by Shaun Hutson
Deathday.
And the single word that summed up all that evil.
MATHIAS.
She turned to the second book, searching its age-crusted pages for the information she sought. She looked at the medallion, suddenly distracted from her task. It seemed to glow dully in the dimly lit room and it was a moment or two before Debbie realized that it was nearly dark outside. She crossed to the big bay window at the front of the house and peered out. The street lamps were, as yet, unlit. They didn't come on until six. Another ten minutes. She hurriedly switched on the lamp which perched atop the TV, repeated the procedure with die one on the coffee table and also the taller standard lamp which was propped behind Lambert's chair. The light gave her a measure of reassurance but she found herself still shivering. She hurried upstairs and checked that all the windows were securely closed, particularly the one which looked out over the flat garage roof. She doublechecked that one. Satisfied, she sped downstairs and slid the bolts on both front and back doors before retreating into the living room. She sat in silence, curtains drawn against the darkness outside, surrounded by the paraphernalia of ages gone by. Her nostrils were assaulted by an odour of dampness, mustiness.
The medallion glinted wickedly and Debbie found herself staring at it with the same horrified fascination with which a mouse watches a snake. She finally managed, as if it were an effort of will, to tear her gaze from it. She scanned the large yellowed page before her, dictionary at the ready. The page had the name of Mathias at its head and she began to read, intrigued and alarmed in equal proportions. Maybe by the time she finished she would know who this man really was.
She set to work.
* * *
The three Pandas were parked outside the station, all facing in the direction of Medworth town centre. From his position in the duty room Lambert could see them, just about. The darkness which had descended was total, almost palpable. He tore his eyes away and looked at the rows of sanguine faces arrayed before him.
Each of the men sat with shotguns across their laps. If not for the circumstances, Lambert could have laughed. It looked like a scene from some bloody western. He cleared his throat and stepped forward. All eyes focused on him.
'Right,' he began, 'I'll keep it simple. Two men to a car, three where possible. Grogan will stay here to take any calls. Bell, Ferman and Davies in Puma One. Vic,' he nodded towards Sergeant Hayes, 'you take Greene and Walford with you in number two. I'll take Puma Three. Briggs and Jenkins, you're with me.' The men didn't speak. Lambert waited, almost hoping for a question but none was forthcoming. He continued, 'Cruise around, that's all you've got to do. If you see anything moving about, anyone…' he searched for the word, 'suspicious, don't waste time finding out details, just shoot.'
A hand went up. It was Greene. He was in his early thirties, a capable lad who just happened to be as pale as death at the moment.
'How do we know the guns will work, sir?' he asked.
'We don't,' said Lambert, flatly. 'Try praying when you pull the trigger.' He tried to smile but it faded, washed away like chalk in the rain.
Another hand. This time it was Walford.
'Sir,' he said, 'how do we know that these… things will be all that's on the streets tonight? I mean, we might kill innocent people.' He swallowed hard.
Lambert nodded. 'Look, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, anything that's walking those streets tonight won't be human.' He became aware that his own hands were shaking and clenched them into fists. 'Whatever you see, blow the fucking thing to pieces.' There was a note of anger in his voice. He scanned the faces once more. Silence hung over the room like some huge invisible blanket. Lambert continued. 'All right, the cars are full of ammunition, you'll have no problems there. It's in the glove compartments, on the parcel shelves, everywhere we could find to put it, it's there.' He tried to-smile again. 'One more thing, I want all the cars to keep in touch. Retain contact at all times and radio in to base every thirty minutes. No more than two men are to leave a car at one time. Understood?'
Nodding. Murmurs of approval.
'Right,' he checked his watch, 'it's seven fifteen now, I want this town patrolled until morning.' He finally found the note of humour he'd been looking for: 'Don't worry, you'll all get paid overtime for this.'
A ripple of laughter.
The men rose to their feet and were filing out of the room when Davies turned and raised his hand.
