by Shaun Hutson
He heard a scratching sound close by and spun round, trying to make out what it was in the light from the open back door.
A dark shape was moving at the bottom of the garden. Hidden by the large hedge, it was difficult to make it out. The newsman hesitated, squinting into the gloom, trying to distinguish shape from shadow. A particularly strong gust of wind rocked him where he stood and he shivered, bringing both arms up and trying to cover himself while still attempting to make out what exactly was moving about at the bottom of the garden. There was another sound, like that of sticks being broken. Finally, his curiosity getting the better of him, Burton strode off down the garden to find the source of the noise.
* * *
Stevie sighed. What the hell was Burton playing at? Surely it didn't take that long to lock a gate? She hadn't heard it banging for the last couple of minutes so she assumed that he had closed it. What the bloody hell was he pissing about at?
She heard footsteps on the stairs and smiled, deciding to play a joke on him. She rolled onto her side, pretending to be asleep. The landing light went off and she heard movement outside the door. She'd frighten the bastard when he came back in. She'd wait until he was leaning right over her then jump up. Stevie suppressed a grin.
Her back was to the bedroom door when it opened.
* * *
Burton reached the bottom of the garden, the wind now drowning out all other noises. It gusted around him, roaring in his ears and he began to wish he'd gone straight back into the house. He could hardly see in the darkness and he was freezing but he was determined to find out what it was that was making the scratching noise.
He peered over the top of the hedge, scanning the ground for some sign of movement.
Nothing in sight. He sighed.
Something touched his foot and he jumped back, almost shouting in terror. Controlling the urge to run, he looked down to see a hedgehog scuttling past. It hurried past him and disappeared beneath the wire fence which separated Stevie's garden from the one next door. Burton smiled, amused and angry with himself for his exaggerated reaction. He turned and trudged back towards the house.
He was pleased to regain its warmth and light and he hastily locked and bolted the back door, shivering. Then he made his way back through the darkened house until he reached the hall. Here he paused. The landing light was out, the staircase in darkness. Burton flicked the switch in the hall which also controlled the landing light and the place was illuminated once more. He started up the stairs, slowing his pace as he noticed a strange odour. It reminded him of bad fish and he wrinkled his nose as it became stronger. By the time he reached the landing itself, the stench was almost overpowering. The door to Stevie's bedroom was closed tightly and Burton found that he had to use unexpected force to open it. He stepped inside, reaching for the light switch, the smell now so strong he wanted to vomit. He called her name once and turned on the light.
There were three of them in the room.
Burton froze in the doorway, not quite able to accept what he saw.
The living dead creatures were huddled around the bed like worshippers at an altar. As the light went on, two of them cowered down, trying to hide their blank eyes from the brightness.
Eyes?
It was with mounting revulsion that Burton realized they didn't have any eyes. Just black, empty holes, dark with dried and caked blood. The third of the trio, a man in his thirties, had one hand on Stevie's face, and the newsman saw that one of his bony fingers was still embedded in her, now empty, eye socket. Blood from the torn cavity had run down like crimson tears, staining the sheets. In other places it had splashed over her chest. He noted the wounds around her throat, the bruising and red welts where she had been throttled to death, the numerous other abrasions on her body where the trio of living corpses had attacked her.
Burton couldn't move. All he could do was shake his head slowly back and forth, his eyes gaping wide at the scene before him. Had his mind been functioning properly he would have realized that it was the light that was keeping the things still, but, in his present state, nothing registered. Just the obscene image of those creatures, crouched around Stevie's body like eyeless vultures.
Then, when he seemed beyond horror, something happened which finally galvanized him into action.
Stevie sat up.
Very slowly she turned her head, the bleeding holes which should have been eyes fixing him in a blazing stare.
She was grinning.
Burton screamed and reached down, his fist closing around a hand mirror which lay on the dressing table beside him. He took a step forward and, with all his strength, smashed it into the face of the first living corpse. The impact shattered the mirror and long shards of razor-sharp glass shredded the man's face. So powerful was the swing, it knocked the thing off its feet and it toppled onto the second of the living dead creatures, a woman no more than twenty-five. The third, another man, leapt across the bed at Burton and grabbed him by the throat. Roaring with rage, the newsman pushed the creature away, bringing his foot up. It connected savagely, just below the ribcage and the thing crumpled up. Burton aimed another kick at its head, gratified by the sound of snapping bone as he shattered a cheekbone with the force of his blow.
He staggered for a second, his mind frozen, filled only with one thought. Hatred for the things that had killed Stevie. But now she was upon him, her sharp nails tearing at his face, raking his cheeks. Aiming for his eyes. He punched her hard, the blow splitting her bottom lip, but she staggered a moment then was at him again. They fell back against the wall, her hands reaching for his throat.
The second creature, the woman, clambered over the bed and joined in the attack and Burton felt more sharp nails tearing at his face. Blood spurted from three deep gashes and he lashed out, catching the creature in the throat. It made a gurgling sound, yellow mucous spilling over its lips but it continued with its attack and Burton now noticed that the second woman too, was grinning.
They were all grinning.
