The Walking Dead (Sucking Pit Series)

by Guy N Smith

  ‘I guess we could all do with some sleep,’ Latimer stood up, scraped his chair back, nodded to Samantha. Don't let him out of your sight. She smiled back weakly; I won't, don't worry.

  Jesus, climbing those stairs was nearly as much of an effort as that big sand mound, Chris thought. A sleep might help, on the other hand daytime slumbers often aggravated a headache. But right now he couldn't think of an alternative.

  He flung himself full length on to the bed, closed his eyes and wished he could conjure up some darkness from somewhere. Even the light filtering in through the closed curtains seared his eyes. If Carl was singing tonight then they would all go along. He winced, remembered the other evening, those bikers, their trance-like expressions identical with Carl Wickers' as he sang down by the Sucking Pit. So awful, even on a bright summer's morning. They had found him just in time. A few minutes later and there would have been another irrecoverable body rotting deep in those black waters. He shuddered at the thought, then tensed as he heard the door latch click.

  Opening his eyes, wincing again, then forgetting the pain as he saw Pamela standing there framed in the doorway. Demure, almost apologetic, still holding the door as though she might retreat with dignity whilst there was still time.

  Her dark eyes said, may I come in? None of us ought to be alone really, had we?

  He smiled, shifted his body further along the bed to make room for her, saw how she swung herself up so daintily to lie beside him. Even the Sucking Pit had its advantages; without this last frightening episode Pamela would not be joining him on the bed now.

  CHAPTER TEN

  As Claude Minworth turned into the drive of his large Victorian house he noted that the curtains of the bedroom were closed. May was still in bed; it wasn't surprising. When she had one of her tantrums she would often stay up there for hours. Christ knows how she passed the time. Sleeping? Tossing herself off? He laughed aloud at the idea. Sex in any form was not one of his wife's favourite pastimes, not that he was aware of anyway.

  He got out of the car slowly, closed the door gently, found himself tiptoeing stealthily around the side of the house. A quick look in through the French windows just to make sure that she wasn't in the living room. She wasn't. He breathed a long sigh of relief and hurried across to the woodshed beyond the coal bunker.

  It took him a few minutes to find the axe, rummaging amongst empty cartons and piles of old newspapers which were awaiting collection by the Boy Scouts. Finally he located it beneath a roll of frayed matting which May had thrown out over a year ago. He experienced a tingling sensation in the back of his scalp, a quickening of his breath. Euphoria. He couldn't wait.

  With an effort he checked himself. He must not rush it, there was nothing to be gained by being impulsive. If he did not kill May until tonight, or even tomorrow morning, it didn't matter. He would still have to wait for Grafton to arrive tomorrow evening. The waiting would be the worst part, alone in the house with a bloody mutilated corpse. He should savour the situation: hadn't he suffered the entire span of his married life just waiting for this very moment? There must be no slip-ups.

  He studied the axe. A three-foot shaft and a rusted blade; it didn't look sharp enough to split a log of wood. But it did not have to cleave anything so solid as timber, just split a frail skull so that the brains and blood spewed out. One blow. Perhaps two or three more afterwards just to make sure. The blood was pounding in his veins, a roaring in his ears. He fingered the weapon lovingly, wiped cobwebs and dust from it with a piece of dirty rag kept for cleaning the lawn mower. If he'd had the time he would have polished it up, put a shine on that blade, honed it to razor keenness on the whetstone.

  Almost reluctantly he tucked the axe under his jacket, crept furtively from the shed. The door thumped shut behind him, made him jump. Damn it, that was careless of him. He glanced in through the French window again; there was still no sign of May.

  He let himself in through the back door, stood listening in the kitchen. Not a sound except for the faint whirring of the electric clock on the cooker. He crept into the hall, waited again, only hearing the thumping of his own heart. This was going to be fun, he would enjoy every second of it; a pity it had to be over so quickly. Like shooting a pheasant: a bang and a thud, a heap of feathers on the ground and it was all over. All you had left then were memories, reliving that moment of instant death. He would do that all right, my God he would. Note every detail so that they were indelibly imprinted on his brain, his own personal video recorder to play back whenever he felt like it.

