Spawn (33 page)

There was more blood on the floor just ahead of him – a large splash and then droplets of the thick red fluid which was in the process of congealing. The trail led to the door and Randall paused before it a moment, listening. The asylum greeted him with silence and a kind of conspiratorial solitude which made him feel uneasy.

He slowly opened the door.

Corridors faced him and, after a moment’s hesitation, he chose the one straight ahead.

Harold heard the noise from downstairs.

He snatched up the long kitchen knife, its blade still wet with blood, and scuttled out into the corridor his own ears now attuned to the sounds within the asylum. There was a crooked grin on his face. Someone was inside
his
home. They would not escape. His mind suddenly seemed clearer than it had done for months and he hurried through the darkened corridors as if drawn by some huge magnet, bearing down on the intruder.

It would only be a matter of time before he found the unwanted guest.

Maggie looked at her watch. The hands had crawled round to 11.49 p.m. Randall had been gone for nearly fifteen minutes. She sighed, shifting impatiently in her seat. There was a torch on the parcel shelf before her and she eyed it with a look akin to temptation. She closed her eyes for a second, trying to think about what had happened. The thought of Harold Pierce as a killer was still one she found hard to accept but it seemed clear enough. Nevertheless, if only she could speak to him, reason with him. . .

From where she sat she could see that many of the windows had been broken. It should be relatively easy to slip the catch on one and get in. She looked at the torch once again, this rime picking it up. She unlocked her door and closed it behind her then she scuttled across to the nearest window, slipped her hand through a break in the pane and undid the latch. It opened and Maggie dragged herself up onto the sill. She steadied herself for a moment then jumped down into the room beyond. As she switched on the torch she saw that the door ahead of her was already open. The powerful beam shone through the darkness, lighting her way. She swallowed hard and moved quietly out into the corridor.

Randall pushed open the door of a room, surprised that so many of the asylum’s places had been left unlocked but then, he reasoned, no one could have foreseen anyone returning here. Why bother? He edged cautiously into what he guessed had once been the dining room. There were a number of long tables stacked at one side and, at the far end of the vast room, a long counter. It was fronted by a corrugated metal sheet which had been pulled down and padlocked. The Inspector walked across to it, his footsteps clacking on the stone floor. Large picture windows, meshed, gave him some added light but already his eyes were beginning to ache from the effort of squinting in the gloom. He stood still for long moments, listening, trying to catch even the slightest hint of movement.

Silence.

He exhaled deeply and turned towards a door nearby which was also unlocked. It was as he passed through it that the Inspector realized he had nothing to defend himself with should he come upon Pierce. He swallowed hard and moved on, finding himself in another corridor. There were rooms every fifteen yards and each one would have to be checked.

He pushed open the first door.

Harold paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking round. He could see no sign of the intruder but he knew that his quarry was here somewhere. A surge of adrenalin swept through him and he gripped the knife tighter, his breath now coming in short, excited gasps. He touched the scarred side of his face, feeling the crusted flesh beneath his fingertips. He moved slowly along the corridor to his right, stopping dead when he heard movement ahead of him. His knife gripped firmly in his fist, he ducked into a nearby room.

Maggie put her hand on the bannister of the staircase and hurriedly withdrew it as she felt something sticky on her fingers.

It was blood.

There was more on the bannister, even some on the steps themselves. She shone the torch on the crimson liquid and, slowly began to climb. She wiped the blood off on her jeans her heart now bearing just that little bit faster. The staircase rose precipitously until, at last, it levelled out onto a landing. Faced by two corridors, Maggie took the one on her left, tip-toeing in an effort to diminish the clicking of her heels on the stone floor.

She recoiled from a sudden, nauseating stench which seemed to drift around her like an invisible cloud. She put a hand to her mouth and stifled a cough. As she moved further down the corridor the smell became almost unbearable. Her head began to swim and she was forced to lean momentarily against the wall for support. She played the torch beam before her in an effort to discover the source of the rank odour and, as she moved on, she found that the end door in the corridor was open. Maggie pressed herself against the wall once again, listening. From inside the room she could hear soft, liquid sounds – a series of rasping gurgles. She closed her eyes for a second, at once revolted by the sounds and desperate to discover their source. A part of her was wishing she had stayed in the car.

She held the torch beam up and peered round the door.

For brief seconds, Maggie had to use all her self-control to prevent herself from vomiting. She swayed slightly, supporting herself against the door frame, then, almost drawn to the sight before her, she walked slowly into the room.

Maggie shook her head, unable to believe what she saw, convinced that, any second she was going to wake up to discover that this was a nightmare. But no nightmare could be as vile as what she now saw before her.

She shone the torch on the first foetus and the creature recoiled slightly from the piercing beam, its dark eyes glinting menacingly. It was standing, something wet and sticky gripped in its fingers. The other two were on the floor, the second one pawing at something before it.

It was a few more seconds before Maggie realized that the object was a human head.

And now, as she stepped back, her foot brushed something else. Something which rolled when she made contact. She swung the torch beam round, the gruesome discovery pinned in the beam.

The second head was partially decomposed, the skin around the neck and eyes mottled green in places. The skull had been split open with a heavy object, exposing the brain and, as Maggie turned the torch back onto the abominations before her, she realized just what the sticky grey substance was which the larger creature held. As she watched, it raised the jellied matter to its mouth and clumsily pushed some in.

Maggie closed her eyes momentarily.

The foetuses seemed unconcerned at her presence. They were more interested in the severed head they were toying with. There was blood everywhere, mingling on the floor with slicks of excrement and pieces of hair. Greyish brain matter seemed to sparkle in the light.

Suddenly, everything seemed to take on a horrendous clarity: the headless murder victims that the police had found, Harold’s obsession with the incineration of foetuses and, worst of all, she now understood why only five babies instead of eight had been disinterred from the grave near Fairvale.

