by Rod Glenn
“Pucker up your arse then, boy. Don’t want any anal probes prodding about up there, do you?” Wright said, followed by a wink. The fine snow was catching in his hair and eyebrows and clinging to the fur trim of his hood.
Shaking his head, Mitchell said, “Bainbridge, you stay with the car.”
“Aye, and keep your wits about you.” The young PC expected a laugh or a wink to follow, but Wright’s expression remained serious. He frowned and glanced around the seemingly deserted village.
The two detectives strode over to the door and, Mitchell, in the lead pushed it open. Both men entered the darkened bar. Shaking the flakes from his coat, Wright squinted in the gloom as he shoved the door too behind him. The room was still and cold, his breath pluming ahead of him.
“Mister Falkirk? Mister Whitman?” Mitchell called out. “It’s Northumbria Police; Mitchell and Wright.” Remaining a few feet inside the room, he studied the bar and archway through to the lounge. Nothing appeared out of place, but shadow hid a multitude of sins.
“You getting a funny feeling here?” Wright said in all seriousness.
Mitchell grunted and walked towards the lounge. After a moment’s contemplation, Wright followed. As they approached the lounge, Mitchell called out again, “Anyone there? It’s the Police.”
His foot slipped on the wood floor, nearly throwing him onto his back, but Wright shot a hand out to steady him. They both looked down to see smears of a dark sticky substance. Mitchell bent down and touched a finger to it.
“Oh great,” Wright muttered as they both recognised it instantly.
“Call for back up,” Mitchell hissed, adrenaline quickly pumping through his body. He cautiously crossed the threshold into the lounge.
Wright retrieved his mobile, glanced at the signal and cursed. “No fucking signal, as usual.” Glancing behind him to the door, he whispered, “I’m going back to the car to radio from there. You stay where you are till I get back, then we can sweep this place properly.”
“No argument here,” Mitchell replied, looking at something out of view from Wright. “We’ve got a major problem here.”
Having taken two steps towards the door, Wright snapped his head round. “What is it?”
“Three bodies here; carved up by the looks. One of them’s the landlord.”
Wright suddenly wished he was back in the Marines. “Could do with an SA80 right now, mate.”
Whispering harshly, Mitchell said, “I didn’t think we’d need armed response for some fucking fraudster.”
“Back to the car,” Wright ordered, stalking slowly back to the door, his eyes darting over every shadow. Mitchell followed, walking backwards back into the bar. As he retreated, he pulled out his stumpy telescopic baton and extended it with a flick of the wrist.
Wright opened the front door and peered up and down the street. After a brief inspection, he dashed across to the Land Rover. Pulling the passenger door open, he said, “Get on the radio, we’ve got—” He cut short the sentence.
PC Bainbridge was slumped back in the driving seat, his throat cut and blood pumping down his chest from the fresh gaping wound.
“FUCK!” he cried out in shock. Extending his own baton, he rapidly checked the back seats then under the four wheel drive as Mitchell joined him. “Bainbridge is dead,” Wright told him as he stood up again.
“Christ, get on the bloody radio then,” Mitchell snapped, scanning the street for any movement.
Wright lent back into the car and cursed immediately. “Radio’s fucked too!”
Glancing in, Mitchell could clearly see that it looked like someone had taken a hammer to it. “I don’t believe this. This is a nightmare!”
Wright shot him a glance. “Easy, mate. This is fucked up, but we’re professionals. There’s nothing we can’t handle. Okay?”
Mitchell nodded, angry at himself for the momentary loss of control. “What’s the betting that the phones are out too?”
“You’d get lousy odds from any bookie.”
Staring at the SPAR and the Post Office, Mitchell said, “Where the hell is everyone? They can’t all be dead. That’s ridiculous.”
“If there are survivors, they’re probably hiding somewhere and waiting for the cavalry.”
“That would be us then?”
“Yep.”
“They’re going to be sorely disappointed!” He tried a half-hearted laugh, but it came out as an angry grunt.