  Halfway up the stairs his thoughts drifted back to the girl by the pool. He saw her as clearly now as he had done then, perhaps more so. More time to savour her, seeing things he had overlooked earlier. A lithe young body beneath that voluminous hessian dress. Seductive.

  With a start Claude Minworth realised that he had got an erection. He glanced down, watched the protrusion in the front of his trousers. Exciting; it was a long time since he had had a hard-on. He wished he had asked the girl's name; it was bound to be something cute and sexy. He would know it before long, though.

  Another reason for getting rid of May. He was going back to the Sucking Pit to meet that girl, they would go off somewhere together; no way would it be a platonic relationship. She had to have fallen for him otherwise she wouldn't have made all these elaborate plans. He held the axe in both hands, tested it with a short sharp swing, smiled to himself. Suddenly he had power, the power of life and death in his hands. Like God. It was a tremendous feeling and he wondered why he had not thought of it before. But he was glad he hadn't because then he would not have become involved with that beautiful girl.

  He could see her now, naked, milk-white flesh, unblemished. A virgin. He groaned softly, dropping a hand from the axe handle on to that bulge behind his zip, a temptation to free it. Why not? He gave a little laugh, ran the zip and felt a rush of cool air on his warm flesh as it sprang free. If only May could see him now, oh God it would be worth anything just to watch her expression. It's not for you, May, it's for a lovely little girl I met down in the woods and I'm not even going to allow you to touch it, not ever again. That's why I want you dead so that I don't have to listen to your whining and bitching ever again.

  He stood on the landing fingering himself and listening. The bedroom door was closed; he put his ear against it.

  Damn it, the roaring in his ears was so loud that he couldn't hear May's breathing, didn't know whether she was awake or still sleeping. She must not be allowed to utter a scream. Kill her quickly and silently. Now!

  His damp sticky fingers clasped the door handle, depressed it slowly. His knee pushed against the woodwork, eased it open a couple of inches, just enough to see inside. She was there on the bed all right, thank God. Facing towards him, lying on top of the creamy quilt, clad only in bra and pants so that she blended into her background, almost invisible. Her eyes were closed, asleep.

  Claude Minworth's eroticism escalated; holding the axe in his left hand, rubbing himself gently with his right finger and thumb, an urge to speed up his hand movements, step up close to her and … God, one of the few times in latter years when he could have screwed her with enthusiasm, lust.

  I'll be here waiting for you when you've killed her.

  He felt a twinge of guilt, betrayal. Damn it, with May out of the way he could fuck that strange young girl for the rest of his life. He closed his eyes, swallowed.

  And when he opened them again May was staring up at him, her blue orbs wide with horror and disgust, struggling up on to an elbow!

  ‘Claude, are you mad? Whatever do you think you're doing and what have you got that axe in here for?’

  The sweat on his body went cold. He snatched his fingers guiltily away from his pulsing erection, almost ran from the room.

  ‘You filthy beast!’ she shouted. ‘How dare you, you make me feel sick. You're depraved!’

  And somewhere inside him a voice was shouting. ‘Go on, kill her now before it's too late, you
fool!’

  He gripped the axe, lifted it, started to swing it up, and at that moment full realisation of the situation hit May Minworth, sparked off the instinct of self-survival. Her husband was a sex maniac and her own life was in jeopardy. Panicking, grabbing at objects on the bedside table by her side, finding something and hurling it with all her strength, not knowing what it was.

  The small hand mirror struck Claude Minworth full in the face, ebony striking bone, glass splintering. A jagged shard stabbed into his cheek and he reeled back with a cry of pain, almost dropped the axe.

  Shocked horror froze May Minworth's actions. A sudden dive and she would have made it through the door and beaten her husband to the stairs. Instead she stared transfixed at his bloody features, the twin rivulets of scarlet oozing from his broken nose, the ugly gash on his cheek; thought perhaps that she had done enough, struck first and won, survived.

  Go on, kill her or your chance is gone. Stop her screaming!

