The Night of the Mosquito

by Max China

  ‘Hey,’ a young woman yelled, ‘wait up. I want to ask you something.’

  ‘I can’t stop now. Police business,’ Williams shouted, ‘but if you’re still here on the way back . . .’ His voice trailed when he saw the V sign she threw his way.

  At the other end of the bridge, in the middle of the road ahead, a girl stood in the gap between the abandoned cars with her thumb out. In her other hand, she held a square of cardboard with the destination, Portishead, written across it in capital red letters. Drawing closer to her, he accelerated, making it obvious he had no intention of stopping. She stepped into his path, flagging him down.

  Williams screeched to a halt. ‘Get out of the way!’

  She grasped the handlebars, smiling seductively. ‘Can you give me a ride?’ she said. ‘I know you’re not supposed to, but I really need a lift.’

  ‘I can’t help you.’ One of his hands released the clutch slowly, while the other increased the revs.

  Her eyes attempted to hold him. ‘Please,’ she said, refusing to move. ‘My grandma’s all alone. I have to reach her.’

  Do I tell her? Williams made the choice. He spoke rapidly. ‘There’s a killer on the loose. I have to warn the residents scattered around the lanes of Churchend. Keep your wits about you. Be careful who you hitch a ride with. Most people with vehicles have acquired them illegally, and therefore aren’t going to be the most trustworthy of travel partners.’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘Don’t be scared.’ He grinned reassurance. ‘Just be careful. As for the killer,’ Williams looked towards the forested hills, ‘he’s up there somewhere, possibly still in Churchend.’

  She isn’t scared! The realisation struck him a split second before his head exploded. The severity of the unexpected blow drove his chin down onto his chest. His crash helmet saved him.

  Stunned, Williams turned from the waist, ears ringing, one arm instinctively raised against a further assault. The force he’d been struck with had cracked his visor open. Through the gap, he saw his attacker looked like an orangutan. Sparse ginger hair, thin on top, conspired with a wispy beard to contain a wide face. His eyes gleamed with animal cunning. He held a three-foot length of scaffold pole above his head ready to strike again. ‘Off,’ he said, jerking his head at the officer. ‘Or I swear I’ll break every bone in your body.’

  Williams eased the bike onto its stand. He slipped one hand from the handlebars and rested it on the seat as he swung his leg over, the machine a barrier between him and his attacker.

  ‘Move back, pigshit,’ Orangutan snarled, brandishing his weapon.

  Williams stood clear.

  ‘Tracey, get over here,’ he said, eyes fixed on the officer. ‘On the bike.’

  The girl hopped onto the seat; her toes barely touched the ground. Her accomplice shifted his grip on the pole as he prepared to mount the Bonneville. Williams took something from his belt with his left hand, while the other reached for his extendable baton. He snapped it out, ready to fight. ‘You,’ he said, levelling the tip of the metal rod at the girl. ‘Get off the bike.’

  ‘What?’ Ape-man said, incredulous. ‘You think you can take me with that, against this?’ Hefting the pole to rest against his shoulder, he marched towards the officer.

  ‘It’s not the size of your weapon, mate,’ Williams said. ‘It’s knowing how to use it.’ Without warning, he drove his heel hard into Tracey’s upper thigh. She screamed pain and tilted her body, desperately trying to set a foot on the ground to keep the bike upright. She was too weak to hold it; the Bonneville tipped through its centre of balance and toppled over, trapping her. The engine stalled. ‘Pig bastard!’ she howled, pain choking her voice. ‘You’ve broken my fucking leg!’ She sat forwards, struggling in vain to extricate herself.

  ‘I’ll kill you for that,’ Orangutan yelled and charged into range, the metal pole held aloft in two hands. Williams stepped back and pepper-sprayed him. His would-be assailant cursed, dropped the pole, and used the front of his T-shirt to try to wipe the chemical clear. Williams cracked him hard on the back of his head. The man’s knees buckled. Already unconscious, he pitched forwards, striking his face on the tarmac.

  ‘You dirty fucking pig!’ Tracey shrieked. ‘You didn’t have to hit him.’

  Williams leant over to lift the bike from her. ‘No, you’re right,’ he said, spraying her. ‘I didn’t.’

  Her hands flew to her face, rubbing her eyes. ‘Filthy pig bastard,’ she raged, writhing on the ground in agony.