They both stood in silence for a moment, considering their options and scanning doors and windows for any movement. Finally, Wright said, “We’re ineffective against this threat. Much as I hate to say it, but we should take the Lanny back to Shillmoor – we came through there and that was all hunky dory. We should be able to call for backup there.”
Mitchell nodded, solemnly. “You’re right.”
Wright quickly walked round to the driver’s side and opened the door. Carefully, he eased Bainbridge out and laid him down in the snow. He stared at his wide, mildly surprised eyes for a moment then gently brushed his hand over them, closing them for good.
He reached back into the car and groaned. “Where … oh shit, no.”
Mitchell crouched down to look through the open passenger door at him. “What now?”
“No keys. Someone’s royally fucking with us.” Growing concern marred his expression.
“Jesus!” Mitchell’s mind was reeling and finding it difficult to catch up. “Don’t suppose you can—”
“Nope,” Wright answered, anticipating the question. “Guess that’s a no from you too then?”
Mitchell kicked the door hard enough to slam it into its frame. “Shit!”
There was silence for a moment, broken only by the low moaning of the wind. Snow was building up quickly over their hair and clothing. After what seemed like an age, Wright lent back out of the car and slowly closed the door. Looking around, he said, “Well, that kinda limits our options somewhat.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” Options were being dismissed in his mind quicker than he could even consider them. Mitchell grappled with the one remaining option and it left a very sour taste in his mouth.
Wright walked back around the passenger side, his face set to dour deliberation, his baton held tightly in his grip. With an angry grunt, he flipped his hood back over his head.
“We’ve got no choice but to search for survivors and an alternative means of communication or transport,” Mitchell said simply. With his mind made up for him, Mitchell felt a sliver of control returning. Zipping his own brown leather jacket up, he cursed his stupidity for not bringing something warmer.
“Aye.”
Scratching his chin, Mitchell said, “So what do we do know? We’ve got multiple murders, so far all seemingly knife attacks, but if there are many more deaths out there, it is likely that a firearm could be involved. We don’t know as yet whether this is definitely Whitman’s work, or whether it is the work of one or more assailants, but we do know that he is at least skilled with a blade. How am I doing so far?”
“Spot on.” Wright glanced across at the abandoned Ford and a thought occurred to him. “I’m guessing that the driver of that Fiesta saw something, possibly the bodies in the pub, and tried to make a run for it. One of the tyres is out, I can see that from here, but I’m going to take a closer look. Cover me.”
Mitchell looked at him incredulously. “Are you taking the piss? Cover me? What with? If a sniper pops up at a window, you want me to throw my baton at him to keep his head down?”
Wright stared back at him, thoughtful, as flakes of snow continued to settle in his hair and goatee. Shaking some of the snow free, he said, “You know what I mean.” With that, he ran for the car at a hunched sprint, his clumping feet throwing up clods of snow behind him.
Apprehensively, Mitchell kept watch as Wright made his short dash to the car. He scanned doorways and windows for any lurking danger; a flicker of a curtain, the dancing of a shadow. Wright reached the car and began a cursory examinatio
n of it. It didn’t take long to see why it had been abandoned in a hurry. Waving his colleague over, Wright crouched down between the car and the Post Office.
Mitchell did not need any other hints. He sprinted across to his partner after only a brief hesitation. Ducking down with him, he asked, “So what’s the story?”
“Bullet holes for one – nine millimetre by the looks. By the placements I’d say a pistol, rather than a subbie, so we’ve got that in our favour. Can’t see any traces of blood, so the driver didn’t get capped here, at least.”
“So we may have at least one survivor then.”
Wright nodded as his eyes were drawn back to the dark, yawning opening in the Miller’s. His gaze shifted upwards, then across to Moe’s. After sucking his teeth, he said, “Reckon the shooter was second floor – the pub or the barbers.”
Mitchell placed a hand on the snow-covered bonnet. “No residual heat, but in this weather that doesn’t tell us much.”
