It felt slimy, starting to stick to her skin, not like water at all; it was too thick, too sticky. It felt like soup, and it was getting hotter all the time; it was starting to scald her skin. She began to feel the rising panic; this is ridiculous – I can’t get out of my bath.
Then she heard the breathing. Blinded by clouds of steam, helpless in the burning water, nakedly vulnerable, and she could hear breathing in the room with her. Low, deep rasping breathing.
She reached out, stretched her arm as far as she could, reaching for a towel. Her hand touched something that yielded as a slug would, and which shrank back from her touch. She screamed, shouted for Fields, who was in the adjoining bungalow.
There was a sickly sweet smell in the room, like over-ripe fruit. The breathing was getting stronger. A throbbing started in her head but she struggled to her feet, slipping and sliding, pushing against the walls for support. She reached down and pulled out the bath plug. The water level stayed the same. The water was bubbling now, near to boiling, and the pain was unbearable. It was as if she was standing in hot syrup, the fog beginning to choke her, and it was getting darker, the clouds of steam turning black.
‘You’re an attractive man, Lewis.’
‘Give us the money.’
‘Don’t drink the milk.’
It felt as if tiny insects were crawling over her feet, and she lifted first one foot then the other, but the feeling persisted. The steam was getting thicker, the breathing getting closer.
Chris Fields poured another two fingers of Jack Daniels, aware he had had a handful too many but past caring. He was promising himself he was getting the next plane out to Vegas, leave them wanting more, leave them to sort out their own problems.
He got up from the end of his bed, went over to the refrigerator and opened the door. Water poured all over the floor; the ice had melted, everything in there had thawed, the food rotted.
Fields looked at the table where he had left the bottle and glass; they were vibrating. The bottle cracked and broke into fragments onto the carpet. There were maggots in the glass he had been drinking from.
He looked around the room; there was mould on the carpets, the bed was covered in tendrils of green fungus. Something dropped onto his head, he brushed it off, a cockroach, he stepped on it with his heel. When he looked up at the ceiling it was crawling with insects; cockroaches, beetles, creeping and crawling over each other. Something brushed his feet; he saw spiders covering the whole floor, brown, black, large, small. They scuttled, a seething mass of them.
The bed was full of snakes; huge pythons, coiled rattlesnakes, cobras, curled and slithering in furious, quivering smoothness.
Fields tried to run, fell, and lay on the bed.
There was a woman in a bath and there were fish all around her. It was Nicole Norris and she was soaping her soft dark skin, breasts full, succulent, the nipples distended, black and angry, long and firm. Her eyes were closed and she was smoothing the soap into her skin with slow deliberate strokes.
“Place is like a maze.” Bob Keating came into the room, he was naked and erect. “Hey, sugar, come and play with Uncle Bob.” He had two coffees and a bag of doughnuts in his hand.
Nicole opened her eyes; they were bright blue, no pupils, just blue inviting waves. She reached her hand out of the water and grasped him. She placed him in her mouth, and bit down hard until her mouth filled with warm blood.
Keating screamed and smashed his fist into her face; her nose cracked, her teeth shattered. He pushed her under the water, her eyes open wide, brown and crying out for help. He held her under water until her struggles weakened and became merely memories.
The door burst open, and the room filled with a thick cloying smoke. Ray Norris was standing there.
“There’s Frank Moreland’s files; get reading.”
He threw the head of a German shepherd dog at Keating; blood dribbled from the neck where it had been severed from the body. In his left hand Norris held a butcher’s knife stolen from the kitchen. With a single swipe of the knife he cut off Keating’s head, before arranging the dog’s head on Keating’s shoulders.
Norris knelt on the floor, took the knife in both hands, placed it against his stomach and pushed hard.
The office Whitney occupied was large and spacious, the desk expansive and covered with the executive equipment he felt a person in his position should have. There was a heavy quartz paperweight on the edge of the desk.
The door to his office opened and closed. In the doorway was his mother. She was naked, smiling, warm and friendly and she was inviting him to join her, beckoning to him slowly and seductively.
‘You want her, Walt; you always have.’
She was coming towards him, her breasts were slippery with oil and she caressed them as she moved, rubbing the nipples with her fingers. Her pubic mound was shaved, the darkly shadowed entrance inviting him away from the terrors.
When she reached the desk she picked up the paperweight. She brought it pounding down and the side of his head cracked open like an egg thrown at a wall. She brought the weight down again and again until his face was gone and his brain trickled over the executive desk.
“Party seems to be going well!” she screamed as she ran from the room into the corridor outside. A guard challenged her to stop but she ran directly to him, launched herself at him, her outstretched fingers connecting his face. The two entwined bodies fell in a heap to the floor.
A second guard, hearing the struggle, appeared in the corridor. The woman lifted herself from the now still form of the guard, blood dripping from her lips. She cried out, as the guard raised his automatic rifle and pointed it at her. She ran towards him screaming and a single burst of automatic fire cut the woman in two.
