Ghost Virus

by Graham Masterton

  ‘So – while the chainsaw squads are doing their worst, another squad will be scouting around the area to requisition any trucks that aren’t stuck in a traffic jam. They’ll bring those trucks to the police station and load them with the chopped-up clothes, so that we can take them away to build a bonfire out of them. DC Pardoe has suggested that a place called Figges Marsh is the best place to burn them... he says it’s a recreation ground just south of the police station. Apparently it’s not too far away and we should be able to get there easily by the back streets even if the main road’s blocked.’

  Major Wallace looked around at his squadron in their black kit and goggles, and said, ‘Any questions? No? Right then, chainsaw squad, fire up your chainsaws!’

  Jamila came up to Jerry and said, ‘What are you going to do?’

  Jerry already had his foot on his chainsaw, ready to start it. ‘What do you think I’m going to do? I’m going to go with them. I’ll be making up the numbers, and besides that I know that nick like the back of my hand and these geezers don’t, do they? There’s loads of places where those coats could hide. They could hang themselves up from the back of a door and pretend they were ordinary coats and who would know?’

  ‘If you’re going, then I’m going with you.’

  ‘Sarge – you haven’t got a chainsaw.’

  ‘I don’t care. I wouldn’t know how to use it, even if I did. But I’ve been involved in this investigation right from the beginning, and I want to see it through to the end.’

  ‘Jamila – no.’

  ‘Jerry – yes. And that’s an order. I’ll stay close behind you.’

  ‘If you get yourself killed, I’ll never speak to you again.’

  ‘If I get myself killed, I won’t be able to hear you, anyway.’

  Jerry said something else, but all around them twenty-three chainsaws were starting up in chorus, so that she couldn’t hear him. He bent down and tugged at the pull cord of his own chainsaw, and that stuttered into life, too.

  The twenty-three SAS blades of the chainsaw squad divided themselves into three columns – two of them walking along the pavements and the third down the middle of the road, in between the lines of damaged cars, their chainsaws idling like twenty-three softly growling pit bull terriers. Jerry and Jamila walked down the middle of the road, too, at the rear of the column. Jamila hadn’t wanted to walk along the pavements because there were too many bodies to step over, and some of them were grotesquely mutilated. In spite of the rain, there were still deltas of blood running into the gutters.

  When they reached Byton Road, the eight blades who were going to attack the police station from the south turned right. They would go down the side-streets and then double back. The other fifteen kept on going. As they came around Amen Corner they could see that a few dark coats and jackets were still crouched like hunchbacks over the bodies of the Wandsworth anti-terrorist team, tearing them open and dragging their glistening insides all across the road. The three SAS men who had been overwhelmed by the clothes were lying there too, somewhere, and one of the blades in front of Jerry revved his chainsaw as if he couldn’t wait to get his revenge.

  ‘Hold your horses, Branning,’ said the sergeant, without even turning round to see who it was. None of the squad wore name-tags on their uniforms, so Jerry was doubly impressed.

  They held back, waiting for a signal from the squad who were coming from the south. Jamila, close behind Jerry, tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘If this goes wrong...’

  ‘What?’ said Jerry. ‘I can’t hear you!’

  She held onto his shoulder and said loudly in his ear, ‘If this goes wrong, I want you to know how I feel about you!’

  He turned and looked at her. She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t have to.

  Jerry smiled and said, just as loudly, ‘Me too!’

  At that moment they saw a flashlight further down the road. The south squad were in position and ready to advance.

  ‘Right!’ screamed the sergeant. ‘Let’s get in there and chop the bastards to bits!’

  The SAS blades all started to run towards the police station with their boots pattering on the tarmac and their chainsaws roaring. The coats and jackets that had been dismembering the anti-terrorist squad stood up straight, but they made no attempt to flee. If they were capable of thought, they obviously believed that nobody could hurt them. The blades tore into them, swinging their chainsaws up and down and side to side, and sleeves and collars and lapels and long strips of lining flew all around them.