Wright nodded in the direction they had just come. “I noticed disturbances in the snow too – middle of the street and over there.” Mitchell followed his eyes towards the entrance to Bell Lane. “Difficult to tell with all the fresh snow over the top, but certainly looks like one or more people on foot. Whether that was before or after the attempted getaway is anyone’s guess.”
Mitchell chewed his bottom lip and glanced up at the snow-filled sky. “Weather’s getting worse by the minute too.” After a moment’s contemplation, he added with an air of resolve, “Well, let’s see if we can find ourselves a survivor.”
“And maybe a killer too,” Wright said with a glint in his eye.
Something strange is happening in the town of Stepford.
Sam stood quietly by the sink, washing the dishes from their recent meal of cheese and mayonnaise sandwiches. Glancing up at the window in front of him, he was hardly shocked to see the snow continuing to fall heavily. Despite only being lunchtime, the weather gave the illusion of it being dusk. Doing a mundane task like the dishes lent some sort of flimsy reality to their whole situation. The feeling of being slightly out of time only added to the strangeness. Bryce had left them to check the doors and windows, while Carol returned a small block of cheese, butter and a jar of Hellmann’s to the refrigerator.
Perched on the edge of the table, Jimmy watched Sam and Carol, biting his grubby fingernails. It was all too happy families for him. A madman out there had murdered hundreds of people, and all these people could think about doing was the dishes. “You know, you don’t need to do the dishes, like.”
“I don’t m-mind.”
“They’re dead,” Jimmy said harshly, suddenly angry.
Sam glanced over his shoulder, frowning. “W-w-we’re intruding i-i-in their h-home. H-h-have s-s-some respect.”
Jimmy looked down to his hands, ashamed at his outburst. The anger hadn’t been meant for Sam; he didn’t quite know where it had come from or who it was supposed to be aimed at. No, he did know; Whitman. That bastard was going to pay … somehow. He had got the drop on him once, so he could do it again. Next time there would be no Bryce or Big Joe to pull him off. He would cut him up, like Whitman had done to Lisa.
Carol had stopped by the refrigerator to listen to the short confrontation without looking directly at one or the other, but as Sam turned back to the sink full of soapy water, Carol’s attention turned to Jimmy. He was trembling and occasionally he would scratch at his arm or back of his hand. Jimmy had always been a social outcast in the village, much like she had become over the last couple of years with her very messy and very public break up with Steve.
She still couldn’t quite accept their situation as real; it was more like a vivid and surreal nightmare. Almost everyone she had ever known, apart from a few scattered distant family members, Bryce and Jimmy, were all dead. Steve, Big Joe, Lisa, Moe, Tess, Duncan … she just couldn’t quite get her head round it.
Maybe if she clicked her heels together, and chanted, there’s no place like home, maybe Glinda would allow her to wake up in her bed. God, she needed a drink. She recognised the dull throbbing behind the eyes, reaching round to the temples as the onset of a hangover. Wonderful. And, tentatively raising a hand to her mouth and breathing into it, she realised with some embarrassment that she had a bad case of dragon breath too. She needed toothpaste or vodka. One or the other.
Interrupting all their thoughts, Bryce stepped back into the room, saying, “Everything’s secure. He’s gunna have to break a window or kick a door in to get in here, so at least we’ll have warning.” Placing the rifle on the table, he added, “So now all we need is a pack of cards.”
Drying his hands on a tea towel, Sam asked, “H-how l-long do you th-th-think we’ll be st-stuck here before the p-p-police get here?” His thoughts turned to his father, gravely ill in bed only a few miles away in Blindburn.
Bryce thought about it for a moment. He hadn’t really considered how long they might have to wait; he had been more concerned with an inevitable encounter with Whitman. “Could be a day, could be three. Your guess is as good as mine. But what I do know is that you cannat lose contact with a whole village without alarms being raised eventually.”
