by WR Armstrong
There really wasn’t much left of the mortician. Straps had been brutally murdered, his body cannibalised. Milo finally came to his senses. With one shaking hand he fumbled for his mobile phone. With the other he struggled to remove the regulation heavy-duty batten he carried from its holster. While he was doing this he was distracted by another noise, and turned his head in the direction of the swing doors. He could make out someone’s silhouette behind the Perspex. He glanced back at Straps, or rather what remained of Straps, with the thought that whoever had killed the mortician was now out there waiting to get him. Deciding he had no other option but to fight his way out of his predicament, he walked quickly over to the swing doors, the batten raised. As he reached the doors, they suddenly burst inwards sending him crashing to the floor.
He raised himself up onto his elbows just in time to see half a dozen figures enter the room, their faces and clothing stained with blood he presumed had come from Straps. They came to stand over him: a waking nightmare. Dead, his mind screamed, they were dead, each and every one of them, even the pretty teenage girl who showed no outward signs of being thus, save for the eerie unfeeling look in her eyes. They were dead, and they were about to do to him what they had done to Straps.
The girl, her face smeared with blood, smiled enigmatically and surprised him by speaking, “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” she told him. Her smile broadened to reveal a set of blood stained teeth.”This won’t take long, I promise.”
Milo shook his head in utter disbelief, tried to speak but couldn’t. He made to rise but was prevented from doing so by the girl, who promptly struck him in the head using her booted foot, rendering him semi conscious. In that instant Milo was forced to accept only a miracle could save him from certain death.
The miracle never came.
When it was over, and the feeding sounds had stopped, Milo’s killers set about raiding the mortuary lockers in order to claim their own, just as others of their kind had before them, and would continue to do throughout the coming nights.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
His overnight bag packed, McGrath showered and changed into fresh clothes, checked that the house was secured and headed for the door. If he left now, he would miss the rush hour and be with Kate by early evening. He was looking forward to the coming weekend in the West Country. Besides allowing him time with Kate, it would serve as a welcome relief from the trials and tribulations of the past few weeks. As if the tube disaster wasn’t bad enough, serious concerns were being expressed in certain quarters that the exposed burial pit was somehow contaminating people’s minds, turning them into devil worshipping, cannibalistic killers.
There were in excess of a dozen murder victims to date. The most recent had been discovered that morning. The man’s body was found in the basement of his London home. Not a great deal remained of David Webster, to the extent that identification was only made possible through the use of dental records. It was the same story as the others. Brutal murder followed by cannibalisation of the corpse. A cross, large enough to support an adult person was also found at the scene of the crime. It was bizarre and frightening, and the problem was escalating with the police no closer to discovering the motives for the crimes than they were at the start.
The Press didn’t help matters with their graphic accounts of the incidents, making much of the fact that at least three of the murders were due to dog attack, whilst attributing the others to the work of humans.
In Shoreditch, a Chinese woman found roaming the streets screaming hysterically insisted when questioned, that the dead had come amongst the living and Armageddon was nigh. She had suffered severe injuries at the hands of what she described as the demonised corpse of her husband, an advanced MS sufferer whose life she’d taken in order to prevent him suffering further agonies. Her physical state suggested she’d been lucky to escape with her own life.
Witnesses, one of whom happened to be an off duty reporter, maintained in statements to police that the woman, a survivor of the tube crash, claimed voices instructed her to kill her husband, and to then crucify the body in order it be resurrected “like Jesus”.
The body had yet to be found.
The general public was growing nervous. The news media continued to milk the situation for all it was worth. One newspaper had published a story titled, “Cannibalistic attacks of the Living Dead”. The paper had researched into the subject of the living dead with gusto; using material that might have come from such notable sources as Tales from the Vault, Creep Show, and other junk horror comics. The mythology, which purported the human brain was needed to sustain the existence of a member of the living dead, was used to explain why the brains of murder victims had been eaten.
In the meantime, still troubled by his brief exchange with the individual from the coroner’s office, McGrath discovered that the man in question had been found dead at his home earlier that week, murdered in cold blood. A large homemade cross was also discovered at the scene of the crime. And then there was the disappearance of his wife that coincided with the time of his death. It really did seem as if the burial pit exuded some kind of nefarious influence over many of those who came into contact with it. As if to reinforce the point, McGrath received a phone call from one of his foremen, who voiced concerns about the increasing level of absenteeism in the reconstruction workforce, and the deteriorating attitude of those remaining. McGrath asked to speak to Bill Wilkinson, only to be told that he too was absent from work.
“If the situation gets much worse,” said the foreman, “we’ll be forced to draft in outside help, which will be expensive.”
By the time McGrath finally headed off, heavy rush hour traffic dogged his progress, which didn’t ease until he reached the outer suburbs. Gradually, however, London began to feel light years away. As McGrath joined the motorway heading west, a song began to play on the car radio titled, “Cross of Destruction” which turned his thoughts to the crosses found at the crime scenes. He recalled what Carrington had told him about the history of the cross; how ancient civilisations had revered the sign long before Jesus Christ appeared on the earth, and how it supposedly acted as a cosmic gateway blessed with life giving properties.
