“I’d just finished a stint out in the delta, and I signed up in Port Harcourt,” he took a gulp of his drink, “originally got a job in private security. The pay was good but to be honest, the locals were getting too angry and the army too nosy.”
“You ever miss this place?”
“Not a chance, I jumped on a ship out of here when I was fifteen.”
“Fair enough,” the younger man pulled another pint of ale and put it down on the bar. “Nice talking to you Mervin, but business calls.”
Wondering what the hell he was meant to do now, he lifted his pint to take a swig and noticed a small piece of paper stuck to the bottom of the damp glass.
Pulling it free, he saw that an address in the warehouse district and a time had been written on it—which game him ample room to finish his beer, and letch at the drunken girls. Despite what the old farts said about today’s morals, nothing had changed since he’d left, and he didn’t see a problem with it.
Ten minutes later he left the pub, the door slamming shut behind him, cutting out its noise. Only the banter of the few smokers broke the relative peace of the streets—the striped stalls had been packed away for the night and the kebab houses and Indian restaurants were preparing for the first flood of drunken customers.
Like most of the old East End, after being bombed during the war and then left to rot for forty-odd years, the area had been partially re-developed: new offices, warehouses and luxury flats were mixed with the older buildings, confusing things a little, and he took a wrong turn or two but, using the maps on the bus stops, he soon found his destination.
It was an old building, probably a storehouse of some type before it was updated. There was no lighting above the door, and none shone through the small viewing window of reinforced glass. The intercom had a card-swipe and only one button so he decided to press it, as he could see no other way of getting access.
A few seconds passed before it was answered, and a firm female voice spoke with a clarity and directness that immediately irritated him.
“Go east until you come to the third alley on your right, follow it until the end, and then head back in this direction; when you get to the low wall, climb over and follow the path, you’ll then find a wharf door, where you’ll enter.”
The intercom cut out before he could answer, and he found himself swearing at the cheek of the bitch. Who the hell did she think she was? It took him a moment to calm down.
Having no choice but to obey, Mervin followed the directions along a route heavily shadowed by overhead gantries, remnants of the old warehouses kept for aesthetic purposes. Night had fully drawn in, and the sporadic lamp posts barely illuminated his path, and when he arrived on the river, only the lights of the rapidly moving commuter clipper broke the darkness.
He came to the wall and after checking for glass and spikes clambered over it, hitting the ground heavily. Mervin dusted himself off and swore under his breath; he’d been involved in discreet business for years, but this was taking the piss.
The warehouse entrance was a few yards along the path and after taking a last look along the path, he pushed open the footman’s door and stepped inside, only briefly glimpsing the brightly-lit room beyond before something was pulled over his head and he was grabbed from both sides.
The train started moving again after what felt like a long half hour, and Blake realised that he’d be better off getting out at Earls Court and catching the District Line, a more direct route along the river.
When it pulled into the station, he disembarked and pushed along the congested tunnels, trying his phone as he did, and was surprised when he received a slightly crackly dialling tone.
“You again?” Harry answered.
“Running late, the bloody train got stuck in the tunnel,” he fought against a cross-flow of human traffic, to get to the right platform, “All sorted?”
“Isn’t it always? I’ve sent the sisters and Tony, along with the equipment, like you said,” the other man chuckled. “He’ll make sure the girls leave enough for you to finish.”
“Good. We’ll catch up later in the week and go for a pint.” He hung up and jumped on the train as it pulled up, this time getting a seat.
Three days ago, Blake had been in his air-conditioned Lagos office, partly to make sure the deal had progressed properly and partly to catch up on the mood of the land, when the message from his agent in Port Harcourt had arrived.
With no criminal record to mention, the man could have only seen O’Connell’s impeccable credentials, hard working attitude and uncanny knowledge of the land, and would have had no idea of the man’s strange tastes.
The train rattled into Aldgate and he stepped out onto the platform and into the smog that seemed to haunt the station. Deciding a taxi would be quicker from here, he jogged up the stairs, hurdled a flute-wielding busker and emerged into the street, where he flagged down a cab.
Blake always made sure that he didn’t ever compete or infringe directly with the interests of his more powerful peers, but in this instance the components he’d helped distribute was only part of his client’s portfolio, a thick folder of weapons, people smuggling, drugs and prostitution.
Despite his own moral standing he was aware that in the grand scale of things, little mattered, including people, but when those people formed part of a man’s assets, then anything that affected their welfare affected the man.
When he’d eventually arrived at his agent’s office later that night, he’d seen the half-devoured remains of the working girls. His client had gift-wrapped them in black garbage bags and left the parcels in the reception, marked for his attention.
Blake had prudently decided that appropriate action would have to be taken—not only to repair relations, but also to clear his own conscience.
O’Connell was a monster needed to be put down and it was only right that it was at Blake’s hands.
After he’d caught his breath and checked to see if anyone else was around, Mervin realised that he was in a shit situation, but why the hell he had been attacked in the first place he had no idea.
