Thirst (Thirst Series)

by Guy N Smith

  Now, night, he dreamed, was a different proposition altogether. There was nothing quiet about the nocturnal hours. Everybody stayed indoors after dusk. Nobody out on the streets, yet bedlam reigned. You could not call them people, even if they did physically resemble humans. Throwbacks - not all that far back, either. A breed on their own, having their ancestry in the drop outs and drug addicts of the old Birmingham. The city was a natural breeding ground for them. Parasites that bred like rabbits in underground concrete warrens. Nobody bothered them. They multiplied quicker than they died. Soon their numbers were approaching those of the people who lived above. It was bound to happen.

  Their nocturnal habits originated from the weeks of terror before the Death. Sleeping by day, prowling by night. The streets were always fair game by night. The law took the easy way out, and advised citizens to stay indoors at night. Then they began stopping in at nights themselves, withdrawing patrols after dark. That was when things got really bad.

  You could see them any night. They always prowled in packs, hunting everything, missing nothing. The citizens who lived above ground played a game each night. They would throw a loaf out and watch it bounce on the road in front of the scavengers. Their hunting howl, long and mournful, would change suddenly to a ravenous roar. Maybe twenty or thirty of them, male and female, ragged or naked, depending on the time of year, would leap on that oblong of bouncing, stale bread. The first one to get its grimed talons on it usually never had so much as a bite with those yellow, broken, decayed teeth. The others would fall upon the unfortunate, their fangs biting deep into unwashed flesh, their whole lust then being diverted to the pumping, scarlet fluid. Watching the acts of cannibalism became a spectator sport in itself for the people. After a while it lost its novelty. Perhaps it was the vegetarians who finally made off with the forgotten loaf. Eventually, though, everybody became bored with it all, and did not even bother looking down when the savage howls were heard after nightfall.

  Blythe was there, compelled to watch as the packs ran down and caught a young girl. He could not imagine what she was doing out, for it was well after nine o'clock. Probably she was a prostitute from the slum area, and a displeased pimp had kicked her out of one of the brothels. Maybe she thought she'd be safe at the other end of town. Nobody was safe anywhere, any night. He was sitting reading when he heard their baying, and then her screaming. He went to the window. There was no question of going to her aid. Apart from the fact that nobody helped anybody these days, he wouldn't have stood a chance. She'd tried to run the moment she spotted them lurking in the shadows. No doubt, in a straight race, she would easily have outrun them. But there was one snag: there was nowhere to run to. No ground floor apartment tenant was going to risk opening his door and letting her slip inside. There were plenty of faces at the windows, leering, drooling, in sadistic anticipation.

  Suddenly, just as she appeared to be pulling away from the pack, another bunch came round the corner and blocked her escape route. She turned, petrified, screaming. Then they were on her. It wasn't just flesh they craved this time. They wanted her body first. Mostly they were fighting each other, as dogs will over a bitch, some finding blood more satisfying than mating. Not so the big fellow, a giant brute, naked even on this winter evening. His whole body seemed to be covered in jet black hair, wild and free like a barbarian of old. He could easily have slaughtered half a dozen of them by himself if he had wanted to. He didn't. He just wanted the girl. Reaching down he lifted her off the ground with one hand, and laid her on top of a low wall. Holding her down with one hand, he began ripping the clothes from her body with the other. She turned her head aside in an attempt to avoid his foetid breath, but he did not seem to notice this. His semi-human paws were mauling her nakedness, prising apart her thighs so that he could feast his eyes upon what lay between them. Meanwhile the others had gathered round, muttering, snarling, yet fearful of incurring the wrath of their leader. Then, in view of both his own kind and the spectators in the windows above, he took her, grunting and gasping the whole time, obviously obtaining some extra sensation from her screams.

  At last it was all over. She appeared to be unconscious. She may well have been dead. The brute straightened up and bared his teeth at his minions. A low mutter ran through the assembly. They were demanding their share of the prize. He would have to concede in order to maintain his authority.

