As they gathered at the driveway, he’d thrown the first Molotov cocktail at the petrol-soaked driveway beyond the wooden blockade. After the devastation he’d seen in the village that day, learned that they would break down doors and smash windows to get in, he couldn’t risk them getting close. The driveway had burst into flames, the fuel quickly used up, but it gave him time to set the blockade alight. Moira, who was an experienced clay pigeon shooter had covered him whilst he set it ablaze.
“I shot them. I shot five of them, but they just got back up, kept dancing around the house, screeching and snarling. I could see them through the flames, demented, howling beasts. They were furious they couldn’t get through.”
“How did you keep them at bay? The furniture must have burned quite quickly.”
“It did. I’d parked the cars there too. Sadly, they had to be sacrificed. Went with quite a bang did my old Nissan.”
“We had a stash of Molotovs too, at the side of the door.”
“They didn’t leave until the sun came up.”
Javeen sips at her tea. Conrad’s efforts to keep himself and Moira safe during the night had been immense, heroic, but it was only one night. Their efforts hadn’t destroyed a single creature and tonight, if they’d infected their victims, and not just eaten them, there would be even more.
She swallows as her mouth becomes dry and takes another sip of tea. “Mr. Shelby-”
“Conrad.”
“Conrad. How will you protect yourself tonight?”
Conrad slips an arm around Moira’s shoulder. His face drained of colour. “We’re going to spend the day making the cottage safer, setting more traps.”
Moira bites her bottom lip and glances to the window. “We’ll fight them to the end.”
Javeen doubts they’ll get through another night, and if these creatures are hunting in packs, then perhaps neither will she and Andy. “There’s another option.”
All eyes turn to her.
“We all go to the castle.”
Conrad sits up straight. Moira looks confused.
“The castle?”
“Yes. It’s the safest place I can think of. It has thick walls, narrow windows, heavy doors.”
“It was never built as a defensive structure, Latimer. It’s really only a castle by name.”
“You’re right, but we can make it a fortress against them. There’s nowhere else that can offer us that kind of protection. It has a wall and gates.”
“Yes.” Moira’s eyes have brightened. “And there are cellars, and a kitchen, and a café, and toilets.”
“Café and toilets?”
“Yes. What I mean is, that there are the amenities to house quite a few of the villagers. Enough rooms, and dining space. Don’t you remember too, that all of the windows have their own shutters.”
“She’s right.”
Conrad nods. “I have to agree. Despite our best efforts, given the strength, ferocity, and cunning of these beasts, I don’t think that we will survive here tonight.”
Moira shudders and Conrad pulls her close.
“That’s settled then. We’re going to move the villagers up to the castle.”
51
Marta clicks the door shut to her office for the last time. The helicopter’s blades pulses, as she lugs the heavy bag over her shoulder. “Marvin. Take this please.” She hands him the bag. He takes it without question and leads the way down the stairs and out to the waiting helicopter. Marta’s hair swirls in the blades’ turbulence. Blake Dalton is already strapped to his chair inside.
She slides into her seat and buckles the belt.
“Where’s Marston?”
“He’s finishing his work in the lab. I gave him instructions to … eliminate the test subjects.”
“He’d better hurry up. I need to get back to the office. I have a meeting with Corbeur scheduled for tomorrow and can’t miss my flight.”
Marta clenches her teeth. The first sign of a problem and Dalton had bailed. So what if the creatures were afraid of water, surely that was something that could be overcome? A wave of grief for the swollen bank account that she would no longer have, rolls over her.
“This isn’t necessary, Dalton.”
“I spoke to Corbeur. We agreed. The water issue is a fatal flaw.”
“That we could have overcome!”
“Listen.” He turns to her with gritted teeth. “The situation here is out of control. Those beasts are monsters. They’ve wiped out the entire village-”
“Neither you, nor Corbeur, cared about that when you thought you could use them.”
“It’s a pest control operation now, Steward.”
A figure appears at the glass door of the orangery.
“Here’s Marston.”
