Suspended In Dusk

by Ramsey Campbell

  I drank another beer, and excused myself to resume my personal search for the Wilsons in the nearby woods. It would be another twenty hours before I finally succumbed to exhaustion, the kids still missing.

  * * *

  It may have been a glorious spring that year but, figuratively speaking, a cloud hung over the town. It had been two weeks since Adrian, Jason, and Cassidy vanished. We’d carried on searching but our sustainable style of existence prevented us from putting the day-to-day tasks entirely to one side. Some felt that, in the absence of any bodies, the only explanation was that the three of them had run away. I admit, I was starting to think that way myself. As for the stranger, he was still alive and still tending his garden. We’d kept a close eye on him and, besides the fact he should have been dead, nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. It was a situation which was about to change dramatically.

  * * *

  Paul and I were in The Boars Head playing darts when Harrison came in and called us over.

  “I need to speak to you two. Now.”

  His tone indicated something serious, as did the fact he immediately headed upstairs.

  We exchanged a quick glance, put down our darts, and followed him. He’d headed into one of the smaller guest rooms at the back. The pub had been run as a hotel when people tended to travel a bit more. We’d had people visit town over the past months, we were by no means completely cut off from the rest of the world, but the couple of rooms at the front had been sufficient for that trade, plus the odd occasion someone drank too much of the homebrew and didn’t feel like the walk home.

  The room smelled musty from lack of use, and I’d have preferred it if Harrison hadn’t shut the door behind us as soon as we walked in, but it was comfortable enough. I took the armchair, Paul the stool by the dresser, and Harrison perched on the end of the bed.

  “I’m concerned by our infected friend,” Harrison said.

  Neither of us said anything, giving him the floor for whatever he had to say.

  “I’ve been going through the town archives, partly as a hobby, more recently in case we’d missed anything that could help find the Watsons.” From out of his pocket he took a sheet of paper and began unfolding it. “And before either of you even think it, I know damn well most folks have given up, but that doesn’t mean I have too. People have become desensitised after all we’ve been through, but those kids could still be out there, suffering. Their mother needs to know one way or the other.”

  His speech over, he paused, as if daring us to contradict him or tell him he was wasting his time. When he was satisfied we were waiting for him to proceed, he continued.

  “This is the town map from nineteen forty-six. You can see the church, market place, town centre, largely unchanged. We’re here. The modern estates obviously aren’t shown.”

  “Right,” said Paul. “So what are you actually showing us?”

  “This,” said Harrison. “An air-raid shelter next to what was a convalescent home that was demolished in the early ‘fifties.”

  “Shit,” I said, causing Paul to look at me. Harrison was unfolding another map but I didn’t need to see a more modern town plan to know where the shelter was. It was in The Groves estate. Right where the stranger had claimed his plot.

  “Bang on where he’s living. You think it’s still there?” I asked.

  Harrison sighed. “I don’t know. You’d have thought we’d have heard about it, if it was. We’ve lived here all our lives.”

  “Why?” said Paul. “Do you know where any other shelters were? If I could ask my granddad I’m sure he’d say he knew about it, but if it was in the grounds of a hospital, and then had an estate built over it, it’s hardly interesting enough to go telling people about. And,” he was on a roll, “think about who owned that house. Isn’t it the one deaf and dumb Edwin used to live in? You don’t think the bloke could be that nephew of his that used to turn up now and again do you?”

  Of course it was that house. Double-D Ed had been one of those characters every small town has. A bit of an oddball, but harmless, as far as anyone knew. He’d lived there for as long as I’d known, and could have quite easily bought it as new. As it happened he’d died about six months before the outbreak, and the house had sat empty since. If he’d an air-raid shelter in his back garden he wouldn’t have told anyone—couldn’t have, to be blunt—so there was every chance it was still there, which begged the question.

  “So what now? You think those kids could be down there?”

  Harrison and I looked at Paul. He’d just said exactly what we were thinking.

  * * *

  I needed a moment to think, so I offered to grab another round of drinks. My friends were nothing if not predictable. Paul would propose something forceful; Harrison would advocate caution. For me, the whole situation was increasingly uncomfortable. It wasn’t just the missing kids, although that was the prime concern. The fact that the stranger was clearly infected, yet somehow had kept death at bay, was another mystery that demanded consideration. Not only that, but the stranger wasn’t showing any signs of the usual lethargy the illness brought on. He was still tending his garden, and working on the exterior of the house. We’d even seen him putting up a shed a day or so back. Other than his appearance, which was still only a few steps up from a walking corpse, he seemed right as rain.

  “So what’s the plan?” I asked when I got back to the room despite knowing that there was no way the two of them would have reached a consensus.

  “Paul thinks we should seize him, stick a twelve bore in his face, and force ‘the truth’ from him,” said Harrison.

  “And this pussy thinks we should politely enquire if he’s kidnapped any kids lately and if he’d mind us taking a peak in his dungeon,” said Paul who was, unsurprisingly, the more agitated of the two.