  He picked her up again, hoisting her well above his head with apparent ease. The mutterings were rising to a crescendo. He was taunting them, whetting their appetite. For fully two minutes he remained thus and then, without warning, he hurled her into their midst - the surging, stinking mass of sub-human ferocity converging on her before she hit the ground. Each of them wanted something to satisfy his own craving, a lust which could only result in a violent dismembering, the remains of which would be cleaned up by the sewer rats long before dawn.

  As they pulled her apart, Blythe saw the face of the girl in his dream for the first time. Stark terror gripped him. There was no mistaking those torn and bruised features, the wide pleading hazel eyes, the bloody matted dark hair: Carol Evans!

  He wanted to go to her aid, but his limbs would not respond. He exerted every muscle in his body, but it was futile. Fate had decreed that he must be a spectator. This was his punishment for destroying the old Birmingham and altering its social structure. A living hell: they would not grant him death.

  ‘No!’ He forced his vocal chords to function, screaming. ‘No! Let her go you bastards. Take me if you want me, but let her go. She's innocent. I'm the guilty one. I made you what you are today!’

  The scene before him was spinning into oblivion, a dark whirlpool that sucked the raving savages down into it, taking Carol with them.

  ‘No! No! You've got it all wrong. Take me with you.’

  He felt hands on his body, not the grasping clutching talons of the barbarians, but gentle soothing fingers.

  ‘It's all right, Ron. It's me, Carol. You've had a nightmare.’

  ‘Thank God! Oh, thank God you're all right.’ He clung to her, the sweat running from his body.

  ‘You're safe … in bed with me.’ Her lips found his, brushing them lightly then crushing them in a lingering kiss.

  ‘I'm sorry,’ he fought to bring his voice under control. ‘I guess this whole situation has got on top of me. I dreamt that the survivors of this city had been forced to live underground like wild beasts, and the military had taken over.’

  ‘Don't be silly. It couldn't happen.’

  ‘Not right away, admittedly. But suppose this thing spread to the rest of the country, the average citizens reduced to a minimal population. There would be nothing to stop martial law from taking over then.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘It would be impossible for the weedkiller to go beyond Birmingham. Unless terrorists got the idea of poisoning all the water supplies in the country like the Nazis had thought of doing. But anarchy can spread like a prairie fire fanned by the wind.’

  They were both silent. A fiery murky sky outside lit up the dingy room even though the curtains were drawn. The starkness of the bedsitter brought home the nightmare to Ron Blythe. Living like savages, men killed for a pint of pure water; and he and Carol were running with the packs.

  ‘Listen!’ She gripped his arm. ‘I thought I heard something.’

  He held his breath, listening. The bare floorboards outside on the landing creaked. He heard somebody breathing heavily. Then he tensed as the door handle clicked.

  The door opened inwards slowly, its ill-fitting hinges creaking loudly. Somebody was coming inside, a black shape moving in the shadows.

  Blythe was swinging himself from the bed, moving quickly, keeping low, crouching, tensing like a cougar about to spring.

  ‘Stay right where you are,’ came the intruder's voice, harsh and menacing. ‘I can see you plainly against the window. Any tricks, and I'll plough a forty-five slug right through your guts!’

  Blythe halted. His hands
went up above his shoulders. He did not doubt that the other had a gun trained on him. On his own he would have taken a chance, rushed the man. But he had Carol to think about. And that dream was still vivid in his memory, that semi-human savage who killed for the sake of killing.

  Chapter 10

  The siege of Winson Green Prison was in its third day. Smoke spiralled up vertically from the main cell block into a windless sky. Acrid fumes blinded the small band of survivors trapped inside the prison officers' quarters.

  An axe was being used on the heavy wooden door. Several of the panels were already split. It was only a matter of time before the final barricade was breached, and the half dozen warders were virtually out of ammunition.

  Angry voices sounded inside and outside the prison walls. Stones were being hurled by the crowd milling in the street. The main gate was smashed, hanging precariously on its hinges, bodies scattered around it.

