The Survivor

by James Herbert

  Keller clasped his hands to his ears and rocked his head from side to side. A cry rose from his throat as though the inner sound would act as a barrier against the external. And then, just when it seemed the aircraft must collapse under the onslaught, the floor they crouched on must fall in, tossing them into the cabin below, bringing the walls down on top of them, the whining howl began to fade. Keller wasn’t aware of its decline at first, for his head rang with the after-sound. It was only when the trembling stopped, suddenly and almost jarringly, that he realized an uneasy stillness had descended upon the wreckage. He took his hands away from his ears and heard only the drone of the priest’s prayers. In the faint torchlight he could distinguish the huddled figure of Hobbs.

  Keller then became aware of the odour: the fetid, revolting stink of decay and worse, the sickening smell of burnt flesh. Darker shapes seemed to be swirling around the cockpit and he thought at first it was merely the unsettled ash, disturbed by the vibrations, falling once again on to the charred floor. But then, he heard the voices. Whispers. Confused and frightened. Something cold touched his hand and he drew hastily back against the wall.

  An animal grunt came from the other side of the cockpit and he saw the black figure of Hobbs rising to his feet.

  The whispers became harsher, strident. Clearer voices came through. ‘Keller . . . he’s here! . . . Keller . . . is it him? . . .’

  The co-pilot whirled around as a voice came from only inches away, as though someone were crouching next to him, whispering into his ear. ‘Dave . . . help us . . . find him for us . . .’

  The voice was Rogan’s!

  It sounded strained, husky, but there was no doubt in his mind that it belonged to Captain Rogan.

  Keller’s voice was weak, tremulous. ‘Find who, Skipper? Who must I find?’

  A different voice spoke, but the sound came from the same spot. ‘Find the one who did this to me!’ The tone was angry. ‘To us! We can show you!’

  ‘Fools!’ Hobbs was standing in the beam of the torch, glowering down at the co-pilot. ‘We have this one! He belongs with us! We’ll take him!’

  Keller drew his legs up, ready to spring away from the medium should he advance on him.

  ‘No . . . no . . .’ It was Rogan’s voice again. ‘Not Keller . . . the other one . . .’ Other voices joined in. The other one . . .’

  A whimpering of a child came from a far corner. ‘Mummy, I’m frightened. Where are we?’ A scream split the air. ‘We’re crashing!’ Another voice, a plea: ‘Help us!’ A wailing broke out, echoing around the walls, drifting out into the night through the hole in the aircraft’s roof.

  ‘Be silent!’ the thing inside Hobbs screamed. And then, he chuckled. The low, menacing snigger that struck dread into Keller’s heart. The co-pilot watched as the figure bent low and reached for something. He came up with a jagged object in his hand and, in the dim light, Keller saw it was a twisted bar of metal. Hobbs took a step towards the hunched co-pilot.

  Father Vincente had been watching in horror, his lips still reciting the soundless prayers that had proved so inadequate. How foolish he’d been to allow this to happen! He was not worthy to deal with a perversion of this kind. He saw Hobbs moving forward towards Keller, wielding a jagged piece of metal, raising it aloft, ready to strike. But the weapon trembled in his grasp as though some internal battle were taking place within the possessed medium’s mind. Hobbs’s face was a mask of fury. His glaring eyes seemed as if they would burst from their retaining sockets. A large, purple vein throbbed in his temple. One side of his mouth drew back in an unnatural way, the bandage now torn from his face, revealing bloodied, mutilated lips, exposing the teeth and gums in an ugly grimace. He called out, his language foul and degenerate and, slowly, the grimace turned into a leer of triumph. The hand holding the jagged metal began its swift descent.

  But Keller, a look of sheer rage on his face, was already lunging forward. His shoulder smashed forcefully into Hobbs’s chest, both men falling heavily against the wall, arms and legs thrashing in a desperate struggle. Dark, shadowy shapes whisked past the priest’s shocked eyes, discarnate bodies swirling in confusion. Father Vincente knew, without seeing, not just the cockpit, but the whole of the aircraft’s smashed body, was filled with such shapes. Tormented, bewildered souls, many – he could sense it – vindictive, vengeful; others just frightened.

