by WR Armstrong
“I came round in the nick of time,” she ended with a slight shudder.
“So where is he?” McGrath asked of the anthropologist.
“He fled.”
“Fled? If it’s his blood you’re wearing I doubt he would have gotten far. I think I’ll take a look around. Why don’t you sit in the car and wait for me.”
“Forget about Chrichton,” Kate urged. “He’s not important.”
They crossed the road. Climbing into the car McGrath suggested a hospital visit to get Kate checked over but she would have none of it. “I’m okay,” she protested. “Besides, we have more important things to do.”
McGrath opened his side window to allow in some fresh air. Kate’s clothing reeked of blood. He gunned the car engine, determined to see her admitted to hospital regardless, but was forced to reconsider when she suddenly said, “I know where they are, Paul. I know where the resurrected have made their lair. The answer is in Chrichton’s notes. I didn’t catch on immediately, but it’s obvious once you think about it.”
“That’s as maybe,” McGrath said, yet to be convinced, “but you’re in no shape to do anything at the moment, other than rest.”
“No!” She was adamant. “I know where they are. We have to do something—now—before it’s too late.”
“If what you say is true,” McGrath said, “we’ll need help.”
“No police,” she said quickly. McGrath realised her mind was made up, but continued to argue the point.
“The police would be a hindrance rather than a help,” she remonstrated. “They probably won’t believe us and even if by some miracle they do, we’ll have wasted valuable time, and time is something we don’t have a lot of. Please, believe me Paul. Now, let’s get going. I’ll explain as you drive.”
McGrath pulled away and Kate started to speak. Referring repeatedly to Chrichton’s notes, she related how those buried in the mass grave at St Anthony's were descended from, or had adopted the beliefs of the ancient Celts. That they drank the blood of their enemies in the belief strength was drawn from the act, and held the human soul to be indestructible, maintaining as Pythagoreans did, that the soul transmigrated into other bodies after death.
“It all sounds so incredible,” McGrath said.
Kate reacted as if she hadn’t heard. “The Celts weren’t alone in holding such a belief, Paul. The ancient Babylonians and Assyrians also believed true immortality began with the corporeal resurrection of the body.”
As McGrath drove she continued on the theme, pointing out how the notes described the exact process Marcos Powell, the black woman, the tube operator, the young mother, and others had followed in the belief that they had it in their power to raise the dead. And how the originators of this diabolical procedure had themselves succeeded in proving such a feat was possible, and that physical rejuvenation of those returned to life could be gained through cannibalisation of the human form. Kate continued talking. McGrath was careful not to interrupt sensing that, for whatever reason, she needed to get it all out of her system.
“Chrichton’s notes sight cases throughout history where cults, sects and ancient religions have held this belief in high esteem,” she said as he steered them closer to the church. “The notes claim that the rite of Communion, where the body and blood of Christ is symbolised by bread and red wine is implicitly cannibalistic, as by eating the flesh and drinking the blood of the crucified Christ, it’s said that sin is redeemed and immortality is conferred.”
Having barely paused for breath she then explained how the Egyptians believed that by preserving the body through mummification, the soul or “subtle bodies” might return to reanimate the corpse and feed on the flesh of the servants entombed with them. How Haitian voodoo sorcerers adhere to the belief that the living dead draw strength from the blood and brain of the living, and how vampire myth was of the opinion that to drink fresh blood was to absorb life force.
“According to many pagan societies incorporation of the cross is an integral part of returning the dead back to life,” Kate said.
McGrath noticed that the more she talked on the subject the more passionate she grew. It was as if she felt compelled to share everything she had learned with him, as if she wanted him to understand fully the reasons for, and the philosophy behind the form of devil worship presently plaguing London. He continued to listen patiently as she explained how the cross is perceived by many as being the tree of life, the cosmic axis, uniting heaven and earth and the underworld. How supposedly it provides a gateway through which the soul of a dead person can transmigrate and reanimate a corpse. And why Necromancers, when calling on the dead to rise, arrange the head of the disinterred body to the east and the arms and the legs in the position of Christ crucified. As if to reinforce the importance of the cross in returning the dead to life she told of how the swastika, itself an ancient cross, hijacked by the Nazis, reversed for their diabolical needs to symbolise chaos, is a sign of indestructibility and perpetual motion, possessing life-giving properties. In conclusion she said, “Chrichton described in detail a subterranean labyrinth where the devil worshippers had practiced their dark art without fear of retribution, and where the living had been methodically slaughtered to rise again.”
“So, what went wrong?” McGrath asked.
“Betrayal brought about the Occultists downfall,” she explained. “A disenchanted member of the sect purported to be the author of the manuscript, informed on their unholy activities and the immortals were duly slaughtered. Reference was made to “the violent destruction of the brain” as the method used to accomplish the task.”
McGrath at last understood why every single skull unearthed in the burial pit was irrevocably damaged, and why the minds of ordinary people were being twisted. The souls of the undead were using those people to help them transmigrate into new hosts.
