Startled, Nat snapped her head around and ran straight towards Carrie. They met, almost colliding with each other.
“What is it?” Carrie asked. Now she was close up, she saw that Nat’s entire body was trembling uncontrollably. She glanced down and saw the knife in Nat’s hand. “What the hell is going on?”
At first, it was as if unseen forces had sealed Nat’s mouth. She tried to speak, but only a strangled choke came out.
“Breathe,” Carrie urged. “You’re scaring me.”
Nat struggled to suck in a breath. Tears ran from the corners of her eyes.
“Where’s Rose?” she gasped.
“She’s – well, I guess she’s somewhere on the beach. But what's happened, Nat? Why are you carrying a knife? Give it to me.”
Nat pulled away from her, tried to leave in the direction of the beach.
Carrie shot out a hand and pulled her back. “Nat!”
“They’re dead!” Nat sobbed, her face contorting into a terrible grimace. “They piled them all up at the holiday park!”
A chill pierced Carrie’s heart. “Who’s dead? What are you talking about?”
“They’re here! I’ve got to find Rose! We've got to leave!”
Carrie's heart was hammering, her head spinning as adrenaline shot through her veins. “Who's here? You're not making any sense!”
But she already knew who Nat was talking about. She knew it in her heart. Deep down in the darkest recesses of her mind.
“It's them!” Nat hissed. “The Dawn Children!”
Down on the beach, the mayor had finished his speech and was nodding to the people by the slipways. One by one, they raised axes high above their heads, then together, brought them slicing down, piercing the barrels.
Foamy cider spurted from the wounds like arcs of blood. The barrels rolled forward, rumbling down the slipways gathering speed, heading for the ocean.
“Drink!” The mayor cried. “Let us toast the closing of the Devil’s Gate for another year! Drink! Drink!”
At that exact moment, Carrie felt eyes on her. She looked up. And saw her. The young woman who’d been watching her from the crowd. She was smiling; a wide, toothy grin that sent shivers racing along Carrie's spine.
Nat had seen her, too.
“Rachel?” she gasped.
But it was as if the woman hadn't noticed her. Her eyes were fixed on Carrie, burning into hers.
“Rachel?” Nat said again.
“That's not her name,” Carrie said as memories flashed through her mind. A young man and woman launching at her from the darkness, knives in hand. The same two, naked and sweaty, fucking on a mattress while she lay half-conscious, locked inside a cage. “She’s called Morwenna. She’s with the Dawn Children.”
All around, hundreds of people were raising their cups in a toast.
Down on the beach, the barrels had reached the tide. Waves crashed over them, foam spitting in the air.
Nat shook her head wildly, her eyes fixed on Morwenna, tears and snot wetting her face.
“No! That’s not right!”
Morwenna had something in her hands. As hundreds of people tipped back their heads, as cider poured down their throats, she raised the red devil mask.
“You can thank Cal,” she said, her face bitter and twisted. “He ruined everything.”
She slipped the mask over her face.
Then she was gone, disappearing into the crowd, as if she was never there.
Carrie spun around, eyes growing impossibly round. People were laughing, wiping their mouths, crushing empty paper cups.
Nat was pulling away from her, running towards the beach.
Then smiles were turning into confusion. Confusion into panic. Panic into pain.
Carrie watched, mouth hanging open in a silent scream, as all around, faces turned red and people clutched their stomachs and clawed their chests and howled like animals.
Like dominoes, they all started knocking into each other.
Like bowling pins, they all fell to the ground. Hundreds of them. One after the other. Leaving scores of frightened children standing alone and shrieking in horror.
Carrie was paralysed, watching an ocean of convulsing bodies, ears ringing with guttural cries of pain.
It was happening everywhere.
All along the promenade. Across the street. Down on the beach.
People were dying.
Faces turning purple, now blue. Limbs shooting out, spasming, contracting. Fingers knotting and twisting.
“What...?” Carrie began.