  Keller’s body suddenly came hurtling towards the priest, thrown with abnormal strength by the demon controlling the medium. He heard the mocking laughter as he fell to the floor, the co-pilot’s body crushing the breath from him. He lay there gasping for air, inhaling the sooty dust into his lungs, retching with its clogging stench. The torch had been kicked sideways, its narrow beam cutting weakly through the darkness, past his face, reflecting back against something shiny lying against the restraining metal struts that had once held the flight engineer’s seat. The object was made of glass.

  Hobbs was on his feet now, lumbering towards Keller, who was slowly drawing himself to one knee, sucking in air noisily, but ready to spring again at the advancing monstrosity. He felt no fear, only a loathing disgust, a hatred for this creature using the little man’s body. Hobbs held on to the side of the cockpit for support, not wanting to stumble on the treacherous floor now that the prey was almost his. The voices of the others screamed at the demon, most urging it on, a few, the ones it had not yet fully corrupted to its way, fighting against it still, as they had when it had been about to smite Keller down with the piece of metal. But it held them in abeyance. They were no match for its cunning, its power, a power already developed in the physical world by the man Goswell. Its sniggering laughter became a growling sneer as it faced the co-pilot. It saw no fear in the man’s steady gaze, but then the fool was unaware of the everlasting state of his danger.

  It ran forward with a screech of triumph and the co-pilot quickly crouched forward to meet it. But a dark shadow rose up between them. Liquid splashed against the medium’s face and the demon screamed in fear and pain as the Holy Water burnt into the flesh, tearing, rending, driving it from the human body. Hobbs staggered back and fell to the floor, his hands clutching at his burning face. Blisters were already forming between his fingers, the skin hissing as though acid had been poured over it. The demon within struggled to keep its hold over the mortal, but the priest did not relent. More Holy Water drenched Hobbs’s hands and neck. The skin on his head fell away as the blessed liquid touched it, white curls of steam rising from it, huge welts appearing instantly. The demonic soul howled with anguish. The pain was too much! It twisted within the body in agony. It was losing! Others were helping to drive it out: the sensitive, anxious to reclaim his body; spirits which still refused to bend to its will, even though they were confused and lost!

  It was weakening and the torture was unbearable. It fled.

  Keller, still crouching forward, stunned by Father Vincente’s action and the subsequent horror, felt the rush of cold air sweep by, the incredibly fetid stench assailing his nostrils as though something foul had just breathed on him. The shock, the instinctive reaction to get out of the path of this invisible malignity, made him stagger back through the open doorway where he fell, tripped by unseen debris. He tried to save himself, but metal crumbled in his hand and he felt himself falling down the stairwell, his head striking the steps, his body turning over, pulling away chunks of panelling as he went. He landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairwell and inky blackness closed in on him.

  He lay there, still, unmoving. His eyes were open, yet he saw nothing. He heard voices, but they were remembered voices, not the whispers of these dead things. Captain Rogan’s, Cathy’s, Alan’s, their flight engineer; others – passengers – voices of excited children, nervous mothers, businessmen calling out to one another in overloud jocularity. He heard the aircraft’s engines starting up, the Jumbo jet becoming a living thing, trembling with its unleashed power. He felt the gentle movement as it was pushed clear of the passenger terminal by a tra
ctor. And then Captain Rogan’s voice came filtering through: ‘Consul 2802, request taxi clearance.’ And he heard the mechanical reply: ‘2802, you are clear to taxi for twenty-eight right, when clear of the cul-de-sac call one-one-eight decimal six-five for departure clearance . . .’

  He was back on the flight deck again, Captain Rogan in the seat on his left, speaking into his headset, patiently going through the usual take-off drill.

  Once again it was the night of the 747’s journey into oblivion!

  18

  The demon fled into the night. It seethed and moaned in agony. As it gathered its forces together, those that would come, it cast itself about, seeking revenge.

