Marianne closes her eyes but the blow doesn’t come. Instead, she hears a guttural issue that she deduces must be speech. She looks again and sees another, larger creature approach, gesticulating towards the main building as it talks. The one holding her gives a growled response, then carries her, still by the neck, into the building, where she is thrown against a pillar and drops to the floor. She feels the ground cold and tacky under her hands and looks to her side where she sees two bodies lying close by, naked and mutilated beyond recognition. The larger demon looks overhead and growls some form of command. This prompts movement above, and she glances up to see a third creature perched on the overhang of the upper level, blood smeared all over its mouth and chest, the baling hook in its hand.
There is a discussion, or possibly an argument, after which the one with the baling hook briefly disappears from sight, then rather angrily shoves Cameron over the drop. His arms flap as he falls, thrust out in front just before impact, then he cries in agony as snapped bone rips through muscle and skin. Marianne instinctively gets up to run to him, and is promptly sent reeling back against the pillar by a blow that lifts her feet off the ground. The creature then seizes her by the left wrist and drives its knife through her palm, pinning her in place.
Her scream threatens to shake the barn, shake the night.
Then the creature giving out the orders looks at her thoughtfully, very thoughtfully indeed, and says something in what sounds unmistakably to be Latin.
Kane fears they may be approaching feeding time in the executive dining room. Every five seconds brings another crash against the door, with the creature outside enjoying more success than Rocks in attempting to force it open. The sideboard and other furniture piled in front slides forward a little with every impact, before being shouldered back again by Sendak. The lock has already given, splintered out of its frame. The blockade is preventing the door from opening more than an inch or two each time, but the door itself is cracking horizontally at around chest height.
Sendak digs his heels into the floor and uses himself as a human wedge, addressing the room as he does so.
‘Okay, people, the good news is that I made a call and help is on its way. The bad news is we’ll be lucky if it gets here inside two hours, and as you are all aware, party crashers never come alone.’
‘Where are the rest of the kids?’ Kane asks, though he’s dreading the reply.
‘Games hall. It’s the best place to defend. Two exits, no windows. Creatures took the dining room, killed at least one of the kids, I couldn’t see for sure. Some of them ran outside. It’s sealed off now. Guthrie didn’t make it either.’
Sendak fires it out, blank and neutral. No sorrys, no plati tudes, just pertinent information. Kane understands: they can’t afford anything else right now.
There’s another crash at Sendak’s back.
‘What about Heather?’asks Blake.
‘She’s in the games hall, got my shotgun. And that’s where we gotta fall back to. This door’s not gonna hold much longer.’
A section of veneer tears away, sprinkling sawdust beneath it as the plywood starts to crumble.
‘That door opposite leads to the kitchen. I need some of you to get inside, get hold of something heavy and stand by to barricade it as soon as I get through.’
‘The kitchen?’ asks Kane. ‘But you said they took the dining room. Aren’t they connected?’
‘Only by serving hatches, and they’re sealed by roller-shutters. There’s a door leading back out to the corridor, then round one corner we’ve got a clear run to the games hall.’
‘How long a run?’ asks Blake, mindful of having carried Rebecca on the last mercy dash.
‘The longest one you’ll ever make,’ Sendak replies.
‘Hey, don’t sugar-coat it, give us the truth.’
Sendak offers him a grim smile, then shakes as the next crash impacts.
‘Get moving, people.’
Blake helps Rebecca through to the kitchen. She still seems dazed, but she has resumed the ability to perambulate herself from one spot to another, which could be the difference between life and death for both of them. She and Yvonne stand out of the way as the others assess what kitchen appliances would make the best barrier. The consensus is the huge double-doored Maytag fridge opposite the hobs. It takes Kane, Blake, Rocks and Beansy to manoeuvre it across next to the door, and they all hold their position as they wait for Sendak to make his move.
