Death Day

by Shaun Hutson

  She blew a stream of smoke into his face and giggled.

  He waved it away with his hand and tugged on her hair. She squirmed.

  'You bastard,' she said, smiling, 'don't be so rough.'

  'I thought you like it rough,' said Bob, trying to sound experienced.

  'Who told you?'

  'A few people.'

  She giggled and took a large gulp of her drink.

  'Are you sure your parents aren't going to get back early?' he asked agitatedly.

  She put down her drink and slid her arms around his neck, pulling him towards her. He felt her mouth against his, her tongue pressing against his lips. He opened his mouth a little but she pulled away, a grin hovering on her lips.

  'You do know how to kiss, I suppose?' The question was heavy with scorn.

  He grabbed her, more assured now, pulled her towards him and pressed his mouth to hers, his tongue probing. After a moment he pushed her away.

  'That better?' he said, smugly.

  She giggled. 'What have your mates told you about me?' she wanted to know.

  'This and that,' he said.

  'What does that mean?'

  He felt her hand on his thigh and he swallowed hard, his penis growing swiftly within the tight confines of his jeans. She noticed the bulge and allowed her hand to stray to it, stroking it through the thick material.

  'You like sex,' he told her.

  'Who told you?' She giggled again, her movements becoming more urgent.

  Bob shuffled uncomfortably, aware of his swiftly growing excitement.

  'Your mate Dave,' she began, 'he's got a big cock. One of the biggest I've seen.'

  'What are you? Some kind of expert?' he said.

  She giggled again. 'I've seen enough to know.'

  He felt her hand fiddling with his zip, easing it slowly down and he had to grit his teeth to control himself. She gazed at the bulge in his underpants and smiled, holding it firmly in her expert hand. Then, smiling, she backed off and unbuttoned her blouse. Bob never took his eyes from her large breasts, especially when they spilled forth as she unhooked her bra. The nipples were already erect. Bob didn't think he could control himself much longer, but the thought of what his mates would say gave him that extra bit of control that he needed.

  Kelly eased herself out of her skirt and stood before him, just the white of her knickers covering that part which Bob sought so desperately. Through the thin material he could see the dark curls of her pubic hair. Swiftly he whipped off his tee-shirt and flung it to one side, kicking his jeans off simultaneously. For one ridiculous second, he realized that he still had his socks on. Hurriedly he pulled them off and knelt on the floor beside her. She pushed him back and tugged his underpants down, revealing his rampant organ.

  At first he thought she was going to laugh, but she nodded admiringly and ran her fingers along the hard shaft, pausing for a moment at the swollen, bulbous tip. Bob closed his eyes. He didn't think he could hold back any longer. He thought about anything to distract him from the sensations. West Ham losing the cup final, death, unemployment.

  She stopped stroking him and he relaxed, watching as she removed her own knickers. She lay back, waiting for him. Bob hesitated, the uncertainty returning. What if she did tell the others?

  'Well, come on,' she said. 'I mean, you do know what to do?'

  He clambered on top of her, trying to force his erection between her thighs.

  'Careful,' she said, becoming agitated by his clumsy efforts.

  He repositioned himself and tried again. This time she grunted angrily and rolled to one side.

  'I don't think you know how to do this,' she chided. 'I think you're a bloody virgin.'

  The word stuck in his mind and he could feel himself turning scarlet.

  'I know what I'm doing,' he lied, trying to sound forceful.

  'Dave knew what to do. He gave me a good fuck. So did Paul.'

  'Fuck Dave,' he growled, 'and bloody Paul. I know what I'm doing.'

  She rolled onto her stomach and looked away from him. Bob felt the tension growing. He swallowed hard. What were the others going to say? The mouthy little whore was bound to tell them. In a last desperate attempt to save face, Bob grabbed her hips, raising her bottom into the air. Then, with a finesse which he didn't realize he possessed, he slid into her from behind. She moaned pleasingly and pressed back to meet his urgent thrusts. Bob was ecstatic. He knew it wouldn't be long before he reached his climax but he didn't care. He felt like shouting it out: "Goodbye, virginity!"

