Temple of the Winds

by James Follett

  Faraday looked down and smiled at his victim's panties. `Just enough to get in the way.' He gestured to one the girls. She produced a flick knife, cut deftly through the tanga's side cords with two upward jerks and yanked it clear. Faraday stared hard into Vikki's eyes, feeding on the fear he saw there especially when he slipped a long, bony forefinger into her and found the hoped for obstruction. The clasping spasms helped build his erection without the help of the girl with the flick knife whom he pushed roughly aside. `Nice, Vikki -- nice. All present and correct. No need to bag up if I'm first, eh?'

  He grinned down and parted her, rocking back and forth so that the underside of his upturned penis rasped over her clitoris without penetrating her. Vikki sobbed in panic and fought to bring her hysteria under control.

  It's no use fighting! It's no use fighting!

  She relaxed a little and felt a lessening of the pressure that the girls were using to hold her down as they watched with fascination what Faraday was doing.

  He saw Vikki's head flop back and gave a sickly grin. `You like that don't you, Vikki? They always do...' His tone became wheedling. He kept rocking. `Come on, Vikki -- tell me you like it.'

  Nod! For God's sake nod!

  She nodded and Faraday's face twisted in sudden maniacal rage and the hatred he had nursed over years spewed like a broken sewer. `Bitch! Fucking bitch! You not here to fucking enjoy it! You're here for pain!'

  He drew back with the intention of plunging home. Vikki closed her eyes and squeezed. The golden stream hit his penis and sprayed in all directions, showering the girls and Faraday. They squealed in alarm and drew back but too late to escape a soaking. Faraday gave a bellow of rage just as Vikki gave a sudden powerful heave and managed to yank her left arm free. She lashed out at Faraday's face.

  `Bitch!'

  He grabbed at her hand and then he and all three girls were screaming. It was bad enough seeing Vikki's hand come off while getting drenched in urine, but what really freaked them was the baby's fist, clenched and pink, and growing from the end of her stump.

  And then all the lights went out.

  Chapter 27.

  CATHY PRICE WAS THE FIRST to encounter the force wall in its finished state.

  She was heading south in her E-type, accelerating hard, nearing the end of the built-up zone, when the street and shop lights went out. She flicked to main beam and wound up Dire Straits to maximum volume. The outage added to her foul temper. If the power hadn't been restored by her return she would have the devil of a job opening the electric garage door manually. Not having the lift working wasn't too bad -- her stairs had two handrails -- but she hated leaving her precious Jaguar in the drive. Brad Jackson and his gang of envious baseball-capped, three-stripe tracksuited street rats took a perverse delight in key-scoring nice cars or dropping a smouldering cigarette butt on a fabric roof. The delinquent and his two followers came from the families of former travellers that owned smallholdings at Fittleworth.

  The reason for Cathy's rage had been an acrimonious email row with Josh. He had accused her of sending corrupted pictures because she must've messed about with the software settings for the Quickcam TV camera. He said that there had been shoal of moans from CathyCam subscribers that day. What would've been a snitch of a snatch shot had dissolved into garbage halfway down the image. Also she had tampered with her computer's modem initializing software because her emails and crudded jpeg images were taking an age to get through to the server. Another thing -- a new subscriber lived dangerously near at Northchapel. Had Cathy's exhibitionism led to her tipping off a local? If so, kiss goodbye to her income because if the authorities got wind that her pictures were coming from a UK site, they'd have the Obscene Publications Squad and Christ knows who else jumping all over them like fleas on a hedgehog.

  Her fury at Josh's accusations and that he would be too busy sorting out subscriber whinges to visit her the next day made her jam her foot to the floor. The E-type's flattened phallic bonnet seemed to leap up as the torque powered through the car's chassis.

  A full moon broke through the cloud, illuminating this straight stretch of the old Roman road to Chichester. She dropped into 2nd to negotiate the sharp, 90 degree left-hander at Seaford College, and snicked straight into top. The needle passed 100 mph and kept climbing. She didn't see the police sign warning of a suspect road surface ahead.