The Sergeant waits for the next crash, forces the sideboard back one last time, then sprints for the kitchen, Caitlin slamming the door as soon as he’s clear. They shuffle the fridge in front of it, but Sendak directs them instead to tip it on its side.
‘Less likely to topple, and we can pile some more shit on top of it,’ he explains.
As they set about further bolstering this barricade, they can hear the rending and splintering of wood as the adjacent dining room is breached. The first slam against the kitchen door follows seconds later, accompanied by a horrible guttural roar that vibrates through all of them like pins and needles.
‘What . . . are . . . those . . . things?’ asks Caitlin, shaking.
‘They’re fuckin’ demons, man,’ Beansy replies, his tone implying it’s an astonishingly stupid question. ‘Demons from Hell.’
Caitlin turns to Blake and forces the question that, like the demons themselves, he’s been able to evade so far, and which he still hopes to remain a step in front of.
‘You said there were no demons, Father.’
He is resolute and grave, answering to more than Caitlin and Beansy.
‘There are monsters, of that there can be no dispute. But we don’t know what they are, and we damn sure don’t know where they’re from.’
Kane happens to catch a glance at Sendak, whose expression betrays that he just might have an idea regarding this latter question.
XXIV
Deso can see light again through gaps in the trees. They lost sight of the buildings after fleeing from the attack on Bernadette, and having run blindly for who knows how long, the effect was similar to doing somersaults underwater: you no longer know whether the direction you are headed is actually taking you further from the surface.
He’s still got a hold of Rosemary’s hand. He remembers grabbing her because he feared she was going to freeze in the sight of Bernadette’s death, and she hasn’t let go since. It’s the only part of his body that isn’t cold. Running made him warmer but he couldn’t keep it up, and after the initial panic, he didn’t feel inclined to drive forwards at anything above the most cautious pace. They’ve both been staring into blackness, starting at shadows, flinching from every whisper of wind. Now they can most definitely hear something close by: a low, rumbling animal sound.
‘There!’ Deso whispers, and points towards the outline of a small, one-storey structure only twenty or thirty yards away. It’s a storage shed on the gravel path that skirts the boundaries of the compound, which means they’ve come around two hundred and seventy degrees.
They maintain a cautious pace through the last of the trees, then can’t hold back from sprinting the last dozen yards across open ground. It is indeed a shed: a reassuringly sturdy-looking concrete-and-aluminium affair. It is also, less reassuringly, padlocked shut.
‘Oh God, it’s locked,’ Rosemary whimpers, threatening to lose it.
‘Shhh.’
They hear more movement in the trees: that low rumbling again, and the sound of heavy footfalls.
‘You got a hairpin on you?’ Deso whispers. ‘A kirby grip?’
She shakes her head.
‘Fuck.’
He is clutching his naked torso against the cold, delicately fingering the shallow gouges where the demon’s claw dug in. He enviously eyes Rosemary’s top, which gives him an idea.
‘Take your bra off.’
‘What? Listen, if this is the “don’t want to die a virgin” routine, you picked the wrong girl.’
‘Fuck’s sake,
I need the wire. I’m working on the “not dying” problem rather than the “not dying a virgin” one. Take it off. It’s not like you need it anyway.’
Rosemary lets out a tut of indignation but complies nonetheless, pulling her bra out through her sleeves. Deso bites into the material to tear it, slides out one of the underwires and begins attempting to pick the lock.
‘Have you done this before?’ she asks him anxiously.
‘Yeah. Just don’t tell Big Kirk in case he works out who it was stole his bike that time in second year.’
They hear the guttural growl again, sense more movement. Rosemary sees Deso’s face betray growing desperation, not conducive to the task at hand.
‘Mother of God, please, hurry.’
‘Hurry? I’ve a regulation tea-break to take yet. Fuck’s sake, what do you think I’m doing here?’
‘I don’t care, but do it faster.’