  There was a scratching at the front door.

  Both of them froze, locked together like some kind of surreal statue.

  The scratching came again, louder this time. There were footsteps on the front path.

  'Oh God,' gasped Kelly, 'it's my Mum and Dad.'

  'I thought you said they were going to be late,' Bob blurted, hastily withdrawing and snatching up his jeans. Both of them pulled on their clothes as best they could, expecting the door to open at any moment and to see Mr and Mrs Vincent standing there. Kelly couldn't begin to imagine their reaction. Bob, gasping for breath, tried to force his erection back inside his jeans while pulling on his t-shirt. In his haste he forgot one sock. Kelly stuffed her knickers and bra beneath a cushion, taking care to remind herself to remove them later.

  Finally, the two of them threw themselves back onto the sofa, red in the face, waiting for the door to open.

  There was no sound.

  'I thought that was them,' whispered Kelly.

  Bob exhaled deeply. If he'd lost his chance because of a false alarm he'd leave right now. He began to wonder if it was all a set-up. Were Kelly, Dave and the rest of those bastards he called mates playing a bloody joke on him? The thought stuck out strongly in his mind and, when he saw Kelly begin to giggle, his suspicions were confirmed. He got to his feet, pushing her to one side and made for the door.

  'You set this up,' he shouted, 'you fucking scab.'

  Kelly shrugged, her grin fading.

  'I'm going to kill those wankers when I get hold of them,' he snarled. This was it, this was the bloody limit. He wrenched open the hall door, flicked on the light and tore open the front door.

  'Right, you cunts…'

  The words were cut off as powerful hands fastened themselves around his throat.

  Bob was driven back into the hall, propelled by the force of his assailant. He slammed into the wall, cracking his head and, for a second, everything went black. But he recovered and grabbed for the hands which were throttling him. He caught sight of the face of his attacker and his stomach contracted. The mouth drawn back in a deathly grin to reveal yellowing teeth, the scratch marks and cuts on the cheeks and forehead and, worst of all, the blazing red eyes of Ray Mackenzie.

  The pressure on his throat increased and he felt spittle froth on his lips as he fought for breath. Mackenzie had him against the white wall, slamming his head repeatedly against it until the white paper began to sport crimson smudges. Bob knew that he was blacking out. In his last moments of consciousness he saw another man dart towards the living room. He too had those same burning red eyes.

  * * *

  Kelly heard the struggles from the hall and got to her feet, suddenly frightened. She screamed as the thing which had once been Peter Brooks entered the room. The living dead creature fixed her in that red stare and advanced towards her. Kelly screamed Bob's name. He could not help her. Already lying dead in the hallway, his lifeless form was jerked savagely about as Mackenzie tore his eyes from their sockets, ignoring the blood and vitreous liquid which splashed onto him.

  Kelly was weeping with terror, big salt tears pouring down her cheeks. But, with a final surge of strength, she leapt for the kitchen door, vaulting the coffee table in the process. The Brooks thing lunged after her and caught her arm, raking it with broken nails. The girl screamed again but shook free and flung herself through the open door, forcing it shut behind her. Even with her back pressed against it, she knew she
would never keep Brooks out. He punched at the door, denting it.

  Tears clouding her eyes, she scanned the kitchen for a means to defend herself. She had a choice to make and she had to make it fast.

  To try and make it to the back door or to grab the carving knife from the drawer beside her. Her mind spun. It would not give her an answer and the indecision brought fresh tears.

  She heard the angry roar from the other side of the door and, a second later, Brooks charged, crashing into it shoulder first. The impact knocked Kelly across the room where she smashed into a chest of drawers. Dazed, she clambered to her feet, sidestepping the living dead thing's lunge and grabbing for the carving knife.

  Screaming, she brought it down in a swatting action. The heavy blade caught Brooks on the point of the shoulder and sliced away a large chunk of his coat. He grinned and Kelly swung the knife again, this time scoring a line across his cheek. The Brooks thing roared and put a hand to the wound, blood pouring through his fingers and he backed off. Sobbing uncontrollably, Kelly edged her way towards the beckoning back door. Brooks stood still, watching her.