Kate said, “The crypt behind St Anthony’s church is where they will be found. Chrichton says as much in his notes.”
McGrath recalled the crypt’s inner door, sealed shut, though he mentioned nothing of this fact to Kate. Even though it was against his better judgement he was willing to investigate her theory, but that was all. If what she said proved to be correct the police would be called in. On the other hand, experience taught him not to take chances. En-route to the church he made a minor detour to his house. From there he collected his Taurus snub nose, its Bianchi Lightning holster and a decent supply of ammunition, hopeful that a bullet to the brain would serve adequately to slay the undead if he found himself confronted that night. He also took away with him extra rounds of ammunition, a customised utility belt he used in the Iraq, containing his trusted golok, together with a Kosh, a Swiss Army knife, and a heavy- duty torch with protective rubber casing.
Back inside the car, he said, “We should at least report Chrichton’s attack on you to the police.”
“No police,” she said forcefully. “Not yet. Trust me Paul. I know what I’m doing.”
McGrath felt deeply uneasy but finally relented. “I’m sure you have your reasons Kate, but I’m warning you: at the very first sign of real trouble, I’m calling them in whether you like it or not.”
Ten minutes later they were parked across the road from the gates to St Anthony’s Church. At this late hour the gates would be locked. McGrath said, “You stay here while I check out the crypt.”
“I’m coming with you,” Kate insisted.
“But it could be dangerous,” McGrath argued. “There’s little point in both of us risking our lives.”
But she already had the passenger door open and was climbing out of the car. McGrath had little choice other than to follow suit. Across the road he looked at the church gates and into the graveyard beyond. His better judgement told him to go no further, that to do so would be a big mistake. The soldier in him however refused to be ignored.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Mark Sanchez was a twenty-three year old IT student in his final year at Cambridge University when h
e contracted Aids. A practicing homosexual, he died aged twenty-five, not from the virus that would have claimed his life had it run its course, but at the hand of his long time lover who mercilessly bludgeoned him to death.
The voices began talking to Simon Teague following his brush with death in the tube crash. They persuaded him not only to kill Mark Sanchez, but to crucify his body on a wooden cross with the solemn promise Mark would be returned to life like “Lazarus”, and that Mark would repeat the process with Simon, thereby reuniting them for eternity.
The voices were true to their word—well, almost. Less than twenty-four hours following his death Mark began to breathe again. Simon was overjoyed upon witnessing such a miracle. He released his lover from the leather straps binding him, and Mark fell into his waiting arms. Seconds later it was Simon Teague who lay dead, murdered by his lover before being cannibalised rather than reborn on the cross. Satiated, the new Mark Sanchez went in search of others like himself.
Meanwhile, the heavy stone slab guarding the entrance to the crypt at St Anthony’s Church was being prized open. A bedraggled group of figures emerged. Together they made their way through the dense wooded area behind the crypt, until they arrived at a deserted intersection where they paused to let a truck pass by. They crossed the road, heading towards a built up area, trudging through a muddy field to a car park where a police patrol car was parked. They paused again, six of them, observing the car, curious to know what was inside.
2.
Unaware he was being scrutinised, the driver of that car, a seasoned police officer named Davis, was in the process of finishing off a double serving of burger and chips.
“Bloody needed that,” he said before chucking the empty carton onto the back seat and giving a loud burp of appreciation.
His passenger, a rookie named Green, ignored him and stared vacantly through the car’s side window, lost in thought.
So far that evening it had been quiet on the Belgravia Estate. As council developments went, it was one of the worst. The row of shops fronting the road that led into the heart of the suburban hellhole had back yards and loading bays protected by razor wire and hi-tech surveillance cameras. Steel shutters defended the front of the threatened shops. For all the precautions they were broken into on a regular basis. That summer the police had blitzed the area following a tip off from an informer that a major drug operation was taking place on the estate. Subsequent arrests led to a riot. The case went to court, but the accused failed to be convicted due to lack of evidence. For a time the Belgravia Estate became a no go zone as far as the police were concerned. Since then its community had become a law unto itself. Alcohol and drug abuse was rife. Pimps grew wealthy off the proceeds of prostitution. Illegal dogfights controlled by gangsters living on the estate took place regularly and God help anyone, including the police, who tried to disrupt the smooth running of the operation. The kids were as bad as the adults with never ending acts of intimidation and vandalism. Following the riot a private security firm was brought in to try to bring the lawlessness under control. Its presence was soon erased from the estate following an ambush in which its officers were beaten, its dogs shot dead.
Sid Davis may have been uncouth but he was also a veteran cop who had been brought up around these parts. He knew the area well and was acquainted with its numerous ongoing problems. Consequently, he commanded a certain amount of respect from the lawless community who accepted he had a job to do, and orders to carry out. As long as he didn’t probe too deeply into the affairs of the estate, it was a case of live and let live.
Green on the other hand was a rookie from a middle class background, fresh out of police training academy, who had been quietly dreading tonight’s assignment. It was a case of Green by name; green by nature and the young PC was as jumpy as a cat on a hot plate, though he tried his best not to show it. He gazed through the side window at the boarded up shops facing him, wondering when the first stone would crash against the patrol car. It was no secret that some of the residents used cop cars for target practice whenever the mood took them.