Two guards ran into the crowded cinema room and sprayed the audience with bullets. Those that staggered out alive they attacked with machetes. All the while the guards were calling, “Nevermore.”
Men and women copulated in the corridors; until guards and assistants coming across them beat them to death with anything they could lay their hands on.
A guard on the front gate went down on all fours and began attacking his colleagues with his teeth. A pack of foam-mouthed guard dogs savaged him and left him to die.
A medical assistant pulled one of the female assistants into a corner of the lab and knocked her out with the handset of a telephone. Using a scalpel he slit open her clothing, removed it all, then surgically and skilfully removed her skin. He cut round and removed her lips and eyes, placing them neatly on the folded heap of flesh and clothes. Then he raped her.
Zoë and Daniel lay motionless in bed. Daniel was awake looking down at the sleeping girl.
His mind was filled with a surfeit of emotions. Guilt tormented him; still mourning Imogen he had fallen into bed with a stranger he had met less than twenty-four hours ago. The thoughts he had dismissed about behaviour after funerals had come true for him and he didn’t know how to handle them. He had rarely, if ever, had one-night stands, and here he was naked, and replete after not giving a thought about Imogen as he abandoned himself.
Zoë seemed to be sleeping but she wasn’t.
He had been surprised how desperate his needs had been, and he had performed athletically as if he had a point to prove. The bruises on his body urged him on, as the point he proved was perhaps that he was still alive; no matter how guilty he felt about it, he was alive, and she was dead.
Zoë had an itch in her head, like tiny insects crawling across her brain. Daniel started to stroke her forehead very gently; but the more he stroked her head the more the sullen tension built up in her. Stroke; the muscles in her throat tensed. Stroke; the leg muscles bunched, ready to kick out. Stroke, and the insects in her head scurried away into the shadows.
Her hand was hanging loosely out of the bed. As her forehead was stroked so she was stroking a long bladed knife by the side of the bed. Stroke; she felt the sharp blade. Stroke; she felt the weight of the handle. Stroke, a
nd she felt the pointed end.
Suddenly the tension was too much to bear and she opened her eyes, sat upright in bed and screamed.
“What’s wrong?” Daniel tried to hold her, but she was shaking uncontrollably.
Slowly she succumbed to his calm, and folded herself in his arms. “Just a bad dream,” she said.
“Maybe you could do with a drink?”
She struggled out of his embrace. “Good idea. I’ll get them.” She swung her legs out of bed, glanced down for the knife she had been stroking; it was her shoe.
“I’ll have a quick shower, if that’s all right?” Daniel said.
He went through into the bathroom, got into the shower, and began to shower. The water was hot, and he relaxed, the steam making him feel drowsy. He washed vigorously, feeling good. His restricted vision could just about recognise a shape outside the shower curtain. He stopped washing and waited. The water cascaded off his body; he could hear his own breathing above the jet of water. The shape came back. The curtain was ripped back and Imogen got in with him. Already naked, she wrapped her arms around him. Her tongue darted over him, echoes of past love making exciting and tantalising him. As soon as she had materialised so she seemed to disappear, and the water soon ran cold.
Drying himself Daniel lay on the bed.
In the kitchen Zoë prepared sandwiches to go with the coffee. The knife she used was long and sharp and pointed. It cut the bread easily. When she was finished she put the food and coffee on a tray; she put the knife on the tray as well. Her eyes were blank, her movements automatic.
She walked into the bedroom where Daniel smiled at her from the bed. Zoë handed him one of the empty cups, and he held it up to her so she could pour his coffee from the jug. She started to pour coffee into his cup, then moved her hand so that she was pouring it directly into his face. He screamed as the scalding liquid burned his eyes and skin. He brought his hands up instinctively to protect himself but Zoë smacked him hard on the head with the coffee jug. He fell back with blood slipping from his lip.
Zoë took the knife from the tray and pushed everything else away. She climbed onto the bed and straddled Daniel so that his arms were pinned against his sides. She placed the knife at his throat.
Daniel managed to open one eye. He could see Zoë; she was smiling sweetly.
“Trapped?”
She leaned forward on the knife and thrust it through his neck, into the pillow beneath. His blood spurted into her face. Calmly she pulled the knife out and wiped it on her leg. She got off the limp body and stood from the bed. She tore at anything she could reach with the knife. She ripped curtains, tore the bedclothes, raked the carpet, slashed the wallpaper.
She turned to Daniel’s body. She slit it open from chest to groin, and tiny white maggots spilled out. It was as if someone had slapped her round the face. The spell was broken and she recoiled in horror from the savaged body.
The maggots flopped onto the floor and she hit out at them with the knife. She seemed surprised to find the knife in her hand. She turned it on herself, cutting her wrists, slicing her skin until the blood flowed like water.
Robert Moreland was in the canteen. He sat at one of the tables, the surface of it was covered in tomato sauce, an ironic parody of the blood he knew had been spilled. He threw his mind around the centre as if it was in a pinball machine, but there was nothing there. Wait, he thought he could detect…a faint pulse, in one of the bungalows.
