Bay of the Dead t-11

by Mark Morris

  'Oh, Christ,' Rhys muttered, 'that's disgusting.'

  Gwen glanced at him, then turned back to the man. 'I told you to stand up!' she shouted.

  The man paused, and then he cocked his head in a strangely animalistic way, as if Gwen's voice was very faint and it was taking him a long time to register her words.

  And then his head snapped up with a sudden, horrible jerk, and they saw his face properly for the first time.

  'Oh God,' Rhys murmured.

  The man had no nose. Just a hole where his nose should have been. And his eyes were milky white. And his skin, dry and brown like old leaves, was stretched so tightly across the jutting bones of his skull that his mouth seemed lipless, exposing his black gums and blocky, meat-clogged teeth. As the man lurched upright, Rhys noticed other things about him too. He noticed that one of the man's fingers was missing at the second knuckle, and that the bone was sticking out like a splintered stick; he noticed that the man's feet were bare, and that the skin covering them had split in places, to reveal the sinews and tendons beneath.

  And he noticed the smell. The awful, stomach-churning stench of something dead.

  The man let out a sound from his ravaged throat, a horrible animal sound that was somewhere between a groan and a snarl. Then he raised his gore-gloved hands and lurched towards them.

  ' Get back!' Gwen screamed at him. 'Get back, or God help me, I'll shoot you!'

  The man didn't even falter. He came at them, his face twisting into an expression of malice that was somehow mindless, utterly devoid of conscious thought.

  Gwen shot him. The bullet blasted into his shoulder, leaving a sizeable hole, chunks of flesh and bone flying in all directions.

  The man spun and fell, knocked back by the impact. Lowering her gun slightly, but still wary, Gwen took a step towards him.

  The man scrambled to his feet and lurched towards them again. Gwen stepped back, almost slipping. Rhys grabbed her arm.

  'Come on, love. You're not going to stop him. Let's just run.'

  Gwen looked shaken and bewildered. She nodded, and the two of them ran back to the door leading into the apartment block. However, the door was on a spring and had clicked shut behind them. Mouth dry, Rhys delved into his jeans pocket with a trembling hand. It was a tight fit and the key ring was tangled up with all sorts of other stuff — loose change, a crumpled tissue, receipts from work.

  'Come on, Rhys,' Gwen said. 'It's right behind us.'

  'I'm trying,' he said.

  'Well, try a bit harder.'

  Rhys could hear the shuffling approach of the thing coming up behind them. Could hear its awful snarling groan. Snarling himself, he grabbed the key ring and wrenched. Money and paper flew out of his pocket, but he didn't care. With fingers that felt fat and clumsy, he found the right key and shoved it into the lock. The key turned, the door opened, and they tumbled into the building.

  Gwen slammed the door shut and slid the bolts home, while Rhys, his legs suddenly very shaky, sank to the floor. He was sweating and gasping, as though he had just run the 400 metres. He clenched his fists to stop his hands from shaking.

  Gwen stepped back from the door as a heavy weight slammed against it from the other side. The thing growled in apparent frustration, and continued to slam against the door, as though unable to understand why it couldn't get at them.

  Rhys looked up at Gwen, who was blinking and taking deep breaths.

  'I'm not imagining it, am I?' he said. 'That bloke was dead, wasn't he?'

  Gwen rolled her eyes, shrugged and snorted out a laugh that had no humour in it whatsoever. Then she took her mobile out of her pocket.

  'I'm calling Jack,' she said.

  THREE

  'You ready yet, Kirst?' called Sophie, pushing open the door of the ladies'.

  'Two more minutes,' Kirsty shouted back. 'Just putting my face on.'

  It had been a busy night in El Puerto, the fish and meat restaurant located in the Old Custom House, just across the road from Penarth Marina. But then every night in El Puerto was busy. The place was an incessant buzz of energy and conviviality and, from the beginning to the end of their shift, Sophie Gould and her best friend Kirsty Lane were constantly on the move, scurrying between tables, taking orders, pouring wine and champagne, and delivering plates of red snapper, steaming lobster and sea bass to hungry punters. It was hard work, but they loved it, and the tips alone were almost enough to pay for a decent night out.

  As Kirsty finally emerged from the loo, snapping shut her sequinned shoulder bag, Terry, the deputy manager, appeared from behind the display counter, wiping his hands on a tea towel.