  The thundering Jaguar was five kilometres south of Pentworth, wind screaming dementedly at the soft roof, notching 150 mph, burning half a litre of petrol a minute, the insidious beat of Private Investigations just about winning the noise war, when the impossible happened: the car was clawed to a straight line standstill like a fighter hitting a carrier's deck and catching on the arrestor wires. At the same time the moon and stars, and the wavy profile of the South Downs went out. A blanket of total and terrifying blackness reared up before Cathy, swallowing the light from the headlights and enveloping the Jaguar. Her first thought was that her foot must have slipped off the throttle onto the brake pedal but that wasn't the case. Despite being unable to see anything ahead, she gunned the engine. The tyres spun, screaming their treads off, spewing Catherine wheel deverishes of smoke, but the car went nowhere.

  More baffled and shaken than frightened, she killed the stereo and was about to urge the car forward when she realized that it was moving. Backwards. Tyres skittering and juddering, the body shaking, wanting to go one way and being forced to go the wrong way.

  She had the presence of mind to snick into reverse. This time everything was okay: the engine revved, the clutch bit, the tyres spun, and the E-type screeched backwards like a cat off an Aga. She stopped, looked forwards, and everything was as it should be: bright moon, stars, the downs. All perfectly normal.

  Or was it?

  She stared hard straight ahead. The moonlight picked out ferns, saplings, grass... But no road! Ten metres ahead the A285 came an abrupt end. The asphalted surface abutted a shallow bank with larger trees a few metres beyond. Had she not been stopped she would now be dead.

  Her first thought was that she had taken a wrong turning and had run into a clever system for stopping the car, but this was definitely the main road that she knew so well.

  Cathy tried to recall a news report she'd half-heard on local radio that day. Something about mysterious road surface problems causing clutch burnouts. But that was at midday. Surely the trouble had been fixed by now? And if not, was it possible that they'd go to the trouble of ripping-up the road so that absolutely nothing remained? And even put grass back?

  No! And yet something weird had stopped the Jag. Like running into a wall of mattresses. At least the car seemed undamaged, thank God -- headlights burning bright and straight.

  She dropped into first and trickled the car forward. The moon and stars darkened. The resistance felt like she was driving on melting tar. More throttle. The moon and stars blacked out and, as before, no matter how much power she poured into the smoke-spewing rear wheels, the Jaguar was forced inexorably backwards.

  She turned the car around and headed back. Okay then -- the Pulborough Road, east out of the town. More twisty but it would get her to the A27 east-west trunk for a blast towards Portsmouth. If Cathy couldn't get sex then speed was a nearly as good substitute. The trouble with Pentworth that it was further from a motorway than any other town in England.

  A confusion of vehicles leaving a party at the House. A long blast on her horn -- sod the built-up area speed restriction -- and she roared past them and turned east onto the A283. Five kilometres outside Pentworth, the same thing happened again: the Jaguar ran smack into an invisible marshmallow mountain and was forced backwards. It was the same story on the northbound leg of the A283 towards Northchapel and Chiddingfold but this time Cathy hit the brakes when she saw the long tailback of rear lights ahead and didn't try to pass them. Fuming at the uselessness of West Sussex Council's Highways Department, she returned to a home in which nothing worked. By the time she had pulled herself up the stairs to her ro
om with the aid of a key ring torch gripped between her teeth, she had mentally composed a blistering letter to Southern Electric which she couldn't write, of course, because the Macintosh was a big, silent, useless lump of plastics and silicon.

  She couldn't even make herself coffee. There was nothing for it but to go to bed, which she did, and try to sleep, but first things first. The batteries in her vibrator expired when she had one cloud level to go. In fury she flung the device across her darkened bedroom and there was an expensive shattering sound. It was the Mac's monitor tube imploding. A bad day for Cathy Price and it wasn't over yet.

  Chapter 28.