Two women, the blonde and the Asian he recognised from the pub, lay sprawled on the concrete before him, bleeding, bruised and unconscious or dead, he hadn’t checked. A heavy-set bald bloke that he didn’t recognise lay halfway up the stairs, his neck askew with an ornate silver knife still in his fist.
He was covered in a thick layer of sweat and felt both strangely satisfied and depressed as he always did after a fight; he’d learnt how to protect his ass from hungry sailors as a teenager, and it had developed from there.
But when the shaking started, he let out an involuntary cry: the last thing he needed was one of his blackouts as he’d had no time to prepare, but as always, there was little he could do but give in and remember how it all began.
Mervin had been patrolling the grounds of his employer, a landowner and petty government official, when the group of drugged-up and khaki-clad militants had grabbed him and proceeded, after a long march, to force their captive into a traditional flat-bottomed boat.
They had been following the gradually narrowing rivers of saltwater that were used as waterways by the locals, the stench of the rotting vegetation clogging his nose, when Mervin had snatched the opportunity to escape.
Rolling over the side and slipping into the tepid water, he had quickly pushed through the thick wall of roots and undergrowth before his captors realised what was happening; when seconds later they did, the hastily fired rounds that burrowed deep into the surrounding foliage were fortunately too high to catch his slithering form, and he had quickly left the shouting and bickering behind him.
As he stumbled the minutes turned into hours, and he found that more often than not the mangrove and reeds grew too thick to traverse, so he’d had to find and follow the waterways, swimming or balancing on the tangled underwater roots.
Night approached and the constantly damp conditions, leeches and biting insects combined with the stinki
ng heat and rotting vegetation to make rest or sleep impossible and, despite the water surrounding him the effects of dehydration soon took affect.
After what felt like days, the hallucinations began.
The door shut behind him with a gentle thump, and he followed the dusty corridor past empty offices and toilets, before using the stairs to access the lower levels.
Blake hadn’t seen the place for some time, but kept it due to its prime location and ease of access by road and river; it was an investment only used for storage and the occasional social event.
His footsteps broke the silence as he descended to the basement and the entrance to the loading bay, but as Blake neared the wooden door with its small window, something struck him as odd.
There should have least been some chatter or swearing, especially if the girls were involved. He stepped up to the door quietly, and looked through its reinforced window.
O’Connell was standing in the centre of the loading area, seemingly lost in thought, while on the floor by the man’s booted foot he could just about see an outstretched arm.
Action being the only option, Blake slammed open the door and stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked the loading bay.
“O’Connell you bastard, why’d you have to fuck up while working for me?” There was not much else to say.
The man didn’t reply, merely looked up at him, blank-eyed and vacant, clenching and unclenching his fists, his tanned face now pallid and in contrast to the remains of his receding but bright ginger hair.
Blake descended the stairs quickly, taking care not to tread on Tony and as he closed the gap. He could see that sweat dripped off the Irishman’s face in rivulets, so thick that it was almost viscous, while the harsh glare from the overhead strip-lighting revealed more of the stuff dripping off the other’s hands.
Seeing his silver-hooked and wolfsbane-infused netting and ropes littering the ground, Blake realised that he may have made a mistake—he’d assumed the man was simply one of the hairy on the inside types.
As O’Connoll took a step towards him, his features blank, Blake sensed this was a far different creature.
Mervin had been sprawled on an old stork’s nest, half submerged in the stinking water and teetering on the edge of consciousness, when they came for him.
The stick, mud and guano pile lay at the centre of a clearing, surrounded by the seawater and high reeds that had been the bane of his existence for the last few days, and he’d instinctively known that he was close to death: his throat felt so dry it must have belonged to someone else and he’d long forgotten about his empty belly.
But the writhing slimy shapes that slipped through the water, latching onto his skin and slipping into his orifices, despite his weak attempts at stopping them, saved him from that fate.
His muffled screams and squeals of agony only stopped when eventually, he blacked out.
Blake stepped forward in a counter and unleashed a flurry of solid punches from the shoulder, enough to hammer the man but not unbalance himself, basic training from his years of boxing.
It was like hitting a leather water bag, with a similar wet slapping sound.
The man’s features flattened under his fists, his cheekbones, nose and jaw giving under the impact, but with the removal of the pressure the features returned to their bloated original shape.
Thick strings of slime now dangled from his opponent’s face and a fishy aroma started to permeate the air and, as Blake stepped back in confusion, his knuckles smarting, O’Connell dived at him with surprising speed, catching him off guard and grabbing his upper arms.
Blake, despite his heavy physique, felt himself being actually lifted off the ground by his opponent and, with a desperation that came from knowing he was somehow physically no match for the man, Blake raised both legs and kicked the other in the chest in a two footed thrust, causing the other man release him and stumble back, tripping over the prone Blonde. Blake dropped to the ground with a thud and raised his head, looking desperately for a weapon.