  'You two must really love this place,' he said.

  'Been getting ready, haven't we?' said Kirsty.

  'We're going clubbing,' Sophie added.

  'Blimey, you've got some stamina, I'll say that for you.'

  Kirsty winked at him. 'A lot more than you could handle, mate.'

  She was tiny and raven-haired, with big brown eyes, and it was obvious to Sophie that Terry fancied her rotten. As the deputy manager blushed through a grin, Sophie said, 'Come on, Kirst, let's be off. Save your flirting muscles for later.'

  Saying goodnight to Terry, they tottered towards the door on their heels. They were almost there when he called after them. 'By the way, while you two were out back beautifying yourselves, you missed all the excitement.'

  Kirsty glanced back at him. 'What excitement was that, then?'

  'There's something going on down by the Marina, isn't there,' he told them. 'They've cordoned it all off. There's police, ambulances, the lot.'

  Now Kirsty turned her big, shining eyes on her friend. She loved a bit of drama. 'Hey, come on, Soph, let's have a nosy.'

  Sophie sighed. She'd much rather be downing a spritzer in a nice bar than standing out in the cold, but she knew there was no stopping Kirsty when she got a bee in her bonnet.

  'Two minutes, tops,' she conceded. 'I'm not standing around all night.'

  They went outside. It was not hard to identify the site of the incident. Quite a crowd had already gathered behind a sizeable barrier of fluorescent yellow tape. A standing metal sign read: POLICE RESTRICTED ZONE. Parked within the barrier were a pair of ambulances and four police cars, their blue lights flashing silently. Arc lamps had been set up down by the jetty and seemed to be trained on a yacht berthed beside a police patrol boat. Uniformed men milled everywhere.

  Kirsty tapped a fellow rubbernecker on the shoulder. He was an elderly gent with a white moustache, wearing a navy blue blazer, white slacks and white shoes. Sophie was pretty sure she'd seen him earlier in the restaurant.

  'What's going on, mister?' Kirsty asked.

  The elderly man looked her up and down before answering. When he opened his mouth to speak, Sophie noticed with distaste that his teeth were very yellow.

  'I've no idea,' he said waspishly. 'All I know is that I'm unable to get access to my boat. It's damned inconvenient.'

  A younger, thicker-set man turned round. His accent identified him as a local. 'They reckon there's been a murder.'

  'That's what the police have said, is it?' Sophie asked.

  'Well. . not as such,' the man admitted. 'Not to me, anyway. But that's what everyone reckons.'

  Sophie touched her friend on the arm. 'Aw, c'mon, Kirst, let's go. Whatever's happening, we'll read about it in the paper tomorrow.'

  Kirsty had the expression of a little kid being dragged away from a funfair. 'Just a couple more minutes,' she pleaded.

  'What's the point? We won't find out anything. It's not like they're going to make an announce-'

  The end of her sentence was cut off by the roar of a powerful engine and the screech of brakes from behind them. She turned to see a shiny black SUV with smoked windows, lines of flickering blue lights edging the windscreen. The front doors opened and two men jumped out. One was a handsome, chisel-jawed man who looked to be somewhere in his late thirties. With his army greatcoat, navy blue shirt, braces, ch
inos and boots, he reminded Sophie of an old-fashioned hero from a boy's adventure comic. His companion was younger, grim-faced but kind of sweet-looking. He wore an immaculate charcoal-grey suit, a white shirt and a pink-and-purple striped silk tie, and was fiddling with his cufflinks as he emerged from the SUV. Sophie noticed that both men had fancy little Bluetooth devices attached to their ears, and wondered if they were 'spooks', like off the telly.

  'Make way, ladies and gentlemen. No photographs please,' the older man called in an American accent, cutting through the crowd. There was a wide and rather charming smile on his face and, whilst his voice was jocular, Sophie sensed that there was steel beneath his words.

  Beside her, Kirsty was staring at the new arrivals. 'Lush,' she breathed.

  They watched the two guys reach the police cordon and have a quick conversation with the officer on duty. They were quickly allowed through and hurried towards the yacht, the coat of the older man flowing behind him like a superhero's cape.

  'I wonder who they are,' said Sophie.

  'Dunno,' Kirsty replied dreamily, 'but they can enter my restricted zone any day.'

