by Shaun Hutson
Lambert managed to smile back. He coughed, shook himself, blew out a harsh lungful of air. He raised a hand to signal that he was O.K., nodding to himself as if to reinforce the idea.
'What's your next move?' asked Kirby.
'Find them. Find out where they hole up during the day. Find them and kill them.' He finished his coffee. He got to his feet, a new purpose about him, the old strength returning.
'If my theory is right,' he said, 'then they're all in the same place. They seem to function in groups, so it's only logical to assume they sleep in groups too. It's just a matter of finding the right place.'
He went through into the surgery and woke Jenkins. In minutes he was on his feet and the two of them were ready to leave. They paused in the doorway.
'How long before she wakes up?' asked Lambert.
Kirby shrugged, 'It's hard to say, four, five hours perhaps longer.'
'Let me know as soon as she does; it's important.'
Jenkins walked out to the waiting Panda, the blood on it now dried to a dull rust colour, and slid behind the wheel. Lambert paused and extended a hand which Kirby shook warmly.
'Thanks, John,' said the Inspector and he was gone, walking across to the car. Jenkins started the engine and Kirby watched as they disappeared from view down a sharp dip in the road. He went back indoors and poured himself another cup of coffee.
* * *
P.C. Bell was distributing cups of tea when Lambert and Jenkins entered the duty room. Mumbled greetings were exchanged and Lambert slumped down into a chair, dropping the shotgun down beside him. The other men looked pale but none looked as downright shagged out as he did. He later learned that they had taken it in turns to sleep as they cruised around. Two men in the front keeping watch while the third snatched a few hours in the back seat.
'We lost Briggs,' said Lambert flatly, taking the cup of steaming tea which Bell offered him.
'How?' Hayes wanted to know.
Lambert shrugged, 'I don't know.' He paused.
'My house was attacked last night; they nearly killed my wife.'
'Jesus,' murmured Walford.
'There were about a half a dozen of them. Ray Mackenzie was one.'
A chorus of sighs ran around the room. Lambert continued. 'That medallion that we found at his place in the very beginning, my wife was trying to make out the inscription on it. I think she succeeded. Mackenzie stole it, he got away before we realized what was happening.' He finished his tea and stood up, crossing to the end of the room. The men's eyes followed his progress. When he finally spoke, his tone was flat, no inflection at all.
'We've got to find them,' he began, 'and we've got to do it before nightfall. Now that means searching every empty house, every cellar, every shop, every attic; anywhere where they could hide. Now, if you do find one of them I don't want any heroics. Get help, as much as you need and let's wipe the bastards out.' His face was set in deep lines as he spoke. 'Let's just pray that I'm right and that they're all in one place because that'll make our job much easier. Now, to date, there's upwards of ninety people missing. I want them all.' There were a vehemence in his last words which made one or two of the men sit up. 'Every last one of the fucking things has got to be found and destroyed. Understand?'
Nods and murmurs.
'Any questions?'
There were none.
'Right. Work in twos. I'll take my own car, and like before, keep in contact at all times.' Lambert made a mental note to pick up a walkie-talkie on the way out. He looked at his watch…
'It's five-twenty now. That gives us eleven hours of daylight.'
He mentioned something briefly about checking their weapons to make sure they had enough ammo. Hayes told him that it had already been taken care of. Lambert nodded. He picked up the shotgun and worked the pump action then, checking that this time the magazine was full, he slid the Browning from its holster and pulled the slide back and cocked it. The metallic click was amplified by the silence in the room. He stood before the men, grim determination etched on his face.
'Let's go.'
* * *
In the boot of Puma Three the thing that had once been Gary Briggs lay in torpor, hidden from the painful rays of the sun. It lay still.
Waiting for the night.
* * *
Jenkins brought the Panda to a halt on the dirt track which ran alongside the hedge flanking the garden. The house, invisible behind the tall hedge, belonged to Nigel Moore, Medworth's most prosperous farmer. As Hayes stepped from the car he could see the gleaming metal towers of the pasteurization plant further back.