Deso bites back another retort, realises he’s getting himself in a state. He pulls the wire out of the lock for a moment and takes a breath. As he does so, he glances at Rosemary, who is anxiously scanning their surroundings. He catches sight of her chest, the material of her top now clinging tightly to the outline of her breasts. When he said she didn’t need the bra, he’d meant to imply she’d no tits, but having seen the results of her taking it off, he realises it was an accurate, if unintentional compliment. Talk about a way to find your centre. He’s calmer now, the moment of fluster passed. He passes the wire delicately back into the slot and a few seconds later, the padlock pops.
They slip quickly in and close the door. It’s dark inside, almost completely so, with only a few slivers of light admitted through a single transparent plastic window that is largely obscured by the contents of a shelving unit. Rosemary pads her palm around the wall until she finds a light switch. She is about to turn it on when Deso’s hand intercepts hers and stops it. With his other hand, he puts a finger to her lips.
Outside, they hear the sound of footsteps on the gravel.
His eyes adjusting to what little light there is inside the shed, Deso gets a grip on the shelving unit and drags it against the door as quietly as he can. The footsteps continue their approach. Their gait is irregular, broken, unsyncopated. It makes Deso think of a lizard on hot stone: quick bursts, pauses, scuttling: definitely not human.
He hears more moving gravel, then another, growing silence. Has it stopped again? No. It’s on grass. Closer.
Fuck’s sake. It’s right outside. He can hear it breathing.
The door moves, given a trial push. It comes in only a centimetre before being blocked by the shelving unit. A second push follows, this time with greater intent. It opens a fraction further: enough to betray that there is something blocking it: something that can be shifted. He holds himself steady against the shelves, keeping his centre of gravity low. Rosemary crouches alongside, also leaning into the blockade. The outside pressure on the door relents: he worries it’s ahead of a more determined charge. Then a scream carries through the air from not so far away: a human scream of pain.
The third push never comes. There are more footsteps on the gravel, hurried this time, retreating. Deso breathes out, his long sigh rendered vibrato by his shivering and the tremulous chattering of his teeth.
Rosemary stands up straight again next to him and places a hand on his shoulder, getting a guide on where he is in the near-darkness. He can barely see her, but her face is only inches away, close enough for her breath to feel warm.
‘You’re freezing,’ she gasps.
‘Least of my worries, I’d have thought,’ he whispers.
‘But one I can do something about. Just don’t take this the wrong way.’
With which she presses herself against him and puts her arms around his back.
It’s like stepping into a bath. Deso feels warmth envelop him immediately, but after a few seconds he’s afraid he’s sapped the lot and transferred the problem, as he can feel Rosemary begin to tremble. Then he feels a wetness against his bare shoulder and understands that she’s crying. Instinctively, he puts a hand to the back of her head and strokes her hair as a gesture of comfort. Her shudders continue, near-silently, as she lets out just some of her grief, and Deso is strangely grateful, because the role of consoler serves to dam his own straining reservoir.
He says nothing, knows there’s nothing he can say: just strokes her hair and holds his other arm against the small of her back, keeping her pressed against him. He can feel it when the sobbing subsides, the last of the shudders replaced with quiet sniffs. He just hopes she doesn’t break apart now, and not merely for the sake of staying warm. When she pulls her head back from his shoulder, he feels a surprisingly deep moment of loss and regret, but it only lasts for the half a second it takes for her to turn her face upwards and kiss him.
There’s a horrible silence about the games hall as the time grows since the last failing assault on the emergency doors. They’re all just standing there, waiting again, but waiting this time for they know not what.
‘I think I preferred it when they were still screaming outside and trying to batter their way in,’ Radar says. ‘At least you knew where they were.’
‘No,’ Adnan corrects him. ‘At least you knew where one of them was.’
‘Aye, true enough. Cheers for the thought. How’s that atheism hanging, by the way?’
‘Tell you the truth, I’m shitting it in case I die and it turns out the Muslims were right. I think I could take dying, but I couldn’t face an eternity with all my relatives smugly saying they told me so. I’d rather be in Hell.’