  The wailing of the ambulance had disturbed Ernest Goodwin from his work. He left the darkroom, checking that there was no unexposed film unshielded before he opened the door. He went over to the window which looked on to the High Street, opened it and stuck his head out, craning his neck to see where the ambulance had come to a halt.

  It looked as if the vehicle was near the church again. Oh dear, don’t say the vicar’s had another relapse! He tutted to himself. Reverend Biddlestone had only returned from hospital that afternoon, so he’d been told. Bloody doctors nowadays! Sending patients home before they’re properly fit just because their hospitals are crowded! You’ve got to be dying to get a hospital bed these days – and then you’d better die fast or they have you out again! He shook his head in disgust and drew back into the room, closing the window with a thump. As he walked back into the darkroom, he paused to look at the stacks of freshly glazed photographs lying on a working top waiting to be trimmed. Picking one up from a pile, he studied its contents again. This was the one that fascinated him, the one showing the rows of sheet-covered corpses. Why did he feel his peculiar affinity with it, almost as if he knew the people lying beneath the bloodstained shrouds. He shrugged. Having been on the spot the night of the crash, having spent hours alone with photographs of the ensuing holocaust, he was more familiar with the disaster than anyone. Almost as much as the victims.

  He walked leisurely over to the guillotine and placed the photograph on the wooden cutting base, pushing its edge against the squared-up length of metal at one side. He raised the handle of the steel cutter about a foot, and slid the picture so it overlapped the edge by a quarter of an inch. He brought the blade down swiftly and a thin sliver of bromide paper drifted to the floor. He repeated the process on the other three sides. All the photographs he had printed that day would have to be trimmed in this fashion, but he still had more prints to develop. However, Martin had promised to come back and help him. He hoped his partner would not be too long; he was anxious to hear of the deal he’d pulled off. He returned to the darkroom, taking the picture of the rows of corpses with him, hardly aware of the deep chill that had just struck the room.

  Closing the door tight behind him, Ernest placed the photograph on a workbench, and turned his attention to the enlarger. He positioned a sheet of smooth photographic paper beneath the metal retaining masks, shiny side up, and clicked on the enlarger’s light, timing the seconds with an old-fashioned stopwatch. There was no need to check the focus or size of image, for he had already taken a couple of dozen prints from the same negative. Nor did he bother to look at the image projected on to the surface of the chemical paper.

  At the appropriate time, he flicked off the switch, raised the mount, took out the undeveloped paper, and placed it into the developing liquid, dipping it under daintily with a finger, ensuring every corner was fully immersed. He swirled the fluid against its surface for a few seconds, then bent forward as the image began to appear. He had expected to see a shot of one of the Jumbo’s jet engines, lying alone in the field, separated from the wing it had been housed under, a mangled sculpture of sophisticated metal rendered useless by the impact. A group of men, all carrying clipboards, were standing around it, examining its exposed machinery, one of them gingerly lifting the displaced thrust cone lying several feet away. That’s what he had expected to see.

  Instead, the image that came through, slowly at first, then with a rush, was that of a man. The strangest, most evil-looking man Ernest had ever set eyes on. He was totally naked, his thin, emaciated body twisted with disease as though the worms that welcomed corpses laid to rest beneath the ground were already devouring his living body. His gaunt face was a mask of grinning evil, the eyes burning malevolently from the darkening paper, the mouth revealing broken teeth amid glistening lips in its wicked leer. Sparse clumps of hair hung from his bare scalp, and deep lines, the black wrinkles of perversity, filled his face as though it were a rocky landscape from some far-off rain-starved land. The sparrow-like shoulders were hunched forward, the rounded abdomen and thin pelvis thrust forward in an obscene gesture. In his bony, claw-like hands he held his over-sized, swollen penis, the testicles hanging like two grotesquely stretched sacks almost to his knees. The reed-like legs that supported his skeletal frame were riddled with pockmarks, evidence of some still-lingering pestilence.

  As the chemicals continued their function, the developing process unchecked, the image began to grow darker, gradually succumbing to the enveloping blackness, until only the eyes, with their darkly glowing, hypnotic pupils, glared out at him. And then, they too vanished.