'What is it, Chris?' asked Lambert.
'These… things,' said Davies, 'they're living corpses, right?'
Lambert nodded.
'Well, then how the hell do you kill something that's already dead?'
The Inspector had no answer and the words hung in the air.
* * *
It seemed like they were driving into a huge black pit. That, at any rate, was how young Gary Briggs viewed the slow descent into Medworth. The town was in almost total darkness apart from the time switch lights which illuminated shop windows and a sparkling of house lights, most of which were subdued behind drawn curtains. Beside him sat Lambert, the shotgun cradled across his lap. He was stuffing handfuls of cartridges into his pocket. There was a sudden metallic click from the back seat where Dave Jenkins sat and Briggs felt his heart leap. He realized that it was only the older constable cocking his weapon. The youngster tried to relax, attempting to find some comfort in the fact that, if they did sight any of the things, he would be the one to remain in the car. His own shotgun was propped against the dashboard beside him. Even in the chill of the night air which was flooding in through a partially open window, he could feel the perspiration forming on his back.
Dave Jenkins, the oldest of the trio in the Panda, swallowed hard and ran his hand absent mindedly up and down the sleek barrel of his own shotgun. He peered out into the night, squinting into hedgerows, trying to see through the all enveloping gloom. His mind was elsewhere though. It was with his wife, Amy. He'd packed her off to her mother's when this trouble first began, fearing that it could escalate and he had been disturbed to find that it had. But, besides that, she was pregnant. Near her time by now. Jenkins was overcome by a great feeling of helplessness. Even now it could be happening, she could be having the child. He just prayed that he lived to see it.
Inspector Tom Lambert sat back in his seat and scanned the road ahead, lit only by the twin powerful headlamps of the car. The road which led down from the police station into town was a series of sharp curves and bends and Briggs was constantly braking in order to steer the vehicle safely onward. The car they occupied, Puma Three, had been the last of the three to leave. Lambert had watched the other two drive off, then, after all the men had checked their ammunition, he had climbed into the Panda beside Briggs. They were to patrol the Eastern part of the town, the area which took in the small industrial estate, one or two of the housing areas and Lambert's own home. The other two cars had their designated sectors as well. As he watched the darkened countryside drifting by, Lambert's face was etched in an attitude of grim determination. An act he hoped was working. He'd never been so bloody scared in his life. Frightened not just for himself but also for Debbie, but he drove her fleeting image from his mind and concentrated on the road ahead. It was beginning to straighten out.
Paul Greene sat in the back seat of Puma Two and shivered. He felt sick and could scarcely control his rapid breathing. Once already, Sergeant Hayes, seated in the front beside Walford, who was driving, had looked round at him and asked him if he was O.K. Greene had nodded and clutched his gun tighter as if trying to find some comfort in it. He wondered what his mother was doing. He had personally fitted the locks and bolts to her doors when she had decided to stay in Medworth. He had pleaded with her to go but she had refused. The least he could do now was to make sure she was adequately protected. If indeed, that was possible. They had lived together in that little house just outside the town centre for the last twelve years. Ever since Greene's father had left. In his late twenties now, the young P.C. could stil
l recall the vision of his father standing in the doorway of the house, the night he had left, the car of his 'fancy woman' outside, waiting. Greene remembered how his mother had cried for three days afterwards. He was an only child and the departure of his father brought him and his mother even closer together. He had joined the force partly as an attempt at independence but had finally discovered that he preferred the doting of his mother. Now he wondered what she was doing, fearing for her life even more than his own.
Sergeant Vic Hayes closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He felt tired, depressed rather than frightened at the thought of what might confront them that night. He had been sergeant in this peaceful little town for more than fifteen years and now, in the space of a couple of months, all those happy memories had been superceded by the horrors which were occuring daily. He still found it hard to believe.
