by Devon De'Ath
She almost snatched them from his grip. Sweat from her agitated palms made focusing more of an ordeal than it should have been. “Oh my God, you’re right. Bill?”
“Yeah?”
“That guy Jeff from the pub in Lincolnshire is among the party.”
Bill held a hand out to block Vicky’s field of vision. “Let me see.”
She returned the optical instrument.
Bill opened its lenses wider. “You’ve got a petite face for a female Viking.” He lifted them back to his eyes. A mild grin lifted one corner of his mouth.
Vicky understood the source of his faint amusement. “From the bruises around his eyes, I’d say he took a decent pounding.”
Bill grimaced. “He deserves more. Jesus, there must be a hundred of them, all with day packs. I don’t even want to know what they keep in those. Who do you think they borrowed the children from for this facade? I count twen…” He never finished his sentence, a sudden jolt causing him to lower the binoculars.
Fear flashed behind Vicky’s moistening eyes. Her mouth hung open. “That care home in Berkshire. The one from the paper.” She clamped both palms to her nose. “There wasn’t any hope of finding the kid’s remains, because the kids weren’t there. The cult took them. Twenty special needs children. It must be.”
Bill dropped to the grass, back slumped against the wall. He pressed the rear of his head into the brickwork. “Raven was right: a big ritual. It can’t be anything else. I don’t know about the island’s residents, but they’re intending to sacrifice those children. Why else would they bring them here? Why kidnap them in the first place?”
A fuzzy, light-headed sensation drove Vicky to drop beside him. “There are too many in that group who’ll recognise us. If we’re seen…”
“Way ahead of you. Look, it'll take the procession a time to trek up from the landing beach. I say we pack down the tent, shoulder our gear, then spend the rest of the day playing cat and mouse. We’ve got to keep out of their way. One of those thugs at ‘The Guthlac Inn’ was packing heat. If this lot intend to perform a major atrocity on a tiny island, they’ll round everyone up. Any money says whatever else is in those packs, shooters are part and parcel. We’d best become invisible until the cult tip their hand. It’s our only hope, the islander’s only hope, and don’t get me started on those youngsters.”
Vicky forced herself up, a sudden tiredness stiffening her limbs again. “Come on. Let’s get moving.”
15
Interdiction
Vicky and Bill spent most of the day sticking to the centre of Lundy. At first the visiting group behaved as anyone might expect a charity outing to conduct themselves. Early evening brought with it a dense fog bank, shrouding the island. From the cliff top plateau, one could be forgiven for believing themselves on the summit of a mountain, gazing down at clouds from thousands of feet up. Now the visiting children were nowhere in sight.
Vicky knelt on her backpack, body pressed against the quarter wall. She peered over the top. They’d darted up and down the length of this divider several times in the last hour. Figures hiking along tracks at either end of the boundary marker appeared as mere shadows. Black ghosts against white mist like some sinister negative image. Bill rose beside her. “They’re patrolling in groups of four, now.”
A sharp, male order further up the path caused them to drop out of sight. “Get moving, you two.”
Once a chorus of crunching footsteps passed, the pair peeked out again. Two stumbling dark human shapes were being pushed and hassled along by four figures close behind. A faint outline of gun barrels melded with the rear silhouettes.
Bill sank back behind the wall. “It looks like the roundup has started. We’re losing light, now. That’s something. This fog will give us extra cover.”
Vicky emitted a heavy breath. “Now what, Bill? We couldn’t take that lot on, even if they weren’t armed. We need help.”
Bill scratched the back of his neck. “If we found out where they’re taking the islanders and freed them… I don’t know. What are you thinking?”
Vicky squinted. “I say we try to reach that payphone at the Marisco.”
“Who are you going to call?”
“The police.”
“What?” Bill covered his mouth after a louder than intended outburst. He craned his neck backward, fearful of discovery. No sounds or shadows approached.
“Listen, Bill. We’ve had a good run. I say we call in; tell the police where we are.”
“And if they don’t show until tomorrow, after the cult have left?”