  Eight of them ran through the car park gate at the side of the station, while the other eight bounded up the steps towards the front entrance. Jerry and Jamila followed them. The long brown dress that Jerry had tied by its sleeves to the railings was still lying there, flapping, and he saw one of the SAS blades ripping it in a few roaring seconds into chaotic shreds of wool.

  It was pitch dark inside the station, but one of the blades tossed two white chem lights across the reception area and abruptly the whole grisly scenario was brightly lit up. On the far side of the reception area there was a struggling mass of clothes, like a heap of giant maggots. They were heavily bloodstained and some of them were draped in long strings of membrane and intestines. There was hardly anything recognisable left of the police officers who had tried to fight them off, only the tatters of uniforms and boots with torn-off ankle-bones sticking out of them.

  Now that they had almost finished dismembering the officers in the reception area, more clothes were ascending the stairs, and over the roaring of chainsaws and the shouting of the SAS blades, Jerry could hear screaming from the upper floors.

  With no hesitation the SAS squad ran across the blood-streaked floor and started to tear the clothes to bits. The clothes struggled and flailed, but there was nothing they could do to save themselves from the jagged teeth of eight chainsaws.

  Jerry heard a loud bang from the back of the station and a few seconds later the north squad came running in.

  ‘Get upstairs after that lot!’ bellowed the sergeant, and they crossed the reception area and started to attack the heaving crowd of shirts and jackets that were mounting the staircase.

  The air was thick with a storm of ripped-up fabric – wool and nylon and cotton and silk – as well as zips and buttons that were scattered across the floor. Jerry could hear that the south squad had broken into the cells, and from the screeching sound of chainsaws against metal bars, he could only imagine that there must have been be coats in there, too, probably trying to get at their prisoners.

  He saw a trench-coat flying towards the back of an SAS blade, clearly intending to jump on him. He ran over, snagged its belt in the teeth of his chainsaw, and then sawed it upward in a tangle of khaki gabardine and black wool lining.

  As the south squad climbed up the stairs, strewing them with fabric, Jerry and Jamila climbed up behind them. Only three or four chainsaws were still roaring at full throttle now, although the rest of them were keeping up a menacing burble as the SAS blades scoured the station for any clothes they might have missed, or which were hiding.

  Jerry and Jamila followed the south squad along the corridor to the control room. The door had been broken off its hinges and was lying flat on the floor. By the light of the soldiers’ torches, they could see Inspector Callow and DI Saunders and Sergeant Bristow and three other officers, or what was left of them. One was still sitting in front of the dead CCTV screens, his white shirt soaked with blood, headless. His head was lying on the floor, his eyes wide open, staring at his shoes as if he were wondering how he had managed to get down there.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Jerry. ‘Smiley. What a bloody awful way to go.’

  At last, one after another, the chainsaws fell silent. Along with the sergeant and four of his blades, Jerry and Jamila searched the station from the top floor back down to the reception area, but they found no more living clothes.

  Major Wallace was waiting for them outside, by the front steps.


  ‘This is a great start, DS Patel,’ he said to Jamila. ‘I’m receiving reports that there are still random groups of clothes roaming around the neighbourhood, attacking anybody who’s out on the streets. Now that we’ve dealt with this lot I’m going to send out five patrols armed with chainsaws to hunt them down.’

  He looked back inside the police station. ‘I hope we’ve done for most of them. But we’ll get any strays and chop them up, too, don’t worry. I can’t thank you enough for the help you’ve given us. And you, DC Pardoe. Bloody good show, the both of you.’

  He had hardly finished speaking when the streetlights started to flicker on, and lights in the police station came on again, too. Shop fronts all the way along Mitcham Road were suddenly illuminated again. It was only then that they could see the full horror of the bloody carnage on the pavements, and the dismembered bodies lying across the road.

  In his pocket, Jerry’s iPhone began to ping with messages and texts, but he felt too numb to take it out and answer them. He set his chainsaw down on the steps.

