by WR Armstrong
Using the element of surprise, he sprang forward and delivered a powerful kick to her body. The impact knocked her off balance. She fell heavily into those advancing behind her. Casting one last despairing look in her direction, he turned heel and fled.
He passed through the doorway, closing the door behind him, and found himself in yet another corridor that sloped upwards with more doors leading off. The place was a gruesome maze. Profoundly shocked and dismayed by the sudden turn of events, McGrath hurriedly reloaded the Taurus, trying not to think what hid behind those doors. He shone the flashlight along the corridor. Water dripped from the ceiling. Moss covered the walls. The floor was slippery. One of the doors opened.
A figure emerged.
It was another young boy.
This one carried an axe.
McGrath quickly weighed up his options. To go back the way he’d come would be suicide. There was only one avenue left open to him. He would have to dispatch the child who now walked towards him grinning insanely, the axe raised in readiness to strike. He aimed the gun, telling himself that the child was anything but, firing a single shot into its head, stopping it dead in its tracks. Its knees buckled, the axe wavered in its hands, but it remained stubbornly upright. McGrath fired another shot into its forehead, and this time it toppled forward landing face down on the floor.
McGrath heard movement the other side of the door. There was no time to waste. Any moment now his tormentors would be through to him. He tried to think what to do for the best, wondering how much more of this madness he could take. He stepped over the body of the boy before hurrying up the slope. He heard the door behind forced open, and turned to see the first of his pursuers burst through into the corridor, the corpse of an Indian man, eyes bulging and teeth bared. McGrath fired a shot, aiming for the head, but missed. The man kept coming, closely followed by others, eager to catch up to him.
The ex-soldier hurried away along the corridor, his footsteps echoing loudly in the confined space. He arrived breathless at a fork, took the left and found himself heading down an incline. At the bottom was an intersection. Again he went left; hoping the direction he was taking might lead him in a circle back to the crypt. Thoughts of Kate and the horror that had befallen her were fast disappearing, replaced by concern for his personal survival.
He thought he heard chanting somewhere in the distance. He ran at a sprint along yet another narrow winding corridor before reaching a door, sturdier than the others, which he forced open, before shining the torch into the dark interior of the room beyond. Its walls were decorated with esoteric spiralling symbols in relief, and numerous designs of the cross. He stared in horrified fascination at the figures he saw congregated roundabout. There were perhaps twenty of them in various states of degeneration. They were in the throes of Pagan worship, kneeling in homage before a huge stone cross upon which was a crucified figure also carved from stone. McGrath doubted the figure portrayed Christ, but was a representation of the act of crucifixion used to resurrect the dead. The chanting stopped. Heads turned his way.
The unholy crowd slowly rose as one and lurched towards him. McGrath commanded them to stay back but was ignored. He raised the gun, firing indiscriminately in a rare uncontrolled demonstration of anger, frustration and fear. Two of the advancing figures took a direct hit to the head and fell, but most kept coming, ignoring the threat of the gun. McGrath knew that to stay and fight would mean certain death. There were too many to battle against. He could hear the others approaching along the corridor. He must get out if for no other reason than to save his sanity. Proof that the dead might coexist with the living was too much for even him to take. The idea that fully rejuvenated, these creatures could be capable of successfully infiltrating the human race filled him with dread. For all anyone knew it might already have happened!
He pulled the door closed, reloaded the gun and ran. Rounding another corner he came to a dead stop. A figure blocked his way. The man was short and stocky. The flashlight highlighted the pallid texture of his skin, the dark haunting circles around his eyes and worst of all, the cruel mocking grin on his face. McGrath had a fully loaded chamber, which meant he had five bullets at his disposal. It took two to fell the individual, the first blowing away half his head, the second landing dead centre of the forehead. McGrath stepped over the body, careful to avoid contact, remembering what had happened with the girl, and hurried off, aware the others were closing in on him. He could hear footsteps behind and agitated voices. He ran at a steady pace, rounding another corner, hoping it would lead him out of the maze of corridors to freedom.
The dog came out of nowhere, knocking him clean off his feet. The torch fell and rolled away, its light flickering and then dying, plunging the corridor into darkness. Struggling to fend off the savage animal McGrath pistol-whipped it with the butt of the Taurus. The dog seemed impervious to pain, hanging on grimly, intent on inflicting as much suffering as possible. Catastrophe struck when McGrath dropped the gun. He groped around in the darkness, managing to relocate it over by the wall. The snarling dog bit into his thigh and he reeled in agony. The gun was his only chance. He had three bullets left and had to make them count. He tried to hold the rampaging dog still, managed to press the end of the barrel against its head and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was amplified a hundred fold within the confines of the underground labyrinth, but the bullet failed to still the brutish animal. He fired again, and then again in sheer desperation. This time the dog succumbed, falling limp, relaxing its jaws and McGrath was able to get free. The pain was unbearable. His thigh bled profusely. He used the combat knife to cut away his trouser leg, using the material to compress the wound. It wasn’t ideal but it was the best he could do given the circumstances. At least it would stem the blood loss. He climbed unsteadily to his feet and hobbled along the corridor in what he hoped was the direction of the crypt. It was impossible to orient himself in the darkness. He arrived at another intersection. He had no time to think, for those who pursued him were very close. His mobility had suffered badly as a result of the savagery of the dog attack. He could barely manage to bend his injured leg and when he did, the pain was excruciating. He needed to reload the gun, but there wasn’t time.