  Williams climbed on the bike, disengaged the stand, and stamped down on the kick-start. It caught first time. He revved the engine, engaged first gear, and releasing the clutch, continued on his way.

  Chapter 49

  Hilltop Cottage. 9:27 p.m.

  Insects, attracted by the Bonneville’s headlight, streamed into the beam like tracer bullets. Williams crested the hill, slowed for the crossroads and stopped. The map he’d memorised on leaving the professor’s house confirmed that Hilltop Cottage was the next turning on the left. His helmet and visor splattered with dozens of tiny winged bodies, he drew a gloved hand across the Perspex to wipe it clean before accelerating away from the junction, heading downhill.

  Eleanor jolted awake. Heavy-eyed, she stared at the sky, the ground beneath her hard and uneven. It no longer shimmered. The pale green hue had given way to the silvery glow of the moon. Where am I? Why am I flat on my back? Has all this been a dream? Her head pounded, signalling the restoration of her senses. Her memory returned. An image of the huge man she’d encountered filled her mind. Where is he? Panicked, she struggled to raise herself up on an elbow, and looked around to see where he could be. In the stillness, sounds reached her ears. Plodding footsteps. Her mouth went dry.

  Something hefty was being dragged through stones and coming closer. Oh, God. It wasn’t a nightmare. The killer. He’s still here! Too weak to stand, she realised any attempt to run or hide would be futile. Her fingers explored the loose surface they rested on. Gravel? She scraped a few pebbles together, scooped them into her hand and allowed them to fall through her fingers, the sound like the first few splats of rain before a storm. And then she heard voices.

  Wolfe glanced over his shoulder as he hauled Anderson around the corner of the house onto the driveway. ‘There she is, Mikey. Looks like our dinner guest is just waking up.’

  ‘For the love of God,’ Anderson pleaded, his voice little more than a croak, ‘let us go.’

  ‘God?’ Wolfe sneered. ‘Surely you know by now, He means nothing?’

  Her thoughts fogged by fear, Eleanor bit down on her lower lip, forcing herself to focus. Mikey? Rolling onto her side, she planted a hand firmly on the ground. Propped on one arm, she watched the giant approach, hauling his victim behind, his face hideously swollen.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she cried. ‘Is that you, Michael?’ Her teeth found her lip again; she grunted, and bending a knee, dragged a foot close to her bottom, preparing to get to her feet. ‘What have you done to him?’ she demanded.

  ‘His face?’ Wolfe laughed. ‘Ugly fucker, isn’t he? He was like that when I found him. Honest. Stay there, lady, I’m bringing him to you.’ He manoeuvred Anderson alongside her, and let go of his leg. It dropped to the ground with a thump. ‘Look who’s here, Mikey,’ he said, leering at Eleanor.

  She slumped to the ground, hands flying up to cover her cheeks at the sight of Michael’s face. ‘For the love of God, he needs a doctor right away.’

  ‘You’ve mentioned Him now three times between you. For the last time, He isn’t going to help you.’ Wolfe turned to Anderson and barked, ‘Undress her.’

  Anderson rolled onto his front, struggled to all fours, and then sat back onto his knees. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head slowly. ‘You’ve got this all wrong; we spoke once on a CB radio. We’re not lovers. We’ve never even met before. I won’t do it.’

  ‘No, Mikey, it’s you who’s got it wrong. I’m giving you a chance to have some fun. Me, I don’
t give a fuck if you do or don’t,’ Wolfe said, pressing both barrels of the shotgun into the back of Anderson’s head. ‘You can have it whichever way you want.’

  ‘Michael,’ Eleanor said quietly. Locking her eyes on his, she pushed herself up, the strain showing on her face. She forced a smile. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, and shrugged off the shoulder of her jacket.

  For the first time since he’d been bitten, Anderson saw everything with clarity. It was the twenty-seventh anniversary of Margot’s fatal accident. This Death had come for him slowly; he’d been allowed to reflect on his life throughout the long day. ‘Why don’t you just release us? Or at least let her go. She only came to help me.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’ Wolfe said, digging the cold metal harder against Anderson’s skull. He cocked the trigger.

