“Running away is all you’re good for, Harry Jobson. You watched your family die and have been running away ever since. You are pathetic, wasting the life that He gave you. Death will be too good for you, but nonetheless it will embrace you soon. Leave this place Harry Jobson and be done with it. Your time is over. Reckoning is upon you.”
Harry didn’t understand any of it, but he knew he had to get away. By taking the form of his son, it was obvious the creature meant to drive Harry insane, plucking at his grief like chords on a guitar. He didn’t take his eyes from the DJ’s booth as he sidled backwards along the dance floor, but it didn’t stop Harry from noticing a new source of light growing behind him.
He spun around.
His heart stopped again.
Thomas Morris stood before Harry, slowly coming into focus as the glow around his image lessened. The man that took everything from Harry was now smiling at him like an old friend.
“Long time no see,” the apparition hissed like a serpent. “You’re looking…older.”
Harry said nothing.
“You really going to ignore me? With the history you and I have, I thought you’d have more to say.”
Harry spat. “I have nothing to say to you!”
The apparition laughed again. “You never were much of a talker. You prefer to let your actions speak for you, am I right?”
Harry shook his head. Whatever this thing was, it was not Thomas, and it could not hurt him. If it could, it would have done so by now, instead of dredging up things from the past. Harry stepped around the image of his enemy and headed for the exit.
Then hit the floor hard.
Thomas loomed over Harry, inhuman eyes filled with the same malignant intent that Toby’s apparition had. “You will pay for your actions, Harry Jobson. Everyone will pay. It is time for…retribution.”
Harry cowered on the floor. The thing had hit him, but how? Ghosts, hallucinations, apparitions: none of these things could manifest physically. Could they? The occult was not one of Harry’s strong points and he decided not to hang around to find out. He leapt to his feet and headed for the door.
Thomas shouted after him, words and tone both wicked with baleful intent. “You will die tonight, Harry Jobson. Death awaits you its cold embrace. Go outside and face it. Do not delay what is already certain.”
“Suck my balls!” Harry shouted back. It was a phrase he had never used before, but it summed up pretty accurately how he felt right now. He reached the door to the rear corridor and glanced back. It was something he knew would slow him down, but something he could not help.
Thomas was gone.
Harry sighed relief, but didn’t relax enough to trust the situation. He needed to get out of there, get to the others and tell them about the things he’d witnessed. He turned back around and faced the corridor.
This time his heart did not stop. He was becoming too used to the horrors of the night. Lying on the floor in front of him was his dead wife, Julie. Her body and face were battered and bruised, bones splintered and askew.
Like a car crash victim.
Harry looked down at the twisted form and listened to his heart scream. The final image of his wife’s dying form had always stayed with him, but never did he have to confront it face-to-face. Not since the night it happened.
Julie turned her head up towards him. Harry heard the broken bones scraping and grating against each other. She was the very personification of agony. “Harry,” she spoke in a condemning whisper. “Why did this happen to me? Why are you not with me?”
Harry shook his head. He didn’t have time for this shit anymore. This wasn’t his wife. Whatever it was, he owed it no explanations. “Because you’re dead, Julie.” He stepped over the twisted, shattered body and headed into the corridor. “And I’m not.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Damien wasn’t sure why he lied; perhaps only because it was funny. Harry had made himself look like a right muppet in front of Steph and Damien couldn’t help but laugh at the memory. She ain’t going to fuck you now, sunshine.
Was that why he’d done it? Because of Steph? Did the thought of her and Harry copping off together irritate him? Steph wasn’t like the usual girls Damien fucked. She was strong, with a mind of her own, and took control of people in the same way he did. He admired that.
Fact that she’s fit as fuck doesn’t hurt none either. Too good for that drunk, Harry.
But it was more than simple jealousy. Damien had actually gained pleasure from Harry’s predicament and that was what troubled him most. Over the last few hours, Damien had seen that Harry wasn’t that bad a bloke. The guy’s heart was in the right place, and it turned out that he did have a backbone after all. Despite all that, Damien still couldn’t tolerate the way Harry always played the wounded soldier. Always making people want to come up and ask if everything was okay. Always moping and drinking himself into a stupor. Oh, poor Harry, they would say. That man is so full of pain and anguish, yet he still keeps going. What a guy!
Damien scowled. Screw that shit! Everyone had it hard and Harry had no right to make out like his problems were worse than everyone else’s.
He did lose his son though...
Damien shook his head and stood away from the now-cushionless bench he was sitting on. Nearby, Jess and Jerry sat with the dying polish kid. Damien had chosen to stay nearby just in case the kids needed help. He’d been impressed by the way Jess had glassed the old bird giving her grief and respected her for it.
Took balls.
