Death Day (34 page)

    Lambert felt the pressure on his throat eased and he struck out, knocking the creature off. It fell back, the blood still spouting from its neck but, in the darkness, both men saw it wrench the cleaver free and, despite the frenzied spurtings of dark fluid from its wound, come at them once more. Scarcely believing what he saw, Lambert backed off. The thing made a last desperate charge and brought the cleaver hurtling down with the force of a steamhammer. Bell, retreating also, slipped in a pool of blood and raised his hand to shield himself from the attack.

    The bloodied blade sliced through his arm just above the wrist, the severed limb flying into the air. He began screaming, holding up the shattered stump as if it were a prize, blood pouring from the remains of his arm.

    Lambert at last had a clear shot and, with Bell's screams ringing in his ears, he squeezed off two, three, four shots.

    Moving at a speed of over 1,100 feet a second, the heavy grain bullets tore into the living corpse, blasting exit holes the size of fists. The impact hurled it across the darkened room where it slammed into the fridges, blood spattering up the smooth white sides. Lambert fired again, again, again. Blasting the body into an unrecognizable bloody rag. Finally he lowered the gun, the muzzle flashes still burned onto his retina, the roar of fire in his ears but, above all that, the delirious screams of Bell as he staggered a couple of feet before dropping to his knees still holding up the stump of his wrist.

    Screams. Screams.

    Lambert vomited. Only by a supreme effort of will did he manage to stop himself fainting. Leaving Bell alone in the store room, he staggered out.

    He managed to reach the Capri and radio for help, but then, as he dropped the handset, he lost his fight and finally did pass out.

    

    

    Lambert sat up, felt hands on his shoulder. He grunted and reached for his gun, suddenly frightened. But slowly, as his wits returned to him, he saw the face of Hayes looking in at him.

    'You all right, guv?' he asked, his big hand still on the young Inspector's shoulder.

    Lambert was still dazed. He saw the two dark uniformed men carrying someone to the back of a waiting ambulance. Its blue light was spinning and the engine was humming but there were no other sounds. He caught a brief glimpse of Bell's face, milk-white as they manoeuvred him inside the vehicle. The Inspector exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

    'Where the hell did you come from?' he asked, groggily.

    'Grogan picked up your message. We were the nearest car, so here we are.' The sergeant smiled.

    'I blacked out,' said Lambert, not that the explanation was really necessary.

    One of the ambulancemen, a tall man with sad eyes, walked across to the car and looked in at Lambert.

    'Will you be O.K.?' he said.

    The Inspector nodded. 'Thanks.' He paused. 'What about Bell?'

    'He'll live, but he's lost a lot of blood.'

    Lambert nodded again and rubbed his face in the imitation of washing. The ambulanceman took one more careful look at him then walked away and got into his vehicle. In seconds, it was pulling out, the scream of its siren now filling the air. Lambert shook himself, then felt something being pressed into his hand. He looked down to see that it was a silver hip flask. Hayes nodded towards it and the Inspector drank, allowing the liquor to burn its way to his stomach.

    'Purely medicinal of course,' said Hayes, smiling.

    Lambert too found the strength to grin, handing the flask back to the sergeant. A thought suddenly struck him.

    'Any news of my wife?' he asked, hopefully.

    'Grogan called about ten minutes ago. You must have been in there,' he pointed to the supermarket, 'at the time. Doctor Kirby says that she's conscious.'

    Already Lambert was starting the engine but the sergeant reached out a hand and switched it off.

    'What the hell are you doing?' snarled Lambert angrily.

    'Let me drive, guv,' said the sergeant softly.

    The Inspector nodded. 'I'm sorry.' He slid across, allowing Hayes to settle his considerable bulk behind the wheel. He called to Jenkins to follow them and the constable nodded, gunning Puma One into life.

    The two cars swung out of the loading bay and, within minutes, were on the road leading to Kirby's house.

    

    

    Kirby had hardly got the door open when Lambert barged in.