The scientist runs across the grass towards the helicopter, a large satchel slung over his shoulder, a laptop under his arm. The irritated air plays with his greying hair, making it dance around his head. He pulls himself into the helicopter with a grunt.
“Is it done?”
He purses his lips. Getting him to stay on board with the project had been a battle, but everyone had their price, and for Marston it hadn’t just been about the money.
“Both have been … put to sleep, Steward.” He turns and locks his eyes to hers with a steel gaze. “If our involvement in this ever gets out-”
“It won’t!”
“Then we’re finished. They’ll lock us away for life.”
Dalton leans forward, places spread fingers over Marston’s knee, and squeezes. Marston grimaces. “They will never let that happen, Marston.”
“They?”
Marta looks out of the window ignoring Marston’s pained frown.
“Yes, they.”
The helicopter lifts from the ground and Marta’s breath catches in her throat, her heart tripping a hard beat. At the tree line is the distorted figure of what was Max Anderson. Around him, smaller creatures hop and jig as though impatient, larger males and females stand just behind his tall figure. He lifts his head to howl.
A gunshot rings out and a small creature drops to the floor.
“Jesus Christ!”
As Max’s howl breaks through the constant chop, chop of the helicopter’s blades, the pack bounds across the lawn towards the Institute.
“Get us off the ground!”
The helicopter lifts, swings away from the scene, and Marta watches Marv Chapman fire another shot then retreat at a sprint to the orangery. She screws her eyes tight shut as Max swipes a clawed hand down onto Marv’s shoulder.
The door clicks to a shut behind Javeen. Everything she needs, her clothes, toiletries, and bedding, have been packed into bags and stacked into the car’s boot along with every morsel of food from her kitchen cupboards. She checks the sky, and her heart skips a beat; the sun is beginning its decline. She scans the trees that border the cottage garden. All is still, but that they’re infested now with the infected ‘wolfmen’ she’s quite certain. After leaving Conrad and Moira this morning, Javeen, desperate to shower and change her clothes, had made a quick stop at home, and then visited each house without a cross on her list.
As she pulls out of the drive, the list sits on the passenger seat. Red crosses are struck through most of the houses. Of the one hundred and twenty residents of the village that she and Andy had listed, only twenty-eight remain, the rest presumed dead or infected and now lost to the pack. That’s how she thinks of them now, the infected monsters, as a pack. As she’d made her way around the village, to find the survivors and encourage them to join her at the castle, the same pattern has emerged; broken doors and windows, and inside, signs of struggle. In a few, the monsters had left the remains of their feasts. Other houses are simply empty, their occupants either dragged off like Jim Kendrick and hung from a tree to be consumed at a later date, or bitten and infected. In three, there are villagers that have had close encounters; poor Mrs Simpson is still gibbering about the monsters that had broken into her house. The po
or woman had woken up in the middle of the night to find them poring over her, sniffing at her neck and armpits. They’d left her a quivering wreck, but unhurt. As she’d relayed this story, another of Javeen’s theories was confirmed. They didn’t attack the sick. Mrs Simpson had breast cancer, recently diagnosed, but virulent and terminal. It made sense. If they were hunting to feed, they wouldn’t want to eat poisoned meat. In total, to Javeen’s knowledge, there are three villagers with immunity from the beasts; the Reverend, Ben Carter, and Emma Simpson. Sadly, all three are terminally ill and very weak.
As Javeen drives through the village the church comes into view and she’s reminded of Emily Carmichael, the first witness to what had become a living nightmare. She takes a left onto Church Street and pulls up in front of Emily’s house. As she knocks on the front door, having glimpsed Emily lying on her sick bed in the living room, the Reverend Baxter walks slowly, leaning heavily on his stick, towards the church. He grimaces as he raises his hand to wave. Javeen knocks again on the door and leans back to wave at Emily through the window. The elderly woman pulls the oxygen mask from her face and mouths ‘come in’ as she gestures to Javeen with a gnarled hand.
The door is locked.