The farm was large. The house itself formed the apex of a triangle which was made up by a configuration of sheds and outbuildings at one corner and the actual pasteurization plant at the other. The area between the three buildings was part concrete (near to the house) and mud which was thick and clung defiantly to the sergeant's boots as he walked.
He could see cattle and the occasional horse moving lethargically about in the fields beyond. Hayes took a deep breath, enjoying the purity of the early morning air even though it was tinged with the pungent smell of manure. He didn't seem to care.
Jenkins flicked off the engine of Puma One and climbed out, carrying his shotgun at his side.
'You wait here,' said Hayes when they reached the rusty iron gate which opened into the farm yard. 'That way, you'll be able to cover me and hear the radio if anyone calls.'
Jenkins nodded, watching as the sergeant strode towards the house, avoiding the worst patches of mud. The constable glanced around him. There were plenty of places out here for the things to hide. He shuddered and looked up at the sun, finding reassurance in its growing heat. The sky was cloudless, a deep blue which promised a beautiful day.
Hayes reached the concrete path which ran up to the front door of the farmhouse and he scraped his boots clean of mud before proceeding. The house itself was traditional in appearance, whitewashed, low roofed and covered with climbing ivy. There was a low wooden porch over the doorstep and the sergeant had to duck to avoid banging his head on it. He rapped three times and waited.
There was no answer.
He turned and shrugged at Jenkins who felt his own heart quicken. He gripped his shotgun tighter, his eyes scanning the empty yard furtively.
Hayes sighed wearily and knocked again. Receiving no answer this time, he took the narrow path to the back of the house. The sergeant took time to admire Moore's sizeable vegetable patch before knocking on the back door. After a few seconds he heard bolts being slid back and then the door swung open.
He found himself looking down the twin barrels of a shotgun.
'Morning, Nigel,' said Hayes, grinning and pushing the gun to one side.
Moore shrugged. 'Hello Vic.' He looked down at the shotgun. 'Well, you can't be too careful these days, can you?'
Hayes didn't answer, just looked around the kitchen and asked, 'Have you seen anything suspicious around here lately?'
'Any of those things you mean?' said Moore, his round red face lighting up excitedly.
'Anything?' Hayes repeated, refusing to be drawn.
'I checked all the barns and sheds myself,' he nodded vigorously, 'and the cellar and attic.' He smiled broadly. 'If any of the bloody things come round here they'll get a dose of this.' He lifted the shotgun proudly.
Hayes smiled, aware that the farmer was looking down at his own weapon.
'That bad, is it?' asked the man.
Hayes nodded, 'It's bad.'
Moore shook his head and sighed. 'You wouldn't believe it could happen in a place like this, would you?' There was a tinge of sadness in his voice.
Hayes turned to leave. 'You wouldn't think it could happen anywhere.'
Moore waved him away and closed the door behind him. Hayes took one last look at the expansive vegetable patch and made his way back to the waiting Jenkins.
'Nothing,' he said, 'old Nigel's fine; he says he's checked the place out himself.'
Jenkins nodded, relieved, and they trudged -back to the car.
'If one of those things came up against old
Nigel, I'd lay my money on him winning,' said Hayes, sliding into the car. They both laughed.
* * *
Davies checked his shotgun, running a hand down the sleek barrel, then he sat back in his seat and gazed out of the windscreen. The houses on either side were empty. The entire street was devoid of people. Those who had not been killed had simply packed up and gone. Redhoods Avenue was as dead as a doornail and there were many more streets in Medworth like it.
'Stop the car here,' said Davies as Greene turned into the road.
Davies sighed. There was no other alternative. Each and every house would have to be checked individually.
'How do you want to do this?' asked Greene, a bead of perspiration popping onto his forehead.
'You take that side, I'll take this one,' said the older PC.
Green swallowed hard, 'That's what I was afraid you were going to say.'