  He heard the snicker of laughter behind him just as his frightened mind tried to recall where he’d seen that face before. It had been years before – at least fifteen, perhaps twenty – in a newspaper or magazine. Something to do with the man’s wartime activities in this country, his forced exile, and more trouble in the States. He couldn’t remember the details, but the face was one that could never be forgotten. The face of a beast! He stared down at the floating black photographic paper, his own red image reflecting back at him.

  Ernest froze and was afraid to turn and see what was in the room with him, to discover just what had laughed in that coarse, malicious way. He felt the cold pressure at the back of his neck, felt the chill, pungent breath on his cheek. The low chuckle was so close now. He could only watch his own reflection, gently rippling and swaying in the yellowish fluid, his own eyes staring back at him as if they understood his fear.

  The coldness closed around his body like encircling arms.

  Martin Samuels climbed the stairs to the studio, irritation surging through him, his mind jumping agitatedly from one thought to another. Cheapskates! A hundred pounds per neg indeed! Those magazines were all the same! Imagine a worldwide publication like that trying to rook him with such a miserable sum! Schmucks! Two-fifty each would be the least he’d accept. He’d asked three-fifty but they’d laughed in his face, claiming it was old news now, that the photographs had been seen by everyone, they were no longer exclusive. He’d pointed out that all his shots had not been used; there were many others, less interesting perhaps, but still dramatic, still poignant. He was offering the whole packet, sole rights! It was a bargain! Why, he knew top London photographers earned more than four hundred a day just for advertising shots! He was selling true-life tragedy, on-the-spot drama! They had no imagination these people. He’d rather accept the offer from Paris Match than deal with gonifs like them! They’d made quite a bit of money out of the air crash so far, but this was to have been the killing - the coup de grâce. With the money from this deal they’d have been set for life! They could have branched out, broadened their scope. He could have concentrated on more reportage, while Ernie could carry on with the more mundane aspects of their work: the portraits, the weddings, the industrial sites, etc. Ernie had his limits. Maybe they could move over into Slough, be more in the centre of things. Rents in London were far too high to consider even with their new-found wealth. Oh, those sodding cow-sons! Still, there were other magazines, bigger magazines, who’d be interested. Grumbling to himself he pushed open the door to the studio.

  ‘Ernie?’ he called out, flicking on the light switch. ‘You in the darkroom, Ernie?’

  There was no answer.

  Where the hell was t
he schlemiel? He knows there’s a lot of work to be done. He can’t have done it all himself already! Martin clucked his tongue and shrugged himself out of his overcoat. He hung it up behind the door and walked over to the stacks of untrimmed photographs waiting on the bench, rubbing his hands together to warm them. My life, it’s cold in here! he thought, looking towards the windows, checking they were shut. He examined the shots, squinting to make sure of the focus. Stupid bastard hasn’t dusted the lens again! he cursed, when he saw the tiny white specks that dotted the prints. Well, I’m not staying up all night spotting. He can bloody well print them again!

  He banged disgustedly on the darkroom door. ‘Ernie, you in there?’ He waited for a reply but none came.

  He caught sight of the guillotine, it’s blade standing upright, at right angles to its base. That was another minor source of irritation to Martin. His partner was always leaving the blade standing instead of tucked down beside the wooden base. Someone’s going to chop their fingers off one of these days! He was always telling him. He walked over to the cutting instrument ready to lower the offending blade, but his attention was caught by the photograph lying on its desk. He peered down at it. Huh, such a morbid shot! All those rows of dead people! I don’t know why Ernie is so fond of this one – probably because it’s one of his! Such a depressing scene; no drama, just melancholic stillness, but something small and white in one corner caught his attention. He hadn’t noticed that before. It looked like a tiny body lying in the mud, separated from the white-covered corpses. My God, was it a baby? He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the little body was in fact that of a doll. Yes, I didn’t think there were any babies on the plane, he told himself. Funny I hadn’t spotted the doll before, though. Makes it very poignant. Maybe it’s not such a bad picture after all!