    'Is she all right?' he demanded.

    Already he was bounding up the stairs to the bedroom where he knew Debbie to be. He flung open the door and she turned her head and smiled at him. Lambert rushed across to her and took her in both arms. They hugged each other for long minutes. Finally, he let her go and he saw the tears in her eyes. She gripped his hand and he reached out to brush her cheek with his finger tips.

    'Are you O.K.?' he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

    She nodded, squeezing his hand harder. 'Tom, those things…' He saw more tears welling up and ran his hand over her forehead.

    'Don't worry, we found some of them this morning.'

    'And?'

    'We killed them.'

    She seemed reassured and her tone brightened a little, but her voice was still croaky. He saw a jug and glass on the small bedside table and poured her some water. She drank and handed the glass back to him.

    'Tom,' she said, 'I found out about Mathias, about the medallion. What Trefoile told us about him was true. He was a Black Magician, and that medallion belonged to him. He'd found the secret of reversing death, bringing the dead back to life. That's what the inscription on the medallion means: "To Awake the Dead." ' She gripped his hand and he edged closer, putting one arm around her shoulder as she continued.

    'Mathias was buried alive for his crimes, his blasphemies they called them, but before that, his tongue was torn out and he was blinded. They gouged out his eyes. It was some old superstition, so that he couldn't see or speak of the evil he'd committed. It's all in my notes at home.' As she mentioned the word he felt her body stiffen.

    'Oh God, I don't think I can ever go back there, Tom, not after what happened last night.' She hugged him, fighting back the tears. He ran his hand through her hair, kissing the top of her head.

    Kirby appeared in the doorway.

    'Come on, Tom,' he said, quietly, 'don't tire her too much.'

    Reluctantly, Lambert broke away but Debbie held onto his hand. 'What are you going to do?'

    'I'll drive back to the house,' he told her. 'See if there's any clue in your notes as to where Mathias's grave might be.'

    'It said he was buried in ground not blessed by the church. Unconsecrated ground.'

    Lambert nodded.

    'Tom.'

    He looked at her.

    'You know why they took the medallion?'

    He looked vague.

    'If it is ever returned to Mathias, it'll enable him to rise again. They must know where he's buried.'

    Lambert looked across at the clock on the dressing table. It said 4:30 P.M.

    They had ninety minutes of daylight left. Lambert's mind was spinning. He had to drive back to the house, pick up Debbie's notes, praying that there might be some clue as to where the grave of Mathias was, but, above all, he had to find the remaining living dead before nightfall. He shuddered. Debbie pulled him close one last time and this time the tears flowed in an unceasing river. They held each other for a long time, Debbie sobbing softly, her head buried within his arms. Finally he pulled away, supporting her head in his hands. He kissed her. 'I love you,' he said, softly.

    'Tom, for God's sake be careful,' she sobbed. He kissed her on the forehead and then he was gone, his heart seized with the icy conviction that he might never see her again. But overriding that feeling was one of grim determination. As he left Kirby's house, the doctor heard him muttering one phrase over and over to himself, like some kind of litany…

    
'I'll get you, you bastards. All of you.'

    

    

    He bypassed Hayes and Jenkins and climbed into the Capri, shouting at the two other policemen to keep up their search. Then he drove off, not even thinking to look up at the bedroom window where Debbie stood, watching as the car disappeared out of sight.

    Already, the first warning clouds of dusk were beginning to gather on the horizon.

    Lambert sat in the Capri for precious minutes before he could actually pluck up the courage to walk up to his house. The memory of the previous night was burned indelibly into his mind and he wondered if the image would ever fade. But, at the moment, time was the important factor so he swung himself out of the car and headed up the path towards the front door. There were tyre tracks on the front lawn, patches of dark blood spattered over the front of the house. He walked in, through the still open front door, hanging by its single remaining hinge. He cast a furtive glance up the stairs as if expecting to see the things waiting for him once more. There was more blood on the stair carpet and up the white walls. He entered the living room, a cold breeze blowing through the smashed bay window. It stirred the papers scattered across the floor.