Even the first of them, staggering towards him with splinters of glass protruding from his torn face where the mirror had cut him.
Burton screamed once more and, with a last desperate surge of strength, hurled Stevie away. She toppled over the fallen creature and the newsman bolted for the door, slamming it behind him and racing for the stairs. The second woman was after him, catching his arm as he reached the top step. He spun around, the momentum of his swing aided by the turn, and slammed both fists into her face. The nose crumbled beneath the impact and bright blood spurted into the air, some of it onto Burton. He grabbed the woman by the hair and hurled her down, watching with something approaching insane joy as she tumbled down the stairs, finally crashing into the table at the bottom. He almost shouted in anguish as he saw her get up, starting towards him once more.
And now the others were spilling onto the landing, all of them sporting that hideous feral grin. Headed by Stevie they lunged at him but he ducked back into the bathroom, slamming the door and sliding the tiny bolt.
One of the living dead men crashed into the door and Burton knew that it wouldn't hold them back for long. His breath coming in gasps, he looked frantically around the tiny room which had become a prison. There was nothing to defend himself with. He couldn't hope to fight off four of them.
There was one chance…
If he could climb out of the window onto the window sill, he might be able to hoist himself up onto the roof of the house. They'd never be able to reach him up there and, even if they did succeed in climbing up, it could only be one at a time. He'd kick the fuckers off as they reached the top.
The bathroom door rocked once more and the bolt began to bend. Burton crossed the room, opened the window and clambered up onto the sill, using the sink as a foothold.
He could hear them moving about outside the room.
Twenty feet below him was a mass of solid concrete and he was thankful he couldn't see it as he scrambled out onto the sill. The powerful win
d tugged at him and, for a second, he tottered but he grabbed at the guttering a foot or so above. his head and steadied himself. He prayed that it would take his weight.
There was an almighty crash as the bathroom door was smashed in. The living corpses crowded into the room, the first of them rushing to the open window, grabbing for Burton's exposed legs. He shrieked and kicked out at the grasping hand, trying, simultaneously, to hoist himself up. The wind roared in his ears, the hands of the creatures tore at his legs. With almost tired resignation, he realized he wasn't going to make it.
He groaned and tried to pull himself up but the guttering buckled under his weight. For precious seconds it held and he actually managed to hook one leg up onto the slates of the roof, but, with a sickening creak, it gave way.
Burton uttered one mournful cry and plummeted to the concrete below.
The impact broke his back and most of his ribs on the left side, one of which tore through his lung. His head slammed down. Blood burst into his mouth and he sensed a feeling of total awareness before he blacked out. The last thing he saw was the living dead things peering out of the bathroom window, as if, somehow, they could see his shattered body. Even though he couldn't see them clearly, he could sense that they would be grinning.
Twelve more people were to die that night.
The night was alive with a kaleidoscope of flashing blue lights as Lambert swung the Capri into Victoria Lane. There were two squad cars and an ambulance, all with their lights spinning, parked in the road outside a house about half way down the street. One of the Pandas was parked on the pavement.
* * *
The Inspector rubbed his eyes as he switched off the engine. The clock on the dashboard glowed one-thirty A.M. and Lambert yawned as he stepped out of the Capri and walked hurriedly towards the group of vehicles. There were lights in the windows of houses next door and across the road and he could see people peering out to see just what the hell was going on at this ungodly hour of the morning.
The wind had dropped but there was a biting chill in the air and the Inspector pulled up the collar of his coat, digging his hands deep into the pockets. He recognized Constable Bell, and the policeman smiled grimly as he saw Lambert approach.
'What happened?' asked the Inspector, yawning.
Bell reached for his notebook but Lambert waved it away. 'Just the shortened version,' he said.
'Well, the house belongs to a Mrs Stephanie Lawson, her husband is in the army, he's away at the moment…'
Lambert cut him short. 'I said the short version.'
'Sorry, sir,' said Bell and continued, 'a neighbour rang up about an hour ago to complain about some noises she heard coming from the house. The sarge radioed me and P.C. Jenkins and we came straight over. I knocked on the door but I couldn't get any answer. When I went around the back I found…' he hesitated.
'What?' demanded Lambert.
'A body.'
He was about to walk away when Bell called him back. 'He was still alive when I reached him.'
Lambert nodded.
'Dr Kirby is in the ambulance with him now.'
Lambert turned and hurried across to the parked emergency vehicle, its two back doors still open. The Inspector assumed that Kirby must have been summoned at roughly the same time as himself. Hayes had called him ten minutes earlier and told him that there was trouble in Victoria Lane. Now he peered into the ambulance and saw a worried looking Kirby bending over the covered form of a man. There was a red blanket pulled up to his neck but its colour did little to mask the dark stains which had seeped through the thick material in several places.
'John,' said Lambert, climbing up into the ambulance.
'He's dying,' said Kirby flatly.
It was then that Lambert looked down at the prostrate form and saw that it was Charles Burton.
'Jesus Christ,' gasped the Inspector.
