Creed

by James Herbert

  It was Creed, needless to say, who reacted first.

  He dropped like a stone, slipping under the big restraining arm and made a half-crouched dash for his son.

  When he reached him the proceedings became enlivened once more. The mob surged forward and swamped the trio. Creed, Bliss, and Sammy went down under the crush of bodies, falling through the vault-like doorway and sprawling on to a concrete platform inside.

  Creed felt a sharp pain in his chest as he pushed himself away, lifting his body and dislodging whoever it was clinging to him from his back. He cried out as the pain became intense and he looked down, thinking he had been stabbed; in a sense, he had, for the vampire wannabe was up to his old tricks again and boring a hole through Creed’s torn coat and shirt with his home-grown lethal weapon, i.e. one bony finger.

  Creed shook his head and looked directly into the protruding eyes beneath him. That’s not really happening,’ he informed Bliss, but when he examined himself again to make sure, blood was beginning to trickle down the creature’s hand.

  Creed screamed and pain and fear and aversion to seeing his own red stuff drove him to almost superhuman efforts. He heaved himself further upwards, easily throwing off two more scrawny bodies that had leapt up on him, and grabbed his assailant by the lapels to lift his head and shoulders from the floor. At the same time he brought down his own head in a short but extremely hard movement, executing a perfect head-butt.

  His hands let go and shot to his own forehead as he yowled at the new pain. He fell away from his stunned victim and rolled on to his back on the stone floor.

  ‘Dad, Dad . . .’ Sammy was kneeling over him and shaking his shoulders.

  ‘Yeah . . .’ Creed struggled to sit up. ‘Yeah . . . I’m okay. Christ, is that the time?’

  He massaged his forehead, forcing his eyes to open, not quite sure of where he was or what he was doing.

  ‘Dad . . .’ Sammy urged, shaking him some more.

  Creed winced, promising himself he’d never try a headbutt again. He became aware that the smell of smoke was much stronger and when he focused his eyes he saw why.

  The first thing was the gold-amber reflections flickering on the faces and bodies of those gaunt, naked and half-naked ravers assembled around the doorway; the second was the dancing flames shining in his own son’s eyes. He turned in the direction they were all looking.

  The platform that they were on was, in fact, the landing to a concrete stairway, and below them was a vast room, one that must have been built around the very foundations of the house itself. Its floor was low rather than its ceiling high and there was not a cobweb or damp stain in sight, for this was a protected treasure house of antique furniture, paintings and precious paraphernalia. There were clocks, both small and tall, there were statues, some damaged, some perfect; there were gold and silver boxes and large trunks that might have contained jewellery, or documents, or anything at all. There were also several big safes in the room, every one of them open, their paper contents scattered and feeding the spreading fire.

  And at the centre of all this, surrounded by beautiful things that would soon be destroyed by avaricious flames, was a sturdy though intricately-carved chair, a throne of oak, on which sat the slumped form of Nicholas Mallik.

  So aged, so incredibly ancient, did he appear, his skin so rutted and dry, the joints of his hands so gnarled, that he might have been sculptured from old oak himself. He sat there without life, unmoving even though fire licked at his ankles. He remained still even when the flames caught the black costume, and unflinching when his flesh began to rupture and sizzle. He seemed too tired to move.

  It was almost fascinating to watch, perversely enthralling in its way, and Creed wondered why the man didn’t writhe, didn’t scream in agony. How could anyone stand such pain? His legs were ablaze, and then his torso, whatever fatty parts there were on that lean frame flaring brightly, infernos within the grand inferno. The fire swallowed his arms, smothering them completely so that his hands blistered and punctured before becoming a deep reddened brown.

  The smell of roasting became as strong as the smell of smoke.

  Creed hugged Sammy to his chest so that he couldn’t see. He held him firm, even though the boy squirmed.

  Only when the conflagration reached the gruesomely desiccated face did Mallik begin to move.