He thought about the crucifixion of Christ, wondering if the cross upon which the self proclaimed Son of God died had in some way aided his corporeal resurrection from the grave. Was he the first? Something Kate had once said pricked at his memory, concerning the way in which the barbarians led by the feared Attila the Hun were able to crush the mighty Roman Empire. Legend stated that the Attila had butchered, and then ritualistically crucified innocent men, women and children, in accordance with ancient satanic doctrine, allowing him to form an indestructible army of the dead, against which even the formidable Roman armed forces were defenceless.
McGrath broke the journey stopping at a country pub, where he tried to come to terms with recent events. The ramifications of the ongoing murderous saga occurring in London were too horrifying to entertain. Corpses rising from the dead, feeding on the flesh of the living in order to restore their bodies to an acceptable living form. It was hard to believe it was happening, yet the evidence was becoming irrefutable. If people like Marcos Powell and others were to be believed, corpses were rising up intent on devouring anything vaguely resembling a living human being.
He travelled on, turning those same thoughts over and over in his mind until finally he arrived at the village of Linden. It was just as Kate had described, being a quaint collection of yellow brick buildings in a glorious English countryside setting. McGrath rounded a sharp bend in the road and the church suddenly came into view, standing to his left, shielded from the road by high hedge. It was of a classical style with a square tower, mullioned windows with trefoil headed lights and stepped buttresses. Kate had instructed him to park up on the roadside and to call the rectory on his mobile, allowing two rings. She would be waiting for the call and then join him outside. McGrath suspected it was her way of keeping him from crossing paths
with Chrichton.
He dialled the number scribbled in his diary, allowing the agreed two rings, and settled down to wait. Soon afterwards he saw Kate approaching from the direction of the rectory. She was dressed in a flattering black trouser suit and cream coloured blouse. Her long blonde hair was tied back in a braided ponytail. She was smiling broadly, and greeted McGrath with a long, lingering kiss.
“How’ve you been?” McGrath asked once the pleasantries were over.
“Okay, I guess.”
McGrath sensed something was amiss. “What is it, Kate, what’s the matter?”
She sighed.
“Want to tell me about it?”
“This will sound crazy,” she said, “I’m so happy at the moment, and so happy with you, especially: I’m scared that it won’t last, that something will happen to spoil it. Terrible things are happening Paul, and the problem is spreading. I’m afraid for the future.”
“What else is worrying you,” McGrath asked, suspecting there was more.
“The manuscript we’ve been working on,” Kate said, “The contents are alarming in view of the troubles affecting London.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“I’m not sure you’ll like what you hear.”
“Try me.”
On the short drive over to the hotel they were booked into, Kate confided in McGrath all that she’d learned from reading Chrichton’s notes: notes which led her to conclude that devil worship was being successfully practised all over London with horrific implications. Whilst McGrath accepted there were certain similarities between incidents allegedly recorded in the manuscript, and what was presently happening in the capital, he was of the opinion that the document might easily be the product of an over active imagination, the similarities coincidental.
“You’re mistaken,” Kate argued. “Like it or not, the dead are rising up as we speak. It’s spreading like the worst disease imaginable Paul, and I don’t think anyone is going to be able to contain it.”
They entered the hotel car park. “Try not to worry,” McGrath told Kate as they parked up. “Everything will be all right. The authorities are working round the clock to try to bring the situation under control.”
Kate looked unconvinced. “Nice hotel,” she said changing the subject.
“Glad you think so.”
They booked in and caught the lift up to the room in virtual silence. As McGrath closed the bedroom door he took Kate in his arms and held her close, knowing the time they had to spend here together was important to both of them.
“Let’s try to forget about the troubles and enjoy the weekend,” he whispered into her ear.
“You’re right,” she said allowing her body to relax against his. When finally she broke the embrace, the strain had left her face and she was smiling. “We both need to ease up and chill out,” she announced, more for her own benefit perhaps than for McGrath’s. “And why worry anyway, when ninety five percent of what you worry about fails to happen?”
“Who says?” McGrath asked.
“Some DJ on the radio...”
“Do you think he’s right?”
“I’m keeping an open mind.”
She gazed around the room, which was spacious with high ornate ceilings and was lavishly furnished. Two matching Elizabethan chairs held court next to an inviting king size bed, which she playfully tested for comfort before inviting McGrath to join her.
Laying in repose her mood shifted: the playfulness in her demeanour suddenly replaced by longing and desire. She stood, briefly, in order to remove her clothing, instructing McGrath to follow her lead.
“Are you always so direct?” he asked as he struggled to unbutton his shirt.
She unhooked her bra, allowing it to drop to the floor. “Don’t talk, just do.”
McGrath did as he was told.
Naked, beneath freshly laundered sheets, McGrath took Kate in his arms and was about to kiss her when he hesitated inexplicably.