  Praying, she dived for the door, finding to her horror that it was locked. In the split second it took her to turn the key, Brooks leapt at her. The two of them crashed to the ground, his weight pinning her. The knife skidded away.

  Kelly screamed, again and again until the sound seemed to merge into one unending caterwaul of terror.

  She knew she was going to faint.

  Mackenzie appeared in the doorway, that familiar feral grin smeared across his face, his hands dripping blood. And beside him stood another man…

  Not man so much as youth.

  Both of them were grinning.

  Kelly stopped screaming for a second, the sobs choking away as she turned her head to look at the two onlookers. The first of them tall, his blazing red eyes like those of the thing which held her down. But beside him, and this was what started her screaming again, stood Bob Shaw.

  Where there should have been eyes there were just bloody holes, still weeping crimson. Open sores with pits of congealing gore and yet, somehow, he could see her. Somehow he knew. And he was grinning.

  Kelly managed one last scream before all three of them fell on her.

  * * *

  Eight more people were killed that night.

  * * *

  There was an expectant hush inside the duty room of the Medworth police station.

  Outside a light drizzle was falling, casting a haze over everything and spotting the windows of the room. The windows on the inside were steamy and the place smelled of stale cigarettes and coffee.

  A blackboard had been set up at the far end of the room and there was a chair in front of it. The leather chairs which normally were dotted around the edges of the room had been drawn up into two rows, and on these chairs sat the ten men who made up the Medworth force. Facing them was Lambert. To his left, on the other side of the blackboard, sat Kirby, his neck still heavily bandaged from his encounter with Emma Reece a week earlier. He pulled irritably at the bandages every so often and sipped at the lukewarm coffee which Sergeant Hayes had given him earher.

  Lambert lit a cigarette and took a drag, finally expelling the smoke in a long stream. He sighed and turned to the blackboard. There were several names written on it in yellow chalk. He turned his back on the waiting men for a second, reading the names and breathing quietly. The knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsed. He felt like a schoolmaster. Finally, he turned.

  'Twelve people,' he said quietly, 'have disappeared in the last three days. We can't find a trace of one of them.' He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the blackboard. 'The pattern is the same in every case. All we ever find at the scene is a lot of blood, scraps of clothing if we're lucky, and other little clues. Never any sign of a body, even though all the indications are that there has been a violent struggle.'

  The Inspector took another drag on his cigarette, held the smoke in his mouth for a second then blew it out in a long stream. He pointed to the names at the top of the list.

  'Bob Shaw and Kelly Vincent. Reported missing by the girl's parents. We found blood in the hall, in the kitchen, on a knife. The blood matched the known groups of the two missing people. Except the blood on the knife. That belonged to a third party, I'll explain more about that at the end.' He pointed to the second name. 'Ralph Stennet. Attacked on his way across a field after leaving a pub. Reported missing by his wife.' Lambert scanned the faces of the watching men. 'Who found the evidence on this one?'

  Constable Ferman raised a tentative hand. Lambert nodded.

  Ferman coughed, coloured slightly and began. 'I visited the pub where Stennet was last seen and then followed a set of footprints which I thought to be his, across a field. I found blood.' He swallowed hard. 'Lots of it.'

  Lambert nodded, and pointed out the next on the list.

  'Janice Fielding. Attacked in her own back garden.' He exhaled deeply, finally turning his back on the blackboard. There's no point in going on. As I said before, it's the same in every case. The victims are attacked, from the evidence we found, badly assaulted, and then they disappear.' He looked from face to face. 'Any theories?'

  A muted silence greeted his enquiry.

  'Guv.' It was Hayes. 'You said something about the blood on the knife in the first case belonging to a third party. What do you mean?'

  Lambert almost smiled. 'What I'm going to tell you now will probably confirm some suspicions which a few of you have had ever since you've known me. Namely, that I'm a lunatic.' A ripple of laughter ran around the room. The Inspector paused, searching for the words. 'Well, maybe that's right. In this case I wish it was.' All the humour had left his voice, his tone now flat, clinical and the men in the room sensed it too.