  His head came up slowly as his thin hair smouldered and his cheeks began to pucker and split. Perhaps it was the sight of the onlookers that changed his expression, or perhaps it was the intense heat shrivelling the stringy meat of his face that forced his lipless mouth into a smile. And Creed, himself, might only have imagined that those dark contemptuous eyes singled him out before they began to bubble and soon cloud over with an opaque whiteness. The fire took hold of the head and Nicholas Mallik shifted for the last time.

  He rested back in the blazing chair as though it had been a long tiresome day and now he was going to sleep.

  The fire crackled and raged over him, sending out sparks that spiralled to the beamed ceiling.

  A high keening sound close by turned Creed’s attention from the funeral pyre. Bliss was frantically struggling to free himself of the tangle of bodies at the top of the stairs, his shining eyes never leaving the dreadful sight below. The photographer slid himself and Sammy aside as the creature broke loose and darted past with that peculiar spiderish gait, descending the stairs and running straight into the rapidly spreading blaze, oblivious to the heat, unconcerned, it seemed, with the flames that instantly caught his clothes.

  Creed watched horrified as Bliss threw himself on to the shrunken thing inside the inferno. A great plume of flame engulfed him as if he were no more than fresh kindling and the fire shot upwards to torch the ceiling. It spread outwards on the overhead surface, rolling and billowing in a searing wave and the lunatics near Creed and Sammy cheered and pointed.

  Sammy clutched his father tightly and hid his face again, this time voluntarily. His voice was muffled when he said, ‘Take me home now, Dad. Please.’

  Keeping his back to the wall, Creed eased past the jubilant banshees, his son clinging to his waist, an arm held up to protect his face from the fierce heat. Together they slipped through the doorway, Creed still keeping his back to the wall and trying to remain unnoticed, ready to run the instant anyone took an undue interest. Fortunately most of the attention in there was on the broken-necked monster, who was beating the air with his enormous fists, roaring his wrath at the unkempt lunatics who were tormenting him. With his unsupported head rolling from one shoulder to the other it was difficult for him to aim effectively. Someone appeared in the doorway behind Creed carrying a burning piece of furniture – it might have been an arm or a leg from a chair – and he waved it over his head, almost setting light to his own long hair. He whooped as he ran at the monster with his firebrand and others present thought it wonderful when he pushed it into the big man’s face; they danced around the chamber, mimicking the monster’s bellow of pain. Others ran from the burning vault-room with more fire torches and began taunting the Frankenstein thing, surrounding him, poking and lighting his clothes.

  I’ve seen this movie, thought Creed.

  An explosion of fire swept through the doorway, hurling several bodies before it. More figures followed, screeching fireballs that bounced off walls or disappeared into corridors, lighting their own way.

  ‘Can you run, Sammy?’ Creed asked his son, raising his voice over the bedlam.

  The pudgy face jerked itself off Creed’s stomach and looked up at him, eyes wide and fearful. ‘Will you hold my hand, Daddy?’

  He hugged him close again and blinked. God, the smoke was making his eyes water. ‘’Course I will. Let’s give ’em all a race.’

  Clasping each other’s hands tightly, they took off.

  Through the gloomy passageways they went, with Creed praying they were heading towards the back of the house and, hopefully, to the narrow staircase which would lead them to the side door he’d us
ed earlier. No such luck though. He soon realised they were deep within the Retreat’s underground labyrinth and when they arrived at the passageway housing the open cells, he considered turning back. Kerfuffles approaching from behind told him that might be a bad idea: the crazy inmates were blocking any retreat.

  He led Sammy onwards, once again putting a hand over the boy’s eyes as they passed a blackened, still-smouldering heap that was sprawled against a wall. The smell of the charred corpse (Creed was astounded that the poor wretch had got this far) was terrible, but then so was the general stink from the open doorways on either side.

