The order came across the radios the Garda carried.
‘Prepare to move in.’
Ninety-Seven
Doyle was almost at the top of the stairs when he heard the explosion.
The entire house seemed to rock under the thunderous detonation. Then, from outside, he heard shouts. Orders. He spun round, glancing up at the landing, as anxious now to discover the source of the blast as to find out where Callahan was. He turned and hurried back down the stairs, wincing when he felt pain from his injured leg. He could feel the heat from the fire the car had started. As he entered the corridor it washed over him like a wave. Ahead, one of the doors had been blown open by the explosion. Doyle slowed his pace slightly, gun held before him, then ducked low and peered around the frame into the room.
Flames from the wrecked car were still leaping in through the shattered window and the curtains were ablaze. Thick smoke filled the air.
Georgie was lying on her stomach in the centre of the room, her body twisted into a foetal position, one arm crushed beneath her. Blood had spread in a dark puddle around her.
As Doyle looked at her he could see the bullet wounds in her body and gashes in her face where she had been thrown through the window. Her blonde hair was matted with blood, plastered across her face as if she’d showered in the crimson fluid. Her eyes were closed.
‘Oh Christ,’ he whispered, moving slowly towards the body. He knelt beside her, touching his hand to her cheek. When he brought it away it was smeared with blood. Her eyelids were open a fraction so Doyle reached forward and gently pushed them shut. Seemingly oblivious to the fire that raged in the room he remained beside her, keeping up his vigil for a moment longer before finally retreating back into the corridor, closing the door behind him. It should contain the fire for a time.
At least until he found Callahan.
He stood with his back to the wall, staring at the door behind which Georgie lay, and felt great weariness. It was as if someone had sucked all the life from him. For the first time in his life he felt not the horror or inevitability of death but the sheer futility of it. Or perhaps it was the futility of life that he felt more profoundly.
And if life was futile why prolong it?
He shook himself free of the lethargy and strode down the corridor, intent again on finding Callahan.
The sound of shattering glass came from up ahead.
Doyle quickened his pace until he reached the room, the room where he knew the stained glass window was. The door was still firmly shut. He took a step back and prepared to kick it in. If Callahan was in there waiting for him then so be it.
He drove one foot against the door and it flew back on its hinges, slamming against the wall.
Doyle rushed in, the Bulldog held before him.
Callahan was in the room, but he was not alone.
‘Jesus,’ muttered Doyle through clenched teeth, his eyes wide with disbelief as he looked at the other occupant of the room.
The creature towered over Callahan, its red eyes burning insanely as it looked around, finally focusing on Doyle, who could only stand as if frozen to the spot, gawping at the monstrous apparition. Conflicting emotions clashed inside his mind. Bewilderment. Disbelief. Fear. Revulsion.
What the fuck was it?
Callahan still had his back to Doyle, looking up at the creature in awe. Had Doyle been able to see the millionaire’s face he would have seen the smile on his lips.
‘Get away from it,’ Doyle shouted, his eyes riveted on the monstrosity. He raised the Bulldog and steadied himself, then squeezed off two shots.
Both struck the creature in the chest, the shells exploding and the glaser slugs opening up inside their target. A thick mixture of blood and pus spewed from the wounds but the creature only swayed slightly as the massive impacts rocked it.
‘No,’ roared Callahan and spun round, the HK33 levelled at Doyle.
He fired twice.
The first shot missed. The second caught the counter-terrorist in the side. It punctured his torso just above the right hip but, fortunately for him, tore through the fleshy part of his body without damaging any vital organs. The impact, however, sent him spinning, blood running from the wound. He fell to the ground, his eyes still fixed on the creature. Doyle dragged himself to his knees and aimed once more. This time at Callahan.
He fired once.
The .44 calibre shell, moving at a speed in excess of 1,500 feet a second, hit the millionaire in the back. It tore easily through his shoulder blade, opening up immediately, spreading its lethal contents inside as it exploded. Doyle saw the other man lifted off his feet by the shot. He fell at the feet of the creature, which looked down at him and then at Doyle. By this time the counter-terrorist had managed to scramble to his feet and was propped up against the door frame preparing to fire again.
Callahan’s body was twitching slightly. He was finished. Doyle had to kill this other fucking monstrosity.
It took a step forward and he fired.
The bullet struck it in the stomach but barely halted it. It bent down and swept Callahan up in one huge clawed hand, dangling him before it as a child might hold a doll. Then it placed its other hand on his face. Doyle saw its mouth open, saw its lips flickering as if it were speaking. Then it gently lowered Callahan to the floor where he lay still, his eyes closed.
The creature backed off towards the stained-glass window, pieces of which now lay all over the floor like glass confetti.
Doyle thumbed back the hammer of the .44 once again and fired.
This shot hit the creature squarely between the eyes and he watched with satisfaction as its face seemed to fold inward, the skull collapsing under the massive impact of the shell. The monstrosity swayed uncertainly for a moment and Doyle fired again. Again into its head. The entire skull seemed to explode, gobbets of yellow and red matter flying about the room as if someone had placed an explosive charge inside the beast’s skull. Portions of bone hurtled through the air, propelled by the massive impact of the glaser slugs and also projected by the streams of foul-smelling fluid which erupted from the ruined head.