She shook her head, over and over, turning around, scarcely able to comprehend what she was seeing.
Melissa swung into view. She was standing alone, screaming hysterically and tearing at her hair.
A lightning bolt of adrenaline struck Carrie.
She sprang forwards, dashing and weaving through a multitude of collapsed bodies.
Hands reached for her. Eyes pleaded for help. She kept on running, gaze pinned on Melissa, too terrified to let her slip from sight.
Joy and Gary were on the ground, faces the colour of nightshade, veins bulging from their temples and foreheads as they writhed in agony.
Dylan was next to them, knees pulled up to his chest, hands wrapped over his head, like a baby in the womb.
Empty cups littered the ground, tiny drops of poison already drying on the baked cement.
Carrie was frozen and helpless, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to make this stop.
Ignoring Melissa’s screams, she dropped to her knees and placed a hand on Dylan’s shoulder.
“No!” she sobbed. “Oh God, no!”
Dylan's hand shot out, his fingernails sinking into her wrist. He managed to look up and Carrie saw the unbearable pain that was consuming him.
“Get...” he managed to say. “Get her out!”
Then his eyes rolled back in his head. He was unconscious, convulsing on the floor. Pissing himself.
“I’m sorry!” Carrie shrieked. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
Melissa’s screams came back to her.
She staggered to her feet, spun a full circle, saw all the other children wailing and screaming, the ground littered with the dead and dying.
There were other adults, who hadn't drunk the cider, who were all paralysed, all sharing the same bewildered stare.
Then Carrie saw the masked devils.
They were scattered around, skipping and dancing around the bodies, knives in hands, blades glinting in the sunlight as they moved towards the surviving adults.
Down at Carrie’s feet, Joy exhaled a final breath. Beside her, Gary was already dead, his hand forever reaching for his wife. Dylan was still clinging on, foam and spit and blood leaking from his mouth.
Her mind blank, her body taking control, Carrie lunged at Melissa and swept her into her arms.
Then she was running among the corpses.
Running for her life.
35
NAT RAN BUT IT WAS like she was drowning. Her limbs pushed against unseen pressure. Her lungs couldn’t get enough air. Blood pounded in her ears, muffling the chorus of screams.
The bodies were all around, thrashing and squirming, reaching for help. She stumbled through them, standing on arms, legs, chests, until she reached the promenade steps that led to the beach below.
Then it was as if she were no longer running underwater. Time caught up with her. Everything sped up.
Nat lost her footing on the second step, slipped and went crashing down, knees smashing on concrete, knife flying from her fingers, as she tumbled down to the hot sand.
What breath she had was knocked from her lungs. Grit flew into her eyes, making them burn. But she pushed herself up. Got to her feet. Started running again.
Pain shot up her legs. Her eyes were on fire, and she wiped desperately at them as she staggered forward, heading for the slipways.
Behind her on the promenade, people were shrieking and screaming. Hundreds of them.
All screaming and dying. She was in a nightmare. One that she would never wake up from.
The crowd was thinner on the beach, with only town council members, the mayor, and a few festival organisers present for the offering ceremony. Now they were all doubled over or lying face down.
On the makeshift stage, Mayor Prowse was belly up, arms and legs punching and kicking, face as red as sunset.
A photographer stood to one side, a young man in his mid-twenties. He was motionless, camera in his hands, the strap looped around his neck, watching the mayor through glazed eyes.
The screams of the dying were reaching a crescendo, high-pitched and wracked with agony.
How was this happening?
The town was dying. People clawing at their throats and stomachs, faces contorted in awful grimaces. Only two minutes ago, they had been enjoying ice cream and riding on carousels, laughing and joking.
Now, it was as if the legend of the Devil’s Gate had come true and the devil had stepped out to wreak havoc.
Except this time, he hadn’t come for the children.
It was Rachel.
No. Not Rachel.
Morwenna.