  IN THE CONFUSION THAT FOLLOWED the bedroom being plunged into darkness, Nelson Faraday lashed out blindly and hit Helga. The girl swore and launched herself at her assailant, thinking it was Vikki. Despite her terror Vikki had the presence of mind to roll sideways off the divan. She had lost her shoes and her hand but that couldn't be helped now. She crawled around the edge of the room, bumping into furniture until her groping fingers encountered a door that she prayed wasn't a wardrobe. She scrambled to her feet, yanked the door open, and staggered into the passage, desperately trying to orientate herself in the darkness. She ran towards the shouts and the sounds. With people she felt she would be safe from Nelson Faraday but foremost in her mind was to find Sarah and get out of this terrible place. Headlights of parked vehicles outside came on, throwing blinding beams through the windows. The fire alarm system had sensed the loss of power and was drawing on its batteries to keep its sirens howling, adding to the confusion. Vikki found the ballroom. There had been a panic. One of the buffet tables had been overturned, food and paper plates scattered across the floor. The debris included broken glass as Vikki discovered. The sharp pain cleared the last vestiges of her panic and she saw with dismay that her left foot was bleeding. No time to worry about that, or that her bra was broken and hanging loose outside the torn remnants of her blouse, and that her panties were gone. At the far end of the ballroom the last of the guests were leaving in response to the shouted orders of two SAS men.

  Vikki hobbled across the dance floor with the intention of joining the exodus, certain that Sarah would be waiting outside, but the security men had spotted her. They had been on inside duty and therefore not wearing helmets, but their figures were thick with body armour under their riot gear. Their heads were close-shaven. A reversing car outside briefly caught their gleaming eyes before it drove off. They eyed Vikki like hungry hyenas that had cut out a wounded antelope from the main herd.

  `It's okay, miss -- no fire. No need to panic. Just a power cut that set the alarms off.' It was the one on the left who had spoken. His voice sounded kindly.

  `My friend will be waiting for me.' Vikki made to move past them but hesitated when they stood their ground. The ballroom was empty now.

  The one who hadn't spoken played his torch on her. Mortified by her nakedness, Vikki clapped her right arm across her breasts but kept her left forearm plunged firmly in the pocket of her shredded skirt, not realising until it was too late just how exposed she was and how her failure to completely cover herself conveyed the wrong impression to the heavies.

  `I do believe we're getting a come on,' said the torchbearer affably. `A genuine blonde, too. Not many of them around.'

  `She's scared, Gav.'

  `Scared we won't measure up? No worries on that score, darling.' The torchbearer laughed and moved purposefully towards Vikki.

  She stepped back. Instead of surrendering to panic, her mind raced like an engine without a load, assessing chances, sizing up distances.

  `Now come on, sweetheart. Looks like you've been giving it to someone. So what about the workers?'

  The SAS man made a sudden move towards her. Vikki stumbled back. A bottle skittering from under her heel caused her to lose her balance. She put out her right hand to save herself and her fingers closed around the neck of the bottle as she hit the floor. It may not have been the same bottle but it didn't matter -- it was full, had weight, and was a weapon. There was a sudden commotion from the back of the ballroom. Then Nelson Faraday was shouting: `There she is! Get the bitch!'

  Vikki jumped to her feet and saw a flash of crimson in the shadows as Helga circled around to the SAS men. Vikki charged, ignoring the pain in her cut foot, uttering a piercing scream as she raced forward. The torchbearer saw the demented, near-naked apparition coming straight at him and was undecided -- the bottle worried him.

  `Get her!' yelled Helga, racing to put herself between Vikki and the exit.

  The SAS men were too slow, little match for the adrenalin being pumped into the girl's bloodstream. One ended up with a strip of blouse in his hands to show for his effort. Suddenly Helga was in front of Vikki, reaching for her. Vikki swung her right arm. Her poor grip on the neck of the bottle was fortuitous for it flew from her fingers and caught Helga a glancing blow on the temple. She plunged on without looking back. The crowd in the courtyard were drunk and laughing -- they would be of little use in protecting her from Nelson Faraday who was certain to be following her. They parted in surprise as Vikki plunged into their midst. Whistles and catcalls followed her out of the main gate.