“We make the call urgent. Claim lives are in danger if they don’t get here now. They already believe we’re killers.”
“I suppose we can try it. They’d better send an armed response unit, or more decent coppers will wind up dead. Call me a pessimist, but these guys won’t go quietly. Not here, not now.” He rummaged in his jacket pocket.
“What are you looking for?” Vicky asked.
“My mobile.” He pulled out the device. “Did you keep your phone and battery?”
“Yes. Why?”
“The landlord said there’s scant coverage here, but we might as well fire them up. Since we’re announcing our presence anyway, we’ve nothing to lose. If the cult nab us before we reach the pub, there’s still a remote chance the police will discover we’re here.”
“How? I thought you said mast locations were too vague? That it didn’t work like that in real life?”
Bill fumbled with his phone to remove the battery cover. “Under normal circumstances, that’s true. But if the live trace is still running, they’ll trigger coastal masts with a time stamp and azimuth pointing out to sea. Any savvy communications intel staff will guess where we are, unless they assume we’re aboard a boat.” He clipped the battery in place, then switched on his phone. “It’s an insurance policy, nothing more. Heck, if we get a signal, we'll call from here.”
Vicky retrieved her own smartphone and followed suit.
Bill waved his device around in the air. “Shit. No network. How about you?”
“Hang on.” Vicky illuminated her screen and unlocked the SIM card. “It’s searching… No. The same.”
Bill stuffed the live phone back in his jacket. “Let’s keep them turned on. All we need is one to pick up a momentary signal and connect with a mainland mast, while we’re moving about the island. That should be enough for plod to smell the pussy.” He caught Vicky’s raised eyebrow. “Sorry.”
Vicky rested one reassuring hand on his nearest shoulder. “Whatever happens, I’m glad you’re with me, William Rutherford.”
Bill patted her wrist. “Leave the packs here, for now. We’ll require speed and freedom of movement.” He straddled the wall and dropped into the grass on its far side. The soft thud of Vicky’s body landed face down beside him. Bill rose to perform a stealthy run. The pair sprinted across a grass airstrip, sometimes used by skilled and daring STOL pilots in finer weather. Their scampering outlines were easily mistaken for some of Lundy’s many feral animals, frolicking through the mist. They pressed flat against another stone wall between the old western light and the weathered markers of Beacon Hill Cemetery.
Bill pointed southeast. “Stick low against these walls. We’ll skirt the campsite and see if there’s a back door to the tavern.”
Several cautious minutes later, they reached the rear of the general store. Vicky and Bill held fast at one corner of the building. Two figures, now clad in dark, hooded robes wandered past. Each clutched machine pistols with extended grips. Bill whispered in Vicky’s ear. “Czech Škorpions. Why aren’t I surprised this lot have access to heavy-duty, illegal weaponry? You don’t want to face the business end of those. That’s spray and pray shit.”
The figures’ footsteps faded. Bill and Vicky darted across the path, behind an opposite wall. It ran parallel to the track and separated the main settlement from fields leading to the eastern cliff edge.
Vicky caught her breath, speaking
in gasps. “Do you think they’re holding the islanders at the pub? Unless they’re being kept in the open, there aren’t many structures large enough for the entire group.”
“We’re a hundred yards out, so we’ll soon know.” Bill scurried forward, eyes straining through the mist for upward patrols from the landing beach far below. Lamplight shone from ‘The Marisco Tavern,’ diffused into halos by the moisture rich air. Vicky crept close to an open kitchen window.
A commanding male voice carried through from the bar. “Now children, drink up your special cordial. Then we’re all off to the church for a surprise.”
A murmur of excited anticipation followed.
Bill squeezed past Vicky to another window behind the bar. He inched his face up to the sill, enough to clock activity within. The silver-haired woman and that couple who appeared known to the children, stood amidst the special needs kids. They made sure each youngster downed a curious glass of some substance or other, before handing them a lollipop as a reward. Bill bent his neck to take in a wall next to the beer pumps. The public payphone cord hung down, its receiver end severed in a mass of splayed wires. “That figures,” he grunted under his breath, then eased back to join Vicky. “The phone’s out of action. No sign of any islanders. They must either be in the church, on the boat or at Millcombe House. You know, that villa we passed on our way in.” He jerked a thumb behind them.
