The Faceless

by Simon Bestwick

  Allen reached for the mask; Vera caught his wrists. “Allen, no – oh god – Allen, don’t, we’ll get you to a hospital.”

  Allen tore his hands free, got hold of the mask and wrenched at it. A muffled scream escaped the immobile mouth. Fresh blood splashed his already soiled shirt. Vera cried out, reaching for him, but he flailed at her with one hand – and at Anna when she tried to help – while the other kept pushing at the mask. He bellowed as the lower part of it pulled away from his face and levered slowly upward.

  “Allen!”

  The mask came away, fell from Allen’s fingers to the floor. What lay beneath was raw and slick with blood. He reached for his face again, wiping the blood away from what she now saw was another mask, slightly smaller than the first.

  Allen hooked two fingers into the eyeholes, his thumb into the mouth, pulled; with a wet ripping noise the mask tore free, clattering on the floor beside the first.

  Beneath this mask was another, and another beneath that. Each was smaller than the last, and deeper set. Each was sunk deeper into the front of Allen’s head. The latest mask was set at the back of an ever-deepening cavern of raw, red flesh. No bone, no brain, though both should have been reached by now; just mask after mask in an empty, hollow head that, even though it shouldn’t have been capable, screamed and screamed.

  Vera was screaming too, pushing herself away from the sight on her bottom; Anna couldn’t move.

  They’d come too late. This had been years, decades, in the brewing. She’d been an idiot to think she could stop it now. She pulled Vera to her feet. Allen, still moaning, still tearing off mask after mask after mask, crawled across the floor, towards the silver plate in the centre of the room.

  There. The centre. The heart of the machine. If she could stop him reaching that, there might be a chance. If she killed him. He was as good as dead already; it’d be a mercy. She had to find a weapo–

  But a pale light, coming from no visible source, already suffused the centre of the room, and vague, inchoate shapes moved into it out of the dark. The Spindly Men, in their tattered black cloaks, and behind them, the vanguard of this army of the lost and damned. And as they closed in on Anna and Vera, they began to sing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “MIKE?” THE DECEMBER wind’s low keening, through E Block’s broken windows. “Mike, are we dead?”

  Stakowski opened his eyes at last. His arm ached from holding the gun. His knees ached too. How long had he been crouched like that?

  “Mike! Over here, you bloody mushroom.”

  Joan–

  Stakowski looked round, not daring to believe. She was trying to get up. “Easy, lass.”

  “Don’t ‘easy, lass’ me. What the hell happened?”

  “Every bugger else died, basically.” Stakowski propped her against the wall, rubbed his arm and winced.

  “What about the civvies? Anna, Martyn, Cowell–?” She was pale, eyes sunken, blood crusted down the side of her face; a bullet had clipped her just above the ear.

  “Last I saw, they were pegging it for the main path. They’ve any sense, they’ll keep going.”

  “You didn’t go with them?”

  “I got them out, like you said. I weren’t leaving you here on your tod.”

  “You should’ve.”

  “Well, I couldn’t.” Stakowski reloaded his Glock, got up.

  “What you doing?”

  “Checking for survivors.”

  Empty cartridges clinked underfoot; the air stank of gunsmoke, blood, death.

  Stray specks of dust danced in the light. Stakowski reached McAdams first, did his best to close his eyes. Poor bastard’s face would give the Devil nightmares; he’d died screaming and it showed.

  It was the same story with them all. Most, like McAdams, just seemed to have collapsed, hearts giving out. Crosbie had gouged his eyes out before dying; Wayland had beaten his head in against the floor. A couple of others had shot themselves, like Ashraf.

  “They’re all dead.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yeah.” Stakowski caught her as she almost fell. “Jesus, boss, take it easy.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “Shurrup.” She’d been hit three times; one round had struck the body armour over her chest, another had plucked the meat of her left shoulder; the third and last was the head wound. Stakowski cleaned and bandaged both. “You’ll probably have a fine set of bruises on your chest and all,” he said.

  “Doubt anyone’ll be looking at my boobs for the foreseeable. Where’s my Glock?”