She stood still, frozen by the sight before her, trying to find either the will to move or the power to scream but she could do neither. She felt faint, her stomach finally beginning to churn uncontrollably and she felt the vomit begin its journey up her throat. She turned away, retching violently, the foul stench of her vomit mingling with the choking odours already filling the room. But, the action seemed to shake her out of her trance and she moved for the door.

(STOP)

Maggie clapped both hands to her head, the torch dropping to the ground.

(You will not leave)

It’s my imagination, she told herself.

(No, it is not your imagination)

She turned back to face the creatures.

Could it be telepathy? she wondered, hurriedly dismissing the thought. Her mind was over-reacting to the situation.

(Your thoughts are open to us)

She gazed at them, her face twisted into an expression which combined revulsion and fascination.

“What are you?” she said.

(Nothing. We are nothing)

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

A soft chuckling and Maggie felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.

(There can be no secrets. We know your thoughts and your fears)

She thought about Randall. If only she could Alert him to the danger.

In the blinking of an eye he was standing before her, smiling.

“Lou,” she said and stepped forward to touch him but, even as she did so, the vision faded and she was alone once more.

The soft chuckling filled her ears.

(Thoughts. Fears. There are no secrets)

Thought projection, Maggie wondered? Auto-suggestion? The very thing’s which she had mentioned to Randall and now she began to realize how Judith Myers and Lynn Tyler had come to die. The foetuses were the exact size which they would needed to have been to cause the Fallopian ruptures.

“You killed two women,” she said.

(They had to die)

“Why?”

(THEY WOULD HAVE KILLED US)

Despite herself, Maggie moved closer to the largest of the creatures, kneeling before it, running expert eyes over its body. It was perfectly formed, as if it had grown within the mother’s womb, reaching maturity as originally intended. The most frightening thing about it was its eyes. Black pits devoid of emotion, they pinned her in an hypnotic stare.

Randall heard the sounds of movement from upstairs and he ran towards the foot of the staircase, pausing momentarily when he reached it.

Harold came hurtling out of the room behind him, the knife held high above his head.

Randall heard the vicious arc of the steel and tried to turn but Harold was too quick for him. The blade powered down, catching the policeman in the shoulder. It tore through the flesh and actually scraped the clavical as it finally burst through his pectoral muscle, the point dripping blood. Harold pressed his advantage, wrenched the knife free and drove it down again but this time Randall managed to get his hand up in time. He deflected the blow, the knife striking concrete as the two men fell to the ground. The Inspector was surprised at his assailant’s strength; despite Harold’s age he seemed to possess an energy which belied his years. Randall struck out with his right fist, his left arm already numb from the knife wound. The blow caught Harold squarely in the side of the head but the impact only staggered him for a minute. However, that minute was enough to allow Randall the chance to wriggle free. He hauled himself upright and, as Harold tried to follow him, he drove a foot hard into the older man’s side. There was a strident snapping of bone as one brittle rib splintered under the impact.

Harold went down in a heap, the knife held in one outstretched hand. Randall dropped to his knees, grabbing for it but Harold struck out again, the wild blow slicing open the policeman’s palm. He yelped in pain but closed his injured hand around Harold’s wrist, banging the hand on the ground repeatedly in an effort to make him drop the knife.

The older man clawed at Randall’s face, gripping him by the hair, yanking his head to one side and both of them went sprawling again. This time Harold was first on his feet and Randall saw the scarred attacker advancing on him. The Inspector waited until his opponent was mere inches away then lashed out, catching Harold in the crutch with a powerful kick. He doubled up and Randall hastily scrambled to his feet. He grabbed Harold’s hair and, in one skilful movement, brought his knee up to meet Harold’s down-rushing head. The older man’s nose seemed to explode, splattering the policeman’s trousers with blood. Randall wrenched his attacker upright, hitting him hard in the stomach, his hand still gripping Harold’s hair. The knife finally fell to the ground and Randall drove another powerful kick into the other man’s stomach, watching as he crashed heavily to the ground.

“Lou!” the scream came from upstairs. It was Maggie’s voice.

Randall snatched up the knife and started up the stairs.

“No,” Harold shouted and staggered after him.

He caught the Inspector half way up but, the older man was weak and, as Randall spun round he drove the knife forward. It caught Harold just above the right hip, deflected off the pelvis and ripped into his intestines. The policeman tore it free, watching as Harold tottered drunkenly on the stairs, blood pouring through his fingers as he tried to hold the ragged edges of the wound together. Then, with a final despairing moan he toppled backwards, crashing head-over-heels until he lay still at the foot of the stairs.

Randall’s breath was coming in gasps. His left shoulder and most of his left arm felt numb and the slashed palm of his right hand felt as if it were on fire. He turned wearily and climbed the last few steps to the landing casting a perfunctory look back at Harold when he reached the top. The older man lay still, face down in the dust which covered the floor, a dark pool spreading out around him.

The Inspector turned and walked on towards the junction of the two corridors before him, not sure which one to check out first. Then he noticed the vile stench and moved cautiously along the left hand one, the knife gripped tightly in his throbbing hand.

He reached the last door and slumped against the frame, his mind reeling from the pain of his wounds and the sight before him.

“Oh my God,” he croaked, his eyes scanning the scene of horror which confronted him. The heads, the blood, the excrement and. . .

He stared at the foetuses, shaking his head slowly from side to side. Then he took a step into the room, noticing Maggie for the first time.

“Get out,” he told her, gripping the knife tighter.

The foetuses turned their black eyes on him and Randall felt the first gnawings of pain at the back of his neck. He advanced slowly on them, taking in each monstrous detail.