Resurrection (The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles Book 1)

by Mike Bennett

  John had said that he used to come down here to commune with Underwood, but was that all he used to do? Had he too conducted the strange rituals?

  David took a step down. As he did so, in his mind he saw again the robed figures that had been gathered in the candlelit cellar for his baptism into the Sect on his eighth birthday. Their faces had been shadowed by their hoods, but he’d been able to see their expressions. Some had smiled at him encouragingly, while some others had regarded him with colder eyes.

  He took another step down, the musty, dank smell of the cellar rising around him as he recalled how he’d felt sick, giddy, his skin prickling with dread – as it prickled now as he took another step down. He could sense the coffin now, a dark shape in his peripheral vision, but still he didn’t turn to look at it; he didn’t want to see it, not yet, just as he hadn’t wanted to see it on that night of his baptism either; the candlelight reflecting in its dark, polished wood; the man inside, alive, waiting for him.

  David stopped and put a hand to his brow. It was cold, yet damp with perspiration. He looked at his hands: they were shaking. Jesus Christ, stop thinking about the past, you’re freaking yourself out. He gripped the sword handle tighter to try to stop the blade from trembling. ‘Fuck it!’ he hissed. ‘What’s wrong with me? Underwood’s about as dangerous right now as someone in cryogenic suspension. That makes him about as dangerous as Walt Disney, doesn’t it?’ But he’s not Walt Disney, is he? Walt Disney’s a dead man in a fancy fridge; Underwood is a vampire and he’s not dead. Technically speaking, he’s alive, and he’s within spitting distance of you. You want to get your nerves under control? Forget all this shit and go upstairs and have a drink. That’ll work wonders!

  ‘Oh yeah, that’s a fucking great idea,’ he said aloud. He shook his head and determinedly took the last few steps to the cellar floor. Then, without giving either his fear or his reason a chance to debate the decision, he turned to face the coffin.

  His breath caught in his chest at the sight of it. It was exactly as he remembered it, though now there were no robed figures around it; no Arthur Flinch crooking his bloody finger at him, beckoning forward like he had a pile of Christmas presents lying in the coffin by his side. Now there was just the coffin and the stone plinth it lay upon. Above it hung a single naked light bulb.

  ‘Hello, Your Lordship, long time no see.’ David’s throat was dry, his voice little more than a whisper. He stood a moment, staring at the coffin, as if waiting for a reply. He raised the sword, looking along the length of it to Underwood’s resting place in the centre of the room; and in that instant, the enormity of what he was about to do came home to him. He suddenly felt nauseated, dizzy, like he was going to faint. Jesus Christ – come on! Pull yourself together! He noticed he was breathing in short, shallow gasps and forced a deep breath to enter his lungs. Immediately his dizziness dispersed. He forced himself to take a step forward towards the coffin. The sword handle felt slippery in his grip, despite its rough material. He transferred the weapon to his other hand and wiped his damp palm on his jeans.

  Don’t do this. You can just turn around and go. John must have had a car. Take it. Drive to a hotel. Fly home tomorrow. Surprise Lisa. Ask her to marry you. Have kids. Have a life. Have a fucking gin and tonic if you want one but just get the fuck out of here!

  David shook his head. I can’t do that. This is the best chance – the only chance that me, or anyone else, is ever going to get to kill this bastard. If I don’t do it now, people will die. I might die! Shit, if I don’t do it now and I try and run out on him later, then he’ll track me down and kill me for sure!

  He transferred the sword back to his right hand and raised it again. The blade still trembled, so he gripped his right wrist with his left hand to try to steady it. He took another step towards the coffin, focusing his eyes on it and trying to ignore the shadows of the pillars that felt as if they were blotting into a single darkness at the edges of the room. The temperature seemed to be dropping the nearer he got to the coffin, like moving through water towards a body of ice. But he knew these things were just illusions, his fears playing tricks upon him; that even now, as he took another step forward and the shadows seemed to begin to move. That couldn’t be, not unless the source of light itself were moving and – he glanced up from the coffin to the bulb that hung above it – and froze.