  Eleanor reached for Anderson’s hand. ‘Michael, you mustn’t blame yourself,’ she said. ‘It’s my own fault for being such a nosey do-gooder.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ Wolfe snarled. ‘You, woman, get him going. Get his dick out. Suck it as if it’s your last day on earth. Do it!’ The killer unzipped his own fly, exposing his massive cock. ‘Then, you can have a go with this baby.’ A rock struck him square in the back of his head and bounced off, skidding across the drive. Wolfe roared, ‘What the fuck?’ His face livid with fury, he swung around, gun up, ready.

  Fifteen feet away, a figure stood black-clad and hooded. Hard, white knuckles, unmistakably those of a man, tightened around the shaft of the scythe he held onto. Above his head, hovering like a broken halo, the shallow crescent of a blackened blade, its cutting edge silver and sharp, gleamed in the moonlight.

  ‘Fuck me, it’s the grim reaper,’ Wolfe snarled, raising the barrel of the gun. He took aim. ‘Death becomes you, tosser.’

  The man remained silent. The whites of his eyes, the only features visible in the darkness of the cowl, lowered. Slowly, the man raised his left hand, forefinger extended, and moved it in front of his unseen face, the gesture unmistakable.

  Wolfe laughed at his audacity. ‘You telling me to shush?’

  The man sucked air noisily, his shoulders squaring as his chest inflated. And then he blew between his thumb and upright finger. The sound, a shriek, deafening at such close quarters, streamed from within the shadows of the hood.

  ‘You!’ Wolfe levelled the shotgun at the man’s chest. ‘It was you following me on the railway track. Fucking stupid noise. You think it scares me?’

  The stranger stood firm. His right hand left the handle of the scythe, allowing it to rest briefly against his shoulder, before using his fingertips to make the sign of the cross.

  Wolfe howled with laughter, rolling his eyes heavenward. ‘Another believer,’ he scoffed. ‘Ready to meet your maker?’

  Fearless, the man raised his weapon.

  ‘Wait.’ Wolfe held up a halting hand, his eyebrows knitted together, confused. ‘How come you aren’t begging for your life?’ He heard the sound of scraping stones on the driveway behind him and wheeled around to look. The captives had gone. Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. ‘You bastard,’ he growled. ‘You helped them escape.’

  The stranger brought the unlikely weapon down with all his might. The cutting edge swooshed through the air. Wolfe dodged. The blade nicked at the fabric of his shirtsleeve. He fired at point blank range. The blast caught the man full in the chest, knocking him off his feet, driving him through the air. He crashed down onto the drive and laid motionless, still gripping the scythe.

  Wolfe knew the couple couldn’t be far. The game had turned out so much better than planned. He frowned, and then grinned. There’s no way they’d even try to outrun me. They’ve gone inside the house.

  In the distance, the engine of a motorbike rumbled. Wolfe listened, gauging the direction of the noise. Getting closer. He stomped his foot hard against the front door, the lock held, but the frame splintered. The door swung open. He stepped into the hallway.

  Eleanor picked up a poker from the fireside in the downstairs lounge. ‘Haven’t you got another gun?’ she whispered.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ Anderson looked at the short metal rod in her hand. ‘That’s not going to do much. All we can do is hide.’

  Terrified, they heard Wolfe shout, ‘Get out here, now!’ His footsteps thundered across the timber floors, while he systematically ransacked room after room in his search for them.

  Eleanor’s eyes searched the gloomy corners and deep shadowy recesses. ‘Where?’

  ‘Under this rug. There’s a trap door leading to the cellar.’

  ‘We’ll never make it,’ she said.

  Anderson kicked the patterned rug out of the way. Stooping, his fingers probed for the recessed pull handle and finding it, he heaved the door open. ‘Follow me.’ Anderson descended half a dozen steps into the dark pit below. ‘And pull the rug over the trap, or he’ll find it straight away.’

  Eleanor followed. Poised on the second step, she leaned to snatch at the decorative mat Anderson had moved, and eased it over the front of the access flap. Her fingers clamped the woollen pile in position. The palm of her other hand, used to keep the door steady, she backed onto the next step, and the next, slowly closing the hatch, in the hope that, once shut, their hiding place would be concealed. Footsteps clomped in the hall outside. Eleanor panicked, and lost her grip on the rectangular piece of carpeting. She ducked below the level of the floor as Wolfe flung the door open. Had he seen her?