  'OK, boys and girls,' Jack said heartily, 'what have you got for us?'

  Ianto saw Detective Sergeant Swanson raise her eyebrows. She was a tall, slim, beautiful black woman in an immaculately tailored grey suit. The beads in her braided hair clicked gently together whenever she moved her head. She and Torchwood — and she and Jack in particular — had a love/hate relationship, which Jack seemed to revel in. In fact, Jack had once remarked that you could cook eggs on the heat of the sexual tension between him and the statuesque policewoman. Ianto hadn't been sure whether Jack was joking, and therefore couldn't now work out whether he ought to be jealous or not.

  'Well, well, look what the cat's dragged in,' Swanson said.

  She was standing with a colleague, a shorter, pudgy man in a wrinkled blue suit, who sniggered.

  'Which must make you the cat,' Jack said, and raised his eyebrows. 'You got the costume to go with that?'

  Swanson looked outraged. 'You don't honestly think I called you, do you, Jack? Why the hell would I want Torchwood stomping all over my investigation?'

  'Maybe you just can't resist my baby blue eyes,' Jack said.

  'Oh, please,' Swanson replied.

  'It was a Detective Inspector Myers who called us,' Ianto said a little stiffly.

  Swanson pulled a face. 'That figures.'

  'He said there were some unusual aspects to the case. In fact, his actual words were, "This one's weirder than a three-headed monkey."'

  Jack looked unimpressed. 'I dated a three-headed monkey once. What a summer that was!'

  'Is this just one big joke to you, Jack?' Swanson said. 'Because it isn't to me. Five boys have died here tonight.'

  The smile slipped from Jack's face. All at once he was sombre, business-like. 'What happened?'

  'Why don't you see for yourselves?' Swanson said. There was a challenge in her voice as she added, 'I hope you've got strong stomachs.'

  Jack flashed her a look, and he and Ianto hurried along the jetty towards the illuminated yacht. A team of forensics examiners, ghostly in their white all-in-ones, were moving around the deck, photographing evidence and making notes. Even from some distance away, Ianto saw that the gleaming fibreglass structure of the central cabin area was splashed liberally with blood. As he and Jack approached the boat, one of the officers spotted them and hurried over.

  'Can I help you?'

  'Captain Jack Harkness — Torchwood,' Jack said importantly.

  'Ianto Jones,' said Ianto.

  'Oh, so you're the famous Torchwood, are you?' said the officer, trying to look blasé. 'I'm Guy Baker, SOCO on this investigation. I take it you know the rules?'

  'Rules are for-' Jack began, but Ianto jumped in.

  'Don't touch anything. Don't contaminate the crime scene,' he recited.

  'That's it.' Baker wafted a hand, as though inviting them aboard. 'Aside from that, have fun.'

  Jack and Ianto stepped across the divide between jetty and deck, Ianto trying to keep his expression neutral as he looked around. There were pools and splashes of blood all over the deck, not to mention a copious amount of human remains. Most of the remains were unidentifiable — nothing but shreds and gobbets of mangled flesh and bone — but here and there were body parts that were patently, stomach-churningly human. Ianto saw a hand with two fingers missing, but part of the arm still attached; a section of gnawed ribcage; a long bone that might have been a femur; a head whose face was mercifully obscured by blood-matted hair.

  Grim-faced, Jack asked Baker, 'So what are we looking at here? Animal attack?'

  Baker shook his head. 'No. Believe it or not, the killers were human.'

  Jack and Ianto glanced at each other. 'How many?' asked Jack.

  'So far we've identified bite marks from thirteen different sets of teeth.'

  'Unlucky for some,' Ianto murmured.

  'And the victims were killed how?' Jack asked.

  Baker spread his hands, as if he couldn't quite believe his own findings. 'As far as we can tell, they were simply. . torn apart. Evidence suggests that the attackers used their bare hands to murder their victims and then cannibalised the bodies. Devoured them, in fact.'

  Ianto placed a hand over his mouth and said nothing. He was thinking of cannibals up in the Brecon Beacons, not long after Gwen had joined Torchwood. The memory was not a happy one.

  Jack was equally silent for a moment, and then he said, 'Detective Swanson said there were five victims?'

  Baker nodded. 'We think they were all Cardiff University students. We found a couple of NUS cards among the debris.'