Damien sat back down on the cold bench and carried on his brooding about Harry. The man didn’t deserve sympathy because Damien had it just as bad as he did. No one cared about his problems though. No one had ever given a damn when his dad was wasted and beat him black and blue. Trying to toughen you up, boy! Teach you to be a man. No one cared when Damien’s dad had made him deal drugs at ten years old. No one will suspect a kid, so get yourself on that corner and don’t come home till you’ve sold it all. And no one cared when Damien’s dad had tried to pin an assault charge on him.
The rage that flowed constantly through Damien’s veins began to hot up. When his dad had gone to prison last year, Damien had felt free for the first time in his life. But it didn’t last. He’d been ordered to take over operations and report to his father in prison daily. Keep the money safe for me, Dame, for when I get out. Make me proud, son.
Yeah, I’ll make you real proud, dad!
Damien thought back to when his dad had gone down, and what for. Kicking the shite out of that lad until he was a whimpering, bleeding mess. Kid was no older than I was.
Gazz Brown had been a tough kid. When he’d knocked Damien spark-out and taken his stash, Damien’s father was not happy. Not happy at all. So, in a drunken rage, his dad – along with a group of the ‘boys’ – had taken Damien to go find Gazz. And find him they did. The well-built lad was at the back of a local supermarket selling Damien’s supply to the warehouse workers. His father saw red – had gone red. Like a wild bull, he tore into the youth, cracking bones and shattering teeth, stamping and kicking long after the boy’s beaten body covered the ground, motionless. It was almost ten minutes before Damien’s father was dragged away, and by that time someone had called the Police.
Even now, Gazz was still in a coma, and Damien’s father had gone to prison for the crime. Who knew supermarkets had so many CCTV cameras? The worse thing about the whole situation was that his dad had ‘the boys’ circulate rumours that it had been Damien to put poor Gazz Brown into a coma. Damien’s father had even tried to convince him take the fall for it. It would increase his rep, he’d said. Despite the CCTV exonerating him, Damien had nonetheless become feared on the local estate as a vicious, animalistic thug. His father had finally become proud.
But tonight was supposed to be the night where Damien did something to make himself proud. He was going to disobey his father for the first time and do the right thing for once. But instead he found himself trapped in
side a rotten pub with a bunch of losers.
Like Harry. A loser who only cares about his next drink.
Finally it clicked. The reason Damien hated Harry was because the man cared more about getting wasted than anything else. Just like Damien’s father had. Every time he looked at Harry, downing another pint, night in night out, he had thought about his father. He’d pegged Harry as just another, selfish – fuckface – father that would rather get pissed than look after his family.
But I got it all wrong, didn’t I? Tonight Damien had learned that Harry was a good man and a good father; a bloke that cared so much about his son that, when he’d died – however it’d happened – he’d just given up on life. Harry’s family had obviously been his entire world, and when they died part of him went with them. Damien finally understood the man’s drinking.
And he could forgive it.
“I should apologise,” Damien told himself, “but first I gotta take a piss.”
###
This is it! Nigel’s body teemed with excitement. Harry had gone downstairs, freaking out about something, and Lucas had followed him. The grumpy shrew, Kath, had disappeared somewhere to clean the gore off her ugly face and Damien was at the other end of the pub, along with Jerry and the young girl, Jess. If he played his cards right, she would be next.
But first he had Steph to deal with.
I’m finally going to fuck her.
Nigel had watched with delight as everyone gradually departed, then Steph had gone into the toilets alone. Now was his chance. He would follow her in, knock her out cold, have his way with her, and then slit her throat with his trusty pen knife (sharpened to perfection). By the time he dumped her body outside in the snow no one would be any the wiser. Nigel would plead ignorance of Steph’s whereabouts and, while everyone would worry, that would be it. What else could they do?
First thing in the morning, he’d hop in his lorry and get the hell out of there, spend a few months in France maybe; ensure that he never returned to the area. Easiest thing in the world. Raping and killing women had become as second nature to Nigel as taking a leak; just another bodily function.
Silently, Nigel pushed open the door to the men’s toilets where he’d seen Steph enter. The door creaked ever so slightly, but the sounds coming from inside, of Steph gathering up supplies, drowned out the noise. He slipped inside.
The toilets smelt of stale piss and the room was lit only by a single candle Steph had placed on the middle of three sinks. She was at the far end of the small space now, gathering up bundles of handtowels from a storage cupboard. Her back was to Nigel.
Perfect! She won’t even see it coming.
With cat-like grace that belied his lumbering appearance, Nigel struck. He punched Steph from behind, hooking his fist round into the side of her jaw and knocking her cold; the thick Dolphin ring on his pinkie figure helped with his purpose. Steph’s limp body flopped limply to the side, falling into one of the cubicles. Her head hit the toilet bowl inside with a resounding thump!
“Good, girl,” Nigel grinned, “helping Daddy like that. You’ve found us a room and got yourself ready.”
