The Nightmare Man: (Child of the Vodyanoi)

by David Wiltshire

  Dunlop shot a quick glance of triumph up at a delighted looking Inskip.

  He put his mouth closer to the microphone and shouted.

  “Listen, this is a police message. Your men are dead and missing. There’s been a fire. I say again—dead and missing. The station is wrecked. Do you understand? Over.”

  The voice came through the crackling a little clearer.

  “Is this a hoax? I repeat—is this a hoax?”

  Dunlop shook his head as he replied.

  “No hoax. We’ve had five people killed here. We need help urgently—repeat—urgently. ”

  Inskip shook his shoulder.

  “Hurry—there’s a smell of burning. I think you’re going to short out.”

  Dunlop held on to his transmit button and spoke rapidly in a flat monotone.

  “Listen. We haven’t much time. We’re bringing in people from the isolated areas. Badly need help if others to be

  protected. We have recovered a strange craft from the beach. It seems likely we have a dangerous intruder not from this island. Origin unknown. Radioactivity detected. Probably space...”

  There was a flash and a bang. Clouds of acrid smoke poured out from the ventilator grille of the console.

  Dunlop sat back and gently placed the microphone down. “That’s it.”

  Inskip patted him on the shoulder, the relief evident in his voice and face.

  “Well done. Now they know how bad it is, we should get some priority.”

  Swivelling around in the chair, Dunlop stood up, lips tightly pressed together.

  “Maybe, but I wish to hell I hadn’t mentioned that bloody word ‘space’ just before we were cut off. Can’t you imagine how it must have sounded? And strange thing on the beach,” he continued contemptuously. “They’ll think it’s a hoax— they’re half that way inclined already.”

  But Inskip was shaking his head before he finished.

  “Don’t forget they won’t be able to raise this place on their own radio. That at least must worry them. They couldn’t just ignore it, could they?”

  Dunlop savagely kicked a piece of charred wood clear as he pushed out through the door.

  “Yeah, but while they figure it all out we might be in big trouble.”

  They retraced their steps down to the jetty. The sight of the strange craft, and the memory of its weird warmth sent a shiver through them both.

  They scrambled on to the boat, Inskip ordering it to sea. He took a last bitter look at the receding remains of the coastguard station, remembering McGrath’s waving figure and pathetic faith in his shotgun. He shuddered again, and turned into the cabin, eager for the warmth and company of men packed inside.

  But a disappointment awaited him. The men were sullen and quiet, and even Dunlop and Mackay sat in an uneasy prepossessed silence.

  A strange atmosphere seemed to hang over them all, as though the alien thing on the roof above was alive, aware of them, and sending out an all encompassing aura of hostility.

  20

  They arrived back to a tense, bustling Inverdee. As they came alongside, a crowd of excited children ran beside the boat until she tied up.

  When Inskip’s men came up the steps with their rifles, a crowd stood waiting. Inskip spotted Robertson, head and shoulders above everybody else, pushing towards them.

  “What’s the news, sir?”

  The Inspector told him, and then continued, “What about here? Everything going okay?”

  “Ay sir. Roads into the town are sealed off, and we’ve got patrols out in the surrounding fields. There’s no way it can get in. I’d stake my life on it.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to.”

  The crowd which had been finding its voice, suddenly fell silent. Puzzled, Inskip turned.

  The strange craft, now seemingly a different colour, as though it could change like a chameleon, was being hoisted up. As it swung over, the police cordon pushed back the people to make room.

  In the hush, as all eyes followed it, a boy’s voice excitedly rang out.

  “Duncan, it’s like one of the things in Star Wars”

  With a jolt Dunlop and Inskip looked at each other, the latter speaking first.

  “Out of the mouths of babes...?”

  It was carefully placed in the corner of MacLoud’s quayside shed, and a guard was mounted.

  Dunlop ran his hands over the opaque hood and bent down once again, trying to see more of the inside.

  “They must lie down at the controls—there’s not enough room sitting up. If we could just get this off…” He tugged at the hood.

  Inskip grabbed his arm.

  “Leave it! Let the boffins do it. You might do some damage.”

  The way he said it implied damage—to them. Dunlop gave a wry grin.

  “I guess you’re right. Well, I’m going to get something to eat—see if Fiona is accommodating. Care to join us?”

  Inskip shook his head.

  “No—thanks anyway. I want to check on the latest position of the outlying people.”

  Dunlop’s face clouded.

  “Careful now—you haven’t slept properly for days. You’ll' crack up.”

  Inskip smiled wearily.

  “Not long now perhaps and I can hand over permanently, I reckon they’ll get somebody to us tomorrow.”

  Dunlop was cautious.

  “It’s already less than a few hours to sunset. They certainly won’t be able to arrange anything today, and with these short northern days it might not even be tomorrow.”

  Inskip’s face was a picture of dismay.

  “Christ, lad, don’t even think it.”

  Dunlop found Fiona having a late lunch. She leapt up as soon as he came in and ran and put her arms around him, pressing her cheek against his.

  “Oh darling, I’ve been so worried.”

  Dunlop was over the moon. He hugged her back.