“It can’t be the church. How would they control prisoners during their ceremony? No, that space is sacred to them.”
Bill puffed. “The boat or the villa, then.” He checked his phone. “Still no network. Freeing the islanders and the Oldenburg’s crew remains our best chance.”
Vicky pushed away from the wall, Bill close behind. They picked their way down the track above the steep wooded valley in which Millcombe House sat. Over their shoulders, on a rise above the settlement, candlelight flickered from the windows of St Helen’s. A procession of hooded figures moved from the pub, up a lazy, sweeping track. In their midst, twenty dazed children wandered in trance-like stupors toward their unsuspected demise.
Bill squatted beneath shrubbery above the precipitous incline overlooking the villa. Electrical illumination blazed from both floors of Millcombe House. One armed, robed cultist stood by the rear door. Bill pushed through the undergrowth. A dry twig snapped in the darkness. The sentry swung his machine pistol aloft, hood hunching forward and checking from side to side. Bill froze. Cold sweat streaked down his brow. His temples throbbed. A disturbed bird flapped out of the bushes, soaring skyward over the villa’s roof. The cultist relaxed his posture. Bill crept further along the ridge for a look at the front of the house.
Three minutes later he appeared back at Vicky’s side. “Two more sentries at the main door out front. From what I can tell through the windows, they’ve spread their prisoners across both floors. No sign of interior guards, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. My viewing angle was limited.”
Vicky pulled at the ends of her hair. “What’s your plan?”
Bill grinned. “Have I ever told you how attractive you are?”
Vicky frowned. “I thought we’d covered that? Bill, this is hardly the time-”
“Relax. Matey boy at the rear is our best chance. But we’ve got to subdue him quietly.”
“Why don’t I like where this is going?” Vicky asked.
“I need you to blunder onto the track, pretending to be a pretty, confused tourist or islander who’s lost. While he’s distracted, I’ll put him out of action.”
Vicky’s eyes widened. “And if he shoots first?”
Bill eased down the bank on his bottom, slipping on tufts of grass moistened by the damp fog. “Act as pathetic as you can. The less of a threat you pose, the better.”
Vicky swallowed hard. She tracked sideways to stumble out further down the path near the villa’s rear doors.
The cultist raised his weapon. “Hey. Who are you?”
Vicky held up two imploring hands. “Please help me. I got lost on the cliffs and the island seems deserted. Do you know where everybody’s gone?”
The machine pistol barrel beckoned her forward. A faint glimmer of white teeth in a twisted smile flashed beneath his hood. “The island’s under new management now, Love. You’d better come inside with me.” He slung the Škorpion over one shoulder, then fished a set of keys from his pocket. The moment the hood twisted towards the door, Bill’s sturdy arms clamped around the guard’s windpipe. He flailed for a moment, then sunk to the ground. Bill grabbed the keys and disentangled the weapon from his fallen foe.
Vicky reached the door. “Is he?”
“No. But he’ll be out cold for a spell.” Bill tossed the keys to Vicky, then dragged the body into a nearby patch of scrub.
Vicky opened the rear doors. Beyond lay a long room sporting a granite fireplace. One modest door led off to the right, while an archway at the far left corner fed into a kitchen. Bill raised the Škorpion to shoulder height. He peeked round the archway, then signalled with his head for Vicky to follow. They stopped in the kitchen beside a closed door with access to the main stairwell and hallway. Bill pressed one ear against the wood. He shook his head. “All quiet. The main doorway has windows. Go easy moving past, in case those two out front turn around.”
Vicky bit her lip.
Bill discovered another room left of the hall. From up on the rise, he’d seen what appeared to be the ship’s crew gathered around a long, polished wooden dining table before another granite fireplace. He eased the door open with a gentle creak, then slipped inside. His sudden, covert appearance caused the assembled mariners to pivot in surprise. Bill motioned his head towards the window. “Easy, fellas. I’m not with that lot.”