Tony Walford guided the car slowly through the streets of Medworth's largest housing estate, his eyes alert for the slightest sign of movement. He prayed that they wouldn't come across any of the things that night. Not because of the danger involved but because he didn't think that he could force himself to use his gun on any of them. The very idea of shooting another human being made him shudder. Human being. The words stuck in his mind. Lambert had said that they weren't human. Another thought struck him, one which made the forthcoming task even more difficult. He realized with horror, that he might even recognize some of them. Walford drove on, all the time mouthing silent prayers that they would not see any of the creatures.
'Puma One checking in,' said Chris Davies, holding the transmitter at arms' length to lessen the high-pitched whine of static which had invaded the wavelength. He waited for Grogan's reply, then flicked the switch to 'Off.' He replaced the hand set and returned to gazing out of the window. He and the other two men in the Panda had been given the task of patrolling the centre of Medworth itself. The shopping areas and parks which dotted the town like pieces in a grass and concrete jigsaw. Davies was pleased that they had been assigned this particular sector as there was more likelihood of spotting something. He worked the pump action of the shotgun, chambering a shell, and smiled. God help you bastards, he thought.
In the back, Stuart Ferman was beginning to wish he had never joined the bloody police force. He felt giddy, the smell of plastic, sweat, and gun oil thick in his nostrils. He wished he were at home. He lived alone on the ground floor of a block of flats. Although, strictly speaking, he didn't occupy the dwelling totally without company. He shared it with two enormous Alsatians which he'd had since they were puppies. They'd been handed in to the station by some kid who didn't want them and Ferman had taken them home with him. He had cared for them with a love he didn't think he possessed, watching them grow into the magnificent creatures they were now. He wished he had them both in the car with him at this moment.
Ron Bell, driving, slowed the car as he saw something move ahead of him. He nudged Davies, who had been peering out of the side window and pointed to the area where he had seen the movement. All three men felt the tension rising as Bell edged the Panda closer. Its bright headlamps suddenly swung on the source of the disturbance.
It was a cat.
Caught in the sudden glare it hissed and fled from the blinding light. The trio of men in Puma One felt the tension drain from them and Bell breathed a sigh of audible relief.
They drove on.
* * *
Debbie Lambert had found what she searched for.
She had discovered the information about fifteen minutes ago and now she reread it, translating quickly, scribbling the words down like a journalist with a scoop. There were two entire pages about Mathias. She looked back through her notes, found that she was running short of paper and realized that she had more upstairs.
It was as she dashed into the hall that she heard the scratching at the front door.
* * *
'Puma Three to all cars. Anything to report?'
Lambert's voice rasped in the closed confines of the other two Pandas. Hayes and Davies responded that, as yet, they had seen nothing.
'Keep in touch,' ordered Lambert, 'over and out.' He replaced the hand set and wound the window down a little further, gulping in the crisp night air. They had now reached the edge of the industrial area and its countless tall chimneys towered above them as Briggs guided the car slowly along the wide roads, keeping it dead centre.
'If you see anything,' said Lambert, 'let me know.'
It was darker than he had imagined, especially in this part of the town, for there were no street lights, just the occasional naked bulb which shone outside a factory entrance. The Inspector made a mental note to have this area checked out in the morning. The things had to be hiding somewhere and out here offered countless possibilities. A thought crossed his mind. There was no evidence to support his own theory that they were, indeed, all holed up in the same place during the day and the thought that they could well be spread out all over town made his heart sink. It would mean searching every empty house, every cellar, every disused shop. He shook his head and sighed deeply.
* * *
When Debbie first heard the scratching she paused, heart pounding against her ribs, listening. It stopped abruptly but still she stood in the darkness of the hall until, at last, she sprinted upstairs to their bedroom and found some paper. When she reached the hall again, she switched on the light and stood there for a second. The lock and bolt were secure but she tested them just to set her mind at ease. Satisfied, but nonetheless uneasy, she returned to the living room which was comfortingly aglow with the light of three lamps. She sat down at her desk and reread the passage on Mathias, this time transcribing onto a fresh piece of paper. Her eyes stung from the hours of continual reading but she persevered, realizing that she had reached her goal.