  'What about the perpetrators?' Ianto asked.

  'No sign. We think they must have pulled up in a boat alongside the yacht.'

  'Won't there be a record of them in that case?' said Jack.

  'We're looking into that now.'

  'OK. Well, keep up the good work, Guy — and keep us informed. And now, if you don't mind, we'd like a little look round on our own.'

  Baker did not exactly huff, but it was clear he did not appreciate being dismissed by Jack. As soon as he had moved away, Ianto took his PDA out of his pocket and turned it on.

  'Anything?' Jack asked.

  Ianto consulted the results scrolling across the display reader. 'There's residual Rift energy,' he said, 'but the percentage is almost low enough to be considered negligible.'

  Jack looked thoughtful. 'So what do you think? That human beings did this?'

  'Don't see why not. They were probably high on drugs. A cult, maybe.'

  Jack gave him a look.

  'What?' said Ianto, as if he was being accused of something.

  'You know what I'm thinking, don't you?' Jack said.

  Ianto shook his head. 'No, Jack. It's ridiculous. You know it's ridiculous.'

  Almost smugly Jack said, 'On our way here we field a call from Gwen, who says that she and Rhys have been attacked by a walking corpse. And now here we are surrounded by evidence of an attack in which the perpetrators used their bare hands as murder weapons and then cannibalised their victims. What does that suggest to you, Ianto?'

  Unhappily Ianto shook his head. 'It's crazy, Jack. It's horror-movie hokum. You know it is.'

  'And you know what we're up against here, don't you?'

  'No, I don't. Don't say it, Jack. Don't use the — '

  'Zombies!' Jack exclaimed.

  '- zed word,' Ianto concluded miserably.

  FOUR

  PC Andy Davidson took a left into Gabalfa Road. There was no need to scan the house numbers to pinpoint the source of the disturbance. An ambulance had already arrived, and was parked at the kerb, hazards flashing. Some people had spilled out of the house and were standing in the overgrown front garden, or on the pavement. Most looked drunk and confused, though one or two were arguing amongst themselves, gesticulating angrily at the house and each other.

  'You all r
ight?' Andy asked, glancing at Dawn Stratton, his new partner.

  Dawn rolled her pale green eyes. 'I've already told you, Andy, you don't have to mollycoddle me.'

  'Only asking,' Andy said, and switched off the engine. 'It's for my benefit as much as yours.'

  'I'm fine,' she said firmly, and opened the door.

  The call had come in five minutes earlier — a disturbance at a party in a student-occupied house. According to the caller, a gatecrasher had attacked and wounded a female partygoer.

  Andy and Dawn strode across to the ambulance, Andy fending off comments from a couple of the more abrasive drunks. The back doors of the vehicle were standing open and a yellow-jacketed paramedic was inside, tending to a young girl.

  'Hi,' Andy said, leaning in. He winced at the sight of the wound on the girl's arm. 'That looks nasty. Bitten, were you?'

  The girl nodded. She was slightly built, pale and trembling with shock. The crescent of teeth-marks on her forearm was deep and still leaking blood.

  'Who did this to you?' Andy asked gently.

  The girl licked her lips. In a small voice she said, 'Dunno. Just some guy. He was like an animal. Think he was high on something.'

  'And where's this guy now?' asked Dawn, standing at Andy's shoulder.

  'In the cellar. Some of the other guys locked him in. He was a nutter. Going for everybody.'

  'Don't worry, love, we'll sort him out,' Andy said. 'Any other injuries?' he asked the paramedic.

  'Just minor stuff,' the paramedic replied. 'Cuts and scratches mainly. My colleague's inside, dealing with those.'

  Andy thanked him, and then he and Dawn walked up the path and through the open door of the terraced house. The second paramedic was at the bottom of the stairs, crouched beside a girl who was perched on the third step, holding her blonde hair away from a pair of thin scratches on the side of her neck. The two police officers acknowledged the paramedic with a nod and stepped into a crowded room on their left. It was a typical student place — shabby decor; threadbare furniture; posters on the walls; cans, bottles and overflowing ashtrays cluttering every surface. The dimly lit room stank of cigarette smoke, and was so hot that the windows streamed with condensation. Music was blasting out of a sound system in the corner. Andy recognised it — he had the CD at home. Kings of Leon. Only By The Night.