The door to Field’s bungalow was open, and Robert went in. Fields was curled in the foetal position on the carpet, his arms wrapped around his head.
Robert knelt beside him and touched his shoulder.
“Get them off me,” Fields pleaded. “Don’t let them get me.”
Robert shook him. “Chris, it’s all right. There’s nothing here.”
Eventually, Fields began to calm, and Robert tried placing words directly into his thoughts.
‘I need your help. We may be the only ones left.’
At first Fields seemed confused; he put his hands either side of his head as if he wanted to pull the words out. Then he realised who was talking to him.
“Julia is next door.” His eyes darted around the room as he spoke. He was still uncertain if he was safe in there or not.
Julia opened the door wrapped in a huge towel. Fluff from the towel was stuck to her skin, red and sticky.
“Are you all right?” Fields asked.
She leaned forward and brushed a cockroach from his shoulder. “Same as you I would guess.”
‘Shaken not stirred.’
Julia smiled grimly as the words inserted themselves into her mind. Fields wasn’t quite adept at it yet and the sensation tickled.
Robert was searching the bungalow ensuring they were alone. When he was satisfied they were he said. “There may be just the three of left. That may be what he intended.”
“Or maybe we were too strong for him.” Fields suggested.
Robert shook his head. “Together we can only hope we are, but separately…I think he was so busy with everything…everybody else, that we were occupied until he came back for us.”
As best he could he had explained his theory about Frank holding Michael; about Michael’s transformation; and about why they were all called here. He didn’t believe either of them fully understood what he was saying, and they certainly didn’t appreciate the possibilities of what Michael had become, or why.
Julia sat on a chair, and absent-mindedly rubbed her hair with the towel. “Is everyone else dead?” She sounded like a child learning Santa Claus didn’t exist.
An extensive search of the centre had found no one else alive. More in hope than true expectancy they had come to Zoë’s bungalow. She had been the last one seen with Daniel.
“There are no lights on.” Julia observed.
Fields tried the door. “Locked.”
They stood in the still night, wondering what to do, but the dark sky gave no answers; clouds scudded across, sheltering the pale dead face of the moon, hiding the stars that sparkled like sequins on a forgotten actress.
“I’ll try around the back,” Fields said. “Maybe there’s a window open.”
Julia touched his arm. The gesture said to be careful.
It was only after he had disappeared from their sight that they heard the scream.
Robert tried to force the door but it was solid. The screams got louder. Then they heard the laughter; almost like the laughter of the audience at a theatre or TV show; laughing at the entertainment being provided for their amusement. There was the light tinkling, piano key laughter of a group of young women, the belly laugh of men, using the comedy to release their pent up emotions. Above all the voices they could hear a bass rumbling sound like a huge beast laughing.
Lights in the bungalow began to flash on and off, strobe lighting or camera flashes in sequence. They heard wood splitting; cracking noises as if furniture was being splintered. The laughter persisted but other noises were mingled there as well; nightmare noises that might come from deformed mouths of creatures that live below the ground, fractured noises that bore no relation to human sound.
Then there was silence; and that was so much worse.
Robert beckoned Julia to stay where she was and he cautiously edged into the bungalow.
All the furniture was smashed into tiny pieces, and there was blood everywhere. The centre light was swinging from side to side, creating shifting shadows in the corners of the room.
Zoë was spread-eagled on the floor amidst the debris, part of the damage. There was a broken table lamp between her legs, the end forced inside her. It was still switched on, and occasionally her body jolted in a mockery of movement as an electric current passed through her. Her breasts were torn off; a lighted candle was stuck into her mouth, her eyes hung down her cheeks on thin threads.
Daniel was curled beside her, a large crucifix poking from his anus. His genitals had been cut off, and dangled from his mouth. His fingers had been sk
ilfully removed and placed on his chest in a random pattern.
The room was charred from immense heat; there were hoof prints on the floor, and claw marks on the walls; teeth marks on both bodies.
“What the…” Fields had got in through a back window.
Suddenly the bungalow started to shake.
“It’s still here.” Robert shouted. “Get out quickly.”
Daniel moved on the floor. Zoë was writhing in sexual ecstasy, pushing the broken lamp in and out of her vagina with increasing speed. She was sucking on the candle, wax dripping onto her face like scattered semen; moaning softly as though in the throes of orgasm.
The bungalow was vibrating violently, making it difficult to get to the door.
Daniel straddled Zoë, and began to move in rhythm with her. Robert pushed his thoughts into both their minds; they were both quite dead.
Robert got Julia and Fields out as the walls began to crack. There was a huge explosion, and tiles fell from the roof, smoke bellowed from the windows. There was a burst of light and the bungalow imploded; falling in on itself in a rush of smoke and dust.
After the noise subsided the silence of the night seemed to mock them with false serenity.
A Weaving of Ancient Evil Page 28