  Jamila linked her arm through his. ‘What next?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s time for the big clear-up,’ said Major Wallace. ‘Then we’ll be lighting our bonfire. I very much hope that you two can join us.’

  47

  Jerry found a patrol car at the rear of the station, undamaged except for a broken blue light and a dented bonnet. While Jamila waited for him in the car park he took the keys from the reception desk, trying to keep his eyes averted from the mess of mutilated bodies. At least ten SAS blades were clearing up heaps of bloodstained fabric, using the station’s snow-shovels. Three trucks were lined up outside, waiting to be filled with all the hundreds of items of clothing that they had sawn to pieces.

  Jerry drove them back to his flat. They hardly spoke, but after what they had been through and what they had witnessed, neither of them had very much to say. Jerry was glad in a way that Jamila had stuck with them until the very end, because he didn’t have to describe how gruesome it had been.

  He made coffee for them both while she took a shower. When he came out of the shower himself he found her sitting wrapped in a towel in the living-room watching the television news. The newscaster was saying that there had been rioting in some areas of South London, causing multiple casualties and a temporary blackout, but he said nothing about clothes that had come to life or dismembered shoppers, and neither did he mention the SAS assault on Tooting police station.

  ‘Heavy, heavy censorship,’ said Jamila.

  Jerry sat down on the couch beside her. ‘It’ll have to come out sooner or later. Too many people saw those clothes running around to keep it under wraps for very long.’

  ‘Has anybody from the Yard been in touch?’ Jamila asked him.

  ‘Not yet. I doubt if they know yet who’s still alive and who’s snuffed it. They’re probably more worried about poor old Callow than anybody else. It’s all total chaos at the moment.’

  They finished their coffee and dressed. They hadn’t eaten all day but neither of them could face the idea of food. Jamila closed her eyes and fell asleep on the couch for nearly an hour while Jerry continued to watch television. There were constant reports about the ‘rioting’ and a phone number was posted on the screen for anybody concerned about missing friends or relatives, but there was still no word about how many people had been killed or injured, or how.

  Jerry was just coming out of the toilet when his iPhone pinged. It was Major Wallace, telling him that almost all the clothing had been gathered up and tipped into the middle of the Figges Marsh recreation ground.

  ‘We’d really appreciate it if DS Patel could come along and see it. She seems to know all about this kind of ghost malarkey.’

  ‘Sure. We’ll be there in ten.’

  He woke Jamila. She blinked at him and said, ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Chez Pardoe. Sorry to disturb you but the major’s ready to light the bonfire. He says he’d like you to be a witness.’

  ‘Don’t worry about waking me. I was having a horrible dream about black hairy caterpillars crawling around inside my clothes. Do you have any Listerine? The inside of my mouth tastes as if I’ve been licking scaffolding poles.’

  They drove down to Figges Marsh, a flat grassy triangle opposite the London Road Cemetery, bordered by oak trees. They parked in front of the houses in Manship Road and walked across the grass to the huge pile of torn clothing that the SAS had cleared out of the police station. Major Wallace was there, as well as twenty of his squadron. Some of them had taken off their black Kevlar helmets, and were bareheaded, or wearing berets.

  As they came nearer, Jerry could smell petrol. Two SAS blades were walking around the pile of clothing, sloshing out the last of two twenty-litre jerry cans. The pile was at least a metre taller than they were.

  ‘Lighting-up time,’ said Major Wallace. ‘I’ve heard from two of our chainsaw squads. They’ve already located and ripped up five gangs of coats and jackets between them, so there’ll be much more to burn later. I just thought it would be a good idea to get this lot cremated first.’

  He turned to one of the soldiers beside the pile of clothes and said, ‘That’s it, corporal! You can get it going now!’

  The corporal struck a match and dropped it onto the clothes. With a soft rumble, the whole petrol-soaked pile went up in flames, and it gave out such a blast of heat that Jerry and Jamila had to take a few paces back. They stood in silence as the flames leapt and curled and seemed to form patterns in the air.