She had tricked Nat. Fed her lies that she’d hungrily devoured because of her desperate need for attention. Morwenna had made her feel liked. Normal.
But it was all a ruse.
Like an idiot Nat had told her everything. Who was involved. How the offering ceremony played out. Where the alcohol was stored.
Morwenna had listened to every word and fed it all back to the Dawn Children. Somehow, they’d got to the cider before Rose had served it up.
Now everyone was dying. Writhing on the ground, gurgling and choking, frothing at the mouth. Everyone except the frozen photographer.
And Rose.
Nat cried out in relief, dashing forwards and almost slamming into her. She wrapped her arms around the woman, squeezed tight, and sobbed into her chest.
“You're okay! You’re alive!”
She pulled back to stare at Rose. Like the photographer, she was oddly emotionless as she stared at the people dying around her. They were her friends. Fellow townspeople. Her neighbours.
“I don't understand,” she muttered and clutched at her chest. Behind her, the tide swept in, swirling with thick, creamy foam. The cider barrels bobbed in the water, heading out to sea.
“Did you drink the cider?” Nat cried.
Rose looked up at her with confused eyes. Her face was terribly pale, her eyes oscillating in their sockets.
“No, I never could stand the stuff. I switched mine for a cup of water.”
“Thank God!”
A strangled, gurgling shriek rang up from below. Nat glanced down to see Marge Penshaw, who ran the bakery, expel a final, bubbling breath. Then she was dead, her eyes frozen on Nat.
On the stage, Mayor Prowse had grown still.
Rose was waking up, snapping out of her shock. She stared at the dead and dying on the sand.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered. “Was it me? Did I do something wrong?”
She lunged forward, reaching out for one of the town councillors, who was curled up into a ball and quietly convulsing. Nat grabbed her, pulling her back.
“We have to go! It's not safe here!”
Rose’s face was going blank again, her mind retreating to a safe place.
“Rose, come on! We have to leave!” Nat tried to pull away, but Rose held fast. The young photographer still hadn't moved a muscle.
“Hey you!” Nat called to him. “You need to go! Get out of town!”
The man stared at her, then back at the bodies.
Nat spun around, helpless and desperate. Spying one of the axes that had been used to open the barrels, she swooped down and scooped it up. It was heavy in her hand, but it made her feel a fraction safer. She turned back to Rose. They needed to get out of here. Now. But both Rose and the photographer were resuming their frozen states.
Nat gave Rose a sharp tug. She stumbled, almost fell. But it did the trick. Rose blinked twice. Her face twisted with horror.
“What's happening?” she wailed. “Oh God, what’s happening?”
Nat pulled her along. “We’re getting out of here.”
They started forward, heading back in the direction of the promenade, Nat’s eyes wide and alert. From behind her, the photographer emitted a strangled wail. She stopped, glanced over her shoulder. Tears were running down his face. It was like he was awake inside, yet his body was in a coma. She couldn't leave him like this. Could she?
“Hey!” she yelled again. “Get moving. Now!”
But the photographer didn't get moving. He just looked around, eyes glazed, mouth half open.
Nat stalked towards him, Rose still in tow. On the sand, everyone was dead now. The screaming from the promenade had dampened to a disconcerting whimper.
“Hey, dick head!” she screamed at the photographer. “Get moving or I’ll leave you behind!”
She let go of Rose, raised her hand, fully prepared to slap him hard if she needed to. Then she saw movement at the corner of her eye.
In the distance, two red devils were descending the stone steps of the promenade.
The Dawn Children.
Terror gripped Nat by the throat.
She turned back to the photographer. “Move!”
She struck him hard in the face. He staggered sideways, then went still again.
The Dawn Children were approaching, masks grinning from afar.
Nat spun on her heels. The Shack came into view. Grabbing Rose by the hand, she ran towards the beach bar. Reached the door, tried to shoulder it open. It was locked. Nat ran to the window, pressed her face against the glass. There were people inside, huddled together behind the bar.