  Blindly he wielded the axe, swung it sideways, heard the crunch of mincing bone as it took her in the ribs, crumpling her back on to the quilt, blood spraying it in a macabre polka-dot pattern. The blade was embedded, he had to tug it free, her fingers weakly grasping at it in a vain attempt to wrest his weapon from him.

  She was trying to scream but instead her open mouth spewed blood with a bubbling sound like she was trying to gargle. The axe went back and he hit her again, a clumsy bludgeoning blow that was intended to smash her skull; instead it gouged deep into her shoulder, splintering bone and sticking. He tugged, couldn't pull it free, using both hands, a foot on her convulsing body, her spouting blood saturating his clothing.

  With a jerk the axe came clear, had him staggering back across the room, crashing into the dresser, falling on to the floor; looking up at her, reading the pain and hate in her expression, her struggles growing feeble. Thank God she couldn't scream.

  He rose to his feet, almost slipped again on some blood which had not had time to seep into the carpet, retrieved the axe. Next time would do it, she hadn't the strength to dodge him now.

  Breathing laboriously he stood over her, glanced down and was surprised to see that he was still erect. Crazy, but exciting. Killing was almost pleasurable; in some strange way that he could not understand, it was related to sex: like an orgasm, a wild frenzy.

  Make sure this time. Positioning himself with feet apart, hoisting the axe right above his head. His weapon was suddenly much heavier, at least ten pounds more than when he had first found it in the woodshed.

  Steady yourself, pick your mark. May's head was lolling sideways now, her burbling breath coming in wheezing liquid gasps. He swung, his whole body going with that devastating blow, saw and felt the skull open up, splitting clean in half as though the blade had honed itself to a sharp cutting edge. A morass of crimson and grey, an exquisite colour scheme, so perfectly matching.

  Claude Minworth fell forward, his heavy blood-spattered form directly on top of his wife. He laughed, a shrill broken sound. Just like fucking her and a thousand times more satisfying because probably for the first time in his life he was the dominant partner. And then his emotions were erupting, a blinding sensation that had him convulsing and flaying, gripping the torn flesh with an intensity that had his fingernails gouging fresh wounds. Sobbing, crying his exultation out aloud. ‘How's that, my darling, I've done what you wanted me to do and now I'm yours for ever.’

  How long he lay there he had no idea. An hour, two, three. It was fully dark when he stirred, had to exert every muscle to lift himself off the blood-soaked bed. He stood there trying to collect his thoughts. Night-time, today or tomorrow? Today, at least he thought it was. That meant he had twenty-four hours to wait, hours that would be an eternity and before he joined his loved one down by the Sucking Pit he must kill again. The thought revitalised him, a stimulant that brought movement back to his limbs.

  He picked up the axe, fondled it. It had served him well and he prayed that it would do so again. Next time he must be more positive, the first strike a death blow. That would not be so enjoyable but it was a necessity for Grafton would be a much stronger victim.

  Minworth went into the kitchen, peeled off his blood-sodden garments and left them in a heap on the floor. He ran the bath, leaned over the side and watched the water splashing, filling up. He liked water, it reminded him of the Sucking Pit, so relaxing, so mysterious. And the girl, Christ he wished he had asked her name. She would be well pleased with him. He wondered where they would go; it did not matter as long as they were together.

  At length he turned off the taps, lowered himself into the water. So relaxing, all the time in the world; he could stay here until tomorrow evening if he wanted. Another pleasant sensation, one that grew and became stronger. He smiled to himself, let his fingers go their own way, do what they wanted. He would relive that euphoric killing, go over every detail and savour it again.

  And somewhere he could hear the girl's voice again, laughing softly.

  Ralph Grafton was stiff in every limb, a sour taste in his mouth and he had a slight headache. With the dawning of a new day he felt slightly foolish, ashamed of himself. The bathroom floor was not the most comfortable of places to pass the nocturnal hours.

  All his fears were in his own mind, turned into bizarre reality by the happenings of the day before. Logically there was an explanation for everything that had happened. The Sucking Pit had flooded due to a collapse of the terrain around it, the results of quarrying. The noises in the big house? Every old property had its noises, floorboards that creaked, windows that rattled and sounded like somebody tapping on the outside. Rats, too. Just because you didn't see them did not mean that they weren't around; they were cunning, kept out of sight.