“The dinner reservation,” he said.
“What of it,” Kate asked.
“If we’re late, we lose the table.”
“A typical man,” Kate said, “always thinking about his stomach. Lose the table and we simply order room service. Meanwhile, we can have fun and build up a healthy appetite. What do you say to that, Mr McGrath?” Without waiting for a reply she disappeared beneath the bed covers, leaving the ex-soldier with no other option but to lay back and think of England.
The lovemaking over, they lay in each other’s arms talking intimately of their future hopes and dreams, before finally, McGrath reminded Kate about the dinner reservation.
“I don’t know about you, but I could eat a horse,” he said, climbing out of bed.
“Couldn’t agree more,” Kate responded, “Must be all the exercise.”
2.
In the plush hotel restaurant a party of diners at the next table were overheard discussing the crisis affecting London, appearing to enjoy relating the gruesome happenings to one another, secure in the knowledge that they were far removed from the escalating troubles, ignorant of the true horror.
“People are slaughtering each other for no apparent reason,” one of the diners was heard to say.
“And then crucifying them,” added another.
A third member of the party claimed it to be the Devil’s work, quite clearly taking his observations seriously, only to be ridiculed by a beefy looking man, obviously the worse for drink, who said, “It’s all hogwash if you want my opinion. They’re just stories made up to sell newspapers.”
“I heard it on the radio,” a nondescript man in a bow tie said as if that fact alone settled the dispute. “People are saying the day of reckoning has arrived and Armageddon is here.”
“What the hell is Armageddon?” slurred the beefcake, his brain addled from the effects of alcohol.
“It’s supposed to be when the dead rise up,” the bow tie patiently explained.
“And do what exactly?”
Bow tie rolled his eyes in disdain. “Why, eat everybody I suppose. How should I know?”
Kate reached across the table taking McGrath’s hand. “What do you think Paul? Do you think what those people are saying is true?”
He gazed into his drink, thoughtful. “To be honest, I don’t know what to think.”
“But you don’t deny something very peculiar is happening?”
“It doesn’t mean I can offer any explanations,” McGrath said at an obvious loss.
Those at the next table continued with their distasteful discussion surrounding recent events in the capital; the beefcake making light of the subject, cracking increasingly offensive jokes about the living dead. The more he drank the louder and cruder he became. Everyone would have agreed his antics were past a joke. Even his fellow guests were starting to distance themselves from him. Suddenly he rose to his feet to include the whole restaurant in his objectionable routine. Finally, out of patience, McGrath left his seat and intervened, reminding the man he was in a public place, advising him to remedy his unseemly behaviour.
“And who might you be?” came the testy reply.
Calmly McGrath said, “You’re really not doing yourself any favours my friend. Now why don’t you sit back down and let everyone enjoy their evening in peace?”
The man scowled, cursing as he did so.
“I’ll knock your bloody head off your shoulders if you’re not careful,” he threatened.
“You really need to calm down,” McGrath advised.
Suddenly and without any warning the man aimed a wild punch at McGrath, which the ex-soldier easily avoided, whilst managing to manoeuvre himself into a position whereby he could restrain his aggressor, exerting just enough pressure to cause a liberal amount of pain and discomfort. The commotion brought members of staff running, including an alarmed assistant manager who quickly ushered both parties into his office to sort out the dispute. After much discussion, in which the beefcake repeatedly accused McGrat
h of starting the trouble, the matter was resolved.
McGrath found Kate sitting in the foyer, visibly upset.
“Let’s take a walk, get some fresh air,” he said but she ignored the suggestion. Instead she drew his attention to the fact that his shirt was torn.
“Must’ve happened in the scuffle,” he said, “I’ll slip up to the room and change it.”
“Don’t bother. I doubt we’ll be partying the night away now.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” he insisted.
“You could have ignored the idiot! Christ Paul, do you always have to act the tough guy?”
“Kate, you’re being unfair.”
She sighed. “It may not have been your fault, but it nevertheless reflected badly on you, and on us.”
“Are you saying I should have just let it go?”
“Yes. I suppose I am.” Kate looked away, as if mentally shutting McGrath out.
Just then an elderly couple wandered by. They had occupied an adjoining table at the time of the incident. As if to prove Kate’s point they stared at McGrath contemptuously, as if he were the guilty party.
For the sake of their relationship McGrath conceded Kate had a valid point and managed to coerce her into taking the walk he had suggested. They left the hotel and strolled along the deserted high street, until they came to a wooden bench where they sat down. It was McGrath who broke the silence, returning to the subject of the troubles plaguing the capital.
“Do you truly believe the manuscript is instrumental, Kate?”
“It’s hard not to,” she said with a weary sigh. “The brutality of the attacks, the accounts given by the alleged murder suspects, the crosses supposedly used for the purpose of crucifixion. There is too much there for it to be mere coincidence. It’s scary, Paul. When I think about the myth surrounding the raising of the dead and equate it with what’s been going on in London it frightens me. It’s as if the myth is no longer that.”