  The fire was still blazing furiously when Jerry heard somebody shouting. He looked around the recreation ground but at first he could see only trees. Then he heard the shouting again, closer, and saw a man running towards them across the grass.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘It’s Liepa!’

  Jokubas Liepa came up to them, gasping for breath. His long black hair was wild and his eyes were staring like a man gone mad.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted at them. ‘What are you doing? These are souls! These are people! You are burning them alive!’

  Jerry circled around behind Jamila and caught hold of Liepa’s left arm. ‘These may be souls, mate, but they’re mass-murderers, and they’re getting their come-uppance. And you – you’re getting your come-uppance, too. You’re under arrest for just about everything you can think of.’

  ‘You can’t do this!’ Liepa protested. ‘These are human souls! These are my followers! Don’t you understand what pain they must be suffering? Put out the fire! Put it out, before all of those poor souls perish!’

  ‘Not a chance, tosh,’ said Jerry. ‘And how are we going to put it out? Piss on it?’

  ‘You can’t do this!’ Liepa raved at him. ‘You – you are the killers! You can’t do this!’

  He was still shouting when a pattern of flames leapt out of the fire and came dancing towards him. It kept changing shape, so that it was difficult to see exactly what it was, but more than anything it resembled a burning man. It rushed up to Liepa and threw its fiery arms around him.

  Jamila screamed, ‘Jerry!’ and seized his coat collar and pulled him away. The burning man embraced Liepa with flames and Liepa threw back his head and let out an extraordinary dog-like howl. As Jerry staggered back, he could see that Liepa’s face was already seared scarlet and that his long black hair was alight.

  One of the SAS blades whipped off his jacket and approached Liepa, holding his jacket up ready to wrap it around him, and stifle the flames. But the heat was far too intense for him to be able to get close enough.

  Liepa stumbled around and around, blazing from head to foot, and there was nothing that Jerry or Jamila or the SAS men could do to save him. As he stumbled around another fiery figure came leaping out of the pile of burning clothes, and then another, and another, and they all went rushing towards Liepa and clung to him like napalm.

  For a few seconds Liepa looked like nothing except a rippling pillar of flames. Watching him, one of the SAS blades cro
ssed himself. Jerry knew that by now all Liepa’s nerve-endings would have been burned away, so that he would no longer be capable of feeling any pain, but when he thought of all the people he had caused to suffer, he almost wished that he was in agony, right until the very end.

  At last Liepa collapsed and fell to the grass. The flames dwindled and died out, and soon there was nothing but smoke drifting across the recreation ground. Liepa’s body was totally black and crusted, like a man made out of charcoal.

  The bonfire, too, began to subside. It had stopped raining now and a faint night breeze was blowing, so ashes tumbled away towards the trees.

  ‘What the hell was that all about?’ said Major Wallace. ‘Who was that man? And how the hell did that happen?’

  ‘That man was Jokubas Liepa,’ said Jamila. ‘It was him who claimed to be responsible for bringing all these clothes to life. Because of that, he said that they regarded him as their god.’

  ‘My head’s spinning,’ said Major Wallace. ‘This gets harder to understand by the minute.’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ Jamila told him. ‘When we cut these clothes up and set fire to them, the spirits inside them were faced with dying a second time. So when they felt Liepa’s presence close by, they believed that he could rescue them. They weren’t trying to kill him. They were begging him for salvation. That’s what I believe, anyway.’

  ‘I suppose that’s as good an explanation as any,’ said Major Wallace. ‘What’s your opinion, DC Pardoe?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Jerry. ‘The only spirit I know anything about is Jack Daniel’s.’

  Major Wallace thought for a moment. He looked down at Liepa’s charred body, and then he said, ‘This didn’t happen, OK? I think it’s going to be far better for all of us if we keep our lips zipped. All right, corporal. Carry on.’

  *

  Jamila spent the rest of the night at Jerry’s flat, sleeping on the couch. By the time Jerry was making toast and coffee for them in the morning, they had still received no contact from the Yard or the Lambeth borough commander, but both of them were reluctant to try to get in touch and report that they had survived.