  After 200-metres running barefoot, exhaustion and the throbbing pain in her foot overrode her terror and forced her to slow. She risked a backward glance. No street lighting. No lit-up shop fronts, but an ethereal moonlight making ghostly shadows filled with bat-like figures coming after her. She ran on, no clear plan in mind other than to put distance between herself and the terrors of Pentworth House. Even in semi-darkness, Ellen Duncan's herbal shop was a beckoning haven. Sobbing with relief she pounded frantically on the side door and yelled through the letterbox. A window opened upstairs.

  `Miss Duncan! Please! Please! Help me! It's Vikki!'

  `Vikki? Vikki! Oh my, God!'

  A flash of a torch on the stairs. The door opened, and Vikki collapsed, sobbing, into the arms of an astonished Ellen Duncan.

  Chapter 29.

  TO SAY THAT CATHY PRICE'S crazy early morning drive in her E-type had given the spyder problems would be to imbue what was essentially a machine with emotions.

  Following the completion of the force wall that night, the spyder had been required to maintain a watch and determine what effect it might have on the first person to come into contact with it. For this sortie it had been provided with additional energy cells that permitted extended flight. From a height of 400-metres above Pentworth it had seen the Jaguar heading south, and set off in pursuit.

  The speed of the ground vehicle defeated it. By the time it reached the location where the vehicle had its first encounter with the force wall, the driver had turned around and was heading east at a speed that the spyder could not match. Its maximum speed had been determined as a compromise between reasonable energy consumption and need. Its makers had long-known about Murphy's Law although they had a different name for it. It was, it seemed, a law that permeated the entire universe.

  The spyder judged that the vehicle's driver was unharmed but it was required to be certain. It returned to 400-metres and tracked the thermal wake left by the vehicle back to its source. A house with a tower structure and adequate grounds where it settled down to wait. Afterall, the vehicle wasn't going anywhere and the probability was high that it would return.

  Its analysis was rewarded twenty minutes later when the Jaguar returned. It was undamaged but the behaviour of its driver warranted careful consideration. Some difficulty in walking was noted. Support was required for every step. Self-inflicted intoxication was considered and rejected immediately: the driver would not have had such excellent control over its vehicle had its nervous system been temporarily impaired.

  The unanswered questions were enough for the spyder to drop onto the roof of Hill House and wait for that now familiar flattening of the cerebral rhythms that told it when its quarry was asleep.

  It was a long wait because the target was unusually agitated but eventually sleep came. Gaining acc
ess through the bedroom window was simply a matter of ageing the glass until it flowed -- the same method it had used on Vikki's bedroom window -- and lowering itself to the floor. A little more energy was required to match the refractive index of its outer case to the stretch of moonlit carpet between itself and the bed. It noted the position of hundreds of slivers of glass, glinting in the moonlight, and avoided them as it moved cautiously towards its objective. The foot hanging over the side of the bed would make things easier.

  Five minutes later the spyder's work was complete. Some damage to the neural network controlling balance was subjected to close scrutiny, but it was found to be old and easily repairable. In all respects the driver of the vehicle had not been harmed by its encounter with the force wall. It started towards the window, moving cautiously to avoid treading on the fragments of glass.

  A chill draught brought Cathy to instant wakefulness. She knew immediately that something was wrong because she never slept with a window open. She was on her knees, and shouting `Who's there!' as loudly as she could.

  The spyder froze but Cathy's eyes, self-trained by many hours at the eyepiece of her telescope, spotted the distortion of moonlight against the background of glass splinters scattered across the carpet. She seized her only weapon, half a glass of apple juice on her bedside table, and flung it. It had been a night for throwing things in her bedroom.

  The spyder reared up and spat a jet of gas in her face.

  In the half second before she lost consciousness Cathy saw an apple juice-smothered outline of a crab-like creature surrounded by glistening shards of glass.

  The spyder left the bedroom the way it had entered and restored the window pane. A short flight across the darkened town took it to Pentworth Lake. It landed in the exact centre without disturbing the yellowish, moonlit water, and sank out of sight.

  Its makers decided that their eyes and ears on the outside world had been compromised. There had now been two uncomfortably close encounters. The spyder's work was largely complete therefore it would not be used again for some time.