  Pull yourself together, Ralph Grafton. He began shaving, the hum of his razor a welcoming sound, so mundane and everyday. All the same his hand shook.

  More realistic worries. Perhaps he ought to call round on Minworth now, not wait until this evening. The Planning Officer was virtually crapping himself, he would eat out of his hand. You're in the shit, too, Minworth, so you'd better come up with something fast. Yes, he'd take him by surprise, go now.

  A sense of relief at the prospect of getting away from the house and the wood. He boiled the kettle in the kitchen, poured himself a coffee and munched on a cracker biscuit whilst he waited for it to cool. Looking out of the window; it was going to be hot again today. Shit, he'd really let his nerves run riot last night. Maybe he ought to book in at a hotel until Lynette moved up here. Jesus, he stiffened: he'd better ring her.

  A buzzing sound from the hall; the receiver was still off. He picked it up, began to dial, heard the connection clicking through. Seconds later the instrument screamed at him, a harsh monotone that had him jerking it away from his ear. The unobtainable tone. He tried the number again with the same result. Fuck it, there was something wrong with Lynette's phone. He'd report it from Minworth's, another reason for going to see the Planning Officer right away.

  He finished his coffee, gulping it down, not wanting it because it was just something else to delay him. Any second that scratching might start up again. Or the tapping on the window.

  Something was wrong with the front door. Jammed. Tugging at it, using his foot on the jamb as a lever. Cursing, sweating. The wood must have swollen after that storm. Where the hell had these builders got to? He'd call them from Minworth's place.

  The back door; a sigh of relief when it opened, stepping gratefully out into the morning sunlight, glancing around. A feeling of being watched again. Auto-suggestion.

  The Range Rover stood in the drive, majestic in spite of the film of fine dust which gave it a fawn colour instead of white at first glance. Mud-spattered wheels. He climbed in, turned the key. Escape!

  The starter motor turned over sluggishly, groaned. He tried it again; slower, tired, straining. Globules of sweat formed on Grafton's forehead as though his efforts were physically demanding, began to trickle down his fa
ce, made his eyes smart. Fire, you bastard, fire!

  It didn't, each turn becoming more sluggish until finally it didn't turn at all. He sat there gripping the steering wheel, gave way to a momentary wave of despair. Something was trying to trap him here, make him a prisoner in his own house, hold him here until night came again.

  Fuck 'em, whoever they were! He swung the door open, jumped out, stood there looking defiantly about him. They had shaken him, undermined his arrogance, forced him to spend a frightening humiliating night locked in the bathroom. Now the front door was stuck, the Range Rover was immobilised. But Ralph Grafton was still very much alive. Nothing dissuaded him once his mind was made up. He thought about going back inside, phoning a breakdown service or even the AA. But he didn't want to enter the house again; he was out and he was staying out. Christ, he'd sure run up Minworth's telephone bill today.

  Walking, fast determined steps, trying not to keep looking behind him.

  He felt easier once he was clear of the grounds, away from that oasis of pines and rhododendrons that could have concealed … anything. Viewing the desolation now, seeing it in its true disfiguration of the surrounding countryside. He was doing these villagers a favour by building on it otherwise it would remain wasteland for ever, a dozen more pits filling up with water, always the danger that children might be drowned. But they couldn't see it that way, didn't want to. We want our woodlands back. Oh sure, an instant transformation back to its original state, plant a hundred and eighty acres of thirty foot pines, sow the rides with grass seed.

  People were emotive, blind to logic. They made you fight them.

  Twenty minutes and his shirt was clinging damply to his body. But at least he could see the village now, the small picturesque church right up against the wood boundary looking starkly pathetic now that the trees had gone.

  Grafton cut through the churchyard, followed a gravel path that emerged on to a private road, houses lining the one side, an orchard and the parsonage on the other. A couple of hundred yards brought him to the main A51, turning left down towards the main part of this pretty little village.