  “Here. So what’s the plan now?”

  “Find the others and pull out. Just for now. We’ve still got the Warbeck building to search. Chances are the mispers are in there.”

  “Boss, we need to get you to a hospital.”

  “I’m not giving up till I’m sure.”

  “Joan, there are two of us left. What good are we gonna do?”

  “Hang on. What’s that? There. Look.”

  Something lay glinting in the centre of the Black Sun on the floor. “Gold watch.”

  “Not just any gold watch. Look at it. It’s a Rolex. They are not cheap.”

  “Jesus. It’s Cowell’s.”

  “What?”

  “The watch. It’s Cowell’s. I’d know that lump of bling anywhere.”

  Renwick swayed, then steadied herself. “Cowell’s watch. Tahira’s pendant, Rawlinson’s skull ring, Morton’s necklace.” A pause. “Roseanne’s romper suit. But this one was empty before. Oh Christ. We’re bloody idiots, Mike. He was being called back, alright. Whatever’s here wanted Cowell. And we hand-delivered him.”

  ALLEN CRAWLED ACROSS the floor, towards the cold, unnatural light at its centre. If Anna could pull him back from the centre, could she stop it? Yes, for as long it took the Spindly Men to reach her. She’d seen what their touch brought. Not that staying where they were would save her, or Vera; the Spindly Men were closing in.

  They hadn’t meant to kill her before; they’d just herded her like a sheep and given her that extra scare to convince her she was right, to ensure she gave Renwick Ash Fell’s history. Just as Allen had never been in danger when they’d appeared behind him in the evidence room; it’d all been a show to convince the police he was for real, to make sure that they brought the fifth and final sacrifice here, so he could come to the Nexus Chamber of his own free will.

  Another bloodied mask fell from the hole in Allen’s head and clattered on the floor. The dead parted to let him crawl through, then closed ranks as he passed, their song, their chant, never faltering.

  The Spindly Men turned towards her and Vera, and stepped forward.

  Hands reached for them. She shrank back, Vera with her, but there was nowhere to go. So this was how it ended – so much left undone or deferred, for such petty and stupid reasons. She shut her eyes, then opened them. She’d flinched from things too long. She’d die with her eyes open if nothing else.

  And Mary? Martyn was gone. Eva was gone. Anna was all she had left. She couldn’t die. Mustn’t. There had to be something–

  Her pockets. She fumbled for the rowan twig, Nan’s cross. Desperation now, but she had to try. She found the twig first. She thrust it at them like a gun, sweeping it this way, then that. For the briefest instant, she thought they hesitated, but then they came forwards again and cold, elongated fingers plucked the twig from hers, snapped it in half, flicked it aside.

  The cross. Nan had thought it would help. Nan had the Sight. Would it help you, if you didn’t believe? She held it up; the hands kept reaching.

  And then they stopped. The chamber fell silent, broken only by Alan’s moans as he crawled. Then the hands were lowered; the Spindly Men and the vague, shuffling shapes behind them moved aside. A Spindly Man advanced – tall, masked, dressed in tattered black – but this one was different. His hands, she realised, were those of a human.

  He reached out. His fingers brushed the cross. The Spindly Man caressed it, almost tenderly.
Then he reached up and took off his mask.

  The face beneath it was unmarked. Perfectly recognisable. Anna knew it well. She’d seen it a hundred times in Nan’s wedding photo, bowler-hatted, weary and unsmiling, puffy with drink.

  Of course. This place had fed on him too. He hadn’t escaped. But he’d been the man who locked the E Block doors, delivered up St. John Dace and the others for vengeance. Who better to lead the army of the dead?

  For a moment, it was just the two of them. The Spindly Men, the other dead, Alan, even Vera; all of them disappeared and there was just the past, looking into the eyes of the present it sought to sweep away.

  Her great-grandfather’s hand rose; a finger pointed. Her own family. Was her life so devoid of redeeming qualities, or was he powerless to show mercy? She shrank away, but others closed behind her.