  “Easy now. I’ve been in no danger.”

  She lifted her head away and smiled ruefully.

  “Sorry. Have you eaten?”

  “No.”

  “Come on then, I’ve got some Irish stew in the pot.”

  He unhitched his gun belt and took off his outer jacket. Gratefully he tackled the big pile of steaming meat and vegetables, breaking off great hunks of brown bread and dipping it into the rich gravy.

  Between mouthfuls he told her what had happened, and of the strange craft on the beach.

  Her eyes widened.

  Are you suggesting it’s something from space then, like the Russian satellite that came down in Canada a year ago?” Dunlop shook his head violently, unable to speak immediately because of a hot mouthful of potato. He finally took a gulp of water to cool it down.

  “Inskip thinks it’s from the sea, but nobody can actually say yet whether it’s from space or not. But one thing is certain. It hasn’t crashed, or burnt in the atmosphere—in fact I didn’t detect any damage on it at all. But it’s special all right. I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

  She leant forward and picked a piece of meat from his plate. “How do you mean?”

  Dunlop halted a forkful of steaming meat on its way to his mouth.

  “It’s warm.

  Fiona looked puzzled.

  “What is?”

  “The craft. It feels as though it’s alive.”

  She almost choked, her face green, and shocked. When she continued to cough he got up and gave her a thump on the back.

  “All right now?”

  She nodded, wiping at the tears streaming down her face. Her voice was small.

  “How disgusting. Do you think it is... alive?”

  He sat down again and gave a chuckle.

  “Of course not. It must be some sort of technological advance. There is an air of sophistication about it though. You can tell it’s full of complexities. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  He took some bread and plunged it into the gravy.

  “Anyway, when you’ve finished work
, come and see for yourself.”

  “No way. I’m too busy,” she added, and got up quickly and crossed to the solid fuel range.

  “A cup of tea?”

  “Please.”

  She poured out a mugful and set it down on the table beside him.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “Get back to Inskip and see what time he’d like me to do my stint of guard duty.”

  She came round and played with the back of his chair.

  “Must you rush away? I won’t be opening the shop this afternoon until four o’clock—there’s a notice on the door.”

  The town was still throbbing with tense excitement when he came down the stairs two hours later.

  He passed a group of women standing huddled at one corner, and was acutely conscious of their eyes following him. It was the gun at his side.

  As he reached the police station he nearly bumped into Inskip and Robertson coming out.

  Dunlop stepped back.

  “Reporting for duty. What’s next to do?”

  Inskip nodded somewhere over in the direction of the Golf Club.

  “I’m just going to do the rounds out in the fields before it gets really dark. Probably somebody will need relieving now; it’s bloody cold out there. Would you take over if necessary?”

  "Sure.”

  They moved up the street and turned off at the last house, striking out into the clean two-foot deep snow that in places had been churned up by the passing of others.

  The outer frozen crust took their weight for a split second, before their feet sank into the softer under-snow. It made the going tough and laborious.

  They reached the first patrol reporting point which had been set up in a cow shelter near a river that flowed into the loch a half mile away.

  The sky was leaden and gloomy, with heavy low clouds blocking nearly all the view of the higher peaks of the mountains, leaving them with the illusion of being flat and all the same height in the rapidly failing light.

  Robertson nodded, and said, "Looks like we’re in for even more snow.”

  The group of men huddled inside the shelter were gathered, around a smoky fire.

  “It’s bloody cold out here.”

  Dunlop recognized the ashen-faced speaker as Tim Wisliart, the local coach and taxi owner. They all joked with him as they entered the shed.

  The collection of firearms he could see frightened Dunlop. Some of the pieces would do more harm to the owner than anything attacking them. But morale, he decided, was high.

  Two of the men were over seventy, and kept everybody in stitches with memories of the Home Guard.

  They were still chuckling when Dunlop suddenly lost his grin. He cocked his head, face concentrating.

  “Listen.”

  They didn’t all hear him.

  Inskip looked around puzzled, and caught sight of his face.

  “What is it?”

  “I can hear something.”

  Inskip raised his head.

  “Hold it everybody—keep quiet.”

  At first all they could hear was the crackling of the fire and the whisper of the wind.

  And then they all heard it, rising from the low moan of air as it passed between a gap in the roof and wall of the shed.

  The whine grew until there was no mistake.

  “It’s a plane.”

  There was a mad rush for the door.

  Outside it was only half light, the feathery snow-filled clouds barely three to four hundred feet high, passing like smoke above their heads.

  Everybody craned their heads upwards.

  “Where is it? I don’t see it.”

  Dunlop stood apart from them, memories flooding in. His training helping him to see it before the rest. It was flying straight at them from the direction of the loch, less than fifty feet up.

  He pointed.

  “There!”.

  Against the lighter water, the distinctive black shape of the Lockheed Cl30 Hercules Transport grew rapidly, seeming to fill the sky, aiming straight at them as the noise grew from a whine, into a roar, into thunder.

  They flung themselves flat into the snow as the huge four engined plane ripped overhead, the ice-filled wind slashing at their clothes.