At first he thought there was nothing, the concrete bay bare of tools, but then he saw the crowbar lying at the foot of the room’s heavy workbench, glinting in the light.
As did the thing that was the Irishman.
When Mervin had returned to consciousness, he had been fully dressed and striding through a shantytown, with the tall buildings of Port Harcourt in the distance.
As he’d weaved through the corrugated iron and bleached wooden huts, he realised that he felt somehow revitalised: his face and ass didn’t feel sore, his lips and throat felt okay and he didn’t even feel that hungry or thirsty.
There was no reason for it, but the torturous experience of the last few days and the nightmare in the clearing all seemed like faint memories, a horrifying dream.
Over time, his hearty appetite for food, beer and women increased, as did his constitution and talent for the local dialects; in fact, things were looking good until he’d woken up next to the half-eaten and hollowed out prostitute.
Despite his shame and disgust, his practical side had quickly kicked in: no amount of excuses would persuade a judge that he was innocent and so he got rid of the evidence in the swamps.
The first few times it happened he’d briefly considered taking his own life, but the survivor inside him had become too strong to allow such an easy way out.
Blake had just reached the crowbar when the other man grabbed his leg and pulled him back with a savage tug; in response, he twisted over to face O’Connell and kicked out with his other leg, which was grabbed and held with the same ease.
Its prey now held firmly, the thing leant forward in preparation, its features bulging obscenely—the eyes were stretched flat and lifeless while its mouth and nose gaped hideously, as if pressed from the inside.
A moment later, a rush of slime and a mass of writhing tubes emerged from its facial openings, clumps of greyish eel-like tubes with rings of teeth at the end that stretched towards him with a life of their own.
Despite the horror of the situation, the rancid smell brought a flashback of childhood beachcombing in midsummer heat—of rotting, stinking fish, and of netted fish trapped with hungry lampreys, being devoured alive from the inside.
As the first hungry parasite, which was all he could think of it as, stretched and attached itself to his face with its circular maw, he grabbed the crowbar with both hands and using all his strength brought the jagged end down on the other’s skull, twisting it savagely.
The internal pressure must have been tremendous, as when he yanked it out with a squelch, there was a massive spurt of slime, followed by a slight relaxing of the grip on his legs.
Pressing home his advantage, he hammered the man again and again, digging the hook and tearing it out, until O’Connell dropped back his head an unrecognizable mess, and Blake could hardly lift the bar.
Knackered, he pulled free the parasite that was still gnawing at his cheek and tried to recover his breath, watching as the other man lay twitching on the floor, until it ceased.
A few seconds later a faint sigh sounded, almost like a gentle fart, and the worms emerged from their dying host through his shattered skull, flipping and twisting on the floor. Ranging from a few centimeters to a couple of feet in length, they were obviously out of their element.
Blake couldn’t be sure, but they seemed to be trying to reach the prone women.
Before they could, he went over and stamped on the writhing parasites until only their mashed forms remained. Collecting a can of petrol from the corner, he doused and set the Irishman’s remains ablaze.
After it had burned down, he checked the others and walked out into the night, to stand by the Thames and have a cigarette. The heat of the smoke and gentle breeze from the river helped him to relax, but as he took out his phone and dialed Harry, one thing still bothered him.
Did O’Connell kill all his victims, or did he pass the parasites on?
The Enemy Within
Liam Ca
dey
Gone were the days when he could have spent the evening in the garage getting his hands dirty, stripping and fitting motors, seeing the results of his work—it was all bloody paperwork now. Putting down his pen, Raymond rubbed his eyes and decided to call it a night, only noticing his uninvited guest when he looked up.
Given that the place was filled with a combination of radio babble and screeching tools, it was unsurprising that no one had heard the man enter, but he found it unusual that his visitor had managed to get to his office unchallenged. Still, never one to be caught off guard he sat back in his seat and studied the man, while making a mental note to give Trevor a good ticking off.
The poor lighting did little for the man’s looks: thinning and lank blond hair framed a hollow-cheeked face in which watery, sunken grey eyes wallowed. His scrawny frame was emphasized by the ill-fitting suit that hung off him, and he would have barely reached Raymond’s shoulder had they had stood side by side. All in all he resembled an oddly dressed and malnourished junkie.
“What is it you want, mate?” He was always polite, at first.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Biggs, please.” The man’s voice was weak and rose barely above a whisper, but the words crossed the desk despite the noise from outside.
“That’s me,” Raymond replied, on his guard. It was not often he received guests who addressed him so formally.
“Good evening, Mr. Biggs,” the little man smiled. “You were sent a message, have you made your choice?”
Raymond considered the words whilst holding the man’s gaze, thinking back over the last week or two. He faintly remembered receiving a letter, some bollocks about packing up his business or something, but had dismissed it at the time. Raising his bulky but not obese frame up from his seat, he leant across the desk and sized up his guest for a few seconds before responding.
Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1) Page 67