  A single fingertip touched her, just above the left breast. A moment of searing cold; she cried out, almost fell. But she was still alive, and her great-grandfather stepped away from her. The ranks of the Spindly Men and the dead parted too, leaving a clear path back to the chamber door. As the chanting began again, a young man in evening dress stepped forward to open it, met her eyes and smiled: Gideon Dace.

  Allen had almost reached the centre. Vera moved towards him, but Anna’s great-grandfather barred her way, pointing at the door.

  “Come on,” said Anna. “Before they change their minds.”

  “Alan–”

  “There’s nothing you can do.”

  Vera let herself be led. A faint noise came from her throat as they passed the hunched, crawling shape, but she carried on.

  Gideon’s smile didn’t waver as they went through the door and his empty eyes never left hers. Anna looked back at the threshold; so did Vera, and cried out as the pale light from the floor flickered into the red, gaping hole that’d been her brother’s face, illuminating the inside of a head that had been hollowed to an empty shell. He shouldn’t have been alive, let alone able to scream, but he did, as if he’d somehow seen his reflection. There was pain there, and fear; misery too, grief. And then the chanting rose to a crescendo and the glow from the plate brightened, became a column of cold glittering light that flared brilliantly and consumed him in the instant before Gideon, smirking, closed the door on them.

  Light glowed through the edges of the doorframe; a low roar built as the floor shuddered underfoot. Tattered, skeletal shapes darted past them; Vera screamed. The Spindly Men. But they weren’t interested in Anna or Vera now. They’d done their job. The gates were opening. It was in the hands of others now.

  Anna dragged Vera towards the stone steps, back into the director’s office. More streams of dust hissed down past them as they ran out onto the landing and down the lurching spiral staircase. She was still clutching Nan’s crucifix; she thrust it into her pocket, before using both hands to grasp the rails. The spot above her left breast burned, as if a piece of ice was pressed to it.

  “Where now?” Vera shouted in her ear.

  If they were allowed to leave, if the building had played the last of its tricks on them – if it had, the reception area would be straight ahead. “This way. Come on.”

  THERE WAS A low, rumbling roar as Renwick and Stakowski reached the main path and a wind blew up from nowhere. Renwick staggered, clutching Stakowski’s arm; he steadied her.

  “The hell’s happening now?”

  “Christ knows.”

  The front doors flew wide; two figures almost tumbled down the steps. Renwick drew her pistol, ran forward.

  “Joan! For Christ’s sake!” Stakowski followed. It looked like his policing days weren’t done just yet, after all.

  “Ms Mason?” Renwick asked.

  Anna swayed, shaking, one hand pressed clawlike to her chest; Vera sank to her knees and wept.

  “Where’s your brother? Where’s Cowell?”

  Anna shook her head, mute.

  “They wanted Cowell,” said Stakowski. “The place did. He was the last part of whatever was going on.”

  “Well, it’s got him,” sobbed Vera, “it’s bloody got him now.”

  THEY FLED DOWN the path, through the trees, until it opened out onto a flat concrete platform.

  “The hell’s this?” Renwick said, leaning on Stakowski.

  “Old railway platform,” gasped Anna. “Remember, there was an old branch line running along Dunwich Lane? Where do you think it led?”

  “Jesus.”

  They clambered down from the platform and stumbled through the woods. “Police officer!” Stakowski kept shouting as they went. “Police officer! Hold your fire!”

  The Land Rovers were waiting for them, along with half a dozen officers pointing rifles.

  “DS Stakowski. This is DCI Renwick. Hold your fire, you bloody idiots. Right. Now move. We’re getting the bloody hell out of here, back to Kempforth. You, give us the keys to that vehicle.”

  The engine ground into life. Vera huddled in the front seat; Renwick slumped in the back with Anna.

  “Christ on a bike.”

  Renwick stared out of the side window; Stakowski looked. Clouds of yellowish-brown mist were pouring thickly down the wooded hillside. “What the bloody hell’s that?”

  “Something we need to get away from, Mike,” said Renwick. “Drive.”

  Stakowski could see shapes moving in the mist. All kinds of shapes. All were, or had been, human; some seemed incomplete. At least one seemed to be in a wheelchair that moved down the hillside. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And Anna, talk to me. Tell me what’s coming.”