  A riot for the sake of a riot. In the beginning somebody had thrown a petrol bomb. Crowds had gathered, standing watching the prisoners on the roof. A military marksman was steadily picking the convicts off - target practice. One of the men had held up an improvised white flag but within seconds a heavy slug had embedded itself in his neck. He hit the flagstones below with a sickening thud, the jagged square of torn sheet floating down after him, draping itself across his huddled form, a white shroud that turned slowly to crimson.

  The watchers outside were incensed. These hastily recruited volunteer forces were revelling in killing. It was kill or be killed, so kill the bastards first.

  There was little hope of the besieged prison officers being relieved. By now even the peacekeeping force was stretched beyond its limits. Here, in Winson Green, as in many other places throughout the city, they would be swamped by the growing tide of violence. Cars blazed and their petrol tanks exploded in the streets all around. Many of those vehicles still intact were having the contents of their fuel tanks syphoned out into empty bottles. The petrol bomb was fast becoming the most widely used weapon of the masses.

  The soldier turned to face the gate as it fell inwards, the mob surging in like stunt circus performers through a fiery hoop. He held his repeating rifle at the hip, forefinger pressing on the trigger, spraying instant death. Men fell, but others were there to take their places, rushing blindly forward, a suicide squad in full cry.

  The rifle was taken from the dead man's hands, the magazine still half full. Firing indiscriminately, the wreckers turned on the prison itself. Prisoners were still clinging to the roof, now almost suffocated amidst the dense black smoke. They wanted to give themselves up, but there was no way down, nobody to accept their surrender.

  The warders concentrated their fire on the hole which the axe had smashed in the door. Leering, smoke-grimed faces were thrown back.

  Then something sailed in through the aperture, a bottle with a burning rag stuffed into its neck. As it smashed against the far wall, a sheet of blinding flame enveloped the whole room.

  Prison warders lay dead and wounded, their uniforms burning on their bodies. The living moaned for help, but there was no mercy. The angry onrush of attackers struck blindly with vicious home-made clubs, table legs with rusty nails protruding, until the flames drove them back.

  The man in solitary confinement sweated because it was hot, not because he was afraid. Calmly he took a crushed cigarette from behind one of his deformed ears and, igniting a match on his thumbnail; gratefully drew tobacco smoke deep into his lungs. He expelled twin streams of smoke from his wide nostrils, and with his back against the wall, waited. There was nothing else to do except wait. One of two alternatives faced him. Either somebody would come and release him, or else he would be left to die in a blazing cell - no compromises.

  He heard them smashing their way into the officers' quarters with an axe, and smiled to himself. He preferred an axe to any other weapon. In the right hands it was more efficient than either gun or knife. And Mike Cummins was an expert at killing with an axe.

  He did not regret the delay of his transfer to Broadmoor. Once there, the odds were that he would stop there. Here it was different. He'd worked out a number of ways of making a break for it. The weedkiller disaster had almost come to his rescue. But the prison riot had foiled him at the last moment. Now he was on his own entirely. Gaolers were trapped in their own gaol.

  Suddenly his eyes narrowed. There was a way, if only somebody would come on the scene; preferably one of those who had broken into the prison.

  He went across to his bunk, and from the rolled blankets he extracted an empty bottle. Eddie, who had smuggled it into his cell, had promised to dispose of the empty. Only it was quite obvious that the little ferret-faced convict wouldn't be showing up. In all probability he had been one of the first to be shot off the roof. He was that kind of man: ill fated, all along the line, serving a sentence for a crime he hadn't committed. He'd killed a fella, been cleared of the charge, and three months later had been put away for a murder that wasn't his. That was British justice today, Cummins reflected.

  Cummins unscrewed the bottle. The label was still intact. Not the best of whiskies - he grinned; more like piss, if you knew your whisky. It was only fitting that it should be refilled with a similar liquid. He unzipped himself and, leaning forward, watched the level rise. Almost half full. He replaced the cap and held the bottle at arm's length, admiring his handiwork. Not bad, considering he hadn't drunk any water lately and he'd been sweating too. The colour was good, just the right shade: dark brown. It would fool anybody, until they took a swig. He laughed and placed the square glass bottle on the table where it could easily be seen by anybody from the corridor.