The creature stood perfectly still for long seconds then fell to the ground.
Doyle saw it falling.
Saw the ground rushing up to meet it.
Saw it hit the floor.
Saw it disappear.
As he looked on in stunned disbelief, the creature vanished. All that remained were the puddles of vomit- like discharge which had been spread around the room.
Doyle shook his head.
That wasn’t possible.
He wondered if he’d blacked out momentarily.
The creature couldn’t disappear. Couldn’t.
He stood panting, propped against the wall, blood running from the wound in his side, his eyes still bulging wide, staring at the place where he had seen the creature fall. It had hit the ground beside Callahan’s body. Fallen, dying, beside the man who had summoned it. Fallen ...
Callahan sat up.
Doyle shook his head.
This is fucking crazy. I’m fucking crazy.
He watched as Callahan scrambled to his feet, his flailing hands reaching for the HK33. The millionaire turned around, looking at Doyle.
As he opened his eyes, Doyle could see that they now glowed red, like those of the creature.
And he understood.
Callahan raised the HK33 and fired.
Ninety-Eight
The weapon was on automatic now. The salvo raked the walls, blasting chunks of plaster free. Doyle tried to dive to one side but he was too slow. A bullet hit him in the shoulder, shattering his left collar-bone. Another caught him in the chest, punching through his lung before exiting, carrying bloodied pink tissue with it. He was thrown back against the wall by the impact, blood spattering against the stonework. He fell to the side, dragging himself through the doorway and out into the corridor.
He tried to rise, fumbling in his pocket for more slugs, knowing his own pistol
was empty. He found some and pushed them into the empty chambers as Callahan advanced.
‘Immortality, Doyle,’ the millionaire called. ‘What greater treasure could there be than that?’
He rounded the door, his red eyes bulging as he looked down on the wounded counter-terrorist.
Doyle fired twice, upwards into Callahan’s stomach.
The blasts lifted the other man off his feet, throwing him back several, feet, blood jetting from the massive holes blasted in him by the Bulldog bullets.
Doyle scrambled to his feet, breath hissing through his lung wound.
He ran to the end of the corridor and out into the hall, heading for the stairs.
He was half-way up when Callahan came staggering into view. He swung the assault rifle up to his shoulder and fired off another burst.
Doyle was hit again. In the back of the leg. In the small of the back.
Searing pain filled his body and he cried out as the bullets ripped a path through his flesh and muscle. More blood flowed from the wounds. Doyle felt pain unlike anything he’d experienced before. No. He shook his head. He had felt worse than this. He had felt agony the like of which no man should be forced to endure.
For a moment he thought he was lying on the street in Londonderry again.
Not a bomb blast this time, but several high velocity bullets had destroyed his body.
Had killed him?
He turned on the stairs, raising the .44 again.
Callahan was coming closer.
He was smiling.
Doyle didn’t wipe the smile off his face. He blew it off.
One shot from the .44 caught Callahan in the face, powering through his teeth, exploding from the back of his head. Pieces of enamel were driven back into his mouth, carried through the hole in the base of his skull by the massive force of the bullet. He was lifted into the air as if jerked by invisible wire, his body flying like an unwanted puppet before he finally crashed to the ground at the foot of the stairs, smoke rising from his face, or what remained of it.
Doyle peered down at the body through eyes which were clouding over.
Callahan wasn’t moving but Doyle had to check. He tried to stand but the effort made him cough, bright red blood spilling over his lips. His legs felt as though they would give way as he dragged himself upright and made his way tortuously down the steps towards the motionless body of his foe.
He kept the Bulldog trained on him the whole time, ready to fire.
Waves of pain so intense he thought they would make him black out swept over him and he had to pause, trying to draw air into lungs holed by bullets. He could feel an enormous pressure on his chest every time he tried to swallow. When he exhaled the air hissed through the torn lungs like punctured bellows.
He drew closer to Callahan.
‘Move in’
The order came and the Garda men scurried towards the house, slowing down as they reached the front door.
Those at the rear and sides of the building crashed through windows in their haste to get inside.
Half a dozen of them waited outside the front door, rifles at the ready.
Doyle heard them on the porch but his attention was focused on Callahan.
The millionaire’s face was a bloody ruin, his mouth still open, portions of his upper jaw blasted back into his palate.
Doyle stood over him, fighting off unconsciousness, wanting only to lie down. To rest.
To die if necessary.
Callahan grabbed his left leg and pulled him over.
Doyle felt the incredible strength in the grip, felt himself being pitched forward, hurled across the hallway as Callahan rose and turned on him.
He was smiling, the remains of his face twisted into a sickening mask.
The front door burst open and the first two Garda men came crashing inside. Doyle watched as they swung their weapons round, bringing them to bear on Callahan, but the millionaire was too quick for them. He cut them down with one burst of the HK33. Then, with incredible agility, he sprinted up the stairs.
Doyle could only watch as he reached the top, turning as the remaining Garda marksmen burst in.