  The bulb was moving.

  It was covered in thick dust, toasted brown over the years and it threw a nicotine yellow light that hardly seemed to reach the edges of the room. And it was moving – barely, but it was moving.

  David held up a hand to feel for a draught, but there was none. And still, the bulb moved, more noticeably now, in the weird manner of a magnet when dangled over another, their poles repelling each other. Around him, the shadows swayed with the movement of the bulb, heaving and yawing left and right as if they were rolling on a swelling tide.

  This is bad, this is all wrong; this is unnatural shit in here now! Leave, leave now and forget killing him; he can’t be killed by the likes of you, so just leave. Get the fuck out of here!

  But he was frozen, transfixed by the swaying bulb, its movements slow, like a pendulum under water. Was Underwood doing this? Manipulating the light from inside the coffin? How? He was dead – or at least half-dead.

  Wasn’t he?

  Then the bulb made a fizzing sound. It flickered. Whatever mesmerising effect it had had upon David was suddenly broken, and a small cry escaped from him.

  The bulb flickered again.

  ‘Oh shit,’ David’s voice trembled. He took a step back. The bulb, still swaying, hissed and popped as if it were somehow overheating.

  Get out! Get out now!

  No, be rational, it’s a bad circuit. It has to be. Just an electrical fault.

  Then, with a rising buzzing sound, the light bulb flared into brilliance before exploding, its shattered fragments flying in all directions.

  David cried out. He staggered back, his free hand shielding his eyes. When he opened them again, the room was almost pitch black. Almost. He turned and looked up to the light coming in from the library door at the top of the stairs.

  The door was closing.

  ‘No!’ David screamed. ‘No! It’s me, David! I’m down here!’ The door closed, clicking quietly into place, and plunging the cellar into absolute darkness. Panic seized him, and he ran in what he believed to be the direction of the stairs – only to crash blindly into a pillar. He screamed, staggering back, feeling at his head for the wetness of blood. His fingers came away warm and sticky.

  ‘Oh Jesus.’

  Then from behind him came a low sound. He froze, listening. There it was again. It sounded like wood, like the scrape of a heavy oak coffin lid unsettling from an age of stillness.

  ‘No,’ David whispered. ‘Oh no. That can’t be. Y-you’re supposed to be as good as dead.’ The scraping came again, this time long and protracted, as if the coffin lid were slowly being slid aside. David, his heart pounding, raised the sword unsteadily before him against the darkness, because now he knew that dead or otherwise, whatever was in the coffin was rising.

  10

  AT THE SOUND OF THE DOOR OPENING, José Almonte stopped praying. He turned his head as best as he could towards the direction of the sound: a door had opened at the top of a staircase, a rectangle of light, broken now by the shadowy shapes passing through it. José made a sound of despair against the tape that covered his mouth, while in his head he resumed begging the forgiveness of the Blessed Virgin.

  The door closed. José could hear the footfalls of people descending the stairs. Then, one by one, they came into view before the sacrilegious altar. They wore robes similar to those worn by monks, but these robes were black and the hoods hid the faces of the wearers. In rage and terror, José screamed at the figure that seemed to be leading them.

  They ignored him. The leader went to the altar, momentarily blocking the light from the candles. There was a sound, like steel on stone. Then, the
leader began to light other candles from the ones already burning. The other hooded figures took the candles and began to place them on the floor at different points around the room. José began to panic, his breath coming in short gasps. He strained against his bonds, sending ripples through his body fat. The chains above him clinked gently against each other. Then, at the altar, the leader picked up a candelabrum and turned around. José’s breathing got faster and louder as the figure approached him, stopping at a point just before his face. Then, the hooded head rose and José found himself looking into the face of a beautiful woman. She smiled at him. José whimpered against the tape across his mouth, his eyes were wet with tears.