Nat glanced over her shoulder. The Dawn Children had almost reached the photographer.
A cry escaped her throat. Grabbing Rose again, she dragged her alongside The Shack and pulled her around the corner, until they were hidden from view. Rose’s eyes had glazed over again and she was mumbling incoherently. Nat clamped a palm across her mouth.
She counted to ten, then removed her hand. Rose was quiet, terrified, a sickly grey. Carefully, Nat peeked around the corner.
The photographer hadn't moved.
The Dawn Children stood in front of him, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, knives swinging from their hands. It was a bizarre scene. The photographer lifted his camera, focused the lens, and snapped pictures of them. What the man had witnessed had broken his mind.
Nat watched in horror as the Dawn Children suddenly untangled themselves and pounced, knocking him to the ground.
Knives rained up and down in a frenzy. Blood spilled and spurted, soaking into the sand. The photographer’s screams were snatched up by the ocean breeze. The Dawn Children stabbed and slashed, until the screaming stopped and the photographer lay still.
Getting to their feet, they wiped their blades clean on their clothes, then slowly turned to face The Shack, devil faces grinning wickedly in the sun.
36
CARRIE HAD MADE IT across Cove Road and through the narrow alley that led to the town square. Melissa was in her arms, trembling and crying, her face buried into Carrie’s shoulder, the horrors she’d witnessed burnt into her young mind forever.
As Carrie hurried towards Cove Crafts, her sandals slapping against the cobbled stones, she heard a sudden rush of running footsteps growing in momentum. She spun around, pressing her daughter protectively to her chest. A group of men and women, all in their late twenties, rushed past, arms swinging, lungs heaving, terrified whimpers escaping their throats. Carrie shut her eyes in relief, then opened them again.
Through the alley, she saw a glimpse of the promenade, of the bodies littered there. She watched the giant devil that had led the parade suddenly go up in flames. Three of the masked Dawn Children danced around it like minions worshipping a deity.
A survivor – a dark-haired man of indeterminate age – da
shed past them, and the three gave chase, sharp blades raised high above their heads.
As the flames began to climb the devil’s body, as thick smoke billowed in the air, Carrie saw young children wandering aimlessly among the dead.
They had let them live. They had let all the children live.
Guilt tearing through her, Carrie turned her back on them. She hurried across the square towards Cove Crafts. Melissa was holding on so tightly now, she was finding it hard to breathe.
“I need to move you, sweet pea,” she gasped, trying to steady her. “Loosen up a little.”
Melissa released her grip. Carrie shifted her around, balancing her on her left hip. Then she dug her free hand into her front jeans pocket. She found her phone, pulled it out, and wondered if anyone had managed to call the police. Because there didn't seem to be any officers around anymore. They'd all disappeared.
Carrie swiped the phone screen with her thumb, tapped 999 on the keypad, then realised there was no reception.
“Fuck!”
Stuffing the phone inside her back pocket, she slipped her hand inside the front one again and pulled out a small bunch of keys.
Melissa started howling. “I want Daddy! I want Nana Joy and Grandpa Gary!”
Carrie froze, key in hand, reaching for the door lock. She was having trouble comprehending that Dylan was dead. Gary and Joy, too. Along with everyone else.
That girl, Morwenna, she’d said it was because of Cal. That he’d ruined everything. Was it because he’d turned his back on them? Because he’d chosen to save Carrie instead?
All Carrie knew was that her daughter’s life was in danger. All she knew was that she had to get Melissa out of this town alive.
Slipping the key into the lock, she opened the door.
Would hiding inside the shop be safe enough? Was there a hiding place secure enough where they could wait without fear of being found, until the madness stopped, until the police came. Because they had to come, didn’t they? Mass murder had been committed in the blink of an eye. How could the police not know about it?
Carrie glanced over her shoulder and saw the empty square. Smelling smoke, she looked up and saw heavy, black plumes rising over the rooftops.
The Devil's Gate Page 21