‘We are in Hell,’ says a voice: low, convinced, dreadful, resigned.
It’s Gillian, raising her head to speak for the first time since they arrived in the games hall.
‘We’re going to get through this,’ Deborah tells her. She’s trying to sound reassuring but one look at Gillian tells her it’s an impossible sell. Her eyes are hollow, like something inside her is already dead.
‘No,’ Gillian says flatly. ‘I’ve worked it out: the bus crash. We didn’t survive it. We only think we did.’
‘Stop upsetting yourself,’ says Miss Ross softly, but it’s clear that Gillian’s words are having more of an effect on her than hers are on Gillian.
‘I know the truth,’ Gillian insists. ‘I know what I saw. We died but somehow we’ve not accepted it, we’ve created this dream world for ourselves, but now the demons are coming for us and the dream is over.’
Deborah wishes Marianne was here, sure that she’d have some better vision of this: turn it into myth and poetry, shine a light on a simpler path of truth. In the event, Adnan proves an adequate substitute.
‘Bollocks,’ he says. ‘Fuck all this Sixth Sense crap. My five senses are telling me I’m still alive, and listening to them - and only them - is what’s going to keep me that way.’
Heather bids herself a smile. It’s laughter in the dark, and it has to be pretty dark before you are needing buoyed up by the defiance of your teenage charges, but it’s welcome nonetheless. The effect lasts for about a second, up until the hall is shaken by another scream from outside, one that this time sounds all too human.
‘God almighty,’ Heather asks. ‘What was that?’
She hurries to the emergency doors and peers through one of the windows, several of the kids at her back.
‘Jesus,’ declares Radar, more appositely than he could have possibly intended.
About twenty-five yards away, to the north-west, they can see one side of the two-storey barn where Sendak stables his horses. There are three demons in view, one of them standing over a figure cowering on the grass; the other two busy with a second human upright against the wall. Another scream pierces the night as one of the demons raises an arm and strikes a blow with what Heather deduces must be a hammer. Further strikes follow, then the two demons step away, clearing the view to reveal Marianne nailed to the wall through her hands in crucified pose.
Deborah splutter
s, unable to cry, unable to speak, barely able to breathe.
‘Crucifixion. They really are demons,’ says Maria.
‘Fuckin’ bastards,’ Adnan declares. ‘We’ve got to do something. ’
Heather changes her grip on the shotgun. It feels different now: no longer alien and cold, but an instrument of singular purpose.
‘Open the door,’ she tells Adnan.
‘No!’ screams Gillian, getting to her feet. ‘That’s what they want. They’ll get in here. That’s why they’re doing it. Can’t you see?’
Heather looks at the assembled survivors: safe so far, gathered where Sendak told them they could hold out.
‘They’re doing this because they can’t get through these doors,’ adds Jason. ‘They’re not wild animals: they know what they’re doing.’
‘And I guess that’s just too fucking bad for Marianne and whoever else is out there?’ challenges Adnan.
‘If we open those doors, we all die,’ Gillian counters.
Over at the barn, the demons begin dragging the cowering figure towards the wall, evidently so weak as to require propping up.
‘Fuck, it’s Cameron.’
One of them holds out Cam’s left arm at the shoulder in preparation to be nailed. It flops unnaturally, bending where it shouldn’t. It’s hanging off, a compound fracture having sent the bone through muscle and skin. A second demon straightens the arm against the wooden wall and drives a nail through the palm. It’s too high. Cameron struggles against the grip of the first demon and loses his footing. He slips, his weight consequently suspended from the nailed arm, which rips free somewhere between wrist and elbow. He drops to his knees screaming, leaving the nailed hand and forearm in place.
Adnan moves for the doors and Jason steps in front of him, at which point Deborah kicks Jason full-force in the balls, yelling: ‘Open the fucking door!’
Adnan and Radar take hold of a net-stand each, hauling them clear of the handles.
Pandaemonium Page 32