Both men swung themselves out of the car, checking their weapons once more, stuffing handfuls of extra shells in their pockets. Greene prayed that they wouldn't have the need for them. He watched as Davies reached for the radio.
'Puma Two to base.'
Grogan acknowledged.
'This is Davies. We're leaving the car to check every house in Redhoods Avenue, right? Over.'
Grogan said something about reporting in if they found anything.
'Will do. Puma Two out.'
The two policemen looked at each other for a moment, both sensing the other's fear.
'How do we get into the houses?' Greene wanted to know.
'Break in,' offered Davies and he walked away, the shotgun slung over his shoulder. Greene watched him walk up the path of the first house in the road, check the front door and then disappear around the back. The younger constable heard the crashing of glass as Davies broke a window and he realized that his companion must be inside by now. He stood still beside the stationary car for long seconds, just looking down the street. A street just like any other on any normal housing estate in any town in the country. A narrow road flanked on both sides by grass verge and carefully planted trees, their branches still, bare. Just an ordinary street.
He was sweating profusely as he set off for the first house. It lay directly opposite the one which Davies had entered, and, like his companion, Greene found that he had to break a window to get in. Using his elbow, he smashed a hole in the frosted pane set in the back door and reached through, fumbling for the key, wondering whether anything were going to grab his exposed hand. He breathed an audible sigh of relief as the lock gave and the door swung open. Clutching the shotgun, he stepped inside.
The kitchen was small, identical to all the others in the street. There was a yellowing calendar on the far wall and Greene noticed that it had not been turned to the appropriate month. It was two behind. He wished that time could, indeed, be reversed, so that all this had never happened. He drove the thought from his mind and continued through into the living room, pleased to find that the curtains were drawn and sunlight was flooding the small room. Tiny particles of dust fluttered in the golden rays. Nothing here. Shaking a little more, Greene made his way upstairs towards the narrow landing.
Three doors faced him. Two open, one closed.
All the houses on the road had either two or three bedrooms as well as an inside toilet. Greene could see through the two open doors that the rooms were both bedrooms. Not much chance of anyone hiding out in a bathroom, he told himself, trying to find reassurance in the assumption. He placed a hand on the knob of the closed door and, praying, shoved it open.
Nothing.
The house was empty. Thankfully, he hurried back downstairs out of the back door and made his way to the next house.
* * *
Meantime, across on the other side of Redhoods Avenue, Davies too had found the house he was searching to be empty. Almost disappointed, he left the building vaulting the low fence which divided the adjacent garden.
There was a loud crash, a shattering of glass and Davies looked down to see that he'd landed in a cold frame. He groaned and stepped clear of the wreckage, cursing himself for not being more careful. The grass of the lawn hadn't been cut for a while and it grew knee high, competing for supremacy with large growths of chickweed and dandelions. There was a rusted lawn roller propped up against the fence beside the remains of the cold frame. The constable walked up the path towards the back door which he found was already open. The lime green paint had peeled away in places, leprous slices of the stuff chipped away to reveal the thin wood beneath.
Davies lowered the shotgun, the barrel pointing ahead, and took a step inside. The kitchen smelt damp* the cloying stench mingling with something else. A more pungent odour which caused the constable to cough. He looked around, searching for the source of the odour. There was a white door to his right which he took to be a larder and, as he took a step towards it, he realized that his suspicions were right. The stench grew stronger.
Davies lowered the shotgun and pulled open the door.
'Christ,' he grunted, discovering the source of the smell. On the lowest stone shelf of the larder was a rotting joint of beef. It lay on the place in a solidified pool of blood which spread into a rusty circle around it. Davies heard the somonolent buzzing of flies; some were crawling on the meat. He also noted with disgust the loathsome writhings of maggots on the joint.