He looked left and saw that the corridor led upwards, hopefully to ground level. Heading off, the sounds of his assailants ringing in his ears, he eventually arrived at a door, which he forced open hoping another nasty surprise wasn’t in store for him. This time steps led upwards. He climbed steadfastly, managing to ignore the pain in his leg. He had suffered injuries before, a gunshot wound to the arm in Northern Ireland, a knife wound to the chest in Iraq, but nothing like this. By the time he neared the top of the steps and saw the trapdoor, he was growing faint.
He pushed upwards against the trap door, clueless as to where it might lead, afraid it would be immovable, but it gave with surprising ease. Exhausted, he had barely the strength to pull himself up through the small square hole. He was almost there when suddenly a hand grabbed his ankle, dragging him back down. In the blackness below he saw shadowed faces staring balefully up at him. He might have been gazing into the bowels of Hell itself. They were lunatics, all of them. And then he saw Kate down there: acting just like the rest of them, encouraging him to surrender and join the inhuman brood.
Ignoring the pain in his leg he kicked out violently, connecting with the shaven head of the man who’d grabbed him. The man fell away and he banged down the trap door, bringing his weight to bear, whilst trying to orient himself. A door stood straight ahead, part open, beyond which was a room dimly illuminated by moonlight. McGrath was suddenly aware he was gazing into the crypt. The labyrinth had been designed cleverly it seemed, allowing access and departure by two separate routes.
Angry fists pounded the trap door as those below tried to dislodge his weight and raise it in order to break through. It was obvious he wouldn’t be able to hold it down for much longer. He thought he heard approaching footsteps coming along the tunnel
behind him. He rose unsteadily to his feet and scrambled through the stone door into the crypt. Stepping over the bodies of the girl and her two male cohorts, he fled into the wood.
EPILOGUE
McGrath survived that night but never told the tale. He contacted the police anonymously, informing them about the crypt behind the rectory at St Anthony’s, which concealed the labyrinth, but neglected to say what dwelled there, afraid his story might be dismissed as the insane ranting of a madman. Later, he was to discover that the police had acted on his tip off. A search of the labyrinth had been made, which revealed human remains but no living dead. The ghouls had left in the nick of time, taking their casualties with them it seemed. According to subsequent Press reports the police were working on the premise that a satanic coven was operating in the area.
It also became common knowledge that Abe Chrichton was found dead in a cupboard in his garage; or rather what remained of him was found in a cupboard in his garage. A broken neck was deemed to be the cause of death. Someone or something with an insatiable appetite and a sickening lust for cannibalism had then sucked a large amount of blood from his body, before feeding on his flesh. It didn’t take the ex-soldier long to work out that Chrichton was present in the garage, albeit in a cannibalised form, on the night he had discovered Kate there—Kate, who was Chrichton’s victim before he became hers.
In the aftermath McGrath chose to remain in London, where the ritualistic killings and disappearances continued to haunt the populace. People grew paranoid. Copycat killings took place. The burial site was blamed directly for the menace, although explanations to explain why lacked any real conviction. The archaeological excavation was halted indefinitely. The Catholic Church took the threat seriously enough to perform an exorcism. Reconstruction of the damaged section of underground was treated similarly before its completion. In light of these events McGrath felt he had no other choice than to stay on in the trouble spot. People had to be forewarned of the danger they faced. More importantly, the living dead had to be hunted down and dealt with.
And then of course, there was Kate, who dominated his dreams and haunted his waking hours. He was determined to track her down no matter what it took, and when finally he was confronted by the awful reality of what she had become, he would see to it personally that her body was laid permanently to rest.
THE END
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR.
Dear Reader,
I’d just like to thank you for taking the time and trouble to read my novel, HELL PIT. I only hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Why not let me know either way by using the “review” facility on Smashwords.com. If you did enjoy HELL PIT, why not check out my other novels, A CRY FROM BEYOND and BARK AT THE MOON, together with one of my short stories, THE UNINVITED, which is taken from my compilation of short stories entitled, THE LITTLE BOOK OF DARK TALES, signed and dedicated copies of which can be purchased by visiting my website at www.wrarmstrong.com
Thanks once again,
W. R. Armstrong.