They opened fire simultaneously.
Doyle was deafened by the massive fusillade of fire which seemed to go on for an eternity, the hallway filling with fumes as they pumped more and more bullets into Callahan. Bullets hit him in the chest, legs, stomach, face. One even blasted off his nose. The impact hurled him back against the wall with savage force, then he staggered forward again, crashed into the banister and toppled over it, his body falling the twenty or so feet to the hall where it landed with a sickening thud.
This time he did not move.
‘This one’s still alive,’ shouted one of the Garda officers, crossing to Doyle who had rolled onto his back. ‘Get an ambulance, quick.’
What’s the rush? Doyle thought. He looked across to where one of the Garda was prodding Callahan’s body with the toe of his boot.
Doyle opened his mouth to speak, choking on his own blood but managing to force the words out.
‘He’s still alive,’ he croaked feebly.
The Garda officer shook his head.
‘He’s alive,’ Doyle insisted, his entreaty dissolving into a coughing fit which sent fresh spasms of pain through him. ‘Believe me, he’s alive. For fuck’s sake, I’m telling you, he’s alive.’
There was fear in his voice now as his words grew weaker.
‘Alive,’ he whispered.
Blood spilled over his lips.
‘Where’s that ambulance?’ one of the Garda shouted angrily.
It didn’t seem to matter, thought Doyle.
He closed his eyes.
Ninety-Nine
Another twenty minutes and his shift would have been finished. If they’d been twenty minutes later some other poor sod would have had all the work. As it was, Paul Rafferty pulled another of the bodies from the gurney and laid it out carefully on the metal-topped slab. Another policeman.
Where the hell were they all coming from? He’d heard something on the news earlier that morning about a gun battle, but he’d never expected anything like this. He’d seen the victims of road accidents, house fires and those who had succumbed to old age or disease during his time as a morgue attendant in Kinarde hospital, but never anything like this before. No sooner had he laid out one corpse than they brought in another. They must have a bloody conveyor belt out there beyond the green double doors, he thought as he removed the clothes from the policeman, noticing the savage bullet wounds in his torso as he did. All the clothes were put into separate black plastic bags and tagged with the name of the former owner. Rafferty attached the necessary identification tags to the left big toes of each of his new arrivals.
The next was a woman, a blonde woman in her late twenties, he guessed. He also guessed that in life she had been pretty but now, with her body and face disfigured by bullet wounds and lacerations, she was a travesty of her true self. There had been another woman too, older, attractive he thought in life. She had been the one with the shotgun wound in her chest.
He began undressing the blonde woman, administering a swift mental rebuke when he allowed his gaze to dwell a fraction too long on her breasts. One had been pulverized by a bullet, anyway. He pulled the green sheet over her, covering her face, then paused for a cigarette, looking over at the remaining gurneys that stood by the door. He took a couple more drags on his cigarette then wheeled the first of them over to the assigned slab and placed the body on it. He looked at the face, or at least what remained of it. He knew this man, recognised him. Rafferty nodded to himself. It was David Callahan, the Englishman who lived on the large estate not too far from Kinarde.
His body was shredded by bullets; hardly a portion of his body was unpenetrated by rounds. Again Rafferty wondered what had happened. How had so many people come to die so violently? He pulled off Callahan’s clothes and dropped them into the bag he’d set aside. Then he folded the dead man’s arms ac
ross his chest and pulled the sheet up over him, crossing to the last gurney and its occupant.
Behind him, he didn’t notice that one of Callahan’s arms had slipped from his chest and now dangled at his side.
Rafferty pushed the last gurney over and performed his task one last time. Then he washed his hands, scrubbing the blood away, watching as it swirled around the plug-hole before disappearing.
As he turned he noticed Callahan’s arm dangling.
Muttering to himself Rafferty returned to the corpse and pulled the sheet back, peering into the face for a moment. Then he gripped the arm and folded it back into position.
The fingers flexed slightly.
The temperature must be too high inside the room, he thought. It was a phenomenon that happened whenever the temperature rose above fifty degrees. Heat seeped into the dead pores and appeared to reanimate particular limbs. He remembered how, during his first week in the job, the cooling system had packed up completely. To his absolute horror, one of the corpses he’d been cleaning had sat up. Now he merely smiled and crossed to the thermostat on the wall, easing it down a few degrees.
Behind him on the slab Callahan’s fingers twitched again.
Rafferty returned to the body, pressed the arm back across Callahan’s chest and pulled up the sheet again.
He glanced at his watch. Where the hell was Riley? His replacement was late. Rafferty wanted to get home. He hoped to Christ that the coming night was quieter.
Behind him the bodies lay on their slabs, each covered by a green plastic sheet.
He could feel the air temperature dropping noticeably. The thermostat was starting to do its work. Rafferty smiled, pleased with his handiwork.
When the sheet covering David Callahan moved again he ignored it.
Maybe it needed to go down a few more degrees, he thought. Strange that just the one body should be affected, though. Rafferty shrugged and thought nothing more of it. He picked up his paper and sat down behind his desk, waiting for Riley to arrive.
Again movement. Again from Callahan.
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