Vicky entered the room. She closed the door behind, delicate hands intent on maintaining stealth.
The Oldenburg’s ageing captain rose from one of the dining chairs. “Who are you? Islanders?”
Bill thought for a moment. “Visitors. No time to explain. Listen, we’ve been tracking this bunch of thugs for a while. They’re into some serious, evil shit. You know that group of kids who came over with you?”
The captain nodded. “The special needs children.”
Vicky joined in. “The group just led them up to the church. They’re intent on killing the lot.”
The first mate snorted. “Why?”
Bill sighed. “There’s too much to cover. It’s devil worshipping madness. Take my word for it, I didn’t believe in all that nonsense either, once.”
The captain pushed round from the table. “Then we’ve got to stop them.”
Bill pressed a flat hand against the advancing man’s chest. “Whoa. In case you’ve forgotten, many of these cultists are packing heat.” He waved the gun. “I nabbed this from the one out back. Two more guard the house entrance. I suggest we take care of them without a fuss, then see who else is shut up in here.”
“They shepherded islanders across the hall. Some holidaymakers from the rental cottages went upstairs,” the first mate replied.
Bill grunted an acknowledgement. “They've cut the pub phone line. Mobiles have no signal. Can you get a transmission out from your boat?”
“Yes,” the captain said. “Ship to shore radio will work fine. We’re only twelve miles off the mainland. That’s assuming they haven’t damaged the radio. If they intend to leave the way they came, it doesn’t seem likely.”
“Great. Retake your vessel and radio for the police.”
The captain’s brow furrowed. “The police against a large, armed incursion of hostage takers on Lundy? They’ll never make it here in time. Suicide if they did.”
Bill gritted his teeth.
A wry smile lifted one corner of the captain’s mouth. “Don’t worry, I’m a Rear Admiral. Retired - of course. I know who to call. The brass can argue with law enforcement about jurisdiction and propriety, afterwards.”
Vicky opened the door for Bill. Four of the ship’s crew followed him out into the
hallway. They skulked in shadows beside the main doors. Through the windows, two robed guards stood firm with their backs to the structure. Bill crept forward and unlatched the door with a soft click. He glanced from side to side at his newfound companions. Each man set his jaw. Bill yanked the doors wide and stepped back, weapon raised. The cultists made a half turn before a pair of burly crewmen jumped each of them.
Two additional firearms secured, they performed a sweep of the house until all remaining captives filled the staircase and hallway. The captain clapped a hand on Bill’s shoulder. “We’ll liberate the Oldenburg and send a message. What are you planning to do?”
Bill bent forward to tug at one cultist's robes. “My friend and I will sneak inside that church. We must save those children or keep them from harm until help arrives. Don’t delay in getting word out once you’re back aboard your vessel. Time is of the essence.”
“Good luck.” The captain hurried out the door with his crew, both armed sailors taking point.
Vicky pulled robes from the other unconscious sentry.
Gavin Rothbury, the pub landlord, appeared at Bill’s shoulder. “They bound Reverend Streeter and took him away with them.”
Vicky donned the robe. “Typical: murdering a man of the cloth. It seems they intend on leaving you without a shepherd.”
“And counsellor,” Gavin added. “Mike Streeter was a therapist before he saw the light. He’s a knack for getting to the bottom of what troubles you.”
Bill wiped sweat from his brow. “Do you have any weapons tucked away?”
A lanky, ginger-haired man in a green warden’s uniform took a pace forward. “I’ve a licensed hunting rifle up at my cottage, if I can reach it. I use the gun to cull Sitka deer on the island.”
Gavin motioned to him. “This is Jake Alburn.”
Bill acknowledged him. “Okay, Jake. Well, I hope you’re willing to use it against creatures with two legs and black hearts.”
“I’ll do my part,” Jake replied. Calm certainty resonated with gentle power in his voice.
Gavin cleared his throat. “I’ve other guns, hidden.”