Javeen makes her way to the back of the house. That door is also locked. She checks under the door mat, then under various pots of dormant bulbs and browning lavender shrubs clustered around the doorway, until she finds the backdoor key.
“Got you!”
Opening the door, she makes her way through to the downstairs bedroom where Emily lies on the hospital-style bed with its clinically white and tubular frame complete with side guards and foot pedal to adjust the height. The woman lies deep in her pillow, her face wan. The room is stuffy and has a stagnant air despite a window that is kept slightly open. The skin on Emily’s face looks even more tissue-like than on Javeen’s last visit.
Javeen holds back the urge to wrinkle her nose. “Mrs Carmichael.”
“Emily,” she rasps. Her voice is dry.
“Emily. Would you like some water?”
She nods.
Javeen refreshes the water in the jug at her bedside and pours some into a clean glass then helps Emily to take a sip. She drinks then lies back on the pillow exhausted.
“Kathy? Where is Kathy?”
Javeen’s stomach knots. “She can’t come in today, Emily.”
“Did they get her?”
“I …” Javeen doesn’t want to scare the woman, but patronising her by lying is perhaps worse. She’s elderly, not a fool. “I’m not sure, Emily, but I think that perhaps they did.”
“I’ve been watching them. Running up and down. Every night there’s more of them.”
“I’m taking the villagers up to the castle. We’ll be safer up there.”
“He’s been back you know.” Emily raises her arm and points out through the window.
“Who?”
“Max. He’s been back to see her.”
Javeen remembers Laura’s terrified eyes when she’d visited her after the police team were attacked in the woods, the first day she realised they were trapped with the monsters. The woman had hardly been able to speak, almost catatonic from the terrible nightmares she’d been having. Sweat had trickled down Javeen’s temples as Laura had described her terrifying dreams. Javeen had baulked at telling Laura that the dreams were perhaps memories. In her dream, and it had to be a dream she’d insisted, although it had seemed so real, Max was transformed into a monster with fangs, and eyes filled with blood, but it was still him, her husband. He’d pulled back the bed covers and … She’d stopped then, her pale skin tinged red. ‘It was just a dream though. It had to be.’
Emily lies back on the pillow exhausted, her chest heaving. Javeen reaches for the oxygen mask and places it over her mouth. She sucks at the gas greedily.
“Doesn’t matter how much I suck, I just can’t get enough breath in me.”
Javeen’s chest tightens in sympathy. She shudders at the thought of ageing. “Emily, I’m helping everyone I can to move up to the castle. I’ll come back for you later.”
“Me, love?”
“Yes. I can’t leave you here. They’ll be back tonight, and …” Javeen can’t finish the sentence.
“Not me love. I’ll stay here.” She takes another massive suck of oxygen.
“But, there’s no one to look after you now. Kathy’s gone and-”
“No, love. Cyril won’t know where to find me, and I’ve promised him that I’m coming. Don’t worry. I won’t be alone. Reverend Baxter is coming to sit with me later.”
Javeen shudders remembering Emily’s insistence that Cyril had told her not to be long, to hurry up and join him on the other side. She glances from Emily’s pallid face to Max Anderson’s house opposite.
“I’ll be back to collect you later, Mrs-” The woman’s snores cut through Javeen’s words. She strokes the paper-thin back of Emily’s hand. “I’m sorry, Emily, but I can’t leave you here. I’ll be back later to collect you.” As another snore rumbles at the back of Emily’s throat and her lungs rattle, Javeen locks the backdoor, slips the key under the pot, then makes her way across the road to Max Anderson’s home.
The door opens and Laura stares at Javeen, though her eyes appear uncomprehending. Her hair is unbrushed and she’s still wearing her nightdress though there are no signs of a break-in. “Mrs Anderson, can I come in for a moment?”
Laura widens the door and Javeen squeezes through. She notices her almost furtive glance outside and quick close of the door. As she steps away, Laura rubs a hand across her stomach and grasps a chair, her knuckles whitening as she grips it. She waivers and Javeen grabs her elbow giving her support. “Sit down, Mrs Anderson.” Her skin is pale, her eyes seem glazed, the lids dark. “You look exhausted. Can I get you a glass of water?” A frown of confusion, but she nods.