  All except Dunlop.

  He stood there, watching as it lifted up to the right and climbed away, its navigation light on the tail fin flashing red against the dark slate-coloured sky. It disappeared into the cloud base.

  Inskip picked himself up, brushing at his clothes, his face alive with excitement.

  “Christ, you’re a cool one!”

  Dunlop shook his head.

  “No—only experience of being around them.”

  “Of course—I forgot. What’s happening? That thing can’t land, can it?”

  Dunlop, eyes searching the clouds, listening still to the distinctive whine of the four Allison turbo props, shook his head.

  “No way.”

  Inskip couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. “What the hell are they up to then?”

  Robertson joined them.

  “Maybe they’ve just come for a look-see?”

  Dunlop heard it complete its turn, the engine whine settling down to a steady rate.

  “They’re coming back.”

  It broke out of the cloud, flying just beneath the ceiling, wispy clouds whipping past the fuselage, its high tail fin still obscured.

  It passed right over them again, the navigation light in its belly flashing in an alternate cycle to the one on its tail, showing only as a red glow in the cloud.

  Suddenly a black speck fell clear, and then burst into a bright yellow flame that slowed down as a little parachute opened.

  “It’s a flare. Why the hell are they dropping flares? Can’t they see us?” Inskip said, bewildered and frustrated.

  Dunlop watched as the burning phosphorus,'smoke streaming in the breeze, drifted lazily down. The Hercules, two miles down range, started a slow turn.

  “They can see us all right; that’s a marker.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The Hercules passed over the town, still on its long flat turn.

  “It’s to test for wind speed and direction for the drop.”

  “Drop?”

  “Yes. Looks like they’re going to use parachutes.”

  “What!” Inskip was delighted. “That’s marvellous. Paratroops by tonight. That’s what I call service!”

  But Dunlop was troubled.

  “I said parachutes, not paratroops. It’s too risky for them in these conditions. They’re likely to drop containers, probably for troops coming in at dawn by helicopters.”

  As the phosphorus touched the ground and continued to burn, the smoke drifting across the yellow-lit snow, the Hercules completed its turn and aimed back at them, only to disappear into the clouds.

  They stood in silence as it whined overhead still completely out of sight, only the engine noise marking its progress. It died away in the direction of the loch, leaving only the sound of the wind in their ears.

  Nothing happened for over a minute.

  Dunlop stared fixedly at the cloud base upwind, his eyes playing him tricks with black squiggly dots. When it finally happened it still took him unawares.

  Like invisible ink appearing, the cluster of white spots materialised without actually seeming to form.

  Ghost-like, the parachutes drifted in and out of the wispy base, and then hung beneath the now very dark, swollen clouds.

  In awe they watched as others appeared further along, moving faster, coming through the clouds like dandelion seeds, the black specks beneath the red and blue canopies clearly visible.

  Dunlop felt a sudden chill.

  There could be no doubt about this later stick. They were men, dropping faster, using a controlled opening technique.

  Inskip and the others suddenly realised it.

  “Paratroops—they are paratroops!”r />
  They began cheering, Inskip lifting his hat and waving.

  He turned to Dunlop, his voice full of reproach.

  “They don’t seem to think it’s too dangerous.”

  Dunlop looked around at the rapidly failing light, the low cloud ceiling, the snow, the invisible mountains, the cold water of the loch.

  “I tell you, it’s dangerous.”

  Inskip shrugged. “Well, they must realise we’re in big trouble.”

  He ploughed away, following the others as they moved towards the coloured chutes that even now had already reached half way between white earth and slate-coloured cloud.

  Dunlop stood, still battling with a nagging fear. For him it didn’t add up. For the authorities to receive a garbled radio message only hours ago, for it to pass through all the necessary bureaucratic chain of commands; the availability of paratroops near to them, and then to make the jump in highly hazardous—no dangerous—conditions ...

  It was almost as if they were expecting to be called.

  21

  There were twenty-four men. They guided their parachutes down with what Dunlop judged as considerable skill. As they grew larger, he could see they were dressed in winter camouflage of white smocks and battledress trousers which contrasted with their black boots.

  Most of them landed on their feet, running a few cumbersome steps as they braked their chutes and struggled with their harnesses. Some touched down, stumbled, and turned over and were dragged in the snow, which piled up in mounds.

  Four of them landed out of sight behind a bank near the river.

  Dunlop started to run then—hard, soon overtaking the older members of the party.

  But it was nearly a quarter of a mile away, and the snow made fast progress impossible. He could see the white-clad troops flinging themselves frantically in the same direction.

  Soon only a few of them remained in sight, moving purposefully towards the large cylindrical containers coming in to land away to the right. As each touched down, there was a puff of snow like falling cannon shot.

  Dunlop, Robertson and Inskip outpaced the rest of the party and breasted the rise. As they reached the top they pulled up.

  Before them the black river swirled silently between craggy banks of dangerous looking ice. The troops were gathered around two of their number lying obviously injured on their rolled up parachute canopies. A third, red parachute swayed from side to side in the treacherous water of the river, a rope leading out to it across ice that had collapsed in places.