by Shaun Hutson
'Sorry, Ray,' his colleague said.
'I saw you come in here. I followed you. I thought it might have been someone ...'
'What are you on about? I followed you in here,' Duggan
explained.
'But I saw someone come in.'
'It wasn't me.'
'Where's Billy?' Carter wanted to know, glancing now not at Duggan but around him, up and down the endless aisles of the supermarket.
'He was having a look round the other block. It might have been him you saw come in here.'
Carter nodded slowly. He hoped Duggan was right. For some unexplainable reason he felt a shiver run down his spine and, now his initial shock had subsided, he was once more aware of the vile stench which filled the building.
'Smells like something died in here,' said Duggan wrinkling his nose.
'There've been reports of packs of wild dogs and cats around this area. Maybe they've been in here.' Carter shone his torch over the dusty floor noting that the thick covering had been disturbed in many places up and down several of the aisles. 'It looks as if someone's been in here.'
Duggan advanced towards the closest aisle, his torch beam lighting an object in the dust.
He bent to touch it.
A broken bottle.
`Somebody's been in here recently,' he observed, noting that there was hardly any dust on the top surface of the bottle.
`Brilliant work, Sherlock,' Carter said sarcastically. He was still shining his torch over the aisles. 'Let's check this place out, find Billy and fuck off. It's getting too cold to be poncing around here for much longer.' So saying, he moved briskly up the first aisle, shining his torch to the right and left. Still the beam wouldn't reach the end of the shelf, but disappeared into the inky blackness beyond.
Duggan moved up the adjacent aisle, hidden from Carter's view by the blackness and the height of the shelves.
Neither of them saw the figure approaching from the opposite direction.
Carter was in aisle three, Duggan in four.
The man who, in life, had been known as Liam Kelly was moving slowly and purposefully down the fifth aisle, Ian Massey behind him. Both carried shotguns.
'You see anything?' Carter called, his voice lancing through the darkness.
'No,' came the reply.
Carter shone his torch over the dusty floor and paused.
There was a dark stain in the thick carpet of dust and grime.
He knelt quickly and pressed one index finger into it.
'Blood,' he whispered, wiping the sticky red fluid on his jeans. He shone the torch ahead, realizing that he was coming to the end of the shelves.
In aisle two Charles Ross eased back the bolt on the Ingram, priming it. Beside him Peter Burton hefted the .45 automatic in one gloved fist.
'Ray, there's something up ahead,' called Duggan from aisle four.
'I see it,' Carter replied, his eyes now fixed on the sight before him. His torch beam wavered slightly as it illuminated the apparitions ahead of him. If only they had been apparitions.
'Oh Jesus,' murmured Duggan, emerging from aisle four level with Carter.
The stench was now quite intolerable.
The sight which met them, even more so.
The bodies of Danny Weller, Adam Giles and Nikki Jones, nailed to the wall of the supermarket, were in advanced stages of decomposition, particularly their faces from which every last trace of skin had been stripped away.
Carter shone his torch slowly up and down the hanging body of Weller, noticing that other parts of his body had been flayed but not as expertly as his face. Lumps of muscle had been gouged from his lower body, particularly the stomach where the cuts were so deep that portions of shrivelled intestine poked through the rents.
Nikki Jones' breasts had been slashed repeatedly, the left one hacked off completely. It lay in the dust beneath her like a punctured, fleshy balloon.
Adam Giles' scrotum had been carefully opened with one single knife cut, his testicles removed. His shrivelled penis too had been ripped away. Carter was sure there were bite marks around the dead boy's thighs.
'What the fuck is this?' gasped Duggan.
Carter had no answer.
There was a movement to his right, from a doorway.
A man emerged, or at least what had once been a man.
His face was covered in a mask of flesh, ill-fitting but still stretched tautly enough over his own rotting features to give him some semblance of humanity.
He was holding an Uzi 9mm machine pistol in his ravaged hands, the barrel levelled at Carter and Duggan.
He was smiling.
'Where's Harrison?'
The question came from Carter's left and he looked to one side, still aware of the other man.
The man who had once been Charles Ross stepped into view, the Ingram pointing at his two living adversaries.
'Was the bastard too frightened to come?' Ross hissed through lips which seemed to flap like sails in a high wind.
Pete Burton stood alongside him.
`Charlie Ross,' murmured Duggan.
'Yeah, that's right. Been a while hasn't it? Two years to be precise,' the gang leader said, taking a step forward 'Maybe you recognise my friends too?'
From behind Duggan, shotguns levelled, Massey and Kelly emerged.
In the doorway ahead John Campbell continued to smile, a thick clear mucus oozing from one comer of his mouth.
'This isn't real,' Duggan said, his eyes bulging, his heart thudding madly against his ribs. 'You're dead.'
Ross smiled.
'Now where have I heard that before?' he chuckled.
Carter knew it would be pointless to reach for his gun. His mind struggled to grasp what was happening. He and Duggan were being held at gunpoint by five corpses. Five living corpses? He almost laughed.
Pinch yourself, my son, he told himself, and the bastards will disappear.