  I took a breath, and took a drink, “This isn’t the Wild West, but it isn’t the civilised society we grew up in either. None of us know a damn thing about this sort of thing, and Paul, TV doesn’t count so don’t even go there.” Both of them were listening, which was a start. “If we try to snatch him we could make a real mess of things, and someone could get hurt. By someone I mean one of us or the kids; as well as him—he could still be innocent, by the way. It isn’t like we can pop to the hospital if any of us get injured. It’s what, thirty miles to the nearest doctor? And that’s if what we heard still holds true. Besides, do we really want to start torturing people? This isn’t bloody Guantanawhatsit Bay. Let’s try something a bit more creative.”

  Paul sat forward, he would be the most receptive to what I was about to propose. Harrison leant back. He’d be harder to convince, but I wanted both of them onboard.

  “I’m happy to sneak round the back of the house to see if I can find anything out but we need to distract this guy’s attention if I’m going to be able to have a decent scout around.”

  “A diversion?” said Paul, “like what? Setting fire to the twat’s house?”

  “That’s a bit drastic,” I said, “but we could set fire to his shed.”

  * * *

  The sun had set and the twilight world of dusk was holding off the night in the daily battle it was forever doomed to lose. It was the perfect time to execute our plan—dark enough to afford us some cover, light enough for us to be able to see what we were doing.

  The plan was for Paul and I to hedgehop our way along the row of properties leading to the stranger’s house before splitting off—me, into the back garden, and Paul into the front. Once there, he’d light a small fire beneath the shed. Harrison, along with his German shepherd, would just happen to be walking by and, seeing the blaze, would alert the stranger. With no running water—we all got our own from the local river—tackling the blaze would be impossible, but efforts would need to be made to prevent the fire from spreading. Fortunately the shed stood apart from anything other than a stone boundary wall, yet Harrison would argue that both he, and the stranger, would need to keep a close eye on things
in case any stray sparks looked likely to start secondary fires elsewhere.

  I checked my watch, the firestarter would be striking the match any time soon, before high-tailing it back next door to where he’d stashed his shotgun. Harrison may have had Holyfield with him, but if things went tits up Paul was there as backup.

  “Fire! Fire!”

  Harrison’s shouts ruptured the air before I saw any smoke. I hesitated, how would I know if the stranger responded? It was too late to worry about that.

  * * *

  The back garden was covered in a mixture of paving and gravel. Planters were dotted here and there, and a raised bed ran alongside the fence, but overall there was more stone and concrete present than organic matter. It explained why such a private individual had established his veg patch out front. I cast my eyes over the layout for a second time, not knowing what I was looking for. What the hell had I expected? A corrugated iron hut half sunk into the ground? A pair of cellar doors, swinging in the wind? The light was fading, as was my confidence, but there was no way I could turn back when the lives of those kids could well depend upon how our half-baked plan panned out. My intent was to take a quick look around, so I’d left my cumbersome gun on the other side of the wall, sacrificing security for speed. Now I was vulnerable. The night was mild, but I started to shiver. I admit it, I was scared. To make matters worse an acrid smoke was blowing around the side of the house and into the back garden, stinging my eyes and catching in my throat. The endeavour was proving to be futile, and I determined that getting out of there, and having a rethink, was the best option.

  Why I didn’t go back the way I came I can’t tell you. Panic probably. I’d been on the verge of a heart attack ever since we’d left the pub and started walking towards this part of town.

  As it was I headed across the garden, up onto one of the planters, and pulled myself up onto the top of the wall. As I swung my legs over to the other side my line of sight shifted back into the garden I was leaving. That’s when I spotted it. There, on a paving stone underneath a wooden bench, was a brass ring large enough to fit your arm through, or pull on with both hands. I dropped back down and scurried over. I nudged the bench out of the way and grasped the cold metal. The slab slowly groaned upwards on a metal hinge as I pulled. Below, a ladder headed down into the darkness. Part of me wanted to close the damn thing and get the hell out of there. We could come back tomorrow and force the stranger to let us take a look, but we could have done that this evening. The whole aim of the plan—torching his shed aside—was to find out what was going on without antagonising things. I had to see it through, and lowered myself into the hole. My feet found the rungs and I reached up to shuffle the bench back over the opening. My tracks covered I ducked down and closed the lid. I was in complete darkness, and wondering just what the fuck I was playing at.

  It took a few deep breaths to regain control of myself, and get the panic back in check. There was a torch in my pocket, the end of the world still a recent enough event for us to have a stash of working batteries, but using it while climbing down the ladder would’ve been awkward. Instead, I descended in pitch blackness. When I reached the bottom I quickly turned on the torch and was struck by a vision I would try to forget for the rest of my days, but which would haunt me for eternity.