She gulps down the glass offered then asks for more.
“Mrs Anderson,” Javeen continues as the second glass disappears. “The village has become unsafe.” Laura stares at her now. “We’re currently evacuating all surv- … all remaining villagers up to the castle.” Laura nods. “Are you able to pack some essential items? We’re taking clothes, toiletries, and bedding, along with as much food as possible. If you have any camping beds that would be ideal. We do have cooking and washing facilities-”
“Max …”
Javeen catches her breath.
“Max will want me here.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Mrs Anderson. Do you know where Max is?”
“He’s here.”
Javeen’s heart thumps and she pushes the chair from the table, scraping it across the floor, spinning to look around the kitchen.
“Not now.”
“Jesus! Sorry.” Javeen sits back down. Calm it, Latimer. Stay in control.
“He’s been back.”
“He has?” Javeen’s skin creeps as she remembers her last sighting of Max Anderson; his fangs and blood-red eyes were terrifying even from a distance.
“He visits at night.”
Sickness swells in Javeen’s belly. “He does?” Such incisive questioning, Latimer! “Could you … could you tell me what happens when he visits, Mrs Anderson?”
“He lies with me.”
“Lies?”
“Yes. I think he misses me.”
“Does … You must have heard what is happening in the village—to the villagers. Don’t you feel afraid?”
“No … yes … I think he … Max is different, but he’s still in there.”
Javeen remembers the glimmer of insanity raging through Jenny Oldfield’s eyes as she’d thrashed with agony after being bitten. How much of the victim did the infection leave?
“He doesn’t try to hurt you?”
“I think the part that loves me is keeping him from killing me.”
“It’s not safe for you to stay here.”
Laura grunts then curls forward.
“Are you in pain.”
<
br /> “Just a stomach ache.” Her frown smoothes. “There. Gone now. Maybe just time of the month.”
“Paracetamol and a hot water bottle?”
Laura grimaces again.
“Do you drive?”
“Yes, my car is parked in the driveway.”
“Good, then pack what you need and drive up to the castle. We’re locking the gates at three-thirty pm.”
“Three-thirty?”
“We want everyone in before twilight. We believe they’re becoming nocturnal and twilight is when they become active.”
Laura nods. “I’ll be there.”
52
Javeen checks her watch. Three-twenty-five pm. There are only five minutes before the gates close and are locked for the night. Laura Anderson still hasn’t arrived. She pulls the door open, lets another survivor pass. They clash in the doorway, his heavily packed rucksack blocking its width.
“Sorry!” He pulls back, allowing her to pass, and she directs him to Moira who is busy organising sleeping arrangements whilst Andy and Conrad draw up their defensive plans. She checks her watch again. Three-thirty. She’ll have to bring them in herself. Rain spatters her cheek as she steps out. The sky is overcast, the day already seems at an end. Her belly gives a watery roll.
At the back of the Anderson’s house, Javeen raps at the door. Her hand trembles and she stuffs it deep into her pocket as Laura answers the knock. On the kitchen table are two large bags and a washbag. All are full.
“Do you need any help, Mrs Anderson. It’s gone three-thirty.”
“Oh, hell! I didn’t realise it was so late. I just have something to sort out upstairs.” She turns, strides out of the room and disappears.
A howl pierces the air and Javeen’s guts twist as her heart hammers painfully against her ribs. They can’t be here! Not yet! “I’ll load the car!” She grabs a bag. It is deceptively heavy and she grunts as it drags her arm. She pulls another from the table and lugs the over-filled bags outside. Another howl breaks from deep in the woods. Javeen yanks the boot open and throws the bags in with a grunt. Across the road, Emily Carmichael lays on her bed, the glow of her bedside lamp illuminates the scene and Javeen takes comfort from it: the oxygen mask cupped to her mouth, the Reverend sitting at her side, his hand holding hers, in the other a small book, presumably the bible, his lips moving as he recites.
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