Just like the three crucified corpses on the wall?
Would they disappear too?
He wondered for one fleeting second if he'd gone insane. If this entire vile scene was the product of some psychotic nightmare. Perhaps he was still lying in bed at home recovering from that bang on the head. Perhaps he was dreaming.
Perhaps ...
He knew he was going to die.
The five men who in life had been his enemies now raised their weapons, drawing a bead on himself and Duggan.
If Carter had believed in God he might have said a prayer.
As it was, all he could do was shake his head.
Then the gunfire started.
Sixty-Nine
The report of the pistol inside the supermarket was thunderous.
The muzzle flash seemed to illuminate the darkness with uncanny brilliance and in that moment of searing brightness Carter saw Billy Stripes standing at the top of aisle six, the .357 gripped in both hands. He fired off three rounds, two of which hit Campbell.
The first heavy grain shell hit him in the chest, propelling him backwards through the door, dark fluid spurting from the gaping hole in his chest. The second one ricocheted off the frame but the third hit him in the face, ploughing through brittle bones and staving the face in as surely as if it had been hit with a sledgehammer. Campbell's head seemed to fold in upon itself and he hit the ground with a thud, the gun dropping from his twitching fingers.
The brief respite was enough to save Carter and Duggan from death at least but not from the ferocity of the fusillade unleashed by Ross.
The dead gang boss tightened his finger on the trigger of the Ingram and the air was filled with the staccato rattle of automatic fire.
Two bullets caught Duggan. One in the shoulder, one in the thigh. The muscular part of his leg seemed to explode in a cloud of blood and broken bone and as he saw the red fountain spouting from the wound he realized with horror that his femoral artery had been severed. He screamed in pain and fear as he dragged himself to cover amongst the shelves.
Carter
was hit in the left arm, the bullet ripping through his tricep, sending a burning pain right through him.
With what wits he retained he managed to get off two rounds from the 9mm.
The first parted empty air. The second caught Burton in the chest. It punctured one rotting lung before erupting from his back, carrying with it gobbets of reeking tissue and a fountain of seething yellow pus which flowed from veins and muscles like polluted blood.
Billy Stripes fired once more and ducked back into the seventh aisle as Massey and Kelly opened fire with their shotguns. The massive discharges blasted holes in the shelving and Billy was forced to crawl through the dust to avoid the thunderous eruptions which ripped through the air above him. He rolled over, trying to get to his feet, to find cover. Burton dashed across the entrance to the aisle firing as he ran.
Carter hissed in pain as another bullet nicked the lobe of ear, spattering his face with blood.
In the blinding brilliance of the muzzle flashes he fired three times.
The first bullet missed Burton and ploughed into the crucified body of Adam Giles, jerking the corpse as the heavy grain shell struck it.
The second blasted part of Burton's right hand away and, as he yelled his pain, the third caught him in the throat. It shattered his larynx and Carter saw more of the pus-like fluid spout from the wound as Burton collapsed in an untidy heap.
Duggan was moaning as he dragged himself along the floor, one hand clapped to the savage wound in his thigh. He could feel blood gushing powerfully against his palm as he tried to staunch the crimson flow. Sickness swept over him and he thought he was going to pass out. Carter scrambled along behind him, moving on his knees, teeth gritted against the pain, pistol pointed at the entrance to the aisle in case Ross should decide to open up.
In aisle seven Billy Stripes raised himself on to his haunches and prepared to run for the main doors. He knew that the only chance he and his companions had was to get outside. Back to the car if possible. He swallowed hard, glanced behind him and ran, his footsteps muffled by the thick dust.
He reached the end of the aisle and hurtled towards the check-out barrier, vaulting it, skidding in the dust and falling.
The thunderous blast of a shotgun filled the supermarket as Kelly fired once. Twice.
The fast staggering discharge blasted part of the barrier away.
The second hit Billy in the stomach.
The concentrated buckshot tore through his belly and intestines, several lengths of which burst from his abdomen.
Bile from his ruptured gall bladder mingled with the blood which poured from the hideous wound and Kelly ran towards his downed foe, the shotgun still levelled.
Billy lay back, his hand still gripping the .357.
Kelly reached him and stood over him, pressing the shotgun to his shoulder, preparing to finish the job.
In the split second before he could fire, Billy tightened his finger around the trigger of the pistol.
The bullet hit Kelly beneath the chin and exploded from the top of his head carrying most of the top of his skull with it.
Brain and reeking fluid rose like a spray, forced upwards by the passage of the bullet, and bone shattered easily under the impact. Kelly was lifted several feet into the air, jerked upward on invisible strings. The shotgun fell from his grasp as he hit the ground once more.
Billy got to his feet, trying to hold his entrails in place with one blood-drenched hand. But as he swayed uncertainly by the main doors Massey fired with his own shotgun and the aim was as lethal as it was unerring.
The twin discharges hit Billy almost simultaneously, shredding his upper torso, lifting him off his feet.