    More blood and the pervading stench of death. Lambert hunted quickly through the papers strewn across the carpet and desk. Even some of these bore tiny specks of dried crimson. It took him about ten minutes to find what he sought. He gathered up the necessary information and hurried from the house back to the warmth and safety of the car. There, he read through Debbie's notes, found it all just as she had told him earlier. He reread, his eyes straying back to that one phrase:

    
… in ground not Blessed of the Church is buried the one known as Mathias.

    Unconsecrated ground. Christ, that could mean anywhere. He laid the notes on the passenger seat and started the engine, swinging the Capri round and driving back into Medworth.

    As he drove, reports came in periodically from the other cars. All of them the same. Nothing to report. Not one of the things had been sighted since the morning. Lambert glanced at his watch. Nearly five o'clock. Less than an hour until nightfall.

    He took the route through the already quiet town centre. There were only a few people about, all of them anxious to be home before darkness. The Inspector drove past the huge silent edifice of the deserted cinema, glancing at it as he did so. The letters above the entrance had fallen in places, blown down by the wind. He smiled as he read the sign:

    TH EM IR C NEM.

    It towered over him as he drove past, a monument to obsolescence.

    Lambert slammed on the brakes, the Capri skidding to a halt.

    One of the cinema's side doors was slightly ajar.

    He sat still, his breath coming in gasps. The place had been closed for over two years now. And yet, the wooden door was propped open, wide enough for a man to squeeze through. Lambert snatched up the shotgun from beside him, made sure the Browning was loaded and got out of the car. There were two sets of doors facing him. He had been in the cinema a number of times before it closed down and he knew that both sets of doors were exits. One from the stallsy one from the balcony. But right now he couldn't remember which was which. He pushed the open door and it moved slightly, the hinges shrieking in protest. Lambert squeezed through, surprised at how light it was inside. He knew immediately, from the wide flight of stone steps which faced him, that this exit led down from the balcony.

    Moving slowly, his ears alert for the slightest sound, he began to climb.

    Half way up, the staircase turned in a right angle, flattening out into a small landing before rising, in another flight of steps, towards the doors which led into the balcony itself. There was a large frosted glass window set in the wall and that was where the light was coming from. The window itself had been broken in two places and a cold draught blew through, creating an unnerving high pitched moan.

    A few feet away from him, its door cracked and peeling, was the toilet. A rusty sign on it proudly proclaimed-Gentlemen. The door was closed. Lambert crossed to the door and, swallowing hard, pulled it open. He stepped in. The place stank of damp and blocked drains. The single window had been bricked up and the Inspector found it hard to see in the gloom. There was a tiled urinal area and a single cubicle. He pushed the door open and found, to his relief, that it was empty. The persistent drip, drip of water from the old cistern added background to the Inspector's laboured breathing. He left the toilet and began climbing the second flight of stone steps which would take him into the balcony itself. The twin doors which led into it were firmly closed. Heart thudding against his ribs, he pulled open one of the doors and stepped inside.

    The darkness was total. Almost palpable, like some thick black fog, totally impenetrable and clinging around him like a living thing. Lambert, literally, couldn't see his hand in front of him. He fumbled in his jacket for his flashlight and realized, angrily, that he'd lost it earlier that afternoon in the supermarket. He fumbled for his lighter and found it, the yellow light giving him a few precious feet of visibility.

    Using its light as a guide, he climbed the steps which eventually levelled out onto a kind of walk way, separating front from rear balcony. He knew, from memory, that the main entrance was about twenty yards to his right, but in the all enveloping darkness he could see no farther than the glow his lighter allowed him. He walked on, heading for the entrance, becoming more aware of the stench which filled the place with each passing second. Not just the odour of dampness which he expected, but something more powerful. The carrion odour of rotting flesh. Excrement. Death.