“It’s too bloody quiet tonight,” Davis commented, breaking an uncomfortable silence. Green didn’t bother to reply. He disliked his superior intently. He stared through the windscreen wishing he were anywhere else but here, whilst trying to find consolation in the fact that he would be seeing his new girlfriend when this shift was over. All of a sudden the two-way radio crackled into life, informing them a road accident had occurred in a neighbouring estate involving a car driven by a joy rider, and a bus. “It’s a bit of a mess,” said the anonymous radio voice, adding unnecessarily that assistance was urgently required.
“That’s one for us, we’re the closest available car,” Davis said without hesitation. As he answered the call and reached for the ignition keys he smiled sympathetically at the inexperienced young cop next to him, still able to recall what it was like to feel so unsure of oneself, wanting to reassure the kid in some way, unable to think how. He really wasn’t very good at that kind of thing. As if to prove the point he said, “Hope you’re not scared of blood young un? Road accidents can be the pits. I once attended one where the driver’s body was found in the car while his head was lying over a hundred yards away in a bleeding field.”
“Nice,” Green mumbled, unimpressed. Something caught his attention through the passenger window—movement. He looked closer. What the hell! People: he could see a small group of people approaching the car. He thought he had seen something just before the call for assistance came. There were three of them from what he could see, which wasn’t much as they were almost lost in shadow, two men and a woman and it was immediately evident to Green that there was something not quite right about them. It had something to do with the way they walked, for they exhibited an awkward shuffling gait that didn’t seem quite natural. The woman especially appeared strangely uncoordinated, staggering a little, barely managing to keep her balance at times, as if she were drunk or injured or simply out of practice walking. Probably pissed up or high on drugs, thought the rookie cop, trying to dismiss his growing feelings of unease. But that wasn’t really it, and he knew it. They were a strange motley crew, intimidating for a reason he couldn't put his finger on. The figures emerged from the darkness like lost souls, focusing directly on the patrol car. Green pointed, drawing his superior’s attention to them. Davis delayed starting the car and looked over. “Where the dickens did they come from?”
Green gave a shrug of his shoulders, unable to tear his gaze away from the trio. The shadows lifted from their faces as they drew closer allowing the young cop to glimpse their eyes, which stared unblinkingly, eyes of the blind, yet possessing sight, for the figures were homing right in on the patrol car. Green suddenly drew back in horror, realising belatedly what he was looking at. These weren’t people: they were ghouls like those that the press maintained stalked the capital in recent times. Up until now he’d thought it was all bull shit, simply sensationalist stories made up to increase newspaper circulation. Seemed he was wrong. “L-Let’s get out of here!” he stammered. Davis was suddenly of the same mind. “They don’t seem bloody human!” he declared, fumbling for the car keys.
“Just drive!” the rookie insisted. He could hardly believe his eyes. Davis was correct: these individuals really did look inhuman. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see others approaching, this time from the direction of his colleague’s side of the car. They were surrounded! He shouted a warning but it was already too late. The first of the figures was at the car with its fist drawn back ready to strike. A second later a window imploded. Clawed hands closed around Davis’s neck and a face barely human tore a chunk out of his cheek. Green shrank back and watched helplessly as his colleague was over powered. Then he too was set upon as, without warning, the passenger door was thrown open causing him to tumble backwards onto the ground where he curled into a protective ball, terrified he was about to suffer the same fate as his colleague.
I
n the meantime, the kids who had been spying on the patrol car from the derelict house across the street, waiting for a chance to give the pigs a scare, had at first whooped with twisted delight as the cops were set upon by the anonymous group. As events unfolded their delight quickly turned to profound horror. The violent attack ended with the younger cop being hauled off into the night. Only when they thought it was safe did they dare venture out of the house to raise the alarm. That night saw the Belgravia Estate crawling with police and news media representatives. The kids who had witnessed the murders were closely questioned, and for once gave truthful answers. A search was made for the missing body of PC Michael Green. Alas both he and those responsible for his murder had vanished into thin air.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Aptly, there was a full moon the night Paul William McGrath went in search of the living dead. It hung in the sky like an opaque beacon illuminating the darkly despairing land upon which the classically English church of St Anthony stood, together with the tilted gravestones, crosses and stone angels surrounding it. A gentle breeze crept through the trees and bushes. A resident owl hooted its presence periodically, calling on the night.
At McGrath’s side, Kate seemed more determined than ever to go through with her plan to enter the sealed inner sanctum of the crypt standing behind the church. While she kept lookout McGrath methodically checked his armoury. The Taurus was fully loaded with the safety catch on. He returned the compact gun to its holster, appreciative of the solid feel of the weapon against his body. He found the Taurus with its snub nose barrel and powerful action comforting. Although its accuracy at long range was questionable it was deadly close up, and a welcome addition to any soldier’s arsenal.