  “What’s coming?” Anna’s laugh was faint and shaky, close to madness. “Hell.”

  BLACK SUN RISING

  ‘E’ BLOCK

  Beside the hydrotherapy bath are the rusted controls controlling the volume and temperature of water; beside the heavy bathtub, crumpled, stained and rotted, lies one of the heavy canvas sheets that once covered it except for a hole to admit the patient’s head. The tub is now almost overflowing. The water is murky; in it wave green fronds of water-weed that have found a home there. The relentless drip of water echoes through the corridors, the patients’ rooms where fingernail marks still score the peeling paintwork, and through a heavy steel door yawning wide to show padded walls catching the thin thread of light from a tiny window high above.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  AFTERWARDS, THERE WAS silence in the car, except for Vera’s sobbing. Anna fumbled Sir Charles’ diary back into her backpack; her face burned. Even with Vera to back her up, who’d believe her? Even Renwick and Stakowski had only glimpsed a fragment of what Ash Fell had to offer; Anna doubted she’d ever adequately describe what she’d seen.

  Didn’t matter. As long as they didn’t lock her up. She knew it was true – as long as she could get home, find Mary, get her clear–

  “So what the hell do we do about it?” Renwick asked.

  Anna blinked. “What?”

  “Even I can tell when the shit’s about to hit the fan. So?”

  “I don’t know. There might be something in the journal. The only other thing I can suggest is – perhaps – if Ash Fell can be destroyed.”

  “Destroyed?”

  The icy sensation above her breast sharpened, like a jab; Anna winced. “Blown up. I don’t know if it would work, but Ash Fell’s the focus.”

  “Need the army for that,” said Stakowski. “Or the RAF.”

  “Ordering air-strikes is a bit outside my remit,” said Renwick. “I’ll have my work cut out convincing Banstead.”

  “I think you’ll manage, boss.”

  Stakowski nodded at the rearview mirror. Yellowish vapour boiled out of the woods onto Dunwich Lane; shapes moved within it, advancing. It was spreading across the hillside above, rising towards the top.

  Renwick covered her mouth and nose. “Christ, that smell.”

  “Like a swimming pool,” said Stakowski, “but worse.”

  “It’s chlorine gas,” Anna said. The cold spot w
as still there. The skin felt numb. She thought of frostbite, the flesh turning black, gangrenous. That might be happening now; maybe her great-grandfather’s touch had just condemned her to a different kind of death. She wanted to look; didn’t dare.

  “What?”

  “It got used a lot on the Western Front.”

  “Fucking hell. Mike, is the radio working?”

  “Think so.”

  “Get onto the station. Tell them to evacuate the town, now.”

  “That mist’s going to be all over the town in an hour, if that,” said Stakowski. “Christ, we’ll never get ’em all clear in time.”

  “I’m fucked if I’m standing by and watching the whole bloody town wiped out. Fucking get on it, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Vera stared out of the window, silent. Anna cleaned her face with a wet-wipe. “I need to get to Mary. Martyn–” The pain flickered, distantly, like a fire at the edge of her vision; she refused to look at it directly, focused on Mary instead “–left her with a neighbour.”

  “Drop you at the station? Your car’s still there.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s fine.”

  “We’ll take Dunwich Road South, head for Manchester.”

  “Can I come with you?” Vera asked. She’d stopped crying; her face was composed.

  After a moment, Anna laid a hand over hers. “OK.”

  THE TESTAMENT OF PRIVATE OWEN SHORE and the rain beats down foul stagnant trench water laps around my groin i grip my rifle tighter with sodden gloves shivering with cold staring across the pulverised landscape of mud ponded with great drowning shellholes full of fouler water still and i stand here i stand alone with the comrades bodies scattered round and the germans starting to advance this was not the cause for which i joined my country called i answered it welshman though i was i was a briton too part of a mightier whole i came to be a man to face that challenge i envy you my lad said father youll make me proud i know only wish i was of military age for i too would go prove my manhood but what manhood is there waiting in a sodden hole in the ground to be killed and the rain beats down