, sending a rain of black shell and yellow gore onto those below. For the briefest moment they paused in shock at the slaughter, mewling like scared infants.
“What happened?” asked Paul, risking his neck by looking over the edge.
Before Malachi could answer, the creatures shrieked and scurried up the wall with a renewed vigour. Malachi could sense their desire for revenge and jumped back just in time to miss the first grasping legs. A face rose above the edge and the group cried out their horror as it inspected them all. The visage would have been cherubic if it hadn’t been comprised of obsidian black skin with evilly glowing red eyes. The younger fighters started to back away, breaking the line as the fear sapped at their will.
“No, we have to stand together or they will overrun us in seconds,” he cried, trying to rally the deserters.
“We can’t fight that,” sobbed Claire’s mother.
“We don’t have a fucking choice!” Anton shouted, then let loose a resounding war cry.
“Malachi will use his powers, but we have to help him!” Paul added, hefting the table leg ready to swing.
The timing corresponded with the rising monsters and any that were able, or willing, ran forward to strike. Knives clashed with chitin armour, driving through the shell into the soft flesh. Table legs and lengths of pipe whistled through the air, given more power by the terrified hands which wielded them. Malachi focused his mind, forming the crushing energy and slamming it down like an invisible hammer on an anvil. Minutes passed and the confidence in the group grew with each wave they successfully repelled.
“If we can keep this up we may have a chance!” Paul shouted.
Malachi didn’t reply. He wouldn’t tell them of the voice and the way it was laughing inside his mind. The entity was holding the swarm back, tiring the humans and preparing to break them both mentally and physically. Where could they go? If they withdrew and formed a circle the creatures would have a chance to mass on the roof itself. The pipework for the water cisterns travelled down a wide access void to each property, but it would only trap them in the basement. This applied to the lift as well which was awaiting a new motor; that was if they could get past the stranded cab.
Malachi was ready to throw in the towel and the unseen enemy rejoiced. A yearning carried through the gloating and he could sense that his soul was the ultimate prize. They hadn’t managed to claim it at the asylum, but now its minions would succeed where Dr. Lloyd and the evil bastards had failed. I can’t wait to meet you, it crowed, imposing images of the torture and cruelty it would inflict upon him.
“Hold them back for me!” Malachi shouted between the crunching and screeching.
Picking up an abandoned torch, he rushed into the much larger structure that housed the tanks. Thousands of litres of water sat in two individual cisterns with the pipework running from points in their base. The iron tubes twisted to the rear of the room before dropping out of sight. He only knew the void existed after a rare visit by a plumber to sort out a split pipe behind the wall itself. Insects and spiders also lived in the space, but they were the common species of earth, not creatures from another dimension. It was an eighty foot climb down into the basement itself and the thick pipes would make an adequate ladder. They had a means of retreat at least; escaping would be another matter.
A gurgling scream broke his thoughts and he ran back onto the roof. One of the sides of the building was about to fall to the monsters; two people were thrashing against the slavering jaws, and losing. Arteries were torn and blood spurted across the rooftop, covering their fellow defenders. An arachnid horror turned and sprayed a thick web around two more people and they fell to the floor. Moving with lightning speed it raced over their bodies and drove a huge stinger into each of the victims. Screams of agony fell silent as the virulent poison worked its way through their system. Any that went to their aid were hamstrung and swiftly devoured by the mass of beasts.
“Oh God, it’s melting them,” groaned Anton who vomited, adding his dinner to the spreading pool of blood.
Sure enough the two cocooned victims were racked with spasms as the immobilising venom started to corrode through their bodies. Skin peeled and flesh liquefied as they watched. The sounds of slurping as the spider consumed the poor people triggered another bout of sickness.
“Retreat, get back to the water tanks!” Malachi shouted to the remaining survivors.
“What’s the plan?” Paul gasped, trying to catch his breath. He was covered in the slimy yellow liquid and it dripped from his weapon like mucus.
“We can’t stay up here and the only way down is through there,” Malachi indicated the maintenance shaft.
“Then we will have no way out,” Paul replied fearfully.
“Up here we’re totally exposed. I didn’t think they would be able to haul that bulk up the outside of the building,” Malachi said, cursing himself for the mistake.
“I won’t make it down there anyway, son,” said an elderly man, holding his wife close, “These old hands are past taking my weight.”
He reached out and everyone could see the twisted bones from the creeping arthritis, like a gnarled tree branch. His wife reached out her own hand and stroked Malachi’s cheek fondly.
“Thank you for fighting so bravely, we will try and hold them off so the rest of you can get to safety. At least we will die together,” she smiled, all fear flown.