  'The blood on that knife belonged to Peter Brooks.'

  There was a moment's stunned silence. Someone laughed, the sound choked off abruptly. No one knew what to say. Hayes found the words.

  'But, guv, Brooks is dead.'

  Lambert nodded almost imperceptibly and motioned towards Kirby.

  'Doctor Kirby,' he continued, 'who, you can see, suffered some injuries the other night, will verify the fact that it was Brooks' blood on the knife.'

  Kirby nodded and, as the men watched, he slowly began to unravel the bandage around his neck, finally revealing the scars and bruises beneath. The area around his adam's apple and below the ears was a patchwork of black and purple welts and angry scabs.

  'Jesus Christ,' murmured P.C. Briggs.

  'The doctor's attacker was Emma Reece, Mackenzie's third victim. Father Ridley, who was found hanging from the bell rope of his own church with both eyes torn out, was murdered by Ray Mackenzie.'

  The watching men were silent. They heard but could not, dare not, believe.

  'All the attacks which have taken place over the last three days,' said Lambert flatly, 'have been carried out by people who were thought to be dead.'

  That was it. As simple as that. Lecture finished. Lambert dropped his cigarette butt and ground it into the carpet. He exhaled slowly, as if the movement was painful.

  'I don't believe it,' said Constable Davies, flatly. 'It's impossible.'

  'It happened, man,' shouted Lambert. 'Look at the marks on his neck.' He pointed to Kirby, his temper now gone. 'They were put there by a woman who'd been buried three weeks before.' He gritted his teeth, his breath coming in short, rasping hisses.

  Davies lowered his voice a little, some of the cynicism draining from it. 'Where is she now?'

  'She's dead. I cut her head off with a spade.'

  Lambert raised a hand to his head and ran it through his hair. He exhaled deeply. 'These… things, whatever they are, they're strong.' He could say no more. Kirby stood up, seeing that the stress of the situation was beginning to affect Lambert.

  'The Inspector and I exhumed the body of Emma Reece; that was when the attack took place,' he said. The doctor smiled weakly at Lambert who nodded and began a
gain.

  'At the moment we don't know how many of them there are. The fact that the corpses of each victim disappear would seem to indicate…' Hayes cut him short. 'But how can you be sure that these people have been killed if we've found no bodies?'

  'I'm assuming, Vic,' said Lambert, calmly. 'Assumptions are the only thing I've got at the moment. Assumptions and twelve missing people.' There was a long silence, then the Inspector continued, 'As I said, there's every reason to believe that the missing victims are now in the same condition as Mackenzie and Brooks.'

  'Does that mean they're alive, sir?' said P.C. Briggs.

  'I don't know what it means,' said Lambert. 'Alive, undead, living corpses.' He slammed his fist against the blackboard and growled, 'This case gets more insane the closer you look at it.'

  'Are you discounting the theory of body-snatching?' wondered Hayes.

  Lambert's reply was emphatic. 'Yes. After what happened with Emma Reece, there's no question of it having been that.'

  The men shuffled uncomfortably in their seats and an almost palpable silence began to fall over the room.

  'Any questions?' said Lambert.

  'Do we get any help on this, guv?' asked Hayes.

  Lambert shook his head.

  Hayes looked put out. 'But surely H.Q…' Lambert interrupted, 'And what the hell am I supposed to tell them? Please could I have some reinforcements here as we've got several living corpses walking around? They'd find me a nice cell with padded wallpaper.'

  A ripple of nervous laughter broke up the tension. It quickly vanished as Lambert continued. 'No. For the time being, it's up to us. Now, these things only seem to come out at night which gives us a bit of breathing space at least. I want full patrols tonight, no man walking a beat is to be alone. Radio in if you see anything suspicious. Don't go near one of them alone. Understand?'

  The men nodded. Lambert stood for a moment, trying to think if there was anything he'd left out. Finally deciding that there wasn't, he dismissed the men. As they filed out he heard young Briggs mutter to Walford, 'It's like something out of a horror film,' and he guffawed as he said it.