  On the threshold of the room, Wolfe saw the raised lid of the hatch. His eyes lit with manic glee. He cleared the space in a single bound. Wrenching the door from the woman’s grasp, he fell to his knees and seized a handful of her hair. He wrapped it around his fist and jerked her upwards. ‘Got you.’

  She screamed.

  ‘Stop that fucking screaming, bitch,’ he yelled. ‘Now, Mikey-boy, up you come. You, your girl and me have a date to finish.’

  Anderson stumbled from the cellar, tripping over the rucked-up carpet, and fell to the floor.

  Wolfe’s head shot up, instantly alert. The motorbike he’d heard earlier seemed to roar up the passageway; for the briefest moment the headlights penetrated into the room before swinging away. The sound of the engine cut. ‘Move,’ he warned Anderson, ‘and I kill her right now.’ He ran, dragging Eleanor behind him, to the nearest window overlooking the drive. Shit! A policeman. He raced back to where he’d left Anderson. ‘Give me another shell, Mikey,’ he said.

  ‘I haven’t got any more.’

  ‘Give.’ Wolfe stomped on his victim’s chest; raising his foot, he brought it down again. ‘Now!’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Eleanor screamed, her fingernails raking at his wrists and forearms as she twisted frantically, trying to release herself from his grip. ‘You’re nothing but a cold-blooded murderer.’

  ‘I am,’ Wolfe said, ‘and I ain’t finished yet.’

  Williams knelt by the body of the robed man he’d seen in the Bonneville’s headlight. From the blood and the gaping hole in the fabric over the victim’s heart, he knew he was dead. It wasn’t the killer. Not tall enough. The robes. Christ! It’s the mute, Timothy. He drew his baton and stood. Creeping towards the broken door, he hesitated before going in. With his heart hammering, he took the torch from his utility belt and flashed the beam over floors and walls, searching out the deepest shadows, alert for ambush. He made his way down the hall, checking the rooms either side, noting the devastation and sacked furniture. Wolfe’s been here. Might even still be here, looking for someone. At the end of the passage, he entered a room. The beam picked out a man and a woman on the floor. Where’s the killer?

  Wolfe launched at him from out of the gloom, the shotgun held like a double-ended paddle cradled between his elbows.

  Williams instinctively jumped back. From the way the killer held the gun, he guessed it was empty. His thoughts raced. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t leave the victims to their fate. He tightened his grip on the baton, and dropping the torch, snatched t
he pepper spray from its holster on his belt. Lure him outside, he told himself. If you spray him in here and he charges . . . No, you’ll have more chance to circle him and fight out in the open. He began to walk steadily backwards, towards the front door.

  Wolfe followed. ‘What are you going to do, cane me with that?’ he said, taking two swift strides. Williams panicked, and half-turning to run, lurched through the front door, across the step, and staggered at the change in level outside. He dropped his pepper spray. Shit! Regaining his balance, he had no time to move before Wolfe was on him. Williams thrashed the killer with the baton, twisting his ankle as he sought to get away. Wolfe leapt on him. The smaller man fought back, as ineffectual as a gazelle in the grip of a lion.

  ‘Let’s see what you’re made of,’ Wolfe said, wrenching Williams’ head back, exposing his throat.

  ‘In the name of God,’ Eleanor screamed, running out of the house. ‘Leave him alone, you devil!’

  Wolfe paused, torn between powerful desires, his cock bursting against the fabric of his trousers.

  Williams thrashed, pinned beneath a weight he couldn’t shift. ‘Run!’ he screamed.

  Wolfe sank his teeth into the policeman’s throat.

  ‘Michael, come on!’ Eleanor screamed.

  Wolfe got to his feet and stood erect. Blood ran from his mouth and down his chin. ‘Oh, no you don’t. You and me, lady, have a date,’ he said, holding the thick rod of throbbing flesh that protruded from his fly. ‘And if I have to chase after you again, I’ll kill Mikey without another thought. Please me, and I might let you both live. Get out here, Mikey, or I’ll kill her!’ he bellowed.

  Chapter 50

  Priestley. 9:47 p.m.

  Emerson stood by the window in his office and stared out through the open slats at the moon, awestruck by its sheer size. ‘Have you seen this, Adams?’