The horrendous impact sent him flying backwards towards the glass doors. As if punched by some invisible fist he hurtled through the air, trailing blood behind him, only to crash through the glass. His body, already a bloody ruin, was catapulted through the window, coming to rest half in and half out of the supermarket. Blood spurted out around him, quickly forming a pool.
Massey remained at the end of the aisle, knowing that Carter and Duggan would have to pass him in order to escape.
He worked the pump action of the shotgun to chamber another round, and he waited.
Carter had heard the roar of the shotgun, had heard Billy's scream of pain. Now he realized that there were two of the enemy left.
All square.
`Right, you fuckers; he whispered, getting slowly to his feet.
Duggan was lying a few yards from him, moaning incoherently, blood still jetting from the bullet hole in his leg.
Carter realized that his companion would be dead from blood-loss in less than five minutes. Already he had left a slimy trail of blood behind him as he had crawled through the dust. Now he lay helplessly, the gun still clutched in his hand, his other hand gripping the ragged edges of the wound in a vain attempt to stem the gushing flow of his life fluid.
Carter looked behind him, towards the three crucified bodies, then ahead, towards the shattered main doors and the body of Billy Stripes. He strained his ears, listening for any movement from the aisles on either side of him. All he heard was the low burbling of Duggan whose ramblings were becoming softer by the second.
`Joe,' Carter whispered.
Duggan didn't answer.
`He's going to die.'
The voice echoed around the inside of the building, amplified by the cavernous size of the supermarket.
`You're both going to die. And so is your boss.'
`Fuck you,' Carter shouted back.
His yell of defiance was greeted by a chuckle which caused the hackles on the back of his neck to rise.
Then, suddenly, he was dodging a stream of bullets which ripped through the shelving to his left as Ross raked the Ingram back and forth, spattering the lethal rounds in two horizontal lines in an effort to down Carter.
The shelving was blasted to shreds by the furious explosion of automatic fire and Carter shouted aloud as his ears were filled by the roar.
A bullet caught him in the back of the leg. He went down in a heap, hugging the ground as another furious eruption of fire tore over his head, missing him by inches.
He began to crawl, hearing that vile chuckle once more.
As he reached Duggan he realized his colleague was no longer burbling. He lay still, what remained of his head in the centre of a spreading pool of blood.
A stray bullet had removed virtually all of the top part of his cranium. A sticky flux of brain and blood stuck to Carter's hands as he crawled past, glancing only briefly at Duggan, more concerned now with the searing pain which was devouring his own leg. It twisted uselessly behind him, bent into a ridiculous shape by the bullet which had shattered it.
Using his elbows to propel himself, Carter crawled on. Dust clogged his nostrils and, all the time, that infernal stench seemed to fill his head but he dare not cough, dare not give away his position.
The silence was unbroken, the dust acting like a carpet, deadening further the footfalls of his two adversaries. He lay still for a second, ears and eyes alert for the slightest sound or movement.
Nothing.
He crawled a few more feet, every inch causing him fresh agony. But he gritted his teeth, blood from his torn ear now running down his face and dripping from his chin.
Again he listened.
To his left he heard something.
A soft, sibilant mucoid breathing.
Carter raised himself up using his good leg, crouching on that one knee, steadying the Smith and Wesson automatic, aiming at the point from which the breathing seemed to be coming. The point where he guessed Massey was standing.
From such close range he knew the bullets would penetrate the shelving. He had to hope that his shots were accurate.
The breathing continued.
Massey waited.
Carter steadied himself.
And fired.
Once, twice, three, four times.
The pistol slammed back agai
nst the heel of his hand, the repeated thunderous retorts deafening him, the muzzle flashes blinding him.
The mucoid breathing was transformed into a series of deathly roars as Massey was hit in the chest, arm and face.
Five times.
The shot gun fell from his grasp.
Six times.
Carter's shout of pain became one of rage and triumph.
Then the hammer slammed down on an empty chamber.
He tore the magazine free and fumbled in his pocket for another, slamming it into the butt, working the slide, chambering a fresh round.
Then Ross appeared, the Ingram levelled. But Carter was waiting for him.
The supermarket, for the final time, was filled with the deafening roar of weapons.
Seventy
He drove with difficulty because of the wounds he bore.
Every now and then, in traffic, another driver would gaze across at him in bewilderment but he met that stare and drove on as best he could, teeth gritted against the pain.
Once he had difficulty controlling the car and ran through a red light but, as he checked the rear view mirror, he saw that no police were following.
The gun lay beside him on the passenger seat just in case. If he was stopped he would open fire. There was no way that the police or anyone else were going to prevent him completing his task now.
He had waited too long for the moment.
The moment when he could pull the trigger on the man he hated see him fall lifeless to the ground.
He smiled through the pain, the thought sustaining him.
The clock on the dashboard glowed in the darkness.
10.08 p.m.
Another five minutes and he would be there.
The waiting was almost over.
Seventy-One
The banging on the door awoke Harrison.
He sat up quickly and groaned as he felt the pain inside his head. Beside him on the sofa the whisky bottle was empty and he knocked it aside irritably as he tried to rise.