The medallion glinted dully beside her and she looked at it for a second.
There was a rattling from the back of the house. Debbie heard it but ignored it, or tried to. She continued writing.
It grew louder.
A noise now at the front again. That scratching, only more insistent this time.
It stopped.
She looked up, glanced across at the telephone and wondered whether or not to call the station. But, when the sounds didn't persist, she shook her head, told herself that it was her imagination and returned to her work. The transcription was beginning to take shape, almost finished in fact. She read it through twice, struggling with its ancient construction. The meaning was in there somewhere, it was just a matter of finding it. The words on the paper stood out starkly, written in her own neat script. She read them to herself:
This year of the Almighty, 1596, in ground not Blessed of the Church is buried the one known as Mathias. This man did dare to oppose God: buried without tongue or eyes, removed in the sight of those present by hot pincers: Blasphemer, Servant of the Fallen Angel. Buried with him be the symbol of his evil. The instrument with which he hoped to reverse the very rightful process of death; to defy the Almighty; to bring life to the Dead.
Debbie shuddered. My God, that was the tie up. She looked at the medallion.
A MORTUIS EXCITARE - TO AWAKE THE DEAD.
She had more below that first transcription:
May he he, buried yet whilst alive, forever in the place chosen. Without the Kingdom of the Almighty for the rest of Eternity.
So engrossed was she in her find, she didn't even hear the rattling begin once more at the back of the house. Debbie read on:
And now, though he wear that symbol of his Blasphemy let it not be removed; but, if so done, be it not returned to its owner for there is a power beyond that of man in its presence. Reunited with the symbol of his evil the one known as Mathias may yet attain The Power.
Debbie put down the transcript and looked at the medallion. She felt compelled to reach out and touch it but something told her not to. The gleaming metal winked up at her and she shuddered. 'The Power.' She gla
nced at her notes once more. At last, they knew the secret of the medallion.
It was then that she heard the rattling.
Breathing heavily, she got to her feet and crossed to the door which led out into the kitchen, suddenly aware of how cold it had become. She pushed the door and peered into the room, taking a step in, the linoleum cold against her bare feet. The rattling grew louder and she looked towards the locked back door.
The handle was being turned frenziedly back and forth.
'Oh God,' murmured Debbie under her breath. She flicked on the kitchen lights, watching as the bank of fluorescents burst into life. The door handle was slammed back and forth with renewed strength and now, a series of dull thuds began to break against it, gradually building to a crescendo which she realized were powerful blows.
She turned, slammed the door behind her and dashed for the phone in the living room. Her shaking fingers found the required digits and she dialed, the pounding growing in intensity. Her breath came in gasps as she waited for the receiver to be picked up at the other end. She heard three words: 'Medworth Police Station…'
The line went dead.
'Hello,' gasped Debbie, flicking desperately at the cradle. Her voice grew in volume. 'Hello!' Almost in tears, she flung the useless receiver down. She murmured Lambert's name, ran to the window and dragged back the curtains.
With a mournful puff, the street lamps blew out.
Debbie bit her fist and spun around, the smashing of glass telling her that the window had been shattered. Then, as she spun round to draw the curtains once more, she found herself staring into the grinning face of Ray Mackenzie, those twin blood red blazing orbs fixing her in an unholy stare and she finally summoned her voice for a scream.
* * *
Puma Three cruised around the industrial estate five or six times. Every so often Lambert and Jenkins would get out to check an open gate or some movement in the shadows, but each time, to their relief, they found nothing. On such occasions, one man would investigate while the other stood nearby, gun at the ready; never were they far from the car. Lambert told Briggs to keep his engine running whenever they stopped and its idling hum was something of a comfort in the stifling silence of the night.