He pushed the larder door shut and walked into the living room. The curtains were drawn here, the room in semi-darkness but for the thin beams of sunlight lancing through gaps in the dusty drape. Wary of the darkness, Davies advanced further into the room and tore the curtains down, flooding the room with bright sunlight and throwing up a choking cloud of thick dust. The policeman stepped back, eyes darting round the room. Come on you bastards, he thought, where are you? Satisfied that downstairs was clear, he pushed open the hall door and made his way up the narrow staircase finally emerging on the landing. Four doors. Two bedrooms, an airing cupboard and a toilet. All empty.
Shaking his head he descended the stairs and made his way across the front lawn to the next house, wondering how Greene was doing across the road.
* * *
As it turned out, his younger companion was having as little luck as he in finding anything. There were not even any signs of the creatures and Greene was beginning to think that the search of the street would end up being fruitless. At least that was what he hoped. The perspiration which soaked his back was beginning to stain his uniform as he began searching the fifth house. He didn't even attempt to tell himself that the sweat was heat induced. It was the product of fear. Pure, naked fear. He wiped his brow and pushed the door which he knew led into the living room of the house. The curtains once more were open and he passed through without checking, anxious to scan upstairs and get out of the bloody place. There was a sofa and two chairs in the room, and no carpet on the floor. The sofa was stretched across one corner of the room, a sizeable gap behind it.
It was as the young constable made his way up the fifth staircase that morning, that the sofa was pushed forward and the creature sheltering behind it crept slowly forward.
From his position in one of the bedrooms, Greene didn't hear the slight squeaking of castors as the sofa moved. Having thoroughly searched the upper story, he hurried downstairs once more, his heart slowing a little.
He walked into the living room.
All he heard was a high-pitched rasping sound as the thing launched itself at him.
Greene screamed and swung the shotgun round, his actions accelerated by sheer terror. Luckily, the monstrous discharge hit its target and the young constable slumped back against the wall gasping.
At his feet lay what remained of a cat. It was now little more than a twisted heap of fur and blood, large lumps of it splattered around the room by the horrendous force of the blast. Had it not been for the fact that the partly oblite
rated head stared up at him, Greene wouldn't have known what he'd killed, so great was the destruction wrought by the gun.
He bolted from the house. Fortunately, he managed to reach the back door before vomiting. Sweating profusely, he leant against the wall, gulping in the grass-scented air and shaking madly. It was some time before he found the courage to move on to the next house.
* * *
Across the road, Davies has heard the shot and he smiled. That's one of the bastards gone, he thought. He was surprised that Greene had had the guts to use the shotgun, he seemed such a spineless little sod. Davies himself was more than half way down the street by now, having discovered nothing so far and he, like Greene, was beginning to suspect that all the houses were, indeed, empty. The house he was in this time was built somewhat differently from those further up. He stood in the kitchen, his eyes alert. No pantry here, just a door in front of him, which, he found, led out into a hall. Peeling wallpaper once more, flaking away like dried skin. There was a door to his immediate right and another to the left. Between them lay the staircase. He chose the right hand door first and found that it was a bathroom with toilet. Piss stains up the wall, more flaking paper and a yellowed plastic shower curtain. The place smelt like a urinal.
Davies closed the door behind him and nudged open the other across the tiny hall with the barrel of his shotgun. The living room. He checked it quickly, anxious to inspect the upper floor but even more anxious to get out into the sunlight again. He left the living room and started slowly up the uncarpeted stairs. His heavy boots sounded conspicuously loud in the deathly silence and the policeman swallowed hard, aware that anything up there would most certainly have been alerted to his presence by now. There was a small guard rail running along the side of the landing and, through its wooden slats, he could see the half-open door of a bedroom. It was in darkness, the dirty blue curtains drawn tight against the invading sunlight. He gripped the shotgun tighter and finally stood still on the cramped landing.
Two more doors in addition to the one he had already glimpsed. He kicked open the nearest and walked in. Nothing in there, just bunk beds and an old dressing table. At the far end of the room, a cupboard door had fallen open, spilling toys across the wooden floor. Davies closed the door behind him and crossed to the second bedroom, pulling at the curtains as he did so.