  The room was large, with a row of bunk beds down either side, most of which were clearly occupied. Tentacles of panic wrapped themselves around me once more, constricting my chest and making breathing difficult. Despite those slumbering either side of me, my attention was locked to the far wall. Three naked blood stained bodies were hanging there from chains which glinted in the torchlight. I’ve no idea how long I stood there, rooted to the spot and taking short, sharp, breaths, but although the forms moved in their sleep none of them awoke. Eventually, I edged forward past a total of eighteen sleeping figures, male and female—all infected. The oppressive atmosphere of the pit began to conspire against me, leaving me nauseous and disorientated. My panic only held at bay by some inner strength I’d never known I’d had. I made it to the far end; my boots felt like lead weights and my body heavy, as if I’d just reached the summit of Everest rather than crossed the floor of a room that would’ve normally been traversed in seconds. I’d needed no confirmation the three bodies were those of the Wilsons. They were alive, their chests slowly rising and falling, and I whispered my thanks to God. They were also riddled with puncture wounds: small holes, in pairs, dotted all over their torsos and limbs, each set ringed with an angry bruise. Only their faces, porcelain pale in the darkness, appeared unblemished. My murmuring prayer of thanks darkened to a curse upon those who had inflicted such injury upon these innocents.

  Rage was building inside me and I almost threw myself at the man who slept peacefully only a few feet away. How could these bastards sleep contentedly while the abused bodies of children adorned the wall of their quarters? It was inhumane—the actions of monsters, not men. The urge to pull the nearest of them from his bed and dash his brains out on the cold stone floor was almost irresistible. Yet sanity retained the upper hand in this most insane scenario, and I maintained what composure I still had. To attack would be suicide. I was outnumbered, and I had no wish to tangle with the type of lunatics who, sick or not, could visit such pain and suffering upon innocents.

  The extent of these people’s guilt compared to that of the stranger may have been unknown, but I was certain that some amount of guilt belonged to each and every one of them, and for that they would need to be held accountable. Such concerns, however, were for another time. I had to save the children, and that priority needed to be my prime concern. I returned my attention to them and pulled at their chains, but they refused to budge. Even when I pulled at their slender ankles and wrists, viewing further injury as the lesser of two evils, I still couldn’t slip them free of their bonds.

  I was ashamed by the futility of my efforts, both now, and even more so by the fact that Paul and I had missed this hellish pit a fortnight ago. What suffering must have been endured since then? And what degree of fault for that could be apportioned to me? I was crying, and my sense of judgement and reasoning was collapsing under the weight of the situation. How I found the inner strength to provide me with the resolve to deal with the hand fate had dealt me I cannot say, but I thank God I did. I wiped away my tears on the sleeve of my jacket, and turned to leave.

  As I made my way back through the room one of the figures turned over in their sleep and yawned. It was a woman, middle aged, and with a face criss-crossed with the lines of scab so indicative of the infection. As she yawned I saw her skin stretch tight, and in some places split, a thick yellow pus oozing out of the wounds like tree sap. I forced my gaze away and in doing so it fell upon the small table to the side of her cot. There was a book on it, and at first I didn’t believe it when I saw that this was a Bible, but the absurdity of that paled in comparison to the equipment next to it—a set of steel fangs. I couldn’t resist, and gingerly made my way over to pick them up. If I had to hazard a guess I would have said the cold, shining, metal, was surgical steel. As I studied them in one hand I crossed myself with the other, even though I’m neither religious nor superstitious. An unusual act, but these were unusual times. The fangs looked like they would slip in front of the teeth, like a gum-shield, the razor sharp prongs clearly the instrument which had been used to puncture the skin of the children and let forth their blood into the wearers waiting throat. I was sickened, and hastily put them back down. A quick look around the room confirmed that there was a set by each bed. Some of those sleeping still had blood around their lips.

  I fully expected a blow to the head as I crawled out, a single strike that would knock me out cold only to wake up hanging by the children, my blood being drained so that they could stay alive. I’d joined the dots, and it was the only thing that made sense, that the blood somehow held the infection in check. Fortunately, no such blow came. There was no noise from the front of the house, but the air was still laden wi
th smoke and an orange glow permeated the falling darkness of dusk. I had to do something. We had to do something. The stranger would no doubt be suspicious. He could kill the kids and escape, with or without the others. It was time for me to regroup with Harrison and Paul, but as I began to head for the wall my gaze turned for one last time to the house, and there he was.

  The stranger was sprawled out on a recliner, just the other side of the patio doors, basking in the light of the rising moon. A glass of what looked like wine, but which could have been something else, sat next to him. It looked syrupy on the side of the glass.

  If I’d had a gun with me, I’d have shot him there and then.

  * * *

  Five minutes later, I was sitting with Harrison and Paul on a set of swings a street away.

  “What do we do? We need to get those kids out,” I asked as soon as I’d recounted my adventure to them.

  “And the rest?” said Paul, “That cunt must be some kind of guardian for them, unless they take turns? Move around from place to place?”

  Harrison shook his head. “I don’t think he’s as sick as they are from what you’ve said. He took quite a risk letting you look around before, and it makes me think he’s tougher than he seems. And they must’ve known about the shelter when they pitched up here. Maybe one of them actually is Edwin’s nephew?”

  “I don’t think it matters who they are,” I said. “What’s important is what they are, and that we get those kids out safely.”

  “Listen,” said Harrison. “What if they feed the same time each day? They never woke when you were down there. He never came out when I was shouting “fire”. What if they feed and then go into a trance, or just pass out. That gives us a window of opportunity. We can come back at dusk tomorrow and…”