  ‘I say,’ said the woman. ‘Well done, Belly. He’s so big and fleshy. Better than those skinny crack whores and homeless types you usually get.’

  The other hooded figures now moved in closer and raised their faces to look up at their prisoner. José immediately recognised the doctor from the clinic, the one who had kidnapped him – and there was the driver of the car, the younger man.

  The doctor smiled and replied to the woman in Spanish, so José would understand. ‘Thank you, Lydia. He’s an adulterer. And of course, being a married man who has been to a prostitute, he has told no-one about his little visit to the sexual health clinic.’

  José roared against his gag, shaking his head so hard his whole body shook. He wanted to tell them that he’d told everyone he knew about his visit: Luisa, his boss, the chief of fucking police. But all he managed to communicate was stifled, impotent rage.

  ‘Don’t worry, señor Almonte,’ said Beltran in Spanish. ‘All records of your visit have been destroyed. It’s as if you were never there, so there’s no need to worry about your wife ever finding out about your little ... indiscretion.’

  ‘Can I touch him, Lydia?’ said Cynthia.

  ‘Of course,’ said Lydia. ‘Help yourself.’

  Cynthia came forward and reached up to run her hands over José’s chest and stomach. ‘Oh, he’s lovely, isn’t he? I do like a well-fed man.’

  ‘Well, that’s just as well, eh?’ said Gerald. A ripple of amusement ran around the group and he smiled, delighted with himself.

  ‘Enough,’ said Lydia. ‘The time has come. Take your places, brothers and sisters.’

  José couldn’t speak English and understood none of their conversation. As the older woman stroked his face, he appealed to her desperately with his eyes. She smiled at him, then turned away to join the others as they formed a circle beneath him. He watched as the leader set the candelabrum down on the floor, the candlelight illuminating all of their faces in its soft, flickering glow. The leader then turned and went back to the altar. Again, there came the sound of steel on stone, then she returned to the circle.

  At the sight of the sword in her hands, José screamed, his gag forcing the sound to bubble through his nose.

  Lydia held the blade out above the light of the candle. ‘Brothers and sisters of the Black Circle, on this night, this eve of resurrection, we give thanks and rejoice that after fifty long years, Hell is set to open its gates and return to us our eternal Master, Lord Underwood.’

  The others replied in unison. ‘Hail the Lord Underwood!’

  ‘In return, we offer unto Satan this man, strong and ripe with sin. We ask that his blood shall strengthen and nourish us, just as his soul shall strengthen and nourish the fires of Hell, to whence he is bound.’ She looked along the sword into José’s tear-filled eyes. He howled in anguish. She continued. ‘We praise the name of Lord Underwood; rejoice in his resurrection, and humbly beg that in his rising, we too shall find life eternal.’

  ‘Hail the Lord Underwood,’ the others responded as one.

  ‘This noble weapon,’ said Lydia, twisting the sword so the candlelight flashed along its blade, ‘that has felled so many of our Master’s enemies, has been dry and wanting the taste of human blood for at least half a century. But tonight, brothers and sisters, on the eve of our Master’s rising, let us slake both its and our thirst so we all may be nourished and strong, and ready to serve our Master.’ Lydia raised the edge of the blade so it pressed against José’s forearm. She looked into his eyes and smiled.

  ‘Hail!’

  She drew the blade across his arm and sliced into his flesh. José screamed in shock and pain, watching as his blood began to spill from the wound.

  The other members of the Black Circle watched as Lydia stepped across to raise the sword to José’s other arm. José turned his head at the touch of the blade, screaming continuously against the tape. Lydia drew the blade smartly back and watched as José’s arm opened in its wake.

  ‘Hail!’

  José shook his head in denial at the sight of his blood splattering down onto the plastic sheeting below.