“No, we can help you down!” Malachi’s declared. Heart breaking at their ageless love, he could easily imagine his parents showing such devotion had they not perished so young.
“It’s ok, son. You gave us a chance, now it’s our turn to do the same,” he replied with a shake of his head. “I’d have preferred to choose my own way, like a step from the edge in the arms of the woman I love. They will have to work hard for it if they want another meal!”
Malachi’s admiration for the couple was limitless and he tried to get them to reconsider, but it was pointless.
“What about the lift shaft?” Paul whispered in Malachi’s ear. He was trying to help the brave souls to commit suicide, but the short fall could prove non-lethal. Malachi wouldn’t countenance the idea of leaving them writhing in pain atop the roof of the lift, bones shattered and protruding from their frail flesh.
Three more older tenants gathered around, taking the heavi
est weapons they could carry into battle. The creatures had finished feeding on the fallen and their bones were scattered far and wide. Turning their myriad eyes on the huddled mass, they started keening like excited babies.
“No,” Malachi said, holding the people back.
“You don’t have much time,” explained the old man.
“I can’t get you all down, but I may be able to give you a clean death?” Malachi declared, meeting his gaze. Every fibre of his being was repulsed by the idea of being the architect of five deaths, but compared to the alternative it would be a merciful act.
“Please, son. I don’t want to die by their hands,” replied the man, tears brimming.
“Get around the sides of the tank housing!”
Everyone complied instantly and Malachi stood facing the doorway and the wall it was set in. Instead of conjuring the hatred, he fed from the love of the couple and the memory of Chloe and his beloved parents. Holding out his hands, he imagined two handles set into the brickwork. With a roar he wrenched backwards and the whole wall crumbled at his feet, including the door.
The massive water containers were exposed and he warned everyone, “Hold on tight, it will try and carry you away!”
Using one hand to root his feet to the concrete floor, the other was thrust at the steel tanks and then torn aside. The steel sides squealed in protest as they were peeled back like a sardine can, and the released water poured forth like dual tidal waves. Even with his energy the water pushed at him, threatening to drag him away and the others held on for dear life as it spread across the rest of the roof. Sweeping his arms, he directed the water around the whole roof in a powerful wave. Caught unawares by the cleansing water, the abominations shrieked their denial as they were carried over the brim to their deaths. The roar of water diminished to a trickle as the last few litres poured from the sundered vessels.
“That was incredible!” Paul yelled.
“No time for celebrations, they will be coming. Get everyone moving. Now!” Malachi shouted, pointing at the dark shaft, “The pipes will be wet so be extra careful with your grip and footing.”
Malachi averted his gaze when the five elders approached. He had just created a window for suicide which left a stain on his soul that might never be erased. The wife of the brave man hugged him tightly, and the rest followed suit, embracing him with their love and gratitude.
“I know you think this is a bad thing you have done, but you have saved us from an awful death,” started the man, sensing the conflicting emotions in the youngster, “Now we can be at peace. We will tell your parents what a hero you are.”
“What?” Malachi didn’t think he had heard the words correctly.
“We were good friends with Miss Cortez,” explained his wife, aware that time was running down, “She always used to talk about you and how much she cared for you. We know you lost your parents at a very young age, but they would be so proud to see what you have become.”
Malachi couldn’t speak through the lump in his throat and watched in silence as the five approached the roofline. Turning their backs to the drop and the waiting horrors, they linked hands and smiled. With a final nod, they leaned back and let gravity take them. No shouts of fear or remorse carried up before the sickly thuds, and Malachi consoled himself with the knowledge they were now in a better place without pain or the slow creep of decrepitude.
“What you did was a kindness,” Anton stated, startling Malachi, “Never forget that, mate.”
“It sure doesn’t feel that way,” relied Malachi miserably. “How is it going?”
“The shaft is awkward and you can only fit one person atop the other, not side by side. It’s slow going but if we can hold them at the roof they should all make it.”
Malachi pushed through the remaining people to glance down. Claire was aiming the torch down the narrow tunnel to help people find good places to hold on. Seeing her friend, she smiled and offered the light.
“No thanks, sweetheart. You are doing a great job,” he said, turning back to Paul and Anton.
“What is the plan for when we get down there?” Paul asked.
“Honestly? I have no idea,” he shrugged his shoulders, “We barricade it and hold out for as long as we can. I intend to take as many of those bastards with me as possible.”
“Mal?” called Claire.
“What’s up?”
“Something is happening down there,” she replied, playing the beam around the shaft.
Malachi looked out to the roof, though none of the things had appeared yet. Leaning over he could see what she meant, the wall was starting to bulge in places. Streamers of plaster fell from the creaking laths and the descending people started to cough and panic.
“No.”