At the sound, Burton opened his eyes slightly. When he saw Lambert, they widened to huge orbs, filled with pain and something more. Fear perhaps. The newsman lifted one bloodstained hand towards Lambert and croaked, 'Lambert.' Blood dribbled over his lips and he winced, as if the effort of talking were too much, but he drew in a painful breath and continued. The policeman leant closer.
'What are they?' gasped Burton, his wide eyes fixing the Inspector momentarily in a piercing stare. Then, slowly, he closed his eyes. Lambert looked down at the torn face, the blood-matted hair, a portion of skull shining white amidst the clumps of congealing gore. Kirby pushed him aside and laid his stethoscope on Burton's chest. He felt for a pulse, digging his fingers almost savagely into the wrist. He shook his head angrily.
An ambulanceman appeared in the doorway and looked at Kirby.
'Will you be travelling to the hospital, doctor?' he asked.
'No need,' said Kirby and stepped down, followed by Lambert.
They heard the doors being slammed and, a second later the ambulance pulled away. Its blue light was extinguished. There was no longer an emergency. No hurry to reach the hospital. Not any longer.
Constable Bell appeared again.
'There's blood all over the house, sir,' he said, swallowing.
Lambert nodded. 'What about Mrs Lawson?'
'No sign of her anywhere.'
Bell wandered off again, leaving the two men alone outside the house. Lambert looked up into the dark sky, flecked with hundreds of silver pinpricks of stars. He sighed then looked at Kirby.
'This has gone far enough, John,' he said, flatly. 'We need help.'
* * *
Lambert and Kirby spoke little on the journey to Divisional Headquarters in Nottingham. Almost against his better judgment, the Inspector had finally decided that he needed reinforcements to deal with the growing threat which hung over Medworth like some supernatural cloud. He was perspiring slightly although the early morning sun had not yet reached its full power and the last vestiges of dawn mist still hung, wraithlike, in the hollows and woods which dotted the route. There wasn't much traffic on the road and for that Lambert was thankful. He cruised, doing an even fifty for most of the journey, causing Kirby to glance down at the speedometer every now and then. But he said nothing. He too realized the importance of their journey, and as far as both of them were concerned, the sooner it was over, the better.
On the back seat of the Capri was a leather attache case, filled to bursting point with every detail they could lay their hands on concerning the horrors which had taken place in Medworth over the past month or so. Coroner's reports, backgrounds of victims, what scant details they had of the disappearances (there had been twenty-four up to date) and full reports by Lambert on what was happening.
As they sat in silence, watching the countryside speeding by, both men had the same thought. How the hell were they going to convince Lambert's superiors of the truth of what was going on in the little town?
The journey took less than forty minutes and, at around nine-thirty, Lambert was guiding the Capri through the busy streets of Nottingham, blasting his horn angrily at a cyclist who hesitated too long at traffic lights. The poor woman was so unnerved by the sudden sound that she nearly toppled off into the path of a passing jeep. Lambert swung the car past her and asked Kirby to check just exactly where they were.
'Take a left at the next crossroads,' said the doctor, running his index finger over the inner city map.
The Inspector obeyed, and within minutes they found themselves in a huge car park which fronted the main building, a massive edifice of glass and concrete which seemed to tower up into the very clouds themselves. Sunlight glinted off the many windows which winked like myriad glass eyes, peering down on the tiny car as the Inspector parked it and they both got out. They walked swiftly across the paved area, Lambert looking in awe at the seemingly endless lines of parked Pandas.
They reached the main entrance and climbed the flight of broad stone steps until a row of wire meshed glass doors confronted him. Lambert pushed the first of these, holding it open for
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p; Kirby to pass through. They found themselves in a huge reception area with what looked like a gigantic duty desk at one end. Lambert crossed to it and asked the sergeant on duty where he could find Detective Chief Inspector Baron. The sergeant asked who the Inspector was and Lambert produced his own I.D. card to prove his validity. The sergeant nodded and directed the two men to a lift across the entrance way and told them to take it to the fifth floor.
There was a loud ring as the lift arrived and three uniformed men stepped out, pushing past Lambert and Kirby as if they were in a hurry. The two men stepped into the lift and Lambert jabbed the button marked '5'. There was a humming sound as the lift ascended. It reached five and, with a loud ring, the doors opened. The two men stepped out, feeling the thickness of lush carpet beneath their feet. The corridor was silent, all sounds muffled by the thick cloth on which they walked. At the far end was a desk behind which sat a woman in her thirties. She was reading and, as Lambert drew closer, he could see that the book was called 'Hot Lips.' He suppressed a grin as the woman put the book down and smiled politely up at him.
'Good morning, sir,' she said.
'Good morning,' replied Lambert, 'I'd like to see DCI Baron please. My name is Lambert.' He reached for the plastic card again and showed it to her, 'Inspector Lambert.'
'Just a moment, sir,' she said and flicked a switch on the panel before her. There was a loud buzzing noise and then a metallic voice came through the speaker;
'Yes.'
'Carol. There's a…' she hesitated, looking at the name on the card, '… Inspector Tom Lambert out here. He wants to see Mr Baron.'
'Send him in,' instructed the voice. 'But Mr Baron is busy at the moment, he might have to wait.'