He bent over and groped with his hands. He couldn’t see Steph’s body very well in the dark but that only made it all the more exciting. He’d dreamed of having her for so long that each touch of her flesh was enough to send small beads of ejaculate spurting from his swollen cock. He hadn’t even noticed when he’d gotten hard. It was a natural occurrence to Nigel, like breathing.
He rolled Steph onto her back and slid his eager, trembling fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans. Despite the perishing cold in the toilets, the flesh of Steph’s belly and upper groin was surprisingly warm, almost hot. Nigel’s swollen penis throbbed furiously, demanding satisfaction.
“Not long now, buddy. Just a little longer while I get this whore naked.”
A soft murmur from Steph caused Nigel to halt. Maybe she needed another whack? He considered it, but then decided that he’d prefer her conscious; her quiet murmuring would only turn him on more. “That’s it, you little slut, cry for Daddy. You love it, don’t you?”
He fumbled excitedly at the buttons on her crotch and had to fight against his frustrations when they refused to pop. Taking a deep breath, Nigel steadied his hands and tried again. The buttons came loose one at a time.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
“That’s it, darling, let’s get you out of these clothes.”
Just as Nigel was about to start tugging down Steph’s unbuttoned jeans, he was alerted by a presence behind him. He turned around.
Before he lost consciousness, due to the heavy blows that suddenly rained down upon him, Nigel heard someone ask the question: “What the fuck is going on!”
What the fuck indeed, thought Nigel as he unwillingly went to sleep.
CHapter Twenty-Four
Harry had already been on his way to the toilet when he heard the ruckus. After seeing the apparitions in the dance hall, he had hurried downstairs into the cellar to regroup. The vision of Thomas Morris had reached out and struck Harry, but he was almost certain that was the extent of the threat. If it could have done any real harm then it would have done so, he was sure of it. Harry had no clue what was going on, but for now he decided to think on it. There was no need to panic the others with what had happened just yet. They would only think him mad anyway. For now it seemed like something else was happening anyway, a scuffle from inside the men’s toilets.
It had turned out that what Old Graham wanted to speak with Harry about was a rather embarrassing matter. The old man had needed to piss bad, but couldn’t get up with his leg the way it was. Harry had understood the predicament, but at first didn’t know what to suggest. Then he’d spotted the half empty bottle of Famous Grouse that Lucas had brought down. He gave the bottle to Old Graham who immediately necked most of the contents. “For the pain,” he had said. Then Harry had given him the old man a few moments alone.
Now Harry was on his way to the urinals with a candle in one hand, and a whiskey bottle full of geriatric piss in the other, ready to empty the contents down one of the drains. He hadn’t expected to run into trouble again so soon after his last encounter, but something was definitely happing inside the toilets.
The room was partially lit by candlelight when Harry entered, but it was still too dark to see clearly what was happening at the far end by the window. There was a scuffle going on, and a soft wet thudding that he immediately recognised.
Someone’s getting a beating.
Candle in hand, along with the whiskey bottle full of urine, Harry ran forwards, lighting the room in a narrow sphere as he moved. At the end of the space, he found…Damien…and then he found…Nigel. Damien was beating the other man as though he were tenderising a piece of beef, hands covered by blood and ruptured skin. His knuckles made soft whapping sounds as they bounced off Nigel’s swollen face. What upset Harry the most was the sight of Steph also lying on the floor unconscious…with her jeans undone.
Finally, Damien looked up and noticed Harry – but it was too late for the lad to give any explanation. Snarling, Harry smashed the whiskey bottle of piss over the young thug’s head, so hard that he wondered if he’d killed him.
Part of Harry hoped so.
###
In front of the fireplace, Jess watched over Peter with Jerry. She watched her sleeping friend turn paler and paler, and could not tell whether it was due to the cold or loss of blood. Most of Peter’s wounds were bandaged, but they still wept constantly and had even begun to emit a sickly smell.
“You think he’s going to wake up?” Jerry asked, tugging Jess away from her thoughts. His usual child-like exuberance was absent from his voice now and it had been for a while.
Ever since he watched his best friend turn to blood and dust.
Jess shrugged. “He woke up once before, so who knows. How are you doing?”
“Me? I’m cushdy? It’s this one we need to look aft
er.” He pointed at Peter. “He looks bad.”
Jess shrugged again. “I think he might have it easiest of all, being asleep. Right now, I want to know how you are. You know...about what happened to Ben.”
Jerry’s face crumbled like a moist sandcastle and, for a short moment, Jess thought he was going to cry. He didn’t. “It’s stupid,” he said, “but I miss him already.”
“That’s not stupid at all.”
“Feels like it. I just keep wishing it was me. I wish I were the one who’s dead and he were still alive.”
“Now that is stupid,” said Jess, shaking her head. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to be dead, would he?”
The Final Winter: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel Page 14