  Lydia opened her robe and let it fall from her shoulders. She nodded to the others and they too began to disrobe. Naked, she walked around the spreading pool of blood until she was in line with José’s feet. Then, she raised the sword again and sliced open each of his ankles in turn. José screamed, snot and tears flowing over the tape that covered his mouth. Lydia threw her arms back and let the sword fall behind her. ‘Now,’ she cried, ‘you mortals who would taste eternity ... ’ She stepped forward so the blood that poured from José’s ankles rained down upon her body. She gasped as if at the touch of a lover, then moved forward, raising her face to one of the wounds and opening her mouth to the blood. And she drank, reaching up to José’s legs and caressing them as his blood spilled over her lips and down her cheeks and neck. Then, she turned to her friends with outstretched arms. ‘Come and get it! Feed like the beautiful, eternal creatures you shall soon become.’

  The others came forward, their faces excited and their bodies aroused. They each moved to stand beneath a wound and raised their open mouths to catch the falling blood. Beneath José’s ankles, Beltran embraced Lydia; caressing her, the blood on her body slick beneath his fingers. He turned his face to a wound and filled his mouth; he drank, then turned back to Lydia. She curled her fingers through his wet hair and pulled his mouth to hers.

  Cynthia and Gerald lapped together at the blood from one of José’s arms, kissing each other and lowering themselves to the slippery floor. Miguel looked from them to Lydia and Beltran. Lydia smiled and extended a hand to him. He came to her and she ran her hand over his stomach and chest and up to his face. Miguel looked uncertainly to Beltran, as if seeking permission. Beltran chuckled. He smoothed Miguel’s wet hair back from his forehead, and moved away to join the Bensons. Lydia drew Miguel to her, running her hands down his blood-slicked back and buttocks before throwing her head back so blood poured down onto her face. Miguel brought his face close to hers and together they drank.

  Then, Lydia became aware that the strength of the blood flow was lessening. She broke from Miguel’s arms and went to pick up the sword.

  She skirted around the glistening, writhing, bodies of Beltran and the Bensons, and went to stand beneath José’s face. Too weak now to raise his head, he looked down at her, his expression strangely calm. She looked up at him, a look of genuine compassion and sympathy in her eyes. She knew he was now beyond pain and near death. She reached up and caressed his cheek for a moment before standing on tip-toe to kiss him once on the forehead and whisper close to his ear in Spanish. ‘Go now, I release you.’

  She raised the sword so its blade pressed against his throat and, with one swift movement, drew it cleanly across. Then, she lowered the sword to the floor and held out a hand to Miguel as she stepped through the spilling blood to join the Bensons and Beltran.

  They reached for her. ‘Lydia. Darling,’ said Cynthia. ‘Join us.’

  ‘In the name of Underwood,’ said Gerald.

  ‘In the name of Underwood,’ said Miguel.

  ‘In the name of – ’ Beltran started, but Lydia pressed her fingers to his lips.

  ‘No. I think he’s had his share of hails and hallelujahs.’ Lydia took Beltran’s hand and lic
ked the blood from his fingers. ‘I think it’s time you venerated me for a bit.’

  Beltran smiled. ‘Yes, my lady.’

  Lydia sank back, reclining in the still-spreading pool of blood and gestured for her followers to come to her. ‘Come, come and worship me, sinners.’

  Gerald licked his lips and chuckled. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  Conchita was coming down the stairs, wondering how she would break the news of John’s death to Ana, the housekeeper, when she heard a distant scream. She stopped and turned in the direction of the sound. It was the corridor that led to the east wing of the house. Could it be Ana?

  Another scream echoed down the hall. It wasn’t a woman’s voice.

  ‘David?’

  Conchita ran down the remaining steps and into the corridor. A cry came from the farthest end.

  ‘Get away from me!’

  It was definitely David, and he sounded terrified.

  ‘David!’ Conchita ran to the closed library door at the end of the corridor. She knocked, loudly.

  ‘David?’

  ‘No!’

  David’s voice sounded as though it came from somewhere from far beyond the door. Conchita turned the handle and entered. Directly opposite her, a section of the book panel against the far wall yawned open onto the stairs that led down to Underwood’s crypt. She had been down there only once, for her baptism into the Sect when she was a child.