  As they passed further along the dimly lit passage they met something crawling towards them. At first Creed had thought it was only a bundle of rags, possibly dumped there by an escapee, but as they drew closer he observed that it was moving – very slowly, but moving nonetheless. The whole of this one’s body was swathed in filthy bandages; even one eye was covered (there was just the faintest glitter coming from the other that might have been a reflection of an eyeball). Even more disconcerting was the sight of bandages trailing along the ground where this mummified thing’s lower leg should have been. In fact, the lower leg was several yards behind, a black stump with just two toes, and it was trying to catch up.

  Creed squirmed at the sight of the remaining big toe, thin and almost fleshless, wriggling in conjunction with the heel in an effort to move itself along, while Sammy was merely absorbed. The bandaged thing raised an arm as if for assistance as they side-stepped by, but it soon flopped to the floor shedding dust (and perhaps a little more rotten flesh) when it was ignored.

  There were other things moving in one or two of those open cells, shapes, lumps, that bore scant resemblance to anything human, but Creed’s curiosity had been more than adequately satiated for one night and he made no attempt whatsoever to discover what these were. He hurried Sammy along and was relieved to leave the dingy chamber of horrors behind and enter the brighter – although, in its way, equally as sinister – corridors of the ‘medical’ area where the plundered body of Antony Blythe lay on its cold metal slab and where the storeroom of spare parts, organs and eyeballs, limbs and livers, spleens and larynxes was housed.

  He would not allow Sammy to rest, even though they were both puffing and panting, the boy’s footsteps becoming sluggish. Creed dragged him along, slowing his own pace only slightly. ‘Not . . . far, Sam. Only . . . a little . . . way . . . to go,’ he encouraged between breaths.

  Sammy began to cry.

  ‘Okay . . . okay.’ Creed stopped and knelt in front of his son. ‘Fireman’s lift. Remember how we did it when you were little?’

  The boy nodded, his lower lip trembling. ‘I don’t like it here,’ he said miserably.

  ‘Did they do anything to you, Sam?’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. I’ve been asleep.’

  Creed closed his eyes in relief. With luck his son had been too doped up to take in any of the weird goings-on in this place. ‘Over my shoulder you go.’

  Sammy leaned forward and allowed his father to rise with him on his shoulder. Creed patted the plump rump. ‘Back to the diet after this, Sam,’ he called out.

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ the meek reply came back.

  Onwards again, Creed’s legs not too steady under the load, and quite soon they found themselves in another corridor at the end of which was a broad concertina door. Creed remembered it from earlier, when he and Cally had been making their way up to the ballroom; it was a lift used for goods, patients (presumably when they were brought down to receive transplants from unconsenting donors) and geriatric invalids on the Retreat’s upper levels. He and the girl had avoided using it then, figuring it might be more discreet to sneak up the staircase; however, now was not the time for sneaking and climbing stairs.

  Footsteps and demented hollering from behind sent him on his way again. By the time he reached the lift it felt as if he had a sack of coal over his shoulder. He pulled at the handle and the door slowly, awkwardly, folded open. He bundled Sammy inside and dumped him unceremoniously into a corner, quickly spinning round to shut the door again.

  The lunatics were already halfway down the corridor, a terrifying sub-human rabble who lurched and reeled after him, their skin black with dirt and smoke, their faces alight with madness. He couldn’t see old Henry Pink among them, but then he didn’t stop to look too long. He heaved at the door.

  It slid along, then stuck.

  Creed pulled harder and the door moved again, then stopped again, leaving a six-inch gap. He smacked it and added a kick for good measure. ‘Bastard,’ he accused.

  Changing position, he pushed at the handle rather than pulled and the concertina straightened a little more. Four inches to go, now three . . .

  Grubby fingers, nails chewed to the quick, crept round the opening and stopped the door.

  Creed didn’t hesitate. He bent down to the grimy digits and bit as hard as he could. A shriek from the other side and the fingers disappeared. He slammed the door shut and held it there.