“He’ll find us before then, won’t he?” Carol said and unconsciously hugged herself in a vain attempt to draw some comfort from somewhere. She really needed a drink … a bloody strong one, but she had already consumed the only alcohol she had been able to find before she had met up with the others … Larry’s brandy. At the time, deep down, she had hoped that the brandy would kill her, like the bottle of wine had killed Janet. She had never felt so alone and had wanted it all to end. Now, with all that had happened, she felt some frail kinship with her fellow three survivors, a kinship that, for now, banished all thoughts of suicide to the dark recesses of her mind. She was pretty sure that they would be revisited again sometime soon though.
“Probably,” Bryce replied, after giving the question some thought. “Whatever his game plan is, he’s gunna have to make sure there’s no one left that could recognise him. He’s gunna search high and low until he finds us. And when he does …” His voice trailed off, not wishing to finish the sentence.
“And when he does,” Jimmy continued, “we’ll gut the twat.” He pulled out his lock knife and whipped open the blade with a sharp flick of the wrist. The brief act of bravado banished his tremors momentarily.
“Put it away,” Bryce told him evenly. “If or when the time comes, we’ll fight him alreet. We’ve all got scores to settle.”
CHAPTER 14
Mi casa, su casa.
As the already poor light rapidly deteriorated with the onset of dusk, the storm steadily grew in intensity, completely obliterating any previous signs of activity. The wind had picked up to a howling gale once more, throwing an eerie beckoning moan through the deserted streets and lanes. The gusting snow had become as thick as static on a television screen, obscuring all but faint hints of what lay beyond. The Northumbria Police Land Rover stood completely covered, with drifting snow reaching the top of wheel arches. Only a slight mound on the road beside it indicated where the body of PC Bainbridge had been laid.
Several isolated lights across the village suddenly winked out as one, bathing the village in total darkness.
The standard lamp in the corner of the Herrings’ living room extinguished with them. As one, the four occupants stood up and glanced nervously around the shadowy room.
“Fuck happened?” Jimmy whispered harshly. He immediately sought the security of his lock knife and clutched it between his two trembling hands.
“Hang on,” Bryce replied and edged carefully over to the window. Easing open a slight gap, he peered into the night. He could only see the faint outlines of darkened buildings, obscured by the surging snow and claustrophobic darkness. “Looks like the power’s out across the whole village.”
“Great!” Jimmy spat, kicking out at the sofa. While opening and closing the blade of his knife, he started pacing anxiously like a c
aged beast. “Just bastard great, like!”
“For christsake, Jimmy,” Carol muttered. “I’ll see if I can find any candles.”
Bryce retrieved his torch and switched it on, being careful to obscure the faint beam with his hand and aim it down at the carpet. “Here, take the torch – it’s not great, but it’ll help. Sam, go with her.”
Snatching the torch, she said sternly, “I don’t need a chaperone.”
Bryce looked with sincerity into her frightened eyes and said, “Safety in numbers, pet. We should always stick together, or at least stay in twos.”
“Aye, in the horror films, when people get separated, that’s when they get picked off one by one,” Jimmy commented dryly.
Bryce glared at him. Incensed, he said, “Jesus, Jimmy! You’re a great help. You just divvent know when to shut up.” Jimmy’s shadowy form stopped and looked in his direction. His free hand moved up to his mouth and started chewing on his fingernails.
Sam stepped over to Carol and touched her shoulder gently. “C-come on, Carol.”
With the dim torchlight leading the way, Carol and Sam made their way carefully to the kitchen. Tip-toeing and conversing in short whispers, they systematically searched through the cupboards and drawers, until Carol came across a box of plain white candles and a box of extended matches.
“Got some,” she whispered with relief.
“G—” Sam stopped abruptly. A distorted outline of a figure passed fleetingly by the window. His heart started racing and his mouth suddenly ran dry. Backing up towards the doorway and pointing, he stammered, “W-w-w-w—”
Frowning, Carol turned to the window and instinctively retreated in Sam’s direction. “You see someone?”