Yes, replied the voice, unleashing hell.
The walls burst inwards under the weight of the miscreations who had lain in wait. The trap was sprung and the ambushed people were plucked like tender morsels from their perches to be devoured by the waiting hordes on the lower floors. The screams echoed up the narrow confines of the shaft briefly and Malachi leaned against the side of the cistern and slumped to the floor. Burdened by the increasing losses his mind was in danger of shutting down. Though in no way culpable, his nature wouldn’t allow him to shuck off the responsibility.
And then there were eight, chuckled the evil voice.
“Fucking hell, now is not the time to wallow in guilt!” Anton shouted, leaning down to shake him.
Malachi was paralyzed with indecision and stared fixedly on a patch of rust on the opposing steel cistern. Fractured memories played in his mind of happier times and places; the first ice cream he had eaten on Bognor Regis sea front, a cold Christmas morning with the open fire crackling and the sound of tearing paper on his only present. Then the image of Chloe as he had first seen her; stunning but innocent and vulnerable as she glanced around the bar.
“Mal, please help us,” Claire asked softly, “We need you.”
An inner battle raged in his head. The promise of blissful ignorance which withdrawal from the real world would bring, or the hope, however slim, of finding a way out of the horror. Catatonia teased, offering him the soft hospital bed and the first kiss with Chloe. You could have that moment forever, it whispered.
“They are coming and I am scared,” whimpered Claire pitifully.
Anton pulled her and his wife in close to await the inevitable. The sound of chitin on pipe was getting louder as the creatures climbed up the empty ductwork. A long forgotten memory flashed into being, causing Malachi to flinch. It was the feeling of falling, followed by the sound of impact as the car hit water. He remembered the slow bob as the weight of the engine pitched the vehicle ass up in the river before sinking like a stone. And the smiling face at the window, the current causing the man’s hair to float eerily in the murky light of the riverbed. I won’t leave you, the serene mask promised as it drove the tire iron towards the glass.
“I won’t leave you!” Malachi snarled, using the memory to break free of the malaise.
“Thank you, Mal,” Claire said, flying into his arms.
“You ok?” Anton asked warily.
“No,” Malachi replied honestly, “But we are going to try and do as much damage as possible. Get to the lift housing.”
Shadows danced at the lip of the shaft and Malachi ushered everyone to safety. He didn’t have time to destroy the larger brick structure and instead stared at the thick steel pipework. With deafening twangs, he tore each one from the base of the tanks, twisting them into life like brown flecked snakes. A monster resembling a millipede scurried over the edge, its rows of legs propelling it forward at Malachi. With a flick of the wrist the tube stabbed through, pinning it like an insect on an entomologist’s display board. Forcing the tube back it dragged the screeching beast toward the hole where even more of its companions were struggling to push through. Using the impossibly flexible metal, Malachi wove it together like a cage, ripping through the mass of black a
rmour and sealing the hole.
“Try getting through that!” Malachi shouted and picked up the discarded torch. The beam flickered for a moment and with a firm shake, the connections were remade and it burst into life.
The shaft was filled with all manner of loathsomeness and the bottom of the duct gave them full access to the basement. Gritting his teeth, he glared at the descending pipework and tore it free of each apartment with his mind, before twisting it together in an impassable latticework of steel. The seething horde shrieked their frustration and thrashed futilely at the prison.
“Mal, hurry up,” Paul urged, mouth gaping at the tangled mess of pipes and the dying, squirming things crushed within it.
They ran over the drenched rubble of the wall Malachi had torn down and met the others in the motor room. Thick steel cables ran up and over the drum before disappearing through an aperture in the floor to hold the elevator aloft. A steel trapdoor was open and he dared a peek down before he had to look away.
“You ok?” Paul asked.
“Just a bit of vertigo,” Malachi explained, “I’ll be fine.”
“Shall I lock the door?”
“The roof is not safe,” Malachi replied, swinging the heavy door shut, “It will buy us a few minutes at least. Do it.”
With a quick rattle they were sealed within the building and they could all feel the final confrontation fast approaching. Malachi pondered whether he would be better going first or forming the rear guard. Kicking the door, it returned a dull thud which indicated it was sturdy enough to offer some resistance to the monsters.
“Follow me down, I will clear the way of anything lying in wait.”
“Do you think they will spring through the walls or doors again?” Claire asked, a haunted look in her eyes.
“No, sweetheart. The lift shaft is concrete lined and the doors themselves are metal. We would hear them long before they could get to us,” Malachi assured her, praying his assumption would prove accurate as he descended.
“I’ll follow from behind,” offered Anton.
“Thanks, mate,” Malachi nodded, “Let’s get this done.”