  The pounding from the other side was fearsome, but the door was solid enough. Someone out there started tugging at the handle and it took all of Creed’s strength to hold it steady. He had to take the risk of letting go for a moment to reach for the level buttons and of the three, he punched the middle one. He swung back against the elevator wall as the metal door sank away. Perspiration trickled into his eyes and it was difficult to wipe away, so shaky was his hand. His chest was heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

  Sammy watched from the corner, his knees tucked under his chin, his round face deathly pale, mouth agog. Creed was too anxious himself to reassure the boy convincingly.

  The ride was brief and the door that came into view was straight and made of rich mahogany. ‘Beds and garden furniture,’ Creed announced with forced humour when the lift bumped to a halt. He leaned forward and hauled Sammy to his feet. ‘We’ll soon be out, Sam. Wait ’til you tell the kids at school, huh? They won’t believe it.’ Judas, who would?

  He wrenched back the door (which ran more smoothly than the one below) and they stepped out into further mayhem.

  The hallway was filled with agitated masqueraders, milling around, jabbering excitedly, all of them trying to make for the Retreat’s main doors. Creed was surprised at how many there were, for surely the majority of them should have been well away by this time; then he saw that their numbers had been swollen by others clad in nightwear. It seemed that everyone in the home, geriatrics as well as lunatics, was on the loose.

  He and Sammy joined the throng, Creed leading with the boy close behind, shoving their way through the crowd, not caring who they nudged aside, be it male, female, young or old. Some of the guests’ masks had gone, no doubt knocked off in the jostle, and he mentally whistled when he recognized a few faces here and there. Wasn’t that the silly old bishop who was forever upsetting his Synod with his stubborn repudiation of all things miraculous? And that definitely was a member of the Shadow Cabinet, a man they said was on the shortlist of those in line for premiership should the current government lose the next election. Christ! And that woman over there looked like the wife of the American tycoon whose multinational companies virtually dominated world trade. There were other, lesser mortals that he recognized or half-recognized and he couldn’t help but wonder what the Devil’s going rate was for souls. Had he known where to apply he might have struck a deal himself some years ago when young and even more desperate for wealth and fame.

  He kept moving, elbowing aside a frail old lady in a dressing gown who wouldn’t hobble out of his way fast enough. She wished him joy in catching cancer, but he was too busy with escape to respond. A silver-haired gentleman in a deep-green quilted smoking jacket turned to admonish him for shoving (he was an old theatre queen Creed had thought long dead) but somebody else pushed by with such ferocity that they both nearly went down.

  This is getting ridiculous, Creed told himself, dragging Sammy on. What the hell wa
s the hold-up? By now they were almost in the reception area near the front doors and the crowd had grown too thick for anyone to move. He stood on tiptoe to see what was causing the blockage, using his son’s shoulder to steady himself. He caught sight of several blue-uniformed attendants by the doors and it was they who were holding back the crowd; he couldn’t see her but he could hear the familiar voice of the fat receptionist, squealing at the people to remain calm and to move away, to return to the ballroom until it was safe to leave. Creed guessed that the paparazzi had been thrown out of the side entrance and had gathered out front with freshly loaded cameras, waiting for the guests to make their hasty departures.

  He realized that he and Sammy would never get out this way. Okay, find another exit.

  ‘No problem, Sam,’ he told his son. ‘We’ll use the back way.’

  But right then there erupted a scream so shrill that everyone was stunned for a second or two. It was followed by a word that was equally piercing:

  ‘Fire!’

  This time everyone screamed.

  Creed was just able to lift Sammy before they were swept forward in a tidal wave of bodies, the surge heading directly for the big double-doors. Nothing – certainly not the obese woman and her burly cohorts – could stem that tide. The guests and residents, newly joined by the basement lunatics, who had found their way upstairs bringing bits of the fire with them, burst out into the cold night air, trampling those who wouldn’t go with the flow (like the fat lady) underfoot, smoke already beginning to pour through with them.