  It was nearly twenty minutes before he heard somebody coming. Cummins lowered himself to the floor, and lay face downwards. The footsteps were swift, urgent. Three men, he judged; looking into every cell.

  He heard them stop a few feet from where he lay.

  ‘Hey, just look at that!’

  ‘Fuckin' whisky. Half full too.’

  ‘What're we waitin' for?’

  ‘Don't talk like a prick. That guy's a goner, and we ain't got no keys.’

  ‘Let's see if we can find some.’

  ‘Aw, don't be a cunt. This place'll be dust and ashes by the time we found the right one. You gotta gun. Use it, Charlie. Blow the fuckin' lock to pieces.’

  Cummins flinched as he heard the pistol being cocked. The bullet could fly anywhere off these concrete walls if the fella missed. What the hell? It was a chance he had to take.

  The noise of the shot reverberated in the enclosed space. A second report followed almost instantaneously.

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘Stand back. I'll give it another.’

  A third deafening crash, and the grill door swung inwards on well-oiled hinges.

  ‘C'mon. Let's get that whisky before any o' these fuckin' lunatics show up.’

  Cummins raised his head slightly as they stepped over him. He recognised the man with the gun. He didn't know his name, but he was from E-Block, serving a term for armed robbery. The two others he didn't know, but it did not natter.

  An instant decision had to be made by the axe killer. Doubtless he could have escaped easily enough: they had no reason to gun him down; it would just have been a waste of valuable ammunition.

  But a gun, a 1916 Webley .45, meant an awful lot to a man on the run. And Mike Cummins meant to have that revolver.

  He launched himself forward in one perfectly coordinated movement, a leap that took him from a crouching position on to the back of the armed man. One huge hand grabbed the weapon, the other came down in a swift chopping movement on to the unprotected neck.

  The man known as Charlie was dead before he hit the stone-flagged floor. Cummins had the gun, but he had no intention of expending bullets unnecessarily.

  He swung the pistol, the barrel gouging deep into the throat of the startled convict on his right. With a choking sob he man crumpled at the knees.

 
; Two down, one to go. And the third one was reacting swiftly, his boot already destined for Mike Cummins' groin.

  Cummins fired from the hip, instinctive shooting that found its mark in the descending foot, lead against bone, the latter splintering as it took the hit point-blank.

  As his attacker fell Cummins grabbed the bottle from the able and smashed it down on the upturned face. Glass splintered. He still held a jagged section which he drove downwards, burying it deep into the side of the neck.

  Without hesitation Cummins knelt by the body of the man who had been carrying the gun, rolling the corpse over so that he could search the pockets. Seconds later he found what he was looking for - an oblong carton with a lion's head emblem, the unused bullets would be inside. The contents rattled. It was almost too good to be true.

  Cummins paused only to remove the spent shells from the chamber of the revolver and reload, and then he stepped out into the corridor. The smoke was drifting down from the west entrance and visibility was restricted. Bedlam everywhere: men were shouting and screaming. Petrol bombs exploded in the yard outside. But the rifle fire had stopped.

  The battle was over. The mob had won. Now all that remained was to loot the prison before it burned to the ground.

  Mike Cummins' first thought was to escape before it was too late. He held the revolver in the pocket of his jacket. It anybody saw it they might decide to jump him, and he was not out to invite trouble.

  Roughly he pushed his way through the crowd outside. Nobody bothered him. His smoke-grimed features made recognition difficult. But he needed a change of clothes if he was going to avoid being shot down indiscriminately by some trigger-happy soldier or armed policeman.

  Bodies were strewn all over the yard: convicts, warders, civilians. It was just a case of finding one of the latter of similar build to himself.

  A few minutes later he found the corpse he was seeking. A West Indian, shot through the head; but the polo-necked sweater and slacks were not even bloodstained. He began to strip.